PR

252
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is OF

 

Cornell Aniversity Library

 

 

 

 
Cornell University Library
 

Aartin Drowhout feulpsit London,

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.,
 

 

 

THE

LEOPOLD SHAKSPERE.

The Port's Works, in Chronological Droer,

FROM THE TEXT OF PROFESSOR DELIUS,
WITH

“THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN” AND “EDWARD IIL,”
AND

AN INTRODUCTION BY Fy Je°FURNIVALL

CORNELLS
UNIVERSITY

——X, LIBRARY
§llustratea ———<—

 
       
   

==

 

CASSELL PETTER & GALPIN:

LONDON, PARIS § NEW YORK.

)8 i i

 

 
 

 

TO

H.R.H. PRINCE LEOPOLD, K.G, D.C.L.,

his Edition

OF

SHAKSPERE’S WORKS

1s,

BY HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS’S KIND PERMISSION,

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS.

oreo

PAGE

PREFACE 2 ‘ * aus Vv

INTRODUCTION .. wh a vii
A CONJECTURAL CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER OF SHAKSPERE’S PLAYS AND POEMS :—

Titus ANDRONICUS : " am before 1591 .. ie « 1

Kine HENRY VI.—Part I. es im es ai i ro 1591... a ee 24

_\THE Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA >» 1591 ‘ ‘ 49

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS ae 1591 70

VENUS AND ADONIS a 1592 88

Kine HENRY VI.—Part II. fi 8 se A ws i 1592. 97

Love’s Lasour’s Lost .. ‘ 7 1592. 125

\}-RomMEO AND JULIET ae. “Gee ots i 1592 149

SONNETS oe bs 3 See Preface. 177

Kine Henry VI.—Part IIL. .. ws . 1598 193

LUCRECE x a a as a ‘i e 1593 . 221

“THE TAMING OF THE SHREW os es oe 28 1594 +. 235

Kine RICHARD III. A ii ts ta ae 38 1594 260

--THE MERCHANT OF VENICE .. a e i ‘ 1595 293

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM He wie 2s a ve 1595. 0% 317

Kine JoHN .. 2 = er i 5 1596. 338

Kine Ricnuarp II. ae oe his 1595. 361

Kine HENRY IV.—Parrl.... wa i 2 as 1597 386

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 5 a ts és .. before 1598 8 a #218

Kine Henry IV.—PartT Il. .. sf ‘ its ee ne #6 rs 1508 ac or 1 438

 

 

 
 

 

iv

CONTENTS.

 

Tur PASSIONATE PILGRIM

ee ADO ABOUT NOTHING

See Preface.

7 1599

Kine Henry V. 1599
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR .. a ‘ ‘ AG ai 1600
THE PH@NIX AND TURTLE See Preface.
“~~ TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT You WILL ey oe ie 1601
— As You Like It 1601
, HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK 1602
‘JULIUS CESAR 1603
MEASURE FOR MEASURE “s, 1603
‘\ OTHELLO, ae Moor OF VENICE 3 ae ‘ ee .. 1604
: A LOVER’s COMPLAINT See Preface.
“\ Kine Lear 1601-5
‘MACBETH 1606
TIMON OF ATHENS .. 1607
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 1608
PERICLES 1608

. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 1609
CORIOLANUS 1609
THE WINTER'S TALE 1610
CYMBELINE 1610-11
THE TEMPEST.. 1611
Kine HENRY VIII. 1613

THE Two NOBLE KINSMEN

EDWARD III.

 

 

PAGE

466
470

495

630
654

680

1012

1037

 

 
 

 

PREFACE.

——

according to a conjectural chronological order supplied most kindly by Professor
Delius, of Bonn, expressly for this edition. In reference to this matter the
learned professor writes:—% The chief object in these chronological researches or
experiments, as I conceive it, cannot be to fix the date of a certain year for each
play—and I am very doubtful about my dates in this respect—but to point out
the growth and the working of Shakspere’s art and genius in the course of his

 

whole dramatical career. Of course, even this end can only be arrived at to an approxi-
mative degree, by combining, as far as possible, an unprejudiced consideration of the inherent
characteristics—arrangement of the plot, personification of the character, style, and verse,
all varying in Shakspere’s different periods—with an accurate criticism of those outward
notices and allusions, either existing or believed to exist, in reference to the most part of
Shakspere’s plays. With regard to these allusions which have so frequently and so
triumphantly been held up—each generally contradicting and invalidating the latest
previous discovery—I confess to an inveterate scepticism; and, unless these allusions were
self-evident, I have seldom suffered myself to be influenced by them in my chronological
arrangement. In the same way I have, in the progress of my Shaksperean studies, grown
rather sceptical about ‘the favourite theory, which I formerly cherished myself, that
Shakspere did really at any period of his life re-write a play which he had written before.
I am rather inclined now to ascribe all those discrepancies in the text between the first and
the second editions of Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Henry V., Henry VI. (second and third
parts), The Merry Wives of Windsor, merely and exclusively to those anonymous hands
that meddled with the first publications of these dramas. I am altogether sceptical, too,
about another favourite theory which tries to discover the traces of an anonymous hand,
other than Shakspere’s, in his acknowledged plays. Of course, I except Timon of Athens
and Pericles as dramas written formerly by another author—probably George Wilkins—
and afterwards completed and altered partially by our Poet. I ought to add that I do
discover an anonymous hand in the Prologues to Troilus and ‘Cressida and to King
Henry VIIT., but nowhere ‘else.”

With respect to the chronology of the Poems, the following quotations from Professor

 

 

 
 

 

vi PREFACE.

 

Delius’s letter on the subject appear to be necessary. “As to the Sonnets, I dare not
assign them to a certain year, because they were written at different times, though all in
the first period of Shakspere’s poetical career. The whole series of them may range
between The Two Gentlemen of Verona and Romeo and Juliet. I think you had best
place them with the latter play. A Lover’s Complaint may belong to the end of
Shakspere’s second period, or to the third and latest period. So you may place it with
Othello. The Passionate Pilgrim can hardly lay claim to a definite place in our
chronological order, consisting as it does, for a great part, of poems falsely attributed to
our Poet. All that is really Shakspere’s in this fraudulent publication belongs to his
first period. The Phenix and Turtle must have been written shortly before its appearance
in print (1601).”

It has been thought advisable that THe LEOPOLD SHAKSPERE, which aims at being
one of the completest editions before the public, should include two plays which are
considered by many competent authorities to contain much of Shakspere’s work—namely,
The Two Noble Kinsmen and Edward III. The text of the former play has been.
specially revised for this edition by Mr. Harold Littledale; and, by the courtesy of Pro-
fessor Delius, his text of the latter play has been used, though he wishes it to be most
distinctly understood that it is not to be inferred that he regards that historical play
as Shakspere’s, for, as a matter of fact, Edward III. is, in his opinion, a pseudo-
Shaksperean play.

The Editor’s thanks are due to Professor Delius and his publisher, Mr. Friderichs,
of Elberfeld, for their express permission to use the text of Delius’s Shakspere; to Mr.
F. J. Furnivall for his admirable Introduction and the many useful suggestions he has
offered respecting this edition; and to Mr. Harold Littledale for his revision, as already
mentioned, of the text of The Two Noble Kinsmen.

 

 

 
 

 

INTRODUCTION.

 

ee
§ 1. Shakspere’s county, town, father, and birth, April, 1564. d. The 3 Sunny or Sweet-Time Comedies,?
§ 2, Shakspere’s boyhood at home and school, p. x. Much Ado (1599-1600), p. liv; As You Like It
3. Shakspere married, p. xiii. (4 Periods of his Life, p. citi.) (1600), p. lvii ; Twelfth-Night (1601), p. lix.
Q 4, Shakspere on the road to London (1587 2), p. xiv. e. The Darkening Comedy.! All's Well (1601-2), p. Ix.
5 5. The London of his day referred to, p. xv. 11. Shakspere’s Sonnets (? 192-1608), p. lxili, p. exxiv.
6. The first news of him there (a.p. 1592), p. xvi. 12. The Plays of Shakspere’s Tu1Rp Periop (1601-1608),
i 7. The Dates and Order of his Plays, p. xvii. p. lxvii. (General view of them, p. 1xxxv.)
a, External evidence, p. xvii. a. The Unfit-Nature or Under-Burden-failing Group.
6. Internal evidence. 1. Allusions, p. xviii; 2. Met- © Julius Cesar (1601), p, lxvii ; Hamlet (1602-3),
rical tests,-f. xix. p. 1xix ; Measure for Measure? (? 1603), p. xxiv.
§ 8. Work of the Second Victorian School of Shak- b. The Tempter-yielding Group.
spereans, p. Xx. Othello (? 1604), p. lxxv; Macbeth (1605-6),
§9. The Plays and Poems of Shakspere’s First Prriop p. Ixxvii.
(21588-1594), p. xxii. (Litus Andr. not Shaksp.’s.) cv, The 1st Ingratitude and Cursing Play: King Lear
u. The Comedy of Errors or Mistaken-Identity (1605-6), p. Ixxviii.
Group. (See too p, exxiv.) d. The Lust or False-Love Group.
Love's Labours Lost (? 1588-9), p. xxii; The Troilus and Cressida (?1606-7), p. 1xxx, p. CXXV;
Comedy of Errors (? 1589), p. xxiv ; Midsummer- Antony and Cleopatra (? 1606-7), p. 1xxxji.
Night's Dream (? 1590-1), p. xxvi. e The 2nd Ingratitude and Cursing Group.
b. Link-play. Coriolunus (? 1607-8), p.1xxxili ; Timon (2 1607-
The Two Gentlemen of Verona (? 1590-1), p. xxvii. 8), p. lxxxiv. (Review of the Third-Period
ve. The Passion Group. Plays, p. 1xxxv.)
Romeo and Juliet (1591-3), p. xxviii; Venus § 13, The Plays of Shakspere’s Fourtu Periop (1609-13).
and Adonis (1593), p. xxx; Lucrece (1593-4), All of Re-union, of Reconciliation and Forgiveness,
p. xxxiii. (The Passionate Pilgrim (? 1589-99 : a, By Men.
pr. 1599), p. xxxv ) Pericles (1608-9), p. Ixxxvii; The Tempest
d. The Early Histories. (? 1609-10), p. Ixxxviii.
Richard IT, (2 1593), p. xxxvi; 1, 2, 3 Henry VI. b. By Women (mainly).
(? 1592-4), p. kxxvii; Richard III. (? 1594), p. Cymbeline (? 1610), p. 1xxxix; The Winter's Tale
Xxxix. (1611), p. xei; Henry VIII. (1612-18), p. xcii.
§10. The Plays of Shakspere’s Seconp Perron (71595-1601), § 14. The Doubtful Plays. (Sir Thomas More, p. cii.)
p. xl. The Two Noble Kinsmen (? 1612-13), part Shak-
a. The Life-plea Group : a History and Comedy. spere’s, Pp. xcvi.
King John (21595), p. xl; The Merchant of Edward 111, (1594), none of it Shakspere’s, p. e.
Venice (? 1596), p. xli. § 15. The few facts of Shakspere’s outward life from 1592
b. A Farce: The Taming of the Shrew (? 1596-7), p. xliv. to his death, April 24 (our May 3), 1616, p. cii.
c. The 3 Comedies of Falstaff, with the Trilogy of § 16. Shakspere and his Works, p. exii.
Henry IV., V. §17. A Visit to Stratford, p. exvii. [Reprint.]
1 Henry IV. (1596-7), p. xlvii; 2 Henry IV. § 18. Object of this Introduction, p. exvii.
(1597-8), p. xlviii; The Merry Wives (1598-9), 19. The best Books for Shakspere Students, p. exxi.
p. 1; Henry V. (1599), p. lii. 20. Table of Metre and Dates, p. exxiii. Notes, p. exxiv.

  
  

birth to Shakpere.4

EAR the centre, the heart, of England, in one of those Midland shires that gave
f Britain its standard speech, was the most famous user of that speech, William
Shakspere, the world’s greatest poet, born.
Stratferd-upon-Avon his birth-town: Warwickshire, famed for its legends of Sir
Guy and Rembrun; its castles, Warwick and Kenilworth; its ancient Coventry of
Guilds and Mystery-plays; its battle-field of Edgehill’; its Kingmaker, Warwick ;
its rolling hills and vales; Stratford-upon-Avon, famous alone as having given
The town lies on the river Avon, beyond its tidal flow;
and just as the stream reaches the town, it broadens to full treble its wonted width, as if

Warwickshire was his county,

to mirror duly the elm-ringd church on its bank, and show in full beauty the swans sailing on

its surface.

Round the town are more or less distant hills, and the view of it from the nearest,

1 The link of Mistaken-Identity or Personation couples all these together. .
2 The prison-scene, where Claudio’s nature fails under the burden of coming death, is the centre of the play.

*% After Shakspere’s time. October 23, 1642.

See the description in Graphic Illustrations of Warwickshire, pp. 8-9.

 

Warwickshire is also the county of one who is often called England's Shakspere among novelists, George Eliot (Mrs. G. H.
Lewes, formerly Miss M. Evans). (N.B. All the dates here are Old Style ones. Add ten days to each for our New Style.)

4 This spelling of our great poet’s name is taken from the only unquestionably genuine signatures of his that we
possess, the three on his will, and the two on his Blackfriars conveyance and mortgage. None of these signatures have an
e after the &; four have no « after the firste; the fifth I read eere, or ere, The @ and e had their French sounds, which
explain the forms ‘‘Shaxper,” &c. Though it has hitherto been too much to ask people to suppose that Shakspere knew

 

 
 

viii §1. SHAKSPERE’S BIRTHPLACE AND FATHER.

 

the Welcombe Hills, whose enclosure Shakspere said he was not able to bear, shows the town
nestling in the broad valley, a quiet cozy place, now numbering 7,400 inhabitants. It and Henley,
not far off to the northward, are described in a Harleian MS. of 1599 as “ good markett townes.”
(My Harrison, p. 1xxxviii.) ;

The house that Shakspere was born in is not certainly known. In 1552 his father lived in
‘“Hendley Streete,” and was “ presented,” or reported, with Humfrey Reynolds and Adrian Quyney
for making a dunghill (sterguinariwm) in the street.

In 1575, eleven years after his son William’s birth, he bought the property, afterwards two
houses, with gardens and orchards, the left-hand house of which tradition assigns as the poet’s birth-
place (in the first-floor room above the porch and below the gable), and which, having been
“restored,” and looking outside as if it had been built a week ago, is figured in the cut below.

 

SHAKSPERE’S SUPPOSED BIRTHPLACE (RESTORED).

Before its restoration, the left-hand house was used as a butcher’s shop, and the right-hand one,
then with brick front, as the “Swan and Maidenhead” Inn. ‘The right-hand house is now a
Shakspere Museum of relics, views, books, &c. The interior of the left-hand one has been left
untoucht, and the dingy whitewash of the bare supposed birth-room is scribbled all over with names
of men, known and unknown, among the former being Byron, Walter Scott, and Alfred Tennyson.

Shakspere’s father, John Shakspere (not he of Clifford, or the farmer of Ington Meadow, in
Hampton Lucy) was probably the son of Richard Shakspere, farmer, of Snitterfield, three miles from
Stratford, a tenant of Robert Arden, whose daughter John Shakspere married. In 1552 we find John
Shakspere in Henley Street, helping to make a dunghill, as noticed above; and on June 17, 1556,
Thomas Siche brings an action against him—John Shakyspere, glouer},—for £8. Besides gloving, he
took up corn-dealing, or farming, as, in 1556, he brings an action against Henry Fyld for 18 quarters
of barley, which Fyld unjustly detains. On October 2, 1556, he buys a copyhold house, garden,
and croft in Greenhill Street, and a copyhold house and garden in Henley Street. In 1557, on
April 10, he was marked, but not sworn, as one of the jury of the court-leet to inquire into and
reform local abuses. In 1557 he was made an ale-taster (sworn to look to the assize and goodness
of bread, ale, and beer), and was fined 8d. for being away from three courts. Soon after Michaelmas
he became a burgess of Stratford, and about the end of 1557 must have married Mary Arden,
(youngest daughter of the late Robert Arden, husbandman and landowner, under whose will she
took a small property, of about fifty-four acres and a house, called Ashhies, at Wilmecote?2,
£6 13s. 4d.,and an interest in two tenements at Snitterfield, and other land at Wilmecote.)

how to spell his own name, I hope the demand may not prove too great for the imagination of my readers. The spelling
of ‘“Shake-speare” in those quartos that have it, and the poet’s arms of the fluttering bird and spear, evidently arose from
the desire to give meaning to the popular (and, in this case perhaps, true) etymology-name, which so suited the conceit-
mongers of Elizabeth’s time, (A friend of mine explains Furnivall as Ferny-vale.) An old acquaintance who, as a boy,
often came in to Stratford market with his grandmother, from their village near, to sell butter, &e., tells me that his
grandfather and all the villagers and Stratford folk used then to pronounce the name ‘Shax-per.”

1 Glou’, with the mark of contraction for er,=* glover.’ 2 Sly’s Wincott ale, Induction to The Shrew.

 

 
 

 

§1. SHAKSPERE’S BAPTISM, APRIL 26, 1564. ix

 

Their first child, Joan, was baptised on September 15, 1558, and probably died soon after.
On September 30, 1558—some six weeks before Queen Elizabeth’s accession, on November 17—John
Shakspere was one of the jury of the court-leet, and was also elected constable. On October 6, 1559,
he was again made constable, and also “‘ afteeror,’ or fixer of the fines not fixt by statute, to be
levied for offences against the borough by-laws. In May, 1561, he was again made affeeror ; and,
in September, one of the two chamberlains, which office he held for two years. On December 2,
1562, his daughter Margaret was baptised; and on April 30, 1563, she was buried.

These years, 1562-3, were bad plague years for London. Stowe says that in the city and
neighbouring parishes 20,136 people died of it! Of 1563 he writes (dnnuls, ed. 1605, p. 1,112) :—

“Threefola ‘‘ Forsomuch as the plague of pestilence was so hot in the citie of London, there

plague to the was no Terme kept at Michaelmasse: to be short, the poore Citizens of London
poore Citizens were this yeere plagued with a threefold plague, pestilence, scarcitie of money, and
of-London, dearth of victuals: the miserie whereof were too long heere to write: no doubt the
poore remember it; the rich, by flight into the countries [= counties], made shift for themselucs.
. “An earthquake was in the month of September in diuers places of this realm,
Earthquake. gnecially in Lincolne and Northamptonshire.
“ Ann. reg. 6. “From the first day of December till the 12, was such continuall lightning and
Lightning and thunder, especially the same 12 day at night, that the like had not bene seene nor

thunder; heard by any man then liuing.”’

“© 1564. But in 1564 came glad tidings—
Peace with “an honorable & ioyfull peace was concluded betwixt the Queenes Maiestie
re Pe and the French King, their Kealmes, Dominions, and Subiects, which peace was

proclaimed with sound of trumpet before her Maiestie in her Castle of Windleshore
[Windsor]. Also the same peace was proclaimed at London on the 13 day of Aprill.”’

pad on the 26th, at Stratford, Wednesday, April 26, the same as our May 6, New Style,—was
baptised—

“1564, April 26, Gulielmus filius Johannes Shakspere.”’
(William son (of) John Shakspere. ]

Well was it for the world that the plague, on its journey northward, spared one house in that
pleasant Midland town, and called on the father, not for his baby son’s life, but only ‘towards the
releeffe of the poore,” for 12d. on August 30, 6d. on each of September 6 and 27, 8d. on October
20. The plague was rife in Stratford. “From June 30 to December 31, 238 inhabitants, a
ninth of the population, are carried to the grave” (Knight).

The day of Shakspere’s birth cannot be ascertaind. ‘The inscription on his monument says that
he dicd on April 23, 1616, in the 53rd year of his age. Tradition has consequently fixt on April 23
as his birthday ; and of course he may have been rightly said to be in his 58rd year if he became 52
on the day he died. But one may well doubt the probability of his being baptised at three days
old, in the absence of any tradition as to his illness then; and if his death-day had been the anni-
versary of his birthday, the inscription would most probably have mentiond the coincidence.

We leave the brown-eyd boy fora time in his mother’s arms? while we follow his father’s fortunes.
In 1564, John Shakspere and his fellow-chamberlain, John Taylor, having left office, gave in their
account as “ chamburlens,’’ and in it are the entries, “ Item, payd to Shakspeyre for a pec tymbur, iii.s.,””
and on January 26, 1564-5, “the chamber is found in arrerage, and ys in det unto John Shakspeyre,
£1 5s. 8d.” On July 4, 1565, John Shakspere is chosen one of the fourteen aldermen of Stratford.
In 1566, on February 15 (8th of Elizabeth 1565-6), “Thaccompt of William Tylor and William
Symthe, chamburlens, made by John Shakspeyr,’ is rendered; at Michaelmas, John Shakspere is
twice surety for Richard Hathaway; and on October 13, his second son, Gilbert, is baptised. No
record of the family occurs in 1567, but at Michaelmas, 1568, John Shakspere was made high bailiff,
or mayor, of Stratford for a year. On April 15, 1569, his third daughter, calld Joan after the dead
first, was baptised; and as both the Queen’s and the Earl of Worcester’s players performd in the town
that year3, perhaps father John took his five-and-a-half-year-old boy Will to see them. On September
5, 1571, John Shakspere was elected for a year chief alderman, which gave him the right to be called
Mr.—Master, Magister—and on September 28, his fourth daughter, Anne (who was buried on April 4,

1 It had spread from Newhaven, whither the soldiers from the French war had crowded. :

2 Shakspere’s birth-year was that of Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Cambridge, and of the great frost, the Thames being
frozen over, so ‘that, on New-yeares euen, people went ouer and along the Thamis on the ice from London-bridge to
Westminster ; some played at foote-ball as boldly there as if it had bene on the dry land . . and the people, both men
and women, went on the Thamis in greater number then in any streete of the city of London.” Then came a rapid thaw
on January 3, 1565, at night, “ which caused great flouds and high waters, that bare downe bridges and houses, and
drowned many people in England, especially in Yorkeshire, Owes bridge was borne away with other.”—Stowe, p. 1,115,
Marlowe, too, was born in 1564. . .

3 It is the first recorded performance. Every year after, except two, during Shakspere’s youth, players acted in the
town.

 

 
 

 

x §2. THE BOY SHAKSPERE AT HOME AND SCHOOL.

 

1579), was baptised. Did the young Will wonder, as we did, where the babies came from, and look
under the gooseberry-bushes for them; or did he, later on, consult with his brothers and sisters
how the youngest baby could most conveniently be made away with? At any rate, the question of
his school naturally turns up in 1571, when he became seven!, because boys could not be admitted
to the free Stratford Grammar School unless they were seven years old, able to read, and lived in the
town. Thomas Hunt, curate of Luddington, the next village down the Avon, was then master of
the Grammar School, and he was succeeded by Thomas Jenkins. er

§ 2. How a school-boy of the time was to dress and behave is told us by Francis Seager in his
Schoole of Vertue and booke of good Nourture for chyldren, A.D. 1577, reprinted in my Babees’ Book, Early
English Text Society, 1868, pp. 333-345. He was to rise early, put on his clothes, turn up his bed, go
down stairs, salute his parents and the family, wash his hands, comb his head, brush his cap and put it
on, taking it off when he spoke to any man. Then he was to tie his shirt-collar to his neck, see that
his clothes were tidy, fasten his girdle round his waist, rub his hose or breeches, see that his shoes
were clean, wipe his nose on a napkin, pare his nails (if need were), clean his ears, wash his teeth,
and get his clothes mended if torn. Then take his satchel, books, pen, paper, and ink, and off to
school. On the way there, he was to take off his cap and salute the folk he met, giving them the
inside of the road; and he was to call his school-fellows. At school he was to salute his master and
school-mates, go straight to his place, undo his satchel, take out his books, and learn as hard as he
could. After school he was to walk orderly home,

“‘Not runnynge on heapes as a swarme of bees, As commonly are vsed in these dayes, of boyes,
As at this day Euery man it nowe sees ; As hoopynge and halowynge, as in huntynge the fox,
Not vsynge, but refusynge, suche foolyshe toyes That men it hearynge, deryde them with mockes.”

The model boy (which I heartily hope Will Shakspere wasn’t) was, on the contrary, not to talk
or chatter as he walkt home, or to gape or gaze at every new fangle; but to go soberly, be tree of cap,
and full of courtesy; and when he reacht home, he was to bid his fellows farewell, and salute his parents
with all reverence. Then he was to wait on his parents at dinner. First, say grace; then make a
low curtsey, and say, “ Much good may it do you!” I£ he was big enough, he was then to bring the
food to the table, taking care not to fill the dishes too full, so as to spill them on his parents’ clothes
or the table-cloth. He was to have spare trenchers and napkins ready in case any guests came in;
to see that there was plenty of bread and drink, often empty the voiders into which bones were
thrown, and be always ready in case anything was wanted. Then he was to clear away. First,
cover the saltcellar, then set a voider—dirty plate-basket —on the table, and put into it all the dirty
trenchers and napkins (as forks were not yet in use, and folk ate with their fingers, the napkins would
be made very dirty); then sweep the crambs into another voider, and lay a clean trencher before
every one; then set on cheese, fruit, biscuits, or carraways, with wine (if there was any), or else ale
or beer. When all had finisht, he was to turn in each side of the table-cloth, and fold it up, beginning
at the top. That done, spread a clean towel on the table, or if there was not a towel, use the table-
cloth; bring the basin and ewer, and when people were ready to wash their greasy hands, pour water
on them, but not too much. Then clear—“ voyde’’—the table that all might rise, and, lastly, make
a low curtsey to them.

The hungry boy is at last free to eat his own dinner; but no, he must “pause a space, for that
is a sygne of nourture and grace.’ Then he is to take salt with his knife; to cut his bread, not break
it; not to fill his spoon too full of pottage (soup) for fear of spilling it on the cloth, and not to sup his
pottage, “or speake to any, his head in the cup;” his knife is to be sharp, to cut his meat neatly;
and his mouth is not to be too full when he eats:

“Not smackynge thy lyppes, As commonly do hogges, Suche rudenes abhorre, such beastlynes flie,
Nor gnawynge the bones, As it were dogges ; At the table behave thy selfe manerly.”
He is to keep his fingers clean by wiping them on a napkin; and before he drinks out of the common
cup, he is to wipe his mouth, so that, like Chaucer's Prioress, he may leave no grease on the edge. At
the table, his tongue is not to walk; he is not to talk, or stuff:
“Temper thy tongue and belly alway,
For ‘ measure is treasure,’ the prouerbe doth say.”
He is not to pick his teeth at the table, or spit too much—‘‘ this rudnes of youth is to be abhorrde.”
He is only to laugh moderately, and is to learn as much good manners as he can, for

“ Aristotle, the Philosopher, this worthy sayinge writ, then playnge on instrumentes and other vayne pleasure ;
That ‘ maners in a chylde are more requisit For vertuous maners 1s a most precious treasurc.’”

So our chestnut-haird, fair, brown-eyd, rosy-cheekt boy went to school, and waited on his father

1 [ went to a boarding-school at six-and-a-quarter, and recollect still, jumping with delight when the carriage drove
round to take me. But after a quarter's taste of the cane, &c., tears came on going back for the Autumn half.

 

 
 

 

§2. THE BOY SHAKSPERE AT SCHOOL, xi

 

and mother and their guests. Was he like Seager’s model lad, or Jaques’s ‘‘ whining school-boy,
with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school” ? (As You Like
Zt, II. vii. 145-7)!. Did he never, unlike “‘ the blessed sun of heaven, prove a micher [truant?], and
eat blackberries? . . .a question to be askt ” (1 Henry IV., U1. iv. 419). Did he not play “ nine-
men’s-morris”’ ? (Midswmmer-Night’s Dream, II. ii. 39), and ‘ more sacks to the mill,” ‘+ hide-and-seek”’
(Love's Labours Lost, [V. iii. 78), and other games? like hockey, foot-ball, &c., that Strutt names,
and that we playd at school too? Undoubtedly he did; and birds-nested too, I dare say, and joind in
May-day, Christmas, and New Year's games; helpt make hay, went to harvest-homes and sheep-
shearings (Winter's Tale, IV. iii), fisht (Mauch Ado, III. 1. 26-8), ran out with the harriers
(Venus and Adonis, st. 113-118), and loved a dog and horse (Venus and Adonis, st. 44-52, Midsummer-
Night's Dream, IV. i. 119; Shrew, Ind. i. 18-81, IL. 45; Richard If., V. v. 78-86; 1 Henry IV.,
II. i. 7, &e.), as dearly as ever boy in England did. It is good to think of the bright young soul’s
boy-life. But in one of those extra-dramatic bits‘, that he occasivnally gives us in his plays, he tells
us that in his boy days he did vot hear of goitrous throats and travellers’ lies :—
“ Gonzalo. When we were Boys, Whose heads stood in their breasts ? which now we find

Who would believe that there were mountaineers Kach putter out of five for ones will bring us

Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at’em Good warrant of.”—Tempest, IIL, iii, 42-9.

Wallets of Hesh? or that there were such men

What did Shakspere learn at school? Latin, of course; and notwithstanding bragging Ben
Jonson’s sneer of Shakspere’s owning “little Latin and less Greek,” it is clear’ that he must have been
well grounded in Latin at least (see Capel on Dr. Farmer's Essay on ‘‘ The Learning of Shakspere,”
1767). On this subject, Mr. Lupton, the editor of Colet, the best authority I know, says :—‘ I think
you would be safe in concluding that at such a school as Stratford, about 1570, there would be
taught—(1) an‘ A BC book,’ for which a pupil teacher, or ‘ A-B-C-darius,’ is sometimes mentioned
as having a salary®; (2) a Catechism in English and Latin, probably Nowell’s; (3) the authorised
Latin grammar, i.e., Lilly’s, put out with a proclamation adapted to each king’s reign (I have
editions of 1529, 1532, 1655, &c.); (4) some easy Latin construing-book, such as Erasmus’s Colloquies,
Corderius’s Colloguies, or Baptista Mantuanus’, and the familiar ‘Cato,’ or Disticha de Moribus,
which is often prescribed in Statutes (a copy I have is dated 1558). The Greek grammar, if any,
in use at Stratford, would most likely be Clenard’s, i.¢., ‘Institutiones absolutissima in Greecam
linguam’ . . . Nicolao Clenardo auctore (my copy is dated 1543).”

The treatment of boys at school was sharp®, and Shakspere, no doubt, got whacks on the hands
and back with a cane—to say nothing of being bircht over a desk, or hoisted on another boy’s
back—for making mistakes, like the rest of us in later time. English, we may be pretty sure, he was
not taught; it is now only gradually finding its way into schools. Of some of the university
subjects, the trivials,—grammar, “‘logike, rhetorike,—and the quadriuials . . I meane arethmetike,
musike, geometrie, and astronomie” (Harrison, 1577-1587, book ii, p. 78, of my edition), I
suppose some smattering was given in the grammar-school®, but I know no authority on the point.

On September 3, 1572, John Shakspere ceast to be chief alderman of Stratford. On March 11,
1573, his third son, Richard (died February 4, 1612-13), was baptised; and in this year the Earl
of Leicester’s players playd at Stratford. In 1574 the Earl of Warwick’s and the Earl of Worce8ter's
players both acted at Stratford. In 1575, as the record of the fine levied on the purchase shows, John
Shakspere bought the traditional birthplace of the poet (both houses), with its garden and orchard,
for £40. And in the July of that year he may have taken his boy Will to see some of the festivities
that went on at the fine red-stone Kenilworth Castle, twelve miles off, at the entertainment

1 Compare, too, Gremio’s “As willingly-as e’er I came from school” in The Shrew, III. ii. 149; Romeo and Juliet,
II..ii, 156-7 -— '
“Love goes towards love, as school-boys from their books,
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks,” &c.

2 Mr. W. Watkins Old, of Monmouth, says he remembers the word in this sense in Devonshire, while in Monmouth-
shire the poor people still call blackberries mwehes ; to pick them is to mwceh; and the pickers are mwchers. Can the
words be connected with micher ? ee :

3 The exercises for boys that Mulcaster, the Head-Master of Merchant Tailors’ School, set up 1561, treats in his
Positions, 1581, are, indoors: dancing, wrestling, fencing, the top and scourge @vhiptop) ; outdoor: walking, running,
leaping, swimming, riding, hunting, shooting, and playing at the ball—handball, tennis, football, armball.

4 Some one should collect them. ‘

5 Travellers in Shakspere's time, like Fynes Moryson, &c., before starting on their travels, lent money to merchants,
on condition of losing it if they did not return, or receiviug three or five times its amount if they got home safe.

6 “T have a transcript of an ‘A B C Book’ from the Grenville Library, which I suppose to be of the latter part of
Henry VIII.’s time.—T L.”

7 Shakspere quotes him in his first play, Love's Labours Lost.

8 See Ascham's Schoolmaster, &c., and my Babees' Book Forewords. , J ;

9 If schoolmasters know a thing, they generally teach it. It is only their ignorance of English historically, and
science, which has so long kept these subjects out of schools.

 

 

 
 

xii §2. SHAKSPERE AS A LAD. §3. SHAKSPERE IN LOVE.

 

Leicester gave Queen Elizabeth, from Saturday, July 9, to Wednesday, July 27. Shakspere’s
lines in Midsummer-Night’s Dream, I. ii. 90-95, describe a somewhat like scene to that of Triton
on a swimming mermaid, and Arion on a dolphin’s back, at Kenilworth, on Monday, July 18;
and the rough Coventrymen’s play of the repulse of a Danish invasion, partly by English women
(acted partly on Sunday, July 17, and fully on Tuesday, July 19), may have been the poet’s first
hint of historical plays. This play had been acted yearly at Coventry, but was ‘“noow of late laid
dooun; they knu no cauz why, onless it wear by the zeal of certain theyr preacherz: men very
commendabl for their behauiour and learning, sweet in their sermons, but sumwhat too sour in
preaching awey their pastime. ’”’} ; ‘

In 1577 troubles begin to come on John Shakspere. He does not attend regularly the meetings
of the corporation? and instead of paying, like other aldermen, 6s. 8d. “‘towardes the furniture
of thre pikemen, ij billmen, and one archer,” he is let off with 3s. 4d. On October 15 he and his
wife sell their interest in her property at Snitterfield, to Robert Webbe; and on November 14,
they mortgage her Ashbies property, at Wilmecote, to Edmund Lambert for £40, a mortgage which
they never redeem*, In the list of debts annext to the will of Roger Sadler, a baker at Stratford,
dated also November 14, 1578, is “Item of Edmonde Lambarte and. Cornishe, for the debte of
Mr. John Shaksper, v.di..". On November 19, when every alderman is orderd to pay fourpence
a week for the relief of the poor, John Shakspere is let off, he shall “not be taxed to paye
anythynge.”’ In 1579 John Shakspere is returnd as a defaulter for not paying his year’s 3s. 4d.
for pike and billmen (see above). On July 4 his daughter Anne (born September 28, 1571) is
buried, and he pays “ for the bell and pall for Mr. Shakspers dawghter, viijd.,” seemingly 4d. for the
bell, and 4d. for the pall. The same year, the players of both Lord Strange and the Countess of
Essex play in the Guildhall at Stratford, as do Lord Derby’s players in 1580. On May 3, 1580,
Edmund, son to Mr. John Shakspere is baptised; and John Shakspere, of Stratford-upon-Avon,
in the hundred of Barlichway, is enterd in “A Book of the Names and Dwelling-Places of the
Gentlemen and Freeholders of the County of Warwick, 1580.”

It is probable that Shakspere left school at the age of from fourteen to sixteen. Of what he
did when he left, there is no evidence. A Mr. Buston’s report, by Aubrey, is, that Shakspere
“understode Latine pretty well, for he had been in his younger yeares a schoolmaster in the
countrey ”—possibly the A-B-C-darius, or pupil-teacher, that Mr. Lupton speaks of above. A
Mr. Dowdall writes, in 1693, that the old clerk of Stratford Church, then above eighty, “says that
this Shakespear was formerly in this towne bound apprentice to a butcher, but that he run from
his master to London.’ Another tradition says that he was an attorney’s clerk; and that he was
so at one time of his life, I, as a lawyer, have no doubt. Of the details of no profession does
he show such an intimate acquaintance as he does of law. The other books in imitation of Lord
Campbell’s prove it to any one who knows enough law to be able to judge. ‘They are just
jokes; and Shakspere’s knowledge of insanity was not got in a doctor's shop, though his law was
(I believe) in a lawyer’s office.

Shakspere, and his life as a Stratford lad, must be left to the fancy of every reader. My own
notion of him is hinted at above (pp. x, xi). Taking the boy to be the father of the man, I see a
square-built yet lithe and active fellow‘, with ruddy cheeks, hazel eyes, and auburn hair§, as full
of life as an egg is full of meat, impulsive, inquiring, sympathetic; up to any fun or daring;
into scrapes, and out of them with a laugh; making love to all the girls; a favourite wherever
he goes—even with the prigs and fools he mocks ;—untroubled as yet with Hamlet doubts; but
in many a quiet time communing with the beauty of earth and sky around him, with the thoughts
of men of old in books®; throwing himself with all his heart into all he does.

§ 3. Of course, every impulsive young fellow falls in love; and, of course, the girl he does it with
is older than himself. Who is there of us that has not gone through the process, probably many
times? Young stupids we were, no doubt: so was Shakspere. But, unluckily, he went further;
and one day near Michaelmas, 1582, he of eighteen-and-a-half, and his Anne Hathaway of twenty-six?

1 Laneham, p. 27 of my edition for the Ballad Society, in which a sketch is given of all Captain Cox's (or Laneham's)
books. Laneham’s coxcombical racy letter should be read, and also the poet George Gascoigne’s Brief Rehearsal of what
was done at this time at Kenilworth.

2 On the possible, though doubtful note by Dethick, garter king-at-arms—at whose rooms the first Society of
Antiquaries met (see my Francis Thynne's Animadversions, p. 93)—that in 1576 Clarence Cooke trickt John Shakspere’s
arms for him, see Dyce’s note 27, p. 21 of his Shakspere, 1866.

3 See my letter of October 24, 1876, in The Academy.

4 I believe the “lame” and ‘lameness” of Sonnets 37 and 89, to be purely metaphorical. In 89, the contrast is
between what is not, (the lameness) and what the friend’s wish would create.

5 These are the colours on the bust in Stratford Church.

6 I don’t press the books point, except they were story-books, such as then existed.

7 She died ‘‘the 6th day of August, 1623, being of the age of 67 yeares” (so, born in 1556, eight years before
Shakspere), says the brass plate over her grave in Stratford Church.

 

 

 
 

 

§3. SHAKSPERE MARRIED. xiii

 

“read no more.” ‘Thcir marriage became necessary. The bond to the bishop's officials, to enable
the marriage to take place after once asking of the banns!, was dated November 28, 1582;
and their baby, Susanna, was baptised on May 26, 1583. Such things were common enough
then, as they have been since, especially in country life; and I don’t think this one is helpt by
supposing a public betrothment of William and Anne beforehand in the presence of friends?,
I doubt John Shakspere, or any other father, being likely to consent formally to the pledging
of his boy of eighteen-and-a-half, when both he and his boy were poor, to a woman of twenty-six,
who was poor too, unless the case was one of necessity. A father would be much more likely
to tell his boy not to make a young fool of himself in that way.

When or where this marriage was solemnised we do not know. Anne Hathaway was most
probably one of the daughters of Richard Hathaway, husbandman, of Shottery, a little village
within a mile of Stratford, where his thatcht cottage, tenanted in part by one of his supposed
descendants, Mrs. Baker, is still to be seen—a pleasant body Mrs. Baker is, and pleasant is the
walk across the fields to her cottage. Still, Anne is not mentiond in Richard Hathaway’s will ®.

What Shakspere had to keep himself, his wife, and baby on, is not recorded; but he probably
livd at Stratford, for there his twins, Hamnet and Judith—probably named after Hamnet Sadler
(possibly a baker) and Judith his wife—were baptised on February 2, 1585 (1584-5). Here, then,
is our young poet, not twenty-one, yet with three children, and a wife eight years older than
himself, pretty well weighted for his run through life. Was his early married life a happy one?
I doubt it. Look at the probabilities of the case, and at the way in which Shakspere dwells on
the evils of a wife’s jealousy* in his second—some folk say his first—play, The Comedy of Errors,
V. i. 69-86, and on the doctrine that men “are masters to their females, and their lords.” I
suspect that the Abbess and Luciana represent their creator’s then opinion on these points, while
Adriana speaks his wife’s*. If so, this would be one cause to lead Shakspere to seek his fortunes
elsewhere. ‘The need of winning money and fame would be another. And tradition gives us a
third: that Shakspere joind some wild young fellows in breaking into Sir Thomas Lucy’s park
at Charlecote, about three miles from Stratford, and stealing his deer, for which, and for writing an
impossibly bad ballad against Sir Thomas, the latter so persecuted the poet that he had to leave
Stratford. The lawfulness of poaching was, even in my young days, strongly impresst on the
country mind, and no doubt Stratford folk held Andrew Boorde’s opinion of venison, “I am sure it
is a lordes dysshe, and IJ am sure it is good for an Englysshe man, for it doth anymate hym to be as
he is, whiche is, strong and hardy 6.” And one would expect Shakspere to have a hand in any fun
that was going on. But all is uncertain. The objection that Charlecote was not a park till
Charles II.’s reign is of little avail, because Rathgeb notes that deer were kept here in woods as
well as parks (my Harrison, p. 82), and that the Lucys had deer is pretty clear, because Sir
Thomas's son sent Lord Ellesmere a buck in 1602. Anyway, it is generally supposed, though

1 The wording of the Condition of the Bond is awkward: ‘if the said William Shagspere do not proceed to
solemnisacion of marriadg with the said Ann Hathwey without the consent of hir friendes,” &c., then the bond is to be
void. The words did not bind Shakspere to marry Anne Hathaway, but only secured that if he married her, her friends
should consent to it, and so clear the bishop, Of course, when she and the boy had got into their mess, her mother and
father would consent to the marriage.

2 4 form of betrothal, with long explanations about it, for those who desire to ‘marry in the Lord,” is containd
in A Godly Form of Household Government, 1598, &c., by R[obert] C[leaver], 4411, df. Brit. Mus. The consent of the
parents and the couple being given, ‘the parties are to be betrothed and affianced in these words, or such like :—

“T, N., do willingly promise to marry thee, N., if God will, and I live, whensoeuver our parents shall thinke good and
meet ; til which time I take thee for my onely betrothed wife, & thereto plight thee my troth. In the name of the Futher, the
Sonne, and the Holy Ghost: So bee it.”

“The same is to bee done by the woman, the name only chaunged, and all in the presence of the Parents, kinsfolkes,
and friends.”

And among the things that the betrotht couple were to be publicly admonisht after the ceremony, was, that they
were ‘to abstaine from the vse of marriage, and to behaue themselves wisely, chastly, lovingly,and soberly till the day
avpointed do come.” And this ‘“ Because the Lord would by this meanes make a difference betwixt bruite beastes and
men, and betwixt the Prophane and his children. For they, enen as beastes, do after a heastlike manner, beeing led by
a naturall instinct and motion, fall togither : but God will haue this difference, whereby his children should bee seuered
from that brutish manner, in that they should haue a certaine distance of time betweene the knitting of affection, and the
enioying one of another, and a more neere ioyning of one vnto another.”—Pp. 137-138. See longer extracts in my letter
in The Academy, November, 1876.

3 He was buried at Stratford on September 7, 1581. — d

4 “The presence of termagant or shrewish women” is Prof. Dowden’s 11th characteristic of Shakspere’s early plays.
i gt His Mind and Art, p.59.) See Gervinus too, p. 137. The “ What is wedlock forced but a hell, an age of

iscord and continual strife?” of 1 Henry VI., V. v. 62-63, is almost certainly not Shakspere’s. : ee

5 Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Chaucer were probably of like minds. Chaucer would hear more than once of Miss Cecilia
Champaigne. «

a Ha aces on, ‘But I do aduertyse euery man, for all my wordes, not to kylle and so to eate of it, excepte it be
lawfully, for it isa meate for great men. And great men do not set so moch by the meate, as they do by the pastyme
of killyng of it.”—P. 275 of my edition. That deer-stealing was a regular amusement of wild young fellows in Shakspere’s
time, see the extracts in Halliwell’s Folio Shakspere, vol, i

 

 
 

 

xiv §4. SHAKSPERE ON HIS ROAD TO LONDON.

 

without any sure ground, that Shakspere left Stratford in or about 1586. As we havo no tidings of
Chaucer for seven years, from his ransom for £16 from France in the spring of 1360, till 1367, so
we have no tidings of Shakspere from the baptism of his twins in February, 1585, till 1592, when
he is successful enough as actor and author in London to be sneerd at in Greene’s posthumous
Groatsworth of Wit. I say no tidings, though we have, in a record of his fathcr’s action in the
Queen’s Bench for £30 against John Lambert, the son of the mortgagee of the Ashbics property
(p. xii, above), John Shakspere’s Statement, in 1589, first, that John Lambert agreed, on September
26, 1587, to pay him £20 if he, John Shakspere, his wife, and son William, would confirm the Ashbies
property to Lambert; second, that he, Juhn Shakspere, and his wife, and son William had alwavs
been ready so to contirm the property, but that John Lambert had never paid the £20. (Z[alliwell’s
Lllustrations, Part I., end.) We must now hark back a bit.

By 1586 John Shakspere’s money troubles had increast. On June 19 the return made
to a writ to distrain goods on his land was, that he had nothing which could be distraind; so a
writ to take his person was issued on February 16, and again on March 2. He was also
deprivd of his aldermanship on September 6, because ‘‘Mr. Wheler .. . and Mr. Shaxpere dothe
not come to the halles when they be warned, nor hathe not done of long tyme.” On March 29,
1587, John Shakspere produced a writ of habeas corpus in the Stratford Court of Record, which
eee he had been in custody or prison, probably for debt, and, as he would urge, put there
illegally.

§ 4. His father being thus in fresh difficulties, and Shakspere himself probably not prosperous.
Burbage’s company, ‘‘The Queen’s Players,’ the company with which Shakspere is always
connected, came for the first time to Stratford, in 1587. And this was probably the turning-
point in Shakspere’s life. At any rate, sooner or later he left his birth-town for London, and
took the way to fame and fortune. Two roads lay before him for his journey, one over Edge
Hill, through Drayton, Banbury, Buckingham, Aylesbury, Amersham, Uxbridge—the road
engravd by Ugilby in 1675'—the other by Shipston, Long Compton?, Woodstock, Oxford, High
Wycombe, Beaconsfield, and Uxbridge. Perchance Shakspere took the latter?, over lias and oolite at
first, to see the town that Hentzner describes in 1598 as “ Oxford, the famed Athens of England ; that
glorious seminary of learning and wisdom; whence religion, politeness and letters are abundantly dis-
persed into all parts of the kingdom!,” the sight of which must have filled the young poet's heart with
delight. No doubt he wisht that he could then, in 1587, have been taking his M.A. degree there,
as his only rival, then unknown to him, Christopher Marlowe, the Canterbury-shoemaker’s son,
was taking his M.A. at Cambridge. Over the Chiltern Hills, the Wycombe chalk—whose fair
downs and woods elsewhere bound Thames stream from Hedsor to past Pangbourne—he’d descend to
London elay, and from Uxbridge pass thro’ my old school-village, Hanwell, to Ealing, Shepherd’s
Bush, and so to London thro’ New Gate, leaving on his left, St. John’s Wood, where in Crowley’s day,
1542, and long after, were foxes for my Lord Mayor to hunt. On his road up, William Shakspere
would take his case in his inn®, whether he walkt or rode; for, says Harrison, ed. 1587, bk. 3,
ch. 16, p. 246, col. 2:—

“Those townes that we call thorowfaires haue great and sumptuous innes builded in them,
for the receiuing of such trauellers and strangers as passe to and fro. The manner of harbouring
wherein, is not like to that of some other countries, in which the host or goodman of the house
dooth chalenge a lordlie authoritie ouer his ghests, but cleane otherwise, sith euerie man may
vse his inne as his owne house in England, and haue for his monie how great or little varietie
of vittels, and what other seruice, himselfe shall thinke expedient to call for. Our innes are
also verie well furnished with naperie, bedding, and tapisterie, especiallie with naperie: for, beside
the linnen vsed at the tables, which is commonlie washed dailie, is such and so much as belongeth
vnto the estate and calling of the ghest. Ech commer is sure to lie in cleane sheets, wherein
no man hath beene lodged since they came from the landresse, or out of the water wherein
they were last washed. If the traueller haue an horsse, his bed dooth cost him nothing; but
if he go on foot, he is sure to paie a penie for the same: but whether he be horsseman or

1 It is also given as the London road in England Displayed, 1769.

2 Over a fine stretch of highish land, part of the way, says Mr. Wheatley. The Graphic Illustrations, p. 6, says of
this part of the county : “‘Its hills are chiefly in the south, and although of slight elevation, open up scenes of much
beauty. On the extreme border is Long Compton Hill, affording an extensive prospect ; and in a field not far off, adjoin-
ing the read to Oxford, which passes over this hill, are the celebrated Rollich or Rollright Stones. These stones are
disposed in a circular form, and appear to have been originally sixty in number. . . . There can... be little doubt that...
they are the remains of a Druid temple”—notwithstanding the legend that they're the bodies of a Danish invading
Prince and his followers, turned into stone by a British fairy, as the names of ‘‘ the King’s Stone” and ‘‘the Whispering
Knights” still bear witness.

3 See my friend Mr. Hales’s paper on it, in The Cornhill Magazine, January,1877. My notes are independent ones.

4 My Harrison, p. \xxxvii. See too p. lxxiii.

5 The earliest use of the phrase I know, is in The Pilgrim’s Tale, ab. 1537, in my Thynne’s Animadversions, p. 77.

a Fy

 

 
 

 

§5. THE LONDON SHAKSPERE CAME TO. XV

 

footman, if his chamber be once appointed, he may carie the kaie with him, as of his owne
house, so long as he lodgeth there.” !

Pain would also go armd, for he would be liable to meet suspicious-looking fellows
base ae aren says, p. 283 of my edition—‘‘the excessiue staues which diverse that
1 na wee e waie doo carrie vpon their shoulders, whereof some are twelue or thirteene foote
te » beside the pike of twelue inches: but as they are commonlie suspected of honest men
0 be theeues and robbers, or at the leastwise scarse true men which beare them; so by reason
of this and the like suspicious weapons, the honest traueller is now inforced to ride with a case
of dags [pistols] at his sadle bow, or with some pretie short snapper, whereby he may deale
with them further off in his owne defense, before he come within the danger of these weapons.
Finallie, no man trauclleth by the waie without his sword, or some such weapon, with vs; except the
minister, who commonlie weareth none at all, vnlesse it be a dagger or hanger at his side. Seldom
also are they or anie other waifaring men robbed, without the consent of the chamberleine, tapster, or
ostler where they bait and lic, who, feeling at their alighting whether their capcases or budgets be of
anie weight or not, by taking them downe from their sadles, or otherwise see their store in drawing of
their purses, do by and by giue intimation to some one or other attendant dailie in the yard or house,
or dwelling hard by, vpon such matches, whether the preie be worth the following or no.”

Probably Shakspere on his first journey would not be worth robbing. His read would no
doubt be a fair one to travel on, except perhaps on the Oxford and London clays. His Garmombles
of Lhe Merry Wives*—Count Mimpelgart—drove from London to Oxford, 47 miles, in August,
1592, in a day and a half, which means good roads for the lumbering coaches and posthorscs of
the day, or even for riding, when out ona tour. His secretary thus describes the country :—

“Between London and Oxford the country is in some places very fertile, in others very
boggy and mossy; and such immense numbers of sheep are bred on it round about that it is
astonishing. There is besides a superabundance of fine oxen and other good cattle.”—Rye, England
as scen by Foreigners in the Days of Elizabeth and James I., p. 30.

§ 5. For the look of the London that Shakspere came to, I must refer my readers to the plans *
and views publisht and to be publisht in my Harrison for the New Shakspere Society, from
Norden’s Middlesex—with Mr. Wheatley’s Notes on them—and the Sieur de la Serre’s account of
the visit of Marie de Medicis to England in 16385, &c. Small as the city was when compard
to its present size—say half as big again as the City proper, within the walls, with a belt
of houses down the Strand to Westminster, and another on Bankside, Southwark—it was still
to then visitors ‘lovely London,” as the Scottish poet Dunbar calld it; and its one bridge
across the Thames, with its rows of houses on each side, was one of the wonders of the world.
For the society, the gracious accomplisht ladies of the Court, and the jealous pushing courtiers,
one turns to Spenser’s Colm Clout’s come home again, to Harrison (pp. 271-2), and the like character
books. For the charming women “and by nature so mighty pretty, as I have scarcely ever beheld,”
to Kiechel, in Mr. Rye’s #ngland, p. 7, or my Harrison, p. lxii., &c., and to almost every Elizabethan
dramatist, who but turns his lovely countrywomen into the glorious creations of his plays. The
cheery working-men too, ‘“‘so merie without malice, and plaine without inward Italian or French
craft and subtiltie, that it would doo a man good to be in companie among them,” are in Harrison as
well, p. 151, with sketches of all other classes, and accounts of the wonderful increase, in Shakspere’s
days, in the wealth and well-being of his countrymen. But of course there was a dark side to the
bright picture; and the Puritans like Stubbes®, Northbrooke’, Gosson’, the satirists like Dekker
(Gull’s Hornbook), bring this dark side into view with terrible distinctness, show in their filth and
grime all the vices and follies of the time, and especially paint the players as black as the devil
himself is—by report—and tint their audiences but one shade lighter. Full of interest these one-
sided books are, but we must not let them blind us to the new life in the land in fair Eliza’s time, and
to the nobleness and daring of the Sidneys, the Grenvilles, the Raleighs, the men like-minded in all
ranks, ready for adventure, ready for death, who’d hold their own against the world. Into a society
thus mixt, soon to be stirrd to its depths by the approach of the Armada in 1588, did Shakspere come.

1 See also the interesting extract from Fynes Moryson, A.D. 1617, in my Harrison, p. Ixx., and the rest of
Harrison's bk. 3, ch. 16, ed. 1587, as to the ostler and chamberlain (waiter) being in league with the highway robbers.

2 “Gadshill. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers.”—1 Henry IV., II. i. 76.

8 So-called in the imperfect Quarto ; see the comment on the play below.

+ The plan of London in 1593 was also published in The Graphic of October 21, 1876, from our plate. See too the
Soc. of Antiquaries’ engraving of the Provession of Edward VI., thro’ the City on the day before his Coronation ; and
Agas’s Map of London.

5 This has been reprinted for the New Shaksp. Soc., by the heliogravwre process (Dujardin's. Paris), and will be
issued in my Harrison, Part Il. It is a most interesting view of the north side of Cheapside, in holiday finery.

6 See my edition New Shaksp. Soc. 1876-7 ; also my Tell Troth volume, and Stafford; R. C.’s Time's Whistle in the
Early English Text Society, &c.

7 In the old Shakespeare Society.

 

 
 

 

xvi § 6. FIRST NEWS OF SHAKSPERE IN LONDON.

 

§ 6. How? As astranger to be honourd, welcomd, and kisst by “ girls with angels’ faces”? ?} Or
poor and despis’d, to pick up his first pence by holding men’s horses at the theatre-doors, as one tra-
dition sayshe did?* The play-house with which tradition connects him was called “‘The Theatre,” and
was built by a player and joiner, James Burbage, in 1577, in the fields outside the City Walls’, on the
west of Bishopsgate Street, near the site of the present Standard Theatre in Shoreditch. In 1598 it
was pulld down, and in 1599 rebuilt as ‘* The Globe,’ on Bankside, Southwark.4 Whether employd at
“The Theatre,” or ‘‘‘The Curtaine ” close by (first noticed in 1577), or any of the ‘‘ other suche lyke
places besides,” of which Northbrooke speaks in 1577-8, or “the theaters” of which Harrison said in
15738, “It is an euident token of a wicked time when plaiers were so riche that they can build suche
houses,” it is clear from Robert Greene’s posthumous Groatsworth of Wit in 1592* that Shakspere
was then known, and well known, as both actor and author, though we have no direct evidence of his
being a member of Burbage’s, or the Lord Chamberlain’s, Company till Christmas, 1593. In the
accounts of the Treasurer of the Chamber, containing this evidence, Shakspere’s name occurs
atter that of Kempe the comedian, and before that of Richard Burbage the great tragedian.®

What then had Shakspere written by 1592 to move the wrath of the dying and deserted
Greene? Certainly, say some critics, The True Tragedie of Richard Duke of Yorke, and the death
of good King Henrie the Sixt, §e., printed in 1595, a play enlargd by Shakspere and others into
The Third Part of Henry the Sixt, first printed in the First Folio of 1628. In both plays occurs
the line below quoted by Greene, with the change of serpents (Tr. Trag.) to womans (Folio) :

“Oh Tygers hart wrapt in a womans hide! To bid the father wipe his eies withall,
How couldst thou draine the life bloud of the childe And yet be seene to beare a womans face?”

the lines being spoken by York to the tigrish Queen Margaret. I however am strongly of
opinion that neither the line above, nor York’s speech in which it occurs, is Shakspere’s; and
I suspect that the parts of 2 & 3 Henry TJ. written by him are of a later date than
1592. Greene’s quotation of a line by Marlowe, from a speech with an adage in which he
may himself have had a hand, and from a play which the two had written together—with

1 Erasmus: he also says, ‘‘ Besides, there is a custom here never to be sufficiently commended. Wherever you
come, you are receivd with a kiss by all; when you take your leave, you are disinisst with kisses; you return, kisses
are repeated. They come to visit you, kisses again; they leave you, you kiss them all round. Should they meet
you anywhere, kisses in abundance; in fine, wherever you move, there is nothing but kisses.”—Harrison, p. 1xi.;
and see p. lxii.

2 The authority for it is the poet Pope: he heard it from Rowe, who was told by Betterton the actor, and he by Sir
Wm. Davenant the actor, who is reported tu have said he was Shakspere’s bastard by Mrs. Davenant, the Oxford-inn
landlady. The story is told in Cibber’s Lives of the Poets, 1753, vol. i., p. 130, and in Johnson's Prolegomena to Shake-
speare, 1765. The latter says, ‘‘ When Shakespear fled to London from the terror of a criminal prosecution, his first
expedient was to wait at the door of the playhouse, and hold the horses of those who had no servants, that they night be
ready again after the performance. In this office he became so conspicuous for his care and readiness, that in a short
time every man as he alighted called for Will. Shakespear, and scarcely any other waiter was trusted with a horse while
Will. Shakespear could be had. This was the first dawn of better fortune. Shakespear, finding more horses put into his
hand than he could hold, hired boys to wait under his inspection, who, when Will. Shakespear was summoned, were
immediately to present themselves, J am Shakespear's boy, sir. In time, Shakespear found higher employment : but as
long as the practice of riding to the playhouse continued, the waiters that held the horses retained the appellation of
Shakespear's boys.” I am willing to accept the tradition, for it harmonises with Greene’s Johannes fac totum. I believe
in life and go as the essence of young Shakspere. He'd have wiped boots with a shoe-clout, cleand a horse, commanded
the channel-fleet, the army, or the nation, or written a sermon for any Romanist or Puritan, to say nothing of poems and
plays for young nobles and the stage. Another tradition is given ina letter, dated 1693, from a man named Dowdall to
Mr. Edward Southwell, which says that the parish clerk of Stratford, who showd Dowdall the church, and was above
80 years old, told him that Shakspere was bound apprentice to a butcher, and ran from his master to London, where he
was taken into the theatre as a servitor. But the apprentice part of this tradition is inconsistent with Shakspere’s
fatherhood of three children at 21 years old.

3 Builders of theatres put them outside the Walls to prevent their being shut by order of the City authorities or
Proclamation, whenever there came a panic about infection or plague, harm to morality, &c.

+ A hundred yards or so west of the Surrey toot of London Bridge. Globe Alley is still by the Brewery there, I am
told, as Playhouse-yard is by The Times printing-office in Blackfriars, where the theatre once was.

5 ‘* Base minded men all three of you [Marlowe, Nash, Peele], if by my miserie ye bee not warned : for vnto none of
you (like me) sought those burres to cleaue: those Puppits (I meane) that speake ‘from our mouths, those Anticks

arnisht in our colours, Is it not strange that I, to whome they all haue been beholding, shall (were ye in that case that
am now) be both at once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not: for there is an upstart crow, beautified with our
feathers, that with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide, supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a blanke verse as
the hest of you: and being an absolute Johannes fac totum, is in his owne conceit the only Shake-scene in a countrie,”"—
Allusion-Books, New. Sh. Soc., p. 30. We must not suppose that Greene's bitter words fairly represent Shakspere’s
character. Henry Chettle, who put forth the Groatsworth after Greene’s death, says, evidently of Shakspere, in his own,
Kindharts Dreame (p. 38, lines 18-17, New. Sh. Soce.’s Allusion-Books, 1874) :—‘‘ My selfe haue seene his demeanor no lesse
ciuill than he exelent in the qualitie he professes. Besides, diuers of worship haue reported his vprightnes of dealing,
which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that aprooues his Art.”

6 «To William Kempe, William Shakesyeare and Richarde Burbage, seruauntes to the Lord Chamberleyne, vpon the
councelles warrant, dated at Whitehall xvtu. Marcij 1594, for twoe seuerall Comedies or Enterludes shewed by them before
her majestie in Christmas tyme laste paste, viz.: St. Stephens daye and Innocentes daye, xiijli, vjs, viijd, and by waye of
her majesties Rewarde vjli, x1ij, iiija, in all, xx ),"—Halliwell’s Illustrations, p. 31. - \

 

 

 

 
 

 

§7. SHAKSPERE’S DATED PLAYS. xvii

 

others’ help ?—would sufficiently point the shaft aimd at Shakspere, without necessarily implying
his part-authorship or revision of Zhe True Tragedie at that time. But this matter raises the
question of the dates and order of Shakspere’s Plays.

§ 7. It is a question that has not been yet enough attended to in England, involving, as it
does, the cure of the great defect of the English school of Shakspercans, their neglect to study
Shakspere as a whole. They have too much lookt on his works as a conglomerate of isolated
plays, without order or succession, bound together only by his name, and the covers of the
volume that containd them. Whereas the first necessity is to regard Shakspere as a whole,
his works as a living organism, each a member of one created unity, the whole a tree of
healing and of comfort to the nations, a growth from small beginnings to mighty ends, the successive
shoots of one great mind, which can never be seen in its full glory of leaf, and blossom, and frut,
unless it be viewd in its oneness. Certain it is that no one work of Shakspere’s, or any other man’s,
can be rightly and fully valued and understood, unless it is set by his other works, and its
relation to them made out, the progress of his mind up to that point followd, and the advance
of it afterwards ascertaind. This process can alone enable the student to get the full yield out
of the play or the author he studies; while it gives him quite a new interest in the author’s
works, by the light it casts on the history of that author's mind. The getting Shakspere’s Plays
into the nearest possible approach to their right order of writing, is thus a matter of first
importance to all students of our great poet.

The evidence for this order is twofold, from without, and from within.

§ 7a. That from without, consists (1) of entries of Poems and Plays, before or on publication,
by publishers, in the Registers of the Stationers’ Company founded by Queen Anne, of which the
book-entries from 1554 to 1640 are incourse of printing by Mr. E. Arber: the 4th and last volume
will be finisht early in 1877. (2.) The publications of the Poems and Plays. (3.) Allusions in
contemporary books, diaries, letters, &c. These give the date at which the poem or play must
have been in existence, though it may have been written long before.

Nos. 1 and 2, the Stationers’ Registers, and publication, date sufficiently for us two Poems,
and six plays, all printed in Shakspere’s lifetime except As You Like It, which, tho’ not expressly
dated 1600, is in such a place in the Stat. Reg. that no other year than 1600 can be meant. See

gArber’s Transcript, iti. 371:—

‘enterd - Venus and Adonis 1593; Lucrece 1594; 1 Hen. IV. 1597; Much Ado 1600;

publisht ot 1393 ; y» oS 5 1598; Fr ——;
enterd - Hamlet - - - 1602; Lear 1607: mentioning 1606; Pericles - 1608;
publisht » - + 1603 & 1604; » 1608; if 1609.2

No. 3, Allusions in contemporary books, &c., date for us four Plays: Julius Cesar, 1601;
Twelfth-Night, February, 1602; Winter's Tale, 1611; Henry VIII., 1613. The authorities are as
follows :—Weever’s Mirror of Martyrs, 1601, for Julius Cesar:

“The many-headed multitude were drawne When eloquent Mark Antonie had showne
By Brutus’ speech, that Czesar was ambitious ; : His vertues, who but Brutus then was vicious?”

There is no such scene in Plutarch’s Life of Cesar, which was Shakspere’s original, so that no
doubt Weever alluded to Shakspere’s play.

Manningham’s Diary (Camden Society, 1868, ed. J. Bruce, p. 18: Manningham was a ‘barrister
of the Middle Temple) for Twelfth-Night :— “Feb. 2, 1601{-2].

“ At our feast, wee had a play called Twelve Night, or What You Will. Much like the Comedy
of Errors, or Menechmi in Plautus; but most like and neere to that in Italian called Inganni.
A good practise in it to make the steward beleive his lady widowe was in love with him, by

T “4 Augusti” [1600]. The year is fixed by the subsequent entries [of Henry V.] at p. 169, and [Much Adoand 2 Hen. IV.]
atp. 170. ‘As you like yt | a booke. Henry the Fift | a booke. very man in his humour | a booke. The comedie
of muche a doo about nothing | a booke.”

2 The other dates of publication (and entry) are as follows. All are starrd to imply that the works they date
were written earlier, and my conjecturd dates tollow :—

1593-4. Titus Andronicus (? Shakspere's) (? ) * 1600. 2 Henry IV. (2 1597-8)
1594, A Shrew, the basis of T’he Shrew) 1 bef. * 1600. Henry V. - - 1599
1594, Contention, the basis of 2 Hen. VI.) M96 * 1600. Mids. Night’s Dream - - (? 1590-2)
1595. True Tragedy, the basis of 3 Hen. VI.) j * 1600. Merch. of Venice (entd. 1598) ? 1596)
* 1597. Romeo and Juliet (? 1591-3 * 1602. Merry Wives (entd. 1601) - ? 1598-9)
* 1597. Richard II. - °- ~ + ? 1593-4 * 1609. Sonnets es - ? 1593-1608)
* 1597. Richard III. ? 1594) * 1609. Troilus and Cressida (entd. 1608) (2 1606-7)
* 1598. Love's. Labours Lost -. . ? 1589) * 1622. Othello - - - - - (? 1604)
* 1599. Passionate Pilgrim : (? 1589-99) * 1623. Other Plays: first Folio - (2 1488-1613)

A Lover's Complaint, printed in 1609, at the end of Shakspere’s Sonnets, I am content to follow Mr. Swinburne in
believing spurious, though Dyce’ declares it an early genuine work. 5

 

 
 

 

xviii § 7. SHAKSPERE'’S DATED PLAYS.

 

counterfayting a letter as from his lady in general termes, telling him what she liked best in
him, and prescribing his gesture in smiling, his apparaile, &c., and then when he came to
practise, making him believe they took him to be mad,” &c.

Dr. Forman’s Diary, in No. 208 of the Ashmole MSS. in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, art. 12,
for Winter's Tale, says, “In the Winters Talle at the glob, 1611, the 15 of maye},’ and,—his
spelling being modernised :—“ Observe thee how Leontes, the King of Sicilia, was overcome with
jealousy of his wife, with the King of Bohemia, his friend that came to see him, and how he
contrived his death, and would have had his cup-bearer to have poisoned [Bohemia], who gave
the King of Bohemia warning thereof, and fled with him to Bohemia. Remember also how he
sent to the oracle of Apollo, and the answer of Apollo, that she was guiltless, and that the
king was jealous, &c.; and how except the child was found again that was lost, the King should
die without issue: for the child was carried into Bohemia, and there laid in a forest, and brought
up by a shepherd; and the King of Bohemia’s son married that wench; and how they fled in[to]
Sicilia to Leontes, and the shepherd having showed the letter of the nobleman by whom Leontes sent
away that child, and the jewels found about her, she was known to be Leontes’ daughter, and
was then sixteen years old.” 5

For Henry VIII. 1. Thomas Lorkin’s letter, in the Harleian MS. 7002 (British Museum),
to Sir Thomas Puckering, dated “ London, this last of June, 1613 :”—

“No longer since than yesterday, while Bourbage his company were acting at the Globe the
play of Henry VIII, and there shooting of certayne chambers [small cannon or mortars] in way of
triumph, the fire catched,” &¢.— Singer.

2. John Chamberlaine’s letter to Sir Ralph Winwood, dated London, 8th July, 1613, in
Winwood's Memorials, vol. iii., p. 469:—

“But the burning of The Globe? or Playhouse, on the Bankside, on St. Peter's day, cannot
escape you; which fell out by a peele of chambers (that I know not upon what occasion were to be
used in the play), the tampin or stopple of one of them lighting in the thatch that covered the
house, burn’d it to the ground in less than two hours, with a dwelling-house adjoining ; and it was a
great marvaile and faire grace of God that the people had so little harm, having but two narrow
doors to get out at.”’—Singer.

The burning of the Globe is mentiond also by Howes, in his continuation of Stowe’s Annales,
ed. 1631, p. 926; but Sir Hy. Wotton, in his account of it, (Religuie Wottoniane, p. 425, ed. 1685)
says that the play was “a new play called A// is true.”’3

§ 74 (1). The evidence of date from within the plays is (1) from allusions in them to past or con-
temporary events, kc. These date positively only one play, Henry V., which in 1. 30 of its Prologue
to Act V., refers to the Earl of Essex, then in command of the Queen’s army in Ireland :—

«But now behold, AS, by a lower, but by loving likelihood,
In the quick forge and working-house of thought, Were now the general of our gracious empress,
How London doth pour out her citizens ! (As, in good time, he may) from Ireland, coming,
The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,— Bringing rebellion brooched upon his sword,
Like to the senators of the antique Rome, How many would the peaceful city quit,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,— To welcome him? much more, and much more cause,
Go forth, and fetch their conquering Czesar in : Did they this Harry.”

And there can be little doubt that the Prologue to Act I. also refers to the newly-built wooden (O or)
Globe Theatre, opend in 1599. See p. xvi, above :—

“Can this cockpit hold Within this wooden O, the very casques
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram That did affright the air of Agincourt?”

1 The entries in Black's Catalogue, col. 169, are ““*12. The Bocke of Plaies and Notes thereof per Formans for
common pollicie.” Qeaf) 200. This book was begun a few months before his death, and contains notes of only four
plays which he witnessed ; namely—‘‘In Richard the 2 at the glob, 1611, the 30 of Aprill.” 201. “In the -Winters
Talle at the glob, 1611, the 15 of maye.” 201-2. ‘Of Cinobelin, King of England.” 206. ‘In Mackbeth at the glob,
1610, the 20 of aprill.” 207-7.

2 Built in 1599 out of the materials of The Theatre : see p. xvi, above. It was rebuilt in 1613, after the fire.

3 Besides these, Francis Meres, in his Palladis Tamia, 1598, gives us the downward dates of some of Shakspere’s
Sonnets (the whole were publisht in 1609), of 6 Comedies and 6 Tragedies :— ,

“As the soule of Euphorbus was thought to liue in Pythagoras: so the sweete wittie soule of Ouid lines in
mellifluous and hony-tongued Shakespeare, witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Luecrece, his sugred Sonnets among his
priuate friends, &c.

“As Plautus and Seneca are accounted the best for Comedy and Tragedy among the Latines : so Shakespeare among

English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage; for Comedy, witnes his Gentlemen. of Verona, his Errors,

is Loue labors lost, his Loue labours wonne,) his Midsummers night dreame, and his Merchant of Venice: for Tragedy,
his Richard the 2., Richard the 3., Henry the 4., King John, Titus Andronicus, and his Romeo and Juliet.”—New Shaksp.
Soc’s. Allusion-Books, p. 159. Allusions in other books also give downward dates for plays, as John Weever, 1595, for
“* Romea-Richard” ; Robert Tofte, 1598, for “‘ Loves labour lost" ; Jn. Marston, 1598, for Richard III. ; Primlyco, 1609,
Pericles ; J. W. von Vendenheym, April 30, 1610, for Othellv, &c.

1 Most likely, the play recast as All's Well that Ends Weil.

 

 
 

 

§% METRICAL TESTS. xix

 

But the date of one other play may also be taken as decided by an allusion in it. And that is
Romeo and Juliet, by the Nurse’s words as to Juliet’s age :—

“Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she be fourteen. That shall she, marry ; I remember it well.
Susan and she,—God rest all Christian souls ! Tis since the earthquake now eleven years ; 5
Were of an age.—Well, Susan is with God ; And she was wean'd,—I never shall forget it,—

She was too good for me: But, as I said, Of all the days of the yeat, upon that day.”—I. iii. 17-25.
On Lainmas-eve at night shall she be fourteen : .

Now the great earthquake of Shakspere’s time—to which he also probably refers in Venus and
Adonis—was on April 6, 1580. And, unless Juliet was suckled till she was between two and three, the
Nurse’s 11 years should be 138. This gives cither 1591 or 1593 for the date of the Play, and as it must
be close to Venus and Adonis,—enterd and publisht 1593,—either date may be held for it, tho’ I
incline to put it before Venus and Adonis rather than after it.)

Thus far, then, we have trustworthy dates? for two poems (Venus and Adonis, 1593; Lucrece
1594) and 11 Plays: Romeo and Juliet, 1591-3; 1 Henry IV., 1597; Henry V., 1599; As You Like It
and Much Ado, 1600; Twelfth-Night, 1602; Hamlet, 1602-4; Lear, 1606; Pericles, 1608; Winter's
Tale, 1611; Henry VIIT., 1613.

§ 76 (2). And for the dates, or rather the order, of the rest, 26 of Shakspere’s 37 plays—18 printed
during his life, and 19 after his death (including The Two Nodle Kinsmen), —as well as part of his Sonnets,
we are thrown back on the second part of the Evidence from Within, the Style and Temper of the works.

Let us first take the pvint of Metre, in which Shakspere was changing almost play by play, during
his whole life. Here are two passages of narrative from plays of his youth and hisage. Just read them,
and see which has the formality of the beginner, which the ease and flow of the practist writer :—

And, knowing whom it was their hap to saue,

The wild Sea of my Conscience. I did steere
Gaue healthfull welcome to their ship-wrackt guests,

The Comedie of Errors, I. i. 99-121, p. 88, Folio. The Life of King Henry the Eight, II. iv. 186-209,
p. 217, Folio.

“¢ Merch. Oh, had the gods done so, I had not now 99 } “« First, me thought }
Worthily tearm’d them mercilesse to vs ! I stood not in the smile of Heauen, who had 1 4
For ere the ships could meet by twice fiue leagues, Commanded Nature, that my Ladies wombe, y
We were encountred by a mighty rocke, If it conceiu’d a male-child by me, should 1 \
Which being violently borne vp{on], Doe no more Offices of life too ’t, then wk. d
Our helpefull ship was splitted in the midst ; The Graue does to th’ dead. For her Male Is] sue, J
So that, in this vuiust diuorce of vs, 105 Or di’de where they were made, or shortly af| ter ?
Fortune had left to both of vs alike, This world had ayr’d them. Hence I tooke a thought s
What to delight in, what to sorrow for. 107 This was a Judgement on me, that my king | dome }
Her part, poore soule, seeming as burdend 108 (Well worthy the best Heyre o’ th’ World,) should not
With lesser waight, but not with lesser woe, 109 Be gladded in ’t by me. Then followes, that wk. 3
Was carried with more speed before the winde ; I weigh’d the danger which my Realmes stood-in i
And in our sight they three were taken-vp 2 d ie i
By Fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. 112 By this my Issues faile ; and that gaue to|me = wk. )
At length another ship had seiz’d on vs, Many a groaning throw: thus hulling in wk. 1

L
And would haue reft the Fishers of their prey, Toward this remedy, whereupon we are hi )
Had not their barke beene very slow of saile ; Now present heere together ; that’s to say, 4
And therefore, homeward did they bend their course. I meant to rectifie my Conscience,— which 1Yy
Thus haue you heard me seuer’d from my blisse, I then did feele full sicke, and yet not well,— J
That by misfortunes was my life prolongd, 120 By all the Reuerend Fathers of the Land,
To tell sad stories of niy owne mishaps.” And Doctors learn’d. First, I began in pri| uate
With you, my Lord of Lincolne ; you remem| ber, 3

How vnder my oppression I did reeke,
When I first mou’d you.”

 

1 As You Like It is sometimes said to be dated 1601 by the allusion in Act IV., sc. i., 1. 153, where Rosalind, chaffing
Orlando, says, ‘‘I will weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to
be merry.” Careless referers to Stowe’s Survay, 1598, revis’'d 1603, have interpreted the removal of the old timber cross
at the top of the stone Eleanor Cross, after December 24, 1600, to imply the removal also of what was set up on its east
side in 1596, ‘‘a curiously wrought tabernacle of grey marble, and in the same an image alabaster of Diana, and water
conveyed from the Thames prilling from her naked bresst for a time, but now decayed.”—Thoms's reprint, p. 100, col. 2.
The aliasion in The Comedy of Errors, ILI. ii. 124-6, to France making war against her heir, gives only the vague date of
1584-89, or 1584-98, See below. . : |

2 T say, trustworthy dates, because the external evidence is confirmd by the internal.

 

 
 

 

xx § 7. METRICAL TESTS. § 8. CHANGES IN SHAKSPERE.

 

Is it not plain that the Errors lines are the work of the novice, the Henry VIII. ones of
the traind artist, with full command of his material, who has learnt how to conceal his art’
Compare the formal structure of the first, with the ease and varied pauses of the second. Note
in the Errors passage, how every line but 3 dwells on its last word, has a pause after it, (tho’ with
3 central pauses too,) while in the Hexry VIII. one, every line but 8 refuses to pause at its last
word, and not only runs on into the next line, making central pauses instead of end ones in
every case except 3, but also, to facilitate this running-on, puts in 8 lines a light (1.) or weak
(wk.) ending at the last word: this, to get the freedom and ease of natural talk. Note again
that the Errors lines have all 10 syllables or five measures, while in Henry VIIJ., five lines
have an extra or 11th syllable, to break the monotony of the verse. Just compare then the
percentages of these characteristics :—

i ain 24 olin is Extra-syllable { fieiry VIIL, 6 in 24, or lin 4
1, oh in 8 orl in Ll Weal endings ke VIII. 8 in 24, or lin

Note again that in Shakspere’s earliest genuine play, Love's Labours Lost, as compard with

three of his latest, the proportions of ryming 5-measure lines to blank-verse ones, are as follows :—
Love's Labours Lost - 1,028 ryme, to 579 blank, or 1 to ‘56.
The Tempest - 2 ryme, to 1,458 blank, or 1 to 779.
Winter's Tale 0 ryme, to 1,825 blank, or 1 to infinity.

So the proportion of end-unstopt lines to end-stopt ones in three of the earliest and latest plays is as
follows :—

a { Errors
Run-on lines V Henry VIL

Central-pause { teen VI

Earliest Plays. Run. — f Latest Plays. Run.
Love’s Labuurs Lost 1 in 1814 The Tempest 1 in 3°02
The Comedy of Errors -  - 1 in 107 Cymbeline - - 1 in 252
The Two Cent. of Verona 1 in 10° The Winter's Tale 1 in 27122

§ 8. Now these changes in Shakspere’s metre are not accidental .3 They are undesignd outward
signs of his inward growth. They were accompanied by other changes in style and temper that
markt the progress of Shakspere’s mind and spirit. He soon gave up the doggrel, the excessive
word-play, quip and crank, of his early plays, their puns, conceits, and occasional bombast, their use
of stanzas‘ in the dialogue; he put his early superabundant use of fancy more and more under the
control of the higher imagination and of straight aim; he subdued the rhetoric of his historical
plays; he changed the chaff, the farce, the whim, of his early comedies, into the death-struggle of the
passions, into the terror of his tragedies, laying bare the inmost recesses of the human soul; and then

1 Of course in the early plays there'll be some passages with all run-on lines, &c., and in the late plays some passages
with all end-stopt lines, &c., but in each case these do not give the general character of the metre of the play they occur
in. Here is an exceptional specimen of the run-on line and central pause in Romeo and Juliet, II. vi. 24-29 :—

“Rom, Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue
Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath i Receive in either by this dear encounter.”

Any poet wanting ease must kick those end-stops out of his way, as any dramatic poet must get rid of the clogs of ryme,
the source of so much padding and fudge in verse, since it makes men say only what they can, not what they would.
My friend Mr, Hargrove adds; ‘‘ When Shakspere began to write, he and his fellow playwrights were but learning the
use of blank verse, and for a time they write as men but just set free from shackles would walk,; they rid themselves
easily enough of the fetters of ryme, but cannot without much practise and some boldness get over the habits acquired
during the wearing of them. Now ryme imposes four conditions ; (1) the first and essential one is the recurrence of the
same or similar sounds ; but this happens in all speech or writing: in order that it may be prominent, we must add
(2) that the recurrence be at regular intervals, i.e., that each ryme line be of the same number of syllables, and (3) that
the syllable containing the recurring sound be a marked one, that is, be accented ; this last condition carries with it
4) that a pause, greater or less, must follow the ryming syllables, and therefore be at the end of each line. We get thus
‘our tests of gradual growth from ryming plays, in which the meaning is forced to conform to metre, to those in which the
metre is a mere accompaniment, secondary to and harmonizing with the meaning, (1) Disuse of rime ; (2) Lines of more or
fewer than the prescribed number of syllables ; (3) Lines ending with syllables on which the voice does not dwell (called
light endings) or cannot dwell (called weak endings) ; (4) Run-on lines, or such as suffer no pause to be made at the end.”
; 2:My friend Professor Dowden says: ‘‘ As characteristic of these early plays, we may notice (i) frequency of ryme,
in various arrangements: (a) rymed couplets, (b) rymed quatrains, (c) the sextain, consisting of an alternately ryming
quatrain, followed by a couplet (the arrangement of the last six lines of Shakspere’s sonnets) ; (ii). Occurrence of rymed
doggrel verse in two forms, (a) very short lines, and (b) very long lines; Gi) comparative infrequency of feminine or
double ending ; (iv), weak ending ; ), unstopped line ; (vi), regular internal structure of the line: extra syHables
seldom packed into the verse ; (vii), frequency of classical allusions ; (viii), frequency of puns and conceits; (ix), wit and
imagery drawn out in detail to the point of exhaustion ; (x), clowns who are, by comparison with the later comic
characters, outstanding persons in the play, told off specially for clownage ; (xi), the presence of termagant or shrewish
women ; (xii), soliloquies addressed rather to the audience (to explain the business of the piece, or the motives of the
actors), than to the speaker's self ; (xiii), symmetry in the grouping of persons.”-—Growth of Shakspere’s Mind and Art,
p. 59 (with the h taken out of its rhyme, A.-Sax,, rim; Chaucer, rym n., ryme vb.).

8 Some overgrown children still pooh-pooh them altogether.

4 One of the 15th century Digby Mysteries is written in stanzas all thro’, one stanza being now and then shared
among two or three people, as, indeed, several are in Shakspere’s Love's Labowrs Lost,

 

 
 

 

§8 SECOND VICTORIAN SCHOOL GF SHAKSPEREANS. xxi

 

passt, serene and tender, to the pastorals of his later age. Changing, developing, Shakspere
always was. And as his growth is more and more closely watcht and disvernd, we shall more and
more clearly see, that his metre, his words, his grammar and syntax, move but with the deeper
changes of mind and soul of which they are outward signs, and that all the faculties of the man
went onward together.1 This subject of the growth, the oneness of Shakspere, the links between his
successive plays, the light thrown on each by comparison with its neighbour, the distinctive
characteristics of each Period and its contrast with the others, the treatment of the same or like
incidents, &c., in the different Periods of Shakspere’s life—this subject, in all its branches, is the
special business of the present, the second school of Victorian students of the great Elizabethan
poet, as antiquarian illustration, emendation, and verbal criticism—to say nothing of forgery, or at
least, publication of forgd documents*—were of the first school. The work of the first school—
minus the forgery—we have to carry on, not to leave undone; the work of our own second school
we have to do. In it, Gervinus of Heidelberg, Dowden of Dublin, Hudson of Boston, are the
students’ best guides that we have in English speech.3 I can only hope to help to their end, by saying
how Shakspere’s successive plays have struck me, who came late to the study of them, resolvd to
try to get at their relation to one another and their author, and not to submit to the mere gammon
I used to hear, ‘Succession of Shakspere’s plays! My dear fellow, impossible! Shakspere was
infinite; no before and after in him!”’ or, ‘‘ Succession : can’t be done; the very utmost you can hope
for, is, to say to which of the three Periods a play belongs ;’’—as it the same powers of mind which
could put a play into a period, couldn’t, with further exercise, settle the place of the play in that
period. I don’t say that we can do this yet; we can’t: but it’s only because we haven’t yet used
our eyes and heads enough. Assuredly a day will come when the large majority of reasonable

1 “T do not believe that he [Shakspere] could have been induced, after he was 40, to write either ryme or blank verse,
resembling in metrical structure and rhythmical effect, that which he used to write before he was 25, or even 30. The
regular cadence and monotonous sweetness had grown tiresome to his ear; his imagination and intellect had become
impatient of the luxuriance of beautiful words and superfluous imagery. It had become a necessity to him to go to the
heart of the matter by a directer path, and to produce his effects of beauty and sweetness in another way—a way of his
own. Compare the description of a similar ohject in three different plays, belonging to dates considerably distant
from each other ; the face of a beautiful woman just dead; there being nothing in the character of the several speakers
to explain the difference.

“1, Romeo and Juliet, second edition (1599): not in the first edition : therefore presumably written between 1597
and 1599 [I believe very much earlier, 1591-3, the 1st edition being only a pirated version of the 2nd, and neither
printed till long after the writing of the play.]:—

‘Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff. Death lies on her, like an wntimely frost
Life and these lips have long been separated. Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.’ {Fancy.]

“2. Antony and Cleopatra [? 1606-7] :—

‘If they had swallowed poison, 'twould appear As she would catch another Anthony
By external swelling : but she looks like sleep, In her strong toil of grace.’

{Imagination, penetrating to the purpose of her life. ]

“3. Cymbeline [? 1610] :—

‘How found you him? Not as death's dart being laughed at. His right cheek

y Stark, as you see, Reposing on a cushion.’

Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,

“The difference in the treatment in these three cases represents the progress of a great change in manner and taste :
a change which could not be put on or off, like the’ fashion, but was part of the man.”

“Look, again, at the structure of the verse a few lines further on (Cymbeline, Act IV., sc. ii., 1. 220-4; Folio, p. 389,
col. 1) :—

 

‘Thou shalt not lacke
The Flower that’s like thy face, Pale Primrose, nor (wk.
The azur’d Hare-bell, like thy Veines: no, nor wk,

The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slan | der
Out-sweetned not thy breath.’

 

“T doubt whether you will find a single case in any of Shakspere’s undoubtedly early plays of a line of the same
structure. Where you find a line of ten syllables ending with a word of one syllable—-that word not admitting either of
emphasis or pause, but belonging to the next line, and forming part of its first word-group—you have a metrical effect of
which Shakspere grew fonder as he grew older ; frequent in his latest period ; up to the end of his middle period, so far
as I can remember, unknown.”—Mr. Spedding’s letter to me on his ‘‘ Pause-Test.” New Shal:spere Soc.’s Trans. , 1874, p. 31.

‘2 The utterers of these forgd documents were J. P. Collier and the late Peter Cunningham. Those put forth by Mr.
Collier as genuine were the documents from the Ellesmere (or Bridgewater House) and Dulwich College Libraries, a State
Paper, and Mr. C.’s additions to the Dulwich Letters (see Dr. Ingleby’s Complete View). I,in common with many other

_men, have examind the originals with Mr. Collier’s prints of them. He printed one more name to one document than
was in it when produced ; and when this was found out, the document was made ,away with, undoubtedly by the forger of
it. None of Mr. Collier’s statements should be trusted till they have been verified. The entries of the actings of Shak-
spere’s plays in Mr. Peter Cunningham's Revels at Court (Shakespeare Society, 1842), pp. 203-5, 210-11, are also
printed from forgeries (which Sir T. Duffus Hardy has shown me), though Mr. Halliwell says he has a transcript of some
of the entries, made before Mr. Cunningham was born. Thus the following usually relied-on dates are forgd: 1605,
‘Moor of Venice, Merry Wives, Measure for Measure, Errors, Love's Labours Lost, Henry V., Merchant of Venice. 1612,
Tempest, Winter's Tale. The forgd biographical documents uttered by Mr. Collier have been a curse to Shakspere
students ever since. In December, 1876, a theatrical paper—which, by the way, once pretended to knowledge enough
to criticise the New Shakspere Society’s work—reprinted the Blackfriars Theatre documents as genuine.
% See, too, Mr. Swinburne’s two Articles in The Fortnightly Review, 1875-6.

 

 
 

xxii §9. SHAKSPERE’S FIRST-PERIOD PLAYS.

 

critics will be agreed aa to the order of Shakspere’s plays; and as soon as folk know their Shakspere
A BC, we shall have no more such silly fancies as the late Mr. Hunter’s—that The Tempest was
Love's Labours Won, and written before 1598—or Mr. Swinburne’s, that Henry VIII. was an early
Second-Period Play, and therefore before or about 1596.

§ 9. The handiest test for Shakspere’s earliest plays is that of metre, combind with evident
youngness of treatment. We find in certain plays such a large proportion of rymed lines mixt
with blank verse in the ordinary 5-measure dialogue, and in others such unripeness of handling, that
we pick out as the First-Period Plays, Love's Labours Lost (the early part of All’s Well, representing
Love’s Labours Won), The Comedy of Errors, Midsummer-Night’s Dream, The Two Gentlemen of Verona,
Romeo and Juliet ith the poems Venus and Adonis and Lucrece, and probably the early part of
Troilus and Cressida), Richard IT., and the quadrilogy of 1, 2, & 8 Henry VI. and Richard ILI.

Tirvs Anpronicus I do not consider here, although it is in Meres’s list above, p. xviii, note 3, and
in the First Folio; for to me, as to Hallam and many others, the play declares as plainly as play can
speak, “I am not Shakspere’s: my repulsive subject, my blood and horrors, are not, and never were, his.”
I accept the tradition that Ravenscroft reports when he revivd and alterd the play in 1687, that it was
brought to Shakspere to be toucht up and prepard for the stage. I advise my readers not to read
Titus till they have read all the rest of Shakspere, and are in a position to judge what is his work, and
what is not. Let no one begin his introduction to Shakspere with Titus. Some of the passages in it
that Mr. H. B. Wheatley suggests as Shakspere’s (New Sh. Soc.’s Trans., 1874, pp. 126-9) are, I. i. 9—
“ Romaines, friends, followers, favourers of my right ” (echoed in Mare Antony’s speech in Jul. Cesar,
III. ii. 75, “ Friends, Romans, countrymen”); IT. i. 82-3, “Shee isa woman, therefore to be woo’d: Shee
is a woman, therefore may be wonne” (like Gloster’s lines on Lady Anne, Rich. III, I. ii. 228-9, and
1 Hen. VI, V. iii. 78-9); also I. i. 70-6, 117-119 (cp. Portia’s mercy speech, Merchant, IV. i. 183);
Ti. 141-2); II. ii. 1-6; II. iii. 10-15; III. i. 82-6, 91-7; IV. iv. 81-6; V. ii. 21-27, V. iii. 160-8.

Looking then to the metrical facts, that Love’s Laspours Lost has twice as many rymed lines as
blank-verse ones (1 to ‘58), that it has only one run-on line in 18°14, only 9 extra-syllable blank-verse
lines; that it has, in the dialogue, 8-line stanzas (I. i.), several 6-line stanzas (ab, ab, ce: IV.i., iii.),
and in Act IV., sc. iii., 222-289, no less than 17 consecutive 4-line verses of alternate rymes
(ab, ab), &c., with much 1-line (short, and long) antithetic talk; that it has 194 doggrel lines of
different measures, and only 1 Alexandrine (6-measure with a pause at the 3rd); that it has
hardly any plot; that it is cram-full of word-play and chaff, without a bit of pathos till the end,
I have no hesitation in picking out this as Shakspere’s earliest play. The reason that has induced
some critics to put it later is, I believe, that it is much more carefully workt-at and polisht than
some of the other early plays. And thisistrue. But one can understand thisin a writer’s first venture,
especially when, as in the present case, he revisd and enlargd his play into the form in which we now
have it, which is that of the Quarto of 1598, ‘‘As it was presented before her Highness this last
Christmas. Newly corrected and augmented.’ And if the reader will turn to Berowne’s speech

1 Note the Chaucer allusion in II. i. 126, ‘‘ The emperor's court is like the House of Fame.”

2 As to the date and sources of 7'itus, Ben Jonson says in the Induction to his Bartholomew Fair, produced “ at the
Hope on the Bankside [Southwark], in the county of Surrey . . the one-and-thirtieth day of October, 1614,’—and
lasting ‘‘ two hours and an half, and somewhat more,” as against the ‘‘two hours” of Romeo and Juliet (1st chorus).—“‘ He
that will swear Jeronymo or Andronicus are the best plays yet, shall pass unexcepted at here, as a man whose judgment
shows it is constant, and hath stood still these five-and-twenty or thirty years.” This would carry us back to 1584-9.
But it is not till 1594 that Henslowe enters in his Diary, on the back of leaf 8 of the scrubby paper MS. at Dulwich
College, in his account of ‘‘ the earle of Sussex his men,” that at a new play of this name he took £3 8s., ‘‘ne Rd. at
Titus and ondronicus, the 22 of Jenewary, 1593 (-4) . ij. li. viij.s.” (PB. 88, Old Shakesp, Soc.’s edition.) It is also
not till 1594 (1593-4), that on February 6 ‘‘A booke entitled a noble Roman Historye of Tytus Andronicus” is
entered in the Stationers’ Registers to John Danter (Arber's Transcript, ii. 644). Langbaine says in his Account of English
Dramatic Poets, p. 464, that this play “‘ was first printed 4°, Lond., 1594,” but no copy is now known earlier than 1600.
But inasmuch as there is an old German ‘l'ragedy of Titus Andronicus, which was acted in Germany about the year 1600
by English actors, and that contains a Vespasian, my old friend Mr. Albert Cohn says, in his Shakespeare in Germany, 1865,
that we ought to believe that our English Titus Andronicus was founded on the play of ‘“‘ tittus and Vespasia,” markt ne
or new, by Philip Henslowe (Diary, MS. leaf 7 back ; print, p. 24), on ‘“‘the 11 of aprell,” 1591, at the acting of which
the manager got £3 4s., and which was often performed. Of the sources of the play, Theobald says: ‘The story we are
to suppose merely fictitious. Andronicus is a surname of pure Greek derivation. Tamora is neither mentioned by
Ammianus Marcellinus, nor any body else that I can find. Nor had Rome, in the time of her emperors, any war with the
Goths that I know of: not till after the translation of the empire, I mean to Byzantium. And yet the scene of the play is
laid at Rome; and Saturninus is elected to the empire at the Capitol.” —Variorum Shaks., xxi. 379. The copy of the ballad
in the Roxburghe Collection, [., 392, 393, vol. i., p. 544, of my friend Mr. Chappell’s edition for our Ballad Society,
“cannot,” says Mr. Chappell, p. 543, ‘‘ be dated before the reign of James I., and is more probably of that of Charles I. It
is included in the Pepys Collection, I. 86, printed for E. Wright. A second edition in the same collection is for Clarke,
Thackeray,and others (I. 478). The Roxburghe edition is by A[lexander] M[ilbourne], and the Bagford, 643 m. 10, p. 11,
is by W. O[nley].” The title of the ballad is ‘ The lamentable and tragical history of Titus Andronicus. With the fall of
his Sons in the Wars with the Goths, with the manner of the Ravishment of his Daughter Lavinia by the Empresses two
Sons, through the means of a Bloody Moor taken by the sword of Titus in the War: with his Revenge upon their cruel
and inhumane Act. To the tune of ‘Fortune, my foe,’” &c., for which see Chappell’s Popular Music of the Olden Time.

 

 
 

 

§9. MISTAKEN-IDENTITY GROUP. LOVE'S LABOURS LOST. xxiii

 

on. the effect of love, in IV. iii., he will find two striking instances of this correction: lines 296-8,
are repeated in 317-320, and lines 299-301 in 847-350, and in each case improved—the printer left the
first ones in by accident—while in lines 302-5 (‘‘ Why, universal plodding,” &c.) is seen an insertion of
the maturer hand and thought uf the older Shakspere. Let the reader too with Mr. Spedding, on
February 2, 1839, ‘‘ observe the inequality in the length of the Acts; the first being half as long again,
the fourth twice as long, the fifth three times as long, as the second and third. This isa hint where to
look for the principal additions and alterations. In the first Act I suspect Biron’s remonstrance against
the vow (to begin with) to be an insertion. In the fourth, nearly the whole of the close, from Biron’s
burst, ‘Who sces the heavenly Rosaline’ (IV. iii. 218). In the fifth, the whole of the first scene
between Holofernes and Sir Nathaniel bears traces, to me, of the maturer hand, and may have been
inserted bodily. The whole close of the fifth Act, from the entrance of Mercade (V. ii. 705), has been
probably re-written}, and may bear the same relation to the original copy which Rosaline’s speech ‘Oft
have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,’ &c. (V. ii. 831-844) bears to the original speech of six lines
(807-812), which has been allowed by mistake tostand. There are also a few lines (1-3) at the opening
of the fourth Act which I have no doubt were introduced in the corrected copy.
‘Prince. Was that the king, that spurr’d his horse so hard

Against the steep uprising of the hill?
Boyet. I know not; but I think it was not he.’

It was thus that Shakspere learnt to shade off his scenes, to carry the action beyond the stage.”
. In accordance with his own theory of ‘“ playing, whose end both at the first and now, was and is,
to hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image,
and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure,”—Hamlet, III. ii. 22-25,—Shakspere
dealt, in his first Play, with one of the great social questions of his day, and quizzd the leading
fashions of the London of his time. This question, the relation of young men to young women, has
come to the front again (as was natural) in our Victorian days, and was solvd for us by Mr. Tennyson
in his Princess?, 1847, as Shakspere solvd it for the Elizabethans by his Love’s Labours Lost. The
Elizabethan poet made woman the teacher, as was his wont; the Victorian made man, as (in his
Arthur, &c.) he usually does. The fashion Shakspere satirised was Euphuism: this kind of
affected antithetic talk : ‘‘ But vnlesse Euphues had inutigled thee, thou hadst yet bene constant: yea,
but if Euphues had not seene thee willyng to be wonne, he woulde neuer haue wo(o)ed thee: But had
not Euphues entised thee with faire wordes, thou wouldst neuer haue loved him: but hadst thou not
giuen him faire lookes, he would neuer haue liked thee: I [=ay], but Euphues gave the onset: I,
but Lucilla gaue the occasion: I, but Euphues first brake his minde: I, but Lucilla first bewrayed
hir meaning.”—John Lyly’s Euphues, 1579, p. 89, ed. Arber, 1868. Academies were also in the air in
those days (see my ed. of Queene Elizabethes Achademy, K.E.T. Soc.), and Shakspere quizzd these
too in his Love’s Labours Lost.

The London wits of the day, and their consequentialness, their assumed superiority over country
bumpkins, would naturally strike and amuse the Stratford-bred Shakspere; and so, in his first Play,
he just. showd them that he could beat them with their own weapons, and told them what their wit and
fine talk, on which they so prided themselves, were worth—not one penny, in comparison with real
good heart and work. Rosaline speaks the moral of the Play in the task she sets Berowne to cure his
gibing, jesting spirit—a year’s work, day by day, in a hospital? among the speechless sick (V. ii. 831-
859), to show him what the realities of life were. Another point that plainly struck Shakspere, and
disgusted him, in London society, was, the fashion of women—the good, like the bad—painting their
faces, and wearing sham hair,—which latter, at least, has long offended many of us Victorian men too.
He alludes to the face-painting, not only in this, his first Play, 1V. iii. 256, ‘‘ painting and usurping
hair,” 260, but in his Sonnets also, 67, 1.5; 68, 1. 2-8, and again and again in his later Plays’,
as he does to the sham hair. The sharp London boy—like the Paris gamin—he sketches too in Moth
(a mote). Love’s Labours Lost is hardly a drama; but is rather a play of conversation and situation,
with the slightest possible plot, and with no known original, except a passage in Monstrelet’s French
Chronicle, ch. xvii., Johnes, 1807, i. 54; Hazlitt, i. 3, that, for the Duchy of Nemours, and a promise of
200,000 gold crowns, Charles, King of Navarre, surrenderd to the King of France, the castle of
Cherbourg, the county of Evreux, and other lordships. But from capon being used IV. i. 56 for a
love-letter, like the French powlet, it is thought that Shakspere may have had a French original.

1 T don’t accept as later all the parts named above.

2 Tt is very odd that I never saw or heard of any comparison between Tennyson’s Princess and In Memoriam, and
Shakspere’s L. L. L. and Sonnets, till I made it. The subject is full of interest, and wants working out.

3 A terrible place to work in then. See Stubbes’s Anatomie of Abuses.

* Painting : Two Gent., IT. i. 55-58 ; Meas. for Meas., III. ii. 80, IV. ii. 38 ; Hamlet, V. i. 201 ; Ant. and Cleop., T. ii. 18;
Winter's Tale, IV. iii. 101; Pass. Pilgr. (if 8.’s), 180. Sham hair: Merchant, LI. ii. 92-6 ; Henry V., III. vii. 60; Sonnets,
68, 1. 2-8.

 

 
 

 

xxiv §9, MISTAKEN-IDENTITY GROUP. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

 

This supposal is not needed: the phrase was no doubt one of Shakspere’s day. The action of the play
takes up two days, a Thursday and Friday.

The knowledge of situation and stage-business shown by Shakspere in his earliest plays leaves
little doubt that he was an actor before he was a playwright, and harmonises with the tradition to that
effect, and the “ feathers "’! (cf. Hamlet, ITI. ii. 277) and ‘‘ quality ” of Greene’s and Chettle’s lines above,
p- xvi, note 5. A few other features only of the play I stop to notice here: (1) that Shakspere started
with the notion that mistaken identity was the best device for getting fun in comedy; he relied on it in
the ladies’ changed masks here, as later in Much Ado ; in the two sets of twins in his Errors; in Puck’s
putting the juice on the wrong man’s eyes in Midswmmer-Night’s Dream; in Sly in The Shrew, &c.;
and it is indeed in all his comedies in some form or other:—(2) that his obscurity (or difficulty) of
expression is with him from his start,

“King. The extreme parts of tine extremely form And often, at his very loose, decides

All causes to the purpose of his speed ; That which long process could not arbitrate” (V. v. 730-3) ;
(3) that he brings his Stratford out-door life and greenery, his Stratford countrymen’s rough sub-play,
on to the London boards ; and names two of his boy-games there too, “ more sacks to the mill,” and hide
and seek (“ All hid”), IV. iii.; (4) that he re-writes the characters and incidents of this play: Berowne
and Rosaline in Benedick and Beatrice of Much Ado; Armado’s falling in love with Jacquenetta, in
Touchstone with Audrey in As You Like It ; Dull,in Old Gobbo, Verges, &c.; (5) that the “ college of
witcrackers” (Much Ado,-V. iv. end) here overdo their quips, and tire one with them; (6) that Shakspere
makes the young nobles behave like overgrown school-boys when teaching Moth—see Boyet’s long
speech in V. ii.:—this want of dignity, as in Hermia and Helena’s quarrel in Midsemmer-Night s
Dream, is a mark of early work. (7) Rosaline’s making Berowne wait for a year may have been taken
from Chaucer's Parlament of Foules, where the lady (or eagle representing her) insists on a year’s
delay before she chooses which of her three lovers she will have. (8) The best speech in the play is, of
course, Berowne’s on the cffect of love in opening men’s eyes, and making the world new to them.
How true it is, every lover since can bear witness; but still there is a chafliness about it, very
different to the humility and earnestness of the lovers who follow Berowne in Shakspere, except his
second self, Benedick.

Tue Comepy or Errors.—In this second play Shakspere seems to have determined to make a com-
plete contrast to his first, which was almost without a plot—a mere play of conversation. He turned
to the old Latin comedian Plautus, and from his Menechmi* got a plot full of farcical action and comic
business ; to this he added pathos and love, and so completed his Errors. The old comedy has no
shipwreck; it has one child lost at the games at Tarentum, whose father, of Syracuse, dies of grief.
The grandfather gives the left child the name of the stolen one, Menachmus, and lives at Syracuse.
The stealer of the lost twin, who lives at Epidamnus, adopts him, marries him to a rich wife, and
leaves him money. He has one slave, whom Shakspere doubles. The Syracusan twin, after a search
of six years, comes to Epidamnus with his servant, to ask for his brother. The twin of Epidamnus has
a jealous wife; he dines with a courtesan (Erotium), who has a cook and maid; he tries to steal her
mantle, and her gold bracclet which her maid had given him to get mended ; the courtesan and his wife
both quarrel with him; he shams mad; a doctor is fetcht, and carries him off asa madman. The
Syracusan twin's money has to be fetcht; the slave explains the confusion, and is freed. There’s a
mutual recognition ; the Epidamnian twin’s wife, as a punishment for her impertinent jealousy, is to be
sold to the highest bidder, and the twin-brothers both go to Syracuse. Shakspere also workt-in a scene
from Plautus’s lmphitruo, in which Mercury keeps the real Amphitruo out of his own house, while
Jupiter, the sham Amphitruo, enjoys the real one’s wife, Alemena. Shakspere got additional fun
out of this story by doubling the slave; but he added to it the pathetic element of Zgeon’s story and
threatened death, the mother’s love and suffering, and the re-uniting of the family at the end of the
play. He also introduced the beautiful element of the love of Antipholus of Syracuse for Luciana,
the first uprise of that serious tender love which was never after absent from Shakspere’s plays. Mr.
Swinburne says, ‘‘ What is due to Shakspere, and to him alone, is the honour of having embroidered,
on the naked old canvas of comic action, those flowers of elegiac beauty which vivify and diversify
the scene of Plautus, as reproduced by the art of Shakspere. In this light and lovely work of the
youth of Shakspere, we find for the first time that strange and sweet admixture of farce with fancy,
of lyric charm with comic effect, which recurs so often in his later work, from the date of 4s You

1 See my late friend Mr. Richard Simpson's letter on this point in The Academy, April 4, 1874, and extracts in
New Sh. Soc.’s Allusion-Books, Pt. I., 1874, pp. xX., xi.

2Mr. Hazlitt has reprinted in his Shahspere’s Library, Pt. IT., vol. i., pp. 1-42, the Menachmi, translated from Plautus,
by W. W., publisht in 1595, but circulated in MS. before; and in Part I., voli., pp. 55-6, The Story of the Two Brothers of
Avignon, from Goulart’s Admirable and Memorable Histoires, 1607, p. 529. The text of the play was first printed in the First
Folio of 1623. An old play The Historie of Error was acted betore Queen Elizabeth on January 1, 1577, and January 6, 1583.

 

 

 
 

 

§ 9. MISTAKEN-IDENTITY GROUP. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. xxv

 

Like It to the date of Winter's Tale.’ There’s a strong link between the Errors and Love's Labours
Lost in the relation of man to woman, though here it is of wife to husband, discusst in Luciana’s
speeches to Adriana and by the Abbess. There's a pathetic background in both plays, and as we've
noticed before, Love's Labours Lost is a comedy of errors too. Though the finish of the Eyvors is less
than that ot Love's Labours Lost, yet its artificiality is less too; its pathos is greater, it reaches more
profound depths, and it is a better play dramatically. The link with the next play, the Midsummer-
Night's Dream, is shown by Dromio’s—
“Dro. S. O, for my beads ! I cross ine for a sinner. If we obey them not, this will ensue,
This is the fairy land ;—O, spite of spites !— They Ul suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.”
We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites ;

The sweetness of Luciana in dissvading her sister from jealousy, in her advice to Antipholus of
Syracuse, her supposed sister’s husband, in Act III., sc. ii., and “ I’ll fetch my sister” before she
consents to her suitor’s love, cannot prevent our rejoicing that her doctrine of the subjection of
women to men has given place to Tennyson’s more generous teaching in the Princess. Adriana,
though jealous and shrewish, truly urges that her love is the cause of these qualities. Though she
abuses her husband, she does not really mean it; she says her beauty’ll come back if he’s but kind
to her again, she urges the different measure he would mete to her for adultery. Her marriage was
one of duty, not of love; the Duke gave her away to the soldier of Corinth who had saved his life.
This Antipholus of Ephesus was a man without father’s or mother’s training, and with no high
purpose in life like his brother. He’s a brave soldier, and has saved the Duke’s life, but he has no
notion of the sacredness of love or marriage. He takes his wife as the reward of his bravery, and still
consorts with a courtesan. He is full of resource in confinement, and gnaws his bonds. His brother,
brought up by his father, has a far higher nature. The search for his lost twin-brother has given
him a purpose in life, and though he has a temper, and beats his slave too often, he reverences women
and refuses to avail himself of his chance with his unknown brother’s wife. His love for Luciana is
very pretty. We may note, too, his belief in witches, which would seem from the dets of the
‘Apostles to have been right at Ephesus. Of the two Dromios, the Syracusan seems to have been the
better. He’s more humourous, always merry and cool, takes his troubles better than his master,
and has not his brother's indifference about a wife, an Ephesian globe of blubber and mess. The
noble and pathetic figure of AZgeon forms a fine background to the play. The loss of wife and one
boy, then of his second boy, his five years’ search for them, seemingly to end in vain and in death,
his anxiety at Ephesus, and when he’s at the point of death the cruel refusal of his son to recognise
him—all appeal to our hearts. But at last: come peace, reunion with his loved ones, and happy days.
But it is odd with what lightness Shakspere has passed over the meeting again of AZgeon and Emilia
after their long separation and suffering. If we compare it with the like scene in Pericles of the
Fourth Period, we shall see how -Shakspere’s nature had deepened in the interval. Pinch the
apothecary introduces us to Shakspere’s catalogue of epithets shown in the apothecary in Romeo and
Juliet, the description of Petruchio’s horse, &c. &c. The quip and crank, the word-play, ryme,
doggrel, &c., of Love's Labours Lost are continued here, though they are not so overdone. The play,
its plot being borrowd from a classical writer, preserves the unities of time, place, and action. It
takes up only one day; it is all acted in one town. A friend, who has seen it on the stage, tells me
that it went admirably; the acting brought out the fun of the farce. The date of the play is probably
1589-91.

1 It turns on the statement in Act IITI., se. ii., p. 92, col. 1, Booth’s reprint of the Folio, that France is ‘“arm'd and
reverted, making war against her heire.”. Mr. Richard Simpson, relying on the strict accuracy with which Shakspere
always uses legal terms, and specially on his use of Héritier de France, for Henry V. of England during Charles VI.’s
life (Henry V., vii. 346), contends that in the £rrors the word “heire” must have its strict technical meaning of “ person
entitled to the inheritance (of the throne) after the death of its present holder.” If so, the date of the play must lie
between 1584 and 1589. Henry of Navarre became ‘“‘heir of France” on the death of the Duke of Anjou in 1584. He
was head of the Huguenots, and fought against his king, Henri III, till 1589, when, at this king's request, he joined
him against the League, and both laid siege to Paris. During the siege, Henri II]. was assassinated, and died on
‘August 2; 1589, after naming Henry of Navarre as his successor, Henry IV. at once became king-by-right ‘of all
France, though king-in-fact of only half of it. He had to raise the siege of Paris ; but soon won the battles of Arques
and Ivry ; then, to gain the League, he turned Roman Catholic on July 25, 1593 ; and was received with open gates by
Paris in 1594. Rouen soon followed ; the Pope acknowledged him in 1595, and the rest of France in 1598. Now the
stopt-line and other metrical tests point rather to a date of 1589-1591 for the Errors, than one of 1584-8. Moreover,
English Protestant feeling was inore stirred up about France after Henry IV.’s accession than before. In 1589 Elizaleth
sent him £23,800 to support his rights, and in 1591 despatched the Earl of Essex with 4,000 men to his aid, as she did
other forces in 1592 and 1594, Again, Shakspere’s use of the word ‘“‘reverted ” in Hamlet, IV. vii. 23 : — :

ae “So that my Arrowes, Would have reverted to my Bow againe,

Too slightly timbred for so loud a Winde, And not where I had a(i)m’d them,”
(P. 275, col, 2, rep. Booth}—

shows that he probably used it in the Errors in the sense of “turned back from its proper course,” that is, (half) France
‘in 1589-91 (and longer) turned back from its rightful owner or heir, Henry IV., to his rival the Duke of Mayence, the
leader of the League. The word “heir” would then be applied by Shakspere, as it so often is and has been by others, to

 
 

 

—_—

Xxvi § 9. MISTAKEN-IDENTITY GROUP. MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

A Minsummer-Nicut’s Dream.—Here at length is Shakspere’s genius in the full glow of fancy
and delightful fun. ‘The play is an enormous advance on what has gone before. But it is a poem, a
dream, rather than a play; its freakish fancy of fairy-land fitting it for the choicest chamber of
the student’s brain, while it second part, the broadest farce, is just the thing for the public stage.
E. A. Poe writes, ‘‘ When I am asked for a definition of poetry, I think of Titania and Oberon of the
Midsummer-Night’s Dream.” And certainly anything must be possible to the man who could in one
work range from the height of Titania to the depth of Bottom. The links with the Errors are, that
all the wood scenes are a comedy of errors, with three sets of people, as in the Errors (and four in
Love's Labours Lost). Then we have the vixen Hermia to match the shrewish Adriana. the quarrel
with husband and wife, and Titania’s “ these are the forgeries of jealousy ” to compare with Adriana’s
jealousy in the Zyros. Adriana offers herself to Antipholus of Syracuse, but he refuses her for
her sister Luciana, as Helena offers herself to Demetrius and he refuses her for her friend Hermia.
Hermia bids Demetrius love Helena, as Luciana bids Antipholus of Syracuse love his supposed wife
Adriana. In the background of the Errors we have the father Aigeon with the sentence of death
or fine pronounced by Duke Solinus. In the Dream we have in the background the father Egeus
with the sentence of death or celibacy on Hermia pronounced by Duke Theseus. In both plays
the scene is Eastern: in the Errors, Ephesus; and in the Dream, Athens. We have an
interesting connection with Chaucer, in that the Theseus and Hippolyta are taken from his
Knight's Tale, and used again in The Two Noble Kinsmen; also the May-day and Saint Valentine,
and the wood birds here, may be from Chaucer’s Purlament of Foules. The fairies too are in
Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale! As links with Love’s Labours Lost we notice the comedy of errors
in the earlier play, the forest scene, and the rough country sub-play, while as opposed to the
Love’s Labours Lost’s “‘ Jack hath not Gill,” the fairies tell us here ‘‘Jack shall have Gill.” The
fairies are the centre of the drama; the human characters are just the sport of their whimn
and fancies, a fact which is much altered when we come to Shakspere’s use of fairy-land again is
his Tempest, where the aérial beings are but ministers of the wise man’s rule for the highest
purposes. The finest character here is undoubtedly Theseus. In his noble words about the country-
men’s play, the true gentleman is shown. His wite's character is but poor beside his. Though the
story is Greek, yet the play is full of English life. It is Stratford which has given Shakspere the
picture of the sweet country school-girls working at one flower, warbling one song, growing together
like a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet a union in partition. It is Stratford that has given
him the picture of the hounds with

“Ears that sweep away the morning dew, Each under each. A cry more tunable

Crook-kneed and dew-lapt like Thessalian bulls, Was never hollad to nor cheerd with horn.”
Slow in pursuit, but matcht in mouth like bells,

It is Stratford that has given him his out-door woodland life, his clowns’ play, and the clowns them-
selves, Bottom with his inimitable conceit, and his fellows, Snug and Quince, &c. It is Stratford
that has given him all Puck’s fairy lore, the cowslips tall’, the red-hipt humble-bee, Oberon’s bank,
the pansy love-in-idleness, and all the lovely imagery of the play. But wonderful as the mixture of
delicate and aérial fancy with the coarsest and broadest comedy is, clearly as it evidences the coming -
of a new being on this earth to whom anything is possible, it is yet clear that the play is quite young.
The undignified quarrelling of the ladies, Hermia with her “ painted may-pole,” her threat to scratch
Helena’s eyes,—Helena with her retort—

“‘She was a vixen when she went to school,
And though she is but little she is fierce ;”
and
““Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray,
My legs are longer though to run away,”

the rightful claimant of the throne, kept out of his due by an opponent. Allowing our poet's great accuracy in the uso
of language generally, and law terms especially, we may well hold that the word “heir” was rightly applied te
Henry IV. fighting for his throne, unacknowledged by Paris, by great part of France, and the whole of Roman Catholic
Europe. On the whole, the year 1589 can be accepted as the date of the Errors by the advocates of either interpretation
of the word “heir ;” while probability leans rather to 1589-91 than to 1587-89. (From my note in The Academy.)

1 «Tn oldé dayés of the Kyng Arthour . . . The elf-queen, with hir joly compaignye,
Al was this land fulfilled of fayrie ; Daunced ful oft in many a grené mede.”
(Jephson and Bell's text.)

2 The pensioners are London, tho’, Queen Elizabeth’s, in their smart coats; still, some of them may have been
with her at Kenilworth in 1575. She had 50 of ’em in her ‘Band of Pencioners,” and their fee was £50 “‘ apeece.”—
Household Ordinances, p. 251, col. 1. See the oath they took, ib., p. 277. If any one urges that Theseus’s pack was too
good a one for a country town like Stratford, and must have belongd to some nobleman nearer London, I can only
answer—May-be.

va

 

/

 
 

 

§ 9. MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. b. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. — xxvii

 

the comical comparison of the moon tumbling through the earth (Act IIL., sc.ii.,52-55) incongruously
put into an accusation of murder,
“T'll believe as soon May through the centre creep, and so displease
That the whole earth may be bored ; and that the moon | Her brother’s noon-tide with the Antipodes.”

the descent to bathos in Shakspere’s passage about his own art, from “ the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy
rolling” to “ how easy is a bush supposed a bear,” would have been impossible to Shakspere in his
later development. Those who contend for the later date of the play, from the beauty of most of the
fancy, and the allusion to the effects of the rains and the floods, which they make those of 1594! (see
Stowe, and Dr. King’s Sermons on Jonah), must allow, I think, that the framework of the
play is considerably before the date of King John and The Merchant of Venice. Possibly two
dates may be allowd for the play, tho’ I don’t think them needful. Note in this Dream the
first of those inconsistencies as to the time of the action of the play that became so markt a feature in
later plays, like The Merchant of Venice, where three months and more are crowded into 39 hours.?
Here Theseus and Hippolyta say that “ four happy days” and “four nights” are to pass before “ the
night of our solemnities’’ (I. i. 2-11); but, in the hurry of the action of the play, Shakspere forgets
this, and makes only two nights so pass. Theseus speaks to Hippolyta, and gives judgment on Hermia’s
case, on April 29. ‘‘' To-morrow night,” April 30, the lovers meet, and sleep in the forest, and are
found there on May-day morning by Theseus. They and he all go into Athens and get married that
day, and go to bed at midnight, the fairies stopping with them till the break of the fourth day, May 2.
It is likely that the Dream was written for a performance in honour of some May-day marriage.
This is, too, the first play with an Epilogue.

As Shakspere may have used in his play Plutarch’s Life of Theseus in North’s Plutarch’s Lives,
englisht in 1579 (other editions in 1595, 1603, 1612, &c.) from Amiot’s French translation, Mr. Hazlitt
has reprinted the Life in his Shakspere’s Library, Pt. I., voli., pp. 5-51. The names Perigenia
(Perigouna in North), Augles, Ariadne, and Antiopa, Midsummer-Night’s Dream, II. ii. 19-21,
are in the Life, pp. 15-16, 28, 37. Dyce thinks that while composing the burlesque interlude of
Pyramus and Thisbe,—a subject very popular in those days (and therefore not meant by Shakspere
expressly to ridicule Chaucer’s Tisbe in his Zegende)—he (Shakspere) seems to have had an eye
to Golding’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, 1565, 1567, &c. (see Book iv., p. 43 (¥), ed. 1603).
Two editions of the Midswmmer-Night’s Dream were publisht in 1600, the better by Thos. Fisher (to
whom it was enterd—<A Mydsommer Nightes Dreame—in the Stationers’ Registers on October 8, 1600;
Arber’s Transcript, iii. 174), and the worse by Thos. Robertes. The Folio text is reprinted from the
less accurate Robertes quarto.

With the Dream I propose to close the first Group of Shakspere’s Comedies, those in which the
Errors arising from mistaken identity make so much of the fun. And the name for the Group may
well be “the Comedy of Errors or Mistaken-Identity Group.” No doubt this mistaken-identity or
personation of somebody else, is in The Two Gentlemen, as it is in all Shakspere’s other comedies,
but Julia’s pageship is not a leading feature of The Two Gentlemen, and that play is rather a pre-
paration for Romeo and Juliet than one of the Errors Group, tho’ to the latter it is strongly linkt. I
therefore keep The Two Gentlemen by itself, treating it as the link-play between the Errors and Passion
Groups. :

Tue Two GENTLEMEN oF Verona.—This is certainly far less beautiful in fancy than the Dream,
but it is a great advance on that play in dramatic construction. Shakspere has at length settled down
into that field of Italian story which is to be hereafter the scene of his greatest triumphs. As after
The Tempest, so after the Dream, there seems to have been a partial exhaustion of original effort, and
a falling-back on outside models. The play is strongly linkt with the Dream. Its subject is the same,
fickleness of love. Two men seek one girl; one of the men (Proteus, Demetrius) is loved by another
girl (Julia, Helena), to whom he was betrothed, but whom he deserts for a time, who follows him, and
whom he at last turns to again. Both couples are to be married on the same day, both girls run
after their lovers, both fathers want to marry their daughters to men whom they dislike, but
consent to their girls’ choice at last. Hermia trusts Helena with her secret and she betrays it,
Valentine trusts Proteus with his secret and Proteus betrays it. We have a Duke and a wood in both

1 Dyce objects to this strongly : “To suppose that the words of Titania, Act II, sc. i., ‘Therefore the winds, piping
to us in’ vain,” &., ‘allude to the state of the weather in England in 1594 is ridiculous ; nor is it less so to suppose that
any particular allusion is contained in the lines on the neglect of learning, Act V., sc. i.,

‘The thrice-three Muses mourning for the death 7

Of learning, late deceas’d in beggary.’”—Sh’s. Works, ii. 263, ed. 1864.
The epithet “ridiculous” seems to me too strong, but I cannot let the possible allusion break thro’ the other links of
the play. ‘ j

a oe Mr. Halpin’s interesting Paper on The Merchant, and Prof. Wilson’s (Christopher North’s) Papers on the times
of Macbeth and Othello, condenst and reprinted in the Appendix to New Sh. Soc.’s Trans., 1875-6.

 

 
 

 

 

xxviii §9.6. TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. c. ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

plays. The links with the Errors are, that Julia seeking her husband is like Adriana seeking hers.
Speed and Launce are like the two Dromios; Launce and his milkmaid are like the Ephesian Dromio
and /his kitchenmaid, catalogue of her charms and all.! We have a link with Chaucer as well as Love's
Labours Lost, in Valentine’s contempt for love, and after conquest by it, being the counterpart
of Troilus as well as of Berowne. Bottom’s misuse of words is, too, like Dull’s. That The Two
Gentlemen and its incidents were great favourites with Shakspere is evident from his use of them in
after-plays. In Zhe Merchant we have Portia’s discussion of her lovers with Nerissa admirably
developed from Julia’s here with Lucetta, and also Portia’s putting on man’s dress and quizzing
herself in it developed from Julia’s here. This is repeated again in Rosalind in As You Like It. In
The Merchant, too, we have Launcelot Gobbo developed from Launce, with a bit of Speed. In Romeo
and Juliet we have Juliet going to confession like Sylvia here. In Twelfth-Night we have Viola like
Julia, each as page, carrying messages of love from the man she loves, to the girl he loves, to whom she
tells her own story disguised; and in each case the man whom the page-girl loves, at last marries her.
In Much Ado we have the signs of love in Benedick developed from those described by Speed here.
In All’s Well we have a parallel to the Host scene, and in Cymbeline we may compare Imogen with
Julia. In these early plays we have love’s power over men’s oaths to one another in Love's Labours
Lost, over men’s friendship and their vows to women in the Dream and The Two Gentlemen, yet in the
latter friendship overcomes love in Valentine’s offer to give up Sylvia to Proteus. The fickleness of
love is also seen in the Errors, the Dream, and The Two Gentlemen, as in Romeo’s change from Rosalind
to Juliet. Though The Two Gentlemen is dramatically an advance on the Dream, and though we have
nothing undignified on the ladies’ part to set against Hermia’s scratching threat and Helena’s long
legs, (except Julia’s statement that if Sylvia had not been kind to her she’d have scratcht the eyes out
of Sylvia’s picture,) yet the drama has to an Englishman the terrible blot of Valentine’s romantic
friendship inducing him to offer to give up Sylvia to Proteus, after the latter's threat of violating Sylvia,
just because Proteus says he repents. This, though possibly Italian and romantic?, offends us now, and
it undoubtedly points to Shakspere’s early time, as his making both his heroines run after their lovers
also does. The heroine of the play is without doubt Julia: she suffers most, she loves most, she says
the best things. The hero, Valentine, is a most generous, frank fellow, yet dull withal. He cannot
understand Sylvia’s love-message to him when she gives him back his own letter, and Speed has
to explain it to him. He walks into the trap the Duke has laid for him without a grain of suspicion.
But the beautiful unselfishness of his reproach to Proteus on his base treachery, ‘I am sorry I must
never trust thee more,” his shifting the, blame to ‘ time most accursed,” show that he had somewhat of
the nature of Theseus in the Dream, while the development in him of that serious, earnest love which
we saw in Antipholus of Syracuse for Luciana prepares us for the full outburst of it in Romeo and
Juliet. The lines in which Valentine laments his banishment from his love are the first stroke of
the death-knell of ‘‘ banishéd”’ which rings thro’ the later play. There seems a contradiction in
Sylvia’s character in her giving Proteus her picture. It looks like a yielding to coquetry; but as
Julia doesn’t feel it to be so, we can hardly complain. That Sylvia says no word to Valentine
when he rescues her, when she recovers him, must be put down to the same fault as the slurred
reunion of A®geon and his wife in the Errors—Shakspere’s dramatic youth,—he must have been now
28—though the genuineness of this last scene in The Two Gentlemen has been doubted by many
critics, as well from its incidents as from its containing many words used only in the Henry the
Sixth plays. Note the quick Italian turn for intrigue in Proteus, and in the Duke's instant forming
of the plan to entrap Valentine. Launce is English of course, Stratford po doubt, and drawn from
the life. He seems to me a more truly original creation than Bottom. I don’t believe a Londoner
could have made him. That half identity of doggy and horsey men with the animals they own
or tend, is to be seen still. The charming “ Who is Sylvia?’ makes one thankful that Shakspere’s
company possest a singer. The sources of the play are—l. The Story of the Shepherdess Felismena,
from the Diana of Montemayor, 1598, in Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. i., pp. 275-312 (but Felismena=Celia,
dies). 2. The History of Apollonius and Sylla, by Barnaby Rich, 1581 (in which the lovers are

happily married), 7d., pp. 387-412. The text of the play was first printed in the Folio of 1623.

Romeo anp Jutret.—The next group of Shakspere’s work is bound together, not by farce or
comedy of errors, but by strong passion and by richness of fancy. The love which we saw rise in the
Errors and develope in The Two Gentlemen, bursts into full force in Romeo and Juliet. The play gives

1 On minor links of phrase, &c., as “Spring of Love” with Errors, III. ii. 3, a play on ‘‘sheep” and “ship”
(Two Gentlemen, 1. i. 72-6, with Love’s Labours Lost, II. i. 218-221), see my Discussion of the date and succession-place of
the'play, in the New Sh, Soc,’s Trans., 1874, pp. 318-336.. The attempt to put The Two Gentlemen after Romeo and Juliet
breaks down of course.

2 But it is certainly consistent with Shakspere’s offer to give up his mistress to his friend Will, in-Sonnet 40, :—

“Tako all my loves, my love, yea, take them all,” &c,

 

 
 

 

§9¢ THE PASSION-GROUP. ROMEO AND JULIET. xxix

 

us that passion lawful in woman and man; Venus and Adonis gives it us unlawful in woman; The
Rape of Luerece unlawful in man; and in Juliet we have the first striking figure of Shakspere’s youthful
conception of womanhood. That glorious figure of girlhood, clad in the beauty of the Southern
spring, stepping out for scarce two days from the winter of her loveless home into the sunshine and
warmth of love, and then sinking into the chill and horrors of the charnel-house and the grave, is
one that ever haunts the student of Shakspere. Wander where he will, the Cenci eyes of Juliet
are still on him, and draw him to them as with the attraction of a loadstone.

The play was prepared for in The Two Gentlemen by the lament of Valentine for his banishment
from Sylvia—

“And why not death, rather than living torment ? Except I be by Sylvia in the night,
To die is to be banisht from myself, There is no music in the nightiugale ;
And Sylvia is myself ; banisht from her Unless I look on Sylvia in the day,
Is self from self, a deadly banishment. .. . . There is no day for me to look upon.”

This deeper, richer note of love than Shakspere had yet struck (how thin Bcrowne’s sounds beside it !)
becomes deeper and richer still in Romeo and Juliet. Itis there indeed the very ecstasy of love, that without
which life is worthless, that without which death is welcome. See, too, how Shaksperce has thrown
himself into the life of Italy. As Miss Constance Astley well asks, “ Who feels himself in England while
reading Romeo and Juliet ? Fierce Tybalt, gay fiery Mercutio, gallant Benvolio, tender, chivalrous Romeo:
we see them breathe and move under the intense blue of an Italian sky. The day is hot, the Capulets
are abroad, Mercutio’s laugh rings down the street, his jewelled cap flames in the sun-lght,—such
sights and sounds as these crowd upon our fancy in the streets of Verona, more than any historical
reminiscences of Can grande.” Passion lends the lovers power, as the Chorus says. It is the time of
affections and warm youthful blood, ‘“‘ For now these hot days is the mad blood stirring.” ‘‘ But these
violent delights have violent ends,” and Juliet’s ‘I have no joy in this contract to night,” and
Romeo's “ My mind misgives some consequence,” with the Friar’s “‘ They stumble, that run fast,”
and Juliet’s ‘‘ill-divining soul,” prepare us for the end that awaits the delicious, passionate love of the
garden scene. Far above anything of the kind that Shakspere has yet given us stands this, and the
lovers’ subsequent meeting and parting. The character of Juliet, too—who is the guiding spirit of the
play, and far above Romeo, whose sentimental weeping for Rosalind, and unmanly grovelling in tears
on hearing of his exile, call forth the Friar’s well-deservd reproach,—is also greater than any we have
had before. Mercutio as contrasted with Berowne is also a great advance—note that delightful
imputation of his own quarrelsomeness to the quiet Benvolio, the only commonsense man of the
party: it’s worthy of Falstaft:—while the Nurse is the first and only figure of her kind, except
perhaps Mrs. Quickly, in Shakspere. That fussy, bustling, hot-temperd old Capulet is a capital
figure too: he’d be surely akin to Browning’s “Italian Person of Quality, Down in the City,” if the
latter could be well cayennd. But the play is young all through, not only in its passion!, its
excess of fancy verging on conceit, but in its simile of Paris and the book in I. iii., and in its

“ lamentation scene (IV. v.), in which the Nurse almost reproduces Pyramus and Thisbe, and which

has been even supposed by some to belong to an old play. The quarrels of the families take us into
the history of medieval Italy; the deaths of the children bring about the reunion which their lives
could not accomplish. The date of the play is fixt by the Nurse’s allusion—

“On Lammas eve at night shall she be fourteen
’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years
And she was weaned,”

1 “The unity which belongs to the play of Romeo and Juliet consists in that spirit of youth which everywhere
penetrates and pervades it—even from the flow of its language and the music of its rhythm, to the very depths and
innermost recesses of that passion which is its. . subject, . . love... The love of Romeo and Juliet” (embodies that)
“period when to live and to love are one, and the life of which, and its love, expire together. . . It has every
characteristic of that period : its headlong precipitancy, . . . its total disregard of all worldly considerations or con-
sequences, its enthusiastic ardour of aspiration and force of will, . . its proneness to seize, without an instant’s delay,
on all that the hand of pleasure offers, without asking the price, or calculating the comparative value ; and above all,
that boundless capacity for enjoyment and for suffering, which one moment lifts it to the highest empyrean of bliss, and
the next sinks it to the lowest dungeons of despair. . . Untimely as their grave is, it is still sweet, since each finds it in
the arms of the other, and exhales over it the sweetest sighs that were ever breathed from the lips of loveliness.”—
Imitations of Celebrated Authors, 4th ed., Colburn, 1844, p. 131. See also my friend Mr. Furness’s admirable variorum
edition of the play. So also Coleridge says :. ‘‘That law of unity, which has its foundations, not in the factitious
necessity of custom, but in nature itself, the unity of feeling is everywhere and at all times observed by Shakspeare in
his plays. Read Romeo and Juliet : all is youth and spring : youth with its follies, its virtues, its precipitancies ;—spring
with its odours, its flowers, and its transiency : it is one and the same feeling that commences, goes through, and ends
the play. The old men, the Capulets and the Montagues, are not common old men: they have an eagerness, a heartiness,
a vehemence, the effect of spring. With Romeo, his change of passion, his sudden marriage, and his rash death, are all
the effects of youth ; whilst in Juliet, love has all that is tender and melancholy in the nightingale, all that is voluptuous
in the rose, with whatever is sweet in the freshness of spring ; but it ends with a long deep sigh, like the last breeze of
the Italian evening. This unity of feeling and character pervades every drama of Shakspeare.”—Literary Kemains, ii.,
77 ed., 1836. - : i

 

 
 

 

XXX §9.c. THE PASSION-GROUP. VENUS AND ADONIS.

 

which eleven should be seemingly thirteen, unless Juliet was suckled till she was three. The great
earthquake of Shakspere’s time, to which he also probably alludes in Venus and Adonis, was in 1580,
and I am content with the date of 1591 for the play, though it may stretch to 1593. Its links with
Midsummer-Night’s Dream are seen in Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech, and in its “white wonder of
dear Juliet’s hand”? and “so shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,” when set by Demetrius’s
speech on the “ pure congealed white, high Taurus snow,” which is turned to a crow by contrast with
Helena’s hand, &c. Romeo and Juliet was first publisht in 1597, by John Danter, in a spurious “ edition
made up partly from copies of portions of the original play, partiy from recollection and from notes
taken during the performance.” (P. A. Daniel.) Secondly, in 1599, by Cuthbert Burby, in a genuine
edition which “ gives us for the first time a substantially true representation of the original play.”
3, by John Smethwick, in 1609, Q. 3, from Q. 2; and from this 3rd Quarto were printed the undated
4th Quarto and the Folio of 1623. (Q. 5, from Q. 4, dates 1637.) Parallel Texts of the 1st and 2nd
Quartos, 1597, 1599, were edited by my friend Mr. P. A. Daniel, in 1874, and presented to the mem-
bers of the New Shakspere Society by Prince Leopold, one of its Vice-Presidents, after whom the
present edition of Shakspere is named. This edition and its Introduction I commend to the study of
my readers. Mr. Danicl’s revised text, based on the 2nd Quarto, is also issued by the New Shakspere
Society. The source of Shakspere’s Romeo and Juliet is Arthur Brooke’s English verse enlargement of
Boaistuau’s 3rd tale in his ‘‘ Histoires Tragiques Extraictes des Guures de Bandel,” translated and recast
from the Italian. Brooke’s poem was publisht by Richard Tothill, in 1562, ‘‘ The Tragicall Historye of
Romeus and Julict, written first in Italian by Bandell, and nowe in Englishe by Ar. Br.;’’ and is
reprinted in Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Library, Part I., vol. i., pp. 69-204, with William Painters
englishing (1567, in The Palace of Picasure) of Boaistuau’s French paraphrase of Bandello’s Italian
“ Romeo e Giulietta,” ib., pp. 205-260. Both poem and tale were also edited for the New Shakspere
Society by Mr. P. A. Daniel, in 1874, and his Introduction to them should be read, as it shows to what
author the different incidents used by Shakspere are due. The fragments of the Latin play on Romeo
and Juliet in the Sloane MS. 1775, notist by Mr. Hunter, Jélustr., i. 130, will be printed by the
New Shakspere Society. But as the many alterations in the MS. show it to be the writer’s own, and
it is clearly later in date than Shakspere’s play, it is not of much consequence. The time of the
action of the play is 54 days. The ball is on Sunday night; the lovers are married on Monday,
and pass the night together; Juliet drinks the sleeping draught on Tuesday night; and on
Wednesday, instead of marrying Paris, is found seemingly dead, and is entombed. She sleeps more
than 42 hours. On Thursday Romeo returns, and poisons himself before Juliet awakes ere Friday
dawns. She stabs herself; and their families are roused from their sleep to come to the tomb.

In the Venus anp Aponts we have the same luxuriance of fancy, the same intensity of passion,
as in Romeo and Julict, illegitimate and unlawful though the indulgence in that passion is. We have
the link with the Midswmmer-Night’s Dream in the stanza “ Bid me discourse,’ and the hounds hunting
the hare. The poem was entered on the Stationers’ Register and publisht in 1593, and must
be of nearly the same date as the Romeo and Juliet. It is dedicated to Shakspere’s young patron, Henry,
Earl of Southampton; and I would fain believe the subject was set him by that patron. But from
whatever source came the impulse to take from Ovid the heated story of the heathen goddess’s lust, we
cannot forbear noticing how through this stifling atmosphere Shakspere has blown the fresh breezes
of English meads and downs. Midswnmer-Night’s Dream itself is not fuller of evidence of Shakspere’s
intimate knowledge of, and intense delight in country scenes and sights, whether shown in his description
of horse and hounds, or in closer touches, like that of the hush of wind before the rain; while such
lines as those about the eagle flapping, ‘‘shaking its wings,” ]. 57, over its food, send us still to the
Zoological Gardens to verify. Two lines there are, reflecting Shakspere’s own experience of life—his
own early life in London possibly—which we must not fail to note; they are echoed in Hamlet :—

“For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low, never reliev'd by any.”
’Twas a lesson plainly taught by the Elizabethan days, and the Victorian preach it too. It has been
the fashion lately to run down the Venus as compared with Marlowe's Hero and Leander. Its faults
are manifest. It shows less restraint and training than the work of the earlier-ripened Marlowe;
but to me it has a fulness of power and promise of genius enough to make three Marlowes. The
poem was thus enterd in the Stationers’ Registers in 1603 :—

“ eptif. Aprilis

“Richard ffeild Entred for his copie vnder th[e hJandes of the Archbisshop
ee of CanTeRRURY and master warden Srrrror a booke
senior 25 Junij 1594. intituled Venus and ADONIS Ss 7 . cs ‘< i vjd.”

See p. 635, and IILI., fol. 11. Leaf 297b: Arber’s Transcript, vol. ii., 1875, p. 630.
’ >?

 

 
 

 

§9.¢. THE PASSION-GROUP. VENUS AND ADONIS. xxxi

 

It was reprinted six times in Shakspere’s life—in 1594, 1595, 1599, 1600, twice in 1602; and afterwards
in 1617, 1627, 1690, &c. The first edition is very well printed, and was perhaps seen through the
press by Shakspere himself. Mr. W. C. Hazlitt notes the contrast of Shakspere’s own title pages—
tirst, Venus and Adonis (with the motto from Ovid), and Luerece, both without his name,—with the
booksellers’ long titles of the Quarto Dramas. But the Poems each contained a Dedication signed
with Shakspere’s name.

The source of the story told by the poem was no doubt the ninth and tenth Fables of the 10th
Book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, though Shakspere may have borrowed some of his details elsewhere.
Ovid relates, shortly, that Venus, accidentally wounded by an arrow of Cupid’s, falls in love with
the beauteous Adonis, leaves her favourite haunts and the skies for him, and follows him in his
huntings over mountains and bushy rocks, and through woods. She warns him against wild boars
and lions. She and he lie down in the shade on the grass—he without pressure on her part ;—and
there, with her bosom on his, she tells him, with kisses!, the story of how she helped Hippomenes to
win the swift-footed Atalanta, and then, because he was ungrateful to her (Venus), she excited him
and his wife to defile a sanctuary by a forbidden act, for which they were both turned into lions.
With a final warning against wild beasts, Venus leaves Adonis. He then hunts a boar, and gets his
death-wound from it. Venus comes down to sce him die, and turns his blood into a flower—the
anemone, or wind-flower, short-lived, because the winds (avemoi), which give it its name, beat it
down, so slender is it. Other authors give Venus the enjoyment which Ovid and Shakspere deny
her, and bring Adonis back from Hades to be with her.

Though the Venus was dedicated by Shakspere, when twenty-nine, to the Earl of Southampton
before he was twenty*, and cannot be called an improving poem for a young nobleman to read, we
must remember the difference between the Elizabethan times and our own. Then, not one in a
thousand of the companions of poets would have complaind of Shakspere’s choice of subject, or
thought it other than as legitimate as its treatment was beautiful. The same subject was repeated
perhaps by Shakspere in some sonnets of The Passionate Pilgrim ; and a like one, in higher and happier
tone, was made the motive of his All's Well that Ends Well—as I believe, the recast of his early
Love’s Labours Won. However it grates on one to compare the true and loving Helena with the
lustful Venus, one must admit that the pursuit of an unwilling man by a willing woman—though
he was no Joseph, and she no Potiphar’s wife—was not so distasteful to the Elizabethan age as it is
to the Victorian. Constable’s best poem (printed in 1600) treats the same topic as Shakspere’s first :
its title is The Shepherd’s Song of Venus and Adonis.4

The large use by Shakspere of his country recollections®, coupled with his calling the Venus, in
its dedication, “the first heir of his invention®,” and the young-blood passionateness of its sensual
lines’, led me at first to adopt the doctrine of Gervinus and others, that the poem was written many
years before its dedication to Southampton—indeed, soon after Shakspere’s arrival in London ;—and
by him who, at eighteen-and-a-half, had married a woman of twenty-six, and had a child within six
months after his marriage. Such conceits as those in lines 1, 2, of the purple-fac’d sun, and the
weeping morn; in line 1054, of Adonis’s wound weeping purple tears*, &c.; the elaboration of the

1“ And, in her tale, she bussed him among.”—A. Golding. Ovid’s Met., leaf 129 bk., ed. 1602.

2 Pliny (bk. i., c. 23) says it never opens but when the wind is blowing.

3He was born October 6, 1573; his father died October 4, 1581; he entered at St. John’s College, Cambridge, on
December 11, 1585, just after he was twelve ; took his degree of Master of Arts before he was sixteen, on June 6, 1589;
and soon after entered at Gray’s Inn, London. He was a ward of Lord Burghley. He became a favourite of Queen
Elizabeth's, but lost her favour, in 1595, for making love to Elizabeth Vernon (Essex’s cousin), whom he married later, in
1598. (Massey's Shakspere’s Sonnets, p. 58, &c.)

4 Lodge has three stanzas in his Glaucus and Scilla, 1589, on Adonis’s death, and Venus coming down to his corpse.

5In the Venus it is not only the well-known descriptions of the horse (1. 260-318), and the hare-hunt (1.673-708),
that show the Stratford man, but the touches of the overflowing Avon (72), the two silver doves (366), the milch doe
and fawn in some brake in Charlecote Park (875-6), the red morn (453), of which the weatherwise say :—

“A red sky at night’s a shepherd’s delight ;
A red sky at morning ’s a shepherd’s warning ;”

‘the hush of the wind before it rains (458), the many clouds consulting for foul weather (972), the night owl (531), the
lark (853), &. &c.; just as the artist (289) and the shrill-tongued tapsters (849) show the taste of London life. (I. J. F.,
in The Academy, August 15, 1874, p. 179, col 1.) There are scores more allusions to country scenes, &c., in the Venus.

6 This is to be understood of pure poetry (lyric or epic) in contradistinction to dramatic. It was his poems, and
Romeo and Juliet, that first made Shakspere’s fame. The Venas was, too, Shakspere’s first publisht work. oo

7 But we must note that Shakspere is not so carried away by his subject as to show that his sympathy with it is
beyond his reason. He plainly says that Venus is lustful (line 47); that she ‘“‘beats reason back, forgets shame’s pure
blush and honour’s wrack ” (lines 557-558); that hers is not love, but ‘‘sweating lust” (lines 794-804).

8 Compare Anthony Munday and Hy. Chettle in The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, 1598, pr. 1600, Dodsiey,
viii. 285 :—

“ Could the sun see, without a red eclipse,
The purple tears fall from those tyrant wounds.”

 

 
 

 

xxxii §9.c THE PASSION-GROUP. VENUS AND ADONIS.

 

similes, the abounding fancy, the general treatment, the fewness of the unstopt or run-on lines
(48 in 1,194, say 1 in 252)—-scemd to confirm the early date of the poem; as did also its extreme
elaboration, just like that of a young pre-Raffaclite painter: every detail is given you; all the signs
and course of Venus’s passion? are stippled in with the same precision as the incidents and process of
the hare-hunt. But, on further study, and comparison with the Midsummer-Night’s Dream, Romeo and
Juliet, and Luereee, came the strong conviction that the Venus belongd to the 1590-4 Passion-
sroup. ‘

: OF possession and promise in Shakspere’s first poem, we have an intense love of nature, and a
conviction (which never left him) of her sympathy with the moods of men; a penetrating eye; a
passionate soul 4; a striking power of throwing himself into all he sees, and reproducing it living and
real to his reader; a lively fancy, command of words, and music of verse ; these wielded by a shaping
spirit that strives to keep each faculty under one control, and guide it while doing its share ot the desired
whole. We may note, too, Shakspere’s liking for words in wre (closure®, line 782; repeated in Sonnet
48, line1l; Richard IJT., III. iii. 10); and of his forcing words to be what parts of speech, and have
what meaning, he will (passions, vb. int., line 1059; pale, paling, line 230). Of his undoubted
license in ryme (see Ellis’s Early English Pronunciation, p. 953), the only instance here is the early
one that poets still allow themselvcs, of ryming long and short vowels, as in unlikely, quichly,
lines 989, 990. That swine, groin, lines 1115, 1116; exter, venture, lines 626, 628, were regular in
Shakspere’s time, sce E//is, pp. 968, 973.5 His own experience of love may well be told in lines
1187, 1188, which he echoes elsewhere :

“It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end.”

The first? allusion to the Tews is by Meres in 1598: ‘* As the soule of Euphorbus was thought
to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous and hony-tongued
Shakespeare; witness his Tens and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his priuate
friends, &c.”—Palladis Tamia, §on Poets. In 1598 the two poems were again noticed, in “A
Remembrance of some English Poets,” the fourth tract in a volume called Poems: in Diuers
Humors, of which the first tract bears Richard Barnfield’s name :—

« And Shakespeare thou, whose hony-flowing Vaine, Thy Name in fame’s immortall Booke have plac'’t.
(Pleasing the World) thy Praises doth obtaine ; Liue ever you ! at least, in Fame liue ever !
Whose Venus, and whose Lucrece (sweete and chaste), Well may the Bodye dye ; but Fame dies neuer.”

In the same year, 1598, the satirist, John Marston’, publisht “the first heir of his invention,’ which
he called (p. 202) “ the first bloomes of my poesie,” ‘‘ The Metamorphosis of Pigmalion’s Image. And
Certaine Satyres” (Works, 1856, ili. 199), and in it, says Mr. Minto (Characteristics of English
Pocts, 1874, p. 437), reviving an old theory, “ Shakspere’s Menus and Adonis was singled out as the
type of dangerously voluptuous poetry, and unmercifully parodied; the acts of the goddess to win
over the cold youth being coarsely paralleled in mad mockery by the acts of Pygmalion to bring his
beloved statue to life.” Now the fact is, that there is no trace of “ mad mockery” or parody in
Marston’s poem, though there are echoes in it of Venus, as there are of Richard III.9, Hamlet, &c., in
Marston’s Scourge of Villanic, his Fawn, &c.; and the far more probable view of the case, is that put
forward by Dr. Brinsley Nicholson: that Marston, being young, and of a warm temperament and

1 Compare the simpler and easier tone of the later Venus and Adonis sonnets (? Shakspere’s) in The Passionate Pilgrim.

2 The proportion of extra syllable lines, 212 (of which 14 are of two syllables), is one in 5°63.
ea 81 doubt the theory of his repeating possibly Anne Hathaway's experience in this. He could not have been an icy

donis.

4 \ young poet can, at, most, give evidence of ardent feeling and fresh imagination.”—Mark Pattison, Macmillan's
Magazine, March, 1875, p. 386.

5 Used by Lodge in the same year, 1593,—‘‘ humbled closures” closed on downeast eyelids,—in his ‘Complaint of
Elstred.” (Phillis, p. 67.)

© Read the whole discussion, pages 917-996. It’s first-rate work. :

7 If there realiy was an earlier edition in 1595, or any year before 1598, of John Weever’s Epigrammes, which we
know only in the edition of 1599, then Weever was before Meres in recognising the merit of Shakspere's T’enus, Lucrece
Romeo, and Richard, See the Epigram 22, in the New Shakspere Society's Allusion-Books, Pt. I., p. 182. ‘

5 See the character given of him in the most interesting Return from Parnassus (about 1602, published 1606),
Hazlitt’s Dodsley, ix. 116-117. Also the anecdote in Manningham's Diary. Z

° “A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!” (1607. What You Will, Act II., se. i. Works, i, 239), “A man!
aman! akingdom fora man!" (1598, Scourge of Villanie. Works, iii. 278.) And he repeats the call, ““A man, a man !”
thrice in the next two pages (Shakspere Allusion Books, i. 188. New Shakspere Society). See, too, “A foole, a foole.
a foole, my coxcombe for a foole!"” (Fawn, 1606, Act V., sc. i. Works, ii. 89); and on p. 23, Hercules's imitation of
Iago’s speech to Roderigo, in Othello, ii, 40-60 (Nicholson). Again, in The Malcontent, 1607, Act IIT, se. iii. (Works, i
239), “Ho, ho! ho, ho! arte there, olde true pennye ;” from Hamlet, &c. Compare, too, Lampatho in The Malcontent
(vol. i., p. 236) with Armado in Love's Labours Lost. Marston was steept in Shakspere, though to little good.

 

 

 

 
 

 

§9.¢e. THE PASSION-GROUP. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE, xxxiii

 

licentious disposition, followed the lead of a poem then in every body's mouth! (Shakspere’s Venus), and
produced his Pigmatlion’s Image ; but being able only to heighten the Venus’s sensuality, and leave
out its poetry and bright outdoor life, he disgusted his readers, had his poem supprest by Whitgift and
Bancroft’s order, and then tried to get out of the scrape by saying that he had written his nastiness
only to condemn other poets for writing theirs! A likely story indeed! But let him tell it himself.
In his “Satyre VI.” of his Scourge of Villanie, 1598 (completed in 1599), Works, 1856, iii. 274, 275,
he says :—

“Curio! know’st my sprite ; Intombes the soules most sacred faculty?
Yet deein’st that in sad seriousness I write Hence, thou iisjudging censor! know, I wrot
Such nasty stutfe as is Pigmation ? Those idle r.mes to note the odious spot
Such maggot-tainted, lewd corruption! ... And blemish that deformes the lineaments
Think’st thou that I, which was create to whip Of moderne poesies habiliments.
Incarnate fiends... Oh that the beauties of inventién?,
Think’st thou that I in melting poesie For want of judgements dispositién,
Will pamper itching sensualitie, Should all be spoil’d !” .. .

That in the bodies scumme, all fatally

Then, after describing seven types of poets—of whom the fifth may be Shakspere*, and the sixth Ben
Jonson (cp. p. 245)—Marston goes on to satirise the readers of his and other writers’ loose poems, for
whom he ‘‘slubber’d up that chaos indigest”’ of his Pigmalion. This epithet is certainly not con-
sistent with the dedication of his poem to Good Opinion and his Mistress; and his excuse for his
failure in it is plainly an afterthought. But whatever we determine as to Marston's motives and
honesty, we shall all join in regretting the “want of judgements disposition’’ that let Shakspere
choose Venus‘ for an early place in his glorious gallery of women—forms whose radiant purity and
innocence have won all hearts ;—though we will remember this fault only as the low level from which
he rose on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher things. He who put Venus near the beginning
of his career, ended with Miranda, Perdita, Imogen, and Queen Katharine. Let them make atonement
for her !

Tue Rape or Lucrece.—This poem, publisht 1594, we can well believe is the graver labour with
which Shakspere vowd, in his dedication to the Venus, to honour Lord Southampton. It is very
different in certain points of metre, the run-on line for instance®, to the Venus, but is full of the
beautiful fancy we see in that. Read the description of Lucrece in her bed, one Ly hand under her

rosy cheek :—
“‘Without the bed her other fair hand was, Her eyes like marigolds had sheathd their light ;
On the green coverlet : whose perfect white And, canopied in darkness, sweetly lay,
Showed like an April daisy on the grass, Till they might open to adorn the day ’’—

With pearly sweat resembling dew of night,

and acknowledge that the Lucrece can well stand beside the play and the poem which precede it,
while in weight of reflection it naturally excels them. It is not so full as the Venus of country allu-
sions®, though here the rapacious animals (and their prey) prevail in number as they do in 2 and 3
Henry VI. Compare the following list from the poem and plays :—

1 See The Fair Maid of the Exchange—
“Crip{ple]. But heare you sir? reading so muchas you | Crip. Why that’s the very quintessence of loue ;
Doe you not remember one pretty phrase, [haue done, If you remember but a verse or two,
To scale the walles of a faire wenches loue ? Ile pawne my head, goods, lands, and all, twill doe.”
Bow{dler}. I never read any thing but Venus and Adonis.

In R. Baron’s ‘ Fortune’s Tennis-ball” (Pocula Castalia, 1640) are, says Dr. B Nicholson, many appropriations from
Venus and Adonis, suddenly occurring where hunting is spoken of. Falstaff is also referred to; and at the end are many
appropriations from Ben Jonson’s Hymenci.

2 Cp. Shakspere’s “ First heir of my invention.”

 

3 “Yon’s one whose straines haue flowne so high a pitch, | Is like that dreain’d-of imagery,
That straight he flags, and tumbles in a ditch. Whose head was gold, brest silver, brassie thigh,
His sprightly hot high-soring poesie Lead leggs, clay feete: O faire fram'd }oesie |”

That Shakspere’s subject was clay, and his verse gold, is certainly true.
+ The author of the Return from Parnassus (written about 1602, publisht 1606), puts it thus (Hazlitt’s Dodsley, ix.
118) :— “ William Shakespeare ?
““ Who loves Adonis’ love or Lucrece rape: Could but a graver subject him content,
His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life, Without love's foolish, lazy languishment.”

5 Its proportion of unstopt lines is 1 in 10°81 (174 such lines to the poem’s 1,855) against the Vents's 1 in 25°40 (47
Tun-on lines in 1,194). Let this large difference in proportion of run-on lines between two poems which I now put within
a year or two of one another, have what weight it should in lessening the value of the end-stopt-line test when applied to
Shakspere’s plays. The order of the plays is independent of any metrical test, though all such tests help in settling that
order. But the slightest study of Shakspere’s earliest and latest plays together, is enough to prove the great worth of the
end-stopt-line test. The tide through old London Bridge is in line 1667 of Lucrece.

6 We have the London artist too, in the painter of the Siege of Troy, 1. 1366, &c., as in the Venus. Note the dying
eyes, with their ashy light, 1. 1378. Of the country and outward nature, we have lilies and roses, 71; red roses and white
lawn, 258: clouds and stormy weather, 115 ; corn o’ergrown by weeds, 281; little frosts in spring, 331; cloud and silver

 

 
 

 

 

Xxxiv §9.c. THE PASSION-GROUP. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.
LUCRECE, 2and 3 HENRY VI.
Doves, 58 0.’ Doves, 3 Henry VI, II. ii. 18 ?? not Shakspere)

Owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries, 165

Silly lambs, 167
Night-wandering weasels, 307
(Strong pirates, 335)

Dove and night-owl, 360

Lurking serpent, 362
Grim lion fawning on his prey, 421
New-kill'd bird trembling, 457

Honey guarded with a sting, 493

Faleon towering in the skies, 506

Coucheth the fowl below . . . . crooked beak, 507-8
as fowl hear falcon’s bells, 511

Cockatrice’ dead-killing eye, 540

White hind under the gripe’s sharp claws, 543

Foul night-waking cat, 554
His vulture folly, 556
Wolf and poor lamb, 677

Full-fed hound or gorged hawk, 694
A jade, 707

Thievish dog, 736
Wearied lainb, 737

Honey lost ; drone-like bee, 836

Bee-hive, and wasp suckt the honey, 840
Hateful cuckous hatch in sparrows’ nests, 849

Toads’ venom, 850
Adder hisses where sweet birds sing, 871
Wolf and lamh, 878

Sin’s pack-horse, 928
Tiger, unicorn, and lion, 956

Crow and its coal-black wings, 1009

Snow-white swan, 1011 ‘
Gnats, 1014

Eagles, 1015

Slaughterhouse and tool, 1039

Little bird's morning joys, 1107, 1121

Lamenting Philomel, 1079; and nightingale and
thorn, 1135

Men proving beasts, 1148

Poor frighted deer, 1149

Little worms, 1248
Pale swan in watery nest, 1611

Blood, and watery rigol, 1745
Old bees die, young possess their hive, 1769

 

0.

n,

Boding sereech-owls, 2 Henry VI., III. ii. 327; 0. that fatal
screech-owl, 3 Henry VI., IL. vi. 55
Sucking lamb, 2 Henry VI., III. i. 71

a. (The strong Hlyrian Pirate, 2 Henry VI., IV. i. 108)

zo

ao

=

n,
a

=

°

2

3
2

2s

. Harmless dove, 2 Henry VI., 1.1.71; 0, night-owl, 3 Henry

VI., IL. i. 130
The lurking serpent’s mortal sting, 3 Hen y ¥/., II. ii. 15.

. When the lion fawns upon the lamb, 3 Henry VI., IV. viii.

49; a. pent-up lion o'er the wretch that trembles under
his devouring paws, 3 Henry V/J., I. iii. 12.

. Some say the bee stings, 2 Henry VI., 1V. ii. 83

Your falcon flew above the rest, 2 Henry VI., II. i. 5, 6

. So doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons, 3 Henry VL,

. iv, 41
. Murdering basilisks (same as cockatrices), 2 Henry VI.,

IIT. ii. 324

. ep. she-partridge in the puttock’s nest, 2 Henry VI., III. ii.
191

(Whose vulture thought, Venus, 551)

Lamb ravenous wolf, 2 Henry VI., IIT. i. 77-8

Lainbs pursued by hunger-starved wolves, 3 Henry VI., I.
iv. 5

. Hawks do tower so well, 2 Henry VI., II. i. 10
. The jades that drag the night, 2 Henry VI., IV. i. 4

(? Marlowe)

. To beat a dog, 2 Henry VI., III. i. 171
. An innocent lamb, 2 Henry VI., 1V. ii. 81; 0. poor harmless

lambs, 3 Henry VI., Il. v. 75

. Drones rob bee-hives, 2 Henry VI., IV. i. 109 (? not Shak-

spere)

. Hive of bees, 2 Henry VI., III. ii. 125 [1 Henry IV., III.

dy 5
vi. 28]

Lear, I. iv. 219; Antony and Cleopatra, II.

. Venom toads, 3 Henry VI., II. ii. 188 (? not Shakspere)
. Adder, 2 Henry VI., IIL. ii. 76
. Trembling lamb environed with wolves, 3 Henry VI, I.

i, 242

. Tiger’s heart, tigers of Hyrcania, 3 Henry VI., I. iv. 137-

155; 0, lion, 3 Henry VI., I. ii. 11

. The night-crow cried, 3 Henry VI., V. vi. 45

. Gnats, 3 Henry VI., I. vi. 8
n.
. The bloody slaughterhouse, 2. Henry

Empty eagle, 2 Henry VI., IIT. i. 248
VIL, Il. i.
o butcher and his axe, 2 Henry VJ., III. ii. 189

212;

(The nightingale lean’d her breast up till a thorn,
Barnfield’s Ode, in Passionate Pilgrim, xxi. 8-10]

. Margaret turnd worse than tigers, 3 Henry VI., I. iv. 154

. The deer . 7. will scare the herd . 0. here’s a deer,
3 Henry VI, III. i, 2-22 (the deer is Henry himself)
. The smallest worm will turn, 3 Henry V'I., IL. ii. 17 @ not
Shakspere) :
. Aswan swim against the tide, 3 Henry VI., I. iv.
19-20
This cold congealed blood, 3 Henry VI., V. ii. 37
Bees that want their leader, 2 Henry VI, III. ii. 125; and

see Clifford’s argument in 3 Henry VJ., IL. ii, 21-42

But the long lamentations of Lucrece, so full of antithesis and so laboured?, are, without doubt,

imitated from Chaucer’s poem of Troilus and Cressida.

As some compensation for them, we have

the noble figure of Lucrece herself, suffering death rather than live under dishonour, a figure fit to

moon, 371; sun from cloud, 372; April daisy, 395; marigolds, 397 ; red-rose blush, 479; thorns on growing rose, 492;
black-faced cloud, 547; dim mist, 548; earthquake, 549; streams to the salt ocean, 649; sea, flood, &c., 652; silver-
shining moon and twinkling stars, 786-7, 1007-8 ; unruly blasts and tender spring, 869 ; wormwood taste, 893; bastard
graff, 1062 ; mountain-spring, 1077; blushing morrow, 1082 ; flood overflowing banks, 1118; bark peeled, from pine, 1167 ;
leaves and sap, 1168; dew (conceit of earth’s tears), 1226 ; goodly champaign plain, 1247 ; rough winter killing the flower,
1255 ; Simois’ reedy banks, 1437; bright day and black-fac’d storms, 1518, little stars shot from places, 1525 (ep. ALN, D.);
ebb and flow, 1569; water-galls and storms, 1589; floods increast by rain, 1677 ; windy tempest blows up rain, 1788. ,

1 Miss Lee has kindly put o. to the old-play lines, a, to those altered, 7, to the new ones, in 2 and 3 Henry VI.

2 In St. 19, Shakspere has five consecutive rymes in ing, 1, 127-131, as in 1. 428-434 he has a whole stanza with ing
rymes. This is like Chaucer's five in ore and five in ere in Yroilus, bk. v., st. iv., xxii, (Works, ed. Morris, vol. v., p. 2,

p. 10.)

 

 
 

 

§9.c. THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. XXXV

 

stand by Brutus’s Portia, by Volumnia, of Shakspere’s greatest time. We will not forget, too, that
in Coriolanus Shakspere comes back to near the days of this early Rape of Lucrece |

The Lucrece was enterd in the Stationers’ Registers in 1594, “9 maij: Master harrison Senior :
Entred for his copie vnder th{e hJand of master Senior Cawood, Warden, abooke intituled the Ravyshe-
ment of Lucrece. . .vj4, C.” (Arber's Transcript, ii. 648), and was publisht the same year by J.
Harrison. It was reprinted in 1598, 1600, 1607, 1616, and 1624, each Quarto being taken from the one
before it. The first edition was probably seen through the press by Shakspere himself. It contains a
short fervent Dedication to Lord Southampton, then just of age (see Julius Cesar below), and an “Argu-
ment” or sketch of the story on which fhe poem is founded. Whence Shakspere got this Argument
—his only piece of non-dramatic prose besides his two short Dedications—has not yet been made out in
detail. Chaucer had, in his Legende of Good Women (a.p. 1386 ?), told the story of Lucrece, after those
of Cleopatra, Dido, Thisbe, Ypsiphile, and Medea, “As saythe Ovyde and Titus Lyvyus” (Ovid’s
Fasti, bk. ii., 1. 741; Livy, bk. i., ch. 57, 58): the story is also told by Dionysius Halicarnassensis,
bk. iv., ch. 72, and by Diodorus Siculus, Dio Cassius, and Valerius Maximus. In English it is,
besides in Lydgate’s Falles of Princes, bk. iii., ch. 5, and in Wm. Painter's Palace of Pleasure, 1567,
vol. i., fol. 5-7, where the story is very shortly told: the heading is “Sextus Tarquinius ravisheth
Lucrece, who bewailyng the losse of her chastitie, killeth her self.’ I cannot find the story in the
Rouen edition, 1603, of Boaistuau and Belleforest’s Histoires Tragiques, 7 vols., 12mo; or the Lucca
edition, 1554, of the Novelle of Bandello, 3 parts; or the Lyons edition, 1573, of the Fourth Part.
Painter’s short ZLucrece must have been taken by himself from one of the Latin authors he cites
as his originals at the end of his preface. In 1568, was enterd on the Stat. Reg., A, lf. 174, a
receipt for 4d. from Jn. Alde “for his lycense for prynting of a_ballett, the grevious complaynt of
Luerece”” (Arber’s Transcript, i, 379); and in 1570 the like from “ James Robertes, for his lycense for
the pryntinge of a ballett intituled Lhe Death of Lueryssia” (Arber’s Transcript, i. 416). Another
ballad of the legend of Lucrece was also printed in 1576, says Warton. (Var. Shakspere, xx. 100.)
Chaucer's simple, short telling of the story in 206 lines—of which 95 are taken up with the visit of
Collatyne and Tarquynyus to Rome, before Shakspere’s start with Tarquin’s journey thither alone—
cannot of course compare with Shakspere’s rich and elaborate poem of 1,855 lines, though, had the
latter had more of the earlier maker's brevity, it would have attaind greater fame.

“Tue Passionate Prterime, by W. Shakespeare,” was first publisht in 1599. In the middle of
sheet C is a second title: ‘Sonnets To sundry notes of Musicke.” The Pilgrim is a collection, made
by the piratical publisher, William Jaggard, of some genuine Sonnets, &c., by Shakspere, Richard
Barnfield, Bartholomew Griffin, Christopher Marlowe, and other writers unknown, got from divers
printed books and other sources. Thirteen years afterwards, in 1612, the same pirate Jaggard
reprinted The Pilgrim as Shakspere's, and put into it, under Shakspere’s name, and to his disgust, two
poems by Thomas Heywood?, for which the latter publicly reproacht Jaggard. The original edition
(reprinted in due order in the Leopold and Globe eds.) contains—1, 2. Shakspere’s Sonnets 138 and 144,
with various readings. 3. Berowne’s Sonnet to Rosaline in Love's Labours Lost, IV. iii. 57-70, “ Did
not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye.” 4. The first Venus and Adonis Sonnet, “ Sweet Cytherea.”
5. Berowne’s 6-measure Sonnet-Letter to Rosaline in Love’s Labours Lost, IV. ii. 103-116, “It love
make me forsworn.”? 6. The second Venus and Adonis Sonnet, “Scarce had the sun.” 7. Three
stanzas of six, “ Fair is my love” (to be compared with Sonnet 138, No. 1 here). 8. Richard Barnfield’s
first Sonnet? from his Poems: In diuers humors‘, 1598. It was written “To his friend Maister R. L.
In praise of Musique and Poetrie” (p. 189, ed. Grosart, Roxburghe Club, 1876), and begins, “If

1 It is very interesting to compare the sympathetic tone in which Shakspere speaks of the Siege of Troy, in lines
1366-1568 ; of Ajax and Ulysses, 1. 1394-1400; of Nestor, 1. 1401-1421 ; of Achilles, 1. 1422-7; of Hector, 1. 1429-1435,
with the bitter way in which he treats the same subject and men in his later Troilus and Cressida. Also note here in
1. 1443-1485, the source of the player’s Hecuba-speech in Hamlet. Shakspere’s Minor Poems have not yet been workt
enough with his plays ; nor Chaucer’s with his Tales.

2 From his Troia Britanica, 1609, which proceeding, says Dyce, was thus noticed by Heywood in the Postscript to
his Apology for Actors, also printed in 1612: ‘‘Here, likewise, [ must necessarily insert a manifest injury done me in
that worke [Troja Britannica], by taking the two epistles of Paris to Helen, and Helen to Paris, and printing them ina
lesse volume under the name of another, which may put the world in opinion I might steale them from him, and hee, to
doe himselfe right, hath since published them in his owne name : but, as I must acknowledge my lines not worthy his
patronage under whom he hath publisht them, so the author, I know, much offended with M. Jaggard that (altogether
unknowne to him) presumed to make so bold with his name.” ‘Heywood having thus claimed his own, Jaggard
cancelled the title-page of the third edition of Phe Passionate Pilgrim, 1612, on which was the name of Shakespeare, and
substituted a title-page without any author's name.” (This pirate Jaggard's name was William.) :

3 Both this and No. 21, “ As it fell,” though in Barnfield’s first edition of 1598, publisht by John Jaggard, were, like
all the rest of the Poems but two, left out of the second edition of Lady Pecunia, &c., in 1605, ‘to be sold by Jhon
Hodgets, dwelling in Paules Churchyard, a little beneath Paules Schoole.” But that this outleaving does not imply that
the two poems were Shakspere’s, or not Barntield’s, Mr. Grosart shows in his edition of Barnfield, 1876, p. xxxi. [ wish
the Sonnet, with its love of Spenser, had been Shakspere’s. ; , IN

4 Ina volume of 31 leaves contaming---1. The praise of Lady Pecunia. 2. The Complaint of Poetrie tor the Death

of Liberalitie. 3. Poems; in divers Humors.—1598, Hazlitt’s Handbook.

 

 
 

 

XXXV1 §9.d. FARLY HISTORIES. RICHARD II.

music and sweet poetry agree,” and is one of his ‘fruits of vnriper yeares.” 9. The third Venus and
Adonis Nonnet, ‘Fair was the morn,” incomplete as now, without its second line. 10. Two stanzas '
of six lines each, ‘Sweet rose.”” 11. The fourth Venus and Adonis Sonnet, by Bartholomew Griffin,
Sonnet III. in his Fidessa, 1596, sign B 2, but now with new mistakes and various readings, and new
lines 9-12, whence got, is unknown. 12. “Crabbed age and youth.” 13. “ Beauty,” 14. ‘‘ Good
night,” each two stanzas of six, and not Shakspere’s, I think. 15. ‘Lord, how mine eyes,” three
stanzas of six. 16. (Here begin the “ Sonnets to sundry notes of Musicke,’’ with) a spurious set of
quatrains (aaab), “It was a lording’s daughter,” of course not Shakspere’s. 17. Dumaine’s poem
to his “most divine Kate,” in Love's Lubours Lost, IV. iii. 98-117, “On a day.”! 18. “ My flocks
feed not,” from Weelkes's Madrigals, 1597: clearly.not Shakspere’s.1 19. ‘‘ When as thine eye.’
20. Marlowe's “ Live with me, and be my love” (sung by Izaak Walton’s handsome milkmaid’), with
Sir Walter Raleigh’s Reply. 21. Richard Barnfield’s Ode, ‘‘ As it fell upon a day,” from his Poems :
In diuers humors (1598), 56 lines. (Lhe Phenix and the Turtle first appeard, with Shakspere’s
name to it, in Chester’s Love's Martyr : or, Rosalins Complaint, in 1601. It is no doubt spurious.)

I have not workt enough at these poems in Lhe Passionate Pilgrim to havea real opinion on them.
The dates vary, I suppose, from 1589 to 1599, or so. I put the collection at the end of the other poems,
because it can only be noticed here or at the end of the plays. The first three Venus and Adonis
Sonnets are to me so much easier in flow and lighter in handling than the Venus and Adonis itself,
that, if they are Shakspere’s, I cannot suppose them to have been written before that poem. They
seem to me worthy of Shakspere in his young-man's time. In addition to Nos. 8, 11, 16, 18, 20,
and 21, noted above as not being Shakspere’s, I suppose that 10, 13, 14, 15, are not his either. About
No. 19 I doubt: that ‘to sin and never for to saint,’ and the whole of the poem, are by some strong
man of the Shakspere breed. My. Grosart has shown in his Prefaces to his editions of Barnfield’s
Poems and (rittin’s Fidessa, that there is no reason to take from the first, his Ode (No. 21) and his
Sonnet (No. 8), or from the second, his Venus and Adonis Sonnet (No. 11), many of whose readings
the Pussionate Pilgrim print spoils. No. 12 I like to think Shakspere’s; and No. 7 goes so well with
No. 1, that though I see nothing distinctively Shakspere’s in it, I suppose it may be his.

RicHarp THE Seconp.—Shakspere turned from his play and his poems of passion, to deal with
the great political questions which were stirring his countrymen in his own time. One cannot
believe that he who knew the object of playing was to show “the very age and body of the time,
his form and pressure,” could have been indifferent to the greatest questions pressing on his age, when
he freely satirised the petty fashions of men’s coats and breeches, and women’s false hair and face-
painting and the like, The chief questions troubling his time were the disputed succession of Eliza-
beth and her title to the Crown, her government by favourites, the continual conspiracies against her,
either home-grown or supported by foreign aid. And whether Shakspere took up the topic of
historical plays because it was popular with English audiences, and had been dealt with by former
writers, or because he had his own say on Elizabethan pulitics to say to his countrymen, I cannot
doubt that he did speak his own opinions and preacht his own moral through his historical plays.
That he loved his country, every play and poem of his shows. That he was a patriot above party,
even though he may have inclined to Southampton and Essex’s side, his historical plays show too.
He first took the weak kings, and of them first, Richard the Second, who by favouritism ruind
England. Elizabeth herself said to Lambarde, ‘I am Richard the Second: know vou not that?” And
her favouritism is still one of the just, among the many unjust, stains on her character. That
Shakspere’s Richard I. was the play acted in the streets of London by direction of Essex s friends on
the afternoon before his rebellion broke out, is almost certain, for the arrangement for the performance
of the play was made with “ Augustine Phillipps, servant to the Lord Chamberlain, and one of his
Players%,” that is, a member of the company to which Shakspere belongd; and that Shakspere’s
Richard If. from the first containd the Deposition Scene, though this was not printed in the first
quarto, is clear from the lines that come before and after the omission.

Shakspere shows by this weak king’s history, what is the end of a sovereign’s unwise favouritism, and
he also protests against the benevolences and daily new exactions raisd in Elizabeth's reign’, especially
about 1591-3. I do not contend that in Richard, Shakspere meant to picture Elizabeth: she was far
other than he. This degenerate son of the Black Prince, the flower of warriors, is shown in Shakspere’s

1 In England's Helicon, 1600; 18, signd Ignoto. No. 20 and part of 21 are there too, with Sir Walter Raleigh’s Reply.

2“ Ag T left this place and entered into the next field, a second pleasure entertained me: ‘twas a handsome milk-
maid ; she cast away all care, and sung like a nightingale. Her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was that
smooth song which was made by Kit Marlowe, now at least fifty years ago. And the milk-inaid’s mother sung an answer
to it, which was inade by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days."—Complete Angler.

3 See A. Phillipps’s Examination, in Mrs, Green’s Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, 1598-1601, p. 578; and
Mr. Hales's letter of November 15, 1875, in The Academy for that month.

4 “Still, 1 cannot help observing, though I know not how to account for it, that the dramatist here dwells upon

 

 
 

 

39. d. EARLY HISTORIES. HENRY VI. xxxvii

 

pages as a mere royal sham. Personate a king in tongue he can; but act as one he can’t. His claim
to command is belied by the action of the quarrelsome nobles in his very presence in the first scene.
The utter meanness of his nature is shown by his inability to take the reproof of the noble, dying
Gaunt. His stage-actor’s hollowness is shown on his return to England when, idiot that he is, he
affects to favour England’s earth by touching it with his royal hand, and then claims on the one hand
the certainty of help from heaven, and on the other grovels in the mire of despair as soon as bad news
comes. Good tidings lift him again for a moment, but he falls at once into the slime to which by nature
he belongs. He cannot part with his crown without calling for a glass to look at himself in: and it
is not till he suffers and dies in prison, that we have any feeling of regret for the majesty he so little
represented on the throne. His rival Bolingbroke, on the other hand, the son of that Gaunt, through
whom Shakspere has spoken his own love of “ this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,”
the son of Chaucer’s sweet-voiced Duchess Blanche, is shown with all his mother’s gracious ways
winning the hearts of the common folk, wiling the tediousness of Northumberland’s journey, and
astutely seizing the chances that fortune and Richard’s misgovernment give him to ascend the throne.
His hint for Richard's murder is caught up by Exton, and the king has soon to learn that the deed is
worse than a crime; it isa blunder. ‘The passion and fancy of the last group of Shakspere’s works
give way to the patriotism and the rhetoric of the present set of historical plays. As in the former the
fincy sometimes verged on conceit, so in the latter does the rhetoric sometimes verge on rant, as in
Bolingbroke’s and Mowbray’s speeches. In the later scenes, too of Richard II., ryme seems to make its
last effort to stand as part of Shakspere’s regular means for working out his plays. But these scenes
are singularly weak ; and with the repetition of the nobles’ challenge constitute a blemish on the play.
Another blemish is the want of comic relief, and the making of the gardener and his mates talk like
philosophers or Friar Laurence. A strong link with Romeo and Juliet is seen in the up-and-downness
of the characters of Richard the Second and Romeo.

Richard II. is founded, like Shakspere’s other Historical Plays, upon Holinshed’s Chronicle, with
such changes and additions as it pleasd the poet to make in his original. Among the inventions here
are the fine scene between John of Gaunt on his death-bed and his nephew; Aumerle’s continuing
faithful to Richard ; Northumberland’s not kneeling to the King, whereas he did kneel; the scene of
the Queen and the gardeners; Richard’s interview with her after his return from Ireland; the lament
of Henry over Richard’s corpse. York’s description of the progress of Richard and Bolingbroke is from
Stowe, p.322. See, too, Daniel’s poem, History of the Civil Wars, bk. ii. (P. A.D.). ‘* The characters of
Richard, of Bolingbroke, and of York, are sufticiently true to nature and to history so far as Shakspere
was acquainted with it. Richard, reckless in prosperity, weak in adversity; Bolingbroke, bold and
ambitious, and courting popularity; York, timid and wavering, or, viewed more favourably
(Coleridge, Lit. Rem., ii. 173), halting between his loyalty and his patriotism.’ —Courtenay, i. 73.
The first Quarto of Richard II. was publisht in 1597, then reprinted in 1598, 1608, and 1615. Each
of the later Quartos was printed from the one before it; and the Folio text was printed from the Quarto
of 1615. Richard LZ. is the first play of the Tetralogy which the Trilogy of Hexry IV., V. completes.

Henry tHe Stxru.—The next series of historical plays that goes under the name of Shakspere
deals, in three parts, with a weak king, Henry the Sixth, in one part with a strong king, Richard the
Third. Its subject is a superb one for a dramatist. You have, on the one hand, the story of individual
love; onthe other, the ruin of a kingdom and a throne. The old guilty love of Guinevere and Lancelot
is reproduced in that of Margaret and Suffolk; and as the first still holds the hearts of poets and of men,
so that Mr. Tennyson has reproduced it for our Victorian time, so might the second have been treated
that it would have been one of the glories of the Elizabethan drama. As the first brought about
the ruin of all the goodly fellowship of the flower of kings, so the second led to those wars of York
and Lancaster which lost us all the fair realm of France, and filled England with civil war. The
“fairest beauty” Margaret, ‘‘ soft as downy cygnets,’ was turned by ambition into a “ she-wolf of
France, but worse than wolves of France, whose tongue more poisons than an adder’s tooth,” into
one of the demonesses whom the French Revolution in later time reproduced. Her pride makes
her level to the ground the pillar of the noble Humphry, who is the sole support of her husband’s
throne. -His removal gives room for all the angry passions of the nobles, the designs of the crafty,
hypocritical Gloster, to work. And soon the queen, bereft of love, of child, of throne, of husband,
has nothing to console her but the curses she can heap on the foes who have ruind her, and the eager
watching for their fulfilment. From out the ruins of her life, on which she, cursing, sits, steps the
striking figure of Richard, exulting with grim humour in his villainy and success. He has trod
through blood to the throne, and he will pour out blood to hold it. But behind him is the gathering

popular grievances, which in the other play (King John) he treats with contempt, though history has certainly handed
down John as, not less than Richard, the oppressor of his people.” —Courtenay’s Comment., i. 50. Tho’ benevalences were not
known till Henry VIL.’s time, yet Richard II. made many aceused persons compound for pardon, and pay large sums
pro benevolentid sud recuperandd.—Turner, ii, 317.—ib.

 

 
 

xxxviii §9.d. EARLY HISTORIES. HENRY VI.

 

storm of the curses of Margaret and her sister-queens, the wail of murderd innocents mixing with
the women’s wrath. And at last the storm bursts in lightning-flash, on battle-field, on the head of
the guilty king, erect, defiant, fearing death as little as he feard sin. And the land is again ina
strong man’s hand.

Of this superb subject, but little is made in the Henry VI. plays. The first of them is broken and
choppy to an intolerable degree. The only part of it to be put down to Shakspere is the Temple
Garden scene of the red and white roses!; and that has nothing specially characteristic in it, though
the proportion of extra-syllabled lines in it forbids us supposing it is very early work. There
must be at least three hands in the play, one of whom must have written—probably, only—the ryme
scenes of Talbot and his son. But poor as this play seems to us, we have Nash’s evidence that it
toucht the Elizabethan audiences: ‘‘ How would it haue joy’d braue Talbot (the terror of the
French) to thinke that after he had lyne two hundred yeare in his tomb, he should triumph againe
on the stage, and haue his bones new embalmed with the teares of ten thousand spectators at least,
(at seuerall times) who, in the tragedian that represents his person, imagine they behold him fresh
bleeding” (Pierce Penilesse, p. 60, ed. 1842, Old Shak. Soc.). The characters of the clear-seeing
Exeter, the noble Talbot— great Alcides of the field . Lord Furnival, of Sheffield ”’—and his
gallant young son, Salisbury, ‘‘ mirror of all martial men,” the generous Bedford, are the only
ones that redeem the gloom of such cowards and cads as Somerset, such vain and foolish traitors
as the Countess of Auvergne, the baseness of the Dauphin, and the abominable way in which
Joan of Arc is treated by Frenchmen as well as English. ‘Traditional as the witch-view of
Joan of Are was in Shakspere’s time, one is glad that Shakspere did not set it forth tous. The
Second and Third Parts of Henry VI. are but recasts of two older plays, the Contention, published
in 1594, and the Zrwe Tragedy, published in 1595.2 The latest discussion of the authorship of these
plays is by my friend, Miss Jane Lee, New Sh. Soc.’s Trans., 1875-6, Part II., and never before has the
question been so ably and thoroughly handled. I incline to accept the conclusion of herself and some
other critics that Shakspere took no part in the Contention and True Tragedy, though it cannot be
certain that he had no share in the original sketch of Jack Cade. It is unquestionable that
Shakspere’s hand is in the revised play. Duke Humphry’s great speech in Part II. (Act I., se. i.),
‘‘Brave peers of England,” &c., King Henry’s, in Part IIT. (Act II., sc. v.), the description
of Duke Humphry’s corpse in Part II. (Act IIT., sc. ii.), can have been written by no other man.
The powerful account of the cardinal's death has been assigned, with some probability, to Marlowe,
with whose Faustus’s carrying-off scene it is well compared. But certainly parts of the revision were
done by Marlowe’, or one of his school, and some parts, as I think, by Greene, or one of his school*;

1 The wooing of Margaret by Suffolk is not his, as its quick falling off into that ‘cooling card,” &c., shows.

2 Mr. Hazlitt reprints both in his Shakspere’s Library—a book indispensable to every real student of Shakspere—
Part Il., Cont., vol. i., pp. 379-520; Tr. Trag., vol. ii., pp. 2-105. The text of the revised plays, 2 and 3 Henry VJ.,
appeard for the first time in the Folio of 1623.

3 Miss Lee assigns to Marlowe the following portions of the revised plays: see her answer to me in the Discussion
on her Henry VI. paper in New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1876, Part II. :—2 Henry VI., II. iii. 1-58; II. i.
142-199, 282-330, 357-383 ; IIT. ii. 43-121 (with Shakspere); 1V. i. 1-147, x. 18-90 (?IV. ix., Greene); V. i. 1-160, 175-
195; ii, 10-11, 19-30 (?), 31-65. (I doubt, too, the following being Shakspere’s :—I. i, 24-35, iv. 41-66; II. i. 1-113 Q);
III. i, 200-281, 331-356 ; ii, 1-87, 43-121, 246-269, 339-366 (?); V. i. 161-174, ii. 72-90). 3 Henry VI., 1. ii. 5-765 ID.
i. 81-6, 200-4; ii. 6, 53, 56, 79, 83, 143, 146-8; iii, 49-56; iv. 1-4, 12, 13: v. 114-120; vi. 31-6, 47-50, 58, 100-2; TIT.
iii. 4-43, 47, 48, 67-77, 110-120, 134-7, 141-150, 156-161, 175-9, 191-201, 208-18, 221, 226, 233-8, 244-255 (?); IV. ii. 19-30;
V. i, 12-16, 21, 22, 31-33, 39, 48-57, 62-66, 69-71, 78, 79, 87-97; ili, 1-24. (I doubt, too, the following being Shak-
spere’s :—(?) I. i, 216-273, iv. 1-26 (?); IL. i. 41-78, iii. 9-47; V. 58-113 (?), 123-139 (?). Miss Lee's division of the Con-
tention and True Tragedie between their several authors is in the New Shakspere Society's Trdusactions, 1876, too.
In that I agree. On the points on which Miss Lee differs from me, let the reader trust her and not me, till he has
workt enough to form an opinion of his own. She has workt at the plays twenty times as much as I have, and has got.
a certainty about them that I can't pretend to have.

* For instance, I feel almost certain that neither Marlowe nor Shakspere alterd the following left-hand passage trom
the Contention into the right-hand one from 2 Heury VI. :—

1591 Contention, p. 49. 1623, 2 Henry VI., TV. i. 104-114.
“Suf. O that I were a God, to shoot forth Thunder
Vpon these paltry, seruile, abiect Dridqes :

  
 

“Sauffolke. This villain being but Captain of a Pinnais, Small things make base men proud. This Villaine heere,
Threatens more plagues then mightie Abradas*, Being Captaine of a Pinnace, threatens more
The great Masadonian Pyrate,” Then Bargulus the strong Illyrian Pyrate.

Drones sucke not Kagles blood, but rob Bee-hiues :
it is impossible that I should dye.
By such a lowly Vassalt as thy selfe.

“Thy wordes addes fury and not remorse in me.” Thy words moue Rige, and not remorse in me:
I go of Message from the Queene to France :
I charge thee waft me sufely crosse the Channell.”

 

* Greene, in his Penelope's Web, 1588, mentions ‘‘Abradas, the great Macedonian pirat,” who “ thought enery one had
a letter of mart that bare sayles in the ocean.” See Malone's Shakspere, by Boswell, vol. xviii., p. 280. Bargulus—or
Bupdvddis, as Plutarch writes it in the Life of Pyrrhus,—is mentioned by Cicero, Bargulus Illyrius lateo (Halliwell).

 

 
 

 

§9. d. EARLY HISTORIES. RICHARD III. xxxix

 

and if Marlowe and Greene were, with Peele, as I’m content to think they were, the authors of the
earlier plays, I am not surprised to find their hands beside Shakspere’s in the revised one. I believe
that the revision of these plays is to some extent like the conversion of 4 Shrew into The Shrew,
and that another adapter’s hand than Shakspere’s is to be largely recognised in them. He may have
retouchd and strengthend them after Greene (died September 5, 1592) and Marlowe (stabd June 1,
1593) had reworkt them. ‘The humour of Cade is thoroughly Shaksperean, and may claim to stand
alongside, though it is earlier in date than, that of Sly and Grumio.

Ricuarp THE Turd is written on the model of Shakspere’s great rival, Christopher Marlowe, the
Canterbury cobbler’s son, who was stabd in a tavern brawl on June 1, 1598. It was Marlowe’s character-
istic to embody in a character, and realise with terrific force, the workings of a single passion. In
Tamberlaine he personified the lust of dominion, in Faustus the lust of forbidden power and
knowledge, in Barabas ( The Jew of Malta) the lust of wealth and blood (J.A.Symonds). In Richard III.
Shakspere embodied ambition, and sacrificed his whole play to this one figure. Gloster’s first
declaration of his motives, shows of course the young dramatist, as the want of relief in the play, and
the monotony of its curses, also do. But Richard’s hypocrisies, his exultation in them, his despising
and insulting his victims, his grim humour and delight in gulling fools, and in his own villainy, are
admirably brought out, and that no less than thirteen times in the play. 1. With Clarence. 2. With
Hastings. 3. With Anne, widow of Prince Edward, Henry the Sixth’s son, whom Richard the Third,
when Gloster, had stabd. 4. With Queen Elizabeth, with Gloster and Hastings, and possibly in
his professt repentance for the wrongs he did Queen Margaret in murdering her son and husband.!
5. With Edward the Fourth on his death-bed, and his queen, and lords, and as to the author of
Clarence’s death. 6. With his nephew, Clarence’s son. 7. With Queen Elizabeth and his mother,
“Amen! And make me die a good old man!” 8. With Buckingham, “ I as a child will go by thy
direction.” 9. With the young prince, Edward the Fifth, ‘God keep you from them and from
such false friends.” 10. With Hastings and the Bishop of Ely. 11. With the Mayor about Hastings
and then about taking the crown—(note Richard’s utter brutality and baseness in his insinuation of
his mother’s adultery). 12. With Buckingham about the murder of the princes. 13. With Queen
Elizabeth when he repeats the scene of his wooing with Anne, as the challenge-scene is repeated in
Richard II. Villain as he is, he has the villain’s coolness too. He never loses temper, except when
he strikes the third messenger. As a general he is as skilful as Henry the Fifth, and looks to his
sentinels ; while, like Henry the Fourth, he is up and doing at the first notice of danger, and takes
the right practical measures. Yet the conscience he ridicules, he is made to feel—

“«There is no creature loves ine,
And if I die no soul will pity me.”
But we must note that this is only when his will is but half-awake, half-paralysed by its weight of
sleep. As soon as the man is himself again, ncither conscience nor care for love or pity troubles him.
The weakest part of the play is the scene of the citizens’ talk; and the poorness of it, and the |
monotony of the women’s curses, have given rise to the theory that in Richard IJJ. Shakspere was
only re-writing an old play, of which he let bits stand. But though I once thought this possible,
I have since become certain that it is not so. The wooing of Anne by Richard has stirrd me, in
reading it aloud, almost as much as anything else in Shakspere. Note, too, how the first lines of the
play lift you out of the mist and confusion of the Henry VJ. plays into the sun of Shakspere’s genius.

Richard III. was first publisht in quarto in 1597, and afterwards in 1598, 1602, 1605, 1612, and 1622
(and 1629, 1634), each edition being printed from the one before it. The Folio text of 1623 shows a
number of small word-changes from the Quarto—with important ones of passages occasionally—
that render the making of the best text of Richard ITI. the hardest puzzle in Shakspere-editing. In
avery able paper in the New Shakspere Socicty’s Transactions, 1875-6, Part I., Mr. James Spedding
contends, against the Cambridge editors, Clark and Wright, that the Folio, in all but a few cases, gives
Shakspere’s own.corrections. Professor Delius holds this view too (Jahrbuch, vii. 124), as the Folio has
many passages linking Richard IIT, with Henry VT. that are not in the Quarto. ‘The source of the
play—as of all Shakspere’s Historical Plays—is Holinshed’s Chronicle, which is here taken from Sir
Thomas More’s Life of Richard III., Polydore Vergil, &c. See Courtenay’s Commentaries on the Historical
Plays,ii.60-117. Courtenay says, ‘The [then] received history is pretty closely followed.”. . ‘Margaret
sustains her part well, but that is entirely fanciful, and not to be admired. Shakspere’s character of
Queen Anne is imaginary, and not well imagined.’ One instance that Courtenay brings forward
to show that Shakspere designedly blackend Richard’s character—his making Richard concernd in
bringing about Clarence’s death—I have shown to be unfounded; because Hall, in his Chronicle,
p. 343, ed. Ellis, 1809, says that “some wise menne”’ did hold this view of Richard, and Holinshed,
too, in Edward V., mentions it. The action of the play covers fourteen years, from Henry the

11 have always, tho’, considered this genuine repentance, or at least a genuine profession of it.

 

 
 

 

xl § 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. a. LIFE-PLEA GROUP. KING JOHN.

 

Sixth’s murder, May 21, 1471, to Richard the Third’s death, August 22, 1485. If Shakspere had
ever seen on the boards or in print Lhe Lrue Tragedic of Richard the Third, 1594, 2 Hazlitt, i. 43, he
used it but little, or Dr. Legge’s Latin Richardus Tertius either (Lloyd’s Essays, p. 287).

Kiye Joux.—With this play of pathos and patriotism we open Shakspere’s Second Period,—
looking on Richard II. as the last play in which ryme plays a prominent part, we take the series
of Heury VI. and Richard III. as the transition to the Second Period;—and on opening it we
are struck with a greater fulness of characterisation and power than we saw in the First-Period plays.
But the whole work of Shakspere is continuous. Hing John is very closely linkt with Richard ILI,
In both plays we have cruel uncles planning thcir nephews’ murder, because the boys stand between
them and the Crown. In both we have distracted mothers overwhelmd with grief. In both
we have prophecies of ruin and curses on the murderers, and in both the fulfilment of these. In
both we have the kingdom divided against itself, and the horrors of civil war. In both we have the
same lesson of the danger of division taught to the discontented English parties of Shakspere’s
own day. Richard III. is an example of the misgovernment of a cruel tyrant; Hing John of the
misgovernment of a sclfish coward. But in John we have the mother’s pathetic lament for her child
far developed above that of Queen Elizabeth's for her murdered innocents, and far more touching
than the laments of Queen Margaret and the Duchess of York, while the pathos of the stifled
children’s death is heightened in that of Arthur. The temptation scene of John and Hubert, repeats
that of Richard and Tyrrel. The Bastard’s statement of his motives, ‘‘ Gain, be my lord,” &c., is like
that of Richard the Third’s about his villainy. (The Bastard’s speech on commodity may be compared
with Lucrece’s reproaches to opportunity.) Besides the boy’s pleading for his life, besides his piteous
death and the mother’s cry for him, which comes home to every parent who has lost a child, we
have in the play the spirit of Elizabethan England’s defiance to the foreigner! and the Pope. King John
is founded on the old play of The Troublesome Raigne of Ning John, 1591.2 Shakspere alters the old
play in eight chief political points,—as shown by Mr. Richard Simpson in the New Shahspere Society's
Transactions, 1874,—in order to bring the play closer home to his hearers, and the circumstances of
his time, the disputed succession of Elizabeth, and the interference of Spain and the Pope. The old
play-writer made the murder of Arthur, as Mr. Lloyd has noticed,* the turning-point between the
high-spirited success of John at first and his dejection and disgrace at last; and he, too, fixed on the
assertion of national independence against invading Frenchmen and encroaching ecclesiastics as the
true principle of dramatic action of John's time. So long as John is the impersonator of England, of
defiance to the foreigner, und opposition to the Pope, so long is he a hero. But he is bold outside
only, only politically; inside, morally, he is a coward, sneak, and skunk. See how his nature comes
out in the hints for the murder of Arthur, his turning on Hubert when he thinks the murder will
bring evil to himself, and his imploring Falconbridge to deny it. His death ought, of course,
dramatically to have followed from some act of his in the play, as revenge for the murder of Arthur,
or his, plundering the abbots or abbeys, or opposing the Pope. The author of The Troublesome
Raigne, with a true instinct, made a monk murder John out of revenge for his anti-Papal patriotism.4
But Shakspere, unfortunately, set this story aside, though there was some warrant for it in
Holinshed, and thus left a serious blot on his drama which it is impossible to remove. The
character which to me stands foremost in John is Constance, with that most touching expression of
grief for the son she had lost. Beside her cry, the tender pleading of Arthur for his life is heard, and
both are backed by the rough voice of Falconbridge, who, Englishman-like, depreciates his own
motives at first, but is lifted by patriotism into a gallant soldier, while his deep moral nature shows
itself in his heartfelt indignation at Arthur’s supposed murder. The rhetoric of the earlier historical
plays is kept up in Hing John, and also Shakspere’s power of creating situations, which he had possessed
from the first. Of the situation in Act III., sc. i., Mrs. Jamieson says in her Characteristics of Women,

1“ The great lesson taught in the last lines of the play should he more brought out. King, nobles, claimant, all
lean on foreign help, and all find it a broken reed which pierces their hands."—C. Hargrove. Besides the passage
usually cited from Andrew Boorde for these last lines, he has another nearer to Shakspere's words ; ‘I think if all the
world were set against England, it might neuer be conquered, they beyng treue within them selfe.”—1542 (pr. 1547)
Introduction, p. 164 of my edn., 1870.

2 It is the old play re-written. The two must be read together and compared, to see what genius makes out of
ordinary work. The extreme Protestant tone of the old play is much modified by Shakspere. Andas Prof. Delius notices
(New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1875-6, Part 11.), Shakspere only tells certain incidents that the old play acts, as
Falconbridge ransacking the churches, arresting Peter of Pomfret on the stage ; John’s meal and poisoning, the death of
the monk who poisons him, and Falconbridge’s stabbing the abbot. Falconbridge's soliloquies are new too. On the many
variations from history in King John, see T, P. Courtenay’s Commentaries on the Historical Plays of Shakspere, two vols.,
Colburn, 1840, a book indispensable to the student of these plays. The old Trowblesome Raigne of 1594 is reprinted in
Hazlitt's Shakspere’s Library, Part IL, vol. i., p. 221.

3 Critical Essays, G. Bell and Sons, 1875. The best half-crown hook on Shakspere.

‘No, but for his enmity to, and robhery of the monks. See Hazlitt's Sh. Libr., Pt. IL, vol. i., pp. 309-311."—
C. Hargrove. I meant to include these as anti-Papal acts. t

 

 
 

 

§10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. xli

 

ed. 1870, pp. 856, 357 :—“* Aud what a situation! One more magnificent was never placed before the
mind’s eye than that of Constance, when, deserted and betrayed, she stands alone in her despair, amid
her false friends and her ruthless enemies! The image of the mother-cagle, wounded and bleeding to
death, yet stretched over her young in an attitude of defiance, while all the baser birds of prey are
clamouring around her eyry, gives but a faint idea of the moral sublimity of this scene. Considered
iuerely as a poetical or dramatic picture, the grouping is wonderfully fine: on one side, the vulture
ambition of that mean-souled tyrant, John; on the other, the selfish, calculating policy of Philip; between
them, balancing their passions in his hand, the cold, subtle, heartless Legate; the fiery, reckless
Falconbridge; the princely Louis; the still unconquered spirit of that wrangling Queen, old Elinor ;
the bridal loveliness and modesty of Blanche; the boyish grace and innocence of young Arthur; and
Constance in the midst of them, in all the state of her great grief, a grand impersonation of pride and
passion, helpless at once and desperate, form an assemblage of figures, cach perfect in its kind, and
taken all together, not surpassed for the variety, force, and splendour of the dramatic and picturesque
effect.” King John is in Meres’s list, 1598, and was first printed in the Folio of 1623. It was written
probably in 1595. My friend, Dr. Brinsley Nicholson, contends for two dates in it: 1594, from its
storm imagery ; 1896, from its fleet passage, alluding, as he thinks, to the Cadiz expedition. But in
1595 was Drake and Hawkins’s Darien expedition ‘‘ with a fleet of men of war’? (Zoone’s Chronol.
Hist., i1.); besides Raleigh’s second voyage to America. And Shakspere was in London in Armada
time, 1588, and heard all about the fleet then. His only boy, Hamnet, was buried on August 11, 1596.

Tur Mexcuant or Venice (?1596).—We turn from the rain-green level meads of France, from
our own murky land—and yet a land like Venice is a city, a precious stone set in the silver sea—to
the sunlit Venice of Italy—

“The glorious city of the sea: Ebbing and flowing, and the salt sea-weed
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets Clings to the marble of her palaces.”— Rogers.
We turn to

“© Padua, where the stars are night by night
Watched from the top of an old dungeon tower,
Whence blood ran once—the tower of Ezzelin.”—Rogers.

And we are greeted here, too, with a parent’s cry for a lost child; but whereas in John it was the
mother’s pathetic, passionate grief for her reft boy, the dearest thing to her on earth, in heaven; in
The Merchant it is the father’s fierce and selfish curse on his girl, flesh of his flesh and bone of his
bone, and yet far less dear to him than his gold. Here, too, we have an appeal for a life, a cry for
mercy to the condemnd. In John it was from Arthur’s lips; in The Merchant it is from Portia’s—
sweet sources both—-and in each case the life is saved: in John by a man’s true heart, in The
Merchant by a woman’s ready wit. Other links there are between the plays. The sadness or
melancholy of which Arthur speaks in John, Act IV., sc. i.

“*T remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night
Only for wantonness ”—

is echoed in Antonio’s first speech in the very first line of The Merchant—

“Tn sooth I know not why I am so sad ;”

in Salanio’s and Salarino’s echoes of that; and in Antonio’s—

“*T hold the world ese eh ede a le
A stage, where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one ;”

while Portia’s first speech, “By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world,”
and Jessica’s ‘I am never merry when I hear sweet music,” repeat the same thought. Gratiano
may be compared with Falconbridge; Blanche, having to choose between her uncle and her bride-
groom, with Portia having to choose between her husband's honour and her bridal joys; the loss of
John’s forces in the Wash, to that of Antonio’s ships on the Goodwin Sands, &c. But that the play is
a splendid advance on Jon, no reader will question. We have here no want of climax, no louse thread
of dramatic action, as in John. The three plots of Antonio and Shylock, Portia and Baysanio, Jessica
and Lorenzo, are interwoven and workt through with consummate skill.

As we saw in Midsummer-Night’s Dream a great outburst of fancy, in Romeo and Juliet a great
outburst of passion, in Richard IT. of patriotism and rhetoric, combined in John with pathos, in
Richard III. « great outburst of intensity, so here we see, not one feeling dominating all the rest,
but a symphony of grace and fierceness, mercy and vengeance, friendshiy and love and fiend-like

 

 
 

 

xiii §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

 

hate, of wit and humour too, all harmonised by the quiet strains of Heaven’s own choir of stars.
The play is a picture, glowing with the hues of the Italian sky and sea, and the gemmed palaces which
reflect their glory. Beautiful as the visions of Venice that Turner painted, yet firm as earth, solid
as flesh, pulsing with life, like blood. If we turn back to The Two Gentlemen of Verona, the first play
in which Shakspere dealt with this passionate, scheming, Italian nature, we shall see how he. has
advanced. Ifwe turn forward to the great Venetian play of his Third Period, Othello, we shall see to
what greater height, to what lower deep, he had to pass. The Merchant of Venice is the first full
Shakspere. ‘The only blemish on the play—the seemingly tedious casket-scenes—become almost
its brightest gems, when an actress of genius like Miss Ellen Terry puts into them the wonderful by-
play that she did at the Prince of Wales’s Theatre in the summer of 1875. The hero of the piece is
undoubtedly Shylock. The first entry of the play in the Stationers’ Registers is the Merchant of
Venice, otherwise called the Jew of Venice. And beside the gracious figure of Portia, that of the
cursing Shylock ever stands. But as Antonio’s friendship is the occasion for the display of Shylock’s
character, and triumphs over his hate, the play is justifiably called The Merchant of Venice. The
Jews were banisht from England in 1290, and Holinshed relates how the captain who took away
the richest of them, drowned them all in the Thames, and he implies that this act was approved by
many Englishmen even in Elizabeth’s time. Shylock’s tribal hatred of Antonio and the Christians
was surely wholly justified, and so was his individual hatred to a great extent. A cur when kickt
will bite when he secs a chance. It is only the hate that springs from avarice in Shylock that we
can condemn, That his whole hate was intense, we may judge by his risking 3,000 ducats, dearer
to him than his daughter's life!, to gratify it. The hereditary self-restraint in the man, and his
hypocrisy, “ O, father Abraham, what these Christians are ”’ (I. iii. 159), &c., are noticeable—the latter
point matches Richard the Third’s “I thank my God for my humility.”” His appeal to justice, “‘ Hath
not a Jew eyes,” &c., is unanswerable, and is not yet admitted in many a land calling itself civilised.
For how short atime, alas, have we admitted it! That wonderful scene with Tubal in Act IIL., se. i.,
Shylock’s gloating over his revenge, his subduing his avarice to it, his self-possession in defeat, are all
work of the first order. But at last comes, ‘‘ I am not well,’ and one wishes he had been spared the
spiteful punishment of being made a Christian. His was a strong nature, capable of good; ’tis the
fallen angel who makes the worst devil; but devil or not, Shylock carries our sympathies with him.?
As to Portia, we shall all agree with Jessica, “The poor rude world hath not her fellow.’ With
many lovers of Shakspere, Portia is still the dearest character,—her namesake, Brutus’s wife,
Volumnia, Imogen, Hermione, notwithstanding. As Mrs. Fanny Kemble says in the Atlantic
Monthly, June, 1876, p. 713, ‘‘Shakspere’s Portia, then, as now, my ideal of a perfect woman.”
Portia is one of those characters that, like Rosalind in As You Like Jt, Shakspere shows us first
in gloom and then brings into the sunshine of love. She is sad at first, and no wonder. The lottery
of her destiny bars her the right of voluntary choosing. She is but the sport of that great allotter of
fate, Chance, which Shakspere has made such a leading element in this play.? But chance is kind to
her, and gives her the man she loves. We see her endow’d, like the lady of Chaucer’s “ Pity,” with
grace, good birth, and stately courtesy, but not with the earlier lady’s cruel heart. Wit and humour
she has, keen judgment too. Nothing can be happier than her judgment of her lovers, and her
description of herself, when dresst as a young fop; both to be compared with Julia's in The Two
Gentlemen. How pretty, too, is her “ Yes, yes,” the prelude of her love for Bassanio; her charming
hesitation, ‘‘It isn’t love and yet it is; you're half my heart;’ her quiver when Bassanio is
choosing; that most beautiful and gracious giving of herself to her husband; her unselfishness
in letting her lover-husband leave her so soon to save his friend: she rightly loves his honour
more than she loves him. Note, too, the generous wisdom of her judgment of Antonio's character
from Bassanio’s ; her quick insight and wit on the call for action; her self-reliance—-she risks her
all and makes a joke of it ;—her admirable handling of her case in court; the reserve of her power
of deciding the case until she has first tried to raise Shylock to the nobleness she would have him
reach. See how the essence of all the virtues of woman is in her speech for mercy, which will
echo to all time, and which we may compare with that of Queen Philippa in Edward IJI., with
that of Isabella in Alcasure for Measure. See, too, how through the whole of the trial scene she
keeps up her happy, roguish humour, chafting her husband about giving her up, and insisting on his
ring. (The later ring-scene is wonderfully effective on the stage, with Portia and Nerissa stalking about
in a pretty little tantrum, whisking their long trains round, flapping their fans, and raising a regular
mock storm. Another delightful touch, too, Miss Terry put into her representation of the part: as

1T do not forget the redeeming, ‘‘I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor” (III. i. 118), Shylock could care for
love, as well as revenge, before money ; but it wasnt love for his girl.

? Miss J. Lee pleads that he was a near relation of Marlowe’s Barabas: ‘the more I think of the two plays the
more I believe that here is another debt owed by Shakspere to Marlowe. In Acts L, II, V. of the Jew of Malta,
Barabas is a grand old fellow.” :

3 My friend Mr. James Pierce, of Bedford's view.

 

 
 

 

§ 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. THE MERCHANT OF VENICE, xiii

 

Bassanio, after the trial, walkt to the front of the stage, the black-capt Doctor Portia put her
pretty hands to her lips, behind him, and blew him a wifely kiss.) No one can praise Portia too
highly. She is the happy mean between the brilliant, saucy Beatrice, and the quict, devoted Viola.
Jessica, ‘the most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew,” is more romantic and impulsive. Love is her
ruling passion, as greed is her father’s. Ina certain sense she reproduces Juliet. She would give
up herself, her all, for love. She leads Lorenzo, and plans their elopement, just as Portia leads
Bassanio. Jessica knows the value of money in one way, but she sacrifices it to a whim. The
lyrical beauty of the night scene with Lorenzo, a certain touch of Easternness in her character,
her sadness at music, show depths of nature which speak a happy future for the pair. Antonio is to
me the Shakspere of the Sonnets. The beautiful unselfishness of his message to Bassanio—

“All debts are cleared between you and I if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure ;
if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter”— f

can only be matcht by Shakspere’s own feeling for his Will in Sonnets 87, 93, with which are to be
set 71-4, 97,99. We have no hesitation in accepting Bassanio’s character of him —
“The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The ancient Roman honour more appears,

The best condition’d and unwearied spirit Than any that draws breath in Italy.”
In doing courtesies ; and one, in whom

Bassanio is a bit of an adventurer, yet he is noble.! One must not find fault with the man whom
Antonio and Portia loved. Still he is not worthy of Portia, though one does not blame him so much for
being willing to give up Portia for his friend, as we did Valentine for his weak offer to surrender
Sylvia to Proteus on his profession of repentance. Bassanio felt that Portia herself commended him
for being willing to sacrifice his all, his life, even her, for the friend who had forfeited his life for him.
Gratiano, with his head in his hat, saying “‘ Amen” and behaving properly, is great fun all through.
He is the Cyril of Tennyson’s Princess ; and in the trial and ring scenes we enjoy his jeers, and
his getting out of his scrapes with that lawyer’s scrubby boy. Launcelot Gobbo, as Launce in The
Two Gentlemen, has a discussion with himself, after the manner of Davus in Terence’s Andria,
Act I., sc. iii. And though we have no dog here, yet we do have the inimitable damning of Jessica, the
forerunner of Touchstone’s of Corin (4s You, ITI. ii.). The fun of Launcelot and his father interrupting
one another while asking Bassanio for his place, is reproduced with added power in Dogberry and
Verges in Much Ado. Shakspere keeps up in The Merchant his satire of his contemporaries that we
was in his first Love's Labours Lost. His cuts at the Englishman’s dress are worthy of Andrew Boorde,
whose woodcut of an Englishman with a piece of cloth in one hand and a pair of shears in the other,
standing naked, and musing in his mind what raiment he should wear, p. 116 of my edition, Shakspere
may have seen, as he had no doubt read Harrison’s declaration—“ Except it were a dog in a doublet,
you shall not see anie so disguised as are my countrie men of England,” p. 168 of my edition, NV. Sh. Soe.
The want of education, too, in our nobles was a commonplace of the time, see the Forewords to my
Babees’ Book; while Portia’s sketch of the young fop and lady-killer might have been verified in
the walks in St. Paul’s any day in the week, and the “how every fool can play upon the word” too.
Women’s sham hair is forcibly condemned in Act IIL., sc. ii., as often before'and after in Shakspere ;
while we have the English coin, the angel, in Act IL., sc. vii.; the Goodwin Sands in Act III., sc. i.;
the jury of twelve men in Act IV., sc. i.; the ring’s posy like the cutler’s poetry on a knife in Act V.,
sc. i. The time of the action of the play I have noticed before, p. xxvii. Notwithstanding the three-
months’ bond, and the gaoler engaged a fortnight beforehand, the action of the play is hurried into !
thirty-nine hours. When once he'd started, Shakspere couldn’t wait three months, ’twas not his
nature to, in a play like this. I group together John and The Merchant as “ Life-Plea Plays.”

The Merchant was enterd twice in the Stationers’ Registers: first in 1598: “xxij° Julij. James
Robertes. Entred for his copie vnder the handes of bothe the wardens, a booke of The Marchaunt of
Venyce, or otherwise called the Jewe of Venyce. Prouided that yt bee not prynted by the said James
Robertes or anye other whatsocuer without lycence first had from the Right honorable the lord

Chamberlen . . . vj” (Arber’s Zranscript, iii. 122). Second, in 1600: ‘28 octobris. Thomas haies.
Entred for his copie under the handes of the Wardens, and by Consent of master Robertes. A
booke called the booke of the merchant of Venyce . . . vj” (Transcript, iii. 175). The play was not

publisht till 1600, when James Roberts printed it in quarto for himself (Q. 1), and also (Q. 2) for
Thomas Heyes. The text in the first Folio, 1623, was printed from the second Quarto. That there
was an old play on the bond story we judge from a passage in Gosson’s School of Abuse®, 1579,
pp. 29-30, Old Shakespeare Society, 1841 :— ;

“ And as some of the players are farre from abuse, so some of their playes are without rebuke,

1 And, like Fenton in The Merry Wives, he smells April and May, ‘A day in April never came so sweet,” &e.,
Il. ix. 91. (Portia implies Shakspere’s rise into the society of such English ladies as he'd not known in earlier life.)
2“ The S[clhoole of Abuse, Conteining a pleasaunt inuective against Poets, Pipers, Plaiers, Jesters, and such like

 

 
 

 

xliv §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. b. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

 

which are casily remembered, as quickly reckoned. . . . The Jew, and Ptolome, showne at the Bull;
the one representing the greedinesse of worldly chusers, and bloody mindes of usurers; the other (&c.). .
neither with amorous gesture wounding the cye, nor with slovenly talke hurting the cares of the
chast hearers. . . . These playes are good playes and sweete playes, and of all playes the best playes,
and most to be liked.”

The new play of “the Venecyon comodey,” acted the ‘25 of aguste 1594” (Henslowe’s Diary,
p. 40), cannot have been Shakspere’s Merchant.

‘he earliest Englishing of the bond story is in the translation of the Cursor Mundi of the end
of the thirteenth. century, publisht last year by the Early English Text Soc. (See Miss Toulmin
Smith’s Paper in New Sh. Soc.’s Trans., 1875-6, Pt. 1.) But that has no lady in it, tho’ it has a Jew.
The next English version is in the translation (ab. 1440 a.p.) of the Gesta Romanorwn (the Latin
version of ab. 1390, not the original bef. 1362), in Harl. MS. 7333, printed by the Roxburghe Club in
1838, ed. Sir F. Madden. But this has no Jew, though it has a lady. Nor is there any lady in the
95th Declamation of Zhe Orator of Alex. Silvayn, englisht by L. P. [Lazarus Piot, that is, Anthony
Munday], and publisht in 1596: only the arguments of a Jew and a Christian Merchant, and the
decision of the Judge, are there given. But in the Italian story in the Pecorone of Ser Giovanni
Fiorentino, written 1378, but not printed at Milan till 1558, we have not only both Jew and Lady
(of Belmont too)—she is the hero Giannetto’s wife, and acts as judge in the case—but also the ring
incident, and the Lady’s maid being married to Ansaldo, the Antonio of Shakspere’s play. I have
no doubt that a report of this Italian story by some Italy-visiting or Italian-knowing friend of
Shakspere’s, was the foundation of his play. And as he could not send his hero to bed three times
with the heroine, before he won her by pouring down his bosom on the third night—on the hint
of her maid—the drugd wine with which he had been sent to sleep on the first two occasions, and
had lost his fine ships with their freights, Shakspere took from the partially englisht Gesta
Romanorum of his day !,—Richard Robinson's “ Record of neyent Historyes intituled in Latin Gesta
Romanorumn,” 1577,—the story of the Three Caskets?, as a less objectionable way of making his
lover and sweetheart one.

Tue Taine or THE SHREw.—We change from Portia, the graceful, wise, and witty, perfect
woman, we change from the tender friendship of men, to Kate the curst, who is hell; to Petruchio's
coarse, rough ways. At first there seems hardly a link between the two plays; yet there’s a sclf-
surrender of a woman in each; but how different its cause! There’s the adventurer’s spirit in both
Bassanio and Petruchio, though with the contrast of the feeling, hardly to be called friendship, of
Hortensio to Petruchio, with the devoted love of Antonio to Bassanio. There are rival wooers to
Bianca as for Portia, and the scene is still Italy, though this is due to the adapter of the old play of
A Shrew, who changed it from Athens. It is difficult to feel certain about the position of the play, for
its links with The Comedy of Errors seem strong. First: Kate is like the shrew Adriana, shrewish from
neglect. Her sister Bianca is somewhat like Adriana’s sister Luciana. Second: Kate’s wife’s-subjection
doctrine is just like that of Luciana in the Errors, Act IL., sc. i. Third: The threatened death of the
Pedant on coming to Venice, Act IV., se. ii., is like the death decreed to the Syracusan coming to
Ephesus in the Zrrors, Act I.,sc. i. Fourth: The farcical beating of Grumio, &c., is like that of the
Dromios ; and Grumio’s “ Knock me,” &c., is like Dromio’s. But still with the Shrew-links that I have
already named, and the further ones with Henry IJ’, of Hotspur’s scene with his wife Kate, and the
way he avoids and overrides her questions, being so like Petruchio’s way with his Kate at their first
meeting (compare both with the later beautiful scene of Brutus trusting his Portia in Julius Cesar),
of the shrew Kate's spirit in both Hotspur himself and his wife, the likeness of Prince Henry's mad-
cap humours to Petruchio’s—though both men have themselves entirely in hand, and have a purpose
through all their acting—and lastly, the kinship of Grumio’s wit and humour with those of Falstaff,
make me believe, for the present at least, that The Shrew is rightly placed between The Merchant
and Henry IT”, Part I. This place is confirmed by the ryme test, though the stopt-line test makes
Shakspere’s part of the play his earliest work. The old play on which The Shrew is founded, the

Caterpillers of a Commonwelth: Setting vp the Flagge of Defiaunce to their mischieuous exercise, and overthrowing
their Bulwarkes, by Prophane Writers, Naturall reason, and common experience. A discourse as pleasaunt for
Gentlemen that fauour learning, as profitable for all that wyll follow vertue. By Stephan Gosson, Stud. Oxon... .
Printed at London, by Thomas Woodcocke. 1579.”

1 Tt was “ perused, corrected and bettered,” no doubt from Wynkyn de Worde’s edition (unique copy in St. John’s
Coll. Camb. lib ), or John Kynge’s 1557 (copy in the Bodleian). None of these three editions contain the bond
story. This first told by Johu of Haute Seille in his collection of Latin stories called Dolopathos or the King and
the Seven Sages, written about 1179-1212, and turned intu French by Herbert in 1223. The story is told by the fourth
Sage.

aa See it printed from Sir FP. Madden's edition in Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Library, Part I., vol. i., p. 361. The Pecorone
and Silvayn stories are printed there too, pp. 819, 355, with two old ballads of the pound-of-fesh story, ‘The Northern
Lord ” (p. 367) and Gernutus a Jew (p. 375), which I do not suppose are so old as 1596.

 

 

 

 
 

 

§10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. 6. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. xlv

 

Taming of a Shrew, was printed in 1594.} It was re-written, but not, as in the case of John,
entirely by Shakspere. An adapter, who used at least ten bits of Marlowe in it, first recast the old
play, and then Shakspere put into the recast the scenes in which Katherine, Petruchio, and Grumio
appear. We have thus, asin Henry VJ., Parts II. and III., three hands in the completed play : see my
division of their work in the New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, p. 106? (102-114). The

’ subject of the play is to us a repulsive one, but the three workers at it have made a capital comic
piece out of it. It is the only play with an Induction; and Sly is carelessly left on the stage, and not
taken off it, as in the old play. The double plot of the winning of the two sisters is admirably workt,
and the stage situations are first-rate. We must recollect the position of women in early times in
England. We start in the eighth century—

“A king shall with bargain buy a queen. . .. A damsel it beseems to be at her board (table)... . A rambling
woman scatters words. She is often charged with faults, a man thinks of her with contempt, oft smites her cheek.”—
Exeter Book, pp. 338, 367.

Every reader of Chaucer remembers the Merchant’s wife, “the worste that may be,” who'd over-
match the devil if he were coupled to her; the host’s cruel wife, too; and the Boke of Mayd Emlyn’s
opinion of wives—

“For of theyr properte,
Shrewes all they be,
And styll can they prate.”

Before 1575 (it is mentioned by Laneham) is “‘A Merry Geste of a Shrewd and Curst Wife lapped in
Morrelles Skin,” a popular poem, in which a man with a shrewish wife, thrashes her till she bleeds,
and then wraps her in the salted hide of his old horse Morrell. So the subject of taming shrews
was a familiar one to the Elizabethan mind, and no one then would have been offended by
Petruchio’s likening of the training of a wife to that of a falcon in Act IV., sc. i. We must look on
Petruchio as a man wanting a hunting mare now, a goer, never mind her temper. He looks at her
in the stable: she kicks and bites; he quietly rakes her straw and hay out; lets her stand all night;
gallops her next day till she can’t stand; tames her, and is then iu the first flight ever after. Accept
this view, and then look at the play. Kate isa spoilt child, strong-willed, spoilt by her father’s
weakness and her sister’s gentleness. She has a genuine grievance, that she, the strong, the mistress-
mind, is not to have a husband, while her weak sister is to have one. As she says, Act II., sc. iim

“She is your treasure, she must have a husband ;
I must dance | arefoot on her wedding-day,
And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.”

Kate, like all reasonable girls, wants to get married, and though she is not the cooey, turtle-dovey
girl that her sister is, who so attracts men, she knows she has that in her which is worthy of
aman. She is soured by neglect, and she bullies her sister from envy; old Gremio calls her a devil,
and hell. Petruchio comes. She sees he means business, though she snaps at him. She sees that
he admires her beauty; she is flattered, and minds his opinion when she walks to show him she
doesn’t limp. She must admire him as the first man who stands up to her and overrules her. She is
bewildered by his coolness andassurance too. She had forfeited by her childish bad temper a woman's
right to chivalrous courtesy, and she feels that she has no right to complain of her lover's roughness.
Asa woman, too, she likes the promise of finery, and she makes up her mind to marry him. Nay, she
actually cries ‘when he comes too late. She who has scoffed at every one cannot bear the thought
that—
“Now must the world point at poor Katherine,
And say, Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife,
If it would please him come and marry her.”

To avoid this, Petruchio in any clothes is welcome ; and she takes him at once, notwithstanding his
‘ outrageous and slovenly dress. She trembles and shakes at his hitting the priest (if he’d do that
to.God’s representative, what wouldn’t he do to her?). Having got him, she is to be baulked of
the wedding-feast (cruellest of all blows to a bride). Under the influence of the wedding she is
tender at first. ‘Let me entreat you now; if you love me, stay’’ (Act ITI., sc. i1.). And we almost
wish that Petruchio had taken advantage of this tenderness, and tried taming by love. But then we
should have lost the best scenes of the play. However, her entreaties are rejected, and she stands up

1 Reprinted in Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Libr., Pt. II., vol. ii., p. 485, with, for the story of the Induction, The Waking
Man’s Dream, from an old story-book, and a tale of Philip, Duke of Burgundy, I. iv, 47, from Goulart's Admirable_ and
Memorable Histories, 1607, in Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. iv., p. 403 ; and also The Shrewd and Curst Wife Lapped in Morel’s Skin,
p. 415,.an old tale of the cure of a shrew. The student must read 4 Shrew and The Shrew carefully together, as he
must The Troublesome Raigne and King John. : > ; 7

2 Shakspere wrote the Induction, II. i. 168-326 (? touching 115-167); TIT. ii. 1-125, 151, 240; IV.i. (and ii., Dyce);
IV. iii., v. (iv., vi., Dyce), and V. ii, 1-180, with occasional touches elsewhere.

 

 
 

 

xlvi §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. b. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

really for the first time for her rights. Now or never: it is her best time, with all her friends around
her. Now or never she will struggle for what women most desire, rule over their husbands.!
And the result is not now. Petruchio’s drawing his sword and hustling her away, with the further
taming on the journcy and on reaching home, are most admirably handled, while the first signs of
weakness, the humbling of herself to Grumio, the fresh fight again over her clothes (if a woman
mayn't choose her clothes, what on earth may she do ?), bring the conviction to her that resistance will
not pay. The dispute over the sun and moon she evidently treats as fun, and enters into the joke.
She has given in once for all, has learnt her lesson. She is convinced of her past folly, and goes
through with her task as far on the good side as on the bad before. Why rebel and be tamed
again ? No sense in that. ‘‘Peace it bodes and quiet life,’ &c. She is a new daughter to Baptista.
It is the best result for her time, though Tennyson shows us a better for our Victorian era in
his Princess.

Petruchio is like Falconbridge in making himself out worse than he really is. Though he
declares his object is only to wive wealthily, and Grumio says he’d marry any foul old hag with
money, yet this is plain exaggeration. He’s one of those men who like a bit of devil in the girl
he marries and the mare he rides. ‘ None of your namby-pamby ones for me.” He knows he can
tame her: if she is sharp-tempered, he is sharper. It’s a word and a blow with him, as Grumio
has experienced. When he hears of Kate, he won’t sleep till he sees her; when she comes, he takes
the lead and keeps it. He means to have it and her. He ridicules her in such a pleasant, madcap
fashion, that one can’t help liking him. He understands women, and flatters her. Note the
limping touch. He praises her beauty; promises her finery; keeps her waiting; makes her put up
with his dress, and tremble at church; outs with his sword and makes her go with him; declares his
wife's his chattcl; leaves her horse on her when she falls during the journey, and makes her beg
for Grumio; will give no choleric food to choleric folk; in fact he “ kills her in her own humour;”
tames her by pretended love; starves her till she thanks him for meat he’s dresst; and then when
her food has made her saucy, and she rebels again about her dress (which was indeed enough to make
the most angelic woman’s temper rise), he beats her in the old way by pretending to sympathise
with her. Then he stops her going home, because she won't say two is seven. When she gives
in, he no doubt tries her too hardly, but then she has tried him before, and the result is that they two
alone are married, while the other two, Hortensio and Lucentio, are only “ sped.’ (“ Let us hope
though,” says Miss Constance O’Brien, “that Petruchio gave up choosing Kate’s dresses and caps.)
If Petruchio is not a gentleman, and Kate not a lady, their day differed from ours: they were a
happy couple, we may be sure. Kate would obey him with a will, for her husband had fairly
beaten her at her own game, and won her respect.

When I saw the play at the Haymarket, over thirty years ago, old Keeley was Grumio, and was
certainly the leading character of the play; Mrs. Nesbitt (Lady Boothby) was Kate. The farce
and rich humour of the character, the delightful exaggeration of sliding down his body, after a run
down his head and neck, the dry humour of his account of the accident, his scene with the tailor
(enlarged from the old play), his entering into the humour of his master’s taming Kate, make
Grumio the finest character in comedy that we have yet had from Shakspere’s hand. We must pass
over Bianca—the sweet and gentle, whose breath perfumed the air, who yet had a will of her own, and
that ever-Italian love of intrigue—only noting, as in private duty bound, that literature and language
beat music, and win the girl. In Baptista we note his weakness, his being an old Italian fox, yet
taken in for all his cleverness; his base willingness to sell his daughter for money. Lucentio loves
at first sight, like Romeo does Juliet, and he cuts out the two older lovers and wins. Though
Hortensio finds Petruchio to marry Kate, he yet loses Bianca. He is a straight-forward fellow about
love, and cannot stand her flirting. In the Induction, we notice Sly with his humour, standing
between Bottom and Grumio, and with his Warwickshire allusions of Burton Heath and the fat ale-
wife of Wincot, while the lord reproduces Shakspere’s love of hounds which we saw in Theseus
in the Midsuminer-Night's Dream, Stories like that of the Induction are those of the Sleeper
awakened in The Arabian Nights, The Waking Man’s Dream (see note 1, p. xlv), told of Philip the
good Duke of Burgundy, and another told of Charles V., in Sir Rd. Barckley’s Discourse on the
Helicitie of Man, 1598. The hints for the intrigue of Lucentio come from Ariosto’s Swppositi, through
George Gascoigne’s englishing of it, the Swpposes, acted at Gray's Inn in 1566, and containing the
names of Petruchio and Licio. The comical sham translation of the Latin lesson may have been
suggested by a like bit in The 3 Lords and 3 Ladies of London, a.n. 1588, pr. 1590 (Hazlitt’s Dods/ey,
vi. 500), “O, singulariter nominativo, wise Lord Pleasure; genitive, bind him to the post; dativo,
give me my torch; accusative, for I say he’s a cosener; vocativo, O, give me room to run at him;
ablativo, take and blind me.” Zhe Shrew was first printed in the Folio of 1623, 4 Shrew in 1594.

1See Chaucer's Wife of Bath's Tale,;and the marriage of Sir Gawaine, in the Percy Ballads (i. 112); and the bequest
in the Wyll of the Deuyll, ‘‘ Item, I geue to all women souereygntee, which they most desyre.”

 

 
 

§.10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. c.1 HENRY IV. xlvii

 

Tue First Parr or Henry IV.!—In Henry IT”, we return to our own England—

“This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings
Feared by their breed and famous for their birth.”"—Richard IT., Act IL, se. i.

We come from the grace and beauty and wit of Portia, the curses and baffled vengeance of Shylock,
the tender friendship of Antonio and Bassanio, and the rivalry of the courters of the sweet Bianca, the
taming of Katherine the curst, to the headstrong valour of Hotspur, the wonderful wit of Falstaff,
the vanqnisht rebels who wound England with their horses’ hoot's, the noble rivalry of Henry Percy
and Henry, Prince of Wales—

“* Hotspur. O, ‘would the quarrel lay upon our heads ;
And that no man night draw short breath to-day,
But I and Harry Monmouth ”—

and the sight of how “ever did rebellion find rebuke” (Henry IV., Part I., Act V., sc. v.). Love gives
place to war; kingdoms are striven for, not fair girls’ hands; rebels, not shrews, are tamed. Let us look
for a moment at the change from Shakspere’s early historical plays. It is one from spring to summer.
Like Chaucer, he has been, as it were, to Dante’s land, to Petrarch’s, Boccaccio’s home, and when he
touches his native soil again?, he springs from youth to manhood, from his First Period to his Second,
from the cramp of ryme, the faint characterisation of Richard IT. to the freedom, the reckless ease,
the full creative power of Henry IV. Granting that the rhetoric of the earlier play does still
appear in Vernon’s speech, &c., yet all its faint and shadowy secondary figures have vanished.
Through every scene of Henry IV., Part I., beats the full, strong pulse of vigorous manhood and life.
The whole play is instinct with “go,” every character lives; and what magnificent creations they are!
Falstaff, Hotspur, Glendower, Henry and his son, Douglas, Poins, Lady Percy, Mrs. Quickly—who
does not know them as old friends? In comic power Shakspere culminates in Falstaff ; in characterisa-
tion the play is never excelled. But, for particulars. We saw Henry the Fourth before as Bolingbroke
in Richard II.; his stirring impeachment of Mowbray, his unjust banishment by Richard the Second
for six long years to wander from the jewels that he loved, Act II., se. iii.; his courtship of the common
people; his coming back to claim his own inheritance; his sweet, soft speech, got from his gracious
mother whom Chaucer loved; his promise to young Hotspur; his professions to Richard the Second;
his taking the crown notwithstanding prophecies and warnings of evil; his hint to Exton to murder
Richard, and his vow to make a voyage to the Holy Land. We are now to see how as king he kept
his vow and fulfilled his promises, how Carlisle’s and Richard's prophecies were accomplisht, and
how the character of his unthrifty son, in whom he saw some sparkles of a better hope, developt.
In his time the right doctrine of elective kingship was not accepted by the English. Nor was it so
in Shakspere’s time. The power of the barons was too great, and the turbulence necessarily following
from it we have already seen in Richard II., Henry VI., and John. But now a strong king is on the
throne. What Henry has won, he’ll keep, let who will say nay. We have no fine sentiments followed
by nothingness, as with Richard II. ; no pious weak moralising, as with HenryVJ. ; no calling in of
Pope as with John; but instead, the word and blow, troops out, and march. Still his mother’s’
nature’s in him; he wills not that war's

“Crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair [King Henry’s] land.”

He offers peace even to the arch-rebel Worcester, his bitterest foe. It is refused; and then,
having doffed his easy robes of peace and crushed his old limbs in ungentle steel, he orders only
Worcester and Vernon to their death: “other offenders we will pause upon.”” His real character, his
astuteness and foresight, are shown in his talk with his son Harry, when he contrasts himself with
Richard the Second. No wonder such a man, looking forward to his death, grieved to see what his heir
was, and envied Northumberland his Hotspur. Was all that he’d staked life and soul for, the England
that he'd left and regained, to be handed over to a pot-house cad? ‘Was all the Derby, Lancaster
line, the John of Gaunt, Third Edward’s blood, to grovel in drunken mire and filth ? The king’s, the
father’s heart was toucht. We feel with him in his reproaches to his son, and in his burst of joy “a
hundred thousand rebels die in this,’ when Henry vows “to redeem all this on Percy’s head.”
Prince Hal, afterwards Henry the Fifth, is Shakspere’s hero in English history. He takes not
Coenr-de-lion, Edward I. or TII., or the Black Prince of Wales, but Henry of Agincourt. See

1 Entered at Stationers’ Hall, February 25, 1597. Probably written in 1596-7. Henry IV. is in Meres’s list, 1598. Was
first printed in 1598 (Q. 1), and reprinted in 1599 (Q. 2 from Q 1), in 1604 (Q. 3 from Q. 2), in 1608 (Q. 4 from Q. 3), in 1613 (Q. 5
from Q. 4). The Folio Text was printed from the 5th Quarto, 1613. The play ranges from the battle of Holmedon (or
Halidown Hill) September 14, 1402, to the battle of Shrewsbury, July 21, 1403. Shakspere may have got hints for Falstatt
and Poins from Ned and Sir John Oldcastle in ‘The famous Victories of Henry the Fifth,” 1598, licenst 1594. Hazlitt,
Pt. II., i. 323. Falstatf was first called Oldcastle. ;

2The third time. Rich. III. and the revised Hen. VI. and John stand between Rich. II. and Hen. IV.

 

 

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xlviii § 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. c. 1&2 HENRY IP.

 

how he draws him by his enemy Vernon’s mouth, how modestly he makes him challenge
Hotspur, how generously treat that rival when he dies; how he makes him set Douglas free, praise
Prince John’s deed, save his father’s life, give Falstaff the credit of Hotspur’s death! Yet, on
the other hand, he shows us him as the companion of loose-living, debaucht fellows, highway-robbers,
thieves, and brothel-haunters, himself breaking the law, lying to the sheriff on their behalf. And
what is the justification, the motive for all this? To astonish men, to win more admiration—

“‘So when this loose behaviour I throw off;” &c.—I. ii. 212, &e.

Surely this is a great mistake of Shakspere’s; surely in so far as the Prince did act from this
motive, he was a charlatan and a snob. (Yet see Prot. Dowden’s Mind and Art of Shakspere, p. 211.)

Instead of a justification by Henry of himself, it should have been put as an excuse, a palliation
of misdeeds, in another man’s mouth; as something like it is, in fact, put in Warwick’s mouth in Part
II., Act IV., sc. iv. We see, too, how Hal appeas’d his conscience when it bother’d him, by argument
which, though they sounded very grand, were really worth nothing. He had sinned morally—how
would he atone for it? Why, he’d fight physically. By being stronger or cleverer in fight than
Hotspur, he’d win not only Hotspur’s martial fame, but moral glory too, and claim the merit of his
foe’s life, of duty and devotion to his mistress, war. When Hotspur lay dead at his feet, he thought
Hotspur’s honours and his own shame had changed places. Still we must recollect the times. Henry’s
wildness would hardly be blamed then; full bloods wil? sow their wild oats. His escapades were
only skin-deep; at a touch, the call of war, he changed. He was not passion’s slave; he had
mother’s, his father’s self-control; gallant and wise, he won.

As to Hotspur, who can help liking him? With all his hotheadedness and petulance, his daring
and his boasting, his humour with his wife, his scorn of that scented courtier, his lashing himself into
a rage with Henry the Fourth, his keenness at a bargain (North-country to aT), his hatred of music,
his love of his crop-eared roan. Yet he is passion’s slave, the thrall of every temper and whim. Himself
and his own glory are really his gods, as at his death he says._ What is his native land, what is
England’s weal, to him? Things to be sacrificed because his temper’s crosst. One-third to Wales,
to England’s foe, one-third to himself, and but one-third to Richard's rightful heir. In one sense,
Hotspur is Kate the Shrew, in armour, and a man. But how he lives in the play, and starts from the
printed page!

Of Falstaff, who can say enough? He is the incarnation of humour and lies, of wit and self-
indulgence, of shrewdness and immorality, of self-possession and vice, without a spark of conscience!
or reverence, without self-respect, an adventurer preying upon the weaknesses of other men. Yet all
men enjoy him—so did Shakspere, and he carried his delight in successful rogues to the end of his
life. See how in Winter's Tale he bubbles and chirps with the fun of that rascal Autolycus, and let's
him sail off successful and unharmed. We sce in Falstaff the amusing exaggeration of Grumio; and
that imputing his own faults to other innocent people is delightful,? His most striking power is shown
in his turns when he’s cornered. Look at the cases of Poins and the coward, Prince Hal’s exposure of
his robbery, his false accusation of Mrs. Quickly, his behaviour in the fight with Douglas, and his
claiming to have killed Hotspur. His effrontery is inimitable. He’s neither a coward nor courageous.
He only asks which’ll pay best—fighting or running away, and acts accordingly. He evidently had
a reputation as a soldier, and was a protessed one, was sought out, and got a commission on the
outbreak of the war.

Tue Seconp Part or Henry IV.‘is not up to the spirit and freshness of the First Part; all con-
tinuations do fall off, and this is no exception to the rule. How are Hotspur and the first impression of
Falstaff to be equalled? Even Shallow cannot make up for them. There’s a quieter tone, too, in this
Part II., though the rhetorical speeches are still kept up by Northumberland and Mowbray. The
King leads, not at the head of his army, but in his quiet progress to the grave. The most striking
speech in the play is Henry the Fourth’s on sleep—to be set against Hotspur’s fiery words in Part I.
And as illustrating the change in Shakspere’s manner of work as he grew, let us set this sleep-
speech of the Second Period, against the sleep-speech of the Third Period :—

1 “Ts there not a pathos in Falstaff’s character from the very fact of a spark of conscience. He does sometimes half
wish to change his life, but it is too difficult, and no one will trust him. See Maginn’s beautiful Essay, p. 56.”—C.
Hargrove. I can't believe in the “half-wish,” except when and hecause he’s hard up for money or sack.

2 It’s like Mercutio imputing his own quarrelsomeness to Benvolio in Romeo and Juliet, ITIL. i.

3 My friend Mr, W. Myers, great at amateur theatricals, says that even 1 Henry IV. is ‘“‘a play that does not act
itself,” as the saying is. It depends on the characters, and not on its plot. And this is the case with all the English
historical plays.

4 Probably written 1597-8. Enterd in the Stationers’ Registers, August 23, 1600 ; publisht in quarto in 1600. The
folio text is from a different original, having many lines that are not in the quarto, while the quarto contains passages not
in the folio. The play ranges from Hotspur’s death, July 23, 1403, to Henry V.’s. accession, March 21, 1413 (1412-18).

- ee |

 

 
 

 

§ 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. c.2 HENRY IV. xlix

 

“How many thousand of my poorest subjects Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Are at this hour asleep !—Sleep, gentle sleep, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, With deafning clamours in the slippery clouds,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ?
And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Can’st thou, O partial sleep ! give thy repose
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ;
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, With all appliances and means to boot,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Deny it toa king? Then, happy low, lie down ;
Under the canopies of costly state, Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
“And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody ?
O thou dull god ! why liest thou with the vile “*Macb. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more!
In loathsome beds ; and leavest the kingly couch, Macbeth does murder sleep ! the innocent sleep ;
A watch-case, or a common ‘larum bell? Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s hath,
Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; Chief nourisher in life's feast.”

And in the visitation of the winds,

Note in the Second Period the single idea and its elaboration, though justified by Henry’s
meditative mood, with the many short, pregnant metaphors of the Third Period, each left to
the hearer’s own mind to work out, quite in Shakspere’s later budding style—scven metaphors
in four lines. Yet surely Macbeth might well have expanded his thoughts. Any man less filled with
his subject, less crowded with thought, than Shakspere, any man like the writer of Edward III, would
surely have availed himself of this splendid chance to “ show off.” The contrast of Duncan wrapt in
sleep’s security yet pierced with murder’s knife, the contrast of innocent sleep with the guilty deed, its
balm his bale, its nourishment his poison, would have tempted a smaller man—but not Shakspere in his

, Third Period. Each metaphor has its touch, and then off. In Henry IV., Part IT., the lowerrank of people
come more to the front. We've more prominence than before given to the low tavern life, the country
squire and his servants, the administration of justice in town and country which Shakspere’s long expe-
rience made him sneer at, as against the knightly life of the former Part, notwithstanding its carriers.
This prepares us for the fuller sketches of contemporary middle-class life in The Merry Wives. The
chief characters of Part I. are further developed. Though the hand of sickness is on the king, yet
“ Ready, aye ready”’ is still his word; and as soon as Hotspur is beaten, another army marches against
Northumberland and the Archbishop, whose two separate rebellions Shakspere has put into one. But
his cares tell on him: the chronicler Hall calls his reign the “unquiete tyme of Kyng Henry
the Fourth.”” His mind goes back o’er the troublous past, thinks on his old close friendship with
his now foe Northumberland, and the dead Richard’s prophecy of their falling out. And as
the past has little to comfort him, so the future has less. His son’s going back, like a sow to wallow
again in the mire, cuts him to the heart, as sovereign even more than as father :—

“Oh, my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! O thou wilt be a wilderness again,
When that my care could not withhold thy riots, Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants.”
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? 2 Henry IV., Act IV., se. iv., 264-8.

Was it for this that he’d sufferd exile, riskt his life, won England and held it with his strong right
hand? Surely a pathetic figure—the strong man worn with care, disappointed in his dearest wish,
the labour of his life made vain. Still, comfort was to come; the son who once before won back his
father’s willingly-forgiving heart, again spoke words that again at-oned them. And in the king’s
last speech to his gallant heir we see the man’s whole nature—wily to win, strong to hold, a purpose
in all he did; not perhaps a hero, but a ruler and a king, a father too. Such political lesson as
Shakspere preacht in these plays was, that though, like Elizabeth's crown, the succession to it might
not be clear, the way to*hold it was to govern strongly and well, and that the sovereign must not only
attack his foes at home, but unite the nation by foreign war, as Henry the Fifth, Napoleon, Cavour,
and Bismarck did. For Prince Hal: we have one unworthy scene, two worthy ones. The shadow of
his father’s death-sickness is on him, and he goes for relief—half disgusted with himself—(feeling
that every one would call him a hypocrite if he lookt sorry) to his old, loose companions. But
there’s not much enjoyment in his forced mirth. He feels ashamed of himself, and soon leaves—
Falstaff and his old life for ever—“ let the end try the man,” ashesays. It is clear that he now feels
the degradation of being Falstaff’s friend and Poins’s reputed brother-in-law. On hearing of
the war again, as in Part I., he changes at a touch, and is himself. Thenext time we see him is by his
father’s sick bed, and again he wins to him his father’s heart. But surely by a bit of Falstaft-like
cleverness, and want of truth. Compare his first speech to the crown, with his second giving an account
of it to his father. But one part of that first speech he meant; that he’d hold his crown against
the world’s whole strength; and that was what King Henry wanted. When Hal becomes king, his
treatment of his brothers, the Chief Justice, and Falstaff is surely wise and right, in all three cases.
One does feel for Falstaff; but certainly what he ought to have had, he got—the chance of reformation.

 

 
 

 

1 §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. « THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

 

What other reception could Henry, in the midst of his new state, give in public to the dirty, slovenly,
debauched, old sinner who thrust himself upon him, than the rebuke he did? Any other course
would have rendered the king’s own professed reform absurd.}

In Falstaff, we have in this Part Il. the old wit and humour, the old slipperiness when seemingly
caught, the old mastery over every one, till the triumph should come, when comes catastrophe instead.
But we have more of the sharper, the cheat, the preyer on others (the hostess, Shallow, the soldiers
at the choosing), brought out. The slipperiness is seen in his answers to the Chief Justice’s attendant,
the Chief Justice himself, the hostess, Prince Hal, and Doll. (His excuse for dispraising Hal before
Doll is repeated by Parolles for abusing Bertram to Diana in Adis Well.) The scenes with Shallow and
Silence, and the choice of soldiers, are of course beyond the reach of praise. We cannot help noting
the use that the old rascal meant to make of his power over the young king :—

*« Let us take any man’s horses ! Happy are they which have been my friends,
The laws of England are at my commandment ; And woe unto my lord chief justice.”

His end here is imprisonment for a time; and worse, to be chafft by Shallow the despised, and not
return it. This prepares us for his fate in The Merry Wives. The moral is the same as that of Love’s
Labours Lost. What is mere wit so valued by men really worth? Wit

“Whose influence is begot of that loose grace
Which shallow, laughing hearers give to fools.”

“ The rogues,’ says Miss Constance O'Brien, ‘all come toa badend. Falstaff dies in obscure
poverty, Nym and Bardolph get hung in France, Pistol is stripped of his braggart honour, and even
the ‘boy and the luggage,’ as Flucllen puts it, are killed together. Poins alone, the best of the set,
vanishes silently, without a word as to his fate; and so that wild crew breaks up and disappears,
leaving the world to laugh over them and their leader for ever. (If Falstaff was drawn from a living
man, that man must have been a little Irish; no purely English brains work quite so fast.)” The
contemporary allusions are still kept up in this play. We have the landlady’s disjointed talk, which
Dickens has reproduced for us Victorians, the Wincot of The Shrew Induction again, the tradesmen
who “now wear nothing but high shoes and bunches of keys at their girdles,’ the coming in of
glass drinking-vessels for silver ones, specially noted by Harrison (my edition, p. 147), the Thames
tide in Act IL., sc. iii., as in the Rape of Lucrece, the University and Inns of Court, the school-boys’
breaking-up, the Cotswold man. All through, the play is Shakspere’s England. One Amurath succeeded
another in 1596. We may also notice the dwelling on special words, as “security,” ‘‘ accommodate,”
‘rebellion,’ like Falconbridge’s “ commodity,” and Lucrece’s “opportunity,” noted above. The
Epilogue of the play promises a continuation, in which Falstaff is to die of a sweat in France—

“One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too much cloyet with fat meat, our humble author will continue the story,
with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katherine of France; where, for any thing I know, Falstaff shall die of a
sweat, unless already he be killed with your hard opinions ; for Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is wot the man.” ?

Tue Merry Wives or Winpsor.—Why was the plan alterd?? Tradition says because Elizabeth
was so pleasd with Falstaff that she orderd Shakspere to show Falstaff in love, and that he accordingly
wrote Lhe Merry Wives in a fortnight4. Of course Shakspere couldn’t make Falstaff really in love, or
the man would have been redeemd by it. Even if he bad been made a fool of in the process, love must
have lifted him out of the degradation to which he had sunk; and though he had been made a fool of,
we should have had to respect him. But he was past redemption. However, as the order was given,
Shakspere had to carry it out. With whom could he make Falstaff in love? With women of high birth

1 The history and state characters of the play are mainly from Holinshed’s Chronicle, with the variations noted in
Courtenay’s Commentaries on the Historical Plays, i. 75-159. Hotspur, Glendower, Northumberland, Mowbray, the
Archbishop, and Prince John, are alterd at will by Shakspere. The “artillery” of Part I., Act I., sc. i., of course, means
bows and arrows, as in 1 Samuel xx. 40.

2 That Falstatf was first calld Oldcastle in the play, we know also from Old having been printed at the head of the
speech, ‘‘ Very well, my lord, very well,” in the quarto, 1600, of 2 Henry IV., Act I., se. ii., and from Prince Hal calling
Falstaff in 1 Henry IV., Act I., se. ii., ‘‘My old lord of the castle,’ &c. That he was called Oldcastle even after
Shakspere had alterd the name, is clear from Nathaniel Field’s Amends for Ladies, 1618 :—

“Did you never see The play where the fat knight, hight Oldcastle, Did tell you truly what tnis ‘honour’ was?”
(see 1 Henry IV., Act V., sc. i.). Oldcastle’s Lollardism (he was martyred December 25, 1417) had brought him into
disrepute with the ‘‘society” of his time, and Shakspere, no doubt, took up at first the unjust tradition, but altered it on
learning the facts. Still, Falstatf is a Lollard, a degenerate Puritan. See my friend Mr. James Gairdner's iuteresting
Paper in The Fortnightly Review, 1875 (I think). =

3 Putting the play here breaks into the trilogy of land 2 Henry IV. and Henry V., but I think this is the right
place for it, certainly as regards Falstaff’s career. See Mr. Halliwell’s Introduction to the 1602 version of The Merry
Wives, in Hazlitt, Pt. II. ; also see Gervinus, &e.

* Dennis first mentions the tradition in 1702, in his recast of the play. He is said to have got it from Dryden, 710
had it from Sir Wm. Davenant, who is said to have calld himself Shakspere’s bastard.

 

 
 

 

§10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. ce. THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. li

 

and noble life, such as the ladies and gentlewomen of Elizabeth’s court whom Harrison so well describes,
p. 271-2 of my edition? Surely not. With the Mrs. Quicklys and Dame Ursulas he’d been already
shown. Sothere were but the middle-class townsfolk left; and Shakspere accordingly takes them, and
shows Falstaff baffled, mockt, befoold by these country burgess wives whom as a courtier he despisd.
Through self-conceit he loses his valued wit, and is turnd into the most despicable of creatures, a
pander, and an unsuccessful pander too. Even his men, Pistol and Nym, refuse to help him in his
new form of baseness, which ends in his being both degraded and ridiculed. In this play, too, is
ridiculed the old aristocratic notion of all citizens’ wives being at well-born men’s disposal. Compare
the lesson of 4//’s Weél. And we're also shown, as in Twelfth-Night, the degradation of one class of the
professed representative of chivalry, the knight, the professional soldier, debauched by self-indulgence
and want of work during peace. Falstaff gets vain too. He really believes he’s made a conquest of the
women, and like Richard the Third says he’ll make more of his old body than he has done. He also
loses his shrewdness, swallows all Ford’s praise of him, and believes he can do as he likes with Mrs.
Ford, just as if she were Mra. Quickly or old Dame Ursula. In his love-making he's frank and
business-like ; he makes no pretence of romance, or being one of those lisping hawthorn buds that
smell like Bucklersbury in simple time. His only weapons are his power to make Mrs. Ford ‘‘my
lady,” were but her husband dead; and his flattery; wit he doesn’t try. In his. description of the
outcomes of his first and second attempts at seduction, we have the old humour as rich as ever; while
at the end of his third attempt, he does begin to perceive that he is made an ass, and how wit may be
made aJack o’ Lent when it is upon alien employment. He has laid his brain in the sun and dried
it. He is ridden with a Welsh goat too. He is dejected, and not able to answer the Welsh flannel.
Though he does get a laugh at Page and his wife, he has no hand in raising it. The only folk he can
chaff and beat are Slender, in Act I., sc.i.,and Simple. All that remains for him is for Theobald to make
him babble of green fields, and then leave the world that he’s so abused and amused. But we must
not let the offensiveness of Falstaft’s part in the play represent The Merry IVives to us, any more than
Venus’s lust does Shakspere’s first poem. The play is like Fenton ; it ‘smells Apriland May.” It has
the bright, healthy country air all through it: Windsor Park with its elms, the glad light green of
its beeches, its ferns, and deer. There is coursing and hawking, Datchet Mead, and the silver Thames,
and though not

“The white feet of laughing girls
Whose sires have marched to Rome,”

yet those of stout, bare-legd, bare-armd English wenches plying their washing-trade. There’s a healthy
moral as well: “‘ Wives may be merry and yet honest too.” The lewd court hanger-on, whose wit
always masterd men, is outwitted and routed by Windsor wives. The play is slight and thin. It
is only merry; there’s no pathos in it; but it is admirably constructed. The double plot is workt
without a hitch; the situations are most comical and first-rate. Still its tone is lower than in both
earlier and later work. It is Shakspere's only play of contemporary manners and direct sketch of
middle-class English life. Cotswold is there as in 2 Henry IV., and Shallow (Sir Thomas Lucy) and
his nephew, country justices and asses, as some of the class still are. There are no grandees in
it, though we have reflections of the court; the use of Windsor traditions in it points to a performance
of the play at Windsor. There wasa grand one (by great personages) at Frogmore in the last century.
The short time in which it was written explains the slightness of the play, and the great quantity
of prose in it. There’s hardly any verse except for Fenton's love and the Elf scene. To me, born
and bred within five miles of its scene, and to whom Windsor Park, Datchet Mead, and the Thames
have been dear since my childhood, the play has of course a special attraction. The swectness of
“sweet Anne! Page” is all through it. A choice bud in the rose-bud garden of girls of Shakspere’s
time, she is, this young heiress, not seventeen, pretty virginity, brown-haired, small-voiced, whose
words are so few, yet whose presence is felt all through the play. True to her love she is, ready-
witted almost as Portia; dutiful to her parents, so far as she should be, and then disobeying them
for the higher law of love. Her real value is shown by the efforts of her three lovers to get her.
Why, oh why, didn’t Shakspere give us a separate scene with her and Caius, and then with all
three lovers together, and let her play them off one against the other? He hadn't yet come to his
Beatrice time. Fenton is a gay, wild young fellow, like Bassanio of The Merchant. He meant to
marry for money, but is won from it by love. He's frank and resolute, a friend of the host too.
Many a merry night had they had, we may be sure, at the Garter, so-named no doubt from its
Order, founded at Windsor. The young lover, with his eyes of youth and his writing verse, brings
verse into the play, and his noble nature is shown in his defence of his love Anne’s elopement :—

“ The offence jgsholy that she hath committed,” &e.

i “Tt has always pleased me that Shakspere gave his own middle-class English heroine his own wife’s name.”—
Constance O’Brien.

 

 
 

 

li § 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. c. HENRY V.

 

Slender is the best-workt figure in the play, although “that Slender, though well-landed, is an
idiot.” One need not do more than refer to Simple’s description of him, of his willingness to marry
Anne upon any reasonable commands, to his delightfully inimitable scenes with Anne herself, and
then finding out that at Eton she’s a great lubberly boy. The mixture of the Welshman, the
Frenchman, and the German, points to the greater freedom of intercourse in Elizabeth’s days,
while the individualities of Caius with his “It is not jealous in France,” and of Evans, who may
represent the Welsh schoolmaster at Stratford in Shakspere’s time, with his “ Well, I will smite his
noddle,” are well kept up.! Shakspere’s sketches of the Kelts—Glendower, Fluellen, Lear—should be
noted by the student of races. The host has some of the characteristics of Chaucer’s host in the
Canterbury Tales. Though he does talk like Pistol, he is yet a genial, good-hearted fellow. He
keeps peace between Caius and Evans, as Harry Bailey did between the quarrelsome pilgrims. He
helps the young lovers, Fenton and Anne. Therc’s a touch of poetry in his nature ; he’s evidently,
too, the centre of sociability in his town, as country inn-keepers so often are. Although he, after the
manner of his craft, means to overcharge his customers, they cheat him.

For Garmombles 2, see the account of Count Miippelgart’s visit to England (Windsor, &c.) in 1592,
in Mr. W. Brenchley Rye’s England as seen by Foreigners in the days of Elizabeth, p.1. In Hazlitt’s
Shakspere’s Library, Part I., vol. iii., pp. 1-80, are six stories more or less resembling the plot of The
Merry Wives :—1. The Story of Filenio Sisterna of Bologna, from Straparola, printed 1569. 2. The
Story of Buceiolo and Pietro Paulo, from the Pecorone (in which the lover is first hid under some
clothes from the wash). 3. The Story of Lucius and Camillus (No. 2 abridged). 4. The Story of Nerino
of Portugal, 1569. 5. The Tale of Two Lovers of Pisa, from Straparola. 6. The Fishwife’s Tale of
Brentford. In Part II. Mr. Hazlitt has also printed The First Sketch of the Play, 1602. This is an
imperfect and spurious version of the play, and was reprinted in 1619. The full text appeard for the
first time in the first Folio of 1623. It must be read carefully with the 1602 version. See Notes, p. cxxiv.

Henry THE Frrru.—Its date is 1599, and one cannot mention the year without the thought of
that great contemporary of Shakspere, Edmund Spenser, burnt out of the Irish house he has so
lovingly described, losing there one of his children, and dying miserably in a tavern in King Street,
Westminster, on January 13, 1598, leaving behind him these last lines of his unfinisht Faerie Queene ;
as the subject of his last thoughts, as his last prayer on earth *:—

“Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd, For all that moveth doth in Change delight :
Of that same time when no more Change shall be, But thenceforth, all shall rest eternally
But stedfast rest of all things, primely stayd With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight.
Upon the pillours of Eternity, O! that great Sabaoth God, grant me that Sabaoth’s
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie ; sight !”—Book VII., Canto VIIL., stanza ii.

One likes to think of the two poets, knowing, honouring, and loving one another, of Shakspere’s
following Spenser to his grave in the Abbey, near Chaucer. But we've no evidence for all this,
Shakspere’s allusions in his Sonnets 80, 86, are to a rival poet, almost certainly to G. Chapman; and
assuredly in Henry V. there is no note of sadness or of tribute to a departed friend. On the contrary,
a trumpet-tone of triumph sounds through the play, and echoes to all time ; proclaiming not only the
glory and gallantry of Shakspere’s hero, but his own full manhood’s spirit, his rejoicing in his strength,
and in his success in life. The unrest of Hamlet, the bitterness of Timon, the calm wisdom of
Prospero, had not yet succeeded one another in his brain, or at least in his work, though his Hamlet
time was near. Neither irresoluteness, vengeance, nor forgiveness was in his thoughts,—but victory,
and that over England’s ancient foe.

In 1598 Meres, in 1599 Barnefield and Weever, had publicly acknowledgd Shakspere as the
great dramatist and poet of the great Elizabethan time, and had plact his “name in Fame’s
immortal book.” In 1599 the Globe Theatre had been built, Shakspere taken as a partner in the
profits of the house‘, and there, perhaps at its opening, he product this Henry V. In The Merry

1 That the Welshman leaves off his dialect, and talks good English when he speaks in verse, is a necessity of art.
Welsh-English vould have spoilt the poetry.

2 “three sorts of cosen garmombles, Is cosen all the Host of Maidenhead & Readings,” 1602 play, p. 192, Hazlitt,
Pt. IL., vol. ii. It’s ‘‘ three Cozen-Jermans” in the Folio, p. 57, col. 1; and the Count is ‘ta Duke de Jamanie.”—ib.

3 First noted by my friend Miss Isabel Marshall, of Bedford.

#See the memorial of ‘‘ Cutbert Burbage, and Winifred his brother's wife, and William his sonne,” in 1635, to the Lord
Chamberlaine, discovered by Mr. J. O. Halliwell in 1870, made public by him in 1874, printed by me from the Record Office
MS. in The Academy, March 7, 1874, and since by Mr. Halliwell in his Jllustrations. ‘‘ The father of us, Cutbert and Richard
Burbage, was the first builder of playhowses, and was himselfe in his younger yeeres a player. ‘The theater’ hee built
with many hundred poundes taken up at interest. The players that lived in those first times had only the profitts arising
from the dores ; but now the players receave all the commings in at the dores to themselves, and halfe the galleries from
the houskepers (the owners or lessees of the theatre). Hee built this house upon leased ground, by which meanes the
landlord, and hee had a great suite in law, and, by his death, the like troubles fell on us his sonnes: we then bethought

 

 
 

 

§ 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. cv. HENRY FP. lili

 

Wives we left the representative of the professional soldier, of the grand old knight of Chaucer,
degraded to the lowest depths, taking shares of his man’s thefts, for his lies in getting them off
punishment, not only a pander, but an unsuccessful one, beaten in body by a citizen’s stick, in
his pride and wit by citizens’ wives; contemptible, and “ made an ass.”’

In Henry V. the picture changes: the old companion of Falstaff rises as high as Falstaff has sunk
low, and ‘this star of England” shines glorious o’er the world. The lift of the play over the
quieter tone of The Merry Wives is striking. The clarion blast, the clang of arms, the noise of battle,
ring through the ears, and kings and princes, not Windsor burgess-wives, are the leading figures
in it.

No doubt Henry the Fifth is, as we all acknowledge, the hero of Shakspere’s manhood (35). See
with what love he dwells on him, by mouth of Chorus, as well as subjects, from lords spiritual and
temporal, to the rank and file of the army! Shakspere doesn’t refrain from reminding us of Henry’s
wayward youth; but he does it only—as he has done it all along—that the present glory may seem
more glorious by contrast with its former darkness. He puts nearly the old specious defence into
the Bishop of Ely’s mouth. But we care not to dwell on its sophistry. Enough for us that the
change at a touch—as in the call of war and the father’s appeal in 1 Henry IT’., the news of arms
in 2 Henry IV.—his father’s death, has come, and that (as Miss Heygate says) Henry ‘‘ has cast his
slough of bad habits and loose company, and has come forth a hero, a Bayard, chevalier sans peur
et sans reproche, an English soldier, who,

“God before him, will come on,

Though France himself, and such another neighbour
Stand in our way.’”

Shakspere first shows us his Henry’s mind and speech. You have his forethought and his
righteous. sense of responsibility brought out: no unjust claim for mere glory’s sake, or to establish
his throne more firmly ! (as his astute father advised), will he support by arms: he knows the cost of
war in lives of English men. (Note the true and humble piety that Shakspere gives Henry, the
continual appeals to God, and the ascription of victory to Him alone, all through the play.) Then we
see the good-humour and self-control with which the king receives the Dauphin’s insolent message
(which yet does sting him), and then the strong resolve, to win or die, and the devotion of all his
thoughts and energy to carry out his resolve :—

“For we have now no thought in us but France ;
Save those to God, that run before our business.”

(In connection with the general treatment of the play, note the rhetoric of the prelate’s speeches,

thus preparing us for that of Henry’s own—for of the Histories of the Second Period, rhctoric is the cha-
racteristic, as word-play is of the Comedies of the First.) Then you have this ‘‘ Mirror of all Christian
kings” as judge of traitors: wisely convicting them out of their own mouths, seeking no vengeance
for his personal wrong, but sending the miserable wretches to their death for seeking England’s
ruin.
Then, Henry as warrior, a. exultant: the splendid rhetoric and patriotism of his speeches bring
the blood to one’s face. We know that Henry would not only say ‘‘ Go,” but ‘‘Go we,” would share
his soldiers’ risks; we have his threatful appeal to the governor of Harfleur to spare the innocent maidens
the terrors and horrors of assault—fine this is, but part of it is dangerously near bombast. Was it
the air of France that made him brag so? At any rate Shakspere had had enough of it, there is no
more in the play, and it almost looks as if there had been an interval between the composition of this
first portion, and the later part of the play.

8. Sobered; real danger was in the air. Henry’s little army, wasted by dysentery, ill-fed and
harassed by long marches and hostile skirmishes, had to face the terrible odds of more than six to

us of altering from thence, and at like expense built the Globe [a.p. 1599] with more summes of money taken up at
interest, which lay heavy on us many yeares ; and to ourselves wee joyned those deserving men, Shakspere, Hemings, Condall,
Phillips, and others, partners in the profittes of that they call the House. a He ;

“Thus, Right Honorable, as concerning the Globe, where wee ourselves are but lessees. Now for the Blackfriars :
that is our inheritance ; our father purchased it at extreame rates, and made it into a playhouse with great charge and
trouble: which after was leased out to one Evans that first set up the boyes commonly called the Queenes Majesties
Children of the Chappell. In processe of time, the boyes growing up to bee men, which were Underwood, Field, Ostler,
and were taken to strengthen the King’s service ; and the more to strengthen the service, the boyes dayly wearing out,
it was considered that house would bee as fitt for ourselves, and soe [we] purchased the lease remaining from Evans,
with our money, and placed men players, which were Hemings, Condall, Shakspeare, &e.” This could not have been till, or
after the year 1603, when James succeeded Elizabeth, and there was a “ King's service.” Besides, the Warrant of King
James making Shakspere’s company the King’s Company, and which bears date May 17, 1603, mentions only the Globe,
as this Company's “‘ now usuall house.” eon “ : aca

1 Yet see how Shakspere marks the union of the nation in Henry’s war, by putting Welsh, Scotch, and Irish into the

play, with the English.

 

 

 
 

 

liv §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. d. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

 

one. No threat comes now: it is “Tell thy king I do not seek him ngw. Yet God before, tell him
we will come on,” &¢.:—
“We would not seek a battle as we are,
Nor as we are we say we will not shun it... . .
We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs.”—III. vi. 164-5, 169.

We certainly don’t like Henry less before Agincourt than before Harfleur.

y. As acting general—visiting his outposts, trying the temper of his men, using his old knowledge
of common folk, arguing Bates out of his wanting to be up to his neck in the Thames, sophistically
stilling Williams's scruples, reflecting on his own kingship and its mere ceremony, going back to his
father’s old topic of sleep and the burden of the crown, praying God to steel his soldiers’ hearts.
But when he meets his men, with what gay and cheery courage he does it!

3. On the field of battle. We are not conscious that Henry himself fought, till we come in the
Chorus before Act V. to his ‘‘bruis¢d helmet” and his “ bended sword’’—all the interest is concen-
trated on the touching picture of the dying York and Suffolk.

e. Henry as conqueror. Note his true humility (ascribes all to God), his good-humour, his practical
joke with Fluellen and Williams; no rhetorical outburst now. Then comes the triumphant return
to London, with the allusion to Essex in Ireland. ‘The battle was on October 25, 1415. Henry's
marriage on May 20, 1420. Shakspcre misses all the weary sieges and fights, culminating with
the fall of Rouen on January 16, 1419, and shows us

¢. Henry as lover. Here again the character of the king comes out well. No pretence, no grand
words, just a plain soldier, and a good heart: if she can love him for that, well and good, if not, well
and good too. So she takes him, but alas! the boy who was to be compounded, half French, half
English, to go to Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard, lost his father before he was a year
old, and proved a miserable, flabbily-pious Henry the Sixth, with whom we have already dealt. It is
a bit of that irony of Providence of which we have seen instances in our own time.

We cannot help noting the weakness of this play as a drama: a siege anda battle, with one bit
of light love-making, cannot form a drama, whatever amount of rhetorical patriotic speeches and comic
relief are introduced. Henry the Fifth is all the play: no one else is really shown except Fluellen.
The characterisation is therefore far inferior to that of 1 Henry IV. The play is more on the model
of Richard III. Those who are interested in Shukspere’s development should contrast Henry the
Fifth, the hero of the Second Period, with Prospero, the hero of the Fourth.

Mvucu Apo anovut Norurine.—(Entered in the Stationers’ Register August 4, 23, 1600.2)—We
change from history to fiction, from the green plains of France to the glowing shores of Sicily, with
“Italy and Greece laid like pieces of mosaic into the Mediterranean sea-blue;’ we turn from the
clash of arms to the clash of tongues. Much dAdo is another play of Shakspere’s brightest time,
radiant with brilliantest wit and richest humour. If we heard the trumpet-tone of triumph through
Henry V., surely the “ clarion’s shrilling note”? of merry raillery sounds through Much Ado, backed
by the rich tone of Dogberry’s bassoon and the muffled drum of Hero's passing sorrow. With his
wit at its keenest, his fun and humour at their richest, his power of characterisation at its fullest,
Shakspere wrote the comic part of Ifuch -tdo: his mirth, like Beatrice’s, kept him on the “ windy
side of care.” But yet, as in all his Comedies, except Aferry Wives, and the Shrew, which is not all
his, athwart the sunshine he brought the shadow of distress or death, for he represented life as it is
here on earth, and that is not all ‘‘cakes and ale.” Behind our brightest day-dreams, our sunniest
times, is still to him who looks (for himself and is not the mere swallower of other folks’ assertions),
the cloud of darkness beyond; and we must recollect that the year before this play was produced

1 A spurious imperfect quarto of the play (Q. 1) was published in 1600, and reprinted in 1602 (Q. 2 from Q. 1), and 1680
(Q. 3 from Q. 2). The genuine text first appeared in the folio of 1623. The play ranges from 1413 to 1420. Some hints from
it are probably taken from The Famous Victories of Henry V., licenst 1594, publisht 1598, reprinted in Hazlitt, Pt. IL,
i. 323. On Shakspere’s treatment of history in this play, see Courtenay’s Commentaries, i. 160-211. Nash, alluding to
some old play on Hemy V., says in_his Pierce Penilesse, 1592, ‘What a glorious thing it is have Henry the Fifth
represented on the stage, leading the French king prisoner, and forcing both him and the Dolph sweare fealtie ” (p. 60,
Old Shakespeare Society, 1842). The entry in Henslowe’s Diary on 14 May, 1592, which Mr. J. P. Collier prints on p. 26,
last line, as “‘ harey the Vth, the 14 of maye, 1592” is as plainly, ‘‘ harey the 6th .. .” as ever it can be. Ishowd the entry
to Dr. Carver, the Master of the College, on 31 Jan., 1874, and he said ‘6th. No doubt about it.” Yet Mr. Collier
puts a note, ‘‘ Malone takes no notice of this play, which at least was the same in subject as Shakespeare’s work. Possibly
he read _it ‘Harey the VI.,’ but it is [that is, is not] clearly ‘Harey the Vth.’ The two entrics of Cstmes on pages 46,
62, of the printed Diary, are in the MS., one on leaf 11, ‘S steuen’ (St. Stephen's Day is Dec. 26), two on leaf 14,
*$ steuens day.’ There are many omissions of accounts, &c., in the print.” Mr. Collier has since stated that he is not
responsible for the copy of the M8., which was supplied to him, but only for the notes. Dr. Ingleby thinks the entry
about *‘ Marloes Tamberlen " on p. 71 of the print is a forgery, and it certainly looks so in the MS. from the ink and hand-
writing. He also believes that the ‘Like quits Like” on p. 230 is a forgery in a modern-antique hand.

2 The only quarto of the play was publisht in 1600, and from it the text of the first folio was printed, with some
omissions, that, as in the case of Hamlet, &c., modern editors re-insert in their text.

  

 

 
 

§10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. d. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. lv

 

Shakspere himself had told the world that an angel and a devil were struggling for possession of
him :—
: SONNET CXLIV.

“ Two loves I have of comfort and despair, Wooing his purity with her foul! pride.
Which like two spirits do suggest me still ; And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,
The better angel is a man right fair, Suspect 1 may, yet not directly tell ;
The worser spirit a woman, colour’d ill. But being both from me, both to each friend,
To win me soon to hell, my female evil I guess one angel in another's hell.
Tempteth my better angel from my side, Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt
And would corrupt iny saint to be a devil, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.”

Still, I never read Much Ado without a certain shock at the needless pain caused to Hero, which
might have been so easily avoided or lessened. But where the fun is fastest the sorrow must be
saddest, I suppose. We must take the play as Shakspere saw fit to give it us. This central comedy
of Shakspere’s middle happiest time (the Merchant, Shrew, Merry Wives went before, ds You Like
It, Twelfth-Night, All's Well followed after) is also full of interest, as, on the one side, gathering
into itself and developing so much of his work lying near it, and, on the other side, stretching one
hand to his earliest genuine work, another to his latest complete one. First. Of the links with the
other plays near it, we may note Benedick’s and Beatrice’s loving one another “no more than
reason,’ with Slender’s so loving Anne Page, “I will do as it shall become one that would do
reason.” Second. Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, miscalling names, with Slender’s “ decrease ”
and ‘‘dissolutely,” &c., in The Merry Wives. Third. As to: The Shrew, isn’t Much Ado in a certain
sense a double taming of the shrew, only here each tames himself and herself by the answer of his
and her richer, nobler nature, to an overheard appeal to its better feelings, an unseen showing of
where its poor, narrow, shrewishness was leading it? Dogberry’s conceit, and Verges’s belief in him,
are like Bottom’s in the Midswmmer-Night’s Dream, and his companijops’ belief in him; while The
Merchant's scene between Launcelot Gobbo and his father and Bassanioteat veloped in that of Dogberry
and Verges with Leonato in Much Ado. Leonato’s lament over Hero here, ‘‘ grieved I, I had but
gne,”’ &c., must be compared with Capulet’s complaint about Julict :—

“‘ Wife, we scarce thought us blessed But now I see this one is one too much,
That God had lent us but this only child, And that we have a curse in having her.”

Benedick’s dress in Much Ado, Act IIL., sc. ii., is to be compared with the young English baron’s in
The Merchant. Friar Francis’s advice that Hero shall be supposed dead for awhile, is like Friar
Laurence’s advising that Juliet should counterfeit death for forty-two hours. Leonato’s refusing
to be comforted by any one who hadn't suffered equal loss with him is to be compared, on the one
hand, with Constance’s “He talks to me that never had a son,” in Hing John, and, on the other,
with Macduft’s “He has no children” in Macbeth. Hero’s caving in under the unjust accusation
brought against her is like Ophelia’s silence in her interviews with Hamlet, and to be compared with
Desdemona’s ill-starred speeches that brought about her death, and the pathetic appeal of Imogen
that she was true, and the noble indignation of Hermione against her accusers. Such comparisons as
these bring out with irresistible force the growth of Shakspere in spirit and temper as well as words.

Of the reach backward and forward of this play, remember that Benedick and Beatrice are
but the development of Berowne and Rosalind in Shakspere’s first genuine play, Love's Labours Lost,
while Hero is the prototype of Hermione in Winter's Tale, Shakspere’s last complete drama.
Hermione—“ queen, matron, mother,’’ who, like Hero, unjustly suspected and accused, is declared
innocent, and yet for sixteen years suffers seclusion as one dead, with that noble magnanimity and
fortitude that distinguish her, and then without a word of reproach to her base and cruel husband,
throws herself—but late a statue of stone, now warm and living—into his arms. Look at the
“solemn and profound”’ pathos of that situation, and contrast it with the Hero and Claudio one here,
and see how Shakspere has grown from manhood to fuller age, just as when you set the at-onement
of Aigeon and his family in The Comedy of Errors beside the reunion of Pericles, his daughter, and
wife, in Pericles, you'll see the difference between youth and age, between the First and Fourth
Periods of Shakspere’s work and art. The many likenesses between Benedick and Beatrice and
Berowne and Rosalind in Love's Labours Lost are caught at once. We need only dwell on the moral
of the earlier play, as Rosalind preaches it to Berowne, the utter worthlessness of wit, the mocking
spirit, and the need that the gibing spirit be choked, thrown away, and remember that the moral is
repeated here, in Beatrice’s wise and generous words (she, woman-like, instinctively goes to the
heart of the matter) :—

“Stand I condemnd for pride and scorn so much ?

Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu !
No glory lies behind the back of such.”

1 Fair 1599 ; foul 1609.

 

 
 

 

lvi §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. d. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

 

Note, too, that with Beatrice, its most brilliant instance, this pungent, wit-stinging type
of heroine, the admiration of Shakspere’s early manhood, the product of the city, disappears (except
in the waiting-maid Maria of Twelfth-Night), and the gentler, sweeter, more suffering type of Luciana,
Helena, Sylvia, comes to the front and endures to the end, its virtues exalted by contrast with the
fierce type of Lady Macbeth, Goneril, Regan, Cleopatra, Cymbeline’s queen, while the simple beauty
and freshness of the un-town girl Miranda, Perdita, take, in Shakspere’s age, the place that the piquant
London Rosalind and Beatrice held in his youth. Beatrice! is the sauciest, most piquant, sparkling,
madcap girl that Shakspere ever drew, and yet a loving, deep-natured, true woman too. Sharp sayings
flow from her, like humorous ones from Falstaff. Something she has in common with Chaucer’s
carpenter's wife in the Miller’s Tale, ‘‘wynsyng she was,” &c. Hero's description of her is a
caricature ; yet her wit is her most prized possession, as Benedick’s is his. His ‘hundred many tales”
to her, her ‘“‘ prince’s jester” and ‘‘folk’s disregard ” to him, are the bitterest. cuts. Claudio’s ‘‘ two
bears that bite one another when they meet’? is a libel of course. But why do the two bite or spar ?
Let Marlowe tell us in his Hero and Leander, p. 200, col 2:—

“Women are won when they begin to jar.”

Why does she ask after him if she doesn’t care for him? "Why does she taunt him and make
him notice her? Like will to like. But of course she says she doesn’t want a husband—what girl of
her type ever acknowledges she does? She keepsa dog to bark at crows: that’s enough for her.
‘What does she want with a husband? She’ll not have her nose brusht by a moustache, or her neck
tickled by a beard: pray God, night and morning, to keep her from such abominations: in this world
at least—in the next, where there’s no marriage or giving in marriage, she’s no objection to bachelors,
she'll sit by them and live as merry as the day is long. In this mood she meets Benedick. And sharp
as he is among men, he cannot stand up to her; she overwhelms him with her quick repartees. Yet
after this brilliant passage of arms, what are the conqueress’s feelings? ‘But I am alone, alone,
heigho for a husband!” When she is limed, and the plot succeeds?, compare the result on the two
lovers. See how Beatrice’s noble nature comes out! None of the man’s half-jokes, no thought of what
folk will say of her: she’s done wrong, she'll make amends; she lets fall her false covering of
mockery and contempt (as Tennyson’s Princess hers of false theory and wilfulness) and stands lovelier,
more winning than ever, a simple, truthful, loving woman. Our merry, sparkling friend is changed,
she’s “ exceeding ill and sick,” and all with heartache: the Benedictus thistle is her only cure. Then
comes the cruel blow on her sweet innocent friend, who sinks under it, unable to defend herself. At
once out flashes the true and noble nature of Beatrice, worthy daughter of the gallant old Antonio.
Evidence, so-called! Suspicion! what are these to her? She knows her friend’s pure heart, where no
base thought even has ever lodged: ‘‘O,on my soul, my cousin is belied!”

“Then, deeply wounded, Hero’s guileless face : The queen of wit and women, Beatrice,
Beside her, with strong arms‘about her flung, More chivalrous and wiser than a man.”
Protecting—worlds of scorn in her bright eyes—

She gives her heart to Benedick; but how can he love her rightly, how can she love him, unless he
loves honour more than her, and will give his life for what she’d—O, how gladly !—sacrifice her
own? Her lover is at last swept away by her vchemence: he will challenge Claudio; the noble
girl is satisfied. When they next meet, though her wild heart is tamed to his loving hand, she has
not lost all her fun. The couple are too wise to woo peaceably. She doesn’t see the logic of
being kisst because foul words have passed between him and Claudio. She chaffs him about
“suffering” love for her; and for the first time in her life she lets him have the last word, for it’s all
of love for her. Again they meet to marry, but, as she says, she loves him only in friendly recom-
pense, she takes him partly to save his life, for she was told he was in a consumption; and he takes
her for pity. The two understand one another. We all know what it means. ‘he brightest,
sunniest married life, comfort in sorrow, doubling of joy. And fancy Beatrice playing with her
baby, and her husband looking on! Never child ’ud have had such fun since the creation of the world.
The poet Campbell’s story of his pair was an utter mistake: he never knew a Beatrice. Dogberry
we must, alas! pass over, model of Mrs. Malaprop as he is, and of the Red queen’s talk in “ Through
the Looking-glass.’’3

j 3 ele and Benedick are wholly Shakspere’s invention, so far as we know. No original of either character has been
yet found. :

2 Objectors to the same plot being used to cure both the lovers, forget that both had the same disease. Moreover,
what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.

3 Bandello’s 22nd Novella of 8. Timbreo di Cardona (Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. iii., p. 104), told in French by Belleforest in
his Histotres Tragiques, probably furnisht Shakspere with most of the details of his Claudio and Hero story, including
the courtship by the lover's friend, the deception of the lover by a servant, the breaking off the marriage in church, the
swoon and supposed death of the heroine, her funeral rites, Leonato’s epitaph on her (Hazlitt, I. iii. 119), and then her
marriage to the hero, &c. But details in all the borrowed parts differ. The personation of Hero by Margaret was probably

 

 
 

 

§10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS, d. AS YOU LIKE IT. Ivii

 

As You Lixt Ir.—“ The sweetest and happiest of Shakspere’s comedies,” says Professor Dowden.
Yes, sweetest, because the sweetness has been drawn from the bitters of life: happiest, because the
happiness has sprung from, has overcome, sorrow and suffering. What most we prize is misfortune
borne with cheery mind, the sun of man’s spirit shining through and dispersing the clouds that strive
to shade it.! And surely this is the spirit of the play. ‘The play goes back, too, to the old Robin
Hood spirit of England, to that same love of country and of forest and of adventure which still sends
our men all over the world, and empties yearly our women out of town :—

“They say he is already in the forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old

Robin Hood of England: they say, many young gentlemen flock to him every day ; and fleet the time carelessly, as they
did in the golden world ;”

or, as Orlando puts the other side of it—

“Tn this desert inaccessible,
Under the shade of melancholy boughs, —
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.”

It is true this is not Prospero’s task, but Shakspere is in his Second Period, not his Fourth. We are
out of all wrangle of court and struggle of camp, in this forest of enchantment, Arden, where lions
and palms and serpents grow, where ambition is shunnd, and all are pleased with what they get. ’Tis
Chaucer’s “‘ Flee fro the pres and dwelle with soothfastnesse,”’ his “‘ Former Age;” a fancy picture if
you will; but let us enjoy it while we may. ‘The picture is not painted in the same high key of colour
as Much Ado. Instead of the hot sun of Beatrice’s and Benedick’s sharp wit-combats, with its golden
reds and yellows, backt by the dark clouds of Hero’s terrible distress, we have a picture of greys, and
greens, and blues, lit through a soft haze of silvery light. Rosalind’s rippling laugh comes to us from
the far-off forest glades, and the wedded couples’ sweet content reaches us as a strain of distant melody.
The play stretches backwards and forwards as Much Ado does: back to the First Period, Love’s
Labours Lost. The scene is the Forest of Arden, like the King of Navarre’s park; the early
Stratford woodland life is in both. And in both is the same almost childish love of the girl
tormenting her sweetheart by assuming or continuing unnecessary disguises, the lover’s writing of
verses, the hunting, &c.; the names Rosaline and Rosalind, and certain points of likeness between their
owners. Miss Baillie says, ‘The way in which Rosalind delights in teasing Orlando is essentially
womanly. There are many women who take unaccountable pleasure in causing pain to those they
love, for the sake of healing it afterwards.” The love at first sight is like that in Love’s Labours Lost,
and Touchstone and Audrey are a far better Armado and Jacquenetta. To Midsummer-Night’s Dream
this play is linkt by its enchanted land, and its pretty picture of Rosalind’s and Celia’s friendship
matching that of Helena and Hermia. With The Merchant we get the links of Rosalind’s description of
her dressing as a man, like Portia’s (and Julia’s in The Two Gentlemen), while the melancholy of Jaques
reminds us, in name, of that of Antonio in The Merchant. Rosalind’s description of herself as “one
out of suits with fortune” suits Portia’s “My little body is aweary of this great world.” The reach
forward of the play is most interesting in its anticipation of the Fourth-Period lesson, that repentance
and reconciliation are better than revenge, taught by the two instances of Oliver and Duke Frederick;
while in Pericles we see that Marina is to be killed because she stained her friend Cleon’s daughter,
as Duke Frederick justifies his cruelty to Rosalind because she throws Celia into the shade. One
cannot also forget the fool here, ‘who'll go along o’er the wide world with Celia,” when thinking
of Lear’s fool, who’d never been happy since his young mistress went to France. And we may
remember, too, Shakspere’s quotation here from his dead friend Marlowe’s Hero and Leander, first
printed in 1598 :—
«* Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,
‘Whoever loved that loved not at first sight ?’”

Of Rosalind, we may well take the epithet ‘‘heavenly Rosalind” asa just description, while allowing
her all earthly charms. Fair, pink-cheekt, red-lipt, impulsive,—when she thinks she must speak,—

borrowed from the story of Ariodanto and Ginevra in Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso, englisht by Sir John Harington in 1591,
canto 5, and printed in Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. iii., p. 83. Spenser tells a like tale in his Faerie Queene, Bk. IL., canto iv.,
publish’ in 1590. The two lines in the parenthesis III. i. 9-11,
“_like favourites,
Made proud by princes that advance their pride
Against that power that bred it,”—

are so unexpectedly and incongruously brought into Hero’s directions to her waiting-woman Ursula, that I suspect they
were an insertion after Essex’s rebellion in 1601. They will lift out of the scene, and leave the speech more natural when
they are removed. Shakspere must have aimd the lines at some contemporary favourite, I’m sure. :

1 My friend Dr. Ingleby says on this, ‘The moral of the play is much more concrete. It is not, how to bear mis-
fortune with cheery mind, but, how to read the lessons in the vicissitudes of physical nature.” This is what the banisht
Duke says as to “the penalty of Adam,” and what Amiens says in ‘‘ Blow, blow, thou winter wind !” and ‘“‘ Under the

 

 
 

lili §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. d. AS YOU LIKE IT.

 

true woman she is.’ There is a great want in her life: she mects Orlando, and the want is filled by
love. In her love-making she repeats almost Portia’s pretty hesitations with Bassanio :— é

“Did you call, sir?
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.”

Banisht from court, where Celia led the way, she has to head their expedition into the country, and
though she could find it in her heart to cry like a woman, yet she must comfort the weaker vessel.
Searching poor Corin’s wound, she finds her own; but sad as she is, she needs only the news of
Orlando’s nearness to change her in a moment. At tidings of him, the impulsive girl throws off all her
melancholy for ever, and jumps into the gayest, chaftingest humour possible. But note the touch:
“ Alas! the day, what shall I do with my doublet and hose ?”? It’s a little hard that she passes by her
father so coolly, yet she’s too full of her lover. ‘“ What talk we of fathers, when there’s such a man
as Orlando ¥” The delicious spritely fun of her chaff of Orlando is unsurpassable. Orlando is a noble
young fellow, with whom all must sympathise. There is a great charm about his manliness. “I do
wish,” says a lady-friend, “there were more young men like him nowadays, instead of the
fashionable, dandified creatures, budding Jaqueses, whom one sees in London ball-rooms now. But
then one can’t imagine Orlando at a ball, hoping to have the pleasure of the next dance, and
remarking on the heat of the room. There’sa breath of fresh air about him, and the energy of a healthy,
active life, which carries one away to the country out of the artificial life of the court. No wonder
Rosalind liked him. She must have felt from the first that he was a man likely to be a support to
her through life.” Much as all his words and deeds become him, nothing is finer, I think, than
what he says to the wretched Jaques’s invitation, “ Will you sit down with me? We two will rail
against our mistress the world, and all our misery.” Orlando. “I will chide no breather in the world
but myself, against whom I know most faults.” Jaques ‘‘ compact of jars” is always getting out of
bed on the wrong side every morning, and taking the world the wrong way.’ See how the healthy-
natured Rosalind sets him down with her advice :—

“Look you lisp and wear strange suits, And almost chide God for making you
Disable all the Venefits of your own country ; That countenance you are.”
Be out of love with your nativity,
He has been a libertine, is soured, and like the rascal Don John, in Much Ado, he hides his bad
nature under the cloak of seeming honesty of plain-speaking. His mission is to set everything
to rights; but God forbid he should take the trouble to act. He wants liberty only to blow on whom
he pleases; he abuses everybody, moralises, weeps sentimentally, and is a kind of mixture of Carlyle
in his bad Latter-day-Pamphlets mood, and water, with none of the grand positiveness of our
Victorian biographer, historian, and moralist. Look at his philosophy of man’s life, and what poor
stuff it is! Macbeth the murderer repeats it: to them, both men and women are but players. Let
any mother ask herself whether Jaques’s description of a baby is a just account of hers or any
woman's, and judge him accordingly.4 Of Touchstone, and his triumphant fun with Corin the
Shepherd and William I cannot speak, but I'll just repeat Miss Buaillie’s words: “He is undoubtedly
slightly crackt, but then the very cracks in his brain are chinks which let in the light.” And as to
Celia, the loving and true, one must repeat a girl-friend’s words, “It is impossible to read the
part without being in love with Orlando. I always pity Celia having to do perpetual gooscberry-
bush to Rosalind and Orlando; and I must confess that the way in which Oliver is fished up and
reformed to make a husband for Celia, always aggravates me. With all the reforming, cleaning,
and whitewashing in the world, Oliver must have been a poor creature; but I suppose Celia made
the best of him.” Tradition reports that Shakspere himself acted Adam in .4s You Like It. The play
was enterd in the Stationers’ Legisters on August + [1600], but appeard for the first time in the first

greenwood tree.” Everywhere it is “in these inclement skies we shall feel what we are, but find no enemy. We who have
known the insincerity of flattery, covering ingratitude and backhiting, shall here find frank and outspoken friends, who
teach us to read the message of cold winds, &c. ; and through that, make us believe that all adversity has its uses, and,
sweet ones.”
“Sweet are the uses of adversity. . . .” That can translate the stubbornnesses of fortune
‘‘Happy is your grace, Into so quiet and so sweet a style.”

1 See Mr. R. Grant White’s happy sketch of Rosalind and all the play in his “Tale of the Forest of Arden,” in The
Galaxy for April, 1875. It has only just reacht me, too late to quote. Iam much pleasd to find that he has taken the
same view of Jaques that I have. But I can’t agree that Touchstone is akin to Jaques, whom I hate and despise.
Touchstone's devotion to Celia and his delightful humour draw me to him. He's worth a score of Jaqueses.

2 Compare her living “in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat ” (IIT. ii, 334).

3 He is Laurence Sterne, with his sham sentimentality and attitudinising, says Professor Dowden.

*My friend Dr. George MacDonald's saying. Mr. Grant White says, ‘‘ In fact, he seized the occasion to sneer at the
representatives of the whole human race.”

 

 

 
 

 

§ 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. d. TWELFTH-NIGHT. lix

 

Folio, 1623. The source of the play in almost all its detailsis Lodge's story of Rosalynde*, printed in
1590 and 1592. The latter edition is reprinted in Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Library, Pt. 1., vol. ii., p. 9,
and all needful extracts from it are given in my friend Mr. Aldis Wright’s capitally annotated 18d.
Clarendon Press edition of the play. For Jaques, Touchstone, and Audrey, Shakspere had no hints
in his original. Mr. Wright thinks that the inconsistencies he points out, on pp. vi., vii. of his Preface,
imply that the play was finisht in haste.

Twetrru-Nicut.—Still one of the comedies of Shakspere’s bright, sweet time. True that we
have to change Rosalind’s rippling laugh for the drunken catches and bibulous drollery of Sir Toby
Belch and his comrade, and ‘Touchstone for the clown; but the leading note of the play is fun, as if
Shakspere had been able to throw off all thought of melancholy, and had devised Malvolio to help his
friends “ fleet the time carelessly,’ as they did in the golden world. Still though, as ever in the
comedies, except The Merry Wives, there’s the shadow of death and distress across the sunshine.
Olivia’s father and brother just dead, Viola and Sebastian just rescucd from one death, Viola
threatened with another, and Antonio held a pirate and liable to death. And still the lesson is, as
in As You Like It, “Sweet are the uses of adversity ;” out of their trouble all the lovers come into
happiness, into wedlock. The play at first sight is far less striking and interesting than Much Ado
and As You Like It. No brilliant Beatrice or Benedick catches the eye, no sad Rosalind leaping into
life and joyousness at the touch of assured love.

The self-conceited Malvolio is brought to the front, the drunkards and clown come next; none of
these touch any heart; and it’s not till we look past them, that we feel the beauty of the characters who
stand in half-light behind. Then we become conscious of a quiet harmony of colour and form that
makes a picture full of charm, that grows on you as you study it, and becomes one of the posses-
sions of your life. As the two last plays reach backward and forward, so does Twelfth-Night : to the
earliest Love's Labours Lost for the cut at women’s painting their faces that we find here; for its
men forswearing for three years the company of women, and then of course admitting them and
falling in love with the first ones they see, which is the prototype of Olivia abjuring for seven years

. the company of men, then soon admitting one (as is supposed), falling in love at first sight with him
(though he’s a woman), and marrying his brother, whom she supposes to be he. For the pair of
one family so like as to be mistaken for one another, we go back to the double Antipholus and the
double Dromio of Shakspere’s second play, The Comedy of Errors, which gives us, too, the incidents
of both a wife (Antipholus’s of Ephesus) and sweetheart (Dromio’s of Syracuse) mistaking another
man for her husband and her lover (though here Viola is only a woman disguised). To the same
play we go for the refusal or denial of money when trusted to one by another, and for the members of
a family sundered by shipwreck, as we look on to Pericles for a somewhat like incident. In the Errors
we get, too, the saving, though here only of one member of the family, by the binding to a mast. To
The Two Gentlemen of Verona we go for the parallel to Viola sent disguised as a page by Duke
Orsino to woo Olivia for him, to the loving Julia sent by the man she loves (Proteus) to woo Sylvia
for him. Romeo and Juliet gives us in the love-lorn Romeo repulst by Rosalind, and at once giving
her up for Juliet, the match of Duke Orsino resigning the longd-for Olivia, and at the moment
taking up Viola. The Merchant of Venice gives us another Antonio willing to give his life for his
friend Bassanio, just as here in Twelfth-Night Antonio? faces danger, nay, death, a pirate’s due, for
his love to his friend Sebastian. And to the same Merchant we surely go for recollections of the
opening scene here,

“That strain again! it had a dying fall; That breathes upon a bank of violets,
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound Stealing and giving odour,”

and for a parallel to the Duke’s love of music through the play. Henry IV. gives us in Falstaff
and his followers the company whence Sir Toby Belch and Sir Andrew Aguecheek come, as the
Second Part of that play gives us Falstaff playing on Justice Shallow as Sir Toby in Twelfth-Night
plays on Sir Andrew. Is not also Slender’s echoing of Shallow in Merry Wives something like Sir
. Andréw. echoing ali Sir Toby’s sayings here, and fancying himself a man for it? As to the reach
_ forward of the play, I’ve already alluded to its link with Pericles. It is to the Sonnets that we turn fora
parallel (5) to Viola’s pleading with Olivia to marry the Duke, and not forbear to leave a copy of her
beauty to the world, and to the Sonnets to his mistress for Shakspere’s love of music, while to match
Viola's entire devotion even to death to the Duke’s most unjust will we must look forward, even past
the Sonnets, to the true and loving Imogen’s willingness to die in obedience to her deceived and
headstrong husband’s iniquitous sentence of death on her (Cymb., IIT. iv. 65-79). Note, too, that it is
with Perdita of Winter’s Tale that Mrs. Jamieson mainly compares Viola, though, as we have seen, Julia

1 Lodge used in it the old poem of Gamelyn, wrongly attributed to Chaucer, because it is found in several of the best
MBS. of his Canterbury Tales. It is none of his. .
2 The second self-sacrificing Antonio is Leonato’s brother in Much Ado.

 

 
 

 

lx § 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. e. DARKENING. ALL’S WELL.

 

in The Two Gentlemen is in circumstances nearest her. The interest of this middle time of,
Shakspere’s work is to me great, showing as it does the development of his early powers, the forecast
of his later ones. It is at once the fulfilment of the old promise of his genius, and the prophecy of
the new.

Viola is the true heroine of the play. She is sad for her brother's supposed death, yet she hopes
with the hopefulness of youth and her own escape. She doesn’t mope or shut herself up like Olivia, but
looks disaster full in the face, and at once takes practical steps for her future life. Sympathy with
Olivia’s loss draws her first to her, but as she can’t enter her service, she resolves to go into the Duke’s
(Shakspere’s women of course take naturally to boys’ disguises, because their characters were always
acted by boys). She knows the Duke’s love of music; she can sing. Her voice, like Cordelia’s, was
ever soft, gentle, and low, ‘‘ an excellent thing in woman;”’ and in the Duke’s love-lorn state, Viola is
the very person for him. He wants sympathy, and she gives it him; into her gentle breast he pours
the sorrows of his secret soul. Her pity for him opens her heart to him; but how bitter-sweet were
his confidences to her! Still his happiness, not hers, is what she wants, and she’ll win it him, though
in doing so she break her heart. Valentine has failed, but she'll not fail: he was urged by duty, she
by love. Olivia she zidd see and does see. (Notice the woman’s curiosity to see her rival’s face and
compare it with her own, as Julia does Sylvia’s picture after seeing her in The Two Gentlemen : both
loved ones have, like Chaucer’s ladies, ‘‘eyes grey as glass.) ‘Then note how in pleading Orsino’s
cause, through all her words her own love for the Duke speaks, just as in Chaucer’s description of his
duke’s love Blanche, the young poet describes and praiseshis own love. Note too the difference between
the real love that Viola describes, and the fancied love the Duke feels. Had his love been like Viola’s, no
refusal, no rebuff, would have kept him from Olivia’s feet. (Contrast Viola’s tenderness to Olivia
with Rosalind’s sharpness to Phoebe.) Then comes the touching scene between Viola and the Duke,
where the music makes her speak masterly of love, where Shakspere reveals his own heart’s history
with his aged wife, and where Viola herself, in answer to the Duke’s fancied greatness of his love, gives
him such hints of her own far deeper devotion to him that, though she never told her love, no man
but one blinded by phantasm could have faild to catch the meaning of her words. But still she will
appeal again to his unwilling love Olivia for him. Then comes the last scene. The man she loves,
forgetting he's a man, out of spite threatens her with death, and she will take it joyfully for him,
whom she then declares she loves more than her life. At last the Duke, seeing that Olivia is
impossible to him, turns to his friend and confidante, his half-self, now woman, and challenges the
fulfilment of her oft-repeated vows. She denies them not, but confesses she loves him still. She has
what she wills, and all is happiness and peace. The Duke has a fanciful nature like Olivia. He is
one of your dreamy musical men, and Romeo is his parallel in the earlier time. Still he is a man
not to be despised, one of a rich, beautiful, artistic nature, had music in his soul, loved flowers, would
make a husband tender and true, and say the prettiest, sweetest things to his wife. Malvolio, the
affectioned ass (Oh, that Mr. Irving would play him !), the sharp-tongued Maria, who’d have all her
work to do as my Lady to keep Sir Toby sober, the clown who sings the capital songs, and all the
rest, we must, alas, pass over. ‘The play as acted on the London boards loses all its romantic beauty.
Viola is extinguisht, except in the farce of the challenge, by the drunkards and their spirited catch,
“Saturday, Sunday, Monday.’ The play was acted at the barristers’ feast at the Middle Temple, on
February 2, 1601-2, as Manningham tells us (p. xvii, above). He points out an Italian play like it,
Gl Inganni (one by Nicolo Secchi, pr. 1562, another by Curzio Gonzaga, pr. 1592), which contains a
brother, and sister so like him drest as a man, as to lead to mistakes like those in Shakspere’s play.
But another Italian play, Gl’ Ingannati, pr. 1585, englisht 1862, contains more likenesses to Twelfth-
Night. However, the original that Shakspere used was doubtless Barnaby Rich’s History of Apolonius
and Silla, printed in Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. i., p. 387, from “ Riche his Farewell to Militarie profession,”
1581. Rich probably borrowd from Belleforest’s Histoires Tragiques, tom. iv., Hist. viime, as
Belleforest did from Bandello, Pt. II., novel 36. The comic characters are Shakspere’s own. The play
was first printed in the Folio of 1623. With it I end the group of the three sparkling, Sunny, or
Sweet-Time Comedies, and turn to the next, “ the darkening Comedy ;” for, though it may be put with
its foregoers, its tone is so different from theirs that I prefer to keep it by itself.

Aui's WELL THAT Enps WELL.—We have now left behind us Shakspere’s bright, sweet time,
and are at the entrance to his gloomy one. Instead of coming with outstretcht hand and welcoming
smile of lip and eye to greet such plays as Much Ado, As You Like It, even Twelfth-Night, we turn
with half-repugnance from All's Well, and wish Shakspere had given the subject the go-by. Yet for
its main feature—a woman forcing her love on an unwilling man—Shakspere has prepared us in his
two last plays (as well as an earlier one), by Phoebe in As You Like It, by Olivia in Twelfth-Night,
endeavouring to force their loves on two supposd men, Rosalind! and Viola. But none the less is the

1 We must recollect too that Rosalind made the first advances to Orlando.

 

= a

 
 

 

§ 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. ¢. DARKENING. ALL’S WELL. lxi

 

reality distasteful to us, when the supposd man becomes a man indeed. Why then did Shakspere choose
this story of Giglietta di Nerbona pursuing Beltramo, which he found in Painter’s Palace of Pleasure},
a.p. 1566, taken from Boccaccio’s Decamerone 22 For the same reason, I conceive, that Chaucer took
from the same Italian source—tho’ through Petrarch’s Latin version of it}— the Clerk’s story of Griselda,
to show what woman’s love, what wifely duty, would do and suffer for the man on whom they hung.
The tale of woman’s suffering, of woman’s sacrifice for love, was no new tale to Shakspere. His
Adriana of the Errors, Hermia and Helena of Midswmmer-Night’s Dream, Sylvia and Julia of
The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Juliet of Romeo and Juliet, Hotspur’s widow of 2 Henry IV., Hero
of Much Ado, Rosalind of 4s You Like It, Viola of Twelfth-Night, had brought home to him, as
they have to us, the depth and height of women’s love:—

““Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,
But always resolute‘in most extremes,”

willing to face rebuke, repulse, the unsexing of themselves, base service, exile, nay, the grave, so
that thereby the loved one might be won or servd. And when Shakspere saw Giglietta’s story, he
recognised in it the same true woman’s love undergoing a more repulsive trial, that of unwomanliness,
than he had yet put any of his heroines to; and he resolvd that his countrymen should know through
what apparent dirt pure love would pass, and could, unspotted and unsmircht. Apparent dirt, I say,
because I can’t see that what would be right, or justifiable, in a man when in love to secure his
sweetheart or wife, can be wrong or unjustifiable in a woman. Equality in choice and proposal,
should be allowed, as Thackeray says. Another lesson Shakspere had, too, to teach to pride of birth
in England; a lesson that, before him, his father Chaucer had taught in many a line, repeated none
so oft (see his Gentleness, Wife’s Tale, &c.), and a lesson not yet learnt here; one that never will be
learnt, I fear :—

“Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, Howe’er it be, it seems to me,
From yon blue heavens above us bent, ’Tis only noble to be good ;
The grand old gardener and his wife Kind hearts are more than coronets,
Smile at the claims of long descent ; And simple faith than Norman blood.”

All’s Weil is, I doubt not, Love’s Labours Won recast. Both have the name Dumaine in common,
in both is the Labour of Love: that which is the growth of a life is won here, that which is the growth ~
of a day being lost in the earlier play. Moreover, no intelligent person can read the play without
being struck by the contrast of early and late work in it. The stiff formality of the rymed talk
between Helena and the King is due, not to etiquette, but to Shakspere’s early time: so also the end
of the play. Like ‘‘ notes” are, the Countess talking a stanza, I. iii. 127-134, as in Love’s Labours
Lost, Midsummer-Night’s Dream, Romeo and Juliet ; Helena’s and Parolles’s letters like sonnets, III.
iv., IV. iii.; also see early passages in II. i. 131-212; V. iii. 59-71, 289-292, 299-302, 312-17, 325-40.
Compare too II. iii. 73-105, 125-145; the end of IV. ii., &e. See Mr. Fleay’s Paper, New Shakspere
Society’s Transactions, 1874. The play was first printed in the Folio of 1623.

For the backward and forward reach of the play, as in the other Second-Period comedies, let us
note that Helena in Midsummer-Night’s Dream, with her desire to force herself on Demetrius, is the
prototype ‘of Helena of _Ali’s Vell. We have the parallel expression in All’s Well, “the hind that
would be mated by the lion must die for love,” in Midsummer-Night's Dream, “the mild hind makes
speed to catch the tiger.”” But note the wondrous difference in depth and beauty of character of the
two Helenas, also the absence here of the youthful Midsummer-Night’s Dream face-scratchings, long
legs, and funny conceit of the moon tumbling through the earth. And notice, too, that as for
the earliest of these middle-time comedies, Much Ado, we found the prototype in the earliest of
Shakspere’s first-time ones, Love's Labours Lost ; as for the second of the middle-time comedies, ds You
Like It, we found the prototype in Love’s Labours Lost too (with The Merchant) ; as for the third middle-
time comedy, Twelfth-Night, we found the prototype in his second first-time comedy, the Errors (with
his fourth, The Two Gentlemen), so here for his fourth middle-time comedy we find the prototype in his
third first-time play, Midsummer-Night’s Dream. It is an interesting undesigned coincidence of
succession. I-claim it as a confirmation of my order of the first three plays. Romeo and Juliet, in
Lady Capulet’s speech about Tybalt, III. v. 71, gives us the parallel of Lafeu’s ‘“ moderate
lamentation” and “excessive grief,” I. i, 58, and Diana Capulet’s name. Zhe Merchant of
Venice gives us the ring parallel, and the contrast of Portia being chosen, and its happy result,
with Helena’s choosing, and its unhappy outcome for a time. Pistol in 2 Henry IV. and

1 Painter’s englisht story is printed in Hazlitt’s Shakspere's Library, Part I,, vol. iii., pp. 140-151. The Introduction
says, “Shakspere adopted all the main incidents from the novel . . . the characters of the Countess, the Clown, and
Parolles are new in Shakspere, and there is no hint in the Italian of any part of the comic scenes in which Parolles is
engaged.”

2 But through Boaistuau or Belleforest, from Bandello. ;

3 I've printed Latin and Italian together in my Chaucer Society Originals and Analogues.

 

 
 

 

Isii §10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. « DARKENING. ALL’S WELL.

 

mainly Menry I. is the prototype of Parolles, who is but Pistol refined and developed, with a
touch of Falstaff added, while Parolles’s echoing of Lafeu (Act IL., se. iii.) is clearly recollected from
Sir Andrew Aguecheck’s echoing of Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth-Night. Parolles’s proposal to give
himself “some hurts, and say I got them in exploit” (Act IV., sc. i.) is a remembrance of Falstaff’s
proposal and its carrying out in 1 Henry IV., after Prince Hal and Poins have robbed the merry old
rascal, &c. Also Parolles’s exposure by his comrades is suggested by that of Falstaff by Prince
Hal and Poins. The Second Part of Henry IV. gives us, too, Falstaft’s explanation of his abuse of
Prince Hal to Doll Tearsheet, as the original of Parolles’s excuse for his letter to Diana Capulet
abusing Bertram.

As to the forward reach of the play, the link with the Sonnets is of the strongest. Think of
Shakspere, the higher nature, but the lower in birth and position, during his separation from his
Will, so handsome, high-born, hating marriage, misled by unworthy rivals, also selfish and sensual,
and compare him with the poor, lowly-born Helena, richer and higher in noble qualities, longing for,
dwelling in mind on, her handsome Bertram, high-born, hating marriage, misled by Parolles,
selfish and sensual too. So far Shakspere and Helena are one, and Will is Bertram. Hamlet gives
us, in Polonius’s advice to Laertes, the development of the countess’s counsel to Bertram, “love all,
trust a few,’ &c. In Aleasure for Measure, the All's Well substitution of the woman who ought to
be a man's bed-mate for the one who ought not so to be, but whom he desired to have, is used
again, with the very same precautions against discovery, not to stay too long or to speak, &c. The
name Escalus used here is also that of the Governor in Measure for Measure ; and for our Corambus
here we get a Corambis in the first quarto of Hamlet. For the parallel to the sunshine and the hail
in the king at once here, we go to Lear for the sunshine and rain at once in Cordelia, whose smiles
and tears were like a better day. For our clown’s “flowery way that leads to the broad gate and
the great fire” we turn to the Macbeth porter’s “ primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.” For our

“Time will bring on summer,
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp,”
we turn to Cymbeline with its

“ Leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander
Outsweeten'd not thy breath.”

To Belarius in the same play we go for Touchstone’s and the clown’s contrast of court and country
here, and tor Imogen to match the despised, neglected Helena, willing to give up her native land
and life for the husband who had so wrongd her. Helena, though condemnd by many women
and some men, has yct had justice done her by Coleridge, who calls her Shakspere’s ‘loveliest
character ’’—and he wrote Genevieve ;—and Mrs. Jamieson, who says, ‘There never was perhaps a
more beautiful picture of a woman’s love cherished in secret, not self-consuming in silent languish-
ment, not desponding over its idol, but patient and hopeful, strong in its own intensity, and
sustained by its own fond faith. Her love is like a religion, pure, holy, decp. The faith of her
affection combining with the natural energy of her character, believing all things possible, makes
them so. It would say to the mountain of pride which stands between her and her hope, ‘be thou
removed,’ and it is removed.” She is the opposite of Hamlet, as she says :—

“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Which we ascribe to heaven ; the fated sky Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.”

And she believes that great maxim so often forgotten even now—

“« Whoever strove
To show her merit that did miss her love.”
We can joe her best by the impression that she made on others; and if we compare the praises of
her by Lafeu, the king, the clown, and the countess, who knew her from her childhood, and who
at least five times sings her praise, we see that Bertram’s words of her are justified: Helena is ‘‘ she
who all men praised.” Quick as she is to see through Parolles, she cannot sce through Bertram.
Love blinds her eyes. How beautiful is her confession of her love for him to his mother, and how pretty
is old Lafeu’s enthusiasm for her! Let those, too, who blame her, notice her drawing back for the time on
Bertram’s declaring he can’t love her and won’t try to!. Thenceforward she is passive in the king’s
hands. It is he for his honour’s sake who bids Bertram take her; and after the young noble’s
seemingly willing consent, she must have been more than woman to refuse to marry the man whom
she knew her love alone could lift from the mire in which he was willingly wallowing. They are

1 “Helena. That you are well restored, my lord, I’m glad:
Let the rest go!
King. My honour’s at the stake,” &c.—II. iii. 148,

——— —

 

 
 

 

§11. SHAKSPERE’S SONNETS. lxiii

 

wedded; and the foolish husband takes counsel of his fool and leaves his wife; and then, without the
kiss she asks so prettily for, he sends her home. What she has thenceforth to do she tells us :—

“ Like timorous thief most fain would steal
What law does vouch mine own.”

How little like a triumph, and possession of her love! Her hushand’s brutal letter does but bring
into higher relief her noble unsclfishness and love for him. Her only desire is to save him. She
knows the urgence of his “important blood,” and takes advantage of it to work a lawful meaning in
a lawful act, and so without disgrace fulfils the condition that his buscness has made precedent to his
reunion with her. For Bertram, the question one is obliged to ask is, How came the son of such a
father and such a mother to be what he was? Secing him even with Helena’s eyes, what has he to
recommend him but his good looks? What other good quality of him comes out in the play?
Physical courage alone. Of moral courage he has none. Headstrong he is, a fool, unable to judge men,
lustful, a har, and a sneak. One thing he has to pride himself in, his noble birth, and that does not
save him from being a very snob. He lies like Parolles himself, and even more basely, when he wants
to get out of a scrape. I cannot doubt that it was one of Shakspere’s objects in this play to show
the utter worthlessness of pride of birth, as he had done in Love's Labours Lost of wit, unless beneath
the noble name was a noble soul. As Berowne had to be emptied of the worthless wit he prided
himself upon, so had Bertram of his silly aristocraticness, his all, before he could be filld with the
love of the lower-born lady of God’s own make, which should lift him to his true height. With a
word for the countess who, as Mrs. Jamieson says, “is like one of Titian’s old ladies, reminding us
still amid their wrinkles of that soul of beauty and sensibility which must have animated them when
young ;” with a kindly glance at the shrewd, warm-hearted, true, and generous old Lafeu, we take
our leave of the last play of Shakspere’s delightful Second Period, whose sunshine has gradually
clouded to prepare us for the coming storm.

Tue Sonnets.—That some of the Sonnets existed in 1598 we know from Meres. Nos. 138, 144,—
the key-sonnet, “Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,” &c.,—were printed in The Passionate
Pilgrim in 1599; the whole body of them did not appear till 1609, the year of the publication of
Troilus and Cressida, both publications being evidently without Shakspere’s sanction. The Sonnets
are dedicated by Thomas Thorpe, the publisher, to the “onlie begetter of these insuing sonnets,”
Mr. W. H., to whom Thorpe wishes “all happinesse and that eternitie promised by our ever-living
poet.” The first question raised on this dedication is whether the word “ begetter”’ is to be taken in
the ordinary meaning of the man who calld the Sonnets forth from Shakspere’s mind, or in its less usual
sense of ‘“ odtainer, procurer.”’ Those who support the latter view rely on the fact that the first hundred
and twenty-six Sonnets only are written to one man, Shakspere’s fair friend Will; while the second
group, Nos. 127-154, are written to or about Shakspere’s dark mistress. (Some make a third group
of two Sonnets, Nos. 153, 154, on Cupid.)! They argue then that there cannot be an “ only begetter”’
of the Sonnets, because there are two begetters. But looking to the facts that the two Cupid
Sonnets (153-4), are on Shakspere’s mistress, that the dark mistress is involved in Shakspere’s friend-
ship for Will, and that the relation between them is treated in the first group of Sonnets ; seeing that
in Sonnets 38 and 78, Shakspere’s verse is said to be solely begotten by Will, ‘‘ whose influence
is thine, and born of thee,” and is contrasted with Will’s influence as but only an improver of other
poets’ verse (see also No. 100), I think W. H. may fairly be called the “ begetter” of the Sonnets.
It is certain also that Shakspere promist his friend ‘‘ eternitie” through his Sonnets: see 18 (1. 9-14),
55, 60 (1. 13-14), 65, 81, 107 (1. 10-14). That the “W.” was Will, we know from Sonnets
135, 136, 148. What the “H.? meant is a far more difficult question. From the printing
of all “hues,” as “ hews” in italics in the original xx. 7, some have supposed that the begetter’s
name was Hughes.? Others have decided that the “H.” means Herbert—William Herbert, Earl
of Pembroke, to whom and whose brother the first Folio of Shakspere’s works was dedicated by his
fellow-players, while many critics of the topsy-turvy, or cart-before-the-horse school, have decided that
‘CW. H.” means “-H. W.”—Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.—I don’t think it matters
much who “ W. H.” was. The great question is, do Shakspere’s Sonnets speak his own heart and
thoughts or not? And were it not for the fact that many critics really deserving the name of
Shakspere students, and not Shakspere fools, have held the Sonnets to be merely dramatic, I could not

1 This arrangement by Groups is some evidence that it is Shakspere’s own. The so-called Sonnet 126 is only twelve
lines of couplet ryme. Sonnet 145 has been supposed spurious, as it’s in four-measure ryme instead of five. But it is
linkt to 142 and 144. I hold jt genuine. The form of Shakspere’s sonnets is less strict than those of the Italian poets. It
consists of three four-line stanzas of alternate five-measure ryme, ending with a couplet, abab, cded, efef, gg. See Mr. C.
Tomlinson’s Book on The Sonnets. Murray, 1874. :

2 George Chapman had a friend, Master Robert Hughes. (See the Preface to the Reader, prefixed to his Homer,
Chatto and Windus, pp. 4.)—H. Littledale.

 

 
 

 

lxiv §1l. SHAKSPERE’S SONNETS ARE OF HIS OWN LIFE.

 

have conccived that poems so intensely and evidently autobiographic and self-revealing, poems so one
with the spirit and inner meaning of Shakspere’s growth and life, could ever have been conceived to
be other than what they are, the records of his own loves and fears. And I believe that if the
acceptance of them as such had not involved the consequence of Shakspere’s intrigue with a married
woman, all readers would have taken the Sonnets as speaking of Shakspere’s own life. But his
admirers are so anxious to remove every stain from him, that they contend for a non-natural interpre-
tation of his poems. They forget the difference in opinion between Elizabethan and Victorian times
as to those swect sins of the flesh, where what is said to be stolen is so willingly given.! They forget
the cuckoo cry rising from nearly all Elizabethan literature, and that the intimacy now thought
criminal was then in certain circles nearly as common as handshaking is with us. ‘They forget Shak-
spere’s impulsive nature, and his long absence from his home. They will not face the probabilities
of the case, or recollect that David was still God’s friend though Bathsheba lived. The Sonnets are,
in one sense, Shakspere’s Psalms. Npiritual struggles underlie both poets’ work. For myself, ’'d
accept any number of ‘slips in sensual mire” on Shakspere’s part, to have the “ bursts of (loving)
heart” given us in the Sonnets.

The true motto for the first group of Shakspere’s Sonnets is to be seen in David’s words, “ I am
distresst for thee, my brother Jonathan; very pleasant hast thou been unto me. Thy love to me was
wonderful, passing the love of woman.” We have had them reproduced for us Victorians, without
their stain of sin and shame, in Mr. Tennyson’s In Memoriam. We have had them again to some
extent in Mrs. Browning’s glorious Sonnets to her husband, with their iterance, ‘‘ Say over again, and
yet once over again, that thou dost love me.” We may look upon the Sonnets as a piece of music, or
as Shakspere’s pathetic sonata, each melody introduced, dropt again, brought in again with variations,
but one full strain of undying love and friendship through the whole, Why could Shakspere say
so beautifully for Antonio of The Merchant, “ All debts are cleared between you and I, if I might
but sce you at my death: notwithstanding, use your pleasure”? Why did he make Antonio of
Twelfth-Night say, “A witchcraft drew me hither” » Why did he make Viola declare—

“And I most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die”?
Why did he paint Helena alone; saying—

“Twas pretty though a plague Of every line and trick of his sweet favour !
To see him every hour ; to sit and draw But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
His arched brows, his hawking eyes, his curls, Must sanctify his relics”?

In our heart’s table,—heart too capable

Because he himself was Helena, Antonio. A witchcraft drew him to a “boy,” a youth to whom
he gave his
“Love without pretension or restraint,
All his in dedication.”
Shakspere towards him was as Viola towards the Duke. He went

“« After him I love more than I love these eyes,
More than my life.”

In the Sonnets we have the gentle Will, the melancholy mild-eyed man, of the Droeshout? portrait.
Shakspere’s tender, sensitive, refined nature is seen clearly here, but through a glass darkly in the plays.

Ihave no space to dwell on the sections into which I separate the Sonnets, and which follow in the
table below. Iwill only call special attention to sections 9 and 118 (Nos. 71-4, 87-93), in which
Shakspere’s love to his friend is so beautifully set forth, and to section 13 (Nos. 97-99), in which
Will's flower-like beauty is dwelt on, as Shakspere’s love for him, in absence recalled it. Let those
who want to realise the difference between one kind of friendship and another, contrast these Sonnets
of Shakspere’s with Bacon’s celebrated Essay on Friendship. On this point I quote the first page of
a paper sent in to me at my Bedford Lectures :—

“There are some men who love for the sake of what love yields, and of these was Lord Bacon;
and there are some who love for ‘love's sake,’ and loving once, love always; and of these was
Shakspere. These do not lightly give their love, but once given, their faith is incorporate with their
being; and having become part of themselves, to part with that part would be to be dismembered.
Therefore if change or sin corrupt the engrafted limb, the only effect is that the whole body is
shaken with anguish,

‘And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrongs, than hate's known injury.’—Son. 40.

1 Compare the ‘‘ William the Conqueror came before Richard the Third ” story, about Shakspere, R. Burbage, and the
citizen's wife. ;
2 Pronounce ‘ Drooz-howt”: hout is wood.

 

 
 

 

§ll. SHAKSPERE’S SONNETS. THE FIRST GROUP. lxv

The offending member may be nursed into health, or loved into life again; but—forsaken !—

never!
‘Love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.’— Son. 116.

These are not the men who reap outer advantage from their friendship ; they generally give rather
than take; they are often the victims of circumstance, and the scapegoats for their friends’ offences ;
still they reap the benefit which inward growth produces; the glorious leaven of sclf-abnegating love
within them impregnates their whole being; they move simply and naturally among us, but we fecl
that they stand on a higher level than we—that they sce with ‘ larger, othcr eyes than ours,’ and we
yield them homage, and feel better for having known them.”—M. J.

The thoughtless objection that many Sonnets in this group confuse the sex of the person they’re
addresst to, is so plainly answerd by Shakspere himself in Sonnet 20 on the master-mistress of his
passion, that one can only wonder—although a Shakspere student is bound to wonder at nothing in
his commentators—that the objection was ever taken.

SONNETS.
ANALYSIS OF GRouP 1. Sonnets 1-126.

Section 1. Sonnets 1-26. a. 1-17. Will’s beauty, and his duty to marry and beget a son.
B 18-26. Will’s beauty, and Shakspere’s love for him.

 

a 2s 5 First Absence. Shakspere travelling, and away from Will.
ee Bs 5 Will's sensual fault blamd, repented, and forgiven.
» + ay. Shakspere has committed a fault that will separate him from Will.
soy By 35 Will has taken away Shakspere’s mistress. (See Group 2, § 6, Sonnets 133-6.)
ar OS ix a. 43-56. Second Absence. Will absent. Shakspere has a portrait of him.
8. 57- 8 The sovereign: slave watching: so made by God.
7. 59-60. Will's beauty.
6. 61. Waking and watching. Shakspere has rivals.
ape ills i 62-5. Shakspere full of self-love, conquerd by Time, which will conquer Will too : yet Shakspere
will secure hin eternity.
aw SS wi 66-70. Shakspere (like Hamlet) tired of the world: but not only on public grounds. Will has
uixt with bad company ; but Shakspere is sure he is pure, and excuses him.
= Os 5 71-4. Shakspere on his own death, and his entire love for his friend. (Compare the death-
thoughts in Hamlet and Measure for Measure.)
» 10. bss 75-7. Shakspere's love, and always writing on one theme, his Will; with the present of a table-
book dial and pocket looking-glass combined in one.
3 dl. 6 78-93. a. 78-86. Shakspere on his rivals in Will’s love. (G. Chapman, the rival poct.2)
#8. 87-93. Shakspere’s farewell to Will: most beautiful in the self-forgetfulness of
Shakspere’s love.
sc rl Di 3 94-6. Will vicious.
ap dds 651 97-99. Third Absence. Will's flower-like beauty, and Shakspere’s love for him ; followed by
faults on both sides, and a separation’, ended by Will’s desire, 120, 1. 11.
» 14. » 100-121. a. 100-112. Renewiug of love, three years after the first Sonnets (104). Shakspere’s love

stronger now in its summer than it was in its spring, 102, 1. 5; 119, 1.
10-12. Note the ‘‘ hell of time,” 120, 1. 6, that Will’s unkindness has
made Shakspere pass.5
8. 113-114. Fourth Absence. Shakspere sees Will in all nature.
y. 115-121. Shakspere describes his love for Will, and justifies himself.
15. »» 122-126. Shakspere excuses himself tor giving away Will’s present of some tables, again describes
his love for Will, and warns Will that he too must grow old.

1 T do not think that ‘The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,
I believe it is the ‘‘ confounding age’s cruel knife ” of 63, 1. 10.

2 “The proud full sail of his great verse,” 86, 1. 1, probably alludes to the swelling hexameters of Chapman's
englishing of Homer. ‘His spirit, by spirits taught to write,” 1. 5, may well refer to Chapman’s claim that Homer's
spirit inspired him, a claim made, no doubt in words, before its appearance in print in his Tears of Peace, 1609,
Inductio, p. 112, col. i., Chatto and Windus ed.—

“Tam, said he, [Homer] that spirit Elysian,
That ae 2 did thy bosom fill

74, 1.11, alludes to an attempt to stab Shakspere.

To vent it to the echoes of the vale
& er ee and thou didst inherit
With such a flood of soul, that thou wert fain, My true sense, for the time then, in my spirit ;

With exclamations of her rapture then, And [ invisibly went prompting thee.” od
See, too, on Shakspere’s sneer at his rival's ‘affable familiar ghost, which nightly gulls him with intelligence,” 1. 9, 10,
Chapman's Dedication to his Shadow of Night (1594), p. 3, ‘“‘uot without having drops of their souls like an awaked
Jamiliar,” and in his Tears of Peace, p. 123, col. 2.

“Still being persuaded by the shameless night, | Of an unthrifty angel that deludes

 

That all my reading, writing, all my pains, My simple fancy.
Are serious trifles, and the idle veins
These make a better case for Chapman being the rival, than has been made for any one else. (Mr. Harold Littledale gave
me some of these references.) . F
3 Happily not ending like that of Sir Leoline and Lord Roland de Vaux, in Coleridge. : ;
* The doctrine here that ‘‘ruin’d love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first.” was also put into Tennyson’s
Princess in its ‘‘ Blessings on the falling-out, that all the more endears ” ; but was rightly taken out again.
5 “ And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.”—Coleridge.

 

 
 

 

Ixvi §11. SHAKSPERE’S SONNETS. THE SECOND GROUP. MR. BROWNING.

 

With regard to the second group of Sonnets, we must always keep Shakspere’s own words in
No. 121 before us :—

“Tam that Tam}; and they that level By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown ;
At my abuses, reckon up their own: Unless this general evil they maintain, —
Tinay be straight, though they themselves be bevel ; All men are bad, and in their badness reign.”

Still I think it is plain that Shakspere had become involvd in an intrigue with a married woman who
threw him over for his friend Will. She was dark, had beutiful eyes, and was a fine musician, but
false. The most repulsive of the Sonnets is no doubt No. 129. But that and the others plainly show
that Shakspere knew that his love was his sin (142), and that in his supposed heaven he found hell?.

Adultery in those days was no new thing, was treated with an indifference that we wonder at now.

What was new, is that which Shakspere shows us, his deep repentance for the sin committed. Sadas
it may be to us to be forced to conclude that shame has to be cast on the noble name we reverence,

yet let us remember that it is but for a temporary stain on his career, and that through the knowledge
of the human heart he gained by his own trials we gvt the intensest ‘and most valuable records of his
genius. It is only those who have been through ‘the mill themselves, that know how hard God's

stones and the devil’s grind.

The Second Group of Sonnets, 127-154, I divide into—

Section 1. Sonnet 127. On his mistress’s dark complexion, brows, and eyes. (Cp. Berowne on his dark Rosaline,

 

  
 

 

      
    

in Love's Labunrs Lost.

Sip) Bae 128. Ou her, his music, playing music (the virginals).

Sie Oa Pe! 9 a5 120: i ing her. He laments his weakness.

ge egy 130. ee a che ufting de Seripition of her. (Compare Marlowe's Tqnoto ; Lingua, before 1603, in

Doelsley y. ee and Shirley's Sisters: ‘‘ Were it not fine,” &c.)

el. Soa "Gy 131-2. Tho’ plain to othe is fairest to Shakspere’s doting heart. But her deeds
are black ; and her hike wk eyes pity him.

ve GR 133-6. She has taken his friend Will from him (ep 40-42). He asks her to restore his friend (134),
or to take him as part of her (and his) Will (135). If she’ll but love his name, she'll love
hin (Shakspere), as his name too is Will (136).

yy Ty) 187-145. Shakspere knows his nustress is uot beautiful, and that she’s false, but he loves her (137).

Each lies to and flatters the other (138). Still if she'll only look ‘kindly on him, it ‘ll be
enough (139). She must net look too cruelly, or he might despair and go mad, and tell
the world that ill of her that it would only too soon believe (140). He loves her in spite
of his senses (141). She has broken her led-vow ; then let her pity him (142). She may
catch his friend if she will but give him a smile (143). He has two loves, a fair man, a
dark woman who'd corrupt the man (144, the Key Sonnet). She was going to say she
hated him, but, seeing his distress, said, not him (145).

Jae Ose 35 146. (? Misplaced. yon yemonstrance with himself, on spending too much, either on dress or out-
ward self-indulgence, and exhorting himself to give it up for inw, ard culture. (The blank
for two words in line , I fill with “Hemmd with:” ep. Feaus and Adonis, 1022,
“ Hemind with thiev }

ge DE ay 147-8. Shakspere's feverish love drives him mad, his doctor—Reason, being set aside (147). Love
has obscured his sight (145).

» 10. ,, 149-152. He gives himselt up Wholly to his mistress; loves whom she loves, hates whom she hates
(149). The worst of her deeds he loves better than any other's best (150). The more he
ought to hate her, the more he loves her. He is content to be her drudge, for he loves her
(151). Yet he's forsworn, for he’s told lies of her goodness, and she has broken her bed-
vow ; he has broken twenty oaths (152).

gj: HM. : gs 153-4. (May be made Group IIL, or Division 2 of Group IL.) Two sonnets lighter in tone. In both
Cupid sleeps, has his brand put out, in (153) a fountain, (154) a well, which the brand
turns into medical baths ; Shakspere comes for cure to each, but finds none. He wants
his mistress’s cyes for that (153). Water cools not love (154).

 

 

The Sonnets stretch, I believe, over many years; the existence of a few, even the first six-and-
twenty in 1598, would satisfy Meres’s mention. That three years elapsed between the sections 100-
112, and certain former Sonnets, is clear from 104. Sonnet 66 must surely be about the Hamlet time ;
and the extreme difficulty of construing some of the Sonnets, for instance, 107 (for which I cannot
admit Mr. Massey’s interpretation), points to their composition in Shakspere’s Third Period. But
whatever their date, I wish to say with all the emphasis I can, that in my belief no one can under-
stand Shakspere who does not hold that his Sonnets are autobiographical, and that they explain the
depths of the soul of the Shakspere who wrote the plays. I know that Mr. Browning is against this
view, and holds that if Shakspere did ‘ unlock his heart in his Sonnets,” then “the less Shakspere
he.” But I’d rather take, on this question, the witness of the greatest poetess of our Victorian, nay
of all time yet, and ask whether she was the less, or the greater and truer, Elizabeth Barrett Brown-
ing 4, or poet, because she unlockt her heart in er Sonnets, or because she “‘ went forward and confessed

1 Compare Iago’s ‘I am not what I am,” in Othello, I. i., and Parolles’s ‘‘ Simply the thing I am shall make me live,”
in All’s Well, IV. iii.

2 Sonnets 119, lines 2, 8 ; 147, lines 1, 14.

3 “ Honour, again, to the singers of brief poems, to the lyrists and sonnettcers ! O, Shakespeare, let thy name rest
gently among them, perfuning the place. We ‘swear’ that these sonnets and songs do verily breathe, ‘not of themselves,

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. JULIUS C#SAR. Ixvii

 

to her critics that her poems had her heart and life in them, they were not empty shells!” “TI have
done my work, so far, as work,—not as mere hand and head work, apart from the personal being, —
but as the completest expression of that being to which I could attain” (Pref. ed. 1844). And this
is why she has drawn to her all noble souls. If any poet has failed in attaining the like result, let
him know that it is because he has not used her means. He has kept his readers outside him, and
they in return have kept him outside them, not taking him, as they’ve taken her, into their hearts.
It is the heart's voice alone that can stir other hearts. I always ask that the Sonnets should be read
between the Second and Third Periods, for the ‘hell of time” of which they speak, is the best
preparation for the temper of that Third Period, and enables us to understand it. ‘The fierce and
stern decree of that Period seems to me to be, ‘there shall be vengeance, death, for misjudgment,
failure in duty, self-indulgence, sin,” and the innocent who belong to the guilty shall suffer with them:
Portia, Ophelia, Desdemona, Cordelia, lie beside Brutus, Hamlet, Othello, Lear.

Jutius Casar.—We puss from the friendship of two private Englishmen to one of the great
events, the centres of the world’s history, the fall of the Roman Republic, the rise of the Roman
Empire, that Empire so long the dominant power of the ancient world, and whose influence is so
deeply felt even in our modern life. There is no question more of rivals for the love of a now
unknown Will, for the favour of a forgotten swarthy mistress; it is the world’s throne that has to be
struggled for, the fate of nations that has to be settled; and yet, still, over the strife, comes to us the
paind cry of the betrayd friend ‘ Z¢ tu Brute,” and Cesar’s heart bursts. The same cry is to reach us
from almost every one of Shakspere’s future plays with more or less intensity—from Hamlet’s father
and Hamlet himself; from Othello and Roderigo; from Duncan and Banquo; from Lear and Edgar
and Gloster (in Lear); from Antony and Octavius; from Coriolanus, Timon ; from Palamon (if Shak-
spere wrote part of Two Noble Kinsmen) and Prospero; from Posthumus and Belarius (in Cymbeline).
While beside the false friends stand the true ones, Antony to Cesar; Horatio to Hamlet; Cassio to
Othello; Macduff to Malcolm; Kent and the Fool to Lear; the Steward to Timon; Paulina to Her-
mione. Friendship was much in Shakspere’s thoughts. The lesson of Julius Cesar is, that vengeance,
death, shall follow rebellion for insufficient cause, for misjudging the political state of one’s country, and
misjudging the means—taking unlawful ones—to attain your ends: Do not evil that good may come.
The play is one of that class by which Shakspere taught political lessons to his countrymen.
‘What made Shakspere produce this historical play in 1601? We know its date by an extract from
Weever’s Mirror of Martyrs, 1601, no doubt written when the play was quite fresh in people's
minds :—

“The many-headed multitude were drawn When eloquent Mark Antony had shown
By Brutus’ speech, that Ceesar was ambitious : His virtues, who but Brutus then was vicious ?”

As there is nothing in Plutarch’s Lives that could have suggested this, Weever must have known
Shakspere’s play.mWhat happened in England in 1601 to make Shakspere anxious to enforce the lesson
of it? Why, Essex’s ill-judged rebellion against Queen Elizabeth, in February, 1601. He, the
queen’s most petted favourite and general, broke out in armd rebellion against her in London. His
outbreak was ridiculously ill-advised. He was taken prisoner, tried, and executed on February 25,
1601. And I cannot doubt that this rebellion was the reason of Shakspere’s producing his Julius Cesar
in 1601. Assuredly the citizens of London in that year who heard Shakspere’s play must have felt the
force of “Zt tu Brute,’ and must have seen Brutus’s death, with keener and more home-felt influence
than we feel and hear the things with now. Among Essex’s friends was that Lord Southampton, to
whom Shakspere dedicated both his Venus in 1593, and Lucrece in 1594: the latter thus :—

“The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end ; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a super-
fluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it
assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours ; what I have to do is yours ; being part in all I have, devoted yours.
Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater ; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to Whom I wish
long life, still lengthened with happiness.

“Your lordship’s in all duty,
“WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.”

For his share in the rebellion, Southampton was imprisond in the Tower (and was not set free till
after Elizabeth died, in March, 1603), so that we must believe that the whole matter came home to

but thee ;’ and we recognise and bless them as short sighs from thy large poetic heart, burdened with diviner inspiration. -
. . . ‘Sidney, true knight, and fantastic poet, whose soul did too curiously inquire the fashion of the beautiful—the
fashion rather than the secret,—but left us in one line, the completest Ars Poctica extant—

‘ Foole, sayde my Muse to mee, looke in thine heart, and write,’

thy name be famous in all England and Arcadia! And Raleigh, tender and strong, of voice sweet enough to answer that
‘Passionate Shepherd,’ yet trampet-shrill to speak the ‘ Soul's errauil,’ thrilling the depths of our own!” .. .—English
Poets, pp 143-5, ed. 1863. This is the teaching that such of our modern poets as are not mere tinkling cymbals, but have
souls—need, and that the student of Shakspere’s Sonnets must recollect. Is Shakspere the less for having unlockt his
heart in his Sonnets? It’s only folk less than the noble poetess, who think so.

 

 
 

 

Ixviii §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. JULIUS CAESAR.

Shakspere’s heart, though I feel sure that Shakspere as a patriot, with his intense love for England,
preferrd his country to his patron, and told the world too, by his new play, what his feclings were.
If, too, Shakspere’s company, through Augustine Phillipps, one of its members with whom the
contract was made, was the company that acted Richard IJ. in the streets for Essex and his party,
the actors would be most desirous to prove their loyalty by producing this new play, with its lesson
of vengeance on conspirators. I cannot give-in to the notion that Shakspere didn’t allude to
political events in his plays. We know he did to women’s painting their faces and wearing
sham hair, to men’s absurd dresses and drunkenness, &c. &c. Why not then to greater things?
He, with his intense patriotism and love of England. To say that he didn’t, is all gammon and
ooh.
e Julius Cesar is not the hero of the play: Brutus is; yet Cesar’s spirit rules, as Cassius and
Brutus before their deaths acknowledge. As Gloster’s murder in 2 Henry VJ. is the turning-
point of that quadrilogy, as Arthur’s death is the turning-point of Ming John, so here Cvsar’s
murder is the centre and hinge of the play. His death overcomes his conquerors. His bodily
presence is weak and contemptible, but his spirit rises, arms his avengers, and his assassins proclaim
its might. His successor, Octavius, inherits the empire he created but did not enjoy. Cesar prevails.
The Ciesar of the play is not the great conqueror of Britain (did Shakspere make him despicable for
that?) but Cresar, old, decaying, failing both in health and mind. His long success has ruind his
character, has turned his head. He fancies himself not a man as other men. He thinks, as Professor
Dowden says, that he can read other men with a look: Cassius he does, but the soothsayer and the
conspirators he does not. In Act I., 8c. ii., he speaks of himself in the third person; he swoons when
the crown is offered to him; he opens his doublet and offers his throat to be cut ; just like a stage-actor.
He has the falling sickness, or epilepsy; he’s deaf in one ear, superstitious, pompous, arrogant, and
voastful. He accepts flattery when professing to be above it; he vacillates, though he says he’s con-
stant, &c. On the other hand, Brutus is one of Shakspere’s noblest men, if not the noblest. We have
him first as a friend to Cesar, telling him of the soothsayer: ‘‘ I love him well,” he says (Act I., se. ii.) ;
“ Brutus’s love to Caesar was no less than his.” Yet he is not gamesome; he’s vext and at war with
himself; he thinks he is not the man to set the times right, yet if honour calls him he must act: he
has thought before of the troubles coming on the State, and would rather be a villager, a pagan,
than in Rome under a king. Yet he is no judge of men; he cannot see that Cassius is playing on
him as on a pipe; he misjudges Antony, and always takes the wrong steps in action. He wants
insight and reasoning power, and agrees to join in the murder of Julius Cesar on a supposition
only :—
: “He would be crown’d.”
“ How that might change his nature, there's the question.”

It isa parallel to the argument—“ support the Sodom of Turkey and oppose Russia, for fear the Sclavs
may some day get to Constantinople and cause unpleasantness to us.” Brutus is, in fact, somewhat
vain of his hereditary character and his own personal one. Blinded by this vanity, which is shown,
too, in the putting himself forward to spcak about Cesar’s death, and, being convinced that no one
can answer him, he gives in to Cassius’s temptation and the flattery of the appeal to him. He is too
noble or too pedantic, too ignorant of human nature, to allow the oath to be taken by the con-
spirators, or have Mark Antony kiled. He cannot see what is necessary in practice, that Caesar’s
limbs should go with Cwsar. His stupid misjudgment of Mark Ahtony arises from looking at the
mere outside of the man, because he’s given to sports, to wildness, and much company, and is not a
grave student like Brutus himself. His treatment of Cassius, too, is ungenerous, when he scolds the
latter for getting gold by bad means, tho’ he, Brutus, had before askt for some of it, and grumbled when
it was not given him. His want of practical knowledge is again shown in his over-ruling Cassius’s wise
advice about the battle at Philippi, and then throwing away the battle by letting his soldiers plunder
Octavius’s camp instead of attacking Antony who (great soldier as he was) had beaten Cassius.
Yet, with all the deductions we have to make from Brutus’s character, there remains one of the
noblest figures in Shakspere. Nature stands up and says to all the world, “This was « man,”
setting him by Hamlet's father; and when we put his notion of honour beside Hotspur’s or Henry
the Fifth’s, we see how much finer a nature the Roman's was than that of our English heroes, and
we do not wonder that the man who dying says :—

“My heart doth joy that yet in all my life
I found no man but he was true to me "—
is set down as “ the noblest Roman of them all.” It was under the burden of setti
that he, unfit to bear that burden, sank, and died by his own hand.
that burden on him, his noble wife died too, self-slaughtered.
A word must suffice to refer the reader to Professor Dowden’s beautiful passage on the glorious

) ng right his time,
And in sharing the strain of

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. HAMLET. lxix

 

scene between Brutus and his wife, pure soul to soul, no thought of earthly dallying between them.
Note the lift from the scene between Hotspur and his Kate. ‘The play was first printed in the Folio
of 1623, and is drawn from part of Plutarch’s Lives of Julius Cesar, Brutus, and Antony, printed in
Hazlitt, Part I., vol. iii., pp. 171-253, 315-418.

Hamuer.—We pass from the seven-hilld city, so long the empress of the world, to “ Denmarke,
the whyche is a very poore countre, bare, and full of penurite!,’ and yet a country which, like
Rome, conquered England. “The Danes hath bene good warryers, but for theyr poverte I do
marueyle how they dyd get ones Englonde. They be subtyll-wytted, and they do proll muche
about to get a prey.” Of Elsinore, Miss Deedes says:—‘‘ Many a warm and starlight summer’s
eve havé I passed sitting on the rocks, below the ramparts of the castle. Who could describe the
perfection of such a scene and such a situation? The calm sea rippling at one’s feet; opposite, the
bright lights of the Swedish town; and nearer still the many-coloured lanterns of the numerous
ships anchored and at rest for the night. Above, the shining stars, excelling in beauty, purity, and
brightness all earthly lights; in one’s ears the great silence of a summer’s night, broken only by the
musical whisper of the rippling waves, the chimes from the town, and the bells in the ships as the
midnight hour draws near. Behind, the grim old walls, whereon it is not difficult to imagine that
one sees the dark figures of Hamlet and his friends, and the shadowy vision of the ghost; or to
fancy one’s ear saluted with the ‘Who goes there?’ of the sentry, the wild pleading of Hamlet,
and the sepulchral tones of his supernatural visitor.” But it is on no sweet summer's eve that
Shakspere, with his sense of nature’s sympathy with man, has put his Hamiet ; biting winter is the
time for that. Let ug first tho’ look at the links with Julius Cesar, links of likeness as well as contrast.
There are first, three mentions of Julius Czesar in the play by Horatio, in I. i.; Polonius, in III. ii. ;
Hamlet, in V.i. Then there is the burden of setting right the times out of joint, put as a duty on
a student, a man who knows himself unfit for the burden, and who in bearing it brings death to
himself and the woman who loves him, her mind giving way under the strain. 3. As Antony has
to revenge his friend Cresar’s murder, so Hamlet and Laertes have to revenge their fathers’ murders ;
and Laertes accepts his duty as willingly as Antény does. 4. A ghost appears in each play.
5. Antony’s character of Brutus after death is like that of Hamlet’s father. 6. Brutus’s words to
Messala in Act. IV., sc. iii., of Judes Cesar on Portia’s death “‘ we must die,” “she must die once,”
are like Gertrude’s and Claudius’s to Hamlet on his father’s death, ‘all that lives must die,” &c.
7. Hamlet’s making his speech of a dozen or sixteen lines the turning-point. of his vengeance
is like Brutus and Antony both making their speeches the turning-point of their action.
8. Hamlet's feeling before his fencing-match is just like Cassius’s and Brutus’s before Philippi.
9. Hamlet lovd plays, as Antony did, &c. Besides, there are other small likenesses, as that
of the oath taken by Hamlet’s friends, and proposed to be taken by Brutus’s; the murder
of Claudius, the usurper of the crown, and the murder of Cesar, the intending usurper;
Hamlet reading a book and Brutus reading a book, &c. The links of contrast: We have
Hamlet with weakness of will, Brutus with weakness of judgment; Hamlet quick to resolve
but slow to act in his great duty, Brutus slow to resolve but quick to act; Hamlet a good
shaper of means to end, Brutus a bad, always wrong in practice; Hamlet with no man but Horatio
true to him, Brutus with no man ever false to him; Hamlet and his Ophelia to be pitied, Brutus
and his Portia to be reverenced. The links with the Sonnets 66 and 90 I have already alluded to.
The strong ones with Mensure for Measure will be noted hereafter; this group of three plays is
firmly bound together. Of links with earlier plays we need only notice the Conscience-passage here
and in Richard IJ. Hamlet’s grand resolves and speeches, with nothing coming of them, are just
like Richard the Second’s; and in many points Hamlet is close akinto Romeo. The motto which I
would set at the head of Hamlet is three lines from Mr. Tennyson’s ‘‘ Supposed Confessions of a
second-rate, sensitive mind not in unity with itself,” from his Poems Chiefly Lyrical, 1830 :—

“« Oh weary life! oh weary death !
Oh spirit and heart made desolate !
Oh dainnéd vacillating state.”

In judging the character of Hamlet, and getting rid of the gross absurdity of representing him as
a here, a man of action and decision, whose hesitation was due only to want of conviction of his duty,
we must look at the old story of the prose Hamlet of 16082, and recollect that the Hamlet there was

11542, Andrew Boorde, p. 163 of my edition. :

2 Though this date of publication is five years later than that of the play, yet nearly all students allow that the piece
here represents the old story that Shakspere used. It is printed in Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. ii., pp. 224-279, and was englisht
from Belleforest’s Histoires Tragiques, which was translated froin the Italian of Bandello. That there was an earlier play
of Hamlet, which Shakspere may have used, too, is certain. The first and spurious Quarto of Shakspere’s plays (possibly

 

 
 

Ixx §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. HAMLET.

 

the unhesitating man of action. Though this story gave Shakspere the incidents of the murder of
the father, the adulterous incest and subsequent marriage ‘of the mother and uncle, the shainming
madness of the son, with the method of it, “a greate and rare subtyllte,” the attempt to find out his
secret by a “faere and beautifull” woman in a secret place, Hamlet’s interview with his mother with
some one listening behind the arras, the ‘‘a rat, a rat,” the reproach of the mother by the son, the
sending Hamlet to England with two of the murderer’s ministers to be killed, and Hamlct’s revenge
on them, it yet brings Hamlet back after a year in England to sweep to his revenge, to make all the
nobles who took part with his uncle drunk, and burn them in the wine-hall, and to cut his uncle’s
head clean off his shoulders. This man Shakspere resolved to turn into the hesitating, philosophising,
duty-shirking, excuse-secking Hamlet he has given us, a type of the weakness of every one amongst
us, as he changed the first queen’s clear justification of herself, and her acting with Hamlet to
accomplish his revenge, into the doubtful conduct of Gertrude: and the frank confession of the woman
set to betray Hamlet, into the questionable sharing of Ophelia in her father’s plans. The descrip-
tion above of Hamlet’s home at Elsinore, his own account of his rides on the jester Yorick’s back,
of his noble father, of his mother’s affection for him, show how happy the boy’s home must have been,
and how well he understood the beauty of this “‘ brave o’erhanging firmament,” and “ what a piece of
work is man! how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and
admirable!” Trained he was in all exercises of arms and knightly deeds. ‘“ Out of Denmarke,” says
Andrew Boorde, “a man may go into Saxsony ; the chefe cyte or town of Saxsony is Witzeburg, whych
isavnyuersite.” Thither Hamlet went, surrounded by friends. The best fencer in the place, he delighted
in the tragedians more than the humorous man and the clown, and, if we may believe Shakspere, was
as good a critic of acting as Shakspere himself. These three years he has noted the age. It is
grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe; and
down the notes go in the student's tables, of those ills ‘‘ that make calamity of so long life, the whips
and scorn of time,” &c. On this young university-man comes the terrible blow of his idolised father’s
death. I call him young, as his father docs, as he himself, Polonius, Laertes, and Ophelia do too; for
though he is thirty at the end of the few months of the play, yet he cannot be more than about twenty
when the play begins,!_ He goes home, and with Iris mother, like Niobe all tears, follows his poor father’s
body to the grave. The election to the throne, not by the rabble, but no doubt by a council of the
nobles, follows. Hamlct makes no sign; his uncle, whom he suspects of foul play, pops in between the
election and his hopes. He still neither watches that uncle nor his mother. He grieves and meditates ?
and falls in love. He moons and spoons. His answer to his father shows what has engaged his
thoughts, ‘‘ with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love.” In his “ weakness and his
melancholy ” he is alone, and throws himself on Ophelia’s bosom. His mother has sought her comfort
too, and married her seducer within a month of her first and noble husband’s death. This second
blow crushes Hamlet’s already downcast spirit. His impulse is to run away, to go back to school in
Wittemberg, to friends, tragedians, and note-books. But weak and melancholy, he weakly gives
way to the asking of the mothcr he despises, and stays at court, but still with no thought of action ;
all he desires is, to evaporate, or, if he had the pluck or want of conscience, to kill himself. Does not
one want a Friar Laurence to cry out as to Romeo, “ Art thou a man, thy tears are womanish? why
rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth? thy noble shape is but a form cf wax, digressing from
the valour of a man?” One must insist on this, that before any revelation of his father’s murder is
made to Hamlet, before any burden of revenging that murder is laid upon him, he thinks of suicide as
a welcome means of escape from this fair world of God’s, made abominable tc his diseasd and weak
imagination by his mother’s lust, and the dishonour done by her to his father’s memory. This is the
first, as it will be hereafter the main thing in his thoughts, this the act which he will first revenge,
and with a will, leaving the vengeance for the murder of his father to the framing of that Providence
who “shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will,” and who turns the poisond point meant by the

containing some of the oll play and of Shakspete’s, with patches by a botcher) was publisht in 1603 ; the second genuine
one, containing passages not in the Folio, was issued in 1604; the third, printed from Q. 2, in 1605 ; the fourth, printed
from Q. 3, in 1611. The Folio text is from an independent source. The first entry of the play on the Stationers’ Registers
is on July 26, 1602, by James Robertes: ‘A booke called The Revenge of Hamlet, Prince [of] Denmarke, as yt was
latelie acted by the Lord Chamberlayne his servantes. . . .vj'"’ See Arber’s Transcript, iii. 212.

1 This inconsistency in Hamlet's age needn't trouble any one. It’s just like the 39 hours for 8 months in The
Merchant, Desdemona speaking after she’s stifled, Bohemia having a sea-coast in Winter's Tale, &c. &e. So long as
Shakspere got his main point, his characters right, he didn’t care twopence for accidentals.

2 Inacapital Paper, only just received, “The case of Hamlet the Younger” (ealery, April, 1870), by my friend
Mr. Richard Grant White, the editor of Shakspere, the same view of Hamlet that I take, was before taken. Mr. Hargrove
too has, in his Lectures, he says, often taken this view. Mr. Grant White so well says, p. 537, of Hamlet, ‘‘ his was one

of those natures into which wrong enters like a thorn, to wound and rankle, not as a spur to rouse endeavour,” But the
“forbidding the chief actor not to mock Polonius” (p. 539) was of course ironical, like the traditional “ don't duck him
in the horsepond,” ‘‘ don’t nail his ears to the post”: -the latter, by the way, was the regular thieves’ punishment : the

culprit was given a knife, so that he might free himself by cutting his ear, or a bit of it off, when he got tired of standing
by his post.

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. HAMLET. Ixxi

 

murderer for Hamlet’s own bosom, into that murderer’s breast. While Hamlet waits for his father’s
ghost, he explains to us his own character. He carries the stamp of one defect, weakness ot will,
which doubts the noble substance of his nature to his own scandal; and twice again during the play
Shakspere reads for us the riddle of his hero’s character, in the Player-king’s speech on Purpose, and
Claudius’s on Prompt Action to Laertes. The terrible secret of his father’s murder is reveald to
Hamlet ; and he swears he’ll sweep to his revenge. Is he apt to do so, or duller than the fat weed that
rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf? Surely the latter. For what does Hamlet do? He denounces first
his mother (she’s uppermost in his thoughts), second his uncle, third he makes an entry in his tables,
fourth he gets hysterical, laughs and jokes, and says he'll go pray, fifth he frames a plan of
shamming madness, and swears his friends not to reveal its cause; sixth, he laments that the burden
of revenge which he has just so gladly accepted is put on him. Surely the queen might have
commented on his answer to his father with “the gentleman doth protest too much, methinks,”
and surely he, instead of cursing spite, might have recollected with Helena—

“The fated sky
Gives us free scope ; only doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.”

We know well how all Scandinavian legend and history are full of the duty of revenge for a
father’s murder. We know what Hamlet should have done to sweep to his revenge. The king tells
us, Laertes shows us. Hamlet’s own reflection on the peasant and courticr, the queen’s “you false
Danish dogs,” the king’s precautions, Laertes’s example, all show us how Hamlet, greatly loved by
the people, with his friend Horatio more an antique Roman than a Dane, and Marcellus, could have
raised the country in a few days, and dethroned Claudius. But that was not the character Shakspere
meant to draw. Instead of that, instead of the warrior king’s son sweeping to his revenge, we
have the picture of him that Ophelia’s exaggeration gives us :—

“Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other,

And with a look so piteous in purport,
As if he had been lovsed out of hell.”

He has sought her to look through her, after Caesar’s manner, and see whether she is true to him. He
seeks her help; the man who should be strong, from the woman who is weak. But there is no Juliet,
Portia, Viola, Helena, Isabella, to rise in the strength of woman's love, in the readiness of woman’s
wit, and string again the unstrung mind}, re-nerve the unnervd hand. He has chosen her whose name
is Help, but he has chosen wrongly, and help from her comes none. His is the blame, not hers. Mother
and love have faild him, but his books are left, and to them he turns. “ Look where sadly the poor wretch
comes reading.” Still, neither his troubles nor his books have taken the tang out of his tongue, and
his sarcasms convince Polonius that though this be madness, yet there’s method in it. Then come the
players; and the genuine emotion shown by the reciter, reveals to Hamlet ‘ what a rogue and peasant
slave he is, a dull and muddy-metalld rascal, pigeon-liverd, and an ass, that he, the son of a dear
father murderd, prompted to his revenge by heaven and hell, must like a whore unpack his heart
with words.” Surely every epithet he here applies to himself is richly deservd. What is the use of
his “ words, words, words,” and such lots of tall ones, when all one wants of him is one act? Then
at the end of his big talk comes “about my brains,” to frame that paltry excuse for delay, delay: “ the
spirit may be a devil.” Where is Friar Laurence again, with his “ Art thou a man?” Then comes
the second great suicide and world-evil soliloquy which was summd up in the Tennyson motto for
the play, and which Sonnets 66 and 90 re-echo. The two—this speech and the former suicide one
—should be carefully compared.

In the second, the incestuous love of Hamlet’s mother as the cause of his life-weariness, has
given place to the general evils of the world. His reason for not killing himself is no longer God's
canon against self-slaughter, but that the dread of something after death puzzles the will. And then
he degrades conscience? into identity with this same dread, and seems to offer it as his excuse for
letting his resolution to sweep to his revenge, “lose the name of action.” This is a mere subterfuge

1 This is all towards Hamlet’s fancied madness that I can admit. The mad theory, Shakspere has answerd himself.
He has shown us who held it, the old fool and the women, And he has also shown us who didn’t hold it, the man with
a head on his shoulders, Claudius. I accept Shakspere’s judgment, mad doctors and Co. notwithstanding. Mr. Grant
White says, p. 539: “Indeed, he accused himself of insanity to divers persons until almost the day of his death ; a sure
evidence, if they had but known it, that he was not mad : and, indeed, so weak was Ins purpose that he confessed with
particularity to Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, as well as to Horatio and to his mother, that he was feigning madness for
a purpose. He was too weak and incontinent of soul even to keep his own great secret, but went about making others
swear that they would keep it for him.” My friend Mr. Hargrove presses the hysteria on me, from certain experiences
ofhisown. He says too, ‘It is not Hamlet's mind that is unstrung, but his nerves, and the wild behaviour after the.
Ghost-scene and Play-scene is simply so much escape of accumulated nervous force. T cannot think any account of
Hamlet complete which does not bring in the word hysteria or ‘ hysterical.’”

2 See the text as against the meaning ordinarily given to the word and passage.

 

 
 

 

Ixxii § 12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. HAMLET.

 

und bit of sclf-deceit. He will not fight because he may have bad dreams. He will not kill himself
because he’s afraid of something after death. He has neither Macbeth’s pluck to jump the life to come,
nor MacMahon’s “J’y suis, j’y reste,” using gun and sword the while. In his second interview with
Ophelia, he turns to her at first with gentle words and affection. These are curdled into bitterness and
brutality by her offer to return his gifts, not by his fancied seeing of her father behind the arras; for
there is no trace in the play of any change of tone after he’s askt her about Polonius; nothing like his
Guildenstern and Rosencrantz taunt ‘*’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?”
He harps still on Ophelia’s marriage, and the harlot’s face-painting, (so often scolded by Shakspere,)
tricks and wantonness. He developes his first ‘‘bawd” hint, seeing Ophelia through Gertrude’s
lust, and says no word of her lie and treachery to him which he is supposed to have just discoverd.
Then he turns stage-manager or clocution-master for a while. Isn’t there something childish in this
just like his boyish glee at the success of his play-stratagem ? Is he not a pipe for fortune’s, nay,
whims finger, to sound what stops she pleases ? Well, the play succeeds ; the king’s guilt is unkennelld.
Hamlet is sure that his uncle was his father’s murderer. Why didn’t he stab Claudius as he fled con-
victed, conscience-stricken, before his whole court? Still, of course, Hamlet sweeps to his revenge
directly after! Oh, no. He quotes two little bits of poetry, chuckles over the success of his stratagem,
and calls fur a tune. He’s acted enough for the present, and can chaff his father’s murderer. The
killing of him can stand over; no hurry about that: ‘‘most lame and impotent conclusion.” Still
there is one thing that Hamlet really wants to do; convict his mother of her basencss. She gives
him the opportunity, and after a brilliantly sarcastic exposure of his innocently } treacherous friends,
he at once seizes the chance; but first he must have some more tall words, must lash himself up to
act, and indulge in some more self-deception :—
“Now could I drink hot blood,

And do such Litter business as the day
Would quake to look on.”

Of course “the poor wretch” could no more do it than fly over the moon; but big words are a relief to
such weak creatures.2. On his road to his mother he finds the king at that pathetic prayer of his, the
most touching piece in the play, and has an easy chance of performing his vow. He will do it; but
then he thinks, and then he won’t do it. His former uncertainties about heaven and hell have been
cleard up, he knows all about the conditions of entry to both, and if he kills the murderer on his knees
he’ll send him to heaven.’ So, to avoid this, he kecps him for hell: a mere excuse of course for delay.
His mind is full of his mother. This duty of revenge is a bore to him, and has almost died out of his
mind; any excuse will do to be rid of it. If he could but get overit by accident now, what a blessing
it would be! He hopes he has done so, but his victim is Polonius, and he considers the poor old man
just a nuisance happily got out of the way. Note the almost brutal words in which he talks of
Polonius afterwards, and the delightfully cool and self-deceiving way in which he puts the blame of
his rash murder of Polonius on Heaven :—
“But Heaven hath pleased it so,

To punish me with this, and this with me,
That I inust be their scourge and minister.”

Still, Hamlet with his mother, is Hamlet in his nobleness and strength. Her disgraceful adultery
and incest, and treason to his noble father’s memory, Hamlet has felt in his inmost soul. Compared
to their ingrain dic, Claudius’s murder of his father—notwithstanding all his protestations—is only a
skin-deep stain. Andagainst his mothcr and her sin all the magnificent indignation of his purity and
virtue speak. We forget his blood-stained hands in the white-heat intensity of his words. While
thus gratifying his own impulse—righteous though it be—his father’s ghost comes again, to remind
him of his first, though his oft-forsaken, duty, and to shield the now-suffering wife that he, the ghost,
when in the flesh, had loved with such sweet fond love. The latter purpose of the ghost Hamlet
carries out; he changes his tone to his mother, tells her what he’d have her do, abstain from his
uncle’s bed (which she evidently doesn’t do), gets her to promise secrecy to him—a promise that she
keeps—and trusts her with his resolve to countermine Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s supposed
treacherous schemes? against him. Result: mother and son are at one again,and remain so. Hamlet
has resolvd to take revenge on two men who he thinks have betrayd him. Perhaps that’ll train him
to revenge his father’s murder, after his fresh declaration that that father's “form and cause conjoind,
preaching to stones, would make them capable.” Yes, stones, but not Hamlet.

11 suppose Claudius used Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, as Polonius used Ophelia.

? There's a little author now living who does a good deal of this mouthing in both verse and prose, to make up for
his weakness.

3 The theory that this was a genuine excuse, is answerd by Laertes saying that he’d cut the throat of his father's
murderer in the church.

4 The complicity of his school-fellows in the king's plan is hardly possible. Claudius was not the man to let his
scheme ooze out into the sponges he used. He'd not show them the message they carried, before he sealed it.

 

 
 

 

§ 12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. u. HAMLET. xxiii

 

After fresh sarcasms against those “‘ sponges,” Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and grimly humorous
sayings over poor Polonius's corpse, Hamlet, unworthy son of gallant father, sees young Fortinbras,
worthy son ot worthy father, marching for honour’s sake against Poland; and now Hamlet looks
himself once more fairly in the face, as to his breach of duty, his want of real love to hisfather. His
indignation against his mother’s want of love to that father he has given vent to. Now, perhaps, he
can clearly sce his own want of love to that father, his failure in duty towards him. He does see it.
He owns that he has “ cause, and will, and strength, and means ” to do his duty. And still what is
his conclusion? Deeds? No; words again :—

“O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth.”

Well, Hamlet sets sail for England. He believes his two school-fellows are in a plot to murder him;
and of course they need different treatment at his hands from the man who murderd his father ; his
vengeance on them—their punishment—must not be put off; so he cleverly makes their death safe
forthwith’, and finds out the king’s villainous plot against himself. Will this fresh personal wrong make
Hamlet “sweep to his revenge” at his first fresh chance? We shall see. A pirate chases them.
Hamlet shows the old Viking blood and is taken prisoner. His captors land him in Denmark; he sends
for Horatio, and says “to-morrow” he'll see the king. He seems to put off “ to-morrow,” and,
evidently before going to court, strolls into a graveyard, and, after his old manner, moralises on what
he sees there. ‘Then comes the knowledge that Ophelia is dead, and his ranting outburst about his love
for her. Can we believe it genuine? Surely not to anything like the extent he professes. No doubt
he had loved her more than Laertes had. But his frothy speech shows how little solid love there was
underneath it. Next we have Hamlet’s talk with Horatio about carrying out his long-deferred ven-
geance on Claudius, his conviction that the time for its being done is short, but that the “ interim” is
his. Polonius, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Ophelia—all who plotted against him—are by his means
dead. When is the other, Claudius, his father’s murderer to follow too? Still he forms no plan; still
he leaves the performance of his duty to chance or Providence. And it is Claudius, not Hamlet, that
plans the plot for his own death. To Hamlet, anything, any amusement that’ll delay the fulfilment of
his vow, is still welcome. He can indulge in his old sarcasms, undertake a fencing match to please
the man he thinks he means to kill. Yet a shadow of coming ill is on him; a feeling of fatalism
comes over him; “the readiness is all.”” But is he ready? Yes, to give his life, to give his life, which
has been long his burden, just as willingly out of the way of duty as in it.

We are glad that he asks Laertes’s pardon, sorry that he makes a lying excuse for his rudeness to
him. And then this “brother's wager” is played. The erring queen dies first, poisond by her
guilty husband’s means. Hamlet learns that he has not half an hour to live; and then at last does
“sweep to his revenge,” and sends his father’s murderer to hell. Laertes reaps the due reward of his
treachery, though asking and getting Hamlet's forgiveness. Hamlet lives to save Horatio from the
death his friendship prompts him to share with his friend ; to point out a fitter successor to the throne
than ever he himself could have made; and then with all his failings and all his virtues dies. In
death he’s done his duty ; and nothing but that could have made him do it. Still tho’, “ incestuous ”
comes before ‘“‘ murderous,” as he denounces Claudius; and it’s “Follow my mother,” not ‘my
father,” it’s ‘‘ Wretched queen, adieu!” ‘‘ Horatio, report me and my cause aright,”’ with no mention
of his father, tho’ Laertes had just named his. And Horatio, who is honest, put forth no such defence
for his friend as Hamlet’s modern admirers do: he speaks only of, “ in this upshot, purposes mistook,
fallen on the inventors’ heads.” The folk who admit no imperfection in Hamlet, first pity him—as
we all must—then they love him, and then they glorify him. But, admitting his claims on our pity,
on our admiration, for his brilliant intellectual gifts—penetration, wit, humour, sarcasm, reflection—
his courage and his virtues, we must find him ‘infirm of purpose :” ‘‘ unstable as water, he shall not
excel.” In his diseasd view of the beauties of God’s earth and its inhabitants, and of life; his
shirkings of duty, his puttings-off, his making grand subterfuge-full excuses for them; in his
uncertainties about the mystery of death and the future world, Hamlet but typifies each one of us, at
some time or other of our lives. Who is there of us that has not known that ‘“ weary life,” that
“‘weary death,” that “(damnéd vacillating state”? And this is the secret of the attraction of Hamlet
over us. ‘Is there any other man in Shakspere whom we feel such a longing to comfort?” askt
the bonniest and handsomest girl I ever lectured to. (“ Pite rennith soone in gentil herte.”) But,
while willing to sympathise to any extent in his weakness (which is my own), and in the ruin of
his love, his nature and his hope, I hold that what Hamlet wanted, was some of the Ulysses will :—

“That which we are, we are Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
One equal temper of heroic hearts, To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

 

1 That is, Hamletian will, in words. ; : . Aperne

2T say “cleverly,” without forgetting the scandalous injustice of it. But these fellows’ prying irritated Hamlet,
like Polonius’s did. He could get somebody else to kill em; and at the moment gladly seized the chauce of carrying
out his before-formed resolve. It was the noise behind the arras over again.

 

 
 

©

\xxiv §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

 

I hold too that “nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it” (Macbeth, I. iv.), for that
involved the doing of his duty.1 Under the burden of that, his unfit nature sank.

Measure ror Mrasure.—We turn from the Baltic shore to the inland city of Vienna, that city
where Tennyson’s friend Arthur Hallam died, that city which is still notorious for the social]
evil which Shakspere brings under our notice, where the loss of woman’s honour is treated as a mere
malheur, mishap, unlucky accident?, and which is therefore the fit city for this play that follows
Hamlet, where the cloud of the young prince’s mother’s lust hung like a pall over his life, and the incest

‘of the“ beast that wants discourse of reason” poisond his faith in women, and ruind his young love.
On the stifling air of this drama, as contrasted with earlier ones, hear Mr. W. Watkiss Lloyd :— We
never throughout this play get into the free, open, joyous atmosphere so invigorating in other works
of Shakspere: the oppressive gloom of the prison, the foul breath of the brothel, are only exchanged
for the chilly damp of conventual walls, or the oppressive retirement of the monastery, where friars
are curious as to the motives of ducal seclusion, and are ready to intimate that a petticoat is concerned
in the secret.” Yet though we have this “ night’s black curtain” over the play ?; though woman’s and
man’s incontinence match, to some extent, the queen’s and Claudius’s in Hamlet ; though Claudio in
his weak fear of death, like Hamlet, fails to do his duty: yet here, beside, in intentional contrast to
the lust and weak will of woman and man, rises, like the moon in its pure beauty, like the lightning-
flash in its white wrath, the noble figure of Isabella, ‘(a thing ensky’d and sainted, an immortal
spirit,” Shakspere’s first wholly Christian woman, steadfast and true as Portia, Brutus’s wife, pure as
Lucrece’s soul, merciful above Portia, Bassanio’s bride, in that she prays for forgiveness for her foe,
not her friend; with an unyiclding will,a martyr’s spirit above Helena’s of Ad/’s Well, the highest
type of woman that Shakspere has yet drawn. :

In these points then I find that Weaswre for Measure is rightly made to follow Hamlet immediately,
and not -4/’’s Well, though assuredly with the latter play it has much in common. Note, too, how
AMfeasure for Measure carries on the Hamlet reflections on Death and Life. Compare Hamlet, III. i.,
“to die, to sleep,” &c., with Claudio’s ‘‘aye, but to die we know not where ;” Hamlet’s dread of
something after death, with Isabella’s “ the sense of death is most in apprehension.” Again, Hamlet’s
‘“Cinsolence of office,” &c., with Isabella's ‘‘every pelting petty officer would use his heaven for
thunder.” Hamlet’s ‘‘ Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny ” is
like the Duke’s ‘* back-wounding calumny the whitest virtue strikes.” The like names Claudio and
Claudius occur; and Clandius’s pathetic speech, ‘‘my words fly up, my thoughts remain below,” is like
Angelo’s “ Heaven hath my empty words: heaven in my mouth, and in my heart the strong and
swelling evil of my conception.” While Lucio’s “ our doubts are traitors,” &e., preach the moral of
the play of Hamlet. Further, Hamlet’s ‘‘he took my father grossly full of bread,” and Hamlet’s
desire to take his uncle when he is drunk, asleep, are hke Barnardine’s excuse for not dying here: he
was, as the Duke says, ‘a creature unprepared, unmeet for death.” Polonius seeing method in
Hamlet's apparent madness, and Hamlet's telling his mother he could re-word his sentence, are just
the Duke’s,

“Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense
(Such a dependency of thing on thing)
as e’er I heard in madness.”
Of whom, too, but the forlorn Ophelia does the deserted Mariana remind us? Music pleased the woe
of both of them. One always thinks of Tennyson's Mariana in the Moated Grange :—

“Ts this the end, to be left alone, to live forgotten and die forlorn?”

With 47s Fell, too, the links are strong. The firm will and energy of Helena is like that of
Isabella : her love, though she is deserted and detested, is won back by the same means as Mariana’s;
the substitution of Helena for Diana, as here of Mariana for Isabel. Again, the scene in court, the
trial as it were before the Duke, and the exposure of Angelo, are like those of Bertram before the
king in Als IFell, just as Lucio’s exposure is like Parolles’s. The clown is a male Mrs. Quickly,
though the scene with Escalus is like that of Dogberry and Verges before the Duke, and Gobbo and
his son before Bassanio. Yet those who would put Jcasure jor Measure next to Alls Well, surely
overlook the far deeper tone of the former play: its dealing with death and the future world, its
weight of reflection, the analysis of Angelo’s character, the working of conscience, the greater
corruption dealt with, the higher saintliness shown in Isabella. Also, if we look at the name of the

1 We Victorians are happy in having a most admirable realisation of the character in Mr. Henry Irving's fine
performance of it, free from the effects of tradition, thorough, a work of individuality and genius.

? T speak on the authority of some college friends who were students there, of an article in The Daily News a few
years hack, written by a long-dweller in Vienna, in which this matheur was largely used, and of later visitors to the city.
ia % The play was probably written during the plague of 1603 in London, in which 30,578 souls died. (Stowe.) See § 15,

elow. ~

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. a. MEASURG FOR MEASURE. b. OTHELLO, | Ixxv

 

play, Measure for Measure, we shall see that Shakspere’s idea in it was, though with grim humour
and ultimate relenting, to preach in Angelo and Lucio his Third-Period doctrine—an eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth, vengeance for weakness, yielding to temptation, and sin, though here the vengeance
is but the poetical justice of marriage to the women whom the sinners have sinned with or
abandoned. Intending nun as Isabella is, we must nevertheless look on her as no hard recluse, but as
“Isabel, swect Isabel,’ with cheek-roses, gentle and fair. Yet she is ‘‘a thing ensky’d and sainted,
an immortal spirit ;” and this enables us to undeystand the conflict that must have gone onin her mind
between her sisterly affection and her religious principles when pleading her brother’s cause, and her
acquiescence in Angelo’s resolve that Claudio must die. Both times she needs Lucio’s appeal before
she'll again urge how much better mercy becomes the king and judge, than justice. Her unhappy
words, “ Hark! how Ill bribe you,” seem to have first brought out the evil in Angelo. _“ He tempts
her through that which is uppermost in the noble woman, the passion for sacrifice. There is some-
thing splendid in the idea of perilling the soul itself for the sake of another’? (E. H. Hickey).
Shakspere’s original, Whetstone, makes his heroine Cassandra give way to her brother's appeal :—
“My Andrugio, take comfort in distresse ;
Cassandra is wonne, thy rannsome greate to paye.”

But this was not Shakspere’s conception of Isabella. She believed that the son of her heroic
father was noble like herself; and when she found that he was willing to sacrifice her honour for his
life, “her swift vindictive anger leapt like a white flame from her white spirit},’? and her indignant
“take my defiance, die, perish,’ was her fit answer to her brother’s base proposal. Yet she who
would not stoop to wrong, dared for the sake of Mariana to bear the imputation of it. She had
no care for the world’s opinion, so that the deed appeared not foul in the truth of her spirit; and as
in The Merry Wives and Much Ado, her quick woman’s wit took a righteous delight in circumventing
aknave. We have another passionate outburst from her when she hears the false news that her
brother has been executed. And then she takes her side by the Duke who loves her, to fight with
him God’s fight against the evil in that foul Vienna; a far better post, heading Heaven’s army in
her land, than praying barren prayers in convent walls. She is the first of the three splendid
women who illumine the dark Third Period: she, glorious for her pueity and righteousness, Cordelia
for her truth and filial love, Volumnia for her devotion to honour and her love of her native land.
Perhaps we may add a fourth, Portia, Brutus’s wife, for nobleness and wifely duty. But the highest
of all is Isabella. For Angelo, we may contrast him with Isabella, as Bertram with Helena, or
Proteus with Julia; he has to be emptied of his self-pride in seeming religion, as Bertram of his pride
of birth; but in judging Angelo ‘‘let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.” His is
a terrible analysis of character, a self-revelation to any man who has striven for purity, has fancied
himself safe, and in the hour of trial has failed. Claudio is, as Mr. Pater says, one of the flower-like
young University men that abound at Oxford. To him, self-indulgent, life-loving, death is the
greatest terror; and he sees no great harm in his sister undergoing what his own sweetheart has
borne. To Isabella’s sense of honour and purity he could not attain; but in expression of apprehension
he stands even above Hamlet. His words on after-death are among the most poctical in Shakspere.
Measure for Measure was first printed in the Folio of 1623. Its story is from the old play of Promos
and Cassandra, 1578, by George Whetstone, printed in Hazlitt, Part II., vol. ii., p. 201, with the
same story in prose, from Whetstone’s Heptameron, 1582, Hazlitt, Part I., vol. ii., p. 156; and, like
stories from Goulart’s Admirable and Memorable Histories, 1607; and from Giraldi Cinthio’s
Heeatommithi, Novel 5, decade 8 (p. 167, id.), the probable source of Whetstone’s play. There are
plenty more stories of the kind. Seeing that the centre ‘of Measure for Measure is the scene of

“ Isabella with Claudio in the prison, where his unfit nature fails under the burden of coming death
laid on him; seeing the many links between this play and Hamlet, and the more between that and
Julius Cesar, we cannot be wrong in putting all three together as the first group of the Third Period,
the “ unfit-nature, or under-burden-failing group,” &c. Then we pass to the second group of the
two “tempter-yielding plays,”’ with which the first is, by Angelo, &c., strongly linkt, too.

OrHELLo.—From inland Vienna we turn again to Venice, the glorious city in the sea. We were
here before in The Merchant, which gives us the name Gratiano (there the humourful), of Desdemona’s
uncle. Thence the lover went to seek his Jason’s fleece in Belmont, here he comes to seek his pearl
in Venice. There, too, Jessica eloped with Lorenzo amid her father’s curses, as Desdemona does with
Othello here. There, too, bride and bridegroom, Portia and Bassanio, were separated in the day of
marriage, as they are here. But what a change in the tone and purpose of the two plays! What a
change in Shakspere’s temper and mind! ‘True, that in both plays a beautiful, true young bride
pleads for a life, for mercy for one condemnd to death; but from the one, Portia’s sweet earnest

1 See my friend Mr. W. H. Pater’s admirable paper in The Fortnightly Review, 1874 or 1875.

 

 
 

 

Ixxvi §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. b. OTHELLO,

 

words still sound like music in our ears, and we rejoice in the woman’s ready wit that rescued the soul
her prayer had faild to save. From the other, Desdemona’s vain appeal for her own life still brings
sorrow to our hearts; and Othello knolls in our ears the so sad dirge, “ But yet the pity of it, Iago!
oh! the pity of it, Iago.” In thinking of Desdemona’s fate we turn to the Cenci eyes of Juliet, and
compare our ill-starrd Desdemona and Othello with that young “ pair of star-crosst lovers’? whose
violent delights had also violent ends, who with a kiss died. But Othello is linkt with the plays
nearest it, Measure for Measure and Hamlet, in which the lust of Hamlet’s mother, and Angelo, &c., was
so leading a feature; for supposcd lust in Desdemona is at the bottom of Othello’s jealousy, and thus
the main motive for the action. Claudio’s imprisonment in
“The viewless winds,

And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world”

is Othello’s “ blow me about in winds” (V. ii.); while the Duke’s offer to let Brabantio read the
law’s bitter letter after his own sense, is the Duke’s offer to Angelo in Measure for Measure to be
judge of his own cause. Iago’s “duteous and knee-crooking knave” is Hamlet's fawner, who
“crooks the pregnant hinges of the knee,’ and Hamlct’s opinions on drunkenness among his
countrymen are those of Cassio and Iago on the Dane. Ophelia’s fate and song remind us, too, of
Barbara's fate, and Mariana’s and Desdemona’s songs. _Iago’s curse of the service where prefer-
ment goes by letter and affection, are like Hamlet’s and Isabella’s complaints, which we have before
alluded to. Also the plunder of Roderigo by Iago may be likend to that of Sir Andrew
Aguecheek by Sir Toby Belch. The incident of Othello hidden by Iago listening to Cassio talking
with Iago of Bianca, and then to Cassio and Bianca talking about Desdemona’s handkerchief, may
be paralleld with the Jfuch .1do incident of Hero's maid Margaret and Balthazar, overheard by Claudio
and Don Pedro, who watch them by Don John’s contrivance. With the Sonnets one may compare
Tago’s “I am not what I am,” and of Othello, “ He is what he is,” with Shakspere’s “I am that I
am,” of Sonnct 121. The general estimate of Italian women may be seen in Pope Pius II.’s novel
of Lucrece and Eurialus englisht :—‘ It is as easy to kepe a woman against her wyll, as a flocke of
flies in the hete of the sonne, cxcepte she be of herselfe chaste.’ ‘A woman's thought is
unstable, whyche hath as many myndis as trees hath leues . . and seldom loue they
theyr husbands whom they haue obteyned.” ! Tago is the Richard the Third of the Third Period, the
real mainspring, the wire-puller of the men and women, his puppets, in this play. The Moor, of a
tree and open nature, is to him “ an ass,” as he says, ‘led by the nose.” All that Othello tells us of
himself wins our hearts, like Desdemona’s, to him. Of royal descent, no boaster but a doer, he
has no self-distrust when dealing with men; he commands like a full soldier. Though he tells a
“round, unvarnished tale,” yet we see in it proof of that imaginative power which to him, as
to Macbeth, was the cause of all his sorrow. He has every manly virtue, and his love is so
devoted that he can give up war for it. Distrust at first is impossible to him ; and as he confided in
“honest Iago,’ so he declared his life was upon his wife’s faith; and it was; with the supposed loss
of that, his life went. The Italian original says that Othello and Desdemona lived together in
Venice in peace and concord. Shakspere, of course, cuts this out, for after it we could never excuse
even Othello’s believing Iago. The play gives him but an hour of love, and then, as if to warn the
newly-wedded ones what was coming into their life, Shakspere raises the storm at sea. Unconscious
that that storm is but Nature’s portent, they bask in balmy sunshine on the isle, and again we
have the Romeo cestasy of love, “if it were now to die, ‘twere now to be most happy,” &c. Again
in the riot of Cassio’s drunkenness we get a plain hint of Othello’s nature :—

“« My blood begins my safer guides to rule,
And passion, having my best judginent collied,
Essays to lead the way.”

The first note of coming discord is struck by Iago’s “I like not that;” the first real suspicion is in
Othello’s “« By Heaven, he echoes me.” And when once Iago's insinuation of jealousy has taken
hold of Othello’s mind,—Othello, who has till then known women’s nature only through the followers
of the camp,—his imagination, like Macbeth’s, makes the suggestion work with terrible rapidity. The
light of love which lit his face when he before met Desdemona, when he yielded to her first entreaties
for Cassio, leaves him, never to return.2 It {s a terrible change, as instant as, but so different from

1 In my Andrew Boorde, p. 342-3, from John Kynge’s edition, 1560.

2 I speak froin recollection of Mr. Irving's touching performance of the part. See my letter in The Daily News, March
2, 1876. Salvini’s acting of Othello was a revelation to me: something new in art. That passionate Southern nature
leaping into fury, and flying at Iago like a tiger would, was beyond a Northern's power. The sweetest-sould, most
gracious-natured lady that I know, said to me as I was talking to her of the two men: ‘Yes: Salvini is Othello; Irving
acts hin.” No more was needed.

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. b. MACBETH. Ixxvii

that of Rosalind when she finds her Orlando in the forest. His framo heaves, his lip quivers, the full
fire of his wrath blazes out against Iago, as that demon’s talk of Cassio frenzies him. | Reason leaves
him ; he is struck with epilepsy ; and after his recovery from that! Iago shows him Bianca with the
handkerchief. His love has become his enemy, against whom spying is lawful, and he resolves to
murder her. But yet he cannot forbear to sce “the pity of it.” “What a depth of love, what
yearning tenderness, yet what desperate resolve, are expresst in these little words!” (The third Act
is the most powerful one in all Shakspere.) Desdemona’s ill-starrd answers provoke instead of calm
him, and then he ends her life. Even the beauty of her unselfishness when trying to excuse him from
the murder of her cannot touch him.? His words on her are, “ She’s likea liar, gone to burning hell.”
Then comes the disclosure of what a fool and dolt he’s been; and in his sense ’tis happiness to die.
We cannot allow his excuse that he was not easily jealous, though it is true that ‘‘ being wrought,”
he was “ perplext in the extreme.’ he kiss on which he dies shows where his love still was, and
that must plead for him. Behind the nobleness of bis nature were yet the jealousy, the suspicion, the
mean cunning of the savage. Death to the adulteress was but the practice of his race.*

Macsetu.—From Venice and Cyprus we turn to Scotland. Nature changes from her belt of
gold and blue, to purple heather and grey rock, but man remains the same, mean, tempted, falling,
sinning, murdering, with the vengeance of death falling on him and the wife who here has shared his
crime. Macbeth is the play of conscience, though the workings of that conscience are seen far more
in Lady Macbeth than in her husband. The play shows, too, the separation from man as well as
God, the miserable trustless isolation, that sin brings in its train. As compared with O¢/e/lo the
darkness and terror cloye in on us so much more rapidly. We have no picture of the sweet Desde-
mona listening to her Moor, going throngh her household tasks, and coming back again to hear
» the wondrous story of his life; no bright bridal life, however short. Before the play opens there
must have been consultations between the guilty pair on Duncan’s murder 4; and when the play opens,
the pall of fiendish witchcraft is over us from the first. The fall of the tempted is terribly sudden.
The climax of the play is in the second Act, not the fifth, and no repentance is mixed with the vengeance
of its close. The only relief is in the gallantry of Macbeth, the gratitude of Duncan, and the pleasant
picture of Macbeth’s castle, so well put into Duncan's and Banquo’s mouths. The links with Othello
are, that the hero is, like Othello, a great commander, who has won many victories for his State, that
his temptation is both from within and without himself, that the working of passion in both is alike
quick, that the victims and murderers alike die, that Othello is accused of witchcraft, as Macbeth
practises it. And as the disappointed ambition of Iago in not getting the place given to Cassio, is at
the root of all the evil in Uthello, so the immediate motive for Macbeth’s action here is the Prince of
Cumberland’s nomination to the throne, which Macbeth believd would be his. As, too, Emilia’s
knocking at the door relieves the strain after Desdemona’s murder, so docs that of the porter here

1 Mr. Frank Marshall well urges that the weakening effect of the epileptic attack on Othello’s mind must be allowed
for. (Recollect that Desdemona, Greek dusdaimonia, means “ ill-fatedness,” ‘ ill-fortune.”)

2 Shakspere alterd the original’s beating Desdemona to death with a stocking full of sand, into suffocation, but
forgot that a person once stifled couldn't speak again. On the short time of the action of the play after the landing in
Cyprus, two days, see Prof. Wilson’s Paper, reprinted in New Shakspere Society's T'ransuctions, 1875-6, Appendix.

3 The first and only Quarto of Othello was publisht in 1622, six years after Shakspere’s death, by Thomas Walkley, by
whom it was enterd in the Stationers’ Registers on Oct. 6, 1621. It differs in many details froin the Folio text, which is from
an independent source. The original of the story is from the 7th novel of the 3rd decade of Ciuthio’s collection of stories,
called Hecatommithi, and is priuted with a translation in Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Library, Pt. I., vol. ii., pp. 285-308. In it
the original of Iago, the ensign, wrongly loves Desdemona; and his otive for revenge is her friendly preference of the
lieutenant, who is degraded for wounding a soldier on guard, and for whose restoration she twice entreats her husband.
The ensign steals the Moor’s handkerchief from her, leaves it on the licutenant’s bolster, and then tells the Moor it was
given by Desdemona to her lover. He also shows the Moor an embroidress copying the pattern on the handkerchief, and
undertakes to murder the lieutenant. He does cut off his right leg, and then, with the Moor’s help, smashes Desdemona’s
skull with a sandfull stocking. They pull the ceiling down on her, and give out that a falling beam killd her,
Othello, afterwards mourning her loss, degrades the ensign, who accuses hiin to the lieutenant. The Moor is tried, and
on the ensign’s testimony, put to the torture, and sent into exile, where he is at last killd by his wife's relations. The
ensign, continuing his bad practises, is rackt for having brought a false accusation against a companion, and is so injurd
that he dies in great agony. The poor prose temptation scenes of the Moor by the ensign should be compared with
Shakspere’s magnificent ones. There are no Roderigo, Brabantio, Emilia, &c., in the Italian.

4 From I. vii. we clearly see that Lady Macbeth cannot refer to anything in the play :—

“Tady M. What beast was’t then, They have made themselves, and that their fitness
That made you break this enterprise to me? ao now
Nor time, nor place, Does uninake you.”

Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : |
In the face of this ‘made you break this enterprise to me,” I cannot, of course, agree with Mr. Grant White and
other critics that the origination of the crime was Lady Macbeth’s.
5 “T have always regarded the appearance of Banquo’s ghost in III. iv. as the climax of the play. Up till then, all
goes well with Macbeth ; from thence, all conspires to his ruin.”—C. Hargrove.

 

 
 

 

 

ixxviii * §12. THIRD-FERIOD PLAYS. c. KING LEAR.

after Duncan’s.!. The murder of the king and the ghost of Banquo connect the play with Hamlet,
while the portents before Duncan's death are like those before the death of Hamlet’s futher and Julius
Cxusar. With Richard III. we note the links of the murderer clearing his way to the throne, and
his enemies out of his way when he has it, as well as the working of conscience in Richard’s sleep as
in Lady Macbeth’s, though she feels it always, he only when his will is dead.

Macbeth had the wrong nature for a murderer: he was too imaginative; he could jump the life
tocome; but it was the judgment here he dreaded, the terrors that his own Keltic imagination created
to torment him. What Richard the Third passed over with chuckling indifference, nay, with delight,
deprived Macbeth of sleep and haunted every moment of his life :—

“ But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds Than on the torture of the mind to lie
suffer, In restless ecstasy. Dunean is in his grave ;
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well;
In the aftetion of these terrible dreams Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poison,
That shake us nightly: Better be with the dead, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Whoin-we, to gain our peace*, have sent to peace, Can touch him farther!”

The more blood, that he thought would make him safe and hardend, did but increase his
terrors; then cume his fit again. But he was resolved to know the worst ; and after his second visit
to the witches, it seems to me that the courage of desperation takes the place of the feebleness of
the guilty soul; and except in his two drops down after the servant and the messenger have
announced the English force (V. iii., v., end), he faces his fate with the courage and coolness that should
have possvsst him all along. He is tied to the stake, and fight he will; but though he quails again
before Macduft’s tonguc, he is yet taunted by it into fighting, as before into murder by his wife.

Banquo, though noble, has yet in him the canny Scot’s sense of his or his son’s chunce of the throne,
and keeps near Macbeth, to be ready for what turns up. He cannot answer the usurper’s invitation with
a Macduft’s “Sir, not I,” or, like him, fly to England to bring back Duncan’s rightful heir, his son.
Malcolm would spoil Banquo’s son's chance of the throne. (See New Shakspere Society's Transactions,
1875-6, Part II.) My friend Mr. Peter Bayne holds that the analysis of Macbeth’s ideas and motives is
Shakspere's greatest achicvement. I think the third Act of Othello is that. But when one compares
such a quotation as that from Macbeth’s speech above, with any of Shakspere’s early work in Love's
Labours Lost, or Romeo and Juliet, say, one is amazed at the poet’s growth in knowledge of men’s minds,
of life, in reflective power, and imagination. Dramatically, too, what a splendid advance the play is
on Hamct!% The slight foundation in history or legend for Afacbeth, is in Holinshed’s version of
Boece’s Seotorum Historie, which is drawn from Fordun, printed in Hazlitt, Part I., vol. ii., p. 149,
and extracts from it are given in the Clarendon Press and other cheap editions of the play. Holinshed
knew nothing of the slaughter of Macbeth’s father, and his wife Grunoch’s grandfather, husband, and
brother by Duncan’s grandfather. (Clar. Press ed., xlii.) The text was printed for the first time in
the Folio of 1623. On the sleep-spcech see 2 Henry 11”. above, p. xlix.

Kine Lear.— This play resembles a stormy night. The first scene is like a wild sunset, grand
and awful, with gusts of wind and muttcrings of thunder, presaging the coming storm. Then comes
a furious tempest of crime and madness, through which we see dimly the monstrous and unnatural
forms of Goncril and Regan, Cornwall and Edmund, and hear ever and anon the wild laugh of the
Fool, the mad howls of Lear, and the low moan of the blind Gloster; while afar off a ray of moon-
light breaks through the clouds, and throws its silvery radiance on the queenly figure of Cordelia
standing calm and peaceful in the storm, like an angel of truth and purity amid the raging strife of a
sinful and blood-stained world. At the last, one great thunder-clap of death: the tempest ceases, and
in the grey light of a cloudy dawn we see the corpses lying stiff and stark, the innocent and the

_,\ The Porter acene is certainly genuine, and the assignment of its grim humour to a fifth-rate comic writer like
Middleton is a great mistake. The folk who so assign it, don’t know Middleton : they just catch up his name from the
witch songs, and stick it on to the Porter, whom he never had anything like power enough to create. It may be that, as
Messrs. Clark and Wright (Preface to Clarendon Press, Macheth), and Mr. Grant White (Galaay, Jan., 1877), urge, Hecate’s
four-neasnre speech in IIf. v., and hers or the First Witch's at the end of IV. i. 125-122, before the songs, are
spurious ; but the king’s-evil passage in IV. iii. is assuredly Shakspere’s ; and so is V. ii., v. 47-50, as Mr. Grant
White says. See my discussion of the Porter scene in New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, Part II.

2 Peace, folio 1; place, folios 2, 3, 4.

2 That the play was written in haste, the hurry of its action in its first acts, the want of finish in its first scenes, the
difficulty of its expression, tend to prove. Most critics agree in this opinion. Mr, Grant White says of the play in his
edition, x. 424:—‘‘It exhibits throughout the hearty execution of a grand and clearly conceived design. But the haste
is that of a master of his art, who, with conscious command of its resources, and in the frenzy of a grand inspiration,
works out his conception to the minutest detail of essential form, leaving the work of surface finish for the occupation of
cooler leisure (which in this case never came)... . . . I regard Macheth as, for the most part, a specimen of Shakspere’s
unelaborated, if not unfinished, writing, in the maturity and highest vitality of his genius. It abounds in instances of
extremest conipression, and iost daring ellipsis ; while it exhibits in every scene a union of supreme dramatic and
poetic power, aud in almost every line an imperially irresponsible control of language.”

 

— a

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. c. KING LEAR. Ixxix

 

guilty alike whelmed in the blind rage of Fate” (Florence O’Brien).!_ Lear is especially the play of
the breach of family ties; the play of horrors, unnatural cruelty to fathers, brothers, sisters, by
those who should have loved them dearest. Not content with unsexing one woman, as in Aacéeth,
Shakspere has in Lear unsext two. Not content with making Lear’s daughters trcat him with cruel
ingratitude, Shakspere has also made Edmund plot against his brothcr’s and father’s lives. Lear is a
race-play too. It shows the Keltic passion, misjudgment, and superstition, as in Glendower of
1 Henry IV., in Macbeth, and Cymbeline. Goneril and Regan are like the ghoul-like hags of the
French Revolution. A few links with Othello may be named. Desdemona and her love for her
father being subordinate to that for her husband, are the same as Cordclia’s. Othello, at the end of
the play, has seen the day that with “this good sword” he’d have made his way through twenty times
their stop, and Lear, too, at the end of this play, has secn the day that with his “good falchion” he
would have made them skip,2, With Macbeth we may compare the witches, the Keltic king, the in-
gratitude of Macbeth to Duncan, as of Lear’s daughters to him, while the terrible ficrceness of Lady
Macbeth is but the preparation for the more fiend-like Goneril and Regan. Under Adl’s Well we
have already noted the likeness of the king’s “sunshino and hail at once” to Cordelia’s ‘‘ sunshine
and rain at once,” her smiles and tears. Lear, as first presented to us, is so self-indulgent and unre-
strained, has been so fooled to the top of his bent, is so terribly unjust, not only to Cordclia, but to Kent,
that one feels hardly any punishment can be too great for him. The motive that he puts to draw
forth the desired expression of affection from Cordelia, ‘‘ Do profess love to get a big reward,” is such
that no girl with true love for a father could leave unrepudiated*; and whcn his proposal gets the answer
it deserves, he meets his daughter’s nobleness by curses and revenge. Stript by his own act of his
own authority 4, his I’ool® with bitter sarcasms teaches him what a fool he’s been. And few can regret
that he was made to feel a bite even sharper than a serpcnt’s tooth. Still one is glad to see that he
was early struggling against his own first wild passion, and that he would blame his own jcalous
curiosity before seeing Goneril’s purpose of unkindness. One sympathises with his prayer to heaven
to keep him in temper—‘‘ he would not be mad”—with his acquirement of some sclf-control, when
excusing the hot duke’s insolence by his illness. One sees tho’ how he still measures love by the allow-
ances of knights it will give him; and it is not till driven out to the mercy of the winds and storm,
till he knows that he is but a “ poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man,” till he can think of the poor
naked wretches of whom he has before taken too little care, that one pities the sufferer for the con-
sequences of his own folly. When he recovers from his madness and has come to the knowledge of
himself, has found, smelt out, those flatterers who’d destroy him, then is he more truly “ every inch a
king,” though cut to the brains, than ever he was before. The pathos of his recognition of Cordelia,
his submission to her, and secking her blessing, his lamentation over her corpse, are exceeded by
nothing in Shakspere. Professor Spalding dwells on the last scene as an instance of how Shakspere
got his most intense effects by no grand situation like Massinger did, like Shakspere himself did in
earlier time, but out of the simplest materials. Spalding says, “The horrors which have gathcred so
thickly throughout the last act are carefully removed to the background, but free room is left for
the sorrowful group on which every eye is turned. Tho situation is simple in the extreme; but how
tragically-moving are the internal convulsions, for the representation of which the poet has worthily
husbanded his force. Lear enters with frantic cries, bearing the body of his dead daughter in. his
arms; he alternates between agitating doubts and wishful unbclief of her death, and piteously
experiments on the lifeless corpse ; he bends over her with the dotage of an old man’s affection, and
calls to mind the soft lowness of her voice, till he fancies he can hear its murmurs. Then succeeds
the dreadful torpor of despairing insanity, during which he receives the most cruel tidings with
apathy, or replies to them with wild incoherence; and the heart flows forth at the close with its last

1 This passage was written by one who had never heard of Coleridge’s comments on Shakspere, and had never seen
his words, which I had long forgotten too:—“In the Shaksperian drama there is a vitality which grows and evolves
itself from within, a key-note, which guides and controls the harmonies throughout. Whatis Lear? It is storm and
tempest—the thunder at first grumbling in the far horizon, then gathering around us, and at length bursting in fury
over our heads—succeeded by a breaking of the clouds for a while, a last flash of lightning, the closing-in of night, and
the single hope of darkness.”—Lit. Rem., ii. 104.

2 Compare Shallow in Merry Wives, IL. i. 219-221—I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made
you four tall fellows skip like rats.”

3 IT can’t help thinking that if Lear had asked the question as One asked it, free from selfishness of heart,
“Lovest thou me more than these?” the answer would not have been uulike Peter's, ‘Thou knowest that I love
thee.”—E. H. Hickey. :

4 The folly of parents giving up their property to their children, was often dwelt on by early English writers. It is
80 by Robert of Brunne: see the tale he tells about it in my edition of his Handlyng Synne (written a.p. 1303), pp. 37-9.

5 Note the growth in depth and tenderness of Shakspere’s fools as he advances from his First Period. Mr. Grant
White says, in The Galaxy, January, 1877, p. 72:—“ In King Lear the Fool rises into heroic proportions, and becomes
asort of conscience, or second thought, to Lear. Compared even with Touchstone he is very much more elevated, and
shows not less than Hamlet, or than Lear himself, the grand development of Shakspeare’s mind at this period of
maturity.”

 

 
 

 

1xxx §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. d. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

 

burst of love only to break in the vehemence of its emotion, commencing with the tenderness of
regret, swelling into choking grief, and at last, when the eye catches the tokens of mortality in the
dead, snapping the chords of life in an agonised horror.” Cordelia is as the sun above the deeps of
hell shown in Goneril and Regan. One can hardly help wishing that Shakspere had followed the old
story told by Layamon and other repeaters of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and made Cordelia set her
father on the throne again, and reign after him fcr a while in peace. But the tragedian, the preacher
of Shakspere’s Third-Period lesson, did wisely for his art and meaning, in letting the daughter and
father lie in one grave. Of the noble Kent, of Gloster,—who doubles Lear in error, and almost in
suffering,—of Edmund, the Iago of this play, we have no time to speak. And while content that
others should claim Zear as Shakspere’s greatest work, for its diversity and contrast of character, its
mixing the storm of nature with the passions of man!, I must yet claim Othello as the work which
most deeply touches my heart. Its third Act is the greatest achievement of Shakspere as a
dramatist; the first three acts of Macbeth (I. v., vii.; II., III.) come next; Lear may follow. The
date of Lear may be considered as fixt at 1605-6. It was enterd in the Stationers’ Registers on
Novr. 26, 1607: ‘“‘ Nathanael Butter, John Bushy. Entred for their copie vnder th{e h]Jandes of Sir
George Buck knight and Th(e) wardens a booke called Master William Shakespeare his historye of
Kinge Lear as yt was played before the kinges maiestie at Whitehall vppon Sainct Stephens night
[26 Decr.] at Christmas Last by his maiesties servantes playinge vsually at the Globe on the
Banksyde . . vj” (Arber's Zranseript, iii. 366). Two quartos of it were publisht in 1608,
independent texts, and neither copied by the Folio. Their title pages confirm the Stat. Reg. date
of the performance of the play. The source of the Lear story is Holinshed’s Chronicle ; of the
Gloster, Edmund and Edgar story, Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia. Mr. Hazlitt has reprinted in his
Shakspere’s Library : 1. The History of Lear, from Holinshed (Pt. I., vol. ii., p. 314). 2. The same,
from the English Gesta Romanorum (ab. 1440 a.v.), edit. Madden, pp. 450-3, (id. p. 315). 3. The
History of Leir and his Three Daughters, 1605, a play (Part II., vol. ii., p. 305. It was not used by
Shakspere). 4. Queen Cordela, an historical poem, by John Higins, from the Mirror for Magistrates
(Pt. L., ti. 324). 5. The Story of the Paphlagonian Unkind King, from Sidney’s Arcadia (ib. 337).
6. The Ballad of Lear and his Three Daughters (ib. 348). The Latin original of the Lear story is
Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Hist. Britonum, bk. ii, ch. 11-15. And it was first told, and well told,
in English, by Layamon in his Brut., ab. 1205. That it came originally from Wales there is little
doubt. I think Lear must stand by itself as “the first Ingratitude and Cursing Play,” tho’ it is linkt
to the Group before it, and the Lust or False-Love Group which follows it.

Troitus anp Oressipa.—This is the most difficult of all Shakspere’s plays to deal with, as well
for date as position. We only know that it was publisht in 1609 with a preface by another man,
and evidently without Shakspere’s consent, as his Sonnets of the same date also were. This fact seems to
point to Shakspere’s having left London, possibly in disgust at some neglect of him by his patrons or
the public, at which he has been thought to hint in Achilles’s complaints. Yet Shakspere had just pro-
duced his greatest tragedies, and no one could then have been his rival. The play is evidently written
in ill-humour with mankind; it is a bitter satire. Its purpose is not to show virtue her own feature,
but contemptible weakness, paltry vanity, falsehood (like scorn), their own image. The argument of
it is, as Thersites says, ‘a cuckold and a whore.”’? And as Ascham declared that the Morte d’ Arthur
in which his contemporaries delighted, was nothing but bold bawdry, so Shakspere declares that the
heroes of antiquity, the Trojan ancestors in whom the Britons gloried, the Grecian heroes in whom
middle and modern England have rejoiced, were a sham; that with them love was all false, and
honour but a delusion. Shakspere’s treatment of Chaucer’s heroine, Cressida, is, too, a shock to any
lover of the early poet’s work. To have the beautiful Cressida, hesitating, palpitating like the nightingale,
before her sin; driven by force of hard circumstances which she could not control, into unfaithfulness
to her love; to have this Cressid, whom Chaucer spared for very ruth, set before us as a mere shameless
wanton, making eyes at all the men she sees, and showing her looseness in the movement of every limb,
is a terrible blow. But whatever may have been Shakspere’s motive in this play, we certainly have in
it his least pleasing production. ‘There is no relief to the patchery, the jugglery, and the knavery,
except the generous welcome of Nestor to Hector in the Grecian camp, and his frank praise of the
gallant Trojan, who, labouring for Destiny, made cruel way through ranks of Greekish youth. I
lean to the theory that the Troilus and Cressid part of the play is one of Shakspere’s First-Period
works?; the long speeches, and those often rhetorical, of the Grecian leaders, make one incline to think
of the specches in John and early plays of the Second Period. Yet there isso much practical wisdom,

1 Coleridge says of Act IIT, se. iv., ©O, what a world’s convention of agonies is here! All external nature in a
storm, all moral nature convulsed—the real madness of Lear, the feigned madness of Edgar, the babbling of the Fool, the
desperate fidelity of Kent—surely such a scene was never conceived before or since.”—Lit. Rem., ii. 201, ed. 1836.

2 Read the Troilus-Cressida-Pandarus part all through first; then read the Grecian-camp part all through ; and see

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. d. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. Ixxxi

 

.so much knowledge of life, in the play, such weighty reflection, that the Greek part of it must be
Third Period, not Second; while the plays with which it is allied in tone and temper are Timon and
Antony and Cleopatra. One link with Lear is seen in the lust of Cressid and Helen, like, tho’ less than,
that of Goneril and Regan. Ulysses plays on Achilles and Ajax just as Iago does on Othello, Cassio,
and Roderigo. Othello’s “ My life upon her truth” is like Troilus’s speech to Cressida in IV. iv.,
and Troilus’s bits about the sweetness of Cressid may be compared with Othello’s about Desdemona.
In Hector’s “ Honour dearer than life” of V. iii., we are reminded of Isabella’s words in Jeasure
for Measure and Brutus’s in Julius Cesar. While Andromache and Cassandra urging Hector not
to fight on the day of his death, are like Cesar’s wife and the soothsayer, urging him not to go to
the Capitol on the day of his murder. With Hamlet, too, we have slight links. Achilles’s ‘‘ here is
Ulysses: Dll interrupt his reading. What are you reading?” reminds us of Polonius and Hamlet;
and Troilus’s ‘“‘ Words, words, mere words” of Cressid’s letter, re-echo Hamlet’s. We have, too,
the “fan and wind of your fierce sword” to compare with the Player’s speech. With Romeo and
Juliet we have the link of the lovers waking after their night together, and both are waked by the
lark. And Troilus’s words, “Oh! that her hand in whose comparison all whites are ink,” match
Romeo's ‘‘ White wonder of dear Juliet’s hand.” With The Merchant we get Troilus’s comparison of
himself, a merchant sailing to fetch his pearl from her Indian bed, as Bassanio and many Jasons came
in quest of Portia to Belmont strand. Is it possible that Shakspere’s envy of Chapman, his rival, with
the “proud full sail of his great verse,” in his Will’s affection (Sonnet 86) had anything to do with
Shakspere’s deliberate debasing of the heroes of that Homer whom Chapman englisht? It is certain
that when he dealt with the same subject in his fine description of the painting of the siege of Troy
in The Rape of Lucrece, 1. 1366-1568, his tone is far different from what it is in his play. There is
no mention there of Cressid; the only wanton notist and condemnd is Helen, “the strumpet that
began this stir,” whose beauty Lucrece wants to tear with her nails, as Hermia does Helena’s in Jfid-
summer-Night's Dream. Troilus has only three words, “here Troilus swounds.”” The pathetic figure

_of the sad shadow of Hecuba’s beauty is touchingly dwelt on, asin Hamlet, and Shakspere, like
Lucrece, “ weeps feelingly Troy’s painted woes.’”’ On the other side, in Ajax’s eyes are only “blunt
rage and rigour” (1. 1398), while “the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Show’d deep regard and
smiling government” (1. 1399). Grave Nestor, with his sober action, and wagging beard, all silver
white, calms the quarrels of his Greeks, with golden words. And ‘for Achilles’ image stood his spear,
Griped in an arméd hand; himself, behind, Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.” Here is the
gallant warrior, not the selfish coward, of the play. The reader should set poem and play together ;
and consider too whether the treatment given to the subject in the poem doesn’t make against the
opinion I have hitherto given-in to, of the Troilus-Cressid part of the play being of the early Passion-
time group, 1591-4. The play needs a deal more work than has yet been given to it, so far at Jeast
as print shows. Troilus is no doubt a young fool in his first love for Cressid, yet note his admiration
of Helen’s beauty, and his superb metaphors in expressing it. Her—

“Youth and freshness
Wrinkles Apollo's and makes stale the morning.”

“She is a pearl, whose price has launched above a thousand ships,
And turnd crownd kings to merchants,”

In the latter of these, Shakspere but quotes his dead shepherd Marlowe’s magnificent apostrophe to
Helen, as before, his “ love at first sight” in 4s You Like It, and as in speaking of Cressid’s hand, to
‘‘whose soft seizure the cygnet’s down is harsh,” he no doubt again quotes Marlowe’s likening
Margaret to the “downy cygnets” in 1 Henry VI. But that Troilus deserves Ulysses’s most
favourable opinion of him, as given in his answer to Agamemnon, is evident. Troilus takes the
lead, and his opinion prevails in the council in Act II. as to whether Helen shall be given up. He
is the Trojan’s “second hope ;” and it would seem that he’s cured at last of his fondness for Cressid,
for he calls on the traitor Diomede to turn and fight for his horse and not for his love. Hector,
noble figure though he is, is yet made to prefer a school-boy notion of honour to the earlier
wisdom and patriotism of the man. Achilles is turned into at once a snob and a coward; he will
not fight Hector single-handed, but waits till he can set his myrmidons on him; his patriotism he
sets under his lust, or love, as he calls it; he will not fight his country’s enemies, “ honour, or go
or stay.” He is shown asa mean, big, lubberly, peevish boy, even more contemptible than the vain,
bragging fool Ajax. Notwithstanding the gleam of generosity on Nestor’s figure, and his pluck in
being willing to fight Hector if nobody else will; notwithstanding the fine tigure of Agamemnon,
great commander, marrow and bone of Greece, and the crafty, wise Ulysses, guiding all the threads

whether you don’t feel a contrast of power and handling that imply difference of Period. Still, there is oneness of tone
_ through the whole play ; there are touches of reflection in the love-part that I at present accept as early. I wait and
hope for further light on the play. Professor Dowden puts it next to Measure for Measure.

 

 
 

 

ixxxii §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. d. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

 

of the play, one turns without regret from this repulsive picture of the Trojan and Grecian
war.)

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.—We change from Troy to Egypt and Rome, from the false Cressid
to the false Cleopatra, from the deceived Troilus to the deceived and deceiving Antony, from the
bitter, clear-seeing Thersites, stripping heroes and legends of antiquity of their glory, to the equally
clear-sighted but happier-tempered Enobarbus, calmly explaining the character of his mistress, and
Philo, with equal penetration, analysing Antony, and lamenting his master’s infatuation. But while
Troilus and Cressida is lit by no light of sympathy from author or reader, save in the one scene of old
‘Nestor’s welcome to Hector in the Greek camp, on Axtony and Cleopatra Shakspere has poured out
the glory of his genius in profusion, and makes us stand by, saddend and distresst, as the noble
Antony sinks to his ruin, under the gorgeous colouring of the Eastern sky, the vicious splendour of
the Egyptian queen; makes us look with admiring hate on the wonderful picture he has drawn, certainly
far the most wonderful study of woman he has left us, of that Cleopatra of whom Enobarbus, who
knew her every turn, said—

“ Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Cloy the appetites they feed ; but she makes hungry
Her infinite variety : other women Where most she satisfies.”

That in her, the dark woman of Shakspere’s Sonnets, his own fickle, serpent-like, attractive mistress,
is to some extent embodied, Ido not doubt. What a superbly-sumptuous picture, as if painted by
Veronese or Titian, is that where Cleopatra first met Antony upon the river of Cydnus! How
admirably transferrd from Plutarch’s prose!?_ And how that fatal inability to say ‘“‘ No” to woman
shows us Antony’s weakness and the cause of his final fall.

The play is like Troilus and Cressida, not only in lust and false women (Cressida and Cleopatra)
playing such a prominent part in it, but in Antony’s renown and power, and selfish preference of
his own whims to honour’s call, to his country’s good, being the counterpart of Achilles’s. All the

1See Mr. Watkiss Lloyd's spirited and ingenious defence of the play in his Critical Essays, p. 217. Troilus and
Cressida was enterd in the Stationers’ Registers on January 28, 1608-9 :—

“Richard Bonion Entred for their Copy vnder th{e hJandes of Master Segar, deputy to Sir George Bucke, and master

Henry Walleys warden Lownes, a booke called the history of Troylus and Cressida . . . vja."—Arber's Transcript,

iii. 400.

It was publisht in 1609 by Bonian and Walley, first with a title not mentioning the play’s having been acted, and with
a preface : “‘ Eternal reader, you have here a new play never staled with the stage, never clapper-clawed with the palms
of the vulgar, and yet passing full of the palm comical,” &c.; next with a title ‘“‘The Historie of Troylus and
Cresseida. As it was acted by the Kings Maisties seruants at the Globe,” and without the preface. The
play must therefore have been first acted in 1609, between the issues of the lst and 2nd titles. The preface-writer
called the play a comedy: ‘‘ this author's comedies . . are so framed to the life, that they serve for the most common
commentaries of all the actions of our lives, showing such a dexterity and power of wit, that the most displeased with
plays are pleased with his comedies . . . Amongst all, there is none more witty than this . . . refuse not nor like this
the less for not being sullied with the smoky breath of the multitude: but thank fortune for the scape it hath had
amongst you, since, by the grand possessors [Burbage’s company’s] wills, I believe you should have prayed for them
(read it], rather than been prayed.” The Folio text seems to be printed from a corrected and altered copy of the Quarto
one (?). The source of Shakspere’s play may have been the old play of the same name by Dekker and Chettle, in earnest
of which the manager Henslowe lent £3 on April 7, 1599, and in part payment, 30s. on April 16, and ‘‘in full paymente
of the Boocke called the tragedie of Troylles and creseda—Agamemnone” being interlined over the name—£3 5s. on
May 30, 1599(Henslowe’s Diary, pp. 148, 149, 153). This old play may be that entered in the Stat. Reg. on Febr. 7, 1602-3,
‘“master Robertes. Entred for his copie in full Court holden this day, to print when he hath gotten sufficient aucthority
for yt, The booke of Troilus and Cresseda as yt is acted by my lord Chamberlens Men . . vj*” (Arber's Transcript, iii. 226);
but it is not likely, as the Lord Chamberlain’s (or Burbage’s or Shakspere’s) Company was a rival to that of Henslowe,
who “ Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 30 of Jenewary 1598, to descarge Thomas Dickers [Dekker] frome the areaste of
my lord Chamberlens men. I saye, lent, iij x*” (Diary, p. 143). _ If not, the 1603 play may have been a first sketch of
Shakspere's play. As Dyce says (Shaksp., vi. 2), it is unquestionable that parts of the play as we have it, ‘‘ particularly
towards the end, are from the pen of a very inferior dramatist” :—see specially Ulysses’s speech in V. v. 30-42, Hector's
in V. vi., all V. vii. and viii. Whether they belong to Dekker and Chettle’s old play (as Dyce suggests), or, as 1 suppose,
to some botcher of Shakspere,—for he’d hardly have left such patches on his own work,—each reader can judge for
himself. If Shakspere did not use an old play, he would no doubt take his Troylus-Cressid-Pandarus story from
Chaucer's beautiful poem, and his Greek and Trojan war story from Chapman’s Homer, Caxton’s Recuycll of the Historyes
of Troye, from Raoul le Fevre (of the revised edition of which, with ‘‘the English much amended by William Fison,”
a 2ud edition had been publisht in 1607), or Lydgate’s Hystorye, Sege and dystruccyon of Troye, 1513, 1555, from Guido di
Colonna. Thos. Paynell englisht Dares Phrygius’s Destruction of Troy, in 1553, and Robert Wyer translated Christine de
Pise’s Hundred Hystories of Troye about 1540. The Middle-Age poets all considerd Homer a liar, and Dares a trustworthy
historian, who had himself been at the Trojan war. See the amusing abuse of Homer in the Prologue to the alliterative
Destruction of Troy (from Guido di Colonna), publisht by the Early English Text Society.

2 Read this (Hazlitt, Pt. I., vol. iii., p. 344) with Shakspere’s lines. The whole of Antony's Life, the source of the
play, should be compared with Shakspere’s drama. (See too Courtcnay's Comment. on Hist. Plays, ii. 264.) The text of
the play appeard first in the Folio of 1623. The englisht Life of Octavius Cesar Augustus (compiled by 8. G. 8.
from Aimylius Probus, &c.) reprinted in Skeat’s Shakspere's Plutarch, pp. 230-277, Shakspere doesn’t seem to have used.
It did not appear till the 3rd edition of North’s Plutarch in 1603. Shakspere probably workt from the edition of 1579, if
he got from North’s Life of Theseus (/lazlitt, I. i. 15, 16, 28, 37) the names of Perigenia, Egle (Perigouna and Adgles
in North), Ariadne, and Antiopa, and Theseus’s falseness to their fair owners. Midsummer-Night's Dream, IT. ii. 19-21

(Skeat, p. xiii.). All the Lives in the 1579 and 1595 editions of North are from Amiot’s French translation of Plutarch.
The 1603 edition has 15 fresh Lives.

 

 

 
 

 

§12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. « CORIOLANUS. lxxxiii

 

characters are selfish except Octavia and Eros. Casar’s description of Antony as ‘‘a man who is the
abstract of all faults that men follow” is not far wrong. We were prepared by Judius Cesar for the
wildness in his, blood and the want of noble purpose in his ordinary pursuits; for his selfishness and
unscrupulousness too, by his proposal to sacrifice Lepidus. And though the redeeming qualities of
his nature were shown in his love for Cwsar, his appeal to the people for revenge, and his skill in
managing them, yet in his development, lust and self-indulgence prevail, and under their influence
he loses judgment, soldiership, even the qualities of a man. His seeming impulse towards good in the
marriage of Octavia lasts but fora time ; all her nobleness and virtue cannot save him. He turns from
- on of women to his Egyptian dish again, and abides by his infatuation even when he knows he’s
eceived.

To Cleopatra I despair of here doing justice. The wonderful way in which Shakspere has brought
out the characteristics of this sumptuous, queenly harlot!, even though he borrows his main lines
from Plutarch’s picture, goes far beyond all his previous studies of women. The contrast between
her and the noble Roman lady Octavia, to whom her wavering husband bears such favourable
witness, is most interesting, and prepares us for the next play. These last two, Z'roilus and Cressida,
and Antony and Cleopatra, make a Lust or False-Love Group. The next two form “the second
Ingratitude and Cursing Group.”

Cortotanus.—Another Roman play from Plutarch?; but how different in tone and colour from
the last! An interval of 520 years separates the deaths of the two heroes (Coriolanus’s was after
489 p.c.; Antony’s, 30 a.v.). Antony livd in the decay of public spirit, the growth of luxury in
Rome, and after his death Augustus became its frst Emperor. Coriolanus livd in Rome’s early
austere days, just when she’d driven the lustful Tarquin from his throne, and establisht the
Republic. And it was in the great battle against Tarquin endeavouring to recover the throne,
that Coriolanus won his first garland of oak. But it is rather in the heroines than the heroes that
the contrast of Antony and Cleopatra and Coriolanus is felt. Against the shifting colours of the
kaleidoscope of Cleopatra’s whims and moods, against the hail and storm of her passions, the lurid
glow of her lust, the fierce lightning of her wrath, rises the pure white figure of Volumnia, clad in
the dignity of Honour and Patriotism, the grandest woman in Shakspere, the embodiment of all the
virtues that made the noble Roman lady. It is the heaven of Italy beside the hell of Egypt. And
from mothers like Volumnia came the men who conquerd the known world, and have left their mark
for ever on the nations of Europe. Read her lines in their beautiful rhythmic prose, ‘“ When yet |
he was but | tender-bodied, | and the on | ly son | of my womb. | I . . was pleased | to let him | seek
danger | where | he was like | to find fame. | .. HadI | a doz | en sons, | each in | my love | alike, |
I had rather | had eleven | die nobly | for their country, | than one | volup | tuously | surfeit |
out of | action.” See her overcome her mother’s righteous indignation against her townsmen’s
injustice to her gallant son; see her on her knees to that son, for her country’s sake, pleading to him
for mercy to her native land, appealing to him in words that all Shakspere’s last plays echo and
re-echo to us: ‘ Think’st thou it honourable, for a noble man, still to remember wrongs?” see her
win her happy victory, and then return with welcome into Rome, its life; and then acknowledge
that no grander, nobler woman, was ever created by Shakspere’s art.

Her one fault, her son tells us of, her scorn of the common folk. And as his character was
moulded on hers, this fault he shared, but he wilfully greatend it, while his pride and self-love
stopt his reaching the height of his mother’s patriotism. ‘Flower of warriors,” as he is, ‘‘ his
nature (on one side) too noble for this world,” bravest of the brave, generous in his gifts, his pride
—as well of person as of birth—flaws and ruins the jewel of hisrenown. Treated with ingratitude—
base and outrageous though in his case it was—he cannot put his country above himself. As
Hotspur would third England, so Coriolanus would destroy Rome. His grip is on her throat when
his wife Virgilia, mov’d by the gods, stirs his mother to appeal to him. They are joind by
Valeria—

 

** The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian’s temple,”—

and they visit the Volscian camp. Coriolanus thought he was above nature, that he could hear
them unmoved. But mother, wife, and boy prevail. Coriolanus is himself again, and takes death,

1 When a friend of mine was in former days chaplain to a House of Mercy, he told me that what struck him most in
the women under his charge was the entire absence of self-control. Every impulse of passion, of feeling good or bad,
was yielded to on the instant ; everything was sacrificed to it. This quality was no doubt checkt in Cleopatra by a fox's
cunning, a determination to win and keep admiration, a great love of self; but it was her most prominent characteristic.

2 See the Life of Coriolanus reprinted in Hazlitt, I. iii. 257. Also see Courtenay, ii. 210. The text of the play was first
printed in the Folio «f 1623.

3 In fact, Cleopatra was a Greek, the daughter of Ptolemy Auletus by a lady of Pontus.

 

 
 

 

Ixxxiv §12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. «. TIMON OF ATHENS.

 

as he should, from the hand of his country’s foe, while his dear ones, unlike Portia, Cordelia, live on
in Rome. The ingratitude of the Roman citizens, the cursings of them by Coriolanus, prepare us for
the bitterer curses of the next play of this Group. *

Timon or ATHENS.—We change from Italy to Greece, from the Republic of Rome to the Republic
of Athens. But from Rome in her early legendary days, unlit by the genius of poet or philosopher, to
Athens in her palmiest historic time, sunnd with the glory of the greatest names in ancient literature
and art—Socrates, Plato, Sophocles, and Aristophanes; Xenophon, Thucydides; Phidias: all these
dwelt, in Alcibiades’s time, in Greece. But though the change in land, and light of memory, is great,
the burden of Shakspere’s Timon is still the same as that of his Coriolanus, the ingratitude of men :1—

* Blow, blow, thou winter wind ! Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky |
Thou art not so unkind Thou dost tot pie fe nigh
As man’s ingratitude ; s benefits forgot :
Thy tooth is not so keen, Though thou the waters warp,
Because thou art not seen, Thy sting is not so sharp
Altho’ thy breath be rude. ‘As friend rememberd not.”—As You Like It.

The curses of Coriolanus, Thersites, Lear, ring through the play, and no glorious figures of Volumnia,
Cordelia, rise to relieve its gloom. Indeed, except the unnamed ladies who dance, harlots alone are
the female characters of the play. One wishes it could be movd next to Troilus and Cressida, to
which it is closely akin in temper, so that Coriolanus, with its forgiveness for wrongs, and not revenge,
might be the transition play from the Third Period to the Fourth. In Timon the only respect-worthy
characters are Flavius, Flaminius, the first Stranger, and the Servant who calls Sempronius a villain.
The play wants action and characterisation, and is unequal, even in Shakspere’s part. One does not
wonder that he left it unfinisht, and let its completer do what he liked with it.2 Other links besides
its cursings, between it and Coriolanus are, Alcibiades taking revenge, by invasion, on Athens, as
Coriolanus does on Rome; the Senators’ ingratitude, and subsequent appeal for mercy, to the wrongd
invader, in each play. With Antony and Cleopatra, Timon is allied, by its story taken partly from
Plutarch’s Life of Antony (pp. 399-400, Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Library, Part I., vol. iii.3), by the name
Ventidius in both plays, by a certain gorgeousness of colour over the early part of Timon. Timon’s
gold-poison speech reminds us of Romeo’s to the apothecary. The completer’s Lucullus-talk in III. i.,
seems to me suggested by Shallow’s in 2 Henry IV., III. 1.

Shakspere gives us his own account of his play in the Poet’s description of Fortune waving
Timon to her hill-set throne and then spurning him, on which all his dependants let him slip down,
not one accompanying his declining foot.*

Timon is like Lear in thinking he can buy love with gifts. His character is weak and vain, as
we see by his foolish self-indulgence and ostentatious generosity; and his weakness is shown just as
strongly by his after-rushing to the other extreme, hate of all men, women, and children, and his
native land, because his own friends disappoint him. As Apemantus says :—

“This is in thee a nature but infected,
A poor unmanly melancholy sprung
From change of fortune.”

And even if we take his own account of his former state and the change in hin—
‘Myself who had the world as my confectionary,” &c. (Act IV., sc. iii.),

we see what a poor nature he must have had to be so affected by disappointment, how far short
of Orlando’s good sense and modesty, which would have taught him that he himself was the first
person he ought to have curst. He could not ask himself Volumnia’s question, ‘‘ Think’st thou it
honourable for a noble man still to remember wrongs?” Nor, as Apemantus said, had he ever known
the middle of humanity, but only the extremity at both ends. Richardson, an old critic of the play,

1 The plays in which Shakspere dwells specially on ingratitude are, in the First Period, Richard IT. and JIT. ; in the
Second, 1 & 2 Henry IV., Henry V., Twelfth-Night (by Viola in III. iv.); in the Third, Julius Cwsar, Lear, Antony and
Cleopatra, Coriolanus, Timon ; in the Fourth, The Tempest, Cymbeline, Henry VIII.

? The spurious parts are (probably) part of I. i, 189-240, 258-273 ; certainly I. ii. ; IT. ii, 45-124; all ITT. except vi.
86-102 ; IV. ii. 30-51 ; ili, 292-357, 398-410, 452-538 ; V. i. 1-59 ; V. iv. (New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 130, 242).

3 Mr. Hazlitt also prints :—1. Timon, a play anterior to Shakspere's (Part II.), but which he probably did not use;
2. The Life of Timon, from Painter’s Palace of Pleasure, 1566, vol. i., November 28 (Part I., iv. 395); 3. Account of Timon,
from Sir Richard Barckley’s Felicity of Man, 1598 (Part 1., iv. 398). Another passage mentioning ‘‘ Timon, surnamed
Misanthropos,” is in Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades, p. 296 of Skeat’s Shakspere’s Plutarch. ,

* In five earlier lines is a statement of extreme interest as to Shakspere's own generous spirit in his work (Prof.
Masson, in The Reader), so different from that of Greene, Marston, and the like :-—

“My free drift Infects one comma in the course I hold ;
Halts not particularly, but moves itself But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
In a wide sea of wax : no levell’d malice Leaving no tract behind.”

 

 
 

 

§12. REVIEW OF THE THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS. Ixxxv

 

notices as characteristic of Timon, his weak love of distinction, the ostentatiousness of his liberality,
his impatience of admonition, his liking of excessive applause; that his favours did no real good, only
gratified men’s passions or vanity; did not relieve the fatherless and widow, but poets, painters, great
men, his own attendants; that his gifts were profuse, in order to get profuse praise for them; that he
set too high a value on his gifts; that he got for them a due return; he thought he was acting from
pure motives, but he wasn’t, only from self-love; his friends felt this, and gave him back nothing in
return. Then he weakly turns on all men; he makes sure that he has discovered the best, and that
when they fail, all mankind are bad. Yet Shakspere sympathises with Timon, as always with the
sufferers, rather than with the practical Alcibiades, who takes the right means to revenge himself for
his countrymen’s ingratitude to him. ‘“ Apemantus (whose name means unharmed), why shouldst
thou hate men ?” asks Timon. He’s the professional cynic, affecting to despise feasts and rich folk,
yet really seeking and enjoying them. Though a despicable character, he yet utters truths, and
most wholesome ones, and gives us a sound analysis of Timon’s character. He’s a kind of Third-
Period Jaques. The play is clearly not all Shakspere’s. The two epitaphs in the play are both in
Plutarch’s Antony: the first, “ A wretched corse,” as on the tomb, and made by Timon; the second,
“Here lye I,” as made by the ‘poet Callimachus. May we not rightly put Timon and Coriolanus
together as “the second Ingratitude and Cursing Group ” of plays?

Before we deal with the Fourth-Period plays, let us cast a glance back over those of the Third
Period which we have just considerd. That Third Period opend in 1601, the year of the petted
Essex’s rebellion against Elizabeth; and we saw in Julius Cesar, not only Shakspere’s public lesson
of political wisdom (as in his early Historical Plays) to his countrymen, but also his private feeling
of that ingratitude, treachery, of the closest friend of his hero, that in his Third Period he so often
repeated. We saw illustrated, in the suicide of the misjudging, yet noble, Brutus, and the insanity
and suicide of his equally noble wife, the lesson of the Third Period, that (the generous are the
victims of the designing, and that) for all misjudgment and crime comes death to the misjudger, the
criminal,—if Brutus may be so calld,—and the innocent woman whose life is bound upin his. In
Hamlet we saw the bright and happy life of the young prince darkend by the lust and ingratitude of
his mother, eclipst by the revelation of his ungrateful uncle’s foul murder of his father; while on him,
more unfit than Brutus for his task, was laid the burden of revenge. We saw the many shirks from
doing his duty of which Hamlet was guilty, and yet how at lust, and as it were under the pressure of
that Providence that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will, the Danish prince in his own
death carried out the task his father set him, and again proclaimd that for weakness, misjudgment,
as well as crime, death is the penalty on the wrong-doer, while the sweet, weak Ophelia, who loved
him, shared his fate. We then turnd to Measure for Measure, and in this, the one so-called comedy of
the Period, we had a moral of like kind preacht: in the way you have sinnd, in the same shall
you be punisht: atonement you shall make, not shirk. And though this play was called a comedy,
we noticed the strong contrast of its gloom of lust and filth with the bright, health-giving, out-door air
of all but the last of Shakspere’s second-time comedies. Yet above this lust and filth rose, radiant as
a star, the figure of the “ ensky’d and sainted” Isabella, God’s handmaiden, who could not be unclean.
Othello came next: and we were let for a while—but oh, so short a one—to dwell on the sweet picture
of the hero’s winning, and wooing, and wearing his beautiful bride. But the treacherous, trusted
friend, “ honest Iago,” the devil in man’s shape, is soon at work, with his suggestion to Othello of that lust
which overshadowd Hamlet and Measure for Measure, and chaos has come again; the noble and generous
Moor is the easy victim of his “honest” friend; all Desdemona’s beauty and touching tho’ misjudging
innocence, are turned into evidences of her guilt, and she, the pure and guiltless, lies stifled on her
bridal bed by the husband who'd set his life upon her faith, Soon his own murderer’s hand lets out
his own life-blood: and again the terrible Third-Period lesson is enforced, for misjudgment, un-
reasoning jealousy, crime, death is the penalty: no time for repentance is allowd: the innocent must
suffer with the guilty. Macbeth comes next. The powers of another world are calld in to help
forward the ruin of two human souls ready to fall. For the first time Shakspere has unsext the
woman’s nature he so reverenct and lovd (Queen Margaret of 2 & 3 Henry VJ. is not his), and has made
ambition turn to gall, that mother’s love, with whose self-forgetfulness and pathos Constance’s heart-
wrung utterances still fill our souls. For the first time he has turnd—though here but for a while—
a woman to a demon. The traitor couple murder their king and friend. The act would, they
thought,—

“To all (their) nights and days to come,
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.,”

They’d ‘jump the life to come.” Yet, as Macbeth feard, “ We still have judgment here.” And so
they found it. One they were no longer. Sin kept them apart. Nights they had no longer. “ Macbeth,
sleep no more ;” “ You lack the season of all nature, sleep ;” “ All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten
this little hand.” Days of sovereign sway they had not; no joy, no calm content :—

 

 
 

 

Ixxxvi REVIEW OF THE THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS.

 

“ Better be with the dead,

Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,

Than on the torture of the mind to lie

In restless ecstasy,”—
but judgment here: death, under the pangs of conscience, for his wife ; death, from Macduft’s sword, for
Macbeth. In no play of the time is the lesson of the Third Period more directly preacht than in Macbeth.
The terrors and horrors of Lear follow. Two women are here unsext, and far more terribly than in
Lady Macbeth’s case. The ghoul-like lust and fiendish cruelty and ingratitude of Goneril and Regan
render them the most repulsive figures inall Shakspere. By their side stand Edmund (a second Iago:
what a contrast to the noble Bastard Falconbridge in John !), and Cornwall almost as bad. Ingra-
titude of daughters, treachery of a son—driving fathers to despair, to madness, and to death—
infidelity of a wife, plotting her husband’s death, and poisoning her sister, to gratify her own lust,
the heavens themselves joining in the wild storm of earthly passions, and witchcraft lending itself to
enhance their terrors. But still there rises above the foul caldron of vice the gracious figure
of Cordelia, who cannot lie; only, when the avenger comes, when judgment is given here, she, the
innocent, lies dead among the guilty. Troilus and Cressida comes next, with the bitter, foul-moutht
Thersites as its expounder and philosopher. The great early poem of the history of the western
world, still the delight of a Gladstone, is stript of all its romance; and the Trojan War is shown in
its bittterest, vulgarest reality, as a mere struggle for a harlot-wife, to gratify a cuckold-husband’s
revenge. Every one is mean, every onc acts from low motives. Ulysses is just a clever wire-puller,
Ajax a bragging fool, Achilles a petty, spiteful chief, who doesn’t even dare to meet his tired enemy
alone. Hector prefers a childish notion of honour to right, and patriotism, and good sense. Cressid,
so beautiful in Chaucer’s picture, is debased into a mere wanton. No light of nobleness is on the play
except in the short reception of Hector by Nestor in the Grecian camp. The end of the war is not
given; but Cassandra’s voice tells us it is at hand. Lust and selfishness still prevail, and the noble
misjudging Hector has judgment here,—

‘* He's dead ; and at the murderer's horse's tail,
In beastly sort, dragged thro’ the shameful field.”

Antony and Cleopatra comes next, with its gorgeous Eastern colour, its most wonderful study of a
woman that Shakspere ever made. Yct lust and orgies are its theme, the ruin of the noble soul who
so loved Cesar and revengd him. We saw how brilliantly he disproved Brutus’s mean estimate of
him; we heard the unstinted praise that his rival, Casar’s nephew, gave him for his daring, his
generous sharing of all his soldier’s hardships; we saw him tear himself from the arms of the superb
paramour who'd enthralld him, and wed that “ piece of virtue” (Caesar), that “ gem of women” (as he
called her), noble Octavia, and we hoped that his redemption was nigh. But alas, the lift was but
that his fall might be the greater. Again he betook himself to the poison of Cleopatra’s charms, and
under them lost all that men valuc most, judgment, honour, manliness, the courage that was his
boast, and sank to a dishonourd suicidal grave, the senseless victim of his paramour’s deceit}; while
she, from dread of vulgar taunts, died—theatrically-vain and ease-seeking to the last—the
gentlest death she could secure, that of asps’ bites on her breast. Coriolanus followd. The
noble, high-born warrior is ruind by class-pride. He cannot stoop to seek, at the hands of its
givers, the honour that his noble mother has so long longed-for for him, the honour that his
brilliant deeds of arms for them, his fellow-citizens, have won. He was born to rule them, not to beg
of them. And when, in their quick fit of ingratitude at his scorn—scorn almost as bitter as Thersites’s—
they turn on him, as they’d done before, from meaner motives on Brutus—the selfishness at the
bottom of all aristocratic pride comes out, Coriolanus puts himself, his own desire of revenge for
personal wrong, above his country, and joins her foes. Her life is already in his grasp, and he means
to take it, when the splendid figure of his mother—the grand Volumnia, who loves honour and Rome
above herself—kneels before him, and wife and boy help him to rise to his own true height, and for-
give, not revenge. “ Think’st thou it honourable fora noble man still to remember wrongs?” a prelude
of the coming Fourth Period. But, for his mistake, comes judgment here; Coriolanus dies by Volscian
hands. His innocents are not involvd with him. They live on in Rome. Lastly came Timon, with its
weakly generous, misjudging hero, giving his all to those whom he thought friends, finding them all
desert him in his hour of need, and then withdrawing, with curses on all mankind, to get out of the sight
of his fellow-men. “Tam misanthropos, and hate mankind.” And so he ends, “ who, alive, all living men
did hate.” He, too, has judgment here. ‘The gloom of the play is relievd by no gracious female figure—
two harlots, greedy for gold, are the only women introduced: and the faithful steward alone is true.
Now look at the mass of evil, of sacrifice of good to ill, of triumph of the base over the noble, that this
Third Period represents. Admit gladly that over all the hell-broth of murder, lust, treachery, ingratitude,
and crime, there rise the three radiant figures of Isabella, in her saintliness and purity; Cordelia, in

1 Antony runs on his own sword, Eros having first killed himself to avoid killing Antony.

 

— —_

 
 

 

§13. THE FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS OF RECONCILIATION. a. PERICLES. 1xxxvii

 

her truth and daughter's love; Volumnia, in her devotion to honour and her country: think, too, of
the one gleam of happy coming bridal between Isabella and the Duke. But look on the other side,
at Cesar, Brutus, and the noble Portia dead; Hamlet and Ophelia dead too; likewise Othello,
Desdemona and Emilia, Macbeth and his wife, Banquo, Macdutt’s wife and all his little ones, Lear,
Cordelia and eyeless Gloster, beside Regan, Goneril, Cornwall, Edmund, Hector’s gory corpse, Antony
self-slain, Cleopatra too, Coriolanus murderd, Timon miserably dead. Think of the temper in which
Shakspere held the scourge of the avenger in his hand, in which he felt the baseness, calumny, and
injustice of the world around him, in which he saw, as it were, the heavens as iron above him, and
God as a blind and furious fate, cutting men off in their sins, involving the innocent with the guilty.
Compare for a minute your memories of Shakspere’s patriotic brilliant Second Period. Set the
abounding, the overflowing happy life of that, against the bitterness, the world-weariness, of this
terrible Third Period, and then decide for yourselves whether this change in Shakspere was one of
artist only}, or, as I believe, one of man too; and whether many of the Sonnets do not help you to
explain it, with that “hell of time ” through which their writer past :—
“For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you have passt a hell of time.”—Sonnet 120, 1. 6.

Then turn to the Fourth-Period plays, and note.the change again of temper and of tone. True that
they deal with treachery, ingratitude, breach of family-relations, misjudgment, weakness. But where
is the avenger here? He is hardly seen. True that Cymbeline’s queen in her guilt, despairing,
dies. The fool Cloten is killd. The young Mamilius, under the burden of his base father’s
accusation of his noble (mother) Hermione, droops and dies: the one innocent life lost. But in
the main, the God of forgiveness and reconciliation has taken the avenger’s place; repentance, not
vengeance, is what he seeks. And of all the plays, death is not the end, but life. In three of them
the happy bridal life of such sweet girls as Shakspere never before drew, Marina, Miranda, Perdita; -
in one, the renewed married life of his queens of wifehood and womanhood, Imogen and Hermione ;
in one, the life of her who was to bring “ peace, plenty, love, and truth?” to the England that, with
all its faults, Shakspere lovd so well. You turn from the storm, the gloom, and the whirlwind of the
Third Period, and see in the Fourth ‘a great peacefulness of light,” a harmony of earth and heaven
—sweet, fresh, English country scenes. And here, too, I see the change, not of artist only, but also
of the nature of Shakspere himself in his new life in his peaceful Stratford home.

The passage from Shakspere’s Third Period to his Fourth always reminds me of the change in
Handel’s Israel in Egypt, from the magnificent series of the choruses of the plagues—among them, chief,
the gloom and darkness that might be felt, and the terrors of the oppressors’ cries for the death of (
their first-born—to the glad, spring-like, sylvan strain, ‘‘ But as for his people, he led them forth like
sheep.” (I hope all my readers know it.)

Pericites.—This play forms a fit opening for the Fourth Period, in its happy reuniting of the
long-separated family, father, mother, and daughter (Shakspere has now only two daughters, his
son died in 1596), and in Pericles’s flood of joy and gratitude at his finding wife and girl again,
sweeping away all thought of his intended revenge on his wrongers, Dionyza and Cleon. Pericles is,
like Timon, only partly from Shakspere’s hand. He wrote only the last three acts, less the prose
brothel scenes and the Gower choruses in them.3 As you read through the dull beginning acts, you
at once feel the change of hand when you come on the first words of Act III.: ‘‘'Thou God of this
great vast.” You see the birth of Marina, the supposed death and custing into the sea of her
mother Thaisa, the committal of the babe to Cleon’s treacherous wife Dionyza, the betrayal of her
trust by that harpy, and her persuading Leonine to murder Marina simply because she was more
beautiful than her own daughter. Then we see Marina rescued, but see, too, the despair of Pericles
on hearing of her (supposed) death, his three months’ silence, and then his recovery under his daughter’s
earnest pleas :—

“‘ Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,
The more she gives them speech.”

And then his great “sea of joys” rushing upon him when he is convinced of her existence ;
then, his first thoughts of vengeance postponed, his visit to the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, the

1 I do not admit as a sufficient answer, that which, of course, rises in one’s mind, that the change from Comedy to
Tragedy, and then to Romantic Drama, involvd this change of tone and temper, independent of the author’s own moods.
I feel that Shakspere’s change of subject in his different Periods was made because it suited his moods, the different ways
in which, on the whole, from Period to Period, he lookt on the world.

2 Fletcher's words to Shakspere’s plan.

3 Mr. Tennyson first pointed out this to me one Sunday in December, 1873. The fact is certain, See the New
Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, p. 252. On a question like this one cannot accept any foreigner’s opinion as of
weight. He cannot judge on it like an Englishman can, tho’ on other as important points he may lead us, and has led us.

 

 
 

Ixxxviii § 13. THE FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. a. THE TEMPEST.

 

high-priestess, his wife Thaisa, recognising him, and thus finding. husband and daughter at
once. ‘Per, Ye gods, your present kindness makes my past misery,” &c. ‘Thenceforth he
thinks only of their daughter’s marriage; vengeance is forgotten in his joy. Shakspere’s motive
in taking up the story was surely this reunion of father, mother, and daughter, and not
the early part, of Apollonius of Tyre’s incest with his child, which Chaucer reproacht Gower
for telling. Still, he may have meant to show us Marina by her purity and virgin presence
disarming the lust of men, thus giving us in her a Fourth-Period representative of the glorious
Third-Period Isabella. Gower’s version of the ancient legend was re-told in two prose forms
in Shakspere’s day!, and an expression or two in the 1608 one, “poor inch of nature,” &c., looks
like Shaixspere, and as if borrowd from a different version of the play to that which we now have.
(See Mr. Collier’s Introduction in Hazlitt, Part I., vol. iv., p. 240, &c.) One passage in Pericles
has for me a personal interest as regards Shakspere. Seeing with what contempt he treated the
apothecaries in the Errors and Romeo and Juliet, and how little notice he took of the Doctor in
Macbeth, we are struck with the very different character he gives to the noble, scientific, and
generous Cerymon here. He is a man working for the good of all, the kind of man that Bacon
would have desired for a friend. And recollecting that the date of this play is 1608 (or 1607), I cannot
help believing that Cerymon represents to some extent the famous Stratford physician ?, Doctor
John Hall, who, on June 5, 1607, married Shakspere’s eldest daughter Susanna. The great growth
in power shown in the contrast between the scenes of family reunion in Pericles and The Comedy
of Errors, between Shakspere’s Fourth Period and his First, I have alluded to above, p. xxv.
Pericles appeard in Quarto in 1609 (twice), 1611, 1619, 1630, 1635, and was printed from the sixth or
1635 Quarto in the second issue of the third Folio of Shakspere’s Plays, 1644, with six other fresh
plays, all spurious.

Ture Trempest.—We turn from the southern to the northern shore of the Mediterranean, from
Tyre, where Pericles was Prince, to Naples, where Alonso was King, to Milan, of which Prospero was
Duke. We change from Ephesus, where cruel Dionyza plotted her friend’s child’s death, to the fair
island in the Mediterranean, the creation of Shakspere’s brain*, where Prospero saved his foe’s child’s
life. But though the scene is changed, the Fourth-Period spirit of the Poet is the same. Volumnia’s
“‘Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man still to remember wrongs?” is still the burden of the
play; the reunion of separated members of a family, the reconciliation of foes, are still its subject, and
forgiveness, not revenge, its lesson :—

«The rarer action is The sole drift of my purpose doth extend

In virtue, than in vengeance : they, being penitent, | Not a frown farther.”—V. i.

Surely we may with justice stretch Gonzalo’s sentiment that we have found “all of us ourselves”
further than perhaps Shakspere’s use of the words will bear, and thus claim that the truth uttered in
them is ‘“‘ when we are not our own alone, when we are emptied of self, when we are most helpful
to others, then alone do we find our (true) selves.” No play brings out more clearly than The
Tempest the Fourth-Period spirit; and Miranda evidently belongs to that time; she and her fellow,
Perdita, being idealisations of the sweet country maidens whom Shakspere would see about him in his
renewed family life at Stratford. Of them what better can be said than my friend Mr. Phillpots has
said of Miranda, in his Rugby school edition of The Tempest. Differ tho’ they do, each is a phantom
of delight, the realisation of Wordsworth’s lines :—
‘Hers shall he the breathing balm, Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form
And hers the silence and the calm By silent sympathy.
Of mute insensate things.
“The stars of midnight shall be dear

“The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; and she shall lean her ear
To her ; for her the willows bend ; In many a secret place
Nor shall she fail to see, Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
E’en in the motions of the storm, And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.”
Turn back to the First-Period Midsummer-Night’s Dream, and compare with its Stratford girls, staind
with the tempers and vulgarities of their day, these Fourth-Period creations of pure beauty and
refinement, all earth’s loveliness filld with all angels’ grace; and recognise what Shakspere’s growth
has been. Note too that in all the first four Fourth-Period plays are lost daughters or sons.

1 The Patterne of Painfull Aduentures, by Lawrence Twine, 1576 (in 1 Hazlitt, iv., with Gower’s Apollonius of Tyre),
and a later tract by George Wilkins, whose title-page alludes to Shakspere’s play, ‘‘ The Painfull Aduentures of Pericles,
Prince of Tyre, being The True History of the Play of Pericles, as it was lately presented by the worthy and ancient poet, Iohn
Gower,” 1608. Wilkins’s tract has been reprinted in Germany. Mr. Hazlitt gives its ‘‘ Argument of the whole Historie,”
and list of “Names of the Personages,” I. iv. 243-7. The Life of Pericles of ATHENS, from North’s Plutarch, was
inadvertently put by Mr. Ilazlitt into his collection. There is no like life of Pericles of TyRE.

2 See his “Cures Performed upon very Eminent Persons in Desperate Diseases, put into English by James Cooke,” and
publisht in 1657.

3 No original of his story is known.

 

 
 

§13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. a. THE TEMPEST. b. CYMBELINE. lxxxix

 

The general consent of critics and readers identifies Shakspere, in the ripeness and calmness
of his art and power, more with Prospero than with any other of his characters; just as the like
consent identifies him, in his restless and unsettled state, in his style of less perfect art, with Hamlet.

‘When we compare Prospero’s

“We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep ”

with all the questionings and fears about the future life that perplext and terrified Hamlet and
Claudio, we may see what progress Shakspere has himself made in soul. The links of this play with
Pericles are the opening storm in each, Thaisa and Marina thought drowned or dead, and yet restored
to Pericles; Ferdinand, and Prospero, and Miranda thought drowned, and yet restored to Alonso ;
revenge forgotten by Pericles in the fulness of his joy, revenge overcome in Prospero by his willing-
ness to forgive. With earlier plays we can hardly help comparing the faithful, cheery Gonzalo
who provides Prospero and Miranda in their danger with clothes, and food, and books, with the
faithful Kent, and Gloster who provides Lear with a room and a litter to drive towards Dover. Caliban
is hinted at in Troilus (Act III., sc. iii., line 264), while Prospero’s speech to Miranda about the zenith
and the star, is like Brutus’s on the tide in the affairs of men. In his inattention to his government,
Prospero is like the Duke in Measure for Measure. With Hamlet we have the likenesses of Antonio
getting rid of Prospero and seizing his crown, to Claudius’s murder of Hamlet’s father and taking his
crown; and Prospero’s warning to Ferdinand that ‘the strongest oaths are straw to the fire in the
blood” like Polonius’s to Ophelia of the blazes when the blood burns, giving more light than heat.
But Prospero, unlike Hamlet, has been taught by the discipline of his island life, and as soon as
fortune gives him his first chance, he acts, and obtains his end. As a fairyland play, the links of The
Tempest with Midsummer-Night’s Dream are strong. But now it is no longer as in Shakspere’s youth,
that men and women are toys for fairies’ whims to play with; in his age the poet uses his magic to
wield the fairy-world and the powers of nature for the highest possible end—the winning back to
good, of human souls given over to evil. Contrast, too, for a moment, Oberon’s care for the lovers in
the Dream, with the beautiful, tender feeling of Prospero for Miranda and Ferdinand here. He stands
above them almost as a god, yet sharing their feelings and blessing them. Note, too, how his
tenderness for Miranda revives in his words, ‘‘ The fringed curtains of thine eyes advance,” the lovely
fancy of his youth, her “two blue windows faintly she upheaveth” (Menus and Adonis, line 482).
He has seized in Miranda, as in Perdita, on the new type of sweet country-girl unspoilt by town
devices, and glorified it into a being fit for an angels’ world. And as he links earth to heaven with
Miranda, so he links earth to hell with Caliban. In Caliban, too, and Gonzalo’s ideal commonwealth!
he no doubt gave utterance to the thoughts which the beginning of the newly-founded colonial
empire of England raised in him, and from the tracts about which in 1610 on the Bermudas and
Virginia, he took the storm and the much-vexed Bermoothes. The play preserves the unities of
time and place as well as that of action, to which alone Shakspere generally attends. The unity of
time required that the play should take in acting the same time as the events that occasion it; and
the action of The Tempest is comprised within three or four hours. The unity of place required that
the different scenes should be reachable by the characters in the same time, and here the only
distance to be travelled is from the sea-shore to Prospero’s cell. As in Pericles and Zhe Tempest, the
forgiveness is wholly on the men’s part—Pericles’ and Prospero’s—I propose to put these two plays
together as the first Group of the Fourth Period. The Tempest was first printed in the Folio of 1623.

CyrmBerLine.—If with The Tempest Shakspere meant to break his magician’s wand, to bury it
“certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet. sound” drown his book (Act V.,
sc. i., lines 54-7), he happily for the world alterd his mind. From his enchanted island in the
Mediterranean and its wise ruler self-controlld, he passt to Britain, and its king, the slave of
unreasoning passions. Yet it was not Lear’s savage island, but a half-civilised, Romanised one.
Still, like Lear, Cymbeline is a race-play, a Keltic one?; quick, unreasoning passion is yielded to by
every leading character, by Cymbeline when he believes two villains’ oaths against Belarius, and
banishes him; when workt on by his beautiful, flattering wife’s revenge against Posthumus, he
banishes him and almost curses his daughter Imogen; when under the influence of the same wife’s
ambition he refuses to pay Czesar’s tribute; when he at first yields to his impulse to avenge Cloten’s
murder, and dooms his son Guiderius to death; by his Queen, in her revenge on Posthumus, and
Imogen, and her own death; by Posthumus in his direction to kill Imogen; by Imogen in her
impetuous love for Posthumus, her pretty impatience to fly to Milford-Haven, her wish for death;

1 Taken from Florio’s englisht Montaigne’s Essays, 1603, extract in 1 Hazlitt, Pt. II., iv. 7, with the Search for the Island
of Lampedusa, from Harrington’s Ariosto, canto xli., a.D. 1591, ib., pp. 3-6.
2 See my friend Mr. Hales’s paper on Lear in The Fortnightly Review, for 1874?

 

 
 

 

xe §13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. b. CVMBELINE.

 

and by Belarius in his revenge of stealing Cymbeline’s sons, With the story of British legend
Shakspere wove one of those Italian novels he had so often used before, in which the quick resource
and turns of Iachimo (equal Iago) are like those of Proteus and the Duke in The Two Gentlemen of
Verona. It would seem as if after the effort of originality in The Tempest, as before in the Midsummer-
Night's Dream, he fell back on other men’s inventions. Here, too, we may say partly his own, for in
Cymbeline, Lear, Othello, §c., are freely used. Yet that it is a ripe play in thought, the lines—

“ Reverence, that angel of the world.”

“Those that I reverence, those I fear,

The wise "—
are enough to show, even if the metrical structure, the number of three syllables in one measure, did
not coincide with its lateness in purpose and character. The Fourth-Period doctrine, of repentance
for sin, and sin’s forgiveness, is the burden here; pardon’s the word for all. The Italian story is
from Boccaccio. Imogen is Madonna Zinevra; Bernardo Lomelin is Posthumus, and offers the wager,
Ambrogiuolo da Piacenza (for Iachimo) accepts it, and by bribing a woman friend of the wife’s gets
into her bed-chamber in a chest, comes out when she’s asleep, notes the furniture, &c., and the mole
beneath her left breast, with some six little hairs as bright as gold round it, and with this convinces
the hesitating husband, who writes to his wife to come to him, and charges his servant to kill her on
the road. The man lets her off, she assumes male dress, at last exposes Ambrogiuolo, and tortures
him to death, but forgives her husband. The story is also in the old French Loman de la Violette,
and Le Compte de Poiticrs, in the old French mystery play, Un Miracle de Notre Dame, and in the
English Westward for Sielts (1620), probably not used by Shakspere.! The links of Cymbeline are
strongest with Winter's Tale, and will be noticed in the comment on that play. Asin The Tempest,
we have the vices of the court and the virtues of the country contrasted. As in Lear, we have the
weak and passionate king, cruelly unjust to his noble daughter. The picture in Imogen’s room is
that of Cleopatra on the Cydnus, so gorgeously painted in Shakspere’s play. With Othello, driven to
jealous fury by Iago, we compare Posthumus in like case by Iachimo. With Imogen’s—
“ Against self-slaughter
“There is a prohibition, so divine, that cravens
My weak hand ”"—

we compare Hamlet’s—

“Oh, that the Everlasting had not fixt
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter.”

With Belarius’s account of country life and town we compare the Duke’s in As You Like It, and with
the description of how Imogen is to act the man, the like passages in ts You Like It, The Merchant,
and The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The lovely picture of Imogen in bed takes us back to that of
Lucrece; and the separation of Imogen and Posthumus to come together again, as she thinks, at
Milford-Haven, or at any rate her impatience to join her husband, may be contrasted with Juliet’s
passionate desire to have Romeo in her arms. As Cymbeline is mainly a fool, and his Queen
altogether a villain, we turn to the hero and heroine of the play, Posthumus and Imogen. And
although the accounts of the Gentleman in the first scene, and Iachimo in the fifth, lead us to expect a
perfect character, yet Posthumus shows himself, as he says, ‘‘ a most credulous fool,” sooner convinced
than Othello, unable to see how poor the evidence of his wife’s guilt is, till Philario shows him. He has
none of Othello’s noble wrath against his tempter, during the temptation scene; and his abuse of all
women on his false and groundless suspicion of one is mean. But his repentance is as full as his sin
has been greut. Once and again he desires death for Imogen. He feels that nothing is too great to
carry out his atonement for his sin against her. We wish we could have been spared his striking of
his page-wife to the ground, but it was because he thought she scorned herself; forgiven, he forgives,
and teaches Cymbeline to forgive too. Imogen is one of those characters whom it is impertinence to
praise. With all Juliet’s impetuous affection and wealth of fancy—

. “ E’er I could And like the tyrannous breathing of the North
Give him that parting kiss which I had set Shakes all our buds from growing,”"—
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, a

she is nobler, wiser far. To judge of her height above Posthumus, compare her receiving of
Iachimo’s assertions of Posthumus’s infidelity, with Posthumus’s receiving of those against her.
Note her noble indignation against Iachimo’s base proposals to her, in which the princess as well as
the wife speaks. Then the clever turn of Iachimo, and his instant pacifying of her by his praise of her

1 Holinshed has but little about Cymbeline that Shakspere uses. Hazlitt prints an extract, tho’ without the names
of the king’s sons, and the payment of the Roman tribute, in his Shakspere’s Library, Pt. I., vol. ii., pp. 194-6. See
also Courtenay’s Commentaries, vol. ii. Hazlitt likewise prints, I. ii. 179-193, abstracts of the French Violette,
Compte de Poitiers, and Miracle stories, and of Boccaccio’s Tale of Bernabo Lomellia of Genoa.

 

 
 

 

§13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. b. WINTER'S TALE. xei

 

husband. Passionate though her nature is, Posthumus yet bears witness to her restraint of him.
Her love for him again breaks out in her defence of him against Cloten’s abuse; and great is the
unconscious pathos of her words on her lost bracelet :—
“T hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.”

Her husband’s consciousness of her love is shown in his letter to her, like Antonio’s to Bassanio in
The Merchant—*+ What your own love will, out of this, advise you, follow.” She calls for a ‘‘ horse with
wings,” she who, like Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims, can only ride of miles “ one score ’twixt sun and
sun.” Then when, instead of clasping her husband in her arms, she hears his slander, whose edge
is sharper than the sword, her pathetic answer, “False to his bed! what is it to be false?” (like
Sonnet 61), prepares us for her willingness, like Viola’s, that her master’s bidding should be done,
and her life given up to his base wish. Then comes her meeting with her unknown brothers, her
death, like Juliet’s, for a time, and the song so little adapted to Euriphile but so fit for her, and in
part for Shakspere himself, that her brothers sing over her supposed corpse. But she rises again, not
like Juliet to sink into the grave, but to re-live her life more truly than before, the queen, the life, the
wife, of the husband she has lifted to herself, the daughter of the father of whose comfort she was
great part, the sister of the brothers to whom she had been as the sweet smell of eglantine.?

Winter’s Tare.—We turn from our murky Britain again to sunlit Sicily and the Mediterranean,
and though Mamilius tells us that—
‘A sad tale’s best for winter,”

yet, notwithstanding all Hermione’s suffering, and the death of her gallant boy, who used to frighten
her with goblin stories, we can’t call Shakspere’s MVinter’s Tale sad. It is so fragrant with Perdita
and her primroses and violets, so happy in the reunion and reconciliation of her and her father and
mother, so bright with the sunshine of her and of Florizel’s young love, and the merry roguery of
that scamp Autolycus, that none of us can think of The Winter's Tale as a ‘‘sad tale” or play.

The last complete play of Shakspere’s as it is, the golden glow of the sunset of his genius is
over it, the sweet country air all through it; and of few, if any of his plays, is there a pleasanter
picture in the memory than of Winter’s Tale. As long as men can think, shall Perdita brighten and
sweeten, Hermione ennoble, men’s minds and lives. How happily, too, it brings Shakspere before
us, mixing with his Stratford neighbours at their sheep-shearing and country sports, enjoying the
vagabond pedlar’s gammon and talk, delighting in the sweet Warwickshire maidens, and buying them
“ fairings,” telling goblin stories to the boys, ‘“‘ There was aman dwelt by a churchyard’, ”—opening his
heart afresh to all the innocent mirth, and the beauty of nature around him. He borrowed the impro-
bable story of his play from a popular tale by his old abuser Greene, Pandosto‘ (or Dorastus and Fawnia—
who is Perdita), of which the first edition in 1588 was followed by thirteen others, and which puts
the inland Bohemia on the sea-shore, as Shakspere does. This tale contains no original of Paulina
and Autolycus, or the reconcilation of Leontes and Hermione; the shepherd’s wife’s name is Mopsa;
the queen dies on hearing of the death of her son. Shakspere changes Bohemia for Sicily, and vice
versa. We must accept the medley and anachronisms of this play, as Hudson says, “ making
Whitsun pastorals, Christian burial, Giulio Romano, the Emperor of Russia, and Puritans singing
psalms to hornpipes, all contemporary with the oracle of Delphi.” ‘It is a winter’s tale, an old
tale,” and one must not object to confusions in it. It is Greene’s tale, informed by a new spirit,
instinct with a new life. ‘he play is late in metre, in feeling, in purpose. It has no five-measure
tyme in the dialogue, its end-stopt lines are only one in 2°12, its double-endings are as many
as one in 2°85; it has passages in Shakspere’s latest budding style, ‘‘ What you do, still betters
what is done,’ &c. Its purpose, its lesson, are to teach forgiveness of wrongs, not vengeance for
them; to give the sinner time to repent and amend, not to cut him off in his sin; to frustrate the
crimes he has purpost. And asin Pericles, father and lost daughter, and wife and mother thought
dead, meet again; as in Cymbeline, father and injured daughter meet again, she forgiving her wrongs;
as there, too, friends meet again, the injured friend forgiving his wrongs, so here do lost daughter,
injured daughter and injuring father, meet, he being forgiven; so injured friend forgiving, meets

1 Compare this with Othello’s like words on Desdemona. .

2 The play was first printed in the Folio of 1623. The vision must have been written by some one else than Shakspere.

3 Who will finish it for us? . :

4 Reprinted in Hazlitt’s Shakspere’s Library, Part I., vol. iv., pp. 18-83. Mr. Hazlitt suggests that Shakspere had also
an eye to Gascoigne’s englisht ‘ Phoenisse ” of Euripides, presented at Gray’s Inn in 1566, and printed in Gascoigne’s

. Works, 1573, 1575, 1587, (ed. Hazlitt, 1869-70) ; and that for the character of Autolycus he may have recollected the

amusing pedlar in the curious Book of Dives Pragmaticus, 1563 (reprinted in Mr. H. Huth's Fugitive Tracts, 1875), who sold
everything then known under the sun. Dr. Simon Forman saw Iinter's Tale performed at the Globe on May 15, 1611, as
we have noted above, p. xviii.

5 And none of Antigonus or the shepherd’s son.

 

 
 

 

xcii §13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. b. HENRY VIII

 

injuring friend forgiven; while above all rises the figure of the noble, long-suffering wife
Hermione, forgiving the base though now repentant husband who had so cruelly injured her. She
links this play to Shakspere’s last fragment Henry VIII., and makes us believe that this twice-
repeated reunion of husband and wife, in their daughter, late in life, this twice-repeated forgiveness
of sinning husbands by sinned-against wives, have somewhat to do with Shakspere’s reunion with his
wife, and his renewd family lite at Stratford. The Fourth-Period melody is heard all through
the play. We see, too, in The Winter's Tale the contrast between court and country, that The
Tempest and Cymbeline showed us. Plenty of other links there are, of which we will note only two:
First, one like the sword line at the end of Lear and Othello, “ Slander, whose sting is sharper than
the sword’s” (Winter’s Tale, II. iii. 85) ; Slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword” (Cymbeline,
IIT. iv. 35); and second, the clown’s clothes making the gentleman-born in Minter’s Tale, and Cloten's
‘Know’st thou me not by my clothes 2” In The Tempest we havea storm as here, while our play is
linkt to Othello by the king’s monomaniacal jealousy being like Othello’s, though here it is self-suggested,
not from without by an Iago. Paulina here is a truer Emilia: she steals no handkerchief: but the
ladies are alike in their love for their mistresses, and in their violent indignation, so well-deserved,
against their masters. The pretty picture of the two kings’ early friendship, which reminds us of
those of Celia and Rosalind in fs You Like It, and of Hermia and Helena in the Dream\, is soon
broken down by the monomania of Leontes’s jealousy, and the disgracefulness of his talking to his
boy Mamilius about his wife’s supposed adultery. His attempt to get Camillo to poison Polixenes
is more direct than even John’s with Hubert to murder Arthur, Richard’s with Tyrrel to strangle
the innocents, Henry the Fourth’s with Exton to clear Richard the Second from his path. His
sending his guiltless daughter to her death, and his insistance on his wife’s guilt and trial, are
almost madness too. But his repentance, like Posthumus’s, comes at last, and is, we hope, as real.
At any rate, he gets the benefit of Shakspere’s Fourth-Period mood, which has restord to him the wife
and daughter whom he never deserved. Hermione is, I suppose, the most magnanimous and noble
of Shakspere’s women ; without a fault, she suffers, and for sixteen years, as if for the greatest fault.
If we contrast her noble defence of herself against the shameless imputation on her honour,
with the conduct of earlier women in like case, the faltering words and swoon of Hero, the
few ill-starrd sentences of Desdemona, saying just what would worst inflame her husband’s wrath,
the pathctic appeal and yet submission of Imogen, we see how splendidly Shakspere has developd
in his last great creation. And when Camillo’s happy suggestion that Florizel should take Perdita
to Sicily and Leontes has borne fruit, and Shakspere,—forced to narrative, as in the news of Lear to
Cordelia,—unites father and daughter, and then brings both into union before us with the mother
thought so long a corpse and still u stone, the climax of pathos and delight is reached: art can no
farther go. Combined with this noble, suffering figure of Hermione, and her long-sundered married life,
is the sweet picture of Perdita’s and Florizel’s love and happy future. Shakspere shows us more of
Perdita than of Miranda ; and heavenly as the innocence of Miranda was, we yet feel that Perdita comes
to us with a swecter, more earth-like charm, though not less endowed with all that is pure and holy,
than her sister of the imaginary Mediterranean isle. On these two sweet English girls, bright with the
radiance of youth and love, the mind delights to linger, and does so with happiness, while sadness
haunts the recollection of Shakspere’s first great girl-figure Juliet, beautiful in different kind.

Not only do we see Shakspere’s freshness of spirit in his production of Perdita, but also in his
creation of Autolycus. That, at the close of his dramatic life, after all the troubles he had passed
through, Shakspere had yet the youngness of heart to bubble out into this merry rogue, the incarna-
tion of fun and rascality, and let him sail off successful and unharmed, is wonderful. And that
there is no diminution of his former comic power is shown, too, in his clown, who wants but some-
thing to be a reasonable man. With this play we close the genuine dramas of Shakspere, and have
now only two to deal with, of which he wrote parts, and of which his loose sheets must have been
handed to another man to complete and revise, as in the case of Timon.

Henry VIII.—That this is a play of Shakspere’s latest style is evident to any one who
really knows the characteristics of that style; the outward marks show it, no less than the inward
spirit. The frequent occurrence of the weak-ending2, which alone appears in any numbers in the
late plays, the many run-on and extra-syllable lines, the easy conversational flow of parts of the
dialogue, the difference between the rhetorical speeches here and in early historical plays, like John,
are all evidences of Shakspere’s latest style. While in characters, Queen Katharine and her unjust
husband are the match of Hermione and hers of The Winter's Tale. To wrench Katharine from

1 Note the likeness of Hermione’s how pretence of love will manage wives, to that of Luciana in the Errors.

2 Professor Ingram, of Trinity College, Dublin, has a paper on the weak- and light-endings in Shakspere in the New
Shaksp, Sve.’s Trans., 874. The 17 weak-endings are “and, as, at, but(=L, sed, and=ercept), by, for (prep. and conj.), from,
if, in, of, on, nor, or, than,that (rel. and conj.), to, with.” The 54 light-endings are ‘am, are, art, be, teeny but (=only),
can, could, did,! do,! does,! doth, ere, had,! has,! hath,! have,! he, how,? I, into, is, like, may, might, shall, shalt, she,

 

 
 

 

j
§13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. b. HENRY VIII. xeiii

 

Shakspere’s last time to his early second, as Mr. Swinburne would do, is like putting autumn fruit on
a tree in spring.

The only excuse for the folly of making Henry VIII. a Second-Period play, is the weakness
of many parts of that play; but it is abundantly clear that these weak passages, and the disappointing
effect of the whole play, are due to Fletcher}, and not to Shakspere. The great authority on this
question is my friend Mr. James Spedding, the able editor of Bacon. The suggestion of the view
supported by him with so much ability was made to him by Mr. Tennyson; it has been confirmed by
Mr. Browning, and supported by such able critics as Professor Ingram and Professor Dowden. On
the general question, Mr. Spedding observes :—‘‘ The effect of this play as a whole is weak and dis-
appointing. ‘The truth is that the interest, instead of rising towards the end, falls away utterly, and
leaves us in the last act among persons whom we scarcely know, and events for which we do not care.
The strongest sympathies which have been awakened in us run opposite to the course of the action.
Our sympathy is for the grief and goodness of Queen Katharine, while the course of the action
requires us to entertain as a theme of joy and compensatory satisfaction the coronation of Anne
Bullen and the birth of her daughter; which are in fact a part of Katharine’s injury, and amount to
little less than the ultimate triumph of wrong. For throughout, the king’s cause is not only felt by us,
but represented to us, asa bad one. We Acar, indeed, of conscientious scruples as to the legality of
his first marriage; but we are not made, nor indeed asked, to believe that they are sincere, or to
recognise in his new marriage either the hand of Providence, or the consummation of any worthy
object, or the victory of any of those more common frailties of humanity with which we can sym-
pathise. The mere caprice of passion drives the king into the commission of what seems a great
iniquity; our compassion for the victim of it is elaborately excited; no attempt is made to awaken
any counter-sympathy for him; yet his passion has its way, and is crowned with all felicity, present
and to come. The effect is much like that which would have been produced by The Winter's Tale if
Hermione had died in the fourth Act in consequence of the jealous tyranny of Leontes, and the play
had ended with the coronation of a new queen and the christening of a new heir, no period of remorse
intervening. It is as if Nathan’s rebuke to David had ended, not with the doom of death to the
child just born, but with a prophetic promise of the felicities of Solomon.

“This main defect is sufficient of itself to mar the effect of the play as a whole. But there is
another, which though less vital isnot less unaccountable. The greater part of the fifth Act, in which
the interest ought to be gathering to a head, is occupied with matters in which we have not been
prepared to take any interest by what went before, and on which no interest is reflected by what
comes after. The scenes in the gallery and council-chamber, though full of life and vigour, and, in
point of execution, not unworthy of Shakspere, are utterly irrelevant to the business of the play ; for

should, since, so (as),3 such (as), they. thou, though, through, till, upon, was, we, were, what,? when,? where?, which,
while, whilst, who,? whom,? why,? will, would, yet (=tamen), you.” [1 Only when auxiliaries. ? When not directly
interrogative. 3 And so = if only.] Here is an extract from Professor Ingram’s table of these endings in the late plays,
whose order alone they help to settle :—

 

 

 

 

No. of No. of No. of | Percentage | Percentage | Percentage
light- weak- Verse lines of light- of weak- of both
endings. | endings. in play, endings. endings. together.
Macbeth | 21 2
THMON & «4 a 15 2 1112 1°35 ?
Antony and Cleopatra . 71 28 2803 2°53 1:00 3°53
Coriolanus . . . . 60 44 2563 2°34 171 4:05
Pericles (Shakspere part). | 20 10 719 278 1°39 417
Tempest : : 42 25 1460 2°88 171 4°59
Cymbeline. . . . . 78 52 2692 2°90 1°93 4°83
Winter's Tale. . * . 57 45 1825 3°12 2°47 5°59
Two Noble Kinsmen (non-
Fletcher part) . . . 50 34 1378 3°63 2°47 610
Henry VIII. (Sh.’s part) . 45 37 1146 3°93 3°23 716

 

 

 

1 Mr. Swinburne’s assertion that the Fletcher part of the play containd none of that author's characteristic final
treble endings was so odd a blunder—like saying that there was no z in the alphabet—that I supposd it was an over-
sight, and pointed it out, with the evidence for its correction, in T’he Academy of January 8, 1876. But as Mr. Swinburne,
instead of acknowledging his blunder, defended it, and said the triple endings were double ones, I had to quote in The
Academy of January 29, 1876, all the instances in Shakspere and Milton for the use of one he had brought forward,
ignorance; and they of course showd that Shakspere used the word 24 times as a trisyllable to 4 times as a dissyllable,
while Milton used it always as a trisyllable, and had himself by anticipation answerd Mr. Swinburne’s assertion,
saying, by his last use of it, that it was not a dissyllable, ‘‘ Though so | esteemd | by shal | low ig | norance |.” (Comus,
514.) I believe that the student will be able to match, out of the Fletcher part of Henry VIIL, nearly every metrical
characteristic of that author, of which examples are given by Darley in his Preface to Beaumont and Fletcher’s Works.
Instances of the heavy 11th syllable I pointed out in my first Academy letter.

 

 
 

 

xciv §13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. b. HENRY VIII.

 

what have we to do with the quarrel between Gardiner and Cranmer? Nothing in the play is ex-
plained by it, nothing depends upon it. It is used only (so far as the argument is concerned) as a
preface for introducing Cranmer as godfather to Queen Elizabeth, which might have been done as a
matter of course without any preface at all. The scenes themselves are indeed both picturesque and
charactcristic and historical, and might probably have been introduced with excellent effect into a
dramatised life of Henry VIII. But historically they do not belong to the place where they are
introduced here, and poetically they have in this place no value, but the reverse.

“With the fate of Wolsey, again, in whom our second interest centres, the business of this last
Act does not connect itself any more than with that of Queen Katharine. The fate of Wolsey would
have made a noble subject for a tragedy in itself, and might very well have been combined with the
tragedy of Katharine; but, as an introduction to the festive solemnity with which the play concludes,
the one seems to be as inappropriate as the other. . . . . . . ;

“©T know no other play in Shakspere, which is chargeable with a fault like this, none in which
the moral sympathy of the spectator is not carried along with the main current of action to the end.
In all the historical tragedies a Providence may be seen presiding over the development of events, as
just and relentless as the fate in a Greek tragedy. Even in Henry IV., where the comic element pre-
dominates, we are never allowed to exult in the success of the wrong-doer, or to forget the penalties
which are due to guilt. And if it be true that in the romantic comedies our moral sense does some-
times suffcr a passing shock, it is never owing to an error in the general design, but always to some
incongruous circumstance in the original story which has lain in the way and not been entirely got
rid of, and which after all offends us rather as an incident improbable in itself than as one for which
our sympathy is unjustly demanded. The singularity of Henry VIII. is that, while four-fifths of the
play are occupied in matters which are to make us incapable of mirth,—

‘Be sad, as we would make you: think ye see Of thousand friends : then in a moment see
The very persons of our history How soon this mightiness meets misery !
As they were living; think you see them great, And if you can be merry then, I’ll say
And followed with the general throng and sweat A man may weep upon his wedding day,’—

the remaining fifth is devoted to joy and triumph, and ends with universal festivity :—

‘This day let no man think
He has business at his house ; for all shall stay :
This little one shall make it holiday.’

“Of this strange inconsistency, or at least of a certain poorness in the general effect which is
amply accounted for by such inconsistency, I had for some time been vaguely conscious; and I had
also heard it casually remarked by a man of first-rate judgment on such a point [Tennyson] that
many passages in Henry VIII. were very much in the manner of Fvetcher ; when I happened to take
up a book of extracts, and opened by chance on the following beautiful lines :—

‘Would I had never trod this English earth, 1 Shipwrecked upon a kingdom, where no pity,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me,
Ye have angels’ faces, but heaven knows your hearts, Almost no grave allowed me :—Like the lily,
What will become of me now wretched lady ? That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d,
Tam the most unhappy woman living. I'll hang my head and perish.’

Alas ! poor wenches, where ure now your fortunes ?

“Was it possible to believe that these lines were written by Shakspere ? I had often amused
myself with attempting to trace the gradual change of his versification from the simple monotonous
cadence of The Two Gentlemen of Verona, to the careless felicities of The Winter's Tale and Cymbeline,
of which it seemed as impossible to analyse the law, as not to feel the melody; but I could find no
stage in that progress to which it seemed possible to refer these lines. I determined upon this to read
the play through with an eye to this especial point, and see whether any solution of the mystery
would present itself. The result of my examination was a clear conviction that at least two different
hands had been employed in the composition of Henry VIII. ; if not three; and that they had worked,
not together, but alternately upon distinct portions of it.

‘This is a conclusion which cannot of course be established by detached extracts, which in
questions of style are doubtful evidence at best. The only satisfactory evidence upon which it can
be determined whether a given scene was or was not by Shakspere, is to be found in the general effect
produced on the mind, the ear, and the feelings by a free and broad perusal; and if any of your -
readers care to follow me in this inquiry, I would ask him to do as I did—that is, to read the whole
play straight through, with an eye open to notice the larger differences of effect, but without staying
to examine small points. The effect of my own expcriment was as follows :—

“ The opening of the play—the conversation between Buckingham, Norfolk, and Abergavenny—
seemed to have the full stamp of Shakspere, in his latest manncr: the same close-packed expression ;
the same life, and reality, and freshness; the same rapid and abrupt turnings of thought, so quick

 

ae 2 SS —~

 
 

 

 

§13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS. b. HENRY VIII. xev

 

that language can hardly follow fast enough; the same impatient activity of intellect and fancy,
which having once disclosed an idea cannot wait to work it orderly out; the same daring confidence
in the resources of language, which plunges headlong into a sentence without knowing how it is to
come forth; the same careless metre which disdains to produce its harmonious effects by the ordinary
devices, yet is evidently subject to a master of harmony; the same entire freedom from book-language
and common-place ; all the qualities, in short, which distinguish the magical hand which has never
yet been successfully imitated.

“In the scene in the council-chamber which follows (Act I., sc. ii.), where the characters of
Katharine and Wolsey are brought out, I found the same characteristics equally strong.

“ But the instant I entered upon the third scene, in which the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Sands, and
Sir Thomas Lovell converse, I was conscious of a total change. I felt asif I had passed suddenly out of
the language of nature into the language of the stage, or of some conventional mode of conversation.
The structure of the verse was quite different and full of mannerism. The expression became
suddenly diffuse and languid. The wit wanted mirth and character. And all this was equally true of
the supper scene which closes the first Act.

“The second Act brought me back to the tragic vein, but it was not the tragic vein of Shakspere.
When I compared the eager, impetuous, and fiery language of Buckingham in the first Act with the
languid and measured cadences of his farewell speech, I felt that the difference was too great to be
accounted for by the mere change of situation, without supposing also a change of writers. The
presence of death produces great changes in men, but no such change as we have here.

“When in like manner I compared the Henry and Wolsey of the scene which follows (Act IT.,
sc. ii.) with the Henry and Wolsey of the council-chamber (Act I., sc. ii.), I perceived a difference
scarcely less striking. The dialogue, through the whole scene, sounded still slow and artificial.

“The next scene brought another sudden change. And, as in passing from the second to the
third scene of the first Act, I had seemed to be passing all at once out of the language of nature into
that of convention, so in passing from the second to the third scene of the second Act (in which Anne
Bullen appears, I may say for the first time, for in the supper scene she was merely a conventional
court lady without any character at all), I seemed to pass not less suddenly from convention back
again into nature. And when I considered that this short and otherwise insignificant passage contains
all that we ever see of Anne (for it is necessary to forget her former appearance) and yet how
clearly the character comes out, how very a woman she is, and yet how distinguishable from any
other individual woman, I had no difficulty in acknowledging that the sketch came from the same
hand which drew Perdita.

“Next follows the famous trial-scene. And here I could as little doubt that I recognised the
same hand to which we owe the trial of Hermione. When I compared the language of Henry and of
Wolsey throughout this scene to the end of the Act, with their language in the council-chamber (Act I.,
sc. ii.), I found that it corresponded in all essential features ; when I compared it with their language
in the second scene of the second Act, I perceived that it was altogether different. Katharine also,
as she appears in this scene, was exactly the same person as she was in the council-chamber; but
when I went on to the first scene of the third Act, which represents her interview with Wolsey and
Campeius, I found her as much changed as Buckingham was after his sentence, though without any
alteration of circumstances to account for an alteration of temper. Indeed the whole of this scene
seemed to have all the peculiarities of Fletcher, both in conception, language, and versification, without
a single feature that reminded me of Shakspere; and, since in both passages the true narrative of
Cavendish is followed minutely and carefully, and both are therefore copies from the same original
and in the same style of art, it was the more easy to compare them with each other.

“Tn the next scene (Act IIL., sc. ii.) I seemed again to get out of Fletcher into Shakspere; though
probably not into Shakspere pure; a scene by another hand perhaps which Shakspere had only re-
modelled, or a scene by Shakspere which another hand had worked upon to make it fit the place. The
speeches interchanged between Henry and Wolsey seemed to be entirely Shakspere’s ; but in the alterca-
tion between Wolsey and the lords which follows, I could recognise little or nothing of his peculiar
manner, while many passages were strongly marked with the favourite Fletcherian cadence!; and
as for the famous ‘ Farewell, a long farewell,’ &c. though associated by means of Enfield’s Speaker
with my earliest notions of Shakspere, it appeared (now that my mind was open to entertain the
doubt) to belong entirely and unquestionably to Fletcher.

“Of the fourth Act I did not so well know what to think. For the most part it seemed to bear
evidence of a more vigorous hand than Fletcher’s, with less mannerism, especially in the description

1 As, for instance :-— 5 2
‘Now I feel Ye appear in everything may bring my ru | in!

Of what base metal ye are moulded,—En | vy. Follow your envious courses, men of mal | ice:
How eagerly ye follow my disgra | ces Ye have Christian warrant for them,’ &.

As if it fed ye, and how sleek and wau | ton

 
 

 

xevi §13. HENRY VIE §14. DOUBTFUL PLAYS. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

 

of the coronation, and the character of Wolsey; and yet it had not, to my mind, the freshness and
originality of Shakspere. It was pathetic and graceful, but one could see how it was done. Katharine’s
last speeches, however, smacked strongly again of Fletcher. And altogether it seemed to me that
if this Act had occurred in one of the plays written by Beaumont and Fletcher in conjunction, it
would probably have been thought that both of them had had a hand in it.

“The first scene of the fifth Act, and the opening of the second, I should again have confidently
ascribed to Shakspere, were it not that the whole passage seemed so strangely out of place. I could
only suppose (what may indeed be supposed well enough if my conjecture with regard to the authorship
of the several parts be correct) that the task of putting the whole together had been left to an inferior
hand; in which case I should consider this to be a genuine piece of Shakspere’s work, spoiled by
being introduced where it has no business. In the execution of the christening scene, on the other
hand (in spite again of the earliest and strongest associations), I could see no evidence of Shakspere’s
hand at all; while in point of design it seemed inconceivable that a judgment like his could have been
content with a conclusion so little in harmony with the prevailing spirit and purpose of the piece.”

Mr. Spedding then dealt with the evidence of the metre of the play, and applied the extra-syllable
test, and I (in 1873) the end-stopt-line test, with the following result :—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Act. Scene. Lines. | Extra Syll.| Proportion. Author. Unstopt Line.

I. i. 225 63 1 to 3-5 Shakspere 1 to 1°83

ii. 215 74 is 29. “ 9 l8ée

iii. & iv. 172 100 sr. EE Fletcber 5, 3°84

II. i 164 97. a 6 ie sy 296

ii. 129 77 » 16 aig 9 «843,

lil. 107 41 5 2276 Shakspere yi 228%

iv. 230 72 « ol re i 218

III. 1s, 166 119 ay 1S Fletcher » 483
Vii. 193 62 3 8 Shakspere ee

ill. 257 152 » 16 Fletcher » 348
IV. i. 116 57 ee » oe
ii. 80 51 « 10 Re :

i oa | st | tee . ax 288

V. i. 176 68 ee) Shakspere 3 «2°28

ii. 217 115 ‘eS Fletcher » 4:77

iii. (almost all prose or rough verse) ” » 501

iv. 37 «| 644 Lg, 16 9 5 641

 

 

 

In short, the proportion of Shakspere’s double endings was 1 to 3, of Fletcher’s 1 to 1:7; of Shak-
spere’s unstopt lines, 1 to 2°03, of Fletcher's 1 to 3-79, both tests making Shakspere’s part of the play
his latest work. Mr. Spedding’s division of the play between Shakspere and Fletcher was confirmed
independently by the late Mr. S. Hickson, in Motes and Queries, ii. 198, August 24, 1850: and by Mr.
Fleay, in New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, Appendix, p. 238. It may be lookt on as certain.
The length to which this discussion has run prevents me from dwelling on the noble character of
Katharine, who, with her pleadings for the unjustly oppresst poor, the dignity and forbearance with
which she meets crushing misfortune, her forbearance to her rival, and her forgiveness to her ruffian
husband is, as Mrs. Jamieson says, in one sense ‘“ the triumph of Shakspere's genius and his wisdom.”
Though it seems very hard to take from Shakspere, Wolsey’s last speeches, yet that they are
Fletcher’s in manner, the evidence shows. He may, of course, have workt on hints left in Shakspere’s
MS., which was handed to him. Those who believe that Fletcher wrote no prose, can cut the porter’s
scene up into rough, irregular verse, no worse than some of Fletcher’s.

Tur Two Nonie Kinsmen.—This play and Edward ITI. have been included in this edition
at my request, because so many critics of the first rank have declared in favour of part of The Two
Noble Kinsmen being Shakspere’s, while Mr. Tennyson has committed himself to the opinion? that at
least the king and countess scene in Edward JIJ. is by the same master’s hand. This latter
opinion I do not share, though I am content to believe that Shakspere took some part in The Two

Noble Kinsmen. The play was first printed in 1634: “THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN:

1 To exit of the King. The rest of ii. is made ini.
2 An off-hand opinion after once reading of the play. I hope and believe that it will not be permanent.

 

 
 

§14. DOUBTFUL PLAYS. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. xevii

 

Presented at the Blackfriers by the Kings Maiesties servants, with great applause: Written by the
memorable Worthies of their time, fe eee Gent. Printed at London by Tho.
Cotes, for John Waterson: and are to be sold at the signe of the Crown, in Pauls Church-yard, 1634.” We
have no other external evidence either for or against Shakspere’s authorship, as the play no doubt
remaind in the custody of Fletcher (d. Aug. 28, 1625) and his representatives, and was never available
to the Editors of the First Folio. Internal evidence can then alone decide the question as to whether
Shakspere wrote any part of the play. The metrical evidence is, I think, conclusive, that there are
two hands in the play. Mr. Fleay and I examined it by the extra-syllable and stopt-line tests on the
scheme which Mr. Hickson proposed, that Shakspere designd the underplot as well as the main part
of the play, and wrote Acts I.; II. i.; III. i., ii.; IV. iii. (prose); V. all but scene ii.; while Fletcher
wrote the rest, as Hickson thought was shown by its weakness when compard with Shakspere’s part,
and its more frequent use of the extra final syllable. ‘The double-ending test and the end-stopt-line
test, show, that while in the supposd 1,124 Shakspere-lines in the play there are 321 with extra
final syllables or double endings—that is, 1 in 3°5, and only 1 line of 4-measures—in the 1,398 Fletcher-
lines there are 771 with double endings, or 1 in 1°8, nearly twice as many as in the supposd Shakspere,
and 14 lines of 4-measures. Also in the supposd Shakspere’s lines the proportion of unstopt lines to end-
stopt ones is 1 in 2°41, while in Fletcher’s it is 1 in 6°53.1 See Appendix to New Shakspere Society’s
Transactions, 1874, where Mr. Spedding’s and Mr. Hickson’s Papers are reprinted. But the great
question is whether the whole of the part assigned to Shakspere by Mr. Hickson or even by Professor
Spalding is by our great dramatist.

The following scheme shows where Professor Spalding and Mr. Hickson, and the latest editor
of the play, my friend Mr. Harold Littledale 2, agree, and where they differ :—

Prologue

FLETCHER (Littledale).
Act I., se. i.

SuaxsPere. Spalding, Hickson (Bridal Song
not Shakspere’s : Dowden, Nicholson, Lit-
tledale, Hargrove, Furnivall 8).

55 se. ii SHAKSPERE. Spalding (Shakspere revisd by | SHakspERE and FLETCHER,
Fletcher: Dyce, Skeat, Swinburne, Little- or Fletcher revisd by |
dale). Shakspere. Hickson. be

sis se. lii., iv. SuakspPeReE. Spalding, Hickson, Littledale.

33) Sc. V. SHAKSPERE. Spalding, ?Shakspere, Hickson. | ?FLeTcHer. Littledale.

Act Il, sc. i. (prose). ‘4SHaxspere. Hickson, Coleridge, Littledale. | *FLETcHER. Spalding, Dyce.

35 se. ii, iii, iv., FuercHer. Spalding, Hick-

: v., vi. son, Littledale.
Act IIL, sei. SHAKSPERE. Spalding, Hickson.

35 se, ii. genes a Hickson (not Fletcher, Fur- | *FLEtcHEerR. Spalding, Dyce.

nivall).

se. iii., iv., v., vi.

>

Act IV., se. i., ii.

FLETCHER. Spalding, Hick-
son, Littledale.

FLetcHeR, Spalding, Hick-

5 son.

4SHAKSPERE, 4FLETCHER. Spalding, Dyce.

. ii Hickson.

” se.
Act V., sce i. (includes SHAKSPERE,

Spalding, Hickson, &c.

Weber’s se. i., ii, iii.)

?lines 1-17 by FLETCHER.
Skeat, Littledale.

 

“3 se. li. FiercHer, Spalding, Hick-
son, &c.
3 se. iii., iv. SHAxKsPERE. Spalding, Hickson, &c., with
a few lines FuercHer. Se. iv. (with
FLETCHER interpolations. Swinburne,
Littledale).

 

Epilogue FLetcuEer. Littledale.
Professor Spalding’s able ‘‘ Letter on Shakspere’s authorship of The Two Noble Kinsmen,—publisht
in 1833, and reprinted by the New Shakspere Society in 1876, with Forewords by myself, a life of the
author by Dr. J. Hill Burton, the Historian of Scotland, and an able note by Mr. J. Herbert Stack,—is

1 Mr. Hargrove has kindly tabulated the proportions in Henry VIII. and The Two Noble Kinsmen from the figures in
the New Shakspere Society’s Transactions, with slight corrections. But he says they need revision :—

Hewry VIII. ' Two Nosie KInsMEN.
: Shakspere. Fletcher. Shakspere. Fletcher.
Total number of lines .. 1146. 1467. 1095. 1426.
Unstopt lines .« | 575, or lin 2°03 |415, orlin  3°79|| 517, orlin 21 | 27l,orlin 5°26
Light endings... .. .. 45, or 1 in 25°5 7, or lin 209 60, or lin 21 3,orlin 445

Weak endings.. . 37, or 1 in31 1, or 1 in 1467 34, or Lin 32 1, or lin 1426
Double endings .. .. .. | 380, orlin 3°16 |863,orlin 177 || 321,orlin 3-4 |77l,orlin 19
2 See his reprint of the quarto, and Pt. I. of his revised edition, in the New Shakspere Society books for 1876. The
text in the present volume is his.
% I cannot get over Chaucer's daisies being calld ‘‘smelless but most quaint.” The epithets seem to me not only
poor, but pauper: implying entire absence of fancy and imagination.—F. ‘‘Chough hoar” is as bad though.—H. L.
4 Here Professor Spalding and Mr. Hickson differ.

 
 

 

xevili §14. DOUBTFUL PLAYS. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

the leading authority on the play. The Letter convinced Hallam and Dyce; but these writers
were not aware of a fact which I did not find out till 1 had become assurd that Professor Spalding’s
letter assignd too much of the play to Shakspere—that Professor Spalding himself had, with
further reflection, modified his own early judgment, and had in 1840 (Edinburgh Review, July,
No. 144, p. 468) declard that his opinion “is not so decided as it once was,” and in 1847
(Edinburgh Review, July, 1847, p. 578), that “the question of Shakspere’s share in this play is
really insoluble.” Still every student of the play should read Professor Spalding’s well-reasond,
keen, and brilliant letter, as well as Mr. Hickson’s article alluded to above. Professor Spalding
contrasts the broken and pauseful versification of Shakspere with Fletcher’s smoother end-stopt and
double-ending lines. He finds in The Two Noble Kinsmen many of Shakspere’s images and his very
words, as well as the energy, obscurity, abruptness, and brevity of his late plays, while in other paris
of the play he shows that there is the diffuseness, the amplification, and delicacy of Fletcher. As

instances of Shakspere’s metaphors he quotes ‘“‘ what man thirds his own worth?” ‘“ Let us be widows
to our woes,” “ Our kind air, to them unkind,” ‘‘ Her arms shall cors/et thee,” ‘‘ unpang’d judgment,”
“*Our Reasons are not prophets, “Give us the bones
When oft our Fancies are” (V. v), Of our dead kings that we may chapel them,”

and the like. Then he finds in one part of the play the active imagination of Shakspere, hardly ever
indulging in lengthened description, whereas in other parts or scenes are Fletcher's poverty of metaphor
and his romantic and picturesque descriptions. He contrasts, too, Shakspere’s ireatment of mythology
with Fletcher’s, and shows the difference in the two poets. Then he contrasts Shakspere’s tendency
to reflection, and his active and inquiring thought, his practical worldly wisdom, the mass of general
truths he puts into his writing, with the want of these characteristics in Fletcher. Shakspere’s
faults of conceit and quibbles, too, with their resistless force, he contrasts with the slow elegance
and want of pointedness in Fletcher, who is also almost guiltless of plays on words. Then he shows
how Shakspere differs from Fletcher in his personification of Grief and Time, Strife and War, Peace
and Love, Mercy and Courage, Reason and Fancy, &c. He also shows what a firm grasp of imagery
Shakspere has as contrasted with Fletcher, and again how the choice of the simple story must have
been Shakspere’s, who belongd to the old school, and not Fletcher’s, who belongd to the new
school of involvd and invented plots. Shakspere relied on characterisation and avoided spectacles.
He kept in this play the two moving passions of Love and Jealousy always in the front, which
Fletcher could not have done. ‘The harmony of its parts was, too, an idea beyond Fletcher’s. The
shrewdness and good sense of the characters were so likewise. And, on the whole, Professor
Spalding concluded that Shakspere wrote the scenes assignd to him in the table above, viz., Act. I.,
Act IIIL., sc. i.; Act V., except sc. ii. While reading Professor Spalding’s enthusiastic and able
argument, backt by his well-chosen quotations, it is difficult to resist his conclusions. But when
you turn to the play and read it by yourself or aloud with a party of friends, then you begin to
doubt. Professor Spalding himself hesitated on further reflection, as we have seen. He was from
the first obliged to admit that in Shakspere’s specialty, characterisation, the play was weak. He
could not have denied that whereas in one part the character of Chaucer’s Emilia, the huntress
seeking no marriage-bed, is rightly seized; in another she is turnd into a kind of foolish waiting-
maid, not knowing which of her suitors she loves, and fearing that Palamon may be wounded and
get his figure spoilt:— ., Areite may win me, The spoiling of his figure. Oh, what pity

And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to Enough for such a chance !”

If the student accepts the theory of Shakspere’s taking anything like a half share in the play, he
must yet allow that portions of his work and conception were afterwards spoilt by Fletcher. The
comparison of Chaucer’s Anight’s Tale, the source of the play, with the play itself, is in no way
to Chaucer’s discredit. The fear expressed in the Prologue that Chaucer’s bones might shake on
hearing a possible hiss at the play on its first production has a certain justification. That the play
opens finely with the woes of the three queens, that Palamon’s speech in the temple (Act V.) is very
fine, one gladly admits. But there is nothing else to match Chaucer’s description of the foes engaged
in the tournament, of the adornments of the building where it was held; nor can the sketch of Emilia
in the play be set for a minute beside Chaucer’s lovely picture of Emilia in the garden. The
repulsiveness of the under-plot, whose details are due to Fletcher, detracts terribly from the effect of
the play as a whole. The under-plot, as Mr. Stack has noticed, is not interwoven with the main
plot. It might, as he says, “be altogether omitted without affecting the story. Theseus, Emilia,
Hippolyta, Arcite, Palamon, never exchange a word with the group of Jailer’s Daughter, Wooer,
Brother, Two Friends, and Doctor. And Palamon’s only remembrance of the Daughter's services is,
that at his supposed moment of execution he generously leaves her the money he had no further
need of, to help her to get married to a remarkably tame young man who assumes the name of his
rival in order to bring his swectheart to her senses.” Mr. Stack says also, “I should incline to the

 

 
 

 

 

§14. DOUBTFUL PLAYS. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. xcix

 

middle opinion, that Shakspere selected the subject, began the play, wrote many passages, had no
under-plot, and generally left it in a skeleton state; that Fletcher took it up, patched here and there,
and added an under-plot; that Fletcher, not Shakspere, is answerable for all the departures from
Chaucer, for all the under-plot, and for the revised play as it stands.’”” This is as far as any one i :
can rightly go, I think. My present feeling is to substitute “some” for the word “many” in the ;
passage above, and to suggest that Beaumont or some one who modelled himself on the run-on lines

of Shakspere’s later time, as Fletcher did on the extra-syllable lines, wrote much of the work in
this play assignd by Spalding (at first) and Hickson to Shakspere.

On the source of the play, Mr. Harold Littledale has kindly sent me the following note :— The
Two Noble Kinsmen.—The source of the play which has been reprinted in our volume under this name
is the Knightes Tale, in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales ; and a comparison of play and poem will show how
closely the original story has been adhered to in the structure of the main plot. Unlike many of the
plays which Shakspere took in hand, we have no evidence, beyond the vaguest conjecture, to suggest
that this play has been based on an earlier drama on the same subject. We know that in 1566 a play
called Palemon and Arcyte, by Richard Edwardes, was performed before Queen Elizabeth at Oxford,
but certain indications make it pretty clear, though this play has perished, that it can have had little
likeness to The Two Noble Kinsmen, and may rather have resembled the Damon and Pythias (Hazlitt’s
Dodsley, vol. iv.) of the same author. Wood’s account in the Athene Oxonienses mentions the play
several times, but the following passages, communicated to Nicholls, the historian of Elizabeth’s
Progresses, by Mr. Gutch, from Wood’s MSS., are more detailed, and clearly show that Edwardes's
play and the play before us must have differed so materially as to make it almost certain that the
authors of the latter can have known nothing of the former. Part of the play was performed on
Sept. 2, 1566, when « scaffolding fell, and three lives were lost. Wood continues :—‘ Sept. 4, 1566.
At night the Queen was present at the other part of the play of Palemon and Arcyte, which should
have been acted the night before, but deferred because it was late when the Queen came from dispu-
tations at St. Mary’s. When the play was ended, she called for Mr. Edwards, the author, and gave
him very great thanks, with promises of reward, for his pains: then making a pause, said to him and
her retinue standing about her, this relating to part of the play : ‘“ By Paleemon, I warrant he dallieth
not in love when he was in love indeed; by Arcyte, he was a right martial knight, having a sweet
countenance, and a manly face; by Trecatio, God's pity, what a knave it is; by Perithous, throwing
St. Edward’s rich cloak into the funeral fire, which a stander-by would have stayed by the arm
with an oath, he knoweth his part, I warrant.’’ In the said play was acted a cry of hounds in the
Quadrant, upon the train of a fox in the hunting of Theseus, with which the young scholars, who
stood in the windows, were so much taken (supposing it was real), that they cried out, “ Now, now!
—there, there !—he’s caught, he’s caught!” All which the Queen merrily beholding, said, “O,
excellent! those boys, in very troth, are ready to leap out of the windows to follow the hounds!”

. . . +] In the acting of the said play there was a good part performed by the Lady Amelia,
who, for gathering her flowers prettily in a garden there represented, and singing sweetly in the
time of March, received eight angels for a gracious reward by her Majesty's command,’ &c.
I have given the foregoing account as fully as my limits would permit, as I believe it has never
hitherto been pointed out, and it eliminates Edwardes’s play from the possible sources of the
Shaksperian Drama. Unfortunately we have not such explicit evidence on the remaining possible
source of this play. Mr. Dyce (Shakspere, vol. viii., p. 118, ed. 1876) says: ‘. . . we learn from
Henslowe’s Diary that a piece entitled Palamon and Arsett was acted several times at the Newington
Theatre in 1594. ([Diary, pp. 41, 43, 44, ed. Shake. Soc.] Mr. Collier conjectured that the last-
mentioned piece may have been a rifacimento of Edwards’s play, and that in 1594 Shakespeare may
have introduced into Palamon and Arsett those alterations and additions which afterwards “ were
employed by Fletcher in the play as it was printed in 1634.” But I suspect that the Palamon and
Arsett of 1594 was a distinct piece from the academical drama of 1566; and I cannot persuade myself
that the ‘“‘Shakespearian”’ portions of The Two Noble Kinsmen were composed so early as 1594,—
stamped as they everywhere are with the manner of Shakespeare's later years.’ As this play of
1594 has perished, we are unable to say whence the authors derived the under-plot: they have no
hint of it in Chaucer (v. Knightes Tale, 1. 610); and they may either have invented it, or elaborated it
from the 1594 play. ‘The question of authorship may be said to have been competently pronounced
on for the first time by Charles Lamb, followed by Coleridge, who both declared strongly for
Shakspere’s share in the work. De Quincey also confidently supported the same view. Against
this array of opinion William Hazlitt stands forth pre-eminent. These writers proceeded, however,
by no systematic method of examination, and merely pronounced as they felt, that the hand of
Shakspere, well known as it was to them, was, or was not, to be found in the work. But the first
systematic analysis of the work, in which the evidence is fairly stated, was Professor Spalding’s Letter,
&c.”’—as noticed above. (On the Oxford performance of Palemon and Arcyte, see my Harrison, p. liv.)

 

 
 

 

c §14. EDWARD III. (NOT SHAKSPERE’S).

 

Epwaxrp THe Turrp.—This play was publisht in 1596 with the following title : “The | Raigne of
| King Edward | the Third: | As it hath bin_sundrie times plaied about | the Citie of London.
London, | Printed for Cuthbert Burby, 1596.” It was entered in the Stationers’ Registers, on the 1st of
December, 1595.1 There were other editions of it in 1597, 1609, 1617 (and 1625). The play was there-
fore well known and popular. But it was not put into any folio of Shakspere’s works, not even into
the third and fourth, which containd seven New Pieces or doubtful plays; and this, though Cuthbert
Burby was the publisher of two genuine Shakspere quartos, the first of Love's Labours Lost in 1598,
and the second (the first genuine one) of Romeo and Juliet in 1599, which were both used for the
Folio, the Love's Labours Lost one directly, the Romeo and Juliet one thro’ its reprint in 1609. The
play is not in Meres'’s list of Shakspere’s works in 1598; and it is therefore certain that Edward III.
was not known as Shakspere’s during his life, nor was his writing it ever suggested till nearly
150 years after his death. In 1760, Capel reprinted and publisht it as “thought to be writ by
Shakspere.”2 There is, therefore, no external evidence in favour of Shakspere’s authorship of the play.
On the contrary, the external evidence is dead against that authorship. The argument for our poet
having written the play must therefore proceed from within ; and the question is, what does the in-
ternal evidence prove? A few wild, untrustworthy folk contend that Shakspere wrote the whole play.
Against them the internal evidence is clear. It is impossible that Shakspere at any time of his life
can have been guilty of the faults this drama contains, at the same time that he could have produced
its beauties. First, the play has no dramatic unity. It is made up of two halves. It has two distinct
plots, that of the King and Countess, and that of the King and the Black Prince and the wars.
The plots are not interwoven with one another, after Shakspere’s invariable manner; the first is a
mere episode, and simply stops the action and progress of the main plot. Secondly, there’s great
want of characterisation throughout the play, except in the King and Countess episode; all the
characters talk in the same high, exaggerated strain. Thirdly, there’s no humour, no wit, and no
comedy. Fourthly, there’s a high moral tone forced on the notice of the audience and reader. Fifthly,
there are such weak bits as—

“But, soft, I hear the music of their drums,
By which I guess that their approach is near.”
Sixthly, there are absurdly inconsistent and mixed metaphors and similes like—

““The snares of French ike emmets on a bank Entangled in the net of their assaults,
Muster about him ; whilst he lion-like, Frantie’ly rends and bites the woven toil,” &c.
Like the prince’s—
“Now, Audley, sound those silver wings? of thine,
And let those milk-white messengers of time
Show thy time’s learning in this dangerous time.”

(Are the silver wings, Audley’s moustachios, or words of ancient wisdom, or what 4 P)

“Wither, my heart, that like a sapless tree “A slender point
I may remain the map of infamy?” Within the compass of the horizon
As 'twere a rising bubble in the sea,
_Or as a bear fast chain’d unto a stake.”
Seventhly, there are exaggerated and incongruous descriptions. Take the description of the sea-
fight,—-

“« Purple the sea ; whose channel fill’d as fast Here flew a head, dissever’d from the trunk ;
With streaming gore, that from the maimed fell, There mangled arms, and legs, were toss'd aloft ;
As did her gnsning inoisture break into As when a whirlwind takes the summer dust
The cranny'd cleftures of the through-shot planks : And scatters it in middle of the air.”

Recollecting that this is part of a mariner’s speech, it will be perhaps a sufficient specimen of the
bombastic show-off passages that abound in the play and are quite inconsistent with the speaker’s
character, and which not even the Sergeant's talk in Macbeth can allow us to consider Shakspere’s.
One other instance I may cite which is worthy of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine,—

“What, may I do, Or that it were restorative, command
To win thy life, or to revenge thy death ? A health of king's blood, and I'll drink to thee.”
If thou wilt drink the blood of captive kings,

There are plenty more instances of like kind in the play, though certain poetic power must be allowed

1 “Cutbert Burby. Entred for his copie vnder the handes of the wardens A book intitled Edward the Third and the
Blacke Prince, their warres with kinge John of Fraunce . . . . vj4—Arber’s Transcript, iii. 55.

2 It must be rememberd that Capel also thought the non-Shakspere Titus Andronicus genuine. As Farmer says:
“Capell thought Edward III. was Shakspere’s because nobody could write so, and Titus Andronicus because every body
could! Well fare his heart, for he is a yewel of a reasoner !|”"—Var. Shaksp., xxi. 881.

3 Delius reads “strings.”

‘Perhaps the writer was thinking of the Homeric érea mrepdevra. Silver refers to the sweetness of Audley’s
eloquence. Milk-white messengers are his grey locks which have brought with them experience.—W. G. 8.

 

 
 

 

§14. EDWARD III. (NOV SHAKSPERE’S). ci

 

to the writer; his tendency to show off is effective when put into Audley’s mouth in Act IV., sc. iv.,
the description of the French at Cressy, &c.; yet any one who attributes all the stilted nonsense in this
play to Shakspere may be safely written down ass, for this opinion, however clever on other points
he may be. We come, then, to those more moderate and sensible critics, who contend that the King-
and-Countess Act alone is Shakspere’s. And I willingly grant them that the Act is worthy of the
young Shakspere, and that it is worth an effort to try and secure for his early time so noble a figure
as that of the true English woman and wife, the Countess of Salisbury, to set against the Margaret
of Henry VI., or the more colourless female characters of the other historical plays before King
John. But one has to look at the evidence; and the first thing that strikes one is this, was Shakspere,
who was above alla dramatist, was he likely to put even into another man’s play a whole act, twenty
pages in the Tauchnitz edition, having nothing to do with, nay, stopping, the action of that play ?
Next, was he who took all the facts, the groundwork of bis historical plays from Holinshed’s and
other chronicles (though he followed the old King John when he recast it), was he likely to go for
any facts in the lite of one of our heroic kings, Edward IIL., to an English translation of an Italian
novel, which turned the Earl and Countess of Warwick into panders to betray their married daughter’s
virtue, and which made the Countess of Salisbury Edward’s queen!? I cannot believe it. Further,
is it likely that when in the almost parallel scene, recast in Part III. of Henry VJ., near the time
when Edward ITI. was written,—is it likely that when humour was put into the courtship of Lady
Elizabeth by Edward IV., humour should have been kept out of Edward III.’s courtship of the
Countess, if Shakspere had anything to do with it? But it is argued that there are many echoes of
Shakspere’s previous plays in the King and Countess episode, and also many echoes of lines in this
episode in Shakspere’s after work, while Sonnet 94, line 14, quotes from Act II., sc. i, here, its
“ Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.”

I admit that Shakspere must have read and been impresgt by this Act, perchance saw the play
acted. But I cannot admit that the Act is his. Admirable as many of its parts are, there is a con-
tinuous strain throughout it, which to me is not Shakspere’s. Its want of relief, too, isnot his. Its
want of connection with the rest of the play, its giving four pages of talk on the stage, where action is
required, to the composition of the king’s love-letter, is not his. And I submit.that it is not my duty
to prove the negative; it is the business of the advocates of Shakspere’s authorship of this scene to
prove the affirmative. We must not assume that there was no known author of Marlowe’s school
except himsclf.2 There were, doubtless, one-play men in those days, as there have been one-book men
since. As at present advised, I refuse to admit the episode as Shakspere’s. The story of the Episode
is founded on Froissart’, and the history of it has some interest, for, as my friend Prof. Guizot pointed
out to me, Froissart* first believed in Jean le Bel’s story that Edward III. had used force and violated
the Countess. Then when he came to England, he inquired right and left as to the truth of the story,
and having found it, set it down. But the story was deliberately rejected by Shakspere’s authority,
Holinshed, as it was afterwards by Barnes in his History of Edward III., p. 251. But Bandello,
the Italian story-teller, saw what an admirable tale it would make, and he re-told it®, but did all he
could to spoil it, with his long affected love-makings, reflections, and love-letters. He invented the
secretary and the letters; he turned the lady’s father and mother into panders to her; he killed her
husband ; he made her offer to stab herself, or be killed by the king; and then made the king offer to
marry her, and actually marry her; after which, as the English translation says, “shee was conveyed
up into a publick place, and proclamed Queene of England, to the exceedinge gratulacion, and ioye

1 The writer of the Episode in Edward IIT. rejects Bandello’s pander-mother, and killing the Earl of Salisbury, and
making the Countess Queen. He also sweeps away a lot of Bandello’s rubbishing talk ; but he doubles the Countess’s
dagger. My friend Mr. W. G. Stone, of Walditch, and I are slowly preparing an edition of the play and its originals for
the New Shakspere Society.

2 Can't the King and Countess episode be his ?

3 1. 98, ed. 1812. From him Gratton tells the story (without Bandello’s additions, of course) in his Chronicle,
i, 354, ed. 1809.

4 “Vous avés bien chy dessus oy parler coumment li roys englés fu enamourés de le comtesse de Sallebrin. Touttes-
foix, lez cronikez monseigneur Jehan le Bel parollent de ceste amour plus avant et mains convignablement que je ne
doie faire ; car, se il plaist 4 Dieu, je ne peusse ja 4 encoupper le roy d’Engleterre, ne le comtesse de Sallebrin, de nul
villain reproche. Et pour continuer J'istore et aouvrir le verité de le matére, par quoy touttez bonnez gens en soient
apaisiet et sachent pourquoy j’en parolle et ramentoy maintenant ceste amour, voirs est que messires Jehans li Biaux
maintient par ces cronikes que li roys englés assés villainnement usa de ceste damme et en eult, ce dist, ses vollentéz si
comme par forche : dont je vous di, se Dieux m’ait, que j’ai moult repairiet et converssé en Engleterre, en J’ostel dou roy
principaument, et des grans seigneurs de celui pays, mes oncques je n’en oy parler en nul villain cas ; si en ai je demandé
as pluisseurs qui bien le sceuissent, se riens en euist esté. Ossi je ne poroie croire, et il ne fait mies a croire, que ungs si
haux et vaillans homs que li roys d’Engleterre est et a esté, se dagnaist ensonnier de deshonnerer une sienne noble
damme ne un sien chevalier qui si loyaument I’a servi, et servi toutte se vie: si ques (ores en avant de ceste amour je
me tairay.”--Froissart, ed Luce. MS. d’Ainiens, III. 293. (Soc. de l'Histoire de France.) See Notes, p. cxxvi.

5 In La Seconda Parte de le Novelle del Bandello; Lucca, M.D.LIIII., Novella XXXVIII., fols. 228-254. The
Countess’s name is ‘‘ Aelips ;” her father is ‘‘ Ricciardo, Conte de Varuccia.” The French versiou does not follow the
original accurately.

 

 
 

 

cil §14. SUMMARY OF THE PLAYS. §15. SHAKSPERES LIFE AFTER 1592.

 

incredible, of all the subiectes” (I.199). The Italian story was very freely translated by Boaistuau in
his Histoires Tragiques, Extraictes des Guures Italiennes de Bandel, and this was englisht by William
Painter in his L’alace of Pleasure, 1575, vol. i., leaves 182 to 199, the forty-sixth novel. We may
note in the play the double repetition of the leading idea of the King-and-Countess sceene—a man won
from intended baseness by the appeal of a nobler nature: first, Prince Charles of France by Villiers’s
appeal to him; second, King John of France by his son Prince Charles’s appeal to him.

In no other play is there any real pretence that Shakspere took part. The so-called “ doubtful
plays,” excepting the two above treated, have not a trace of him in them. I do not think that the
substituted piece by a different hand in Sir Thomas More, pp. 24-9, ed. Dyce, Old Shakesp. Soc., is
Shakspere’s, or that the leaves 8, 9, of the MS. Harleian, 7,368, on which it is written, are in Shak-
spere’s hand. (Some four years ago I took the opinion of the best MS. men in the Museum on the
latter point, and discusst the Shakspereanness of this part of the play with some of the best men I
knew. We all agreed that there was nothing necessarily Shaksperean in it, though part of it was
worthy of him.’ (It was the Edward JII. King-and-Countess scene over again.) But this portion
of Sir Thomas More is so far better than the rest of the play, that Mr. Spedding wishes to know what
other dramatist than Shakspere could have written it.)

‘We have now gone through the series of Shakspere’s works, have seen him begin with those that
suited youth, skits on the Londoners’ fashions and follies, showing his Stratford clowns on the London
stage, dealing with love and its vagaries, starting into fancy, incorporating all his country lore in
Puck and his companions, first stepping on to the ground of Italian story in The Two Gentlemen of
Verona, then bursting into a fervour of passion in Romeo and Juliet, and his early poems; passing
thence to history, to speak his mind to his countrymen on the disputes that rent England asunder in
his time. Then again, falling back with renewd power on Italian story, and first taking his due
lead before all other men in The Merchant of Venice, then sinking almost his history in the humourful
comedies of Fulstaff and the brilliant plays of the Second Period that succeeded them ; then, troubled
in heart himself, as we see in his Sonnets, disappointed in his affection for his friend who was his all,
cast off by his dark mistress, passing the hell of time of which he speaks to his friend when they were
reconciled again, and during this time no doubt giving to the world those tragedies in which he laid
the burden of life on souls too weak to bear it, in which he let noble men be drawn to their ruin by
temptations from without, by suggestions from within, in which he showd ingratitude eating the
hearts of father and of child, in which he let lust lead its noble victims to their death, in which he
showd all old-world glory and honour but a sham, in which at last he made Timon curse all man-
kind; and then we saw him, no longer wiclding the scourge of vengeance, but acting as the minister
of reconciliation, passing from his time of terror to one of peace, and in Prospero, Posthumus, Imogen,
Hermione, Queen Katharine, forgiving injuries for which of old he would have exacted death. And
in this temper we find him, after leaving the scenes of his trials and triumphs in London, enjoying as
a boy again the sweet sights and sounds of his native home.

§ 15. In 1592 we had to face the question of what Shakspere had then written to provoke
the sneers of the dying reprobate, Robert Greene, our poet’s predecessor, and perchance teacher, in
comedy. And having once enterd on the subject of the succession of Shakspere’s plays, and the
means by which it was made out, we could not well leave it till we'd workt it thro’. It took us from
1592 to 1613, and gave us Shakspere’s mental and spiritual life during that time. Now we've to put
together the few facts of his and his family’s outward life that still survive to us.

1 Take the best bit, More’s remonstrance against the citizens’ outbreak to turn out the aliens, p. 27 :—

“More, Graunt them remoued, and graunt that this your | What had you gott? T'le tell you: you had taught
noyce How insolence and strong hand shoold prevayle,

Hath chidde downe all the maiestie of Ingland ; How ordere shoold be quelld ; and by this patterne
Ymagin that you see the wretched straingers—- Not on | = one] of you shoold lyve an aged man ;
Their babyes at their backes, and their poor lugage,— For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought,
Plodding tooth’ ports and costes for transportacion, With sealf same hand, sealf reasons, and sealf right,
And that you sytt as kinges in your desyres, Woold shark on you ; and men, lyke ravenous fishes,
Aucthoryty quyte sylenct by your braule, Woold feed on on { = onc] another.”

And you in rulf of your opynions clothd :

It’s a strong man’s work assuredly. The picture of the plodding aliens with babies and luggage on back, while their
oppressors “sit as kings in your desires »» . And you in ruff of your opinions clothd ;” that ‘“ shark on you,” the
later uplifting of the office of the king, and the leading the majesty of law in leash, to slip him like a hound, certainly
justified my late sweet-natured friend Richard Simpson in suggesting that these More insertions were Shakspere’s, and
do justify Mr. Spedding’s arguing that they are so still, specially as the play was one of Shakspere’s company’s, and the
alteration in it was made hurriedly by direction of the Master of the Revels, Sir E. Tylney. But when we note that the
allusions in the play fix its date to 1586, as Mr. Simpson acknowledgd, when Shakspere was probably at Stratford, that the
humour in the insertion is not distinctively his, that another scene, the one between Lady More and her son-in-law and
daughter, pp. 75-6, ed. Dyce, is also much above the level of the rest of the play, and yet neither specially Shaksperean
nor a Jater insertion, we are justified in declining to hold as his the first insertion on pp. 24-9. Mr, Simpson's letter on
the question is in 4 Notes and Queries, viii. 1, and Mr. Spedding’s in x. 227.

 

 
 

 

§15. FOUR PERIODS OF SHAKSPERE’S LIFE. HIS SON’S DEATH, 1596. ciii

 

I divide Shakspere’s life—like his plays—into four Periods: (1) from his birth, in 1564, to his
leaving Stratford for London in 1587 (%), the Home-Period; (2) from 1587 to 1599, when he was
taken as partner in the profits of the Globe, the Period of Struggle to Success; (a. 1587 to 1592,
unrecorded, 4. 1592 to 1599, recorded) ; (3) from 1599 to 1609, or whenever else he left London, the
Period of Triumph or Assured-Success ; (4) from his return to Stratford 1609 (?), to his death, 1616,
the Period of Renewd Family Life, or Peace.

II. a. The Plays I suppose to have been written by 1592 are Love's Labours Lost, The Comedy of
Errors, Midsummer-Night's Dream, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Romeo and Juliet, a few passages
in Titus and Andronicus, and the Temple-Garden Scene in 1 Henry VI. These are the only records
of his life during the first part of his Period of Struggle. Now for the second part.

II. b. In 1693 began, no doubt, Shakspere’s visits to his publisher, Richard Field}, in St. Paul's
Churchyard’, when Venus and Adonis was enterd in the Stationers’ Registers, and publisht. It was the
acting of Romeo and Julict, and the issue of the Venus and Luerece, that first brought Shakspere fame ;
and a tradition, reported by Rowe as coming from Sir William Davenant, states that Lord Southampton,
to whom these two poems were dedicated, ‘‘ at one time gave him [Shakspere]a thousand pounds to go
through with a purchase which he heard he had a mind to.” But though the gift is likely enough,
its amount has no doubt been exaggerated, seeing what £1,000 meant then. 2On the night of
December 28, 1594—one of a week’s entertainments at Gray’s Inn—Shakspere and Bacon were no
doubt present in Gray’s Inn Hall together at the performance of the former’s Errors: ‘‘ After such
sports, a Comedy of Errors (like to Plautus his Menechmus) was played by the players: so that night
was begun, and continued to the end, in nothing but confusion and errors; whereupon it was ever
afterwards called The Night of Errors.” (Gesta Graiorum, p, 22, ed. 1688 (in Dyce) ; Nichols’s Progresses
of Queen Elizabeth, iii. 262; Spedding’s Letters and Life of Bacon, i. 326.) ‘‘From a paper now
before me, which formerly belonged to Edward Alleyn the player, our poet appears to have lived in
Southwark, near the Bear-garden, in 1596,” says Malone in his Inguiry into the Authenticity of
Certain Papers, &c., p. 215. This paper having disappeard, one of the modern Shakspere forgers
provided another of like kind in its place, among the Dulwich College papers, and Mr. J. P. Collier
printed it ; but its sham was soon detected. Qn August 11, 1596, as I have noticed under King John,
p. xli, above, Shakspere’s only son, Hamnet (baptised February 2, 1585), died, and was buried at
Stratford, “1596, August 11th. Hamnet, filius William Shakespere”’ (Neil). That his son’s death
must have been a great blow to Shakspere, as well as a father as a man wishing to found a family,
we cannot doubt. That he had the ambition of being recognised as a gentleman in his own town and
county is clear, He was like Walter Scott and so many other Britishers in this, following the
hereditary instinct, poor though it is, of his Anglo-Saxon forefathers, that what constitutes a free man
is the possession of land: landed, free ; landless, thrall. And though his father on January 26, 1596,
had by a deed, in which he is described as John Shakespere, yeoman, sold part of the ground
belonging to his Henley Street (or birthplace) property to George Badger for £2, ‘we find in the
Heralds’ College a dratt grant. of arms to this John Shakspere, as a gentleman, dated the 20th
October, 1596, which, notwithstanding the doubt formerly thrown on it, The Herald and Genealogist,
Part VI., pp. 503-6 (cited by Dyce, Shakspere, 1866, p. 21), inclines to think was executed. We know
that then, as now, men rising or having risen in the world could, and did, buy arms for themselves,
with, often, forgd pedigrees attacht to them. Harrison says in 1577-87, pp. 128-9 of my edition :—
“Gentlemen whose ancestors are not knowen to come in with William duke of Normandie (for of
the Saxon races yet remaining we now make none accompt, much lesse of the British issue) doo take
their beginning in England, after this maner in our times. Who soeuer studieth the lawes of the

1 He was a fellow-townsman of Shakspere’s ; and the goods and chattels of his father, Henry Field, tanner, of
Stratford, were valued by Shakspere’s father, John Shakspere, in 1592. (Old Shakespeare Society's Papers, iv. 36.)

2 §t. Paul’s Churchyard before the Fire was chiefly inhabited by booksellers, and several of the early editions of
Shakspere’s poems and plays were published here. Venus and Adonis, 1593, was to be sold at the White Greyhound,
where also J. Harrison published The Rape of Lucrece, 1594. The first edition of The Merry Wives of Windsor appeared
at the Flower de Luce and Crown, kept by A. Johnson ; the first edition of The Merchant of Venice at the Green Dragon,
by T. Heyes ; the first editions of Richard II., Richard III., and First Part of Henry IV. at the Angel, by A. Wise ; the
first edition of Troilus and Cressida at the Spread Eagle over against the great north door of Paul's, by R. Bonian and
H. Whalley ; the first edition of Lear at the Pied Bull, by N. Butter; and the first known edition of Vitus Andronicus at ©
the Gun, near the little north door of Paul's, by E. White. M. Law published several of the quartos at the Fox.—H. B
Wheatley, in my Harrison, p. ev., from Peter Cunningham’s London.

3 In 1593 I suppose Richard IT. to have been written ; and in 1593-4, the revising of The Contention and True Tragedy
into 2 & 3 Henry VI. with Richard III. In 1594 were publisht Lucrece,a second edition of Venus and Adonis, and the
first of The Contention, on which 2 Henry VI. was based, and the first of The Taming of a Shrew, the groundwork of The
Taming of the Shrew. Willobie his Avisa, 1594, notives Shakspere’s Lucrece, and Sir Wm. Harbert and Drayton evidently
allude to it, as Robert Southwell does to his Venus. (I shall not note all the allusions here. For them, see the forth-
coming second edition of Dr. Ingleby's Centurie of Prayse that he will give to the New Shakspere Society in 1877.)

+ In 1595 was publisht The True Lragedy, which was alterd into 3 Henry VI. ; and in 1596, the third edition of Venus
and Adonis. I believe that King John was written in 1595, The Merchant in 1596 ; that The Shrew was revised in 1596-7,
and 1 Henry I}. written.

 

 
 

 

civ §15. SHAKSPERE'S FATHER’S ARMS. PURCHASE OF NEW PLACE, 1597.

 

realme, who so abideth in the vniuersitie giving his mind to his booke, or professeth physicke and
the liberall sciences, or beside his seruice in the roome of a capteine in the warres, or good counsell
giuen at home, whereby his common-wealth is benefited, can live without manuell labour, and thereto
is able and will bear the port, charge, and countenance of a gentleman, he shall, for monie, haue a
cote and arms bestowed vpon him by heralds (who in the charter of the same doo of custome pretend
antiquitie and seruice, and manie gaie things) and therevnto, being made so good cheape, be called
‘master,’ which is the title that men giue to esquiers and gentlemen, and reputed for a gentleman euer
after. Which is so much the lesse to be disalowed of, for that the prince dooth loose nothing by it,
the gentleman being so much subiect to taxes and publike paiments as is the yeoman or husbandman,
which he likewise dooth beare the gladlier for the sauing of his reputation. Being called also to the
warres, (for with the gouernment of the common-wealth he medleth litle) what socuer it cost him, he
will both arraie & arme himselfe accordinglie, and shew the more manly courage, and all the tokens
of the person which he representeth. No man hath hurt by it but himselfe, who peraduenture will
go in wider buskens than his legs will beare, or as our prouerbe saith, now and then beare a bigger
saile than his boat is able to susteine.”

Now the ‘“monie” for the grant of arms to John Shakspere, then known at Stratford as a
‘¢ yeoman,” can hardly have come from him. Without doubt his rising London son supplied it. And
when the second grant was applied for, and made, in 1599, the heralds, Dethick and Camden, wouldn't
quarter with Shakspere’s arms those of the Warwickshire gentlefolk, the Ardens of Park Hall, Curd-
worth—Lrmine, a fess cheequy or and azure—but gave instead, the arms of the more distant Ardernes of
Alvanley, in Cheshire—Gules, three crosslets fitchée, and a chief or, with a martlet for difference-—who
were farther away from Stratford, and not likely to have notice of the matter, or make any fuss about
it. Moreover, there is no existing record of the Arden quartering ever having been assumed by
Shakspere or his family. On his monument are the Shakspcre arms alone; and they alone are
impaled on his daughter Susanna’s monument with those of Hall. .When he grew older, had his
position, and married his younger daughter Judith to a wine-dealer’s? son, he no doubt gave up the
ambitious fancy of his earlier days.

In or before Easter Term of the 39th of Elizabeth, 1597, Shakspere bought of William Underhill,
for £60, New Place, a house and grounds at the corner of (the Guild) Chapel Lane, and Chapel Street
leading to the Grammar School and Church. The house was built by Sir Hugh Clopton, about
1490, bought by a Stratford attorney, William Bott, in 1563, and sold by him to Wm. Underhill
in 1567. In the note‘ of the fine levied on the sale to Shaksperc, Underhill is described as generosus,
a gentleman, but Shakspere is not so calld. And as in fines the description of the property was
almost always doubled, we find here, as in the double garden and orchard on the sale of the birth-
place property, that there were two barns and two gardens included. Shakspere repaired New Place.
Long after his death a new house was built, probably on its foundations, and of these a few scraps
can still be seen, owing to Mr. Halliwell’s care. (He got up a subscription to buy the place.)®

Early in 1598 Shakspere wanted to lay out more moncy in the neighbourhood of Stratford,
and was nibbling at the tithes of which he afterwards bought a moiety or half-part in 1605.
Abraham Sturley, writing on January 24, 1597-8, from Stratford to a friend in London—evidently
Richard Quiney, father of Shakspere’s future wine-dealing son-in-law—says :—‘‘It semeth bi him
(‘ur [=your] father’), that our countriman, Mr. Shakspere, is willinge to disburse some monei upon
some od yarde land or other att Shottri or neare about us; he thinketh it a veri fitt patterne to move
him to dealé in the matter of our tithes. Bi the instruccions u can geve him theareof, and bi the
frendes he can make therefore, we thinke it a faire marke for him to shoote att, and not unpossible

1 The 1599 grant accordingly speaks of the ancestors of John Shakespeare having been advanct and rewarded for
their services by King Henry VII. (Folio Life, p. 69.) Heralds’ gammon, no doubt. That some actors had turnd squires,
The Return from Parnassus (1602-3), printed 1606, tells us :—

“England affords those glorious vagabonds, And pages to attend their masterships :
That carried erst their fardles on their backs, With mouthing words that better wits have framed,
Coursers to ride on through the gazing streets, They purchase lands, and now esquires are made.”
Sweeping it in their glaring satin suits, Hazlitt's Dodsley, ix. 202,

2 Remember that Chaucer's father, uncle, and grandfather, were wine-dealers and taverners too.

3 So calld before it came into Shakspere’s hands. Early in the sixteenth century, when the Cloptons had it, it was
calld the great house, (Halliwell, Octavo Life, p. 166.)

+ “ Exemplification ” is the technical word for it.

5 The reason given me as a pupil in chambers for this practice was, that the tine might include enough ; one garden
inight have been accidentally left out of the description of the property bought. Often, with arable land too, some
pasture was thrown in on spec.

6 In 1597 were publisht the first or spurious Quarto of Romeo and Juliet and the first Quartos of Richard II. and
Richard III, In 1598, second editions of Lucrece, Richard [f., Richard I/I., and the first of 1 Henry IV. and Love's Labours
Lost. The latter play was written about by R. Tofte, in 1598. I suppose that 2 Henry IV. was written in 1597-8, and The
Merry Wives in 1598-9.

 

 
 

 

§15. SHAKSPERE A PARTNER IN THE GLOBE, 1599. ev

 

to hitt. It obtained, would advance him in deede, and would do us much good.” (Halliwell, Octavo
172, Folio 140.) A Subsidy Roll, dated October 1, 1598, shows that Shakspere, or a namesake of his,
was assesst 13s. 4d. on property in the parish of St. Helen’s, Bishopsgate, London: “ Affid. William
Shakespeare, v /i.—xiij s. liijd.” During a scarcity of grain at Stratford, ‘‘A noate of corne and
malte” there was taken—dated February 4, 1597-8, and among the dwellers in Chapel Street Ward is
enterd as a holder of grain, “ Wm. Shackespere, X quarters.” In this year too is the following
entry in the Chamberlains’ account: “Pd. to Mr. Shaxpere for on lod of ston . . . . xd.” As
the repairs of New Place were probably going on, the poet, and not his father, was probably the
seller of the stone.

In a dateless and unsignd letter, “To my lovynge sonne Rycharde Quyney, at the Belle in
Carter Leyne, deliver thesse in London,” evidently written by Adrian Quiney of Stratford, and perhaps
in 1598, is the following sentence: ‘‘ Yff yow bargen with Wm. Sha.... or receve money therfor,
brynge your money home, that yow maye.” Next comes the only letter written to Shakspere that
has survived to us. It is from his friend, the above-named Richard Quiney, asking for the loan
of £30 :—“ Loveinge contreyman, I am bolde of yow, as of a firende, craweinge yowr helpe with xxx. li.
vppon Mr. Bushells and my securytee, or Mr. Myttons with me. Mr. Rosswell is nott come to
London as yeate, and I have especiall cawse. Yow shall ffrende me muche in helpeing me out of all
the debettes I owe in London, I thancke God, & muche quiet my mynde, which wolde nott be
indebeted. I am nowe towardes the Cowrte, in hope of answer for the dispatche of my Buysnes. Yow
shall nether loase creddytt nor monney by me, the Lorde wyllinge; & nowe butt perswade yowrselfe
soe, as I hope, and yow shall nott need to feare butt with all heartie thanckefullnes I wyll holde my
tyme, and content yowr firende; & yf we Bargaine farther, yow shalbe the paie-master yowr selfe.
my tyme biddes me hastene to an ende, and soe I committ thys [to] yowr care, & hope of yowr helpe.
I feare I shall nott be backe thys night ffrom the Cowrte. Haste. The Lorde be with yow & with us
all. amex! ffrom the Bell in Carter Lane, the 25 octobr 1598.

“ Yowrs in all kyndenes, Ryc. QuyNey.
“To my loueinge good ffrend and contreyman, Mr. Wm. Shackespere, deliver thees.”

On November 4, 1598, the before-named Abraham Sturley writes from Stratford “to his most
lovinge brother, Mr. Richard Quinei, att the Bellin Carter Laneatt London . . . . Ur[=your]
letter of the 25. of Octobr . . . imported . . . that our countriman Mr. Wm. Shak. would
procure us monei, which I will like of, as I shall heare when and wheare and howe; and I prai let not
go that occasion, if it mai sorte to ani indifferent condicions. Allso, that if monei might be had for
30 or 40/., a lease &c. might be procured. . . .”’ In 1598 came Meres’s praise of Shakspere, and
a list of his poems and plays, already noted on p. xvii, note 2; and in the same year Shakspere acted
in Ben Jonson’s famous comedy of Every Man in his Humour.! In 1598 also ‘The Theater” built by
James Burbage, where his and his sons’ (or Shakspere’s) company playd, was pulld down, and rebuilt as
“The Globe” on Bankside, Southwark, in 1599; and Shakspere, being a ‘‘deserveing” man, was taken
as one of the “partners in the profittes of that they call the House” (see Henry V., p. lii, note 4, above),
that is, the chief actors’ share, not including that of the Burbages as owners of the lease of the theatre
from Sir Matthew Brand. I take this admission as a partner into the profits of the new Globe as the
start of a new Period in Shakspere’s life. It marks definitely his success in London better than his
purchase of New Place at Stratford does.?

III. The Third-Period of Shakspere’s life, tho’ I call it the Period of Assured-Success, opens
darkly like the dark Third-Period of his plays, that of his greatest tragedies. In January, 1601
(1600-1), Essex’s rebellion breaks out, and, for his share in it, Lord Southampton, Shakspere’s patron,
is imprisond in the Tower, where he stays till James I.’s accession in 1603 (see p. lxvii, above). On
September 8, 1601, Shakspere’s father, John Shakspere, was buried at Stratford. On May-day, 1602,
Shakspere buys of Wm. and Jn. Combe, for £320, a hundred and seven acres of arable land in the parish
of Old Stratford; and as he was not then at Stratford, the conveyance was delivered to his brother
Gilbert. On September 28, 1602, Walter Gatley surrenderd to Shakspere a cottage, with its appur-
tenances?, in Walker's Street, alias Dead Lane, Stratford, near New Place. And by a fine levied in

1 His name stands first in the list of the actors at the end of the play in the Folio edition of Jonson’s Works, 1616.

2 In 1599 vame out the pirated Passionate Pilgrim, the fourth edition of Venus and Adonis, and the second of
1 Henry IV., and the second or genuine Quarto of Romeo and Juliet. Henry V. was written in 1599, and Much Ado and
As You Like It by or in 1600. 1600 was the chief publishing year of Shakspere’s ‘life. It saw issued a fifth edition of
Venus, a third of Lucrece, first of 2 Henry IV. and Much Ado, first and second of both The Merchant and the Midsummer-
Night's Dream, first or imperfect Quarto of Henry V., and the first extant edition of Titus Andronicus.

3.Shakspere seems to have increast this property afterwards, for in a fine levied of it in Trinity Term, 1611, an addi-
tional ‘twenty acres of pasture land” are described ; and that this was not a fancy addition (p. civ, n. 5, above) appears
from the fact that ‘‘in'adeed which bears date in 1652, this land is also stated to be of the same extent.” (Halliwell, Folio
Life, p. 165.) In the conveyance, Shakspere is described as ‘‘ gentleman,” and in the exemplification of the fine of the
Gatley sale as generosus le oroman.

4 It was copyhold of the Manor of Rowington.

 

 
 

 

evi §15. SHAKSPERE ONE OF “THE KINGS PLAYERS,” 1603.

 

Michaelmas Term, 1602, we learn that Shakspere bought of Hercules Underhill for £60 a messuage with
two barns, two orchards, and two gardens, in Stratford: the doubling was no doubt due to the fancy
addition in the note of the fine. In a most interesting play, The Returne from Pernassus, which is
dated 1602, from its mentioning the Queen’s day (Hazlitt’s Dodsley, ix. 161), occurs the following
testimony to Shakspere’s powers (id. 194) : “ Kemp. Few of the university, pen plaies well; they smell
too much of that writer Ovid, and that writer Metamorphosis, and talke too much of Proserpina &
Juppiter. Why, here’s our fellow Shakespeare puts them all downe, I, and Ben Jonson too. O that
Ben Jonson is a, pestilent fellow; he brought up Horace giving the Poets a pill; but our fellow
Shakespeare hath given him a purge that made him beray his credit.” “ Burbage. It's a shrewd
fellow indeed.”! (Ingleby’s Centurie of Prayse, 1874, p. 39.) ;

On March 24, 1602-3, Queen Elizabeth died. Shakspere had written on her in Midsummer-
Night's Dream those delightful lines on the “ fair vestal thronéd in the west,” “ the imperial votaress,”

IL. i. 157-164. She had
« Gracéd his desert,
And to his laies opend her royall eare,”

as'‘Chettle says, in his Exglandes Mourning Garment, 1603 (New Shakspere Society’s Allusion-Books, p. 98),
she had been “0 taken” by his plays, as Ben Jonson said in his lines ‘‘ To the Memory of Shak-
spere;” she had so liked Falstaff that she had orderd his creator to show him in love (see The Merry
Wives, p. 1), and yet, as Chettle complains, ‘‘ the silver-tongéd Melicert”” (Shakspere) did not “drop
from his honied Muse one sable teare.’”’ His company no doubt expected favours from James I., thro’
one of their members, Laurence Fletcher, who had acted before James in Scotland, with the English
actors who were there between October, 1599, and December, 1601, and who was granted the freedom
of the city of Aberdeen on October 22, 1601, as “ comedian to his Majesty.” Accordingly, a few days
after James had reacht London, he, by Warrant dated May 17, 1603, licenst Fletcher's (or Shak-
spere’s) company “these our servants Laurence Fletcher, William Shakespeare, Richard Burbage,
Augustine Philhppes, John Hemmings, Henrie Condcll, William Sly, Robert Armyn, Richard Cowley,
and the rest of their associats, freely to use and exercise the arte and faculty of playing comedies,
tragedies, histories, enterludes, moralls, pastorals, stage-plaies, and such other like rer)
well for the recreation of our loving subjects, as for our solace and pleasure when we shall thinke
good to see them, during our pleasure ; and the said comedies, trajedies, histories, enterludes, moralls,
pastoralls, stage-plaies, and such like, to shew and exercise publiquely to their best commoditie, when
the infection of the plague shall decreasc, as well within their now usuall howse called the Globe,
within our county of Surrey, as also within anie towne halls, or mout halls, or other convenient
places within the liberties and freedome of any other citie, universitie, towne, or borough whatsoever,
within our said realmes and dominions. . . . ”

Shakspere’s company was thus changed from “The Lord Chamberlain’s Servants” to ‘“ The
King’s Players.’ But it is quite clear from the Warrant, and the Burbages’ Memorial of 1635,
printed on p. lii, above, note 4, that when the Warrant was issued the company did not play at the
Blackfriars Theatre, as that had been then for some time “leased out to one Evans that first sett up
the boyes, commonly called the Queenes Majesties Children of the Chappell.’’ It is also quite clear
that when, evidently after 1603, the Burbages bought back “the lease remaining from Evans with
our money,” Shakspere was still an actor’, for the Burbages say they placed in the Blackfriars “ men
players, which were Hemings, Condall, Shakespeare,” &c. I see no reason to doubt that Shakspere
remaind an actor as long as he stayd in London, and that his Sonnet 111, might have been written
as late as 1607-8; the later the better, I think, as showing a reason why he'd like to turn his back
on London. The plague of which James I.’s Warrant speaks, is mentiond by Stowe on pp. 1,415,
1,425, of his Annals, ed. 1605. It stopt the King from riding from the Tower thro’ the City, as was
customary before coronations; the citizens were orderd not to come to Westminster ; Wednesday,
August 5, and every succeeding Wednesday, were appointed to be kept holy, for the offering of
prayers “ while the heavy hand of God, by the plague of pestilence, continued among us ;”’ and between
December 23, 1602, and December 22, 1603, there died of the plague, 30,578 souls.? After the latter .

1 In 1602 were publisht the sixth and seventh Quartos of Venus and Adonis, the third of Richard IIT., the first botcht
Quarto of Hamlet, the first imperfect one of The Merry Wives, and the second of Henry V. All's Well aud Julius Cesar I
assign to 1601, Hamlet to 1602-3, and Measure for Measure to 1603.

2 | know some critics hold that Shakspere left London in 1604. But then they are such awful guessers. They put
Henry VIII, in 1604 too. 3

3“ Also by reason of God’s visitation for our sinnes, the plague of Pest[ilence] there raigning in the Citty of London
and suburbes (the Pageants and other showes of triumph, in most sumptuous maner prepared. but not finished), the Kinge
rode not from the Toure through the Citty in royal manner as had bene accustomed ; neither were the Citizens permitted
to come at Westminster, but forbidden by proclamation, for feare of infection to be hy that meanes increased, for there
died that weake in the Citye of London and suburbes, of all diseases, 1103 ; of the plague, 857. —Pp, 1415 and 1416 (the
second couple so numberd). y

‘Wednesday the 10, of August was by the ordinary appoynted to be kept Holliday, and fasted, the church to be

 

 
 

 

§15. SHAKSPERE'S ELDEST DAUGHTER MARRIES DR. HALL, 1607. evii

 

date Stowe does not mention the plague. It probably stopt gradually; must certainly have been
over by March ; as, for the procession of King James, his Queen Anne, and son Henry, on March 15,
1603-4, to the City of London, the King’s Players were each given four yards and a half of
‘“‘skarlet red cloth;’’ and the first name in the list of nine players is ‘‘ William Shakespeare”
(from “The Accompte of Sir George Howne, Knight, Master of the Greate Warederobe” to
James I.—Atheneum, April 30, 1864; Dyce, viii. 473); and on April 9, 1604, the King’s Council
wrote a Letter to the Lord Mayor of London and the Magistrates of Middlesex and Surrey,
directing them to allow the King’s Company (or Shakspere’s), and the Queen's, and Prince’s,
“publicklie to exercise their plaies in ther severall usuall howses,” &c.1 Was Shakspere revising
Hamlet?—the second or genuine Quarto was publisht in 1604—writing Measure for Measure (the tone
of the play would suit a plague-struck city: see p. xxiv, above), and planning Othello during his
enforced leisure? It is odd to turn from that terrible third Act of Othello, and learn that the next
news of Shakspere is from Stratford, and shows the poet as a malster. (Folio Life, p. 170.)

Between March, 1604, and the end of May, he had sold Philip Rogers, of Stratford, £1 19s. 10d.
worth of malt, and had also, on June 25, lent him 2s. The rogue Rogers had only paid 6s. of his debt;
so Shakspere sued him in the Stratford Court of Record for the balance, £1 15s.10d. On July 24, 1604,
Shakspere bought for £440 the remaining thirty-two years’ term of the moiety or half of a ninety-
two years’ lease (granted in 1544) of the great and small tithes of Stratford, Old Stratford, Bishopton,
and Welcombe, no doubt the same property that he’d been after in January, 1597-8, and the conveyance
is from ‘‘Raphe Husbande, esquire, to William Shakespeare, of Stratford uppon Avon, gentleman.’’
It must have been a good purchase, as it brought in £60 a year, that is, paid 5 per cent on the whole
of the purchase-money during the thirty-two years, and brought back besides—in yearly instalments
of £38, which could be re-invested as they came in—£1,216 for the £440.83 Augustine Phillipps, of
Shakspere’s company (see Richard IT., p.xxxvi, the Burbages’ Memorial, p. lii, and James I.’s Warrant,
p. evi, plows), by his will, dated May, 1605, leaves “William Shakespeare a thirty-shilling peece in
gold.”

In 1607, Shakspere’s eldest daughter, Susanna, being then 24, married, on June 7, Dr. John Hall,
a physician at Stratford of large practice®, to the englisht notes of whose cures of patients'—including
his own wife and daughter, himself, the poet Drayton, &c.—I have before alluded, when stating my
belief that Dr. Hall is to some extent embodied in Cerymon of Pericles. (Had he but cured Shakspere
in 1616 instead of letting him die, we should have had an interesting account of the success.
Possibly some successor of Ireland and our Victorian Shakspere-forgers will produce an earlier cure of
Shakspere from the thousand notes of cases of which Dr. Hall’s translator speaks in his Postscript.) On
December 31, Shakspere’s youngest brother, Edmund, “ player,” was buried at St. Saviour’s, Southwark,
close to the Globe Theatre, and 20s. were paid for a ‘“‘forenoon knell of the great bell.” Shakspere’s
first granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall, the only child of her parents, was baptised on February 21, 1607-8;
and on “1608, September 9, Mayry Shaxpere, Wydowe,” our poet's mother, was buried at Stratford.
On October 16, Shakspere stands godfather to a boy, William Walker—son of Henry Walker, of
Stratford, chosen alderman January 3, 1605-6—to whom he afterwards left by his will ‘‘ 20s.in gold.”
In 1608 died Thomas Whittington, shepherd to Richard Hathaway, and by his will left “unto the
poor of Stratford 40s. that is in the hand of Anne Shaxspere, wyfe unto Mr. Wyllyam Shaxspere, and
is due debt unto me, being paid to mine executor by the sayd Wyllyam Shaxspere or his assignes.”
In August, 1608, Shakspere brought an action against John Addenbrooke for a debt. After several

frequented with praiers to almighty God, Sermons of repentance to the people, and charity to the poore to be collected &
distributed, and the like commanded to be done weekly euery wednesday while the heauy hand of God, by the plague
of pest[ilence] continued among vs.—P. 1416 (the second).

“In the former yeare, to wit 1602, the plague of pest{ilence] being great in Holland, Sealand, and other the low
countries, and many souldiers returning thence into England, the infection was also spred in diuers parts of this realme;
namely [=especially], in the Citie of London and liberties thereof it so increased, that in the space of one whole yeare, to
wit, from the 23. of December 1602, vnto the 22. of December, 1603, there died of all diseases (as was weekly accompted
by the parish clerks, and so certified to the King), 38244, whereof, of the Plague, 30578, God make vs penitent, For
he is mercifull.”—P. 1425.

1 To this letter, after Malone saw it, was stuck a forged list—first printed by Mr. Collier, as usual,—of the King’s
Players, with ‘‘ Shakespeare” second in it. Another forged passage about Shakspere was printed by Mr. Collier in Mrs.
Alleyn’s letter of October 20, 1603; another about Lodge was also printed by him, &c. &c. : see the books of my friends
Mr. N. E. 8. A. Hamilton and Dr. Ingleby on these shameful matters. ‘

2 Neither of. his uses of plague in III. i., IV. vii., or pestilence in V. i. 196, can be taken as an allusion, __

3 But if we allow 10 per cent. for interest—as Shakspere does in his will on his younger daughter Judith Quiney’s
marriage-portion,—then the yearly balance of £16 would only return £512 for the £440.

4 In 1605, the fourth ediiton of Richard III. was publisht. In 1607, the fourth edition of Lucrece. I suppose Othello to
have been written in 1604, Macbeth in 1605-6, Lear in 1605-6, and Troilus and Cressida and Antony and Cleopatra in 1606-7.

5 “This Learned Author lived in our time, and in the County of Warwick, where he practised Physik many years,
and in great Fame for his skill, far and near. Those who seemed highly to esteem him, and whom by Gods blessing he
wrought these cures upon, you shall finde to be among others, Persons Noble, Rich, and Learned.”—James Cooke,
the englisher of Dr. Hall's Cures. ‘To the Judicious Reader.” Dr. Hall left another book ready for the press, besides his
Cures, His widow sold them both to Mr. Cooke as another man’s MSS. (Cures, sign. A. 3, back.) :

 

 
 

 

eviii §15. FOURTH PERIOD OF SHAKSPERE’S LIFE, 1609-1616.

 

months’ delay a verdict was given in Shakspere’s favour for £6, and £1 4s. costs; but as the defendant
couldn't be found, Shakspere sued Addenbrooke’s bail, Thomas Horneby, for the money. ‘lhe latest
date noted in the record is June 7, 1609.1

LV. In or about 1609, after the Period of his great Tragedies, grandfather Shakspere is supposed
to have left London, for his new lite at Stratford, his fresh delight in all its flowers and scenes, its
sweet girls and country sports. There is nothing definite to fix the change to any one year; but as
Shakspere’s Sonnets and Pericles were both pubhsht, evidently without his leave, in 1609; as a new
tone—a new scent as of violets or sweetbriar—breathes from his plays in and after 1609 ; as the later
ones are loose in dramatic construction, as if written away from the theatre; as Shakspere must,
before he made his will, have sold or releast to his partners all his interest in the Globe and Black-
friars, and his plays, we conclude that his leaving town dates from 1609 or thereabouts’, tho’ the
first Stratford tidings seem against the notion. In September, 1609, ‘Thomas Greene, the Town-Clerk
of Stratford, says that a G. Brown might stay longer in his (Greene’s) house, “the rather because I
perceyved I might stay another yere at New Place.’ Greene may have been living there with his
“cosen Shakspere”’ ; if not, Shakspere cannot have settled at New Place till later. By June 21, 1611,
Thomas Greene is probably in his own house, as an order was made that the town is ‘‘to repare
the churchyard wall at Mr. Greene's dwelling-place” (Halliwell’s Hist. of New Place). In a list of
donations “ colected towardes the charge of prosecutyng the bill in Parliament for the better repayre
of the highe waies, and amendinge divers defectes in the statutes already made,” dated Wednesday,
September 11, 1611, the name of “ Mr. William Shackspere’’ is found in the margin, with no sum
to it. “This MS.,” says Mr. Halliwell in his Folio Life, p. 202, ‘ evidently relates to Stratford.”

The draft of a bill? to be filed before Lord Ellesmere by ‘‘ Richard Lane, of Awston, in the cownty
of Warwicke, esquire, Thomas Greene, of Stratford uppon Avon, in the said county of Warwicke,
esquire, and William Shackspeare, of Stratford uppon Avon aforesaid, in the said county of
Warwicke, gentleman ;’’ undated but seemingly drawn up in 1612, shows Shakspere in a lawsuit
about his share in the tithes which he had bought in 1605. Some of the lessees of the tithes had
refused to pay their share of a reserved rent of £27 13s. 4d., and had thus driven Shakspere anda few
others to pay the defaulters’ share as well as their own, in order to prevent the lease being forfeited.
The draft bill states Shakspere’s income from the tithes of corn and grain, wool and lamb, privy
tithes, oblations and alterages as being £60 a year. His brother Richard was buried at Stratford
on February 4, 1612-13. On the 10th of March in that year Shakspere bought for £140 from
Henry Walker, citizen and minstrel of London, a house® and a piece of ground near the Blackfriars
Theatre, “abutting upon a streete leading down to Pudle Wharfte on the east part, right against the
Kinges Maiesties’ Wardrobe.” But as Shakspere only paid £80 of the purchase-money, he next day
mortgaged the property to the vendor Henry Walker for the odd £60, and let the house, which he
mentions in his will, to John Robinson, the then tenant of it. On June 29, 1613, the Globe Theatre
on Bankside, Blackfriars, was burnt down during a performance of Henry JIII., as I have noted
above on p. xvili; and we can fancy Shakspere’s feelings on hearing of the destruction of the old
house, for so many years the scene of his triumphs. He must have been glad to see its rebuilding at
once begun. In a paper dated September 5, 1614, Shakspere is mentioned among the “ Auncient
ffreeholders in the fields of Old Stratford and Welcombe,” viz. :—‘‘ Mr. Shakspeare, Thomas Parker,
Mr. Lane, Sir Frauncys Smyth, Mace, Arthur Cawdrey, and Mr. Wright, Vicar of Bishopton ;” thus,
“Mr. Shakspeare 4 yard land, noe common nor ground beyond Gospell-bushe, nor ground in Sandfield,
nor none in Slow-hill-field beyond Bishopton,: nor none in the enclosures beyond Bishopton.”
And by an agreement, dated October 8, 1614, between Shakspere and William Replingham, a joint-
owner with him of the tithes before-mentiond, Replingham covenanted with Shakspere to repay
him all such loss as he should incur in respect of the decreasing’? of the yearly value of the tithes
held by Replingham and Shakspere, by reason of any enclosure or decaye of tillage intended in
the tithable fields by the said Replingham. To the enclosure of the Welcombe common and hills,

1 In 1608 were issued the first and second Quartos of Lear, the fourth of 1 Henry IV”., the third of Richard IT., and
the third of the imperfect Henry V. I put down Coriolanus and Timon as written in 1607-8.

2 In 1609 were publisht The Sonnets, the first edition of Troilus and Cressida (in two states, with differing titles, see
p. lxxx), the first and second Quartos of Pericles, and the third and fourth of Romeo and Juliet. Shakspere’s part of
Pericles I date 1608-9, and The Tempest 1609-10.

; 3 In 1611 came out the fourth edition of Hamlet, the third of Pericles, and the second of Titus Andronicus. I suppose
Cymbeline to have been written in 1610, The Winter's Tale in 1611, and the Shakspere part of Henry VIII. and The Two
Noble Kinsmen (?) in 1612-18,

4 See Folio Life, p. 212.
5 In 1612 were publisht the fifth edition of Richard ITI., and the third (with Heywood’s Poems)—no copy of the
second edition is known—of The Passionate Pilgrim. In 1613, the fifth Quarto of 1 Henry IV.
_§ See a wood-cut of what purports to be it in Halliwell's Octavo Life, p. 247. The counterpart of the conveyance
(printed #b., pp. 248-251) is in the Guildhall Library, London. The Mortgage is in the British Museum show-room.
7 MS. increasinge. Folio Life, p. 221.

 

 
 

 

§15. SHAKSPERE’S DEATH, MAY 3, 1616(NEW STYLE). HIS WILL. cix

 

whence the best view of Stratford is to be got, the Corporation was strongly opposed,—as so many
writers of Tudor time were to like enclosures, because they cared for their poorer neighbours ;—and
the Corporation clerk or lawyer, Shakspere’s kinsman, Thomas Greene, was in London on this
business when he made the following Memorandum :—

“1614: Jovis, 17 No. My cosen Shakspear comyng yesterdy to town, I went to see him how he
did. He told me that they assured him they ment to inclose no further than to Gospell Bush, and so
upp straight (leavyng out part of the Dyngles to the flield) to the gate in Clopton hedg, and take in
Salisburyes peece; and that they mean in Aprill to survey the land, and then to gyve satisfaccion,
and not before; and he and Mr. Hall say they think ther will be nothyng done at all.” (Folio Life,

p. 222.) J
About a fortnight after the above date, says Dyce, Greene, having left Shakspere in London,
returnd to Stratford; where he continued his notes:—23 Dec. <A hall. Lettres wrytten, one to

Mr. Manyring, another to Mr. Shakspear, with almost all the company’s hands to eyther. I also
wrytte myself to my cosen Shakspear the coppyes of all our acts, and then also a not of the
inconvenyences wold happen by the inclosure.”’

“ The letter to Arthur Mainwaring (Lord Ellesmere’s domestic auditor) is still preserved; but
the more interesting one has perished.” A page of Thomas Greene’s Diary survives, in which
are the three following entries reluting to Shakspere’s business and the enclosures:—1. [1614-15]
“10 Januarii, 1614. Mr. Manwaryng and his agreement for me with my cosen Shakspeare.
2. [1614-15] 9 Jan., 1614. Mr. Replyngham, 28 Octobris, article with Mr. Shakspear, and then I
was putt in by Thursday. 3. [1615] 1 Sept. Mr. Shakspeare told Mr. J. Greene that he was not
able to beare the enclosing of Welcombe.”} (Folio Life, p. 223.)

In 1614 died John Combe, bailiff or factor to the Earl of Warwick, and by his will left “‘To Mr.
William Shackspere, five pounds.’ In the same will is mentiond “ Parsons close, alias Shakespeares?
close.” This year too the Stratford Corporation, according to their custom when a strange preacher
preacht before them, sent a present of wine to one—a Puritan, no doubt—stopping at Shakspere’s house.
‘The Chamberlain's account charges, “Item: for one quart of sack, and on quart of clarett wine, geven
to a preacher at the Newe Place, xx4.”’” On January 25, 1615-16, the fair copy of Shakspere’s Will
was ready, but he put off executing it till March 25—when he had some alterations made in it—after
the marriage of his younger daughter, Judith, then 31, who, like her mother, wedded a man younger
than herseli—tho’ only four years now, not eight—Thomas Quiney?, vintner and wine-merchant of
Stratford, son of the Richard Quiney who in 1598 askt Shakspere to lend him £380 (p. cv, above), and
who died on May 31, 1602, while bailiff of Stratford. From the fact of Judith having made her mark
to a deed instead of signing her name, it has been supposed that she could not write; but this is not
certain, as many folk well known in history, who could write, have still put their marks to deeds.
Susanna Hall could write fairly. Having executed his will on March 25, Shakspere died at New
Place on April 23, 1616, and was buried in the chancel of Stratford Church on the 25th.4_ The only
report as to the cause of his death is in the Diary (printed in 1839) of the Rev. John Ward, who was
appointed vicar of Stratford in 1662, that “Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson, had a merie
meeting, and itt seems drank too hard, for Shakespear died of a feavour there contracted.” Mr. Halliwell
has in his History of New Place suggested another cause: that the pigsties and nuisances which the
Corporation books show to have existed in Chapel Lane, which ran the whole length of New Place,
bred the fever of which Shakspere is said to have died. Mr. Halliwell gives several extracts from the
books, as—‘‘ 1605: the Chamberlaines shall gyve warning to Henry Smyth to plucke downe his pigges
cote which is built nere the chapple wall, and the house of office (= privy) there.” (New Place, p. 29.)

Suaxspern’s Wiiu.—By his will, Shakspere, like so many other unjust Englishmen, in accord-
ance with the unjust custom of their country, settled almost all his property on his eldest child, and
gave the younger much less. He bequeathed his daughter Judith (Quiney) only: (1.) £150—£100 as
a marriage portion (with 10 per cent. interest on it till it was paid), and £50 on her releasing
her right in his Rowington copyhold tenement (in Dead Lane, p. cv, above), to her sister Susanna
Hall. (2.) £150 more if she or any issue of hers should be living at the end of three years
from Shakspere’s death, with interest thereon at £10 per cent. in the meantime. (If she should
die without issue in three years—she lived till February, 1638-9, surviving her three children—

1 Our Poet did not live to see the termination of this contest : it was not till 1618 that an order of the Privy Council

forbade all further attempt at enclosure (Dyce).

2 It’s in Hampton, bounded by Ingon Lane, leading on one side to Snitterfield, on the other to Stratford. (See the

plan in Halliwell.) Nothing is known. to connect it with Shakspere.

8 The name is pronounct “‘ Quin-ny,” and still exists in Stratford.

4 These dates are Old Style ones. April 23 and 25 correspond to May 3 and May 5, New Style. See below,
yp. exi, cxii. In 1616, the fifth Quarto of Lucrece was publisht. In the 1615 Continuation of Stowe’s Annals ly
dmund Howes, “ M. Willi. Shakespeare, gentleman,” is enterd among ‘‘ Our moderne and present excellent Poets which

worthely florish in their owne workes” (p. 811).

 

 
 

 

cx §15. SHAKSPERE'S WILL AND TOMBSTONE.

 

Shakspere gave £100 to his ‘‘niece [granddaughter], Elizabeth Hall,” and £50 to be invested for»
and the income from it paid to, his sister, “ Johane Harte,” during her life, the principal going
equally among her children at her death.) But if Judith Quiney survivd the three years (as she
did), her £150 was to be invested, the interest paid to her during her life, and the principal
among her children after her death. Also, if her husband should settle on her and her issue lands
worth the £150, in the judgment of Shakspere’s executors, they were to pay the husband “ the
said cl. li.” (a miswriting for £150). Then Shakspere gives his sister, Joan Hart, £20 and all his
wearing apparel, and a life interest in the house in Stratford wherein she dwelt, she paying 12d. a year
rent for it. He also gave her three sons, William, , and Michael, £5 each. Then came the small
legacies: all his plate, except his broad silver and gilt bowl (which he gave to his daughter Judith), he
bequeathed to the said Elizabeth Hall; £10 to the Stratford poor; his sword to Mr. Thomas Combe;
£5 to Thomas Russell, esquire; £13 6s. 8d. to Francis Collins, of Warwick; then for rings, 26s. 8d.
each to Hamlett Sadler, William Raynoldes, ‘“‘my fellowes John Hemynges, Richard Burbage, and
Henry Cundell;” 20s. in gold to his godson William Walker, and 26s. 8¢. to Mr. John Nashe. Then
came the main devise of the will: he gave his New Place (p. civ), his tenement in Henley Street
(pp. vili, xi), his Stratford, Old-Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe tithes (p. cvii), his Blackfriars house
near the Wardrobe, let to Robinson (p. cviii), and all his other hereditaments, to his daughter Susanna
Hall for her life, and then to her sons successively in tail male; and in default of sons, to his said
“neece”’ (that is, granddaughter), Elizabeth Hall in tail male; and in default of such issue, to his
daughter Judith Quiney in tail male; and in default of such issue, to his own right heirs. Then, by
an interlined bequest, he gave his wife his second best bed with the furniture. (She would be entitled
to dower in his freeholds, and to freebench in his copyholds, if the custom of the manor gave it.) All the
rest of his personalty, after payment of debts, legacies, and funeral expenses, he gave to his son-in-law,
“John Hall, gent.,” and his daughter Susanna, John Hall’s wife, and made them executors of his
will, the said Thomas Russell and Francis Collins being overseers of it—to see that the executors did
their duty.—The will was witnesst by “Fra: Collyns, Julyus Shawe, John Robinson, Hamnet
Sadler, Robert Whattcott,” and if the law was then as it is now, Collyns and Sadler} lost their claim
to their legacies by witnessing the will. The will is on three sheets of moderate size, signed by Shak-
spere on the margin of the first sheet, at the foot of the second, and about the middle of the third.
It was proved on June 22, 1616, by John Hall, who alone acted as executor, power being reserved,
as usual, for Susanna Hall to prove, when she wanted to. The note of the proof contains the words
“ (Inv. ex.),” which shows that Dr. Hall exhibited an Inventory of Shakspere’s goods; and unless
the rats and rain of and in the St. Paul’s Cathedral rooms, where the 17th century Inventories long
were, have destroyd, or some thief has stolen, this Shakspere Inventory, it is now lying in one of the
twenty boxes in the Prerogative Office containing these Inventories. Since I saw them in an under-
ground room, in Doctors’ Commons, some six or seven years ago, I’ve tried to get the Treasury to
appoint a clerk to catalogue these Inventories; and I hope that Sir Stafford Northcote’s last letter to
me means that he'll have it done. The Inventories are little rolls of parchment, from the size of a
goose-quill to that of your little finger, and about four inches long, most of them. It does seem a-pity
that a few of the do-nothing clerks from other offices can't be transferrd to the Probate Office, and made
to do something at these Inventories, which must contain lists of the goods of Bacon, Ben Jonson, &c.,
and perchance, lists of their books. Or some rich man might spare £500 for a clerk to do the work.

Over Shakspere’s grave in the chancel of Stratford Church is a dark flat tombstone, with this
inscription, which Dowdall says was “ made by himselfe a little before his death” :—

 

**Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare

‘ To digg the dvst encloased heare :
Bleste be ye man yt spares thes stones,
And cvrst be he yt moves my bones.”

On the left or north wall of the chancel, against the blockt-up bottom of the second window from the
communion-table, is the monument to Shakspere, containing the celebrated Stratford life-size bust,
evidently cut from a death-mask*, and said by Dugdale (Life, Diary, p. 99), to have been “made by

1 If ‘‘ Hamnet” and ‘ Hamlett” Sadler were one and the same man, as I suppose they were.

2 “We may mention—on the authority of’ Mr. Butcher, the very courteous clerk of Stratford Church, who saw the
examination made—that two years ago Mr. Story, the great American sculptor, when at Stratford, made a very careful
examination of Shakspere’s bust from a raised scatfolding, and came to the conclusion that the face of the bust was
modelled from a death-mask. The lower part of the face was very death-like ; the upper lip was elongated and drawn
up from the lower one by the shrinking of the nostrils, the first part of the face to ‘go’ after death ; the eyebrows were
neither of the same length nor on the same level ; the depth from the eye to the ear was extraordinary ; the cheeks were
of different shapes, the left. one being the more prominent at top. On the whole, Mr. Story felt certain of the bust being
made from a death-mask.”—F, J. F., in The Academy, August 22, 1874, p. 205, col. 3. Mr. Woolner has since told me that
he too has examind the bust, and is also convinct that it was made from a death-mask. Chantrey, the sculptor, and

‘Haydon, the painter, &c., had before expresst the same opinion. But, says Mr. Spedding, the death-mask was made to
represent a live face, by sticking a pair of almond-shaped raisd lines on the top of the cyelids—to represent open eyes—
and laying clay enough upon the upper lip to allow of the dead mouth being made to smile.

 

 
 

§15. SHAKSPERE’S BUST AND PORTRAIT. HIS DEATH ON MAY 3, 1616. exi

 

one Gerard Johnson,” a well-known sculptor.1 The two wood-cuts below give a general notion of
the bust and monument, though the nose of the left-hand one has been toucht up.2

This bust and the Droes-hout engraving in the first Folio, are the only authentic representations
of Shakspere. The Chandos, Felton, and other portraits’, and the Kesselstadt death-mask—fine
though it is—have no real evidence whatever in their favour. The bust was originally coloured, but
Malone stupidly had it all painted white.* It has, however, since been repainted in the original colours:
eyes light hazel, hair and beard auburn, cheeks ruddy, sleeved doublet scarlet, sleeveless gown black,
neckband and wristbands white, upper part of the cushion, under the hands, green; under half,

 

Rs

se P

   

Bust or SHAKSPERE, IN HIS MONUMENT IN '

STRATFORD CHURCH. SHAKSPERE’S MONUMENT IN STRATFORD CHURCH,

crimson ; edge-cord and tassels, gilt. The left hand rests on a piece of white paper; the right holds
a pen and rests on the cushion. The expression of the face is stolid and staring. Below the bust is
the inscription following :—
i “TIvdicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maroném,
Terra tegit, popvlvs meret, Olympvs habet.
“ Stay, passenger, why goest thov by so fast ?
Read, if thov canst, whom enviovs Death hath plast
Within this monvment, Shakspeare, with whome
Quick natvre dide ; whose name doth deck ys tombe
Far more then cost; sich all yt he hath writt
Leaves living art bvt page to serve his witt.
Obiit Ano Doi 1616,
ZEtatis 53, die 23 Apr.”

We must recollect that “23 April” then was the same day as we call the 3rd of May. As Mr. John J.
Bond says in his Handy Book, 1866, p. xxvii., ‘Some writers have supposed that both Cervantes and
Shakspeare died on the same day, whereas the fact is, that there was ten days’ difference between
the dates of the death of the one and the other. Michael de Cervantes Saavedra, the author of Don  .
Quixote, died on the 28rd of April, 1616, at Madrid, on Saturday, according to the New Style of writing —

1 Mr. Halliwell supposes that Johnson didn’t work so late as 1616, but that one of his sons may have cut the bust. .
2 This cut belonged to Mr. Lionel Booth, the maker of the admirably accurate reprint of the first Folio of 1623.
For the use of it the publishers are indebted to the New Shakspere Society.
3 The beery, loose-looking picture in the so-called Birthplace is a special abomination to me,
4 These lines have been written on this intense piece of ill taste (Neil, p. 66) :— ,
“ Stranger to whom this monument is shown, Whose meddling zeal his barbarous taste displays, .
Invoke the Poet’s curse upon Malone, And daubs his tombstone, as he mars his plays.”

5'For sith, since ; ys = this’; ‘yt = that.

 

 
 

 

—— = Pg

exii §15. SHAKSPERE'’S FAMILY. §16. SHAKSPERE THE MAN AND ARTIST.

 

 

dates in use at that time in Spain, which style had been adopted there as early as the year 1582.
(Year Letters C.B., 1616, New Style, 28rd of April, 1616, Saturday.) And William Shakspere died on
the 23rd of April, 1616, at Stratford-on-Avon, on Zwesday, according to the Old Style of writing
dates at that time in use in England, the New Style not having been adopted in England at that time,
and not until the year 1752. (Year Letters G.F., 1616, Old Style, 23rd of April, 1616, Tuesday.)
Saturday, 23rd of April, 1616, New Style, corresponded with Saturday, 13th of April, 1616, Old Style,
Tuesday, 5 sy » Old Style, ,, ‘3 », Tuesday, 8rd of May, 1616, New Style.
Hence it is shown that Cervantes died ten days before Shakspeare.”’ And don’t let us forget that
on this Tuesday, April 23, Old Style, or May 3, New, the great Oliver Cromwell enterd himself as a
student at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge. ;

Shakspere’s wife died on August 6, 1623, being sixty-seven years old. His eldest daughter,
Susanna Hall, died July 11, 1649, aged sixty-six (having survivd her husband John Hall, who died
November 25, 1635, aged sixty). His granddaughter Elizabeth Hall married first ‘Thomas Nashe, on
April 22, 1626, and (after his death on April 4, 1647), namely, June 5, 1649, a widower, John Barnard
of Abington, Northamptonshire, who was knighted in 1661; but she had no child by either husband,
and she died at Abington, and was buried there on February 17, 1669-70. The three tombstones
of Shakspere’s wife, daughter Susanna, and her husband, Dr. Jn. Hall, lie by his in the chancel of
Stratford Church. On Mrs. Hall’s is the following epitaph, which shows that the daughter had
both the father’s wit and tender heart :—

““ Witty above her sexe, but that’s not all, To weepe with her that wept with all ;
Wise. to salvation was good Mistress Hall : But wept, yet set herselfe to chere
Something of Shakespeare was in that ; but this, Them up with comforts cordiall?
Wholy of hin with whom she’s now in blisse. Her love shall live, her mercy spread,
Then, passenger, hast ne’re a tear When thou hast ne’re a tear to shed.”

Shakspere’s younger daughter, Judith Quiney, was buried at Stratford on February 9, 1661-2,
having survivd her three sons, Shakespeare, baptised November 23, 1616, buried May 8, 1617;
Richard, baptised February 9, 1617-18, buried February 26, 1638-9; Thomas, baptised January 23,
1619-20, buried January 28, 1638-9. No entry of the burial of her husband Thomas Quiney is in
the Stratford register. Shakspere’s sister Joan Hart was buried at Stratford on November 4, 1646.
To Joan’s grandson, Thomas Hart, Lady Barnard,—who, with her mother and first husband, had
barrd the entail under Shakspere’s will,—left the Henley Street or Birthplace houses; and these houses
were sold in 1847, by descendants of the Harts, to trustees for the nation. New Place was sold, after
Sir John Barnard’s death, to Sir Edward Walker. His only child Barbara married Sir John
Clopton, and she brought New Place back into the family of its old possessors. About 1720, Sir Hugh
Clopton pulled down New Place, and built a new house, probably more or less on the old foundations.
His son-in-law and executor, Henry Talbot, sold the property to the Rev. Francis Gastrell, vicar of
Frodsham, Cheshire ; and this confounded man not only cut down in 1756 the so-called ‘“‘ Shakspere’s
mulberry tree’ in the garden, because folks wanting to sce it botherd him, but also in 1759 pulld
down Sir H. Clopton’s fresh ‘New Place.” On the property coming into the market about 1860,
Mr. J. O. Halliwell got up a subscription and bought it, afterwards added to it the site of the theatre
built on part of the old garden, and other grounds adjacent, laid bare the foundations of the house,
put the whole place into nice order, and in 1876 handed it over to the Corporation of Stratford for
the use of the public, subject to visitors paying a small fee, as at the Birthplace. The gratitude of
every lover of Shakspere is due to Mr. Halliwell, not only for his exertions to secure the Birthplace
and New Place for the nation, but also for his long searches into the records of Shakspere’s life, and
for never having forgd a document or an emendation, though unluckily he has reprinted other folks’
forgeries. As he says, such mistakes as he’s made, have at least been honest ones.

§ 16. The statement of my old acquaintance Professor Craik, in his edition of Julius Cesar, 1857,
still remains true, that

‘‘ After all the commentatorship and criticism of which the works of Shakespeare have been the
subject, they still remain to be studied in their totality with a special reference to himself. The
man Shakespeare as read in his works—Shakespeare as there revealed, not only in his genius and
intellectual power, but in his character, disposition, temper, opinions, tastes, prejudices—is a book
yet to be written” (pp. 8, 9).

Till some one has caretully pickt out the extra-dramatic bits from his plays, and combined them
with the like bits in his poems, we cannot have his picture complete. But we know enough to get a
fair notion of him. His boyhood and young manhood I have already sketcht, pp. x, xii-xiv. The
latter was that of his own ideal, as so happily pictured by my friend Miss O’Brien, in her article on
‘‘ Shakspere’s Young Men”?! (and their 5 classes) in The Westminster Review for October, 1876. His

1 She says on ‘‘ Shakspere’s own ideal of young manhood”... ‘‘ First, as to the animal natures of these young
heroes of his, it is noticeable what physical perfection they are all supposed to have. ... His young hero should, asa

 

 
 

 

§16. THE MAN SHAKSPERE’S CHARACTERISTICS. exiii

 

outward history is that of so many thousands of his countrymen. Born and bred in the country, he
comes up to London poor, and gradually makes his fortune there, keepsan eye always to his country-
home, lays out his first money there, makes his father a gentleman, and then himself retires to be a
country gentleman in Stratford too, leaving behind him the city, the source of his fortune, the scene
of his triumphs. He, as is usual with self-made men, wants to found a family, and entails his landed
property on his eldest daughter and her child, leaving the youngest daughter but £300, marriage-
portion and all. He dislikt women’s sham hair and face-painting', men’s absurd dresses and frequent
changes of fashion?, and their excessive word-play and quips*; he also dislikt jealous wives*
scented effeminate men (Hotspur’s courtier, and Osric, &c.), Puritans’, courtiers’ pretensions®,
pompous justices®, presumptuous officials’, and affectations of all kinds; the fickle multitude’, child
actors, clowns saying more than was set down for them, ranting actors®, and dramatists'’?; and,
actor and playwright tho’ he was, liking the applause with which the well-gract actor left the stage
(Richard II., V. i1.), he still felt that his business lowerd his moral nature, and left its stain on him,
(Sonnet 111.) No wonder, if the general run of writers and actors was like Marlowe, Peele, and
Greene. Shakspere used the poor rather as material for fun, to amuse his richer patrons with, than
as folk with whom he felt. He doesn’t show much sympathy with ’em, not so much as Chaucer,
I think; but his representations of ’em are all in good part, and, like those of Chaucer and Dickens,
make his hearers think kindly of the men they laugh at. Shakspere also couldn't bear the
enclosure of commons near towns. He, like the other Elizabethan dramatists, doesn’t, in his
play, show much home feeling. He and they have hardly any of the modern feeling as to
the English home.!!| "Twas hardly possible then: Paul’s Walks, the theatres, the taverns, were the
leading features of the London life of Elizabeth’s and James’s time; and tho’ hints of happy home-
life are given here and there in Shakspere—‘‘sat at good men’s feasts’’ (ds You Like It, II. vii.),
and, oddly enough, in the Roman plays—just as in Sir Thomas More’s household, in Philip
Stubbes’s Life of his sweet young wife, who read the Bible so hard and was always asking him to
explain texts--yet it was not till the Puritan time that we get the Lucy Hutchinson, the Lady
Russell, the foundation of the English home, to which the cavalier spirit, when purified, was to add
lightness and grace. The hardness of early English home-life is seen in the Paston Letters, in the
Italian Relation of England, in Lady Jane Grey's bringing up, &c. (See the Forewords to my Badees’
Book, &c.) In connection with this want of home-lite, there seems to me in Shakspere some want
of sympathy with child-nature.!2  Admirable as his sketches of children’s characters are, it is rather
their parents’ feelings for them, than the children themselves, that he seems to care for. Shakspere
was, too, like most Tudor Englishmen, too fond of kings and queens. But in his time they were
mistaken for their country. (The modern Comtist, also, judging Shakspere as a Victorian, not an
Elizabethan, finds that he had no high purpose in his life, set up no high ideal in his plays;
that he ridiculed the poor to please the rich, &c. &c. These objections seem to me out of time and

general thing, ‘laugh merrily ’ like Valentine, ‘eat and drink heartily, walk manfully, and only look sad when his purse
was empty.’ He should be able to climb walls with Romeo, wrestle with Orlando, fence and fight pirates like Hamlet,
or swim through the stormy waves like Ferdinand ; and he should enjoy doing it. Shakspere seems to have revelled in
the creation of these healthy, and consequently fearless, young fellows. Further, he seems to lay stress on their being
natural, unaffected, as if to him affectation indicated a weakness somewhere in the man’s character; . . . we have hints
in the description of Parolles, with his ‘scarfs and bannerets,’ ‘his soul in his clothes,’ (cp. Cloten) which show us
Shakspere’s amused contempt for such creatures. . . . Shakspere seems to value very highly a decided capacity for
friendship between men. . . . This friendship is shown us in many forms and varying degrees of intensity. There is the
deep and devoted kind; . . . there isevery shade of genial sociability. . . . Clearly his model young man ought to be able
to get on with other people. That he should be capable of really falling in love is almost a matter of course. It was not
a matter of course, in those days or since, that the love so represented should be the pure and honest thing it is with
these young heroes. Passionate, ardent, outspoken, it is always straightforward, frank, and honourable, in both the
lover and the object of his love, in any character held up for our admiration. . .. Shakspere’s young hero must be a
gentleman too, in the best sense of that indefinable word. Our poet clearly believed that blood and birth made a good
deal of difference, fully agreeing with Spenser, ‘ that gentle blood will gentle manners breed.’ . . . But whether the polish
was to be innate or acquired, at all events it must be there before the young man’s character would be agreeable to
Shakspere. It is not enough that the young hero should be daring and gallant, generous and true, he must also have
something of cultivation and grace as well. . . . One point, however, should not be overlooked in connection with these
young men. With all their sociability, their friendship and hospitality, it is remarkable how little allusion there is to any-
thing of a rollicking, drinking style of conviviality. ... Healthy, brave, natural, genial, constant in friendship, noble in
love, well-bred, cultivated, and self-restrained ; such are the main points which we can discover of Shakspere’s ideal young
man. We would not say that there might not be something higher, that we might not wish for some example of real
heroism and self-sacrifice ; but the world is not made up of heroes, and Shakspere did not seem to feel called upon to
draw the exceptional people.”

1 See above, p. xxiii, and note 4 there, 6 Merry Wives; 2 Henry IV.

3 Portia, in The Merchant, p. xliii, above, &c, 7 Hamlet, III. i.; Measure for Measure, II. ii.

3 See above, p. xxiii. 8 1 Henry IV., end; 2 Henry IV., indue. ; Julius Cesar.
4 Adriana and the Abbess, in the Errors, II. i.; V. i. 9 Hamlet, III. ii, ; Troilus and Cressida ; Coriolanus. —
4 Twelfth-Night. 10 Quotations from Marlowe’s Tamburlaine and Ayd, in
5 Lear, V. ii. 15, 17 ; Much Ado, p. lvii, top note, 2 Henry IV., II. iv.

U Mr. Joseph Knight, from Mr. Spencer. ;
12 He likt their boldness and pluck. Cp. Edward IV.’s and Coriolanus’s boys.

 
 

 

exiv §16. THE MAN SHAKSPERE. BEN JONSON'S LOVE OF: HIM.

 

place.) Shakspere’s love for the country is one of’ his most striking characteristics :‘ his know-.
ledge of, and delight in, its flowers and plants, its birds and beasts, horses and dogs, its clouds
and sunshine, its pastoral life and fairy lore, its sports, its men and maidens, he puts into all his
plays. A thorough landsman, he never speaks of the sea with pleasure.1 Loving Nature even more
than Chaucer, he is no student, no book-reader, in the sense that Chaucer was, that even Ben Jonson
was. No reflections of other men’s work shine thro’ his every second line as in much of Chaucer.
He studies men and women, as he does Nature, at first-hand, not second, and reads mainly, I expect,
for material for his work, in the intervals of his busy active life. Baptista Mantuanus, Ovid, Plautus, of
the classics—perchance all in translations—certainly Plutarch’s Lives in North’s englisht version from
Amiot’s French one; Chaucer, George Gascoigne, Holinshed’s Chronicle, Lyly’s Euphucs?, Painter’s
Palace of Pleasure, and other collections of Novels, Greene’s Prose Tales, Montaigne’s Essays, are the
main books we trace in his works. ‘The English Bible he seems to have known well (see Mr.
Wordsworth’s book on this). Of all the arts he lovd Music next to Poetry—what lovely tender
passages he has written on it!3—then painting; then statuary. Full-blooded, impulsive he must
have been,’ and full of life. He likt his cakes * and ale, and took enjoyingly the pleasures sensuous
and sexual® that the fates provided. (It is absurd to try and make him out, in this regard, a
Milton or a Wordsworth. The unneeded double-ententes, the broad jokes, in his early plays, his
Venus, &¢., show that he had the allowable enjoyment of his time in an amusing splash of dirt. But
it is all wholesome coarseness; and he has far less of it than his dramatic contemporaries have.)

But with this full-blooded, strong, intense nature, with an overflowing store of humour, geniality
and wit, Shakspere combined the utmost sensitiveness, the tenderest, humblest, devoted, womanlike
love for his friend. What can be more beautiful—weak tho’ it may seem to some—than his affection
for his Will of the Sonnets? These are the poems that explain to us his contemporaries’ name for
him, “gentle Shakspere,” ‘‘ gentle Will;” these, the work that show us whence sprang his strong
hold on the rough blustering Ben Jonson, and drew from Ben those expressions of affection which—
notwithstanding their “buts” 7—are his own truest title to a place in our hearts: “I loved the man,
and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He was indeed honest, and of an
open and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions’ (Discoveries,
p. 747, col. 1): and—

“Triumph, my Britain ! thou hast one to show, Of Shakspeare’s mind and manners brightly shines
To whom all scenes of Europe, homage owe. In his well tornéd and true filéd lines
He was not for an age, but for all time ! Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were
And all the Muses still were in their prime, To see thee in our water yet appear,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm ! That so did take Eliza and our James !
Nature herself was proud of his designs, But stay ! I see thee in the hemisphere
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! . . Advanc’d, and made a constellation there !
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part. Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage,.
For though the poet's matter, nature be, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn’d
His art doth give the fashion like night,

BO RLS Look, how the father’s face And despairs day, but for thy volumes light.”
Lives in his issue, even so the race

(From Ben Jonson’s poem in the Folio of 1623, “To the Memory of my beloved Master, Wiliam
Shakspeare, and what he hath left us.”—Ben Jonson's Works, p. 693, col 1.)

1 From my friend Mr. Joseph Knight. 2 See Mr. Rushton’s book.

3 Merchant of Venice, V. i.; Twelfth-Night, I. i., IL. iv., &e.; Julius Cesar, I. ii, &e. &e.

- : This was a note of the time. Cp. Sir P. Sidney’s threat to drive his dagger into his secretary, if the latter read
is letters.

5'The saffrond cakes with raisins in, that were eaten with the ale in Elizabeth’s time to make the ale taste better.
See my Harrison, p. 1xxi.

613 March, 1601. Vpon a tyme when Burbidge played Richard III. there was a citizen grone soe farr in liking
with hin, that before shee went from the play shee appointed him to come that night vnto her by the name
of Richard the Third. Shakespeare, ouerhearing their conclusion, went before, was intertained, and at his game
ere Burbidge came. Then message being brought that Richard the Third was at the dore, Shakespeare caused returne
‘to be made that William the Conqueror was before Richard the,Third. Shakespeare’s name William (Mr. Touse ?).”
(Manningham’s Diary, castrated, p. 39. Camden Society.) See too the 2nd Group of Sonnets, p. xlvi, and note 4, p. ],
above. ‘The Mrs. Davenant story is in Aubrey’s MSS., in the Ashmole Collection, in the Bodleian, and in Oldys’s MS
Collections for a Life of Shakspere. See Dyce, i. 128, note 7. :

7 De Shakspeare nostrat.—Augustus in Hat(eriwm).—I remember, the players have often mentioned it as an honour
to Shakspeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out.a line. My answer hath been, ‘ Would he
had blotted a thousand !’ Which they thouglit a malevolent speech. I had not told posterjty this, but for their ignorance,
who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by, wherein he most’ faulted ; and to justify mine own candour:
for I loved the man, and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. ‘He was (indeed) honest, and of
an open and free nature ; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions ; wherein he flowed with that
facility, that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped : Suflaminandus erat, as Augustus said of Haterius, His
wit was in his own power ; would the rule of it had been so too! Many times he fell into those things, could not escape
laughter : as when he said in the person.of Qvesar, one speaking to him, ‘ Cxsar, thou dost me wrong.’ He replied, ‘ Czesar

 

 
 

 

§16. SHAKSPERE AS POET AND DRAMATIST. exv

 

Fuller says of Shakspere: “ Many were the wit combates betwixt him and Ben Jonson, which
two I beheld like a Spanish great gallion and an English man-of-war. Master Jonson (like the
former) was built for higher in learning, solid but slow in his performances; Shakespeare, with the
English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about and
take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.” (Worthies, p. 126,
sign. A.a.a, ed. fol., in Dyce, p. 70.) Aubrey had heard that Shakspere “was a handsome, well-
shap’t man,” “very good company, and of a very readie and pleasant smooth witt.’’ His kindly
reference to his dead rival Marlowe in ds You Like It, I have already notist, p. lvii, and
Chettle’s testimony to his early worth, p. xvi, note 5, end. And who can read his plays without
feeling that in all that’s frank, and generous, and beautiful, all that’s noble, and to be reverenct
and loved in their characters and them, there is part of Shakspere himself? Grant that in his bad
characters there is somewhat of him too, that he had yielded to temptation, passion, felt possibilities
of crime; but yet how greatly the good outweighs the ill! how surely we feel that the ideals
Shakspere created, he strove to reach, and that all that was true and right came to him as to its home!

As a dramatist, a poet, Shakspere, like Chaucer, started late, and ripened late, though earlier than
the older maker. Chaucer’s first poem, the Pity, must have been written when he was nearly twenty-
eight, his Prologue when he was fourty-eight. Shakspere’s first poem, his Venus and Adonis, the first
heir of his invention, when he was twenty-nine, his first play, Love's Labours Lost, when he was
twenty-four or twenty-five; his Othel/o when he was fourty. Chaucer began in sadness, and workt
through it into the sunshine and humour of his merry Tales, but passt at last into complaints
against Fortune, poverty and ill hap. Shakspere started with fun and farce, and passing through his
carly tragedy and histories to his brilliant sunny comedies, plunged into the gloom and terrors of the
tragedies of his Third Period, but emerged, to end, in sunshine and in peace. What strikes me most
in Shakspere is his magnificent power and ease. True poet as Chaucer is, and much as I love him
(my work for him shows it); true poet as Marlowe is—let Miss Lee speak his praise 1—it seems to me
that Shakspere can take them both up in his right hand, and all the other English poets in his left,
and walk off with them without feeling their weight. This strength, this ease of doing all he wants,
and having power in reserve ; this ability to swing you right away on whatever tide of passion, pity,
terror, joy, humour, wit, he chooses to raise, I find in no one else in like degree. Then comes Shak-
spere’s characterisation, proceeding from that quick eye that saw the eagle’s shaking wings, &c., in the
Venus, from that sensibility which was affected by every object in Nature, every emotion in Man,
like a photographer’s plate is by every ray of light; that sympathy that enabled Shakspere to feel
with and for every change in the physical world, every mood in the spiritual; that intensity with
which he could throw his whole strong, tender, self, into his characters ; that insight, that imagination
penetrative, which showd him what was at the heart of every man and thing with which he dealt;
that power of realisation which enabled him to embody his conceptions, his studies from life, as
themselves really living beings. Then comes the wonderful variety, many-sidedness of the man.
With all natures he is kin. From Caliban to Titania, Miranda; from Bottom to Theseus, Prospero;
from Parolles, to Hotspur, Henry V.; Doll Tearsheet to Isabella; Mrs. Quickly to Volumnia, he
ranges with equal power at will. True that he knows men, but adores women—his reverence for
women (even if mainly ideal only) is to me the most beautiful trait in his character—true that he
always analyses and lays bare the weaknesses and sins of the one sex, while of the other, only
Cleopatra and Cressid does he dissect2, as Chaucer does the wife of Bath, when he displays her; the rest
of his heroines he lifts into angels, yet keeps them all sweet loving women still.3 Yet how fair he is to
his characters! Iago and Edmund are his only pure villains; and for both we are shown excuses in
the causes for their crimes. The nearest man to them, Richard III., has his excuse too, in his birth;

did never wrong but with just cause,’ and such like ; which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his vices with his virtues,
There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.” (Discoveries ; in Works, ed. 1838, p. 747, col. 1.) On the
detractor’s but, Chaucer’s Parson’s Tale says, under ‘“‘Envy:” “And this synne / of bakbitynge or detraccion / hath
certeine.speces / as thus { Som man preiseth his neighebore by a wikke entente /. [494] for he maketh alwey a wikked
knotte atte laste ende /, alwey / he maketh a Bur / atte laste ende / that is digne of moore blame / than worth is al the
preisynge.” 4
3 : To what a pitch of greatness Marlowe's genius might have reached had he lived to attain perfect manhood I
eannot tell. All I know is, that when he died at the age of thirty years he was the greatest dramatic poet whom England
had yet seen (a greater poet, I dare to say, than Shakspere was at the same date); and that in power of imagery, in
majesty of thought, in depth of passionate feeling, he excelled all who had written before him, and all (even Shakspere)
who wrote during his lifetime. His short life and brief period of greatness remind me of the story told of the stranger
athlete who—when the men of Greece were assembled to view the game of quoits, and were watching with delight and
admiration the feats of strength achieved by their youth—strode down from the mountains, and taking the quoit flung
it without effort further than it had ever yet been thrown by any man ; and then, while old and young gazed on him
with wonder and with envy, turned and left them and was seen no more.”—New Sh. Soc.’s Trans., 1875-6, p. 239.
. . This so pleasant enthusiastic praise hides all Marlowe's faults, his rant and tawdriness, his strain, and want of
naturalness, humour, &c. But he was no doubt Shakspere’s teacher in tragedy and blank verse.

2 We may add Mrs. Quickly, perhaps, of non-heroines. Whom else?

8 Lady Macbeth, Goneril, Regan, he has unsext.

 

 
 

 

exvi §16. SHAKSPERE AS POET AND DRAMATIST.

 

and he loves his father, and suffers in his restless bed and his conscience-stricken awakening. With
Shylock, Macbeth, our hearts feel. Then comes the love of Nature in all Shakspere’s work,—but of
this I have spoken above, p. cxiv; not Wordsworth himself was fuller of it: it was in every fibre of
his being. Then “the presence of a spirit of active and enquiring thought through every page of his
writings is too evident to require any proof. . . . He has impressed no other of his own mental
qualities on all his characters: this quality colours every one of them.” (Spalding’s Letter, p. 20.)
Then the deep wisdom and reflective power, specially in the Third and Fourth-Period plays, so often
shown in short pregnant sentences that weigh and glisten like gold. ‘Then the rich and lovely fancy
of the early poems and plays, carried on, tho’ subdued and chastend, to the last. Then the
delightful humour and fun; Shakspere’s evident enjoyment of it; the boy’s heart in him to the end,
as Autolycus shows. Then his brilliant wit, his aptness of epithet, and mastery of language. Then
the manliness and healthiness of his work—notwithstanding its occasional coarseness of his time—his
sound judgment and strong common-sense. His knowledge of human nature. His conviction that
breakers of law, natural and moral, must and do suffer for their sins. His interweaving of fancy
and farce, pathos and comedy, of tragedy and humour. But where shall I stop? Who shall number
all Shakspere’s attributes? All lovers of him know dozens more than I have mentioned in this poor
summary ; and all of them are but the agents of that imagination which made him the greatest poet of
the world. (Note his special originality in comedy. Hardly any of his chief folk in it are from other
men’s sketches.)

In the construction of his dramas, Shakspere’s weakness seems to me to spring from his strength.
That was characterisation. Give hima story that aftorded him scope for development of character,
and he didn’t care much for a plot; he didn’t attend enough to the maxim that a play must act
itself. See on what loose threads of dramatic continuity plays like the Dream, King John, Henry V.,
Cymbeline, Winter's Tale, &c., are strung. As Prof. Spalding has pointed out in his able Letter, pp.
62, 66, Shakspere belongd to the old school of dramatists as regards plots: any old well-known story
would suit him, for he knew he could make the dry bones live; but the hold of his works on the
stage as acting plays has loosend from their want of better plots. It is odd too in how many of his
plays the climax is reacht before the fifth Act: this is due to hisimpetuousness; and to the same cause
is owing his frequent inconsistency in details: see Hamlet, p. lxix, note 1. To the Leading-Idea-
of-each-Play notion, so strongly insisted on by many German critics and their English followers, I
do not, take, in the sense that Shakspere entertaind it consciously before he wrote a Play. He never
sat down to write a play as a parson writes a sermon, on the evils of avarice?; nor did he, in my
belief, according to the doctrine in some critics, sit still till old James Burbage or his son Richard or
Cuthbert came to him, and said, ‘“‘ Now, Shakspere, we want a tragedy this day fortnight : something
stirring, you know. Suppose you take Hamlet, in which the hero’s always doing nothing and
making excuses for it—splendid subject for a drama, for action, that!—You cook it up, and mind
you bring it home to time.” I believe, on the one hand, that Shakspere soon became king and
teacher of his company—his own fellows must have known the‘ difference between him and other
men, and lookt up to him with pride,—and that he product them comedy when he liked it, and
tragedy when he liked it, without asking them for orders. On the other hand, I conceive that
Shakspere, according to the mood he was in, either heard a fresh story, or recollected an old one,
which suited his mood, and gave him a chance for developing character; then he threw himself
into the circumstances and people of the story, made such changes in them as he thought fit, in
accordance with his idea of his plot and each of his characters, and then developt the whole. If one
character dominated the whole play, as in Othello, &c., then the play had u leading idea; if one
character didn't dominate it, as in The Merchant, then the play hadn’t any leading idea, except the
one leading every play, that of exhibiting human emotion and character. Shakspere cared for life,
and didn’t bother himself about subject, object, idea, teleology, &c.

Altogether ‘‘a manly man” (as Chaucer says) this Shakspere, strong, tender, humourful, sensitive,
impressionable, the truest friend, the foe of none but narrow minds and base. And as we track
his work from the lightness and fun of its rise, through the fairy fancy, the youthful passion, the
rich imaginings, the ardent patriotism, the brilliant sunshine, of his first and second times, through
the tender affection of his Sonnets, the whirlwind of passions in his Tragedies, and then to the lovely
sunset of his latest plays, what can we do but bless his name, and be thankful that he came to be a
delight, a lift and strength, to us and our children’s children to all time—a bond that shall last for
ever between all English-speaking, English-reading men, the members of that great Teutonic brother-
hood which shall yet long lead the world in the fight for freedom and for truth ?

1 In Richard IIT, the first Act, with its wooing of Lady Anne, pales everything that follows. Mr, Irving has graspt
the character of Richard admirably.

2 The only plays I recognise as incidental-purpose ones are Richard II, and John. The only direct-purpose ones
are Love's Labours Losi and Julius Cesar.

 

 
 

 

§17..4 VISIT 10 STRATFORD. §18. OBJECT OF THIS INTRODUCTION. exvii

 

§ 17. 1Go to Stratford-upon-Avon, and see the town where Shakspere was born, and bred, and
died ; the country over which he wanderd and playd when a boy, whose beauties and whose lore, as
aman, he put into his plays. Go either in spring, in April, “ when the greatest poet was born in
Nature’s sweetest time,” and let Mr. Wise ( ‘‘ Shakespeare : his Birthplace and its Neighbourhood,” pp.
44,58, &c.) tell you how “ everything is full of beauty” that you'll see; or go in full summer, as I did
one Saturday afternoon in July, 1874. See first the little low room where tradition says Shakspere
was born, though his father did not buy the house till eleven years after his birth?; look at the
foundation of ‘‘ New Place,”’ walk on the site of Shakspere’s house, in the garden whose soil he must
often have trod, thinking of his boyhood and hasty marriage, of London, with its trials and triumphs,
and the wonders he had created for its delight; follow his body, past the school where he learnt, to
its grave in the Avon-side church ringd with elms: see the worn slab that covers his bones, with wife’s
and daughter’s beside; look up at the bust which figures the case of the brain and heart that have so
enricht the world, which shows you more truly than anything else what Shakspere was like in the
flesh ; try to see in those hazel eyes, those death-drawn lips, those ruddy cheeks, the light, the merri-
ment, the tenderness, the wisdom, and love that once were theirs; walk by the full and quiet Avon’s
side, where the swan sails gently, by which the cattle feed; ask yourself what word sums up your
feelings on these scenes: and answer, with me, “ Peace”!

Next morning, walk up the Welcombe Road, across the old common lands whose enclosing
Shakspere said he “ was not able to bear:” when up Rowley Bank, turn round; see the town
nestle under its circling hills, shut in on the left by its green wall of trees. The corn is golden
beside you. Meon Hill meets the sky in your front; its shoulder slants sharply to the spire of the
church where Shakspere’s dust lies: away on the right is Broadway, lit with the sun; below it, the
ridge of Roomer Hill, yellow for harvest on the right, passes leftwards into a dark belt of trees to
the church, their hollows filld with blue haze. In this nest is Shakspere’s town. After gazing your
fill on the fair scene before you, walk to the boat-place, paddle out for the best view of the elm-framd
church, then by its river-borderd side to the stream below; get a beautiful view of the tower through
a vista of trecs beyond the low waterfall; then pass by cattle, half-knee deep in the shallows, slug-
gishly whisking their tails, happily chewing the cud; go under Wire-Brake Bank, whose trees
droop down to the river, whose wood-pigeons greet you with coos; past many groups of grey
willows, with showers of wild roses between: feathery reeds rise beside you, birds twitter about, the
sky is blue overhead, your boat glides smoothly down stream: you feel the sweet content with which
Shakspere must have lookt on the scene. Later, you wander to Shottery, to Anne Hathaway’s cottage,
where perchance in hot youth the poet made love. Then you ride through Charlecote’s tall-elmd
park, and see the deer whose ancestors he may have stolen; on to Warwick, with its castle rising
grandly from Avon bank; back to Stratford, with a glorious view from the hill, on your left in your
homeward ride.3 Evening comes: you stroll again by the riverside, through groups of townsfolk
pleasant to see, in well-to-do Sunday dress. From Cross-o’-th’-Hill you look at the fine view of
church and town, backt by the Welcombe Hills; through Wire Brake‘ and ripe corn, you walk to
the bridge that brings you to the opposite level bank of the stream. Then you lie down, chatting
of Shakspere to your friend, while lovers in pairs pass lingering by, and the twilight comes. Then
again you say that the peace of the place was fit for Shakspere’s end, and that the memory of its
quiet beauty will never away from your mind.

Yes, Stratford will help you to understand Shakspere.

§ 18. It has been my privilege to set the torch of Shakspere’s genius to some young minds,
and to see them kindle at its touch in a way that it has been one of the great pleasures of my life
to witness. It has been my privilege, too, to bring for the first time before some life-long students of
Shakspere, the order and succession of his works in their gradual development of power, and beauty,
and wisdom, together with the oneness of these works through all their growth, and thus to give
these students a quite new interest and delight in the great writer they had so long loved. I hope
this Introduction may be of like use to a larger number of peoplenow. I am certain that the mere
study of isolated plays must give way to the study of them as parts of a whole, and in relation to the
other parts, as well as singly; that the study of Shakspere’s works must be made like that of the
works of every other great artist, painter, musician, &c., like that of the Creator’s works—natural and
scientific, and in the order of the maker’s making. And I claim that the method I have pursued is that

1 Reprinted, like most of §19, from my Gervinus Introduction.

2 He may have rented it before; but I expect that the former house, in Henley Street, in which John Shakspere
dwelt, would have a better claim to be ‘‘the birthplace,” if it were now known.

3 If you can, get on to ruind Kenilworth, where Shakspere may have seen Leicester’s pageants before Elizabeth, in
1575 (see my edition of Captain Cor, Ballad Society), to use in Midsummer-Night’s Dream. Heaven forbid that he should
have turnd the great mason Captain into Bottom !

4 The young Stratford folk call their Sunday-evening stroll through this wooded bank, ‘‘Going to Chapel.” That
their devotions interested the attendants, I can say.

 

 

 

 
 

 

exvili §18. EVIDENCE FOR THE SUCCESSION, OF SHAKSPERES PLAYS.

 

of the man of science, comparison, noting of differences and identities of expression, subject, character,
mood, and temper of mind; and that this method and its results do bring a fresh element of certainty
into the order of Shakspere’s plays, and the groups into which they fall. The evidence of this order
and grouping has come to me gradually and unexpectedly; and it is all undesigned evidence. The
first thing that struck me on reading Gervinus was the absolute necessity of a Fourth Period for the
latest Group of Plays, just as one had been wanted for Chaucer. Next, on asecond reading of the plays,
came out the connecting link of the Errors or mistaken-identity fun between the three earliest plays.
Then came the conviction—started by my friend Mr. Hales’s chat to us at the New Shakspere Society
—that Mr. Halliwell’s discovery of the allusion to Julius Cesar by Weever in 1601, was justified by
the internal evidence of the play}; and on working the subject out independently many months
afterwards, I was surprised to find how strong and how many the links between Julius Cesar and
Hamlet were (several of these are given above at p. lxix), and that the former’s place was clearly before
Hamlet, and not after Measure for Measure?, as I had put it in my first table (Gervinus Introduction,
p. xliv.). Then at once showd itself the link of likeness of character; Brutus, Hamlet, Claudio, Angelo,
all unfit natures for the task set them, all failing under the burden laid on them. Next came the
position of the Poems. Following Gervinus, and many criticisms in print and out of it, I at first put
the Venus and Adonis down as Shakspere’s earliest work (Gerv. Introd., p. xliv.) ; and while under this
notion, I undertook to edit this present volume of Shakspere. I wrote the Introduction to the Venus,
and thought I had persuaded myself that it really was Shakspere’s first work. But on turning to
Love’s Labours Lost and the Errors after it, the absurdity was too apparent; the poem clearly belongd
to the Passion Group, which was prepared for by The Two Gentlemen ; and, my youngest brother's
death occurring just at the time, I gave up my editing, and askt Messrs. Cassell to take my friend
Professor Delius’s non-copyright text for their book, and, as in duty bound, his order of the
Plays.3 Then, I had at first put King John in the First Period, from its dramatic weakness, its
climax—if John’s death can be so calld—having nothing to do with the motives of the play. But
its variety of well-drawn characters, its richness and pathos as compared with Richard III, its
links with The Merchant, soon convinct me that it must be of the Second Period, and with The
Merchant form the Life-Plea Group. The Shrew was difficult to place; but the kinship of Grumio’s
humour to Falstaff’s, the admirable drawing of Petruchio’s characters, showd that it must be close
to, though before, 1 Henry IV.: and soon. It is by one’s mistakes that one learns. Of course this
method can be ridiculed by any little fool—April> or other—who wants to raise a laugh, just as
metrical tests have been: “there’s a man and a woman in The Tempest and the Dream ; therefore
they are next to one another; ‘the’ and ‘a’ are in all the plays, therefore they were all written the
same day,” &c. But it must be a poor method or man that’s put down by
“A gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.”—L. L. Lost, V. ii. 849-851.

Students must, too, have a certain knowledge of the succession of Shakspere’s plays, in order to
appreciate the value of the evidence. May I again refer to a mistake of mine—and a happy hit—to
illustrate this? When trying for the order and groups of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, I could at
first find nothing better than to follow my best MS., the Ellesmere, and our best old editor, Tyrwhitt.
But on sending up my scheme to the only man in the world who knew anything about the subject,
and had long workt in vain at it, Mr. H. Bradshaw, the sight of my mistake at once enabled him to set
me and himself right, and to settle at once and for ever the order of the Tales. So in Chaucer’s Minor

2 Till then I had been struck only by the contrast of the characters of Brutus and Hamlet. See Notes, p. exxv.

2 The strong temptation to put Measure for Measure next All's Well I had instinctively resisted from the first.

3 It differs from mine in some points. I have not lookt to see which. Every reader must judge for himself, after
work and thought, whether either or neither of us is right.

4 Every reading of plays near one another, brings out fresh links, Only last night at 2 Henry IV. my friend and
colleague, Mr. F. D. Matthew, noted that Pistol’s song-quotation (?when putting on his boots, 134), ‘‘ Where is the life that
late I led?” V.. iii. 143, is Petruchio’s when pulling off his boots in The Shrew, IV. i. 135. It was no doubt a popular air
that Shakspere himself sang at this time.

5 Mr. Swinburne especially needs the reminder that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. If any
one chose to descend to his level in conducting controversy in some points, there is plenty of material for a reply to his
personalities in matters Shaksperean, especially if his answerer lives near Hampstead Heath. The ear of which he makes
so much—and which must be long to measure Shakspere—the bray that has already brought down driver Punch’s stick
on his sides,—List of May Meetings, 1876, Mr. Swinburne may meet a poet equal to himself; in his own opinion,—
irresistibly suggest the assimilation of consonants needed in A. G. 8., to give a name to his little mutual-admiration
club,--while the components of the chaff to feed its members with, can be had for the asking. Buta couple of couplets
addresst to the author of the Nest of Ninnies (of which Mr. Swinburne knows the name at least), no doubt explains
the part that his wounded vanity, and want of manliness to acknowledge a mistake, led him to play in this matter :—

« Armine, what shall I say of thee, but this, And wrong thee much ; sith thou indeed art neither,
Thou art a fool and knave : both ?—fle, I miss, Although in shew thou playest both together.”

Mr. Swinburne is meant for better thiugs than a cap and bells.

 

 
 

 

§18. THE ORDER OF SHAKSPERE’S PLAYS IS THE NATURAL ORDER. exix

 

Poems, I had followed the best leader and argument I could find, and printed the Dethe of Blanche
first. Then Mr. Bradshaw told me he had never been able to get a place for The Complaint to Pity. On
a careful reading of it—never till then given—I saw it was Chaucer’s first original poem, before the
Blanche, and that the latter alluded to his love-sickness explained in the Pity.! Mr. Bradshaw’s
knowledge of Chaucer—unequalld it is, in these points—made him agree in this firstness of the Pity.
But a man with very much slighter knowledge of Chaucer details, Mr. Minto, could not agree—he
hadn’t had the special training to enable him to—and he made the comical suggestion that Chaucer's
illness was due to the want of cash2, of which the poet complains in his very latest poem. Now the
critic I want for the order and groups of Shakspere’s plays is a Bradshaw, and not a Minto; some
one—a friend I hope—who knows ; who can say, ‘‘ That play or group must come out of your wrong
place, and go into my right one, there;” and whom one can gladly, delightedly, thank for setting
one right. For in these small, as in greater matters, it's—
“What delights can equal those When one that loves but knows not, reaps
That stir the spirit’s inner deeps A truth from one that loves and knows !”
In Memoriam, xli. 9-12.

Chaucer was right in putting his clerk’s ‘‘ gladly wolde he lerne,” before the ‘‘ gladly wolde he
teche’’: the learning’s ever so much pleasanter. Why won’t the men of the level of Tennyson,
Spedding, Pater, Symonds, Dowden, Ingram, do more for us at Shakspere? "Wooden-heads, and
pert know-littles, we’ve had in plenty. But we want the men who see.

The plays about the place of which there is most doubt, are the Dream—which, after formerly
shifting after the Errors, I movd back again—The Shrew, and Troilus, specially the last. If they
are in the wrong places now, and get movd to their right ones, I have no doubt that a number of
links of like phrases, thoughts, subjects, characters, will be perceivd between them and the plays
lying next them. I believe, nay, assert, that down each side-edge of every one of Shakspere’s plays
are several hooks and eyes of special patterns, which, as soon as their play is put in its right place,
will find a set of eyes and hooks of the same pattern on the adjoining play to fit into. This was
oddly the case with Julius Cesar when put into its right place before Hamlet. And the only exception
to the rule is, where an entirely new or different subject like this Julius Cesar is started, after such
a succession of comedies as closes Shakspere’s Second Period: in this case the links, the hooks and
eyes, on the left edge of the new play, may be wanting. Note too, that, as in conjunctions, we have
both copulative and disjunctive ones, so in links we have. both bonds of likeness and contrast, as I have
shown under Hamlet, p.lxix. These links—almost always undesigned ones—I contend are only what
must naturally exist between works written by the same man nearly at the same time of his hfe and
in the same mood. From evidence of like kind, comparing the general tone of the Four Periods of
his works, I hold that Shakspere’s plays, when lookt at broadly in their successive Periods, represent
his own prevailing temper of mind, as man as well as artist, in the succeeding stages of his life.
These tempers and moods, as they change in Shakspere’s Four Periods, are but those of Nature.
Mr. Spedding, who objects to part of my views, yet says :—

. “Along with the resemblances between the writings of the same man, there will also be differences;
differences corresponding to changes in his tastes, humours, habits, fortunes, and mental conditions.
In his earlier youth, farce and deep tragedy may probably divide his affections between them. As his
mind expands and ripens, the broader humours of farce and the simpler horrors of tragedy lose their
attraction, and give place to the richer, chaster, and more delicate humour of high comedy, and the
deeper mysteries of tragic passion. As advancing years cool the blood, and decreasing activity makes
the pleasures of a quiet life more attractive than those of a stirring one, it is probable that the writer’s
taste will incline to the calmer and more soothing kind of pathos, in which the feeling is too profound
and tender for what is called comedy, and yet the final impression too peaceful for what is called
tragedy. Tastes so changing would no doubt induce changes both in the choice of subjects and in
the treatment of them; and looking through your list of Shakspere’s plays in the order of their dates
as determined upon independent grounds, the succession is much what we might (without invent-
ing any extraordinary spiritual trials in his private life to account for the changes) have expected.
Take your Four Periods, and you will find that the differences in choice and treatment suit very
naturally with the natural changes in a man’s mind as he grows older; and that the whole series will
divide very well into four groups. Between twenty-four and thirty, Shakspere had a young man’s tastes,
both in the light and the, heavy line—a taste for merriment and absurdity and ingenious conceits and

1 This poem also explains the cause of the great preponderance of melancholy thwarted-love poetry in Chaucer's
early time, as contrasted with the prevailing humourous poetry of his Third Period. oon atts

2 Characteristics of English Poets, p. 10. ‘Matrimonial pangs” Mr. Minto has since suggested in his article in the
Eneycl. Britan., which contains some great blunders. — : :

3 The Temple-Garden scene in 1 Henry VI. was no doubt written some time before Shakspere’s part of 2 & 3 Henry VIL?
but I had to treat the whole quadrilogy together. :

4 Professor Dowden puts Troilus next Measure for Measure. See Notes atend. I think that’s too early.

 

 
 

 

exx § 18. THE ORDER OF SHAKSPERE’S PLAYS. HE HIMSELF IS IN THEM.

 

slang and bawdry, in the light line; and for love, in the ‘sighing-like furnace’ and bowl-and-dagger

-stage, in the serious. Aftcr thirty he lost his relish for these puerilities, aimed at a higher order of
wit and humour in comedy, and a higher moral standard altogether ; while for the true elements of
human tragedy he turned to history. Five or six years of such work led him upwards into a still
higher region. In comedy, though the vein was as rich as ever and as full of enjoyment, yet the
pathetic element springing from the tender and serious feeling with which he had come to regard all
human things became more and more predominant, and so prevailed over the other in the general
effect, that his later works which end happily are hardly to be called comedies. I suppose nobody
ever thought of Measure for Measure as a comedy, though everybody in it except Lucio is happily
disposed of, and the effect of his sentence is rather comic than otherwise. Adl’s Well is allied to
tragedy rather than comedy, by the pity and serious interest with which we follow the fortunes of the
heroine; and Twelfth-Night, in spite of the number and perfection of the comic scenes, and the
wonderful liveliness and rapidity and variety of incident and action, is nevertheless to me one of the
most pathetic plays I know—and would draw tears far sooner than Romeo and Juliet. ‘So Shakspere
may be said to have taken leave of comedy proper in The Merry Wives, and to have grown out of it
before he was forty years old. In the meantime his exercises in tragedy proper had led him into the
region of the great passions which disclose the heights and depths of humanity—a region which was
destined to become and remain his own. These passions,—for the benefit of the theatre, the glory of
Burbage, the amusement and instruction of the play-going public—and partly it may be for the
satisfaction and relief of his own genius—he brought, by means of such stories as he could find, suit-
able for showing them in action, upon the stage. And to this we owe Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello, Lear,
and the rest; which occupied the ‘unhappy Third Period.’ I should like to have a period of un-
happiness like that. [No doubt.] The Fourth Group follows naturally enough. He was forty-four
years old; he had made moncy enough; he had retired from business; he had passed the period when
the mind takes pleasure in violent agitations; and he employed himself upon such subjects as suited—
or treated the subjects which he found so as to make them suit—the autumnal days :—Witness The
Winter's Tale and The Tempest.

“Classing the plays according to their general character, I find that they fall naturally into
these broad divisions, and that they have a kind of correspondence with the divisions which are
observable in the life of man. But if you want to separate these natural divisions into subordinate
groups, according to the particular feature which distinguishes each, it seems to me that you must
have as many groups as there are plays. The distinguishing feature of each would depend upon
many things besides the author’s state of mind. It would depend upon the story which he had to
tell; and the choice of the story would depend upon the requirements of the theatre—the taste of the
public, the popularity of the different actors, the strength of the company. A new part might be
wanted for Burbage or Kempe. The two boys that acted Hermia and Helena [and Rosalind and
Celia]—the tall and the short onc,—or the two men who were so like that they might be mistaken for
each other, might want new pieces to appear in!; and so on. The stories would be selected from
such as were to be had (and had not been used up), to suit the taste of the frequenters of the theatre ;
and the characters and incidents would be according to the stories.”

If then the broad divisions are those of Nature, if they are a priori probable, and the succession
of the plays in each Period can be made out—as I have shown it can be, with a close approach to
certainty—by a combination of all the evidence from without and within, how can we help asking
ourselves what smaller groups the plays of each Period fall into? how can we help refusing to admit
the evidence under our noses that, for instance, Julius Cesar, Hamlet, and Measure for Measure are
most closely allied by the unfitness of Brutus, Hamlet, Claudio, to bear the burden put on them,
while Othello and Macbeth, tho’ like the first group in the unfitness of their heroes’ nature for the
strain put on them, are yet more closely linkt to one another by their heroes, under the influence of
their quick-working imaginations, yielding to temptations from without and from within? And
so on. Next, as to the question how far we are justified in assuming that Shakspere put his
own feelings, himself, into his own plays. Some men scorn the notion, ask you triumphantly
which of his characters represents him, assert that he himself is in none of them, but sits
apart, serene, unruffied himself by earthly passion, making his puppets move.2 I believe, on the
contrary, that all the deepest and greatest work of an artist,—playwright, orator, painter, poet, &c.,
—is based on personal experience, on his own emotions and passions’, and not merely on his
observations of things or feelings outside him, on which his fancy and imagination work. , I find

1 Cp. Viola and Sebastian in Twelfth-Niqht.

2 They take the Fourth-Period calm of Prospero, reacht thro’ trial and storm, as that of Shakspere’s whole life, even.
his ‘‘hell of time.” It is a strange mistaking of this life-ful, nerve-ful man.

3The revived doctrine that the main object of poetry is to please, seems to me too contemptible to be discusst. 1
don’t believe the mere wish to please, ever produced anything better than toys.

 

 
 

 

§18. SHAKSPERE HIMSELF IN HIS PLAYS. exxi

 

that Fra Angelico, whose angel-pictures breathe calm into you as you walk up to them, and lift you
into heaven’s own serene, makes you smile at his devils. I find that Wordsworth cannot paint passion,
but that Michael Angelo can. I find that Milton’s Satan has Milton’s noble nature perverted
~——is no devil, &c.;—but that Dante can paint hell, because he’s felt it. Shakspere tells me he’s
felt hell: and in his Othello, Macbeth, Lear, Coriolanus, Timon, I see the evidence of his having
done so.! He tells me how he loved his friend, as with woman’s love; and in his Antonio—thrice
repeated—his Helena, his Viola, I see his own devoted love reflected. He tells me what his false
swarthy mistress was: and in his Cleopatra I see her, to some extent, embodied. Tradition tells me
of the merry mectings at the Mermaid, and the wit-combats there; and in the Falstaff-scenes at the
Boar’s Head, &c. &c.; I see these imaged. The early plays show me what Shakspere was at the
beginning of his career—how comparatively poor in nature, and merely sharp and witty. I see him

ow in knowledge and experience of life from Period to Period, almost play to play, enriching
himself with the society of gracious Elizabethan ladies, and courtly men, fighting the deepest
questions which puzzle the will, getting convinced of the sternness of the Moral Ruler of mankind,
of the weakness of his own nature, of the suffering that sin brings; I see him laying bare his own
soul as he strips the covering off other men’s; and I see him at last passing into at-oneness with God
and man, into fresh delight in all the glories of the outward world, and the sweet girls about him in
his Stratford home. Then content to sleep. And I refuse to separate Shakspere the man from
Shakspere the artist. He himself, his own nature and life, are in all his plays, to the man who has
eyes, and chooses to look for him and them there. ,

But still let those who reject this view, note that all I have said of the succession of Shakspere’s
Plays is independent of it. Only let them study the works of Shakspere chronologically, as they do
those of Raphael, Turner, Mozart, Handel, Beethoven; and let them help to put down the idiotic
helplessness and confusion on the subject that have hitherto been so prevalent in England, and which
still make many men turn angrily on you when you try to get them out of it. Let them also insist,
that Shakspere’s Poems be studied with his Plays, as Chaucer’s Minor Poems must be with his Tales.
Neither man can be known from Plays or Tales alone.

(I owe an apology to my readers for the slightness and inequality of parts of this Introduction.
Most of it has been draggd out of me when in a Hamlet-like mood of putting-off, and amid the
pressure of other work. All the play-part was dictated to an amanuensis, from old notes and
recollections’, and under constant injunctions to be short. But the intended thirty-two pages have
grown to four times their length, and yet much that should have been said remains unsaid. I have
not had time either, to work out fully the links between the plays,—with the help of the Variorum
edition or a Concordance’,—or § 16 on Shakspere. How poorly the words I have used, represent him
or my own feeling for him, I painfully feel. Still, that they will help beginners at least, teachers and
students of long standing, who have themselves learnt from what I have written, have assurd me;
and I know, when I began work at Shakspere, how much I wanted such an introduction to him as is
given here. My best thanks are due to the friends who have lookt over these sheets, and added the
suggestions to which their names are put.)

§ 19. a. The best books to help the student to understand Shakspere’s mind, growth, and
purpose, are Gervinus’s “Commentaries” (14s., Smith and Elder); Dowden’s “Shakspere, his
Mind and Art” (12s., H. S. King and Co.); Mrs. Jameson’s ‘“ Characteristics of Women,” that
is, Shakspere’s Women—an enthusiastic and beautiful book (ds., Routledge); Watkiss Lloyd’s
“ Critical Essays on the Plays” (2s. 6d., Bell and Sons); 8. T. Coleridge’s ‘Shakespeare Lectures,”
&c., from vol. ii. of his “ Biographia Literaria” (3s. 6d., Howell, Liverpool).4 Then, if you wish

1 T look for the Shakspere of each Period—good part of him, at least—to the character or opposite characters whom
he has drawn with most sympathy in it: to Valentine (and Romeo?) in the First Period ; to Henry V. on the one hand,
Antonio on the other, in the Second Period ; to Hamlet on the one hand, Othello on the other, in the Third Period ; to
Prospero in the Fourth. I can’t believe that Shakspere had much of the wily Ulysses or the calm, self-seeking (tho’ re-
pentant) Enobarbus in him, tho’ they may represent, for his Third Period, the self-control that Benvolio does for his
First. While he knew with Romeo what the ecstacy of love was, with Antonio what the self-sacrifice of life to friendship
was, with Hamlet what will-weakness, with Othello what jealousy, with Coriolanus, with Timon, what ingratitude were ;
though with his nerve-ful sensitive frame, his yieldings, his falterings, his mauvais quarts d’hewre were many, yet his
healthy nature pulld him thro’. And as Professor Dowden says, George Chapman’s lines fitly represent him:-:-

“ “Give me a spirit that on life’s rough sea There is no danger to the man that knows
Loves to have his sails filled with a lusty wind What life and death is ; there’s not any law
Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful
And his rapt ship runs on her side so low That he should stoop to any other law.’
That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air ; (Byron's Conspiracy, Act III. end.)

“ Such a master-spirit pressing forward under strained canvas was Shakspere. If the ship dipped and drank water, she
Tose again ; and at length we see her within view of her haven, sailing under a large, calm wind, not without tokens of
stress of weather, but if battered, yet unbroken, by the waves.”

2 Tf in any there are bits from unacknowledged sources, this arises from forgetting, not intention.

3 I have never used either for the purpose, except in the case of Lucrece.

* Add Prof. Spalding’s Letter on The Two Noble Kinsmen and the Characteristics of Shakspere’s Style (N. Sh. Soc.).

 

 
 

 

scsi 19. THE BEST SHAKSPERE BOOKS. -

 

for more books, Hudson’s “Shakespeare, his Life, Art, and Characters” (of his twenty-five greatest
plays) (2 vols., 12s., Ginn, Boston, U.8.; Sampson Low, &c.); Schlegel’s ‘‘ Dramatic Art” (3s. 6d.) ;
Ulrici’s “ Shakspere’s Dramatic Art” (7s.), and Hazlitt’s thin “ Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays”
(2s., Bell and Sons).! 4, For the originals of the Plays, Hazlitt’s “ Shakspere’s Library’’ (6 vols.,
42s., Reeves and Turner), and ‘I’. P. Courtenay’s matter-of-fact “Commentaries on the Historical
Plays” (2 vols., Colburn, 1840), are indispensable. ¢, Glossaries, &e.; Dr. Alex. Schmidt’s excellent
“Shakespeare-Lexicon” (26s., Williams and Norgate) gives reference to all the occurrences of
every word in the lesser Poems and Plays, but not quotations of all the passages. It arranges the
references under their senses, and the parts of speech of the head-word. Mrs. Cowden Clarke’s
“‘Concordance”’ to the Plays (25s.) gives a quotation for every occurrence of every word not a
particle, preposition, auxiliary, &c., but mixes words spelt the same way, and different parts of
speech and meanings. Mrs. Horace Howard Furness’s ‘‘ Concordance to the Minor Poems” (1és.)
gives a quotation for every use of every word, and prints all the Minor Poems too, for handiness
of reference. Dyce’s “Glossary” (last vol. of his Shakspere), and Nares’s general Elizabethan
“ Glossary’? (2 vols., 24s., A. R. Smith), are most useful. d. Grammar and Metre: Dr. Abbott's
‘“‘Shakesperian Grammar” (6s., Macmillan) is indispensable, but has some bad misscansions. W. Sidney
Walker's three volumes of Shakspere Text-criticism (15s., A. R. Smith) are excellent; Dr. Ingleby’s
‘“‘Shakespeare Hermeneutics” (10s., Triibner) interestingly defends the Folio text against rash
emendations. The late C. Bathurst’s capital little half-crown volume on the end-stopt and unstopt line,
—‘‘ Changes in Shakespeare’s Versification at different Periods of his Life” (2s. 6d., J. W. Parker
and Son)—is unluckily out of print. e. Pronunciation: buy Mr. A. J. Ellis’s “Early English
Pronunciation with Special Reference to Chaucer and Shakespeare” (four Parts, 40s., Asher and
Co.; or Part III. only, the Shakespeare Part [pp. 917-96], 10s.). Get also Hy. Sweet's “‘ History of
English Sounds” (4s. 6d., Triibner).

f. For Text: have the ‘ Leopold” or the ‘‘ Globe ” edition (Macmillan, 3s. 6d.), because its lines are
numberd, and for sound text; but do not ruin your eyes by reading the ‘Globe.’ For reading, get a
small 8vo. clear-type edition like Singer’s (10 vols., 25s., Bell and Sons). Get Gif you can aftord it)
Mr. Furness’s admirable Variorum edition of Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth (15s. each, A. R. Smith) ;
Hamlet is preparing; (the other plays will slowly follow); and, for their notes, Messrs. Clark and
Wright’s little Clarendon-Press edition of plays at 1s. or 1s. 6d. each (their 8vo. Cambridge edition
with most valuable full collations, is out of print); and Craik’s Julius Cesar. The little Rugby
editions of the plays are very good, and not so dryasdust as the Clarendon Press ones.

g. Get Mr. John R. Wise’s charming little book on “ Shakespeare: his Birthplace and its Neigh-
bourhood ” (8s. 6d., Smith and Elder) ; and Mr. Roach Smith's “‘ Rural Life of Shakespeare” (3s. 6d., -
Bell and Sons). And certainly buy a copy of Booth’s admirable Reprint of the First Folio of 1623
(12s. 6d., Glaisher, 265, High Holborn; with the Quarto of ‘‘Much Adoe,” for 1s.); or Chatto and
Windus’s little photograph-process fac-simile (10s. 6d.), but buy a magnifying glass to read it with.
For the facts of Shakspere’s Life, chronologically arrangd, Mr. 8. Neil’s cheap little “ Shakespeare:
a Critical Biography ” (Houlston and Wright) is a handy book, though it is confused, like all others,
except (I suppose) Dyce’s last, by the forged documents publisht by J. P. Collier and P. Cunningham.
On the “Sonnets,” get the best book yet written, Armitage Brown’s (6s., A. R. Smith)?; for the
allegorical view of them, Mr. R. Simpson’s ‘‘ Philosophy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets” (3s. 6d., Tritbner) ;
for useful information and a mistaken theory, Mr. Gerald Massey’s book—the edition sold off at
5s. 6d. (Reeves and Turner).—Of course, subscribe a guinea a year to the New Shakspere Society
(Hon. Sec., A. G. Snelgrove, Esq., London Hospital, E.), read its Papers, and work its Texts,
specially the parallel ones.

Get one or two likely friends to join you in your Shakspere work, if you can, and fight
out all your and their difficulties in common: worry every line; eschew the vice of wholesale
emendation. Get up a party of ten or twelve men and four or six women to read the plays in
succession at one another's houses, or elsewhere, once a fortnight, and discuss each for half an hour
after each reading. Do all you can to further the study of Shakspere, chronologically and as
a whole, throughout the nation.

§ 20. The following Metre and Date Table is re-arranged from Mr. Fleay’s Metrical Table? in the
New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, p. 16, with dates revisd from my Table in my Gervinus
Introduction, pp. xxvi.—vii.

J Professor Dowden, who has been through all the German commentators, thinks Kreyssig’s Vorlesungen iber
Shakespeare (a big book), and Shakespeare-Fragen (a little book), the best popular introduction in German to Shakspere.
Prof, Ward's Iistory of Dramatic Literature, 2 vols., octavo, gives a general view of the whole subject, and will be found
serviceable, Mr. Hargrove says that he has found ‘‘ Mr. Fleay’s Handbook useful, despite its gross defects.” The student
must not adopt its “mere vagary” that Ben Jonson re-wrote or toucht-up Julius Cwsar !

2 Now out of print. The book on the Sonnets has yet to be written; and I hope Professor Dowden "ll do it.

Mr. Grosart means to comment on them in his Life of Lord Southampton (H. W., for Thorpe’s W. H.).
4 The figures in this need verifying, but are probably not far out.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

§20. METRE AND DATE TABLE OF SHAKSPERE’S PLAYS. exxiii
METRE AND DATE TABLE OF SHAKSPERE'S PLAYS.
| sl ol vledifl lel @lalalgd didi ¢leleel .
: 4 128i) be: ie a a .
ES] & a (Ag AE) eae) S| Aa ER] eI EY aa | a
| ‘| =| hes | a ov | cy a“ [oe
I.—PLAYS OF FIRST (RYMING) PERIOD. (M=Meres, 1598.)
Love’s L. Lost .2789,1086 re 1028 54 | 32 | 71 194 | 412 13 | —| 1 1598 | 1598m) 1588-9 |Love’s L. Lost
Com. of Errors 1770, 2401150 380, — | — | 137 6 3 |x 109 8 9 | — | — 11623 | | 1594M; 1589-91'Com. of Errors
Midsum. N. D. 2951! 441) 878 731.138 | 63) 29 a — il 5 3) — | — 1600 | 1598 M| 1590-1 ea, N. D.
T. Gent. of V. (2060: 409 1510 116} - | 15 | 203 1 6 | — 18 | 815, 32} 8; 5 |1623 , 1598m, 1590-2 \T. Gent. of V.
Rom. and Jul. 3002, 405.2111 486 — | —- | 118 62 | 28 | — 10 20 16 | 4% 6 (1597 | 1595M) 1591-3 Rom. and Jul.
Richard IJ. ../2644, — (2107: 5387) — | — : 148, 12 | i — 11:17; 26 | 22 : 3371597 21595M, ?1593-4 |Richard II.
Richard ILL 11/3599! 5573374: 170; — i: — | 570: — » — 1 — 20139. 13 | 23 | 16 }1597 :71595 M| 1594 |Richard IIL.
; II.—HISTORIES AND COMEDIES OF SECOND PERIOD. ,
King John __ ..|2553| — j2403: 150) — | — | 54) 12 | —j—]1.9 4] 4) 2 [1693 | 1598M) 1595 | |King John
Mer. of Venice 2705, 673, 1896: 93) 3L | 9 | 297 ; Fewer 4 | 816) 22 | 2 | 14 |16007) 1598m) 1596 |Mer. of Venice
1 Henry IV. 3170, 146L 1622; 84; — | — | 60 — | — j16)17| 16 | 16 | 13 |1598 | 1598M} 1596-73/1 Henry IV.
2 Henry IV. ../3437,1860,1417| 74) 7 | 15 | 203 (Pistol 641. ‘| 3/13) 7] — | 6 |1600 | 1598m) 1597-832 Henry IV.
Merry Wives a01e)2708 227; 69! — | 19 | 32)|Pistol 391.] |—| 3} 3] — | 3 s1602 | 1602 1598-9 |Merry Wives
Henry V. he seao loa! 1678; 101) 2| 8 | 291 ist] — 2/13} 10 | 4 | 23 |1600-) 1599 15993 |Henry V.
Much Ado, &c.]2823'2106] 643} 40) 18 | 16 | 129) 22: — | — | 2] 7} 15} 4] 4 {1600 | 1600 | 1599-1600 |Much Ado, &e.
' As You Like It 2904/1681 925) 71)130 | 97 | 211] 10 | — | 2 | 3)10) 38) 1) 5 1623 | 1600 16003 |As You Like It
| Twelfth-Night |2684)1741] 763) 120, — | 60 | 152; — | — | — | 821) 23 | 5 | 10 |1623 | 1602 16013 |Twelfth-Night
| All's Well __../2981/1453)1234; 280) 2 | 12 | 223) 8 | 14 | — 731 31 | 5 | 14 (1623) — 1601 | |All’s Well
| (L.L.Won.1590)} | | (L.L.Won.1590)
Ill.—_TRAGEDIES AND COMEDY OF THIRD PERIOD.
| Julius Ceesar../2440; 165.2241) 34 — | — | 369, — | — | — [14.31] 55 | 6 | 16 [1623 | 1601 1601 _— |Julius Ceesar
| Hamlet .. 3924|1208'2490| 81} — } 60 | 508! [86 1. play] aes 55 | 11 | 47 11603!) 2 1602-33/Hamlet
i Measure forM. 2309|1134/1574 73| 22) 6 | 338) — ; —; — /10:29: 66 | 5 | 47 |1623 | — 1603 |Measure forM.
| Othello .|8324} 54112672) 86; — | 25 | 646) — | — | = 19)66| 71 | 13 | 78 |1622 | 1610 1604 |Othello
| Macbeth ..  ../1993} 158/1588) 118/129 | — | 399) — | — | — ae 43 | 8 | 18 |1623 | 1610 1605-63)Macbeth
King Lear _ ..|/3298| 903/2238| 74 83 | 567) — |] — | — 4116 | 22 | 50 |16083) 1606 1605-63)King Lear
-Antony and C./3964| 255|2761| 42) — | 6 | 613) — | — | — i 13) 8 31 | 61 1623 | 16087 1606-7 |Antony and C.
Coriolanus — .:/3392) $29/25211 42! — | —.| 708) — | — | — 3133| 5 1.19 | 42 |1623 | — 21607-8 |Coriolanus
IV.—PLAYS OF FOURTH PERIOD.
Tempest , 2068, 48/1458) 2) — 476|[54 1. masq.] | 2|16| 47 | 5 | 11 11623 {21614 1610 _|Tempest
Cym eline (3448! 6383/2585 107| _ | 82 | 726|[84 1. vision] | 8/15] 31 | 18 | 42 xs 1611 1610-12\C yeline
Winter's Tale’ 2758; 844|1825| 01 — | 57 | 639|(321. chorus] 8/14! 19 | 13 | 16 |1623 | 1611 21611 inter’s Tale
. V.—FIRST SKETCHES IN ee QUARTOS. :
Rom. and Jul. |2066 26111151 354 —|—| 92 aa —|—|72 21 | 92 |1597 | 1595M) %1591-3 jpom and Jul.
Hamlet ..  ..|2068} 509|1462 a 43 a“ (36 1. play] [13; ia 3 37 | 30 |13031) 2? 1602-32, Hamlet
Henry’ V. . {1672} 898) 774 es — 04) — —|—-— ai 35 | 31 | 15 |1600 | 1599 15993 |Henry V.
Merry Wives 1395 1207 148; 40 $8 [tairies}19 —|-—l —! 5] 4& '1602 ! 1602 1598-9 |Merry Wives
VI. DOUBTFUL PLAYS.
Titus andes, 2525, 43/2338) 144) — | — | 154) —{—J| 4 8) 9] 9] 12 |1600 | 1600 1588-90| Titus Andron,
1 Henry VI. ../2693; — |2379| 314| — 140) — | — | — | 5) 5} 4] 7 | 12 |1623 | 1592 1592-4 }1 Henry VI.
2 Henry VI. ../3032) 448/2562| 122) — | — | 255) — | — | — ! 8]25] 15 | 21 | 12 1623 | — 1592-4 |2 Henry VI.
3 Henry VI. ../2904| — |2749) 155) — | — | 346) — | — | — 13 Il) 14 | 11 | 7 /1623 | — 1592-4 |3 Henry VI.
Contention _../1952! 381]1571| 44, — | —! 54, —|; — | — 14) 16 | 32 | 44 11594 | 1592 1586-8 jpontenbon
True Tragedy - se — 12035] 66: — | — | 148. — | — | — re 21| 29 | 38 | 34 [1595 | 1592 1586-8 [True Tragedy
VIIL—PLAYS IN WHICH SHAKSPERE WAS NOT SOLE AUTHOR.
Tam. of Shrew/}2671! 516'1971: 169 15 260, — | — | 49 | 4/18) 22 | 23) 5 1623) — 1596-7 |Tam. of Shrew
Troilus and C, |3423/1186/2025| 196| — | 16 a — | — |10/46] 62 | 13 | 43 |1609 | 1609 1606-7 |Troilus and C.
Timon of Ath. |2358] 596/1560|) 184)'18 — |15}28] 54 | 30 | 37 |1623 | — 1607-8 |Timon of Ath.
Pericles .. _,./2386} 418/1136) 225) 89 | — i [222 1.Gower] A 49; 59 | 26 | 18 |16091| 1608 16083 |Pericles
Two Noble K. 2734) 179/2468) 54! — | 33 | al — | 919 46]}17 |) 5 1634} — 1612 '|Two Noble K.
a VIII. ..12754' 67212613]. 161 — | 12° 1193 [46 1.Pr. Bp] aig! 18 | 3 | 32 [1693 | 16137 16133 [Henry VIIT.
"Poems publisht :— Venus and ‘Adonis, 1593 ; Luer cee, 1594 ; Passionate Pilgrim, 1599; Phenix and
Turtle (spurious), 1601; Sonnets, 1609; with ‘A Lover’s Complaint (? spurious).:
1 Enterd one year before at Stationers’ Hall. 2 Enterd two years before. 3 May be lookt-on es fairly certain.
aes

 

 

 

 
 

 

exxiv NOTES. PROF. DOWDEN'S GROUPS OF THE PLAYS AND SONNETS.

 

NOTES.
P. vii.—This is Professor Dowden’s grouping of the Plays :—

1. Pre-SHAKSPEREAN GROUP. ested @) bine joyous, romantic.
; ' usica welfth-Night.
ae by Shakspere.) sadness. Much Ae, ‘
itus Andronicus As You Like It.
1 Henry VI. }(rtooa and fre) (Jaques the link to the next group.)

Discordant (c.) Earnest. All's Weil.
2. MARLOWE-SHAKSPERE GROUP. sadness. Bitter, dark, Measure for Measure.

Early 2 & 3 Henry VI. (Marlowe's presence). Tronical. Troilus and Cressida
History. Richard III. (Marlowe's influence). (which I place here),
3. EARLY CoMEDIES. 9. MIDDLE TracEDY (= Tragedy of reflection).
Love's Labours Lost. : Julius Cesar. Error and misfortune, rather
Errors Hamlet. than passion and crime.

Two Gentlemen

Midsummer-Night's Dream. 10. LATER TRAGEDY (= Tragedy of passion).
Jealousy and murder. Othello.
4, Earty TRacepy. Ambition and murder. Macbeth.
Romeo and Juliet. Ingratitude and parricide, Tae oun
Voluptuousness. niony a opatra,
5. MippLe History. Haughtiness (alienation from
Richard I. country). Coriolanus.
King John. Misanthropy (alienation from es
6. MmppLE Comepy. humanity). Timon.

Timon is the climax.
Merchant of Venice. )

7. Later History (History and Comedy united).

1 & 2 Henry IV.
Henry V.

11. RoMANCES.

Sketch Marina (1st Tempest).

Tempest (Tempest again).

Cymbeline.

8. LATER CoMEDY. Winter's Tale.

Group (a). Rough and boisterous comedy. 12. FRAGMENTS.
Shrew. Henry VIII.
Merry Wives. Two Noble Kinsmen.

 

No sadness.

Observe I have early, middle, and later History ; early, middle, and later Comedy: and early, middle,
and later Tragedy; and the plays might well be read, not only right through in chronological order,
but also in these three lines chronologically :—

Comedy, Tragedy. History.
a a a
b | b b
c € c

P. xi. Shakspere’s Games.—I hope he did not, like Falstaff as a boy (Merry Wives, V. i. end),
‘‘pluck geese ’’ as well as ‘play truant, and whip top.” ‘‘To strip a.living goose of its feathers was
formerly an act of puerile barbarity ” (Singer).

P. lii. Merry Wives——On the odd mess of the time of the action of this play, see Grant White's
Shakspere, ii. 200-1. Falstaff’s second adventure takes place between eight and nine of the morning
of the same day on which his first adventure had taken place in the afternoon. There is no room for
an intervening night in III. v.

P. Ixiv. Lord Bacon.—The idea of Lord Bacon’s having written Shakspere’s plays can be
entertaind only by folk who know nothing whatever of either writer, or are crackt, or who enjoy
the paradox or joke. Poor Miss Delia Bacon, who started the notion, was no doubt then mad, as she
was afterwards proved to be when shut up in an asylum. Lord Palmerston, with his Irish humour,
naturally took to the theory, as he would have done to the suggestion that Benjamin Disraeli wrote
the Gospel of St. John. If Judge Holmes’s book is not meant as a practical joke, like Archbishop
Whately’s Historie Doubts, or proot that Napoleon never livd, then he must be sct down as characteristic-
blind, like some men are colour-blind. I doubt whether any so idiotic suggestion as this authorship
of Shakspere’s works by Bacon had ever been made before, or will ever be made again, with regard
to either Bacon or Shakspere. The tomfoolery of it is infinite.

P.lxv. Sonnets.—Professor Dowden says :—“ The first possible break in the Sonnets is at No. 32;
the second possible (I don’t say actual) one is at No. 74; the third possible one at 96. With
100 begins a new series, after three years from the first Sonnets. Beauty, Time, Offspring, Verse,
Goodness, Love,—these are the topics of the Sonnets. How shall beauty conquer time? First, by
breed (early Sonnets). Well, if you won’t beget, then by Jerse. But in the end, Love as Love is the
one eternal thing, and this love is founded on the virtue of the soul, not the beauty of the face (last of
the series, 125). That is the end of the whole matter.” I hope that Professor Dowden will some day
write further on the Sonnets. Let every one look out for his shilling Shakspere Primer in Mr. J. R.

 

 
 

 

 

NOTES. THE CORPSE-SPEECHES IN JULIUS CAHSAR. CXxV

 

Greene’s series, for Macmillans. Armitage Brown divides the Sonnets into six poems, each with its
envoy: I., Nos. 1-26; II., 27-55; III., 6-77; IV., 78-101; V., 102-126; VI., 127-152. He thinks
153-4 do not relate to the mistress of 127-152.

P. lxvii. Weever’s Lines—Professor Guizot, in a note of February 3, suggested, that as speeches
of Brutus and Antony over Cesar’s body were in Appian’s Civil Wars, Bk. II., ch. exxxvii.-cxlvii.,
and that book was englisht in 1578, I should look whether the speeches were in the englisht version,
as Weever might have alluded to it, and not to Shakspere’s play. On turning to the anonymous
translation of the first books of Appian, publisht by H. Binneman in 1578, I found that though a
very long speech by Brutus was given, yet that was a day before Antony’s short speeches to the
people over the corpse, while Antony’s earlier speeches to the Senate were much longer. There was
no such sharp contrast between the two orators’ speeches as Shakspere makes, and Weever alludes
to. Moreover, the 1578 englisht Appian can never have been a popular book, and must have
been somewhat out of date when Shakspere wrote his play. Weever’s allusion must have been to
something fresh in folks’ minds in 1601, and to some long and striking speeches that at once followd
Brutus’s, and were aimd at it, like Antony’s in the play were, and not to the short “ plaine speeches
spoken agaynst the Senate,” &c., and others to the people, in the englisht Appian. But while I am
clear that Weever’s allusion was to Shakspere, and not to Appian, I am none the less grateful to
my friend Professor Guizot for having pointed out to us Englishmen for the first time, so far as
I know, the source, in Appian, of our great poct’s famous scene and speeches. As the 1578 Appian
is very rare, I am printing the corpse-speeches from it as the fourth Appendix to the New Shakspere
Society's Transactions, 1875-6, Part II., which will be out in March, 1877.

P. lxxvii, note 1. The late Professor J. Wilson (Christopher North) lookt on Iago’s speech
about Othello’s epilepsy as a mere lie. Dr. Ingleby agrees.

P. lxxx. Troilus and Cressida.— Troilus and Cressida is Shakespeare’s wisest play in the way
of worldly wisdom. It is filled choke-full of sententious, and, in most cases, slightly satirical
revelations of human nature, uttered with a felicity of phrase and an impressiveness of metaphor
that make each one seem like a beam of light shot into the recesses of man’s heart. Such are these :—

‘In the reproof of chance ‘A stirring dwarf we do allowance give
Lies the true proof of men.’ Before a sleeping giant.’
“The wound of peace is surety ; ‘Tis certain, greatness once fall’n out with fortune
Surety secure ; but modest doubt is called Must fall out with men too ; what the declin’d is,
The beacon of the wise.’ He shall as soon read in the eyes of others
‘ . ree 9” As feel in his own fall ; for men, like butterflies,
ovnatis aught, bub ae t is valued} Show not their mealy wings but to the summer ;
Tis mad idolatry i And not a man, for being simply man,
To make the service greater than the god. Hath any honor.’

Besides passages like these, there are others of which the wisdom is inextricably interwoven with the
occasion.” sa

“The undramatic character of Troilus and Cressida, which has been already mentioned, appears in
its structure, its personages, and its purpose. . . . There is also a singular lack of that peculiar
characteristic of Shakespeare’s dramatic style, the marked distinction and nice discrimination of the
individual traits, mental and moral, of the various personages. Ulysses is the real hero of the play ; the
chief, or, at least, the great purpose of which is the utterance of the Ulyssean view of life; and in this play
Shakespeare is Ulysses, or Ulysses Shakespeare. In all his other plays Shakespeare so lost his personal
consciousness in the individuality of his own creations that they think and feel, as well as act, like real
men and women other than their creator, so that we cannot truly say of the thoughts and feelings
which they express, that Shakespeare says thus or so; for it is not Shakespeare who speaks, but they
with his lips. But in Ulysses, Shakespeare, acting upon a mere hint, filling up a mere traditionary
outline, drew a man of mature years, of wide observation, of profoundest cogitative power, one who
knew all the weakness and all the wiles of human nature, and who yet remained with blood unbittered
and soul unsoured—a man who saw through all shams, and fathomed all motives, and who yet was
not scornful of his kind, not misanthropic, hardly cynical except in passing moods; and what other
man was this than Shakespeare himself? What had he to do when he had passed forty years, but to
utter his own thoughts when he would find words for the lips of Ulysses? And thus it is that Trodlus
and Cressida is Shakespeare’s wisest play. If we would know what Shakspere thought of men and their
motives after he reached maturity, we have but to read this drama; drama it is; but with what other
character, who shall say ? For, like the world’s pageant, it is neither tragedy nor comedy, but a tragi-
comic history, in which the intrigues of amorous men and light-o’-loves and the brokerage of panders
are mingled with the deliberations of sages and the strife and the death of heroes. .

“The thoughtful reader will observe that Ulysses pervades the serious parts of the play, which
is all Ulyssean in its thought and language. And this is the reason, or rather the fact of the play’s
lack of distinctive characterisation. For Ulysses cannot speak all the time that he is on the stage ;

 

 
 

 

exxvi NOTES. GRANT WHITE ON TROILUS. JEAN LE BEL ON EDWARD IL.

 

and, therefore, the other personages, such as may, speak Ulyssean, with, of course, such personal
allusion and peculiar trick as a dramatist of Shakespeare’s skill could not leave them without for
difference. Jor example, no two men could be more unlike in character than Achilles and Ulysses,
and yet the former, having asked the latter what he is reading, he, uttering his own thought, says as
follows with the subsequent reply :—

* Ulyss. A strange fellow here ‘ Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses,
Writes me: That man, how dearly ever parted,* The beauty that is borne here in the face,
How much in having, or without or in, The bearer knows not, but commends itself
Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, To others’ eyes ; nor doth the eye itself,
Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection, That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,
As when his virtues shining upon others Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed,
Heat them, and they retort that heat again Salutes each other with each other’s form ;
To the first giver.’ For speculation turns not to itself

Till it hath travelled, and is mirror’d there
*TI.e., gifted, endowed with parts. Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all’

“ Now these speeches are made of the same metal and coined in the same mint ; and they both of
them have the image and superscription of William Shakespeare. No words or thoughts could be
more unsuited to that bold, bloody egoist, ‘the broad Achilles,’ than the reply he makes to Ulysses;
but here Shakespeare was merely using the Greek champion as a lay figure to utter his own thoughts,
which are perfectly in character with the son of Autolycus. Ulysses thus flows over upon the whole
serious part of the play. Agamemnon, Nestor, A‘neas, and the rest, all talk alike, and all like
Ulysses. That Ulysses speaks for Shakespeare will, I think, be doubted by no reader who has reached
the second reading of this play by the way which J have pointed out to him. And why, indeed,
should Ulysses not speak for Shakespeare, or how could it be other than that he should A The man who
had written Hamlet, Hing Lear, Othello, and Macbeth, if he wished to find Ulysses, had only to turn
his mind’s eye inward; and thus we have in this drama Shakespeare’s only piece of introspective
work.’’? Let Shakspere’s worldly wisdom of 1606 be in Ulysses. His spirit of the Fourth Period is
not. God forbid that Ulysses,—not Prospero,—and Cressid, not Imogen, Hermione, Perdita, should
give us our last impression of Shakspere! I give up the theory of two dates to Troilus and Cressida.

P. xevii, note 38. Miss Hickey defends the gwaint for daisies as an archaism, like Milton’s
“ quaint enamelld eyes,’ and quotes,—

“And then bycometh the grounde so pronde “« There spronge the violete al newe, \
That it wole have a newé shroude, And fresshe pervynke ryche of hewe. . .
And maketh so queynt his robe, and faire, Ful gaye was all the grounde, and queynt,
That it had hewes an hundred payre.” .. . And poudred, as men had it peynt.” .

Romaunt of the Rose, p. 61, ed. R. Bell,

P. ci. Edward III. Froissart and Jean le Bel.—Mr. W. G. Stone writes :—‘ Froissart follows .

Jehan le Bel almost verbally in his account of Edward’s visit to the castle of Salisbury after the
retreat of the King of Scots. He adds the chess game between the king and countess, and the story
of the ring. At the end of chap. 50, in which the visit is related, Jehan le Bel promises the story of
the countess’s violation. Froissart alters this into a promise to give a description of the tournament
held by Edward for love of the countess. Jehan le Bel, in chap. 61, also describes the tournament in
much the same terms as Froissart uses. In chap. 65, Jchan le Bel narrates that during the absence of
the earl in Brittany, Edward paid a second visit to the countess on the pretext of inspecting the defences
of the country. The countess received him, although unwelcome, with courtesy. The king renewd his
suit, but faild. When the night was come, and he knew the countess was in her chamber, and every
one in the castle was asleep, he rises, and ordering his chamberlains not to disturb him, goes to the
countess’s room, where, after closing the door of the garde-robe, in order to prevent her ladies
from coming to her assistance, he stops her mouth and effects his purpose. The next day he returned
to London without a word, grandement couroussié de ce qwil avoit commis. After this the king goes
to Brittany, and returns to England with the Earl of Salisbury. The earl on reaching his home is
received by the countess with constrained cheerfulness, but when they retire for the night she tells

him the whole story. He says that he cannot remain in England after this dishonour; she shall

have half his lands for her support and their child’s. whom he commits to her care. They lament
together, and the earl departs for London, taking with him his son. He appears before the king,
and after reproaching Edward for his ingratitude, and predicting that it will be an eternal blot on
his name, the carl commends his young son to the king’s protection, and leaves the court. The earl
enters into the service of the King of Spain, who was then at war with the King of Granada, and dies

at the siege of Algesiras. Jehan supposes that the countess did not long survive him. M. Polain,

the editor of Jehan le Bel, says that his partiality for Edward would have led Jehan to express any

doubts he felt about this story, and that it is confirmed by the chronicles of Flanders.”

' 1 In the Amiens MS.
February 11, 1877. FREDK. J. FURNIVALL.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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{

TITUS ANDRONICUS.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

SATURNINUS, Son to the late Emperor of Rome.
Bassianus, Brother to Saturninus.

TITUS ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman.

Marcus AnDronicus, Brother to Titus.
Lucius,
QUINTUS,
MaRTIUs,
MUTIUS,
Young Lucius, a Boy, Son to Lucius.
Pusuivs, Son to Marcus Andronicus.
AiMILIvs, a noble Roman.

ALARBUS, )

DEMETRIUS, ; Sons to Tamora.
CHIRON, J

\ Sons to Titus Andronicus.

AARON, a Moor.

A Captain, Tribune, Messenger, and Clown;
Romans. E

Goths and Romans.

Tamora, Qucen of the Goths.
Lavinia, Daughter to Titus Andronicus.

A Nurse, and a black Child.

Kinsmen of Titus, Senators, Tribunes, Officers,
Soldiers, and Attendants.

SCENE-— Rome, and the Country near it.

ACT IL.
ScENE I.—Rome.
Flourish. Enter the Tribunes and Senators aloft; and then enter SATURNINUS and his Followers at one

aTt{Ww

onc
jf Saturninus.

_. OBLE patricians, patrons of my right,
Defend the justice of my cause with

v arms ;

\ And, countrymen, my loving followers,

Plead my successive title with your

swords.

I am his first-born son, that was the last

That wore the imperial diadem of Rome:

Then let my father’s honours live in me,

Nor wrong mine age with this indignity.
Bass. Romans, friends, followers, fa-

vourers of my right,

If ever Bassianus, Ceesar’s son, 10

Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome,

Keep then this passage to the Capitol ;

And suffer not dishonour to approach

The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate,

To justice, continence, and nobility :

But let desert in pure election shine ;

And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice.

Enter Marcus ANDRONICUS, aloft, with the crown.

Marc. Princes, that strive by factions and by
friends
Ambitiously for rule and empery,
Know, that the people of Rome, for whom we stand
A special party, have by common voice, - 21
In election for the Roman empery,
Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius,
For many good and great deserts to Rome:
A nobler man, a braver warrior,
Lives not this day within the city walls.
He by the senate is accited home,
From weary wars against the barbarous Goths;
That, with his sons, a terror to our foes,
Hath yok’d a nation strong, train’d up in arms. 30
Ten years are spent since first he undertook
This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms
Our enemies’ pride : five times he hath return’d
Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons

   

 

door, and BAssIANus and his Followers at the other, with drum and colours.

In coffins from the field ;
And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils,
Returns the good Andronicus to Rome,
Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms.
Let us entreat,—by honour of his name,
Whom worthily you would have now succeed, 40
And in the Capitol and senate’s right,
Whom you pretend to honour and adore,—
That you withdraw you, and abate your strength.
Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should,
Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness.
Sat. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my
thoughts !
Bass. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy
In thy uprightness and integrity,
And so I love and honour thee and thine,
Thy noble brother Titus and his sons,
And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,
Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament,
That I will here dismiss my loving friends ;
And to my fortune’s and the people’s favour
Commit my cause in balance to be weigh’d.
[Exeunt the Followers of BASSIANUS.
Sat. Friends, that have been thus forward in my
right,
I thank you all, and here dismiss you all;
And to the love and favour of my country
Commit myself, my person, and the cause.
_ [Exeunt the Followers of SATURNINUS.
Rome, be as just and gracious unto me, 60
As I am confident and kind to thee.—
Open the gates, and let me in.
Bass. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor.
[They go up into the Senate-house.

ScENE II.—The Same.
Enter a Captain, and others.
Cap. Romans, make way! The good Andronicus,

‘Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion,

 

T

 
 

 

a TITUS ANDRONICUS.

Successful in the battles that he fights,

With honour and with fortune is return’d
From where he circumscribed with his sword,
And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome.

Sound drums and trumpets, and then enter two of

Tirus’s Sons. After themtwo Men bearing a cofin

 

[Act L

To re-salute his country with his tears,
Tears of true joy for his return to Rome.
Thou great defender of this Capitol,

Stand gracious to the rites that we intend !
Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons,
Half of the number that King Priam had,
Behold the poor remains, alive, and dead !

Tit. ‘Stand gracious to the rites that we intend !”

covered with black; then two other Sons. After
them TITUS ANDRONICUS; and then TAMORA, with
ALARBUS, CHIRON, DEMETRIUS, AARON, and other
Goths, prisoners; Soldiers and People following.
They set down the coffin, and T1Tus speaks,

Tit. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!
Lo! as the bark, that hath discharg’d her fraught,
Returns with precious lading to the bay,

From whence at first she weigh’d her anchorage,
Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs,

10

These, that survive, let Rome reward with love ;
These, that I bring unto their latest home,
With burial amongst their ancestors.
Here Goths have given me leave to sheath my sword.
Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own,
Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet,
To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx ?—
Make way to lay them by their brethren.

ge dh he tomb is opened.
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, ‘
And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars !

 

 
 

Scene II.]

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 3

 

 

O sacred receptacle of my joys,

Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, 30
How many sons of mine hast thou in store,

That thou wilt never render to me more!

Luc, Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,
That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile
Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh.

Before this earthy prison of their bones ;
That so the shadows be not unappeas’d,
Nor we disturb’d with prodigies on earth.

Tit. I give him you, the noblest that survives,
The eldest son of this distressed queen.

Tam. Stay, Roman brethren !—Gracious conqueror,
Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,

A mother’s tears in passion for her son :

And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,

O, think my son to be as dear to me.

Sufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome,
To beautify thy triumphs and return,

Captive to thee, and to thy Roman yoke ;

But must my sons be slaughter’d in the streets,
For valiant doings in their country’s cause ? 50
O! if to fight for king and commonweal

Were piety in thine, it is in these.
Andronicus, stain not thy, tomb with blood :
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods?
Draw near them then in being merciful :
Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge ;
Thrice-noble Titus, spare ny ee orn son.

Tit. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me.
These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld
Alive, and dead ; and for their brethren slain
Religiously they ask a sacrifice :

To this your son is mark’d, and die he must,
To appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

Lue. Away with him! and make a fire straight ;
And with our swords, upon a pile of wood,

Let’s hew his limbs, till they be clean consum’d.
[Zzeunt Lucius, QUINTUS, MaRTIUsS, and
MUTIUS, with ALARBUS.

Tam. O cruel, irreligious piety!

Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous ?

Dem. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive 70
To tremble under Titus’ threatening look. |
Then, madam, stand resolv’d ; but hope withal,
The self-same gods that arm’d the Queen of Troy
With opportunity of sharp revenge
oon the Thracian tyrant in his tent,

ay favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths
(When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was queen),
To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes.

Re-enter Luctus, QUINTUS, MarRTIUs, and MUTIUS,

with their swords bloody.

Luc. See, lord and father, how we have perform’d
Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopp’d, 80
And entrails feed the sacrificing fire,

Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.
Remaineth nought, but to inter our brethren,
And with loud ‘larums welcome them to Rome.

Tit. Let it be so ; and let Andronicus
Make this his latest farewell to their souls.

[Trumpets sounded, and the coffins laid in
the tomb.
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons;
Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells ; 90
Here grow no damned drugs; here are no storms,
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.
: In peace and honour rest you here, my sons !

Enter Lavinia.
Lav. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long ;
My noble lord and father, live in fame.
Lo! at this tomb my tributary tears
I render for my brethren’s obsequies :
And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy
Shed on the earth for thy return to Rome.
O! bless me here with thy victorious hand,
. Whose fortune Rome’s best citizens applaud.

100

 

Tit. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserv’d
The cordial of mine age to glad my heart !—
Lavinia, live ; outlive thy father’s days,

And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise!

Enter Marcus ANDRONICUS, SATURNINUS, Bas-
SIANUS, and others.

Marc. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother,
Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome!

Tit. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus.

Mare. And welcome, nephews, from successful

wars,
You that survive, and you that sleep in fame. 110
Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all,
That in your country’s service drew your swords ;
But safer triumph is this funeral pomp,
That hath aspir’d to Solon’s happiness,
And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed.—
Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome,
Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been,
Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust,
This palliament of white and spotless hue,
And name thee in election for the empire,
With these our late-deceased emperor's sons.
Be candidatus then, and put it on,
And help to set a head on headless Rome.

Tit. A better head her glorious body fits,

Than his that shakes for age and feebieness.
What should I don this robe, and trouble you?
Be chosen with proclamations to-day,
To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life,
And set abroad new business for you all?
Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years,
And led my country’s strength successfully,
And buried one-and-twenty valiant sons,
Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms,
In right and service of their noble country.
Give me a staff of honour for mine age,
But not a sceptre to control the world:
Upright he held it, lords, that held it last.

arc. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery.

Sat. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell ?

Tit. Patience, Prince Saturninus.

Sat. Romans, do me right.—
Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not
Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor.—

Andronicus, ’would thou wert shipp’d to hell,
Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts.

Luc. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good
That noble-minded Titus means to thee !

Tit. Content thee, prince: I will restore to thee
The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves.

Bass. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee,

But honour thee, and will do till I die: 150
My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends,
I will most thankful be ; and thanks to men
Of noble minds is honourable meed.
Tit. People of Rome, and noble tribunes here,
I ask your voices and your suffrages :_
‘Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?
Trib. To gratify the good Andronicus,
And gratulate his safe return to Rome,
The people-will accept whom he admits.

Tit. Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make,
That you create your emperor’s eldest son, 161
Lord Saturnine, whose virtues will, I hope,

Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth,

And ripen justice in this commonweal :

Then, if you will elect by my advice,

Crown him, and say,—‘‘ Long live our emperor!”

Marc. With voices and applause of every sort,
Patricians, and plebeians, we create
Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor,

And say,—“‘ Long live our Emperor Saturnine!” 170
A long flourish.

Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done
To us in our election this day,

I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts,
And will with deeds requite thy gentleness:
And for an onset, Titus, to advance

Thy name and honourable family,

Lavinia will I make my empress.

120

 

 
 

 

1 TITUS ANDRONICUS.

[Act I.

 

Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart,
And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse.
Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee ?
Tit. It doth, my worthy lord ; and in this match 181
I hold me highly honour’d of your grace:
And here, in sight of Rome, to Saturnine,
King and commander of our commonweal,
The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate
My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners ;
Presents well worthy Rome’s imperious lord:
Receive them then, the tribute that I owe,
Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet.
Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life!
How proud I am of thee, and of thy gifts,
Rome shall record ; and when I do forget
‘The least of these unspeakable deserts,
Romans, forget your tealty to me.
Tit. [1!0 TAMoRA.] Now, madam, are you prisoner
to an emperor ;
To him that, for your honour and your state,
Will use you nobly, and your followers.
Sat. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue
That I would choose, were I to choose anew.—
Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance: 200
Though oe of war hath wrought this change of
cheer,
Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome:
Princely shall be thy usage every way.
test on my word, and let not discontent
Daunt all your hopes : madam, he comforts you,
Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths,—
Lavinia, you are not displeas’d with this?
Lav. Not I, my lord; sith true nobility
Warrants these words in princely courtesy.
Sat. Thanks, sweet Lavinia.—Romans, Yet us go.
Ransomless here we set our prisoners free :
Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum.
Bass. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine.
[Seizing LAVINIA.
Tit. How, sir? Are you in earnest then, my lord ?
Bass. Ay, noble Titus; and resolv’d withal,
To do myself this reason and this right.
Mare. Suum cuique is our Roman justice :
This prince in justice seizeth but his own.
Luc. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live.
Tit. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s
‘guard ? 0
Treason, my lord! Lavinia is surpris’d.
Sat. Surpris’d! by whom ?
Bass. By him that justly may
Bear his betroth’d from all the world away.
[Zzcunt Marcus and BassiIANws, with LAVINIA.
Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence away,
And with my sword I'll keep this door safe.
[Axeunt Luctus, OG PENIEE: and MaRTIUvUs.
Tit Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back.
Mut. My lord, you pass not here.
Tit. What, villain boy !
[Kills MvutTius.
Help, Lucius, help!

190

Barr’st me my way in Rome ?
Mut.

‘Re-enter Lucius.

Luc. My lord, you are unjust, and more than so:
In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. 230

Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine:
My sons would never so dishonour me.
Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor.

Luc. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife,
That.is another's lawful promis’d love.

Sat. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not,
Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock :
I'll trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once;
Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons,
Confederates all thus to dishonour me.
Was there none else in Rome to make a stale,
But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, :
Agree these deeds with that proud pone thine,
That saidst, I begg’d the empire at thy hands.

Tit. Omonstrous! what reproachful wordsare these?

Sat. But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece
To him that flourish’d for her with his sword.
A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy :

240

 

One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons,

To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. 251
Tit. hese words are razors to my wounded heart,
Sat. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths,

That, like the stately Phoebe ’mongst her nymphs,

Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome,

If thou be pleas'd with this my sudden choice,

Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride,

And will create thee Empress of Rome.

Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice?

And here I swear by all the Roman gods,—

Sith priest and holy water are so near,

And tapers burn so bright, and every thing

In readiness for Hymeneeus stand,—

I will not re-salute the streets of Rome,

Or climb my palace, till from forth this place

I lead espous’d my bride alang with me.

Tam. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I
swear,

If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths,

She will a handmaid be to his desires,

A loving nurse, a mother to his youth.

Sat. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon.—Lords, accom-
270

pany
Your noble emperor, and his lovely bride,
Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine,
Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered.
There shall we consummate our spousal rites.
[Exeunt SaTURNINUS and. his Followers;
TAMORA and her Sons; AARON and
Goths.
Tit. Iam not bid to wait upon this bride.
Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,
Dishonour’d thus, and challenged of wrongs?

Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, QUINTUS, and MaRTIUs.

Marc. O Titus, see! O, see what thou hast done!
In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

Tit. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, 280
Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed
That hath dishonour’d all our family :
Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons!

Luc. But let us give him burial, as becomes:
Give Mutius burial with our brethren.

Tit. Traitors, away ! he rests not in this tomb.
This monument five hundred years hath stood,
Which I have sumptuously re-edified :

Here none but soldiers, and Rome's servitors,
Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls.
Bury him where you can ; he comes not here.
arc. My lord, this is impiety in you.
My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him:
He must be buried with his brethren. :
Quint., Mart. And shall, or him we will accom-

pany.
Tit. And shall ! What villain was it spake that

wor
Quint. He that would vouch it in any place but

290

ere.
Tit. What! would you bury him in my despite?
Marc. No, noble Titus; but entreat of thee

To pardon Mutius, and to bury him. 300

it. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest,

And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded :

My foes I do repute you every one ;

So, trouble me no more, but get you gone,
Mart. He is not with himself : let us withdraw.
Quint. Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried.

(Marcus and the Sons of TrtTus kneel.
Mare. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,—
Quint. eels and in that name doth nature
: speak,—

Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed.
Marc. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,—
Luc, Dear father, soul and substance of us all,—
Marc. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter 312

His noble recne here in virtue’s nest,

That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause.

Thou art a Roman ; be not barbarous :

The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax,

That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son

Did graciously plead for his funerals.

 

 
 

 

Scene I.) TITUS ANDRONICUS. 5

 

Let not young Mutius then, that-was thy joy,
Te barr’d his entrance here.
Tit. 4 Rise, Marcus, rise.— 320
The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw,
To be dishonour’d by my sons in Rome !—
Well, bury him, and bury me the next.
. (Mutivs ts put into the tomb.
Luc. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy
friends,
Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb.
All. No man shed tears for noble Mutius;
He lives in fam2 that died in virtue’s cause.
Mare. My lord,—to step out of these dreary

am p3, —

How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths

Is of a sudden thus advanc’d in Rome? 330
Tit. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is;

Whether by device.or no, the heavens can tell.

Is she not then beholding to the man

That brought her for this high good turn so far ?

Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.

Flourish. Re-enter, at one door, SATURNINUS, at-
tenied; 'TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, and
Aaron; at the other door, BASSIANUS, LAVINIA,
and others.

Sat. So, Bassianus, you have play’d your prize:

God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride !

Bass. And you of yours, my lord! I say no

more,
Nor wish no less ; and so I take my leave.

Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have power,
Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. 341
Bass. Rape call you it, oy lord, to seize my own,

My true-betfothed love, and now my wife?
But let the laws of Rome determine all;
Meanwhile, I am possess’d of that i3 mine.
Sat. ’Tis good, sir: you are very short with us;
But, if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you.
Bass. My lord, what I have done, as best I may,
Answer I must, and shall do with my life.
Only thus much I give your grace to know : 350
By all the duties that I owe to Rome,
This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,
Is in opinion and in honour wrong’d ;
That, in the rescue of Lavinia,
With his own hand did slay hi3 youngest son,
In zeal to you, and highly mov’d to wrath,
To be controll’d in that he frankly gave.
Receive him then to favour, Saturnine,
That hath expres3’d himself, in all his d2eds,
A father, and a friend to thee and Rom3. 360
Tit. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds :
‘Tis thou, and those, that have dishonourd me.
Rome and the rigateous heavens be my judge,
How I have lov’d and honour’d Saturnine.
Tam. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora
Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,
Then hear me speak indifferently forall ;
And at my suit, sweet, petupe what is past.
Sat. What, madam! be dishonour’d openly,
And basely put it up without revenge ? 370
Tam. Not so, my lord: the gods of Rome forfend,
I should be author to dishonour you!

 

But on mine honour dare J undertake

For good Lord 'itus’ innocence in all,

Whose tury not dissembled speaks his griefs,

Then, at my suit, look graciously on him;

Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,

Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle neart.—

[Aside to SaTuRNINUs.] My lord, be rul’d by me, be
won at last ;

Dissemble all your griefs and discontents: 380

You are but newly planted in your throne ;

Lest then the people, and patricians too,

Upon ajust survey, take ‘Vitus’ part,

And so supplant you for ingratitude,

Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin,

Yield at entreats, and then let me alone.

I’ find a day to massacre them all,

And raze their faction and their family,

The cruel father, and his traitorous sons,

To whom I sued for my dear son’s life; . 390

And make them know what ’ti3 to let a queen

Kneel in the streets, and beg for grace in vain.—

[Aloud.] Come, come, sweet emperor ;—come, Andro-
nicus ;—

Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart

That dies in tempest of thy angry frown.

Sat. Rise, Titus, rise: my empress hath prevail’d.

Tit. I thank your majesty, and her, my lord.

These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.

Tam. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,

A Roman now adopted happily, 400
And must advise the emperor tor his good.

This day all quarrels die, Andronicus ;—

And let it be mine honour, good my lord,

That I have reconcil’d your triends and you.—

For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass’d

My word and promise to the emperor,

That you will be more mild and tractable.—

And fear not, lords,—ard you, Lavinia ;—

By my advice, all humbled on your knees,

You shall ask pardon of his majesty. 410

Luc. We do; and vowto heaven, and to his highness,
That what we did was mildly, as we might,

‘end 'ring our sister's honour, and our own.

Marc. ‘That on mine honour here I do protest.

Sat. Away, and talk not: trouble us no more.—

Tam. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be

friends :
The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace ;
I will not be denied : sweet heart, look back.

Sat. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother’s here,
And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats, 420
I do remit these young men’s heinous faults.

Stand up.

Lavinia, though you left me like a churl,

I found a friend ; and sure as death I swore,

I would not part a bachelor from the priest.

Come ; if the emperor’s court can feast two brides,
You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends.--
This day shall be a love-day, Tamora.

Tit. ''o-morrow, an it please your majesty,

To hunt the panther and the hart with me, 430
With horn and hound we'll give your grace bon jour.

Sat. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too.

{Trumpets. Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

ACT
ScENE I.--The Same.

II.
Before the Palace.

Enter AARON.

— Aaron.

yy OW climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top,
Safe out of fortune’s shot ; and sits aloft,
Secure of thunder’s crack, or lightning

  

flash, ‘
Advanc’d above pale envy’s threat’ning
each,

As when the golden sun salutes the morn,
And, having gilt the ocean with his beams,
Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach,
And overlooks the highest-peering hills ;
So Tamora.

Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait,

And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown.
Then, Aaron, arm thy heart, and fit thy thoughts,
To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress,
And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long
Hast prisoner held, fetter’d in amorous chains,
And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes,
Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus.
Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts !
I will be bright, and shine in pear] and gold,
To wait upon this new-made empress.
To wait, said I? to wanton with this queen,
This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph,
This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine,
And see his shipwrack, and his commonweal’s.
Holla! what storm is this?

10

20

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, braving.
Dem. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wantsedge,

And manners, to intrude where I am grac’d,
And may, for aught thou know’st, atfected be.
Chi. Demetrius, thou dost overween in ali,
And so in this, to bear me down with braves.
°T is not the difference of a year, or two,
Makes me less gracious, or thee more fortunate :
fam as able, and as fit, as thou,
To serve, and to deserve my mistress’ grace ;
And that my sword upon thee shall approve,
And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love.
dar. Clubs, clubs! these lovers will not keep the
peace.
Dem. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvis’d,
Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side,
Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends? 40
Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath,
Till you know better how to handle it.
Chi. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have,
Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare.
Dem, Ay, boy, grow ye so brave ? [They draw.
Aar, Why, how now, lords?
So near the emperor’s palace dare you draw,
And maintain such a quarrel o only 2
Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge:
I would not for a million of gold
The cause were known to them it most concerns ;
Nor would your noble mother, for much more,
Be so dishonour’d in the court of Rome.

For shame, put up.
Not I, till I have sheath’d

30

50

Dem. :
My rapier in his bosom, and, witha

 

J
Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat,
That he hath breath’d in my dishonour here.

Chi. For that I am prepar d and full resolv’d,
Foul-spoken coward, that thunder’st with thy tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform.

dar, Away,I . 60
Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore,
This petty brabble will undo us all.—

Why, lords,—and think you not how dangerous
It is to jet upon a princess right ?

What! is Lavinia then become so loose,

Or Bassianus so degenerate,

That for her love such quarrels may be broach’d,
Without controlment, justice, or revenge ?

Young lords, beware !—an should the empress know
This discord’s ground, the music would not please. 70

 

Dem. “Ay, boy, grow ye so brave?”

Chi. I care not, I, knew she and all the world :
T love Lavinia more than all the world.
Dem. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner
choice:
Lavinia is thine elder brother's hope. :
Aar. Why, are ye mad? or know ye not, in Rome
How furious and impatient they be,
And cannot brook competitors in love?
I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths
By this device.
Chi. Aaron, a thousand deaths
Would I propose, to achieve her whom I love. 80
Aar. To achieve her, how?
Dem. Why mak’st thou it so strange?
She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd;
She is a woman, therefore may be won;
She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov'd.
at, man! more water glideth by the mill
Than wots the miller of : and easy it is
Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know:
Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother,
Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge.
Aar. [Aside.] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may.
Dem. Thee ey should he despair that knows Ha
court i

 

 

 
 

 

Scene III]

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 7

 

With words, fair looks, and liberality ?
What! hast thou not full often struck a doe
And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose ?
Aar. Why, then, it seems, some certain snatch or so
Would serve your turns.
Chi. Ay, so the turn were serv’d.
Dem. Aaron, thou hast hit it.
Aar. _,. Would you had hit it too ;
Then should not we be tir’d with this ado.
Why, hark ye, hark ye,—and are you such fools,
To square for this? would it offend you then, 100
That both should speed ?
Chi. Faith, not me.
Dem. Nor me, 80 I were one.
Aar. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar.
’T is policy and stratagem must do
That you affect ; and so must you resolve,
Thai what you cannot as you would achieve,
You must perforce accomplish as you may.
Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste
Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love.
A speedier course than lingering languishment
Must we pursue, and I have found the path.
My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand ;
‘There will the lovely Roman ladies troop:
The forest walks are wide and spacious,
And many unfrequented plots there are,
Fitted by kind for rape and villainy.
Single you thither then this dainty doe,
And strike her home by force, if not by words:
This way, or not at all, stand you in hope.
Come, come ; our empress, with her sacred wit,
To villainy and vengeance consecrate,
Will we acquaint with all that we intend ;
And she shall file our engines with advice,
That will not suffer you to square yourselves,
But to your wishes’ height advance you both.
The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame,
The palace full of tongues, of eyes, of ears:
The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull ;
There epeehs and strike, brave boys, and take your
urns ;
There serve your lust, shadow’d from heaven's eye,
And revel in Lavinia’s treasury. 131
Chi. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.
Dem. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream
To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits,
Per Styga, per manes vehor.

110

120

[Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Forest.
Horns and cry of hounds heard.

Enter Tirus ANDRONICUS, with Hunters, d-c.,
Marcus, Lucius, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS. ©
Tit. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey,
The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green.
Uncouple here, and let us make a bay,
And wake the emperor and his lovely bride,
And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter’s peal,
That all the court may echo with the noise.
Sons, let it be your. charge, as it is ours,
To attend the emperor’s person carefully :
Ihave been troubled in my sleep this night,
But dawning day new comfort hath inspir’d. 10
Horns wind a peal.

Enter SaTURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSIANUS, LAVINIA,
DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, and Attendants.

Tit. Many good morrows to your majesty ;
Madam, to you as many and as good.—
1 promised your grace a hunter’s peal.
: Sat. And you have rung it lustily, my lords,
Somewhat too early for new-married ladies.
Bass. Lavinia, how say you?
Lav, I say, no;
Ihave been broad awake two hours and more.
Sat. Come on then. horse and chariots let us have,
And to our sport. [Zo TAMORAS.] Madam, now shall
ye see
Our Roman hunting.

 

Mare. I have dogs, my lord, 20
‘Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase,
And climb the highest promontory top.
Tit. And I have horse will follow where the game
Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain.
Dem. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor

hound ;
But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. ([Hzeunt.

 

ScENE III.—A desert Part of the Forest.

Enter AARON, with a bag of gold.
Aar. He that had wit would think that I had none,
To bury so much gold under a tree,
And never atter to inherit it.
Let him that thinks of me so abjectly
Know that this gold must coin a stratagem,
Which, cunningly effected, will beget
A very excellent piece of villainy:
And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest,
: [Hides the gold.
That have their alms out of the empress’ chest.

Enter TAMORA.

Tam. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad,
When every thing doth make a gleeful boast ? il

 

Aar, ‘‘ And so repose, sweet gould, for their unrest.”

The birds chaunt melody on every bush ;

The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun ;

The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,

And make a chequer’d shadow on the ground.

Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,

And, whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,
Replying shrilly to the well-tun’d horns,

As if a double hunt were heard at once,

Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise : 20.
And—after conflict, such as was suppos’d

The wandering prince and Dido once enjoy’d,

When with a hapny storm they were surpris’d,

And curtain’d with a counsel-keeping cave—

We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms,

Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber ;

Whiles hounds, and horns, and sweet melodious birds,
Be unto us as is a nurse’s song ‘
Of lullaby, to bring her babe asleep.

Aar. Madam, though Venus govern your desires,
Saturn is dominator over mine. 31
What signifies my deadly-standing eye,

My silence, and my cloudy melancholy ;
My fleece of woolly hair, that now uncurls
Even as an adder, when she doth unroll
To do some fatal execution ?

No, madam, these are no venereal signs :

 
 

8 TITUS ANDRONICUS.

* [Acr II

 

 

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

Hark, ‘Tamora, the empress of my soul,

Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee,

This is the day of doom for Bassianus ;

His Philome] must lose her tongue to-day :

Thy sons make pillage of her Suet

And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood.

Scest thou this letter? take it up, I pray thee,

And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll.—

Now question me no more ; we are espicd :

Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,

Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction. 50
Tam. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life!
Aar. No more, great empress. Bassianus comes:

Be cross with him; and I'l! go fetch thy sons

To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be. [Awit.

Enter BASSIANUS an’ LAVINIA.

Bass. Whom have we here? Rome's royal empress,
Unfurnish’d of her well-beseeming troop ?
Or is it Dian, habited like her,
Who hath abandoned her holy groves,
To see the general hunting in this forest ?

Tam. Saucy controller of my private steps! 60
Had I the power that some say Dian had,
Thy temples should be planted presently
With horns as was Acteeon’s, and the hounds
Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs,
Unmannerly intruder as thou art!

Lav. Under your patience, gentle empress,
’*T ig thought you have a goodly gift in horning ;
And to be doubted that your Moor and you
Are singled forth to try experiments.
Jove shield your husband from his hounds to-day; 70
’T is pity they should take him for a stag.

Bass. Believe me, queen, your swarth Cimmerian
Doth make your honour of his body’s hue,
epee. detested, and abominable.
Why are you sequester’d from all your train,
Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed,
And wander'd hither to an obscure plot,
Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor,

foul desire had not conducted you?

Lav. And being intercepted in your sport, 80
Great reason that my noble lord be rated
For sauciness !—I pray you, let us hence,
And let her joy her raven-colour’d love ;
This valley fits the purpose passing well.

Bass. The king, my brother, shall have note of

this.
Lav. Ay. for these slips have made him noted
ong:

gs
Good king, to be so mightily abus’d!
Tam. Why have I patience to endure all this?

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON.
Dem. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious
mother,

Why doth your highness look so pale and wan? 90

Tam. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale?
These two have tic’d me hither to this place:
A barren detested vale, you see, it is;
The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean,
O’ercome with moss and baleful mistletoe :
Here never shines the sun; here nothing breeds,
Unless the nightly ow] or fatal raven.
And when they show’d me this abhorred pit,
They told me, here, at dead time of the night,
A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, 100
Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins,
Would make such fearful and confused cries,
As any mortal body, hearing it,
Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly.
No sooner had they told this hellish tale,
But straight they told me, they would bind me here
Unto the body of a dismal yew,
And leave me to this miserable death :
And then they call’d me foul adulteress,
Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms 110
That ever ear did hear to such effect ;
And, had you not by wondrous fortune come,

 

This vengeance on me had they executed.
Icevenge it, as you love your mother’s life,
Or be ye not henceforth call’d my children.
Dem. This is a witness that I am thy son.
: , Stabs Bassianus.
Chi. And this for me, struck home to show my
strength. | [Stabbing him likewise.
Lav. Ay, come, Semiramis,—nay, barbarous Tamora;
For no name fits thy nature but thy own.
Tam. Give me thy poniard: you shall know, my
120

joys,
Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong.
Dem. Stay, madam, here is more belongs to her:
First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw.
This minion stood upon her chastity,
Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty,
And, with that painted hope, braves your mightiness:
And shall she carry this unto her grave?
Chi. An if she do, I would I were an eunuch.
Drag hence her husband to some secfet hole,
And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. 130
Tam. But when ye have the honey ye desire,
Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting.
Chi. I warrant you, madam, we will make that
sure.—
Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy
That nice-preserved honesty of yours.
Lav. O Tamora! thou bear'st a woman’s face,—
Tam. I will not hear her speak ; away with her!
Lav. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word.
Dem. Listen, fair madam : let it be your glory
To see her tears ; but be your heart to them 140
As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. i
Lav. bi sae the tiger’s young ones teach the
am
O! do not learn her wrath ; she taught it thee;
The milk thou suck’dst from her did turn to marble;
Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny.
Yet every mother breeds not sons alike :
[To CHIRON.] Do thou entreat her show a woman

pity.

Chi. What ! wouldst thou have me prove myself a

bastard ?

Lav. ’Tis true, the raven doth not hatch a lark:
Yet have I heard,—O, could I find it now !— 5
The lion mov’d with pity did endure
To have his princely paws par’d all away.

Some say that ravens foster forlorn children,

The whilst their own birds famish in their nests:

O! be to me, though thy hard heart say no,

Nothing so kind, but something pitiful.
Tam. I know not what it means ; away with her!
Lav. O! let me teach thee : for my father’s sake, |

That gave thee life, when well he might have slain

thee,

Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears.

Tam. Hadst thou in person ne'er offended me,
Even for his sake am I pitiless.—
Remember, boys, I pour’d forth tears in vain,
To save your brother from the sacrifice ;
But fierce Andronicus would not relent.
Therefore, away with her, and use her as you will:
The worse to her, the better lov’d of me.

Lav. O Tamora! be call'd a gentle queen,
And with thine own hands kill me in this place ;
For 't is not life that I have begg’d so long : lV
Poor I was slain when Bassianus died.

Tam. What begg’st thou then? fond woman, let.

me go.
Lav. ’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more,
That womanhood denies my tongue to tell.
O! keep me from their worse than killing lust,
And tumble me into some loathsome pit,
Where never man’s eye may behold my body : :
Do this, and be a charitable murderer.

Tam. So should 1 rob my sweet sons of their fee:
No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. 180
Dem. Away! for thou hast stay’d us here too long.

Lav. No grace? no womanhood? Ah, _ beastly
creature !
The blot and enemy to our general name!
Confusion fall—

 

 
 

 

ScENE V.]

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 9

 

Chi. Nay, then I'll stop your mouth.—Bring thou
her husband : (Dragging off LAVINIA.
This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him.
[Ezeunt CHIRON and DEMETRIUS.
Tam. Farewell, my sons: see, that you make her
sure.
Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed,
Till all the Andronici be made away.
Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, 190
And let my spleenful sons this trull deflour. (Exit.

 

ScENE IV.--The Same.

Enter AARON, with QUINTUS and MaRTIUS.
Aar. Come on, my lords, the better foot before :
Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit,
Where I espied the panther fast asleep.
uint. My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes.
art. And mine, I promise you: were’t not for
shame,
Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile.
Falls into the pit.
Quint. ae ! art thou fall’n ?-What subtle hoie is
is,

Whose mouth is cover’d with rude-growing briers,
Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood,
As fresh as morning’s dew distill’d on flowers ? 10
A very fatal place it seems to me.
Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall?
Mart. O brother! with the dismall’st object hurt,
That ever eye with sight made heart lament.
Aar. [Aside.] Now will I fetch the king to find
them here,
That he thereby may give a likely guess,
How these were they that made away his brother. is
cit.
Mart. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out
From this unhallow'd and blood-stained hole ?
Quiné. Iam surprised with an uncouth fear ; 20
A chilling sweat o’erruns my trembling joints :
My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
Mart. To oe thou hast a true-divining heart,
Aaron and thou look down into this den,
And see a fearful sight of blood and death.
uint. Aaron is gone; and my compassionate heart
Will not permit mine eyes once to behold
The thing whereat it trembles by surmise.
O! tell me how it is; for ne’er till now
Was I a child, to fear I know not what. 30
Mart. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed here,
All on a heap, like to a slaughter'd lamb,
In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.
Quint. If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he?
Mart. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear
A precious ring, that lightens all the hole,
ich, like a taper in some monument,
Doth shine pe the dead man’s earthy cheeks,
And shows the ragged entrails of this pit :
So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus, 40
When he by night lay bath’d in maiden blood.
O brother! help me with thy fainting hand—
If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath—-
Out of this fell devouring receptacle,
As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth.
Quint. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee
out;
Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good,
Imay be pluck’d into the swallowing womb
Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. __
Ihave no strength to pluck thee to the brink. 50
Mart. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help.
Quint. Thy hand once more; I will not loose

again,
Till thou art here aloft, or I below. ;
Thou canst not come to me ; I come to thee. [Falls in.

Enter SATURNINUS and AARON.
Sat. Along with me :—I’ll see what hole is here,
And what he is that now is leap’d into it.
Say, who art thou, that lately didst descend.
Into this gaping hollow of the earth ?

 

Mart. The unhappy son of old Andronicus,
Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, 60
To find thy brother Bassianus dead.

Sat. My brother dead! I know, thou dost but

jest:
He and his lady both are at the lodge,
Upon the north side of this pleasant chase ;
“Tis not an hour since I left him there.
Mart. We know not where you left him all alive,
But, out, alas! here have we found him dead.

Enter Tamora, with Attendants ; Trrus
ANDRONICcUs, and Lucius.
Tam. Where is my lord the king? j
Sat. Here, - monn though griev’d with killing
rief.
Tam. Where is thy brother Bassianus ?
Sat. Now to the bottom dost thou search
wound ;
Poor Bassianus here lies murdered.
Tam. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ,
[Giving a letter.
The complot of this timeless tragedy ;
And wonder greatly that man’s tace can fold
In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny.
Sat. [Reads.] ‘‘ An if we miss to meet him hand-
somely,—
Sweet huntsman, Bassianus ’tis, we mean,—
Do thou so much as dig the grave for him.
Thou know’st our meaning: look for thy reward 80
Among the nettles at the elder-tree,
Which overshades the mouth of that same pit,
Where we decreed to bury Bassianus.
Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.”
O Tamora ! was ever heard the like ?
This is the pit, and this the elder-tree.
Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out,
That should have murder’d Bassianus here.
Aar. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold.

7
my

[Showing it.
Sat. [To Trrus.] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of
bloody kind, 9u

Have here bereft my brother of his life.—
Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison :
‘There let them bide, until we have devis'd
Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.
Tam. What! are they in this pit? O wondrous
thing!
How easily murder is discovered !
Tit. High emperor, upon my feeble knee
I beg this boon with tears not lightly shed ; -
That this fell fault of my accursed sons,
Accursed, if the fault be prov’d in them,— 100
Sat. If it be prov’d! you see, it is apparent.—
Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you?
Tam. Andronicus himself did take it up.
Tit. J did, my lord: yet let me be their bail ;
For, by my fathers’ reverend tomb, I vow,
They shall be ready at your highness’ will,
To answer their suspicion with their lives.
Sat. Thou shalt not bail them: see, thou follow

me.
Some bring the murder’d body, some the mur-
derers :
Let them not speak a word, the guilt is plain ; 110
For, by my soul, were there worse end than death,
That end upon them should be executed.
Tam. Andronicus, I will entreat the king :
Fear not thy sons, they shall do well enough.
Tit. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with
them. [Exeunt severally.

ScENE V.—The Same.

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA,
i a her hands cut off, and her tongue cut
out.

Dem. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,

Who ’tavas that cut thy tongue, and ravish’d thee.
Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning

80;
An if thy stumps will let thee, play the scribe.

 

 

 
 

| wo

TITUS ANDRONICUS.

{Act ITI.

 

 

 

Dem. See, how with signs and tokens she can
scrawl.
Chi. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy

ands.
Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to
wash ;
And so let’s leave her to her silent walks.
Chi. An ’t were my case, I should go hang my-

self.
Dem. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord,
[Zxeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON.

Enter Marcus, from hunting.
Marc. Who’s this?—my niece, that flies away so
fast ? 11
Cousin, a word: where is your husband ?—
If I do dream, ’would all my wealth would wake
'

If I do wake, some planet strike me down,
That I may slumber in eternal sleep !—
Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands
ave jopp'd and hew’d, and made thy body bare
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments,
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep

in,
And might not gain so great a happiness 20
As have thy love?) Why dost not speak to me ?—
Alas! a crimson river of warm blood, g

Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind,

Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,

Coming and going with thy honey breath.

But, sure, some ‘l'ereus hath deiloured thee,

 

And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah ! now thou turn’st away thy face for shame ;
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood,

As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, 30
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face

Blushing to be encounter’d with a cloud.

Shall I speak for thee? shall I say, ’tis so?

O, that I knew thy heart ; and knew the beast,

That I might rail at him, to ease my mind!

Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d,

Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.

Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,

And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind:

But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee ; 40
A crattier Tereus hast thou met withal,

And he hath cut those pretty fingers ott,

That could have better sew’d than Philomel.

QO! had the monster seen those lily hands

Tremble like aspen-leaves upon a lute,

And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,

He would not then have touch’d them for his life ;

Or had he heard the heavenly harmony,

Which that sweet tongue hath made,

He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell asleep, 50
As Cerberus at the ‘l'hracian poet’s feet.

Come, let us go, and make thy father blind ;

For such a sight will blind a tather’s eye:

One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads;
What will whole months of tears thy father’s

eyes ?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:
O, could our mourning ease thy misery ! [EZzeunt.

 

 

 
  

Ye
A Ci f

   

 

  

 

ACT ITI.

Titus. ;
EAR me, grave fathers! noble tribunes,
stay!
For pity of mine age, whose youth was
spent
In dangerous wars, whilst you securely

slept;
For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel

shed ;
For all the frosty nights that I have
watch'd;
And for these bitter tears, which now
: you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks ;
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis
thought.
For two-and-twenty sons I never wept, 10
Because they died in honour’s lofty bed :
For these, tribunes, in the dust I write
(Throwing himself on the ground.

My heart’s deep languor, and my soul’s sad tears.
Let my tears stanch the earth’s dry appetite ;
My sons’ sweet blood will make it. shame and blush.

[Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, &c., with the

Prisoners. ‘

O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,
That shall distil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April shall with all his showers:

 

/ Scenr I.—Rome.

fe Enter Senators, Tribunes, and Officers of Justice, with MARTIUS and QuINTUS, bound,
Se passing on to the place of execution; Titus going before, pleading.

 

A Street.

In summer’s drought, I 11 drop upon thee still;

In winter, with warm tears Ill melt the snow, 20
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,

So thou refuse to drink my dear son’s blood.

Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawn.
O reverend tribunes! O gentle-aged men!
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death;
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.
Lue. O noble father, you lament in vain:
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.— 30
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you,— .
Luc. My qraciens lord, no tribune hears you
speak.
Tit. Why, ’tis no matter, man: if they did hear,
They would not mark me, or if they did mark,
They would not pity me, yet plead I must,
And bootless unto them.
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones,
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
‘Yct in some sort they are better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale.
‘When I do weep, they, Iambly at my feet,
Reccive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribune like to these.

 

 
 

 

Scene I] TITUS ANDRONICUS. ll

 

A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than | For now I stand as one upon a rock,
stones ; Environ’d with a wilderness of sea,
A stone is silent, and offendeth not, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave.
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to | Expecting ever when some envious surge
death. [Rises. | Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn? | This way to death my wretched sons are gone ;
Here stands my other son, a banish’d man,
And here my brother, weeping at my woes ; 100
TM
Wea
WN
|

 

But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul,—
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me : what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so?
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr’d thee :
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn’d and dead by this.
Look, Marcus; ah! son Lucius, look on her: 110
When I did name her brothers, then, fresh tears
Stood on her checks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d.
‘arc. Perchance, she weeps because they kill’d her
husband ;
Perchance, because she knows them innocent.
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them.—
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed ;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes,—
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, 120
Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain,
Tit, “In the dust I write my heart's deep languor.” Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks
How they are stain’d, like meadows yet not dry,
With miry slime left on them by a flood ?

     
 

 

 

  

 

 

Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death ; And in the fountain shall we gaze so long,

For which attempt the judges have pronounc’d 50 | Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
My everlasting doom of banishment. And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears ?

Tit. O happy man! they have befriended thee. Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine? 130
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive, Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Pass the remainder of our hateful days?

Tigers must prey ; and Rome affords no prey, What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
But me and mine: how happy art thou then, Plot some device of further misery,
From these devourers to be banished! To make us wonder’d at in time to come.
But who comes with our brother Marcus here ? Lue. ower. father, cease your tears; for at your
grief,
inter Marcus and Lavinia. See, how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

Marc. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; Marc. Patience, dear niece.—Good Titus, dry thine
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break : 60 eyes.

I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,

Tit. Will it consume me? let me see it then. Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

Marc. This was thy daughter. For thou, poor man, hast drown’d it with thine own.

Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is. Zmc. Ab, my Lavinia! I will wipe thy cheeks.

Luc. Ah me! this object kills me. Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark ! I understand her signs.

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.— Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand That to her brother which I said to thee :

ath made thee handless in thy father’s sight? His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,

What fool hath added water to the sea, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy ? O! what a sympathy of woe is this ;

My grief was at the height before thou cam’st, 70 | As far from help as limbo is from bliss !

And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds.—

Give me a sword, I'll chop ce my hands too; : Enter Aaron.

For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor 150
And they have nurs’d this woe, in feeding life; Sends thee this word,—that, if thou love thy sons,
In bootless prayer have they been held up, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,

And they have serv’d me to effectless use: Or any one of you, chop off your hand,

Now all the service I require of them And send it to the ae : he, for the same,

Is that the one will help to cut the other.— Will send thee hither both thy sons alive,

‘Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands, And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain. 80 Tit. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron!

Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d thee? | Did ever raven sing so like a lark, '

Mare. O! that delightful engine of her thoughts, That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise ?

That blabb’d them with such pleasing eloquence, With all my heart, I'll send the emperor my hand. 160
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? :
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Luc. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear. That bath thrown down so many enemies,

Inc. O! say thou for her, who hath done this deed? | Shall not be sent : my band will serve the turn.

Marc. 0! thus I found her, straying in the park, My youth can better spare my blood than you,
Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer, And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives.
That hath receiv’d some unrecuring wound. 90 Marc. Which of your hands hath not defended

Tit. It was my deer; and he that wounded her Rome,
Hath hurt. me more, than had he kill’d me dead : And rear’d aloft the bloody battle-axe, |

 

 

 
 

12

Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle?

O! none of both but are of high desert.

My hand hath been but idle; let it serve

To ransom my two nephews from their death :
Then have I kept it toa worthy end.

For tear they die before their pardon come.

Marc. My hand shall go.

Lue. By heaven, it shall not go!
Tit. ae strive no more: such wither’d herbs as
these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
Luc. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death. 1
Mare. And for our father’s sake, and mother’s
care,

Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.
Tit. Agree between you ; I will spare my hand.

 

170 |

ular. Nay, come, agree, whose hand shall go along,

 

TITUS ANDRONICUS. Acr Il.

Luc. Then I

‘o fetch an axe.
Marc. But I wil

use ihe axe. a
: ceunt LUCIUS and Marcus,
Tit. Come hither, Aaron ; I'll deceive them both:
Lend me thy band, and I will give thee mine.
| . Aar. [Aside.] If that be call’d deceit, I will be honest,
| And never, whilst I live, deceive men so :— .

Tit. ‘‘ Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her,”

j But 1’ll deceive you in another sort, 190

And that you’ll say, ere half an hour pass.
(Cuts of Trtus's hand.

Re-enter Lucius and Marcus.
Tit. Now, stay your strife; what shall be, is de-
spatch’d.— ;
Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand:
Tell him, it was a hand that warded him
From thousand dangers ; bid him bury it :
More hath it merited; that let it have.

 
 

ScENE I.]

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 13

 

 

As for my sons, gay, I account of them
As jewels purchas‘d at an easy price ;
And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.

 

 

[ss

Tit, “Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.”

Aar. Igo, Andronicus ; and, for thy hand, 200
Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.
Aside.] Their heads, I mean.—O, how this villainy
oth fat me with the very thoughts of it!
Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,
Aaron will have his soul black like his face.
Tit. O! here I lift this one hand up to heaven,
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth:
If any power pities wretched tears,
To that I call.—_{To Lavinia4.] What! wilt thou kneel

[Exit.

. With me?
Do then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear ye
10 .

prayers,
Or with our sighs we ’ll breathe the welkin dim,
And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.
Marc. O! brother, speak with possibilities,
And do not break into these deep extremes.
Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ?
Then be my passions bottomless with them.
Marc. But yet let reason govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reason for these miseries,
Then into limits could I bind my woes. 220
When se doth weep, doth not the earth o’er-
ow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threat’ning the welkin.with his big-swoln face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
Iam the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow!
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then must my sea be moved with her sighs ;
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow’d and drown’d:
For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But like a drunkard must I vomit them.
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

230

Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand.
Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid
For that good hand thou sentst the emperor.
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons,
And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back :
Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d ;
hat woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father’s death.
Marc. Now let hot tna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an ever-burning hell!
These miseries are more than may be borne.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal,
But sorrow flouted at is double death.

[Evit.
241

 

Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a
wound,
And yet detested life not shrink thereat !
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe !
{Lavinia kisses TITUS.
Mare. Alas, poor heart! that kiss is comfortless, 250
As frozen water to a starved snake.
Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end?
Marc.. Now farewell, tlaitery : dic, Andronicus.
Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons’ heads,
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here ;
Thy other banish’d son with this dear sight
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs.
Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand 260
Gnawing with thy teeth ; and be this dismal sight
The closing up of our most wretched cyes!
Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Mare. ae dost thou laugh? it fits not with this
: our.
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed :
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my watery eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears ;
Then, which way shall I find Revenge’s cave?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me,

270

And threat me, [ shall never come to bliss,
Till all these mischiet's be return’d again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.

Ni

 

i
i

 

Tit. ‘“ When will this fearful slumber have an end?”

Come, let me see what task I have to do.—

You heavy people, circle me about,

That I may turn me to each one of you,

And swear unto my soul to write your wrongs.—

The vow is made.—Come, brother, take a head ;

And in this hand the other will I bear. 7

Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these things :
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy

teeth.
As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight ;
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay :

 

 
 

u TITUS ANDRONICUS.

[Act III.

 

Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there ;
And if you love me, as I think you do,
Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.
[Eveunt Titus, Marcus, and LAVINIA.
Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father ;
The wofull’st man that ever livdin Rome. |
Farewell, proud Rome: till Lucius come again, 290
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life.
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister ;
O, ’would thou wert as thou tofore hast been !
But now nor Lucius, nor Lavinia lives,
But in oblivion, and hateful griefs.
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,
And make proud Saturnine and his empress
Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.
Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power.

 

To be reveng’d on Rome and Saturnine. : [Exit. 300
ScreNnE IJ.—A Room in Titus’s House. A Banquet
set out.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young LucIvs,
a boy.

Tit. So, so; now sit ; and look, you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot passionate our ten-fold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannise upon my breast ;
And when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, 10
Then thus I thump it down.—
{To Lavinta.] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk
in signs,
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans ;
Or get some little knite between thy teeth,
aad just against thy heart make thou a hole;
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
May run into that sink, aie soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
Marc. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote already ?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
What violent hands can she lay on her life?
Ah! wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;
To bid Aineas tell the tale twice o’er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable ?
O! handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
Lest we remember still that we have none. 30
Fie, fie! how franticly I square my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands !—
Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this.—

 

| Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says;

I can interpret all her martyr’d signs.
She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew’'d with her sorrow, mash’d upon her cheeks,
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect, 40
As begging hermits in their holy prayers:
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
And, by still practice, learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep
laments :
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov’d,
Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of
tears, 50
And tears will ey melt thy life away. —
(Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.
What dost thou strike. at, Marcus, with thy knife?
Marc. At that that I have kill’d, my lord,—a fly.
Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill’st my
heart ;
Mine eyes are cloy’d with view of tyranny:
A deed of death, done on the innocent,
Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone;
1 see, thou art not for my company.
Mare. Alas! my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother, 60
How would he hang his slender gilded wings,
And buzz lamenting doings in the air?
Poor harmless fly,
That, with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill’d

im,
Marc. Pardon me, sir: it was a black ill-favour’d

Ys

Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.
Tit. O, 0, O!

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou hast done a charitable deed.

Give me thy knife, I will insult on him ;

Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor,

Come hither purposely to poison me.—

There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora.

Ah, sirrah !—

Yet I think we are not brought so low, ‘

But that between us we can kill a fly,

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
Marc. Alas, poor man! grief bas so wrought on

70

m,
He takes false shadows for true substances. 80
Tit. Come, take away.—Lavinia, go with me:
I'll to thy closet ; and go read with thee
Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.—
Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read, when mine begins to dazzle.
[Exeunt.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.

Enter Tirus and Marcus.

   
 
 

ye Boy.
* ELP, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me every where, I know not

why.—
Good uncle Marcus, see, how swift she

; . comes !
7 sy Alas ! sweet aunt, I know not what you
mean.
Marc. Stand by me, Lucius; do not
fear thine aunt. ;
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to
do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in
ome, she did.
Marc. What means my niece Lavinia
~ by these signs ?
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius: — some-
what doth she mean.
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee: 10
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy! Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully’s Orator.
Marc. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies
thee thus?
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her ;
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy 20
Ran mad through sorrow : that made me to fear ;
Although, my lord, I know, my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth ;
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly,
Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt;
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willin: ly attend your ladyship.
Marc. Lucius, I will.
[Lavinia turns over the books which Lucius
had let fall.
Tit. How now, Lavinia?— Marcus, what means
this ? 30
Some book there is that she desires to see.—
Which is it, girl, of these ?~Open them, boy.-
But thou art deeper read, and better skill’d ;
Come, and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn’d contriver of this deed.—
What book ?
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?
arc. I think, she means that there was more than
one
Confederate in the fact :—ay, more there was; 40
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so ?
* Boy. Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s Metamorphoses :
My mother gave it me.
‘are. For love of her that’s gone,
Perhaps, she cull’d it from among the rest.
Tit. Soft ! so busily she turns the leaves!
Help her :
What would she find ?~Lavinia, shall I read ?

Ce

 

Scenpb I.—The Same. Before Trrus’s House.

_Then enter young LUCIUS, LAVINIA
running after him.

This is the tragic tale of Philomel,
And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape ; 50
And rape, I fear, was root of thine Bene
Mare. Hee brother, see! note, how she quotes the
eaves.
Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus slat a sweet girl,
Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was,
Fore’d in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ?—
See, see !—
Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt,
(O, had we never, never hunted there !)
Pattern’d by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murders, and for rapes.
Mare. 0! why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies ?
Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but
friends,
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed :
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
‘nat left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed?
Marc. Sit down, sweet niece :—brother, sit down by
me.—
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Inspire me, that I may this treason find !—
My lord, look here ;—look here, Lavinia : 70
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me.
[He writes his name with his staff, and guides
it with feet and mouth.
I have writ my name
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curs’d be that heart that forc’d us to this shift !—
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last
What God will have discover’d for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!
[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides
it with her stumps, and writes.
do you read, my lord, what she hath
writ 2
Stuprum—Chiron—Demetrius.
Marc. What, what !—the lustful sons of Tamora
Performers of this heinous, bloody deed ?
Tit. Magni dominator polit,
Tam lentus audis scelera ? tam lentus vides ?
Marc. O! calm thee, gentle lord ; although I know
There is enough written upon this earth,
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel ;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s hope; 90
And swear with me,—as with the woful fere,
And father, of that chaste dishonour’d dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape,—
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood, or die with this reproach.
Tit. Tis sure enough, an you knew how;
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware :
The dam will wake, an if she wind you once:
She ’s with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back ;
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.

10

 

 
16 TITUS ANDRONICUS.

[Act rv. |

 

You’re a young huntsman: Marcus, let alone ;
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by. The angry northern wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s eaves abroad,
And where's your lesson then +~Boy, what say you?
Boy. I say, my lord, that if [ were a man,
Their mother’s bedchamber should not be safe 110
For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.
Marc. Ay, that’s my boy! thy father hath full oft
For his ungrateful country done the like.
Boy. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.
Tit. Come, go with me into mine armoury :
Lucius, I’ll fit thee ; and withal my boy
Shall carry from ine to the empress’ sons
Presents, that lintend to send them both.
Come, come; thou’lt do thy message, wilt thou

not?
Boy. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, erand
sire. 2
Tit. No, boy, not so; I’ll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come.—Marcus, look to my house :
Lucius and I’ go brave it at the court ;
Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on.
[Zxeunt Trrus, LAVINIA, and Boy.
Mare.

O heavens! can you hear a good man
groan,

And not relent, or not compassion him ?

Marcus, attend him in his ecstacy,

‘That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart,

Than foemen’s marks upon his batter’d shield ;

But yet so just, that he will not revenge.— 130

Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus ! [Exit.

 

ScENE II.—The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter AARON, DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON, at one door;
at another door, young Lucivs, and an Attendant,
ae a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon

eM,
Chi. Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius ;

He hath some message to deliver us.
dar. Ay, some mad message from his mad grand-

father.
Boy. My lords, with all the humbleness I may,

I greet your honours from Andronicus ;—

[Aside. ou pray the Roman gods confound you

oth.
Dem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What's the news?
Boy. [Aside.] That you are both decipher’d, that’s

the news,

For villains mark’d with rape. [To them.] May it
dy ase you,

My grandsire, well advis’d, hath sent by me 10

The goodliest weapons of his armoury,
To gratify your honourable youth,
The hope of Rome ; for so he bade me say,
And so I do, and with his gifts present
Your lordships, that, whenever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well.
And so I leave you both, (as/de] like bloody villains.
[Exeunt Boy and Attendant.
Dem. What’s here? <A scroll; and written round
about ?
Let’s see:
Integer vite, scelerisque purus, 20
Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.
Chi. O!’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well:
Tread it in the grammar long ago.
Aar. Ay, just!—a verse in Horace ;— right, you
have it.
ie side.] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!
ere 's no sound jest! the old man hath found their
guilt,
And sends them weapons wrapp’d about with lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick ;
But were our witty empress well afoot,
She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit : 30
But let her rest in her unrest awhile.—
[To them.] And now, young lords, was’t not a happy
star

 

Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good, before the palace gate
‘to brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing.
Dem. But me more good, to sec so great a lord
Basely insinuate, and send us gifts.
Aar. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius ?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly ? 40
Dem. I would we had a thousand Roman dames
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.
Chi. A charitable wish, and full of love.
far. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.
Chi. And that would she for twenty thousand
more,
Dem. Come, let us go, and pray to all the gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.
dar. [Aside.] Pray to the devils; the gods have
given us over. (Lrumpets sound.
Dem. Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus?
Chi. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.
Dem. Sott! who comes here ?

Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child.

Nur. Good morrow, lords. O! tell me, did you see
Aaron the Moor?

dar. Well, more, or less, or ne'er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?

Nur. O gentle Aaron! we are all undone.
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore !

dar, Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?

Nur, O! that which I would hide from heaven’s

eye, 60

Our empress’ shame, and eee Rome’s disgrace.—
She is deliver’d, lords, she is deliver'’d.

Alar. To whom?

Nur. I mean she’s brought a-bed.

ar. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he
sent her?

Nur. A devil.

Alar.
A joyful issue.
Nur. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue.
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad
Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime.
The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, 70
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point.
ar. Out, you whore ! is black so base a hue ?—
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure.
Dem. Villain, what hast thou done ?
«lar. That which thou canst not undo.
Chi. Thou hast undone our mother.
«lar. Villain, I have done thy mother.
Dem. a therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone
er.
‘Woe to her chance, and damn’d her loathed choice!
Accurs’d the ofispring of so foul a fiend !
Chi. It shall not live.
«lar. It shall not die.
Nur. Aaron, it must: the mother wills it so. .
Aar. What! must it, nurse? then let no man but I
Do execution on my flesh and blood.
Dem. I'll broach the tadpole on my sanieys point :
Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon despatch it.
ar. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.
(Takes the Child from the Nurse, and draws,
Stay, murderous Villains! will you kill your brother?
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky, 90
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point
That touches this my first-born son and heir.
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his evening Beer of Typhon’s brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands.
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!
Ye white-lim’d walls! ye ale-house painted signs !
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue ;
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan’s black Jegs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.

Why, then she is the devil’s dam i

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE [II]

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 17

 

Tell the empress from me, I am of age

To keep mine own ; excuse it how she can.
Dem. Wiit thou betray thy noble mistress thus?
Aar. My mistress is my mistress ; this, myselt ;

The vigour, and the picture of my youth:

This before all the world do I prefer ;

This, maugre all the world, will I keep safe,

Or some of you shall smoke foi it in Rome.

ae

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110

 

      
       
   

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Leal i

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Aar. “Stay, murderous villains!"

Dem. By this our mother is for ever shamed.
Chi. Rome will despise her for this foul escape.
Nur. The emperor in his rage will doom her death.
Chi. I blush to think upon this ignomy.
Aar. ee there’s the privilege your beauty
ears.
Fie, treacherous hue! that will betray with blushing
The close enacts and counsels of the heart :
Here’s a young lad fram'd of another leer. 120
Look, how the black slave smiles upon the father,
As who should say, ‘“‘ Old lad, Iam thine own.”
# is your brother, lords, sensibly fed
Of that self blood that first gave life to you;
And from that womb, where you imprison’d were,
He is enfranchised and come to light:
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face.
Nur. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress?
Dem. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy advice:
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.
Aar. Then sit we down, and let us all consult.
My son and I will have the wind of you;
Keep there : now talk at pleasure of your safety.
[They sit.
Dem. How many women saw this child of his? |
Aar. Why, so, brave lords: when we join in

league,
Iam alamb; but if you brave the Moor,
The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.—
But say again, how many saw the child?

Nur. Cornelia the midwife, and myself,
And no one else but the deliver’d empress.

Aar. The empress, the midwife, and yourself :
Two may keep counsel, when the third’s away.
Go to the empress; tell her this I said: .

[Stabbing her.

Weke, weke !—so cries a pig prepared to the spit.

Dem. What mean’st thou, Aaron? wherefore didst

thou this? .

Aar. O Lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy.
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours,
A long-tongu’d babbling gossip ? no, lords, no.
And now be it known to you my full intent.
Not far, one Muliteus, my countryman ;
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed.

130

140

150

 

His child is like to her, fair as you are:
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their child shall be advanc’d,
And be received for the emperor's heir,
And substituted in the place of mine,
‘Yo calm this tempest whirling in the court;
And let the emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, lords ; you see, I have given her physic.
[Pointiny to the Nurse.
And you must needs bestow her funeral ;
‘The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms.
This done, see that you take no longer days,
But send the midwite presently to me.
‘he midwife and the nurse well made away,
Then let the ladies tattle what they please.
Chi. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air
With secrets.
Dem. For this care of Tamora,
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.
[4xcunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, bearing off the
dead Nurse.
Aar. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies ;
There to dispose this treasure in mince arms,
And secretly to greet the empress’ friends.—
Come on, you thick-lipp’d slave, I’ll bear you hence;
For it is you that puts us to our shifts :
I’li make you feed on berries and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat.
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up
To be a warrior, and command a camp.
[£xit, with the Child.

160

170

ScENE JII.—The Same.

Enter Titus, bearing arrows, with letters on the ends
of them; with him Marcus, young Luctus, and
other Gentlemen, with bows.

Tit. Come, Marcus, come ;~ kinsmen, this is the

A public Place.

way.—
Sir boy, now let me see your archery :

Look ye draw home enough, and ‘tis there straight.
Terras Astrea reliquit :

Be you remember’d, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s fled.
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall

i Mie
nit

 

     

 

 
        

 

 

Tit. “Sirs, take you to your tools.”

Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets;

Happily you may find her in the sea ;

Yet there’s as little justice as at land.— a

No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it ; 10
"Tis you must dig with mattock, and with spade,

 

 

 
 

 

18 TITUS

ANDRONICUS.

[Act IV.

 

And pierce the inmost centre of the earth :
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you, deliver him this petition ;
Tell him, it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.—
Ab, Rome !—Well, well; I made thee miserable,
What time 1 threw the people’s suttrages
On him that thus doth tyrannise o’er me.— 20
Go, get you gone ; and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch’d :
'Yhis wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence ;
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
Marc. O Publius! is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract ?
Pub. Therefore, my lord, it highly us concerns,
By day and night to attend him carefully ;
And feed his humour kindly as we may,
Till time beget some careful remedy. 30
Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
Tit. Publius, how now? how now, my masters ?
What, have you met with her?
Pub. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you
word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, aoe shall :
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, 40
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
Il dive into the burning lake below,
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.—
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we ;
No big-bon’d men, fram’d of the Cyclops’ size,
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back ;
Yet wee with wrongs, more than our backs can
ear:
And sith there is no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven, and move the gods, 50
To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus.
[He gives them the arrows.
Ad Jovem, that’s for you :—here, ad Apollinem :—
Ad Martem, that’s for myself :—
Here, boy, to Pallas :—here, to Mercury:
To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine ;
You were as good to shoot against the wind.—
To it, boy ; Marcus, loose when I bid.
Of my word, J have written to effect;
There’s not a god left unsolicited. 60
Mare. EER shoot all your shafts into the
court:
We will afflict the emperor in his pride.
Tit. Now, masters, draw. [They shoot.]
said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo’s lap: give it Pallas.
Marc. My lord, (aim a mile beyond the moon:
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
Tit. Ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see! thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns.
Mare. ae was the sport, my lord: when Publius
shot,
The Bull, being gall’d, gave Aries such a knock, 70
That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court;
And who should find them but the empress’ villain ?
She laugh’d, and told the Moor he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.
Tit. Why, there it goes: God give his lordship joy!

Enter the Clown, with a basket and two pigeons init.
News! news from heaven! Marcus, the post is

O, well

come.
Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?
Shall I have justice? what says Jupiter ?

Clo. Ho! the gibbet-maker? he says that he hath
taken them down again, for the man must not be
hanged till the next week. 81

Tit. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clo. Alas, sir! I know not Jupiter: I never drank
with him in all my life.

 

Tit. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?

Clo. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.

Tit. Why, didst thou not come from heaven?

Clo, ¥rom heaven? alas, sir! I never came there,
God forbid, I should be so bold to press to heaven in
my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons
to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl
betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial’s men. 92

Mare. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be, to serve for
your oration ; and let him deliver the pigeons to the
emperor from you.

Zit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the em-
peror with a grace?

aie Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all
my life.

it. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado, 100
But give your pigeons to the emperor:

By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.

Hold, hold meanwhile, here’s money for thy charges.
Give me pen and ink.—

Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?

Clo, Ay, sir.

Tit. Then here is a supplication for you. And when
ou come to him, at the first approach you must
ineel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your

pigeons ; and then look for your reward. I'll b
hand, sir; see you do it bravely.

Clo. [ warrant you, sir; let me alone.

Tit. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come, let me seeit.— |

Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration ;
For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant :—
And when thou hast given it to the emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he says.
Clo. God be with you, sir; I will.
Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go.—Publius, follow me.
[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Same. Before the Palace.

Enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, CHIRON,

eat

Lords, and others: SATURNINUS with the arrows |

in his hand that Tirus shot.
Sat. Why, lords, what wrongs are these? Was ever
seen
An emperor in Rome thus overborne,
Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent
Of egal justice, us’d in such contempt?
My lords, you know, as do the mightful gods,
(However these disturbers of our peace
Buz in the people’s cars) there nought hath pass’d,
But even with law, against the wilful sons
Of old Andronicus. And whatanif |
His sorrows have so overwhelm’d his wits, 10
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to heaven for his redress :
See, here’s to Jove, and this to Mercury ;
This to Apollo ; this to the god of war;
Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
What’s this but libelling against the senate,
And blazoning our injustice every where?
A goodly humour, is it not, my lords?
As who would say, in Rome no justice were. 20
But if I live, his feigned ecstacies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages;
But he and his shall know, that justice lives
In Saturninus’ health ; whom, if he sleep,
He’!l so awake, as he in fury shall
Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives. |
Tam. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age,

The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, 30
Whose less Balls pierc’d him deep, and scarr’d his
heart ;

And rather comfort his distressed plight,

Than prosecute the meanest, or the best,

For these contempts. [Aside.] Why, thus it shall
become

High-witted Tamora to gloze with all:

But, Titus, I have touch’d thee to the quick,

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.)

TITUS ANDRONICUS.

19

 

Thy life-blood out. If Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the anchor’s in the port.—

Enter Clown.

How now, good fellow ! wouldst thou speak with us?
Clo. Yes, forsooth, an your mistership be imperial. 40
Tam. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor.

‘Clo. ’Tis he.—God and Saint Stephen give you good
den. I have brought you a letter, and a couple of
pigeons here. [SATURNINUS reads the letter.

Sat. Go, take him away, and hang him presently.

Clo. How much money must I have?

Tam. Come, sirrah ; you must be hang’d.

Clo. Hang’d! By’r lady, then I have brought up a
neck to a fair end. [ Exit, guarded.

Sat. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs ! 50

Shall I endure this monstrous villainy ¢

I know from whence this same device proceeds.

May this be borne ?—As if his traitorous sons,

That died by law for murder of our brother,

Have by my means been butcher’d wrongfully !—

Go, drag the villain hither by the hair :

Nor age, nor honour, shall shape privilege. —

For this proud mock I’ll be thy slaughterman ;

Sly frantic wretch, that holpst to make me great,

In hope thyself should govern Rome and me.

Enter ACMILIUS,

What news with thee, A’milius ?

4imil. Arm, my lords! Rome never had more

cause.

The Goths have gather’d head, and with a power
Ot high-resolved men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under conduct
Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus :
Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.

Sat. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths?
These tidings nip me; and I hang the head 70
As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms.
Ay, new begin our sorrows to approach.
’T is he the common people love so much:

 

Mysclf hath often heard them say,

When I have walked like a private man,

That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully,

And they have wish’d that Lucius were their emperor,
Yam. Why should you fear? is not our city strong?
Sat. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, i

And will revolt from me to succour him. 80
Tam. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy

name.

Is the sun dimm’d, that gnats do fly in it?

The eagle sutters little birds to sing,

And is not careful what they mean thereby ;

Knowing that with the shadow of his wings

He can at pleasure stint their melody.

Even so may’st thou the giddy men of Rome.

‘Then cheer thy spirit ; for know, thou emperor,

I will enchant the old Andronicus,

With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,

Than baits to tish, or honey-stalks to sheep,

Whenas the one is wounded with the bait,

The other rotted with delicious feed.

Sat. But he will not entreat his son for us.
Tam. If Tamora entreat him, then he will;

For J can smooth and fill his aged ear

With golden promises, that, were his heart

Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf,

Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue.—

[To AcmiLivus.] Go thou before, be our ambassador: 100

Say that the emperor requests a parley

Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting,

Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus.

Sat. Acmilius, do this message honourably :

And if he stand on hostage for his safety,

Bid him demand what pledge will please him best.
Aimil. Your bidding shall I do effectually. [Evxit.
Tam. Now will I to that old Andronicus,

And temper him with all the art I have,

90

To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. 110
And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again,
And bury all thy fear in my devices.
Sat. Then go successantly, and plead to him.
[Ezxeunt.

 

   
  

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ACT V.
ScENE I.—Plains near Rome.

Tncius.

2 PPROVED warriors, and my faithful
friends,

:\. I have received letters from great

e) Rome,
1. Which siguity what hate they bear
p their emperor,
And how desirous of our sight they are.
Therefore, great lords, be, as your
titles witness,

Imperious, and impatient of your
wrongs ;
And wherein Rome hath done you any

scath,

Let them make treble satisfaction.

1 Goth. Brave slip, sprung from the

great Andronicus,

Whose name was once our terror, now
our comfort ; 10

Whose high exploits, and honourable deeds,

Tngratefat Rome requites with foul contempt,

 

 

Enter Lucius, and an army of Goths, with drum and colours.

Be bold in us: we’ll follow where thou lead’st,
Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day,
Led by their master to the flower’d fields,
And be aveng’d on cursed Tamora.
Goths. And, as he saith, so say we all with him.
Luc. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all.
But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth ?

Enter a Goth, leading AARON, with his Child in
his arms.
2 Goth. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I
stray’d, 20
To gaze upon a ruinous monastery ;
and as I Saeneelly: did fix mine eye
Upon the wasted building, suddenly
I heard a child cry underneath a wall.
I made unto the noise ; when soon I heard
The crying babe controll’d with this discourse :--
“ Peace, tawny slave, half me, and half thy dam!
Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art,
Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look,

 

 
 

 

20 TITUS ANDRONICUS.

Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor: 30
But where the bull and cow are both milk-white,
They never do beget a coal-black calf.
Peace, eae peace!” — even thus he rates the
abe, —

“For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth ;
Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe,
Will hold thee dearly for thy mothers sake.” _
With this, my weapon drawn, I rush’d upon him,
Surpris’d him suddenly, and brought him hither,
To use as you think needful of the man.

Lue. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil, 40
That robb’d Andronicus of his good hand :
This is the pearl] that pleas’d your empress’ eye,
And here's the base fruit of his burning lust.—
Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey
‘his growing image of thy fiend-like face?
Why dost not speak? What! deat? not a word?
A halter, soldiers! hang him on this tree,
And by his side his fruit of bastardy.

 

 

 

 

2 Goth. ** With this, my weapon drawn, [ rush'd upon bim.”

«lar. Touch not the boy ; he is of royal blood.
Luc. Too like the sire for ever being good.— 50
First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl ;
A sight to vex the father’s soul withal.
Get mealadder! [A ladder brought, which AARON
ts made to ascend.
Aar. Lucius, save the child;
And bear it from me to the empress.
If thou do this, 1 11 show thee wondrous things,
That highly may advantage thee to hear:
Tf thou wilt not, befall what may befall,
I'll speak no more; but vengeance rot you all!
Luc. Say on; an if it please me which thou

speak’st,
Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourish’d. 60
Aar. An if it please thee? why, assure thee,
Lucius,
’T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak ;
For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres,
Acts of black night, abominable deeds,
Complots of mischief, treason, villainies
Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform’d :
And this shall all be buried in my death,
Unless thou swear to me, my child shall live.
Lue. Tell on thy mind: I say, thy child shall live.
Aar. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. 70
Luc. Who should I swear by? thou believ’st no

god:
That granted, how canst thou believe an oath ?

 

 

{Act V.

L

Aar. What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not ;

Yet, for I know thou art religious,

And hast a thing within thee, calied conscience,

With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies,

Which I have seen thee caretul to observe,

Therefore I urge thy oath :—for that I know

An idiot holds his bauble for a god,

And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, 8)

To that 1’ll urge him :—therefore, thou shalt vow

By that same god, what god soe’er it be,

That thou ador st and hast in reverence,

To save my boy, to nourish, and bring him up;

Or else I will discover nought to thee.

Luc. Even by my god I swear to thee I will.

Aar. First know thou, I begot him on the empress.

Luc. O most insatiate and luxurious woman!

Aar. Tut! Lucius, this was but a deed of charity,
To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. 90
*T was her two sons that murder’d Bassianus:

They cut thy sister’s tongue, and ravish’d her,

And cut her hands, and trimm’d her as thou saw’st.
Luc. O detestable villain ! call’st thou that trimming?
Aar. Why, she was wash’d, and cut, and trimm’d,

and ’t was

Trim sport for them that had the doing of it.

Luc. O barbarous, beastly villains, like thyself!

ar. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them.

That codding spirit had they from their mother,

As sure a card as ever won the set;

That bloody mind, I think, they learn’d of me,

As true a dog as ever fought at head.

Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth.

I train’d thy brethren to that guileful hole,

Where the dead corse of Bassianus lay ;

I wrote the letter that thy father found,
nd hid the gold within the letter mention’d,
onfederate with the queen and her two sons ;

And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,

Whercin I had no stroke of mischief in it? 110

I play’d the cheater for thy father’s hand,

And, when J had it, drew myself apart,

And almost broke ny heart with extreme laughter.

I pry'd me through the crevice of a wall,

When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads ;

Beheld his tears, and laugh’d so heartily,

That both mine eyes were rainy like to his:

And when I told the empress of this sport,

She swounded almost at my pleasing tale,

And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. 120
Goth. What! canst thou say all this, and never

blush ?

Aar. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is.

Luc. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?

Aar. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day (and yet, I think,

Few come within the compass of my curse),

Wherein I did not some notorious ill:

As kill a man, or else devise his death ;

Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;

Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself ; 130

Set deadly enmity between two friends;

Make poor men’s cattle break their necks ;

Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,

And bid the owners quench them with their tears.

Oft have I digg’d up dead men from their graves,

And set them upright at their dear friends’ doors,

Even when their sorrows almost were forgot ;

And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,

Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,

“Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.” 140

Tut! Ihave done a thousand dreadful things,

As willingly as one would kill a fly ;

And nothing grieves me heartily indeed,

But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

Luc. Bring down the devil, for he must not die
So sweet a death as hanging presently.

Aar. If there be devils, ’would I were a devil,

To live and burn in everlasting fire :

So I might have your company in hell,

But to torment you with my bitter tongue ! 150
Lue, Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no
more.

 

 
 

 

Scene II.]

Enter a Goth.

Goth. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome,
Desires to be admitted to your presence.
Luc. Let him come near.

Enter AAMILIUS.

Welcome, Aimilius ! what’s the news from Rome?
4émil. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths,
The Roman emperor greets you all by me:
And, for he understands you are in arms,
He craves a parley at your father’s house,
Willing you to demand your hostages, 160
And they shall be immediately deliver’d.
1 Goth. What says our general ?
Luc. Aimilius, let the emperor give his pledges
Unto my father and my uncle Marcus,

And we will come.—March away. [Hzeunt.

 

ScEeNnE II._Rome. Before TiTus’s House.

Enter TAMORA, DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON, disguised.
Tam. Thus in this strange and sad habiliment

I will encounter with Andronicus,

And say Iam Revenge, sent from below,

To join with him and right his heinous wrongs.—

Knock at his study, where they say he keeps,

To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge :

Tell him, Revenge is come to join with him,

And work confusion on his enemies. [They knock.

TiTus opens his study door.
Tit. Who doth molest my contemplation ?
Is it your trick, to make me ope the door, 10
That so my sad decrees may fly away,
And all my study be to no effect ?
You are deceiv’d: for what I mean to do,
See here, in bloody lines I have set down ;
And what is written shall be executed.
Tam. Titus, Iam come to talk with thee.
Tit. No, not a word : how can I grace my talk,
Wanting a hand to give it action ?
Thou hast the odds of me, therefore no more.
Tam. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst tal
with me. 20
Tit. [am not mad ; I know thee well enough :
Witness ys wretched stump, witness these crimson
‘ines ;
Wituess these trenches made by grief and care ;
Witness the tiring day and heavy night ;
Witness all sorrow, that I know thee well
For our proud empress, mighty Tamora.
Is not thy coming for my other hand ?
Tam. Know, thou sad man, Iam not Tamora :
She is thy enemy, and I thy friend.
Iam Revenge, sent from the infernal kingdom, 30
To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind,
By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes.
Come down, and welcome me to this world’s light ;
Confer with me of murder and of death.
There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place,
No vast obscurity or misty vale,
Where bloody murder, or detested rape,
Can couch for fear, but I will find them out ;

And in their ears tell them my dreadful name,
Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. 40
Tit. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me,

To be a torment to mine enemies?
Tam. Iam; therefore come down, and welcome me.
Tit. Do me some service, ere I come to thee.
Lo, by thy side where Rape, and Murder, stands ;
Now give some ‘surance that thou art Revenge:
Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot-wheels,
And then I 11 come and be thy waggoner,
And whirl along with thee about the globes. e
Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, 50
To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away,
And find out murderers in their guilty caves:
And when thy car is loaden with their heads,
I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel
Trot like a servile footman all day long,
Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east

 

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 21

Until his very downfall in the sea:

And day by day [’ll do this heavy task,

So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there.
Tam. ‘these are my ministers, and come with me. 60
Tit. Are these thy ministers? what are they call’d?
Tam. Rapine and Murder ; therefore called so,

*Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men.
Tit. Good Lord, bow like the empress’ sons they are,

And you the empress! but we worldly men

Have miserable, mad-mistaking eyes.

O sweet Revenge! now do I come to thee;

And, if one arm's embracement will content thee,

I will embrace thee in it by and. by. [Lxit.
Tam. This closing with him fits his lunacy. 70

Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick fits,

Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches,

For now he firmly takes me for Revenge ;

And, being credulous in this mad thought,

I'll make him send for Lucius, his son ;

And, whilst I at a banquet hold him sure,

I'll find some cunning practice out of hand

‘To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths,

Or, at the least, make them his enemies.

See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. 80

Enter TiTus.
Tit. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee.
Welcome, dread Fury, to my woful house.—
Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too.—
How like the empress and her‘sons you are!
Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor :—
Could not all hell aiford you such a devil?
For, well I wot, the empress never wags,
But in her company there is a Moor;
And would you represent our queen aright,
It were convenient you had such a devil. 90
But welcome as you are. What shall we do?
Tam. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus?
Dem. Show me a murderer, I’ deal with him.
Chi. Show me a villain that hath done a rape,
And I am sent to be reveng’d on him.
Tam. Show me a thousand that have done thee

wrong,

And I will be revenged on them all.

Tit. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome,
And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself,
Good Murder, stab him : he’s a murderer.—

Go thou with him ; and when it is thy hap

To find another that is like to thee,

Good Rapine, stab him : he’s a ravisher.—

Go thou with them ; and in the emperor’s court
There is a queen attended by a Moor:

Well may’st thou know her by thine own proportion,
For up and down she doth resemble thee.

I pe, thee, do on them some violent death ;

They have been violent to me and mine.

Tam. Well hast thou lesson’d us: this shall we do.
But would it please thee, good Andronicus, 111
To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son,

Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths,
And bid him come and banquet at thy house:

When he is here, even at thy solemn feast,

I will bring in the empress and her sons,

The emperor himself, and all thy foes,

And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel,

And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart.

What says Andronicus to this device ? 120

Tit. Marcus, my brother !—'tis sad Titus calls.

Enter Marcus.

Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius;

Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths:

Bid him repair to me, and bring with him

Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths;

Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are.

Tell him, the emperor, and the empress too,

Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them.

This do thou for my love, and so let him,

As he regards his aged father’s life. 130
Marc. This will Ido, and soon return again. [Evxit.
Tam. Now will I hence about thy business,

And take my ministers along with me.

 

 
 

22 TITUS ANDRONICUS.

[Acr Vv.

 

 

Tit. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me,
Or else I'll call my brother back again,
And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. P
fam. [Aside to them.] What say you, boys? will you
abide with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor,
How I have govern’d our determin’d jest? ;
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, 140
And tarry with him, till I turn again.
Tit. | Aside.) I know them all, though they suppose
me mad, .
And will o’erreach them in their own devices,
A pair of cursed hell-hounds, and their dam.
_Dem. Madam, depart at pleasure ; leave us here.
Tam. Farewell, Andronicus: Revenge now goes
To lay a complot to betray thy toes.

Tit. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, fare-
well. [£axit TAMORA.
Chi. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employ'd? _

Tit. Tut! I have work enough for you todo.— 130
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine !

Enter PuBuivs, and others.

Pub. What is your will?

Tit. Know you these two?

Pub. The empress’ sons
I take them, Chiron and Demetrius.

Tit. Fie, Publius, fle! thou art too much deceiv’d;
The one is Murder, Rape is the other’s name ;
And therefore bind them, gentle Publius;
Caius, and Valentine, lay hands on them.
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, 160
And now I find it: therefore, bind them sure,
And stop their mouths, if they begin to cry.

[£zit Tirus.—PuBLIvus, d'c., seize CHIRON and
DEMETRIUS.
Chi. Villains, forbear ! we are the empress’ sons.
Pub. And therefore do we what we are com-
manded.—

Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word.
Is he sure bound ? look that you bind them fast.

Re-enter TiTus ANDRONICUS, with LAVINIA ; she
bearing a basin, and he a knife.

Tit. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are

Sirs, stop their mouths ; let them not speak to me,

But let them hear what fearful words [ utter.—

O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! 170

Here stands the spring whom you have stain’d with

mud ;
This goodly summer with your winter mix’d.
You kill’d ber husband, and for that. vild fault
Two of her brothers were condemn’d to death,
My hand cut off, and made a merry jest :
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity,
Inhuman traitors, you constrain’d and fore’d.
What would you say, if I should let you speak ?
Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. 180
Hark, wretches, how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whilst that Lavinia ‘tween her stumps doth hold
The basin that receives your guilty blood.
You know, your mother means to feast with me,
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad. —
Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I'll make a paste ;
And of the paste a coftin I will rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads; 190
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow’d dam,
Like to the earth, swallow her own increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;
For worse than Philomel you us’d my daughter,
And worse than Progne I will be reveng’d.
And now prepare your throats.—Lavinia, come,
Fe cuts their throats.
Receive the blood : and when that they are dead,
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it ; 200
And in that paste let their vild heads be bak’d.—

 

Come, come, be every one officious

To make this banquet, which I wish may prove

More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast.

So, now bring them in, for I will play the cook,

And see them ready ’gainst their mother comes.
[Lxeunt, bearing the dead bodies,

 

ScENE III.—The Same. A Pavilion.

Enter Lucius, Marcus, and Goths; with Aaron,
prisoner.

Luc. Uncle Marcus, since ’t is my father’s mind,
That I repair to Rome, I am content.

1 Goth. And. ours, with thine; befall what fortune

will.

Luc. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil.
Let him receive no sustenance; fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the empress’ face,
For testimony of her foul proceedings.
And see the ambush of our friends be strong:
I fear the emperor means no good to us. 10

Aar. Some devil whisper curses in mine ear,
And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice ot my swelling heart!

Luc. Away, inhuman dog! unhallow’d slave !—
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.—

[Exeunt Goths, with AARON. Trumpets sound.

The trumpets show the emperor is at hand.

Enter SATURNINUS and TAMORA, with Tribunes,
and others.
Sat. What! hath the firmament more suns than
one?
Luc. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?
Marc. Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the
parle;
These quarrels must be quietly debated. 20
The feast is ready, which the careful Titus
Hath ordain’d to an honourable end,
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome:
Please you, therefore, draw nigh, and take your
places. ‘
Sat. Marcus, we will.

Enter Titus, dressed like a cook, LAVINIA, veiled,
young Lucius, and others. .Tirus places the dishes
on the table.

Tit. Welcome, my gracious lord; welcome, dread

[Hautboys sound.

queen ;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius ;
And welcome, all. Although the cheer be poor,
’T will fill your stomachs: please you eat of it.
Sat. Why art thou thus attir’d, Andronicus? 30
Tit. Because I would be sure to have all well,
To entertain your highness, and your empress.
Tam. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.
Tit. An if your highness knew my heart, you were.
My lord the emperor, resolve me this:
Was it well done of rash Virginius,
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforc’d, stain’d, and deflour’d ?
Sat. It was, Andronicus.
Tit. Your reason, mighty lord? 40
Sat. Because the girl should not survive her shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
Tit. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual ;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant,
For me, most wretched, to perform the like.—
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee;
And with thy shame thy father’s sorrow die!
(ills LAVINIA.
Sat. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
Tit. ae Her, for whom my tears have made me
ind.
Iam as woful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he
To do this outrage ;—and it is now done.
Sat. What, was she ravish’d? tell, who did the deed?
Tit. Will’t please you eat? will’t please your high-
ness feed ?

 

 
 

 

Scene III.]

TITUS ANDRONICUS. 23

 

Tam. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?
Tit. NotI; ’t was Chiron, and Demetrius:
They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue,
And they, ‘twas they, that did her all this wrong.
Sat. Go, fetch them hither to us presently.
Tit. Why, there they are both, baked in that pie; 60
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
*T is true, ‘tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point.
[Killing TAMORA.
Sat. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed !
(Killing Trrus.
Ine. Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed ?
There’s meed tor meed, death tor a deadly deed.
[Killing SaruRNINUS. A great twmult. The people
in confusion disperse. Marcus, Lucius, and
their partisans, go up into the balcony.
Marc. You sad-tac’d men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproar sever’d, like a flight of fowl
Scatter’d by winds and high tempestuous gusts,
O! let me teach you how to knit again
This scatter’d corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body,
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself ;
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,—
[To Lucius.] Speak, Rome’s dear friend, as erst our
ancestor, 80
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse
To love-sick Dido’s sad-attending ear
The story of that baleful burning night,
When subtle Greeks surpris’d King Priam’s Troy.
Tell us, what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in,
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.—
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel,
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief ;
But floods of tears will drown my oratory, 90
And break my very utterance, even in the time
When it should move you to attend me most,
Lending your kind commiseration.
Here is a captain, let him tell the tale ;
Your hearts will throb and weep to hear him speak.
Luc. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you,
That cursed Chiron and Demetrius
Were they that murdered our emperor's brother ;
And they it was that ravished our sister.
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,
Our father’s tears despis’d and basely cozen’d
Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out,
And sent her enemies unto the grave:
Lastly, myself unkindly banished,
The gates shut on me, and turn’d weeping out,
To beg relief among Rome’s enemies ;
Who drown’d their enmity in my true tears,
And op’d their arms to embrace me as a friend:
Iam the turn’d-forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv’d her welfare in my blood,
And from her bosom took the enemy’s point,
Sheathing the steel in my adventurous body.
Alas! you know, I am no vaunter, I;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But soft, methinks I do digress too much,
Citing my worthless praise. O! pardon me;
For, when no friends are by, men praise themselves.

100

110

Mare. Now is my turn to apeak. Behold this ea ;

Of this was Tamora delivere

The issue of an irreligious Moor,

Chief architect and plotter of these woes.

The villain is alive in Titus’ house,

Damn’d as he is, to witness this is true.

Now judge, what cause had Titus to revenge

These wrongs, unspeakable, past patience,

Or more than any living man could bear.

Now you have heard the truth, what say
Romans? ;

Have we done aught amiss? Show us wherein,

you,

 

And, from the place where you behold us now,
The poor remainder of Andronici
Will hand in hand all headlong cast us down,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our brains,
And make a mutual closure of our house.
Speak, Romans, speak ! and if pau say we shall,
Lo! hand in hand. Lucius and I will tall.
4imil. Come. come, thou reverend man of Rome,
And bring our emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius our emperor ; for well I know,
The common voice do cry, it shall be so. 140
Marc. Lucius, all hail! Rome's royal emperor !—
[Vo Attendants.) Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful

house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor,
To be adjudg’d some direful slaughtering death,
As punishment for his most wicked life.—

Lucius, &c., descend.

Lucius, all hail! Rome’s gracious governor !

Luc. Thanks, gentle Romans: may I govern so,
To heal Rome’s harms, and wipe away her woe!
But, gentle people, give me aim nepiriles
For nature puts me to a heavy task.-—
Stand all aloof ;—but, uncle, draw you near,
‘Vo shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.—
QO! take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips,

[kisses TITUS.

These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain’d face,
The last true duties of thy noble son !

Marc. Tear for tear, and loving kiss for kiss,
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips:
O! were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them.

Luc. Come hither, boy : come, come, and learn of us
To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov’d thee well ;
Many a time he danec’d thee on his knee, 162
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow ;

Many a matter hath he told to thee,
Meet and agreeing with thine infancy :
In that respect, then, like a loving child,
Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,
Because kind nature doth require it so:
Friends should associate friends in grief and woe.
Bid him farewell, commit him to the grave; 170
Do him that kindness, and take leave of him.
Boy. See grandsire! even with all my
ear
’Would I were dead, so you did live again.—
O Lord! I cannot speak to him for weeping ;
My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.

Enter Attendants, with AARON.

1 Rom. You sad Andronici, have done with woes!
Give sentence on this execrable wretch,

That hath been breeder of these dire events.

Luc. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him ;
There let him stand, and rave, and cry tor food: 180
If any one relieves or pities him,

For the offence he dies. This is our doom ;
Some stay to see him fasten’d in the earth.

Aar. O! Rg ene wrath be mute, and fury dumb?
Iam no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done.

Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did

Would I perform, if I might have my will:

If one good deed in all my life I did,

I do repent it from my very soul. 190

Luc. Some loving friends convey the emperor hence,
And give him burial in his father’s grave.

My father, and Lavinia, shall forthwith

Be closed in our household’s monument.

As for that heinous tiger, Tamora,

No funeral rite, nor man in mournful weeds,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial ;

But throw her forth to beasts, and birds of prey.
Her life was beast-like, and devoid of pity,

130

os

150

And, being so, shall have like want of Pe 200
See justice done on Aaron, that damn’d Moor,

By whom our heavy aa had their beginning :

Then, afterwards, to order well the state,

That like events may ne’er it ruinate. [Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

KING HENRY VI.—PART

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

Kine HENRY THE SIXTH.

DUKE or GLOSTER, Uncle to the King, and Pro-
tector.

DUKE or BEDFORD,
France.

THoMAS BEAUFORT, Duke of Exeter, Great-uncle to
the King.

Henry BEAvurFOoRT, Bishop of Winchester.

JoHN BEAUFOR?, farl of Somerset.

RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York.

EARL OF WARWICK.

EARL OF SALISBURY.

EARL OF SUFFOLK.

TaLpot, afterwards Earl of Shrewsbury.

JouNn TALBot, his Son.

EpMUND Mortimer, Larl of March.

Mortimer’s Keeper, and a Lawyer.

Sir Jonn Fasroure, Sik WiLLiAM Lucy, SIR
WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE.

WoopvIiLLE, Lieutenant of the Tower.

Mayor of London.

Uncle to the King, Regent of

VERNON, Of the White-Rose or York Faction.
BassEtT, of the Red-Rose or Lancuster Iaction.

CHARLES, Dauphin, and afterwards King of France.

He Duke of Anjou, and titular King of
aples.

DUKE OF BURGUNDY, DUKE OF ALENGON.

BASTARD OF ORLEANS.

Governor of Paris.

Master-Gunner of Orleans, and his Son.

General of the French Forces in Bordeaux.

A French Sergeant. A Porter.

An old Shepherd, Father to Joan la Pucelle.

MARGARET, Daughter to Reignier.
COUNTESS OF AUVERGNE.
JOAN LA PUCELLE, commonly called Joan of Are.

Fiends appearing to La Pucelle, Lords, Warders
of the ower, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Mes-
sengers,
English and French.

'

SCENE—Partly in England, and partly in France.

ACT TI.
ScENE I.—Westminster Abbey.
Dead March. The Corse of King HENRY the Fifth is discovered, lying in state; attended on by the

Dukes of BEDFORD, GLOSTER, and EXETER;
Heralds, dc.

. Bedford.
UNG be the heavens with black, yield day
to night!

Comets, importing change of times and

_ , States,

Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

And wih elo scourge the bad revolting

stars,

That have consented unto Henry’s death !
al ~\ , King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live
‘N \ long!

England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

Glo. England ne’er had a king, until his time.

Virtue he had, deserving to command:

His brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams ;

His arms spread wider than a dragon’s wings;

His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire,

More dazzled and drove back his enemies,

Than mid-day sun, fierce bent against their faces.

What should I say? his deeds exceed all speech :

He ne’er lift up his hand, but conquered. ,
Exe. We mourn in black: why mourn we not in

blood ?

Henry is dead, and never shall revive.

Upon a wooden coffin we attend ;

And death’s dishonourahle victory

We with our stately presence glorify,

Like captives bound to a triumphant car.

What! shall we curse the planets of mishap,

That plotted thus our glory’s overthrow ?

Or shall we think the subtle-witted French

 

uN

20

 

the Earl of WARWICK, the Bishop of WINCHESTER,

Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him,
By magic verses have contriv’d his end?
Win. He wasa king, bless’d of the Kin:
r

of kings.
Unto the French the

eadful judgment-day

So dreadful will not be, as was his sight.
The battles of the Lord of hosts he fought:
The Church’s prayers made him so prosperous.
Glo. The Church! where is it? Had not Church-

men pray'd,
His thread of life had not so soon decay'd:
None do you like but an effeminate prince,
Whom, like a school-boy, you may over-awe.

Win. Gloster, whate'er we like, thou art protector,
And lookest to command the prince and realm.
Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe,

More than God or religious Churchmen may.

Glo. Name not religion, for thou lov’st the flesh;
And ne’er throughout the year to church thou go’st,
Except it be to pray against thy foes. 7

Bed. Cease, cease these jars, and rest your minds in

peace !
Let’s to the altar:—hcralds, wait on us.—
Instead of gold, we ll offer up our arms,
Since arms avail not, now that Henry’s dead.
Posterity, await for wretched years,
When at their mothers’ moist eyes babes shall suck,
Our isle be made a marish of salt tears,
And none but women left to wail the dead.—
Henry the Fifth! thy ghost I invocate :
Frospe this realm, keep it from civil broils !
Combat with adverse planets in the heavens!

40

 

and several Attendants both on the |

 

30

 
 

ScENE II.] KING HENRY VI-—PART I. 25

 

A far more glorious star thy soul will make, The French exclaim’d, the devil was in arms ;
Than Julius Cesar, or bright— All the whole army stood agaz’d on him.
His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit,

Enter a Messenger. A Talbot! a Talbot! cried out amain,

Mess. My honourable lords, health to you all. And rush’d into the bowels of the battle.
Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Here had the conquest fully been seal'd up, 130
Ot loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture : It Sir John Fastolfe had not play’d the coward.
Guienne, Champaigne, Rheims, Orleans, 60 | He, being in the vaward, plac’d behind
Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. With purpose to relieve and follow them,
Bed. What say’st thou, man! before dead Henry’s | Cowardly tied, not having struck one stroke.
corse Hence grew the general wrack and massacre:
Speak ot or the loss of those great towns Enclosed were they with their enemies.
Will make him burst his lead, and rise from death. A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin’s grace,
Glo. Is Paris lost? is Roan yielded up? Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back;
If Henry were recall'd to lite again, Whom all France, with their chief assembled strength,
These news would cause him once more yield the | Durst not presume to look once in the face. 140
ghost. Bed. Is ‘Talbot slain? then I will slay myself,

Exe. How were they lost? what treachery was us'd? | For living idly here in pomp and ease,
Mess. No treachery ; but want of men and money. Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid,

 

Among the soldiers this is muttered,— 70 | Unto his bastard toemen is betray'd.
That here you maintain several factions ; 3 Mess. O, no! he lives; but is took prisoner,
And, whilst a tield should be despatch'd and fought, And Lord Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford:
You are disputing of your generals. Most of the rest slaughter'd, or took, likewise.
One would have lingering wars with little cost ; Bed. His ransom there is none but I shall pay.
Another would fly swift, but wanteth wings ; I’) hale the Dauphin headlong from his throne ;
A third man thinks, without expense at all, His crown shall be the ransom of my friend: 150
By guileful fair words poe may be obtain’d. Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours.—
Awake, awake, English nobility ! Farewell, my masters; to my task will I.
Let not sloth dim your honours new-begot : Bontires in France forthwith I am to make,
Cropp’d are the flower-de-luces in your arms; 80 | ‘To keep our great Saint George’s feast withal:
Of England’s coat one half is cut away. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take,
Exe. Were our tears wanting to this funeral, Whose bloody deeds shall make all Europe quake.
These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. 3 Mess. So you had need ; for Orleans is besieg’d.
Bed. Me they concern ; regent I am of France.— The English army is grown weak and faint ;
Give me my steeled coat! I'll fight for France.— The Earl of Salisbury craveth supply,
Away with these ce wailing robes ! And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, 160
Wounds will I lend the French, instead of eyes, Since they, so few, watch such a multitude.
To weep their intermissive miseries. fixe. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry sworn,
Either to quell the Dauphin utterly,
Enter another Messenger. Or bring himn in obedience to your yoke.
| 2 Mess. Lords, view these letters, full of bad mis- Bed. I do remember it ; and here take my leave,
chance. To go about my preparation. XU
France is revolted from the English quite, 90 Glo. I’ll to the Tower, with all the haste I can,
Except some petty towns of no import : To view the artillery and munition;
The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims ; And then I will proclaim young Henry Hint (Exit.
The Bastard of Orleans with him is join’d ; Exe. To Eltham will I, where the young king is, 170
Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part ; Being ordain’d his special governor ;
The Duke of Alencon flieth to his side. And for his safety there I'll best devise. (Exit.
i Exe. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him! Win. Each hath his place and function to attend:
| 0! whither shall we fly from this reproach ? Tam left out; for me nothing remains.
\ Glo. We will not fly, but to our enemies’ throats.— But long I will not be Jack-out-of-oftice.
| Bedford, if thou be slack, I’ll fight it out. The king from Eltham I intend to steal,
Bed. Gloster, why doubt’st thou of my ila And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. [Ezxeunt.
ness?

An army have I muster’d in my thoughts, ——
Wherewith already France is overrun.
Scene II.—France. Before Orleans.
Enter a third Messenger.

i t : cf ith his Forces ;

3 Mess. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Flourish. Enter CHARLES, wi : ;
Wherewith you now bedew King Henry’s hearse, ALENCGON, REIGNIER, and others.
I must inform you of a dismal fight Char. Mars his true moving, even as in the
Betwixt the stout Lord Talbot and the French. . heavens, _. f -

' Win. What! wherein Talbot overcame? is’t $9? So in the earth, to this day is not known.
3 Mess. O, no! wherein Lord Talbot was o’er- | Late did he shine upon the English side ;
thrown: Now we are victors, upon us he smiles.

The circumstance Ill tell you more at large. What towns of any moment but we have?
The tenth of August last, this dreadful lord, 110 | At pleasure here we lie near Orleans ;
Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Otherwhiles, the famish’d English, like pale ghosts,
Having full scarce six thousand in his troop, Faintly besiege us one hour in a month. .
By three-and-twenty thousand of the French ‘Alen. They want their porridge, and their fat bull-

as round encompassed and set upon. : beeves : } ;
No leisure had he to enrank his men : Either they must be dieted like mules, 10
He wanted pikes to set before his archers; And have their provender tied to their mouths,
Instead whereof, sharp stakes, pluck'd out of hedges, Or piteous they will look like drowned mice. 5
They pitched in the ground confusedly, Reig. Let’s raise the siege. Why live we idly here?
To keep the horsemen off from breaking in. Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear :
More than three hours the fight continued : 120 | Remaineth none but mad-brain’d Salisbury,
Where valiant Talbot, above human thought, || And he may well in fretting spend his gall ;
Enacted wonders with his sword and lance. | Nor men nor money hath he to make war.

Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand | Char. Sound, sound alarum! we will rush on

 

 

 

him; em.
Here, there, and everywhere, enrag’d he flew. Now for the honour of the forlorn French !
 

26 KING HENRY VIL—PART I.

Hit I forgive my death, that killeth me, 20
When he sces me go back one foot, or fly. [Zxeunt.

Alarums; Excursions; afterwards a Retreat. Re-
enter CHARLES, ALENCON, REIGNIER, ani others.
Char. Who ever saw the like? what men have

§

Dogs! cowards ! dastards !—I would ne’er have fled,
But that they left me ‘midst my enemies.
Reig. Salisbury is a desperate homicide ;
He fighteth as one weary of his life:
The other lords, like lions wanting food,
Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.
Alen. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records,
England all Olivers and Rowlands bred
During the time Edward the Third did reign.
More truly now may this be verified ;
For none but Samsons, and Goliases,
It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten!
Lean raw-bon'd rascals! who would e’er suppose
They had such courage and audacity ?
Char. Let’s leave this town; for they are hare-
brain’d slaves,
And hunger will enforce them to be more eager :
Of old I know them ; rather with their teeth
The walls they ’ll tear down than forsake the siege. 40
Reig. I think, by some odd gimmors, or device,
Their arms are set like clocks still to strike on ;
Else ne’er could they hold out so, as they do.
By my consent, we’ll e’en let them alone.
allen. Be it so.

Enter the BASTARD of Orleans.
Bast. Where’s the Prince Dauphin? I have news
for him.
Char. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us.
Bast. Methinks, your looks are sad, your cheer
appall'd:
Hath the late overthrow wrought this offence ?
Be not dismay’d, for succour is at hand : 50
A poly maid hither with me I bring,
Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven,
Ordained is to raise this tedious siege,
And drive the English forth the bounds of France.
The spirit of deep prophecy she hath,
Exceeding the nine sibyls of old Rome ;
What’s past and what’s to come, she can desery.
Speak, shall I call her in? Believe my words,
For they are certain and unfallible.
Char. Go, callherin. [#xit BAsTARD.] But first,
to try her skill, 60
Reignier, stand thou as Dauphin in my place:
Question her proudly, let thy looks be stern.
By this means shall we sound what skill she hath.
[Retires.

Enter La PUCELLE, DASTARD of Orleans, and
others.
Reig. aoe maid, ist thou wilt do these wondrous
eats
Puce. Benue is’t thou that thinkest to beguile

me

Where is the Dauphin ?—Come, come from behind ;

I know thee well, though never seen before.

Be not amaz’d, there's nothing hid from me:

In private will I talk with thee apart.—

Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. 70
feig. She takes upon her bravely at first dash.
Puc, Dauphin, 1 am by birth a shepherd’s daughter,

My wit untrain’d in any kind of art.

Heaven and our Lady gracious hath it pleas’d

To shine on my contemptible estate :

Lo! whilst I waited on my tender lambs,

And to sun's parching head display’d my cheeks,

God’s mother deigned to appear to me ;

And, in a vision full of majesty,

Will'd me to leave my base vocation,

And free my country from calamity.

Her aid she promis’d, and assur'd success :

In complete glory she reveal'd herself ;

And, whereas I was black and swart before,

With those clear rays. which she infus'd on jne,

80

 

[Actl

That beauty am I bless’d with, which you see.
Ask me what question thou canst possible,
And I will answer unpremeditated :
My courage try by combat, if thou dar’st,
And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. 90
Resolve on this,—thou shalt be fortunate,
If thou receive me for thy warlike mate.

Char. Thou hast astonish’d me with thy high

erms.
Only this proof I’ll of thy valour make:
In single combat thou shalt buckle with me,
And, if thou vanquishest, thy words are true;
ee I ee al confidence.
uc. Iam prepar’d. ere is my keen-edg’d sword

Deck’d with five tlower-de-luces on each side $ i
The which at Touraine, in Saint Katharine’s church-

yard, 100
Out of a great deal of old iron I chose forth.

 

 

Puc. * Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile.”

Char. Then come, % God's name: I fear no
woman.
Puc. And, while I live, I ll ne’er fly from a man.
[They fight.
Char. Stay, stay thy hands! thou art an Amazon,
And fightest with the sword of Deborah.
Puc. ee mother helps me, else I were too
weak.
Char. Whoe’er helps thee, ’tis thou that must help

me.
Impatiently I burn with thy desire ;
My heart and hands thou hast at once subdued.
Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so,
Let me thy servant, and not sovereign, be:
*Tis the French Dauphin sucth to thee thus.
Puc. I must not yield to any rites of love,
For my profession’s sacred from above :
When I have chased all thy foes from hence,
Then will I think upon a recompense.
Char. Meantime look gracious on
thrall.
Reig. My lord, methinks, is very long in talk.
Alen. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her
smock ;
Else ne’er could he so long protract his speech. 120
Reig. Shall we disturb him, since he keeps no
mean ?
Alen. He may mean more than we poor men
do know:
‘ These women arc shrewd tempters with their tongues.
Reig. My lord, where are you? what devise you on?
Shall we give over Orleans, or no?
Puc. Why, no, I say: distrustful recreants !
Fight till the last gasp ; I will be your guard. ;
Char. wi she says, I'll confirm: we'll fight i
out,

thy prostrate

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.]

KING HENRY VI—PART I. 27

 

Puc. ae am I to be the English scourge.
This night the siege assuredly I'l raise : 130
Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days,
Since I have entered into these wars.
Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to nought.
With Henry’s death the English circle ends ;
Dispersed are the glories it Included.
Now am I like that proud insulting ship,
Which Cesar and his fortune bare at once.
Char. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove?
Thou with an eagle art inspired then.
Helen, the mother of great Constantine,
Nor yet Saint Philip’s daughters were like thee.
Bright star of Venus, fall’n down on the earth,
How may I reverently worship thee enough ?
Alen. Leave ort delays, and let us raise the siege.
Reig. Woman, do what thou canst to save our
honours.
Drive them from Orleans, and be immortalis’d.
Char. Presently we'll try.—Come, let’s away about

140

it:
No prophet will I trust, if she prove false. 150
[Zxeunt.

Scene III.—London. Tower Hill.

Enter, at the gates, the Duke of GLOSTER, with his
Serving-men, in blue coats.

Glo. Iam come to survey the Tower this day ;
Since Henry’s death, I fear, there is conveyance.
Where be these warders, that they wait not here?
Open the gates! ’Tis Gloster that calls.

[Servants knock.

1 Ward. [Within.] Who’s there, that knocks so

imperiously ?

1 Serv. It is the noble Duke of Gloster.

2 Ware. [Within.] Whoe’er he be, you may not be

et in.

1 Serv. Villains, answer you so the lord protector?

1 Ward. [Within.] The Lord protect him! so we

answer him:

We do no otherwise than we are will’d. 10
Glo. Who malted. you? or whose will stands but
' mine

There ’s none protector of the realm but I.—
Break up the gates, I'll be your warrantise.
Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms ?

GLOSTER’s Men rush at the Tower gates. Enter to
the gates, WOODVILLE, the Lieutenant.
Wood. [Within.] What noise is this? what traitors
have we here?
Glo. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear?
Open the gates! here ’s Gloster that would enter.
Wood. |Within.) Have patience, noble duke; I
may not open ;
The Cardinal of Winchester forbids :
From him I have express commandement, 20
That thou, nor none of thine, shall be let in.
Glo. Faint-hearted Woodville, pulse him ’fore me?
Arrogant Winchester, that haughty prelate,
hom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook ?
Thou art no friend to God, or to the king:
Open the gates, or I’ll shut thee out shortly.
1 Serv. Open the gates unto the lord protector,
Or we'll burst them open, if that you come not
quickly.

Enter WINCHESTER, anienee by Servants in tawny
coats.

Win. How now, ambitious Humphrey? what means

this ?
Glo. Peel’d priest, dost thou command me to be
shu‘ out? 30
Win. I do, thou most usurping rroditor,
And not protector, of the king or realm.
Glo. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator,
Thou that contriv’dst to murder our dead lord ;
Thou that giv’st whores indulgences to sin.

 

I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal’s hat,
If thou proceed in this thy insolence.
Win. MY By, stand thou back; I will not budge a
oot:
This be Damascus, be thou cursed Cain,
To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt. 40
Glo. I will not slay thee, but I ll drive thee back.
Thy scarlet robes as a child’s bearing-cloth
I'll use to carry thee out of this place.
Win. Do what thou dar'st; 1’ll beard thee to thy

ace.
Glo. What! am I dar’d, and bearded to my face ?—
Draw, men, for all this privileged place ;
Blue-coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard ;
(GLOSTER and his Men atiack the Bishop.
I mean to tug it, and to cuff you soundly.
Under my feet q stamp thy cardinal’s hat,
In spite of pope or dignitics of Church ; 50
Here by the cheeks I ‘ll drag thee up and down.
Win. Gloster, thou lt answer this before the pope.
Glo. Winchester goose! I cry—a rope! a rope !—
Now beat them hence : why do you let them stay ?7—
Thee Il) chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array.—
Out, tawny-coats !—out, scarlet hypocrite !

Here GLOSTER’S Men beat out the Cardinal’s Men,
and enter in the hurly-burly the Mayor of London
and his Officers.

May. He. free ! that you, being supreme magis-
rates,

Thus contumeliously should break the peace !

Glo. Peace, mayor! thou know’st little of my
wrongs.

Here ’s Beaufort, that regards nor God nor king, 60

Hath here distrain'd the Tower to his use.

Win. Here’s Gloster, a foe to citizens ;

One that still motions war, and never peace,

O’ercharging your free purses with large fines ;

Yhat seeks to overthrow religion,

Because he is protector of the realm;_.-

And would have armour here out of the Tower,

To crown himself king, and suppress the prince.

Glo. I will not answer thee with words, but blows.
[Here they skirmish ayain.
May. Nought rests for me, in this tumultuous strife,

But to make open proclamation.— 71
came, ofticer: as loud as e’er thou canst :
ory.

Of. All manner of men, assembled here in arms
this day, against God’s peace, and the king’s, we
charge and command you, in his highness’ name, to
repair to your several dwelling-placcs: and not to
wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger,
henceforward, upon pain of death.

Glo. Cardinal, [’ll be no breaker of the law ; 80
But we shall meet, and break our minds at large.

Win. Gloster, we will meet; to thy cost, be sure:
Thy heart-blood I will have for this day’s work.

May. 111 call for clubs, if you will not away.—

This cardinal ’s more haughty than the devil.
Glo. Mayor, farewell: thou dost but what thou

may’st.
Win. Abominable Gloster! guard thy head ;
For I intend to have it, ere sone [Ezeunt.
May. Boe the coast clear’d, and then we will
epart.—
Good God ! these nobles should such stomachs bear !
I myself fight not once in forty year. 91
{Exeunt.

ScrnE IV.—France. Before Orleans.

Enter, on the walls, the Master-Gunner and his Son.
M. Gun. Sirrah, thou know’st how Orleans is
besieg’d,
And how the English have the suburbs won.
Son. Father, I know ; and oft have shot at them,
Howe’er, unfortunate, I miss’d my aim. ,
M. Gun. But now thou shalt not. Be thou rul’d. by

me:
Chief master-gunner am I of this town ;

 

 
 

28 KING HENRY VI.—PART I.

[Acr I.

 

Something I must do to procure me grace.

The prince’s espials have intormed me,

How the English, in the suburbs close intrench’d,

Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars

In yonder tower, to overpeer the city ;

And thence discover, how, with most advantage,

They may vex us with shot, or with assault.

To intercept this inconvenience,

A piece of ordnance ‘gainst it I have plac’d ;

And fully even these three days have I watch’d,

If I could see them. Now, boy, do thou watch,

For I can stay no longer.

If thou spy’st any, run and bring me word ;

And thou shalt find me at the governor's. [Exit.
Son. Father, I warrant you; take younocare: 21

I'll never trouble you, if I may spy them.

Enter, in an upper chamber of a tower, the Lords
SALISBURY and TALBOT ; Sir WILLIAM GLANSDALE,
Sir THOMAS GARGRAVE, and others.

Sal. Talbot, my life, my joy! again return’d?

How wert thou handled, being prisoner,

Or by what means got’st thou to be releas’d ?

Discourse, I pr'ythee, on this turret’s top.

Tal. The Duke of Bedford had a prisoner,

Called the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles ;

For him I was exchang’d and ransomed.

But with a baser man of arms by far, 30

Once, in contempt, they would have barter'd me:

Which I, disdaining, scorn’d ; and craved death,

Rather than I would be so vile-esteem’d.

In fine, redeem’d I was as I desir’d.

But, O! the treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart:

Whom with my bare fists I would execute,

If I now had him brought into my power.

Sal. Yct tell'st thou not, how thou wert entertain’d.
Tal. With scotfs, and scorns, and contumelious
taunts.

In open market-place produc’d they me, 40

To be a public spectacle to all:

Here, said they, is the terror of the French,

The scarecrow that attrights our children so.

Then broke I from the ofticers that led me,

And with my nails digg’d stones out of the ground,

To hurl at the beholders of my shame.

My grisly countenance made others fly ;

None durst come near, for fear of sudden death.

In iron walls they deem’d me not secure ;

So great fear of my name ‘mongst them was spread,

That they suppos’d I could rend bars of steel, bl

And spurn in pieces posts of adamant :

Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had,

That walk’d about me every minute-while ;

And if I did but stir out of my bed,

Ready they were to shoot me to the heart.

Sal. I grieve to hear what torments you endur’d ;

But we will be reveng’d sufticiently.

Now, it is supper-time in Orleans:

Here, through this grate, I count cach one, 60

And view the Frenchmen how they fortify.

Let us look in; the sight will much delight thee.

Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Sir William Glansdale,

Let me have your express opinions,

Where is best place to make our battery next.

Gar. I think, at the north gate ; for there stand lords,
Glan. And I, here, at the bulwark of the bridge.
Tal. For aught I see, this city must be famish’d,

Or with light skirmishes enfeebled.

[Shot from the town. SALISBURY and Sir
THOMAS GARGRAVE fall.
Sal. O Lord! have mercy on us, wretched sinners!

Gar. O Lord! have mercy on me, woful man ! 71
Tal. What chance is this, that suddenly hath cross’d
us t—

Speak, Salisbury ; at least, if thou canst speak :

How far’st thou, mirror of all martial men ?

One of thy eyes, and thy cheek’s side struck off !—
Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand,

That hath contriv’d this woful tragedy !

In thirteen biltles Salisbury o’ercame ;

Henry the Fifth he first train’d to the wars ;

Whilst any trump did sound, or drum struck up, 80

 

 

His sword did ne’er leave striking in the field.—

Yet liv’st thou, Salisbury? though thy speech doth fail
One eye thou hast to look to heaven for grace : i
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.—

Heaven, be thou gracious to none alive,

If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands !—

Bear hence his body, I will help to bury it. :
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any lite ? \
Speak unto ‘Talbot; nay, look up to him. j
Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this comfort ;
Thou shalt not die, whiles—

He beckons with his hand, and smiles on me,
As who should say, “‘ When I am dead and gone, '
Remember to avenge me on the French.”— I
Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, |

 

Tal, ** What chance Is this, that suddenly hath cruss'd us!”

Play on the lute, beholding the towns burn:
Wretched shall France be only in my name.

An alarum; it thunders and lightens.
What stir is this? what tumult ’s in the heavens?
Whence cometh this alarum, and the noise ?

: Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My lord, my lord! the French have gather d

ead :

The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle join’d,—

A holy prophetess, new risen up,—-

Is come with a great power to raise the siege.

(SALISBURY groans.
Tal. Hear, hear, how dying Salisbury doth groan!

It irks his heart he cannot be reveng’d.—

Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you,

Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,

Your hearts I’ll stamp out with my horse’s heels,

And make a quagmire of your mingled brains.—

Convey me Salisbury into his tent, 110

And then we ll try what these dastard Frenchmen
dare. [Exeunt, bearing out the bodies.

ScENE V.—The Same.

Alarum. Skirmishings. TAaLBor pursues the DAv-
PHIN, drives him in and exit: then enter JOAN LA
PUCELLE, driving Englishmen before her, and exit
after them. Then re-enter TALBOT.

Tal. Where is my strength, my valour, and my
force?

Our English troops retire, I cannot stay them;

A. woman clad in armour chaseth them.

Before one of the Gates.

Re-enter LA PUCELLE.
Here, here she comes.—I ll have a bout with thee ;
Devil, or devil’s dam, I'll conjure thee:

 

 
 

ScENE VI.]

KING HENRY VI-—PART I. 29

 

 

 

 

Blood will I draw on thee, thou art a witch,
And straightway give thy soul to him thou serv’st.
Puc. Come, come; ’tis only I that must disgrace
thee. [They sight.
Tal. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail?
My breast I'll burst with straining of my courage, 10
And trom my shoulders crack my arms asunder,
But I will chastise this high-minded strumpet.
Puc. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come:
I must go victual Orleans forthwith.
O’ertake me, if thou canst ; I scorn thy strength.
Go, go, cheer up thy hunger-starved men;
Help Salisbury to make his testament :
This day is ours, as many more shall be.
[PUCELLE enters the town, with Soldiers.
Tal. My thoughts are whirled like a potters wheel;
1 know not where I am, nor what I do. 20
A witch, oF fear, not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops, and conquers as she lists :
So bees with smoke, and doves with noisome stench,
Are from their hives and houses driven away.
They call’d us for our tierceness Lnglish dogs ;
Now, like to whelps, we crying run away.
2 [4 short alarum.
Hark, countrymen ! either renew the fight,
Or tear the lions out of England’s coat ;
Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions’ stead:
Sheep run not half so treacherous from the wolf, 30
Or horse, or oxen, from the leopard,
As you fly from your oft-subdued slaves.
[Adlarum. Another skirmish.
It will not be.—Retire into your trenches:
You all consented unto Salisbury’s death,
For none would strike a stroke in his revenge.—
Pucelle is enter’d into Orleans
In spite of us, or aught that we could do.
O, ’would I were to die with Salisbury !
The shame hereot will make me hide my head.
[Adlarum ; Retreat. Exeunt TALBOT and his Forces.

 

Scene VI.—The Same.

Flourish. Enter, on the walls, PUCELLE, CHARLES,
REIGNIER, ALENCON, and Soldiers.
Puc. Advance our waving colours on the walls!
Rescu’d is Orleans from the English.
Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.
Char. Divinest creature, Astreea’s daughter,
How shall I honour thee for this success ?
Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens,
That one day bloom’d, and fruitful were the next,—
France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess !|—
Recover'd is the town ot Orleans:
More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state. 10
Reig. Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout
the town?
Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires,
And teast and banquet in the open streets,
To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.
Alen, All France will be replete with mirth and

joy.

When they shall hear how we have play’d the
men.

Char. ’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is

For which I will divide my crown with her;

And all the priests and friars in my realm

Shall in procession ane her endless praise. 20
A statelier pyramis to her T’ll rear,

Than Rhodope’s, or Memphis’, ever was:

In memory ot ber, when she is dead,

Her ashes, in an urn more precious

Than the rich-jewell’d coffer of Darius,

Transported shall be at high festivals

Before the kings and queens of France.

No longer on Saint Dennis will we cry,

But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint.

Come in; and let us banquet royally, 30
After this golden day of victory. [Mlourish. Exeunt.

 

ACT IT.
Scene I.—The Same.
Enter to the gates, a French Sergeant, and two Sentinels.

Sergeant.
IRS, take your places, and be vigilant.
If any noise, or soldier, you perceive |
Near to the walls, by some apparent sign
Let us have knowledge at the court of guard.
1 Sent. Sergeant, youshall. [Exit Sergeant.]
Thus are poor servitors
(When others sleep upon their quiet beds)
Constrain’d an watch in darkness, rain, and
cold.

Enter TaLBoT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and
Forces, with scaling-ladders ; their drums
beating a dead march.

Tal. Lord regent, and redoubted Burgundy,

By whose approach the regions of Artois,

Walloon, and Picardy, are friends to us, 10

This happy night the Frenchmen are secure,

Having all day carous’d and hanqueted :

Embrace we then this opportunity, |

As fitting best to quittance their deceit,

Contriv'd by art, and baleful sorcery.

 

Bed. Cowan of France !--how much he wrongs his
‘ame,
Despairing of his own arm’s fortitude,
To join with witches, and the help of hell!
Bur. Traitors have never other company.
But what’s that Pucelle, whom they term so pure? 20
Tal. A maid, they say.
Bed. A maid, and be so martial!
Bur. Pray God, she prove not masculine ere long ;
If underneath the standard of the French
She carry armour, as she hath begun. ;
Tal. Well, let them practise and converse with
spirits ; .
God is our fortress, in whose conquering name
Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
Bed. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow thee.
Tal. Not all together :, better far, I guess,
That we do make our entrance several ways, 30
That if it chance the one of.us do fail,
The other yet may rise against their force.
Bed. Agreed. 1’ll to yond corner. :
Bur. And I to this.

 

 
 

30 KING HENRY

VI—PART I. [Act IL

 

Tal. And here will Talbot mount, or make his
grave.—
Now, Salisbury, for thee, and for the right
Of English Henry, shall this night appear
How much in duty 1 am bound to both.
[Vhe English scale the walls, crying: “ Saint
George ! A Lalbot!” and all enter the town.
[JF ithin.] Arm, arm! the enemy doth make
assault !

The French leap over the walls in their shirts.
Enter, several ways, BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER,
half ready, and half unready.

Alen. How now, my lords? what, all unready so?
Bast. Unready? ay, and glad we ee so well. 40
Reig. "l wastime, I trow, to wake and leave our beds,

Hearing alarums at our chamber-doors.

Alen. Of all exploits, since first I follow’d arms,

Ne’er heard I of a warlike enterprise

More venturous, or desperate, than this.

Bast. I think, this Talbot be a fiend of hell.
Reig. If not of hell, the heavens sure favour him.

Sent.

 

But weak]
And now there rests no other shift but this,—

de ‘ather our soldiers, scatter’d and dispers’d,
AM

Alarum. Enter an English Soldier,

guarded, where the breach was made.

lay new platforms to endamage them,

crying: “A
Talbot! 1 Talbot!” eeaung their

The; i
clothes behind. oe
Sold, I’ll be so bold to take what they have left.

The cry of 'l'albot serves me for a sword ;
For I have loaden me with many spoils,

80
Using no other weapon but his name. [Exit.

ScENE II.—Orleans. Within the Town.

Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a Captain,
and others.

Bed. The day begins to break, and night is fled,

Whose pitchy mantle over-veil’d the earth.

Here sound retreat, and cease our hot pursuit.
[Retreat sounded.

 

Sent. “Arm, arm! the enemy

Alen. Here cometh Charles: I marvel how he sped.
Bast. Tut! holy Joan was his defensive guard.

Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE.

Char. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? 50

Didst thou at first, to flatter us withal,
Make us partakers of a little gain,
That now our loss might be ten times so much?

Puc. Wheretoreis Charlesimpatient with his friend?
At all times will you have my power alike 2
Sleeping or waking, must I still prevail,

Or will you blame, and lay the fault on me ?7—
Improvident soldiers! had your watch been good,
This sudden mischief never could have fallen.

Char. Duke of Alencon, this was your default,
That, being captain of’the watch to-night,

Did look no better to that weighty charge.

Alen. Had all your quarters been as safely kept,
As that whereof I had the government,

We had not been thus shamefully surpris’d.

Bast. Mine was secure.

Reig. And so was mine, my lord.

Char. And for myself, most part of all this night,
Within her quarter, and mine own precinct,

I was employ’d in passing to and fro,
About relieving of the sentinels : _ 70
Then how, or which way, should they first break in?

Puc. Question, my lords, no further of the case,

How, or which way : ’tis sure, they found some place

60

 

doth make assault!”

Tal. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury ;
And here advance it in the market-place,
The middle centre of this cursed town.—
Now have I paid my vow unto his soul ;
For every drop of blood was drawn from him,
There hath at least five Frenchmen died to-night.
And that hereafter ages may behold
What ruin happen’d in revenge of him,
Within their chiefest temple I'll erect.
A tomb, wherein his corse shall be interr’d :
Upon the which, that every one may read,
Shall be engrav’d the sack of Orleans,
The treacherous manner of his mournful death,
And what a terror he had been to France.
But, lords, in all our bloody massacre,
I muse, we met not with the Dauphin’s grace,
His new-come champion, virtuous Joan of Arc,
Nor any of his false confederates.

Bed. 'T he thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight

egan,

Rous’d on the sudden from their drowsy beds,
They did, amongst the troops of armed men,
Leap o’er the walls for refuge in the field.

Bur. Myself, as far as I could well discern,
For smoke, and dusky vapours of the night,
Am sure I scar’d the Dauphin, and his trull;
When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, _,
Like toa ee of loving turtle-doves, 30
That could not live asunder, day or night.

WV

20

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY VI—PART I. 31

 

After that things are set in order here,
We'll follow them with all the power we have.

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely

train
Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts
So much applauded through the realm of France?
Tal. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him?
Mess. The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne,
With modesty admiring thy renown,
By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe 40
To visit her poor castle where she lies ;
That she may boast she hath beheld the man
Whose zlory fills the world with loud report.
Bur. Ts iteven so? Nay, then, I see, our wars
Will turn unto a peaceful comic sport,
When ladies crave to be encounter’d with.—
You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit.
Tal. Ne’er trust me then ; for when a world of men
Could not prevail with all their oratory.
Yet hath a woman’s kindness over-rul’d.— 50
And therefore tell her, 1 return great thanks,
And in submission will attend on her.—
Will not your honours bear me company ?
Bed. No, trwy, it is more than manners will;
And I have heard it said, unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.
Tal. Well then, alone, since there’s no remedy,
I mean to prove this lady’s courtesy.
Come hither, contin. [Whispers.}—You perceive my

mind.
Capt. I do, my lord, and mean accordingly. 60
[Exeunt.

SceNnE III.—Auvergne. Court of the Castle.

Enter the CoUNTESS and her Porter.
Count. Porter, remember what I gave in charge ;
And when you have done so, bring the keys to me.
Port. Madam, I will. (Exit.
Count. The plot is laid: if all things fall out right,
I shall as famous be by this exploit,
As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death.
Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,
And his achievements of no less account :
Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,
To give their censure of these rare reports.

Enter Messenger and TALBOT.

Mess. Madam, according as your ladyship desir’d,
By message crav’d, so is Lord Talbot come.
Count. And he is welcome. What! is this the man ?
Mess. Madam, it is. ?
Count. Is this the scourge of France ?
Is this the Talbot, so much fear’d abroad,
That with his name the mothers still their babes?
I see, report is fabulous and false:
T thought, I should have seen some Hercules,
A second Hector, for his grim aspect, __
And large proportion of his strong-knit limbs. 20
Alas! this is a child, a silly dwarf:
It cannot be, this weak and writhled shrimp
Should strike such terror to his enemies.
Tal. Madam, I have been bold to trouble you;
But, since your ladyship is not at leisure,
I'll sort some other time to visit you. | 7
Count. pene means he now ?—Go ask him, whither
e goes.
Mess. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my lady craves
To know the cause of your abrupt departure.
Tal. Marry, for that she’s in a wrong belief, 30
Igo to certify her, Talbot’s here.

Re-enter Porter, with keys.
Count. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner.
Tal. Prisoner! to whom ? :
‘ount. To me, blood-thirsty lord ;
And for that cause I train’d thee to my house.
Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me,
For in my gallery thy picture hangs:

 

But now the substance shall endure the like,
And I will chain these legs and arms of thine,
That hast by tyranny, these many years,
Wasted our country, slain our citizens, 40
And sent our sons and husbands captivate.
Tal. Ha, ha, ha!
Count. Laughest thou, wretch? thy mirth shall
turn to moan.
Tal. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond,
To think that you have aught but Talbot’s shadow,
Whereon to practise your severity.
fount. Why, art not thou the man?
‘al.
Count. Then have I substance too.
Tal. No, no, 1am but shadow of myself:
You are deceiv’d, my substance is not here ; 56
For what you see, is but the smallest part
And least proportion of humanity.
I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,
It is of such a spacious lofty pitch,
Your roof were not sufficient to contain it.
Count. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce ;
He will be here, and yet he is not here:
How: can these contrarieties agree ?
Tal. That will I show you presently.

Iam, indeed.

He winds his horn. Drums strike up; a peal of
ordnance. The gates being forced, enter Soldiers.
How say you, madam ? are you now persuaded, 60

That Talbot is but shadow of himself?
These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength,
With which he yoketh your rebellious necks,
Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns,
And in a moment makes them desolate.
Count. Victorious Talbot, pardon my abuse:
I find, thou art no less than fame hath bruited,
And more than may be gather’d by thy shape.
Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath ;
For J am sorry, that with reverence 70
I did not entertain thee as thou art.
Tal. Be not dismay‘d, fair lady ; nor misconster
The mind of Talbot, as you did mistake
The outward composition of his body.
What you have done hath not offended me:
No other satisfaction do I crave,
But only, with your patience, that we may
Taste ot your wine, and see what cates you have 3
For soldiers’ stomachs always serve them well.
Count. With all my heart ; and think me honoured
To feast so great a warrior in my house. 81
[Exeunt.

ScenE IV.—London. The Temple Garden.

Enter the Earls of SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WaAR-
WIcK ; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and a
Lawyer.

Pian. Great lords, and gentlemen, what means this
silence ?

Dare no man answer in a case of truth?

Suf. Within the Temple Hall we were too loud:

The garden here is more convenient.

Plan. Then say at once, if I maintain’d the truth,

Or, else, was wrangling Somerset in the error?

Suf. ’Faith, I have been a truant in the law,

And never yet could frame my will to it;

And, therefore, frame the law unto my will.

Som. Judge you, my Lord of Warwick, then between

us.

War. Balm ece. two hawks, which flies the higher

pitch,

Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth,
Between two blades, which bears the better temper,
Between two horses, which doth bear him best,
Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye,
I have, pees some shallow spirit of judgment ;
But in these nice sharp quillets of the law,
Good faith, Iam no wiser than a daw.

Plan. Tut, tut! here isa mannerly forbearance :
The truth appears so naked on my side, 20
That any purblind eye may find it out.

 

 
 

KING HENRY VI—PART I.

[Act IT,

 

Som. And on my side it is so well apparell’d,
So clear, so shining, and so evident,
That it will glimmer through a blind man’s eye.
Plan. aint you are tongue-tied, and so loath to
speak,
In dumb cleuiteants proclaim your thoughts:
Let him that is a true-born gentleman,

Till you conclude that he, upon whose side 40
The tewest roses are cropp'd from the tree,
Shall yield the other in itheaiet opinion.
Som. Good Master Vernon, it is well objected :
If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence.
Plan, And I.
Ver. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case,

 

 

War. “1 pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.”

And stands upon the honour of his birth,
If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.
Som. Let him that is no coward, nor no flatterer,
But dare maintain the party of the truth,
Pluck a red rose from off this thorn with me.
War. Tlove no colours; and, without all colour
Of base insinuating flattery,
I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.
Suf. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset ;
And say withal, I think he held the right.
Ver. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more,

30

I pluck this pale and maiden blossom here,
Giving my verdict on the white rose side.

Som. Prick not your finger as you pluck it off,
Lest, bleeding, you do paint the white rose red, 50
And fall on my side so, against your will.

Ver. If I, my lord, for my opinion bleed,
Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt,

And keep me on the side where still I am.

Som. Well, well, come on: who else ?

Law. Unless my study and my books be false,
The argument you held was wrong in you ;

In sign whereof, I pluck a white rose too.

 

 
 

 

 

SCENE V.] KING HENRY VIL—PART I. 33

Plan. Now, Somerset, where is your argument ? Come, let us four to dinner: I dare say,

Som. Here, in my scabbard ; meditating that, 60 | This quarrel will drink blood another day. [Exeunt.
Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red.

Pian. Meantime, your cheeks do counterfeit our ——

roses ;

For pale they look with fear, as witnessing ScreNnE V.—The Same. A Room in the Tower.
The truth on our side. 7 .

Som. No, Plantagenet, Enter MorTIMER, brought in a chair by two
*T is not for fear, but anger, that thy cheeks Av eepers.
Blush for pure shame, to counterfeit our roses, Mor. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age,
And yet thy tongue will not contess thy error. Let dying Mortimer here rest himself.—

Plan. Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset ? Even like a man new haled from the rack,

Som. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet ? So fare my limbs with long imprisonment ;

Plan. Ay, sharp and piercing, to maintain histruth, | And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death,
Whiles thy consuming canker eats his falsehood. _71 | Nestor-like aged, in an age of care,

Som. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding | Argue the end ot Edmund Mortimer.

roses, These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent,

That shall maintain what I have said is true, Wax dim, as drawing to their exigent ;
Where false Plantagenet dare not be seen. Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, 10

Plan. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand,
Iscorn thee and thy faction, peevish boy.
Suf. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.
Plan. rote Poole, I will; and -corn both him and
thee.
Suf. I'l turn my part thereof into thy throat.
Som. Away, away, good William de la Poole:
We grace the yeoman by conversing with him.
Wen Now, by God’s will, thou wrong’st him,
Somerset:
His grandfather was Lionel, Duke of Clarence,
Third son to the third Edward, King of England.
Spring crestless yeomen from so deep a root?
‘Plan. He bears him on the place’s privilege,
Or durst not, for his craven heart, say thus.
Som. By Him that made me, I'll maintain my
words
On any plot of ground in Christendom.
Was not thy father, Richard, Earl of Cambridge,
For treason executed in our late king’s days?
And by his treason stand’st not thou attainted,
Corrupted, and exempt from ancient gentry?
His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood ;
And, till thou be restor’d, thou art a yeoman.
Plan. My father was attacheu, not attainted,
Condemn’d to die for treason, but no traitor ;
And that I’ll prove on better men than Somerset,
Were growing time once ripen’d to my will.
For your partaker Poole, and you yourself,
I 1 note you in my book of memory,
To scourge you for this apprehension :
Look to it well, and say you are well warn’d.
Som. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still,
And know us by these colours for thy foes ;
For these my friends, in spite of thee, shall wear.
Plan. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose,
As cognisance of my blood-drinking hate,
Will I for ever, and my faction, wear,
Until it wither with me to my grave, 110
Or flourish to the height of my degree.
Suf. Go forward, and be chok’d with thy ambition :
And so farewell, until I meet thee next. [Eait.
Som. Have with thee, Poole.—Farewell, ambitious
Richard. [Exit.
Plan. How Iam brav’d, and must perforce endure

80

90

100

it!
War. This blot, that they object against your house,
Shall be wip’d out in the next parliament,
Call’d for the truce of Winchester and Gloster ;
And if thou be not then created York,
I will not live to be accounted Warwick.
Meantime, in signal of my love to thee,
Against proud Somerset, and William Poole,
ill I upon thy party wear this rose.
And here I prophesy :—this brawl to-day,
Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden,
Shall send, between the red rose and the white,
A thousand souls to death and deadly night.
Plan. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you,
That you on my behalf would pluck a flower.
Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the same.
Law. And so will I. :

120

130

 

Plan. Thanks, gentle sir.

And pithless arms, like to a wither’d vine
That droops his sapless branches to the ground :
Yet are these feet,—whose strengthless stay is numb,
Unable to support this lump of clay,—
Swift-winged with desire to get a grave,
As witting I no other comfort have.—
But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come?

1 Keep. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come :
We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber,
And answer was return’d that he will come. 20

Mor. Enough; my soul shall then be satisfied. —
Poor gentleman ! his wrong doth equal mine.
Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign,
Before whose glory I was great 1n arms,
‘This loathsome sequestration have I had ;
And even since then hath Richard been obscur’d,
Depriv’d of honour and inheritance:
But now, the arbitrator of despairs,
Just death, kind umpire of men’s miseries,
With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence.
I would his troubles likewise were expir’d,
‘That so he might recover what was lost.

30

Enter RIicHARD PLANTAGENET.
1 Keep. My lord, your loving nephew now is come.
Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my triend, is he come?
Plan. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us’d,
Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes.
Mor. Direct mine arms, I may embrace his neck,
And in his bosom spend my latter gasp.
O! tell me, when my lips do touch his cheeks,
That I may kindly give one fainting kiss.-— 40
And now declare, sweet stem from York’s great stock,
Why didst thou say, of late thou wert despis’d ?
Plan. First, lean thine aged back against mine

arm,
And in that ease Ill tell thee my disease.
This day, in argument upon a case,
Some words there grew ‘twixt Somerset and me;
Among which terms he us’d his lavish tongue,
And did upbraid me with my father’s death :
Which obloquy set bars before my tongue,
Else with the like I had requited him.
Therefore, good uncle, for my father’s sake,
In honour of a true Plantagenet,
And for alliance sake, declare the cause
My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head.
Mor. That cause, fair nephew, that imprison’d me,

And hath detain’d me all my flow’ring youth
Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine,
Was cursed instrument of his disease.

Pian. Discover more at large what cause that

60

50

was ;
For I am ignorant, and cannot guess.

Mor. I will, if that my fading breath permit,
And death approach not ere my tale be done.
Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king,
Depos’d his nephew Richard, Edward's son,
The first-begotten, and the lawful heir
Of Edward king, the third of that descent:
During whose reign the Percies of the north,
Finding his usurpation most unjust,
Endeavour'’d my advancement to the throne.

 

 
 

 

34 KING HENRY VI—PART I.

{Act III,

 

The reason mov’d these warlike lords to this, 70
Was, for that (young King Richard thus remov’d,
Leaving‘no heir begotten of his body)
I was the next by birth and parentage ;
For by my mother I derived am
From Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the third son
To King Edward the Third ; whereas he
From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree,
Being but fourth of that hereic line.
But mark : as, in this haughty great attempt
They laboured to plant the rightful heir, 80
I lost my liberty, and they their lives.
Long after this, when Henry the Fifth
(Succeeding his father Bolingbroke) did reign,
Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv’d
From famous Kdmund Langley, Duke of York,
Marrying my sister, that thy mother was,
Again, in pity of my hard distress,
Levied an army, weening to redeem
And have install’d me in the diadem ;
But, as the rest, so fell that noble ear!, 90
And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers,
In whom the title rested, were suppress’d.
Plan. Of which, my lord, your honour is the

last.
Mor. True; and thou seest, that I no issue have,
And that my fainting words do warrant death.
‘Thou art my heir: the rest, I wish thee gather ;
But yet be wary in thy studious care.
Plan, Thy grave admonishments prevail with
me.
But yet, methinks, my father’s execution

Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. 100

 

Mor, With silence, nephew, be thou politic:
Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster,
And, like a mountain, not to be remov’d.
But now thy uncle is removing hence,
As princes do their courts, when they are cloy’d
With long continuance in a settled place.
Plan. O, uncle! "would some part of my young
years
Might but redeem the passage of your age!
Mor. eee then wrong me; as the slaughterer
oth,
Which giveth many wounds, when one will kill. 110
Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good; 5
Only, give order for my funeral :
And so farewell ; and fair be all thy hopes,
And prosperous be thy life, in peace, and war! [Dies,
Plan. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul !
In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage,
And like a hermit overpass d thy days.—
Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast ;
And what I do imagine, let that rest.—
Keepers, convey him hence ; and I myself 120
Wil see his burial better than his life.—
[Exeunt Keepers, bearing out the body of
MORTIMER. 5
Here lies the dusky torch of Mortimer,
Chok’d with ambition of the meaner sort:
And, for those wrongs, those bitter injuries,
Which Somerset hath ofter’'d to my house,
I doubt not but with honour to redress ;
And therefore haste I to the parliament,
Lither to be restored to my blood,

Or make my ill the advantage of my good. [Ezit.

 

ACT IIT.

ScENE I.—The Same. The Parliament-House.
Flourish. Enter King HENRY, EXETER, GLOSTER, WARWICK, SOMERSET, and SUFFOLK; the Bishop of

WINCHESTER, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, and others.

snatches it, and tears it.

- Winchester.
OM’ST thou with deep-premeditated

    
 

Ines,
With written pamphlets studiously

devis'd,
ope Humphrey of Gloster? If thou canst
s accuse,
j Or aught intend’st to lay unto my
charge,
Do it without invention suddenly ;
As I with sudden and extemporal speech
Purpose to answer what thou canst object.
Glo. Presumptuous priest! this place commands
my patience,
Or thou shouldst find thou hast dishonour’d me.
Think not, although in writing I preferr’d 10
The manner of thy vile outrageous crimes,
That therefore I have forg’d, or am not able
Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen:
No, prelate ; such is thy audacious wickedness,
- Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks,
As very infants prattle of thy pride.
Thou art a most pernicious usurer,
Froward by nature, enemy to peace ;
Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems
A man of thy profession and degree: 20
And for thy treachery, what ’s more manifest ?

 

GLOSTER offers to put up a bill; WINCHESTER

In that thou laidst a trap to take my life,
As well at London Bridge, as at the Tower.
Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted,
The king, thy sovereign, is not quite exempt
From envious malice of thy swelling heart.
Win. Glaser, I do defy thee. — Lords, vouch-
safe
To give me hearing what I shall reply.
If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse,
As he will have me, how am I so poor? 30
Or how haps it, I seek not to advance A
Or raise myself, but keep my wonted calling?
And for dissension, who preferreth peace
More than I do, except I be provok’d ?
No, my good lords, it is not that offends ;
It is not that that hath incens‘d the duke:
It is, because no one should sway but he ;
No one but he should be about the king;
And that engenders thunder in his breast,
And makes him roar these accusations forth. 40
But he shall know, I am as good—
Glo. As good!
Thou bastard of my grandfather !—
Win. Ay, lordly sir ; for what are you, I pray,
But one imperious in another’s throne 2?
Glo. Am I not protector, saucy priest ?
Win. And am not Ia prelate of the church ?

 

 
 

 

Scene I.] KING HENRY

VI—PART I. 35

 

Glo. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps,
And useth it to patronage his theft.
Win. Unreverent Gloster !
Glo. Thou art reverent,
Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.
Win. Rome shall remedy this.

50

War. Roam thither then.
Som. My lord, it were your duty to forbear.
War. Ay, see the bishop be not overborne.
Som. Methinks, my lord should be religious,
And know the oftice that belongs to such.
War. Methinks, his lordship should be humbler ;
It fitteth not a relate so to plead.
Som. Yes, when his holy state is touch’d so near.
War. State holy, or unhallow’d, what of that?
Is not his grace protector to the king? 60
Plan. (Aside.) Plantagenet, I see, must hold his
tongue,
Lest it be said, “‘ Speak, sirrah, when you should ;
Must your bold verdict enter talk with lords?”
Else would I have a fling at Winchester.

 

 

 

Glo, ‘ Presumptuous priest! this place commands my patience.”

K. Hen. Uncles of Gloster, and of Winchester,
The special watchmen of our English weal,
I would prevail, if prayers might prevail,
To join your hearts in love and amity.
O! what a scandal is it to our crown,
That two such noble peers as ye should jar.
Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell,
Civil dissension is a viperous worm,
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.—

noise within: “ Down with the tawny-coats !”

What tumult’s this?

70

War. An uproar, I dare warrant,
Begun through malice of the bishop’s men.
[4 noise again: “ Stones! stones!”

Enter the Mayor of London, attended.

May. O, my good lords, and virtuous Henry,
Pity the city of London, pity us!
The bishop and the Duke of Gloster’s men,
Forbidden late to carry any weapon,
Have fill'd their pockets full of pebble-stones ;
And banding themselves in contrary parts,
Do pelt so fast at one another's pate,
That many have their giddy brains knock’d out.
Our windows are broke down in every street,

80

_ And we, for fear, compell’d to shut our shops.

Enter, skirmishing, the Retainers of GLOSTER and
WINCHESTER, with bloody pates. .

 

K. Hen. We charge you, on allegiance to ourself,

To hold your slaught’ring hands, and keep the
eace.
Pray, uncle Gloster, mitigate this strife.
1 Serv. Nay, if we be
Forbidden stones, we'll fall to it with our teeth. 90
2 Serv. Do what ye dare ; we are as resolute.
[Skirmish again.
Glo. You of my household, leave this peevish

roil,
And set this unaccustom’d fight aside.
1 Serv. My lord, we know your grace to be a

man

Just and upright, and, for your royal birth,
Inferior to none but to his majesty:

And ere that we will suffer such a prince,

So kind a father of the commonweal,

To be disgraced by an inkhorn mate,

We, and our wives, and children, all will fight,
And have our bodies slaughter’d by thy foes.

3 Serv. Ay, and the very parings of our nails
Shall pitch a field, when we are dead.

[Skirmish again.

Glo. Stay, stay, l say!
And, if you love me, as you say you do,

Let me persuade you to forbear awhile.

kA. Hen. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul !—
Can you, my Lord of Winchester, behold
My sighs and tears, and will not once relent ?
Who should be pitiful, if you be not?

Or who should study to prefer a peace,
If holy churchmen take delight in broils ?

War. Yield, my lord protector ;—yield, Winchester ;
Except you mean, with obstinate repulse,

To slay your sovereign, and destroy the realm.
You see what mischief, and what murder too,
Hath been enacted through your enmity ;
Then, be at peace, except ye thirst for blood.

Vin. He shall submit, or I will never yield.

Glo. Compassion on the king commands me stoop;
Or I would see his heart out, ere the priest 12
Should ever get that privilege of me.

War. Behold, my Lord of Winchester, the duke
Hath banish’d moody discontented fury,

As by his smoothed brows it doth appear :
Why look you still so stern, and tragical ?
Glo. Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand.
4. Hen. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I have heard you
preach,
That malice was a great and grievous sin ;
And will not you maintain the thing you teach,
But prove a chief offender in the same? 0
War. Sweet king !—the bishop hath akindly gird.—
For shame, my Lord of Winchester, relent :
What, shall a child instruct you what to do?

Win. Well, Duke of Gloster, I will yield to thee ;
Love for thy love, and hand for hand I give.

Glo. [Aside.] Ay; but, I fear me, with a hollow

heart.—
See here, my friends, and loving countrymen,
This token serveth for a flag of truce
Betwixt ourselves and all our followers.
So help me God, as I dissemble not!

Win. Lesieel So help me God, as I intend

not!

K. Hen. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloster,
How joyful am I made by this contract !—

Away, my masters: trouble us no more;
But join in friendship, as your lords have done.

1 Serv. Content: I'll to the surgeon’s.

2 Serv. And so will I.

3 Serv. And I will see what physic the tavern

affords.

100

110

140
it

[Exeunt Mayor, Servants, &c.
War. Accept this scroll, most gracious sovereign,
Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet
We do exhibit to your majesty. 150
Glo. Well urg’d, my Lord of Warwick :—for, sweet
prince,
An if your grace mark every circumstance,
You have great reason to do Richard right ;
Especially for those occasions
At Eltham Place I told your majesty.

 

 
 

 

36 KING HENRY VI.-PART I.

K. Heh. And those occasions, uncle, were of
| orce :
Therefore, ae loving lords, our pleasure is,
That Richard be restored to his blood.
War. Let Richard be restored to his blood ;
So shall his father’s wrongs be recompens’d. 160
Win. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester.
kK. Hen. If Richard will be true, not that alone,
But all the whole inheritance I give,
That doth belong unto the house of York,
From whence you spring by lineal descent.
Pian. Thy humble servant vows obedience,
And humble service, till the point of death.
K. Hen. Stoop then, and set your knee against my

foot ;

And, in regucrdon of that duty done,
I girt thee with the valiant sword of York. 170
Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet,
And rise created ee Duke of York.

Pian. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall!
And as my duty springs, so perish they
That grudge one thought against your majesty !

All. ee high prince, the mighty Duke of

York!
Som. [Agede Perish, base prince, ignoble Duke of
ork!

Glo. Now will it best avail your majesty,
To cross the seas, and to be crown’'d in France.
The presence of a king engenders love 180
Amongst his subjects, and his loyal friends,
As it disanimates his enemies.
K. Hen. When Gloster says the word, King Henry
0es ;
For friendly counsel cuts off many foes.
Glo. Your ships already are in readiness.
(Flourish. Exeunt all but EXETER.
Exe. Ay, we may march in England, or in France,
Not Sen is likely to ensue.
This late dissension, grown betwixt the peers,
Burns under feigned ashes of forg'd love,
And will at last break out into a flame: 190
As fester’d members rot but by degree,
Till bones, and flesh, and sinews, fall away,
So will this base and envious discord breed.
And now I fear that fatal prophecy,
Which, in the time of Henry nam the Fifth,
Was in the mouth of every sucking babe,—
That Henry born at Monmo.th should win all,
And Henry born at Windsor should lose all:
Which is so plain, that Exeter doth wish
His days may finish ere that hapless time. Iz 200
cit,

ScENE IJ.—France. Before Rouen.

Enter La PUCELLE, disguised, and Soldiers dressed
like countrymen, with sacks upon their backs.
Puc. These are the city gates, the gates of Roan,

Through which our policy must make a breach.
Take heed, be wary how you place your words ;

Talk like the vulgar sort of market-men,

That come to gather money for their corn.

If we have entrance (as I hope we shall),

And that we find the slothful watch but weak,
I'll by a sign give notice to our friends,

That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them.

1 Sold. Our sacks shall be a mean to sack the city,
And we be lords and rulers over Roan ;
Therefore we'll knock.

Guard. (Within.] Qui est la?

Puc. Paisans, pawvres gens de France:
Poor market-folks, that come to sell their corn.

Guard. (opus the gates.| Enter, go in : the market-

bell is rung.

Puc. Now, Roan, I'll shake thy bulwarks to the

ground. (PUCELLE, d&c., enter the city.

Enter CUARLES, BASTARD of Orleans, ALENCON,
and Forces.

Char. Saint. Dennis bless this happy stratagem,
And once again we'll sleep secure in Roan.

[Knocks.

 

(Act III,

Bast. Here enter’d Pucelle, and her practisants :
Now she is there, how will she epee =e
Where is the best and safest passage in ?

Alen. By thrusting out a torch from yonder tower;
Which, once discern’d, shows that her meaning is,—’
No way to that, for weakness, which she enter’d,

Enter La PUCELLE on a battlement, holding out a
torch burning.

Puc. Behold! this is the happy wedding torch,
That joineth Roan unto her countrymen,
But burning fatal to the Talbotites.

Bast. See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend,
The burning torch in yonder turret stands.

Char. Now shine it like a comet of revenge,
A prophet to the fall of all our foes!

Alen. Defer no time; delays have dangerous ends:
Enter, and cry, ‘‘ The Dauphin !” presently,
And then do execution on the watch. [Dhey enter.

Alarums. Enter TALBOT and English Soldiers.
Tal. France, thou shalt rue this treason with thy
tears,

If Talbot but survive thy treachery.

Pucelle, that witch, that damned sorceress,

Hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,

‘That hardly we escap’d the pride of France. 40

[Exeunt to the town.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter, from the town, BED-
FORD, brought in sick in a chair, with TALBot,
BurGunpby, and the English Forces. Then, enter
on the walls, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, BASTARD,
ALENCON, REIGNIER, and others.

Puc. Good morrow, gallants. Want ye corn for

real
I think, the Duke of Burgundy will fast,
Before he'll buy again at such a rate.
’T was full of darnel: do you like the taste?
Bur. Scott on, vile fiend, and shameless courtesan !
I trust, ere long, to choke thee with thine own,
And make thee curse the harvest of that corn.
Char. Your grace may starve, perhaps, before that
time.
Bed. O! let no words, but deeds, revenge this

treason.
Puc. What will you do, good grey-beard? break A

lance,

And run a tilt at death within a chair?

Tal. Foul fiend of France, and hag of all despite,
Encompass’d with thy lustful paramours,
Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age,
And twit with cowardice a man half dead?
Damsel, I’ll have a bout with you again,
Or else let Talbot perish with this shame.

Puc. Are you so hot, sir?-Yet, Pucelle, hold thy

peace:
If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow.—
(TaLpot, and the rest, consult together.

God speed the parliament ! who shall be the speaker?

Tal. ae come forth, and meet us in the

eld?

Puc. Belike, your lordship takes us then for fools,
To try if that our own be ours, or no.

Tal. I speak not to that railing Hecate,
But unto thee, Alencon, and the rest.
Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out?

Alen. Signior, no

Tal, Signior, hang !—base muleters of France!

Like peasant footboys do they keep the walls,
And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. 70
Puce. AN captains! let’s get us from the
walls,

For Talbot means no goodness by his looks.—
God be wi’ you, my lord: we came but to tell you
That we arc here.
[Exeunt La PucELLE, c&c., from the walls.
Tal. And there will we be too, ere it be long,
Or else reproach be Talbot’s greatest fame.
Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house,
Prick’d on by public wrongs, sustain’d in France,
Either to get the town again, or die;

 

 
 

 

 

ScEneE II]

KING HENRY VI—PART I. 37

 

And I, as sure as English Henry lives,
And as his father here was conqueror,
‘As sure as in this late-betrayed town
Great Cordelion’s heart was buried,
So sure I swear, to get the town, or die.
Bur. My vows are equal partners with thy vows.

80 | Came to the field, and vanquished his foes.

Methinks, I should revive the soldiers’ hearts,
Because I ever found them as myself.

Tal. Undaunted spirit in a dying breast !—
Then, be it so :—heavens keep old Bedford safe !— 100
And now no more ado, brave Burgundy,

 

iv

 

Tal. “‘Damsel, 1'll have a bout with you again.”

Tal. But ere we go, regard this dying prince,
The valiant Duke of Bedford.—Come, my lord,
We will bestow you in-some better place,
Fitter for sickness, and for crazy age.
Bed. Lord Talbot, do not so dishonour me ; 90
Here will I'sit before the walls of Roan,
And will be partner of your weal or woe.
Bur. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade

you.
Bed. Not to be gone from hence ; for once I read,
That stout Pendragon, in his litter, sick,

But gather we our forces out of hand,
And set upon our boasting enemy..
[Exeunt BurRGuUNDY, TALBOT, and Forces, leaving
BEDFORD and others.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter Sir JOHN FASTOLFE
and a Captain.
Cap. Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such
jaste $
Fast. Whither away ? to save myself by flight :
We are like to have the overthrow again.

 

 
 

38 KING HENRY VI--PART I.

[Act III,

 

 

Cap. What! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot?
Last. Ay,
All the Talbots in the world, to save my life. [Hzit.
Cap. Cowardly knight ! ill fortune follow ther g
exit.

Retreat: Excursions. Enter, from the town, La Pu-
CELLE, ALENCON, CHARLES, &c., and cexeunt, flying.
Bed. Now, quiet soul, depart when Heaven please,

For I have seen our enemies’ overthrow. 111

What is the trust or strength of foolish man?

They, that of late were daring with their scoffs,

Are glad and fain by flight to save themselves.

(Dies, and is carried off in his chair.

Alarum. Entcr TALBOT, BURGUNDY, and others.
Tal. Lost, and recover’d in a day again!

This is a double honour, Burgundy ;

Yet heavens have glory for this victory !
Bur. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy

Enshrines thee in his heart, and there erects

Thy noble deeds, as valour’s monument. 120
fal. Thanks, gentle duke. But where is Pucelle

now?
I think her old familiar is asleep:
Now where’s the Bastard’s braves, and Charles his
glecks? :

What, alla-mort? Roan hangs her head for grief,

That such a valiant company are tled.

Now will we take some order in the town,

Placing therein some expert officers,

And then depart to Paris to the king ;

For there young Henry with his nobles lie.
Bur. What wills Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy.130
Tal. But yet, before we go, let’s not forget

The noble Duke of Bedford, late deceas’d,

But see his exequies fulfill’'d in Roan.

A braver soldicr never couched lance,

A gentler heart did never sway in court ;

But kings, and mightiest potentates, must die ;

For that's the end of human misery. [£xewnt.

ScENE III.—The Same. The Plains near the City.

Enter Cuar.es, the BASTARD, ALENCON, LA
PUCELLE, and Forces.
Puc. Dismay not, princes, at this accident,
Nor grieve that Roan is so recovered :
Care is no cure, but rather corrosive,
For things that are not to be remedied.
Let frantic Talbot triumph for a while
And like a peacock sweep along his tail ;
We'll pull his plumes, and take away his train,
If Dauphin and the rest will be but rul'd.
Char. We have been guided by thee hitherto,
And of thy cunning had no diffidénce :
One sudden foil shall never breed distrust.
Bast. Search out thy wit for secret policies,
And we will make thee famous through the world.
allen. We'll set thy statue in some holy place,
And have thee reverenc’d like a blessed saint :
Employ thee then, sweet virgin, for our good.
Puc. Then thus it must be; this doth Joan
devise:
By fair persuasions, mix’d with sugar'd words,
We will entice the Duke of Burgundy
To leave the Talbot, and to follow us.
Char. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that,
France were no place for Henry’s warriors ;
Nor should that nation boast it so with us,
But be extirped from our provinces.
Alen. For ever should they be expuls’d from
France,
And not have title of an earldom here.
Puc. pd honours shall perceive how I will
work,
To bring this matter to the wished end.
[Drums heard afar off.
Hark ! by the sound of drum you may perccive
Their powers are marching unto Paris-ward. 30

 

An English march. Enter, and pass over, TALBor
and his Forces.

There goes the Talbot, with his colours spread,

And all the troops of English after him.

A French march. Enter the Duke of BURGUNDY
and Forces.
Now, in the rearward comes the duke, and his:
Fortune in favour makes him lag behind.
Summon a parley ; we will talk with him.
: [Trumpets sound a parley.
Char. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy.
Bur. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy ?
Puc. The princely Charles of France, thy country-

man.
Bur, What say’st thou, Charles? for I am marching
ence.
Char. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy
words. 10
Puc. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France,
Stay, let thy humble handmaid speak to thee.
Bur. Speak on; but be not over-tedious.
Puc. Look on thy country, look on fertile France,
And see the cities and the towns defac’d
By wasting ruin of the cruel foe.
As looks the mother on her lowly babe,
When death doth close his tender dying eyes,
See, see the pining malady of France ;
Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, 50
Which thou thyself hast given her woful breast.
O! turn thy edged sword another way ;
Strike those that hurt, and hurt not those that help.
One drop of blood, drawn from thy country’s bosom,
Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore:
Return thee, therefore, with a flood of tears,
And wash away thy country’s stained spots.
Bur. Wither she hath bewitch’d me with her words,
Or nature makes me suddenly relent.
Puc. Besides, all French and France exclaims on
60

thee,
Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny.
Who join’st thou with, but with a lordly nation,
That will not trust thee but for profit’s sake ?
When Talbot hath set footing once in France,
And fashion'd thee that instrument of ill,
Who then but English Henry will be lord,
And thou be thrust out like a fugitive?
Call we to mind, and mark but this for proof,
Was not the Duke of Orleans thy foe,
And was he not in Eneiend prisoner ? 70
But, when they heard he was thine enemy,
They set him free, without his ransom paid,
In spite of Burgundy, and all his friends.
See then, thou fight’st against thy countrymen,
And join’st with them will be thy slaughter-men.
Come, come, return ; return, thou wand ring lord:
Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.
Bur. Lam vanquished : these haughty words of hers
Have batter'd me like roaring cannon-shot,
And made me almost yield upon my knees.-- 80
Forgive me, country, and sweet countrymen !
And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace :
My forces and my power of men are yours. —
So, farewell, Talbot; I ‘11 no longer trust thee.
Puc. [Aside.] Done like a Frenchman: turn, and
turn again !
Char. Welcome, brave duke! thy friendship makes
us fresh.
Bast. And doth beget new courage in our breasts.
Alen, Pucelle hath bravely play’d her part in this,
And doth deserve a coronet of gold.
Char. Now let us on, my lords, and join our powers,
And seek how we may prejudice the foe. [Exceunt.

ScrNnE IV.—Paris. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King HENRY, GLosTer, and other Lords;
VERNON, BAssET, dc. To them TALBOT and some
of his Officers.

Tal. My gracious prince, and honourable peers,

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.)

KING HENRY VI.—PART I. 39

 

Hearing of your arrival in this realm,
J have awhile given truce unto my wars,
To do my duty to my sovereign :
In sign whereof, this arm—that hath reclaim’d
To your obedience fifty fortresses,
Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength,
Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem—
Lets fall his sword before your highness’ feet ;
‘4 (Kneeling.

And, with submissive loyalty of heart, 10
Ascribes the glory of his conquest got
First to my God, and next unto your grace.

K. Hen. Is this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloster,
That hath so long been resident in France?

Glo. Yes, if it please your majesty, my liege.

K. ae ene: brave captain, and victorious

ord.

When I was young (as yet I am not old),
I do remember how my father said,
A stouter champion never handled sword.
Long since we were resolved of your truth, 20
Your faithful service, and your toil in war ;
Yet never have you tasted our reward,
Or been reguerdon’d with so much as thanks,
Because till now we never saw your face:

 

Therefore, stand up; and, for these good deserts,
We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury ;
And in our coronation take your place.
[Flourish. Exeunt King HENRY, GLOSTER,
TALBOT, and Nobles.
Ver. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea,
Disgracing of these colours, that I wear
In honour of my noble Lord of York, 30
Dar'st thou maintain the former words thou spak’st ?
Bas. Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage
The envious barking of your saucy tongue
Against my lord, the Duke of Somerset.
Ver. Sirrah, thy lord 1 honour as he is.
Bas. Why, what is he? as good a man as York.
Ver. Hark ye; not so: in witness, take ye that.
[Striking him.
Bas. Villain. thou know'st, the law ot arms is such,
That, whoso draws a sword, 't is present death,
Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. 40
But I’ll unto his majesty, and crave
I may have liberty to venge this wrong;
When thou shalt see, 1 ’ll meet thee to thy cost.
Ver. Well, miscreant, I’ll be there as soon as you;
And, after, meet you sooner than you would.
[Exeunt.

 

ACT IV.

att

  
   

Lh Gloucester.
. ORD bishop, set the crown upon his
By head

Win. God save King Henry, of
that name the sixth!
Glo. Now, governor of Paris, take
your oath,—
[Governor kneels.
That you elect no other king but him,
Esteem none friends, but such as are
his friends,
And none your foes, but such as
shall pretend
Malicious pectiess against his state:
This shall ye do, so help you
righteous God!
[Exeunt Governor and his Train,

Enter Sir JOHN FASTOLFE.

Fast. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais,
To haste unto your coronation, - 10
A letter was deliver’d to my hands,

Writ to your grace from the Duke of Burgundy.
Tal. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy, and thee!
I vow’d, base knight, when I did meet thee next,
To tear the garter from thy craven’s leg ;
[Plucking it off.
Which I have done, because unworthily
Thou wast installed in that high degree. --
Pardon me. princely Henry, and the rest.
This dastard, at the battle of Patay,
When but in all I was six thousand strong, 20
And that the French were almost ten to one,
Before we met, or that a stroke was given,
Like to a trusty squire, did run away:

% ScENE I.—The Same.
ae Enter King HENRY, GLOSTER, EXETER, YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WINCHESTER,

 

A Room of State.

WARWICK, TALBOT, the Governor of Paris, and others.

In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;
Myself, and divers gentlemen beside,
Were there surpris’d, and taken prisoners.
Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss ;
Or whether that such cowards ought to wear
This ornament of knighthood, yea, or no.
Glo. To say the truth, this fact was infamous, 30
And ill beseeming any common man,
Much more a knight, a captain, and a leader.
Tal. When first this order was ordain’d, my lords,
Knights of the garter were of noble birth,
Valiant and virtuous, full of haughty courage,
Such as were grown to credit by the wars;
Not fearing death, nor shrinking for distress,
But always resolute in most extremes.
He then, that is not furnish’d in this sort,
Doth but usurp the sacred name of knight, 40
Profaning this most honourable order,
And should (if I were worthy to be judge)
Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain
That doth presume to boast of gentle blood.
K. Hes Stain to thy countrymen! thou hear’st thy
oom.
Be packing therefore, thou that wast a knight.
Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death.—
(Exit FASTOLFs.
And now, my lord protector, view the letter
Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy.
Glo. What means his grace, that he hath chang’d
his style? 50
No more but, plain and bluntly,—‘“‘ To the king !”
Hath he forgot, he is his sovereign ?
Or doth this churlish superscription
Pretend some alteration in good will?
What’s here? [Reads.] “I have upon especial cause,

 

 
 

40 KING HENRY VIL—PART I.

[Act Iv.

 

 

Mov’'d with compassion of my country’s wrack,

‘Vvogether with the pitiful complaints

Of such as your oppression feeds upon,

Forsaken your pernicious faction,

And join’d with Charles, the rightful King of France.”

O monstrous treachery! Can this be so, 61

That in alliance, amity, and oaths,

There should be found such false dissembling guile?
4. Hen. What! doth my uncle Burgundy revolt ?
Glo. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe.

A. Hen. Is that the worst this letter doth contain?
Glo. 1t is the worst, and all, my lord, he writes.
A. Hen. Why then, Lord Talbot there shall talk

with him,
And give him chastisement for this abuse.—
How say you, my lord? are you not content? 70
Tal. Content, my liege? Yes: but that I am pre-
vented,

I should have begg’d I might have been employ’d.
4A. Hen. Then gather strength, and march unto him
straight.
Let him perceive, how ill we brook his treason ;
And what ottence it is, to flout his friends.
fal. 1 go, my lord; in heart desiring still,
You may behold confusion of your toes.

Enter VERNON and BASSET.

Ver. Grant me the combat, gracious sovereign !

Bas. And me, my lord; grant me the combat too!

York. This is my servant: hear him, noble prince !

Som. And this is mine: sweet Henry, tavour him !

A. Hen. Be patient, lords; and give them leave to

speak.— : sz

Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim ?

And wherefore crave you combat? or with whom?
Ver. With him, my lord; for he hath done me wrong.
Bas. And I with him ; tor he hath done me wrong.
ds. Hen. What is that wrong whereof you both

complain ?

First let me know, and then Ill answer you.

Bas. Crossing the sea trom bngland into France,
This fellow here, with envious carping tongue,
Upbraided me about the rose I wear;

Saying, the sanguine colour of the leaves

Did represent my master’s blushing cheeks,

When stubbornly he did repugn the truth,

About a certain question in the law,

Argu’d betwixt the Duke of York and him;

With other vile and ignominious terms:

In confutation of which rude reproach,

And in defence of my lord’s worthiness,

I crave the benefit of law of arms. 100
Fer. And that is my petition, noble lord :

For though he seem, with forged quaint conceit,

To set a gloss upon his bold intent,

Yet know, my lord, [ was provok'd by him,

And he first took exceptions at this badge,

Pronouncing, that the paleness of this flower

Bewray’d the faintness of my master’s heart.

York, Will not this malice, Somerset, be left ?

Som. Your private grudge, my Lord of York, will

[Evit.

out,
Though ne’er so cunningly you smother it. 110
K. Hen. Good Lord! what madness rules in brain-
sick men,

When, for so slight and frivolous a cause,
Such factious emulations shall arise !—
Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,
Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace.

York. Let this dissension first be tried by fight,
And then your highness shall command a peace.

Som. The quarrel toucheth none but us alone ;
Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then.

York. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. 120

Ver. Nay, let it rest where it began at first.

Bas. Confirm it 80, mine honourable lord.

Glo. Confirm it 80? Confounded be your strife !
And perish ye, with your audacious prate !
Presumptuous vassals! are you not asham’d,
With this immodest clamorous outrage
To trouble and disturb the king and us?

And you, my lords. methinks you do not well,

 

To bear with their perverse objections ;
Much less, to take occasion from their mouths 130
‘lo raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves :
Let me persuade you, take a better course.
xe. 1t grieves his highness :—good my lords, be
friends.
KK. Hen. Come hither, you that would be com-
batants.
Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour,
Quite to forget this quarrel, and the cause.—
And you, my lords, remember where we are;
1n France, amongst a fickle wavering nation.
lf they perceive dissension in our looks,
And that within ourselves we disagree, 140
How will their grudging stomachs be provok’d
‘Yo wilful disobedience, and rebel! .
Beside, what infamy will there arise,
When foreign princes shall be certified,
That tor a toy, a thing of no regard,
king Henry’s peers, and chief nobility,
Destroy’d themselves, and lost the realm of France!
O! think upon the conquest of my father,
My tender years ; and let us not forego
‘that for a trifle that was bought with blood. 150
Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife.
I see no reason, if I wear this rose,
[Putting on a red rose.
That any one should therefore be suspicious
I more incline to Somerset than York :
Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both.
As well they may upbraid me with my crown,
Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown’d.
But your discretions better can persuade,
‘vhan I am able to instruct or teach:
«And therefore, as we hither came in peace, 160
So let us still continue peace and love.—
Cousin of York, we institute your grace
‘Yo be our regent in these parts of France:
And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite
Your troops of horsemen with his bands of foot;
And, like irue subjects, sons of your progenitors,
Go cheerfully together, and digest
Your angry choler on your enemies.
Ourself, my lord protector, and the rest,
After some respite, will return to Calais; 170
From thence to England, where I hope ere long
‘To be presented, by your victories,
With Charles, Alen¢on, and that traitorous rout.
[Plourish. Hzeunt King HENRY, GLOSTER,
SOMERSET, WINCHESTER, SUFFOLK,
and BASSET.
War. My Lord of York, I promise you, the king
Prettily, methought, did play the orator.
York. And so he did: but yet I like it not,
In that he wears the badge of Somerset.
War. Tush! that was but his fancy, blame him not;
I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no harm.
York. An it I wist, he did,—but let it rest ; 180
Other affairs must now be managed.
[Exreunt YORK, WARWICK, and VERNON.
Exc. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress thy
voice ;
For, had the passions of thy heart burst out,
I fear, we should have seen decipher'd there |
More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils,
Than yet can be imagin’d or suppos’d.
But howsoe’er, no simple man that sees
This jarring discord ot nobility,
This shouldering of each other in the court,
This factious bandying of their favourites, 190
But that it doth presage some ill event.
’Tis much, when sceptres are in children’s hands,
But more, when envy breeds unkind division : ,
There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. [Ezit.

ScENE II.—France. Before Bourdeaux.

Enter TALBOT, with his Forces.

Tal. Go to the gates of Bourdeaux, trumpeter :
Summon their general unto the wall.

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE III.] KING HENRY VI.PART I. 41
Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, on the walls, the erate stags, 50

General of the French Forces, and others.
English John Talbot, captains, calls you forth,
Servant in arms to Harry King of England;
And thus he would.—Open your city gates,

Be humble to us, call my sovereign yours,
And do him homage as obedient subjects,
And Ill withdraw me and my bloody power ;
But, if you frown upon this protter’d peace,
You tempt the fury of my three attendants,
Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire ;
Who, in a moment, even with the earth
Shall lay your stately and air-braving towers,
If you forsake the omer of their love.
Gea: Thou ominous and feartul owl of death,

10

But rather moody-mad and sleep
Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel,

And make the cowards stand aloot at bay:

Sell every man his life as dear as mine,

And they shall find dear deer of us, my friends.—
God, and Saint George, Talbot, and England’s right,
Prosper our colours in this dangerous tight ! [Hceunt.

Scene III.—Plains in Gascony.

Enter Yorx«, with Forces ; to him, a Messenger.

York. Are not the speedy scouts return’d again,
' That dogg’d the mighty army of the Dauphin?
Mess. 'Vhey are return’d, my lord; and
give it out,

 

 

York. “ ‘Lhere is my pledge; accept it, Somerset.”

Our nation’s terror, and their bloody scourge !
The period of thy tyranny approacheth.

On us thou canst not enter but by death ;

For, I protest, we are well fortified,

And strong enough to issue out and fight :

If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed,
Stands with the snares of war to tangle thee:
On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch’d,
To wall thee from the liberty of flight ;

And no way canst thou turn thee for redress,
But death doth front thee with apparent spoil,
And pale destruction meets thee in the face.
Ten thousand French have ta’en the sacrament,
To rive their dangerous artillery

Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot.

Lo! there thou stand’st, a breathing valiant man,
Of an invincible unconquer’d spirit :

This is the latest glory of thy praise,

That I, thy enemy, ’due thee withal ;

For ere the glass, that now begins to run,
Finish the process of his sandy hour,

These eyes, that see thee now well coloured,
Shall see thee wither'd, bloody, pale, and dead.

(Drum afar off.
Hark! hark ! the Dauphin’s drum, a warning bell,
Sings heavy music to th: 40

20

30

y timorous soul,
And mine shall ring thy dire departure out.
Exeunt General, &c., from the walls.
Tal. He fables not, I hear the enemy.— _ .
Out, some light horsemen, and peruse their wings.—
O, negligent and heedless discipline !
How are we park’d, and bounded in a pale!
A little herd of England’s timorous deer,
Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs!
lf we be English deer, be then in blood ;
Not rascal-like, to fall down with a pinch,

 

That he 1s march’d to Bourdeaux with
his power,

To fight with Talbot. As he march’d
along, :

By your espials were discovered

Two mightier troops than that the
Dauphin led,

Which join’d with him, and made their
march for Bourdeaux.

York. A plague upon that villain

Somerset,

That thus delays my promised supply 10

Of horsemen, that were levied for this
siege!

Renowned ‘l'albot doth expect my aid,

And Iam lowted by a traitor villain,

And cannot help the noble chevalier.

God comfort him in this necessity!

If he miscarry, farewell wars in France,

Enter Sir WILLIAM Lucy.
Lucy. Thou princely leader of our
English strength,
Never so needful on the earth of France,
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,
Who now is girdled with a waist oe

iron,
And hemm’d about with grim destruc-

tion.

To Bourdeaux, warlike duke! to Bourdeaux, York !
Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour.
York. O God! that Somerset, who in proud heart

Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot’s place !
So should we save a valiant gentleman,
a forfeiting a traitor and a coward.
ad ire, and wrathful fury, make me weep,
That thus we die, while remiss traitors sleep.
Lucy. O, send some succour to the distress’d lord!
York. He dies, we lose; I break my warlike
word; ‘
We mourn, France smiles; we lose, they daily get ;
All long of this vile traitor Somerset.
Lucy. Then, God take mercy on brave Talbot’s

soul;
And on his son, young John, whom two hours
since
I met in travel toward his warlike father.
This seven years did not Talbot see his son,
And now they meet where both their lives are done.
York. Alas! what joy shall noble Talbot have,
To bid his young son welcome to his grave ?
Away ! vexation almost stops my breath,
That sunder’d friends greet in the hour of death.—
Lucy, farewell: no more my fortune can,
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.—
Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away,
*Long all of Somerset, and his delay.
[Exit, with his Forces.
Lucy. Thus, while the vulture of sedition
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss

 

The conquest of our scarce-cold conqueror, 50
That ever-living man of memory,

Henry the Fifth: whiles they each other cross,

Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. [Exit.

 

 
 

 

42 KING HENRY VI—PART I.

[Act Iv.

 

Scene I[V.—Other Plains of Gascony.

Enter SOMERSET, with his 4rmy; an Officer of
TALBoT's with him.
Som. It is too late; I cannot send them now.
This expedition was iy York and Talbot
Too rashly plotted : all our general force
Might with a sally of the very town
Be buckled with. The over-daring Talbot
Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour
By this unheedful, desperate, wild adventure.
York set him on to fight and die in shame,
That, Talbot dead, great York might bear the name.
Off. Here is Sir William Lucy, who with me 10
Set from our o’ermatch'd forces forth for aid.

Enter Sir WILLIAM Lucy.
Som. How now, Sir William? whither were you
sent ?
Lucy. Whither, my lord? from bought and sold
Lord Talbot ;

Who, ring’d about with bold adversity,
Cries out for noble York and Somerset,
To beat assailing death from his weak legions.
And whiles the ‘honourable captain there
Drops bloody sweat trom his war-wearicd limbs,
And, in advantage lingering, looks for rescue,
You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour,
Keep otf aloof with worthless emulation. 21
Let not your private discord keep away
The levied succours that should iend him aid,
While he, renowned noble gentleman,
Yields up his life unto a world of odds.
Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,
Alencon, Reignier, compass him about,
And Talbot perisheth by your default.

Som. York set him on, York should have sent him

aid.
Lucy. And York as fast upon your grace exclaims ;
Swearing that you withhold his levied horse, 1
Collected for this expedition.
Som. York lies: he might have sent and had the
horse.
I owe him little duty, and less love,
And take foul scorn to fawn on him by sending.
Lucy. The fraud of England, not the force of
France,
Hath now Sa the noble-minded Talbot.
Never to England shall he bear his life,
But dies, betray'd to fortune by your strife.
Som. Come, go; I will despatch the horsemen
straight : 40
Within six hours they will be at his aid.
Lucy. Too late comes rescue : he is ta’en, or slain ;
For fly he could not, if he would have fled :
And fly would Talbot never, though he might.
Som. If he be dead, brave Talbot, then adicu!
Lucy. His fame lives in the world, his shame in
you. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.—The English Camp near Bourdeaux.

Enter TALBOT and JouN his son.

Tal. O young John Talbot ! I did send for thee,
To tutor thee in stratagems of war,
That Talbot’s name might be in thee reviv’d,
When sapless age, and weak unable limbs,
Should bring thy father to his drooping-chair.
But,—O malignant and ill-boding stars !—
Now thou art come unto a feast of death,
«A terrible and unavoided danger:
Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse,
And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape
By sudden flight : come, dally not, be gone.

John. Is my name Talbot? and am I your son?
And shall I fly? O! if you love my mother,
Dishonour not her hononrable name,
To make a bastard, and a slave of me:
The world will say, he is not Talbot's blood,
That basely fled, when noble Talbot stood.

Tal. Fly, to revenge my death, if I be slain.

 

John. He that flies so will ne’er return again.
Tal. If we both stay, we both are gure to die. 20
John. Then let me stay ; and, father, do you fly:
‘Your loss is great, so your regard should be ;
My worth unknown, no loss is known in me. .
Upon my death the French can little boast ;
In yours they will, in you all hopes are lost.
Flight cannof stain the honour you have won;
But mine it will, that no exploit have done:
You fled for vantage, every one will swear ;
But if 1 bow, they'll say, it was for fear.
There is no hope that ever I will stay, 30
If the first hour I shrink, and run away.
Here, on my knee, I beg mortality,
Rather than life psa with infamy.
Tal. Shall all thy mother’s hopes lie in one tomb?
John. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother’s
womb.
Tal. Upon my blessing I command thee go.
John. To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.
Tal. Part of thy father may be sav’d in thee.
John. No part of him but will be shame in me.’
Tal. Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.
John. Yes, your renowned name: shall flight abuse

it? 41
Tal. ve father’s charge shall clear thee from that
stain.
John. You cannot witness for me, being slain.
If death be so apparent, then both fly.
Tal. and geome my followers here, to fight and
ie
My age was never tainted with such shame.
John. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame ?
No more can I be sever’d from your side,
Than can yourself yourself in twain divide.
Stay, go, do what you will, the like dol; 50
For live I will not, if my father die.
Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son,
Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.
Come, side Ree: together live and die,
And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.
[Eceunt.

 

ScENE VI.—A Field of Battle.

Alarum: Excursions, wherein TALBOT’S Son is
hemmed about, and TALBOT rescues him.

Tal. Saint George and victory! fight, soldiers, fight!
The regent hath with Talbot broke his word,
And left us to the rage of France his sword.
Where is John Talbot ?—pause, and take thy breath:
I gave thee life, and rescu'd thee from death.

John. O, twice my tather! twice am I thy son:
The life thou gav’st me first was lost and done;
Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate,
To my determin’d time thou gav’st new date.

Tal. When from the Dauphin’s crest thy sword

struck fire, 10

It warm’d thy father's heart with proud desire
Of bold-fac’d victory. Then leaden age,
Quicken’d with youthful spleen and warlike rage,
Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy,
And from the pride of Gallia rescu’d thee.
The ireful Bastard Orleans, that drew blood
From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood
Of thy first fight, | soon encountered,
And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed
Some of his bastard blood; and, in disgrace, 20
Bespoke him thus: ‘‘ Contaminated, base,
And misbegotten blood I spill of thine,
Mean and right poor ; for that pure blood of mine,
Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy :’—
Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy,
Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care,
Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou fare?
Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly,
Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry ?
Fly to revenge my death, when I am dead; 30
The help of one stands me in little stead. ~
O! too much folly is it, well I wot,
To hazard all our lives in one small boat.

 

 
 

Scene VIL]

KING HENRY VIL—PART I. 43

 

 

If I to-day die not with Frenchmen’s rage,
To-morrow I shall die with mickle age :

By me they nothing gain, and if I stay,

Tis but the short’ning of my life one day.

In thee thy mother dies, our household’s name,

My desth revenge, thy youth, and England’s
‘ame.
All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay; 40

All these are sav’d, if thou wilt fly away.
John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me

smart ;
These wons of yours draw life-blood from my
eart.
On that advantage, bought with such a shame,

To save a paltry life, and slay bright fame,
Before ae from old 'Talbot fly,
The coward horse that bears me fall and die!
And like me to the peasant boys of France,
To be shame’s scorn, and subject of mischance!
Surely, by all the glory you have won, 50
AnifI fly, 1am not Talbot’s son :
Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot ;
If son to Talbot, die at Talbot’s foot. :
Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete,
Thou Icarus. Thy life to me is sweet: |
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father’s side,
And, commendable prov’d, let’s die in pride. [Hxeunt.

ScenE VII.—Another Part of the Same.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter TALBOT, wounded,

supported by a Servant.

Tal. Wnere is my other life ?—mine own is gone:
O, where’s young 'albot? where is valiant John }—
Triumphant death, smear’d with captivity,

Young Talbot’s valour makes me smile at thee.—
When he perceiv’d me shrink, and on my knee,

 

 

 

Tal. “‘ His bloody sword he brandish'd over me.”

His bloody sword he brandish’d over me,
And like a hungry lion did commence
Rough deeds of rage, and stern impatience ;
But when my angry guardant stood alone,
Tend ring my ruin, and assail’d of none, 10
ae d fury, and great rage of heart,
Suddenly made him from my side to start
Into the clust’ring battle of the French :
And in that sea of blood my boy did drench

is overmounting spirit ; and there died
My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride.

 

Enter Soldiers, bearing the body of JOHN TALBOT.

Serv. O my dear lord! Jo, where your son is borne!
Tal. Thou antick death, which laugh’st us here to
scorn,
Anon, from thy insulting tyranny,
Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, 20
Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky,
In thy despite shall 'scape mortality.—
O! thou whose wounds become hard-favour’d death,
Speak to thy father, ere thou yield thy breath :
Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no;
Imagine him a Frenchman, and thy foe.—
Poor boy! he smiles, methinks, as who should say,
Had death been French, then death had died to-day.
Come, come, and lay him in his father’s arms.
My spirit can no longer bear these harms. 30
Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have,
Now wy old arms are young John Talbot's grave.
[Dies.
Alarums. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leaving the
two bodies. Enter CUARLES, ALENGON, BURGUNDY,
BasTaRD, LA PUCELLE, and Forces.

Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in,
We should heve found a bloody day of this.

Bast. How Pigs young whelp of Talbot’s, raging-

wood,
Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen’s blood!

Puc. Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said:
“Thou maiden youth, be vanquish’d by a maid ;”
But, with a ae majestical high scorn,

He answered thus: ‘‘ Young Talbot was not born 40
To be the pillage of a giglot wench.”

So, rushing in the bowels of the French,

He left me proudly, as unworthy fight.

Bur. Doubtless, he would have made a noble knight;
See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms
Of the most bloody nurser of his harms.

Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder,
Whose life was England’s glory, Gallia’s wonder.

Char. O, no! forbear; for that which we have

fled
During the life, let us not wrong it dead. 50

Enter Sir W1LuIAM Lucy, attended; a French
Herald preceding.

Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin’s tent,
To know who hath obtain’d the glory of the day.
Char. On what submissive message art thou sent?
Lucy. ee aa toca Dauphin! ’tis a mere French
word ;
We English warriors wot not what it means.
I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta’en,
And to survey the bodies of the dead.
Char. For prisoners ask’st thou? hell our prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek’st.
Lucy. But where’s the great Alcides of the field, 60
Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury,
Created, for his rare success in arms,
Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence ;
Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield,
Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton,
Lord Cropayell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Shef-
eld,
The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge,
Knight of the noble order of Saint George,
Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece,
Great Mareshal to Henry the Sixth 70
Of all his wars within the realm of France ?
Puc. Here is a silly stately style indeed !
The Turk, that two-and-fifty kingdoms hath,
Writes not so tedious a style as this.-—
Him, that thou magnifiest with all these titles,
Stinking, and fly-blown, lies here at our feet.
Lucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen’s only scourge,
Your kingdom’s terror and black Nemesis?
O! were mine eyeballs into bullets turn’d,
That Lin rage might shoot them at your faces! 80
O, that I could but call these dead to life!
It were enough to fright the realm of France.
Were but his picture left among you here,

 

 
 

 

 

44 KING HENRY VIL—PART I.

[Acr V,

 

It would amaze the proudest of you all.
Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence,
And give them burial as beseems their worth.
Puce. I think, this upstart is old Talbot’s ghost,
He speaks with such a proud-commanding spirit.
For God's sake, let him have ’em; to keep them

here,
They would but stink, and putrefy the air. 90

Cae Go, take their bodies pe
ucy. “ll bear them h :
But from their ashes shall be reard ° pee
A phoenix that shall make all France afeard.
Char, pei be rid of them, do with ‘em what thou
wilt.
And now to Paris, in this conquering vein:

All will be ours, now bloody Talbot’s slain. [Hxeunt.

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—London.

  
  
 

King Henry.
AVE you perus'd the letters from the

pope,

The emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?
Glo. 1 have, my lord; and their intent

is this :—

They humbly sue unto your excellence,
To have a godly peace concluded of
Between the realms of England and

of France.
AX. Hen. How doth your grace affect
their motion ?

Glo. Well, my good lord ; and as the only

means

To stop effusion of our Christian blood,

And ’stablish quietness on every side. 10
ix. Hen. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always

thought,

It was both impious and unnatural,

That such immanity and bloody strife

Should reign among professors of one faith.
Glo. Beside, my lord, the sooner to etfect,

And surer bind, this knot of amity,

The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles,

A man of great authority in France,

Proffers his only daughter to your grace

In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry. 20
4K. Hen. Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are

young,
And fitter is my study and my books
Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.
Yet, call the ambassadors; and, as you please,
So let them have their answers every one :
I shall be well content with any choice
Tends to God’s glory and my country’s weal.

Enter a Legate and two Ambassadors, with
WINCHESTER in a cardinal's habit.
Exe. What! is my Lord of Winchester install’d,
And call’d unto a cardinal’s degree ?
Then, I perceive, that will be verified, 30
Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy,-—-
‘‘Tf once he come to be a cardinal,
He'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.”
K. Hen. My lords ambassadors, your several suits
Have been consider’d and debated on.
Your purpose is both good and reasonable ;
And, therefore, are we certainly resolv’d
To draw conditions of a friendly peace ;
Which, by my Lord of Winchester, we mean
Shall be transported presently to France. 40
Glo, And for the proffer of my lord your master,
I have inform’d his highness so at large,
As—liking of the lady's virtuous gifts,

 

A Room in the Palace.
Enter King HENRY, GLOSTER, and EXETER.

Her beauty, and the value of her dower—
He doth intend she shall be England's queen.
4A. Hen. In argument and proof of which contract,
Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.—
And so, my lord protector, see them guarded,
And safely brought to Dover ; where, inshipp’d,
Commit them to the fortune of the sea.
[Exeunt King HENRY and Train; GLOSTER,
EXETER, and Ambassador's.
Win. Stay, my lord legate: you shall first receive
The sum of money, which I promised
Should be deliver d to his holiness
For clothing me in these grave ornaments.
Leq. I will attend upon your lordship’s leisure.
Win. Now, Winchester will not submit, I trow,
Or be inferior to the proudest peer.
Humphrey of Gloster, thou shalt well perceive,
That, neither in birth, or for authority,
The bishop will be overborne by thee: 60
I'll either make thee stoop, and bend thy knee,
Or sack this country with a mutiny. [Exeunt.

Scene T.—France. Plains in Anjou.

Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, La PUCELLE,
and Forces, marching.
Char. These news, my lords, may cheer our droop-
ing spirits.

*T is said, the stout Parisians do revolt,
And ‘turn again unto the warlike French.

Alen, Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,
And keep not back your powers in dalliance.

Puc. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;
Else, ruin combat with their palaces!

Enter a Scout.
Scout. Success unto our valiant general,
And happiness to his accomplices ! :
Char. What tidings send our scouts? I pr viheg,

speak. Beans

Scout. The English army, that divided was
Into two parties, is now conjoin‘d in one,

And means to give you battle presently. ala

Char. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;
But we will presently provide for them.

Bur. J trust, the ghost of Talbot is not there:

Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.

Puc. Of all base passions fear is most accurs’d.—
Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine ;
Let Henry fret, and all the world repine. 20

Char. Then on, my lords ; and France be fortunate!

[Ezeunt.

 

 
 

Scene III.)

KING HENRY VI-PART I. 45

 

 

ScENE III.—The Same. Before Angiers.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter LA PUCELLE.

Puc. The regent conquers, and the Frenchmen fly.—
Now help, ye charming spells, and periapts ;
And ye choice spirits that admonish me,
And give me signs of future accidents: [Thunder.
You speedy helpers, that are substitutes
Under the lordly monarch of the north,
Appear, and aid me in this enterprise !

Enter Fiends.
This speedy and quick appearance argues proof
Of your accustom’d diligence to me.
Now, ye familiar spirits, that are cull’d 10
Out of the powerful legions under earth,
Help me this once, that France may get the field.
. [They walk, and speak not.
O! hold me not with silence over-long.
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,
I'll lop a member off, and give it you,
In earnest of a further benefit,
So you do condescend to help me now.—
(They hang their heads.
No hope to have redress ?—My body sha
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.
i They shake their heads.
Cannot my body, nor blood-sacrifice, 20
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ?
Then take my soul; my body, soul, and all,
Before that England give the French the foil.
[Vhey depart.
See! they forsake me. Now the time is come,
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest,
And let her head fall into England’s lap.
My ancient incantations are too weak,
And hell too strong for me to buckle with : ;
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. [Ezit.

Alarums. Enter French and English, fighting;
La PuceLtE and York fight hand to hand.
La PUCELLE is taken. The French fly.

York. Damsel of France, I think, I have you fast: 30

Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,

And try if they can gain your liberty.—

A goodly prize, fit for the devil’s grace !

See, how the ugly witch doth bend her brows,

As if, with Circe, she would change my shape.

Puc. Chang’d to a worser shape thou canst not be.
York, O! Charles the Dauphin is a proper man :

No shape but his can please your dainty eye.

Puc. A plaguing mischiet light on Charles, and
thee!

And may ye both be suddenly surpris’d 40

By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!

York. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy
tongue ! ,
Puc. I pr’ythee, give me leave to curse awhile.

York. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest_ to the
stake. [Ezxeunt.
Alarums. Enter SUFFOLK, leading in Lady

MARGARET.
Suf. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.
[Gazes on her.
O, fairest beauty ! do not fear, nor fly, :
For I will touch thee but with reverent hands.
I kiss these fingers for eternal peace,
And lay them gently on thy tender side.
Who art thou? say, that I may honour thee. _ 50
Mar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,
The King of Naples, whosoe’er thou art.
Suf. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call’d.
Be not offended, nature’s miracle,
Thou art allotted to be.ta’en by me:
So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,
Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings.
Yet, if this servile usage once offend,
Go, and be free again, as Suffolk’s friend. :
[She turns away as going.
O, stay !~I have no power to let her pass ; 60
My hand would free her, but my heart says—no.

 

As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,

‘’winkling another counterfeited beam,

So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.

Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak :

I’ll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.

Fie, de la Poole! disable not thyselt ;

Hast not a tongue? is she not here thy prisoner?

Wilt thou be daunted at a woman’s sight ?

Ay ; beauty’s princely majesty is such, 70

Confounds the tongue, and makes the senses rough.
Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so,

What ransom must I pay before I pass?

For, 1 perceive, Iam thy prisoner.

 

York. ‘‘ Damsel of France, I think, I have you fast.”

Suf. Lasederl How canst thou tel] she will deny thy

suit,
Before thou make a trial of her love?
Mar. Why speak’st thou not? what ransom must I

pay?
Suf. LAerde She’s beautiful, and therefore to be
woo'd;

She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Mar. Wilt thou accept of ransom, yea, or no? 80
Suf. [eee Fond man ! remember, that thou hast
a wife;

Then, how can Margaret be thy paramour?

Mar. I were best to leave him, for he will not hear.

Suf. [Aside.] There all is marr’d ; there lies a cool-
ing ecard.

Mar. He talks at random: sure, the man is mad.

Suf. [Aside.] And yet a dispensation may be had.

Mar. And yet I would that you would answer me.

Suf. [Aside.] Il win this Lady Margaret. For
whom ?

Why, for my king: tush! that’s a wooden thing.
Mar. He talks of wood: it is some carpenter. 90
Suf. [Aside.] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,

And peace established between these realms.

But there remains a scruple in that too;

For though her father be the King of Naples,

Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,

And our nobility will scorn the match.

Mar. Hear ye, captain? Are you not at leisure ?
Suf. [Aside.] It shall be so, disdain they ne’er so
much:

Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield.—

Madam, I have a secret to reveal. 100
Mar. [Aside.] What though I be enthrall’d? he

seems a knight,

And will not any way dishonour me.

 

 
 

46 KING HENRY VI—PART I.

[Act V,

 

 

Suf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.
Mar. {Aside.] Perhaps, I shall be rescu’d by the
French ;
And then I need not crave his courtesy.
Suf. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause—
Mar. LAside.] Tush! women have been captivate
ere now.
Suf. Lady, wherefore talk you so?
Mar. Icry you mercy, 'tis but guid for quo.
Suf. Say, gentle princess, would you not suppose 110
Your bondage happy, to be made a queen ?
Mar. To be a queen in bondage is more vile,
Than is a slave in base servility ;
For princes should be free.
suf. And so shall you,
If happy England’s royal king be free.
Mar. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?
Suf. I'll undertake to make thee Henry’s queen,
To put a golden sceptre in thy hand
And set a precious crown upon thy head,
If thou wilt condescend to be my—
Mar. What ? 120
Suf. His love.
Mar. 1am unworthy to be Henry’s wife.
Suf. No, gentle madam ; I unworthy am
To woo so fair a dame to be his witc,
And have no portion in the choice myself.
How say you, madam, are you so content ?
Mar. An if my father please, I am content.
Suf. Then call our captains, and our colours, forth !
And, madam, at your father’s castle walls
We'll crave a parley, to confer with him. 130
[Troops come forward.

A parley sounded. Enter REIGNIER, on the walls.
Suf. See, Reignier, see thy daughter prisoner.
Reig. To whom?
Suf.

Reig. Suffolk, what remedy ?
Iam a soldier, and unapt to weep,
Or to exclaim on fortune’s fickleness.
Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord:
Consent, and for thy honour give consent,
Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king ;
Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto,
And this her easy-held imprisonment
Hath gain’d thy daughter pone liberty. 140
Reig. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?
Su Fair Margaret knows,

Suf.
That Sutfolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.
Reig. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend,
To give thee answer of thy just demand.
[Exit from the walls.
Suf. And here I will expect thy coming.

Tome.

Trumpets sounded. Enter REIGNIER, below.
Reig. Welcome, brave earl, into our territories :
Command in Anjou what your honour pleases.
Suf. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,
Fit to be made companion with a king.
What answer makes your grace unto my suit ? 150
Reig. Since thou dost deign to woo her little
worth,
To be the princely bride of such a lord,
Upon condition I may quietly
Enjoy mine own, the counties Maine and Anjou,
Free from oppression or the stroke of war,
My daughter shall be Henry’s, if he please.
Suf. That is her ransom, I deliver her ;
And those two counties, I will undertake,
Your grace shall well and quietly enjoy.
Reig. And I again in Henry’s royal name, 160
As deputy unto that gracious king,
Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith.
Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,
Because this is in traffic of a king:
[Aside.] And yet, methinks, I could be well content
To be mine own attorney in this case.—
I'll over then to England with this news,
And make this marriage to be solemnis’d.
So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe
In golden palaces, as it becomes. 170

 

fcig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace
The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here,

Mar. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and

prayers,
Shall Sufiolk ever have of Margaret. [Going.

Suf. Hensel, sweet madam! But hark you, Mar.

garet:
No princely commendations to my king?

Mar. Such commendations as become a maid,
A virgin, and his servant, say to him.

Suf. Words sweetly plac’d, and modestly directed.
But, madam, I must trouble you again,— 180
No loving token to his majesty ?

Mar. Yes, my good lord ; a pure unspotted heart,
Never yet taint with love, {send the king.

Suf. And this withal. [Kisses her,

Mar. That for thyself: I will not so presume,

To send such peevish tokens to a king.
[Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET,

Suf. O, wert thou for myself !—But, Suffolk, stay ;
Thou may’st not wander in that labyrinth :

There Minotaurs, and ugly treasons, lurk.

Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise : 190

Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount,

And natural graces that extinguish art ;

Repeat their semblance often on the seas,

That, when thou com’st to kneel at Henry’s feet,

Thou may’st bereave him of his wits with wonder.
[Evit.

ScENE IV.—Camp of the Duke of York, in Anjou.

Enter YoRK, WARWICK, and others.

York. pene forth that sorceress, condemn’d to
urn.

Enter LA PUCELLE, guarded; and a Shepherd.

Shep. Ah, Joan! this kills thy father’s heart out-
right.
Have I sought every country far and near,
And, now it is my chance to find thee out,
Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?
Ah, Joan! sweet daughter Joan, Ill die with thee.
Puc. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch !
Iam descended of a gentler blood :
Thou art no father, nor no friend, of mine.
Shep. Out, out !—My lords, an please you, ’t is not so;
I did beget her, all the parish knows: ll
Her mother liveth yet, can boeed :
She was the first fruit of my bachelorship.
War. Graceless! wilt thou deny thy parentage?
York. This argues what her kind of life hath been:
Wicked and vile ; and so her death concludes.
Shep. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle !
God knows, thou art a collop of my flesh,
And for thy sake have I shed many a tear:
Deny me not, I pr’ythee, gentle Joan. 20
Puc. Peasant, avaunt!— You have suborn’d this
man,
Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. "
Shep. ’T is true, I gave a noble to the priest,
The morn that I was wedded to her mother.—
Kneel down, and take my blessing good my girl.—:
Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time
Of thy nativity! I would, the milk
Thy mother gave thee, when thou suck’dst her breast,
Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake!
Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field, 30
I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee!

Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab? .
O! burn her, burn her: hanging is too good. — [Ezit.
York. Take her away; for she hath lived too long,

To fill the world with vicious qualities.
Puc. First, let me tell you whom you have con-
demn’d;
Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,
But issu'd from the progeny of kings ;
Virtuous, and holy ; chosen from above,
By inspiration of celestial grace, 40
To work exceeding miracles on earth.
I never had to do with wicked spirits :

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY VI-—PART I. 47

 

 

But you,—that are polluted with your lusts,

Stain’d with the guiltless blood of innocents,

Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, —

Because you want the grace that others have,

You judge it straight a thing impossible

To compass wonders, but by help of devils.

No, misconceived! Joan otf Arc hath been

A virgin from her tender infancy, 50

Chaste and immaculate in very thought;

Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously etfus’d,

Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.
ork, Ay, ay.— Away With her to execution !

War. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,

Spare for no fagots, let there be enow :

Place barrels ot pitch upon the fatal stake,

That so her torture may be shortened.

TTY
st ; :

 

    

[=>

  

 

 

Shep. ‘* Deny me not, I pr’ythee, gentle Joan.”

Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts ?--
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, 60
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege.—

Iam with child, ye bloody homicides:

Murder not then the fruit within my womb,

Although ye hale me to a violent death.

York. oa Peenen forfend! the holy maid with
c

War. The greatest miracle that e’er ye wrought!

Is all your strict preciseness come to this?

York. She and the Dauphin have been juggling:
I did imagine what would be her refuge.

War. Well, go to: we will have no bastards live ; 70
Especially, since Charles must father it.

uc. You are deceiv’d; my child is none of his:
It was Alencon, that enjoy’d my love.
York. Alengon, that notorious Machiavel !
It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.
Puc. O! give me leave; I have deluded you:
‘T was neither Charles, nor yet the duke I nam’d,
But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail’d.
War. A married man: that’s most intolerable.
York. Why, here’s a girl! I think, she knows not
well, 80
There were so many, whom she may accuse.
. War. It’s sign she hath been liberal and free.

York. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.—
Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat, and thee:
Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.

Puc. Then lead me hence ;—with whom I leave my

curse.
May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode ;
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you, till mischief, and despair,
Drive you to break your necks, or hang yourselves!
Lxit, guarded.

 

York. Break thou in pieces, and consume to ashes,
Thou foul accursed minister of hell!

Enter Cardinal BEAUFORT, attended.

Car. Lord regent, I do greet your excellence
With letters of commission from the king.
For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,
Mov'd with remorse of these outrageous broils,
Have earnestly implor’d a general peace
Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French ;
And here at hand the Dauphin, and his train, 100
Approacheth to confer about some matter.

Doak, Is all our travail turn’d to this ettect ?
After the slaughter of so many peers,
So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers,
That in this quarrel have been overthrown,
And sold their bodies for their country’s benefit,
Shall we at last conclude etteminate peace ?
Have we not lost most part of all the towns,
By treason, falsehood, and by treachery,
Our great progenitors had conquered ?7— 110
O, Warwick, Warwick ! I foresee with grief
The utter loss of all the realm of France.

War. Be patient, York! if we conclude a peace,
It shall be with such strict and severe covenants
As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.

Enter CHARLES, attended ; ALENGON, BASTARD,
REIGNIER, and others.

Char. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed,
That peaceful truce shall be proclaim’d in France,
We come to be informed by yourselves
What the conditions of that league must be.

York. Speak, Winchester ; for boiling choler chokes
The hollow passage of my poison’d voice, 121
By sight of these our baleful enemies.

Win. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus :—
That, in regard King Henry gives consent,

Of mere compassion and ot lenity,

To ease your country of distresstul war,

And suffer you to breathe in fruittul peace,

You shall become true liegemen to his crown.

And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear

To pay him tribute, and submit thyself, 130
Thou shalt be plac’d as viceroy under him,

And still enjoy thy regal dignity.

len. Must he be then as shadow of himself?

Adorn his temples with a coronet,
And yet, in substance and authority,
etain but privilege of a private man?

This protter is absurd and reasonless.

Char. ’Tis known already that I am possess’d
With more than half the Gallian territories,

And therein reverenc’d for their lawful king: 140
Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish’d,

Detract so much from that prerogative,

As to be call'd but viceroy of the whole?

No, lord ambassador ; I'll rather keep

That which I have, than, coveting for more,

Be cast from possibility of all.

York. Insulting Charles!

means
Us’d intercession to obtain a league,
And, now the matter grows to compromise,
Stand’st thou aloof upon comparison ? 150
Either accept the title thou usurp’st,
Of benefit proceeding from our king,
And not of any challenge of desert,
Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.

Reig. My lord, you do not well in obstinacy
To cavil in the course of this contract :

If once it be neglected, ten to one,
We shall not find like opportunity.

Alen. [Aside to CHARLES.) To say the truth, it is

your policy
To save your subjects from such massacre, 160
And ruthless slaughters, as are daily seen
By our proceeding in hostility ;
And therefore take this compact of a truce,
Although you break it when your pleasure serves.

War. Hoss Cane thou, Charles? shall our condition

stan

hast thou by secret

 

 
 

 

48 KING HENRY VI-PART I.

Char. It shall;
Only reserv’d, you claim no interest
In any of our towns of garrison. .
York. Then swear allegiance to his majesty ;
As thou art knight, never to disobey, 170
Nor be rebellious to the crown ot England,
Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown ot England.—
[CHARLES, and his Nobles, give tokens of fealty.
So; now dismiss your army when ye please:
Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still,
For here we entertain a solemn peace. (Exeunt.

ScENE V.—London. <A Room in the Palace.

Enter King HENRY, in conference with SUFFOLK ;
GLOSTER and EXETER following.
K. Hen. Your wondrous rare description, noble earl,
Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish’d me:
Her virtues, graced with external gifts,
Do breed love’s settled passions in my heart ;
And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts
Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide,
So am I driven, by breath of her renown,
Hither to sutter shipwrack, or arrive
Where I may have fruition of her love.
Suf. Tush! my good lord, this superficial tale 10
Is but a preface of her worthy praise :
The chief perfections of that lovely dame
(Had I sutticient skill to utter them)
Would make a volume of enticing lines,
Able to ravish any dull conceit.
And, which is more, she is not so divine,
So full replete with choice of all delights,
But, with as humble lowliness of mind,
She is content to be at your command;
Command, I mean, of virtuous chaste intents, 20
To love and honour Henry as her lord.
ds. Hen. And otherwise will Henry ne’er presume.
Therefore, my lord protector, give consent,
That Margaret may be England's royal queen.
Glo. So should I give consent to flatter sin.
You know, my lord, your highness is betroth’d
Unto another lady ot esteem;
How shall we then dispense with that contract,
And not deface your honour with reproach ?
Suf. As doth a ruler with unlawful oaths ; 30
Or one that, at a triumph having vow'd
To try his strength, forsaketh yet the lists
By reason of his adversary’s odds.
A poor earl’s daughter is unequal odds,
And therefore may be broke without offence.
Glo. Why, what, I pray, is Margaret more than that ?
Her father is no better than an earl,
Aihough in glorious titles he excel.
Suf. Yes, my good lord, her father is a king,
The King of Naples and Jerusalem ; 40
And of such great authority in France,
As his alliance will confirm our peace,
And keep the Frenchmen in allegiance.
Glo. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do,
Because he is near kinsman unto Charles.
Exe. Bee. his wealth doth warrant a liberal
ower,
Where Reignier sooner will receive than give.

 

 

[Acr V.

Suf. A dower, my lords! disgrace not so your

ing,
That he should be 80 abject, base, and poor,
Yo choose for wealth, and not for perfect love. 50
Henry is able to enrich his queen,
And not to seek a queen to make him rich.
So worthless peasants bargain for their wives,
As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse.
Marriage is a matter of more worth
Than to be dealt in by attorneyship :
Not whom we will, but whom his grace affects,
Must be companion of his nuptial bed ;
And therefore, lords, since he aftects her most,
It most of all these reasons bindeth us,
In our opinions she should be preferr’d.
For what is wedlock forced, but a hell,
An age of discord and continual strife ?
Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss,
And is a pattern of celestial peace.
Whom ous we match with Henry, being a
<1ng,

But Margaret, that is daughter to a king?
Her peerless feature, joined with her birth,
Approves her fit for none but for a king:
Her valiant courage, and undaunted spirit, 70
(More than in women commonly is seen,)
‘Will answer our hope in issue of a king ;
For Henry, son unto a conqueror,
Is likely to beget more conquerors,
If with a lady of so high resolve,
As is fair Margaret, he be link’d in love.
‘Then yield, my lords ; and here conclude with me.
That Margaret shall be queen, and none but she.

«A. Hen. Whether it be through force of your re-

port,

My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that 80

My tender youth was never yet attaint

With any passion of intlaming love,

I cannot tell; but this Iam assur’d,

I teel such sharp dissension in my breast,

Such fierce alarums both of hope and fear,

As lam sick with working of my thoughts.

Take, therefore, shipping ; post, my lord, to France;

Agree to any covenants, and procure

That Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come

To cross the seas to England, and be crown’d 90

King Henry’s faithful and anointed queen.

For your expenses and sufficient charge,

Among the people gather up a tenth.

Be gone, I say ; for till you do return,

I rest perplexed with a thousand cares,—

And you, good uncle, banish all offence:

If you do censure me by what you were,

Not what you are, I know it will excuse

This sudden execution of my will.

And so conduct me, where from company 100

I may revolve and ruminate my grief. [Evzit.

Glo, Ay, grief, I fear me, both at first and last.

[Exveunt GLOSTER and EXETER.

Suf. Thus Suffolk hath prevail’d; and thus he

goes,
As did the youthful Paris once to Greece ;
With hope to find the like event in love,
But prosper better than the Trojan did. 3
Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king; _
But I will rule both her, the king, and realm. [£xit.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

DUKE oF MILAN, Father to Silvia.
eae \ the Two Gentlemen. |
ANTONIO, Father to Proteus.

TuHURIO, a foolish Rival to Valentine.
EGLaMouR, Agent for Silvia in her escape.
SPEED, a clownish Servant to Valentine.
LAuNCE, the like to Proteus.

PANTHINO, Servant to Antonio.

Host, where Julia lodges.
Outlaws with Valentine.

JULIA, beloved of Proteus.
SILVIA, beloved of Valentine.
Lucerra, Waiting-woman to Julia.

Servants, Musicians.

SCENE—Sometimes in VERONA, sometimes in MILAN, and on the frontiers of MANTUA,

ACT TI.
Scene I.—An open Place in Verona.
Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS.

Valentine.
EASE to _ persuade,
Proteus :
Home-keeping youth have ever
omely wits.
Were’t not affection chains thy
5 tender days
To the sweet glances of thy
honour’d love,
I rather would entreat thy com-

my loving

 

pany,
To see the wonders of the world abroad,
Than, living dully sluggardis’d at home,
Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein,
Even as I would, when I to love begin.
Pro. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu.
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel :
Wish me partaker in thy happiness,
When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee,
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.
al. And on a love-book pray for my success.
Pro. Upon some book I love, I’ll pray for thee.
Val. That’s on some shallow story of deep love,
How young Leander cross’d the Hellespont.
Pro. That’s a deep story of a deeper love,
For he was more than over shoes in love.
Val. ’Tis true ; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swum the Hellespont.
Pro. Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.
Val. No, I will not, for it boots thee not.
Pro. What?
Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought with

20

groans;
Coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading mOnEDE, ;

mirth,
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:
If haply won, perhaps, a hapless gain ;
If lost, ee then a grievous labour won :
However, but a folly bought with wit,
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
Pro. So, by your circumstance you call me fool.
Val. So, by your circumstance, I fear, you’ll prove.

 

Pro. ’Tis love you cavil at: Iam not Love.
Val. Love is your master, for he masters you ;
And he that is so yoked by a fool, 40
Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.
Pro. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
Val. And writers say, as the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn’d to folly; blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee,
That art a votary to fond desire ?
Once more adieu. My father at the road
Expects my coming, there to see me shipp’d.
Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.
Val. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.
To Milan let me hear from thee by letters,
Of thy success in love, and what news else
Betideth here in absence of thy friend ;
And [ likewise will visit thee with mine.
Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!
Val. As much to you at home! and so, sae? z
wit.

50

60

Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love:
He leaves his friends to dignify them more ;
I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love.
Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphos'd me ;
Made me neglect my studies, lose my time,
War with good counsel, set the world at nought,
Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought.

Enter SPEED.
Speed. Sir Proteus, save you. Saw you my master?
Pro. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan.
Speed Twenty to one then, he is shipp’d already,
And I have play’d the sheep in losing him. 73
Pro. Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,
An if the shepherd be awhile away.
Speed. You conclude, that my master is a shepherd
then, and I a sheep?
Pro. I do.
Speed. Why, then my horns are his horns, whelly

! I wake or sleep.

 

4

 
 

 

50 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

(Act I, |

 

Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep.

Speed. This proves me still a sheep.

Pro. ‘True, and thy master a shepherd,

Speed. Nay, that 1 can deny by a circumstance.

Pro. It shall go hard, but I'l] prove it by another.

Speed. ‘he shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the
sheep the shepherd ; but I seek my master, and my
master seeks not me: therefore, 1am no sheep.

Pro. ''he sheep tor fodder follow the shepherd, the
shepherd for tood follows not the sheep; thou for
wages followest thy master, thy master for wages
follows not thee: therefore, thou art a sheep. 92

Speed. Such another proof will make me cry ‘‘ baa.”
3 saree But dost thou hear? gav’st thou my letter to

ulia ?

Speed. Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter
to her, a laced mutton ; and she, a laced mutton, gave
me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour.

Pro. Here’s too smull a pasture for such store of
muttons, 10

Speed. If the ground be overcharg’d, you were best
stick her.

Pro. Nay, in that youare astray: ’t were best pound

you.
Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me
for carrying your letter.
Pro. You mistake: I mean the pound,—a pinfold.
Speed. From a pound to a pin? fold it over and

over,
"Tis Saner fold too little for carrying a letter to your
over.

Pro. But what said she? [SpeED nods.] Did she
nod? 110

Speed. I.

Pro. Nod, 1? why, that’s noddy.

Speed. You mistook, sir: I say she did nod; and
you ask me, if she did nod; and I say, I

Pro. And that set together, is noddy.

Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set it to-
gether, take it for your pains.

Pro. No,no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.

Speed. Well, 1 perceive I must be fain to bear with
you. 12u

Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me?

Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly ; having
nothing but the word noddy for my pains.

Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

Pro. Come, come; open the matter in bricf : what
said she?

Speed. Open your purse, that the money, and the
matter, may be both at once deliver'd.

Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains.
she ?

Speed. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.

; xo. Why? Couldst thou perceive so much from
her ?

Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her ;
no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter,
And being so hard to me that brought your mind, I
fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your mind.
Give her no token but stones. for she’s as hard as steel.

Pro. What! said she nothing? 140

Speed. No, not so much as—‘‘ Take this for thy
pains.” To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have
testern’d me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry
your letters yourself. And so, sir, 1°11 commend you
to my master.

Pro. Go, £0, be gone, to save your ship from wrack,
Which cannot perish, having thee aboard,

Being destin’d to a drier death on shore.—

I must go send some better messenger:

I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, 150
Receiving them from such a worthless post. [Excuné.

What said
131

 

ScENE II.—The Same. Juuia’s Garden.

Finter JuLIA and LUCETTA.

Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone,
Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love?

 

Luc. Ay, madam ; so you stumble not unheedfully,
Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen,
That every day with parle encounter me,
In thy opinion, which is worthiest love?
Luc. Se you, repeat their names, I’ll show my
min
eee to my shallow simple skill.
Jul, What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour?
Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat and fine; 10
But, were I you, he never should be mine.
Jul. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio?
Lue. Well of his wealth ; but of himself, so, so.
Jul. What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus?
Luc. Lord, Lord! to see what folly reigns in us!
Jul. How now! what means this passion at his
name?
Luc, Pardon, dear madam: ’t is a passing shame,
That I, unworthy body as Iam,
Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen.
Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 20
Luc. Then thus,—of many good I think him best.
Jul. Your reason ?
Luc. Ihave no other but a woman’s reason:
I think him so, because I think him so.
Jul. ane would.st thou have me cast my love on
im?
Luc, Ay, if you thought your love not cast away.
Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never mov’d me.
Luc. Yet he of all the rest, I think, best loves ye.
Jul. His little speaking shows his love but small.
Lue. Vire that’s closest kept burns most of all. 30
Jul. They do not love that do not show their love.
Lue, oO they love least, that let men know their
ove.
Jul. I would I knew his mind.

Lue. Peruse this paper, madam.
Jul. “To Julia.” Say, from whom ?
Lue. That the contents will show.

Jul, Say, say, who gave it thee?
Luc, Sir Valentine's page; and sent, I think, from
Proteus.
He would have given it you, but I, being in the way,
Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault, I

pray.
Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker!
Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines ? 40

‘'’o whisper and conspire against my youth ?
Now, trust me, ’tis an oftice of great worth,
And you an ofticer fit for the place.
There, take the paper: see it be return’d ;
Or else return no more into my sight.
Lue. » plead for love deserves more fee than
hate.
Jul. Will ye be gone?
Lue. That you may saan “
atl,
Jul, And yet, I would I had o’erlook’d the letter.
It were a shame to call her back again,
And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 50
What fool is she, that knows Iam a maid,
And would not force the letter to my view!
Since maids, in modesty, say ** No” to that
Which they would have the profferer construe, “Ay.”
Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love,
That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse,
And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod.
How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence,
When willingly I would have had her here:
How angerly I taught my brow to frown, | 60
When inward joy enfore'd my heart to smile.
My penance is, to call Lucetta back,
And ask remission for my folly past.—
What ho! Lucetta !

Re-enter LUCETTA,
Lue. What would your ladyship
Jul. Is it near dinner-time ?
uc. ; “ I would it were ;

That you might kill your stomach on your meat,
And not upon your maid.

Jul. What is’t that you took up so gingerly ?

Luc. Nothing.

 

 
 

Scene III.)

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 51

 

 

Jul. Why didst thou stoop then ?

Lue, To take a paper up
That I let fall.

Jul.

_ And is that paper nothing? 71
Luc. Nothing concerning me.
Jul. Then let it lie tor those that it concerns.
Luc. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns,
Unless it have a false interpreter.
Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme.
Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune:
Give me a note: your ladyship can set.
Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible :
Best sing it to the tune of ‘“‘ Light o’ love.” 80
Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune.
Jul. Heavy? belike, it hath some burden then.
Luc. Ay; and melodious were it, would you sing

it.
Jul. And why not you?
uc. TI cannot reach so high.

Jul. Let’s see your song.--How now, minion!

Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out:
And yet, methinks, I do not like this tune.

Jul. You do not? ,

Luc. No, madam ; it is too sharp.

Jul. You, minion, are too saucy.

Luc. Nay, now you are too flat,
And mar the concord with too harsh adescant: 90
There wanteth but a mean to fill your song.

Jul. The mean is drown’d with your unruly base.

Luce. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
Here is a coil with protestation !-~ [Tears the letter.
Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie:

You would be fingering them to anger me.
Luc. She makes it strange, but she would be best
pleas’d
To be so anger’d with another letter. [EB ait.

Jul. Nay, would I were so anger'd with the same !
O hateful hands! to tear such loving words: 01
Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey,

And kill the bees that yield it with your stings !

I'll kiss each several paper for amends.

Look, here is writ—‘‘ kind Julia.”--Unkind Julia!

As in revenge of thy ingratitude,

I throw thy name against the bruising stones,
Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain.

And here is writ---*‘ love-wounded Proteus.”—

Poor wounded name! my bosom, as a bed, 110
Shall lod se thee, till thy wound be throughly heal’d ;

 

Jul. “ Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away.”

And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.

But twice, or thrice, was Proteus written down :
Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away,

Till I have found each letter in the letter,

 

Except mine own name ; that some whirlwind bear
Unto a razzed, feartul-hanging rock,

And throw it thence into the raging sea !

Lo! here in one line is his name twice writ,—
“Poor forlorn Proteus ; passionate Proteus

To the sweet Julia :"—that I'll tear away ;
And yet I will not, sith so prettily

He couples it to his complaining names.

Thus will I fold them one upon another:

Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

120

Re-enter LUCETTA,

Luc. Madam,
Dinner is ready, and your father stays.

Jul. Well, let us go.

Lue. Wet \ shall these papers lie like tell-tales

ere?

Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up. 130

Lue. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down;
Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

Jul. I see, you have a month’s mind to them.

Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you

see;
I see things too, although you judge I wink.
Jul. Come, come ; will’t please yougo? ([EKzeunt.

ScENE III.—-The Same. A Room in ANTONIO’s House.

Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO.

Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that,
Wherewith my brother held yout in the cloister?

Pant. ’T was of his nephew Proteus, your son.

nt. Why, what of him ?

Pant. He wonder’d, that your lordship
Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,

While other men, of slender reputation,

Put forth their sons to seek preferment out :
Some, to the wars, to try their fortune there ;
Some, to discover islands far away ;

Some, to the studious universities. 10
lor any, or for all these exercises,

He said that Proteus, your son, was meet,

And did request me to importune you

To let him spend his time no more at home,
Which would be great impeachment to his age,
In having known no travel in his youth.

Ant. Nor need’st thou much importune mc to that

Whcereon this month I have been hammering.

I have consider’d well his loss of time,

And how he cannot be a perfect man, 20
Not being tried and tutor’d in the world:

Experience is by industry achiev’d,

And perfected by the swift course of time.

Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him?

Pant. I think, your lordship is not ignorant,

How his companion, youthful Valentine,
Attends the emperor in his royal court.
Ant. I know it well.
Pant. ’T were good, I think, your lordship sent him
thither.
There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 30
Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen,
And be in eye of every exercise,
Worthy_his youth, and nobleness of birth.

Ant. I like thy counsel: well hast thou advis'd ;
And, that thou may’st perceive how well I like it,
The execution of it shall make known.

Even with the speediest expedition
I will dispatch him to the emperor’s court.

Pant. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,
With other gentlemen of good esteem, 40
Are journeying to salute the emperor, |
And to commend their service to his will.

Ant. Good company; with them shall Proteus

go: :
And, in good time.—Now will we break with him.

Enter PROTEUS.
Pro. Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life !
Here is her hand, the agent of her heart ;

 

 
 

 

 

52

Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn.

O! that our fathers would applaud our loves,

To seal our happiness with their consents !

O heavenly Julia! ; 5
int. How now! what letter are you reading there?
Pro. May ’t please your lordship, ‘tis a word or two

Of commendations sent from Valentine,

Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.

Ant. Lend me the letter: let me see what news.
Pro. There is no news, my lord, but that he writes

How happily he lives, how well belov'd,

And aie graced by the emperor; —

Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune.
Ant. And how stand you attected to his wish?
Pro. As one relying on your lordship's will,

And not depending on his friendly wih. | 7
Ant. My will is something sorted with his wish.

Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed,

For what I will, I will, and there an end. |

Iam resolv'd, that thou shalt spend some time

With Valentinus in the emperor’s court: |

What maintenance he from his friends receives,

Like exhibition thou shalt have from me.

To-morrow be in readiness to go: 70

Excuse it not ; for Iam peremptory.

60

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

0 |

{Acr I.

Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided :
Please you, deliberate a day or two. 3
ant. oe what thou want’st shall be sent after
ee:
No more of stay ; to-morrow thou must go.—
Come on, Panthino : you shall be employ’d
To hasten on his expedition.
pee ANTONIO and PANTHINO,
Pro. Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear of burn.
ing,
And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown’d.
I fear'd to show my father Julia’s letter,
Lest he should take exceptions to my love ;
And, with the vantage of mine own excuse,
Hath he excepted most against my love.
OQ! how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by-and-by a cloud takes all away.

Re-enter PANTHINO.
Pant. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:

He is in haste ; therefore, I pray you, go. -
Pro. ae this it is: my heart accords thereto, 90
And yet a thousand times it answers, No. [Heunt.

 

 

 

 

ACT II.

ScENE I.—Milan.

   

Speed.
IR, your glove.
Val. Not mine; my gloves

are on.
Speed. Why, then this may be
yours, for thisis butane.
Val. Ha! let me see: ay, give
it me, it’s mine.—-
Sweet ornament, that decks a
thing divine!
Ah Silvia ! Silvia!
Speed. Madam Silvia!
Silvia!
Val. How now, sirrah ?
Speed. She is not within hearing,

Madam

sir.
Fal. Why, a who bade you call
oT

Speed. Your worship, sir; or else
I mistook.
Fal. Well, you'll still be too for-
ward.
Speed. And yet I was last chidden
for being too slow.
Tell me, do you know Madam

Fal. Go to, sir.
Silvia?

Speed. She that your worship loves?

Val. Why, how know you that I am in love?

Speed. Marry, by these special marks. First, you
have learn’d, like Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms,
like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin-
redbreast ; to walk alone, like one that had the pesti-
Jence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his
A BC; to weep, like a young wench that had buried
her grandam ; to fast, like one that takes diet; to
watch, iike one that fears robbing ; to speak puling,
like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when

 

A Room in the DuKr’s Palace.
inter VALENTINE and SPEED.

you laugh’d, to crow like a cock; when you walk’d,
to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was
presently after dinner ; when you look’d sadly, it was
tor want of money ; and now you are metamorphosed
with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can
hardly think you my master. 30

Val. Are all these things perceived in me?

Speed. They are all perceived without ye.

Fal. Without me? they cannot.

Speed. Without you? nay, that ‘scertain ; for, with-
out you were so simple, none else would: but you are
so without these follies, that these follies are within
you, and shine through you like the water in an
urinal, that not an eye that sees you, but is a physician
to comment on your malady.

Val. But, tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? 40

Speed. She, that you gaze on so, as she sits at
supper?

al. Hast thou observed that? even she I mean.

Speed. Why, sir, I know her not.

Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and
yet know'st her not?

Speed. Is she not hard-favour’d, sir?

Val. Not so fair, boy, as well-favour'd.

Speed. Sir, I know that well enough.

Val. What dost thou know ? 50

Speed. That she is not so fair, as (of you) well-
favour'd.

Fal. I mean, that her beauty is exquisite, but her
favour infinite.

Speed. That ’s because
other out of all count.

Val. How painted? and how out of count?

Speed. Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that
no man counts of her beauty.

Fal. How esteem’st thou me? I account of her
beauty. 61

the one is painted, and the

 

 
 

 

Scene ITI]

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 53

 

Speed. You never saw her since she was deform’d.

al. How long hath she been deform'd?

Sneed. Ever since you loved her.

al. I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still
I see her beautiful.
Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her.
al. Why? z 2

Speed. Because Love is blind. O! that you had
mine eyes ; or your own eyes had the lights they were
wont to have, when you chid at Sir Proteus for
going ungartered ! 72

Val. What should I see then?

Speed. Your own present folly, and her passing
deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to
garter his hose ; and you, being in love, cannot see to
put on your hose. ’

Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love; for last
morning you could not see to wipe my shoes.

Speed. True, sir; I was in love with my bed. I
thank you, you swinged me for my love, which
makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. 82

Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her.

Speed. I would you were set, so your adection would
cease.

Fal. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines
to one she loves.

Speed, And have you?

al. I have.

Speed. Are they not lamely writ? 90

Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them.—Peace!
here she comes.

Speed, O excellent motion!
Now will he interpret to her.

Enter SILVia.

Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-mor-
rows.
Speed. O! ’give ye good even: here’s a million of
manners.

Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two oheu.

1

O exceeding puppet!

sand.
Specd. He should give her interest, and she gives it
m,

Val. As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter
Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;

Which I was much unwilling to proceed in,

But for my duty to your ladyship.
Sil. I thank you, gentle servant.

done.

Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off ;
For, being ignorant to whom it goes, 110
I writ at random, very doubtfully.

Sil. Perchance you think too much of so much
pains ?

Val. No, madam: so it stead you, I will write,
Hlewse you command, a thousand times as much.

nd yet,—

Sil. A pretty period. Well, I guess the sequel ;
And yet I will not name it ;—and yet I care not ;—
And yet take this again ;—and yet I thank you,
Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 120

Speed. And yet you wil) ; and yet another yet.
it? al. What means your ladyship? do you not like
i

Sil. Yes, yes: the lines are very quaintly writ,

But since unwillingly, take them again.

Nay, take them.

Val. Madam, they are for you.

Sil. Ay, ay; you writ them, sir, at my request,

But I will none of them; they are for you.

I would have had them writ more movingly. 130
Val. Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another.
Sil. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over:

And, if it please you, so; if not, why, so.

Val. If it please me, madam ; what then ?

Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour :,
And so good morrow, servant. an [Exit

Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,

As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on u

steeple !

My master sues to her, and she hath taught her

suitor,

’Tis very clerkly

 

He being her pupil, to become her tutor. 140

O excellent device ! was there ever heard a better,

That my master, being scribe, to himself should write
the letter ?

Val. How now, sir! what, are you reasoning with
yourself ?

Speed. Nay, I was rhyming: ’tis you that have the
reason.

Vul. To do what?

Speed. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia.

val. To whom ?

Speed. To yourself. Why, she wooes you by a
figure. 151

Val. What figure ?

Speed. By a letter, I should say.

Val. Way, she hath not writ to me?

Speed. What need she, when she hath made you
ue to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the
jest?

Val. No, believe me.

Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir: but did you
perceive her earnest ? 160

Val. She gave me none, except an angry word.

Speed. Why, she hath given you a lecter.

Vat. 'That’s the letter 1 writ to her friend.

Speed. And that letter hath she deliver’d, and there
an end.

Val. I would it were no worse !

Speed, I’ warrant you, ‘tis as well:

For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty,
Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply ;
Or fearing else some messenger, that might her mind

discover, 170
Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her
over

All this I speak in print, for in print I found it.—Why
muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time.

Val. Ihave dined.

Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir: though the chameleon
Love can feed on the air, lam one that am nourish’d
by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O! be not
like your mistress: be moved, be moved. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Verona. A Room in JuLIA’s House.

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA.

Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia.

Jul. I must, where is no remedy.

Pro. When possibly I can, I will return.

Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner.
Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake. :

' [Giving a ring.

aes Why, then we’ll make exchange: here, take
you this.

Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy ;
And when that hour o’erslips me in the day,
Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 10
The next ensuing hour some foul mischance

. Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness.

My father stays my coming; answer not.
The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears ;
That tide will stay me longer than I should.
(Bait JULIA.
Julia, farewell.—What ! gone without a word ?
Ay, 80 true love should do: it cannot speak ;
For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

Enter PANTHINO.

Pant. Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for.
Pro... , : o; I come, I come.—
Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. 20
[Exeunt.

Scene III.—The Same. A Street.

Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog.

Launce. Nay, ‘twill be this hour ere I have done
weeping: all the kind of the Launces have this very

 

 
 

 

 

ot THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA,

(Acr IT.

 

fault. I have received my proportion, like the pro-
digious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the
imperial’s court. I think Crab, my dog, be the
sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping,
my father wailing, ny sister crying, our maid howiing,

 

that cannot be so, neither :—yes, it is so, it is so: i
hath the worser sole. This shoe, with the hole in it i
my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on’t!
there ‘tis: now, sir, this staff is my sister; for, look
you, she is as white as a lily, and as small as a wand:

Sil. “ Why, if it please you, take It for your labour.”

our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a
great perplexity, vet, did not this cruel-hearted cur
shed one tear.’ He is a stone, a very pebble-stone,
and has no more pity in him than a dog; a Jew
would have wept to have seen our parting : why, my
grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself
blind at. my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the manner
of it. This shoe is my father :—no, this left shoe is
my father ;—no, no, this left shoe is my mother ;—nay,

| this hat is Nan, our maid: Iam the dog ;—no, the dog

is himself, and I am the dog,—O ! the dog is me, and

am myself: ay, so, so. Now come I to my father;
“Father, your blessing :” now should not the shoe
speak a word for weeping: now should I kiss my
father ; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother ;
—O, that she could speak now, like a wood woman !—
well, I kiss her; why, there 'tis, here's my mother’s
breath up and down. Now come I to my sister ; mark

 

 
 

Scene IV.]J

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 55

 

 

the moan she makes: now, the dog all this while
sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay
the dust with my tears. 33

Enter PANTHINO.

Pant. Launce. away, away, aboard: thy master is
shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s
the matter? why weep’st thou, man? Away, ass;
you'll lose the tide, if you tarry any longer.

 

Launce. “ But see how I lay the dust with my tears.”

Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost ; for it
is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

Pant. What’s the unkindest tide? 40

Launce. Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog.

Pant. Tut, man, I mean thow’lt lose the flood; and,
in losing the flood, lose thy voyage; and, in losing thy
voyage, lose thy master; and, in losing thy master,
lose thy service; and, in losing thy service,.Why
dost thou stop my mouth ?

Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

Pant. Where should I lose my tongue ?

Launce. In thy tale.

Pant. In thy tail? 50

Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the
master, and the service, and the tied. Why, man, if
the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears;
if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with
my sighs.
e Pant. Come, come, away, man: I was sent to call
thee.

Launce. Sir, call me what thou dar’st.

Pant. Wilt thou go?

Launce. Well, I will go. 60

[Excunt.

 

Scenz IV.—Milan. A Room in the DuUKE’s Palace.

Enter VALENTINE, SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED.
Sil. Servant.

Val. Mistress ?

Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

Val. Ay, boy, it’s for love.

Speed. Not of you.

Val. Of my mistress then.

Speed. ’T were good you knock’d him.

Sil. Servant, you are sad.

Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so.

Thu. Seem you that you are not? 10

 

Val. Haply, I do.

Thu. So do counterfeits,

Val. So do you.

Thu. What seem I that Iam not?

Val. Wise.

Thu. What instance of the contrary ?

Val. Your folly.

Thu. And how quote you my folly?

Val. Tqucte it in your jerkin.

Thu. My jerkin is a doublet. 20

Val. Well, then, I’ll double your folly.

Thu. How?

Sil. What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?

Val. Give him leave, madam: he is a kind of cha-
meleon.

Thu. That hath more mind to feed on your blood,
than live in your air.

Val. You have said, sir.

Thu, Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

- Fal. I know it well, sir: you always end ere you
egin. 31

Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly
shot off.

Fal. ’Tis indeed, madam, we thank the giver.

Sil. Who is that, servant ?

Val. Yourself, swect lady; for you gave the fire.
Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks,
and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I
shall make your wit bankrupt. 40

Val. I know it well, sir: you have au exchequer of
words, and, I think, no other treasure to give your
followers ; for it appears by their bare liveries, that
they live by your bare words.

Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more.
my father.

Here comes

Einter the DUKE.

Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.

Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health :

What say you to a letter from your friends

Of much good news?

“al. My lord, I will be thankful 50

To any happy messenger from thence.

Duke. Know you Don Antonio, your countryman ?

+ Fal. Ay, my good lord; I know the gentleman

To be of worth, and worthy estimation,

And not without desert so well reputed.

Duke. Hath he not a son ?

Val. Ay, my good lord; a son, that well deserves
The honour and regard of such a father.

Duke. You know him well ?

Val. I know him as myself; forfrom our infancy 60
We have convers’d, and spent our hours together :
And though myself have been an idle truant,
Omitting the sweet benefit of time .

To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection,

Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name,

Made use and fair advantage of his days:

His years but young, but his experience old :

His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe :

And, in a word (for far behind his worth

Come all the praises that I now bestow), 70

He is complete in feature, and in mind,

With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

Duke. Beshrew me, sir, but, if he make this good,
He is as worthy for an empress’ love,

As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor.

Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me

With commendation from great potentates :

And here he means to spend his time awhile.

I think, ’tis no unwelcome news to you. %
Val. Should 1 have wish’d a thing, it had been he.
Duke. Welcome him then according to his worth.

Silvia, I speak to you; and you, Sir Thurio :— 82

For Valentine, I need not cite him to it. :

I’ll send him hither to you pean y [Exit.
Val. This is the gentleman, I told your ladyship,

Had come along with me, but that his mistress

Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks.

Sil. Belike, that now, she hath enfranchis’d them,
Upon some other pawn for fealty.

 

 
 

 

 

58 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. {Acr IL
Val. Nay, sure, I think, she holds them prisoners Val. And how do yours?
still. : 9 Pro. T left them all in health.
Sil. Nay, then he should be blind ; and, being blind, Val. How does your lady, and how thrives your

How could he see his way to seek out you?
Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes.
Thu. They say, that Love hath not an eye at all.
Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself :
Upon a homely object Love can wink.

Enter PRoTEvS.
Sil. Have done, have done. Here comes the gen-
tleman.
Val. Welcome, dear Proteus !—Mistress, I beseech
you,
Confirm his welcome with some special favour.
Sd. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither,
If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from. 101

love

Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary you:
I know, you joy not in a love-discourse.

Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now:
I have done penance for contemning Love;
Whose high imperious thoughts have punish’d me
With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs ; 130
For, in revenge of my contempt of Love,
Love hath chas’d sleep from my enthralled eyes,
And made them watchers of mine own heart's sorrow,
O gentle Proteus ! Love’s a mighty lord,
And hath so humbled me, as, I confess,
There is no woe to his correction,

 

|

ii
i

 

 

 

 

 

Sud.“ His worth is warrant for hls welcome hither.”

Val. Mistress, it is. Sweet eee entertain him
To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.
Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant.
Pro. Not so, sweet lady ; but too mean a servant
To have a look of such a worthy mistress.
Val. Leave off discourse of disability.- -
Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.
Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else.

Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed.
Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.
Pro. I'll die on him that says so, but yourself.

Sil. That you are welcome.
Pro. That you are worthless,

110

Enter a Servant.
Serv. Madam, my lord, your father, would speak
with you.
Sil. I wait upon_his pleasure. [Exit Servant.]
Come, Sir Tuurio,
Go with me.—Once more, new servant, welcome:
I'll leave you to confer of home-affairs ;
When you have done, we look to hear from you.
Pro. We'll both attend upon your ladyship.
[Exeunt SILVIA, THURIO, and SPEED.
Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you
came ? 120
Pro. Your friends are well, and have them much
commended.

 

' Nor to his service no such Joy on earth!

Now, no discourse, except it be of love ;

Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep,

Upon the very naked name of love. 40
vo. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye.

Was this the idol that you worship so? i

Val. Even she? and is she not a heavenly saint ?

Pro. No, but she is an earthly paragon.

Val. Call her divine.

Pro. I will not flatter her.

Val. O! flatter me, for love delights in praises.

Pro. When I was sick you gave me bitter pills,
And I must minister the like to you. ?—

Val. Then speak the truth by her: if not divine,
Yet let her be a principality, 150
Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth.

Pro. Except my mistress.

Val. Sweet, except not any,
Except thou wilt except against my love.

Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own?

Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too: ,

She shall be dignified with this high honour,—
To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss,
And, of so great a favour growing proud,
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, 160
And make rough winter everlastingly.
Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this?

 

 
 

Scene VI.]

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 57

 

 

Fal. Pardon me, Proteus: all I can, is nothing
To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing.
She is alone.

Pro. Then let her alone.

Val. Not for the world. Why, man, she is mine

own,
And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee,
Because thou seest me dote upon my love.
My foolish rival, that her father likes,
Only for his possessions are so huge,
Is gone with her along, and I must after,
For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy.
Pro. But she loves you?
Val; Ay, and we are betroth’d; nay, more, our
marriage-hour,
With all the cunning manner of our flight,
Determin’d of : how I must climb her window,
The ladder made of cords, and all the means
Plotted, and ’greed on, for my happiness.
Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber,
In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel.

Pro. Go on before ; I shall enquire you forth.
I must unto the road, to disembark
Some necessaries, that I needs must use,

And then I[’ll presently attend you.

Val. Will you make haste?

Pro. I will.- [Exit VALENTINE.
Even as one heat another heat expels, 190
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.

Is it mine eye, or Valentinus’ praise,

Her true perfection, or my false transgression,
That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus?
She’s fair, and so is Julia that I love, - -
That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d,
Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire,
Bears no impression of the thing it was.
Methinks, my zeal to Valentine is cold,

And that I love him not, as I was wont:

O! but I love his lady too too much ;

And that’s the reason I love him so little.
How shall I dote on her with more advice,
That thus without advice begin to love her?
Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,

And that hath dazzled my reason’s light ;
But when I look on her perfections,

There is no reason but I shall be blind.

If I can check my erring love, I will;

If not, to compass her Ill use my skill.

170

180

200

210
[Exit.

 

ScENE V.—The Same. A Street.

Enter SPEED and LAUNCE.

Speed. Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to
Padua!

Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I
am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man
is never undone, till he be hang’d; nor never welcome
to a place, till some certain shot be paid, and the
hostess say, ‘‘ Welcome !”

Speed. Come on, you madcap, I’ll to the ale-house
with you presently ; where for one shot of five pence
thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah,
how did thy master part with Madam Julia? 1

Launce. Marry, atter they closed in earnest, they
parted very fairly in jest.

Speed. But shall she marry him?

Launce, No.

eed How then? Shall he marry her?

aunce. No, neither.
Speed, What, are they broken ?
aunce, No, they are both as whole as a fish.
we Why then, how stands the matter math
em? 2

Launce. Marry, thus: when it stands well with
him, it stands well with her.

 

Speed. What anass art thou! I understand thee not.

Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not.
My staif understands me.

Speed. What thou say’st?

Launce. Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I’1L but
lean, and my staif understands mie.

Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 30

Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all
one.

Speed. But tell me true, will’t be a match?

Launce. Ask my dog: if he say, ay, it will; if he
say, mos it will; if he shake his tail, and say nothing,
it will.

Specd. The conclusion is then, that it will.

Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from
me, but by a parable.

Speed. "Lis well that I get itso. But, Launce, how
say’st thou, that my master is become a notable lover?

Launce. I never knew him otherwise. 42

Speed. Than how ?

. uae A notable lubber, as thou reportest him

0 be.

Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak’st me.

Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy
master.

Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.

Launce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn
himself in love. If thou wilt go with me to the ale-
house, so; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and
not worth the name of a Christian. 53

Speed. Why?

Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity
in thee, as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt

thou go?
Speed. At thy service. [Ezeunt.

 

ScENE VI.—The Same. An Apartment in the Palace.

inter PROTEUS.

Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn ;
To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ;
To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn ;
And even that power which gave me first my oath,
Provokes me to this threefold perjury :
Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear.
O sweet-suggesting Love ! if thou hast sinn’d,
Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it.
At first I did adore a twinkling star,
But now I worship a celestial sun. 10
Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ;
And he wants wit that wats resolved will
To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better.—
Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,
Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d
With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
I cannot leave to love, and yet [ do;
But there I leave to love, where I should love.
Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose:
If I keep them, I needs must lose myself, 20
If I lose them, thus find I, by their loss,
For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia.
I to myselt'am dearer than a friend,
For love is still most precious in itself ;
And Silvia (witness Heaven that made her fair !)
Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiop.
I will forget that Julia is alive,
Remembering that my love to her is dead;
And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy,
Aiming at Silvia, as a sweeter friend. 30
I cannot now prove constant to myself
Without some treachery used to Valentine :—
This night, he meaneth with a corded ladder
To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window ;
Myself in counsel, his competitor.
Now, presently Ill give her father notice
Of their disguising, and pretended flight ;
Who, all enrag’d, will banish Valentine,
For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter ;
But, Valentine being gone, T’ll quickly cross__ 40
By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding.

 

 
 

 

58

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

[Acr II.

 

 

Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift,
As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift! [Exit.

ScrNnE VII.—Verona. A Room in Jutia’s House,

Enter JULIA and LUCETTA.

Jul. Counsel, Lucetta ; gentle girl, assist me ;
And, e’en in kind love, I do conjure thee,
Who art the table wherein all my thoughts
Are visibly character'd and engrav’d,
To lesson me ; and tell me some good mean,
How, with my honour, I may undertake
A journey to my loving Proteus.
Luc, Alas! the way is wearisome and long.
Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary
To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps ;
Much less shall she, that hath Love’s wings to fly,
And when the flight is made to one so dear,
Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus.
Luc. Better forbear, till Proteus make return.
Jul. O! know’st thou not, his looks are my soul's
food?
Pity the dearth that I have pined in,
By longing for that food so long a time.
Didst thou but know the inly touch of love,
‘Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow,
As seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Luc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,
But qualify the fire’s extreme rage,
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
Jul. The more thou damm’st it up, the more it
burns.
The current, that with gentle murmur glides,
Thou know'st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage ;
But, when his fair course is not hindered,
He makes sweet music with the enamel! d stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ;
And so by many winding nooks he strays
With willing sport to the wild ocean.
Then, let me go, and hinder not my course.
I’) be as patient as a gentle stream,
And make a pastime of cach weary step,
Till the last step have brought me to my love;
And there I'll rest, as, after much turmoil,
A blessed soul doth in Elysium.
Luc. But in what habit will you go along?
Jul, Not like a woman; for | would prevent
The loose encounters of lascivious men.

20

30

40

| Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds
As may beseem some well-reputed page.

Luc. Why, then your ladyship must cut your hair

Jul. No, girl; I'll knit it up in silken strings
With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots :

To be fantastic, may become a youth
Of greater time than I shall show to be.

Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your

breeches?

Jul. That fits as well as—‘“ Tell me, good my lord, 50
What compass will you wear your farthingale?”
Why, even what fashion thou best lik’st, Lucetta.

Luc. You must needs have them with a codpiec

madam.

Jul. Out, out, Lucetta! that will be ill-favour’d.

Luc. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a pin,
Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.

Jul. Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have
What thou think’st meet, and is most mannerly.
But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me
jor undertaking so unstaid a journey ? 6)
I fear me, it will make me scandalis’d.

Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go not,

Jul. Nay, that I will not.

Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go.

If Proteus like your journey, when you come,
No matter who’s displeas'd, when you are gone.
I tear me, he will scarce be pleas’d withal.
Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear.
A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears,
And instances of infinite of love, 70
Warrant me welcome to my Proteus.

Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men.

Jul. Base men, that use them to so base ertect ;
But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth:

His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles ;

His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate ;

His tears pure messengers sent from his heart ;
His heart as far from traud, as heaven from earth.

Lue. ey Heaven, he prove so, when you come to

him !

Jul. Now, as thou lov’st me, do him not that wrong,
To bear a hard opinion of his truth: 81
Only deserve my love by loving him,

And presently go with me to my chamber,

‘lo take a note of what I stand in need of,

To furnish me upon my longing journey.

All that is mine [ leave at thy dispose,

My goods, my lands, my reputation ;

Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence.

Come, answer not, but to it presently :

; Lam impatient of my tarriance. 90
[Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

ACT ITtl.
ScENE I.—Milan. An Antechamber in the Dur’s Palace.
Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS.

Duke.
IR Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile:
& We have some secrets to confer about.—
[Exit THURIO.
Now, tell me, Proteus, what’s your will
with me?
Pro. My gracious lord, that which I
would discover,
The law of friendship bids me to conceal ;
But, when I call to mind your gracious favours
Done to me, undeserving as I am,

My duty pricks me on to utter that

Which else no worldly good should draw from me.
Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 10
This night intends to steal away your daughter
Myself am one made privy to the plot.

I know you have determin’d to bestow her

On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ;
And should she thus be stol’n away from you,

It would be much vexation to your age.

Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose

To cross my friend in his intended drift

 

 
 

|
|
|
|
|

 

Scene I.]

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF

VERONA. 59

 

Than, by concealing it, heap on your head
A pack of sorrows, Which would press you down, 20
Being unprevented, to your timeless grave.
Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care,
Which to requite, command me while I live.
This love of theirs myself have often seen,
Haply, when they have judg'd me fast asleep ;
An oftentimes have purpos’d to forbid
Sir Valentine her company, and my court ;
But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err,
And so unworthily disgrace the man
(A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d), 30
I gave him gentle looks ; thereby to find
That which thyself hast now disclos’d to me.
And, that thou may’st perceive my fear of this,
Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested,
I nightly lodge her in an upper tower,
The key whereof myself have ever kept ;
ind thenoe she cannot be convey’d away.
Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean
How he her chamber-window will ascend,
And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; 10
For which the youthful lover now is gone,
And this way comes he with it presently,
Where, if it please you, you may intercept him.
But, good my lord, do it so cunningly,
That my discovery be not aimed at ;
For love of you, not hate unto my friend,
Hath made me publisher of this pretence.
Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know
That I had any light trom thee of this. — ;
Pro. Adieu, my lord: Sir Valentine is coming. 50
(Lvit.
Enter VALENTINE.

Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ?

Val. Please it your grace, there is a messenger
That stays to bear my letters to my friends,

And Iam going to deliver them.

Duke. Be they of muchimport?

Val. The tenor of them doth but signify
My health, and happy being at your court. .

Duke. Nay, then no matter: stay with me awhile.
Tam to break with thee of some affairs,

That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 69

*t'is not unknown to thee, that I have sought

To match my friend, Sir Thurio, to my daughter.

Val. I know it well, my lord; and, sure, the match
Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentleman
Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities
Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter.

Cannot your grace win her to fancy him?

Duke. No, trust me: she is peevish, sullen, froward,
Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty ;

Neither regarding that she is my child, 70

Nor fearing me as if I were her father:

And, may | say to thee, this pride of hers,

Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ;

And, where I thought the remnant of mine age

Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty,

Inow am full resolv'd to take a wife,

And turn her out to who will take her in:

Then, let her beauty be her wedding-dower ;

For me and my possessions she esteems not. ‘
Val. What would your grace have me to do in this?
Duke. There is a lady in Verona here, 81

Whom I affect ; but she is nice, and coy,

And nought esteems my aged cloquence :

Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor

(For long agone I have forgot to court ;

Besides, the fashion of the time is chang’d),

How, and which way, I may bestow myself,

To be regarded in her sun-bright eye.

Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words.
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, 90
More than quick words do move a woman’s mind.

Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her.

A woman sometimes scorns what best con-
tents her.

Send her another ; never give her o’er,

For scorn at first makes after-love the more.

If she do frown, ’t is not in hate of you,

 

But rather to beget more love in you;
1f she do chide, ‘tis not to have you gone,
For why the tools are mad, if lett alone.
‘Take no repulse, Whatever she doth say ;
For, * get you gone” she doth not mean, ‘* away.”
Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their gracés ;
‘rhough ne’er so black, say they have angels’ taces.
That man that hath a tongue, | say, is no man,
1f with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
Duke, But she I mean is promis’d by her friends
Unto a youthful gentleman of worth,
And kept severely trom resort of men,
‘hat no man hath access by day to her.
Val. Why, then I would resort to Ler by night. 110
Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock'd, and keys kept

100

sare,
That no man hath recourse to her by night.
Val. What lets but one may enter at her window ?
Duke, Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,
And built so shelving, that one cannot climb it
Without apparent hazard of his life.
Val. Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,
To cast up, With a pair of anchoring hooks,
\Vould serve to scale another Hero's tower,
So bold Leander would adventure it. 120
Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood,
Advise me where { may have such a ladder.
Val. When would you use it? pray, sir, tell me that.
Duke. This very night; for Love 1s like a child,
That longs for everything that he can come by.
Val. By seven o'clock 1 'll get you such a ladder.
Duke. But hark thee ; I will go to her alone.
How shall I best convey the ladder thither /

Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
Under a cloak that is of any length. 130
Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn ?

Val. Ay, my good lord.
Duke. Then, let me see thy cloak :
I'll get me one of such another length.
Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.
Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak ?—
I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.—

 

Duke, “ And here an engine fit for my proceeding!"

What letter is this same? What’s here ?—“ To Silvia 2”
And here an engine fit for my proceeding !

I'll be so bold to break the seal for once. [Reads.
“My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly ; 140
«ind slaves they are to me, that send them flying :

O! could their master come and go as lightly,
Himself would lodge, where senseless they are lying.

My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them:
While I, their king, that thither them importun’,

Do curse the grace that with such grace hath biess’ad

them,
Because myself do want my servants’ fortune:

 

 
 

60 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

[Act III.

 

 

I curse myself, for they are sent by me, 2
That they should harbour where their lord should be.

What's here? 150
“ Silvia, this night Iwill enfranchise thee.”

’T is so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.
Why, Phaethon (for thou art Merops’ son),
Wilt thou a-pire to guide the heavenly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee?
Go, base intruder! overweening slave !
Bestow tby fawning smiles on equal mates,
And think my patience, more than thy desert,
Is privilege ror thy departure hence.
Thank me for this, more than for all the favours,
Which, all too much, I have bestow’d on thee:
But if thou linger in my territories
Longer than swiitest expedition
Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
By Heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love
Lever bore my daughter, or thyself.
Be gone: I[ will not hear thy vain excuse ;
But, as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from hence.
[fait DUKE.
Val. And why not death, rather than living tor-
ment ? 170
To die is to be banish’d from myself ;
And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her,
Is self from self ; a deadly banishment.
What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ?
Unless it be, to think that she is by,
And feed upon the shadow of pertection.
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale ;
Unless [ look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon.
She is my essence ; and I leave to be,
If I be not by her fair influence
Foster'd, illumin’d, cherish’d, kept alive.
I fly not death, to tly his deadly doom:
Tarry I here, I but attend on death ;
But, fly I hence, I hy away from life.

160

180

dénter PROTEUS and LAUNCE.

Pro. Run, boy; run, run, and seek him out.

Launce, 30-ho! so-ho!

Pro. What seest thou? 190

Launce. Him we go to find: there’s not a hair on’s
head, but ’tis a Valentine.

Pro. Valentine?

Val. No.

Pro. Who then? his spirit ?

Val. Neither.

Pro. What then?

“al. Nothing.

Launce. Can nothing speak? master, shall I strike?

Pro. Who wouldst thou strike? 200

Launce. Nothing.

Pro. Villain, forbear.

Launce. Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,—

Pro. eae I say, forbear.—Friend Valentine, a

word.
Val. My ears are stopp’d, and cannot hear good
news,

So much of bad already hath possess’d them.

Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine
For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad.

Val. Is Silvia dead ?

Pro. No, Valentine. 210

Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia !—
Hath she forsworn me ?

Pro. No, Valentine.

Val. No Valentine, if Silvia, hath forsworn me !—
What is your news?

Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are
vanish’d.

Pro. That thou art banish’d: O! that is the news,
From hence, from Silvia, and from me, thy friend.

Fal. O! Ihave fed upon this woe already, 220
And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
Doth Silvia know that [am banished ?

 

Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d to the doom
(Which, unrevers’d, stands in effectual force)
A seu of melting pearl, which some call tears:
Those at her fatuers churiish feet she tender'd,
With them, upon her knees, her humble self,
Mipnging, Bee hands, whose whiteness so became
them,
As if but now they waxed pale for woe:
But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, —_230
Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,
Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ;
But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die.
Besides, her intercession chafd him so,
When she for thy repeal was suppliant,
That to close prison he commandcd her,
With many bitter threats of biding there.
Val. No more; unless the next word that thou
speak st
Have some malignant power upon my life
It so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 210
As ending anthem of my endless dolour.
Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help,
And study heip for that which thou lament’st,
Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love ;
Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life.
Hope is a lovers statf; walk hence with that,
And manage it against despairing thoughts.
‘Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence;
Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd 250
Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
The time now serves not to expostulate :
Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate,
And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
Of all that may concern thy love-atfairs.
As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself,
Regard thy danger, and along with me!
Val, I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,
Bid him make ha-te, and meet me at the north gate.
Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. 260
Fal. O my dear Silvia! hapless Valentine!
[Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS.
Launce. Tam but a fool, look you, and yet I have
the wit to think, my master is a kind of a Knave; but
that’s all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not
now, that knows me to be in love: yet Iam in love;
but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor
who ’tis I love; and yet ‘tis a woman: but what
woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milk-
maid ; yet ‘tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips;
yet ‘tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and
serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a
waler-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian.
Here is the cate-log [pulliny out a paper] of her
conditions. Imprimis, “‘She can fetch and carry.”
Why, a horse can do no more: nay, a horse cannot
fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a
jade. Item, ‘‘She can milk,” look you; a sweet virtue
in a maid with clean hands.

Enter SPEED.

Speed. How now, Signior Launce ? what news with
your mastership? , oe 280
Launce. With my master’s ship? why, it is at sea.

Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the word.
What news, then, in your paper? .

Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heard’st.

Speed. Why, man, how black ?

Launce. Why, as black as ink.

Speed. Let me vead them.

Launce. Fie on thee, jolthead! thou canst not

read.

Speed, Thou liest, I can. 290
ue em I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot
thee ?

Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather.

Lance. O illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy
grandmother. This proves, that thou canst not read.

Speed. Come, fool, come: try me in thy paper.

Launee. There, and Saint Nicholas be thy speed!

Speed. Imprimis, ‘‘She ean milk.”

Launce. Ay, that she can.

 
 

 

Scene II.J

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 61

 

Sneed. Item, ‘She brews good ale.” 300
aunce. And thereof comes the proverb,—Blessing
of your heart, you brew good ale.

Speed. Item, “She can sew.”

Launce. That ’s as much as to say, Can she so?

Speed. Item, “She can knit.”

Launce. What need a man care fora stock witn a
wench, when she can knit him a stock ?

Speed. Item, ‘She can wash and scour.”

Launce. A special virtue ; for then she need not be
wash’d and scour’d. : 310

Speed. Item, “ She can spin.”

Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels, when
she can spin for her living.

Speed. Item, “She hath many nameless virtues.”

Launce. That’s as much as to say, bastard virtues ;
that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore
have no names.

Speed. Here follow her vices.

Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues.

Speed. Item, ‘“‘She is not to be kissed fasting, in
respect of her breath.” ,

Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a
breakfast. Read_on.

Speed. Item, ‘She hath a sweet mouth.”

Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath.

Speed. Item, ‘‘ She doth talk in her sleep.”

Launce. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in
her talk.

Speed. Item, ‘‘ She is slow in words.”

Launce. O villain, that set this down among her
vices! To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue.
I pray thee, out with’t, and place it for her chief
virtue.

Speed. Item. “ She is proud.” :

Launce. Out with that too: it was Eve’s legacy, and
cannot be ta’en from her.

Speed.- Item, ‘She hath no teeth.”

Launce. I care not for that neither, because I love
crusts.

Speed. Item, ‘She is curst.” 340

Launce. Well; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

Speed. Item, ‘* She will often praise her liquor.”

Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will
not, I will; for good things should be praised.

Speed. Item, “She is too liberal.”

Launce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ
down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for

that I’ll keep shut ; now, of another thing she may, .

and that cannot [ help. Well, proceed.:

Speed. Item, “‘She hath more hair than wit, and
more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults.”

Launce. Stop there; I’ll have her: she was mine,
and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Re-
hearse that once more.

Speed. Item, “She hath more hair than wit,”—

Launce. More hair than wit,—it may be ; I’ll prove
it: the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore
it is more than the salt: the hair, that covers the wit,
is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less.
What’s next? 360

Speed. —‘‘ And more faults than hairs,”—

aunce, That’s monstrous: O, that that were out!

Speed. —‘‘ And more wealth than faults.”

Launce. Why, that word makes the faults gracious.
Well, I’ll have her ; andif it be a match, as nothing is
impossible,—

speed. What then?

Launce. Why, then will I tell thee,—that thy master
stays for thee at the north gate.

Speed, For me? 370

Launce. For thee! ay ; who art thou? he hath stay’d
for a better man than thee.

Speed. And must I go to him?

Launce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stay’d
so long, that going will scarce serve the turn.

Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner? pox of your
love-letters ! [Evit.

Launce. Now will he be swing’d for reading my
letter. An unmannerly slave, that will thrust him-
self into secrets.—_I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s
correction, --- Exit.

 

An Apartment in the DUKE’s
alace.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter DUKE and THURIO; PROTEUS behind.
Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love

you,
Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight.
Thu. Since his exile she hath despis d me most;
Forsworh my company, and rail’d at me,
‘That Iam desperate ot obtaining her.
Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure
Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat
Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form.
A little time will melt her frozen thoughts,
And worthless Valentine shall be forgot,— 10
How now, Sir Proteus? Is your countryman,
According to our proclamation, gone ?
Pro. Gone, my good lord.
Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously.
Pro, A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.
Duke. SoI believe ; but Thurio thinks not so.
Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee
(For thou hast shown some sign of good desert),
Makes me the better to confer with thee.
Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your grace, 20
Let me not live to look upon your grace.
Duke. Thou know’st how willingly I would effect
The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.
Pro. I do, my lord.
Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant
How she opposes her against my will.
Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.
Duke. Ay, and perversely she persevers so.
What might we do to make the girl forget
The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? 30
Pro. The best way is, to slander Valentine
With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent ;
Three things that women highly hold in hate.
Duke. Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate,
Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it:
Therefore, it must, with circumstance, be spoken
By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.
Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him.
Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loth to do:
*T is an ill office for a gentleman, 40
Especially, against his very friend.
Duke. Where your good word cannot advantage him,
Your slander never can endamage him:
Therefore, the office is inditterent,
Being entreated to it by your friend.
Pro. You have prevail’d, my lord. If I can do it
By aught that I can speak in his dispraise,
She shall not long continue love to him.
But say, this weed her love from Valentine,
It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 50
Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him,
Lest it should ravel and be good to none,
You must provide to bottom it on me;
Which must be done, by praising me as much
As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine.
Duke. fae. Proteus, we dare trust you in this
ind,
Because we know, on Valentine’s report,
You are already Love's firm votary,
And cannot soon revolt, and change your mind.
Upon this warrant shall you have access 60
here you with Silvia may confer at large ;
For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy,
And for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you,
Where you May Samper her, Pe your persuasion,
To hate young Valentine, and love my friend.
Pro. As much as I can do I will effect.
But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough ;
You must lay lime to tangle her desires
By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes
Should be full fraught with serviceable vows. 70
Duke. Ay,
Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
Pro. Say, that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart.
Write, till your ink be dry, and with your tears
Moist it again ; and frame some feeling line,

 

 
 

 

62 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. [Act Iv,

 

 

That may discover such integrity : : Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in love
Yor Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sincews, thu, And thy advice this night 1’ put in practice.
Whose golden touch could sutten steel and stones, Therefore, swe .t Proteus, my direction-giver, 90
Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 80 | Let us into the city presently,
Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands, ‘lo sort some gentiemen well skill’d in music,
After your dire-luamenting elegies, I have a sonnet that will serve the turn
Visit by night your lady's chamber-window ‘Lo give the onset to thy good advice.
With some sweet concert: to their instruments Duke. About it, gentiemen !
Tune a deploring dump; the nght’s dead silence Pro. We'll wait upon your grace till after supper,
Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. | And afcerward determine our proceedings, ’
This, or clsc nothing, Will inherit ner, | uke. ven now about it! 1 will pardon you.

‘ [xeunt,

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.--A Forest, between Milan and Verona.
iinter certain Outlaws.

shay 1 Outlarr. : Fal. Nothing, but my fortune.
~~. ELLOWS, stand fast: I see a 3 Out. Know then, that some of us are gentlemen,
we passenger. Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth
a 2 Out. If there be ten, shrink | Thrust from the company of awful men:
not, but down with ‘em. Myself was from Verona banished
Ss hoe For practising to steal away a lady,
Enter VALENTINE and SPEED. An heir, and near allied unto the duke.
3 Out. Stand, sir, and throw us 2 Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 0
that you have about you; | Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.
If not, we’ll make you sit, and
rifle you.
eed. Sir, we are undone. These are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so niuch.
Val. My friends, —
1 Out. That’s not so, sir: we are your enemies.
2 Out. Peace! we'll bear him.
3 Out. Ay, by my beard, will we; for he is a proper

y

  

man.
Val. Then know, that I have little wealth to lose.
A man I am cross’d with adversity ;
My riches are these poor habiliments,
Ot which if you should here disfurnish me,
You take the sum and substance that I have. |
2 Out, Whither travel you? YY;

Val. To Verona. ‘@ \
1 Out. Whence came you?
Val, From Milan.
3 Out. Have you long sojourn’d there? 20
Val. Some eee Months; and longer might have
stay'd,

If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

1 Out. What! were you banish’d thence?

Val, I was.

2 Out. For what offence ?

Val. For that which now torments me to rehearse.
Tkill’d a man, whose death I much repent ;
But yet I slew him manfully in fight,

 

3 Out. ‘Say, ay, and be the captain of us all.”

Without false vantage, or base treachery. 1 Out. And I for such-like petty crimes as these.
1 Out. Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so, 30 | But to the purpose ; for we cite our faults,
But were you banish'd for so small a fault 4 That they may hold excus’d our lawless lives ;
Val. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. And, partly, secing you are beautified
2 Out. Have you the tongues? With goodly shape, and by your own report
Val. My youthful travel therein made me happy, A linguist, and a man of such perfection,
Or else I often had been miserable. As we doin our quality much want—
3 Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar, 2 Out. Indeed, because you are a banish’d man,
This fellow were a king for our wild faction, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you.
1 Out. We Il have him. Sirs, a word. Are you content to be our general ?
Speed. Master, be one of them: To make a virtuc of necessity,
It is an honourable kind of thievery. 40 | And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

Val. Peace, villain! 3 Out. What say’st thou? wilt thou be of our consort?
2 Out. Tell us this: have you anything to take to? Say, ay, and be the captain of us alL

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE IT.)

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 63

 

We'll do thee homage, and be rul’d by thee,
Love thee as our commander, and our king.

1 Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest.

2 Out. Thou oe not live to brag what we have

otfer’d. ;

Val. I take your offer, and will live with you; 70
Provided that you do no outrages
On silly women, or poor passengers,

3 Out. No; we detest such vile, base practices.
Come, go with us: we’ll bring thee to our crews,
And show thee all the treasure we have got,

Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose.
[Exeunt.

Scene II.—Milan. The Court of the Palace.

Enter PROTEUS.

Pro. Already have I becn false to Valentine,
And now I must be as unjust to Thurio.
Under the colour of commending him,
IT have access my own love to prefer ;
But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy,
To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
When I protest true loyalty to her, .
She twits me with my falsehood to my friend ;
When to her beauty I commend my vows,
She bids me think how I have been forsworn, 10
In breaking faith with Julia whom Ilov’d:
And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips,
The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope,
Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love,
The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. |
But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window,
And give some evening music to her ear.

Enter TuHurio, and Musicians.

Thu. How now, Sir Proteus? are you crept before
us?
Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio; for you know that love
Will creep in service where it cannot go. 20
Thu: Ay ; but Lhops, sir, that you love not here.
Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be hence.
Thu. Who? Silvia ?
Pro. Ay, Silvia,—for your sake.
Thu. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen,
Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile.

Enter Host and Juuia, behind ; Juuia in boy's
clothes.

Host. Now, my young guest ; methinks you re alli-
cholly : I pray you, why is it?

Jul. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.

Host. Come, we’ll have you merry. I'll bring you
where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman
that you ask’d for. 31

Jul. But shall I hear him speak ?

Host. Ay, that you shall.

Jul. That will be music.

Host. Hark! hark!

Jul. Is he among these?

Host. Ay; but peace! let’s hear ’em.

[Music plays.

Sona.

Who is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her ?
Holy, fair, and wise is she ;

The heaven such grace did lend her
That she might admired be.

Is she kind, as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness :
Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness ;
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling ;

She excels each mortal thing 50
Upon the dull earth dwelling ;

To her let us garlands bring.

 

Host. How now! are you sadder than you werc
before?) How do you, man? the music likes you not,

Jul. You mistake : the musician likes me not.

Host. Why, my pretty youth ?

Jul. He plays false, father.

Host. How? out of tune on the strings?

Jul. Not so; but yel so false, that he grieves my
very heartstrings. 6U

Host. You have a quick ear.

Jul. Ay; I would 1 were deaf! it makes mec havea
slow heart.

Host. I perceive, you delight not in music.

Jul. Not a whit, when it jars so,

Hfost. Hark! what fine change is in the music.

Jul. Ay, that change is the spite.
meee You would have them always play but one

ing

Jul. IT would always have one play but one thing. 70
But, host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on,
Often resort unto this gentlewoman ?

Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me,—
he lov’d her out of ali nick.

Jul. Where is Launce ?

Host. Gone to seek his dog; which, to-morrow, by
his master’s command, he must carry for a present to
his lady.

Jul. Peace! stand aside: the company parts.

Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you: I will so plead 80
That you shall say my cunning drift excels.

Thu. Where meet we?

Pro. At Saint Gregory’s well.

Lhu. Farewell.

[Excunt THURIO and Musicians.

Enter SILVIA above, at her window.

Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship.
Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen.
Who is that that spake?
Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart's truth,
You would quickly learn to know him by his voice.
Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it.
Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant.
Sil. What is your will?
Pro. That I may compass yours.
Sil. You have your wish: my willis even this, 91
That presently you hie you home to bed.
Thou subtle, perjur'd, false, disloyal man!
Think’st thou, I am so shallow, so conceitless,
To be seduced by thy flattery,
That hast deceiv’d so many with thy vows?
Return, return, and make thy love amends.
For me, by this pale queen of night I swear,
Iam so far from granting thy request,
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, 100
And by-and-by intend to chide myself,
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.
Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady;
But she is dead.
Jul. [Aside.] T were false, if I should speak it ;
For, Iam sure, she is not buried.
Sil. Say, that she be ; yet Valentine, thy friend,
Survives, to whom, thyself art witness,
Iam betroth’d; and art thou not asham’d
To wrong him with thy importunacy ?
Pro. I likewise hear, that Valentine is dead.
Sil. And so, suppose, am [; for in his grave,
Assure thyself, my love is buried.
Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth.
Sil. Go to thy lady's grave, and call hers thence ;
Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine.
Jul. [Aside.) He heard not that.
Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate,
Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love,
The picture that is hanging in your chamber :
To that I’ll speak, to that I’ sigh and weep;
For, since the substance of your perfect self
Is else devoted, Iam but a shadow,
And to your shadow will I make true love.
Jul. [Aside.] If ’t were a substance, you would, sure,
deceive it,
And make it but a shadow, as I am,

110

120

 

 
 

 

 

64 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. [Acr Iv.

 

Sil. Iam very loth to be your idol, sir; YE al
But, since your falsehood shall become you well oe ees
ae big Baa evel and adore false shapes, Enter EGLAMOUR.
Send to me in the morning, and I’ send it. 130 gl. This is the hour that Madam Silvi
And so, good rest. Entreated me to call, and know her Taind.

 

Sil. “Iam very loth to be your idol, sir.”

Pro. As wretches have o'ernight, There ’s some great matter she ’d employ me in.—
That wait for execution in the morn. Madam, madam!
[Excunt PROTEUS, and SILVIA. .
Jul. Host, will you go? . Enter SILVIA above, at her window,
Host. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. Sil. Who calls?
Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? : 5 gl. Your servant, and your friend ;
Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think, ’tis | One that attends your ladyship’s command.

almost day. . Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow.
Jul. Not so; but it hath been the longest night Egil. As many, worthy lady, to yourself.

That e’er I watch’d, and the most heaviest. [/¢xeunt. | According to your ladyship's impose,

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

65

 

Iam thus early come, to know what service 10
It is your pleasure to command me in.

Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman
(Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not),
Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplish’d.
That art not ignorant what dear good will
I bear unto the banish’d Valentine,

Nor how my father would enforce me marry
Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors,
Thyself hast lov’d ; and I have heard thee say,
No grief did ever come so near thy heart,

As when thy lady and thy true love died,
Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity.
Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,

To Mantua, where, I hear, he makes abode ;
And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,

I do desire thy worthy poe anys

Upon whose faith and honour I repose.

Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour,

But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief,

And on the justice of my flying hence, 30
To keep me from a most unholy match,

Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.
I do desire thee, even from a heart

As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,

To bear me company, and go with me:

If not, to hide what I have said to thee,

That I may venture to depart alone.

Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances ;
Which since I know they virtuously are pia-'d,
I give consent to go along with you ;

Recking as little what betideth me,
As much I wish all good befortune you.
be will you go?

be.
gl. Where shall
Sul.

il.
Where I intend holy confession.
Egl. I will not fail your ladyship.
Good morrow, gentle sea,
kind Sir Eglamour.

40

This evening coming.
I meet you?

Sil. Good morrow, [Exeunt.
ScENE IV.—The Same.
Enter LAUNCE with his dog.
Launce. When a man’s servant shall play the cur
with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I brought |

up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning,
when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters
went to it. I have taught him, even as one would
say precisely, ‘‘ Thus I would teach a dog.” I was
sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia
from my master, and I came no sooner into the
dining-chamber, but he steps me to her trencher, and
steals her capon’s leg. O! ’tis a foul thing, when a
cur cannot keep himself in all companies. I would
have, as one should say, one that takes upon him
to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all
things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take
a fault upon me that he did, I think verily, he had
been hang’d for ’t: sure as I live, he had suffer'd for’t :
you shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the
company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under
the duke’s table: he had not been there (bless the
mark) a pissing while, but all the chamber smelt
him. ‘Out with the dog!” says one; ‘ What cur
is that?” says another; “ Whip him out,” says the
third; “Hang him up,” says the duke. I, having
been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was
Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs :
“Friend,” quoth I, “you mean to whip the dog?”
“Ay, marry, do I,” quoth he. ‘‘ You do him the more
wrong,” quoth I; “’t was I did the thing you wot of.”
He makes me no more ado, but whips me out ‘of the
chamber. How many masters would do this for his
servant? Nay, I'll be sworn, I have sat in the stocks
for puddin te hath stolen, otherwise he had been
executed ; have stood on the pillory for geese he
hath kill’d, otherwise he had suffer’d for’t: thou
think’st not of this now.—Nay, I remember the trick

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

At Friar Patrick’s cell, |

 

you served me, when I took my leave of Madam
Silvia. Did not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I
do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg, and
make water against a gentlewoman’s tarthingale?
Didst thou ever see me do such a trick ? 40

Enter PROTEUS and JULIA.

Pro. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well,
And will employ thee in some service presently.

Jul. In what you please: I will do what I can.

Pro. I hope thou wilt.—How now, you whoreson

peasant !

Where have you been these two days loitering ?

Launce. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the
oS you bade me.

ro. And what says she to my little jewel ?

Launce. Marry, she says, your dog was a cur; and
tells you, currish thanks is good enough for such a
present. él

Pro, But she receiv’d my nog?

Launce. No, indeed, did she not. Here have I
brought him back again.

Pro. What! didst thou offer her this from me?

Launce. Ay, sir: the other squirrel was stolen from
me by the hangman’s boys in the market-place; and
then I offer’d her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten
of yours, and therefore the gift the greater.

Pro. Go get thee hence, and find my dog again, 60
Or ne'er return again into my sight.
Away, Isay! Stay’st thou to vex me here ?
a slave that stillan end turns me to shame.

; [Aavit LAUNCE.

Sebastian, I have entertained thee,
Partly, that 1 have need of such a youth,
That can with some discretion do my business,
For ‘tis no trusting to yond foolish lout ;
But, chietly, for thy face, and thy behaviour,

| Which (if my augury deceive me not)

Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth:

| rt

70

       

eg
il i i

ye
a

 

  

Pro. “Go presently, and take this ring with thec.”

Therefore know thee, for this I entertain thee.
Go presently, and take this ring with thee:
Deliver it to Madam Silvia.
She lov’d me well, deliver’d it to me.
Jul. It seems, you lov’d not her, to leave her token.

She 's dead, belike ?
Not so: I think, she lives.

Pro.

Jul. Alas!

Pro. Why dost thou cry, Alas?
Jul. I cannot choose but pity her.

Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? 80
Jul. Because, methinks, that she lov’d you as well
As you do love your lady Silvia.
She dreams on him, that has forgot her love ;
You dote on her, that cares not for your love.

 

5

 
 

66

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

[Act Ivy,

 

 

Tis pity, love should be so contrary ;

And thinking on it makes me cry, Alas!
Pro. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal

This letter :—that’s her chamber.—-Tell my lady,

I claim the promise for her heavenly picture.

Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, 90

Where thou'shalt tind me sad and solitary. [Ezit.
Jul. How many women would do such a message ?

Alas, poor Proteus! thou hast entertain’d

A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.

Alas, poor fool! why.do I pity him,

That with his very heart despiseth me?

Because he loves her, he despiseth me ;

Because I love him, I must pity him.

This ring I gave him when he parted from me,

To bind hin to remember my good will ;

And now am IJ (unhappy messenger !)

To plead for that which I would not obtain ;

To carry that which 1 would have refus’d,

To praise his faith which I would have disprais’d.

Iam my master’s true-confirmed love,

But cannot be true servant to my master,

Unless I prove false traitor to myself.

Yet will 1 woo for him ; but yet so coldly,

As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed.

Enter Siivia, attended.
Gentlewoman, good day. I pray you, be my mean 110
To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia.
Sil. What would you with her, if that I be she?
Jul. If you be she, I do entreat your patience
To hear me speak the message I am sent on.
Si, From whom?
Jul. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam.
Sil. O! he sends you for a picture ?
Jul, Ay, madam.
Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there.
[4 picture brought.
Go, give your master this: tell him from me, 120
One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,
Would better fit his chamber, than this shadow.
Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter, —
Pardon me, madam, I have unadvis’d
Deliver’d you a paper that I should not :
This is the letter to your ladyship.
Si. I pray thee, let me look on that again.
Jul. It may not be: good madam, pardon me.
Sil. There, hold.
I will not look upon your master’s lines :
I know, they are stutf’d with protestations,
And full of new-found oaths, which he will break
As easily as I do tear his paper.
Jul. Madam, ‘he sends your ladyship this ring. \
Sil. The more shame for him that he sends it me ;
For I have heard him say a thousand times, ,
His Julia gave it him at his departure. !
Though his false finger have profan’d the ring,
Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.
Jul. She thanks you. i
Sil. What say’st thou? '
Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her.
Poor gentlewoman ! my master wrongs her much,
Sil, Dost thou know her? Ae bs :
Jul. Almost as well as Ido know myself: . ;
To think upon her woes: I do‘protest, - i es
That I have wept a hundred several times.
Sil. Belike,. she .thinks,. that Proteus hath forsook
2 : i4

~ her. EE

Jul. I think she doth‘‘and that’s her cause of sorrow.
Sil, Is she not passing. fair? - 150
Jul. She hath ‘beén fairer, madam, than she is.

When she did:think‘ my master lov’d her well,

She, in fey pce acet ae, as fair as you;

But since she’did neglect: her looking-glass,

And threw her sun-expelling mask away,

The air hath starv’d,the roses in her cheeks,

And pinch’d the lily-tineture of her face,

That now she is become as black as I.

100

130

140 |

_My substance should be statue in thy stead.

 

Sil. How tall was she?

Jul. About my stature ; for, at Pentecost,
When all our pageants of delight were play’d,
Our youth got me to play the woman’s part,
And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown,
Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments,
As if the garment. had been made for me:
Therefore, I know she is about my height.

And at that time I made her weep agood,
For I did play a lamentable part.

Madam, ‘twas Ariadne, passioning

For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight ;
Which I so lively acted with my tears,
That my poor mistress, moved therewithal,
Wept bitterly, and ‘would I might be dead,
If Lin thought felt not her very sorrow.

Sil. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth,

Alas, poor lady ! desolate and lett —

I weep myselt, to think upon thy words.

Here, youth ; there is my purse : I give thee this
For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou loy’st her,

Farewell. : 180
[Exit SILVIA, attended,

160

170

 

Jul. “ Here is her picture.”

Jul. ace she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know
er.—
A virtuous gentlewoman, mild, and beautiful !

I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, :
Since she respects my mistress’ love so much.
Alas, how love can trifle with itself! |

Here is her picture.- Let me see : I think,

If I had such.a tire, this face of mine

Were full as lovely as is this of hers ;

And yet the painter flatter’d her a little,
Unless I flatter with myself too much,

Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow :

-If that be all the difference in his love,

I’ll get me such a colour’d periwig. .

Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine:
Ay, but her forehead ’s low, and mine’s as high.
What should it be, that he respects in her,

But I can make respective in myself,

If this fond Love were not a blinded god?
Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up,
For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form !

‘Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, lov’d, and ador’d,

And, were there sense in his idolatry,

I'll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake,
That us’d me so, or else, by Jove I vow,
I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes,

To make my master out of love with thee. [Exit.

 
=

 

 

 

  
 

 
  
 

  

\

GAAS GENYS
acer (py \ NS

 

 

 

ACT V.

4 Scene I.—The Same.
Enter EGLAMOUR.

   

Figlamour.

HE sun begins to gild the western sky,
And now it is about the very hour,

That Silvia at Friar Patrick’s cell should

meet me.
She will not fail; for lovers break not

ours,
Unless it be to come before their time
So much they spur their expedition.

Enter SILVIA.
See, where she comes.— Lady, a happy
evening !

Sil. Amen, amen! go on, Foon em oun,

Out at the postern by the abbey-wall.

I fear, I am attended by some spies. 10

gl. Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off ;

If we recover that, we are sure enough. [Exeunt.

 

Scene II.—The Same.—A Room in the DUKE’s Palace.

Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA.

Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ?
Pro. O, sir! I find her milder than she was ;
And yet she takes exceptions at your person.
Thu. What.! that my leg is too long ?
Pro. No, that it is too little.
Thu, I'll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder.
Jul. [Aside.] But love will not be spurr’d to what it
loathes.
Thu. What says she to my face ?
Pro. She says it is a fair one.
Thu. Nay, then the wanton lies : my face is black. 10
Pro. But pearls are fair, and the old saying is,
Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes. ||
Jul. [Aside.] "Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies

eyes;
For I had rather wink than look on them.
Thu. How likes.she my discourse ?
Pro. Ill, when you talk of war.
Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and peace?
Jul. [Aside.] But better, indeed, when you hold

our peace.
Thu. What says she to my valour?
Pro. O, sir! she makes no doubt of that. 20
Jul. [Aside.] She needs not, when she knows it
cowardice.

Thu. What says she to my birth?

Pro. That you are well deriv’d.

Jul. [Aside.] True ; from a gentleman to a fool.
Thu. Considers she my possessions ? t
Pro. O! ay; and pities them.

Thu. Wherefore?

Jul. [Aside.] That such an ass should owe them.
Pro. That they are out by lease.

Jul. Here comes the duke. 30

Enter DUKE.

Duke. How now, Sir Proteus? how now, Thurio?
Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late +

 

An Abbey.

Thu. NotI.
TO Nor I.
Saw you my daughter? :

Pro Neither.
Duke. Why, then

She’s fled unto that peasant Valentine,

And Eglamour is in her company.

"Tis true; for Friar Laurence met them both,

As he in penance wander’d through the forest ;

Him he knew well, and guess’d that it was she,

But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it ; 40

Besides, she did intend confession

At Patrick’s cell this even, and there she was not.

These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.

Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,

But mount you presently ; and meet with me

Upon the rising of the mountain-foot,

That leads towards Mantua, whither they are fled.

Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. (Exit.

Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl,

That flies her fortune when it follows her. 50

I'll after, more to be reveng’d on Eglamour,

Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [Exit.
Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love,

Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. (Exit.
Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love,

Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love, [Exit.

ScENE III.—The Forest.

Enter S1Lvia, and Outlaws.

1 Out. Come, come ;
Be patient, we must bring you to our captain.

Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one
Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently.

2 Out. Come, bring her away.

1 Out. Where is the gentleman that was with her?

3 Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us ;
But Moyses and Valerius follow him.
Go thou with her to the west end of the wood ;
There is our captain. We/’ll follow him that’s fled: 10
The thicket is beset ; he cannot scape.

1 Out. Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave.
Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,
And will not use a woman lawlessly.

Sil. O Valentine! this Il endure for thee. [Hxewnt.

 

Scene IV.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter VALENTINE.

Val. How use doth breed a habit ina man!
This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns.
Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale’s complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
O! thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall,

 

 
 

68 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA,

[Acr Vv.

 

 

And leave no memory of what it was! 10

Repair me with thy presence, Silvia! .

Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain !—

What halloing, and what stir, is this to-day?

These are my mates, that make their wills their law,

Have some unhappy passenger in chase.

They love me well; yet I have much to do,

To keep them from uncivil outrages.

Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here?
[Steps aside.

Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA.

Pro. Madam, this service I have done for you
(Though you respect not aught your servant doth), 20
To hazard life, and rescue you from him
That would have fore’d your honour and your love.
Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look ;

A smaller boon than this I cannot beg,
And less than this, Iam sure, you cannot give.

Val. How like a dream is this I see and hear!
Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile.

Sil. O miserable, unhappy that lam!

Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came ;
But by my coming I have made you happy.

Sil. By thy approach thou mak’st me most unhappy.

Jul. (Aside.} And me, when he approacheth to

your presence.

Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion,

I would have been a breakfast to the beast,

Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.

O Heaven! be judge, how I love Valentine,

Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul ;

And full as much (for more there cannot be)

I do detest false perjur’d Proteus.

Therefore be gone: solicit me no more. 40

Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to death,
Would I not undergo for one calm look!

O! ‘tis the curse in love, and still approv'd,
When women cannot love, where they ‘re belov'd.

Sil. When Proteus cannot love, where he’s beloy’d.
Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love,

For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy fait?
Into a thousand oaths ; and all those oaths
Descended into perjury to love me.
Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou ’dst two, 50
And that’s far worse than none: better have none
Than plural faith, which is too much by one.
Thou counterfeit to thy true friend!

TO. In love,
Who respects friend ?

Sil. All men but Proteus.

Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
Can no way change you to a milder form,

I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end,
And love you 'gainst the nature of love: force you.

Sil. O Heaven!
Pro. I'll force thee yield to my desire.
Val. Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch;
Thou friend of an ill fashion!
ro. Valentine!
Val. Thou common friend, that’s without faith or
ove
(For such is a friend now) ; treacherous man!
Thou hast beguil’d my hopes: nought but mine eye
Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say,
I have one friend alive: thou wouldst disprove me.
Who should be trusted now, when one’s right hand
Is perjur’d to the bosom? Proteus,
Iam sorry I must never trust thee more,
But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 70
The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst!
’Mongst all foes, that a friend should be the worst !
Pro. My shame and guilt confounds me.—
Forgive me, Valentine. If hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender ’t here: I do as truly suffer
As c’cr I dig commit.
Val, Then I am paid;
And once again I do receive thee honest.
Who by repentance is not satisfied,
Is nor of heaven, nor earth ; for these are pleas’d. 80
By penitence the Eternal’s wrath ’s appeas'd :

 

And, that my love may appear plain and fr
a was ine in Save T aie thee. a
ul. O me unha ! Tat

Pro. Look to this boys ata,
Val. Why, boy! why, wag! how now? what is the
matter ?
ae up; speak. 5 .
ul. i good sir! my master charg’
To deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, ania mie
Which, out of my neglect, was never done,
Pro. Where is that ring, boy ?
Jul. Here ‘tis: this is it. [Gives a ring.
Pro. How! let me see. 91
Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.
Jul, O! cry you mercy, sir; I have mistook:
This is the ring you sent to Silvia.
[Shows another ring.
this ring ?
ulia.

Pro. But, how cam’st thou b
At my depart I gave this unto

 

Pro, ‘‘ But, how cam'st thou by this ring?”

Jul. And Julia herself did give it me;
And Julia herself hath brought it hither.
Pro. How? Julia!
Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, 100
And entertain’d them deeply in her heart:
How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
O Proteus ! let this habit make thee blush:
Be thou asham’d, that I have took upon me
Such an immodest raiment; if shame live
In a disguise of love.
It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, 18,
Women to change their shapes, than men their minds.
Pro. Than men their minds! ’tis true. O Heaven!
were man i
But constant, he were perfect : that one error 110
Fills him with faults ; makes him run through all the
sins:
Inconstancy falls off, ere it begins.
What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy
More fresh in Julia's, with a constant eye?
Val. Come, come, a hand from either.
Let me be blest to make this happy close:
*T were pity two such friends should be long foes.
Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever.
Jul. And I mine.

Enter Outlaws, with DUKE and THURIO.

Outlaws. A prize! a prize! a prize! 120
"al. eee forbear, I say; it is my lord the
uke.—

Your grace is welcome to a man disgrac’d,
Banished Valentine.

Duke. Sir Valentine!

Thu. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvia’s mine.

Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death.

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 69

 

 

Come not within the measure of my wrath :
Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again,
Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands:
Take but possession of her with a touch;
I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. 130
Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I.
Thold him but a fool that will endanger
His body for a girl that loves him not:
I claim her not, and therefore she is thine.
Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou,
To make such means for her as thou hast done,
And leave her on such slight conditions.
Now, by the honour of my ancestry,
Ido applaud thy spirit, Valentine,
And think thee worthy of an empress’ love. 140
Know then, I here forget all former griefs,
Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again.—
Plead a new state in thy unrivall’d merit,
To which I thus subscribe : Sir Valentine,
Thou art a gentleman, and well deriv’d;
Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserv’d her.
Val. I pene your grace; the gift hath made me
appy.
I now beseech you, for your daughter's sake,
To grant one boon that I shall ask of you.

 

Duke. I grant it for thine own, whate’er it be. 150
Val. These banish’d men, that I have kept withal,
Are men endued with worthy qualities :
Forgive them what they have committed here,
And let them be recall’d from their exile.
They are reformed, civil, full of good,
And fit for great employment, worthy lord.
Duke. ao hast prevail’d; I pardon them, and
thee:
Dispose of them, as thou know’st their deserts.
Come, let us go : we will include all jars
With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. 160
Val. And as we walk along, I dare be bold
With our discourse to make your grace to smile.
What think you of this page, my lord ?
Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him: he blushes.
Val. I warrant you, my lord, more grace than

boy.

Duke. What mean you by that saying?

Tal. Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,
That you will wonder what hath fortuned.—
Come, Proteus ; ’t is your penance but to hear
The story of your loves discovered : 170
That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [Hxreunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

THE COMEDY

OF ERRORS.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Souinus, Duke of Ephesus.

JEGEON, a Merchant of Syracuse.

ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, ) Twin Brothers, Sons to
ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse, §  <Egeon and milia.
Dromio of Ephesus, > Twin Brothers, Attendants
Dromio of Syracuse, § on the two Antipholuses.
BALTHAZAR, a Merchant.

ANGELO, @ Goldsmith.

A Merchant, Friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.

A Merchant trading with Angelo.
Pincu, a Schoolmaster.

JEMILIA, Wife to cEgeon.

ADRIANA, Wife to Antipholus of Ephesus,
Luciana, her Sister.

Luce, Servant to Adriana,

A Courtesan.

Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

SCENE--EPHESUS.

ACT I.
a ScrneE J.—A Hall in the DuKE’s Palace.

   

Ageon.
Me ROCEED, Solinus, to procure my fall,
And by the doom of death end woes and

all.
Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no
more.
T am not partial, to infringe our laws:
The enmity and discord, which of late
Sprung from the rancorous outrage of
4 your duke
To merchants, our well-dealing country-
> men,—
Who, wanting gilders to redeem their
"eS,
Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,—
Excludes all pity from our threat’ning looks. 10
For, since the mortal and intestine jars
*Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
It hath in solemn synods been decreed,
Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,
‘To admit no traffic to our adverse towns:
Nay, more, if any, born at Ephesus,
Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs ;
Again, if any Syracusian born
Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
His goods contiscate to the duke’s dispose ; 20
Unless a thousand marks be levied,
To quit the penalty, and to ransom him.
Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,
Cannot amount unto a hundred marks ;
Therefore, by law thou art condemn’d to die.
Age. xe this my comfort: when your words are
done,
My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
Duke. Well, Syracusian; say, in briet, the cause
Why thou departedst from thy native home,
And for what cause thou cam'st to Ephesus. 30
«lige. A heavier task could not have been impos’d
Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable ;
Yet, that the world may witness, that my end
Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,
I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave.
In Syracusa was I born, and wed
Unto a woman, happy but for me,
And by me too, had not our hap been bad.
With her I liv’d in joy: our wealth increas’d

 

Enter DUKE, AXGEON, Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants.

By prosperous voyages I often made

To Kpidamnum ; till my factor’s death,

And the great care of goods at random left,
Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:
From whom my absence was not six months old,
Before herself (almost at fainting under

The pleasing punishment that women bear)
Had made provision for her following me,

And soon, and safe, arrived where I was.

There had she not been long, but she became

A joyful mother of two goodly sons ;

And, which was strange, the one so like the other,
As could not be distinguish’d but by names.
That very hour, and in the self-same inn,

A meaner woman was delivered

Of such a burden, male twins, both alike.
Those, for their parents were exceeding poor,

I bought, and brought up to attend my sons.

My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,
Made daily motions for our home return:
Unwilling I agreed; alas! too soon

We came aboard.

A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d,
Before the always-wind-obeying deep

Gave any tragic instance of our harm:

But longer did we not retain much hope:

For what obscured light the heavens did grant
Did but convey unto our fearful minds

A doubtful warrant of immediate death ;

40

Which, though myself would gladly have embed

Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,
Weeping before for what she saw must come,
And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,
That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear,
Fore’d me to seek delays for them and me.
And this it was,—for other means was none.
The sailors sought for safety by our boat,
And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us.
My wife, more careful for the latter-born,
Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast,
Such as seafaring men provide tor storms:
To him one of the other twins was bound,
Whilst I had been like heedful of the other.
The children thus dispos’d, my wife and I,
Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d,
Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast ;,

 

 
 

 

ScENE IL]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 7

 

And floating'straight, obediént to the stream,
Were carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
Dispers’d those vapours that o:fended us,
And by the benefit of-his wished light 90
The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered
Two ships from far making amain to us;
Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:
But ere they came,.—O, let me say no more!
Gather the sequel by that went before:
Duke. Nay, torward, old man ; do not break off so ;
For we may pity, though not pardon thee.
Atge. O, had the gods done so, I had not now
Worthily term’d them merciless to us!
For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,
We were encounter’d by a mighty rock ; 101
Which- being violently borne upon,
Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst ;
So that in this unjust divorce of us
Fortune had left to both of us alike
What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
Her part, poor soul ! seeming as burdened
With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe,
Was carried with more speed before the wind,
And in our sight they three were taken up
By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.
At length another ship had seized on us;
And, knowing.whom it was their hap to save,
Gave healthful welcome to their stapyrack a guests ;
And would have reft the fishers of their prey,
Had not their bark been very slow of sail ;:
And therefore homeward did they bend their course.—
Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss,
That by misfortunes was my life prolong’d,
To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 120
Duke. And, for the:sake of them thou sorrowest for,
Do me the favour to dilate at full
What hath befall’n of them, and thee, till now.
Age. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
At eighteen years became inquisitive
After his brother; and importun’d me,
That his attendant (so his case was like,
Reft of his brother, but retain’d his name) |
Might bear him company in the quest of him ;
Whom whilst I labour'd of a love to see,
Lhazarded the loss of whom I lov’d.
Five summers have I spent in farthest Greece,
Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus,
Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
Or that, or any place that harbours men.
But there must end the story of my life ;
And elias were [in my timely death, |
Could all my travels warrant me they live. . ‘
Duke. Hapless Augeon, whom the fates have mark’d
To bear the.extremity of dire. mishap ! ; 141
Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,
Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,
Which princes, would they, may not disannul,
My soul should sue as advocate for thee.
But though thou art adjudged to the death,
And passed sentence may not be recall’d
But to our honour’s great disparagement,
Yet will I favour thee in what I can:'
Therefore, merchant, I ’ll limit thee this day,
tr seek thy help by beneficial help :

110

130

150

ty all the friends thou hast in Ephesus ;

eg.thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
And live ; if no, then thou art doom’d to die.—
Gaoler, take him to “7 custody.

Gaol. 1 will, my lord.

aie, Hopeless, and helpless, doth Atgeon wend,
But to procrastinate his lifeless end. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—A Public Place.

Enter AwvrPHOLus of Syracuse, DROMIO of Syracuse,
and a Merchant.

’ Mer, Therefore, Five out you are of Epidamnum,

Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.

 

This very day, a Syracusian merchant
1s apprehended for arrival here ;

And, not being able to buy out his life
According to the statute of the town,
Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.
There is your money that I had to keep.

Ant. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
And stay there, Dromio. till I come to thee. 10
Within this hour it will be dinner-time :

Till that, I’ll view the manners of the town,
Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,
And then.return and sleep within mine inn ;
For with long travel I am stiff and weary.
Get thee away.

Dro. S. Many a man would take you at your word,
-And go indeed, having so good a mean. [£xit.

Ant.S. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,

When I am dull with care and melancholy, 20
Lightens my humour with his merry jests. '
What, will you walk with me about the town,
And then go tomy inn, and dine with me?
Mer. Iam invited, sir, to certain merchants,
Of whom I hope to make much benefit ;
I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock,
Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart,
And afterwards consort you till bed-time :
My present business calls me from you now.

Ant, S. Farewell till then. I will go lose myself, 30
And wander up and down to view the city.

Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own Ses yi

nxt.

Ant. S. He that commends me to mine own content,
Commends me to the thing I cannot get.

I to the world am like a drop of water,

That in the ocean seeks another drop ;

Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,

Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself :

So I, to find a mother, and a brother,

In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 40

Enter DRomio of Ephesus.
Here comes the almanac of my true date.
What now? How chance thou art return’d so soon ?
Dro. is Return’a so soon! rather approach’d too
ate.
The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell ;
My mistress made it one upon my cheek :
She is so hot, because the meat is cold ;
The 1neat is cold, because you come not home ;
You come not home, because you have no stomach ;
You have no stomach, having broke your fast ; 50
But we, that know what ’tis to fast and pray,
Are penitent for your default to-day.
Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir. Tell me this, 1

pray :
Where have you left the money that I gave you?
Dro. E. O! sixpence, that I had o’ Wednesday

last,
To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper ;
The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.
Ant. S. Iam not in a sportive humour now.
Tell me, and dally not, where is the money ?
We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust 60
So great a charge irom thine own custody?
Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner.
J from my mistress come to you in post ;
If I return, I shall be post indeed,
For she will score your fault upon my pate.
Dera are maw, like mine, should be your
clock,
And strike you home without a messenger.
Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come ; these jests are out of
_ season :
Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.
Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee? 70
Dro. E. To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.
Ant. S. Come on, sir knave; have done your foolish-

ness,
And tell me how thou hast dispos’d thy charge.
Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from the
mart

 

 
 

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

(Act IL.

 

 

Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner.
My mistress, and her sister, stay for you.
nt. S. Now, as lam a Christian, answer me,
In what safe place you have bestow'd my money ;
Or I shall break-that merry sconce of yours,
That stands on tricks when I am undispos’d.
Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?
Dro, E. [have some marks of yours upon my pate ;
Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders,
But not a thousand marks between you both.
If I should pay your worship those again,
Perchance, you will not bear them patiently.
Ant. S. Thy mistress’ marks! what mistress, slave,
hast thou ?
Dro. E. Your worship’s wife, my mistress at the
Phoenix ;
She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,
And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. 90
Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my

80

ace,
Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.
Strikes him.
Dro. E. What mean you, sir? for God's sake, hold
your hands.

Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels. [Ezit.
Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device or other

The villain is o’er-raught of all my money.

They say, this town is full of cozenage ;

As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,

Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,

| Soul-killing witches that deform the body,

| Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, 7 an

 

ant. S. “ There, take yuu that, sir knave.”

And many such-like liberties of sin:
If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.

 

I'll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave:

I greatly fear, my money is not safe. [Exit.

 

ACT II.
ScENE T.—House of ANTIPHOLUs of Ephesus.
Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.
.ldr. But, were you wedded, you would bear some

Adriana.

turn’d,

That in such haste I sent to seek his
master!

uy Sure, Luciana, it is two,o’clock.

Luc. Perhaps, some merchant hath in-

  

s vited him,

\ And from the mart he’s somewhere gone
% to dinner.

> Good sister, let us dine, and never fret:

A man is master of his liberty :
Time is their master ; and, when they see time,
They ‘ll go, or come: if so, be patient, sister.
Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be more ?
Luc. Because their business still lies out o’ door. 11
Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.
Luc. O! know he is the bridle of your will.
Adr. There’s none but asses will be bridled so.
Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe.
There 's nothing situate under heaven's eye
But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:
The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
Are their males’ subjects, and at their controls.
Men, more divine, the masters of all these,
Lords of the wide world, and wild wat’ry seas,
Indued with intellectual sense and souls,
Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls,
Are masters to their females, and their lords:
Then, let your will attend on their accords.
Adr, This servitude makes you to keep unwed.
Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

20

sway.
Lue. Ere I learn love, I'll acuee to obey.

Adr. How if your husband start some other where?
Luc. ‘Till he come home again, I would forbear. 31
Adr. Patience unmov’d, no marvel though she

pause ;
They can be meek that have no other cause.
A wretched soul, bruis’d with adversity,
We bid be quiet, when we hear it cry;
But were we burden’d with like weight of pain,
As much, or more, we should ourselves complain ;
So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,
With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me:
But if thou live to see like right bereft, 40
This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.

Luc. Well, I will marry one day, but to try.—
Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh.

Enter DRomio of Ephesus.

Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand ?

Dro. E. Nay, he is at two hands with me, and that
my two ears can witness,

Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him? Know’st thou

his mind ? :

Dro. E. Ay, ay ; he told his mind upon mine ear.
Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel
his meaning? 51

Dro. E. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well
feel his blows ; and withal so donbtfully, that I could

 

scarce understand them.

 

 
 

 

ScEenE Ii]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 73

 

Adr. But say, I pr’ythee, is he coming home?
It seems, he hath great care to please his wife.
Dro. E. a mistress, sure my master is horn-
mad.
Adr. Horn-mad, thou villain !
Dro. #. 1 mean not cuckold-mad; but, sure, he is
stark mad.
When I desir’d him to come home to dinner, 60
He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold:
“lis dinner-time,” quoth I; ‘* My gold!” quoth he:
“Your meet doth burn,” quoth I; * My goid!” quoth

e:
“Will you come home?” quoth I; “‘my gold!” quoth

“Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?”

 

 

Inw, * Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey.”

“The pig.” quoth I, ‘“‘is burn’d;” “My gold!” quoth
e:

“My mistress, sir,” quoth I; ‘‘Hang up thy mis-
tress !
Iknow not thy mistress: out on thy mistress !”
Luc. Quoth who?
Dro. E. Quoth my master : 70
“T know,” quoth he, “no house, no wife, no mis-
tress.”
So that my errand, due unto my tongue,
I thank him, I bear home upon my shoulders ;
For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. :
Adr, m back again, thou slave, and fetch him
ome.
Dro. E. Go back again, and be new beaten home?
For God’s sake, send some other messenger.
Adr. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.
Dro. E. And he will bless that cross with other

beating.
Between you I shall have a holy head. 80
Adr. lence, prating peasant! fetch thy master
ome.

Dro. E. Am Iso round with you, as you with me,

That like a football you do spurn me thus? __

You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither :

If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

[Ecit.

Luc. Fie, how impatience lowereth in your face !
Adr. His company must do his minions grace,

Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.

Hath homely age the alluring beauty took |

From my poor cheek ? then he hath wasted it : 90

Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?

If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d,

Unkindness blunts it, more than marble hard.

Do their gay vestments his affections bait?

That’s not my fault ; he’s master of my state.

What ruins are in me, that can be founda

By him not ruin’d? then is he the ground

Of my defeatures. My decayed fair

 

A sunny look of his would soon repair ;
But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale, 100
And feeds from home: poor I am but his stale.
Luc. Self-harming jealousy !—fie ! beat it hence.
Adr. Unteeling fools can with such wrongs dis-
pense.
I know his eye doth homage otherwhere,
Or else, what lets it but he would be here?
Sister, you know, he promis‘d me a chain:
’Would that alone alone he would detain,
So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!
I see, the jewel best enamelled
Will lose his beauty : and though gold ’bides still, 110
That others touch, yet often touching will
Wear gold ; and no man, that hath a name,
But falsehood and corruption doth it shame.
Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
I'l] weep what’s left away, and weeping die.
Luc. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy !
[Ezeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Public Place.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.

Ant. S. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up
Sate at the Centaur; and the heedful slave
Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out.
By computation, and minc host’s report,
I could not speak with Dromio, since at first
I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes,

Enter DRoMIo of Syracuse.

How now, sir? is your merry humour alter’d ?
As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
You know no Centaur? You receiv’d no gold?
Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner ? 10
My house was at the Phcenix? Wast thou mad,
‘that thus so madly thou didst answer me ?
Dro. S. What answer, sir? when spake I such a
word? :
Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half an hour
since.
Dro. S. I did not see you since you sent me hence,
Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.
Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt,
And toldst me of a mistress, and a dinner;
For which, I hope, thou feltst I was displeas’d.
Dro. S. 1am glad to see youin this merry vein. 20
What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.
Ant. S. Yea, dost thou jeer, and flout me in the

teeth?
Think’st thou, I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.
(Beating him.
Dro. S. Hold, sir, for God’s sake! now your jest is
earnest :
Upon what bargain do you give it me?

‘Ant. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes
Do use you for my fool, and chat with you,

Your sauciness will jet upon my love,

And make a common of my serious hours.

When the sun shines, let foolish gnats make sport, 30
But creep in crannies, when he hides his beams.

If you will jest with me, know my aspect,

And fashion your demeanour to my looks,

Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

Dro. S. Sconce, call you it? so you would leave bat-
tering, I had rather have it a head: an you use these
blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and
ensconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my
shoulders. But, I pray, sir, why am I beaten?

Ant. S. Dost thou not know?

Dro. S. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

Ant. S. Shall I tell you why ?

Dro, S. Ay, sir, and wherefore ; for, they say, every
why hath a wherefore. .

dnt. S. Why, first,—for flouting me, and then,

wherefore,—-
For urging it the second time to me.

Dro. S. Was there ever any man thus beaten out of

season,

 

 
 

 

74 THE

COMEDY OF ERRORS.

[Acr IL

 

When, in the why, and the wherefore, is neither
rhyme nor reason ?—
Well, sir, I thank you.
Ant. S. ‘hank me, sir? for what? 50
Dro. S. Marry, sir, for this something, that you gave
me for nothing. .
int. S. I'll make you amends next, to give you
nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-
time ?

Dro. S. No, sir: I think, the meat wants that I
have. :

Ant. S. In good time, sir; what’s that?

Dro. S. Basting. |

Ant. S. Well, sir, then ’t will be dry. 60

Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.

Ant. S. Your reason? .

Dro. S. Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me
another dry basting. ; : ;

int. S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time : there's
a time for all things.

Dro. S. l durst have denied that, before you were so
choleric.

Ant. S. By what rule, sir? .

Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain
bald pate of father Time himself. val

Ant. S. Let’s hear it. ;

Dro, S. There's no time for a man to recover his
hair that grows bald by nature.

Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and recovery?

Dro. S. Yes, to pay a fine tor a periwig, and recover
the lost hair of another man.

nt. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being,
as it is, so plentiful an excrement ?

Dro. S. Because it is a blessing that he bestows on
beasts : and what he hath scanted men in hair, he
hath given them in wit. 2

int. S. Why, but there’s many a man hath more
hair than wit.

Dro. S. Not a man of those, but he hath the wit to
lose his hair. "

Ant. S. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain
dealers without wit.

Dro. S. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost : yet he
loseth it in a kind of jollity. 90

Ant. S. For what reason ?

Dro. S. For two; and sound ones too.

_4nt. S. Nay, not sound, I pray you. ~

Dro. 8. Sure ones then.

int. S. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

Dro. S. Certain ones then.

Ant. S. Name them.

Dro. 8. The one, to save the money that he spends
in tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not
drop in his porridge. 100

Ant. S. You would all this time have proved, there
is no time for all things.

Dro. 8S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to
recover hair lost by nature.

aint. S. But your reason was not substantial, why
there is no time to recover.

Dro. S. ThusI mend it: Time himself is bald, and
therefore, to the world's end, will have bald fol-

lowers.
But
11

Ant. S. I knew, ’twould be a bald conclusion.
soft! who wafts us yonder?

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.
Adr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange, and frown:
Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects,
Iam not Adriana, nor thy wife.
The time was once, when thou unurg’d wouldst
vow
That never words were music to thine car
That never object pleasing in thine eye,
That never touch well-welcome to thy hand,
That never meat swect-savour'd in thy taste,
Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch’d, or carv'd to
thee. 120
How comes it now, my husband, 0! how comes it,
That thou art then estranged from thyself ?
Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
That, undividable, incorporate,

 

Am better than thy dear self’s better part.
Ah, do not tear away thyself from me;
For know, my love, as easy may’st thou fall
A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
And take unmingled thence that drop again,
Without addition. or diminishing, 130
As take from me thyself, and not me too.
How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,
Shouldst thou but hear 1 were licentious,
And that this body, consecrate to thee,
By ruftian lust should be contaminate!
Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me,
And hurl the name of husband in my face,
And tear the stain'd skin off my hariot-brow,
And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring,
And break it with a deep-divorcing vow ¢
I know thou canst ; and therefore, see thou do it.
I am possess'd with an adulterate blot; :
My blood is mingled with the crime of lust
For, if we two be one, and thou play false,
I do digest. the poison of thy flesh,
Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;
I live distain’d, thou undishonoured.

Ant. S. Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you

not.

In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 150
As strange unto your town, as to your talk ;
Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d,
Want wit in all one word to understand.

Luc. Fie, brother: how the world is chang'd with

ou!

When were you wont to use ny sister thus ?
She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner,

aint. S. By Dromio?

Dro. S. By me? oe

adr. By thee; and this thou didst return from

him,—
. That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows, 160

Denied my house for his, me for his wife.
Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentle-
woman ?
What is the course and drift of your compact ?
Dro. 8. I, sir? I never saw her till this time.
alnt. S. Villain, thou liest; for even her very
words
Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.
Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life.

nt. S. How can she thus then call us by our
names,
Unless it be by inspiration ? ;
1dr. How ill agrees it with-your gravity, 170

To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,
Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!
Be it my wrong, you are from me exempt,
But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.
Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine ;
Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, ,
Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,
Makes me with thy strength to communicate :
If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,
Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss; - 180
Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion
Infect thy s.p, and live on thy confusion.
Ant. S. To me she speaks; she moves me for her
theme!
What, was I married to her in my dream,
Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this?
What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?
Until I know this sure uncertainty,
I'll entertain the offer'd fallacy.

Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.
Dro. S. O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.
This is the fairy land ; O, spite of spites! I
We talk with goblins, owls, and elvish sprites.

If we obey them not, this will ensue,
They ‘ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue,

Lue W ne prat’st thou to thyself, and answer'st

no
Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!
Dro. 8S. Tam transformed, master, am { not?
«tut. S. I think thou art, in mind, and so am I.

 

 
 

Scene II.] THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 75

Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my | And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. — 210
Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,
Say, he dines forth, and let no creature enter.--
Come, sister.—Dromio, play the porter well.
Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?

shape.
Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form.
Dro. 8. No, I am an ape.
Luc. If thou art chang’d to aught, ’tis to an ass. 201 :

 

 

Ant. S. ** Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not.”

Dro. S. ’Tis true; she rides me. and I long for | Sleeping or waking? mad, or well advis’d «

4 grass. Known unto these, and to myself disguis’d ?
"Tis so, Iam an ass; else it could never be, I'll say as they say, and persever so,

But I should know her, as well as she knows me. And in this mist at all adventures go.

Adr, Come, come ; no longer will I be a fool, Dro. 8. Master, shall I be porter at the gate?
To put the finger in the eye and weep, Adr, Ay; and let none enter. lest I break your
Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn. pate. 220
Come, sir, to dinner.—Dromio, keep the gate.— Luc. Come, come, Antipholus ; we dine too late.
Husband. I'll dine above with you to-day, [Erevnt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

ACT
ScENE I.—The Same.
Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROoMIO of Ephesus, ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR.

  
 

Antipholus of Ephesus. i

OOD Signior Angelo, you must excuse
us all ;

My wife is shrew ish,
not hou

Say, that Mingerd with you at your

when I keep

shop
To see the making of her carcanet,
And that to-morrow you will bring it

home.

But here's a villain, that would face
me down

He met me on the mart, and that I
beat him,

And charg’d him with a thousand
marks in gold ;

And that I did deny my wife and house. —

Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know what

Iknow. iL
That you as me at the mart, I have your hand to
show:

If the skin were opener and the blows you gave
were ink,
Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
Ant. #, I think, thou art an ass.
Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear,
By the wrongs IJ suffer, and the blows I bear.
I should kick, being kick’d, and being at that pass,
You would keep from my heels, and beware ot an ass.
aint. H. You are sad, Signior Balthazar: ‘pray God,
our cheer
May Sneyer ay good will, and your good wefoome

Bal. T hold. your dainties cheap, sir, and your wel-
come dear.
Ant. FE. O Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,
A table-full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish,
Bal. Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl
atfords,
aint. #. And welcome more common, for that's
nothing but words.
Bal. Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry
feast.
Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host, and more sparing
guest:
But though my cates be mean, take them in good part ;
Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.
But soft! my door is lock’d. Go bid them let us in. 30
Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Jin !
Dro. S. (WWithin.}] Mome, malt-horse, capon, cox-
comb, idiot, patch !
Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the
hatch,
Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call’st for
such store,
When one is one too many? Go get thee from the
oor.
Dro, &. What patch is made our porter?— My
master stays in the street.
Dro. S. (Within.| Let him walk from whence he
dee came, lest he catch cold on's fect.
n

 

. Who talks within there ? ho! open the door.
Dro. s (Within.] Right, sir: I'll tell you when,
an you'll tell me Micaela, (

III.

Ant. HE. Wherefore? for my dinner:
din'd to-da
Dro. S. (Within. th Nor to-day here you must not;
come again when you may.
Ant. E. What art thou that keep’st me out from the
house I owe ?
Dro. 8. [Within.] The Pe for this time, sir, and
my name is Drom
Dro. E. O villain! thou last stolen both mine office
and my name:
The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.
If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,
Thou wouldst have chang’d thy face for a name, or
thy name for an ass.
Luce. [Within.] What a coil is there ! Dromio, who
are those at the gate ?
Dro. E. Let my master in, Luce.
Luce. (Within.] Faith no; he comes too late;
And so tell your master.
Dro. O Lord! I must laugh.— 50
Have at you with a proverb :—Shall I set in my staff?
Luce. (Within.] Have at you with another : that’s,
— When? can you tell?
Dro. a Within.) If thy name be called Luce, Luce,
ou hast answer’d him well.
Ant. BE Do you hear, you minion? you'll let us in,

I pet

Luce. [Within,] I thought to have ask’d you.

Dro. S. (Within.} And you said, no.

Dro. E. So; come, help: well struck! there was
blow for blow.

Ant. FE. Thou baggage, let me in.

Luce. (Within.] Can you tell for whose sake?

Dro, E. Master, knock the door hard.

Luee. ( ithin.| Let him knock till it ache.

alnt. Hk. You il ery for this, minion, if I beat the
door down.

Luce. (Within.] What needs all that, and a pair of
stocks in the town ? 60

Adr. (Within.] Who is that at the door, that keeps

all this noise ?

Dro. S. (Within.] By my troth, your town is troubled
with unruly boys.

Ant, FE. Are you there, wife? you might have come

I have not
40

before.
Adr. [Within.] Your wife, sir knave? go get you
from the door.
Dro. H. If you went in pain, master, this knave
would go sore.
Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we
would fain have either.
Bal. In debating which was best, we shall part with
neither.
Dro. E. They stand at the door, master: bid them
welcome hither.
aint. E. There is something in the wind, that we
cannot get in.
Dro. E. You would say so, master, if your garments
were thin. 70
Your cake there is warm within; you stand here in
the cold:
It would minke aman mad asa buck to be so bought
and sold.
Ant. E. Ge fetch me something: I'll break ope the
gate.

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

a

s

 

Dro. S. [Within.] Break any breaking here, and
I’ll break your knave's pate.
Dro. E, A man may break a word with you, sir, and
words are but wind ;
Ay, and pres it in your face, so he break it not be-

hind.
Dro. S. [Within.] It seems, thou wantest breaking.
Out upon thee, hind!
Dro. E. Here's too much out upon thee! I pray
thee, let me in.
Dro. S. [Within.] Ay, when fowls have no feathers,
nd fish have no fin.

a
Ant. HE. Well, I'll break in. Go borrow mea crow.

Stil

iF

RSs

 

 

Dro. E. ‘‘Master, knock the door hard.”

Dro. E. A crow without feather? master, mean you

so
For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a
feather.
If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow to-
gether.

Ant. E. Go get thee gone: fetch me an iron crow.
Bal. Have patience, sir; O! let it not be so:

Herein you war against your reputation,

And draw within the compass of suspect

The unviolated honour of your wife.

Once this,—your long experience of her wisdom,

Her sober virtue, years, and modesty,

Plead on her part some cause to you unknown ;

And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse

Why at this time the doors are made against you.

Be rul’d by me: depart in patience,

And let us to the Tiger all to dinner;

And about evening come yourself alone,

To know the reason of this strange restraint.

If by strong hand you offer to break in,

Now in the stirring passage of the day,

A vulgar comment will be made of it ; 100

And that supposed by the common rout

Against your hi ungalled estimation,

That may with foul intrusion enter in,

 

And dwell po your grave when you are dead ;

For slander lives upon succession ;

For ever housed, where it gets possession.
Ant, H. You have prevail’d, I will depart in quict,

And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.

I know a wench of excellent discourse, —

Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle, — 110

There will we dine: this woman that I mean,

My wife (but, I protest, without desert)

Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal :

To her will we to dinner.—Get you home,

And fetch the chain; by this, I know, ‘tis made;

Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine ;

For there’s the house: that chain will I bestow

(Be it for nothing but to spite my wife)

Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 120

I’) knock elsewhere, to see if they ‘ll disdain me.
Ang. I'll meet you at that place, some hour hence.
wnt. E. Doso, This jest shall cost me some expense.

‘ [Eccunt.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter Luctana and ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.
Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot
A husband’s oftice?) Shall, Antipholus,
Iven in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot ?
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?
It you did wed my sister tor her wealth,
Then for her wealth’'s sake use her with more kind-
ness:
Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth ;
Mutte your false love with some show of blindness;
Let not my sister read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator ; 10
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ;
Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger ;
Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint ;
Be secret-false : what need she be acquainted ?
What simple thief brags of his own attaini?
’T is double wrong, to truant with your bed,
And let her read it in thy looks at board:
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed ;
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. 20
Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
Being compact of credit, that you love us;
‘Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve ;
We in your motion turn, and you may move us.
Then, gentle brother, get you in again:
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife.
-T is holy sport to be a little vain,
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.
Ant. S. Sweet mistress (what your name is else, I
know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine), 30
Less in your knowledge, and your grace, you show not,
Than our earth's wonder; more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak :
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
The folded meaning of your words’ deceit.
Against my soul's pure truth, why labour you
To make it wander in an unknown field ?
Are you a god? would you create me new ?
Transform me then, and to your powerl’Uyield. 40
But if that Iam I, then well I know,
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:
Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote :.
Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take thee, and there lie ;
And, in that glorious supposition, think, 50
He gains by death, that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!
Luc. What! are you mad, that you do reason so?
Ant. S. Not mad, but mated ; how, I do not know.

 

 
 

 

78 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

{Act IIL.

 

Lue. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. |
tnt, S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being
b

ys 2
Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear
your sight. .
tnt. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on
nigne. .
Luc. Why call you me love? call my sister so.
Ant. S. Thy sister's sister. :
Lue. That’s my sister.
Ant. S. No; 60
It is thyself, mine own self’s better part ;
Mine eye’s clear eye, my dcar heart’s dearer heart ;
My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope ‘s aim,
My sole earth’s heaven, and my heaven’s claim.
‘Luc, All this my sister is, or else should be.

   

———
ee

a Vr

i

     

Lue. “ O, soft, sir! hold you stil.”

Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee.
Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life:
Thou hast. no husband yet, nor I no wife.
Give me thy hand.
Lue. : O, soft, sir! hold you still :
I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will. zs D
cit,
Enter DRoMio of Syracuse, hastily.

Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio? where runn’st
thou so fast?

Dro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I
your man, am I myself?

ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art
thyself.

Dro. 8. 1am an ass, I am a woman’s man, and be-
sides myself.

«{nt. S. What woman’s man? and how besides thy-
self ? 80

Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due toa
woman ; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one
that will have me.

Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee?

Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to
your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not
that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that
she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

Ant. S. What is she? 89

Dro. S. A very reverend body ; ay, such a one as a
man may not speak of, without he say, sir-reverence.
I have but lean luck in the match, and yet she is a
wondrous fat marriage.

Ant. S. How dost thou mean a fat marriage?

Dro. S. Marry, sir, she’s the kitchen-wench, and all
grease ; and I know not what use to put her to, but to
make a lamp of her, and run from her by her own
light. I warrant, her rags, and the tallow in them,
will burn a Poland winter: if she lives till dooms-
day, she’ll burn a week longer than the whole world.

Ant. S. What complexion is she of ? 101

 

Dro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing

like so clean kept: for why she sweats; a man may
go over shoes in the grime of it.

aint. S. That’s a fault that water will mend.

Dro. S. No, sir; ’tis in grain: Noah's tiood could
not do it.

nt. S. What's her name?

Dro. S. Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters,
that is, an ell and three quarters, will not measure her
from hip to hip. 111

Ant. 8. Then she bears some breadth ?

Dro. S. No longer from head to foot, than from hip
to hip: she is spherical, like a globe ; | could find out
countries in her. 5

«lnt. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland?

Dro, 8. Marry, sir, in her buttocks : I found it out by
the bogs.

ant. S. Where Scotland ?

Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness, hard in the
palm of the hand. 121

aint. S. Where France?

Dro. S. In her forehead; armed and reverted,
making war against her hair.

wnt. S. Where England?

Dro. S. I look’d for the chalky cliffs, but I could
find no whiteness in them: but I guess, it stood in
Ber chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France
and it.

aint. S. Where Spain ? 130

Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her
breath.

aint. S. Where America, the Indies?

Dro. S. O! sir, upon her nose, all o’er embellished
with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich
aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole
armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.

int. S. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

Dro. S. O! sir, [did not look so low. To conclude,
this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; call’d me
Dromio; swore, I was assured to her; told me what
privy marks I had about me, as the mark of my
shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my
left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her as a witch, |
And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith,

and my heart of steel,
She had transform’d me to a curtail-dog, and made
me turn i’ the wheel.

aint. S. Go hie thee presently post to the road :—
An it the wind blow any way from shore,

I will not harbour in this town to-night :—

If any bark put forth, come to the mart, ' 150
Where [ will walk till thou return to me.

If every one knows us, and we know none,

’T is time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone.
Dro. S. As from a bear a man would run for life, .
So fly I from her that would be my wife. 7 Lace

«int. os There’s none but witches do inhabit

ere,
And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence.
She that doth call me husband, even my soul
Doth for a wife abhor; but her fair sister,
Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace, 160
Of such enchanting presence and discourse,
Hath almost made me traitor to myself:
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song.

Enter ANGELO.
Ang. Master Antipholus?
Ant. S. Ay, that’s my name. 7
Ang. I know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain.
I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine ;
The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long. P
Ant. S. What is your will that I shall do with this?
lng. What please yourself, sir: I have made ft

for you. |
Ant. S. Made it for me, sir ? I bespoke it not. |
Ang. ae once, nor twice, but twenty times you
ave,
Go home with it, and please your wife withal ;
And soon at supper-time Ill visit. you,
And then receive my money for the chain.

 

 
 

 

Scene II.] THE COMEDY

OF ERRORS. 79

 

Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now,
For fear you ne’er see chain, nor money, more.

Ang. You are a merry man, sir. Fare you wal

: [Eavit.

Ant. S. What I should think of this, I cannot

tell ; 180

But this I think, there ’s no man is so vain,

That would retuse so tair an otfer’d chain.

I see, a man here needs not live by shifts,

When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.

I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay ;

If any ship put out, then straight away. [Evit.

 

ACT

Merchant. i
} OU know, since Pentecost the sum is due, |

And since I have not much importun’d

   
   

FOU 5
Nor now y had not, but that I am bound
To Persia, and want gilders for my
voyage :
Therefore make present satisfaction,
Or I'll attach you by this officer.
Ang. Even just the sum, that I do
owe to you,
Is growing to me by Antipholus ;
And, in the instant that I met with poe
: He had of me a chain: at five o’cloc
I shall receive the money for the same.
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of
Ephesus.

Of. That labour may you save: see where he

comes. .
Ant. E. pe aue I go to the goldsmith’s house, go
thou

10

And buy a rope’s end, that will I bestow
Among my wife and her confederates,

For locking me out of my doors by day.—

But soft, I see the goldsmith.—Get thee gone ;

Bey thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 20
ro. E. I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a
rope ! 2 [Ezit.

Ant. E, A man is well holp up that trusts to you:
I promised your presence, and the chain ;
But neither chain, nor goldsmith, came to me.
Belike, you thought our love would last too long,
If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not.
Ang. Saving your merry humour, here’s the note
How much your chain weighs to the utmost caract,
The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more 30
Than I stand debted to this gentleman :
I pray you, see him presently discharg’d, |
For he is bound to sea, and stays but-for it.
Ant. E. 1am not furnish’d with the present money ;
Besides, I have some business in the town.
Good signior, take the stranger to my house,
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof :
Perchance, I will be there as soon as you. -
Ang. Then you will bring the chain to her your.

self ?
Ant. E. No; bear it with you, lest I come not time

enough. ;
Ang. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about
you?

 

IV.
ScENE JI.—The Same.
Enter a Merchant, ANGELO, and an Officer.

Ant. E. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have,
Or else you may return without your money.
ang. Nay, come, | pray you, sir, give me the chain:
Both wind and tide stay for this gentleman,
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.
ant. HE. Good Lord! you use this dalliance, to
excuse
Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.
I should have chid you for not bringing it, 50
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.
Mer. The hour steals on: I pray you, sir, despatch.
Ang. You hear, how he importunes me: the

chain— es
Ant. E. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your
money. - :
Ang. Come, come; you know, I gave it you even

now.
Either send the chain, or send me by some token.
Ant. HE. Fie! now you run this humour out of
4 breath.
Come, where’s the chain? I pray you, let me see it.
Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance.
Good sir, say, whe’r you ll answer me, or no: 60
If not, Il leave him to the officer.
Ant. H. Tanswer you! what should I answer you?
Ang. The money that you owe me for the chain.
Ant. FE. I owe you none, till I receive the chain.
Ang. You know, I gave it you half an hour since.
Ant. H. You gave me none: you wrong me much to
say so. :
dng. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:
Consider how it stands upon my credit.
Mer. we officer, arrest him at my suit. é
0, 7
And charge you in the duke’s name to obey me.
Ang. This touches me in reputation.—
Either consent to pay this sum for me,
Or I attach you by this officer.
Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had ?
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar’st.
«ing. Here is thy fee: arrest him, officer.—
I would not spare my brother in this case,
If he should scorn me so apparently.
Off. I do arrest you, sir. ou hear the suit. 80
Ant. E. I do obey thee, till I give thee bail.—
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
As all the metal in your shop will answer.
Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,
To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.

Enter DRomIO of Syracuse.

Dro. S. Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum,
That stays but till her owner comes aboard, ;
And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
I have convey’d aboard, and I have bought

 

 
 

80 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

[Act Iv,

 

 

The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitee. 90

The ship is in her trim : the merry wind

Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at all,

But for their owner, master, and yourself. 2
Ant. E. How now? a madman! Why, thou peevish

sheep,

What ship of pidamnum stays for me?
Dro. 8. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.
Ant. #. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope ;

And told thee to what purpose, and what end.
Dro. S. You sent me tor a rope’s end as soon,

You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. .
Ant. E. I will debate this matter at more leisure,

And teach your ears to list me with more heed.

To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight ;

100

 

«lng. “ Here Is thy fee: arrest Lim, officer.”

Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry,
There is a purse of ducats: lct her send it.
Tell her, I am arrested in the street,
And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave, be gone.
On, officer, to prison till it come.
[EHxeunt Merchant, ANGELO, Officer, and ANT. E.
Dro. S. To Adriana? that is where we din‘d, 110
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband :
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
Thither I must, although against my will,
For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil. [Evit.

ScEeNE II.—The Same.

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA.

Adr. Ah! Luciana, did he tempt thee so?
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye
That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?
Look’d he or red or pale? or sad or merrily ?
What observation mad'st thou, in this case,
Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face ?

Luc. First he denied you had in him no right.

Adr. He eels he did me none: the more my

spite.

Luc. Then swore he, that he was a stranger here.

«1dr. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he

were.
Luc. Then pleaded I for you.
Adr. And what said he?
Luc, That love I begg'd for you, he begg'd of me.
Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?
Luc. With words that in an honest suit might

move.

First, he did praise my beauty ; then, my speech.
Adr, Didst speak him fair?
Lue. Have patience, I beseech.
Adr. I cannot, nor J will not hold me still:

 

My tongue, though not my beart, shall have his will.
He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,
Ill-tac’d, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere ; 20
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind,
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

Lue. Who would be jealous then of such a one ¢
No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone.

Adr, Ah! but I think him better than I say
And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse.
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away :
My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse,

Enter Dromio of Syracuse.
Dro. S. Here, go: the desk! the purse ! sweet now,
make haste.
Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ?
Dro. 8. By running fast,
Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well? 31
Dro. S. No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell:
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him,
One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel ;
A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough ;
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff ;
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that counter-
mands
The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands:
A hound sei runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot
well;
One Tee | before the judgment, carries poor souls i
ell.

Adr, Why, man, what is the matter?
Dro. S. 1 do not know the matter: he is ’rested on
the case.
Adr, What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit.
Dro. S. 1 oe not at whose suit he is arrested
well;
But is ina suit of buff which ’rested him, that can I

ell.
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money
in his desk ?
Adr. Go fetch it, sister. [Exit Luctana.]}_This I
wonder at,
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt :—
Tell me, was he arrested on a band?
Dro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; 50
A chain, achain. Do you not hear it ring?
dr, What, the chain?
Dro. S. No, no, the bell. ’Tis time that I were
gone:
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes

one.
Adr, The hours come back ! that did I never hear.
Dro. S. O yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a’ turns
back for very fear.
Adr. As if Time were in debt ! how fondly dost thou
reason !
Dro. S. Time is a very bankrout, and owes more
than he’s worth, to season.
Nay, he’s a thief too: have you not heard men say,
That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the

way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Re-enter LUCIANA.
Go. Dromio: there’s the money, bear it
straight,
And bring thy master home immediately.—
Come, sister ; I am press’d down with conceit ;
Conceit, my comfort, and my injury. [Exeunt.

Adr.

 

ScENE III.—The Same.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse.
Ant. S. There’s not a man I meet but doth salute

me,
As if I were their well-acquainted friend ;
And every one doth call me by my name.
Some tender money to me, some invite me ;
Some other give me thanks for kindnesses;

 
 

ScenE IV.]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 81

 

 

Some offer me commodities to buy :

Even now a tailor call’d me in his shop,

And show’d me silks that he had bought for me,

And, therewithal, took measure of my body.

Sure, these are but imaginary wiles, 10
And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Enter DRomio of Syracuse.

Dro. S. Master, here’s the gold you sent me for.—
What have you got the picture of old Adam new-
apparell’d ?

Ant. S. ber gold is this?) What Adam dost thou

mean

Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but
that Adam that keeps the prison: he that goes in the
calf’s skin that was kill’d for the Prodigal: he that
came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you
forsake your liberty. 20

Ant. S. Lunderstand thee not.

Dro. S. No? why, ‘tis a plain case. he that went,
like a bass-viol, in a case of leather ; the man, sir, that,
when gentlemen are tired, gives them a fob, and rests
them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men, and
wives them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to

o more exploits with his mace, than a morris-pike.

Ant. S. What, thou mean’st an officer?

Dro. S. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that.
brings any man to answer it, that breaks his band ;
one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says,
“God give you good rest!” 32

Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is
there any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone?

Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since,
that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then
were you hindered by the sergeant to tarry for the
hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to
deliver you.

Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I, 40
And here we wander in illusions.

Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Enter a Courtesan.

Cour. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.
Isee, sir, you have found the goldsmith now :

Is that the chain you promis'd me to-day?

Ant. S. Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not!

Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan ?

aint. S. It is the devil.

Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam,
and here she comes in the habit of alight wench: and
thereof comes that the wenches say, ‘‘God damn
me,” that's as much as to say, ‘‘God make me a Jight
wench.” It is written, they appear to men like angels
of light: light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn ;
ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.

Cour. Your man and you are marvellous merry,
ae Will you go with me? we'll mend our dinner

ere.

Dro. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat, or
bespeak a long spoon. 60

Ant. S. Why, Dromio?

Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon that
must eat with the devil.

Ant. S. Avoid, thou fiend! what tell’st thou me of

supping ? .
Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress :
I conjure thee to leave me, and be gone.

Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,
Or for my diamond the chain you promis’d,

And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
Dro. S. Some devils ask but the parings of ones
é

nail,
A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,
A nut, a cherry-stone ;
But she, more covetous, would have a chain.
Master, be wise : an if you give it her, 228
The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.
Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain.
T hope you do not mean to cheat me so. 7
nt. S. Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us

go.

 

Dro. S. “Fly pride,” says the peacock: mistress,
that you know. [Axeunt ANT. S. and DRo. S.
Cour. Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad, 80
Else would he never so demean himself.
A ving he hath of mine worth forty ducats,
And for the same he promis’d me a chain:
Both one and other he denies me now.
The reason that I gather he is mad,
Besides this present instance of his rage,
Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,
Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.
Belike, his wife, acquainted with his fits,
On purpose shut the doors against his way. 90
My way is now, to hie home to his house,
And tell his wife, that, being lunatic,
He rush’d into my house, and took perforce
My ring away. This course I fittest choose,
For forty ducats is too much to lose. [Exit.

ScENE IV.—The Same.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and the Officer.

aint. H. Fear me not, man; I will not break away:
I'll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,
To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for.
My wife is ina wayward mood to-day,
And will not lightly trust the messenger.
That I should be attach’d in Ephesus,
I tell you, ’t will sound harshly in her ears.

Enter DRomio of Ephesus with a rope’s end.
Here comes my man: I think he brings the money.—
How now, sir? have you that I sent you for?

Dro. F. Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them
i 10

all.
But where’s the money ?

Ant, E.

Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.

Ant. HE. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope ?

Dro. E. 111 serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home ?

Dro. E. To a rope’s end, sir; and to that end am I
return’d,

aint. H. And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

[Beating him.

Off. Good sir, be patient.

Dro. FE. Nay, ‘tis for me to be patient; I.am in
adversity. 21

Og. Good now, hold thy tongue.

Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

Ant, #. Thou whoreson, senscless villain!

Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I might
not feel your blows.

Ant, #. Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and
so is an ass.

Dro. E. J am_an ass, indeed ; you may prove it by
my long ears. I have serv’d him from the hour of my
nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands
for my service but blows. When Iam cold, he heats
me with beating ; when Iam warm, he cools me with
beating: I am wak’d with it, when I sleep; rais’d
with it, when I sit; driven out of doors with it, when
I go from home; welcomed home with it, when I
return: nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a beggar
wont her brat, and, I think, when he hath lamed me,
I shall beg with it from door to door. 39

Ant. E. Come, go along: my wife is coming yonder.

Enter ADRIANA, LucIANA, the Courtesan, and
PINCH.

Dro. E. Mistress, respice finem, respect your end;
or rather the prophecy, like the parrot, ‘* Beware the
rope’s end.”

dnt, HE. Wilt thou still talk ? (Beats him.

Cour. How say you now? is not your husband

mad?

Adr. His incivility confirms no less.—

Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer ;
Establish him in his true sense again,
And I will please you what you will demand.

 

C

 
 

 

 

 

82 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.
Luc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks! 50 | Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut,

Cour. Mark, how he trembles in his ecstacy !
Pinch. Give me your hand, and let me teel your

pulse.
Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

And I denied to enter in my house?

Adr. O husband, God doth know, you din’d at home;
Where would you had remain’d until this time,
Free from these slanders, and this open shame !

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pinch.

Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, hous'd within this man,
To yield possession to my holy prayers,
And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:
I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.
Ant, E. Peace, doting wizard, peace! Iam not mad.
Adr. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul !
Ant. EF, You minion, you, are these your customers?
Did this companion with the saffron face 61
Revel and feast it at my house to-day,

“IT conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.”

Ant. E. Dined at home! Thou, villain, what say’st
thou?

Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say you did not dine at home.
ant. E. ere not my doors lock'd up, and I shut

ou vi
Dro, E. Ferdys your doors were lock’d, and you shut

out.
Ant. E. And did not she herself revile me there?
Dro. E. Sans fable, she herself revil’d you there.

[Act IV.

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

= |

 

Ant. EH. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and
scorn me ?
Dro. E. Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn’d

you.
Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from thence?
Dro. E. In verity, you did :—my bones bear witness,
That since have felt the vigour of his rage.
dr. Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries?
Pinch. It is no shame: the fellow finds his vein, 80
And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy.
Ant. £. Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest

me.
Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you,
By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.
Dro. E. Money by me? heart and good will you
might,
But, surely, master, not a rag of money.
aint. Z. Went’st not thou to her for a purse of
ducats ?
Adr. He came to me, and I deliver’d it.
Luc. And I am witness with her that she did.
Dro. E. God and the rope-maker bear me witness,
That I was sent for nothing but a rope ! 91
Pinch. Mistress, both man and master is possess’d :
I know it by their pale and deadly looks.
‘Lhey must be bound, and laid in some dark room.
Ant. HE. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth
to-day ?
And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?
Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.
Dro. E. And, gentle master, I receiv’d no gold ;
But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out.
Adr. Dissembling villain! thou speak’st false in
both. 100
Ant. E. Dissembling harlot ! thou art false in all,
And art confederate with a damned pack,
To make a loathsome abject scorn of me;
But with these nails Ill pluck out these false eyes,
That would behold in me this shameful sport.
ddr. O, bind him, bind him! let him not come
near me.
Pinch. More company !—the fiend is strong within
m.

im.
Luc. Ah me! poor man, how pale and wan he
looks!

Enter three or four, and bind ANTIPHOLUS of
Ephesus and DRoMio of Ephesus.
Ant. i, What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler,
ou,
Iam thy prisoner : wilt thou suffer them 110
To make a rescue?
Off. Masters, let him go:
He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.
Pinch. Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.
Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer ?
Hast thou delight to see a wretched man
Do outrage and displeasure to himself ?
Of. He is my prisoner: if I let him go,
The debt he owes will be requir’d of me.
Adr. I will discharge thee, ere I go from thee.
Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,
And, knowing how the debt grows, T will pay it.
Good master doctor, see him safe convey’d
Home to my house.—O most unhappy day !
Ant. E. O most unhappy strumpet !
Dro. E. Master, I am here enter’d in bond for you.
Ant. E. Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou
mad me?
Dro. E. Will you be bound for nothing? be mad,
good master ;
Cry, the devil!
Lue. God help, poor souls ! how idly do they talk!
Adr, Go bear him hence.—Sister, go you with me.—
[Exeunt Pincu and Assistants with ANT. E.
and Dro. E.
Say now, whose suit is he arrested at ? _ 131
Of. One Angelo, a goldsmith ; do you know him?

 

Adr, Iknow the man. What is the sum he owes?
Off. Two hundred ducats.
Addr. : Say, how grows it due?
Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him.
«ldr. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it
not.
Cour. Whenas your husband, all in rage, to-day
Came to my house, and took away my ring
(The ring I saw upon his finger now),
Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

 

 

 

Of. “ Away! they'll kill us.”

Adr. It may be so, but I did never see it.— _
Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:
I long to know the truth hereof at large.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse, with his rapier
drawn, and DROMIO of Syracuse.
Lue. God, for thy mercy ! they are loose again.
Adr. And come with naked swords. Let’s call
more help, .
To have them bound again.
Away ! they’ll kill us.
[Exeunt ADRIANA, LUCIANA, Courtesan,
and Officer. is
Ant. S. I see, these witches are afraid of swords.
Dro. S. She that would be your wife now ran from

you.
Ant. S. Come to the Centaur ; fetch our stuff from
thence:
I long, that we were safe and sound aboard. 150
Dro. S. Faith, stay here this night, they will surely
do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us
gold. Methinks they are such a gentle nation, that
but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims mar-
riage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here still,
and turn witch.
Ant. S. I will not stay to-night for all the town ;
Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. [Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—The Same.
Enter Merchant and ANGELO.

Angelo.

AM sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you ;
But, I protest, he had the chain of me,
‘Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.

ier. How is the man esteem’d here in
the city?
Ang. Of very reverend reputation, sir,
Of credit infinite, highly belov’d,
Second to none that lives here in the city:
His word might bear my wealth at any

 

time.
Mer. Speak softly: yonder, as I think,
he walks.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and
DROMIO of Syracuse.

Ang. ’Tis so; and that self chain about his neck, 10
Which he forswore most monstrously to have.
Good sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to him, —
Signior Antipholus, I wonder much
That you would put me to this shame and trouble ;
And not without some scandal to yourself,
With circumstance and oaths, so to deny
This chain, which now you wear so openly:
Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,
You have done wrong to this my honest friend ;
Who, but for staying on our controversy, 20
Had hoisted sail, and put to sea to-day.
This chain you had of me: can you deny it?
int. S. I think. I had: I never did deny it.
Mcr, Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.
wnt. S. Who heard me to deny it, or forswear it?
Mer. The ears of mine, thou know'st, did hear
thee.
Fie on thee, wretch! ‘tis pity that thou liv’st
‘To walk where any honest men resort.
Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus.
I'll prove mine honour and mine honesty
Against thee presently, if thou dar'st stand.
Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.
[They draw.

Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, Courtesan, and others.

Adr. sl hurt him not, for God’s sake! he is
mad.—
Some get within him, take his sword away.
Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.
Dro. S. Run, master, run; for God's sake take a
ag house !
This is some priory ;—in, or we are spoil’d.
[Zzeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the Abbey.

Enter the Abbess.

Abb. Be quict, people. Wherefore throng you

hither?

Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.
Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, 40
And bear him home for his recovery.

Ang. I knew, he was not in his perfect wits.

Mer. Tam sorry now, that I did draw on him.

Abb. How long hath this possession held the man?

Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,

 

Before an Abbey.

And much different from the man he was;

But, till this afternoon, his passion

Ne‘er brake into extremity of rage.
bb. Hath ze not lost much wealth by wrack of

sea,

Buried some dear friend? Hath notelsehiseye 5

Stray’d his affection in unlawful love?

A sin prevailing much in youthful men,

Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.

Which of these sorrows is he subject to?
.idr, To none of these, except it be the last;

Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home.
fbb. You should for that have reprehended him.
adr. Why, so I did.
albb. Ay, but not rough enough.
adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me.
«1bb, Haply, in private.
adr. And in assemblies too. 60
Abb. Ay, but not enough.
Adr, It was the copy ot our conference.

In bed, he slept not for my urging it:

At board, he fed not for my urging it;

Alone, it was the subject of my theme;

In company, I often glanced it:

Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

 

Abb. “And therefore came it that the man was mad.’

Abb. And therefore came it that the man was mad:
The venom clamours of a jealous woman
Poison more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth. 70
It seems, his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing,
And thereof comes it that his head is light.
Thou say'’st, his meat was sauc’d with thy, upbraid-

ings:

Unquiet meals make ill digestions ;
Thereof the raging fire of fever bred:
And what’s a fever but a fit of madness?
Thou say’st, his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls:
Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue
But moody and dull melancholy,
Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair, 80
And at their heels a huge infectious troop

 

 
 

ScENE 1.]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 85

 

Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life ?
1n food, in sport, and life-preserving rest
To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast.
The consequence is then, thy jealous fits
Have scar’d thy husband from the use of wits.
Luc. She never reprehended him but mildly,
When he demean’d himself rough, rude, and wildly.—
Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not ?
dr, She did betray me to my own reproof.— 90
Good people, enter, and lay hold on him.
bb. No; not a creature enters in my house.
ddr. ee let your servants bring my husband
orth.
Abb. Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,
And it shall privilege him from your hands,
Till I have brought him to his wits again,
Or lose my labour in assaying it.
Adr. J will attend my husband, be his nurse,
Diet his sickness, for it is my office,
And will have no attorney but myself, 100
And therefore let me have him home with me.
Abb. Be patient ; for I will not let him stir,
Till [ have us'd the approved means [ have,
With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers,
To make of him a formal man again.
It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,
A charitable duty of my order ;
Therefore depart, and leave him here with me.
dr, I will not hence, and leave my husband here ;
And ill it doth beseem your holiness 110
To separate the husband and the wife.
bb. Be quiet, and depart: thou shalt not have
him. [E£uit.
Luc. Complain unto the duke of this indignity.
dAdr. Come, go: I will tall prostrate at his feet,
And never rise, until my tears and prayers
Have won his grace to come in person hither,
And take perforce my husband from the abbess.
Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five :
Anon, I’m sure, the duke himself in person
Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 120
The place of death and sorry execution,
Behind the ditches of the abbey here.
«lng. Upon what cause ?
Mer. Yo see a reverend Syracusian merchant,
Who put unluckily into this bay
Against the laws and statutes of this town,
Beheaded publicly for his offence.
«lng. See, where they come: we will behold his

death.
Luc. Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter DUKE, attended ; ALGEON bareheaded ; with
the Headsman and other Officers.
Duke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly, 130
If any friend will pay the sum for him,
He shall not die, so much we tender him.
«ldr. Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess !
Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady:
It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.
dr. May it please your grace, Antipholus, my
husband,—
Whom Imade lord of me, and all I had,
At your important letters,—this ill day
A most outrageous fit of madness took him,
That desperately he hurried through the street, 140
(With him his bondman, all as mad as he)
Doing displeasure to the citizens
y rushing in their houses, bearing thence
Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like.
Once did I get him bound, and sent him home,
Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went,
That here and there his fury had committed.
Anon, I wot not by what strong escape,
He broke from thése that had the guard of him,
And with his mad attendant and himself, 150
Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords,
Met us again, and, madly bent on us,
Chas’d us away ; till, raising of more aid,
We came again to bind them. Then they fled
Into this abbey, whither we pursued them ;
And here the abbess shuts the gates on us,

 

 

And will not suffer us to fetch him out,

Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence.

Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command,

Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help.
Duke. Long since thy husband serv’d me in my

wars,
And I to thee engag’d a prince’s word,
When thou didst make him master of thy bed,
To do him all the grace and good I could.—
Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate,
And bid the lady abbess come to me.
I will determine this, before I stir.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. O mistress, mistress! shift and save yourself.
My master and his man are both broke loose,
Beaten the maids a-row, and bound the doctor, —_170
Whose beard they have sing’d off with brands of fire ;
And ever as it blazed they threw on him
Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.
My master preaches paticnce to him, and the while
His man with scissors nicks him like a fool ;
And, sure, unless you send some present help,
Between them they will kill the conjurer.
Adr. Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,
And that is false thou dost report to us.
Serv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true; 180
I have not breath’d almost, since I did see it.
He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you,
To scorch your face, and to disfigure you.
[Cry within.
Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone.
ke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard
with halberds!
Adr. Ah me, itis my husband! Witness you,
That he is borne about invisible :
Even now we hous’d him in the abbey here,
And now he’s there, past thought of human reason.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of
Ephesus.
Ant, E. Justice, most gracious duke! O! grant me
justice, 190
Even for the service that long since I did thee,
When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took
Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood
That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.
siege. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,
Isee my son Antipholus, and Dromio!
Ant. FE. ; ustice, sweet prince, against that woman
there!
She whom thou gav’st to me to be my wife,
That hath abused and dishonour’d me,
Even in the strength and height of injury. 200
Beyond imagination is the wrong
That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.
Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.
Ant. E. This day, great duke, she shut the doors

upon me, ;
While she with harlots feasted in my house.
Duke. A grievous fault. Say, woman, didst thou

so?

Adr, No, my good lord: myself, he, and my sister,
To-day did dine together. So befall my soul,
As this is false he burdens me withal.

Luc. Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night,
But she tells to your highness simple truth. 211

Ang. Operjur'd woman! They are both forsworn :
In this the madman justly chargeth them.

Ant. E. My liege, I am advised what I say:
Neither disturbed with the effect of wine,
Nor heady-rash provok’d with raging ire,
Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.
This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner:
That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d with her,
Could witness it, for he was with me then; 2
Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,
Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,
Where Balthazar and I did dine together.
Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,
I went to seek him: in the street I met him,
And in his company that gentleman.

 

 
 

86 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS.

[Act Vv.

 

 

There did this perjur’d goldsmith swear me down,

That I this day of him receiv'd the chain, :

Which, God he knows, I saw not ; for the which

He did arrest me with an officer.

I did obey, and sent my peasant home

For certain ducats : he with none return’d.

Then fairly I bespoke the officer,

To go in person with me to my house.

By the way we met

My wife, her sister, and a rabble more

Of vile confederates: along with them saa

They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac’d villain,

A mere anatomy, a mountebank,

A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, 240

A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch,

A living dead man. This pernicious slave,

Forsooth, took on him asa conjurer,

And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,

And with no face, as ’t were, outfacing me,

Cries out, I was possess'd. Then, altogether

They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,

And in a dark and dankish vault at home

There left me and my man, both bound together; __

Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 250

I gain’d my freedom, and immediately

Ran hither to your grace, whom I beseech

To give me ample satisfaction ited

For these deep shames, and great indignities. | .
dng. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,

That he din'd not at home, but was lock’d out.

Duke. But had he such a chain of thee, or no?

Ang. He had, my lord; and when he ran in here,
These people saw the chain about his neck. :

Mer. Besides, I will be sworn, these ears of mine
Heard you confess you had the chain of him, 261
After you first forswore it on the mart,

And, thereupon, I drew my sword on you;
And then you fled into this abbey here,
From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.

Ant. E. [never came within these abbey-walls,
Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me.

T never saw the chain. So help me Heaven,
As this is false you burden me withal. : .

Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this! 270
J think, you all have drunk of Circe’s cup.

If here you hous’d him, here he would have been ;
If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly ;—
You say, he din’d at home; the goldsmith here
Denies that saying.—Sirrah, what say you?

Dro. E. Sir, he din’d with her there, at the Por-

pentine.

Cour. He did, and from my finger snatch'd that

ring.

Ant. E. ’Tis true, my lieg2; this ring I had of her.

Duke. Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here?

Cour. As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace. 280

Duke. ae this is strange.— Go call the abbess

ither.—
I think you are all mated, or stark mad.
; [Exit an Attendant.

Age. Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a

word.
Haply, I see a friend will save my life,
And pay the sum that may deliver me.

Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thon wilt.

ge. Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipholus,
And is not that your bondman Dromio?

Dro. &. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir:
But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords: 290
Now am I Dromio, and his man unbound.

Aige. Tam sure you both of you remember me.

Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;
For lately we were bound, as you are now.

You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir?

ge. wa look you strange on me? you know me

well.

Ant. H. [never saw you in my life, till now.

Ange. e grief hath chang’d me, since you saw me

ast ;
And careful hours, with Time’s deformed hand,
Hive written strange defeatures in my face: 309
But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

 

Ant. EH. Neither.
ige. Dromio, nor thou?

Dro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I.
<ige. 1 am sure thou dost.
Dro. E. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and what-

ee a man denies, you are now bound to believe
im.
Ege. Not know my voice! O, time’s extremity,
Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue
In seven short years, that here my only son 310
Knows not my feeble key of untun’d cares?
Though now this grained face of mine be hid
In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,
And all the conduits of my blood froze up,
Yet hath my night of life some memory,
My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,
My dull deaf ears a little use to hear :
All these old witnesses (I cannot err)
Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.
Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. 320
ge. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,
Thou know’st we parted. But, perhaps, my son,
Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery.
Ant. E. wins duke, and all that know me in the
city,
Can witness with me that it is not so.
I ne’er saw SE yraeuse in my life.
Duke. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
Have I been ee to Antipholus,
During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa.
I see, thy age and dangers make thee dote. 330

Enter Abbess, with ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and
Dromio of Syracuse.
Abb. Most mighty duke, behold a man much
wrong'd. [All gather to see them.
ldr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.
Duke. One of these men is Genius to the other;
And so of these : which is the natural man,
And which the spirit? who deciphers them ?
Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio: command him away.
Dro. FE. I, sir, am Dromio: pray, let me stay.
wint. S. 7Ageon art thou not? or else his ghost ?
Dro. a oO, pe old master! who hath bound him
ere
Abb. Whoever bound him. I will loose his bonds,
And gain a husband by his liberty.— 341
Speak, old Ageon, if thou be’st the man
That hadst a wife once called A’milia,
That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.
O! if thou be’st the same Ageon, speak,
And speak unto the same Avmilia !
Ege. If I dream not, thou art Avmilia.
Tf thou art she, tell me, where is that son
That floated with thee on the fatal raft ?
Abb. By men of Epidamnum, he, and I, 350
And the twin Dromio, all were taken up:
But, by-and-by, rude fishermen of Corinth
By force took Dromio and my son from them,
And me they left with those of Epidamnum.
What then became of them, I cannot tell ;
I to this fortune that you see me in.
Duke. Why, here begins his morning story right.
These two Antipholuses, these two so like,
And these two Dromios, one in semblance,--
Besides her urging of her wrack at sea ;— 360
These are the parents to these children,
Which accidentally are met together.
Antipholus, thou cam’st from Corinth first ?
wlnt. S. No, sir, not I: I came from Syracuse. a
Duke. Stay, stand apart: I know not which is

wohiecn,
Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most gracious

ord.
Dro. E. And I with him.
Ant. E. Brought to this town by that most famous
warrior,

Duke Menaphon. your most. renowned uncle. 369
-idr. Which of you two did dine with me to-day?
ae S. I, gentle meee a
aldr. nd are not you my husban
Ant. HE. No; I say nay to that. 2 =

 

 

a
 

 

 

ScENE I.]

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. ‘ 87

 

Ant. S. And so dol; yet did she call m2 so;
And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,
Did cail me brother.—What I told you then,
I hope, I shall have leisure to make good,
If this be not a dream I see and hear.
Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.
Ant. S. I think it be, sir: I deny it not.
Ant. EH. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.
Ang. I think I did, sir: I deny it not.
Adr, I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,
By Dromio; but I think, he brought it not.
Dro. &. No, none by me.

| And you the calendars of their nativity,
' Go to a gossips’ feast, and joy with me:
After so long grief such festivity !

Duke. With all my heart: I’ll gossip at this feast.
[Exeunt DUKE, Abbess, ACGEON, Courtesan,
Merchant, ANGELO, and Attendants.
Dro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stuft from ship-
board ?
Ant. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou em-
ark’d ? 410

Dro. S. Your goods, that lay at host, sir, in the
Centaur.

 

 

 

 

Abb. “ Most mighty duke, behold 2 man much wrong’d.’

Ant. S. This purse of ducats I receiv’d from you,

And Dromio, my man, did bring them me.

I see, we still did meet each other’s man,

And I was ta’en for him and he for me,

And thereupon these errors are arose.
Ant. H. These Suctils pawn I for my father here.
Duke. It shall not need : thy father hath his life.
Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond from you. 392
Ant. E. There, take it; and much thanks for my

good cheer. |

Abb. Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains

To go with us into the abbey here,

And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes

And all that are assembled in this place,

That by this sympathised one day’s error

Have suffer’'d wrong, go keep us company,

And we shall make full satisfaction, f 400

Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail

Of you, my sons; and till this present hour

My heavy burden ne’er deliver'd.— 2

The duke, my husband, and my children both,

 

Ant. S. He speaks to me.—I am your master,
Dromio:
Come, go with us; we'll look to that anon.
Embrace thy brother there ; rejoice with him.
Exeunt ANT. S., ANT. E., ADR., and Luc.
Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master’s

house,
That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner:
She now shall be my sister, not my wife.
Dro. E. Methinks, you are my glass, and not my
brother :
I see by you Iam a sweet-faced youth.
Will you walk in to see their gossiping? 420
Dro. S. NotI, sir; you are my elder.
Dro. E. That ’s a question : how shall we try it ?
Dro. S. We'll draw cuts for the senior: till then,
lead thou first.
Dro. E. Nay, then thus:
We came into the world like brother and brother ;
And now let's go hand in hand, not one before
another. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

VENUS AND ADONIS.

   

VEN as the sun with purple-colour’d face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping

morn,
ltose -cheek'’d Adonis hied him to the

chase ;
Ilunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to
scorn : .
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain
unto him,
And like a bold-fac’d suitor ‘gins to
woo him.

“Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began,
“The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature, that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith, that the world hath ending with thy life.

10

““Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,

And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow ;

If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed

A thousand honey-secrets shalt thou know :
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses ;
And being set, I ‘ll smother thee with kisses:

“And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty, 20
Making them red and pale with fresh variety ;
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good :
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse. 30
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush’d and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy ;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough

Nimbly she fastens; (O, how quick is love !)

The steed is stalled up, and even now

Yo tie the rider she begins to prove : 40
Backward she push’d him, as she would be thrust,
And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along, as he was down,
Fach leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips ;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
“Tf thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.”

 

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks:
Then with her windy sighs, and golden hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again she secks:
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss ;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

50

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,

Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,

Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,

Till either gorge be stuff’d, or prey be gone;
Even so she kiss’d his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Fore'd to content, but never to obey,

Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;

she feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,

And ¢alls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew’d with such distilling showers.

Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies ;
Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes: 7
Rain added to a river that is rank,
Perforce will force it overfiow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,

For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;

Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,

*Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashy-pale ;
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better’d with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love ;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears, 80
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet;
And one swect kiss shall pay this countless debt.

cot this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in:
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat

More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.

Her help she sees, but help she cannot get ;

She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
‘Oh, pity,” ‘gan she cry, ‘‘flint-hearted boy!
’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

“T have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes, in every jar; 160
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have.

 

 
 

 

 

 

VENUS AND ADONIS. 89
“Over my altars hath he hung his lance, By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
His batter’d shield, his uncontrolled crest, That thine may live, when thou thyself art dead ;
And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance, And so in spite of death thou dust survive,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest ; In that thy likeness still is left alive.”
Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. By this, the love-sick queen began to sweat,
Yor where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
“Thus he that overrul’d, I oversway’d, And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain: With burning eye did hotly overlook them ;
Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength obey'd, Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. So he were like him, and by Venus’ side. 180
O! be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight. And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
‘*Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,- His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red,— Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky,
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. Souring his cheeks, cries, ‘‘ Fie! no more of love:
What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head: The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.”
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes? 120 | ‘‘ Ah me!” quoth Venus, “‘ young, and so unkind?
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
“Art thou asham’d to kiss? then wink again, I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
And I will wink ; so shall the day seem night ; Shall cool the heat of this descending sun: 190
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain; I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight: If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.
These blue-vein’d violets, whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. “The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And, lo! I lie between that sun and thee:
“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Shows thee unripe, yet may’st thou well be tasted. Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
Make use of time, let not advantage slip; And were I not immortal, life were done
Beauty within itself should not be wasted : 130 Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime,
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

“Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,

Then might’st thou pause, for then I were not for

thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

‘“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow ;
Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning;
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, 141
My flesh is soft and pom ; my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.

“Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevell’d hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen :
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. 150
“ Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me ;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?

“Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected ;
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

160

“Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,

Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,

Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;

Things growing to themselves are growth’'s abuse :
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth

beauty ;
Thou wast begot,—to get it is thy duty.

“Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed? 170

 

“‘ Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel
What ’tis to iove? how want of love tormenteth?
O! had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

200

“What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?

What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss ?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:

Give me one kiss, I'l] give it thee again,

And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. 210
“Fie! lifeless picture, cold and senscless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,

Statue contenting but the eye alone,

Thing like a man, but of no woman bred:
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.”

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,

And swelling passion doth provoke a pause ;

Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:

Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause; 220
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand ;
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms intold him like a band:
She would, he wil] not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

“Fondling,” she saith, ‘‘since Ihave hemm’d thee here,
Within the circuit of this ivory pale, 230
I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale;

Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, _

Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

“ Within this limit is relief,enough, :
Sweet bottom-grass, and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obsevre and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest, and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park ; 2
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.” 20

 

 
 

90 VENUS AND ADONIS.

 

 

At this Adonis smiles, as in disdain, |

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple: |

Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,

He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, ,
Why, there Love liv’d, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? .
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking ? 250
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say ?

Her words are done! her woes the more increasing ;

The time is spent, her object will away, 5

And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
“ Pity!” she cries, “*some favour, some remorse!
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud, 260
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud :
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder:
The iron bit he crushes ‘tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with. 270

His ears up-prick’d; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send :
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage, and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,

With gentle majesty, and modest pride ;

Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,

As who should say, Lo! thus my strength is tried ; 280
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.

What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering holla, or his ‘‘ Stand, I say?”
What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons, or trapping gay ?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, 290
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed ;
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High wea short ears, straight legs, and passing
strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 300

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares ;

Anon he starts at stirring of a feather:

To bid the wind a base he now prepares,

And whe'r he run or fly, they know not whether ;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sinzs,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings.

He looks upon his love, and ncighs unto her;
She answers him, as if she knew his mind:

 

Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,

She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind; 310
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail, that, like a falling plume,
Coo] shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enrag’d,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d.

His testy master goeth about to take him,
When, lo! the unback’d breeder, full of fear, 320
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast :
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong,
When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. 330

An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d,

Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:

So of concealed sorrow may be said;

Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage ;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow

Even as a dying coal revives with wind,

And with his bonnet hides his angry brow;

Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, 340
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in bis eye.

O, what a sight it was, wistly to view

How she came stealing to the wayward boy!

To note the fighting conflict of her hue,

How white and red each other did destroy !
But now her cheek was pale, and by-and-by
It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat, ‘

And like a lowly lover down she kneels ; 350

With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,

Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels : 7
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand’s print,
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O, what a war of looks was then between them!
Her eyes, petitioners, to his eyes suing ;

His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes woo’d still, his eyes disdain’d the wooing:
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain

With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,

A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow,

Or ivory in an alabaster band ;

So white a friend engirts so white a foe: ‘
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,

‘

Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began :

‘‘O fairest mover on this mortal round,

*Would thou wert as I am, and Ia man,

My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound; 370
For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,
Shonen, ners but my Dodgy bane would, cure

ee.

“Give me my hand,” saith he, “why dost thon feel it?”

“Give me my heart,” saith she, ‘and thou shalt haveit;

O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,

And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it:
Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard,
Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.”

 

 
 

 

VENUS AND ADONIS. 91

 

“For shame!” he cries, ‘‘let go, and let me go;
My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone, 380
And ’tis your fault {am bereft him so:
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone:
for all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.”

Thus she replies : ‘“‘ Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire :
Aftection is a coal that must be cool’d;
Else, sutter’d, it will set the heart on fire.
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore, no marvel though thy horse be gone. 390

“ How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely master’d with a leathern rein!
But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain ;
‘Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.

“Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight?

Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold

To touch the fire, the weather being cold?

“Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy,

And learn of him, I[ heartily beseech thee,

To take advantage on presented joy ;

Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee.
O! learn to love; the lesson is but plain,
And once made perfect, never lost again.”

“T know not love,” quoth he, ‘nor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it ; +10
‘T is much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
Me love to love is love but to disgrace it ;
or I have heard it is a life in death,
That laughs, and weeps, and all but with a breath.

“Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d?

Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?

If springing things be any jot diminish’d,

They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
The colt that’s back'd and burden’d being young,
Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong. 4120

“You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat :
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart ;
To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate:
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your
flattery,
For where a heart is hard, they make no battery.”

“What! canst thou talk?” quoth she, “hast thou a

tongue?
O, would then nade not, or I had no hearing!

Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong ;
Thad my load before, now press’d with bearing: 430
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding,
Ear’s deep-sweet music, and heart’s deep-sore

wounding.

‘“‘Had I no eyes, but ears, my ears would love

That inward beauty and invisible ;

Or, were I deaf, thy outward parts would move

Each part in me that were but sensible:
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.

“Say, that the sense of feaing were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much ;
For from the still’tory of thy face excelling
Comes breath perfum’d, that breedeth love by
smelling.

440

 

“But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four:
Would they not wish the feast night ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcomie guest,
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast ?” 450
Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield:
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'
Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh :
Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,
His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

460

And at his look she flatly falleth down,

For looks kill love, and Jove by looks reviveth :

A smile recures the wounding of a frown ;

But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth !
The silly boy, believing she is dead,
Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red ;

And all-amaz’d brake off his late intent,

For sharply he did think to reprehend her,

Which cunning love did wittily prevent :

Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!
For on the grass she lies, as she were slain,
Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

470

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips, a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr d:
He kisses her; and she, by her good will
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. 480
The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day :
Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth,
Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array
He cheers the morn, and all the earth relieveth:
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face ilumin’d with her eye;

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d,

As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine.

Were never four such lamps together mix’d,

Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine ; 490
But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

““O! where am I?” quoth she, ‘‘in earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?
But now J liv’d, and life was death’s annoy ;
But now I died, and death was lively joy.

‘*O, thou didst kill me; kill me once again: _

Thy eyes’ shrew’d tutor, that hard heart of thine, 500

Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain,

That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine ;
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no morc had seen.

‘Long may they kiss each other for this cure!

O, never let their crimson liveries wear,

And as they last, their verdure still endure,

To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath. 510

“ Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,

What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?

 

 
 

 

 

92

VENUS AND ADONIS.

 

To sell myself I can be well contented, :

So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing ;
Which purchase it thou make, for fear of slips
Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.

““A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;

And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.

What is ten hundred touches unto thee ?

Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone? 520
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble ?”

‘‘Fair queen,” quoth he, ‘if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:
Before I know myself, scek not to know me;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste.

“Look, the world’s comforter, with weary gait,

His day's hot task hath ended in the west:

The owl, night's herald, shrieks, ‘t is very late ;

The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,
And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light,
Do summon us to part, and bid good night.

530

“Now let me say good night; and so say you;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.”
‘*Good night,” quoth she; and, ere he says adieu,
The honey fee of parting tender’d is:
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace ;
Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face.

Till, breathless, he disjoin’d, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:
He with her plenty press‘d, she faint with dearth,
(Their lips together glu‘d,) fall to the earth.

Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,

And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth ;

Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,

Paying what ransom the insulter willeth ; 530
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry.

And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
With blindfold fury she beyvins to forage;
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage ;
Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
Forgetting shame’s pure blush, and honcur’s wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tam’d with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tir’d with chasing, 361
Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling,

He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,

While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression
quines out of hope are compass’d oft with venturing,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission :
Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward,
But then woos best, when most his choice is
froward. 570

When he did frown, O! had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d.
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover ;
What though the rose have prickles, yet 't is pluck’d:
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.

For pity now she can no more detain him;

The poor fool prays her that he may depart :

She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him,

Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
‘The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest,
Ile carries thence incuged in his breast.

580

 

 

‘Sweet boy,” she says, ‘this night I] waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, Love’s master, shall we meet to-morrow ?
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?”
He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends
‘ro hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

“The boar!” quoth she, whereat a sudden pale,

Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,

Usurps her cheek: she trembles at his tale,

nd on his neck her yoking arms she throws ;
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.

590

Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter :
Allis imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy,
To clip Elysium, and to lack her joy. 600
Even as poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye, and pine the maw,
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.
The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.

But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:

She hath assay’d as much as may be prov’d;

Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee;

She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d.
“Fie, fie!” he says, ‘‘ you crush me; let me go:
You have no reason to withhold me so.”

610

“Thou hadst been gone,” quoth she, “sweet boy, ere

his,
But that thou toldst me, thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O! be advis'd; thou know’st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, _
Whose tushes never-sheath’d he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.

“On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes ;
His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes;
Being mov’d, he strikes whate’er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.

“His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm’d,
Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter ;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm’d ;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture :
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part; through whom he au i

“ Alas! he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which Love’s eyes pay tributary gazes ;
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes ;
But having thee at vantage, (wondrous dread !)
Would root these beauties, as he roots the mead.

““O! let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:
Come not within his danger by thy will; .
They that. thrive well take counsel of their friends, 610
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

“ Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?
Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright ?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.

“For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel ;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth ery, ‘ Kill, kill!’

650

 

 
 

VENUS AND ADONIS. 93

 

 

Distempering gentle Love in his desire,
As air and water do abate the fire.

“ This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,

This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring,

his carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,

That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine eur,
That if I love thee, 1 thy death should fear ; 660

“ And, more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture ot an angry-chafing boar,
Under whose sharp tangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, ail stain’d with gore;
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth male them droop with grief, and hang the
ead.

“What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremble at the imagination ?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination : 670
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow ;
It thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

“But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul’d by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox, which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs,
And o tte well-breath’d horse keep with thy
ounds.

‘*And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,

Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles,

How he outruns the wind, and with what care

He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles :
The many musets through the which he goes,
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

680

“Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell;
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell;

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer ;

Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear: 690
“For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out ;

Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies,

As if another chase were in the skies.

“ By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick, that hears the passing-bell.

“Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way :
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay :
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low, never reliev’d by any.

700

“ Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise :
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralise,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe.

710

“Where did I leave?”—“ No matter where,” quoth he;

“Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: \

The night is spent.”--‘‘ Why, what of that?” quoth
she.

“Tam,” quoth he, ‘‘ expected of my friends ;
And now ’tis dark, and going I shall fall.”

“In night,” quoth she, ‘desire sees best of all. 720

 

“ But if thou fall, O! then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy tooting trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.

“Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason :

Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,

Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason,

For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine, 730
Wherein she tram’d thee, in high heaven’s desyite,
To shame the sun by day, and her by night.

“‘ And therefore hath she brib’d the Destinies,
To cross the curious workmanship of Nature ;
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature ;
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances, and much misery ;

““As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Lite-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood;
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood :
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn‘d despair,
Swear Nature's death for framing thee so fair.

740

‘And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under :
Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,
Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d, and done,
As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day sun. 750

‘“Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals, and self-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity,
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.

‘““What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
seeming to bury that posterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ? 760
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

“So in thyself thyself art made away,

A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,

Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,

Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.”

“Nay then,” quoth Adon, ‘‘ you will fall again
Into your idle overhandled theme; 770
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
For by this black-fac’d night, desire’s foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.

“Tf love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tunc is blown;
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there; 7

“ Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest.
No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

“What have you urg’d that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger ;

 

 
 

OL VENUS AND ADONIS.

 

 

I hate not love, but your device in love,

That lends embracements unto every stranger.
You do it for increase : O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse !

790

“Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name ;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame ;
Vhich the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

“Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun; - :
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done:
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies ;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.

800

“‘More I could tell, but more I dare not say ;

The text is old, the orator too green.

Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;

My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.” 810

With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace

Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,

And homeward through the dark laund runs apace ;

Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress‘d.

Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye ;

Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: 820
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.

Whereat amaz’d, as one that unaware

Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,

Or, ’stonish’d as night-wanderers often are,

Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood ;
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour-caves, as seeming troubled, 830
Make verbal repetition of her moans:
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled.
“Ah me!” she cries, and twenty times, ‘“‘ Woe, woe!”
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

She, marking them, begins a wailing note,

And sings extemp'rally a woful ditty;

How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote;

How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty :
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so. 840

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,

For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short :

If pleas’d themselves, others, they think, delight

In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport :
Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.

For who hath she to spend the night withal,

But idle sounds resembling parasites ;

Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering every call,

Soothing the humour of fantastic wits? 50
She says, ‘‘’T is so :” they answer all, “’Tis so;”
And would say after her, if she said, ‘‘ No.”

Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty ;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold,
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish’d gold.

 

Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow :

“O thou clear god, and patron of all light,

From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow

The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.”

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o’erworn ;
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. 870

And as she runs, the bushes in the way

Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,

Some twin’d about her thigh to make her stay.

She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.

By this she hears the hounds are at a bay,

Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder

Wreath’d up in fatal folds, just in his way,

The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder:
Even so the timorous qe ping of the hounds 1
Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud ;
Finding their enemy to be so curst,
They all strain court’sy who shall cope him first.

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,

Through which it enters to surprise her heart ; 890

Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,

With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part;
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
They basely fly, and dare not stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstacy,

Till, cheering up her senses all-dismay’d,

She tells them, ‘tis a causeless fantasy,

And childish error, that they are afraid ;
Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more :—
And with that word she spied the hunted boar; 900

Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red,

Like milk and blood being mingled both wegethee

A second fear through all her sinews spread,

Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;

She treads the path that she untreads again :

Her more than haste is mated with delays,

Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, 910
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting,
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennell’d in a brake she finds a hound,

And asks the weary caitiff for his master;

And there another licking of his wound,

’Gainst venom ’d sores the only sovereign plaster;
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceas’d his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim, 920
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

Look, how the world’s poor people are amaz’d
At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,

 

 
 

VENUS AND ADONIS. 95

 

=

Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gaz’d,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies :

So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,

And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death. 930

“Hard-fayour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love,” (thus chides she Death,)
“Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou
mean,
To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath,
Who when he liv’d, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?

“Tf he be dead,—O no! it cannot be,

Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it ;—

O yes! it may; thou hast no eyes to see,

But hatefully at random dost thou hit. 940
Thy mark is feeble age; but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.

“ Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And hearing him thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke ;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower.
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not Death’s ebon dart, to strike him dead.

“Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such
weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee? 9350
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour.”

Here overcome, as one full of despair,

She vail’d her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopp’d

The crystal tide that trom her two cheeks fair

In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp’d ;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again. 960

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they view’d each other's sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry ;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,

As striving who should best become her grief ;

All entertain’d, each passion labours so,

That every present sorrow seemeth chief, 970
But none is best; then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla ;
A nurse’s song ne’er pleas’d her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel ;

For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,

And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice.

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison’d in her eye, like pearls in glass ; 980
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d. '

O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous !
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous: __
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. { 990
¥

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame:

 

It was not she that call’d him all-to-naught;

Now she adds honours to his hateful name ;
She clepeés him king of graves, and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

‘“No, no,” quoth she, ‘“‘sweet Death, I did but jest ;

Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear,

Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast,

Which knows no pity, but is still severe ;
Then, gentle shadow, (cruth I must confess,)
I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease.

1000

‘Tis not my fault: the boar provok’d my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander ;
Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong ;
I did but act, he’s author of thy slander.
Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet.
Could rule them both, without ten women’s wit.”

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ;

And that his beauty may the better thrive,

With Death she humbly doth insinuate :
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

1010

““O Jove!” quoth she, ** how much a fool was I,
To be of such a weak and silly mind,
To wail his death, who lives, and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ;
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. 1020
“Fie, fie, fond love! thou art so full of fear,
As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with thieves:
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.”
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies:

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light ;

And in her haste unfortunately spies

The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight : 1030
Which seen, her eyes, as murder’d with the view,
Like stars asham’d of day, themselves withdrew.

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother’d up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again:

So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled

Into the deep-dark cabins of her head :

Where they resign their office and their light

To the disposing of her troubled brain ;

Who bids them still consort with ugly night,

And never wound the heart with looks again ;
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,

1010

Whereat each tributary subject quakes ;
As when the wind, imprison’d in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound.
This mutiny each part doth so surprise,
That from their dark beds once more leap her oye
5

And, being open’d, threw unwilling light

Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench’d

In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white ’

With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench’d:
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
But stole his blood, and seem’d with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth,
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head,
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead :
Her voice is stopp’d, her joints forget to bow,
Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

1960

 

 
 

96 VENUS AND ADONIS.

 

 

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,

That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three ;
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,

‘That makes more gashes where no breach should be :
His face seems twain, each several Jimb is doubled ;
Yor oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

“My tongue cannot express my grief for one,

And yet,” quoth she, ** behold two Adons dead!

My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,

Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead:
Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire!
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

1070

‘“‘ Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that’s worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or anything ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim ;
But true-sweet beauty liv’d and died with him. 1080

‘‘ Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear !
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you:
But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air
Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair :

“And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off, and, being gone,
Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep, 1090
And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his
tears.

“To see his face, the lion walk’d alon
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him;
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,
And never fright the silly lamb that day.

‘“ When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills ;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries, and ripe-red cherries;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

1100

“ But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:

If he did see his face, why then, I know,

He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him so. 1110

‘OT is true, ‘tis true; thus was Adonis slain :

He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,

Who did not whet his teeth at him again,

But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath‘d, unaware, the tusk in his soft groin.

‘*Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first:
But he is dead, and never did he bless
M, epent with his; the more am I accurst.”
ith this she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

1120

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;

She takes him by the hand, and that 1s cold;

She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,

As if they heard the woful words she told ;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, :
Where, lo! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies:

 

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect ;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d,
And every beauty robb’d of his effect :
‘“* Wonder of time,” quoth she, “‘ this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light,

1130

“Since thou art dead, lo! here I prophesy,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend :
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end;
Ne’er settled equally, but high or low;
That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe.1140

“Tt shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud;

Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ;

The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw’d

With sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile:
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak.

“Tt shall be sparing, and too full of riot,

Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ;

The staring ruttian shall it keep in quiet,

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures:
It shall be raging mad, and silly-mild, 1151
Make the young old, the old become a child.

“Tt shall suspect, where is no cause of fear;

It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust;

It shall be merciful, and too severe,

And most deceiving, when it seems most just:
Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward ;
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

“Tt shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension ‘twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire :
Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,
They that love best, their loves shall not enjoy.”

1160

By this, the boy, that by her side lay kill'd,

Was melted like a vapour from her sight,

And in his blood, that on the ground lay spill’d,

A purple flower Se up, chequer’d with white ;
Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness Brood.

i

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,

Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath;

And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,

Since he himself is reft from her by death:

She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

“Poor flower,” quoth she, “this was thy father’s guise,
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast, as in his blood.

1180

“ Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and ’t is thy right:
Lo! in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee da
‘There shall not be one minute in an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.”

and night:

Thus weary of the world, away she hies, i
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid 1190
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immurc herself and not be seen.

 

 
 

 

 

KING HENRY VI—PART II.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Kine HENRY THE SIXTH.

HuMPHREY, Duke of Gloster, his Uncle.
CARDINAL BEAUFORT, Bishop of Winchester.
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York.
EDWARD and RICHARD, his Sons.
DUKE OF SOMERSET,

DUKE OF SUFFOLK, Of the King’s
DUKE or BUCKINGHAM, Party.
LorD ee and his Son,

EARL OF SALISBURY, r, ae
EArt ov WARWICK, Of the York Faction.
LORD SCALES, Governor of the Tower.

LORD Say.

Sik HUMPHREY STAFFORD, and his Brother.
Str JOHN STANLEY.
WALTER WHITMORE.
A Sea Captain, Master, and Master’s-Mate.
Two Gentlemen, Prisoners with Suffolk.
VAUX,

HUME and SOUTHWELL, Priests.

BOLINGBROKE, a Conjurer. A Spirit raised by him.
THOMAS HORNER, an Armourer.

PETER, his Man.

Clerk of Chatham. Mayor of Saint Albans.
Simpcox, an Impostor. Lwo Murderers.
JACK CADE.

GrorGE, JoHN, Dick, SMITH the Weaver, MICHAEL,
dé&c., Cade’s Followers.
ALEXANDER IDEN, a Kentish Gentleman.

MARGARET, Queen to King Henry.
ELEANoR, Duchess of Gloster.
MARGERY JOURDAIN, a Witch. Wife to Simpcoz.

Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Herald; Petition-
ers, Aldermen, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers ;
Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers,
Messengers, &c.

SCENE-—In various parts of ENGLAND.

ACT I.
ScENE I.—London. A Room of State in the Palace.

Flourish of trumpets: then hautboys.

Enter, on one side, King HENRY, Duke of GLOSTER, SALISBURY,

Warwick, and Cardinal BEAUFORT; on_ the other, Queen MARGARET, led in by SUFFOLK; YORK,

SoMERSET, BUCKINGHAM, and others, following.

33.2 Suffolk.

@) s by your high imperial majesty

I had in charge at my depart for
France,

As procurator to your excellence,

To marry Princess Margaret for your
grace ;

So, in the famous ancient city, Tours,

In presence of the Kings of France and

Sicil,
The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne,
and Alencon,
, Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty
reverend bishops,
Ihave perform’d my task, and was espous’d :
d humbly now upon my bended knee, 10
In sight of England and her lordly peers,
Deliver up my title in the queen :
To your most reeione hands, that are the substance
Of that great shadow I did represent ;
The happiest gift that ever marquess gave,
The fairest queen that ever king receiv’d.
K. Hen. Suffolk, arise. —Welcome, Queen Margaret:
Ican express no kinder sign of love 2
Than this kind kiss.—O Lord ! that lends me life,
Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness ;
For thou hast given me, in this beauteous face,
A world of earthly blessings to my soul,
If prmpelby of love unite our thoughts. 7
Q. Mar. Great King of England, and my gracious

   

lord,
The mutual conference that my mind hath had
By day, by night, waking, and in my dreams,
courtly company, or at my beads,

 

With you mine alderliefest sovereign,
Makes me the bolder to salute my king
With ruder terms, such as my wit affords, 30
And over-joy of heart doth minister.
K. Hen. He sight did ravish, but her grace in
speech,
Her words y-clad with wisdom’s majesty,
Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys;
Such is the fulness of my heart’s content.
Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love.

All, Long live Queen Margaret, England’s happi-

ness !

Q. Mar. We thank you all. (Flourish.

Sus. My lord protector, so it please your grace,
Here are the articles of contracted peace,

Between our sovereign, and the French king Charles,
For eighteen months concluded by consent.

Glo. [Reads.] ‘‘Imprimis, It is agreed between the
French king, Charles, and William de la Poole, Mar-
aun of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of

ngland, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady
Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples,
Sicilia, and Jerusalem; and crown her Queen of
England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing.—
Item,—That the duchy of Anjou and the county of
Maine shall be released and delivered to the king her
father ”— 52

K. Hen. Uncle, how now?

Glo. Pardon me, gracious lord ;
Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart,
And dimm’d mine eyes, that I can read no further.

KK. Hen. Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on.

Win. “Item,—It is further agreed between them,—
that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released

 

 
 

 

 

98 KING HENRY VI.--PART II.

[Act IL

 

and delivered over to the king her father; and she
sent over of the King of Kngland’s own proper cost
and charges, without having any dowry.” 61
A. Heh, ‘They please us well.—Lord marquess, kneel
own:
We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk,
And girt thee with the sword.—Cousin of York,
We here discharge your grace from being regent
I the parts of France, till term of eighteen months
Be full expir’d.—Thanks, uncle Winchester,
Gloster, York, Buckingham, Somerset,
Salisbury, and Warwick ;
We thank you all for this great favour done, 70
In entertainment to my princely queen.
Come, let us in; and with all speed provide
To see her coronation be perform’d.
[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, and SUFFOLK.
Glo. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state,
To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief,
Your grief, the common grief of all the land.
What! did my brother Henry spend his youth,
His valour, coin, and people, in the wars?
Did he so often lodge in open field,
In winter’s cold, and summer’s parching heat, 80
To conquer Fran-e, his true inheritance ?
And did my brother Bedford toil his wits,
To keep by policy what Henry got ?
Have you ourselves, Somerset, Buckingham,
Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick,
Receiv’d deep scars in France and Normandy ?
Or hath mine uncle Beaufort, and myself,
With all the learned council of the realm,
Studied so long, sat in the council-house
Early and late, debating to and tro
How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe?
And hath his highness in his infancy
Been crown’'d in Paris, in despite of foes?
And shall these labours, and these honours, die?
Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford’s vigilance,
Your deeds of war, and all our counsel, die?
O peers of England! shameful is this league ;
Fatal this marriage ; cancelling your fame,
Blotting your names from books of memory,
Razing the characters of your renown, 100
Detacing monuments of conquer’d France,
Undoing all, as all had never been !
Car. Nephew, what means this passionate discourse,
This peroration with such circumstance ?
For France, ‘tis ours ; and we will keep it still.
Glo. Ay, uncle ; we will keep it, if we can ;
But now it is impossible we should.
Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast,
Hath given the duchy of Anjou, and Maine,
Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style 110
Agrees not with the leanness of his purse.
Sal. Now, by the death of Himn that died for all,
These counties were the keys of Normandy.—
But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?
War. For grief, that they are past recovery ;
For, were there hope to conquer them again,
My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears.
Anjou and Maine! myself did win them both ;
Those provinces these arms of mine did conquer:
And are the cities, that I got with wounds,
Deliver'd up again with peaceful words ?
Mort Diew!
York. For Suffolk’s duke, may he be suffocate,
That dims the honour of this warlike isle !
France should have torn and rent my very heart,
Before I would have yielded to this league.
I never read but England’s kings have had
Large sums of gold, and dowries, with their wives ;
And our King Henry gives away his own,
To match with her that brings no vantages. 130
Glo. A proper jest, and never heard before.
That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth,
For costs and charges in transporting her! P
She should have stay’d in France, and starv’d in
France,
Before—
Car. My Lord of Gloster, now you grow too hot.
It was the pleasure of my lord the king.

 

Glo. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind:
*T is not my speeches that you do mislike,
But ’tis my presence that doth trouble ye. 140
Rancour will out : proud prelate, in thy face
Isee thy fury. If I longer stay,
We shall begin our ancient bickerings.—
Lordings, farewell ; and say, when I am gone,
I prophesied, France will be lost ere long.
Car. So, there goes our protector in a rage.
’T is known to you he is mine enemy ;
Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,
And no great friend, I fear me, to the king.
Consider, lords, he is the next of blood, 50
And heir-apparent to the English crown:
Had Henry got an empire by his marriage,
And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west,
There’s reason he should be displeas’d at it.
Look to it, lords : let not his smoothing words
Bewitch your hearts ; be wise, and circumspect.
What though the common people favour him,
Calling him *‘ Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloster ;”
Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice—
‘* Jesu maintain your royal excellence!” 160
‘With—‘‘ God preserve the good Duke Humphrey !”
I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss,
He will be found a dangerous protector.
Buck. Why should he then protect our sovereign
He being of age to govern of himself
Cousin of Somerset, join you with me,
And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk,

We'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat.
Car. This weighty business will not brook delay ;
I'll to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [Exit

Som. ei of Buckingham, though Humphrey’s
pride, Vi
And greatness of his place, be grief to us,
Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal.
His insolence is more intolerable
Than all the princes’ in the land beside:
If Gloster be displac’d, he ’ll be protector.
Buck. Or thou, or I, Somerset, will be ‘oman:
Despite Duke Humphrey, or the cardinal.
[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and SOMERSET.
Sal. Pride went before, ambition follows him.
While these do labour for their own preferment, 180
Behoves it us to labour for the realm.
I never saw but Humphrey, Duke of Gloster,
Did bear him like a noble gentleman.
Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal,
More like a soldier, than a man o’ the church,
As stout and proud, as he were lord of all,
Swear like a ruffian, and demean himself
Unlike the ruler of a commonweal.—
Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age,
Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping, 190
Hath won the greatest favour of the commons,
Excepting none but eped Duke Humphrey;
And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland,
In bringing them to civil discipline,
Thy late exploits, done in the heart of France,
When thou wert regent for our sovereign,
Have made thee fear’d and honour’d of the people.—
Join we together, for the public good,
In what we can, to bridle and suppress
The pride of Suffolk, and the cardinal, 200
With Somerset’s and Buckingham’s ambition ;
And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey’s deeds,
While they do tend the profit of the land,
War. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land, |
And common profit of his country. S
York. [Aside.] And so says York, for he hath
greatest cause. .
Sal. Then let’s make haste away, and look unto
the main.
War. Unto the main! O father, Maine is lost; |
That Maine, which by main force Warwick did win,
And would have kept, so long as breath did last : 210
Main chance, father, you meant; but I meant Maine,
Which I will win from France, or else be slain.
i [Lxeunt WARWICK and SALISBURY.
York. Anjou and Maine are given to the French;
Paris is lost : the.state of Normandy

[Exit.

 

eae
 

Scene II.) KING HENRY

VI—PART II. 99°

 

Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone.

Suffolk concluded on the articles,

The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleas’d,

To change two dukedoms for a duke’s fair daughter.

I cannot blame them all: what is’t to them?

’T is thine they give away, and not their own. 220

Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage,

And purchase friends, and give to courtesans,

Still revelling, like lords, till all be gone;

Whileas the silly owner of the goods

Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands,

And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof,

While 'all is shar’d, and all is borne away,

Ready to starve, and dare not touch his own:

So York must sit, and fret, and bite his tongue,

While his own lands are bargain’d for, and sold.

Methinks, the realms of England, France,

Ireland,

Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood,

As did the fatal brand Althea burn’d,

Unto the prince’s heart of Calydon.

Anjou and Maine, both given unto the French !

Cold news for me ; for I had hope of France,

Even as I have of fertile England’s soil.

A day will come when York shall claim his own ;

And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts,

And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey,

And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown, 241

For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit.

Nor shaJl proud Lancaster usurp my right,

Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist,

Nor wear the diadem upon his head,

Whose church-like humours fit not for a crown.

Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve:

Watch thou, and wake, when others be asleep,

To pry into the secrets of the state,

Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love, 250

With his new bride, and England’s dear-bought

queen,

And Ses with the peers be fall’n at jars:

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,

With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfum’d,

And in my standard bear the arms of York,

To Srapple with the house of Lancaster ;

And, force peronee, I’ll make him yield the crown,

Whose bookish rule hath pull’d fair England dowmit
exit.

230
and

ScENE II.—The Same. A Room in the Duke of
GLOSTER’S House.

Enter GLOSTER and the DUCHESS.
Duch. Why droops my lord, like ee corn,
Hanging the head at Ceres’ plenteous load ?
Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows,
As frowning at the favours of the world?
are thine eyes fix’d to the sullen earth,
Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight ?
What seest thou there? King Henry’s diadem,
Enchas’d with all the honours of the world?
If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face,
Until ad head be circled with the same.
Put forth thy hand ; reach at the glorious gold.—
What, is’t too short? Ill lengthen it with mine;
And, having both sovather heav’d it up,
We'll both together lift our heads to heaven,
d never more abase our sight so low,
As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground.
Glo. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord,
Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts :
And may that thought, when I imagine ill
Against my king and nephew, virtuous Henry,
Be my last breathing in this mortal world.
My troublous dream this night doth make me sad.
ch. What dream’d my lord? tell me, and I'll re-

10

20

e quite it
With sweet rehearsal of my morning’s dream. .
Glo. Methought, this staff, mine office-badge in
court,
Was broke jn twain: by whom, I have forgot,

. That shall make answer to such questions,

 

But, as I think, it was by the cardinal ;

And on the pieces of the broken wand

Were plac'd the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset,

And William de la Poole, first Duke of Sutfolk. 30

This was my dream: what it doth bode, God knows.
Duch,. Tut! this was nothing but an argument,

That he that breaks a stick of Gloster’s grove,

Shall lose his head for his presumption.

But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke :

Methought, I sat in seat of majesty,

| In the cathedral church of Westminster,

And in that chair where kings and queens are
crown’d ;
Where Henry, and Dame Margaret, kneel’d to me,
And on my head did set the diadem.
Glo. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright.
Presumptuous dame ! ill-nurtur’d Eleanor !
Art thou not second woman in the realm,
And the protector’s wife, belov’d of him
Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command,
Above the reach or compass of thy thought ?
And wilt thou still be hammering treachery,
To tumble down thy husband, and thyself,
From top of honour to disgrace’s feet’?
Away from me, and let me hear no more.
Duch. What, what, my lord! are you so choleric
With Eleanor, for telling but her dream ?
Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,
And not be check’d.
Glo. Nay, be not angry, I am pleas’d again.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord protector, ’t is his highness’ pleasure,
You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans.
Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk.

Glo. I go.—Come, Nell; thou wilt ride with us?

Duch. Yes, my good lord, Ill follow presently. 60

[Ezeunt GLOSTER and, Messenger.

Follow I must; I cannot go before,
While Gloster bears this base and humble mind.
Were Ia man, a duke, and next of blood,
I would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks,
And smooth my way upon their headless necks :
And, being a woman, | will not be slack
To play my part in Fortune’s pageant. 7
Where are you there? Sir John! nay, fear not, man,
We are alone: here’s none but thee, and I.

Enter HUME.
Hume. Jesus preserve your royal majesty . 70
Duch. What say’st thou? majesty! Iam but grace.
Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume’s
advice, ,
Your oa title shall be multiplied.
Duch. What epee thou, man? hast thou as yet
conferr’
With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch
And Oe Baling broke: the conjurer ?
And will they undertake to do me good?
Hume. This they have promised, —to show your
highness :
A spirit rais’d from depth of under-ground, sp
As by ats grace shall be propounded him.
Duch, It is enough: Ill think upon the questions.
When from Saint Albans we do make return,
We ll see these things effected to the full.
Here, Hume, take this reward ; make merry, man,
With tby confederates in this weighty cause. [zit.
Hume. Hume must make merry with the duchess’

gold ;
Marry, and shall. But how now, Sir John Hume?
Seal up your lips, and give no words but—mum:
The business asketh silent secrecy.

Dame Eleanor.gives gold to bring the witch:

Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil.

Yet have I gold, flies from another coast :

I dare not say, from the rich cardinal,

And from the great and new-madé Duke of Suffolk ;
Yet I do find it so: for, to be plain,

They, knowing Dame Eleanor’s aspiring humour,
Have hired me to undermine the duchess,

And buz these conjurations in her brain.

90

 

 
 

100 KING HENRY

VI—PART II. [Act L

 

 

They say) a crafty knave does need no broker ; 100
Yet am I Sutfolk and the cardinal’s broker.
Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near
To call them both a pair of crafty knaves.
Well, so it stands ; and thus, I fear, at last,
Hume’s knavery will be the duchess’ wrack,
And her attainture will be Humphrey’s fall.
Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. (Exit.

ScENE III.—The Same.

Enter PETER, and others, with petitions.

1 Pet. My masters, let’s stand close: my lord pro-
tector will come this way by-and-by, and then we
may deliver our supplications in the quill.

2 Pet. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he’s a good
man! Jesu bless him!

A Room in the Palace.

Enter SUFFOLK and Queen MARGARET.

1 Pet. Here ’a comes, methinks, and the queen with
him. I’ll be the first, sure.

2 Pet. Come back, fool! this is the Duke of Suffolk,
and not my lord protector.

oie How now, fellow? wouldst anything with me?

1 Pet. I pray, my lord, pardon me: I took ye tor my
lord protector. 12

Q. Mar. **To my lord
cations to his lordship ?
thine?

1 Pet. Mine is, an’t please your grace, against John
Goodman, my lord cardinal’s man, for keeping my
house, and lands, and wife, and all, from me.

Suf. Thy wife too? that is some wrong indeed.—
What’s yours?—What’s here? [Reads.] ‘ Against
the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of
Melford.”—How now, sir knave ? 22

2 Pet. Alas! sir, l am buta poor petitioner of our
whole township.

Peter. [Presenting his petition.) Against my master,
Thomas Horner, for saying, that the Duke of York
was rightful heir to the crown.

Q. Mar. What say’st thou? did the Duke of York
say, he was rightful heir to the crown?

‘Pet. That my master was? No, forsooth: my
master said, that he was; and that the king was an
usurper. 32

Suf. Who is there?

Enter Servants.
Take this fellow in, and send for his master with
a pursuivant presently.—We’ll hear more of your
matter before the king.
[Exeunt Servants with PETER.

Q. Mar. And as for you, that love to be protected

Under the wings of our protector’s grace,
Begin your suits anew, and sue to him.
[Tears the petition.
Away, base cullions !—Suffolk, let them go. 40

All. Come, let’s be gone. [Hxeunt Petitioners.

Q. Mar. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise,
Is this the fashion in the court of England?

Is this the government of Britain’s isle,

And this the roel: of Albion’s king?
What! shall King Henry be a pupil still,
Under the surly Gloster’s governance ?

Am I a queen in title and in style,

And must be made a subject toa duke?

I tell thee, Poole, when in the city Tours
Thou rann’st a tilt in honour of my love,

And stol’st away the ladies’ hearts of France,
I thought King Henry had resembled thee,
In courage, courtship, and proportion :

But all his mind is bent to holiness,

To number Ave-Maries on his beads ;

His champions are the prophets and apostles
His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ ;

His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves

Are brazen images of canonis’d saints.

I would, the college of the cardinals —

Would choose him pope, and carry him to Rome,

rotector !” are your suppli-
et me see them. What is

50

60

 

And set the triple crown upon his head :
That were a state fit for his holiness.

Suf. Madam, be patient ; as I was cause
Your highness came to England, so will I
In England work your grace’s full content.

Q. Mar, Beside the haughty protector, have we

Beaufort,
The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buckingham.
And grumbling York: and not the least of these, 70
But can do more in England than the king.

Suf. And he of these that can do most of all,
Cannot do more in England than the Nevils:
Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers.

Q. Mar. Not all these lords do vex me half so much,
As that proud dame, the lord protector’s wife :

She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies,
More like an empress than Duke Humphrey’s wife.
Strangers in court do take her for the queen:

She bears a duke’s revenues on her back, 89
And in her heart she scorns our poverty.

Shall I not live to be aveng’d on her?

Contemptuous base-born callat as she is,

She vaunted ’mongst her minions t’ other day,

The very train of her worst wearing-gown

Was better worth than all my father’s lands,

Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter.

Suf. Madam, myself have lim’d a bush for her;
And plac’d a quire of such enticing birds,

That she will light to listen to the lays, 9
And never mount to trouble you again.

So, let her rest, and, madam, list to me ;

For I am bold to counsel you in this.

Although we fancy not the cardinal,

Yet must we join with him, and with the lords,

Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace.
As for the Duke of York, this late complaint

Will make but little for his benefit :

So, one by one, we’ll weed them all at last,

And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. 100

Enter King Henry, YorRK, and SOMERSET; Duke
and Duchess of GLOSTER, Cardinal BEAUFORT,
BUCKINGHAM, SALISBURY, and WARWICK.

K. Hen. For my part, noble lords, I care not

which ;
Or Somerset, or York, all’s one to me.
York. If York have ill demean’d himself in France,
Then let him be denay’d the regentship.
Som. If Somerset be unworthy of the place,
Let York be regent; I will yield to him.
War. Whether your grace be worthy, yea, or no,
Dispute not that: York is the worthier.
Car. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak.
War. The cardinal’s not my better in the field. 110
Buck. All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick.
War. Warwick may live to be the best of all.
Sal. Peace, son !—and show some reason, Bucking-

ham,
Why Somerset should be preferr’d in this. ;
Q. Mar. Because the king, forsooth, will have it so.
Glo. Madam, the king is old enough himself
To give his censure. These are no women’s matters.
Q. Mar. It he be old enough, what needs your grace
To be protector of his excellence?
Glo. Madam, I am protector of the realm, 120
And at his pleasure will resign my place.
Suf. Resign it then, and leave thine insolence.
Since thou wert king, (as who is king but thou ?)
The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack ;
The Dauphin hath prevail’d beyond the seas ;
And all the peers and nobles of the realm
Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. ‘
Car. The commons hast thou rack’d; the clergy's

bags
Are lank and lean with thy extortions. eth
Som. Thy sumptuous buildings, and thy wife's
attire, 130
Have cost a mass of public treasury.
Buck. Thy cruelty in execution
Upon offenders hath exceeded law,
And left thee to the mercy of the law. ‘
Q. Mar. Thy sale of offices, and towns in France,

 

 
 

 

ScreneE IV.] KING HENRY

VI—PART II. 101

 

If they were known, as the suspect is great,
Would make thee quickly hop without thy head.
[Exit GLOSTER. The QUEEN drops her fan.
Give me my fan: what, minion ! can you not?
[Giving the DUCHEss a box on the ear.
Icry you mercy, madam : was it you?

Duch. Was’t I? yea, Lit was, proud Frenchwoman:
Could I come near your beauty with my nails, 141
I’d set my ten commandments in your face.

K. Hen. Sweet aunt, be quiet: ‘twas against her

will.
Duch. Against her will! Good king, look to’t in
ime ;
She ll hamper thee, and dandle thee like a baby :
Though in this place most master wear no breeches,
She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng’d. [Ezit.

 

 

Duch, ** Was't [2 yea, Lit was, proud Frenchwoman.”

Buck. Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor,
And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds :.
She’s tickled now; her fume needs no spurs,
She'll gallop far enough to her destruction.

Re-enter GLOSTER.
Glo. Now, lords, my choler being over-blown
With walking once about the quadrangle,
I come to talk of commonwealth affairs.
As for your spiteful false objections,
Prove them, and I lie open to the law ;
But God in mercy so deal with my soul,
As Tin duty love my king and country.
But, to the matter that we have in hand.—
Isay, my sovereign, York is meetest man
To be your regent in the realm of France.
Su: Before we make election, give me leave
To show some reason, of no little force,
That York is most unmeet of a man. 3
York. I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why Iam unmeet:
First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride ;
Next, if I be appointed for the place,
My Lord of Somerset will keep me here,
Without discharge, money, or furniture,
Till France be won into the Dauphin’s hands. 170
Last time I danc’d attendance on his will,
Till Paris was besieg’d, famish’d, and lost.
War. That can I witness: and a fouler fact
Did never traitor in the land commit.
Suf. Peace, headstrong Warwick !
ar. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace ?

Enter Servants of SUFFOLK, bringing in HORNER
and PETER.

Suf. Because here is a man accus’d of treason :

150
[Exit.

160

 

ay God, the Duke of York excuse himself!
ork. Doth any one accuse York for a traitor?

K. Hen. What mean’st thou, Suffolk?

what are these ?

Suf. Please it your majesty, this is the man
That doth accuse his master of high treason.

His words were these :—that Richard, Duke of York,
Was rightful heir unto the English crown,
And that your majesty was an usurper.

A. Hen. Say, man, were these thy words?

Hor. An’t shall please your majesty, I never said
nor thought any such matter. God is my witness, I
am falsely accused by the villain.

Pet. By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them
to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my
Lord of York’s armour. 192

York, Base dunghill villain, and mechanical,

I'l have thy head for this thy traitor’s speech.—
I do beseech your royal majesty,
Let him have all the rigour of the law.

Hor. Alas! my lord, hang me, if ever I spake the
words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I did
correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow
upon his knees, he would be even with me. I have
good witness of this: therefore, I beseech your
majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a
Villain’s accusation. 203

A. Hen. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law?

Glo. This doom, my lord, if I may judge :

Let Somerset be regent o’er the French,

Because in York this breeds suspicion ;

And let these have a day appointed them

For single combat in convenient place ;

For he hath witness of his servant's malice.

This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom.

Som. I humbly thank your royal majesty.

Hor. And I accept the combat willingly.

Pet. Alas! my lord, I cannot fight: for God’s sake,
pity my case! the spite of man Pa ee against me.

Lord, have mercy upon me! I shall never be able to
fight a blow. O Lord, my heart!

Glo, Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hang’d.

kA. Hen. Away with them to prison ; and the day
Of combat shall be the last of the next month.— 220
Come, Somerset, we'll see thee sentaway. [Exeunt.

Tell me,

210

ScENE IV.—The Same. The Duke of GLostER’s
Garden.

Enter MARGERY JOURDAIN, HUME, SOUTHWELL,
‘and BOLINGBROKE,

Hume. Come, my masters; the duchess, I tell you,

ag performance of your promises.
oling. Master Hume, we are therefore provided.

Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms?

Hume. Ay; what else? fear you not her courage.

Boling. I have heard her reported to be a woman of
an invincible spirit : but it shall be convenient, Master
Hume, that you be by her aloft, while we be busy
below ; and so, I_ pray you, go in God’s name, and
leave us. [Exit UME.) Mother Jourdain, be you
prostrate, and grovel on the earth:—John Southwell,
read you, and let us to our work. 12

Enter DUCHESS above.
Duch. Well said, my masters, and welcome all. To
this gear; the sooner, the better. |
Boling. Patience, good lady; wizards know their

times.
Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night,
The time of night when Troy was set on fire;
The time when screech-owls cry, and ban-dogs howi,
And spirits walk, and ghosts break up their graves,
That time best fits the work we have in hand. 20
Madam, sit you, and fear not: whom we raise,
We will make fast within a hallow’d verge.

[Here they perform the ceremonies belonging,
and make the circle; BOLINGBROKE, or
SOUTHWELL, reads, Conjuro te, &c. It
thunders and lightens terribly ; then the

Spirit riseth.
Spir. Adsum. a
fe

 

 
 

102 KING HENRY VI-PART II. [Act L

 

 

M. Jourd. Asmath ! Than where castles mounted stand.
By the eternal God, whose name and power Have done, for more I hardly can endure.
Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask ; Boling. Descend to darkness and the burning

For till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence. lake:
Spir. Ask what thou wilt.—That I had said and | False fiend, avoid! 40
done! [Thunder and lightning. Spirit descends,

 

Spir. ‘Have done, for more I hardly can endure.”

Enter Yor«K and BuckincHAM, hastily, with
their Guards.

York. Lay hands upon these traitors, and their

Boling. Pint, of the king. What shall of him be-
ome

c
Spir. The duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose ;
But him outlive, and die a violent death. 31

 

[As the Spirit speaks, SOUTHWELL writes trash.
the answer. Beldam, I think, we watch’d you at an inch.
Boling. What fates await the Duke of Suffolk? What! madam, are you there? the king and com-

Spir. By water shall he die, and take his end. monweal
Boling. What shall befall the Duke of Somerset ? Are deeply indebted for this pe of pains:
Spir. Let him shun castles : My lord protector will, I doubt it not,

Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains, ‘ | See you well guerdon’d for these good deserts.

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.] KING HENRY VI-PART I. “103
Duch. Not half so bad as thine to England’s king, “Tell me, what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk ~~
Injurious duke, that threat’st where is no cause. By water shall he die, and take his end.—
Mick, True, madam, none at all. What call you | What shall betide the Duke of Somerset ?—
his ? [Showing her the papers. | Let him shun castles :
Away with them! let them be clapp’d up close, 50 | Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains,
And kept asunder.— You, madam, shall with us: Than where castles mounted stand.”
Stafford, take her to thee.— Come, come, my lords; 70

[Exit DucHEss from above.
We'll sce your trinkets here all forthcoming ;

All, away! .

(Rueuenit Guards, with SOUTHWELL, BOLING-
BROKE, dc.
York. Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch’d

her well:

A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon!

Now, pray, my lord, let’s see the devil’s writ.

Whatlinve we here?

[Reads.] “‘ The duke yet lives, that Henry shall de-
pose ;

But him outlive, and die a violent death.” 60

Why, this is just,

Aio te, Atacida, Romanos vincere posse.

Well, to the rest:

These oracles are hardly attain’d,
And hardly understood.
'The king is now in progress towards Saint Albans ;
With him the husband of this lovely lady:
Thither go these news, as fast as horse can carry
them ;
Asorry breakfast for my lord protector.
Buck. Your grace shall give me leave, my Lord of

York,
To be the post, in hope of his reward.
York. At your pleasure, my good lord.-- Who’s
within there, ho!

Enter a Servant.
Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick,
| Lo sup with me to-morrow night.—Away !

 

80
[Exeunt.

 

Queen Margaret.
ELIEVE me, lords, for flying at the

brook,

I saw not better sport these seven
years’ day :

Yet, by your leave, the wind was
very high,

And, ten to one, old Joan had not
gone out.

A. Hen. But what a point, my
lord, your falcon made,
And what a peen she flew above the
rest !—
To see how God in all his creatures
TKS?
Yes, man and birds are fain of climb-
; ing high.
Suf. No marvel, an it like your majesty,
My lord protector’s hawks do tower so well:
er know their master loves to be aloft,
And bears his thoughts above his falcon’s pitch.
Glo. My lord, ’t is but a base ignoble mind,
That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
Car. I jenene as much: he’d be above the
clouds.
Glo. Ay my lord cardinal; how think you by
a
Were it not goed your grace could fly to heaven ?
K. Hen. The treasury of everlasting joy.
Car. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and
thoughts
on a crown, the treasure of thy heart: 20
ernicious protector, dangerous peer,
That smooth’st it so with king and commonweal.
Glo. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown
peremptory ?
Tantene animis celestibus ire ?

 

10

Beat on

ACT II.

Scene I.—Saint Albans. —

Enter King HENRY, Queen MARGARET, GLOSTER, Cardinal, and SUFFOLK,
with Falconers hollaing.

Churchmen so hot? good uncle, hide such malice ;
With such holiness can you do it?

Suf. No malice, sir ; no more than well becomes
So good a quarrel, and so bad a peer.

Glo. As who, my lord?

Suf. Why, as you, my lord ;
An’t like your lordly lord-protectorship.

Glo, Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence.

. Mar. And thy ambition, Gloster.

. Hen, I pr’ythee, peace,
Good queen; and whet not on these furious peers,
For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.

Car. Let me be blessed for the peace I make
Against this proud protector with my sword.
Glo. [Aside to the Cardinal.] ’Faith, holy uncle,
’would ’t were come to that !
Car. [Aside.] Marry, when thou dar’st.
Glo, [Aside.] Make up no factious numbers for the
matter ;
In thine own person answer thy abuse. 40
Car. [Aside.] Ay, where thou dar’st not peep: an if
thou dar’st,
This evening on the east side of the grove.
KK. Hen. How now, my lords!
Car. Believe me, cousin Gloster,
Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly,
We had had more sport.—[Aside to GLOSTER.] Come
with thy two-hand sword.
Glo. True, uncle.
Car. {Aside.] Are you advis’d?the east side of the

grove.

Glo. [A side.] Cardinal. I am with you.

K. Hen. Why, how now, uncle Gloster!

Glo. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord.—

[Aside.] Now, by God's mother, priest, I’ll shave your
‘crown 50

For this, or all my fence shall fail.

 

 

 
 

104

KING HENRY VI.—PART Ii.

{Act IT.

 

 

Car. [Aside.] Medice, teipsum—
Protector, see to ’t well, protect yourself.
K. aaa ate winds grow high ; so do your stomachs,
ords.
How irksome is this music to my heart !
When such strings jar, what hope of harmony ?
I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife.

Enter One, crying, ‘‘A miracle!”
Glo. What means this noise?
Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim ?
One. A miracle! a miracle! 60
Suf. Come to the king, and tell him what miracle.
One. Forsooth, a blind man, at Saint Alban’s

shrine,
Within this half hour hath receiv’d his sight ;
A man that ne’er saw in his life before.
kK. Hen. Now, God be prais’d, that to believing souls
Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair!

Enter the Mayor of Saint Albans and his Brethren;
and SiMpcox, borne between two persons in a
chair; his Wife and a great multitude following.
Car. Here come the townsmen on procession,

To present your highness with the man.

A. Hen. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale,

Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. 70
Glo. Stand by, my masters; bring him near the

ing:
His iicliness 4 ieawace is to talk with him.
A. Hen. Good fellow, tell us here the circumstance,
That we for thee may glorify the Lord.
What! hast thou been long blind, and now restor’d?
Simp. Born blind, an’t please your grace.
Wife. Ay, indeed, was he.
Suf. What woman is this?
Wife. His wife, an’t like your worship.
Glo. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have
better told. 80
K. Hen. Where wert thou born ?
Simp. At Berwick in the north, an’t like your grace.
AK. Holy poor soul! God's goodness hath been great
o thee:
Let never day nor night unhallow’d pass,
But still remember what the Lord hath done.
Q. Mar. Tell me, good fellow, cam’st thou here by
chance,
Or of devotion, to this holy shrine 2
Simp. God knows, of pe devotion ; being call’d
A hundred times, and oft’ner, in my sleep,

By good Saint Alban ; who said,—‘“*Simpcox, come:
Come, offer at. my shrine, and I will help thee.” 91
Wife. Most true, forsooth ; and many time and oft
Myself have heard a voice to call him so.

Car. What! art thou lame ?

Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me!
Suf. How cam’st thou sot Ce ae
Simp. A fall off a tree.

Wife. A plum-tree, master.
Glo. ow long hast thou been blind ?
Simp. O! born so, master.
Glo. _ What! and wouldst climb a tree 2
Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth.
Wife. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.
Glo. Mass, thou lov’dst plums well, that wouldst
venture so. 100
Simp. Alas, master, my wife desir’d some damsons,
And made me climb with danger of my life.
Glo. A subtle knave ; but yet it shall not serve,—
Let me see thine eyes: — wink now; —now open
them.—
In my opinion yet thou seest not well.
Simp. Yes, master, clear as day; I thank God, and
Saint Alban.
Glo. may Re thou meso? What colour is this cloak
0

Simp. Red, master; red as blood.
Glo. Why, that’s well said. What colour is my

gown of?
es Black, forsooth ; coal-black as jet. 110
K. fen. yoy then, thou know’st what colour jet is
of

 

Suf. And yet, I think, jet did he never sce.

Glo. But cloaks, and gowns, before this day a many,

Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life.

Glo. Tell me, sirrah, what’s my name ?

Simp. Alas! master, I know not.

Glo. What’s his name?

Simp. I know not.

Glo. Nor his?

Simp. No, indeed, master. 120

Glo. What’s thine own name?

Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master,

Glo. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in
Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou
mightst as well have known all our names, as thus to
name the several colours we do wear. Sight may
distinguish of colours ; but suddenly to nominate them
all, it is impossible.—My lords, Saint Alban here hath
done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning
to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs
again? 131

Simp. O master, that you could!

Glo. My masters of Saint Albans, have you not
beadles in your town, and things called whips?

May. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace.

Glo. Then send for one presently.

May. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.

[£xit an Attendant.

Glo. Now fetch me a stool hither by-and-by. [A
stool brought out.) Now, sirrah, if you mean to save
yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool, and
run away. u1

Simp. Alas! master, Iam not able to stand alone:
You go about to torture me in vain.

Re-enter Attendant, and a Beadle with a whip.

Glo. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs.
ae beadle, whip him till he leap over that same
stool.

Bead. I will, my lord.—Come on, sirrah ; off with
your doublet quickly.

Simp. Alas! master, what shall I do? Iam not able
to stand. 15)

[After the Beadle hath hit him once, he leaps
over the stool, and runs away; and
People follow and cry, ‘A miracle!”

EK. Eiety Os tod! seest thou this, and bearest so

ong?

Q. Mar. It made me laugh to see the villain run,

Glo. Follow the knave, and take this drab away.

Wife. Alas! sir, we did it for pure need.

Glo. Let them be whipp’d through every market-
town, till they come to Berwick, from whence they
came. [Excunt Mayor, Beadle, Wife, &c.

Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day.

Suf. True; made the lame to leap, and fly away.

Glo. But you have done more miracles thanI; 160
You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly.

Enter BUCKINGHAM.
K. Hen. What tidings with our cousin Buckingham?
Buck, Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold,
A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent,
Under the countenance and confederacy
Of Lady Eleanor, the protector’s wife,
The ringleader and head of all this rout,
Have practis’d dangerously against your state,
Dealing with witches, and with conjurers:
Whom we have apprehended in the fact ; 170
Raising up wicked spirits from under-ground,
Demanding of ing enry’s life and death,
And other of your highness’ privy council,
As more at large your grace shall understand.

Car. And so, my lord protector, by this means
Your lady is forthcoming yet at London.

This news, I think, hath turn’d your weapon’s edge,
*T is like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.’

Glo. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart.
Sorrow and grief have vanquish’d all my powers ; 180
And, vanquish’d as I am, I yield to thee,

Or to the meanest groom.
4K. Hen. O God! what mischiefs work the wicked

ones;
Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby.

 

 
 

Scene III.]

KING HENRY VI. PART II.

105

 

Q. Mar. Gloster, see here the tainture of thy nest ;
And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.

Glo, Madam, for myself, to Heaven I do appeal,
How I have lov’d my king, and cOMNGhweal.
And, for my wife, I know not how it stands.
Sorry I am to hear what I have heard ;

Noble she is, but if she have forgot

Honour, and virtue, and convers’d with such
As, like to pitch, defile nobility,

I banish her my bed and company,

And give her, as a prey, to law, and shame,
That hath dishonour'’d Gloster’s honest name.

K. Hen. Well, for this night, we will repose us here:

To-morrow toward London, back again,

To look into this business thoroughly,

And call these foul offenders to their answers ;

And poise the cause in justice’ equal scales,

‘Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause pre-
vails. [Flourish. Exeunt.

190

200

ScENE II.—London. The Duke of York's Garden.

Enter YORK, SALISBURY, and WARWICK.
York. NOs my good Lords of Salisbury and War-
wick,

Our simple supper ended, give me leave,
In this close walk, to satisfy myself,
In craving your opinion of my title,
Which is infallible, to England’s crown.

Sal. my lord, I long to hear it at full.
War. Sweet York, begin; and if thy claim be good,
The Nevils are thy subjects to command.

York. Then thus:—__.
Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons: 10
The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales;
The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,
Lionel, Duke of Clarence; next to whom
Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster.
The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York ;
The sixth was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloster;
William of Windsor was the seventh, and last.
Edward, the Black Prince, died before his father,
And left behind him Richard, his only son;
Who, after Edward the Third’s death, reign’d a

king,
Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster,
The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,
Crown’d by the name of Henry the Fourth,
Seized on the realm ; depos’d the ste king ;
Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she

* came,
And him to Pomfret ; where, as all you know,
Harmless Richard was murder’d traitorously.
War. Father, the duke hath told the truth ;
Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown.
York. Which now they hold by force, and not oy

right ;
For Richard, the first son’s heir being dead,
The issue of the next son should have reign’d.
Sal. But William of Hatfield died without an heir.
York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose

line
I claim the crown, had issue—Philippe, a daughter,
Who married Edmund Mortimer, Karl of March ;
Edmund had issue-—Roger, Earl of March ;
Roger had issue—Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.
al. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke,
As [have read, laid claim unto the crown;
And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king,
Who kept him in captivity till he died.
But to the rest.
York. His eldest sister, Anne,
My mother, being heir unto the crown,
Married Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was son
To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third’s fifth son.
By her I claim the kingdom : she was heir ,
To Roger, Earl of March, who was the son
Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe,
Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence :
So, if the issue of the elder son | ,
Succeed before the younger, I am king.

50

 

War. vee plain proceeding is more plain than
this

Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt,

The fourth son; York claims it from the third.

Till Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign :

It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee,

And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock.

Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together

And, in this private plot, be we the first,

That shall salute our rightful sovereign

With honour of his birthright to the crown.
Both. Long live our sovereign Richard, England’s

60

king!
York. We thank you, lords! But I am not your

ing,
Till I be crown’d, and that my sword be stain’d
With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster ;
And that’s not suddenly to be perform’d,
But with advice, and silent secrecy.
Do you, as I do, in these dangerous days,

_ Wink at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence, 70

At Beaufort’s pride, at Somerset's ambition,
At Buckingham, and all the crew of them,
Till they have snar’d the shepherd of the flock,
That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey.
Tis that they seek : and they, in seeking that,
Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy.
Sal. My lord, break we off: we know your mind at

full.
War. My heart assures me, that the Earl of War-

wick
Shall one cae make the Duke of York a king.

York. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself: 80
Richard shall live to make the Earl of Warwick
The greatest man in England but the king. [Hzeunt.

Scene IJJ.—The Same. A Hall of Justice.

Trumpets sounded. Enter King HENRY, Queen
MARGARET, GLOSTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, and SALIS-
BURY; the Duchess of GLOSTER, MARGERY JOUR-
DAIN, SOUTHWELL, HUME, and BOLINGBROKE,
under guard.

K. Hen. Stand forth, Dame Eleanor Cobham, Glos-
ter’s wife.

In sight of God, and us, your guilt is great :

Receive the sentence of the law, for sins

Such as by God’s book are adjudg’d to death.—

[To JouRDaAIN, déc.] You four, from hence to prison

back again ;

From thence, unto the place of execution :

The witch in Smithfield shall be burn’d to ashes,

And you three shall be strangled on the gallows.—

You, madam, for you are more nobly born,

Despoiled of your honour in your life,

Shall, after three days’ ope penance done,

Live in your country here in banishment,

With Sir John Stanley in the Isle of Man.

Duch. poe oe is banishment ; welcome were my
eath.
Glo. Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee:

I cannot justify whom the law condemns.—

[Exeunt the DUCHESS and the other Prisoners,
guarded.

Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.

Ah, Humphrey! this dishonour in thine age

Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground.—

I beseech your majesty, give me leave to go; 20

Sorrow would solace, and mine age would ease.
K. Hen. Stay, Humphrey, Duke of Gloster.

thou go,

Give up thy staff: Henry will to himself

Protector be ; and God shall be my hope,

My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.

And go in peace, Humphrey ; no less belov’d,

Than when thou wert protector to thy king.

Q. Mar. I see no reason why a king of years

Should be to be protected like a child.—

God and King Henry govern England’s helm !—

Give up your staff, sir, and the king his realm.

10

30

 
 

 

106 KING HENRY

VI—PART II. (Act IL.

 

 

Glo. My staff?—here, noble Henry, is my staff:
As willingly doI the same resign, |
As e’er thy father Henry made it mine; |
And even as willingly at thy feet I leave it,
As others would ambitiously receive it.
Farewell, good king: when Iam dead and gone, __
May honourable peace attend thy throne. [Ecit.
Q. Mar. Why, now is Henry king, and Margaret
ueen ;
And Humplicse Duke of Gloster, scarce himself, 40
‘That bears so shrewd a maim : two pulls at once,—
His lady banish’d, and a limb lopp’d off;
This staff of honour raught :—there let it stand,
Where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand.

 

Glo. “‘ Here, noble Henry, is my staff."

Suf. Thus droops this lofty pine, and hangs his
sprays ;
Thus Eleanor's ride dies in her youngest days.
York. Lords, let him go.—Please it your majesty,
This is the day appointed for the combat ;
and ready are the appellant and defendant,
The armourer and his man, to enter-the lists,
So please your highness to behold the fight.
Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore
Left L the court, to see this quarrel tried.
KX. Hen. O' God's name, see the lists and all things

fit:
Here let them end it, and God defend the right!
York. I never saw a fellow worse bested,
Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant,
The servant of this armourer, my lords.

50

Enter, on one side, HORNER, and his Neighbours,
drinking to him. so much that he is drunk ; and he
enters bearing his staff with a sand-bag fastened
toit; adrum before him: at the other side, PETER,
with a drum and a similar staff; accompanied by
Prentices drinking to him.

1 Neigh. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in
a cup of sack. And fear not, neighbour, you shall do
well enough. 61

2 Neigh. And here, neighbour, here’s a cup of
charneco,

3 Neigh. And here’s a pot of good double beer,
neighbour: drink, and fear not your man.

Hor. Let it come, i’faith, and I'll pledge you all;
and a fig for Peter !

1 Pren. Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not
afraid.

 

2 Pren. Be merry, Peter, and fear not thy master:
fight for credit of the prentices, 71

Peter..I thank you all: drink, and pray for me, I
pray you; for, I think, I have taken my last draught
in this world.—Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee
my apron; and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer:
—and here, Tom, take all the money that I have.—
O Lord, bless me! I pray God, for I am never able to
deal with my master, he hath learnt so much fence
already.

Sal. Come, leave your drinking, and fall to blows.—
Sirrah, what’s thy name? 81

Peter. Peter, forsooth.

Sal. Peter! what more?

Peter. Thump.

Sal. Thump! then see thou thump thy master well.

Hor. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon
my man’s instigation, to prove him a knave, and my-
self an honest man: and touching the Duke of York,
I will take my death, I never meant him any ill, nor
the queen: and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a
downright blow. 91

York. Despatch: this knave’s tongue begins to
double. Sound, trumpets, alarum to the combatants,

[dlarum. They fight, and PETER strikes down
his Master.
Hor. Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason.

[Dies.

York. Take away his weapon.—Fellow, thank God,
and the good wine in thy master’s way.

Peter. O God! have I overcome mine enemies in
this presence? O Peter! thou hast prevailed in right.

4X. Hen, Go, take hence that traitor from our sight ;
For, by his death, we do perceive his guilt. 100
And God in justice hath reveal’d to us
‘The truth and innocence of this poor fellow,
Which he had thought to have murder’d wrongfully.—
Come, fellow; follow us for thy reward. [Eaeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Same. A Street.

Enter GLOSTER and Servants, in mourning cloaks.

Glo. Thus, sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;
And after summer evermore succeeds
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold:
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.—
Sirs, what ’s o’clock ?

Serv. Ten, my lord.

Glo. Ten is the hour that was appointed me
To watch the coming of my punish’d duchess:
Uneath may she endure the flinty streets,

To tread them with her tender-feeling feet.
Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook

The abject people, gazing on thy face,

With envious looks, laughing at thy shame,
That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels,
When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets.
But soft ! I think, she comes ; and I'll prepare

My tear-stain’d eyes to see her miseries.

Enter the Duchess of GLOSTER, in a white sheet, with
papers pinned upon her back, her fect bare, and a
taper burning in her hand ; Sir JOHN STANLEY, @
Sheriff, and Officers.

Serv. me Dicise your grace, we'll take her from the
sheriff. '

Glo. No, stir not, for your lives : let her pass by.

Duch. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?

Now thou dost paces too. Look, how they gaze:

See, how the giddy multitude do point, a1

And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee.

Ah, Gloster, hide thee from their hateful looks,

And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame,

And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine.

Glo, Be patient, gentle Nell: forget this grief.
Duch.’Ah, Gloster ! teach me to forget myself ;

For, whilst I think I am thy married wife,

And thou a prince, protector of this land,

Methinks, I should not thus be led ea

Mail'd up in shame, with papers on my back,

10

30

 

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY

VIL-—PART II. 107

 

And follow’d with a rabble, that rejoice
To see my tears, and hear my deep-fet groans.
The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet ;

And when I start, the envious people laugh,
And bid me be advised how I tread.

Ah, Humphrey ! can I bear this shameful yoke?
Trow’st thou, that e’er I’ll look upon the world,
Or count them happy that enjoy the sun ?

‘No; dark shall be my light, and night my day:
To think a my pomp, shall be my hell.
Sometime I’ say, Iam Duke Humphrey’s wife,
And he a prince, and ruler of the land ;

Duch. “‘ Come you, my lord, to see my open shame?”

Yet so he rul’d, and such a prince he was,
As he stood by, whilst I, his forlorn duchess,
Was made a wonder, and a pointing-stock,
To every idle rascal follower.
But be thou mild, and blush not at my shame;
Nor stir at nothing, till the axe of death
Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will:
For Suffolk, —he that can do all in all
With her that hateth thee, and hates us all,—
And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest,
Have all lim’d bushes to betray thy wings ;
And, fly thou how thou canst, they ’ll tangle thee.
But fear not thou, until thy foot be snar’d,
Nor never seek prevention of thy foes.

Glo, Ah, Nell! forbear: thou aimest all awry ;

 

40

50

 

I must offend before I be attainted ;

And had I twenty times so many foes,

And each of them had twenty times their power,
All these could not procure me any scath,

So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless.
Wouldst have me rescue thee from this reproach?
Why, yet thy scandal were not wip’d away,

But I in danger for the breach of law.

Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell;

66

‘Lpray thee, sort thy heart to patience:

These few days’ wonder will be quickly worn.

Enter a Herald.
Her. I summon your grace to his majesty’s parlia-
ment, holden at Bury the first, of this next month. 71
Glo. And my consent ne'er ask’d herein before ?
This is close dealing.—Well, I will be there.
[Fait Herald.
My Nell, I take my leave :—and, master sheriff,
Let not her penance exceed the king’s commission.
Sher. oe ’t please your grace, here my commission
stays,
And Sir John Stanley is appointed now
To take her with him to the Isle of Man.
Glo. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?
Stan. So am I given in charge, may ’t please ier

grace.
Glo. Entreat her not the worse, in that I pray
You use her well. The world may laugh again ;
And I may live to do you kindness, if
You do it her: and so, Sir John, farewell.
Duch. whee gone, my lord, and bid me not fare-
well?
Glo. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak.
[Exeunt GLOSTER and Servants.
Duch. Art thou gonetoo? Allcomfort go with thee,
For none abides with me: my joy is death, —
Death, at whose name I oft have been afear’d,
Because I wish’d this world’s en
Stanley, I pr’ythee, go, and take me hence ;
1 care not whither, for I beg no favour,
Only convey me where thou art commanded.
Stan. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man;
There to be us’d according to your state.
Duch. That’s bad enough, for I am but reproach:
And shall I then be us’d reproachfully ?
Stan. Like to a duchess, and Duke Humphrey’s

90

ady :
According to that state you shall be used.

Duch. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare,
Although thou hast been conduct of my shame.

Sher. It is my office ; and, madam, pardon me.

Duch. Ay, ay, farewell: thy office is discharg’d.—
Come, Stanley, shall we go?

Stan. eens your penance done, throw off this

sheet,
And go we to attire you for our journey.

Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet :
No; it will hang upon my richest robes,
And show itself, attire me how I can.

Go, lead the way: I long to see my prison.

100

110
[Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

ACT III.

ScENE I.—The Abbey at Bury.

A Sennet. Enter to the Parliament,

PNY King Henry.

/ MUSE, my Lord of Gloster is not come :
Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man,
Whate’er occasion keeps him from us now.

Q. Mar, Can you not see? or will you not
observe
The strangeness of his alter’d countenance?
With what a majesty he bears himself ;
How insolent of late he is become,
How proud, how peremptory, and unlike
himself ?
We know the time, since he was mild and
affable ;
And if we did but glance a far-off look, 10
Immediately he was upon his knee,
That all the court admir’d him for submission :
But meet him now, and, be it in the morn,
When every one will give the time of day,
He knits his brow, and shows an angry eye,
And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee,
Disdaining duty that to us belongs.
Small curs are not regarded when they grin,
But. great men tremble when the lion roars ;
And Humphrey is no little man in England.
First, note, that he is near you in descent,
And should you fall, he is the next will mount.
Me seemeth then, it is no policy,
ee peening what a rancorous mind he bears,
And his advantage following your decease,
That he should come about your royal person,
Or be admitted to your highness’ council.
By flattery hath he won the commons’ hearts,
And, when he please to make commotion,
’T is to be fear’d they all will follow him.
Now 'tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted ;
Sutfer them now, and they'll o’ergrow the garden,
And choke the herbs for want of husbandry.
The reverent care I bear unto my lord
Made me collect these dangers in the duke,
If it be fond, call it a woman's fear ;
Which fear if better reasons can supplant,
I will subscribe and say, I wrong’d the duke.
My Lord of Sutfolk,—Buckingham, and York,-—
Reprove my allegation, if you ean,
Or else conclude my words effectual.
Suf. Well hath your highness seen into this duke;
And had I first been put to speak my mind,
I think, I should have told your grace’s tale.
The duchess, by his subornation,
Upon my life, began her devilish practices :
Or if he were not privy to those faults,
Yet, by epee of his high descent,
(As next the king he was successive heir,)
And such high vaunts of his nobility,
Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess
By wicked means to frame our sovercign’s fall.
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,
And in his simple show he harbours treason.
The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb:
No, no, my sovereign ; Gloster is a man
Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit.
Car. Did he not, contrary to form of law,
Devise strange deaths for small offences done?

 

20

30

40

 

King HENRY, Queen MARGARET, Cardinal BEAUFORT, SUFFOLK,
YORK, BUCKINGHAM, and others.

York. And did he not, in his protectorship,
Levy great sums of money through the realm
For soldiers’ pay in France, and never sent it ?
By means whereof the towns each day revolted.

Buck. Tut! these are petty faults to faults unknown,
Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Hum-

60

phrey.
K. Hen. My lords, at once: the care you have of us,
To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot,
Is worthy praise ; but. shall I speak my conscience ?
Our kinsman Gloster is as innocent
From meaning treason to our ae person, 70
As is the sucking lamb, or harmless dove.
The duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given,
To dream on evil, or to work my downfall.
Q. Mar. Ab! what’s more dangerous than this fond
affiance?
Seems he a dove? his feathers are but borrow'd,
For he’s disposed as the hateful raven.
Is he a lamb? his skin is surely lent him,
For he’s inclin’d as is the ravenous wolf.
Who cannot steal a shape, that means deceit ?
Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all £0
Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.

Enter SOMERSET.
Som. All health unto my gracious sovereign !
K. Hen. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news
from France ?
Som. That all your interest in those territories
Is utterly bereft you: all is lost.
4. Hen. Cold news, Lord Somerset ; but God's will

be done.
York. [Aside.] Cold news for me ; for I had hope of
France,
As firmly as I hope for fertile England.
Thus are my blossoms blasted in the bud,
And caterpillars eat my leaves away ;
But I will remedy this gear ere long,
Or sell my title for a glorious grave.

Enter GLOSTER.

Glo. All happiness unto my lord the king!
Pardon, my liege, that I have stay’d so long.
Suf. Nay, Gloster, know, that thou art come too
soon,
Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art.
I do arrest thee of high treason here.
Glo. Well, Suffolk’s duke, thou shalt not see me
blush,
Nor change iny countenance for this arrest:
A heart unspotted is not easily daunted.
The purest spring is not so free from mud,
As 1am clear from treason to my sovereign.
Who can aceuse me? wherein am I guilty?
York. ’T is thought, my lord, that you took bribes of
France,
And, being protector, stay'd the soldiers’ pay ;
By means whereof his highness hath lost France.
Glo, Is it but thought so? What are they that think

90

100

it?
I never robb’d the soldiers of their pay, :
Nor ever had one penny bribe from France.

 

 
 

ScrneE I.] KING HENRY

VI—PART II. 109

 

So help me God, as I have watch’d the night,

Ay, night by night, in studying good for ingland!
That doit that eer I wrested from the king,

Or any groat I hoarded to my use,

Be brought against me at iny trial-day !

No; many a pound of mine own proper store,
Because I would not tax the needy commons,
Have I dispursed to the garrisons,

And never ask’d for restitution.

Car. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much

Glo. Isay no more than truth, so help me God!

York. In your protectorship you did devise
Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of,
That Kngland was defam’d by tyranny.

Glo. Why, ‘tis well known, that whiles I was pro-

tector,
Pity was all the fault that was in me ;
For I should melt at an offender’s tears, .
And lowly words were ransom for their fault.
Unless it were a bloody murderer,
Or foul felonious thief that tleec’d poor passengers,
I never gave them condign punishment. 1.
Murder, indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur’d
Above the felon, or what trespass; else.
Suf. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly an-
swer'd ;
But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge,
Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself.
I do arrest you in his highness’ name ;
And here commit you to my lord cardinal
To ee until your further time of trial.

K. Hen. My Lord of Gloster, 'tis my special hope,
That you will clear yourself from all suspect ; it
My conscience tells me you are innocent.

Glo. Ah, gracious lord! these days are dangerous.
Virtue is chok’d with foul ambition,

And charity chas’d hence by rancour’s hand ;
Foul subornation is predominant,

And equity exil’d your highness’ land.

I know, their complot is to have my life ;

And ifmy death might make this island happy,
And prove the period of their tyranny,

I would expend it with all willingness ;

But mine is made the prologue to their play ;
For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril,
Will not conclude their plotted uoreet

Beaufort’s red sparkling eyes blab his heart’s malice,
And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate ;
Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue
The envious load that lies upon his heart ;

And dogged York, that reaches at the moon,
Whose overweening arm I have pluck’d back,
By false accuse doth level at my life:

And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest,
Causeless have laid disgraces on my head,

And with your best endeavour have stirr’d up
My liefest liege to be mine enemy.

Ay, all of you have laid your heads together ;
Myself had notice of your conventicles,

And all to make away my guiltless life.

I shall not want false witness to condemn me,
Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt ;

The ancient proverb will be well eftected,—

A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.

Car... My liege, his railing is intolerable.

If those that care to keep your royal person
From treason’s secret knife, and traitors’ rage,
Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at,

And the offender granted scope of speech,

*T will make them cool in zeal unto your race

Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here,
With ignominious words, though clerkly couch’d,
As if she had suborned some to swear
False allegations to o’erthrow his state? 7

Q. Mar. But I can give the loser leave to chide.

Glo. Far truer spoke, than meant : I lose, indeed ;
Beshrew the winners, for they play’d me false !

And well such losers may have leave to speak.
Buck. He’ll wrest the sense, and hold us here all

110

"120

150

160

170

day.—
Lord cardinal, he is your prisoner. 2
Car, Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him sure.

 

Glo. Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch,
Betore his legs be firm to bear his body: 190
‘thus is the shepherd beaten trom thy side,

And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first.
Ah, that my fear were talse! ah, that it were!
For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear.

{Hxcunt Attendants with GLOSTER.

i. Hen. My lords, what to your wisdoms s_emeth
Do, or undo, as if ourself were here.

Q. Mar. What! will your highness leave the parlia-

ment?
K. Hen. Ay, Margaret, my heart is drown’d with

grief,

Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes ;

My body round engirt with misery,

For what ’s more miserable than discontent ?—

Ah, uncle Humphrey ! in thy face I see

he map of honour, truth, and loyalty ;

And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come,

That e’er I prov'd thee false, or fear’d thy faith.

What low'ring star now envies thy estate,

That these great lords, and Margaret our queen,

Do seek subversion of thy harmless life ?

Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong ;

And as the butcher takes away the calf,

And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays,

Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house ;

Even so, remorseless, have they borne him hence ;

And as the dam runs lowing up and down,

Looking the way her harmless young one went,

And can do nought but wail her darling’s loss ;

Even so myself bewails good Gloster’s case,

With sad unhelpful tears ; and with dimm’d eyes

Look after him, and cannot do him good ;

So mighty are his vowed enemies. 220

His fortunes I will weep ; and, ‘twixt each groan,

Say—** Who’s a traitor? Gloster he isnone.” [£rit.
}. Mar. Fair lords, cold snow melts with the sun’s

hot beams.

Henry my lord is cold in great affairs,

Too full of foolish pity ; and Gloster’s show

Beguiles him, as the mournful crocodile

With sorrow snares relenting passengers ;

Or as the snake, roll’d in a flowering bank,

With shining checker’d slough, doth sting a child,

That for the beauty thinks it excellent. 230

Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I

(And yet herein I judge mine own wit good),

This Gloster should be quickly rid the world,

To rid us from the fear we have of him.

Car. That he should die is worthy policy,

But yet we want a colour for his death.

"lis meet he be condemn’d by course of law.
Bu But, in my mind that were no policy:

The king will labour still to save his life;

The commons haply rise to save his life ;

And yet we have but trivial argument,

More than distrust, that shows him worthy death.
York. So that, by this, you would not have him die.
Suf. Ah! York, no man alive so fain as I.

York. a is oo that hath more reason for his
eath.—

But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk,

Say, as you think, and speak it from your souls,

Were ’t not all one, an empty eagle were set

To guard the chicken from a hungry kite,

As place Duke Humphrey for the king’s
Q. Mar. So the poor chicken shoul

death.

Suf. Madam, ’tis true:

then,

To make the fox surveyor of the fold ?

Who, being accus’d a crafty murderer,

His guilt should be but idly posted over,

Because his purpose is not executed.

No; let him die, in that he is a fox,

By nature prov’d an enemy to the flock,

Before his chaps be stain’d with crimson blood,

As Humphrey prov’d by reasons to my liege. 260

And do not stand on quillets, how to slay him:

Be it by gins, by snares, by subtilty,

200

240.

rotector ?

be sure of
251

and were’t not madness

 
 

 

110 KING HENRY

VIL--PART IL. [Act II

 

 

Sleeping, or waking, ‘tis no matter how,
So he be dead; for that is good deceit
Which mates him first, that first intends deceit.
Q. Mar. Thrice-noble Sutfolk, ’tis resolutely spoke.
_Suf. Not resolute, except so much were done,
For things are often spoke, and seldom meant ;
But, that my heart accordeth with my tongue,—
Sceing the deed is meritorious,
And to preserve my sovereign from his foe,—
Say but the word, and I will be his priest.
Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord of
Suffolk,
Ere you can take due orders for a priest.
Say, you consent, and censure well the deed,
And [’ll provide his executioner ;
I tender so the safety of my liege.
Suf. Here is my hand ; the deed is worthy doing.
qQ. Mar. And so say I.

270 |

| At Bristol I expect my soldiers ;
For there I'l] ship them all for

To Ireland will you lead a band of men,
Collected choicely, from each county some,
And try your hap against the Irishmen ?
York. { will, my lord, so please his majesty,
Suf. Why, our authority is his consent,
And what we do establish, he confirms :
Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand.
York. Iam content. Provide me soldiers, lords,
Whiles I take order for mine own aftairs. 320
Suf. A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform'd.
But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey.
Car. No more of him; for I will deal with him,
That henceforth he shall trouble us no more:
And so break off; the day is almost spent.
Lord Surtolk, you and I must talk of that event.
York. My Lord of Suftolk, within fourteen days,

ireland.
Su/f. I'll see it truly done, my Lord of York,
[Hxeunt all but Yorx,

 

 

Suf. ‘‘ Here is my hand; the deed is worthy doing.”

York. AndI; and now we three have spoke it, 280

It skills not greatly who impugns our doom.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain,
To signify that rebels there are up,
And put the Englishmen unto the sword.
Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime,
Before the wound do grow incurable ;
For, being green, there is great hope of or
Car. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop !
What counsel give you in this weighty cause ?
York. That Somerset be sent as regent thither. 290
"Tis meet, that lucky ruler be employ’d ;
Witness the fortune he hath had in France.
Som. If York, with all his far-fet policy,
- Had been the regent there instead of me,
He never would have stay’d in France so long.
York. No, not to lose it all, as thou hast done.
I rather would have lost my life betimes,
Than bring a burden of dishonour home,
By staying there so long, till all were lost.
how me one scar character’d on thy skin: 300
Men's flesh preserv’d so whole do seldom win.
Q. Mar. Nay then, this spark will prove a raging

fire,
If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with.—
No more, good York ;—sweet Somerset, be still :—
Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there,
Might happily have prov’d far worse than his.
York. What, worse than nought? nay, then a shame
take all!
Som. And, in the number, thee, that wishest shame.
Car. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is.
The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms, 310

 

And temper clay with blood of Englishmen ;

York. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful
thoughts, 231
And change misdoubt to resolution :
Be that thou hop'st to be, or what thou art
Resign to death; it is not worth the enjoy-

ing.
Let pale-fac’d fear keep with the mean-born

man,
And find no harbour in a royal heart.
Faster than spring-time showers comes
thought on thought,
And not a thought but thinks on di;
My brain, more busy than the
spider,
Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
Well, nobles, well; ’tis politicly done, 34],
To send me packing with an host of men:

ity.
abouring

I fear me, you but warm the starved
snake.

Who, cherish’d in your breasts, will sting
your hearts.

 

’T was men J lack’d, and you will give them

me:
I take it kindly ; yet, be well assur’d,
You put sharp weapons in a madman’s

hands. | ;
Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, ©
I will stir up in England some black storm, Py
Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven, or hell; 350
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage;
Until the golden circuit on my head,
Like to the glorious sun’s transparent beams,
Do calm the fury of this mad-bred flaw.
And, for a minister of my intent, _
I have seduc’d a headstrong Kentishman,
John Cade of Ashford,
To make commotion, as full well he can,
Under the title of John Mortimer.
In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade -
Oppose himself against a troop of kerns;_
And fought so long, till that his thighs with darts
Were almost like a sharp-quill’d porpentine :
And, in the end being rescu’d, I have seen
Him caper upright, like a wild Morisco,
Shaking the bloody darts, as he his bells,
Full often, like a shag-hair'd crafty kern,
Hath he conversed with the enemy,
And undiscover'd come to me again,
And given me notice of their villainies.
This devil here shall be my substitute ;
For that John Mortimer, which-now is dead,
In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble<
By. this I shall perceive the commons’ mind,
How they affect the house and claim of York, :
Say, he be taken, rack’d, and tortured,
I know, no pain they can inflict upon him
Will make him say, I mov’d him to those arms. ,
oer that he thrive, as ’tis great like he will,
Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength, 380
And reap the harvest which that rascal sow’d ;
For, Humphrey being dead, as he shall be,
And Henry put apart, the next for me.

360

370

[Exit.

 

 
 

ScEWE II.] KING HENRY

VI—PART I. 111

 

ScENE II.—Bury. A Room in the Palace,

Enter certain Murderers, hastily.

1 Mur. Run to my Lord of Suffolk ; let him know,
We have despatch’d the duke, as he commanded.

2 Mur. O, that it were to do!—What have we done?
Didst ever hear a man so penitent?

1 Mur. Here comes my lord.

Enter SUFFOLK.

Suf. Now, sirs, have you despatch’d this thing?
1 Mur. Ay, my good lord, he’s dead.
. Suf. Why, that’s well said. Go, get you to my
house ;
I will reward you for this venturous deed.

The king and all the peers are here at hand. 10
Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well,
According as I gave directions ?

1 Mur. "Tis, my good lord.

Suf. Away, be gone. [Exeunt Murderers.

Sound trumpets. Enter King HENRY, Queen Mar-
GARET, Cardinal BEAUFORT, SOMERSET, Lords,
and others.

K. Hen. Go, call our uncle to our presence straight :
Say, we intend to try his grace to-day,
Tf he be guilty, as 'tis published.
Suf. I'l call him presently, my noble lord. [Ezit.
K. Hen. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you au,
Proceed no straiter ’gainst our uncle Gloster, 20
Than from true evidence, of good esteem,
He be approv’d in practice culpable.
Q. Mar. God forbid any malice should prevail,
That faultless may condemn a nobleman !
Pray God, he may acquit him of suspicion !
= Hen. I thank thee, Nell; these words content
me much.

Re-enter SUFFOLK.
How ate! why look’st thou pale? why tremblest
tho’

uu
Where is our uncle? what’s the matter, Suffolk ?
Suf. Dead in his bed, my lord ; Gloster is dead.
. Mar. Marry, God forfend ! 30
‘ar. God’s secret judgment !—I did dream to-night,
The duke was dumb, and could not ppeae a word,
[The KING swoons.
Q. Mar. How fares my lord ?—Help, lords! the king
is dead.
Som. Rear up his body : wring him by the nose.
Q. Mar. Run, go, help, help !—O Henry, ope thine
eyes!
Suf. He doth revive again.—Madam, be patient,
K. Hen. O heavenly God !
. Mar. How fares my gracious lord ?
uf. Comfort, my sovereign! gracious Henry, com-

ort!

K. Hen. ae doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort
me ;

Came he right now to sing a raven’s note, 40

Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers,

And thinks he, that the chirping of a wren,

By crying comfort from a hollow breast,

Can chase away the first-conceived sound ?

Hide not thy poison with such sugar’d words ;

Lay not ua hands on me; forbear, I say :

Their touch affrights me as a serpent’s sting.

Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!

Upon thy eye-balls murderous Li sla

Sits in grim majesty to fright the world. :

Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding.

Yet do not go away :—come, basilisk, :

And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight ;

‘For in the shade of death I shall find joy,

In life but double death, now Gloster’s dead...
Q. Mar. Why do you rate my‘ Lord of Suffolk thus?

Although the duke was enemy to him,

Yet he, most Christian-like, laments his death :

And for myself, foe as he was to me,

Might liquid tears, or heart-offending groans

50

60:

 

Or blood-consuming sighs, recall his life,
I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans,
Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs,
And all to have the noble duke alive.
What know I how the world may deem of me?
For it is known, we were but hollow friends ;
It may be judg’d, I made the duke away:
So shall my name with slander’s tongue be wounded,
And princes’ courts be fill’d with my reproach.
This get I by his death. Ah me, unhappy ! 70
To be a queen, and crown'd with infamy !
K. Hen, Ah, woe is me for Gloster, wretched man !
Q. Mar. Be woe for me, more wretched than he is.
What, dost thou turn at and hide thy face ?
I am no loathsome leper ; look on me.
What, art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf?
Be poisonous too, and kill thy forlorn queen.
Is all thy comfort shut in Gloster’s tomb? _
Why, then Dame Margaret was ne’er thy joy :
Erect his statua, and worship it, 80
And make my image but an ale-house sign.
Was I for this nigh wrack’d upon the sea,
And twice by awkward wind trom England’s bank
Drove back again unto my native clime ?
What boded this, but well-forewarning wind
Did seem to say,—Seek not a scorpion’s nest,
Nor set no footing on this unkind shore?
What did I then, but curs’d the gentle gusts,
And he that loos’d them from their brazen caves;
And bid them blow towards England’s blessed shore,
Or turn our stern upon a dreadful rock, 91
Yet HKolus would not be a murderer,
But left that hateful office unto thee:
The pretty-vaulting sea refus’d to drown me,
Knowing ist thou wouldst have me drown’d on
shore,
With tears as salt as sea through thy unkindness:
The splitting rocks cower’d in the sinking sands,
And would not dash me with their ragged sides,
Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they,
Might in thy palace perish Margaret.
As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs,
When from the shore the tempest beat us back,
I stood upon the hatches in the storm ;
And when the dusky sky began to rob
My earnest-gaping sight of thy land’s view,
I took a costly jewel from my neck,—
A heart it was, bound in with diamonds,—
And threw it towards thy land. The sea receiv’d it,
And so I wish’d thy body might my heart:
And even with this I lost fair England’s view, 110
And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart,
And call’d them blind and dusky spectacles,
For losing ken of Albion’s wished coast.
How often have I tempted Suffolk’s tongue
(The agent of thy foul inconstancy),
To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did,
When he to madding Dido would unfold
His father’s acts, commenc’d in burning Troy!
Am I not witch’d like her? or thou not false like him?
Ah me! Icannomore. Die, Margaret, 120
For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long.

100

Noise within. Enter WARWICK and SALISBURY.
The Commons press to the door.
War. It is reported, mighty eovereten,
That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder’d
By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort’s means.
The commons, like an angry hive of bees,

-That want their leader, scatter up and down,

And care not who they sting in his revenge.
Myself have calm’d their spleenful mutiny,
Until they hear the order of his death.
K. Hen. That he is dead, good Warwick, ’tis Wwe

true;
But how he died, God knows, not Henry.
Enter his chamber, view his breathless corse,
And comment then upon his sudden death.
War.:That I shall do, my lieze.—Stay, Salisbury,
With the rude multitude, till I-return.
[WARWICK goes into an inner room, and
SALISBURY retires. ‘ ;

 

 
 

 

ly KING HENRY Pane iI.

A. Hen. O Thou that judgest all things, stay my

thoughts!

My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul,
Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life.

It my suspect be false, forgive me, God,
For judgment only doth belong to Thee.

tit Ht we
. @ oy

ie
Ae

oe
rs

==
=

. ce

 

| The doors of an inner chamber are thrown open, and
GLOSTER is discovered dead in his bed ; WARWICK
and others standing by it.

| War. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this
| body.
i

TN ie
ie n aa ee

ae :

SS

ay Ui

Suf. ‘* Dead In his bed, my lord; Gloster is dead.”

Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips

With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears,

To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk,
And with my fingers feel his hand unfeeling ;
But all in vain are these mean obsequies,

And to survey his dead and earthy image,
What were it but to make my sorrow greater ?

 

K. Hen. That is to see how deep my cee is meee i
For with his soul fled all my worldly solace,
For seeing him, I see my life in death.
War. As surely as my soul intends to live
With that dread King, that took our state upon Him
To free us from His Father’s wrathful curse,
I do believe that violent hands were laid
Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke.

(Acr TTI,

 
 

ScENE IL]

KING HENRY VI—PART II. 113

 

Suf. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue!
What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow?
War. See, how the blood is settled in his face. 160
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost,
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless,
Being all descended to the labouring heart ;
Who, in the conflict that it holds with death,
Attracts the same for aidance ’gainst the enemy ;
Which with the heart there cools, and ne’er returneth
To blush and beautify the cheek again.
But see, his face is black, and full of blood ;
His eye-balls further out than when he liv’d,
Staring full ghastly like a strangled man: 170
His hair uprear’d, his nostrils stretch’d with struggling ;
His hands abroad display’d, as one that grasp'd
And tugg’d for life, and was by strength subdued.
Look, on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking ;
His well-proportion’d beard made rough and rugged,
Like to the summer’s corn by tempest lodg’d.
It cannot be but he was murder’d here;
The least of all these signs were probable.
Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to

death ?
Myself and Beaufort had him in protection, 180
And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers.
War. But both of you were vow’d Duke Humphrey’s

foes,
And you, forsooth, had the good duke to keep:
’T is like you would not feast him like a friend,
And ’tis well seen he found an enemy.

Q. Mar. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen
As guilty of Duke Humphrey’s timeless death.

ar. Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh,

And sees fast by a butcher with an axe,
But will eueped’ twas he that made the slaughter ?
Who finds the partridge in the puttock’s nest, 91
But may imagine how the bird was dead,
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ?
Even so suspicious is this tragedy.

Q. Mar. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? where’s

your knife?

Is Beaufort term’d a kite? where are his talons?

Suf. I wear no knife, to slaughter sleeping men ;
But here’s a vengeful sword, rusted with ease,

That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart,
That slanders me with murder’s crimson badge.— 200
Say, if thou dar’st, proud Lord of Warwickshire,
That Iam faulty in Duke Humphrey’s death.

Exeunt Cardinal, SOMERSET, and others.

War. hat dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk

dare him ?

Q. Mar. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit,
Nor cease to be an arrogant controller,

Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times.

War. Madam, be still, with reverence may I say;
For every word you speak in his behalf
Is slander to your royal dignity.

Suf. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour, 210
If ever lady wrong’d her lord so much,

Thy mother took into her blameful bed

Some stern untutor’d churl, and noble stock

Was graft with crab-tree slip ; whose fruit thou art,
And never of the Nevils’ noble race.

War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee,
And I should rob the deathsman of his fee,
Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames,
And that my sovereign’s presence makes me mild,
I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee
Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech,

And say, it was thy mother that thou meant’st ;
That thou thyself wast born in bastardy :

And, after all this fearful homage done,

Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell,
Pernicious bloodsucker of sleeping men.

Suf. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood,
If from this presence thou dar’st go with me.

War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence.
Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee, 230
And do some service to Duke Humphrey’s ghost.

3 [Exeunt SUFFOLK and WARWICK.

K. Hen. What stronger breastplate than a heart

untainted ?

220

 

Thrice is he arm’d that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,
‘Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

[4 noise within.
Q. Mar. What noise is this?

Re-enter SUFFOLK and WARWICK, with their
weapons drawn.
K. Hen. Why, how now, lords? your wrathful
weapons drawn
Here in our presence ? dare you be so bold 7—
Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here?
Suf. The traitorous Warwick, with the men at
40

ULy,
Set all upon me, mighty sovereign.

Noise of a crowd within. Re-enter SALISBURY.
Sal. [Speaking to those within.] Sirs, stand apart;
the king shall know your mind,—
Dread lord, the commons send you word by me,
Unless false Suffolk straight be done to death,
Or banished fair England’s territories,
‘They will by violence tear him from your palace,
And torture him with grievous lingering death.
They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died ;
They say, in him they fear your highness’ death ;
And mere instinct of love, and loyalty, a
Free from a stubborn opposite intent,
As being thought to contradict your liking,
Makes them thus forward in his banishment.
They say, in care of your most royal person,
That, if your highness should intend to sleep,
And charge, that no man should disturb your rest,
In pain of your dislike, or pain of death,
Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict,
Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue,
That slily glided towards your majesty,
It were but necessary, you were wak’d ;
Lest, being suffer’d in that harmful slumber,
The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal :
And therefore do they cry, though you forbid,
That they will guard you, whe’r you will or no,
From such fell serpents as false Sutfolk is ;
With whose envenomed and fatal sting,
Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth,
They say, is shamefully bereft of life.
Commons. [Within.] An answer from the king, my
Lord of Salisbury ! _ 270
Suf. "Tis like, the commons, rude unpolish’d hinds,
Could send such message to their sovereign ;
But you, my lord, were glad to be employ’d,
To show how quaint an orator you are:
But all the honour Salisbury hath won,
Is, that he was the lord ambassador,
Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king. ‘
Commons. (Within.] An answer from the king, or
we will all break in!
K. Hen. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me,
I thank them for their tender loving care ; 280
And had I not been cited so by them,
Yet did I purpose as they do entreat ;
For sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy
Mischance unto my state by Suffolk’s means:
And therefore, by His Majesty I swear,
Whose far unworthy deputy Iam,
He shall not breathe infection in this air
But three days longer, on the pain of death.
[Exit SALISBURY.
Q. Mar. O Henry! let me plead for gentle Suffolk.
K. Hen. Ungentle queen, to call him gentle Suffolk.
No more, I say ; if thou dost plead for him, 91
Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath.
Had I but said, I would have kept my word,
But when I swear, it is irrevocable.—
If after three days’ space thou here be’st found
On any ground that J am ruler of,
The world shall not be ransom for thy life.—
Come, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me;
I have great matters to impart to thee.
[Exeunt King HENRY, WARWICK, Lords, &c.
Q. Mar. Mischance and sorrow go along with you!
Heart’s discontent, and cour affliction, 301

 

 
 

lid

KING HENRY

VIL--PART II. {Act III.

 

 

Be playfellows to keep youcompany!
There ’s two of you; the devil make a third,
And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps !
Suf. Cease, gentle queen, these execrations,
And let thy Sutfolk take his heavy leave.
Q. Mar.’ Fie, coward woman, and soft- hearted
wretch !
Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy ?
Suf. A plague upon them! wherefore should I
curse them ?
Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan, 310
I would invent as bitter-searching terms,
As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear,
Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-fac’d Envy in her loathsome cave.
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words ;
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint ;
My hair be fix’d on end, as one distract ;
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban :
And even now my burden’d heart would break,
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink !
Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees !
Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks !
Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings !
Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss,
And boding screech-owls make the concert full !
All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell—
Q. Mar. Enough, sweet Sutfolk: thou torment’st
thyself ;
And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass, 330
Or like an overcharged gun, recoil,
And turn the force of them upon thyself.
Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?
Now, by the ground that Iam banish’d from,
Well could I curse away a winter’s night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top,
Where biting cold would never let grass grow,
And think it but a minute spent in sport.
Q. Mar. O! let me entreat thee, cease. Give me thy

310

320

and,
That I may dew it with my mournful tears ;
Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place,

To wash away my woful monuments. -

O! could this kiss be printed in thy hand,

That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,
‘’hrough whom a thousand sighs are breath’d for thee.
So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief ;
"Lis but surmis’d whilst thou art standing by,

As one that surfeits, thinking on a want.

1 will repeal thee, or, be well assur’d,

Adventure to be banished myself ;

And banished I am, if but from thee.

Go, speak not to me; even now be gone.—

O! go not yet.— Even thus two friends condemn’d
Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves,
Loather a hundred times to part than die.

Yet now farewell; and farewell life with thee!
Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished,
Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee.
“Lis not the land I care for, wert thou thence ;

A wilderness is pornteus enough,

So Suffolk had thy heavenly company :

For where thou art, there is the world itself,
With every several pleasure in the world,
And where thou art not, desolation.

I can no more.—Live thou to joy thy life ;
Myself no joy in nought, but that thou liv’st.

Enter Vaux.
Q. Mar. Whither goes Vaux so fast? what news,
r’ythee ? .

Vaux. 'To signify unto his majesty,
That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death ;
For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, :
That makes him gasp, and stare, and catch, the air,
Blaspheming God and cursing men on earth.
Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey’s ghost
Were by his side ; sometime he calls the king,
And whispers to his pillow, as to him,
The secrets of his overcharged soul:

350

360

370

 

 

. Or I should breathe it so into thy body,

 

' And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes,

And I am sent to tell his majesty,
That even now he cries aloud for him.
Q. Mar. Go, tell this heavy message to the king,

Arent [Exit Vaux.

Ah me! what is this world? what news are these 738)

But wherefore grieve I at an hour’s poor loss,

Omitting Sutfolk’s exile, my soul’s treasure?

Why only, Suffolk, mourn [ not for thee,

And with the southern clouds contend in tears?

Theirs tor the earth’s increase, mine for my sorrows,

Car, ‘**O! torture me no more, I will confess.”

Now, get thee hence: the king, thou know’st, is
coming 3
If thou be found by me, thou art but dead.
Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live ;
And in thy sight to die, what were it else,
But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap?
Here could I breathe my soul into the air,
As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe,
Dye with mother’s dug between its lips ;
Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad,

390

To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth:
So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul,

And then it liv’d in sweet Elysium.
To die by thee, were but to die in jest;
From thee to die, were torture more than death.
O! let me stay, befall what may befall. :
Q. Mar, Away ! though parting be a fretful corsive,
It is applied to a deathful wound.
To France, sweet Suffolk : let me hear from thee;
For wheresoe’er thou art in this world’s globe,
I'll have an [ris that shall find thee out.
Suf. I go.
Q. Mar. And take my heart with thee.
Suf. A jewel, lock’d into the wofull’st cask
That ever did contain a thing of worth.
Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we:
This way fall I to death.
Q. Mar.

400

410

This way for me.
[Exeunt severally.

Scene IJI.—London. Cardinal BEAauFort's Bed-
chamber.

Enter ing HENRY, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and
others. The Cardinal in bed ; Attendants with him.
KK. Hen. How fares my lord? speak, Beaufort, to

thy sovereign. 2
Car. If thou be’st death, Ill give thee England's
treasure,

Enough to purchase such another island,

So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain,

 

 
 

 

Scene IIL]

KING HENRY VI—PART II.

 

K. Hen. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Where death’s approach is seen so terrible !
War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.
Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live, wher they will or no ?7—
O! torture me no more, I will confess.—
Alive again? then show me where he is:
J’ give a thousand pound to look upon him.—
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.—
Comb down his hair: look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.—
Give me some drink ; and bid the apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

&K. Hen. O ‘Thou eternal Mover of the heavens,

10

| Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch !
O! beat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays strong siege unto this wretch’s soul,
And trom his bosom purge this black despair.
War. See, how the pangs of death do make him

grin.
Sal. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably.
K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God’s good pleasure be.

Lord cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss,

Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.— _

He dies, and makes no sign. O God, forgive him!
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. 30
kK. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.—

Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,

| And let us all to meditation. [Hxeunt.

 

ACT IV.

Scene I.—Kent.

 
   
  

Captain.
‘HE gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day
Is crept into the bosom of the sea,
And now loud-howling wolves arouse
the jades
That drag the tragic melancholy night ;
Who with their drowsy, slow, and ftag-
ging wings .
Clip dead men’s graves, and from their
misty jaws \
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the

air.
Therefore, bring forth the soldiers of our
prize ;
For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs,
Here shall they make their ransom on the sand,
Or with their blood stain this discolour’d shore.—-
Master, this prisoner freely give I thee ;— _
And thou that art his mate, make boot of this ;—
The other [pointing to SUFFOLK], Walter Whitmore,
is thy share.
1 Gent. What is my ransom, master? let me know.
Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your

10

head.
Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes

ours.
Cap. What! think you much to pay two thousand

crowns,

And bear the name and port of gentlemen ?

Cut both the villains’ throats !—for die you shall:

The lives of those which we have lost in fight,

Be counterpois’d with such a petty sum!

1 Gent. is give it, sir; and therefore spare my
es
2 Gent. And so will I, and write home for it straight.
Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard,
{To SuFFOLK] And, therefore, to revenge it shalt
thou die; j

And so should these, if I might have my will.

‘ap. Be not so rash: take ransom; let him live.
Suf. Look on my George: I am a gentleman.

Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. 30
Whit. And soam I; my name is Walter Whitmore.
ow now? why start’st thou? what! doth death

affright? .
Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death.

20

The Sea-shore near Dover.

Firing heard at sea. Then enter from a boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master's Mate, WALTER
WuHIrMorE, and others; with them SUFFOLK, disguised, and other Gentlemen, prisoners.

A cunning man did calculate my birth,

And told me that by Water I should die:

Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded ;

Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded.

Whit. Gaultier, or Walter, which it is, I care not ;

Never yet did base dishonour blur our name,

But with our sword we wip'd away the blot: 40

Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge,

Broke be my sword, my arms torn and defac’d,

And I proclaim’d a coward through the world! .

[Lays hold on SUFFOLK.
Suf. Stay, Whitmore ; for thy prisoner is a prince,

The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Poole. :
Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags !
Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part ot the duke:

(Jove sometime went disguis’d, and why not [2]
Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be.
Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, King Henry's bloo

The honourable blood of Lancaster,

Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. ,

Hast thou not kiss’d thy hand, and held my stirrup?

Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule,

And thought thee happy when I shook my head?

How often hast thou waited at my cup,

Fed from my trencher, kneel’d down at the board,

When I have feasted with Queen Margaret?

Remember it, and let it make thee crest-fall'n:

Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride.

How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood,

And duly waited for my coming forth?

This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf,

And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue.
Whit. Speak, captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?
Cap. First let my words stab him, as he hath me.
Suf. sane slave, thy words are blunt, and so art

thou.
Cap. Convey him hence, and on our long-boat’s
s

‘ide
Strike off his head.
Suf.
Cap. [Yes, Poole.
Suf.
Cap. ; Poole? Sir Poole? lord?
Ay, kennel, puddle, sink ; whose filth and dirt 71

, ‘Troubles the silver spring where England drinks.
! Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth,

d,
51

 

Thou dar’st not for thy own.

| Poole ?]

 

 
 

116 KING HENRY

VI—PART IL. Act IV,]

 

 

For swallowing the treasure of the realm:
Thy lips, that kiss’d the queen, shall sweep the ground ;
And Tan i sinil'dst at good Duke Humphrey's
eath,
Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain,
Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again:
And wedded be thou to the hags of hell,
For daring to atfya mighty lord |
Unto the daughter of a worthless king,
Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem.
By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg'd
With gobbets of thy mother’s bleeding heart.
By thee Aniou and Maine were sold to France ;
The false revolting Normans thorough thee
Disdain to call us lord; and Picardy
Hath slain their governors, surpris’d our forts,
And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home.
The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, _ z
Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain,
As hating thee, are rising up in arms:
And now the house of York—thrust from the crown,
By shameful murder of a guiltless king,
And lofty proud encroaching tyranny-—
Burns with revenging fire ; whose hopeful colours
Advance our half-tac’d sun, striving to shine,
Under the which is writ—IJnvitis nubibus.
The commons, here in Kent, are up in arms 5
And, to conclude, reproach and beggary
Is crept into the palace of our king,
And all by thee.—Away !—Convey him hence.
Suf. O, that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder
Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges !
Small things make base men proud : this villain here,
Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more
Than Bargulus the strong yea pirate.
Drones suck not eagles’ blood, but rob bee-hives.
It is impossible, that I should die
By such a lowly vassal as thyself.
Thy words move rage, and not remorse, in me:
I go of message from the queen to France ;
I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel.
Cap. Walter !—
Whit. Come, Suffolk ; I must waft thee to thy death.
Suf. Gelidus timor occupat artus :--it is thee I fear.
Whit. Thou shalt have cause to fear, before I leave

80

90

100

thee.
What! are yc daunted now? now will ye stoop?
1 Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him
fair. 120
Suf. Suffolk’s imperial tongue is stern and rough,
Us’d to command, untaught to plead for favour.
Far be it we should honour such as these
With humble suit : no, rather let my head
Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any,
Save to the God of heaven, and to my king;
And sooner dance upon a bloody pole,
Than stand uncover’d to the vulgar groom.
True nobility is exempt from fear :
More can I bear, than you dare execute.
Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more.
Sus. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can,
. That this my death may never be forgot.—
Great men oft die by vile Bezonians.
A Roman sworder and banditto slave
Murder’d sweet Tully; Brutus’ bastard hand
Stabb’d Julius Ceesar ; savage islanders
Pompey the Great ; and Sutfolk dies by pirates.
[Exit SUFFOLK, with WHITMORE and others.
Cap. And as for these whose ransom we have set,
It is our pleasure one of them depart : 40
Therefore, come you with us, and let him go.
[Ereunt all but the First Gentleman.

130

Re-enter WHITMORE, with SUFFOLK’s body.
_ Whit. There let his head and lifeless body lie,
Until the queen, his mistress, bury it. [Exit.
1 Gent. O barbarous and bloody spectacle !
His body will I bear unto the king:
If he revenge it. not, yet will his friends ;
So will the queen, that living held him dear.
[E£xit, with the body.

 

ScENE II.—Blackheath.

Enter GEORGE Brvis and JOHN HOLLAND.

Geo. Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a
lath : they have been up these two days.

John. They have the more need to sleep now then,

Geo. I tell thee, Jack Cade the clothier means to
dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new
nap upon it.

John. So he had need, for ’tis threadbare. Well
I say, it was never merry world in England, since
gentlemen came up.

Geo. O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in
handicraftsmen. ll

John. The nobility think scorn to go in leather
aprons.

Geo. Nay, more; the king’s council are no good
workmen.

John. True; and yet it is said, Labour in thy voca-
tion : which is as much to say as,—let the magistrates
be labouring men ; and therefore should we be magis-
trates.

Geo. Thou hast hit it; for there’s no better sign of
a brave mind than a hard hand. a

John. Isee them! Isee them! There’s Best’s son
the tanner of Wingham,— F

Geo. He shall have the skins of our enemies to
make dog's-leather of.

John, And Dick the butcher,—

Geo. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and
iniquity’s throat cut like a calf.

John. And Smith the weaver,—

Geo. Argo, their thread of lite is spun.

John. Come, come ; let’s fall in with them.

Drum. Enter Cave, Dick the Butcher, SMITH the
Weaver, and others in great number.

é Cade. We John Cade, so termed of our supposed
ather,—

Dick. [Aside.] Or rather, of stealing a cade of
herrings.

Cade. For our enemies shall fall before us, inspired
with the spirit of putting down kings and princes,—
Command silence.

Dick. Silence !

Cade. My father was a Mortimer,— 40

Dick. (Aside.] He was an honest man, and a good
bricklayer. ,

Cade. My mother a Plantagenet,—

Dick. (.Aside.] I knew her well; she was a midwife.

Cade. My wite descended of the Lacies,—

Dick. beeeel She was, indeed, a pedlar’s daughter,
and sold many laces.

Smith. [Aside.] But, now of late, not able to travel
with her turred pack, she washes bucks here at home.

Cade. Therefore am I of an honourable house. —_ 50

Dick. (.4side.] Ay, by my faith, the field is honour-
able, and there was he born, under a hedge; for his
father had never a house, but the cage.

Cade, Valiant Iam. x

Smith. [Aside] ’A must needs, for beggary is
valiant.

Cade. Tam able to endure much.

Dick. (Aside.] No question of that, for I have seen
him whipped three market-days together.

Cade. Their neither sword nor fire. 60

Smith. L4side.] He need not fear the sword, for his
coat. is of proof.

Dick, (Aside.]
fear of fire, being
sheep.

But, methinks, he should stand in
burnt i’ the hand for stealing of

and vows reformation.’ There shall be in England

seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny ; the three:

hooped pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make it

felony to drink small beer.

common, and in Cheapside shall my _palfrey 8° 7)

grass. And, when I am king (as king I will be),— '
All. God save your majesty !

Cade, I thank you, good people :—there shall be no t

money ; all shall eat and drin.

Cade. Be brave then; for your enniat is brave, |!

‘All the realm shall be in |!

 

on my score; and

 
 

 

ScENE II] KING HENRY

VI.-PART II. 117

 

will op arel them all in one livery, that they may
agree like brothers, and worship me their lord.

Dick. The first thing we do, let’s kill all the
la

wyers.

Cade, Nay, that I mean to do. _Is not this a lament-
able thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should
be made parchment? that parchment, being scribbled
oer, should undo a man? Some say, the bee stings;
but I say, ‘tis the bee’s wax, for I did but seal once to
a thing, and I was never-mine own man since. How
now? who’s there?

Enter some, bringing in the Clerk of Chatham.

Smith. The clerk of Chatham: he can write and
read, and cast accompt.

Cade. O monstrous !

Smith. We took him setting of boy’s copies. 90

Cade. Here’s a villain!

Smith. H’as a book in his pocket, with red letters
int

Cade. Nay, then he is a conjurer.

Dick. Nay, he can make obligations, and write
court-hand.

Cade. Iam sorry for’t: the man is a proper man, of
mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not
die.—Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee. What
is thy name? 100

Clerk. Emmanuel.

Dick. They use to write it on the top of letters.—
°T will go hard with you.

Cade. Let me alone.—Dost thou use to write thy
name, or hast thou a mark to thyself, like an honest
plain-dealing man ?

Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought
up, that I can write my name.

All. He hath confessed: away with him! he’s a
villain and a traitor. 110

Cade. Away with him, I say: hang him with his
pen and ink-horn about his neck.

[Exceunt some with the Clerk

Enter MicHaEt

Mich. Where’s our general ?

Cade. Here I am, thou particular fellow.

Mich. Fly, fly, fly! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his
brother are hard by, with the king’s forces.

Cade. Stand, villain, stand, or I’ll fell thee down.
He shall be encountered with a man as good as him-
self: he is but a knight, is ’a?

Mich. No. 120

Cade. To equal him, I will make myself a knight
presently. [Aneels.]—Rise up Sir John Mortimer.

ow have at him.

Enter Sir HUMPHREY STAFFORD, and WILLIAM his
Brother, with drum and Forces.

Staf. Rebellious hinds, the filth and scum of Kent,
Mark’d for the gallows, lay your weapons down:
Home to your cottages, forsake this groom.

The king is merciful, if you revolt.

W, Staf. But angry, wrathful, and inclin’d to blood,
If you go forward : therefore yield, or die.

Cade. As for these silken-coated slaves, I page

not:
It is to you, good people, that I speak,
O’er whom in time to come I hope to reign ;
For I am rightful heir unto the crown.
Staf. Villain! thy father was a plasterer ;
And thou ape a shearman, art thou not ?
Cade. And Adam was a gardener.
W. Staf. And what of that?
Cade. Marry, this:-Edmund Mortimer, Earl of

March,
Married the Duke of Clarence’ daughter, did he not?
Staf. Ay, sir. 140
Cade. By her he had two children at one birth.
W. Staf. That’s false. :
Cade. Ay, there’s the question; but I say, ’tis

true.
The elder of them, being put to nurse,
Was by a beggar-woman stol’n away ;

 

And, ignorant of his birth and parentage,
Became a bricklayer when he came to age.
His son am I: deny it, if you can.
Dick. Nay, ’tis too true; therefore, he shall be
ing. 150
Smith. Sir, he made achimney in my father’s house,
and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it: there-
fore, deny it not.
Staf. And will you credit this base drudge’s words,
That speaks he knows not what ?
All. Ay, marry, will we; therefore get ye gone.
WW. Staf. J at Cade, the Duke of York hath taught
you this

Cade. [Aside.] ‘He lies, for I invented it myself.—

 

Cude. ‘** His son am I: deny it, if you can.”

Go to, sirrah: tell the king from me, that for his
father’s sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys
went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content.
he shall reign; but Ill be protector over him. 162

Dick. And, furthermore, we’ll have the Lord Say’s
head, for selling the dukedom of Maine.

Cade. And good reason; for thereby is England
mained, and fain to go with a staff, but that my
puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that
that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and
made it an eunuch ; and more than that, he can speak
French, and therefore he is a traitor. 170

Staf. O gross and miserable ignorance !

Cade. Nay, answer, if you can: the Frenchmen are
our enemies; go to then, Iask but this: can he that
speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good
counsellor, or no ?

All. No, no; and therefore we'll have his head.

W. Staf. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail,
Assail them with the army of the king.

Staf. Herald, away ; and, throughout every town,
Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade ; 180
That those which fly before the battle ends,

May, even in their wives’ and children’s sight,

Be hang’d up for example at their doors.—

And you, that be the king’s friends, follow me.

(Ezeunt the two STAFFORDS and Forces.
Cade. And you, that love the commons, follow
me.—

Now show yourselves men: ’tis for liberty.

We will not leave one lord, one gentleman:

Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon,

For they are thrifty honest men, and such

‘As would (but that they dare not) take our parts. 190

Dick. They are all in order, and march toward us.

Cade. But then are we in order, when we are most
out of order. Come: march! forward! [Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

118 KING HENRY VI.--PART II. ‘{Act Iv,
ScENE III.—Another Part of Blackheath. kK. Hen. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee,
; Theretore away with us to Killingworth.
Alarums. The two parties enter, and fight, and Say. So might your grace’s person be in danger,

both the STAFFORDS are slain.

Cade. Where’s Dick, the butcher of Ashford ?

Dick. Here, sir.

Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen,
and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in
thine own slaughter-house: therefore thus will I
reward thee,—the Lent shall be as long again as it is;
and thou shalt have a license to kill for a hundred
lacking one.

Dick. T desire no more. 9

Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less.
This monument of the victory will I bear; and the
bodies shall be dragged at my horse’ heels, till I do
come _ to London, where we will have the mayor’s
sword borne before us.

Dick. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open
the gaols, and let out the prisoners.

Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee.
march towards London.

Come ; let's
[Exzeunt.

ScENE IV.—London. <A Room in the Palace.

Enter King HENRY, reading a supplication; the
Duke of BUCKINGHAM, and Lord Say, with him:
at a distance, Queen MARGARET, mourning over
SUFFOLK’s head.

Q. Mar. a have I heard that grief softens the
mind,

And makes it fearful and degencrate ;
Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep.
But who can cease to weep, and look on this?
Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast ;
But where’s the body that I should embrace?

Buck, What answer makes your grace to the rebels’
eupplication ?

KX. Hen. I'll send some holy bishop to entreat ;

For God forbid, so many simple souls
Should perish by the sword! And I myself,
Rather than bloody war shall cut them short,
Will parley with Jack Cade, their general.—
But stay, I'll read it over once again.

Q. Mar. Ah, barbarous villains! hath this lovely

‘ace
Rul'd like a wandering planet over me,
And could it not enforce them to relent,
‘That were unworthy to behold the same?
K. Hen. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have
thy head.
Say. Ay, ‘but I hope, your highness shall have his.
K. Hen. How now, madam ? 21
Still lamenting, and mourning for Suffolk’s death ?
I fear me, love, if that I had been dead,
Thou _wonldest not have mourn’d so much for me.
Q. men, N es my love; I should not mourn, but die
or thee.

Enter a Messenger.

K. Hen. How now! what news? why com’st thou

in such haste?

Mess. The rebels are in Southwark. Fly, my lord!
Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer,
Descended from the Duke of Clarence’ house,

And calls your grace usurper openly,

And vows to crown himself in Westminster.

His army is a ragged multitude

Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless :

Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother’s death
Hath given them heart and courage to proceed.
All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen,

They call false caterpillars, and intend their death.

A. Hen. O graceless men! they know not what

they do.

Buck. My gracious lord, retire to Killingworth,
Until a power be rais’d to put them down. ;

@. Mar. Ah! were the Duke of Suffolk now alive,
These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas’d.

30

 

The sight of me is odious in their eyes ;
And therefore in this city will I stay,
And live alone as secret as I may.

Enter another Messenger.

2 Mess. Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge;
The citizens fly and forsake their houses ;
The rascal poeple, thirsting after prey,
Join with the traitor; and they jointly swear,
To spoil the city, and your royal court.
Buck, Then linger not, my lord : away, take horse.
K. Hen. Come, Margaret: God, our hope, will suc-
courus.
Q. Mar. My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceas’d.
4K. Hen. [Yo Lord Say.) Farewell, my lord: trust
not the Kentish rebels.
Buck, Trust nobody, for fear you be betray'd.
Say. The trust I have is in mine innocence,
And therefore am I bold and resolute. 60
[Ezxeunt.

ScENE V.—The Same. The Tower.

Enter Lord SCALES, and others, walking on the
walls. Then enter certain Citizens, below.

Scales. How now! is Jack Cade slain ?

1 Cit. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they
have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand
them. The lord mayor craves aid of your honour
from the Tower, to defend the city from the rebels.

Scales. Such aid as I can spare, you shall command;
But I am troubled here with them myself:

The rebels have essay’d to win the Tower.

But get you to Smithfield, and gather head,

And thither I will send you Matthew Gough. 10
Fight for your king, your country, and your lives;
And so farewell, for I must hence again. [Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—The Same. Cannon Street.

Enter Jack CavE and his Followers. He strikes his
staff on London Stone.

Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And
here, sitting upon London Stone, I charge and com-
mand, that, of the city’s cost, the pissing-conduit run
nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign.
And now, henceforward, it shall be treason for any
that calls me other than Lord Mortimer.

Enter a Soldier, running.

Sold. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! re
Cade. Knock him down there. [They kill him.
Smith. If this fellow be wise, hell never call you
Jack Cade more: I think, he hath a very fair warning.
Dick. My lord, there’s an army gathered together
in Smithfield. : 12
Cade. Come then, let’s go fight with them, But
first, go and set London Bridge on fire, and, if you

can, burn down the Tower too. Come, let’s away.
[Exeunt.

ScENE VII.—The Same. Smithfield.

Alarum. Enter, on one side, CADE and his Coi-
pany; on the other, the Citizens, and the King’s
Forces, headed by MATTHEW GouGH. They fight;
the Citizens are routed, and MATTHEW GOUGH #s
slain.

Cade. So, sirs.—Now go some and pull down the
Savoy; others to the inns of court: down with
them all.

Dick. I have a suit unto your lordship.

cade, Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that
word.

 

 
 

 

Scene VIII.) KING HENRY

VI-PART II. 19

 

Dick. Only, that the laws of England may come
out of your mouth. :

John. [Aside.] Mass, ’t will be sore law then; for
he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and ’tis not
whole yet. fed . li

Smith. [Aside.] Nay, John, it will be stinking law ;
for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese.

Cade. I have thought upon it; it shall be so.
Away ! burn all the records of the realm: my mouth
shall be the parliament of England. ;

John. [Aside.] Then we are like to have biting
statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out.

Cade. And henceforward all things shall be in
common. zg 20
Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, a prize, a prize! here’s the Lord
Say, which sold the towns in France; he that made
us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one shilling to
the pound, the last subsidy.

Enter GEORGE BEVIS, with the Lord Say.

Cade. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times.—
Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord!
now art thou within point-blank of our jurisdiction
regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty, for
pling up of Normandy unto Monsieur Basimecu, the

auphin of France? Be it known unto thee by these

, presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I
am the besom that must sweep the court clean of
such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously
corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a gram-
mar-school : and whereas, before, our forefathers had
no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast
caused printing to be used ; and, contrary to the king,
his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill.
It will be proved to thy face, that thou hast men
about thee, that usually talk of a noun, and a verb,
and such abominable words, as no Christian ear can
endure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of
peace, to call poor men before them about matters
they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast
put them in prison ; and because they could not read,
thou hast hanged them; when, indeed, only for that
cause they have been most worthy to live. ‘Thou dost
ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not?

Say. What of that?

Cade. Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse
wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in
their hose and doublets. 52

Dick. And work in their shirt too; as myself, for
example, that am a butcher.

Say. You men of Kent,—

Dick. What say you of Kent?

Say. Nothing but this: ’tis bona terra, mala gens.
cnet Away with him! away with him! he speaks

in.

Say. He me but speak, and bear me where aa

will.
Kent, in the Commentaries Cesar writ,
Is term’d the civil’st place of all this isle :
Sweet is the country, because full of riches ;
The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ;_

hich makes me hope you are not void ot pity.

Isold not Maine, I lost not Normandy ;

Yet, to recover them, would lose my life.

Justice with favour have I always done ;

Prayers and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never.
When have I aught exacted at your hands, 70
But to maintain the king, the realm, and you?
Large gifts have I bestow’d on learned clerks,
Because my book preferr’d me to the king,

And seeing ignorance is the curse of God,
Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
Unless you be possess’d with devilish spirits,

You cannot but forbear to murder me.

This tongue hath parley’d unto foreign kings

For your behoof,— E

Cade. Tut! when struck’st thou one blow in the
field? t 81

Say. Great men have reaching hands: oft have I

 

struc
Those that I never saw, and struck them dead.

r Ce, O monstrous coward! what, to come behind
olks 1
Say. These cheeks are pale for watching for your

good.

Cade. Give him a box o’ the ear, and that will make
’em red again.

Say. Long sitting, to determine poor men’s causes,
Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. 9)

Cade. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the
help of hatchet.

Dick. Why dost thou quiver, man?

Say. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me.

Cade. Nay, he nods at us; as who should say, I'll
be even with you. I'll see if his head will stand
steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away, and be-
head him.

Say. Tell me, wherein have I offended most?

Have I affected wealth, or honour? speak. 100
Are my chests fill’d up with extorted gold ?

Is my ae sumptuous to behold ?

Whom have I injur’d, that ye seek my death ?

These hands are free from guiltless blood-shedding,
This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts.
O, let me live!

Cade. I feel remorse in myself with his words ; but
I'll bridle it: he shall die, an it be but for pleading so
well for his life. Away with him! he has a familiar
under his tongue: he speaks not o’God’s name. Go,
take him away, I say, and strike off his head pre-
sently; and then break into his son-in-law’s house,
Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring
them both upon two poles hither. 11t

Aij. It shall be done.

Say. Ah, countrymen! if when you make your

rayers,

God should be so obdurate as yourselves,
How would it fare with your departed souls?
And therefore yet relent, and save my life.

Cade. Away with him, and do as I command ye. 120

[Exeunt some, with Lord Say.

The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head
on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute : there shall
not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her
maidenhead, ere they have it. Menshall hold of me
in capite; and we charge and command, that their
wives be as free as heart can wish, or tongue can tell.

Dick. My lord, when shall we go to Cheapside, and
take up commodities upon our bills?

Cade. Marry, presently.

All. O, brave! 130

Re-enter Rebels, with the heads of Lord Say and his
Son-in-lavw.

Cade. But is not this braver ?—Let them kiss one
another, for they loved well, when they were alive.
Now part them again, lest they consult about the
giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers,
defer the spoil of the city until night ; for with these
borne before us, instead of maces, will we ride through
the streets; and at every corner have them _kiss.—
Away! [Baceunt.

ScENE VIII.—Southwark.

Alarum. Enter CADE and all his Rabblement.
Cade. Up Fish Street ! down Saint Magnus’ Corner!
kill and knock down ! throw them into Thames !—[.4
arley sounded, then a retreat.) What noise is this I
fear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley,
when I command them kill? -

Enter BUCKINGHAM, and Old CLIFFORD, with
Forces.
Buck. Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb
ee. H

Know, Cade, we come ambassadors fromthe king
Unto the commons whom thou hast misled ;
And here pronounce free pardon to them all
That will forsake thee, and go home in peace.

Clif. What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent,
And yield to mercy, whilst ’tis orler’d you,

10

 

 
 

120 KING HENRY VI—PART II. {Act IV.

 

 

Or let a rabble lead you to your deaths?
Who loves the king, and will embrace his pardon,
Fling up his cap, and say—God save his majesty !
Who hateth him, and honours not his father,
Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake,
Shake he his weapon at us, and pass by.

All. God save the king! God save the king! 19

 

Cade. ** But is not this braver?"

Cade. What! Buckingham, and Clifford, are ye so
brave ?-And you, base peasants, do ye believe him?!
will you needs be hanged with your pardons about.
you necks? Hath my sword therefore broke through

ondon gates, that you should leave me at the White
Hart in Southwark? I thought, ye would never have
given ont these arms, till you had recovered your
ancient freedom; but you are all recreants, and das-
tards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility.
Let them break your backs with burdens, take your
houses over your heads, ravish your_wives and
daughters before your faces: for me,—I will make
shift for one, and so,—God's curse light upon you all!

All. We'll follow Cade, we ll follow Cade. 3

Clif. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth,

That thus you do exclaim, you'll go with him?
Will he conduct you through the heart of France
And make the meanest of you earls and dukes?
Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to;

Nor knows he how to live, but by the spoil,

Unless by robbing of your friends, and us. 40
Were ’t not a shame, that whilst you live at jar,
The fearful French, whom you late vanquished,
Should make a start o’er seas, and vanquish you?
Methinks, already, in this civil broil,

I sce them lording it in London streets,

Crying—“ Villiago !” unto all they meet.

Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry,
Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman’s mercy.
To France, to France! and get what you have lost.
Spare England, for it is your native coast.

Henry hath money, you are strong and manly:
God on our side, doubt not of PICtOE

All, A Clifford! a Clifford! we'll follow the king,
and Clifford.

Cade, Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro,
as this multitude? The name of Henry the Fifth hales
them to an hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave
me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to
surprise ne: my sword make way for me, for heze is

 

 

no staying.—In despite of the devils and hell, have

through the very midst of you; and heavens and

honour be witness, that no want of resolution in me,

but only al followers’ base and ignominious treasons,

makes me betake me to my heels. [eat

Buck, What ! is he fled / go some, and follow him;

And he, that brings his head unto the king,

Shall have a thousand crowns for his reward,—
Exeunt some of them..

Follow me, soldiers: we'll devise a mean

To reconcile you all unto the king. [Exeunt.

Scene IX.—Kenilworth Castle.

Sound trumpets. Enter King HENRY, Queen Mar-
GARET, and SOMERSET, on the Terrace of the Castle.

K. Hen. Was ever king that joy'd an earthly
throne,
And could command no more content than I?
No sooner was I crept out of my cradle,
But I was made a king, at nine months old:
Was never subject long’d to be a king,
As I do long and wish to be a subject.

Enter BUCKINGHAM and CLIFFORD.

Buck. Health, and glad tidings, to your majesty!
K. Hen. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor, Cade,,
surpris’d?
Or is he but retir’d to make him strong?

Enter, below, a number of CaDE’s Followers, with
alters about their necks.

Clif. He’s fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield,
And humbly thus, with halters on their necks, ll
Expect your highness’ doom, of life, or death.
K. Hen. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting
gates,
To entertain my vows of thanks and praise !—
Soldiers, this day have you redeem’d your lives,
And show'd how well you love your prince and
country :
Continue still in this so good a mind,
And Henry, though he be infortunate,
Assure yourselves, will never be unkind:
And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, 20
I do dismiss you to your several countries.
All. God save the king! God save the king!

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Please it your grace to be advertised,
The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland,
And with a puissant and a mighty power
Of Gallowglasses and stout Kernes,
Is marching hitherward in proud array ;
And still proclaimeth, as he comes along,
His arms are only to remove from thee }
The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. 30
K. Hen. Thus stands my state, ’twixt Cade and
York distress’d,
Like to a ship, that, having scap’d a tempest,
Is straightway calm’d and boarded with a pirate.
But now is Cade driven back, his men dispers’d,
And now is York in arms to second him.—
I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him,
And ask him, what’s the reason of these arms.
Tell him, I’ll send Duke Edmund to the Tower ;—
And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither,
Until his army be dismiss’d from him.
Som. My lord,
I'll yield myself to prison willingly,
Or unto death, to do my country good.
K. Hen. In any case, be not too rough in terms,
For he is fierce, and cannot brook hard language.
Buck. I will, my lord; and doubt not so to deal,
As all things shall redound unto your good.
AY ssa ore wife, let’s in, and learn to govern
etter ;
For yet may England curse my wretched reign.
|Exeunt.

 

 
 

SCENE X.] KING HENRY

VI—PART I. 121

 

 

ScENE X.—Kent. IpDEN’s Garden.

Enter CADE.

Cade. Fie on ambition! fie on myself, that have a
sword, and yet.am ready tofamish! These five days
have I hid me in these woods, and durst not peep out,
for all the country is laid for me; but now am I so
hungry, that if I_ might have a lease of my life for a
thousand years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore,
on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see
if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which
is not amiss to cool a man’s stomach this hot weather.
And I think this word sallet was born to do me good :
for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had
been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when
Ihave been dry and bravely marching, it hath served
me instead of a quart-pot to drink in; and now the
word sallet must serve me to feed on.

Enter IDEN, with Servants, behind.

Iden. Lord! who would live turmoiled in the court,
And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ?
This small inheritance, my father left me,
Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.

I seek not to wax pean by others’ waning ;

Or gather wealth I care not with what envy:
Sufficeth that I have maintains my state,

And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.

Cade. Here’s the lord of the soil come to seize me
for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave.
Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand
crowns of the king by carrying my head to him ; but
I'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow
my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part.

Iden. Why, rude companion, whatsoe’er thou be, 30
I know thee not; why then should I betray thee ?

Is 't not enough, to break into my garden,

And like a thief to come to rob my grounds,
Climbing my walls in spite of me, the owner,
But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms?

Cade. Brave thee? ay, by the best blood that ever
was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well:
Ihave eat no meat these five days ; yet, come thou and
thy five men; and if I do not leave you all as dead as
a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. 40

(len. Nay, it shall ne’er be said, while England

20

 

stands,

That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent,

Took odds to combat a poor famish’d man.

Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine,

See if thou canst outface me with thy looks:

Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser ;

Thy hand is but a finger to my fist ;

Thy leg a stick, compared with this truncheon ;
My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast ;
And if mine arm be heaved in the air, 50
Thy grave is digg’d already in the earth.

As for words, whose greatness answers words,

Let this my sword report what speech forbears.

Cade. By my valour, the most complete champion
that ever I heard.—Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut
not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou
sleep in thy sheath, I beseech Jove on my knees, thou
mayest be turned to hobnails. [They fight. CapE
Jalls.| O! Iam slain. Famine, and no other, hath
slain me: let ten thousand devils come against me,
and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I’d
defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a
burying-place to all that do dwell in this house, be-
cause the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. }

Iden. Is’t Cade that I have slain, that monstrous

traitor ?
Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed,
And hang thee o’er my tomb, when [ am dead:
Ne’er shall this blood be wiped from thy point,
But thou shalt wear it as a herald’s coat,
To emblaze the honour that thy master got. 70

Cade. Iden, farewell ; and be proud of thy victory.
Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and
exhort all the world to be cowards; for I, that never
feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour.

(Dies.

Iden. How much thou wrong’st me, Heaven be my

judge.
Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee !
And as I thrust thy body in with my sword,
So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell.
Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels
Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave,
And there cut off thy most ungracious head ;
Which I will bear in triumph tothe king,
Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon.

|Hxeunt IDEN, dragging out the body, and
Servants.

80

 

ACT

Vv.

Scene I.—The Same. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath.

The King’s Camp on one side.

York. ; ;

2 ROM Ireland ns comes York, to claim his
right,

And pluck the crown from feeble Henry’s

ead:
Ring, bells, aloud; burn, bonfires, clear
and bright, ;
To entertain great England’s lawful king.
sancta majestas! who would not
buy thee dear?
Let them obey, that know not how to rule ;
This hand aes made to handle nought but
gold:
I cannot give due action to my words,
Except a sword, or sceptre, balance it.

’

 

On the other, enter YoRK attended, with drum and colours ;
his Forces at some distance.

A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul, 10

On which I’ toss the flower-de-luce of France.

Enter BUCKINGHAM.
Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me ?
The king hath sent him, sure: I must dissemble.
Buck. York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee

well.
York. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy
greeting.
Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure?
Buck. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege, .
To know the reason of these arms in peace ;
Or why thou,—being a subject as I am,-—

Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, 20

 
 

122 KING HENRY

[Act |

VI—PART II.

 

 

 

Shouldst raise so great a power without his leave,
Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. .
York. (Aside.] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so

great.
O! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint,
Iam so angry at these abject terms ;
And now, like Ajax Telamonius,
On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury.
I am far better born than is the king,
More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts ;
But I must make fair weather yet awhile. 30
Till Henry be more weak, and I more strong.—
O Buckingham, I pr'ythee, pardon me,
That I have given no answer all this while:
My mind was troubled with GeeP Eee
The cause why I have brought this army hither,
Is, to remove proud Somersct from the king,
Seditious to his grace, and to the state.

Buck. That is too much open on thy part ;
But if thy arms be to no other end,

The king hath yielded unto thy demand :
The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower.
“ork. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner ?

Buck, Upon mine honour, he is prisoner.

York. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers.—
Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves :
Meet me to-morrow in Saint George’s field,

You shall have pay, and everything you wish.
And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry,
Command my eldest son,—nay, all my sons,
as pledges of my fealty and love ;

I'll send them all, as willing as I live:

Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have
Is his to use, 30 Somerset may die.

Buck. York, I commend this kind submission :
We twain will go into his highness’ tent.

Enter King HENRY, attended.
kK. Hen. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm

40

50

ous,
That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?
York. In all submission and humility,
York doth present himself unto your highness.
K. Hen. Then what intend these forces thou dost
bring ? 60
York. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence ;
nd fight against that monstrous rebel, Cade,
Who since I heard to be discomfited.

Enter IDEN, with Capr’s head.

Iden. If one so rude, and of so mean condition,
May pass into the presence of a king,
Lo! I present your grace a traitor’s head,
The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew.

K. Hen. The head of Cade?—Great God, how just

art Thou !—

O! let me view his visage being dead,
That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. —_70
Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him?

Iden. I was, an’t like your majesty.

A. Hen. How art thou call’d, and what is thy

degree?

Iden. Alexander Iden, that’s my name;

#: por esquire of Kent, that loves his king.
‘uck. So please it you, my lord, ’t were not amiss,

He were created knight for his good service.

K. ze au kneel down. [He knecls.] Rise upa

night.

We give thee for reward a thousand marks ;
And will, that thou henceforth attend on us.

Iden. ee Iden live to merit such a bounty,
And never live but true unto his liege.

KK. Hen. See, Buckingham!

_, _ the queen:

Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke.

Enter Queen MARGARET and SOMERSET.
Q. Mar. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his

ead,
But. boldly stand, and front him to his face.
York. How now ! is Somerset at liberty ?
Then, York, unloose thy long-imprison’d thoughts,

80

Somerset comes with

 

And let ae tongue be equal with thy heart.
Shall I endure the sight of Somerset ?—
False king, why hast thou broken faith with me,
Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse ?
King did I call thee? no, thou art not king;
Not fit to govern and rule multitudes,
Which dar’st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor,
That head of thine doth not become a crown;
Thy hand is made 'to grasp a palmer’s staff,
And not to grace an awful princely sceptre.
That gold must round engirt these brows of mine:
Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles’ spear,
Is able with the opange to kill and cure,
Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up,
And with the same to act controlling laws.
Give place: by Heaven, thou shalt rule no more
O’er him whom Heaven created for thy ruler.
Som. O monstrous traitor !—I arrest thee, York,
Of capital treason ’gainst the king and crown.
Obey, audacious traitor : kneel for grace.
York, Voulest have me kneel? first let me ask of
ese,
If they can brook I bow a knee to man? 110
Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail;
i [Exit an Attendant.
I know, ere they will have me go to ward,
They ’ll pawn their swords for my enfranchisement.
Q. Mar. Call hither Clifford ; bid him come amain,
To say, if that the bastard boys of York
Shall be the surety for their traitor father.
(et BUCKINGHAM.
York. O blood-bespotted Neapolitan,
Outcast of Naples, England’s bloody scourge,
The sons of York, thy betters in their birth,
Shall be their father’s bail; and bane to those
That for my surety will refuse the boys.

Enter EDWARD and RICHARD PLANTAGENET, with
Forces, at one side; at the other, with Forces also,
Old CLIFFORD and his Son. .

See, where they come: Ill warrant they'll make it

100

120

good.
Q. Mar. And here comes Clifford, to deny their

bail.
Clif. Health and all happiness to my lord the king!
{Kneels.
York. I phon thee, Clifford: say, what news with
thee?

Nay, do not fright us with an angry look:
We are thy sovereign, Clifford, kneel again ;
For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. :
Clif. This is my king, York : I do not mistake ;
But thou mistak’st me much, to think I do.—
To Bedlam with him! is the man grown mad? _ _ 130
K. Hen. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and ambitious
humour y hte,
Makes him oppose himself against his king.
Clif. Hes a traitor: let him to the Tower,
And chop away that factious pate of his.
Q. Mar. He is arrested, but will not obey: |
His sons, he says, shall give their words for him.
York. Will you not, sons ? ;
Edw. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve.
Rich. And if words will not, then our weapons

shall.
Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here!
York. Look in a glass, and call thy image so;
Tam thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor.—
Call hither to the stake my two brave bears,
That with the very shaking of their chains
They may astonish these fell-lurking curs : M
Bid Salisbury, and Warwick, come to me.

Drums. Enter WARWICK and SALISBURY, with
Forces.

Clif. Are these thy bears? we’ll bait thy bears to
death

And manacle the bear-ward in their chains,
If thou dar’st bring them to the baiting-place.
Rich. Oft have I seen a hot o’erweening cur
Run back and bite, because he was withheld ;
Who, being suffer'd with the bear's fell paw,

150

 

 
 

 

 

Scene IL] KING HENRY VI-—PART Ii. 123

Hath clapp’d his tail between his legs, and cry’d : Enter York.

And such a piece of service will you do, ; How now, my noble lord ? what, all afoot ?

If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick. York. The deadly-handed Clittord slew my steed ;
lif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, But match to match I have encounter’d him, 10

As crooked in thy manners as thy shape!
York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon.
Clif. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn your-
selves.
K. Hen. Why, Warwick, hath thy knee forgot to
bow ?— 3 3 160
Old Salisbury,—shame to thy silver hair,
Thou mad misleader of thy brain-sick son!—
What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian,
And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles ?
O! where is faith?) O! where is loyalty? ’
If it be banish’d from the frosty head,
Where shall it find a harbour in the earth ?—
Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war,
And shame thine honourable age with blood ?
Why art thou’old, and want’st experience ?
Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it?
For shame ! in duty bend thy knee to me,
That bows unto the grave with mickle age.
Sal. My lord, I have consider’d with myself
The title of this most renowned duke ;
And in my conscience do repute his grace
The righttul heir to England’s royal seat.
K. Hen. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me?
Sal. J have.
K. Hen. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such
an oath ? 180
Sal. It is great sin to swear unto a sin,
But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.
Who can be bound by any solemn vow
To do a murderous deed, to rob a man,
To force a spotless virgin’s chastity,
To reave the orphan of his patrimony,
To wring the widow from her custom’d right,
And have no other reason for this wrong,
But that he was bound by a solemn oath?
Q. Mar. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. 199
K. Hen. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm him-

self.
York. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou

170

hast,
Iam resoly’d for death, or dignity.
Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true.
‘ar. You were best to go to bed, and dream again,
To keep thee from the tempest of the field.
Clif. Iam resolv’d to bear a greater storm,
Than any thou canst conjure up to-day ;
And that I’ll write upon thy burgonet,
Might I but know thee by thy household badge. 200
‘ar. Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil's crest,
The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff,
This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet,
(As on a mountain-top the cedar shows,
That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm.)
Even to affright thee with the view thereof.

Clif. And from thy burgonet I'll rend thy bear,
And tread it under foot with all contempt,
Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear.

Y. Clif. And so to arms, victorious father,

To quell the rebels, and their complices. Z

Rich. Fie! charity ! for shame! speak not in spite,
For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night.

Y. Clif. soul stigmatic, that’s more than thou canst

210

tell.
Rich. If not in heaven, you 11 surely sup in hell.
[Exeunt severally.

 

ScENE II.—Saint Albans.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK.
War. Clifford of Cumberland, ‘tis Warwick calls:
And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear,
Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarm,
And dead men’s cries do fill the empty air,
Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me!
Proud northern lord, Clifford of Cumberland,

 

Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms.

And made a prey for carrion kites and crows
Even of the bonny beast he lov’d so well.

Enter CLIFFORD.
War. Of one or both of us the time is come.
York. re Warwick! seek thee out some other
chase,
For I myself must hunt this deer to death.
War. Then, nobly, Yorks; ‘tis for a crown thou

fight’st.—
As I intend, Clirford, to thrive to-day,
It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail’d. [Exit.
Clif. What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou

pause ?
York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love,
But that thou art so fast mine enemy. 21

 

York. “A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.”

Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise and
estcem,
But that ’tis shown ignobly, and in treason.
York. So let it help me now against thy sword,
As lin jpeaee and true right express it.
Clif. My soul and body on the action both !—
York. A dreadful lay! Address thee instantly.
Clif. La fin couronne les cuvres.
[They fight, and CLIFFORD falls and dies.
York. Ts war hath given thee peace, for thou art
still.
Peace with his soul, Heaven, if it be thy will! i a
ate,

Enter Young CLIFFORD.

Y. Clif. Shame and confusion ! all is on the rout :
Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds
Where it should guard. O war! thou son of hell,
Whom angry heavens do make their minister,
Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part
Hot coals of vengeance !—Let no soldier fly :
He that is truly dedicate to war
Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself’
Hath not essentially, but by circumstance,
The name of valour.—[Seeing his father’s body.]

O! let the vile world end, 40

And the premised flames of the last day
Knit earth and heaven together !
Now let the general trumpet blow his blast,
Particularities and petty sounds
'To cease !—Wast thou ordain’d, dear father,
To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve
The silver livery of advised age,
And, in thy reverence, and thy chair-days, thus
To die in ruffian battle ?--Even at this sight,

My heart is turn’d to stone: and while ’tis mine, 50

 

 
 

 

 

124 KING HENRY VIL-PART II. [Acr V.
It shall be stony. York not our old men spares; Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts,

No more will I their babes: tears virginal Away, for your relief! and we will live

Shall be to me even as the dew to fire; To see their day, and them our fortune give.

And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims, Away, my lord, away! 90
Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. ; [Exeunt.

Henceforth I will not have to do with pity:
Meet Ian infant of the house of York,
Into as many gobbets will I cut it,
As wild Medea young Absyrtus did:
In cruelty will I seek out my fame. 60
Come, thou new ruin of old Clittord’s house:
[Taking up the body.
As did Atneas old Anchises bear,
So bear I thee upon my manly shoulders ;
But then A‘neas bare a living load,
Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. [E7zit.
Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET and SOMERSET,
Jighting. SOMERSET its killed.
Rich. So, lie thou there ;—
For, underneath an ale-house’ paltry sign,
The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset
- Hath made the wizard famous in his death.
Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still: 70
Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. [E£xit.

dAlarums: Excursions. Enter King HENRY, Queen
MARGARET, and others, retreating.
Q. Mar. Away, my lord! you are slow: for shame,
away !
A. Hen. Can we outrun the heavens? good Margaret,

stay.
Q. Mar. What are you made of? you'll nor fight,
nor fly ;
Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence,
To give the enemy way, and to secure us
By what we can, which can no more but fly.
Alarum afar off.
If you be ta’en, we then should sce the bottom
Of all our fortunes: but if we haply scape
(As well we may, if not through your neglect), 80
We shall to London get, where you are lov'd,
And where this breach, now in our fortunes made,
May readily be stopp'd.
Enter Young CLIFFORD.
Y. Clif. But that my heart’s on future mischief set,

I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly ;
But fly you must: uncurable discumfit

 

 

ScENE ITI.—Fields near Saint Albans.

Alarum: Retreat. Flourish; then enter York,
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, WARWICK, and Soldiers,
with drum and colours.

York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him?

That winter lion, who in rage forgets

Aged contusions and all brush of time,

And, like a gallant in the brow of youth,

Repairs him with occasion? This happy day

Is not itself, nor have we won one foot,

If Salisbury be lost.

Rich. My noble father,

Three times to-day I holp him to his horse,

Three times bestrid him ; thrice I led him off,

Persuaded him from any further act: 10

But still, where danger was, still there I met him;

And like rich hangings in a homely house,

So was his will in his old feeble body.

But, noble as he is, look where he comes.

Enter SALISBURY.
Sal. New. by my sword, well hast thou fought to-
ay;

ys

By the mass, so did we all.—I thank you, Richard:
God knows how long it is I have to live;
And it hath pleas’d Him, that three times to-day
You have defended me from imminent death.—
Well, lords, we have not got that which we have: 20
’T is not enough our foes are this time fled,
Being opposites of such repairing nature.

York. I know, our safety is to follow them;
For, as I hear, the king is fled to London,
To call a present court of parliament:
Let us pursue him, ere the writs go forth.—
What says Lord Warwick? shall we after them?

War. After them? nay, before them, if we can.
Now, by my faith, lords, ’t was a glorious day:
Saint Alban’s battle, won by famous York, 30
Shall be eternis’d in all age to come.—
Sound, drums and trumpets !—and to London all;
And more such days as these to us befall! [Hzeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONAL.

FERDINAND, King of Navarre.
BIRon,
LONGAVILLE, s Lords attending on the King.

DUMAINE,
Boyet, \ Lords_attending on the Princess of
MERCADE, France.

Don_ADRIANO DE ARMADO, a fantastical Spaniard.
Sir NATHANIEL, a Curate.
HOLOFERNES, a Schoolmaster.
DULL, @ Constable.

CosTaARD, a Clown.

; Motu, Page to Armado.

A Forester.

PRINCESS OF FRANCE.

ROSALINE, d

MaRIA, Ladies attending on the Princess.
KATHARINE, J

JAQUENETTA, @ Country Wench.

Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and
Princess.

SCENE—NAVARRE.

ACT I.

ScENE I.—Navarre.

King.

ET fame, that all hunt after in their
lives,

Live register’d upon our brazen tombs,

And then grace us in the disgrace of
death,

When, spite of cormorant devouring

  

‘ime,
3 The endeavour of this present breath

may buy
That honour, which shall bate his scythe’s
keen edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity.
Therefore, brave conquerors !—for so you are,
That war against your own affections,
And the huge army of the world’s desires,— 10
Our late edict shall strongly stand in force:
Navarre sha]l be the wonder of the world;
Our court shall be a little academe,
Still and contemplative in living art.
You three, Biron, Dumaine, and Longaville,
Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me,
My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes
That are recorded in this schedule here: .
Your oaths are pass’d, and now subscribe your names,
That his own hand may strike his honour down,
That violates the smallest branch herein.
If oe are arm’d to do, as sworn to do,
Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.
Long. I am resolv’d: ’t is but a three years’ fast.

v

' The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:

Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits
Make rich the ribs, but bankerout the wits.

Dum. My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified.
The grosser manner of these world’s delights
He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves:
To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die,
With all these living in philosophy.

Biron, I can but say their protestation over,
So much, dear liege, I have already sworn,
That is, to live and study here three years.

But there are other strict observances 3
, not to see a woman in that term,’

30

 

A Park, with a Palace in it.
Enter the K1nG, Biron, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE.

Which, I hope well, is not enrolled there :

And, one day in a week to touch no food,

And but one meal on every day beside ;

The which, I hope, is not enrolled there :

And then, to sleep but three hours in the night,

And not be seen to wink of all the day,

(When I was wont to think no harm all night,

And make a dark night too of half the day)—

Which, I hope well, is not enrolled there.

QO! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,

Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep.

King. Your oath is pass’d to pass away from these.
Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please. 50

I only swore to study with your grace,

And stay here in your court for three years’ space.
Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest.
Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.—-

What is the end of study? let me know.

King. Why, that to know which else we should
not know.

Biron. Things hid and barr’d, you mean, from com-
mon sense ?

King. Ay, that is study’s god-like recompense.

Biron. Come on then, I will swear to study so,

To know the thing I am forbid to know;

As thus,—to study where I well may dine,

When I to feast expressly am forbid ;

Or study where to meet some mistress fine,

When mistresses from common sense are hid ;

Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath,

Study to break it, and not break my troth.

If study’s gain be thus, and this be so,

Study knows that which yet it doth not know.

Swear me to this, and J will ne’er say no. ,
King. These be the stops that hinder study quite, 70

And train our intellects to vain delight.

Biron. Why, all delights are vain; but that most
vain,

Which, with pain purchas’d, doth inherit pain :

As, painfully to pore upon a book, ;

To seek the light of truth ; while truth the while

Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. |

Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile :

 

 
 

 

126

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

[Acr L

 

 

 

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,
Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.
Study me how to please the eye indeed,
By tixing it upon a fairer eye ; :
Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed,
And give him light that it was blinded by.
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,
‘That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks :
Small have continual plodders ever won,
Save base authority from others’ books.
‘These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights,
That give a name to every fixed star,
Have no more profit of their shining nights,
Than those that walk, and wot not what they are.
Too much to know is to know nought but fame ;
And every godfather can giveaname. | :
King. How well he’s read, to reason against reading!
Dum. Proceeded wel, to stop all good proceeding !
Long. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the
weeding.
Biron. The spring is near, when green geese are
a-breeding.
Dum. How tollows that?

80

90

Biron. Fit in his place and time.
Duwm. In reason nothing. ‘ .
Biron. Something then in rhyme.

king. Biron is like an envious sneaping frost, 100
That bites the first-born infants of the spring.
Biron. Well, say lam: why should proud summer
boast,
Before the birds have any cause to sing ?
Why should I joy in an abortive birth?
At Christmas I no more desire a rose,
Than wish a snow in May’s new-fangled shows ;
But like of each thing that in season grows.
So you, to study now it is too late,
Climb o’er the house to unlock the little gate.
King. Well, sit you out: go home, Biron: adieu! 110
Biron. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with

you:
And, though [ have for barbarism spoke more,
Than for that angel knowledge you can say,
Yet confident Ill keep what I have swore,
And bide the penance of each three years’ day.
Give me the paper: let me read the same ;
And to the strict’st decrees I 11 write my name.

King. How well this yielding rescues thee from

shame!

Biron. [Reads.] “Item, That no woman shall come
withina mile of my court.”—Hath this been proclaim’d?

Long. Four days ago. 121

Biron. Let’s see the penalty. [Reads.] “On pain
of losing her tongue.”—Who devis’d this penalty ?

Long. Marry, that did I.

Biron. Sweet lord, and why?

Long. To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

Biron. A dangerous law against gentility !

[Feads.] “Item, If any man be seen to talk with
@ woman within the term of three years, he shall
endure such public shame as the rest of the court
can possibly devise.”— 131
This article, my liege, yourself must break ;

For, well you know, here comes in embassy

The French king's daughter with yourself to speak,—

A maid of grace, and complete majesty,—

About surrender-up of Aquitain

To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father :

Therefore, this article is made in vain,

Or vainly comes the admired princess hither.
King. What say you, lords? why, this was quite

forgot. 140

Biron. So study evermore is overshot:

While it doth study to have what it would,

It doth forget to do the thing it should ;

And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,

"Lis won, as towns with fire ; so won, so lost.

King. We must of force dispense with this decree:
She must lie here on mere necessity.

Biron. Necessity will make us all forsworn
Three thousand times within this three years’ space 3
For every man with his affects is born, 150
Not by might master’d, but by special grace.

 

| If I break faith, this word shall speak for me,

u am een br gremggees cir

0 Lo the laws at large I write my name ; [Subserii

And he that breaks them in the least ae ah

Stands in attainder of eternal shame.

Suggestions are to others as to me;

But, I believe, although I seem so loath,

Lam the last that will last keep his oath.

But is there no quick recreation granted ? 60
King. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is

haunted ,

With a refined traveller of Spain;

A man in all the world’s new fashion planted,

That hath a mint of phrases in his brain ;

One, whom the music of his own vain tongue

Doth ravish like enchanting harmony ;

A man of complements, whom right and wrong

Have chose as umpire of their mutiny :

This child of fancy, that Armado hight,

 

Biron, “This article, my Hege, yourself must break.”

1

For interim to our studies, shall relate
Jn high-born words the worth of many a knight
From tawny ee lost in the world’s debate.
How you delight, my lords, I know not, I;
But, I protest, I love to hear him lie,
And I will use him for my minstrelsy.
Biron. Armado is a most illustrious wight,
A man of fire-new words, fashion’s own knight.
Long. Costard, the swain, and he shall be our

sport ; :
And so to study, three years is but short.
Enter DULL, with a letter, and COSTARD.

Dull. Which is the duke’s own person ?

Biron. This, fellow. What wouldst ?

Dull. Imyself reprehend his own person, for Iam
his grace’s tharborough: but I would’see his own
person in flesh and blood.

Biron. This is he. :

Dull. Signior Arm—Arm—commends you. There’s
villainy abroad: this letter will tell you more.

Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

King. A letter from the magnificent Armado.

Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope in God
for high words. 191

Long. A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us
patience!

Biron. To hear, or forbear laughing ?

Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately;
or to forbear both.

Biron. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us
cause to climb in the merriness.

Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning

180

 
 

 

Scene II.)

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST. 127

 

Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with
the manner. 201

Biron. In what manner ?

Cost. In manner and form following, sir; all those
three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sit-
ting with her upon the form, and taken following her
into the park ; which, put together, is in manner and
form following. Now, sir, for the manner,—it is the
manner of a man to speak to a woman; for the
form,---in some form.

Biron. For the following, sir? 210

Cost. As it shall folow in my correction; and God
defend the right !

King. Will you hear this letter with attention ?

Biron. As we would hear an oracle.

Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after
the flesh.

King. [Reads.] ‘Great deputy, the welkin’s vice-
gerent, and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s
earth’s God, and body’s fostering patron,”—

Cost. Not a word of Costard yet. 220

King. “So it is,’—

Cost. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in
telling true, but so,—

King. Peace!
a ce —be to me, and every man that dares not
ight.

King. No words!

Cost. —of other men’s secrets, I beseech you.

King. “So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melan-
choly, I did commend the Bee Eons humour
to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving
air; and, as Iam a gentleman, betook myself to walk.
The time when? About the sixth hour; when beasts
most ere birds best peck, and men sit down to that
nourishment which is called supper. So much for the
time when. Now for the ground which; which, I
mean, I walked upon: it is ycleped thy park. Then
for the place where ; where, I mean, I did encounter
that obscene and most preposterous event, that
draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured
ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest,
or seest. But to.the place where ;—it standeth north-
north-east and by east from the west corner of thy
curious-knotted garden: there did I see that low-
spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,’— 245

Cost. Me.

King. —‘“‘that unletter’d small-knowing soul,”’—

Cost. Me.

ing. —‘‘that shallow vassal,”—
e.

'

Kin,
Cost. Still mi 250
King. —‘‘ which, as I remember, hight Costard,”—
Cost. O! me.

King. —‘‘sorted and consorted, contrary to thy es-

tablished proclaimed edict and continent canon, with
—with—O! with—but with this I passion to say
wherewith,”—

Cost. With a wench.
King. —‘“ with a child of our grandmother Eve, a
female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a
woman. Him I (as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me
on) have sent to thee, to receive the mee of punish-
‘ment, by thy sweet grace’s officer, Antony Dull, a
men good repute, carriage, bearing, and este
mn.
Dull. Me, an’t shall please you: Iam Antony Dull.
King. — For Jaquenetta (so is the weaker vessel
called), which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain,
keep her as a vessel of thy law’s fury; and shall, at
the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine,
in all complements of devoted and heart-burning heat
of duty, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.” 271
; Biron. This is not so well as I looked for, but the
best that ever I heard.
King. Ay, the best for the worst.—But, sirrah,
what say you to this?
Cost. Sir, I confess the wench.
King. Did you hear the proclamation ?
Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little
of the marking of it.
King. It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment, to
be taken with a wench. 281

 

Cost. I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with

a damosel.

King. Well, it was

Cost. This was no
virgin.

King. It is so varied too, for it was proclaimed
virgin. es

Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity: I was aE

291

roclaimed damosel.
amosel neither, sir: she was a

with a maid.

King. This maid will not serve your turn, sir.

Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir.

king. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you
shall fast a week with bran and water.

Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton and
porridge.

King. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. —
My Lord Biron, see him deliver’d o’er:

And go we, lords, to put in practice that
Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. 300
Exeunt IK1ING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE.

Biron. 1’lllay my head to any good man’s hat,
These oaths and Jaws will prove an idle scorn.—
Sirrah, come on.

Cost. I sutfer for the truth, sir: for true it is, I was
taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl;
and therefore, welcome the sour cup of prosperity !
AfHiction may one day smile again, and till then, sit
thee down, sorrow! [Hxeunt.

ScENE IJ.—ARMADO’s House in the Park.

Enter ARMADO and MOTH.

Arm. Boy, what sign is it, when a man of great
spirit grows melancholy ?

Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

arm. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing,
dear imp.

Moth. No, no; O Lord! sir, no.

Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy,
my tender juvenal ?

Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the working,
my tough senior. 10

Arm. Why tough senior? why tough senior?

Moth. Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal?

Arm, I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent
epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we
may nominate tender.

Moth. And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title
to your old time, which we may name tough.

Arm. Pretty, and apt.

aYoth. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying
apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty ? 20

Arm. Thou pretty, because little.

Moth. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

Arm. And therefore apt, because quick.

Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master?

Arm. In thy condign praise.

Moth. I will praise an eel with the same praise.

Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious ?

Moth. That an eel is quick.

Arm. I do say, thou art quick in answers.
heatest my blood.

Moth. 1am answered, sir.

Arm. T love not to be crossed.

Moth. [Aside.] He speaks the mere contrary:
crosses love not him.
n aie I have promised to study three years with the

uke.

Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir.

Arm. Impossible.

Moth. How many is one thrice told ?

Arm. Tam ill at reckoning: it fitteth the spirit of a
tapster. 41

Moth. You are a gentleman, and a gamester, sir.

Arm. I confess both: they are both the varnish of
a complete man.

Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much the
gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to.

Arm. It doth amount to one more than two.

Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three.

Arm, True.

Thou
30

 

 
 

128 LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

[Act L

 

 

Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now,
here is three studied, ere you’ll thrice wink ; and how
easy it is to put years to the word three, and study
three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell
you. 54

alrm. A most fine figure!

Moth. [Aside.) To prove you a cypher.

Arm. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and,
as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with
a base wench. If drawing my sword against the
humour of affection would deliver me from the re-
probate thought of it, I would take desire prisoner,
and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-
devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks, I
should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy. What
great men have been in love ? 65

Moth. Hercules, master.

«lrm. Most sweet Hercules !—More authority, dear
boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be
men of good repute and carriage.

Moth. Samson, master: he was a man of good
carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town-
gates on his back, like a porter, and he was in love. 72

Arm. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson!
I do excel thee in my rapier, as much as thou didst
me in carrying gates. I am in Jove too. Who was
Samson’s love, my dear Moth?

Moth, A woman, master.

airm. Of what complexion ?

Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or
one of the four. 80

«lrm. Tell me precisely of what complexion.

Moth. Of the sea-water green, sir.

Arm. Is that one of the four complexions?

Moth. As Ihave read, sir ; and the best of them too.

arm. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but
to have a love of that colour, methinks, Samson had
small reason for it. He, surely, affected her for her wit.

Moth. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit.

Arm. My love is most immaculate white and red.

Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked
under such colours. 91

arm. Detine, define, well-educated infant.

Moth. My father’s wit, and my mother’s tongue,
assist me!

alrm. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and
pathetical !

Moth. If she be made of white and red,

Her faults will ne’er be known;
For blushing cheeks by faults are bred,
And fears by pale-white shown :
Then, if she fear, or be to blame,
By this you shall not know;
For still her cheeks possess the same,
Which native she doth owe.
A dangerous rhyme, master; against the reason of
white and red.

Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and
the Beggar?

Moth. The world was very guilty of such a ballad
some three ages since; but I think, now ’tis not to be
found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for the
writing, nor the tune. 112

Arm. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that
I may example my digression by some mighty prece-
dent. Boy, I do love that country girl, that I took in
the aes with the rational hind Costard : she deserves
well.

Moth, [Aside.] To be whipped; and yet a better
love than my master.

«rm, Sing, boy: my spirit grows heavy in love. 120

Moth. Arid that’s great marvel, loving a light
wench,

alrm. Tsay, sing.

Moth. Forbear till this company be past.

Enter DULL, CosTarD, and JAQUENETTA.
Dull. Sir, the duke’s pleasure is, that you keep
Costard safe: and you must let him take no delight,
nor no penance, but a’ must fast three days a weck.
For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she

is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.

 

Arm. I do betray myself with blushing.—Maid. 139

Jag. Man.

Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge.

Jaq. That’s hereby.

Arm. I know where it is situate.

Jaq. Lord, how wise you are!

Arm. I will tell thee wonders.

Jaq. With that. face?

Arm. T love thee.

Jag. So I heard you say.

Arm. And so farewell. 140

Jaq. Fair weather after you!

Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, away.

Br [Exeunt DULL and JAQUENETTA.

Arm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences, ere

thou be pardoned.

 

Jaq. ‘** Lord, how wise you are!”

Cost. Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on
a full stomach.

Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished.

Cost. I am more bound to you than your fellows,
for they are but lightly rewarded.

Arm. Take away this villain: shut him up. 150

Moth. Come, you transgressing slave: away!

4 Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being
oose.

Moth. No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt
to prison.

Cost. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of deso-
lation that I have seen, some shall see—

Moth. What shall some see?

Cost. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look
upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their
words; and therefore I will say nothing: I thank
God I have as little patience as another man, and
therefore I can be quiet. 163

[Exeunt Morn and CostaRD.

Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is base,
where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot,
which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn
(which is a great argument of falsehood), if I love.
And how can that be true love, which is falsely at-
tempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil: there
is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so
tempted, and he had an excellent strength: yet was:
Solomon so seduced, and he had _a very good wit,
Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and
therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier.
The first and second cause will not serve my turn;
the passado he respects not, the duello he regards
not: his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory 3s
to subdue men, Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still,
drum! for your manager is in love: yea, he loveth.
Assist me some extemporal god of rhyme, for, Iam
sure, I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit ; be
for Iam for whole volumes in folio. [Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT II.
ScENE I.--Another Part of the Park. A Pavilion and Tents at a distance.
Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOvET, Lords, and other Attendants.

   
  

Boyet.

AOW, madam, summon up your
dearest spirits :
Consider whom the king your
father sends,

To whom he sends, and what’s
his embassy :

Yourself, held. precious in the
world’s esteem,

To parley with the sole inheri-

tor

Of all perfections that a man may owe,
Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less
weight
Than Aquitain,.a dowry for a queen.
Be now as prodigal of all dear grace,
As Nature was in making graces dear, 10
When she did starve the general world beside,
And prodigally gave them all to you.
Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but

$ mean,
Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:
Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,
Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.
Tam less proud to hear you tell my worth,
Than you much willing to be counted wise
In spending your wit in the praise of mine. .
But now to task the tasker.—Good Boyet, 20
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame
Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,
Till painful study shall outwear three years,
No woman may approach his silent court:
Therefore to us seemeth it a needful course,
Before we enter his forbidden gates,
To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,
Bold of your worthiness, we single you
As our best-moving fair solicitor.
Tell him, the daughter of the King of France, 30
On serious business, craving quick despatch,
Amportunes personal conference with his grace.
Haste, signify so much; while we attend,
Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will.
. Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go.
Prin. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.—
[Exit Boyer.
‘Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?
1 Lord. Longaville is one.
Prin. Know you the man ?
Mar. I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast, 40
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
Of Jaques Falconbridge solemnised.
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.
A man of sovereign parts he is esteem’d ;
Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms:
Nothing becomes him ill, that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue’s gloss,
If virtue’s gloss will stain with any soil,
te sharp wit match’d with too blunt a will;
hose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills
It should none spare that come within his power. 51
Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belike ; is ’t so? ’
Mar. They say so most that most his humours know.

 

Prin. Such short-liv’d wits do wither as they grow.
Who are the rest? en
Kath. The young Dumaine, a well-accomplish’d

youth, -
Of all that virtue love for virtue lov’d:
Most power to do most. harm, least knowing ill,
For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, _
And shape to win grace though he had no wit. 60
Isaw him at the Duke Alencon’s once;
And much too little of that good I saw
Is my report to his great worthiness. .

Ros. Another of these students at that time
Was there with him: if I have heard a truth,
Biron they call him ; but a merrier man,

Within the limit of becoming mirth,

I never spent an hour’s talk withal.

His eye begets occasion for his wit;

For every object that the one doth catch, 70
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,

Which his fair tongue (conceit’s expositor)

Delivers in such apt and gracious words,

That aged ears play truant at his tales,

And younger hearings are quite ravished ;

So sweet and voluble is his discourse.

Prin. God bless my ladies! are they all in love,
That every one her own hath garnished
With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

Lord, Here comes Boyet.

Re-enter BOYET.

Prin. Now, what admittance, lord? 80
Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approach;

And he and his competitors in oath

Were all address’d to meet you, gentle lady,

Before Icame. Marry, thus much IJ have learnt,

He rather means to lodge you in the field,

Like one that comes here to besiege his court,

Than seek a dispensation for his oath,

To let you enter his unpeopled house.

Here comes Navarre. [The Ladies mask.

Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BIRON, and
Attendants.

King. Fair princess, welcome to the court of
Navarre. 90

Prin. Fair, I give you back again; and welcome I
have not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be
yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be
mine. '

King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.

Prin. I will be welcome then. Conduct me thither.

King. Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.

Prin. Our Lady help my lord! he’ll be forsworn.

King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.

Prin. Vee will shall break it; will, and nothing

else.

King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.

Prin, Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,
Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.
Lhear, your grace hath sworn out house-keeping:

*T is deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, -
And sin to break it.

 

9

 
 

 

130 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

[Act II.

 

But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold :

To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. |

Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,

And suddenly resolve me in ny suit. [Gives a paper.
King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. 111
Prin. You will the sooner that 1 were away,

For you'll prove perjur’d, if you make me stay.
Biron. Vid not I dance with you in Brabant once ?
Ros. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
Biron. I know you did. .
Ros. How needless was it then

To ask the question ! .

Biron. You must not be so quick.

Ros. ’Tis ‘long of you, that spur me with such

questions. : ders
Biron. Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, *t will
tire.
Ros. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. 120

Biron. What time o’ day?

Ros. The hour that fools should ask.

Biron. Now fair befall your mask !

Ros. Fair fall the face it covers!

Biron. And send you many lovers!

Ros. Amen, so you be none.

Biron, Nay, then will I be gone.

King. Madam, your father here doth intimate
The paym -nt of a hundred thousand crowns ;

Being but the one-half of an entire sum, 130
Disbursed by my father in his wars.

But say, that he, or we, (as neither have)

Recciv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid

A hundred thousand more ; in surety of the which,
One part of Aquitain is bound to us,

Although not valucd io the moncey’s worth.

If then the king your father will restore

But that one-half which is unsatisfied,

We will give up our right in Aquitain,

And hold fair friendship with his majesty. 110
But that, it seems, he little purposeth,

For here he doth demand to have repaid

A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,

On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,

To have his title live in Aquitain;

Which we much rather had depart withal,

And have the money by our father lent,

Than Aquitain, so gelded as it is,

Dear princess, were not his requests so far

From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make 150
A yielding, ’gainst some reason, in my breast,

And go well satisfied to France again.

Prin. You do the king my father too much wrong,
And wrong the reputation of your name,

In so unseeming to confess receipt
Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.

King. I do protest, I never heard of it;
And if you prove it, I'll repay it back,

Or yield up Aquitain.

Prin. We arrest your word.

Boyet, you can produce acquittances 160
For such a sum, from special oflicers
Of Charles his father.

King. Satisfy me so.

Boyct. So please your grace, the packet is not come,
Where that and other specialities are bound :
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

King. It shall suffice me: at which interview,

All liberal reason I will yield unto.

Meantime, receive such welcome at my hand,

As honour, without breach of honour, may

Make tender of to thy true worthiness. 170
You may not come, fair princess, in my gates ;

But here without you shall be so receiv'd,

As you shall deem yourself lodg‘d in my heart,
Though so denied fair harbour in my house.

Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:
To-morrow shall we visit you agair.

Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort your

grace!

King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place!

[Frenunt Kine ant his Train.

Biron. Lady, I will commend you to mine own

heart.

 

Ros. ’Pray you, do my commendations; I would be
glad to see it. : 181

Biron. I would you heard it groan,

Ros. Is the fool sick?

Biron, Sick at the heart.

fos. Alack ! let it blood.

Biron. Would that do it good?

Ros. My physic says, ay.

Biron. Will you prick ’t with your eye?

Ros. No point, with my knife.

Biron. Now, God save thy life! 190

Ros. And yours from long living!

Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring.

Dum. Sir, I pray you, a word. What lady is that

same?
Boyet. The heir of Alencon, Rosaline her name.
Dum. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well.
Exit,
Long. I beseech you a word. What is she iE the
white ?
Boyet. A a sometimes, an you saw her in the
ight.
Long. Perchance, light in the light. I desire her

name.
Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to desire that,
were a shame.
Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter ? 200
Boyet. Her mother’s, I have heard.
Long. God’s blessing on your beard!
Boyet. Good sir, be not offended.
She is an heir of Falconbridge.
Long. Nay, my choler is ended.
She is a most sweet lady.
Boyet. Not unlike, sir; that may be.
Biron. What's her name in the cap?
Boyet. Katharine, by good hap.
Biron. Is she wedded, or no? 210
Boyct. To her will, sir, or so.
Biron. O! you are welcome, sir. Adieu.
Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.
[Exit Biron.—Ladies unmask.
Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad-cap lord:
Not a word with him but a jest. G
Boyet. And every jest but a word
Prin. It — well done of you to take him at his
word.
Boyet. 1 wasas willing to grapple, as he was to board.
Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry!
Boyet. And wherefore not ships?
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on a lips.
Mar. You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish
the jest? 220
Boyet. So you grant pasture for me.
Offering to kiss her.
Mar. ot so, gentle beast.
My lips are no common, though several they be.
oyet. Belonging to whom? .
Mar. To my fortunes and me.
Prin. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree.
The civil war of wits were much better used
On Navarre and his book-men, for here ’t is abused.
Boyct. If my observation (which very seldom lies),
By the heart’s still rhetoric, disclosed with eyes,
Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.
Prin. With what? ; 230
Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle, affected.
Prin. Your reason? Dinar
Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire
To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire:
His heart, like an agate, with your print impressed
Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed :
His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,
Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on fairest of fair. 40
Methought, all his senses were lock’d in his eye,
As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;
Who, tend'ring their own worth, from where they
: _ Were glass’d,
Did point you to buy them, along as you pass’d.
His face's own margent did cote such amazes,
That all eyes saw his cyes enchanted with gazes. |

[Exit Lona.

 

 

 
 

 

 

ip

=e an

Be Rawe

B =e

\ ae

Scene I.]

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

131

 

; nothing at all.

I'll give you Aquitain, and all that is his,

An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.
Prin. Come to our pavilion : Boyet is dispos’d.
Boyet. But to speak that in words, which his eye

hath disclos’d. 250

Tonly have made a mouth of his eye,

By adding a tongue, which I know will not lie.

Ros. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak’st
skilfully.

Mar. He is Cupid’s grandfather, and learns news
im.
Ros. Then was Venus like her mother, for her
father is but grim.
Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches?

Mar. No.

Boyet. What then, do you see?
Ros. Ay, our way to be gone.

Boyet. You are too hard for me.

[Exeunt,

 

 

 

 

 

ACT III.
ScENE I.—Another Part of the Same.
inter ARMADO and MoTH.

   

Armado.

ARBLE, child: make passionate
y my sense of hearing. _

Moth. [Singing.] Concolinel —

Arm, Sweet air!— Go, tender-
ness of years: take this key, give
enlargement to the swain, bring
him festinately hither; I must
employ him in a letter to my
love. i :

Moth. Master, will you win
your love with a French brawl?
st thou? pee French?
Moth. No, my complete master; but to jig off a
tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet,
humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note,
and sing a note; sometime through the throat, as if you
swallowed love with singing love ; sometime through
the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love ;
with your hat, penthouse-like, o’er the shop of your
eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin belly-doub-
let, like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in pou
pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep
not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These
are complements, these are humours, these betray
nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these,
and make them men of note, (do you note me?) that
most are affected to these. é

rm. How hast thou purchased this experience ?

Moth. By my penny of observation.

Arm. But O,—but O,—

Moth, —the hobby-horse is forgot.

Arm. Callest thou my love hobby-horse ?

Moth. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt,
and your love, perhaps, a hackney. But have you
forgot your love?

Arm. Almost I had.

Moth. Negligent student! learn her by heart.

Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy.

Moth. And out of heart, master: all those three I
will prove. 40

Arm. What wilt thou prove ?

Moth. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and with-
out, upon the instant: by heart you love her, because
‘isle heart cannot come by her ; in heart you love her,

ecause your heart is in love with her; and out of
ao ou love her, being out of heart that you cannot

oy her.

Arm. I am all these three.

Moth. And three times as much more, and yer

ol

30

Arm,

Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a
letter.

 

Moth. A message well sympathised : a horse to be
ambassador for an ass.

Arm. Ha, ha! what sayest thou ?

Moth, Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the
horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

 

 

Arm, ‘* What wilt thou prove?”

Arm. The way is but short. Away!

Moth. As swift as lead, sir.

Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious? 60
Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

Moth. Minime, honest master; or rather, master,

no.
Arm. I say, lead is slow.
Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so:
Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun?
Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric!
He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he :—
I shoot thee at the swain.
Moth. Thump then, andI flee. [Eyit.
Arm. A MOS! acute juvenal; voluble and free of
grace !

 

 
182 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST.

‘{Act IIL.

 

By thy ae sweet welkin; I must sigh in thy
ace:

Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. 70

My herald is return’d.

Re-enter Motu with COSTARD.

Moth. A wonder, master! here's a Costard broken

in a shin.

Arm. Some enigma, some riddle : come,—thy U’en-

voy ;—begin.

Cost. No egma, no riddle, no U’envoy! no salve in
the mail, sir. O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! no
Venvoy, no V’envoy : no salve, sir, but a plantain.

Arm. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly
thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs pro-
vokes me to ridiculous smiling: O, pardon me, my
stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for V’envoy,
and the word U’envoy for a salve ? 81

Moth. Do the wise think them other? is not Venvoy
a salve?

Arm. No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to

make plain :
Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.
I will example it:
The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
Were still at odds, being but three.
There ’s the moral. Now the l’envoy.
Moth. I will add the Uenvoy. Say the moral again.
drm. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, 91
Were still at odds, being but three.
Moth. Until the goose came out of door,
And stay’d the odds by adding four.
Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with
my Uenvoy.
The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
Were still at odds, being but three.
Arm. Until the goose came out of door,
Staying the odds by adding four.

Moth. A good Uenvoy, ending in the goose.
you desire more?

Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, ua goose,

that’s flat.—
Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat.—
To sell u bargain well, is as cunning as fast and loose:
Let me see, a fat envoy; ay, that’s a fat goose.

Arm. Come hither, come hither. How did this

argument begin?

Moth. By saying that a Costard was broken in a

shin.
Then call’d you for the Venvoy. |
Cost. True, and I for a plantain: thus came your
argument in ; 110
Then the boy’s fat l’envoy, the goose that you bought,
And he ended the market.

_trm. But tell me; how was there a Costard broken
in a shin?

Moth. I will tell you sensibly.

Cost. Thou hast no fecling of it, Moth: I will speak
that envoy. —

T, Costard, running out, that was safely within,
Fell over the threshold, and broke my shin.

Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. 120

Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin.

Arm. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

Cost. O! marry me to one Frances ?—I smell some
Venvoy, some goose in this.

Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean, setting thee at
liberty, enfreedoming thy person: thou wert immured,
restrained, captivated, bound.

Cost. True, true, and now you will be my purgation,
and let me loose. 129

Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance ;
and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:
bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta.
There is remuneration; for the best ward of mine
honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.

100
Would

[Bai

Moth. Like the sequel, I.—Signior Costard, adieu.
Cost. My sweet ounce of man’s flesh! my incony
Jew !— [Exit Motu.
Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration!
O! that’s the Latin word for three farthings: three

 

farthings, remuneration.—‘t What’s the price of thi
inkle? a penny :—No, I'll give you a eho
why, it carries it.—Remuneration !—why, it is a fairer
name than French crown. I will never buy and sell
out of this word. 143

Enter Biron. ,

Emin O, my good knave Costard! exceedingly well
met.

Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon
maya man buy for a remuneration ?
Biron. What is a remuneration ?
Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.
Biron. O! why then, three-farthing-worth of silk.
Cost. [thank your worship. God be wi’ you. 151
Biron. O, stay, slave! I must employ thee :
As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.
Cost. When would you have it done, sir?
Biron. O! this afternoon,

 

Biron. ‘“There’s thy guerdon: go."

Cost. Well, I will do it, sir. Fare you well.
Biron. O! thou knowest not what it is.
Cost. I shall know, sir, when I have done it.
Biron, Why, villain, thou must know first. 160
Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow

morning.
Biron. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave,

it is but this :—

The princess comes to hunt here in the park,

And in her train there is a gentle lady ;

When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her

name, .

And Rosaline they call her : ask for her,

And to her white hand see thou do commend

This seal’d-up counsel. There’s thy guerdon: go. 170

Gives him money.

Cost. Gardon.—O! sweet gardon! better than _re-

muneration; eleven-pence farthing better. Most

sweet gardon !—I will do it, sir, in print.—Gardon—

remuneration ! "
Biron. O!—And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have

been love’s whip;

A very beadle to a humorous sigh ;

A critic, nay, a night-watch constable ;

A domineering pedant o’er the boy,

Than whom no mortal so magnificent! 180

This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;

This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid,

Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,

The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,

Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,

Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,

Sole imperator, and great general

Of trotting paritors : (O my little heart!)

And I to be a corporal of his field,

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE I] LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOS1. 133
And wear his colours like a tumbler’s hoop L 190 | With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes ;
What! Ilove! Isue! I seek a wite! Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, 200 .

A woman, that is like a German clock,

Still a repairing, ever out of frame,

And never going aright, being a watch,

But being watch'd that it may still go right!
Nay, to be perjur’d, which is worst of all;
And, among three, to love the worst of all;
A whitely wanton with a velvet brow,

Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard;

And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!

To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague

That Cupid will impose for my neglect

Of his almighty dreadful little might.

Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan:
Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. [£zit.

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—Another Part of the Same.
Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, Maria, KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester.

Princess.

SAS that the king, that spurr’d his horse
so hard ~ .

Against the steep uprising of the hill?

 

Boyet. I know not; but 1 think, it
' was not he.
Prin. Whoe’er he was, he show’d a
mounting mind.
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our
despatch ;

On Saturday we will return to France.—
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush,
That we must stand and play the murderer in?

For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice ;

A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. 10

Prin, I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,

And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot.
For. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.
Prin. What, what? first praise me, and again say,
no?
O short-liv’d pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

For. Yes, madam, fair.

Prin. Nay, never paint me now:
Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
Here, good my glass, take this for telling true.

[Giving him money.
Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. 20

Prin. See, see! my beauty will be sav’d by merit.
O heresy in fair, fit for these days!

A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.—
But come, the bow :—now mercy goes to kill,

And shooting well is then accounted ill.

Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:

Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t;

If wounding, then it was to show my skill,

That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
And, out of question, so it is sometimes: 30
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,

When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part,
We bend to that the working of the heart ;

As I for praise alone now seek to spill :
The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill.

Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty
Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be
Lords o’er their lords?

Prin. Only for praise; and praise we may afford
To any lady that subdues a lord. 40

Enter COSTARD.
Prin. Here comes a member of the commonwealth.
Cost. God dig-you-den all, Pray you, which is the
ead lady?

 

Prin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that
have no heads,
Cost. Which is the greatest lady, the highest ?
Prin. The thickest, and the tallest.
Cost, The Leese and the tallest? it is so; truth is
truth.
An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit.
Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest
ere. 51
Prin. What’s your will, sir? what’s your will?
Cost. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one
Lady Rosaline.
Prin. O, thy letter, thy letter! he’s a good friend
of mine.
Stand aside, good bearer.—Boyet, you can carve;
Break up this capon.
Boyet. Iam bound to serve.—
This letter is mistook ; it importeth none here:
It is writ to Jaquenetta.
Prin. We will read it, I swear.
Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. 59
Boyet. [Reads.] ‘‘ By heaven, that thou art fair, is
most infallible ; true, that thou art beauteous; truth
itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair,
beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have
commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The magnani-
mous and most illustrate Feng Copne van. set eye upon
the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and
he it was that might rightly say, nt, vidt, vict;
which to anatomise in the vulgar (O base and obscure
vulgar !), videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame: he
came, one ; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came?
the king; why did he come? to see; why did he see?
to overcome. To whom came he? to the beggar;
what saw he? the beggar; who overcame he? the
beggar. The conclusion is victory: on whose side?
the king’s. The captive is enriched : on whose side?
the beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose
side? the king’s?—no, on both in one, or one in both.
Iam the king, for so stands the comparison ; thou the
beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I com-
mand thy love? J may. Shall I enforce thy love? I
could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will, What shalt
thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles ; for
thyself? me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane
my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my
heart on thy every part.
Thine, in the dearest design of industry,
Don ADRIANO DE ARMADO.”
Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey;
Submissive fall his princely feet before.

 

 
 

131 LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

{Act IV.

 

‘And he from forage will incline to play.
But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then
Food for his rage, repasture for his den. ae
Prin. What plume of feathers is he that indited
this letter? ;
What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear
better ?

Prin. To whom shouldst thou give it ?
Cost. From my lord to my lady.
Prin. From which lord to which lady ? :
Cost. From my Lord Biron, a good master of mine,
To a lady of France, that he call’d Rosaline.
Prin. Thou hast mistaken his letter.—Come, lords,
away.~

 

 

Prin. ** What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?”

Boyet. t am much deceiv’d, but I remember the
style.
Prin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it ere-

while.
Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here
in court;
A phantasm, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
To the prince, and his book-mates.

Prin. Thou, fellow, a word.
Who gave thee this letter ?
Cost. I told you; my lord. 101

Here, sweet, put up this: ’t will be thine another day.
Fxeunt PRINCESS and Train.
Boyet. Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?
‘Os. Shall I teach you to know?
Boyet. Ay, my continent of beauty.
Ros. Why, she that bears the bow.
Finely put off! 110
Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns; but if thou
marry,
Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.
Finely put on! 3

 

 

 
 

 

Scene II]

Ros. Well then, I am the shooter.

And who is your deer? |

‘oyet.
Ros. If we choose by the horns, yourself : come not

Finely put on, indeed !—

Mar. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she

strikes at the brow.

Boyet. But _° herself is hit lower. Have I hit her

now
Shall I come upon thee with an old saying,
that was a man when King Pepin of France was a
little boy, as touching the hit it? 121

Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that
was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a
little wench, as touching the hit it.

Ros. Thoucanst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
Thou canst not hit it, my good man.
Boyet. An Icannot, cannot, cannot,
An Icannot, another can.

[Exeunt Ros. and Kavu.

Cost. Bymytroth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

Mar. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both

did hit it. 130

Boyet. A mark! O! mark but that mark: a mark,
says my lady.

Let the mark have a prick in't to mete at, if it may be.

Mar. Wide o’ the bow-hand: i’ faith, your hand is

Ros.

out.

Cost. Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he'll ne’er hit
the clout. ‘

Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand

is in,

Cost. Then will she get the upshot by cleaving the
pin.

Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily ; your lips grow

‘oul.
Cost. She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: chal-
lenge her to bowl.
Boyet. I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my
good owl. [Hxeunt BoYET and Maria.
Cost. By my soul, aswain! a most simple clown!
Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down!
O’ my truth, most sweet jests! most incony vulgar wit!
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it
were, so fit. 143
Armado o’ the one side,—O, a most dainty man !
To see him walk before a lady, and to bear her fan!
To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a’
will swear !—
And his page o’ t’ other side, that handful of wit!
Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit!
Sola, sola ! [Shouting within.
[Exit CosTaRpD.

 

ScENE II.—The Same.
Enter HOLOFERNES, Sir NATHANIEL, and DULL.

Nath. Very reverend sport, truly: and done in the
testimony of a good conscience.

Hol. The deer was, as you know, sanguis,—in
blood ; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like
a jewel in the ear of coclo,—the sky, the welkin, the
heaven ; and anon falleth like a crab, on the face of
terra,—the soil, the land, the earth.

Nath. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are
sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir,
Tassure ye, it was a buck of the first head. 10

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

Dull. ’T was not a haud credo, ’t was a pricket.

_Hol. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of in-
sinuation, as it were, in via, in way of explication ;
Sacere, as it were, replication, or, rather, ostentare, to
show, as it were, his inclination, —after his undressed,
unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or
rather unlettered, or, ratherest, unconfirmed fashion,
—to insert again my hawd credo for a deer.

Dull, I said, the deer was not a haud credo: ’t was
a pricket. 21

Hel. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus !—

O, thou aionstes Ignorance, how deformed dost thou
look !

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

 

 

135

Nath. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that
are bred in a book ;
He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk
ink: his intellect is not replenished; he is only an
animal, only sensible in the duller parts;
And such barren plants are set berore us, that we
thankful should be
(Which we of taste and feeling are) for those parts that
do fructify in us more than he;
For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscrect,
or a fool, 30
So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in
a school :
But, omne bene, say I; being of an old father’s mind,
Many can brook the weather, that love not the wind.
Dull. You two are book-men : can you tell by your

wit,
What was a month old at Cain’s birth, that’s not five
weeks old as yet?
Hol. aes goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman
a

Dull. What is Dictynna?

Nath. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.

Hol. The moon was a month old when Adam was

no more;
And raught not to five weeks, when he came to five-
score. 40
The allusion holds in the exchange.

Dull. ’Lis true indeed: the collusion holds in the
exchange.

Hol. God comfort thy capacity !
holds in the exchange.

Dull. And I say, the pollusion holds in the exchange,
for the moon is never but a month old; and I say
beside, that ’t was a pricket that the princess kill’d.

Hol. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal
epitaph on the death of the deer? and, to humour
the ignorant, I have call’d the deer the princess
kill’d, a pricket. i 52

Nath. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it

shall please you to abrogate scurrility.

Hol. I will something affect the letter; for it argues

facility.

The preyful princess pierc’'d and prick'd w pretty
pleasing pricket ;
Some say, a sore; but not a sore, till now made
sore with shooting.
The dogs did yell; ou U to sore, then sorel jumps
Srom thicket ;
Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-
hooting.
If sore be sore, then l to sore makes fifty sores; O

I say, the allusion

sore Ll!
Of one sore Tan hundred make, by adding but one
more L.- 60

Nath. A rare talent!

Dull. If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him
with a talent.

Hol. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a
foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures,
shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, re-
volutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory.
nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivere
upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good
in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it.

Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may
my parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by
you, and their daughters profit very greatly under
you: you are a good member of the commonwealth.

Hol. Mehercle ! if their sons be ingenious, they shall
want no instruction; if their daughters be capable,
I will put it to them. But, vir sapit qui pauca
loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us.

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.
Jaq. God give you good morrow, master person.
Hol. Master person,—quasi pers-on. An if one
should be pierced, which is the one?
Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest
to a hogshead.
Hol. Of piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of

 
 

136

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

[Act IV.

 

conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint,
pearl enough for a swine: ‘tis pretty; it is well.

Jaq. Good master person, be so good as read me
this letter. It was given me by Costard, and sent me
from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it.

Hol. Fauste, precor gelidé quando pecus ommne
sub umbrd Ruminat, and so torth. Ah, good old
Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth
of Venice : 93

Venetia, Venetia,
Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia.

Old Mantuan! old Mantuan! who understandeth
thee not, loves thee not.—Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa.—
Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or, rather,
as Horace says in his—What, my soul, verses?
Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. 100
Hol. Let me hear a staff, a stanza, a verse: lege,
domine.

Nath. If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear

to love ?

Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed !
Though to myself forsworn, tothce PU faithful prove;

Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers

bowed.
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thinc eyes,

Where all those pleasures live, that art would com-

prehend :
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice.

Well learned is that tongue, that well can thee

conumend ; 110

Allignorant that soul, that sees thee without wonder ;

Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts
admire.

Thy cye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful
thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O! pardon love this wrong,
That sings heaven's praise with such an carthly

tongue !

Hol. You find not the apostrophes, and so miss the
accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only
numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and
golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was
the man: and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling
out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of in-
vention? Imitari is nothing, so doth the hound his
master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider.
But, damosella, virgin, was this directed to you? 125

Jag. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the
oe queen’s lords.

Hol. I will overglance the superscript. ‘‘To the
snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosa-
line.” I will look again on the intellect of the letter,
for the nomination of the party writing to the person
written unto: ‘“‘ Your ladyship’s in all desired em-
ployment, Biron.” Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one
of the votaries with the king; and here he hath
framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen’s,
which, accidentally, or by the way of progression,
hath miscarried.—Trip and go, my sweet; deliver
this paper into the royal hand of the king; it may
concern much. Stay not thy compliment, I forgive
thy duty; adieu. ld

Jag. Good Costard, go with me.—Sir, God save
your life!

Cost. Have with thee, my girl.

it [Hreunt Cost. and Jaq.

Nath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God,
very religiously ; and, as a certain father saith,—

Hol. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear colour-
able colours. But, to return to the verses: did they
please you, Sir Nathaniel?

Nath. Marvellous well for the pen. 119

ffol. I do dine to-day at the father’s of a certain
pupil of mine; where if before repast it shall please
you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my
privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child
or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will
prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither

 

savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech
your society.

Nath. And thank you too; for society (saith the
text) is the happiness of life. 159
_ Hol. And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes
it._|To DULL.] Sir, I do invite you too: you shall not
say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at
their game, and we will to our recreation. [Hxeunt,

 

 

Hol. ‘‘ Was this directed to yout”

ScENE III.—Another Part of the Same.
Enter BIRoN, with a paper.

Biron. The king he is hunting the deer; I am
coursing myself: they have pitch’d a toil; I am toilin,
in a pitch,—pitch that defiles. Defile! a foul word.
Well, sit thee down, sorrow! for so, they say, the
fool said, and so say I, and I the fool. Well proved,
wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it
kills sheep; it kills me, 1a sheep. Well proved again
o’my side! I will not love; if I do, hang me: i’ faith,
I will not. O! but her eye,—by this light, but for
her eye, I would not love her! ee, for her two eyes.
Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my
throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me
to rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part of
my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath
one o’ my sonnets already : the clown bore it, the fool
sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter
fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care
a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one
with a paper: God give him grace to groan !

[Gets up into a tree.

Enter the KING, with a paper.
King. Ay me! 20
Biron. |-Aside.] Shot, by heaven !—Proceed, sweet
Cupid: thou hast thump'd him with thy bird-bolt
under the left pap.—In faith, secrets !—

King. [Reads.) So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives
not

To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eyebeams, when their fresh rays have smote
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright
Through the transparent bosom of the een,
As doth thy face through tears of mine give light
Thou shin’st in every tear that Ido weep: 3
No drop but as a coach doth carry thee,
So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
And they thy glory through my grief will show:
But do not love thyself ; then thou wilt keep
My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
O queen of queens, how far dost thou excel,
No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.

; 30

 

 
 

 

ScENE III]

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST. ‘137

 

How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper.
Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? 41
[Steps aside.

Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper.

[Aside.] What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.
Biron. [Aside.] Now, in thy likeness, one more fool
appear ! 7
Long. Ay me! Iam forsworn.
Biron. |Aside.] Why, he comes in like w perjure,
wearing papers.
King. [Aside.] In love, I hope: sweet fellowship
: in shame!
Biron, { Aside.) One drunkard loves another of the
name.
fong. Am I the first that have been perjur’d so?
Biron, [Aside.] I could put thee in comtort : not by
two that I know.
Thou mak’st the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,
The shape of Love’s Tyburn, that hangs up sim-
eee 51
Long. Ifearthese stubborn lineslack power tomove.
O sweet Maria, empress of my love!
These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.
Biron. [Aside.] O! rhymes are guards on wanton
Cupid’s hose ;
Disfigure not his slop.
Long. This same shall go.
[He reads the sonnet.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,

’Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury ?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. 60
A woman I forswore; but Iwill prove,

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace, being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me.
Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:

Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,
Exhal’st this vapour-vow ; in thee it is :

If broken, then it is no fault of mine, -
yf by me broke. What fool is not so wise,

‘0 lose an oath, to win a paradise ? 70

Biron. (Aside.] This is the liver-vein, which makes
tlesh a deity;
A green goose, a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.
God amend us, God amend! we are much out o’ the
way.

Enter DUMSAINE, with a paper.

Long. By whom shall I send this?-Company! stay.
. [Steps aside.
Biron. [Aside.] All hid, all hid; an old intant play.
Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky,
And wretched fools’ secrets heedfully o’er-eye.
More sacks to the mill! O heavens! I have my wish:
Dumaine transform’d: four woodcocks in a dish !
Dum. O most divine Kate ! 80
Biron. [Aside.] O most profane coxcomb!
Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye !
Biron. [tsndesl By earth, she is but corporal ; there
you lie.
Dum. Her amber hairs for foul have amber coted.
Biron. [eee An amber-colour’d raven was well
noted.
Dum. As upright as the cedar.
Biron. | Aside.
Her shoulder is with child.
um. As fair as day.
Biron. [| Aside.] Ay, as some days; but then no sun
must shine.
Dum.-:O, that I had my wish! .
Long. [ Aside. And I had mine!
King. | Aside.] And I mine too, good Lord! 90
Biron. [Aside.] Amen, so I had mine. Is not that
t a good word ?
-Dum. I would forget her; but a fever she
Reigns in my blood, and will remember’d be.
Biron. [Aside.] A fever in your blood? why, then
incision eed
Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!

Stoop, I say:

 

Dum. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.
Biron. |Aside.] Once more [’ll mark how love can
vary wit.

On a day, alack the day!

Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom, pussiny fair,
laying in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
alll unseen, ‘gan passage find ;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wisl’d himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ;
Air, ‘would I might triumph so!
But alack! my hand is sworn,
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack ! for youth unmeet,
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

Do not calt it sin in me,

That Lam forsworn for thee;

Thou for whom Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;

And deny himself for Jove,
Lurning mortal for thy love.

Dum.

100

110

This will I send, and something else more plain,
That shall express my true love’s fasting pain.
O, ’would the king, Biron, and Longaville, 120
Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill,
Would from my forehead wipe a perjur’d note;
For none ottend, where all alike do dote.
Long. [Advancing.] Dumaine, thy love is far from
charity, .
That in love's grief desir’st society :
You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,
To be o’erbeard, and taken napping so.
King. [Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush; as his
your case is such;
You chide at him, offending twice as much:
You do not love Maria ; Longaville
Did never sonnet for her sake compile,
Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart
His loving bosom, to keep down his heart.
I have been closely shrouded in this bush,
And mark’d you both, and for you both did blush.
I heard your guilty rhymes, observ’d your fashion,
Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:
Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries ;
One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other’s eyes:
[To Lone.] You would for paradise break faith and

130

troth ; 1
(Zo DuMainE.] And Jove for your love would in-
fringe an oath.
What will Biron say, when that he shall hear
Faith infringed, which such zeal did swear?
How will he scorn! how will be spend his wit!
How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it!
For all the wealth that’ever I did see,
I would not have him know so much by me.
Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.—
[Descends from the tree.
Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me: ;
Good heart! what grace hast thou, thus to reprove
These worms for loving, that art most in love? 151
Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears
There is no certain princess that appears :
Youll not be perjur’d, "tis a hateful thing: .
Tush! none but minstrels like of sonneting.
But are you not asham’d? nay, are you not,
All three of you, to be thus much o’ershot?
You found his moth; the king your moth did see;
But I a'beam do find in each of three.
O! what a scene of foolery have I seen,
Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen!
Ome! with what strict patience have I sat,
To see a king transformed to a gnat!
To see great Hercules whipping a gig,
And profound Solomon tuning a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,’
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!
Where lies thy grief? O! tell me, good Dumaine:
And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?

160

 

 
 

138

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

[Act IV.

 

 

And where my liege’s? all about the breast ;— 170
A caudle, ho!
King. Too bitter is thy jest.
Are we betray’d thus to thy over-view ?
Biron. Not you to me, but I betray’d by you:
I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin
Yo break the vow I am engaged in;
I am betray’d, by keeping company
With men like you, men of inconstancy.
When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?

 

Biron. ‘‘ But ave you not asham'd?”

Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute’s time
In pruning me? When shall you hear that I
Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,
A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,
A leg, a limb?—
King. Soft ! Whither away so fast ?
A true man, or a thief, that gallops so?
Biron. I post from love ; good lover, let me go.

Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD.
Jaq. God bless the king!
King. What present hast thou there ?
Cost. Some certain treason.
King. What makes treason here ?
Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir.
King. It it mar nothing neither,
The treason and you go in peace away together.
Jag. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read:
Our person misdoubts it ; it was treason, he said. 191
King. Biron, read itover. [BIRON reads the letter.
Where hadst thou it?
Jaq. Of Costard.
King. Where hadst thou it ?
Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.
King. How now! what is in you? why dost. thou
tear it?
Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace needs not
fear it.

180

Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore
let.’s hear it.
Dum. |Picking up the picces.] It is Biron’s writing,
. and here is his name. 200
Biron. (To CosTarpD.] Ah, you whoreson logger-
. head! you were born to do me shame.—
Guilty, my lord, guilty ! I confess, I confess.
King. What?
Biron. That you three fools lack’d me, fool, to make
up the mess ;
He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I,
Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.
O! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.
Dum. Now the number is even.

Biron. True, true; we are four.—
Will thesé turtles be gone?
King. Hence, sirs; away!

Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors
stay. [Mxeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA.

 

 

Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O! let us embrace,
As true we are, as flesh and blood can be: 2
‘The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;
Young blood doth not obey an old decree:

We cannot cross the cause why we are born;

Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn.

King. Pee these rent lines show some love of

ine

Biron. Didthey? quoth you. Who sees the heavenly

Rosaline,

That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,

At the first opening of the gorgeous east,

Bows not his vassal head, and, stricken blind,

Kisses the base ground with obedient breast ?

What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye

Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,

That is not blinded by her majesty ?

King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir’d thee now?
My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon,

She an attending star, scarce seen a light.

Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron.
O! but for my love, day would turn to night.

Of all complexions the cull’d sovereignty

Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek. :

Where several worthies make one dignity,

Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.

Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, —

Fie, painted rhetoric! QO! she needs it not:

To things of sale a seller’s praise belongs ;

She passes praise ; then praise too short doth blot.

A wither’d hermit, five-score winters worn,

Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:

Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,

And gives the crutch the cradle’s infancy.

O! ‘tis the sun, that maketh all things shine!
King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.
Biron. Is ebony like her? O wood divine!

A wife of such wood were felicity.

O! who can give an oath? where is a book ?

That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,

If that she learn not of her eye to look :

No face is fair, that is not full so black.

King. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,
The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night ;
And beauty’s crest becomes the heavens well.

Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of

light.

QO! if in black my lady’s brows be deck’d,
It mourns, that painting, and usurping hair,
Should ravish doters with a false aspect ;
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her favour turns the fashion of the days ;
For native blood is counted painting now,
And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.

Dum. Tolook like her are chimney-sweepers black.

Long. And since her time are colliers counted

220

230

240

250

260

bright. :
King. And Ethiops of their sweet complexion
crack. ;
Dum. vee needs no candles now, for dark is
light.

Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain,

For fear their colours should be wash’d away.

King. ’T were good, yours did; for, sir, to tell you
plain,

Ill find a fairer face not wash’d to-day. 270
Biron. 1’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.
King. No devil will fright thee then so much as she.
Dum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.
Long. (Showing his shoe.] Look, here’s thy love:

my foot and her face see. .
Biron. O! if the streets were paved with thine eyes,

Her feet were much too dainty for such tread.
Dum. O vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies

The street should see, as she walk’d overhead.

King. But what of this? Are we not all in love?
Biron. O! nothing so sure; and thereby all for:
; sworn. ~ 280"
King. Then leave this chat: and, good Biron, now
prove
Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

 

 
ET LE

=

we

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.]

Dum. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

Long. O! some authority how to proceed ;

Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

Dum. Some salve for perjury.

Biron. _ ,O! ‘tis more than need.—
Have at you then, affection’s men-at-arms :
Consider, what you first did swear unto,—

To fast,—to study,—and to see no woman:

Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth.
Say, can you fast ? your stomachs are too young,
And abstinence engenders maladies.

And where that you have vow’'d to study, lords,
Tn that each of you have forsworn his book,
Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look?
For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,
Have found the ground of study's excellence,
Without the beauty of a woman’s face ?

From women’s eyes this doctrine I derive:
They are the ground, the books, the academes, 300
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.
Why, universal plodding prisons up

The nimble spirits in the arteries,

As motion, and long-during action, tires

The sinewy vigour of the traveller.

Now, for not looking on a woman’s face,

You have in that forsworn the use of eyes,
And study too, the causer of your vow;

For where is any author in the world,

Teaches such beauty as a woman’s eye ?
Learning is but an adjunct to ourself,

And where we are, our learning likewise is:
Then, when ourselves we see in ladies’ eyes,
Do we not likewise see our pe ieioa there ?

O! we have made a vow to study, lords,

And in that vow we have forsworn our books:
For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
In leaden contemplation have found out

Such fiery numbers, as the prompting eyes

Of beauty’s tutors have enrich’d you with?
Other slow arts entirely keep the brain,

And therefore, finding barren practisers,
Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil;
But love, first learned in a lady’s eyes,

Lives not alone immured in the brain,

But, with the motion of all elements,

Courses as swift as thought in every power,
And gives to every power a double power,
Above their functions and their offices.

It adds a precious seeing to the eye;

A lover’s eyes will gaze an eagle blind ;

A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound,
When the suspicious head of theft is stopp’d:
Love's feeling is more soft, and sensible,

290

310

320

330

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

139

Than are the tender horns of cockled snails:
Love’s tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste.
For valour, is not Love a Hercules,
Still climbing trees in the Hesperides ?
Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet, and musical,
As bright Apollo’s lute, strung with his hair ;
And, when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
Make heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Never durst poet touch a pen to write,
Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs ;
OQ! then his lines would ravish savage ears,
And plant in tyrants mild humility.
From women’s eyes this doctrine Lami i
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire ;
They are the books, the arts, the acadcmes,
That show, contain, and nourish all the world;
Else none at all in aught proves excellent.
Then, fools you were these women to forswear,
Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.
For wisdom’s sake, a word that all men love,
Or for love’s sake, a word that loves all men,
Or for men’s sake, the authors of these women,
Or women’s sake, by whom we men are men,
Let us once lose our oaths, to find ourselves,
Or else we lose ourselves, to keep our oaths.
It is religion to be thus forsworn ;
For charity itself fulfils the law ;
And who can sever love from charity ?

King. ort Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the

e.

340

360

Biron. nae your standards, and upon them,
ords!
Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advis’d,
In conflict that you get the sun of them.

Long. Now to plain-dealing : lay these glozes by.
Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

King. And win them too: therefore, let us devise

Some entertainment for them in their tents. 370
Biron. eet from the park let us conduct them
thither ;

Then, homeward, every man attach the hand
Of his fair mistress. In the afternoon
We will with some strange pastime solace them,
Such as the shortness of the time can shape;
For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours
Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.
King. Away, away! no time shall be omitted,
That will be time, and may by us be fitted.
Biron. Allons! Allons!—Sow’d cockle reap’d no
corn ; 380
And justice always whirls in equal measure:
Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;:
\ If so, our copper buys no better treasure. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—Another Part of the Same.
Enter HOLOFERNES, Sir NATHANIEL, and DULL.

Holofernes.

SEs ATIS quod sufficit. :

NS, Nath. I praise God for you, sir: your

ye reasons at dinner have been sharp and
sententious; pleasant without scurrility,
witty without affection, audacious with-
out impudency, learned without opinion,
and strange without heresy. I did con-
verse this guondam day with a com-
panion of the king’s, who is intituled.
nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. 10

Hol. Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is
lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his
eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general
behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is
too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it
were, too peregrinate, as I may call it.

Nath, A most singular and choice epithet.

Draws out his table-book.

Hol. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity
finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such
fanatical phantasms, such insociable and point-device

 

 

 
 

40

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. :

[Act v,

 

sompanions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak
jout, fine, when he should say doubt; det, when he
should pronounce debt,—d, e, b, t, not d,e, t; he
clepeth a calf, caulf; half, haulf; neighbour vecatur
nebour; neigh abbreviated ne. This is abhominable
(which ke would eall abominable), it insinuateth me
of insanie: ne intclligis, domine ? to make frantic,
.unatic.

Nath. Laus Deo, bone intelligo.

Hol. ‘Bone?-bone tor bene: Priscian a little
scratch’d; ’t will serve. 31

Enter ARMADO, MoTH, and COSTARD.

Nath. Videsne quis venit ?

Hol. Video, et gaudeo.

lrm. [fo Motu.] Chirrah !

Hol. Quare chirrah, not sirrah ?

Arm. Men of peace, well encounter'd.

Hol. Most military sir, salutation.

Moth. They have been at a great feast of languages,
and stolen the scraps. 3

Cost. O! they have lived long on the alms-basket of
words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for
a word ; for thou art not so long by the head as hono-
rificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed
than a flap-dragon.

Moth, Peace! the peal begins.

Arm. [To Hou.] Monsicur, are you not letter’d?

Moth. Yes, yes, he teaches boys the horn-book.—
Gee is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his

ea

Hol. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. 50

Moth. Ba! most silly sheep. with a horn.—You hear
his learning.

fol. Quis, quis, thou consonant ?

Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat .

them ; or the fifth, if I.

Hol. 1 will repeat them ;—a, e, i.

Moth. The sheep: the other two concludes it ;—o, u

Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterranean,
1 sweet touch, a quick venew of wit! snip, snap, quick
and home: it rejoiceth my intellect; true wit! 60

Moth. Offer’d by a child to an old man; which is
wit-old.

Hol. What is the figure? what is the figure?

Moth. Horns.

Hol. Thou disputest like an infant: go, whip thy gig.

Moth. Lend me your horn to make one, and T will
whip about your infamy circum circa. <A gig of a
cuckold’s horn ! 68

Cost. An I had but one penny in the world, thou
shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is
the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou half-
penny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion.
O! anthe heavens were so pleased, that thou wert but.
my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make
me! Goto; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers’
ends, as they say.

Hol. O! Tsmell false Latin; dunghill for wnguem.

_irm, Arts-man, preambula: we will be singled
from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the
charge-house on the top of the mountain? 80

Hol. Or mons, the hill.

Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain.

Hol. I do, sans question.

Arm. Sir, it is the king’s most sweet pleasure and
affection, to congratulate the princess at her pavilion
in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multi-
tude call the afternoon.

Hol. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is
liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon :
the word is well cull’d, chose ; sweet and apt, I do as-
sure you, sir ; I do assure. 91

Arm. Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my
familiar, I do assure you, very good friend.— For
what is inward between us, let it pass ;—I_ do beseech
thee, remember thy courtesy,—I beseech thee, ap-
parel thy head;—and among other importunate and
most serious designs,—and of great import indeed,
too,—but Iet that pass; -for [ must tell thee, it will
please his grace (by the world) sometime to lean upon

 

my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus,
dally with my excrement, with my mustachio: but,
sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no
fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his
Breatness to ao to Armado, a soldier, a man of
travel, that hath seen the world: but let that pass,—
The very all of all is,—but, sweet heart, I do implore
secrecy,—that the king would have me present the
princess; sweet chuck, with some delightful osten-
tation, or show, or pageant, or antick, or fire-work,
Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet
self are good at such eruptions, and sudden break.
ing out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you
withal, to the end to crave your assistance.

 

Arm. “ But, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy.”

Hol. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine
Worthies.—Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some enter-
tainment of time, some show in the posterior of this
day, to be rendered by our assistance,—at the king’s
command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and
learned gentleman,—before the princess, I say, none
so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. 120

Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough to
present them?

Hol. Joshua, yourself; myself, or this gallant gen-
tleman, Judas Maccabeeus ; this swain (because of his
great limb or joint) shall pass Pompey the Great; the
page, Hercules.

Arm. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough
for that Worthy’s thumb: he is not so big as the end
of his club.

Hol. Shall I have audience? he shall present Her-
cules in minority : his enter and exit shall be strang-
ling a snake; and I will have an apology for that
purpose. ' :

Moth. Anexcellent device ! so, if any of the audience
hiss, you may cry, “‘ Well done, Hercules! now thou
crushest the snake!” that is the way to make an
offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.

Arm. For the rest of the Worthies ?—

Hol. I will play three myself.

Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman !

Arm. Shall I tell you a thing?

Ffol. We attend.

Arm. We will have, if this fadge not, an antick.
I beseech you, follow.

Hol. Via!—Goodman Dull, thou hast spoken no
word all this while.

Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir.

Hol, Allons ! we will employ thee. ,

Dull, U'll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play
On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance ee

hay.
Hol. Most dull, honest Dull. To our sport, away!
[Exeunt.

140

 

 

See Be ge
 

 

ScENE II.]

LOVE'S LABOUR’S LOST.

141

 

ScENE IJ.—Another Part of the Same. Before the

PRINCESS's Pavilion.

Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE, and
Maria.

Prin. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,

If fairings come thus plentifully in:

A lady wall’d about with diamonds !—

Look you, what I have trom the loving king.

. Ros. Madam, came nothing else along with that?

Prin. Nothing but this? yes; as much love in
‘ rhyme,

As would be cramm’d up in a sheet of paper,
Writ on both sides the leaf, margin and all,
That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name.

Ros. That was the way to make his godhead wax;
For he hath been five thousand years a boy. 11

Kath, Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too,

Ros. You'll ne’er be friends with him: he kill’d

your sister.

Kath, He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;
And s0 she died: had she been light, like you,

Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,
She might have been a grandam ere she died;
And $0 may you, for a light heart lives long.

Ros. What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this

light word?

Kath. A light condition in a beauty dark. 20

Ros. We need more light to find your meaning out.

Kath, You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff;
‘Therefore, I’ll darkly end the argument.

Ros. Look, what you do, you do it still i’ the dark.

Kath..So do not you, for you are a light wench.

Ros. Indeed, I weigh not you, and therefore light.

Kath. You weigh me not?—O! that’s you care not

for me.

Ros. Great reason; for, past cure is still past care.
Prin. Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd.
But, Rosaline, you have a favour too: 30

Who sent it? and what is it ?

Ros. I would you knew:

An if my face were but as fair as yours,

My favour were as great: be witness this.

Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron.

The numbers true; and, were the numbering too,
I were the fairest goddess on the ground :

Lam compar’d to twenty thousand fairs.

O! he hath drawn my picture in his letter.

Prin. Anything like ?

Ros. Much in the letters, nothing in the praise. 40

Prin. Beauteous as ink :.a good conclusion.

Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book.

Ros. "Ware pencils! ho! let me not die your debtor,
My red dominical, my golden letter :

O,.that your face were not so full of O’s!
Prin. A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all shrows !
But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair
Dumaine?
Kath. Madam, this glove.
rin. Did he not send you twain ?

Kath. Yes, madam ; and, moreover,

Some thousand verses of a faithful lover: 50
A huge translation of hypocrisy
Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity.

Mar. This, and these pearls to me sent Longaville:
The letter is too long by half a mile.

Prin. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart,
The chain were longer, and the letter short?

wr. Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

Ros. whee are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
That same Biron Ill torture ere I go. 60
O! that I knew he were but in by the week !

How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek,

And wait the season, and observe the times,

And ro his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes,

And shape his service wholly to my hests,

And make him proud to make me proud that jests!

So portent-like would I o’ersway his state,

That he should be my fool, and I his fate.

. Prin. None are so surely caught, when they are
catch’d,

 

As wit turn’d fool: folly, in wisdom hatch’d, 70
Hath wisdom’s warrant, and the help of school,
And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool.
Ros. The blood of youth burns not with such excess,
As gravity’s revolt to wantonness.
Mar, Folly in fools bears not so strong a note,
As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote;
Since all the power thereof it doth apply,
To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

: Enter BoYEtT.
Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

Boyet. O! I am stabb’d with laughter. Where's
her grace ? 80
rin. Thy news, Boyet?

oyet. Prepare, madam, prepare!
Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are _
Against your peace. Love doth approach disguis’d,
Armed in arguments: you'll be surpris’d.
Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;
Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

    

(ceareny
Grae

   

 

 

 

Boyet. “ Arm, wenches, arm!”

Prin. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they,
That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say.
Boyet. Under the cool shade of a sycamore,
I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour, 90
When, lo! to interrupt my purpos’d rest,
Toward that shade I might behold addrest
The king and his companions: warily
I stole into a neighbour thicket by,
And overheard what you shall overhear ;
That by-and-by disguis’d they will be here.
Their herald is a pretty knavish page,
That well by heart hath conn’d his embassage :
Action, and accent, did they teach him there;
““Thus must thou speak, and thus thy body bear :”100
And ever and anon they made a doubt,
Presence majestical would put him out;
‘‘For,” quoth the king, ‘an angel shalt thou see;
Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.”
The boy replied, ‘‘ An angel‘is not evil;
I should have fear’d her, had she been a devil.”
With that all laugh’d, and clapp'd him on the
shoulder,
Making the bold wag by their praises bolder.
One rubb’d his elbow, thus, and fleer’d, and swore,
A better speech was never spoke before; 110
Another, with his finger and his thumb,
Cry’d “ Via! we will do't, come what will come ;”
The third he caper’d, and cried, ‘‘ All goes well;”
The fourth turn’d on the toe, and down he fell.
With that, they all did tumble on the ground,
With such a zealous laughter, so profound,
That in this spleen ridiculous appears,
To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears,

 

 
 

 

2

Prin. But what, but what, come they to visit us?
Boyct. ‘bey do, they do; and are apparell’d thus, —
Like Muscovites, or Russians: as I guess, 121
heir purpose is, to parle, to court, and dance ;
And every one his love-feat will advance
Unto his several mistress; which they ‘ll know
By favours several which they did bestow.
Prin. And will they so? the gallants shall be
task’d ;
For, ladies, we will every one be mask’d,
And not a man of them shall have the grace,
Despite of suit, to see a lady's face.—
Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,
And then the king will court thee for his dear: |
Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,
So shall Biron take me for Rosaline.—
And change you favours, too ; so shall your loves
Woo contrary, deceiv’d by these removes.
Ros. Come on then: wear the favours most in sight.
Kath, But in this changing what is your intent!
Prin. The etfect of my intent is, to cross theirs:
They do it but in mocking merriment ;
And mock for mock is only my intent.
Their several counsels they unbosom shall
To loves mistook ; and so be mock’d withal,
Upon the next occasion that we meet,
With visages display'd, to talk and greet.
Ros. But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t?
Prin. No; to the death, we will not move a foot:
Nor to their penn’d speech render we no grace ;
But, while ‘tis spoke, each turn away her face.
Boyct. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's

150

130

140

heart,
And quite divorce his memory from his part.
Prin. Therefore I do it; and, I make no doubt,
The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out.
There’s no such sport, as sport by sport o’erthrown ;
To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own:
So shall we stay, mocking intended game,
And they, well mock’d, depart away with shame.
[Trumpets sound within.
Boyet. The trumpet sounds : be mask'd, the maskers
come. [The Ladies mask.

Enter the KING, Biron, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE,
in Russian habits, and masked ; Motu, Musicians,
and Attendants.

Moth. ‘* All hail, the richest beauties on the earth !”

Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffata.

Moth. ‘* A holy parcel of the fairest dames, 160

[The Ladies turn their backs to him,

That ever turn'd their—backs—to mortal views !”

Biron. “Their eyes,” villain, ‘‘ their eyes.”

Moth. “That ever turn’d their eyes to mortal
Outs views !

ut” —

Boyct. True; “out,” indeed.
Moth. “Out of your favours, heavenly spirits,
vouchsafe
Not to behold”—
Biron. “Once to behold,” rogue.
Moth. ‘‘ Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes,
with your sun-beamed eyes”— 170
Boyct. They will not answer to that epithet ;
You were best call it daughter-beamed eyes.
Moth. Tikes do not mark me, and that brings me
out.
Biron. Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue.
Ros. What would these strangers?’ know their
minds, Boyet.
If they do speak our language, ’tis our will
That some plain man recount their purposes.
Know what they would.
Boyet. What would you with the princess?
Biron. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation.
Ros. What would they, say they? 180
Boyet. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation.
Ros. Why, that they have; and bid them so be
gone,
Boyct. She says, you have it, and you may be gone.
King. Say to her, we have measur’d many miles.
To tread a measure with her on this grass.

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

 

[Acr y,

    

Boyet. quer say, that they have measur’d many a
mile,
To tread a measure with you on this grass,
fos. It is not so. Ask them how many inches
Is in one mile : if they have measur d many,
The measure then of one is easily told. 1%
Boyet. lf, to come hither, you have measur’d miles
And many miles, the princess bids you tell, .
How many inches do fill up one mile.
Biron. 'Tell her, we measure them by weary steps,
Boycet. She hears herself.
fos. How many weary steps,
Of many weary miles you have o’ergone,
Are number’d in the travel of one mile?
Biron. We number nothing that we spend for you:
Our duty is so rich, so infinite,
That we may do it still without accompt. 200
Vouchsafe to show the sunshine ot your face,
That we, like savages, may worship it.

Ros. My face is but a moon, and clouded too.
King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!
eUcHeRtG, bright moon, and these thy stars, to

shine
(Those clouds removed) upon our watery eyne.
fos. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter ;
Thou now request’st but moonshine in the water,
king. Then, in our measure vouchsafe but one
change.
Thou bidd'st me beg; this begging is not strange. 210
fos. Play, music, then! nay, you must do it soon.
_ Music plays.
Not yet ;—no dance :—thus change I like the moon.
Aing. Will you not dance? How come you thus
estrang’d ?
Ros. You took the moon at full, but now she’s
changed.
King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.
Yet music plays: vouchsate some motion to it,
Ros. Our ears vouchsafe it.
King. But your legs should do it,
Ros. Since you are strangers, and come here by
chance,
We ll not be nice : take hands :—we will not dance.
King. Why take we hands then? .
‘Os. Only to part friends,—
Court’sy, sweet hearts ; and so the measure ends, 221
Aing. More measure of this measure : be not nice.
ftos. We can atford no more at such a price.
King. Prize you yourselves? What buys your
company?
Ros. Your absence only.
King, That can never be,
Ros. Then cannot we be bought; and so adieu.
Twice to your visor, and half once to you!
King. If you deny to dance, let’s hold more chat,

Ros. In private then.
sing. Tam best pleas’d with that.
(They converse apart.
Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet word
with thee. 230
Prin. Honey, and milk, and sugar : there are three,
Biron. Nay then, two treys, (an if you grow 80
nice)
Metheglin, wort, and malmsey.—Well run, dice!
There’s half a dozen sweets. .
Prin. Seventh sweet, adieu.
Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.
Biron. One word in secret.

 

Prin. Let it not be sweet, “«!
Biron. Thou griev’st my gall. i
Prin. Gall? bitter. i
Biron. Therefore meet. |

i [They converse apart.
Dum. Will you vouchsafe with me to change 4 -

  
  
  

word
Mar. Name it.
Dum. Fair lady,—
Mar. Say youso? Fair lord-,
Take that for your fair lady.
Dum. Please it you, 240

As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu.
[They converse apart.

 
ScENE II.]

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

M43

 

Kath. What, was your visor made without a
tongue ?

Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

Kath. O, for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.

Long. ao have a double tongue within your
mask,

And would afford my speechless visor half.
Kath. Veal, quoth the Dutchman.—Is not veal a

calf?
. A calf, fair lady ?

Lon,

Kath. No, a fair lord calf.
Long. Let’s part the word.

Kath.

No, I 11 not be your half :

Take all, and wean it: it may prove an ox. 250
Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp

mocks.

Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.
Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.
Long. One word in private with you, ere I die.
Kath. Bleat softly then: the butcher hears you cry.

[They converse apart.
Boyet. ve tongues of mocking wenches are as
een

As is the razor’s edge invisible,

Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen;

Above the sense of sense, so sensible

Seemeth their conference ; their conceits have wings
Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter

things. 261
Ros. Not one word more, my maids: break off,
break off.

Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!
King. Farewell, mad wenches: you have simple

wits.
[Exeunt Kine, Lords, Motu, Music, and
Attendants.
| Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites,—
Are these the breed of wits so wonder’d at ?
Boyet. aoe bhey are, with your sweet breaths
pulf’d out.
Ros. Welllileine wits they have; gross, gross; fat,
‘al

. Prin. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!
Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night,
Or ever, but in visors, show their faces ? 271
uLhis pert Biron was out of countenance quite.
» Ros. O! they were all in lamentable cases !
;lhe king was weeping-ripe for a good word.
', Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all suit.
‘Mar. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword:
No point, quoth I: my servant straight was mute.
» Kath. Lord Longaville said, I came o’er his heart ;
‘And trow you, what he call’d me?
Prin. Qualm, perhaps.
Kath. Yes, in good faith.
Prin. Go, sickness as thou art!
Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
3ut will you hear? the king is my love sworn. 282
_ Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.
Kath. And Longaville was for my service born.
. Mar, Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree.
, Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear.
Mmediately they will again be here
a their own shapes ; for it can never be,
They will ae this harsh indignity.
Prin, Will they return?
> Boyet. They will, they will, God knows;
And jeap for joy, though they are lame with blows:
;herefore, change favours; and, when they repair,
‘low like sweet roses in this summer air. 293
Prin. Bee how blow? speak to be under-
, stood.
’ Boyet. Fair ladies, mask’d, are roses in their bud:
\ismask’d, their damask sweet commixture shown,
«re angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
Prin. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do,
they return in their own shapes to woo?
_ Ros. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis’d,
het’s mock them still, as well known, as disguis’d.
et us complain to them what fools were here,
lisguis’d like Muscovites, in shapeless gear ;
oe wonder, what they were, and to what end

300

 

Their shallow shows, and prologue vilely penn’d,
And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
Should be presented at our tent to us.
Boyet. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand.
Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land. -
[Ezeunt PRIN., Ros., KATH., and MarR.

Enter the Kine, Brron, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAINE,
tn their proper habits.
King. Fair sir, God save you! Where is the prin-
cess ? = < 310
Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty,
Command me any service to her thither?
King. ey she vouchsafe me audience for one
word.
Boyet. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.
; |Exit.
Biron. This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas,
And utters it again when God doth please.
He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares
At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;
And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve:
Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve.
He can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he,
That kiss’d away his hand in courtesy ;
This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,
That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms: nay, he can sing
A mean most meanly, and, in ushering,
Mend him who can: the ladies call him, sweet ;
The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.
This is the flower that smiles on every one,
To show his teeth as white as whales-bone ;
And consciences, that will not die in debt,
Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.
King. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,
That put Armado’s page out of his part!

320

330

Enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BoYET; ROSALINE,
MARIA, KATHARINE, and Attendants.

Biron. See where it comes !—Behaviour, what wert

hou,

Till this man show’d thee? and what art thou now?
ding. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!
Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I conceive. 340
King. Construe my speeches better, if you may.
Prin, Then wish me better: I will give you leave.
King. We came to visit you, and purpose now

To lead you to our court: vouchsafe it then.
Prin. This field shal hold me, and so hold your

vow:
Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur’d men.

King. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke;
The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

Prin. pons virtue; vice you should have

spoke;
For sivtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. 350
Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure
As the unsullied lily, I protest,
A world of torments though I should endure,
I would not yield to be your house's guest;
So much I hate a breaking cause to be
Of heavenly oaths, vow’d with integrity.

King. O! you have liv’d in desolation here,
Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.

Prin. Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear:
We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game.
A mess of Russians left us but of late.

King. How, madam? Russians?

Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord;
Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state.

Ros. Madam, speak true.—It is not so, my lord:
My lady (to the manner of the days)

In courtesy gives undeserving praise.

We four, indeed, confronted were with four

In Russian habit: here they stay’d an hour,

And talk’d apace; and in that hour, my lord,

They did not bless us with one happy word. 370
I dare not call them fools; but this I think,

When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.

360

 

 
 

 

144

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

{Act V.

 

Biron. This jest is dry to me.—Fair, gentle sweet,
Your wit makes wise things foolish : when we greet,
With eyes best secing, heaven's fiery eye,

By light we lose light: your capacity
Is of that nature, that to your huge store
Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor.

Ros. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,—

Biron. Iam a fool, and full of poverty. 80

Ros. But that you take what doth to you belong,

It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. -

Biron. O! Lam yours, and all that I possess.

Ros. All the fool mince?

Biron. I cannot give you less.

Ros. Which of the visors was it that you wore?

Biron. Where? when? what visor? why demand

you this?

Ros. There, then, that visor; that superfluous case,
That hid the worse, and show’d the better face.

King. were descried ; they ’ll mock us now down-

right.

Dum. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.

Prin. Er my lord?) Why looks your highness

sad ?

Ros. Help! hold his brows! he'll swoond. Why

look you pale ?—
Sea-sick, I:think, coming from Muscovy.

Biron. Thus pour the stars down plagues for per-

jury.

Can any-face of brass hold longer out ?—
Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout ;
Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance ;
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ;
And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
O! never will I trust to spocenes penn'd,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue ;
Nor never come in visor to my friend ;
Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper’s song ;
‘Taffata phrases, silken terms precise,
'Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation,
Figures pedantical: these summer-flies
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.
{ do forswear them ; and | here protest, 410
By this white glove, (how white the hand, God knows)
Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express’d
In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes :
And, to begin,—wench, so God help me, la!
Ay love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

os. Sans SANS, I pray you.

Biron. Yet I have a trick

Of the old rage :—bear with me, I am sick;

I'll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see —

Write ‘‘ Lord have mercy on us” on those three ;
They are infected, in their hearts it lies ; 420
They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:
These lords are visited; you are not free,

For the Lord’s tokens on you do I see.

Prin. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

Biron. Our states are forfeit : seek not to undo us.

Ros. Itis not so. For how can this be true,

That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?

Biron. Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

Ros. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

Biron. Speak for yourselves : my wit is at an end.

King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude trans-

gression 431
Some fair excuse.
Prin. The fairest is confession.
Were you not here, but even now, disguis’d?
King. Madam, I was.

400

Prin. And were you well advis’d?
King. I was, fair madam.
Prin. When you then were here,

What did ey whisper in your lady’s ear?
King. That more than all the world I did respect her.
Prin. When she shall challenge this, you will re-
ject her.
King. Upon mine honour, no.
Prin... Peace! peace! forbear :
Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. 440
King. Despise me, when I break this oath of mine,

 

Prin. I will; and therefore keep it.—Rosaline,
What did the Russian whisper hae ear ¢ z
fos. Madam, he swore, that he did hold me dear
As precious eyesight, and did value me
Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,
That he would wed me, or else die my lover.
Prin. God give thee joy of him! the noble lord
Most honourably doth uphold his word.
King. Wiee mean you, madam? by my life, m:
. woth,
I never swore this lady such an oath.
Ros. By heaven, you did; and to confirm it plain,
You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.
King. My faith, and this, the princess I did give:
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear ;
And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear.—
What! will you have me, or your pearl again?
Biron. Neither of either; 1 remit both twain, —
I see the trick on’t :—here was a consent, 460
Knowing aforehand of our merriment,
To dash it like a Christmas comedy.
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some

ol

Dick,

That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick
To make my lady laugh when she’s dispos’d,
Told our intents before ; which once disclos’d,
The ladies did change favours, and then we,
Following the signs, woo’d but the sign of she.
Now, to our perjury to add more terror, 470
We are again forsworn,—in will, and error.
Much upon this it is [to BoyetT] and might not you
Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?
Do not you know my lady’s foot by the squire,
And laugh upon the apple of her eye?
And-stand between her back, sir, and the fire,
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily ?
You put our page out: go, you are allow’d ;
Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.
You leer upon me,.do you? there’s an eye,
Wounds like a leaden sword.

Boyet. Full merrily
Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

Biron. ae he is tilting straight! Peace! I have

one.

Enter CosTaRD,

Welcome, pure wit ! thou partest a fair fray.
Cost. O Lord, sir, they would know,

Whether the three Worthies shall come in, or no.
Biron. What, are there but three?

Cost. ° No, sir; but it is vara fine,
For every one pursents three. ene
Biron. And three times thrice is nine.

Cost. Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope, it is
not so. !

You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know
what we know: 490

T hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,— P

Biron. Isnot nine.

Cost. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it
doth amount. ;

Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

Cost. O Lord! -sir, it were pity you should get your
living by reckoning, sir. :

Biron. How much is it?

Cost. O Lord! sir, the parties themselves, the actors,
sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine
own part, I am, as they say, but to perfect one man
in one poor man,—Pompion the Great, sir. 01

Biron, Art thou one of the Worthies? <

Cost. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion
the Great : for mine own part, I know not the degree
of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him.

Biron. Go, bid them prepare. ,

Cost. We will turn it finely off, sir: we will take

some care. [Eait,

King. Biron, they will shame us; let them not

roach. 3
e are shame-proof, my lord; and *tis some
policy

Biron.

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE II.]

LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST.

145

 

To have one show worse than the king’s and his
company. 510

King. Lsay, they shall not come.

Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now.
That sport best pleases, that doth least know how:
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Die in the zeal of them which it presents,

Their form confounded makes most form in mirth ;
When great things labouring perish in their birth.
Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord,

Enter ARMADO.
Arm. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy
royal sweet breath, as will utter.a brace of words. 520
[ARMADO converses with the KING, and delivers
a paper to him.
Prin. Doth this man serve God?
Biron. Why ask you?
Prin. He speaks not like a man of God’s making.
Arm. That’s all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch;
for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantas-
tical; too, too vain; too, too vain: but we will put
it, as they say, to fortuna della guerra. I wish you
the peace of mind, most royal couplement! [Exit.
King. Here is like to be a good presence of Wor-
thies. He presents Hector of ‘lroy; the swain, Pom-
pey the Great ; the parish eurate, Alexander; Armado’s
page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabzeus. — 532
And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,
These me will change habits, and present the other
ve.
Biron. There is five in the first show.
King. You are deceived, ’tis not so.
Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest,
the fool, and the boy :--
Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again
Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.
King. The ship is under sail, and here she comes
amain. 541

Enter CosTaRD armed, for Pompey.
Cost. ‘“‘I Pompey am,”—

Boyet. You lie, you are not he.
Cost. ‘“‘I Pompey am,”—
Boyet. With libbard’s head on knee.

Biron. Well said, old mocker: I must needs be
friends with thee.

Cost. ‘I Pompey am, Pompey surnam’d the Big,”—

Dum. The Great.

Cost. It is ‘“ Great,” sir ;—‘‘ Pompey surnam’d the

Great ;

That oft in field, with targe and shield, cid make my
foe to sweat :

And travelling along this coast, I here am come by

chance,

And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of

‘rance.” 5350

If your ladyship would say, ‘‘Thanks, Pompey,” I
had done.

Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey.
Cost. "Tis not so much worth; but I hope, I was
perfect. I made a little fault in “Great.”
Biron. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the
best Worthy.

Enter Sir NATHANIEL armed, for Alexander.
Nath, ‘“‘ When in the world I liv’d, I was the world’s
commander ;
By east, west, north, and south, I spread my con-
uering might :
My sce eon plain declares, that Iam Alisander.” |
oyet. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it
stands too right.
Biron. Your nose smells, no, in this, most tender-
smelling knight. 560
Prin. The conqueror is dismay’d. Proceed, good

Alexander.
Nath. “When in the world I liv’d, I was the world’s
commander ; ”— :
Boyet. Most true; ‘tis right : you were so, Alisander,
Biron. Pompey the Great, —
Cost. Your servant, and Costard.

 

Biron. Take away the conquerer, take away Ali-

sander.

Cost. [To Natu.] O! sir, you have overthrown
Alisander the conqueror. You will be scraped out of
the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds his
pole? sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax:

e will be the ninth Worthy. A conqucror, and
afeard to speak? run away for shame, Alisander.
[NavrH. retires.| There, an’t shall please you: a
foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon
dash’d! He is a marvellous neighbour, faith, and
a very good bowler; but, for Alisander, alas! you
sec, how *tis;—a little o’erparted.—But there are
-Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some
other sort.

Prin, Stand aside, good Pompey. 589

Enter HOLOFERNES armed, for Judas, and MOTI
armed, for Hercules.

Fol. ‘‘ Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
Whose club kill’d Cerberus, that three-headed canus ;
And, when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,
Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.
Quoniam he seemeth in minority,

Ergo 1 come with this apology.”
Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.—
“ Judas I am,”—
Dum. A Judas!
| Hol. Not Iscariot, sir.—
“ Judas Iam, ycleped Maccabeeus.”
Dum. Judas Maccabeeus clipt, is plain Judas.
Biron. A_ kissing traitor.—How art thou prov’d
Judas ¢

Hol. “ Judas I am,’”—

Dum. The more shame for you, Judas.

Hol. What mean you, sir?

Boyet. To make Judas hang himself.

Hol. Begin, sir: you are my elder.

Biron. Wellfollow’d: Judas was hang’d onan elder.

Hol. I will not be put out of countenance. 600

Biron. Because thou hast no face.

Hol. What is this?

Boycet. A cittern-head.

Dum. The head of a bodkin.

Biron. A death's face in a ring.

Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

Boyet. The pummel of Ceesar’s falchion.

Dum. The carv’d-bone face on a flask.

Biron. St. George’s half-cheek in a brooch.

Dum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.
And now, forward; for we have put thee in coun-

tenance.

Hol. You have put me out of countenance.

Biron. False: we have given thee faces.

Hol. But you have outfac’d them all.

Biron. An thou wert a lion, we would do so.

Boyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.

And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay ?

Dum. For the latter end of his name.

Biron. For the ass to the Jude? give it him :—Jud-as,

away. 620

Hol. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas! it grows dark,

he may stumble.

Prin. ee por Maccabeeus, how hath he been

aited !

590

Enter ARMADO armed, for Hector.

_ Biron, Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector
in arms.

Dum. Though my mocks come home by me, I will
now be merry.

King. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this.

Boyct. But is this Hector ?

King. I think Hector was not so clean-timber’d. 630

Long. His leg is too big for Hector’s.

Dum. More calf, certain.

Boyet. No; he is best indued in the small.

Biron. This cannot be Hector.

Dum. He’s a god or a painter ; for he makes faces.

 

Ic

 
 

1M6

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

[Act V,

 

 

Arm. ‘‘The armipotent Mars, of lances the al-
mighty,
Gave Hector a gift,”—

Dum, A gilt nutmeg.

Biron. A lemon.

Long. Stuck with cloves. 640

Dum. No, cloven.

rm. Peace ! ‘

“The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion ;

A man so breath'd, that certain he would fight ye,
From morn till night, out of his pavilion.

Tam that tlower,’—

Dum. That mint. ‘

Long. That columbine.

Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

Long. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs
against Hector. 650

Dum. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound.

frm. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten: sweet
chucks, beat not the bones of the buried: when he
breathed, he was a man.—But I will forward with my
device. Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of
hearing. (Biron whispers CosTARD.

Prin. Speak, brave Hector : we are much delighted.

Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace’s slipper.

Boyet. .Loves her by the foot.

Dum. He may not by the yard. 660

Arm, ‘This Hector far surmounted Hannibal, ”—

Cost. The party is gone: fellow Hector, she is gone;
she is two months on her way.

Arm, What meanest thou?

Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the

oor wench is cast away : she’s quick ; the child brags
in her belly already : "tis yours,

Arm. Dost thou infamonise me among potentates?
Thou shalt die.

Cost. Then shall Hector be whipp’d for Jaquenetta
that is quick by him, and hang’d for Pompey that is
dead by him. 672

Dum. Most rare Pompey!

Boyet. Renowned Pompey!

Biron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pom-
pey! Pompey the Huge!

Dum. Hector trembles,

Biron. Pompey is moved.—More Atés, more Atés!
stir them on! stir them on!

Dum. Hector will challenge him. 680

Biron. Ay, if he have no more man’s blood in’s belly
than will sup a flea.

Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern
man: I’ll slash; I'll do it by the sword.—I pray you,
let me borrow my arms again.

Dum. Room for the incensed Worthies!

Cost. I'll do it in my shirt.

Dum. Most resolute Pompey!

Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole lower.
Do you not see, Pompey is uncasing for the combat?
What mean you? you will lose your reputation. 692

Arm. Gentlemen, and soldiers, pardon me; I will
not combat in my shirt.

Dum, You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the
challenge.

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Biron. What reason have you for’t?

Arm, The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go
woolward for penance. 700

Boyet. True, and it was enjoin’d him in Rome for
want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore
none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that he
wears next his heart for a favour.

Enter Monsicur MERCADE, wu Messenger.

Mer. God save you, madam.
Prin. Welcome, Mercade,
But that thou interrupt’st our merriment.
Mer. Iam sorry, madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue.—The king your father—
Prin. Dead, for my life! 710
Mer. Even so: my tale is told.

 

Biron. Worthies, away! The scene begins to cloud,
Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. [
have seen the day of wrong aneoue the little hole of

discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.
: ; [Exeunt Worthies,

King. How fares your majesty ?

Prin. Boyet, prepare : I will away to-night.

King. Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay.
Prin. Prepare, I say.—I thank you, gracious lords,
For all your fair endeavours; anit entreat, 720

Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe

In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide,
The liberal opposition of our spirits:

If over-boldly we have borne ourselves

In the converse of breath, your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!
A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue.
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks
For my great suit so easily obtain’d.

King. The extreme part of time extremely forms
All causes to the purpose of his speed; 731
And often, at his very loose, decides
That which long process could not arbitrate :

And though the mourning brow of progeny

Forbid the smiling courtesy of love

The holy suit which fain it would convince ;

Yet, since love’s argument was first on foot,

Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it

From what it purpos’d ; since, to wail friends lost,

Is not by much so wholesome, profitable,

As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
Prin. [understand you not: my griefs are dull.
Biron. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of

grief ;

And by these badges understand the king.
For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
Play’d foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies,
Hath much deform’d us, fashioning our humours
Even to the opposed end of our intents ;
And what in us hath seem’d ridiculous,—
As love is full of unbefitting strains ; 750
All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain ;
Form’d by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,
Full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms,
Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll
To every varied object in his glance:
Which party-coated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,
Have misbecom’d our oaths and gravities,
Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,
By being once false, for ever to be true
To those that make us both,—fair ladies, you:
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace.

Prin. We have receiv’d your letters full of love;:
Your favours, the ambassadors of love ;
And, in our maiden council, rated them
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, 770
As bombast, and as lining to the time.
But more devout than this, in our respects,
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.

Dum. Our letters, madam, show’d much more than

jest.
Long. So did our looks.
Ros. We did not cote them so.
King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour,
Grant us your loves. \
Prin. A time, methinks, too short
To make a world-without-end bargain in.
No, no, my lord, your grace is perjur’d much, 780
Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this.—
If for may love (as there is no such cause)
You will do aught, this shall you do for me:
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay, until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about their annual reckoning.

 

 
 

 

Scene II.]

 

 

LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. 147
If this austere insociable life You are attaint with faults and perjury ;
x 790 | Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, 810

Change not i offer made in heat of blood ;_

If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds,
Nip not the gaudy lossoms ot your love,

But that it bear this trial, and Jast love ;

Then, at the expiration of the year,

Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,
And by this virgin palm, now kissing thine,

 

, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,

| But seek the weary beds of people sick.]
Dum. But what to me, my love? but what to me?
Kath. A wife !—A beard, fair health, and honesty ;

With three-fold love I wish you all these three.
Dum. O! shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?

Prin. “ Was not that Hector?”

I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut

My woful self up in a mourning house,
Raining the tears of lamentation
For the remembrance of my father’s death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part :
Neither intitled in the other’s heart.
King. If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest
The sudden hand of death close up mine eye.
Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.
Biron. And what to me, my love? and what to

800

me?
Ros. You must be purged too, your sins are rank :

Kath. Not so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day
Ill mark no words that smooth-fac’d wooers say:
Come when the king doth to my lady come;
Then, if 1 have much love, Ill give you some. 820

Dum. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again.

Long. What says Maria?

Mar. At the twelvemonth’s end,
I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

Long. Ill stay with patience ; but the time is long.

Mar. The liker you; few taller are so young.

Biron. Studies my lady? mistress, look on me.
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,

 

 
 

 

148

LOVE’S LABOUR'S LOST.

tact v. |

 

What humble suit attends thy answer there;
Impose some service on me tor thy love.
os. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,
Betore I saw you, and the world’s large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks ;
Full of comparisons and wounding tlouts,
Which you on all estates will execute,
That lie within the mercy of your wit: .
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And, therewithal, to win me, if you please,
Without the which I am not to be won,
You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day, 810
Visit the speechless sick, and still converse
With groaning wretches ; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit,
To enforce the pained impotent to smile.
Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be; it is impossible :
Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. bd —
Ros. Why, that’s the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot ot that loose grace
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. 850
A jest’s prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,
Deat’d with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,
And [ will have you, and that fault withal ;
But, if they will not, throw away that spirit,
And I shall find you empty of that fault, ,
Right joyful of your reformation.
"Biron. A twelvemonth? well, befall what will befall,
Il jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. G1
Prin. (To the KinG.] Ay, swect my lord: and so [
take my leave.
King. No, madam; we will bring you on your way.
Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an old play ;
Jack hath not Jill: these ladies’ courtesy
Might well have made our sport a comedy.
King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
And then ’t will end.
Biron.

830

That ’s too long for a play.

Enter ARMADO.

Arm. Swect majesty, vouchsafe me,—

Prin. Was not that Hector ? 870

Dum. The worthy knight of Troy.

Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave.
Iam a votary: I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold
the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most
esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that
the two learned men have compiled in praise of the
owl and the cuckoo? it should have followed in the
end of our show.

King. Call them forth quickly ; we will do so.

Arm. Holla! approach, : 0

 

Enter HOLOFERNES, NATHANIEL, Motu, Costarp,
and others.
This side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the Spring; the
one maintaind by the owl, the other by the cuckoo,
Ver, begin.
SONG.

SPRING.

i.

When daisies pied, and violets blue,

And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,

Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;

Cuckoo, cuckoo,—O word of fear
Unpleasing to a married ear!

890

I.

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,

And merry larks are ploughmen’s clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,

Cuckoo ;

Cuckoo, cuckoo,—O word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear !

900

WINTER.

II.

I

When icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be out

Then magne sings the staring owl,
‘o-who ;
Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Iv.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow, -
And Marian’s nose logks red and raw,
W hen roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,
'o-who ;

Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the
songs of Apollo. You, that way: we, this ce ”
reeunt.

910

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

EscaLus, Prince of Verona. PETER, another Servant to Capulet.
Paris, a young Nobleman, Kinsman to the Prince. ABRAM, Servant to Montague.
MontTaGus, ) Heads of two Houses, at variance | An Apothecary.

aaa ‘ with each other. Be Musicians.

Uncle to Capulet. orus. .

RoMEo, Son to Montague. Boy ; Pageto Paris; an Officer.

MercuTI0, Kinsman to the Prince, and Friend to

LaDy MontTaGuh, Wife to Montague.
Lapby CAaPuLet, Wife to Capulet.
JULIET, Daughter to Capulet.

Nurse to Juliet.

jomeo.

BENVOLIO, Nephew to Montague, and Friend to
Romeo. ‘

TYBALT, Nephew to Lady Capulet.

nolan es a Brancissan.

RIAR JOHN, of the same Order. | ;
BALTHASAR, ae to Romeo. | Citizens a Verona; male and female Relations to
SAMPSON, ? S C let | both Houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and
Grecory, § Servants to Capulet. : Aitendants.

SCENE—During the greater part of the Play, in VERONA: once, in the Fifth Act, at MANTUA.

 

PROLOGUE.
Enter Chorus.

Two households, both alike in dignity, Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, And the continuance of their parents’ rage, 10
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage ;
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; The which if you with patient ears attend,
Whose misadventur’d piteous overthrows What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to meng, j
ACT T.

ScENE I. -A Public Place.
Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, armed with swords and bucklers.

 

Sampson. | fore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and
REGORY, on my word, we’ll not carry , thrust his maids to the wall.
coals, Gre. The quarrel is between our masters, and us
Gre. No, for then we should be colliers. their men.
Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we Tl Sam. Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant:
draw. * when Lhave fought with the men, I will be cruel with
Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck | the maids; I will cut off their heads.
out o’ the collar. Gre. The heads of the maids ? 30
Sam. I strike quickly, Berne Gye. Sam. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maiden-
Gre. But thou art not quickly moved to | heads; take it in what sense thou wilt.
strike. 10 Gre. They must take it in sense, that feel it.
Sam. A dog of the house of Montague Sam. Me they shall feel, while I am able to stand ;
moves me. and, ’tis known, I am a pretty piece of flesh.

: Gre. To move is to stir, and to be valiant Gre. ’Tis well, thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou
is to stand ; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st | hadst been ee John. Draw thy tool; here comes of

away. the house of the Montagues.
Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to stand.
will take the wall of any man or maid of Mon- Enter ABRAM and BALTHASAR.
tague’s, Sam. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back
Gre. That shows thee a weak slave ; for the weakest | thee. 40
goes to the wall. 20 Gre. How ! turn thy back, and run?
Sam. ’Tis true; and therefore women, being the Sam. Fear me not.

 

weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall :—there- Gre. No, marry : I fear thee!

 

 
 

150

ROMEO AND JULIET.

[Act L

 

 

Sam. Let us take the law of our sides: let them

egin,
Gre. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it
as they list. : ;
Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at
them ; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it.
Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? 50
Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir. 3
Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. Is the law of our side, if I say ay?
Gre. No. :
Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir;
but I bite my thumb, sir.

A

bl

 

Sam. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.”

Gre. Do you quarrel, sir?

Abr. Quarrel, sir? no, sir.

Sam. If you do, sir, 1am for you: I serve as good a
man as you. 60

Abr. No better.

Sam. Well, sir.

Enter BENVOLIO, at a distance.

Gre. Say—better: here comes one of my master’s
kinsmen.

Sam. Yes, better, sir.

Abr. You lie.

Sam. Draw, if you be men.—Gregory, remember
thy swashing blow. [They fight.

en, Part, fools! put up your swords; you know

not what you do. 70
[Beats down their swords.

Einter TYBALT.
Tyb. eee ! ae thou drawn among these heartless
inds
Turn thee, Benvolio; look upon thy death.
Ben. 1 do but keep the peace: put up thy sword,
Or manage it to part these men with me.

 

 

Tyb. What! drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the

word,
As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.
Have at thee, coward. [They fight.
Enter several persons of both Houses, who join the
Sray ; then enter Citizens, with clubs.
1 Cit. Clubs, bills, and partisans! strike!
them down!

Down with the Capulets ! down with the Montagues!

Enter CAPULET, in his gown; and Lady CaPuuer.
Cap. ate noise is this ?—Give me my long sword,

beat

o!
La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch !—Why call you fora
sword 7
Cap. My sword, I say !—Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

inter MONTAGUE and Lady MONTAGUE.

Mon. Thou villain Capulet !—Hold me not; let mego.
La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe.

Enter PRINCE, with his Train.

Prin. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained ae
Will they not hear ?—what ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,— 90
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper’d weapons to the ground,

| And hear the sentence of your moved prince.—

Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,

By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,

Have thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets;
And made Verona’s ancient citizens

' Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
' To wield old

d partisans, in hands as old,
Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate. 100

| If ever you disturb our streets again,

Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.
For this time, all the rest depart away :
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
One more, on pain of death, all men depart.
[Hzeunt PRINCE, and Attendants ; CAPULET, Lady
CAPULET, TYBALT, Citizens, and Servants.

Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began ? 10

Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary,’
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach.

I drew to part them ; in the instant came

The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d ;

Which, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,

He swung about his head, and cut the winds,

Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.
While we were snieTenanae thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
Till the prince came, who parted either part. 120 |

La. Mon. 0! where is Romeo? saw you him to-day? |
Right glad Jam he was not at this fray. _

Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun
Peer’d forth the golden window of the east,

A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad ;

Where, underneath the Biore of sycamore,

That westward rooteth from the city’s side,

So early walking did I see your son.

Towards him I made; but he was ‘ware of me,

And stole into the covert of the wood: | 130

I, measuring his affections by my own, .

Which ten most sought, where most might not be
ound,

Being one too many by my weary self,

Pursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.

Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the farthest east begin to draw 10

 

 
 

 

Scene II.)

ROMEO AND JULIET. 151

 

The shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,

Away from light steals home my heavy son,

And private in his chamber pens himself ;

Shuts up his windows, locks fair Gay lent out,

And makes himself an artificial night.

Black and portentous must this humour prove,

Unless goo counsel may the cause remove.
Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause ?
Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn of him.
Ben. Have you importun’d him by any means? 130
Mon. Both by myself, and many other friends:

But he, his own affections’ counsellor,

Js to himself—I will not say, how true—

But to himself so secret and so close,

So far from sounding and discovery,

As is the bud bit with an envious worm,

Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,

Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.

Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,

We would as willingly give cure, as know. 160

Enter RoMEO, at a distance.
Ben. See, where he comes: so please you, step
aside ;

I'll know his grievance, or be much denied. *

Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay,
To hear true shrift.—Come, madam, let's away.

Exeunt MontTaGuE and Lady.

Ben. Good morrow, cousin.
Rom. Is the day so young?
Ben. But new struck nine.

Rom. Ah me! sad hours seem long.
Was that my father that went hence so fast ?

Ben. a hee What sadness lengthens Romeo’s
ours

Rom. a Dine that, which, having, makes them
short.

Ben. In love? 170
Rom. Out—

Ben. Of love ?

Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love.

Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view,

Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!

Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still,
Should without eyes see pathways to his will!

Where shall we dine ?—O me !—What fray was here?
Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.
Here’s much to do with hate, but more with love :—
Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! 181
O anything, of nothing first created!
O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms !
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health !
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this,
Dost thou not laugh ?

en. No, coz, I rather weep.

Rom. Good heart, at what?

Ben. At thy good heart’s oppression.
Rom. Why, such is love's transgression.— 190
| Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast;

Which thou wilt propagate, to have it press’d

With more of thine: this love, that thou hast shown,

Doth add more grief to too-much of mine own.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs ;

Being purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes ;

Being vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:

What is it else? a madness most discreet,

| .A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

Farewell, my coz. [Going.
en. Soft, I will go along; 200

| Anif you leave me so, you do me wrong.

Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; Iam not here ;

This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.
Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love.
Rom. What! shall I groan, and tell thee?

en. Groan? why, no;
But sadly tell me, who.
m, Bid a sick man in sadness make his will;
A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.—-
In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.
Ben. I aim’d so near, when I suppos’d you lov'd. 210

 

Rom. + right good mark-man !—And she’s fair I
ove.
Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.
Rom. Well, in that hit you miss: she’ll not'be hit
With Cupid’s arrow,—she hath Dian’'s wit ;
And, in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,
From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm’d.
She will not stay the siege of loving terms,
Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes,
Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold :
O! she is rich in beauty; only poor, 220
That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.
Ben. Then she hath sworn, that she will still live
chaste?
Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge
waste ;
For beauty, starv’d with her severity,
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
She is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,
‘To merit bliss by making me despair:
She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow
Do I live dead, that live to tell it now.
Ben. Be rul’d by me; forget to think of her.
Rom. O! teach me how I should forget to think.
Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes :
Examine other beauties. ,
Rom. ’T is the way
To call hers, exquisite, in question more.
These happy masks, that kiss fair ladies’ brows,
Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair :
He that is strucken blind, cannot forget
The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
Show me a mistress that is passing fair,
What doth her beauty serve, but as a note 240
Where I may read who pass’d that passing fair ?
Farewell: thou canst not teach me to forget.
Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.
[Exeunt.

230

 

ScENE II.—A Street.

Enter CaPuLET, PaRis, and Servant.

Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I,
In penalty alike ; and 'tis not hard, I think,
For men so old as we to keep the peace.
Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both;
And pity tis, you liv’d at odds so long.
But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?
Cap. But saying o’er WEL have said before :
My child is yet a stranger in the world,
She hath not seen the change of fourteen years ;
Let two more summers wither in their pride, 10
Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.
Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made.
Cap. And too soon marr’d are those so early made.
The earth hath swallow’d all my hopes but she,
She is the hopeful lady of my earth:
But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,
My will to her consent is but a part;
An she agree, within her scope of choice
Lies my consent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old-accustom’d feast, 20
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love; and you, among the store,
One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
At my poor house look to behold this night
Earth-treading stars, that make dark heaven light.
Such comfort, as do lusty young men feel,
When well-apparell’d April on the heel
Of limping winter treads, even such delight
Among fresh female buds shall ou this night
Inherit at my house ; hear all, all see,
And like her most, whose merit most shall be:
Which, on more view of many, mine, being one,
May stand in number, though in reckoning none.
Come, go with me.—Go, sirrah, trudge about
Through fair Verona ; find those persons out,
Whose names are written there [giving a paper], and
to them say,
My house and welcome on their Pleasure stay.
[Exeunt CAPULET and PARIS.

 

 
 

152

ROMEO AND JULIET,

 

 

Serv. Find them out, whose names are written here?
It is written, that the shoemaker should meddle with
his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with
his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am
sent to tind those persons, whose names are here writ,
and can never find what names the writing person
hath here writ. I must to the learned.—In good time.

Lintcr BENVOLIO and ROMEO.
Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burn-
ing,
One pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish ;
‘Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning ;
One desperate grief cures with another’s languish :
‘Take thou some new infection to thy eye,
And the rank poison of the old will die. 50
Rom. Your plantain-leaf is excellent for that.
Ben. For what, I pray thee?
Rom. For your broken shin.
ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad ?

 

Rom. ‘Stay, fellow: I can read.”

Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is:

Shut up in prison, kept without my food,

Whipp’d, and tormented, and—Good den, good fellow.
Serv. God gi’ good den.—I pray, sir, can you read ?
Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.

Serv. Perhaps you have learn’d it without book:
but, I pray, can you read anything you see? i
Rom. Ay, if I know the letters, and the language.

Serv. Ye say honestly ; rest you merry.
Rom. Stay, fellow ; I can read. (Reads.
“Signior Martino, and his wife, and daughters:

County Ansclme, and his beauteous sisters ; the lady

widow of Vitruvio ; Signior Placentio, and his lovely

nieces; Mercutio, and his brother Valentine: mine
uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters ; my fair niece

Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio, and his cousin

Tybalt ; Lucio, and the lively Helena.”

A fair assembly ; whither should they come?

Serv. ve.

Rom. Whither to supper?

Serv. To our house.

Rom. Whose house ?

Serv. My master's.

Rom. Indeed, I should have asked you that before.

Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master
is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the
house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of

wine. Rest you merry. 81

[Exit.

Ben, At this same ancient feast of Capulet’s
Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov’st,

 

With all the admired beauties of Verona:

Go thither ; and, with unattainted eye,
Compare her face with some that I shall show,
And [ will make thee think thy swan a crow.

Fom. When the devout religion of mine eye
Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires ;
And these, who, otten drown’'d, could never die, 90
‘Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars.

One fairer than my love! the all-seeing sun
Ne’er saw her match, since first the world begun.

Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by

Herself pois'd with herself in either eye ;

But in that crystal scales, let there be weigh’d

Your lady's love against some other maid,

‘That I will show you shining at this feast,

And she shall scant show well, that now shows best.

ftom. 1’1l go along, no such sight to be shown, 100
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A Room in CaPuLeEtT’s House,

Enter Lady CAPULET and Nurse.

La. Cap. Nurse, where’s my daughter? call her
torth to me.

Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead,—at twelve year ;

old,—
I bade her come.—What, lamb! what, lady-bird !—
God torbid !_where’s this girl?~what, Juliet !

Ente? JULIET.

Jul. How now! who calls?

Nurse, ' Your mother.

Jul. Madam, I am here.
What is your will?

La. Cap. This is the matter.—Nurse, give leave

awhile,
We must talk in secret.—Nurse, come back again:
I have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.
Thou know’st, my daughter’s of a pretty age. 10

Nurse. ’Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.

La. Cap. She’s not fourteen.

Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth,—
And yet, to my teen be it a m en, I have but four,—
She is not fourteen. How long is it now
To Lammas-tide ?

La. Cap. A sore nl and odd days.

Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,

Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen
Susan and she—God rest all Christian souls !—

Were of an age.— Well, Susan is with God ;

She was too good for me.
On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen ;
That shall she, marry : I remember it well.

’Tis since the canthauake now eleven years ;

And she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it,—

Of all the days of the year, upon that day ;

For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,

Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall:

My lord and you were then at Mantua.—

Nay, I do bear a brain :—but, asI said,

When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple 30
Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool!

To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!

Shake, quoth the dove-house: ’t was no need, I trow,
To bid me trudge.

And since that time it is eleven years;
For then she could stand alone, nay, by the rood,
She could have run and waddled all about ;

For even the day before she broke her brow:

And then my husband—God be with his soul! 0
”A was a merry man—took up the child:

“Yea,” quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?
Thou wilt fall backward, when thou hast more wit;
Wilt thou not, Jule?” and, by my holy-dam, ,,

The pretty wretch left crying, and said—‘‘ Ay.

To see now, how a jest shall come about!

I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, a
I never should forget it: ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?

quoth he;
And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said—‘‘ Ay.”

 

[Act IL.

But, as I said, 20 |

 
 

 

ScEvE 1V.]

ROMEO, AND JULIET.

153

 

La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy
eCAce,

Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh,
To think it should leave crying, and say—“‘“Ay:” 51
And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow
A bump as big as a young cockrel’s stone ;

A perilous knock ; and it cried bitterly. :

“Yea,” quoth my husband, “* fall’st upon thy face?

Thou ‘wilt fall backward, when thou com’st to age ;

Wilt thou not, Jule?” it stinted, and said—‘ Ay.”
Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.
Nurse. Peace, [have done. God mark thee to his

grace!
Thou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d: 60
An I might live to see thee married once,
I have my wish. :
La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme
I come to talk of.—Tell me, daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married ?
Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of.
Nurse. An honour! were not I thine only nurse,
I would say, thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.
La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now; younger
than you, .
Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, 70
Are made already mothers: by my count,
I was your mother, much upon these years
That you are now a maid. Thus then, in brief,—
The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.
Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man,
As all the world—why, he’s a man of wax.
La. Cap. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower.
Nurse. Ni ‘ay, he’s a flower ; in faith, a very flower.
La. Cap. What say you? can you love the gentleman?
This night you shall behold him at our feast : 80
Read o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,
And find delight writ there with beauty’s pen ;
Examine every several lineament,
And see how one another lends content ;
And what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,
Find written in the margent of his eyes.
This precious book of love, this unbound lover,
To beautify him, only lacks a cover :
The fish lives in the sea ; and ‘tis much pride,
For fair without the fair within to hide. 90
That book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,
That in gold clasps locks in the golden story :
So shall you share all that he doth possess,
By having him, making yourself no less.
Nurse. No less? nay, bigger: women grow by men.
La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?
Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move ;
But no more deep will Iendart mine eye, |
Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. 99

Enter a Servant.

Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served
up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse
cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.
Imust hence to wait ; I beseech you, follow straight.

La. Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays.

Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.

Lieceund.

ScENE IV.—A Street.

Enter RoMEO, MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, with five or
six Maskers, Torch-bearers, and others.

Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our

excuse,
Or shall we on without apology ?
Ben. The date is out of such prolixity :
We'll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,
Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,
Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper ;
(Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke
After the prompter, for our entrance :)
But, let them measure us by what they will,
We'll measure them a measure, and be gone. 10
Rom. Give me a torch : I am not for this ambling ;
Being but heavy, I will bear the light.

 

Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes,
With nimble soles ; I have a soul of lead,
So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move.
Mer. You are a lover: borrow Cupid's wings,
And soar with them above a common bound.
Rom. Iam too sore enpierced with his shaft,
To soar with his light feathers; and so bound, 29
I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe:
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love ;
Too great oppression for a tender thing.
Rom. Is love a tender ee it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous ; and it pricks like thorn.
+ Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with

love:
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.—
Give me a case to put my visage in:
[Putting on a mask,
A visor for a visor !—what care I, 30

 

Rom. “ And we mean well in going to this mask.”

What curious eye doth quote deformities?
Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.
Ben. Come, knock, and enter; and no sooner in,
But every man betake him to his legs.
Rom. A torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels ;
For 1am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,—
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on:
The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.
Mer. Tut! dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own
40

word.
If thou art dun, we ll draw thee from the mire
Of this, save reverence, love, wherein thou stick’st
Uipie the ears.—Come, we burn daylight, ho.
om. Nay, that’s not so.
Mer. s : I mean, sir, in delay
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits
Five times in that, ere once in our five wits.
Rom. And we mean well in going to this mask ;
But ‘tis no wit to go.
er. Why, may one ask ?
Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.
Mer. AndsodidI. 50
Rom. Well, what was yours?
Mer. That dreamers often lie.
Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things

true.
Mer. O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.

 

 
 

154

ROMEO AND JULIET.

{Acr I,

 

 

She is the fairies’ midwife ; and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men’s noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs ;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers ;
The traces, of the smallest spider’s web ;
The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams ;
Her whip, of cricket’s bone ; the lash, of film ;
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick’d from the lazy finger of a maid.
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies’ coach-makers.
And in this state she gallops night by night 70
Through lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love:
O’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on court’sies straight:
O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees :
O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream ;
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit:
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,
Tickling a parson’s nose as ’a lies asleep, 80
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep ; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes;
And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,
And sleepsagain. This is that very Mab,
That plats the manes of horses in the night;
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them, and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.
This is she— -

Rom. Peace, peace ! Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk’st of

nothing.

Mer. True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ;
Which is as thin of substance as the air;
And more inconstant than the wind, who woos
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, pee away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.

Ben. ‘vhis wind, you talk of, blows us from our-

selves ;
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
om. I fear, too early ; for my mind misgives,

Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night’s revels ; and expire the term

69

90

100

Of a despised life, clos’d in my breast, 110
By some vile forfeit of untimely death :
But He, that hath the steerage of my course,
Direct my sail.—On, lusty gentlemen.
Ben, Strike, drum. [Execunt.

Scene V.—A Hall in CAPULET'’sS House.

Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.

1 Serv. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take
away ? he shift-a-trencher ! he scrape-a-trencher !

2 Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or
yo men’s hands, and they unwashed too, ‘tis a foul
thing.

1 Serv. Away with the joint-stools, remove the
court-cupboard, look to the plate.—Good thou, save
me a piece of marchpane ; and, as thou _lovest me, let
the porter let inSusan Grindstone, and Nell.—Antony !
and Potpan ! 10

2 Serv. Ay, boy; Tea.

1 Serv. You are looked for, and called for, asked for,
and sought for, in the great chainber.

 

You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!

2 Serv. We cannot be here and there too.—Cheerly,
boys: be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all, ’
[Lhey retire behind.

Enter CAPULET, &c., with the Guests, and the
Maskers,
Cap. Fe gentlemen! ladies, that have their
oes

Unplagu’d with corns, will have a bout with you :—
Ah ha, my mistresses ! which of you all
Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she,
I'll swear, hath corns. Am Icome near you now? 20
Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day,
That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,
Such as would please ; ’t is gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone.
You are welcome, gentlemen!— Come, musicians,

play.
A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.
; [Music plays, and they dance,

More light, ye knaves! and turn the tables up,
And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.—
Ah! sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.
Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet,
For you and I are past our dancing days ;
How long is’t now, since last yourself and I
Were in a mask ?

2 Cap. By ’r lady, thirty years.

Cap. What, man! ‘tis not so much, ’tis not so

much,

’T is since the nuptial of Lucentio,
Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,
Some five-and-twenty years ; and then we mask’d.

2 Cap. ’Tis more, tis more : his son is elder, sir;
His son is thirty.

Cap. Will you tell me that?
His son was but a ward two years ago. 40

Rom. vay lady’s that, which doth enrich the

an
Of yonder knight ?

Serv. 1 know not, sir.

Rom. O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear ;

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,

As yonder lady oer her fellows shows.

The measure done, Ill watch her place of stand,
And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.
Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight !
For I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.

Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague.—
Fetch me my rapier, boy.— What! dares the slave
Come hither, cover’d with an antick face,

To tleer and scorn at our solemnity ?
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,
To strike him dead J hold it not a sin.

30

50

Cap. Why, how now, kinsman? wherefore etonn i

you so?
Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe ;
A villain, that is hither come in spite,
To scorn at our solemnity this night.
Cap. Young Romeo is ’t?

 

’T is he, that villain Romeo. |

Tyb.

Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone:
He bears him like a portly gentleman ;
And, tosay truth, Verona brags of him,
To be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth,
I would not for the wealth of all this town,
Here, in my house, do him disparagement ; 70
Therefore be patient, take no note of him:
It is my will; the which if thou respect,
Show a fair presence, and put off these frowns,
An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.

Tyb. It fits, when such a villain is a guest.

I'll not endure him.

Cap. He shall be endur’d:
What! goodman boy !—I say, he shall ;—go to ;—
Am I the master here, or you? go to.
You'll not endure him !—God shall mend my soul—
You'll make a mutiny among my guests.

 
 

ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

 

Scene V.] 155
A
Tyb. Why, uncle, ’tis a shame. Rom. Ay, soI fear; the more is my unrest. 120

Cap. Go to, go to;
You are a saucy boy.—Is’t so, indeed ?—
This trick may chance to scathe you ;—I know what.
You must contrary me! marry, ’tis time.—
Well said, my hearts !—You are a princox ; go :—
Be quiet, or—More light, more light !—For shame !
I'll make you quiet. What !—cheerly, my hearts!
Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting
Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. 90
I will withdraw : but this intrusion shall,
Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. [Ezit.
Rom. [To Juuier.] If I profane with my unwor-
thiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this ;
My lips, two See pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too
much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this ;

For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. 100
Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.
Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’

sake.
Rom. Then move not, while my prayer’s effect

I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.
[Kissing her.
Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.
Rom, Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d !

Give me my sin again.
Jul. You kiss by the book. 110
Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with

you. |

Rom. What is her mother?

Nurse. Marry, bachelor,
Her mother is the lady of the house, <
Anda ie lady, and a wise, and virtuous.

I nurs’d her daughtér, that you talk’d withal ;
I tell you—he that can lay hold of her
Shall have the chinks.
Rom. Is she a Capulet ?
O dear account! my life is my foe’s debt.
Ben. Away, be gone: the sport is at the best.

 

Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone:
We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.—
Is it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;
I thank you, honest gentlemen ; good night :—
More torches here !—Come on, then let’s to bed.
Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late ;
I'll to my rest. [Exeunt all but JULIET and Nurse.

Jul. Come piles, nurse. What is yond gentle-

man

Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. :

Jul. What’s he, that now is going out of door? 130

Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.

Jul. What’s he, that follows there, that would not

dance ?

Nurse. I know not.

Jul. Go, ask his name,.—If he be married,

My grave is like to be my wedding bed.
urse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague ;
The only son of your great enemy.

Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate!
Too early seen unknown, and known too late !
Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

That I must love a loathed enemy.

Nurse. What’s this? what’s this?

Jul. A rhyme I learn’d even now
Of one I danc’d withal. [One calls within, “Juliet.”

Nurse. Anon, anon :—

Come, let’s away ; the strangers all are gone.
[Exeunt.

140

Enter Chorus.

Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie,
And young affection gapes to be his heir:
That fair, for which love groan’d for, and would die,
With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.
Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,
Alike bewitched by the charm of looks ;
But to his foe suppos'’d he must complain,
And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:
Being held a foe, he may not have access
To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear ;
And she as much in love, her means much less
To meet her new-beloved anywhere:
But passion lends them power, time means to meet,
Tempering extremities with extremes sweet. ([Hzit.

 

 

 

 

ACT II.

Scene I.—An Open Place, adjoining CAPULET’s Garden.
Enter RoMEo.

; Romeo. .
AN I go forward, when my heart is

ere
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy
centre out.
[He climbs the wall, and leaps
down within it.

Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.

Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo!
Romeo!

 

Mer. He is wise $
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.

Ben. He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall.
Call, good Mercutio.
Mer. Nay, I'll conjure too.—
Romeo, humours, madman, passion, lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied ;
Cry but—Ah me! pronounce but—love and dove; 10
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim,
When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.—
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not ;

| The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.—

 

 
 

156 ROMEO AND JULIET. [Acr IL

 

Z

1

I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, ; To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip, ; ' What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, , The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars
-ind the demesnes that there adjacent lie, 20 . As daylight doth a lamp: her eye in heaven 26 |
That in thy likeness thou appear to us. | Would through the airy region stream so bright,

Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. — That birds would sing, and think it were not night.

Mer. This cannot anger him: ’t would anger him See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle QO! that I were a glove upon that hand,

Of some strange nature, letting it there stand That I might touch that cheek !
Till she had laid it, and conjur’d it down; Jul. Ah me!
That were some spite : my invocation ' Rom. She speaks :—
Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name, ' O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
I conjure only but to raise up him, As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,
Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees, As is a winged messenger of heaven
To be consorted with the humorous night: 31 | Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, 30
Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds,
Now will he sit under a medlar-tree, And sails upon the bosom of the air.
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit,

Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name:
' Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
Rom. Ltends. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at
is?

Jul. ’Tis but thy name, that is my enemy :

Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.
' What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, 40
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging toa man. O! be some other name.
What’s ina name? that which we call a rose,
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes,
Without that title.-—Romeo, doff thy name;
And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself!

Rom. I take thee at thy word.
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d; 50
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
Jul. Wiha aren art thou, that, thus bescreen’d in
night,
So stumblest on my counsel ?
Rom. By a name
I know not how to tell thee who Iam:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee:
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.

 

 

Rom. * Can I go forward, when my heart {s here?” Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Rom. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.— Jul. How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and where-

O Romeo! that she were, O! that she were
An open et cetera, thou a poprin pear!
Romeo, good night :—I’ll to my, truckle-bed ;

ore?
The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb;
And the place death, considering who thou art,

This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. 49 | If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
Come, shall we go? Rom. With love's light wings did I o’erperch these
Go, then ; for ’t is in vain | walls;

en.
To seek him here, that means not to be found. For stony limits cannot hold love out:
[Excunt. And what love can do, that dares love attempt ;
os , Therefore, thy kinsmen are no stop to me.
Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. 70
Rom. Alack! there lies more peril in thine eye,
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
Enter RoMEo. And I am proof against their enmity.
Rom. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound.— Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here,
JULIET appears above, at a window. Rom. I have night’s cloak to hide me from their
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun !—
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it of.—
It is my lady; O! it is my love:
O, that she knew she were !—
She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.—
Iam too bold, tis not to me she ppenks :
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes

Scene II.

 

eyes ;
And, but thou love me, let them find me here:
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. |
Jul. By whose direction found’st thou out this place?
Rom. By Love, that first did prompt me to inquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 81
Iam no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
Jul. Thou know’st the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, |
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!

e
>

 

 
 

 

Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,
My true love’s passion : therefore, pardon me ;
And not pape this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.

Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
Thst tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, —

sil

5 WAT
Be
| a esl

tiki

| i i

     

i

Hi

    
 

   

Jul. “O, swear not by the moon.”

Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb, 110
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Rom. What shall I swear by?
Do not swear at all;

Jul.
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,

And I’ll believe thee.

Rom. If my heart’s dear love—

Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,
Ihave no joy of this contract to-night :
It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden ;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
Ere one can say, it lightens. Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer’s oe breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we mect.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast !

Rom. O! wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? |

Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ?

Rom. The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for

mine,

Jul. I ee thee mine before thou didst request it ;

And yet I would it were to give again.

120

love?
Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have.
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

: [Nurse calls within.

 

Rom. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what PS

 

Scene IIT.) ROMEO AND JULIET. 157
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say—Ay; 90 | I hear some noise within : dear love, adieu !—

And I will take thy word; yet, if thou swear’st, Anon, good nurse !—Sweet Montague, be true.

Thou may’st prove false : at lovers’ perjuries, Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo! Rom. O blessed, blessed night! Iam afeard,

If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully: Being in night, all this is but a dream, 140
Or if thou think’st I am too quickly won, Too tlattering-sweet to be substantial.

I ll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,

So ihow walt ve po alse, not en the world. Re-enter JULIET, above.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, ul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good ni
And therefore thou may’st think my haviour light : o niece. ee Aah
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true 100 | If that thy bent of love be honourable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that Ill procure to come to thee,

Where, and what time, thou wilt Herm the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,

And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

Nurse. [Within.| Madam!

Jul. I come, anon.—But if thou mean’st not well, 150
I do beseech thee—

Nurse. [Within.] Madam!

Jul. By-and-by ; I come.—
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send,

Rom. So thrive my soul,—

Jul. A thousand times good night ! [E£zit.

Rom. a Laas times the worse, to want thy

ight.—
Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their
ooks ;
But love from love, toward school with Tey looks.
[Retiring.
Re-enter JULIET, above.

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist !—O, for a falconer’s voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again !
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud; 160
Else would I tear the cave where cho lies,

And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo’s name.

Rom. It is my soul, that calls upon my name :

How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears !
Jul. Romeo!

Rom. My dear ?

Jil. What o’clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?

Rom. y the hour of nine.

Jul. I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here, till thou remember it.

Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.

Rom. And I’11 still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul. ’Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone :

And yet no further than a wanton’s bird,
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Rom. I would, I were thy bird.

18)

Jul. Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night : parune is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night, tillit be morrow. [Erit.
Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy
breast !—
*Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Ecit.

ScENE III.—Friar LAURENCE’s Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE, with a basket.

Fri. The piey-8ya. morn smiles on the frowning
night,

Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light ;

And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels

From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels:

Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye

 

 
 

 

158

The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry,

I must up-fill this osier cage of ours

With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers.

The earth, that’s nature’s mother, ig her tomb ;
What is her burying grave, that is her womb; 10
And from her womb children of divers kind

We sucking on her natural bosom find :

Many for many virtues excellent,

None but for some, and yet all ditferent.

O! mickle is the powerful grace that lies

In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities :

For nought so vile that on the earth doth live,

But to the earth some special good doth give ;

Nor aught so good, but, strain’d from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : ¢
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,

And vice sometime’s by action dignified.

Within the infant rind of this weak flower

Poison hath residence, and medicine power :

For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each

art 5
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs,—grace, and rude will ;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. 30

finter ROMEO.

Rom. Good morrow, father!
Fri. Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper’d head,
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed :
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie ;
But where unbruised youth with unstutf’'d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore, thy earliness doth me assure,
Thou art up-rous’d by some distemperature : 40
Or if not so, than here [ hit it right, —
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
Rom. That last is true ; the sweeter rest was mine.
Fri. God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.
Fri. That’s my good son: but where hast thou
been, then?
Rom. I'll tell thee, ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy ;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me, 50
That's by me wounded : both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies:
I bear no hatred, blessed man ; for, lo!
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift ;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Rom. Then plainly know, my heart’s dear love is

set.

On the fair daughter of rich Capulet :
As mine on hers, so hers is set_on mine ;
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine 60
By holy marriage. When, and where, and how,
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.

Fri. Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here !
Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men’s loye, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! what a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline ! 70
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste !
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears;
Lo! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.
If e’er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline :
And art thou chang’d? pronounce this sentence,

then,-—
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men. 80

ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

[Act II.

Rom. Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Fri. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
fiom. And bad’st me bury love.
Fri. ; Not in a grave,
To lay one in, another out to have.
Rom. I pray thee, chide me not: her I love now
Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow:
The other did not so.
Fri. . O! she knew well,
Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come, go with me,
In one respect I’ll thy assistant be ; 90
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.
Rom. O! let us hence; I stand on sudden haste,
Fri, Wisely, and slow: they stumble that run fast,

[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—A Street.

Enter BENVOLIO and MERCUTIO.

Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be ?—
Came he not home to-night ?

Ben. Not to his father’s: I spoke with his man.

Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench,

that Rosaline,
Torments him so, that he will sure run mad.

Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.

Mer. A pelle on my life.

Ben. Romeo will answer it.

Mer. Any man, that can write, may answer a
letter. i

Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how
he dares, being dared.

Mer. Alas, poor Romeo! he is already dead; stabbed
with a white wench’s black eye; run thorough the ear
witha div G-s0ng 5 the very pin of his heart cleft with
the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft; and is he a man to
encounter Tybalt ?

Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? 19

Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O!
he is the courageous captain of complements. He
fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance,
and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and
the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk
button, a duellist, a duellist ; a gentleman of the very
first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the
immortal passado! the punto reverso ! the hay !—

Ben. The what ?

Mer. The pox of such antick, lisping, affecting fan-
tasticoes, these new tuners of accents !—‘‘ By Jesu, a
very good blade!—a very tall man!—a very good
whore !”— Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grand-
sire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange
flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-mois,
who stand so much on the new form, that they can-
ne sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their

ons !

Enter ROMEO.

Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. 38

‘Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring.—O flesh,
flesh, how art thou fish:fied!—Now is he for the
numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura, to his lady,
was a kitchen-wench ; marry, she hada better love to
be-rhyme her; Dido, a dowdy ; Cleopatra, a gipsy;
Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots ; 'Thisbe, a grey
eye or so, but not to the purpose.—Signior Romeo,
bon jour ! there’s a French salutation to your French
Blgy You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. ,

om. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit

did I give you? ;

Mer. The slip, sir, the slip: can you not conceive? 50

Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was
great; and in such a case as mine, a man may strain
courtesy.

Mer. That’s as much as to say—such w case as
yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.

Rom. Meaning—to court’sy.

 

 
 

Scene IV.]

ROMEO AND JULIET. 159

 

 

Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it.

Rom. A most courteous exposition.

Mer. Nay, Lam the very pink of courtesy.

Rom. Pink for flower. 60

Mer. Right. ;

Rom. Why, then is my pump well flowered.

Mer. Sure wit: follow me this jest now, till thou
hast worn out thy pump ; that, when the single sole of
it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing,
solely singular. :

Rom. O single-soled jest! solely singular for the
singleness.

Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wit
faints. : : 70

Rom. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; or I'll
cry a match. i ee

Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am
done; for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of
thy wits, than, I am sure, I have in my whole tive.
Was I with you there for the goose ?

Rom, Thou wast never with me for anything, when
thou wast not there for the goose.

Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.

Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not. 80

Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter-sweeting ; it is a most
sharp sauce.

Rom. And is it not well served in to a sweet goose ?

Mer. O! here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from
an inch narrow to an ell broad.

Rom. I stretch it out for that word—broad: which
added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad
goose. 88

Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for
love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo;
now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by
nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural,
re runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble ina

ole.

Ben. Stop there, stop there.

Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against
the hair.

Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.

Mer. O, thou art deceived! I would have made
it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my
tale and meant, indeed, to occupy the argument no
longer. 2

Rom. Here’s goodly gear!

Enter Nurse and PETER.

Mer. A sail, a sail!

Ben. Two, two; a shirt, and a smock.

Nurse. Peter!

Peter. Anon?

Nurse. My fan, Peter.

Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face ; for her fan’s the
fairer face. 110

Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen.

Mer. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman.

Nurse. Is it good den?

Mer. ’Tis no less, I tell you; for the bawdy hand of
the dial is now upon the prick of noon.

Nurse. Out upon you! what a man are you?

Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made him-
self to mar.

Nurse. By my troth, it is well said ;—for himself to
mar, quoth ’a ?—Gentlemen, can any of you tell me
where I may find the young Romeo? 121

fom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older
when you have found him, than he was when you
sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for
fault of a worse.

Nurse. You say well.

Mer. Yea! is the worst well? very well took, i’
faith; wisely, wisely.

Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence
with you. 130

Ben. She will indite him to some supper.

Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! Soho!

. What hast thou found? an 7

Mer, No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie,
that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.

 

An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar,
Is very good meat in Lent:

But a hare that is hoar, is too much for a score,
When it hoars ere it be spent.—

Romeo, will you come to your father’s ? we ll to dinner
thither. 141

Rom, I will follow you.

Mer. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady,
ady, [EZxeunt MERCUTIO and BENVOLIO.

Nurse. Marry, farewell!—I pray you, sir, what
saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his
ropery ?

Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear him-
self talk; and will speak more in a minute, than he
will stand to in a month. 150

Nurse. An’a speak anything against me, I'll take
him down, an ’a were lustier than he is, and twenty
such Jacks; and if I cannot, I’ll find those that
shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I
aim none of his skains-mates.—And thou must stand
by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his
pleasure ? 2

Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I
had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I
warrant you. I dare draw as soon as. another man,
if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my
side. 162

Nurse. Now, afore God, Iam so vexed, that every
part about me quivers.—Scurvy knave !—Pray you,
sir,a word; and as I told you, my young lady bade
me inquire you out: what she bid me say, I will Hee
to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lea
her in a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very
gross kind of bebaviour, as they say: for the gentle-
woman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal
double with her, truly, it were an ill thing to be
offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.

Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress.
I protest unto thee,—

Nurse. Good heart! and, i’ faith, I will tell her as
much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman.

Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not
mark me.

Nurse. I will tell her, sir,—that you do protest ;
which, as J take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. 180

Rom. Bid her devise
Some means to come to shrift this afternoon ;

And there she shall at Friar Laurence’ cell
Be shriv’d, and married. Here is for thy pains.

Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny.

Rom. Go to; I say, you shall.

Nurse. This afternoon, sir? well,
there.

Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall :
Within this hour my man shall be with thee. 190
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair ;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.

Farewell !—Be trusty, and I'l] quite thy pains.
Farewell !—Commend me to thy mistress.
_Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee !—Hark you,

she shall be

sir.
Rom. What say’st thou, my dear nurse ?
Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away ? 200
Rom. I warrant thee ; my man’s as true as steel.
Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady
—Lord, Lord!—when ’t was a little prating thing,—
O!—There’s a nobleman in town, one Paris, that
would fain lay knife aboard ; but she, good soul, had
as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger
her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the je erer
man; but, I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks
as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not
rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter ? 210
Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? both withan R. |
Nurse. Ab, mocker! that’s the dog’s name. R is
for the——_ No: I knowit begins with some other
letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it,
wv you and rosemary, that it would do you good to
ear it.

 

 
 

160

ROMEO AND JULIET.

{Act IL.

 

Rom. Commend me to thy lady.
Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Zzit Romero.) Peter!
Peter. Anon?

Nurse. Before, and apace.

[Ereunt.

ScENE V.—CAPULET’s Garden.

Enter JULIET.
| Jul. The clock struck nine, when I did send the
nurse ;
| In half an hour’she promis’d to return.
Perchance, she cannot meet him :—that 's not so,.—
| Oh! she is lame: love’s heralds should be thoughts,
‘ Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams
Driving back shadows over louring hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
~ Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day’s journey ; and from nine till twelve 10

 

Jul. “Now, good sweet nurse,—O Lord! why look'st thou sad?”

Had she affections, and warm youthful blood,
She’d be as swift in motion as a ball;

My words would bandy her to my swect love,
And his tome:

But old folks, many feign as they were dead ;
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.

|
|
| Is three long hours,—yet she is not come.
|
|

Enter Nurse and PETER.
O God! she comes.—O honey nurse! what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. (£zit PETER.
Jul. Now, good sweet nurse,—O Lord! why look’st
thou sad? 21
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily ;
If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.
urse. Lam aweary, give me leave awhile.—
Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had!
Jul. I would, thou hadst my bones, af@ I
news:
Nay, come, L pity thee, speak ;—good, good nu
speak.
Nurse. Jesu, what haste! can you not stay awhile ?
Do you not see, that Iam out of breath ? 30
Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast

breat
To say to me—that thou art out of breath ?

 

 

The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.

Is thy news good, or bad? answer to that;
Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance.
Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?

Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you
know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he:
though his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg
excels all men’s; and for a hand. and a foot, and a
body,—though they be not to be talked on, yet they
are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy,—
but, I’ll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb.—Go thy
See serve God.—What, have you dined at

ome

Jul. No, no: but all this did I know before.

What says he of our marriage? what of that?

Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! what a head

have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. 50
My back o’ t’ other side.—O, my back, my back !—
Beshrew your heart, for sending me about,
To catch my death with jaunting up and down!

Jul. T faith, Iam sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, ae sweet nurse, tell me, what says my

ove?

Nurse. Your love says like an honest gentleman.
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,

And, I warrant, a virtuous :—Where is your mother?

Jul. Where is my mother ?—why, she is within;
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest: 60
“Your love says like an honest gentleman,—

Where is your mother?”

Nurse. O, God’s lady dear!
Are you so hot?. Marry, come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward do your messages yourself.

Jul, Here’s such a coil ;—come, what says Romeo?

Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?

Jul. [have.

Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence’ cell ;
There stays a husband to make you a wife: 7
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They'll bein scarlet straight at any news.

Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird’s nest soon, when it is dark;
Iam the drudge, and toil in your delight,
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
Go; [’ll to dinner: hie you to the cell.
Jul. Hie to high fortune !—Honest nurse, farewell.
[Ezeunt,

ScENE VI.— Friar LAURENCE's Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and RoMEo.

Fri. So smile the heavens upon this holy act,
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!

Rom. Amen, Amen! but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight :

Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare ;
It is enough I may but call her mine.

Fri. These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die: like tireand powder, 10
Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,

And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore, love moderately ; long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

Enter JUvIET.

thy | Here comes the lady.—O! so light a foot
1 ne'er wear out the everlasting flint:

over may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air, 20
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor. th
Fri. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
fom. Ah, Juliet! if the measure of thy joy

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE VI]

ROMEO AND JULIET.

161

 

Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue
Unfold the imagin’d happiness, that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, 30
Brags of his substance, not of ornament : !

They are but beggars that can count their worth ;
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
Fri. Come, come with me, and we will make short
work;
For, by your leaves, youshall not stay alone,

‘Till holy church incorporate two in one. [Exeunt.

 

ACT

   
 
 

y Benvolio.
PRAY thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
(® And, if we meet, we shall not’scape a

rawl ;
For now, these hot days, is the mad
lood stirring.

Mer. Thou art like one of those fellows
that, when he enters the confines of a
tavern, claps me his sword upon the
table and says, ‘‘God send me no need
of thee!” and, by the operation of the
second cup, draws it on the drawer,
when, indeed, there is no need. ll

Ben. Am I like such a fellow?

Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a
Jack in thy mood, as any in Italy; and
as soon moved to be moody, and as soon
\ moody to be moved.

Ben. And what too?

Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should have
none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou!
why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair
more, or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast.
Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts,
having no other reason, but because thou hast hazel
eyes. What eye, but such an eye, would spy out such
aquarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels, as an egg
is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as
addle as an egg for eioawell lies Thou hast quarrelled
with a man for coughing in the street, because he
hath wakened thy dog a hath lain asleep in the
sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing
his new doublet before Easter? with another, for
tying his new shoes with old riband? and yet thou
wilt tutor me from quarrelling ! . 33

Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any
man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour
and a quarter.

Mer. The fee-simple? Osimple!

Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets.

Mer. By my heel, I care not.

Enter TYBaut and others.

Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them.— 40
Gentlemen, good den ! a word with one of you. .

 

Mer. And but one word with one of us? Coupl
with something ; make ita word anda blow. |

Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an
you will give me occasion. , ;

Mer. Could you not take some occasion without
giving?

ape Mercutio, thou consort’st with Romeo,—

er. Consort! what! dost thou make us minstrels ?
an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing

  
  

a:
ScENE I.—A Public Place.
Enter MERCUTIO, BENVOLIO, Page, and Servants.

but discords : here’s my fiddlestick ; here’s that shall
make you dance. ’Zounds, consort! 52
Ben. We talk‘here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances ;
Or else depart ; here all eyes gaze on us.
Mer. Men’seyes were made tolook, and let them gaze:
I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.

Enter RoMEo.
Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my
man.

Mer. But I’ll be hang’d, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower ; 61
Your worship, in that sense, may call him—man.

Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this,—thou art a villain.

Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting :---villain am I none;

Therefore farewell; I see, thou know’st me not.

Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn, and draw. 70

Rom. I do protest, I never injur’d thee ;
But love thee better than thou canst devise,
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
And so, good Capulet, which name I tender
As dearly as mine own,—be satisfied.

Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission !

Alla stoccata carries it away. Draws.
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk ?
Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me? 79

Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your
nine lives; that Imean to make bold withal, and, as
you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the
eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher
by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears
ere it be out.

Tyb. 1am for you. L

Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [They fight.

Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.—
Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage !— 90
Tybalt,— Mercutio, —the prince expressly hath

Drawing.

Forbidden bandying in Verona streets.—
Hold, Typalt !_good Mercutio!
[Exeunt TyBaLt and his Partisans.

er. Iam hurt.—
lague o’ both the houses !—I am sped :—
e gone, and hath nothing?

What! art thou hurt?

Ben. t
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ‘tis

Is

enough.—
Where is my page ?—Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
[Exit Page.

 

It

 
 

 

 

162

Rom. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

Mer. No, ‘tis not so deep asa well, nor so wide as a
church-door; but ’tis enough, ’t will serve: ask for
me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I
am peppered, I warrant, for this world.—A plague o
both your houses!—’Zounds! a dog, a rat, a mouse, a
cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a
villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic !—Why
the devil came you between us? I was hurt under
your arm.

Rom. I thought all for the best. i

Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio,

Or I shall faint.— A plague o' both your houses! 110

   
  

 

  

i TT as
) |_JLB &
jee te

Rom. ‘This shall determine that.”

They have made worms’ meat of me: I have it,
And soundly too.:—your houses !
[Exreunt MERcUTIO and BENVOLIO,
Rom. This gentleman, the prince’s near ally,
My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt
In my behalf; my reputation stain’d
With Tybalt’s slander, Tybalt, that an hour
Hath been my cousin.—O sweet Juliet !
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate,
And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.

Re-enter BENVOLIO.

Ben. O Romeo, Romeo! brave Mercutio’s dead; 120
That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
Rom. This day’s black fate on more days doth
3 depend ;
This but begins the woe, others must end.

Re-enter TYBALT.

Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
fom. Alive! in triumph! and Mercutio slain!

Away to heaven, respective lenity,

And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now !—

Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again,

That late thou gay’st me; for Mercutio’s soul

Is but a little way above our heads,

Staying for thine to reoP him company:

Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.

130

ROMEO AND JULIET.

 

[Acr 0

Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,

Shalt with him hence.
kom. This shall determine that.
(They fight; TyBaut falls,
Ben. Romeo, away ! be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain :—
Stand not amaz’d :—the prince will doom thee death,
If thou art taken :—hence !—be gone !~away !
Rom. O, [am fortune’s fool! =
Ben. Why dost thou'stay? 140

Enter Citizens, &c. [Eenlt HOMES.
1 Cit. Which way ran he, that. kill’d Mercutio? ~
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran het 3
Ben. There lies that Tybalt. ES
1 Cit. p, sir :—go with me;
I charge thee in the prince’s name; obey.’ ;

Enter PRINCE, attended; MONTAGUE, CaPu-
LET, their Wives, and others.
Prin. Where are the vile beginners of this
Tay
Ben. O male prince! I can discover all
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.
La. Cap. Tybalt, my cousin! —O
brother's child ! 130
O prince! O cousin! husband! O, the blood
is spill’d
Of my dear kinsman !—Prince, as thou art

my

rue,

For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague.—
O cousin, cousin! :

Prin. Benvolio, who began this bloody

fray .
Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s
hand did slay :
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bade him bethink
How nice the quarrel was ; and urg’d withal
Your high displeasure :—all this, uttered
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly
bow’'d, 160
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
Ot Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast;
Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand

beats
Cold death aside, and with the other sends
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity

Retorts it. omeo he cries aloud,

“Hold, friends! friends, part!” and, swifter than his
tongue, . .

His agile arm beats down their fatal points, 170

And ’twixt them rushes ; underneath whose arm
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life

Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled ;

But by-and-by comes back to Romeo,

Who had but newly entertain’d revenge,

And to’t they go like lightning ; for ere I ‘
Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain ;
And as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly.

This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.

La. Cap. He is a kinsman to the Montague ; 180
Affection makes him false, he speaks not true:
Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,
And all those twenty could but kill one life. |
I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give:
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.

Prin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio ;

Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? |

Mon. Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;
His fault concludes but what the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.

rin. And for that offence, 190
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding, |.
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding ;
But I'l] amerce you with so strong a fine,
That you shall all repent the loss of mine.
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

ROMEO AND JULIET.

163

 

Nor tears, nor prayers, shall purchase out abuses ;

Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste,

Else, when he’s found, that hour is his last.

Bear hence this body, and attend our will:

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
[Exeunt.

200

). (SCENE. II.—A Room in CAPULET’s House.
Enter JULIET.

Jul, Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phcebus’ lodging ; such a waggoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,

And, bring in cloudy night immediately.—
Spread. thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That rina wars’ eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk’d-of, and unseen !—
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites

By their own beauties ; or, if love be blind,

It best agrees with night.—Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,

And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods :
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty. ;

Come, night ! come, Romeo! come, thou day in night!
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night

Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.—_
Come, gentle night ; come, loving, black-brow’d night,
Give me my Romeo: and, when he shall die, 21
Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine,

That all the world will be in love with night,

And pay no worship to the garish sun.—

O, I have bought the mansion of a love,

But not possess’d it ; and though I am sold,

Not yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day,

As is the night before some festival

To an impatient child that hath new robes, 30
And may not wear them. O! here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue, that speaks
But Romeo’s name, speaks heavenly eloquence.

rhlfiagl

10

Enter Nurse, with cords.
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the

cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch?
Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords.
iz hrows them down.
Jul. Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy

hands
Nurse. Ah, jwell-a-day ! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s
ead !

Weare undone, lady, we are undone !—
Alack the day !—he’s gone, he’s killed, he’s dead !

Jul. Can Heaven be so envious?

Nurse. Romeo can,
Though Heaven cannot.—O, Romeo, Romeo—
Who ever would have thought it ?—Romeo—

Jul. What devil art thou, that dost torment me

40

thus ?
This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but J,
And that bare vowel, J, shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice: ‘
Iam not I, if there be such an J;
Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer, I.
If he be slain, say—J; or if not,—no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,—
God save the mark !—here on his manly breast :
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse ;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,
Allin gore blood ;—I swounded at the sight.
Jul. O, break, my heart !—poor bankrout, break at
once!
To prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty !
ile earth, to earth resign; end motion here,
And thou, and Romeo, press one heavy bier!

50

60

 

Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt ! the best friend I had:
O courteous Tybalt ! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
Jul. What storm is this, that blows so contrary ?
Is Romeo slaughter’d? and is Tybalt dead ?
My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord ?—
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom
For who is living, if those two are gone?
Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo, that kill’d him, he is banished. 70
Jul. O God!—did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt’s
blood?
Nurse. It did, it did: alas the day! it did.
Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a trlowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical !
Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show !
Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st;
A damned saint, an honourable villain !—
O nature! what hadst thou to do in hell,
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh ?—
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace !
iVurse.

80

There’s no trust,

' No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur’d,

All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.—
Ah! where’s my man? give me some aqua vite :—
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Romeo!
Jul. Blister’d be thy tongue 90
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is asham’'d to sit ;
For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide at him!
Nurse, Will you speak well of him that kill’d your
cousin ? :
Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband ?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy
name,
When I, thy three-hours’ wife, have mangled it?—
But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? 100
That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband:
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring ;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain ;
And TyPae a dead, that would have slain my hus-
and,
All this is comfort ; wherefore weep I then ?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,
That murder’d me. I would forget it fain ;
But, O! it presses to my memory,
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.
“Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished !”
That “ banished,” that one word * banished,”
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or,—if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,—
Why follow’d not, when she said—Tybalt’s dead,
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have mov’d ?
But, with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,
“Romeo is banished !”—to speak that. word,
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead :—‘‘ Romeo is banished ! ”—
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word’s death ; no words can that woe sound.—
Where is my father, and my mother, nurse ?
Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse:
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall
be spent, 130
When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment. |
Take up those cords.—Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,
Both you and I, for Romeo is exil’d:
He made you for a highway to my bed,
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.

110

120

 
 

 

164

ROMEO AND JULIET.

[Act III,

 

 

Come, cords; come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding-bed ;

And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead !
Nurse. Hie to your chainber; 1’ll tind Romeo

To comfort you :—I wot well where he is.

Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night:

L’l to him; he is hid at Laurence’ cell. .
Jul. O, tind him! give this ring to my true knight,

And bid him come to take his last farewell. [Hxeunt.

140

Scene III.--Friar LAURENCE’s Cell.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and ROMEO.
Fri. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful
man:
Affliction is enamour’d of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity. . :
Rom. Father, what news? what is the prince's
doom ?
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That L yet know not?
fri. Too familiar
Is my dear son with such sour company:
I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom. :
Rom. What less than doomsday is the prince’s
doom? he
Fri. A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, 10
Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.
Rom. Ha! banishment? be merciful, say—death ;
For exile hath more terror in: his look,
Much more than death: do not say—banishment.
Fri, Here from Verona art thou banished.
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
Rom. There is no world without Verona walls ;
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence banished is banish’d trom the world,
And world’s exile is death ;—then ** banished ” 20
Is death mis-term’d. Calling death--‘* banished,”
Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.
Fri, O deadly sin! O rude unthanktulness !
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,

' Taking thy part, hath rush’d aside the law,

And turn’d that black word death to banishment :
This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not.
Rom, ’T is torture, and not mercy ; heaven is here,

' Where Juliet lives ; and every cat, and dog,

And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven, and may look on her;
But Romeo may not.—More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies, than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,
And steal immortal blessing from her lips ;
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin ;
But Romeo may not; he is banished. 40
Flies may do this, but I from this must fly :
They are free men, but I am banished.
And say'st thou yet, that exile is not death?
Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,
But—‘ banished ”—to kil] me? “ Banished?”
O ftiar ! the damned use that word in hell;
Howling attends it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d, 50
To mangle me with that word—“ banished ?”
fri, Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak.
Rom._O! thou wilt speak again of banishment.
Fri. 11 give thee armour to keep off that word ;
Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.
Rom. Yet “ banished ?”—Hang up philosophy !
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,

| It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more. 60

frri. O.! then I see that madmen have no ears.

Rom. How should they, when that wise men have
no eyes?

Fri. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.

 

Rom. That canst not speak of that thou dost not
ee

Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,

An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,

Doting like me, and like me banished,

‘rhen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy

hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
‘raking the measure of an unmade grave. 70
y ; [Knocking within.
Fri. Arise; one knocks: good Romeo, hide thyselt,
Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heart-sick groans,
Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes.
: [Knocking.
Fri. Hark, how they knock!— Whos there?
tomeo, arise ;

   

Fri, “ There on the ground, with bis own tears made drunk.”,

Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up;
[inocking.
Run to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will!
What simpleness is this !—I come, I come.
[Knocking.
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what’s
your will?
Nurse. [Within.] Let me come in, and you shall
know my errand:
I come from Lady Juliet.
Fri. Welcome then. 80

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady’s lord? where’s Romeo?

Fri. There on the ground, with his own tears made

drunk. i

Nurse. O! he is even in my mistress’ case, aug
Just in her case. O woful sympathy ! i
Piteous predicament! Even so lies she, ce! wie
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering,—;;

Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man: at
For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand ; oh
Why should you fall into so deep an 0? “9
Rom, Nurse! a
Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir!— Well, death’s the end.
0. Fi % 4

 
 

 

oe Vv.)

ROMEO AND JULIET. 195

 

Rom. Spak’st thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth she not think me an old murderer,
Now I have stain‘d the childhood of our joy
With blood remov’d but little from her own?
Where is she? and how doth she? and what says
My conceal'd lady to our cancell’d love?
Mi urse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and
weeps;
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up; 100
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
And then down falls again.
Rom. As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand
Murder’d her kinsman.—0O, tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part’ of this anatomy ‘
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
‘The hateful mansion. [Drawing his sword.
Fri. Hold thy desperate hand :
Art thou a man? thy form cries out, thou art;
Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts denote
Tne unreasonable fury of a beast :
Unseemly woman, in a seeming man;
And ill-beseeming beast, in seeming both !
Thou hast amaz’d me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper’d.
Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives,
By doing damned hate upon thyself ?
Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth ?
Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst lose. 121
Fie, fie ! thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit ;
Which, like an usurer, abound’st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man:
Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish:
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, 130
Misshapen in the conduct of them both, ‘
Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.
What! rouse thee, man; thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead ;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kit! thee,
But thou slew’st Tybalt ; there art thou happy too:
The law, that threaten’d death, becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy: 140
A pack of blessings light upon thy back ;
Happiness courts thee in her best array ;
But, like a misbehav’d and sullen wench,
Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy Jove.
Take heed, take heed, for such die miscrable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence, and comfort her ;
But, look, thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back,
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went’st forth in lamentation.—
| Go before, nurse : commend me to thy lady;
And_bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto:
Romeo is coming.
Nurse. O Lord ! I could have stay’d here all the
night,
To hear good counsel : O, what learning is !— 169
vty lord, I'll tell my lady you will come.
tom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. |
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [ Exit.
Rom. How well my comfort is reviv’d by this !
Fri. Go hence. Good night; and here stands all
nh your state :— .
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or'by the break of day disguis’d from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua: I'll find out your man,

110

And he shall signify from time to time 170

every good hap to you that chances here. .

Give me thy hand; ‘tis late: farewell; good night.
kom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me,

It were a grief, so brief to part with thee:

: Farewell. [Exeunt.

Scene IV.—A Room in CaPu_tet’s House.
Enter CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, and Paris.

Cap. Things have fall’n out, sir, so unluckily,
That we have had no time to move our daughter.
Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I:—well, we were born to die. —
*T is very late, she'll not come down to-night :
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo.—
Madam, good night : commend me to your daughter.
La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to-
morrow ; ‘ 10
To-night she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.
Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child’s love: I think, she will be rul’d
In all respects by me; nay, more, J doubt it not.
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed ;
#oqneant her here of my son Paris’ love,
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next—
But, soft: what day is this?

Par.
Cap. Monday? ha! ha!

soon ;
O’ Thursday let it be :—o’ Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.—
Will as be ready? do you like this haste?
We'll keep no great ado :—a friend, or two ;—
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much.
Therefore, we ‘ll have some half a dozen friends,
And there anend. But what say you to Thursday ?
Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-
morrow.
Cap. Well, get you gone:
then.—
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife. agains’ this ee
Farewell, my lord.— ight to my chamber, ho!
Afore me! it is so very late, that we
May call it early by-and-by.—Good night.

Monday, my lord.
Well, Wednesday is too

20

—o’ Thursday be it
30

[Exeunt.

ScENE V.—JuLiET’s Chamber.
Enter RoMEO and JULIET.

Jul. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day :
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear ;
Nightly she sings on yon eee 3
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:

I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet ; thou need'st not to be gone.

Rom. Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;

I am content, so thou wilt have it so.

I’ll say, yon grey is not the morning’s eye,

’T i3 but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow ;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:

10

20

 

I have more care to stay than will to go:--

=!

 
 

 

166 ROMEO AND JULIET,

[Act 10,

 

Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it s0.—
How is’t, my soul? let’s talk, it is not day.

Jul. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away !
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,

Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.

 

Seca aamRnararener en
ftom. More light and light: more dark and dark
our woes.
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. Madam!
Jul. Nurse?

Rom. “ Yarewell, farewell! one kiss, and I'll descend.”

Some say, the lark makes sweet. division ;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:

Some say, the lark and loathed toad change eyes ;

O! now I would they had chang'd voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day.
OQ! now be gone: more light and light it grows.

The day is broke; be wary, look about.

Nurse. Your lady ‘mother’s coming to your
chamber:

40

[Exit

Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. f

Rom. Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and Ill descend.
[Descen

 

 
 

T

 

SCENE V.]

ROMEO AND JULIET.

167

 

Jul. Art thou gone so? love! lord! ay, husband,
friend!
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O! by this count I shall be much in years,
Ere I again behold my Romeo.
Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Jul. O! think’st thou, we shall ever meet again? 50
Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Jul. O God! I have an ill-divining soul:
Methinks, I see thee, now thou art so low,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! adieu! je
ul. O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him 60
That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long,
But send him back.
La, Cap. [Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Jul. Who is’t that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?

Enter Lady CAPULET.

La. Cap. Why, how now, Juliet ?

Jul. Madam, I am not well.

La. Cap. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?
What ! wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live :70
Therefore, have done. Some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.

La. Cap. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.

Jul. Feeling so the loss,

I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
La. Can. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for
his death,
As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.

Jul, What villain, madam ?

La. OR That same villain, Romeo.
Jul. Villain and he are many miles asunder. 80
God pardon him! Ido, with all my heart ;

And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.

La. Cap. That is, because the traitor murderer lives.

Jul, Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
’Would, none but I might venge my cousin’s death!

La. Cap. ave will have vengeance for it, fear thou

not:
Then weep no more. I’Il send to one in Mantua,—
Where that same banish’d runagate doth live,—
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram,
That he shall soon keep.Tybalt company:
And then, I hope, thou wilt be satistied.

Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo, till I behold him—dead—.

Is my poor heart, so for a kinsman vex’d.—
Madan, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet.—O! how my heart abhors
To hear him nam’d,--and cannot come to him,—
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him!
a. Cap. Find thou the means, and I’ll find sucha

90

100

man,
But now I ‘ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time.
What are ey
La. Cap. ¥
c *

One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,

Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy,

That thou expect’st not, nor I look’d not. for.
Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is that?

110
La. Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thursday

I beseech your ladyship ?
ell, well, thou hast a careful father,

morn,
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman.

 

The County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Jul. Now, by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste ; that I must wed
Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet ; and, when I do, I swear,
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris.—These are news indeed!
La, Cap. Here comes your father ; tell him so your-

self,
And see how he will take it at your hands.

Enter CAPULET and Nurse.

Cap. When the sun sets, the earth doth drizzle dew;
But tor the sunset of my brother’s son,
It rains downright.—
How now ? a conduit, girl? what! still in tears? »
kvermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears ; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs :
Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them.
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-lossed body.—How now, wife?
Have you deliver’d to her our decree?

La. Cap. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you

thanks.

I would, the fool were married to her grave!

Cap. Soft, take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks ?141
Is she not proud? doth sbe not count her bless’d,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

ul. Net proud, you have; but thankful, that you
ave:
Proud can I never be of what I hate ;
But thankful even for hate, that is meant love.
Cap. How now! how now, chop-logic! What is

this?
“Proud,’—and “I thank you,”—and “I thank you
not; ”-—
And yet ‘not proud ;”~-mistress minion, you, 150
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next,
Yo go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage !
You tallow-face!
La. Cap. Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient
wretch !
I tell thee what,—get thee to church o’ Thursday, 160
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch.—Wife, we scarce thought us bless’d,
That God had lent us but this only child ;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her.
Out on her, hilding!
Nurse, God in heaven bless her !—
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
Cap. And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence : smatter with your gossips; go. 170
Nurse. I speak no treason.
Cap. O! God ye good den.
Nurse. May not one speak?
Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,
For here we need it not.
La. Cap. You are too hot.
Cap. God’s bread! it makes me mad.
Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match'd; and having now provided
A gentleman of noble perenlene,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d,
Stuff’d (as they say) with honourable parts,

120

130

180

 

 
 

 

168

ROMEO AND JULIET.

[Act Iv,

 

Proportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,—
‘And then to have a wretched puling fool,

A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender, h

To answer—‘‘ I'l not wed,”—‘‘ I cannot love,”—

iit

--
vl

Ate

  

Jul. ‘‘ Good father, I beseech you on my knees.”

“‘T am too young,”—“‘I
But, an you will not we
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise. 190
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend ;

‘An you be not, hang, beg, starve, dic i’ the strects,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,

prey you, nator me ;"—
, I'll pardon you;

 

 

Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to’t, bethink you, Ill not be forsworn.
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,

That sees into the bottom of my grief?—
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away !
Delay this marriage for a month, a week ;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed 200
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
La. Cap. Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [Ezit.
Jul. O God !—O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven; |. ,
How shall that faith return again to earth, é
Unless that husband send it me from heaven;
By leaving earth ?—comfort me, counsel me,— 4
Alack, alack ! that Heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself !— ae
hat say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy? ,.;
Some comfort, nurse, aa
Nurse. Faith, here it is. =
Romeo is banished ; and all the world to nothing, ;
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you; | ;
Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. ‘
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O! he’s a lovely gentleman ;
Romeo’s a dishclout to him: an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye,
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
1 think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or ’t were as good he were,
As living here and you no use of him.
Jul, Speakest thou from thy heart ?
Nurse. went from my soul too; else beshrew them
oth,
Jul. Amen!
Nurse. What? i
Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous
much. i
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, tia
Having displeas’d my father, to Laurence’ cell , | |:
To make confession, and to be absolv’d. Vi
(Bait

[Exit.

220

Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.
Jul. Ancient damnation ! O most wicked fien
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais’d him with above compare
So many thousand times ?—Go, counsellor ;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.— 240
I'll to the friar, to know his remedy : :
If all else fail, myself have power to die. [ Exit.

 

ACT IV.

ScEeneE I.—Friar LAURENCE’S Cell.
Enter Friar LAURENCE and PARIS.

Friar.
YN Thursday, sir? the time is very short.
Par. My father Capulet will have it so:
And I am nothing slow, to slack his
haste.
“\ Fri. You say, you do not know the
lady’s mind: .
Uneven is the course, I like it not. :
Par. Immoderately she weeps tor ‘Tybalt’s

death,
And therefore have I little talk’d of love;

 
  

For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.

Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous,

That she doth give her sorrow so much sway

And in his wisdom hastes our marriage,

To stop the inundation of her tears ;

Which, too much minded by herself alone,

May be put from her by society.

Now do you know the reason of this haste. ]
Fri. Latsiaes| would I knew not why it should be

slow'd.
Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell.

 
 

 

Scene II]

ROMEO AND JULIET. 168

 

Enter JULIET.

Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife!

Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.

Par. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday
20

next.
Jul. What must be shall be.
Fri. That’s a certain text,
Par. Come you to make confession to this father?
Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you.
Par. Do not deny to him, that you love me.
Jul. I will confess 'to you, that [ love him.
Par. So will ye, Iam sure, that you love me.
Jul. If 1 do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back, than to your face.
(Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.
' Jul, The tears have got small victory by that; — 30
For it was bad enough before their spite.
Par. Thou wrong’st it, more than tears, with that
report.
Jil. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth ;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.
Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own,—
Are you at leisure, holy father, now,
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?
Fri. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.-—-
My lord, we must entreat the time alone. 40
Par, God shield, I should disturb devotion !—
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. [Exit.
Jul. O! shut the door; and when thou hast done

so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!
Fri. Ah, Juliet! I already know thy grief ;
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
[hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.
Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this, 59
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I'll help it presently.
God join’d my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands ;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both.
Therefore, out of thy long experienc’d time, 60
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
*Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire ; arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak ; I long to die,
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.
Fri. Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is desperate which we would prevent. 70
If, rather than to marry County Paris,
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
Thou cop’st with death himself to ‘scape from it ;
And, if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.
Jul. O! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are ; pain me with roaring bears ; 80
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,
Q’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,
With reeky shanks, and yellow chapless skulls ;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud :
Things that, to hear them told, have made me

tremble ;
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.

Fri, Hold, then 3 po. home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris. ednesday is to-morrow ; 90
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,

Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber :

 

Take thou this vial, being then in bed,

And this distilled liquor drink thou oif ;

When, presently, through all thy veins shall run

A cold and drowsy humour ; for no pulse

Shall keep his native progress, but surcease :

No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest ;

The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade

To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, 109
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life ;
Each part, depriv’d of supple government,

Shall, stitf and stark and cold, appear like death :
And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two and forty hours,

And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.

Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
‘Lo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead :
‘Then, as the manner of our country is,

In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier,

‘hou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault,
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.

110

 

Jul. “ Farewell, dear father.”

In the meantime, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift ;.
And hither shall he come, and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame,
If no unconstant toy, nor womanish fear,
Abate thy valour in the acting it.

Jul. Give me, give me! O! tell not me of fear.

Fri. Hold; get you gone: be strong and prosperous
In this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.

Jul. Love, give me strength! and strength shall

help afford.

Farewell, dear father.

120

(Exeunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in CAPULET'S House.

Enter CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, Nurse, and
Servants.
Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ.—
[Fait Servant.
Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. ‘
Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if
they can lick their fingers.
pap How canst thou try them so? :
2 Serv. Marry, sir, tis an ill cook that cannot lick

 
 

 

170

ROMEO AND JULIET.

[Act Iv,

 

his own fingers: therefore, he that cannot lick his
fingers goes not with me. :

Cap. Go, be gone.— _ [Exit Servant.
We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.— 10
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence?

Nurse. a torsooth.

Cap. Well, he may chance to do some good on her :
A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.

Enter JULIET.
Nurse. See, where she comes from shrift with merry
ook.
Cap. How now, my headstrong? where have you
been gadding ? :
Jul. Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin
Of disobedient opposition oes
To you and your behests ; and am enjoin’d
By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here, 20
To beg your pardon.—Pardon, I beseech you:
Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you. ‘
Cap. Send for the county : go tell him of this;
I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.
Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence’ cell ;
And gave him what becomed love I might,
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.
Cap. hy, [am glad on’t; this is well,—stand up:
This is as’t should be.—Let me see the county:
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.— 30
Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar,
All our whole city is much bound to him.
Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet,
To help me sort such needful ornaments
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? sree
La. Cap. No, not till Thursday: there is time
enough.
Cap. Go, nurse, go with her.—We’ll to church to-
morrow. (Excunt JULIET and Nurse.
La. Cap. We shall be short in our provision :
’T is now near night.
Cap. Tush! I will stir about,
And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. 40
Go thou to Juliet; help to deck up her:
I'll not to bed to-night ;—let me alone ;
I'll play the housewife for this once.— What, ho !—
They are all forth: well, I will walk myself
To County Paris, to prepare him up
Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light,
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd.
[Exeunt.

Scene III.—JULret’s Chamber.

Enter JULIET and Nurse.

Jul. Ay, those attires are best :—but, gentle nurse,
I pray thee, leave me to mysclf to-night ;
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.

Enter Lady CAPULET.
La. Cap. What, are you busy, ho? need you my
elp?

Jul. No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now he left alone, ;
And let the nurse this night sit up with you; 10
For, Lam sure, you have your hands full all
In this so sudden business.

La. Cap. Good night :
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.

[Hreunt Lady CAPULET and Nurse.
Jul. Farewell!—God knows when we shall meet
again.

T have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins,
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I'll call them back again to comfort me. —
Nurse !—What should she do here ?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.
Come, vial.— 20
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married then to-morrow morning ?—

 

No, no;—this shall forbid it Te thou Masel
aying down a da, i

What if it be a poison, which the friar oe
Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead,
Lest in this marrage he should be dishonour’d,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear, it is; and yet, methinks, it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man.—
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,1 30
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there’s‘a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ?
Or, if I live, is it not very like,
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,—
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for this many hundred years, the bones 40
Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies fest’ring in his shroud ; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort :—
Alack, alack ! is it not like, that I,
So early waking,—what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes’ torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad ;—
O! if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears, 50
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints,
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?
QO, look ! methinks, I see my cousin’s ghost
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Upon a rapier’s point.—Stay, Tybalt, stay !—
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.

[She throws herself on the bed.

 

Scene IV.—CapuLer’s Hall.

Enter Lady CaAPULET and Nurse.

La. Cap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more
spices, nurse.

Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter CAPULET.
Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! the second cock hath
crow’d,

The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock :—
Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica:
Spare not for cost.

Nurse. Go, go, you cot-quean, go;
Get you to bed: faith, you'll be sick to-morrow
For this night’s watching.

Cap. No, nota whit. What! I have watch’d ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. 0

La. Cap. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your

time;
But I will watch you from such watching now.
Exeunt Lady CAPULET and Nurse.
Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood !—Now, fellow,
What’s there ?

Enter Servants, with spits, logs, and baskets.
1 Serv. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not
what.
Cap. Make haste, make haste. [HZxit 1 Serv]-
Sirrah, fetch drier logs : :
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.
2 Serv. I have a head, sir, that will find out 108% :
And never trouble Peter for the matter. Exit.
Cap. "Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!
Thou shalt be logger-head.—Good faith! ‘tisday: 21
The county will be here with music straight, :
For so he said he would.—[Music within.] I hear him

near,.—
Nurse !—Wife !~What, ho !—What, nurse, I say!

Enter Nurse.
Go, waken Juliet; go, and trim her up:

 

 
 

 

Scenr V.]

ROMEO AND JULIET. 1

 

I'll go and chat with Paris.—Hie, make haste,
Make haste ; the bridegroom he is come already:
Make haste, I say.

 

ScENE V.—JULIET’s Chamber; JULIET on the bed.

Enter Nurse.
Nurse. Mistress !—what, mistress !—Juliet !—fast, I
warrant her, she :—
Why, lamb !—why, lady !—fie, you slug-a-bed !—
Why, 1Ore Say !—madam! sweet-heart !— why,
ride !—

What! not a word?—you take your pennyworths now:
Sleep for a week ; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest,
That you shall rest but little.—God forgive me,
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!
Ineeds must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!
Ay, let the county take you in your bed: 1
He'll fright you up, i’ faith.— Will it not be?
What, dress’d! and in your clothes! and down again !
I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady !—
Alas! alas !—Help! help! my lady’s dead !—
O, well-a-day, that ever I was born !—
Some aqua vitc, ho !—my lord, my lady !—

Enter Lady CAPULET.
La. Cap. What noise is here?

Nurse. O lamentable day !
La. Cap. What is the matter?
Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day!

La. Cap. Ome! O me!—my child, my only life,
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee !—
Help, help !—Call help.

Enter CAPULET.
Cap. For shame! bring Juliet forth; her lord is

come.
Nurse. She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead ; alack the
!

ay!
La. Cap. Alack the day! she’s dead, she’s dead,
she’s dead.
Cap. Ha! let me sec her.—Out, alas! she’s cold;
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff ;
Life and these lips have long been separated
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
urse. O lamentable day !

La. Cap. O woful time! 30
Cap. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me
wai

Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak.

Enter Friar LAURENCE and PaRIs, with Musicians.
Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church ?
Cap. Ready to go, but never to return.—
O son! the night before thy wedding-day
Hath Death lain with thy wife.—There she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded. I will die,
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death’s ! 40
Par. Have I thought long to see this morning’s face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
La. Cap. Accurs'd, happy, wretched, hateful day !
Most miserable hour, that e’er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight!
Nurse. O woe! -O woful, woful, woful day !
Most lamentable day, most woful day, .
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this
O woful day, O woful day!
Par, Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, ppied, slain !
Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown !—
O love! O life !—not life, but love in death!
Cap. Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d!

 

 

Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now 60
To murder, murder our solemnity ?—
O child! O child !—my soul, and not my child !-
Dead art thou !—alack ! my child is dead ;
And with my child my joys are buried.
Fri. Bose, ho! for shame! confusion’s cure lives
no
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid ; now Heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death,
But Heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion,
For 't was your heaven, she should be advane’d:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O! in this love, you love your child so ill,

il AX

Cup. “ There she lies, flower as she was.”

That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She’s not well married that lives married long ;
But she’s best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is, 80
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.
Cap. All things, that we ordained festival,
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments to melancholy bells ;
Our ant cee cheer to a sad burial feast ;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change ;
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary. 90
Fri. Sir, go you in;—and, madam, go with him ;—
And go, Sir Paris :—every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave.
The heavens do lour upon you, for some ill;
Move them no more, by crossing their high will.
[Exeunt CAPULET, Lady CAPULET, PaRIs, and
Friar. 8‘
1 Mus. ’Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be
one.
Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah! put up, put 8 .
For, well you know, this is a pitiful case. [Ezit.
1 Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.

Enter PETER.

Peter. Musicians, O, musicians! ‘“Heart’s ease,
Heart’s ease:” O!an you will have me live, play
“ Heart's ease.” 102

 

 
 

 

 

_
a
bw

ROMEO AND JULIET.

[Act Vv.

 

 

1 Mus. Why “ Heart's ease?”

Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays
—‘ My heart is full of woe.” O! play me some merry
dump, to comfort me.

2 Mus. Not a dump we: ‘tis no time to play

Peter. You will not then?

ius. No.

Peter. L will then give it you soundly.

1 Adus. What wil you give us ¢

Peter. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: I
will give you the minstrel.

1 Afus. ‘Then will I give you the serving-creaturc.

Peter. Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger
on your pate. 1 will carry no cro.chets: I’ re you,
L'il fa you. Do you note me ¢

1 Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.

Zz idus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out
your wit. lzt

Peter, Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-
beat you with an iron wit, and put up my irun aagger.
—.\nswer me like msn:

110

|

When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound—

Why ‘silver sound?” why “music with her silver

sound?” What say you, Simon Catling?
1 ane. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet
sound. 3

Peter, Pretty !—What say you, Hugh Rebeck?

2.Hus. I say—‘siiver sound,” because musicians
sound er silver. i

eter. Pretty too!—what say you, James Soundp

3 ulus. ’Faith, I know not hes to say. nue

Peter. O! Lt cry you mercy ; you are the singer: I
wul say for you. It is—** music with her silver sound,”
because musicians have no gold for sounding:—

Then music with her silver sound 10
With speedy help doth lend redress. [Ezit.

1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same!

2 wus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here <
tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. (Eczeunt,

 

 

 

 

ACT VY.
Scene I.—Mantua. <A Street.
Enter RoMzc.

Lf Romeo.
->"" I may trust the flattering truth of

slecp,
My dreams presage some joyful news
at hand.
My bosons lord sits lightly in his
t .

rone ;
And, all this day, an unaccustom’d

Spun

Lifts me above the ground with cheer-
ful thoughts.

I dreamt, my lady came and found me

ead ;

(Strange dream, that gives a dead man
leave to think!)

And breath’d such life with kisses in

my lips,
That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself pos-
‘ 10

sess'd,
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!

Enter BALTHASAR.
News from Verona !—How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How doth my Lady Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill if she be well.

Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill.

Her body sleeps in Capels’ monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,
And presently took post to tell it you.

O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.

Fom. Is it e’en so? then, I deny you, stars!
Thou know'st my lodging : get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses ; I will hence to-night.

Bal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience :
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Some misadventure.

20

|

 

 

Rom. Tush! thou art deceiv’d:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?

Bal. No, my good lord.

Rom. No matter; get thee gone,
And hire those horses: I’Ul be with thee straight.—

[Erit BALTHASAR.

Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. 7
Let ’s see for means :—O mischief! thou art swift
‘To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,
And hereabouts ’a dwells, which late I noted
In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of eae 3; meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones:
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stutf’d, and other skins
Of ill-shap’d fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty sceds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter’d to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said—
An if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua, __
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
O! this same thought did but forerun my need,
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house:
Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.—
What, ho! apothecary !

Enter Apothecary.
Ap. Who calls so loud?
Rom. Come hither, man.—I see, that thou art

poor;
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have
A dram of poison ; such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins,
That the life-weary taker may fall dead:
And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath

30

40

605

 

 
 

ScENE IIL]

ROMEO AND JULIET. 173

 

As violently, as hasty powder fir’d
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.
Ap. Such mortal drugs I have ; but Mantua’s law
Is death to any he that utters them.
Rom. Art thou so bare, and full of wretchedness,
And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, 70
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back ;
The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law:
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.
Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents.
Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.
Rom. There is thy gold; worse poison to men’s
: souls, > . 89
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou may’st not sell:
Isell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
Farewell ; buy food, and get thyself in flesh.—
Come, cordial, and not poison, go with me
To Jwiet’s grave, for there must I use thee. [Hxewnt.

Scrne II.—Friar LAURENCE’s Cell.

Enter Friar JOHN.
John. Holy Franciscan friar! brother! ho!

. Enter Friar LAURENCE.
_ Lau. This same should be the voice of Friar John.—
’ Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo ?
: Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.
| John. Going to find a bare-foot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
' Here in this city visiting the sick,
_ And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign, 10
Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth ;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.
Lau. Who bare my letter then to Romeo?
John. I could not send it, —here it is again, —
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.
Lau. Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,
The letter was not nice, but full of charge,
Of dear import; and the neglecting it

May do much danger. Friar John, go hence; 20
Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight
Unto my cell.

John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. [Exit.
Lau. Now must I to the monument alone;

Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake:

She will beshrew me much, that Romeo

Hath had no notice of these accidents ;

But I will write again to Mantua,

And keep her at my cell till Romeo come:

Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb! iz 0

xt

 

ScENE JII.—A Churchyard ; in it a Monument
belonging to the CAPULETS.

Enter Paris, and his 786: bearing flowers and a
torch.
Par. Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand

aloof ;
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground:
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,
Being loose, unfirm with digging up of graves,
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
8 signal that thou hear’st something approach.
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee; go.
Page. Iam almost afraid to stand alone _ 10
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [Retires.

 

- What said my man, when m:

 

Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I
strew,
(O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones !)
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew,
Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep,
Nightly shall be, to strew thy grave and weep !—
[The Boy whistles.
The boy gives warning something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
‘To cross my obsequies, and true love’s rite ? 20
What! with a torch ?—muttle me, night, awhile.
|Retires.

Enter RoMEO and BALTHASAR, with a torch,
mattock, &c.
Rom. Give me that mattock, and the wrenching

iron.
Hold, take this letter: early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloot,
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death,
Is, partly, to behold my lady’s face ;
But, chiefly, to take thence from her dead finger 30
A precious ring, a ring that I must use
In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone:
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By Heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.
The time and my intents are savage-wild,
More fierce, and more inexorable far,
Than empty tigers, or the roaring sea.

Bal. Iwill be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 40
Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship.—Take
thou that:

Live, and be prosperous ; and farewell, good fellow.
Bal. For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout :
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. Retires.
Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
[Breaking open the door of the monument.
And, in despite, I’l] cram thee with more food !
Par. This is that banish’d haughty Montague,
That murder’d my love’s cousin, —with which grief, 59
It is supposed, the fair creature died,—
And here is come to do some villainous shame
To the dead bodies : I will apprehend him.
. [Advancing.
Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.
Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death ?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee :
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
Rom. I must, indeed ; and therefore came I hither.—
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man ;
Fly hence, and leave me :—think upon these gone; 60
Let them affright thee.—I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head,
By urging me to fury :—O, be gone!
By Heaven, I love thee better than myself,
For I come hither arm’d against myself :
Stay not, be gone ;—live, and hereafter say—
A madman’s mercy bade thee run away.
Par. I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.
Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? then, have at thee,
0

boy. 7
‘ [They fight.
Page. O Lord! they fight: I will go call the watch.

[Exit.
Par. O! Lam slain. [Faills.]—If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. Dies.
Rom. In faith, I will.—Let me peruse this face :—
Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris !--
betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think,
He told me, Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, 80

 

 
 

 

174

ROMEO AND JULIET.

[Act V,

 

To think it was so?—O! give me thy hand,

One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book !

I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave.—

A grave? O, no! a lantern, slaughter’d youth,

For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes

This vault a feasting presence full of lignt.

Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.

[Laying Paris in the monument.

How oft, when men are at the point of death,

Have they been merry! which their keepers call

A lightning before death: O! how may I

Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife!

Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath

Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty :

Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet

Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks,

And death's pale flag is not advanced there.—

Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet ?

O! what more favour can I do to thee,

Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain

To sunder his that was thine enemy?

Forgive me, cousin !—Ah ! dear Juliet,

Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe

That unsubstantial death is amorous;

And that the lean abhorred monster keeps

Thee here in dark to be his paramour?

For tear of that I still will stay with thee,

And never from this palace of dim night

Depart again : here, here will I remain

With worms that are thy chambermaids ; O! here

Will I set up my everlasting rest, 110

And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

From this world-wearied flesh.—Eyes, look your last !

Arms, take your last embrace ! and, lips, O you,

The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss

A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide !

Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on

The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark !

Here’s to my love! (Drinks.]—O true apothecary !

Thy drugs are quick.--Thus with a kiss I die. (p 120
ies.

Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar
LAURENCE, with a lantern, crow, and spade.

Fri, Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves !--Who’s there ?

Bal. Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you

well.

Fyi. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light
To grubs and eyeless sculls? as I discern,
It burneth in the Capels’ monument.

Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there ’s my master,
One that you love.

Fri. Who is it?

Bal. Romeo.

iri. How long hath he been there ? \

Bal. Full half an hour.

Fri. Go with me to the vault.
Bal. T dare not, sir. 131
My master knows not but Iam gone hence;

And fearfully did menace me with death,

If I did stay to look on his intents.

Fri. Stay then, Ill go alone.—Fear comes upon me;
OQ! much I fear some ill unlucky thing.

Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here,

I dreamt my master and another fought,
And that my master slew him.

Fri, Romeo !—-f[Advancing.
Alack, alack ! what blood is this, which stains 140
The stony entrance of this sepulchre ?—

What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?
[Enters the tomb.
Romco! O, pale !—Who else? what! Paris too?
And steep'd in blood ?—Ah! what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance !—
The a stirs. [JULIET wakes.
Jul. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord?
I do remember well where I should be,
And there lam.—Where is my Romeo? [Noise within.

 

fri. I hear some noise.—Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep: 152
A greater Power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents: come, come away.
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too: come, I’ll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns.
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming;
Come, go, good Juliet.—[Noise again.) TY dare no

longer stay. 7
Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I‘will not away.— 169
(Exit Friar LAURENCE,

What’s here? a cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?

 

Fri. “Go with me to the vault.”

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop,
To help me after ?—I will kiss thy lips:
Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him.
Thy lips are warm!
1 Watch. [Within.] Lead, boy :—which way?
Jul. Yea, noise?—-then I'll be brief.—O happy
_ , , dagger ! LSnatching RoMEo’s dagger.
This is thy sheath; [stabs hersclf] there rust, and let
me die. 170
[Dies,
Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris.

Page. This is the place; there, where the torch
doth burn.
1 Watch. The ground is bloody: search about the
churchyard.
Go, some of you; whoe’er you find, attach.
[Exeunt some.
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain ;--
And Juliet bleeding ; warm, and newly dead,
Who here hath Jain this two days buried.—
Go, tell the prince,—run to the Capulets,—
Raise up the Montagues,—some others search :—
[Exeunt other Watchmen.
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes 180
We cannot without circumstance descry.

Enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR.

2 TVatch. Here’s Romco’s man; we found him in
__, the churchyard.
1W eee him in safety, till the prince come
ither,

 

 

 
 

 

Scene IIL] ROMEO AND JULIET. 175

Enter another Watchman, with Friar LAURENCE. La. Cap. The people in the street cry—Romeo, 191
Some—Juliet, and some—Paris; and all run

3 Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and | “ae open eusery sown ou oe 6
rince. at fear is this, which startles in our

weeps:
We took this mattock and this spade from him, i ears ¢

 

Jul. © O churlt drank all, and left no friendly drop.”

As he was coming from this churchyard side. 1 Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris

1 Watch. A great suspicion ; stay the friar too. slain ; ;
And Romeo dead ; and Juliet, dead before,
Enter the PRINCE and Attendants. ‘Warm and aut ee 7 7
Prince. What misadventure is so early up, P ee ee and know how this foul
That calls our person from our morning's rest ? 1 Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter’a Romeo's
man,
Enter CaPpuLet, Lady CAPULET, and others. With instruments upon them, fit to open 200

Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad? | These dead men’s tombs.

 
 

176

ROMEO AND JULIET,

[Act V,

 

 

Cap. O Heaven !—O wife! look how our daughter
bleeds ! ;
This dagger hath mista’en,—for, lo! his house
Is empty on the back of Montague, —
And is mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.
La. Cup. Ome! this sight of death is as a bell,
That warns my old age to a sepulchre. i

Enter MONTAGUE and others.
Prince. Come, Montague ; for thou art early up,
To see thy son and heir more early down.
Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night; 210
Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.
What further woe conspires against mine age ?
Prince. Look, and thou shalt see.
Mon. O thou untaught ! what manners is in this,
To press before thy father to a grave? ‘
Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their true descent ;
And then will I be general of your woes,
And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, 220
And let mischance be slave to patience. —
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
Fri. Iam the greatest, able to do least,
Yet most suspected, as the time and place ~
Doth make against me, of this direfu) murder ;
And here I stand, both to epee and purge
Myself condemned and myself excus’d.
Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in

this.

Fri. I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale. 230
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet ;
and she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife:
I married them; and their stolen marriage-day
Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death
Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.
You. to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth’d, and would have married her perforce,
To County Paris :—then comes she to me,
And, with wild looks, bid me devise some means 240
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her (so tutor'd by my art)
A sleeping potion; which so took effect
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime, I writ to Romeo,
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow’d grave,
Being the time the potion’s force should cease.
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight
Return'd my letter back. Then, all alone,

250

At the prefixed hour of her waking,

Came I to take her from her Peet vault,
cel
oméo:

Meaning to keep her closely at m
Till I conveniently could send to

 

But when I came (some minute ere the time
Of her awakening), here untimely lay

The noble Paris, and true Romeo, dead.

She wakes ; and I entreated her come forth, 260
And bear this work of Heaven with patience:
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb,
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But (as it seems) did violence on herself.

All this I know, and to the marriage

Her nurse is privy ; and, if aught in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life

Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time,

Unto the rigour of severest law.

Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man.—
Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say to this? {71
Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet’s death ;

And then in post he came from Mantua,

To this same place, to this same monument.

This letter he early bid me give his father ;

And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,

If I departed not, and left him there. ‘
Prince. Give me the letter, I will look on it.—

Where is the county’s page, that rais’d the watch ~-

Sirrah, what made your master in this place? 280
Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady’s

grave,

And bid me stand aloof, and so I did:

Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb,

And, by-and-by, my master drew on him ;

And then Iran away to call the watch.
Prince. This letter doth make good the friar’s

words,

Their course of love, the tidings of her death:

And here he writes, that he did buy a poison

Of a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal

Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.— 290

Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!

See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,

That Heaven finds means to kill your joys with love;

And I, for winking at your discords too,

Have lost a brace of kinsmen :—all are eA
Cap..O brother Montague! give me thy hand:

This is my daughter's jointure ; for no more

Can I deinand.
Mon. But I can give thee more:

For I will raise her statue in pure gold ;

That, while Verona by that name is known, 300

Thcre shall no figure at such rate be set,

As that of true and faithful Juliet.
Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie;

Poor sacrifices of our enmity! aa
Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it

rings ;

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;

Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished :

For never was a story of more woe,

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. 310
[Excunt.

 

 

 
 

 

   

iu
’7 ROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never

ie,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright

eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-sub-
stantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
S Thou that art now the world’s fresh
ornament,
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content, —
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

Il.
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter’d weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask’d where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise,
How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,
If thou couldst answer,—‘‘ This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’—
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
This were to’be new-made, when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm, when thou feel’st it cold.

III.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another ;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair, whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond, will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity ?
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.

But if thou live, remember’d not to be,

Dée single, and thine image dies with thee.

Iv.
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend;
And, being frank, she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live ?
For, having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

 

SONNETS.

 

Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave ?
Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb’d with thee,
Which, used, lives th’ executor to be.

Vv.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there ;
Sap check’d with frost, and lusty leaves ee gone,
Beauty o’ersnow’d, and bareness eee ere:
Then, were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives
sweet.
VI.
Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which onus those that pay the willing loan ;
That’s for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one:
Ten times thyself were ope than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee.
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity ?
Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
‘To be Death’s conquest, and make worms thine heir.

VII.

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from high-most pitch with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way.
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son.

vit.
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly ?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.

 

12

 
 

178 SONNETS.

 

 

Mark, how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each, by mutual ordering ;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee,—‘‘ Thou single wilt prove none.”

IX.

Is it for fear to wet.a widow'seye,
That thou consum’st thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die, .
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife ;
The world will be thy widow, and still weep,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep, |
By children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend,
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it ;
But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,
And, kept unus’d, the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits, :

That on himself such murderous shame commits.

xX.

For shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many,
But that thou none lov’st is most evident ;
For thou art so possess’d with murderous hate,
That ’gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire,
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove:
Make thee another self, for love of me,
That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

XI,
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st
In one of thine, from that which thou departest ;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st,
Thou may’st call thine, when thou from youth con-
vertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow’d, she gave thee more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish.
She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

XII.

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silver'd o’er with white ;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ;

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence,
Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence.

XIII.
O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours, than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give:
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination ; then you were
Yourself again, after yourself’s decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear...

 

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter’s any,
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
QO! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,
You had a father: let your son say so.

XIV.
Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,
And yet, methinks, I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind;
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert ;
Or else of thee this I Bropmosticate,
Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date,

XV.
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment;
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows,
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check’d even by the selfsame sky,
‘Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory ;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with pen
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And, all in war with Time, for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI.

But wherefore do not rou a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time,
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens, yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

ye phe away yourself keeps yourself still,

you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

_ XVII
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, ‘‘ This poet lies; <
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch’d earthly faces.
So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song: _
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme.

XVII.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day ?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d ;
And every fair from fair sometime declines, __,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;

 

 
 

SONNETS. 179

 

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

XIX.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s sf AAS
And burn the long-liv’d phoenix in her blood ;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world, and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow,
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.

Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,

My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XxX.

A woman’s face, with Nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion ;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion ;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object pene Pano it gazeth ;
A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes, and women’s souls amazeth ;
And for a woman wert thou first created; _
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure.

XXI.

So is it not with me, as with that Muse,
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ;
Making a couplement of proudcompare, _
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, ne love is as fair _
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.

XXIL

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,

So long as youth and thou are of one date;

But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,

Then look I death my days should expiate.

For all that beauty that doth cover thee

Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,

Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

How can I then be elder than thou art ?

0! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,

As I, not for myself, but for thee will,

Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary

As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. .
Presume not on thy heart, when mine is slain ;
Thou gav’st me thine, not to give back again.

XXIII.
Asan eae actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart ;
8o I, for fear of trust, forget to say
e perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

nd in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O'ercharg’d with burden of mine own love’s might.

 

O! let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love, and look for recompense,

More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
QO! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play’d the painter, and hath stell’d
Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart:
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter’s art ;
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur’d lies,
Which in my bosom’s shop is pares pal,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

xXXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Of public honour and proud titles boast,

Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,

Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.

Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread

But as the marigold at the sun’s eyes;

And in themselves their pride lies buried,

For at a frown they in their glory die.

The painful warrior, famoused for fight,

After a thousand victories once foil’d,

Is from the book of honour razed quite,

And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d:
Then happy I, that love and am belov’d,
‘Where I may not remove, nor be remov’d.

XXVL
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect :
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then, not show my head where thou may’st
prove me.

XXVIII.

Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ;

But then begins a journey in my head,

To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired :

For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see:

Save that my soul’s imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

XXVIII.
How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr’d the benefit of rest?
‘When day’s oppression is not eas’d by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
And each, though enemies to either’s reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.

 

 
 

180 SONNETS.

 

 

I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night,
When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild’st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief’s strength seem
stronger.

XXIX.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,

Tall alone beweep my outcast state, :

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, :

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess’d,

Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,

Haply I think on thee, and then my state

(Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate:
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
‘And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus’d to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long-since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before :
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d, and sorrows end.

XXXI.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supped dead,
And there reigns love, and all love’s loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov’d, that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give ;
That due of many now is thine alone:

Their images I lov’d I view in thee,

And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

XXXII.
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall
cover,

And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought :
“Had my friend’s Muse sonn with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage :

But since he died, and poets better prove,

Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for hie love.’

XXXII.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy ;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,

 

And from the forlorn world his visage hide,

Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.

Even so my sun one early morn ‘did shine,

With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;

But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,

The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.
Yet him for this ne love no whit disdaineth ;
Suns of Re port may stain, when heaven’s sun

staineth.

XXXIv.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
’T is not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The o.tender’s sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong oftence’s cross,
Ah! but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds,
And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds,

XXXV.

No more be griev’d at that which thou hast done ;
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorising thy trespass with compare ;
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,—
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,—
And ’gainst myseif a lawful plea commence.
Such civil war is in my love and hate,

That I an accessary needs must be

To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

XXXVI.

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall these blots that do with me remain,
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
‘Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight
1 may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame:
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:

But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVILI.

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis’d, R
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
That I in thy abundance am suftic’d,
And by a part of all thy glory live, |
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

XXXVIII.
How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse ?
O! give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;

 

 
 

SONNETS. 181

 

 

For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light ?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

XXXIX.

O! how thy worth with manners may I sing,

When thou art all the better part of me?

What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?

And what is’t but mine own, when I praise thee?

Even for this let us divided live,

And our dear love lose name of single one,

That by this separation I may give

That due to thee which thou deserv’st alone.

O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,

Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave

To entertain the time with thoughts of love,

Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here, who doth hence remain !

x.

‘ Take allmy loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou may’st true love call:
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,

I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest ;

But yet be blam’d, if thou thyself deceivest

By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,

Although thou steal thee all my poverty ;

And yet love knows, it is a greater grief :

To bear love’s wrong, than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites ; yet we must not be foes.

XLI.

Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail’d ;
And when a woman woos, what woman’s son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevail’d?
Ah me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art fore’d to break a two-fold truth ;

Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee

Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.

XL.

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said, I lov’d her dearly;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye :—
Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her ;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
IfI lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss ;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:

But here’s the joy ; my friend and I are one;

Sweet flattery ! then she loves but me alone.

XLIII.
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all.the day they view things unrespected ;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed. _
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow’s form form happy show

 

To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so ?
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
B looking on thee in the living day,

hen in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay?

All days are nights to see, till I see thee,

And nights bright days, when dreams do show thee

me.
XLIV.

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way ;
For then, despite of space, I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then, although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov’d from thee:
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah! thought kills me, that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles-when thou art gone,
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time’s leisure with my moan ;
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe.

XLV.
The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide ;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide:
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy ;
Until life’s composition be recur’d
By those swift messengers return’d from thee,
ho even but now come back again, assur’d
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
This told, Ijoy; but then, no longer glad,
Isend them back again, and straight grow sad.

XLVI.

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,

How to divide the conquest of thy sight ;

Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,

My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.

My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,

(A closet never pierc’d with crystal eyes,)

But the defendant doth that plea deny,

And says in him thy fair appearance lies.

To’cide this title is impannelled

A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;

And by their verdict is determined

The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part:
As thus ; mine eye’s due is thine outward part,
And my heart’s right thine inward love of heart.

XLVII.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,

And each doth good turns now unto the other.

When that mine eye is famish’d for a look,

Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,

With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast,

And to the painted banquet bids my heart:

Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,

And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:

So, either by thy picture or my love,

Thyself away art present still with me;

For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,

And J am still with them, and they with thee;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart’s and eye's delight.

XLVII.
How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust ;
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,

 

 
 

Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care,

Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest,

Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,

Within the gentle closure of my breast,

From whence at pleasure thou may’st come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol’n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

XLIX.

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call’d to that audit by advis’d respects ;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye;
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity ;
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of la
Since why to love I can allege no cause.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travel’s end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, _
“Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!”
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know,
His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side ;

For that same groan doth put this in my mind,

My grief lies onward, and my joy bebind.

LI.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence

Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed:

From where thou art why should I haste me thence?

Till I return, of posting is no need.

O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,

When swift extremity can seem but slow?

Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind ;

In winged speed no motion shall I know:

Then can no horse with my desire keep pace ;

Therefore desire (of perfect’st love being made)

Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race ;

But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade ;
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I’ run, and give him leave to go.

LI.
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and 80 rare,
Since seldom coming, in the long year set
Like stones of worth, they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprison’d pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack’d, to hope.

LIII.
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend ?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;

 

SONNETS.

On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And oo in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear ;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart,

LIv.

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem

By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem

For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye

As the perfumed tincture of the roses ;

Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly

When summer's breath their masked buds discloses

But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade ;

Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;

Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall vade, by verse distils your truth.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
’Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth: your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom.

So, till the judgment that yourself arise,

You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.

LVI.
Sweet love, renew thy force: be it not said,
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d,
To-morrow sharpen’d in his former might :
So, love, be thou ; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted-new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view ;
Or call it winter, which, being full of care,
Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, more
rare.
LVI.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend

Upon the hours and times of your desire ?

I have no precious time at all to spend,

Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour, |

When you have bid your servant once adieu ;

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose ;

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought,

Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will |
(Though you do anything) he thinks no ill.

LVIII.
That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O! let me suffer (being at your beck)
The imprison’d absence of your liberty ;

 

 
 

 

SONNETS.

183

 

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list; your charter is so strong,
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
Iam to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil’d,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burden of a former child?
O! that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done ;
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame ;
Whether we are mended, or whe’r better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.

O! sure I am, the wits of former days

To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

Lx.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow ;
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
-And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXL
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night ?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from thee
So far from home, into my deeds to pry ;
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy ?
Ono! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake ;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far otf, with others all-too-near.

LXII.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my ry part ;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account ;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann’d antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ;
Self so self-loving were iniquity. 7
‘Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII.
Against my love shall be, as J am now,
ith Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn,
When hours have drain’d his blood, and fill’d his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell’d on to age’s steepy night; :
And all those beauties, whereof now he’s king,

 

Are vanishing, or vanish’d out of sight,

Stealing away the treasure of his spring ;

For such a time do [ now fortity

Against confounding age’s cruel knife,

‘nat he shall never cut from memory

My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

LXIV.

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defac’d

The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age ;

When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz’d,

And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage:

When I have seen the hungry ocean gain

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,

And the firm soil win of the watery main,

Increasing store with loss, and loss with store:

When I have seen such interchange of state,

Or state itself confounded to decay,

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,—

‘That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

LXV.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o’ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O! how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wracktful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ?

O, none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI.

Tir’d with all these, for restful death I ery ;—

As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,

And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall’d simplicity

And captive good attending captain ill:
Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,
Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVIL.
Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society ?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his qivang hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXVUtr.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty liv’d and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow ;

Before the golden tresses of the dead,

The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,

 

 
 

184 SONNETS.

 

 

To live a second life on second head;

Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay.

In him those holy antique hours are seen,

Without all ornament, itself, and true,

Making no summer of another's green,

Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
And him as for a map doth Nature store,
To show talse Art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX.
Those parts of thee that the world’s eye doth view,
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend ;
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
In other accents do this praise confound,
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ;
Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes were

kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
‘The soil is this,—that thou dost common grow.

LXX.

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
For slander’s murk was ever yet the fair ;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that tlies in heaven’s sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo’d of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present’st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young days,
Kither not assail’d, or victor being charg’d ;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg’d:

If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that Iam fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O! if (L say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay ;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after Iam gone.

LXXI.
O! lest the world should task you to recite
What merit liv’d in me, that you should love
After my death,—dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I,
Than niggard truth would ae. impart.
O! lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
For I am sham’'d by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

LXXIUI.
That time of year thou may’st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest. the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,

 

Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest :
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
‘That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more

strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long:

LXXIv.

But be contented : when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee.
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead;
The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
The worth of that is that which it contains,
And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts, as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strite
As ‘twixt a miser and his wealth is found :
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by-and-by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day ;
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change 2?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did proceed ?
O! know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So, all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:

For as the sun is daily new and old,

So is my love, still telling what is told.

LXXVIL.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may’st thou taste:
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ;
Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth may’st know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nurs’d, deliver’d from ay brain, |
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind,

These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,

Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIIL
So oft have I invok’d thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse,
As every alien pen hath got my use,
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing,
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

 
 

 

SONNETS.

Have added feathers to the learned’s wing,

And given grace a double majesty.

Yet be most proud of that which I compile,

Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:

In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,

And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.

LXXIx.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,

My verse alone had all thy gentle grace:

But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,

And my sick Muse doth give another place.

I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument

Deserves the travail of a worthier pen 3

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,

He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.

He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word

From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,

And found it in thy cheek ; he can afford

No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

LXxx.

O! how I faint when I of you do write,
Henne @ better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame:
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or, being wrack’d, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building, and of goodly, pride:
+ Then, if he thrive, and I be cast away,

The worst was this,—my love was my decay.

LXXXI.
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten:
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die :
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o’erread ;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead ;
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen),
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of
men.
LXXXII.

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,

And therefore may’st without attaint o’erlook

The dedicated words which writers use

Of their fair subject, blessing every book.

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,

Finding thy worth a limit past my praise ;

And therefore art enforc’d to seek anew

Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.

And do so, love; yet when they have devis’d

What strained touches rhetoric can lend,

Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathis'd _

In true pan words, by thy true-telling friend ;
And their gross painting might be better us’d
Where cheeks need blood : in thee it is abus’d.

LXXXUl.
I never saw that you did painting need,
And therefore to your fair no painting set ;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet’s debt:
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself, being extant, well might show

 

185

How far a modern quill doth come too short,

ppesking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.

This silence for my sin you did impute,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb ;

For Limpair not beauty being mute,

When others would give life, and bring a tomb.
There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,
Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV.
Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory ;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired everywhere.
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, ‘which makes your praises
worse.
LXXXV.
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compil’d,
Reserve their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d.
I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,
And, like unletter’d clerk, still ery “Amen”
To every hymn that able spirit atfords,
In polish’d form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you prais’d, I say, ‘*’T is so, ’tis true,”
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before:
Then others for the breath of words respect,
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that strack me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence;

But when your countenance fil’d up his line,

Then lack’d I matter ; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate :
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking ;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judement making.

Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,

In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

LXXXVIII.
When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn:
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story

 

 
 

 

186 SONNETS.

 

Of faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted,
That thou, in losing me, shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.

Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence ;
Speak of my lameness, and IJ straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no detence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ;
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue
Thy sweet-beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

For thee, against myself I’ll vow debate,

For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC;
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now:
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss.
Ah! do not, when my heart hath scap’d this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe ;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purpos’d overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come: so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune’s might ;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compar’d with loss of thee, will not seem so.

XCI.
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in joe hawks and hounds, some in their
orse ;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest;
But these Bee ees are not my measure:
All these I better in one gencral best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast :
Wretched in this alone, that thou may’st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

XCII.
But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine ;
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need [ not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend.
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to dic:
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou may’st be false, and yet I know it not:

XCIII.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

Like a deceived husband; so love's face

May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new ;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place;
For there can live no hatred in thine eye;
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

 

In many’s looks the false heart’s history
Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange ;
But Heaven in thy creation did decree,
‘That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV.

They that have ae to hurt, and will do none
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,
And husband nature’s riches from expense ;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity ;

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

XcV.
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
(Making lascivious comments on thy sport,)
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of pyaise ;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O! what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ;
The hardest knife ill-us’d doth lose his edge.

XCVI.

Some say, thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say, thy grace is youth, and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less:
Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem’d,
So are those errors that in thee are seen .
To truths translated, and for true things deem’d.
How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate !
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!

But do not so; I love thee in such sort,

As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year !
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov’d was summer's time ;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d tome,
But hope of orphans, and unfather’d fruit ;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;

Or, if they sing, ’tis with sodullacheer,

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter ’s near.

XCVIII.
From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, :
That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap'd with him:
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

 
 

 

SONNETS. 187

 

Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play:

XCIX.

The forward violet thus did I chide :—
Sweet thief, Pibionce didst thou steal thy sweet that
smells,
If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair :
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,
And to this robbery had annex’d thy breath ;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.

Cc

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgett’st so long

To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,

Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light ?

Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem

In gentle numbers time so idly spent:

Bing to the ear that doth EY lays esteem,

And gives thy pen both skill and argument.

Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,

If Time have any wrinkle graven there ;

If any, be a satire to decay,

And make Time’s spoils despised everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life ;
So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife.

cl.

O truant Muse! what shall be thy amends

For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy’d?

Both truth and beauty on my love depends ;

So dost thou too, and therein dignified.

Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say,

“ Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d,

Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay ;

But best is best, if never intermix’d?”

Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

Excuse not silence so; for’t lies in thee

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

And to be prais’d of ages yet to be.
Then do thy office, Muse: I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

cll.
My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seem-

ing;

I love not less, though less the show appear: :

That love is merchandis’d, whose rich esteeming

The owner’s tongue doth publish everywhere.

Our love was new, and then but in the spring,

When I was wont to greet it with my lays ;

As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,

And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:

Not that the summer is less pleasant now, ,

Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,

But that wild music burdens every bough, .

And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because 1 would not dull you with my song.

clItr.
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth,
Than when it hath my added praise beside !

 

O! blame me not, if I no more can write:

Look in your glass, and there appears a face,

That over-goes my blunt invention quite,

Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.

Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,

To mar the subject that before was well?

For to no other pass my verses tend,

‘Than of your graces and your gifts to tell; ;
And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

civ.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,
Such seems your beauty still. ‘Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride ;
‘rhree beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d
In process of the seasons have I seen ;
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d ;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,—
Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

cv.

Let not my love be call’d idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idol show,

Since all alike my songs and praises be,

To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

Still constant in a wondrous excellence ;

Therefore my verse to constancy confin’d,

One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,

Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;

And in this change is my invention spent,

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv’d alone,
Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.

cviI.

When in the chronicle of wasted time

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights,

Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,

Ot hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

I see their antique pen would have express’d

Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring;

And for they look’d but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin’d doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d,
And the sad augurs mock their own presage 3
Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now, with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'l] live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes:

And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVUI.
What’s in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit?
What’s new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

 

 
 

 

188

Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine,

I must each day say o’er the very same,

Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,

Even as when first I hallow’d thy fair name.

So that eternal love, in love's fresh case,

Weighs not the dust and injury of age ;

Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity tor aye his page ;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred, |
Where time and outward form would show it dead.

CIX.

O! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart, .
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels, I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,--
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign’d
All frailties that besiege all kind of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain’d,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ;

For nothing this wide universe I call,

Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my all.

ox.
Alas! ’tis true, I have gone here and there,

And made myself a motley to the view ; :
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most

dear,

Made old offences of affections new:
Most true it is, that I have look’d on truth
Askance and strangely ; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays prov’d thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am contin’d.

Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,

Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

CXI.

O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for ny life provide,
Than public means, which public manners breeds:
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand ;
And almost thence my nature is subdu’d
To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.
Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd,
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel ’gainst my. strong infection ;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

OXI.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow ;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o’ergreen my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense :—

You are so strongly in my purpose bred,

That all the world besides methinks they’re dead.

CXIII.
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Scems seeing, but effectually is out;

 

SONNETS.

For it no form delivers to the heart
Ot bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ;
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour, or deformed’st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue,

CXIV.

Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you,
Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery ?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchymy,
‘To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble ?
O! tisthe first: ’tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,
And to his palate doth oe the cup:

If it be poison’d, ’t is the lesser sin

‘That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

CXV.

Those lines that I before have writ, do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer ;
Yet then ae judgment knew no reason why
My most flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning Time, whose million’d accidents
Creep in ’twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things:
Alas! why, fearing of Time’s tyranny,
Might I not then say, ‘‘ Now I love you best,”
When I was certain o’er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?

Love is a babe ; then might I not say so,

To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose ome ’s unknown, although his height be
taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come ;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

CXVIL.

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay ;
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day; _,
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchas’d right;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds .
Which should transport me farthest from your sight:
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise accumulate :
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate;

Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove

The constancy and virtue of your love.

CXVIIL.
Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge};
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness, when we purge};

 
 

 

SONNETS. 189

 

Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,

To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding ;

And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness

To be diseas’d, ere that there was true needing.

Thus policy in love, to anticipate

The ills that were not, grew to taults assur’d,

And brought to medicine a healthful state,

Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur’d;
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within,
Zpplving fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never !
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,
In the distraction of this madding tever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true,
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin’d love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
So I return rebuk’d to my content,
And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

CxXx.

That you were once unkind, befriends me now,
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer’d steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you've pass’d a hell of time;
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer’d in your crime.
O! that our night of woe might have remember’d
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits ;
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender’d
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!

But that your trespass now becomes a fee;

Mine ransom3 yours, and yours must ransom me.

CXXI.
*Tis better to be vile, than vile-esteem’d,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’d
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing.
For why should others’ false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, Iam that I am; and they that level
At my abuses, reckon up their own:
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel ;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
Unless this general evil they maintain, —
All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

CXXII.
ae gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character’d with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date, even to eternity ;
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist ;
Till each to raz’d oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss’d.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score ;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
To keep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII.
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids, built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ;
They are but dressings of a former sight.

 

Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the oe nor the past;
For thy records and what we see do lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow, and this shall ever be,
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee:

CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d,
As subject to Time’s love, or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather’d.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number’d hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with
showers.
To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv’d for crime.

CXXV.

Were’t aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent;
For compound sweet foregoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent ?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix’d with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.

Hence, thou suborn’d informer! a true soul,

When most impeach’d, stands least in thy control.

CXXVI.
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time’s fickle glass, his sickle, hour ;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’st
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st ;
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure !
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure:
Her audit, though delay’d, answer’d must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXVII.

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name ;
But now is black beauty’s successive heir,
And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame ;
For since each hand hath put on nature’s power,
Fairing the foul with art’s false borrow’d face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem :

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says, beauty should look so.

CXXVIII.
How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessed wood, whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Dol envy those jacks, that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

 

 
 

190 SONNETS.

 

 

Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips, __
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, -
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ;
Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight ;
Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof,—and prov’d, a very woe ;
Before, a joy propos'd; behind, a dream.
All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX.
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun ;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red ;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’'d, red and white,
But no such roses see Lin her cheeks; __
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
Llove to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound :
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belicd with false compare.

CXXXI.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel ‘
For well thou know’st, to my dear-doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err, I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear,
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.
In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face.
O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part:

Then will I swear, beauty herself is black

And all they foul that thy complexion lack,

CXXNXIII.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me !
Is ’t not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be ?
Me from myself ey cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross’d ;

 

Of him, myself, and thee, Iam forsaken z

A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross’d,

Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,

But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail :

Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard: ’

Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me,

’

CXXXIV.

So, now I have confess’d that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag’d to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous, and he is kind ;
He learn’d but, surety-like, to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that putt’st forth all to use,
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I Jost ; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am I not free,

CXXXy.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 17 ill,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus ;
More than enough am I, that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine ?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store ;
So thou, being rich in Vill, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;

Think all but one, and me in that one Wil.

CXXXVI.

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,

And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;

Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.

Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love,

Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.

In things of great receipt with ease we prove,

Among a number one is reckon’d none :

Then in the number let me pass untold,

Though in thy stores’ account I one must be;

For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold

That nothing me, a something sweet to thee: 2
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov’st me,—for my name is Will.

CXXXVII.
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, .
Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied ?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common
place ? :
Or mine eyes seeing this, say, this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face ? F
In things right-true my heart and eyes have err’ d,
And to this false plague are they now transferr’d.

CXXXVUI.
‘When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,

 
 

SONNETS. 191

 

 

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:

On both sides thus is simple truth suppress’d.

But wherefore says she not, she is unjust?

And wherefore say not I, that Iam old?

O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

OXXXIX.
O! call not me to justify the wrong,
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue;
Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere ; but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What spt et pu wound with cunning, when thy
mig

Is more than my o’erpress’d defence can ’bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries.

Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,

Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXL.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain ;
Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know :.
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee ;
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.

That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go

wide.
CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,

For they in thee a thousand errors note;

But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,

Who in despite of view is pleas’d to dote.

Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;

Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

To any sensual feast with thee alone:

But my five wits nor my five senses can

Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,

Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain, |
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLIL.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
Q! but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving ;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profan’d their scarlet ornaments,
And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows,
Th pity may deserve to pitied be. :
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example may’st thou be denied !

CXLIIL.
Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather’d creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch
Th pursuit of the thing she would have stay ;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

 

To follow that which flies before her face,

Not prizing her poor intant’s discontent:

So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,

Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind ;

But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind:
So will I pray that thou may’st have thy Will,
If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

CXLIV.
Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man, right fair,
The worser spirit a woman, colour’d ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my bettcr angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell:
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make,
Breath’d forth the sound that said, ‘‘I hate,”
To me that languish’d for her sake ;
But when she saw my woful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet
Was usd in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
“‘T hate,” she alter’d with an end,
That follow’d it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is fown away:

“T hate” from hate away she threw,

And sav’d my life, saying—‘ not you.”

CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fool’d by these rebel powers that thee array,
Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body’s end?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

And, Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

CXLVII.
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease ;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain-sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure Iam, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest:
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly express’d ;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII.
O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight !
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fied,
That censures falsely what they see aright ?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?

 

 
 

 

192

If it be not, then love doth well denote

Love's eye is not so true as all men’s: no,

How can it? O! how can Love's eye be true,

That is so vex’d with watching and with tears?

No marvel then though I mistake my view ;

The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears. rl
O cunning Love! with tears thou kecp’st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX.
Canst thou, O cruel! say, I love thee not,
en I, against myself, with thee partake?

Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend ?
On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spen
Revenge upon myself with present moan ?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind:

Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.

cL.

OQ! from what power hast thou this powerful might,
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill,
That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds ?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O! though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:

If thy unworthiness rais’d love in me,

More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

CLI.
Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body’s treason ;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,

 

SONNETS.

| Heis contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

No want of conscience hold it, that I call
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall,

cL.

In loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,

But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing

In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,

In vowing new hate after new love bearing.

But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,

When I break twenty? Iam perjur'd most;

For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,

And all my honest faith in thee is lost :

For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;

And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,

Or made them swear against the thing they see;
For I have sworn thee fair : more ee I,
To swear, against the truth, so foul a lie!

CLIII.

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fir’d,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast ;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desir’d,
And thither hied, a sad-distemper’d guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire,—my mistress’ eyes.

CLIV.
The little Love-god lying once agieeD,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many Dy EADBS, that vow'd chaste life to keep,
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm’d:
And so the general of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath, and healthful remedy
For men diseas’d; but I, my mistress’ thrall,
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

 

 

 
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

KING HENRY VI—PART III.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Kinc HENRY THE SIXTH. 3
EDWARD, Prince of Wales, his Son.
LEWIS XL, King of France.
DUKE OF SOMERSET,
DUKE OF EXETER, . ’
EaRL OF OXFORD, | On King Henry's
EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND, [ Side.
EARL OF WESTMORELAND,
-LORD CLIFFORD, J 5
RICHARD PLANTAGENET, Duke of York.
EDWARD, Earl of March, afterwards

King Edward IV., ‘
EDMUND, Earl of Rutland, His Sons
GEORGE, afterwards Duke of Clarence,
RICHARD, afterwards Duke of Gloster, J
DUKE oF NORFOLK,
MARQUESS OF MONTAGUE,

EARL OF WARWICK, t Of the Duke of York’s
EARL OF PEMBROKE, { Party.

LORD HASTINGS,

Lorp STAFFORD, J

 

Str JoHN MortTiMER, 2 Uncles to the Duke of
Sirk HuGH MorTIMER, $ York.
Henry, Earl of Richmond, a Youth.
Lorp Rivers, Brother to Lady Grey.
SiR WILLIAM STANLEY.

Sirk JoHN MONTGOMERY.

Sir JoHN SOMERVILLE.

Tutor to Rutland.

Mayor of York.

Lieutenant of the Tower.

A Nobleman.

Two Keepers.

A Huntsman.

‘A Son that has killed his Father.

A Father that has killed his Son.

QUEEN MARGARET.
Lavpy GREY, afterwards Queen to Edward IV.
Bona, Sister to the French Queen.

Soldiers, and other Attendants on King Henry and
King Edward, Messengers, Watchmen, &c.

SCENE—During part of the Third Act, in FRANCE; during the rest of the Play, in ENGLAND.

 

ACT I.

F ScENE I.—London.
Drums. Some Soldiers of Yorx«’s party break in.

The Parliament-House.

Then enter the Duke of YORK, EDWARD, RICHARD,

NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and others, with white roses in their hats.

        
  

&
i ous f~. Warwick.
Aes WONDER how the king escap’d
‘il k A our hands.

York. While we _pursu’d the
horsemen of the north,

He slily stole away, and left his men:

Whereat the great Lord of Northumber-

  

and,

Whose warlike ears could never brook
retreat, :

Cheer’d up the drooping army; and

himself,
Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all
abreast, |
Charg’d our main battle’s front, and, breaking in,
Were by the swords of common soldiers slain.

Edw, Lord Stafford’s father, Duke of Buckingham,
Is either slain or wounded dangerous: il
Icleft his beaver with a downright blow ;

That this is true, father, behold his blood.
[Showing his bloody sword.

Mont. [To York, showing his.) And, brother,

ere’s the Earl of Wiltshire’s blood,
Whom I encounter’d as the battles join’d. .

Rich. Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did.
j [Throwing down the Duke of SOMERSET’S head.

: York. Richard hath best deserv'd of all my sons.—
But, is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset ?

Norf. Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt!

Itich. Thus do I hope to shake King Henry’s head.

War. And so do I.—Victorious Prince of York, 21

 

Before I see thee seated in that throne,
Which now the house of Lancaster usurps,
I vow by Heaven these eyes shall never close.
This is the palace of the fearful Nii:
And this the regal seat: possess it, York;
For this is thine, and not King Henry’s heirs’.
York. ae me then, sweet Warwick, and I
will; ‘
For hither we have broken in by force.
Norf. We'llall assist you; he that flies shalldie. 30
York. peas, gentle Norfolk.—Stay by me, my
ords :—
And, soldiers, stay, and lodge by me this night.
War. And when the king comes, offer him no
violence,
Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce.
; : [The Soldiers retire.
York. The queen this day here holds her parlia-

ment,
But little thinks we shall be of her council.
By words or blows here let us win our right.
Rich. Arm’d as we are, let’s stay within this house.
War. The bloody parliament shall this be call’d,
Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king,
And bashful Henry depos’d, whose cowardice
Hath made us by-words to our enemies.
York. Then leave me not, my lords; be resolute;
I mean to take possession of my right.
War. Neither the king, nor he that loves him best,
The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,
Dares stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells.

 

13

 
 

 

194 KING HENRY

VI—PART III. [Act I,

 

I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who darcs.—
Resolve thec, Richard: claim the English crown.
[Warwick leads York to the throne, who
scats himself.

Flourish. Enter King HENRY, CLIFFORD, NORTH-

UMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and others,

with red roses in their igtts.

K. Hen. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits,
Even in the chair of state! belike, he means, 51
Back’d by the power of Warwick, that false peer,

‘To aspire unto the crown, and reign as king.—

Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy father, —

And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow’d
revenge

On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends.

North. If Lbe not, heavens be reveng’d on me!

clif. The joe thereof makes Clifford mourn in

steel.

West. ve shall we suffer this? let’s pluck him

own:
My heart for anger burns, I cannot brook it.
kK. Hen. Be patient, gentle Earl of Westmoreland.
Clif. Patience is for poltroons, such as he:
He durst not sit there, had your father liv'd.
My gracious lord, here in the parliament
Let us assail the family of York.

North. Well hast thou spoken, cousin: be it so.

A. Hen. Ah! know you not, the city favours them,
And they have troops of soldiers at their beck?

fixe. But when the duke is slain, they’ll quickly

fly.
kK. ane, Far be the thought of this from Henny
eart, 7
To make a shambles of the parliament-house !
Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats,
Shall be the war that Henry means to use.

: [They advance to the DUKE.
Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne,
And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet ;

Iam thy sovereign.
York. Iam thine.
iixe. For shame! come down: he made thee Duke
of York.
York. ’T was my inheritance, as the earldom was.
fire. Thy father was a traitor to the crown.
Tar, Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown, 80
In following this usurping Henry.
~ Cf, Whom should he follow but his natural king?
War. 7 Clifford ; and that’s Richard, Duke of
ork.
4. Hen. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my
throne?
York. It must and shall be so. Content thyself.
War. Be Duke of Lancaster: let him be king.
West. He is both king and Duke of Lancaster;
And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain.
War. And Warwick shall disprove it. You forget,
That we are those which chas’d you from the field, 90
And slew your fathers, and with colours spread
March’d through the city to the palace gates.
North. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief;
And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it.
West. Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons,
Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I’ll have more lives,
Than drops of blood were in my father’s veins.
Clif. Urge it no more; lest that instead of words
I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger,
As shall revenge his death before I stir. 100
War. Poor Clifford! how I scorn his worthless
threats. ¢
York. Will you, we show our title to the crown?
If not, our swords shall plead it in the field.
K. Hen. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown?
Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York;
Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March.
I am the gon of Henry the Fifth,
Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop,
And seiz’d upon their towns and provinces.
War. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all.
kK. Hen. The lord protector lost it, and not I: ul
When I was crown'd, I was but nine months old.

 

ich. You are old enough now, and yet, methinks,
you lose.

Father, tear the crown from the usurper’s head.
iw. Sweet father, do so: set it on your head.
Mont. [To Yor«K.] Good brother, as thou lov’st-and

honour’st arms,

Let’s fight it out, and not stand cavilling thus.

Rich. Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will
cs

y.
York. Sons, peace!
4A. Hen. Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to

speak.
War. 5 ene shall speak first: hear him,
ords ;
And be you silent-and attentive too,
For he that interrupts him shall not live.
dx. Hen. Think’st thou, that I will leave my kingly
throne,

Wherein my eee and my father sat?
No: first shall war unpeople this my realm ;
Ay, and their colours—often borne in France,
and now in England, to our heart’s great sorrow,—
Shall be my winding-sheet.—Why faint you, lords?
My title ’s good, and better far than his. 30

Var. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king.

4A. Hen. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the

crown.

York. "! was by rebellion against his king.

A. Hen. [Aside.] I know not what to say: my

title’s weak.—
Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir?

York. What then?

A. Hen. An if he may, then am I lawful king;
For Richard, in the view of many lords,
Resign’d the crown to Henry the Fourth,

Whose heir my father was, and I am his.

York. He rose against him, being his sovereign,
And made him to resign his crown perforce. g

Var. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain’d, ,
Think you, ‘t were prejudicial to his crown ? P

Exe. No; for he could not so resign his crown,
But that the next heir should succeed and reign.

A. Hen. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter?

itxe. His is the right, and therefore pardon me.

York. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not?

Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawful king. 150

A. Hen. All will revolt from me, and turn to him.

North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay’st,
Think not, that Henry shall be so depos’d.

IVar. Depos’d he shall be in despite of all.

North. Thou art deceiv’d: ’tis not thy southern

140

ower,
of Basex Norfelle, Suffolk, nor of Kent,—
Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud,—
Can set the duke up in despite of me. ~
Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong,
Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence : 160
May that ground gape, and swallow me alive,
Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father!
AK. Hen. O Clifford, how thy words revive my
heart !
York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown.
What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords?
War. Do right unto this princely Duke of York,
Or I will fill the house with armed men,
And o'er the chair of state, where now he sits,
Write up his title with usurping blood. .
[He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers
show themselves. , ?
K. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, hear me but wy

word.
Let me for this my life-time reign as king. . :
York. Confirm the crown to me, and to mine heirs,
And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv’st.
4A. Hen. Tam content: Richard Plantagenet,
Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. | ;
Clif. What wrong is this unto the prince pe son!
War. What good is this to England, and imself!
West. Base, tearful, and despaiuing Henry!
Clif. How hast thou injur'd both thyself and us!
West. I cannot stay to hear these articles, 80
North. Nor 1. : =

 

 
 

 

Scene II.] KING HENRY

VI—-PART III. 195

 

Clif. Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news.
West. Farewell, faint-hearted and degenerate king,
In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides.
North. Be thou a prey unto the house of York,
And die in bands for this unmanly deed!
Clif. In dreadful war may’st thou be overcome,
Or live in peace, abandon’d, and despis‘d!
[Exreunt NORTHUMBERLAND, CLIFFORD, and
WESTMORELAND.
War. Turn this way. Henry, and regard them not.
Exe. They seek revenge, and therefore will not
yield. 190
K. Hen. Ah, Exeter!
War. Why should you sigh, my lord?
A. Hen. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son,
Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit.
But be it as it may, I here entail
The crown to thee, and to thine heirs for ever ;
Conditionally, that here thou take an oath
To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live,

 

York, “ Farewell, my gracious lord: [‘ll to my castle.”

To honour me as thy king and sovereign ;
And neither by treason, nor hostility,
To seek to put me down, and reign thyself.
York. This oath I willingly take, and will perform.
[Coming from the throne.
War. Long live King Henry !—Plantagenet, em-
brace him.
K. Hen. And long live thou, and these thy forward
sons!
York. Now York and Lancaster are reconcil'd.
Exe. Accurs'd be he that seeks to make them foes!
[Sennet. The Lords come forward.
York, Farewell, my gracious lord: I'll to my castle.
War. And I'll keep London with my soldiers.
Norf. And I to Norfolk with my followers.
Mont. And I unto the sea from whence I came.
[Ereunt York and his Sons, WARWICK, NOR-
FOLK, MONTAGUE, Soldiers, and Attendants.
K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court.

Enter Queen MARGARET and the Prince of WALES.
Exe. Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray
her anger: 211
Tllsteal away.
C. Hen. Exeter, so will I.
. Mar, Nay, go not from me ; I will follow thee.
\. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay.
», @- Mar. Who can be patient in such extremes ?
Ah, wretched man! ’would I had died a maid,
And never seen thee, never borne thee son,
Seeing thou hast prov’d so unnatural a father!

200

 

Hath he deserv’d to lose his birthright thus?
Hadst thou but lov’d him half so well as I,

 

220

Or felt that pain which I did for him once,
Or nourish'd him, as I did with my blood,
Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there,
Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir,
And disinherited thine only son,
Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me.
If you be king, why should not I succeed ?
dv. Hen. Pardon ine, Mafgaret ;—pardon me, sweet
son :—
The Earl of Warwick and the duke enfore’d me.
Q. Mar. Enfore’d thee! art thou king, and wilt be
fore'd? 2
I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch !
Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me,
And given unto the house of York such head,
As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance.
To entail him and his heirs unto the crown,
What is it, but to make thy sepulchre,
And creep into it far before thy time ?
Warwick is chane: llor, and the Lord of Calais ;
Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow
seas ;
The duke is made protector of the realm ;
And yet shalt thou be safe? such safety
finds 241
The trembling lamb, environed with
wolves.
Had I been there, which am a silly woman,
The soldiers should have toss'd me on their
pikes,
Before I would have granted to that act ;
But thou preferr’st thy lite before thine
honour :
And seeing thou dost, I here divorce
myself,
Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed,
Until that act of parliament be repeal'd,
Whereby my son is disinherited. 250
The northern lords, that have forsworn
thy colours,
Will follow mine, if once they see them

spread ;
And spread they shall be, to thy foul
disgrace,
And utter ruin of the house of York.
Thus do I leave thee.—Come, son, let's
away:
Our army is ready; come, we'll after
them.
K. Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak.
Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already: get
thee gone.
AK. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with
me?
Q. Mar, Ay, to be murder’d by his enemies. 260
Prince. When I return with Victory from the field,
Tl see your grace; till then, I'll follow her.
Q. Mar. Come, son, away! we may not linger thus.
[Exreunt Queen MARGARET and the PRINCE.
K. Hen. Poor queen! how love to me, and to her

son,
Hath made her break out into terms of rage!
Reveng'd may she be on that hateful duke,
Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire,
Will cost my crown, and, like an empty eagle,

| Tire on the flesh of me and of my son!
| The loss of those three lords torments my heart:
I‘ write unto them, and entreat them fair. —

o-
=

0

Come, cousin ;’ you shall be the messenger.
Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all.
[Excunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield.

Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and MONTAGUE.
Rich. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave.
Edw. No, Lean better play the orator. :
Mont. But I have reasons strong and forcible.

Enter York.
York. Why, how now, sons and brother, at a strife?

 

: What is your quarrel? how began it first?

 

 
 

196 KING HENRY

VI—PART III. [Act L

 

 

Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention.
York. About what?
Rich. About that which concerns your grace, and us;

The crown of England, father, which is yours.
York. Mine, boy? not till King Henry be dead. 10
Rich. Your right depends not on his life, or death.
filw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now:

By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe,

It will outrun you, father, in the end. : |
York. 1 took an oath that he should quietly reign.
Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken :

I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year.
Rich. No; God forbid, your grace should be for-

sworn.
York. I shall be, if I claim by open war.
Rich. I'll prove the contrary, if you’ll hear me
speak. ie | 20
York. Thou canst not, son : it is impossible.
Rich, An oath is of no moment, being not took
Before a true and lawful magistrate,
That hath authority over him that swears:
Henry had none, but did usurp the place ;
Then, seeing ’t was he that made you to depose,
Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous.
Therefore, toarms. And, father, do but think,
How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,
Within whose circuit is Elysium,
And all: that poets feign of bliss and joy.
Why do we linger thus? I cannot rest,
Until the white rose, that I wear, be dyed
Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart.
York. Richard, enough: I will be king, or die.—
Brother, thou shalt to London presently,
And whet on Warwick to this enterprise.—
Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk
And tell him privily of our intent.—
You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham,
With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise :
In them I trust; for they are soldiers,
Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit.—
While you are thus employ’d, what resteth more
But that I seek occasion how to rise,
And yet the king not privy to my drift,
Nor any of the house of Lancaster ?

30

40

Einter a Messenger.
But, stay. ee news? Why com’st thou in such
ost ?

Mess. The queen with aJl the northern earls and
Intend here to besiege you in your castle. 50
She is hard by with twenty thousand men,
And therefore fortify your hold, my lord.

York. Ay, with my sword. What! think’st thou,

that we fear them ?—

Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me;
My brother Montague shall post to London:
Let noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest,
Whom we have left protectors of the king,
With powerful policy strengthen themselves,
And trust not Sante Henry, nor his oaths.

Mont. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not: 60
And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [E£xit.

Enter Sir JoHN and Sir HuGH MortiMErR.
York. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine
uncles,
You are come to Sandal in a happy hour;
The army of the queen mean to besiege us.
Sir John. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the

eld.
York. What, with five thousand men?
Rich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a need.

A woman’s general; what should we fear?

7: [4 march afar off.
Edw. I hear their drums: let’s set our men in
order,

And issue forth, and bid them battle straight. 7

York. Five men to twenty !—though the odds be

great,
I doubt not, uncle, of our victory.
Many a battle have I won in France,

 

 

Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one:
Why should I not now have the like success?
[Alarum. Exeunt,

 

ScENE III.—Plains near Sandal Castle,

Alarums : Excursions, sonier RUTLAND and his
utor,
Rut. Ah! whither shall I fly to ’scape their hands?
Ah, tutor! look, where bloody Clifford comes,

Enter CLIFFORD and Soldiers.

Clif. Chaplain, away: thy priesthood saves thy life,
As for the brat of this accursed duke,
Whose father slew my father, he shall die.
Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him company.
Clif. Soldiers, away with him.
Tut. Ah, Clittord! murder not this innocent child,
Lest thou be hated both of God and man.
Exit, forced off by Soldiers,
Clif. How now ! is he dead already? Or is it fear
That makes him close his eyes? I'llopenthem. 11
fut. So looks the pent-up lion o’er the wretch
That trembles under his devouring paws;
And so he walks, insulting o’er his prey,
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder.—
Ah, gentle Clifford! kill me with thy sword,
And not with such a cruel threatening look.
Sweet Clittord! hear me speak before I die:
I am too mean a subject for thy wrath ;
Be thou reveng’d on men, and let me live. 20
Clif. ee thou speak’st, poor boy: my father’s

loo!
Hath plopp e. the passage where thy words should
enter

Rut. Then let my father’s blood open it again:
He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.
Clif. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine
Were not revenge sufticient for me.
No, if I digg’d up thy forefathers’ graves,
And hung their rotten coffins up in chains,
It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York
Is as a fury to torment my soul;
And till I root out their accursed line,
And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore—
fut. O! let me pray before I take my death.-
To thee I pray : sweet Clifford, pity me!
cus. Such pity as my rapier’s point affords.
Rut. [never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me?

Clif. Thy father hath.
Rut. But ’t was ere I was born.
Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me, 40
Lest, in revenge thereof, sith God is just,
He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah! let me live in prison all my days;
And when I give occasion of offence,
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause.
Clif. No cause? :
Thy father slew my father: therefore, die. [Stabs him.
Rut. Di faciant, laudis summa sit ista tue! [Dies
clif. Plantagenet! I come, Plantagenet !
And this thy son’s blood, cleaving to my blade,
Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood ‘
Congeal’d with this, do make me wipe off both. [Erit.

Screnr IV.—The Same.

Alarum. Enter YorK.

York. The army of the queen hath got the field:
My uncles both are slain in rescuing me ;
And all my followers to the eager foe
Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind,
Or lambs pursu’d by hunger-starved wolves. '
My sons—God knows, what hath bechanced them:
But this I know, they have demean’d themselves
Like men born to renown, by life, or death.
Three times did Richard make a lane to me,

 
 

 

ScENE III] KING HENRY

VI—PART III. 197

 

And thrice cried,—‘‘ Courage, father! fight it out!” 10

And full as oft came Edward to my side,

With purple faulchion, painted to the hilt

In blood of those that had encounter’d him:

And when the hardiest warriors did retire,

Richard cried,—‘*Charge! and give no foot of

round !”

And cried,—‘‘ A crown, or else a glorious tomb!

A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre !”

With this, we charg’d again ; but, out, alas!

We bodg'd again: asIT have seenaswan —

With bootless labour swim against the tide, 20

And spend her strength with over-matching waves.
[4 short alarum within.

Ah, hark ! the fatal followers do pursue ;

And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury ;

And were I strong, I would not shun their

fury.
The sands are number’d, that make up my

ife ;
Here must i stay, and here my life must.
end.

Enter Queen’ MARGARET, CLIFFORD.
NORTHUMBERLAND, the young PRINCE,
and Soldiers.

Come, bloody Clifford,—rough Northum-

berland,—

I dare your quenchless fury to more rage.

Iam your butt, and I abide your shot.
North. Yield to our mercy, proud Plan-

tagenet.
Clif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless
arm

With downright payment show’d unto my
father.

Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car,
And made an evening at the noontide prick.
York. My ashes, as the phcenix, may
bring forth
A bird that will revenge upon you all;
And in that hope I throw mine eyes to
heaven,
Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with.
why come you not ?—what! multitudes, and fear?
Clif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further;
So.doves do peck the falcon’s piercing talons; 1
So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives,
;| Breathe out invectives ‘gainst the officers.
York. O Clifford! but bethink thee once again,
And in thy thought o’errun my former time ;
And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face,
And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice,
Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
Clif. I will not bandy with thee word for word,

But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. 50
[Draws.
Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford! for « thousand

causes
I would prolong awhile the traitor’s life.—
Wrath makes him deaf: speak thou, Northumberland.
North. Hold, Clifford! do not honour him so much
To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart.
hat valour were it, when a cur doth grin,
For one to thrust his hand between his teeth,
When he might spurn him with his foot away?
It is war’s prize to take all vantages,
And ten to one is no impeach of valour. 60
Fi [They lay hands on YorK, who struggles.
Clif. Ay, ay : 80 strives the woodcock with the gin.
North. So doth the cony struggle in the net.
[(YorxK is taken prisoner.
York. So triumph thieves upon their conquer’d

5‘ jooty ;
‘So true men yield, with robbers so o’ermatch’d. ;
North. What would your grace have done unto him

‘ now?
4 Q. Mar. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumber-

lan:
‘Come, make him stand upon this molehill here,
‘That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,

 

ist parted but the shadow with his hand.—

What! was it you, that would be England’s king? 70
Was’t you that revell’d in our parliament,

And made a preachment of your high descent?
Where are your mess of sons to back you now?
The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ?

And where’s that valiant crook-back prodigy,
Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice,
Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ?

Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ?
Look, York: I stain’d this napkin with the blood
That valiant Cliiford with his rapier’s point
Made issue from the bosom of the boy ;

And if thine eyes can water for his death,

I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal.

 

y. Mar. “ Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king.”

| Alas, poor York! but that I hate thee deadly,

I should lament thy miserable state.
I pr’ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York:

hat, hath thy flery heart so parch’d thine entrails,
That not a tear can fall for Rutland’s death?
Why art thou patient, man? thou shouldst be mad;
And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. 90
Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance.
Thou wouldst be fee’d, I see, to make me sport ;
York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown.—
A crown for York !—and, lords, bow low to him.—
Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on.—

[Putting a paper crown on his head.

Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king. |
Ay, this is he that took King Henry’s chair
And this is he was his adopted heir.—
But how is it, that great Plantagenet
Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath ?
As I bethink me, you should not be king,
Till our King Henry had shook hands with death.
And will you pale your head in Henry’s glory,
And rob his temples of the diadem,”
Now in his life, against your holy oath?
QO! ‘tis a fault too too unpardonable.—
Of with the crown; and, with the crown, his head !
And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.

Clif. That is my office, for my father’s sake.

Q. Mar. Nay, stay; let’s hear the orisons ie

100

makes.
York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of

France ;

Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth !

How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex,

To triumph, like an Amazonian trull,

Upon their woes whom fortune captivates !

But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging,

Made impudent with use of evil deeds,

I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush:

To tell thee whence thou cam’st, of whom deriv’d,

 

/

 
 

 

198 KING HENRY

VIL—PART III. [Acr IL.

 

Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not
shameless, 2

Thy father bears the type of King of Naples,

Of both the Sicils, and verusilent,

Yet not so wealthy as an Jtnglish yeoman.

Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult ?

It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen ;

Unless the adage must be veritied,

That beggars, mounted, run their horse to death,

’Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud ;

But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small.

Tis virtue that doth make them most adinir‘d ;

The contrary doth make thee wonder’d at.

*T is government that makes them seem divine ;

The want thercof makes thee abominable.

Thou art as opposite to every good,

As the Antipodes are unto us,

Or as the south to the septentrion.

O tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman’s hide!

How couldst thou drain the life-wlood of the child,

‘lo bid the father wipe his eyes withal ;

And yet be seen to bear a woman's face ?

Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible ;

Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.

Bida'st thou me rage? why, now thou hast thy wish:

Wouldst have me weep? why, now thou hast thy will.

For raging wind blows up incessant showers,

And when the rage allays, the rain begins.

These tears ure my sweet Rutland’s obseiuies,

And every drop cries vengeance for his death,

’Gainst thee, tell Clitford, and thee, false French-

130

110

. woman. :
North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so,
That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. 151

York. That tace of his the hungry cannibals

 

Would a have touch’d, would not have stain’d with

But you are more inhuman, more inexorable,
Q, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania,
Sce, ruthless queen, a hapless father’s tears !
This cloth thou dipp’dst in blood of my sweet boy,
And I with tears do wash the blood away.
Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this;
And if thou tell’st the heavy story right,
Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears;
Yea, even'my foes will shed fast-falling tears,
And say,—"* Alas! it was a piteous deed.”—
There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse,
And in thy need such comfort come to thee, ;
as now I reap at thy too cruel hand !—
Hard-hearted Cliftord, take me trom the world;
My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads !
North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin,
I should not, for my life, but weep with him, 170
To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul.
Q. ee ae weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumber-
and?
Think but upon the wrong he did us all,
And that will quickly dry thy melting tears.
Clif. Here’s for my oath; here's for my father’s
death. . [Stabbing him.
Q. Mar, And here’s to right our gentle-hearted
king. [Stabbing him,
York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God !
My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee,

Sag : [Dies.
Q. Mar. Off with his head, and set it on York

gates:
So York may overlook the town of York. 180
[Flourish. Ezxeunt.

160

 

ACT IT.
Scene I.—A Plain near Mortimer’s Cross in Herefordshire.

A March.
20 Edward.
ma WONDER, how onr princely father’scap'd ;
fh; Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no,

  

From Clitford’s and Northumberland’s
pursuit.

Had he been ta’en, we should have heard
the news ;

Had he been slain, we should have heard
the news;

Or had he ‘seap’d, methinks we should
have heard

The happy tidings of his good escape.—
How fares my brother? why is he so sad?
Rich. I cannot joy, until I be resolv’d
Where our right valiant father is become.
I saw him in the battle range about, 11

And watch’d him how he singled Clifford forth.

Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop,
As doth a lion in a herd of neat:

Or as a bear, encompass’d round with dogs ;
Who having pinch’d a few, and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him.

So far'd our father with his enemies;

So fled his enemies my warlike father :

Methinks, ’tis prize enough to be his son. 20

 

Enter Evwarp and RICHARD, with their Power.

See, how the morning opes her golden gates,

And takes her farewell of the glorious sun :

How well resembles it the prime of youth,

Trimm’d like a younker, prancing to his love!
Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns?
Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a_ perfect

sun,
Not separated with the racking clouds,
But sever’d in a pale clear-shining sky. ‘
See, see! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss,
As if they vow'd some league inviolable :
Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun!
In this the heaven figures some event.
Edw. ’Tis wondrous staange, the like yet never
heard of.
I think, it cites us, brother, to the field,
That we. the sons of brave Plantagenet,
Each one already blazing by our mecds,
Should, notwithstanding, join our lights together,
And over-shine the earth, as this the world.
Whate’er it bodes, henceforward will I bear ‘
Upon my target three fair-shining suns. 4
ich. Nay, pour three daughters: by your leave I
ea

3 it,
| You love ihe breeder better than the male.

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE I.] KING -HENRY VI.—PART II. 199
Enter a Messenger. Bearing the king in my behalf along ;
But what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Re ee ee ee ee Ein alten
Sonie dreadful BLory hanging on thy tongue ? To dash our late decree in parliament,
betes ne t Ue ee ce eee Touching King Henry's oath and your succession.
Whenas ael fathers and my lowe lotde Short tale to make,—we at Saint Albans met, 120
Your eo gee Be are y for Thee heard too | Gur battles join’d, and both sides fiercely fought ;
Edw. aol, ‘ Bul a eee i oe a an king,
i i : . aa ho look’d full gently on his warlike queen,
Rich, Say, how he died, for I will hear it all. That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen,
Mess. Environed he was ae many Toes ; 50 | Op whether ’t was report of her success
And stood against chem, bs Ue hope of ‘Troy Or more than common fear of Clitford’s rigour,
Against the Greeks, that would have enter’d Troy. Who thunders to his captives blood and death
But Hercules Hele SHE oe to odds ; I cannot judge: but, to conclude with truth, ”
aud Pn ee oe ee Their weapons like to lightning came and went;
ew eo sandaa our father baud. Our soldiers’—like the night-owl’s lazy flight, 130
pee Aiea he'd by ahe: ietnrere ; Or like an idle thresher with a flail, —
OF On Sie Clifford, and the queen, Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends.
unrelenting: acious.dulee queen, vee I cheer’d them up with justice of our cause,
Who crown’d the gracious duke in high despite ; With promise of high pay and great rewards :
Laugh’d in his face; and, when with grief he wept, But Allin vain they hadnoheart-tofieht:,
The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks, OL And we. in then. no hope to win the day 2
A napkin steeped in the harmless blood ‘ So that we fled: the king unto the queen:
Of sweet young Rutland, by rough, Cliimord slain : Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself,
And, after pes hs eae eae fo i eee k In haste, post-haste, are come to join with you;
They took his head, and on the gates of Yor For in the marches here, we heard, you were, 140

They set the same ; and there it doth remain,
The saddest spectacle that e’er I viewd.

Edw. Sweet Duke of York! our prop to lean upon,
Now thou art gone, we have no staif, no stay.

O Clifford! boisterous Clifford! thou hast slain 70
The flower of Europe for his chivalry ;

And treacherously hast thou vanquish’d him,

For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish’d thee.
Now, my soul’s palace is become a prison:

Ah! would she break from hence, that this my body
Might in the ground be closed up in rest !

For never henceforth shall I joy again,

Never, O! never, shall I see more joy.

Rich. I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture 79
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart :
Nor can my tongue unload my heart’s-great burden ;
For selfsame wind, that I should speak withal,

Is kindling coals that fire all my bréast,
And burn me up with flames that tears would
quench. :
To weep is to make less the depth of grief :
Tears, then, for babes ; blows and revenge for me !—
Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death,
Or die renowned by attempting it.
Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with

thee;
His dukedom and his chair with me is left. 90
Rich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle’s bird,
Show thy descent by gazing ’gainst the sun:
For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say ;
Hither that is thine, or else thou wert not his.

March. Enter Warwick and MONTAGUE, with their
Army.

War. How now, fair lords? What fare? what news

abroad ?

Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount
Our baleful news, and at each word's deliverance
Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told,

The words would add more anguish than the wounds.
0 valiant lord! the Duke of York is slain. 100
Edw. O Warwick! Warwick ! that Plantagenet,
Which held thee dearly as his soul's redemption,

Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death.

War. Ten days ago I drown’d these news in tears,
And now, to add more measure to your woes,
I come to tell you things sith then befallen.
After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought,
Where your brave father breath’d his latest gasp,
Tidings, as swiftly as the pests could run,
Were rought me of your loss, and his depart.
I, then in London, keeper of the king,
Muster’d my soldiers, gather’d flocks of friends,
And very well appointed, as I thought,

arch’d towards Saint Albans to intercept the

queen, : ne .

110

 

Making another head to fight again.
fidw. W ae is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle War-
: wic

And when came George from Burgundy to England?
War. Some six miles off the duke is with the

soldiers ;

And for your brother, he was lately sent

From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,

With aid of soldiers to this needful war.
Rich. ’T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick

Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit,
But ne’er, till now, his scandal of retire. 150
War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou

ear;
For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine
Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry’s head,
And wring the awful sceptre from his fist,
Were he as famous, and as bold in war,
As he is fam’d for mildness, peace, and prayer.

Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick ; blame me

not:

*T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak.
But in this troublous time, what’s to be done?
Shall we go throw away our coats of steel,
And wrap our bodies in black mourning gowns,
Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads?
Or shall we on the helmets of our foes
Tell our devotion with revengeful arms ?
If for the last, say—Ay, and to it, lords.

War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you

out,

And therefore comes my brother Montague.
Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen,
With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland,
And of their feather many more proud birds,
Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax.
He swore consent to your succession,
His oath enrolled in the parliament ;
And now to London all the crew are oone
To frustrate both his oath, and what eside
May make against the house of Lancaster:
Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong.
Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself,
With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March,
Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, 8
Will but amount to five-and-twenty thousand,
Why, Via! to London will we march amain,
And once again bestride our foaming steeds,
And once again cry—Charge! upon our foes!
But never once again turn back, and fly. ;

Rich. Ay, Hews methinks, I hear great Warwick

speak.

Ne’er may he live to see a sunshine day,
That cries—Retire, if Warwick bid him stay.

Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean;

160

170

 

 
 

 

200

 

KING HENRY VI—PART III. [Acr I,
And when thou fail'st, (as God forbid the hour!) 190 , I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind ;
Must Edward fall, which peril Heaven forfend ! And ‘would my father had left me no more; 50

War. No longer Earl! of March, but Duke of York :
The next degree is England’s royal throne ;
For King of England shalt thou be proclaim’d
In every borough as we pass along;
And he that throws not up his cap for joy,
Shall for the fault make forfeit ot his head.
King Edward,—valiant Richard, —Montague,—
Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,
But sound the trumpets, and about our task. 200
Rich. ee Clitford, were thy heart as hard as
steel,
As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds,
I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. .
Edw. Then strike up, drums!—God and Saint
George for us!

Enter a Messenger.
War. How now? what news?
Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me,
The queen is coming with a puissant host ;
And craves your company for speedy counsel.
War. Why then it sorts: brave warriors,
away. [

let's
ceunt,

ScENE II.—Before York.

Flourish. Enter King HENRY, Qucen MARGARET,
the Prince of WaLeEs, CLIFFORD, and NORTH-
UMBERLAND, with drums and trumpets.

Q. a ee my lord, to this brave town of
ork.

Yonder's the head of that arch-enemy,

That sought to be encompass’d with your crown:

Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord?
4A. Hen, Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their

wrack :

To see this sight, it irks my very soul.—

Withhold revenge, dear God! ’tis not my fault.

Nor wittingly have I infring’d my vow.

Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity,

And harmful pity, must be laid aside.

To whom do lions cast their gentle looks?

Not to the beast that would usurp their den.

Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick ?

Not his that spoils her young before her face.

Who’scapes the lurking serpent’s mortal sting ?

Not he that sets his foot upon her back.

The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on;

And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.

Ambitious York did level at thy crown ;

Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows:

He, but a duke, would have his son a king,

And raise his issue like a loving sire ;

Thou, being a king, bless’d with a goodly son,

Didst yield consent to disinherit him,

Which argu’d thee a most unloving father.

Unreasonable creatures feed their young ;

And though man’s face be fearful to their eyes,

Yet, in protection of their tender ones,

Who hath not seen them, even with those wings

Which sometime they have us’d with fearful flight,

Make war with him that climb’d unto their nest,

Otfering their own lives in their young’s defence ?

For shame, my liege! make them your precedent.

Were it not pity, that this goodly boy

Should lose his birthright by his father’s fault,

And long hereafter say unto his child, —

“ What my great-grandfather and grandsire got,

My careless father fondly gave away.”

Ah! what a shame were this! Look on the boy;

And let his manly face, which promiseth

Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart

To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him.
A. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play’d the orator,

Inferring arguments of mighty force.

But, Clitford, tell me, didst thou never hear,

That things ill got had ever bad success?

And happy always was it for that son,

Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?

10

20

31

 

|
|

For all the rest is held at such a rate
As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep,
Than in possession any jot of pleasure.
Ah, cousin York ! ’would thy best friends did know
How it doth grieve me that thy head is here!
@. Mar. My lord, cheer up your spirits: our foes
are nigh,
And this soft courage makes your followers faint,
You promis’d knighthood to our forward son;
Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently,—
Edward, kneel down.
K. Hen, Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight;
And learn this lesson,—Draw thy sword in right.
Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave,
I'll draw it as apparent to the crown,
And in that quarrel use it to the death.
Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince.

60

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness :
For, with a band of thirty thousand men,
Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York;
And in the towns, as they do march along, 70
Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand.

Clif. IT would, your highness would depart the field:
The queen hath best success when you are absent.

Q. Mar. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our

fortune.

K. Hen. sonra that’s my fortune too; therefore I'll

stay.

North. Be it with resolution then to fight.

Prince. My royal father, cheer these noble lords,
And hearten those that fight in your defence.
Unsheathe your sword, good father: cry, “Saint

George!” 80

March, Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD, WaAR-
WICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and Soldiers.

Edw. Now, perjur’d Henry, wilt thou kneel for
race,
And set thy diadem upon my head,
Or bide the mortal fortune of the field ?
Q. Mar. Go, rate thy minions, proud insulting boy!
Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms,
Before thy sovereign, and thy lawful king?
Edw. 1 am his king, and he should bow his knee;
I was adopted heir by his consent ;
Since when, his oath is broke: for, as I hear,
You, that are king, though he do wear the crown,
Have caus’d him, by new act of parliament,
To blot out me, and put his own son in.
Clif. And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son?
Rich. Are you there, butcher?—O! I cannot speak.
Clif. Ay, crook-back ; here I stand, to answer thee,
Or any he the proudest of thy sort. ,
Rich. ’T was you that kill’d young Rutland, was it

not?
Clif. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied.
Rich. Te God’s sake, lords, give signal to the fight.

War. What say’st thou, Henry, wilt
crown? : '

Q. Mar. Why, how now, long-tongu’d Warwick!
dare you speak ?

When you and I met at Saint Albans last,

Your legs did better service than your hands. ey
War. Then't was my turn to fly, and now ‘tis thine.
clif. You said so much before, and yet you fied.
War. ’T was not your valour, Clifford, drove me

thence.
North. No, nor your manhood, that durst make you

stay.
Rich. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.

Break off the parley ; for scarce I can refrain

The execution of my big-swoln heart

Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. 7
Cuf. I slew thy father: call’st thou him a child?
Rich. Ay, like a dastard, and a treacherous cow:

thou yield the
" 101

110

 
 

 

Scene V.] KING HENRY

VI—PART III. 201

 

As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland;
But ere sunset I’ll make thee curse the deed.
K., Hen. Have done with words, my lords, and hear
me speak.
. Mar. Dety them then, or else hold close thy lips.
. Hen. I pr’ythee, give no limits to my tongue:
Iam a king, and privileg’d to speak. 120
Clif. My liege, the wound, that bred this meeting

here,
Cannot be cur’d by words; therefore be still.
- Rich. Then, executioner, unsheathe thy sword.
By Him that made us all, I am resolv'd
That Clifford’s manhood lies upon his tongue.
Edw. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or no?
A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day,
That ne’er shall dine, unless thou yield the crown.
War, If thou deny, their blood upon thy head ;
For York in justice puts his armour on. _, 130
Prince. If that beright, which Warwick saysisright,
There is no wrong, but everything is right.
Rich. Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands;
For, well I wot, thou hast thy mother’s tongue.
Q. Mar. But thou art neither like thy sire, nor dam;
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic,
Mark’d by the destinies to be avoided, |
As venom toads, or lizards’ dreadful stings.
Rich. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt,
Whose father bears the title of a king,
(As if a channel should be call’d the sea,)
Sham’st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught,
To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart?
Edw. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand
crowns,
To make this shameless callat know herself,
Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou,
Although thy husband may be Menelaus;
And ne’er was Agamemnon’s brother wrong’d
By that false woman, as this king by thee.
His father revell’d in the heart of France,
And tam’d the king, and made the Dauphin stoop ;
And had he match’d according to his state,
He might have kept that glory to this day;
But when he took a beggar to his bed,
And grac’d thy poor sire with his bridal-day,
Even then that sunshine brew'd a shower for him,
That wash’d his father’s fortunes forth of France,
And heap’d sedition on his crown at home. ‘
For what hath broach’d this tumult, but thy pride? .
Hadst thou been meek, our title still had slept, 160
And we, in pity of the gentle king,
Had slipp’d our claim until another age.
Geo. But when we saw our sunshine made thy
spring, ‘
And that thy summer bred us no increase,
We set the axe to thy usurping root: __
And though the edge hath something hit ourselves,
Yet, know thou, since we have begun to strike,
We’ll never leave, till we have hewn thee down,
Or bath’d thy growing with our heated bloods.
Edw. And in this resolution I defy thee;
Not willing any longer conference,
Since thou deniest the gentle king to speak.—
Sound trumpets !—let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave.
. Mar, Stay, Howard,
dw. No, wrangling woman; we’ll no longer stay:
These words will cost ten thousand lives this day.
: [Exeunt.

140

150

170

Scene III.—A Field of Battle near Towton.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter WARWICK.
War. Forspent with toil, as runners with a race,
Ilay me down a little while to breathe;
For strokes receiv'd, and many blows repaid,
Have robb’d my strong-knit sinews of their strength,
And, spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile.

 

Enter EpwakD, running.
Edw. Smile, gentle Heaven, or strike, ungentle
!

For this world frowns, and Edward’s sun is clouded.

 

War. How now: my lord? what hap? what hope of
goo
Enter GEORGE.

Geo. Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair :
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. 10
What counsel give you? whither shall we fly?

Edw. Bootless is flight ; they follow us with wings;
And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit.

Enter Ric arp.
Rich. Ah, Warwick! why hast thou withdrawn
thyself?
Thy brother’s blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach’d with the steely point of Clifford’s lance ;
And in the very pangs of death he cried,
Like to a dismal clangor heard from far,
“Warwick, revenge! brother, revenge my death!”
So, underneath the belly of their steeds, 20
That stain’d their fetlocks in his smoking blood,
The noble gentleman gave up the ghost.
War. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood:
I'll kill my horse, because I will not fly.
hy stand we like soft-hearted women kere,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage;
And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were play’d in jest by counterfeiting actors?
Here on my knee I vow to God above,
I'll never pause again, never stand still, 30
Till either death hath clos’d these eyes of mine,
Or fortune given me measure of revenge.
Edw. O Warwick! I do bend my knee with thine;
And, in this vow, do chain my soul to thine.—
And, ere my knee rise from the earth’s cold face,
I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee,
Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings,
Beseeching thee,—if with thy will it stands,
That to my foes this body must be prey,—
Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may ope, 40
And give sweet passage to my sinful soul.—
Now, lords, take leave until we meet again,
Where’er it be, in heaven, or in earth.
Rich. Brother, give me thy hand;—and, gentle
Warwick,
Let me embrace thee in my weary arms.
I, that did never weep, now melt with woe,
That winter should cut off our spring-time so.
War. aways away! Once more, sweet lords, fare-
well.
Geo. Yet let us all together to our troops,
And give them leave to fly that will not stay,
And call them pillars that will stand to us;
And if we thrive promise them such rewards
As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts;
For yet is hope of life, and victory.—
Forslow no longer ; make we hence amain. [Exeunt.

50

 

ScENE IV.—The Same. Another Part of the Field.

Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD.
Rich. Now, Clifford, I have singled thee alone.

Suppose, this arm is for the Duke of York,

And this for Rutland ; both bound to revenge,

Wert thou environ’d with a brazen wall.

Clif. Now, Richard, Iam with thee here alone.

This is the hand that stabb’d thy father York,

And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland;

And there ’s the heart that triumphs in their death,

And cheers these hands, that slew thy sire and

brother,

And so, have at thee! 10
; ee Sight. WARWICK comes ; CLIFFORD flies.
Rich. Nay, Warwick, single out some other chase ;

For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE V.—Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter King HENRY.
K. Hen. This battle tares like to the morning’s war,
When dying clouds contend with growing light ;

 

 
 

202

KING HENRY VI—PART JIL

{Act II,

 

 

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.
Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea,
Fore’d by the tide to combat with the wind:
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea,
Fore’d to retire by fury of the wind:

  

EP. ENS‘ | it!
I have singled thee alone.”

 

Rich. “ Now, Clifford,

Sometime, the flood prevails; and then, the wind;
Now, one the better, then, another best;
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered :
So is the equal poise of this fell war.
Here, on this molchill, will I sit me down.
To whom God will, there be the victory;
For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle; swearing both,
They prosper best of all when [ am thence.
’Would I were dead! if God’s good will were so;
For what is in this world but grief and woe? 20
O God! methinks, it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete ;
How many hours bring about the day ;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times: 30
So many hours must I tend my flock ;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate ;
So many hours must I sport myself ;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass’d over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. 40
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet ! how lovely !
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
aan oth a rich-embroider’d canopy
o kings that fear their subjects’ treachery ?
Oo! re, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude,—the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle,
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys, 50
Is far beyond a eee delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,

    

 

His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him.

Alarum. Enter a Son that hath killed his Father,
with the dead body.
Son. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.

This man, a hand to hand I slew in
fight,

May be possessed with somestore of crowns:

And I, that haply take them from him now,

May yet ae night yield both my life and
em

To some man else, as this dead man doth

60

me.
Who’s this +O God! it is my father’s face,
Whom ay {ita conidict I unawares have
- .
O heavy times, begetting such events!
From London by the king was I press’d

__ forth:
My father, being the Earl of Warwick’s

man,
Came on the part of York, press'd by his
master ;
And I, who at his hands receiv'd my life,
Have by my hands of life bereaved him.—
Pardon me, God, I knew not what I did;—
And pardon, father, for I knew not thee.—
My tears shall wipe away these bloody
marks 7

; 7
And no more words, till they have flow’d
their fill.
K. Hen. O piteous spectacle! O bloody
times !

While lions war, and battle for their dens,

Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.

‘Weep, wretched man, I'll aid thee, tear for
tear ;

And let our hearts, and eyes, like civil war,

Be blind with tears, and break o’ercharg’d with grief,

Enter a Father, who has killed his Son, with the
body in his arms.
Fath. Thou that so stoutly hast resisted me,
Give me thy gold, if thou hast any gold, 80
For I have bought it with an hundred blows. —
But let me see :—is this our foeman’s face ?
Ah, no, no, no! it is mine only son !—
Ah, boy! if any life be left in thee, ;
Throw up thine eye : see, see, What showers arise,
Blown with the windy tempest of my heart,
Upon thy wounds, that kill mine eye and heart !—
O, pity, God, this miserable age!
What stratagems, how fell, how butcherly,
Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, 90
This deadly quarrel daily doth beget !—
O boy! thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late.
A. Hen. Woe above woe! grief more than common
grief!
O, that my death would stay these ruthful deeds!
O, pity, pity! gentle Heaven, pity !—
The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses:
The one his purple blood right well resembles ;
The other his pale cheeks, :nethinks, presenteth ;
Wither one rose, and let the other flourish!
If you contend, a thousand lives must wither.
Son. How will my mother, for a father’s death,
Take on with me, and ne’er be satisfied !
Fath. How will my wife, for slaughter of my son,
Shed seas of tears, and ne’‘er be satisfied !
kk. Hen. How will the country, for these woful
chances,
Misthink the king, and not be satisfied!
Son. Was ever son so rued a father’s death ?
Fath. Was ever father so bemoan’d his son? _ 110
K. Hen. Was ever king so griewd for subjects’ woe!
Much is your sorrow ; mine, ten times so much.
Son. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill.
[Exit, with the body.
Fath. Thesearmsof mineshall be thy winding-sheet;

100 |

 
 

ScENE V.] KING HENRY VI-PART III. 203

 

My heart, sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, And Warwick rages like a chafed bull.

For from my heart thine image ne’er shall go. Away ! for death doth hold us in pursuit.

My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell ; Q. Mar. Mount you, my lord: towards Berwick
And so obsequious will thy father be, postamain. —

Son, for the loss of thee, having no more, | Edward and Richard, like a brace of greyhounds,

 

 

Q. Mar. “Mount you, my lord: towards Berwick post amain.”

As Priam was for all his valiant sons. 120 , Having the fearful fiving hare in sight, 130
I'll bear thee hence ; and let them fight that will, With fiery eyes, sparkling for very wrath,
For I have murder’d where I should not kill. And bloody steel] grasp’d in their ireful hands,

[Evit, with the body. | Are at our backs; and therefore hence amain.

Exe. Away ! for vengeance comes along with them.

K. Hen. Sad-hearted men, much overgone wit. e
Nay, stay not to expostulate ; make speed,
Or else come after: I’ll away before.

care,
Here sits a king more woful than you are. )
: K. Hen. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet
Alarum: Excursions. Enter Queen MARGARET, Exeter:
Prince of WALES, and EXETER. Not that I fear to stay, but love to go

Prince. Fly, father, fly! for all your friends are | Whither the queen intends. Forward! away!
ed, | {(Exeunt.

 

 
 

204

KING HENRY VI—PART III.

[Acr IL,

 

 

ScENE VI.—The Same.

Aloud Alarum. Enter CLIFFORD, wounded.
Clif. Here burns my candle out ; ay, here it dies,

Which, while it lasted, gave King Henry light.
O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow,
More than my body’s parting with my soul.
My love, and fear, glued nany friends to thee ;
And, now I fall, thy tough commixture melts,
Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York ;
And whither fly the gnats, but to the sun?
And who shines now but Henry’s enemies?
O Phoebus! hadst thou never given consent
That Phaéthon should check thy fiery steeds,
Thy burning car never had scorch’d the earth ;
And, Henry, hadst thou sway’d as kings should do,
Or as thy father, and his father, did,
Giving no ground unto the house of York,
They never then had sprung like summer-flies ;
I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm,
Had left no mourning widows for our death,
And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace.
For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air?
And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity ?
Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds;
No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight :
The foe is merciless, and will not pity ;
For at their hands I have deserv’d no pity.
The air hath got into my deadly wounds,
And much effuse of blood doth make me faint.—
Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest;
I stabb’d your fathers’ bosoms, split my breast.

(He faints.

dlarum and Retreat. Enter EpwarpD, GEORGE,
RICHARD, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and Soldiers.
Edw. Now breathe we, lords: good fortune bids us
aAuse,
And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.—
Some troops pursuc the bloody-minded queen,
That led calm Henry, though he were a king,
As doth a sail, fill’d with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stem the waves.
But think you, lords, that Clifford fled with them?
War. No, ‘tis impossible he should escape ;
For, though before his face I speak the words,
Your brother Richard mark’d him for the grave ;
And wheresoe’er he is, he’s surely dead.
_ (CLIFFORD groans and dies.
Edw. woe soul is that which takes her heavy
eave

10

Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death’s departing. |
i ' For in thy shoulder do I build my seat,
| And never will I undertake the thing,
ftich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for ’t is Clifford ;

Edw. See who it is: and, now the battle ’s ended,
If friend, or foe, let him be gently us’d.

Who not contented that he eee the branch

In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth,

But set his murdering knife unto the root

From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,—

I mean, our pringel? father, Duke of York. 50
War. From off the gates of York fetch down the

head,
Your father’s head, which Clifford placed there ;

 

 

' The scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again ;

 

 

Instead whereof, let this supply the room:
Measure for measure must be answered.
dw. eee) forth that fatal screech-owl to our
ouse,
That nothing sung but death to us and ours:
Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound,
And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak.
[Attendants bring the body forward.
War. I think, his understanding is bereftt.—
Speak, Clitford, dost thou know who speaks to thee?_.
Dark cloudy death o’ershades his beams of life, 61
And he nor sees, nor hears us what we say.
Rich. O, ’would he did! and so, ‘perhaps, he doth:
’T is but his policy to counterfeit,
Because he would avoid such bitter taunts
Which in the time of death he gave our father.
Geo. If. so thou think’st, vex him with eager words,
Rich. Clifford! ask mercy, and obtain no grace,
Edw. Clittord! repent in bootless penitence.
War. Clitford ! devise excuses for thy faults. 70
Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults.
Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York,
Edw. Thou pitiedst Rutland, I will pity thee.
Geo. Where’s Captain Margaret, to fence you now?
Har. They mock thee, Clifford: swear as thou
wast wont.
Rich. What! not an oath? nay, then the world goes

ard,
When Clittord cannot spare his friends an oath.—
I know by that, he’s dead; and, by my soul,
If this right hand would buy two hours’ life,
That I in all despite might rail at him, 80
This en ehouid chop it off; and with the issuing
00
Stifle the villain, whose unstaunched thirst
York and young Rutland could not satisfy.
War. Ay, im he’s dead. Off with the traitors
head,
And rear it in the place your father’s stands.
And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's royal king.
From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France,
And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen.
So shalt thou sinew both these lands together ; 90
And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread

For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt,

Yet look to have them buz, to offend thine ears.

First will I see the coronation,

And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea,

To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. .
Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be;

100
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting.—
Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloster ;—
And George, of Clarence ;—Warwick, as ourself,
Shall do, and undo, as him eee best.

Rich. Let mebe Duke of Clarence, George of Gloster,
For Gloster’s dukedom is too ominous.

War. Tut! that’s a foolish observation:
Richard, be Duke of Gloster. Now to London,
To see these honours in possession. [Exeuni,

 
 

 

 

ACT III.
Scene I.—A Chase in the North of England.
Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands.

1 Keeper.
DER this thick-grown brake we ll
shroud ourselves ;
For through this laund anon the deer
will come ;
And in this covert will we make our
stand,
Culling the principal of all the deer.
2 Keep. I'll stay above the hill, so
both may shoot.
1 Keep. That cannot be; the noise of
4 thy cross-bow
\ Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is
st.

   

ost.
Here stand we both, and aim we at the

And, for the time shall not seem tedious,
I'll tell thee what befell me on a day, 10
In this self place where now we mean to stand.

2 Keep. Here comes a man, let’s stay till he be past.

Enter King HENRY, disguised, with a prayer-book.
K. Hen. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure

ve,
To greet mine own land with my wishful sight.
No, Harry, Harry, tis no land of thine;
Thy place is fill’d, thy sceptre wrung from thee,
Thy bee wash’d off wherewith thou wast anointed:
No bending knee will call thee Ceesar now,
No humble suitors press to speak for right,
No, not a man comes for redress of thee. 20
For how can I help them, and not myself?
1 Ae. BS here’s a deer whose skin’s a keeper’s
ee:
This is the gquondam king ; let’s seize upon him.
K. Hen. fet me embrace the sour adversities ;
For wise men say, it is the wisest course.
2 Keep. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him.
1 Keep. Forbear awhile; we’ll hear a little more.
K. Hen. My queen and son are gone to France for

aid;
And, as I hear, the great. commanding Warwick
Is thither gone, to crave the French king’s sister 30
To wife for Edward. If this news be true,
Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost :
For Warwick is a subtle orator,
And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words.
By this account then, Margaret may win him,
For she’s a woman to be pitied much:
Her sighs will mak~ a battery in his breast,
Her tears will pierce into a marble heart ;
The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn,
And Nero will be tainted with remorse, 40
To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears.
Ay, but she’s come to beg ; Warwick, to give:
She on his left side craving aid for Henry,
He on his right asking a wife for Edward.
© weeps, and says—her Henry is depos’d ;
He smiles, and says—his Edward is install’d;
That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more:
Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength,
And, in conclusion, wins the king from her, 50
With promise of his sister, and what else,
To strengthen ard support King Edward’s place.

 

O Margaret! thus ’t will be ; and thou, poor soul,

Art then forsaken, as thou went’st forlorn.

2 Keep. Say, what art thou that talk’st of kings

and queens?

K. Hen. More than I seem, and less than I was

born to:

A man at least, for less I should not be;

And men may talk of kings, and why not I? 58
2 Keep. Ay, but thou talk’st as if thou wert a ine
KK. Hen. Why, so Iam, in mind; and that’s enough.
2 Keep. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown?
kK. Hen. My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not deck’d with diamonds, and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is call'd, content ;

A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy.

2 Keep. Well, if you be aking crown’d with content,
Your crown content, and you, must be contented
To go along with us; for, as we think,

You are the king, King Edward hath depos’d ;

And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance, 70

Will apprehend you as his enemy.

Ak. Hen. Ae did you never swear, and break an

oath

2 Keep. No, never such an oath ; nor will not now.

AK. Hen. Where did you dwell, when I was King of

England ?

2 Keep. Here in this country, where we now remain.

K. Hen. I was anointed king at nine months old ;
My father and my grandfather were kings ;

And you were sworn true subjects unto me:

And tell me then, have you not broke your oaths?

1 Keep. No;

For we were subjects but while you were king.

K. Hen. Why am I dead? do I not breathe a man?
Ah, simple men! you know not what you swear.
Look, as I blow this feather from my face,

And as the air blows it to me again,

Obeying with my wind when I do blow,

And yielding to another when it blows,

Commanded always by the greater gust:

Such is the lightness of you common men.

But do not break your oaths ; for of that sin 90

My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty.

Go where you will, the king shall be commanded;

And be you kings: command, and Ill obey.

1 Keep. We are true subjects to the king, King

Edward.

K. Hen. So would you be again to Henry,

If he were seated as King Edward is.

1 een, We charge you, in God’s name, and the

ing’s,

To go with us unto the officers.

4. Hen. In God’s name, lead; your king’s name be

obey’d:
And what God will, that let your king perform; 100
And what he will, I humbly yield unto. [Exeunt.

ScEeNE II.—London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King EDWARD, GLOSTER, CLARENCE, and
Lady GREY.
K. Edw. Brother of Gloster, at Saint Albans field
This lady’s husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain,

 

 
 

|

206 KING HENRY

VI.—-PART II. (Acr TL

 

 

His lands then seiz’d on by the conqueror :
Her suit is now, to repossess those lands ;
Which we in justice cannot well deny,
Because in quarrel of the house of York
The worthy gentleman did lose his life. .
Glo. Your highness shall do well, to grant her suit ;
It were dishonour, to deny it her.
A. Edw. It were no less; but yet I’ll make a pause.
Glo, [Aside to CLARENCE.] Yea; is it so? 11
I see, the lady hath a thing to grant,
Before the king will grant her humble suit.
Clar. [Aside to GLosrER.] He knows the game:
how true he keeps the wind!
Glo. [Aside to CLARENCE.) Silence! -
K. Edw. Widow, we will consider of your suit,
And come some other time to know our mind.
L. Grey. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay:
May it please your highness to resolve me now,
And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me. 20
Glo. [Aside to CLARENGE.] Ay, Widow? then I’
warrant you all your lands,
An if what pleases him shall pleasure you.
Fight closer, or, good faith, you'll catch a blow.

Clar, (Aside to GLosTER.] I fear her not, unless she |

chance to tall.

Glo. [Aside to CLARENCE.] God forbid that, for
he’ll take vantages.

A. Bae Moy many children hast thou, widow ?
tell me.

Clar, [.iside to GLOSTER.] I think, he means to beg

a child of her.

Glo. [Aside to CLARENCE.] Nay, whip me then ;
he'll rather give her two.

L. Grey. Three, my most gracious lord.

Glo. [.lside to CLARENCE.] You shall have four, if
youll be rul’d by him.

A. Edw. baie pity, they should lose their father's
lands.

L. Grey. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then.

kA. Ldw. Lords, give us leave: I'll try this widow's

wit.
Glo. [Aside toCLARENCE.] Ay, good leave have you;
tor you Will have leave,
Till youth take leave, and leave you to the crutch.
(GLOSTER and CLARENCE stand apart.
A. Edw. Now tell me, madam, do you love your
children ?

L. Grey. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself.

K. Edw. apd would you not do much, to do them
goo

L. Grey. To do them good I would sustain some
harm.

K. Edw. ie get your husband’s lands, to do them
good. 40

LZ. trey. Therefore I came unto your majesty.

dS. dw. V'll tell you how these lands are to be got.

L. Grey. So shall you bind me to your highness’
service.

K. Edw. What service wilt thou do me, if I give
them ?

LL. Grey. What youcommand, that rests in me to do.
K. Edw. But you will take exceptions to my boon.
L. Grey. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it.
A. Edw. Ay, but thou canst do whet I mean to

 

ask.
L. Grey. Why then, I will do what your grace com-

mands.

Glo. [Aside to CLARENCE.] He plies her. hard; and
much rain wears the marble. 50

Clar, [-iside to GLostER.] As red as fire! nay, then
her wax must melt.

L. new a stops my lord? shall I not hear my
fae f

K. Edw. An easy task: ‘tis but to love a king.

L. Grey. That’s soon perform’d, because I am ua
subject.

K. Edw. Why then, thy husband’s lands I freely
give thee.

L. Grey. I take my leave with many thousand

thanks.
Glo. [Aside to CLARENCE.] The match is made: she
seals it with a curtsy.

 

 

kK. Hdw. But stay thee; ’tis the fruits of love I

mean.
L. Grey. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege,
kK. Hdw. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense.
What love think’st thou I sue so much to get?
L. Grey. My love till death, my humble thanks, my
prayers:
That love which virtue begs, and virtue grants.
&. Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean such love,
L. Grey. ay, then you mean not as I thought you

x. Hdw. But now you partly may perceive my mind,
_L. Grey. My mind will never grant what I Venere
Your highness aims at, if I aim aright.
A. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee.
L, Grey. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison,
&. Edw. Why, then thou shalt not have thy hus-
band’s lands. 7
L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be my
dower ;
For by that loss I will not purchase them.
KA. Edw. Therein thou wrong’st thy children
mightily.
L. Grey. Herein your highness wrongs both them
_ and me.
But, mighty lord, this merry inclination
Accords not with the sadness of my suit;
Please you dismiss me, either with ay, or no.
&. Edw. Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request ;
No, if thou dost say no to my demand.
. Grey. Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end.
Glo. [Aside to CLARENCE.] The widow likes him
not, she knits her brows.
Clar. [Aside to GLosTER.] He is the bluntest wooer
in Christendom.
K. Edw. [Aside.| Her looks do argue her replete
with modesty ;
Her words do show her wit incomparable;
AU her perfections challenge sovereignty :
One way, or other, she is for a king,
And she shall be my love, or else my queen.—
Say, that King Edward take thee for his queen?

 

 

 

L. Grey. ’Tis better said than done, my ertaiee

ord:
lam a subject fit to jest withal,
But far unfit to be a sovereign.
K. Edw, Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee,
I speak no more than what my soul intends ;
And that is, to enjoy thee for my love.
L. Grey. And that is more than I will yield unto.
I know, I am too mean to be your queen,
And yet too good to be your concubine.
K. Edw. You cavil, widow: I did mean, my queed,
L. Grey. "0 will grieve your grace, my sons should
call you father. 100

 

 
 

 

Scene III.) KING HENRY VI.—PART Ii. 207
K. Edw. No more than when my daughters call | And yet I know not how to get the crown,
thee mother. For many lives stand between me and home:
Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children ; And I,—like one lost in a thorny wood,
And, by God’s mother, I, being but a bachelor, That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns,
Have other some: why, ‘tis a happy thing Seeking a way, and straying from the way,
To be the father unto many sons. Not knowing how to find the open air,
Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. But toiling desperately to find it out, —
Glo, [Aside to CLARENCE.] The ghostly father now | Torment myself to catch the English crown:
hath done his shrift. And from that torment I will free myself, 180
Clar. [Aside to GLOSTER.) When he was made a | Or hew my way out with a bloody axe.
shriver, ’t was for shift. Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile,
K. Edw. Brothers, you muse what chat we two | And cry, content, to that which grieves my heart,
have had. | . And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,
Glo. The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad. | And frame my face to all occasions.
K. Edw. You’d think it strange if I should marry | I'l] drown more sailors than the mermaid shall,
her. 111 | I’ll slay more gazers than the basilisk ;
Clar. To whom, my lord? I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,
K, Edw. Why, Clarence, to myself. | Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,
Glo. That would be ten days’ wonder at the least. And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. 190
Clar. That’s a day longer than a wonder lasts. I can add colours to the chameleon,
Glo. By so much is the wonder in extremes. Change shapes with Proteus, for advantages,
K. Edw. Well, jest on, brothers: I can tell you | And set the murd’rous Machiavel to school,
both, Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Her suit is granted for her husband's lands. Tut! were it further off, I'll pluck it down. (Exit.

Enter a Nobleman.

Nob. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken,
And brought your prisoner to your palace gate.

K. Edw. See that he be convey’d unto the Tower :—
And go we, brothers, to the man that took him, 121
To guestion of his apprehension. —

Widow, go you along.—Lords, use her honourably.
[Exeunt King EDwWarp, Lady GREY,
CLARENCE, and Lord.

Glo. Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
’Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all,
That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring,
To cross me from the golden time I look for !

And yet, between my soul's desire, and me, —
The lustful Edward’s title buried, —

Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward,
And all the unlook’d-for issue of their bodies,
To take their rooms, ere I can place myself:

A cold premeditation for my purpose!

Why then, I do but dream on sovereignty ;

Like one that stands upon a promontory,

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread,
Wishing his foot were equal with his eye ;

And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
eevee ‘ll lade it dry to have his way:

So do I wish the crown, being so far off,

And so I chide the means that keep me from it ;
And so I say—I’ll cut the causes off,

Flattering me with impossibilities. —

‘My eye’s too quick, my heart o’erweens too much,
Unless my hand and strength could equal them.
Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard,
What other pleasure can the world afford ?

T’'ll make my heaven in a lady’s lap,

And deck my bed in gay ornaments,

And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. 150
O miserable thought ! and more unlikely,

Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns.
Why, love forswore me in my mother’s womb:
And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,

She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe,
To shrink mine arm up like a wither’d shrub;
To make an envious mountain on my back,
Where sits deformity to mock my body ;

To shape my legs of an unequal size ;

To disproportion me in every part ;

Like to a chaos, or an unlick’d bear-whelp,
That carries no impression like the dam.

And am I then a man to be belov’d ?

0 monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought!
Then, since this earth affords no joy to me

But to command, to check, to o’erbear such

As are of better person than myself,

1 make my heaven to dream upon the crown;
And, whiles I live, to account this world but hell,
Until my misshan a trunk, that bears this head,
Be round impaled with a glorious crown.

130

140

160

170

 

ScENE ITI.—France. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter Lewis the French King, and Lady
Bona, attended: the'King takes his state. Uhen
enter Queen MARGARET, Prince EDWARD, and the
Earl of OXFORD.

K. Lew. [Rising.] Fair Queen of England, worthy
Margaret,
Sit down with us: it ill befits thy state
And birth, that thou shouldst stand, while Lewis doth

sit.

Q. Mar. No, mighty King of France; now Margaret
Must strike her sail, and learn awhile to serve,
Where kings command. I was, I must confess,
Great Albion's queen in former golden days;

But now mischance hath trod my title down,

And with dishonour laid me on the ground,

Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, 10
and to my humble seat conform myself.

K. Lew. Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this

deep despair ?

Q. Mar. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with

tears,
And stops my tongue, while heart is drown’d in

ares.
K. Lew. Whate’er it be, be thou still like thyself,
And sit thee by our side: [seats her by him] yield not
thy neck
To fortune’s yoke, but let thy dauntless mind
Still'ride in triumph over all mischance.
Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief ;
It shall be eas’d, if France can yield relief.
Q. Mar. Those gracious words revive my drooping
thoughts,
And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak.
Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis,
That Henry, sole possessor of my love,
Is of a king become a banish’d man,
And fore’d to live in Scotland, a forlorn ;
While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York,
Usurps the regal title, and the seat
Of England's true-anointed lawful king.
This is the cause, that I, poor Margaret, 30
With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry’s heir,
Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid ;
And if thou fail us, all our hope is done.
Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help;
Our people and our peers are both misled,
Our treasure seiz’d, our soldiers put to flight,
And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight.
A. Lew. jenowaned queen, with patience calm the
storm,
While we bethink a means to break it off.
Q. De The more we stay, the stronger grows our
oe. d

 

 

 
 

 

208

kK. Lew. The more I stay, the more I'll succour

CO.
Q. Mar. O! but impatience waiteth on true sorrow:
And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow.

Enter Warwick, attended.

K. Lew. What ’s he, approacheth boldly to our pre-
sence ?
Q. Mar. eH Earl of Warwick, Edward’s greatest
friend.
K. Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick. What brings
thee to France ?
[Descending from his state.
MARGARET rises. :
Q. Mar. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise ;
For this is he that moves both wind and tide.
War. From worthy Edward, King of Albion,
My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend,
I come, in kindness, and unfeigned love,

Queen

KING HENRY

VI PART III. [Acr TL.
War. Injurious Margaret!

Prince. And why not queen?
War. Because thy father Henry did usurp,
And thou no more art prince, than she is queen. _ 89
Oxf. Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt
Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain ; :
And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,
Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest ;
And after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth,
Who by his prowess conquered all France:
From these our Henry lineally descends.
War. Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse,
You told not, how Henry the Sixth hath lost
All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten? 90
BiaL Bini nee peers of France should smile at
a

But for the rest,—you tell a pedigree

Of threescore and two years; a silly time

To make prescription for a kingdom's worth.

Oxf. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak
against thy liege,

 

 

War. ‘‘1 come, in kindness, and unfelgned Jove."

First, to do greetings to thy royal person ;
And then, to crave a league of amity ;
And lastly, to confirm that amity
With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant
That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister,
To England's king in lawful marriage.
9. Mar. If that go forward, Henry’s hope is done.

var. [To Bona.] And, gracious madam, in our
<ing’s behalf,
Iam commanded, with your leave and favour, 60

Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue

To tell the passion of my sovereign’s heart ;

Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears,

Hath plac’d thy beauty’s image, and thy virtue.

Q. Mar. ae Lewis, and Lady Bona, hear me

speak,

Before you answer Warwick. His demand

Springs not from Edward’s well-meant honest love,

But from deceit, bred by necessity ;

For how can tyrants safely govern home,

Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? 70

To prove him tyrant, this reason may suffice,

That Henry liveth still ; but were he dead,

Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry’s son.

Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and
marriage

Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour ;

For though usurpers sway the rule awhile,

Yet heavens are just, and time suppresscth wrongs.

 

Whom thou obeyedst thirty and six years,
And not bewray thy treason with a blush?
War. Can Oxford, that did ever fence
the right,

Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree?
For shan leave Henry, and call Edward
ing. 100
Oxf. Call Han my king, by whose injurious
doom

My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere,

Was done to death? and more than so, my
father,

Even in the downfall of his mellow’d years,

When nature brought him to the door of

death ?
No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this

arm,
This arm upholds the house of Lancaster.
War. And I the house of York.
K. Lew. Queen Margaret, Prince Edward,
and Oxford,
Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside, 110
While I use aa conference with War-
wick.
Q. Mar. Heavens grant, that Warwick's
words bewitch him not! '
ee with the PRINCE and OXFORD.
. Lew. Now, Warwick, tell me, even
upon thy conscience,
Ts Edward your true king? for I were loath,
To link with him that were not lawful
: chosen. ‘

War. Thereon I pawn my credit, and mine honour.

K. Lew. But is he gracious in the people’s eye?

War. The more, that Henry was unfortunate.

&. Lew. Then further, all dissembling set aside,
Tell me for truth the measure of his love 120
Unto our sister Bona.

War. Such it seems,

As may beseem a monarch like himself.

Myself have often heard him say, and swear,
That this his love was an eternal plant,

Whereof the root was fix’d in virtue’s ground,
The leaves and fruit maintain’d with beauty’s sun,
Exempt from envy, but not from disdain,

Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain.

K. Lew. Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve.

Bona. Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine.—
[To Warwick.] Yet I confess, that often ere 7

ay,

When I have heard your king’s desert recounted,

Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.

KK. Lew. Then, Warwick, thus :—our sister shall be
Edward's ;sx

And now forthwith shall articles be drawn

Touching the jointure that your king must make,

Which with her dowry shall be counterpois'd.—

Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness,

That Bona shall be wife to the English king. |
Prince. To Edward, but not to the English king. 10
Q. Mar. Deceitful Warwick ! it was thy device,

5s eae

 
 

 

Scene III.]

KING HENRY VI-—PART III.

209

 

By this alliance to make void my suit: _
Before thy coming, Lewis was Henry’s friend.
K. Lew. And still is friend to him and Margaret
But if your title to the crown be weak,
As may appear by Edward’s good success,
Then ’tis but reason, that I be releas’d
From giving aid which late I promised.
Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand,
That your estate requires, and mine can yield.
War. Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease,
Where having nothing, nothing can he lose,
And as for you yourself, our guondam queen,
You have a father able to maintain you,
And better ’t were you troubled him than France.
Q. Mar. Peace! impudent and shameless Warwick,
peace,
Proud setter-up and puller-down of kings ;
I will not hence, till with my talk and tears,
Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold
Thy sly conveyance, and thy lord’s false love ; 160
For both of you are birds of selfsame feather.
[4 horn sounded within.
K. Lew. Warwick, this is some post to us, or thee.

150

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord ambassador, these letters are for you,
Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague ;—
These from our king unto your majesty ;—

And, madam, these for you; from whom, I know not.
[They all read their letters.

Oxf. I like it well, that our fair queen and mistress
Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his.

Prince. Be mark how Lewis stamps as he were

nettled :
all’s for the best, 170
w. Warwick, what are thy news? and yours,
fair queen?
Q. Mar, Mine, such as fill my heart with unhop’d

I hope
K.

joys.
War. Mine, full of sorrow and heart’s discontent.
K, Lew. What! has your king married the Lady

Grey,
And now, to sooth your forgery and his,
Sends me a paper to persuade me patience?
Is this the alliance that he seeks with France ?
Dare he presume to scorn us in this manner?
Q. Mar. I told your majesty as much before:
This proveth Edward's love, and Warwick’s honesty.
War. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven,
And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, 182
That Iam clear from this misdeed of Edward’s ;
No more my king, for he dishonours me;
But most himself, if he could see his shame.
Did I forget, that by the house of York
My father came untimely to his death?
Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece?
Did I impale him with the regal crown?
Did I put Henry from his native right 2
And am I guerdon’d at the last with shame?
Shame on himself, for my desert is honour :
And to repair my honour lost for him,
There renounce him, and return to Henry.
My noble queen, let former grudges pass,
And henceforth I am thy true servitor.
I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona,
And replant Henry in his former state.
Q. Mar. Warwick, these words have turn’d my
hate to love;

190

AndI vas and quite forget old faults, 200
And joy that thou becom’st ne Henry’s friend.
War. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend,

That if King Lewis vouchsafe to

furnish us

 

With some few bands of chosen soldiers,
I'll undertake to land them on our coast,
And force the tyrant from his seat by war.
’*Y is not his new-made bride shall succour him:
And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me,
He’s very likely now to fall from him,
For matching more for wanton lust than honour, 210
Or than for strength and safety of our country.
Bona. Dear brother, how shall Bona be reveng’d,
But by thy help to this distressed queen ?
Q. Mar. Reoowned prince, how shall poor Henry

live,

Unless thou rescue him from foul despair?

Bona, My quarrel, and this English queen’s, are
one.

War. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours.

kA. Lew. And mine, with hers, and thine, and
Margaret’s.

Therefore, at last, [ firmly am resolv’d,

You shall have aid. 220
Q. Mar. Let me give humble thanks for all at once.
4. Lew. Then, England’s messenger, return in post ;

And tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,

To revel it with him and his new bride.

Thou seest what’s past; go fear thy king withal.
Bona. Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower

shortly,

I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.

Q. Mar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid

aside,
And I am ready to put armour on. 230
War. Tell bim trom me, that he hath done me
wrong, y

And therefore I'll uncrown him ere ’t be long.
There’s thy reward: be gone. Exit Messenger.
AK, Lew. But, Warwick, thou,
And Oxford, with five thousand men,
Shall cross the seas, and bid false Edward battle:
And, as occasion serves, this noble queen
And prince shall follow with a fresh supply.
Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:
What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty?

War, This shall assure my constant loyalty :—
That if our queen and this young prince agree,
I'll join mine eldest daughter, and my joy,
To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands.

Q. Mar. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your

motion.

Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous,
Therefore delay not, give thy hand to Warwick ;
And with thy hand thy faith irrevocable,

That only Warwick’s daughter shall be thine.
Prince. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it :
And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. 250

[He gives his hand to WaRWICK.
K, Lew. Why stay we now? These soldiers shall
be levied,
And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral,
Shalt waft them over with our royal fleet.—
T long till Edward fall by war’s mischance,
For mocking marriage with a dame of France.
[Exeunt all but Warwick.
War, I came from Edward as ambassador,
But I return his sworn and mortal foe:
Matter of marriage was the charge he gave me,
But dreadful war shall answer his demand.
Had he none else to make a stale but me?
Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow.
I was the chief that rais’d him to the crown,
And Il be chief to bring him down again:
Not that [ pity Henry’s misery,
But seek revenge on Edward’s mockery.

240

260

[Zxit.

 

 

14

 
 

 

ACT IV.

 
  

Gloster.
e, brother Clarence, what think

you :
yi Of this new marriage with the Lady
xrey ?

y?
Hath not our brother made a worthy
choice?

6 Clar.\ Alas! you_know, ‘tis far from
i i} hence to France: :
J he How could he stay till Warwick made
oy return ? :
: Som. My lords, forbear this talk: here

comes tbe king.
Glo. And his well-chosen bride. .
Clar. I mind to tell him plainly what I think.

Flourish. Enter King Epwarb, attended; Lady

GREY, as Queen; PEMBROKE, STAFFORD, and
HASTINGS.
K. Edw. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you
our choice,
That you stand pensive as half malcontent? 10
Clay. As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of
Warwick ;

Which are so weak of courage, and in judgment,
That they ’ll take no offence at our abuse.

K. Edw. Suppose they take offence without a cause,
They are but Lewis and Warwick : Lam Edward,
Your king and Warwick’s, and must have my will.

Glo. And you shall have your will, because our

king;
Yet hasty mpraaee seldom proveth well.

kK. Edw. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended
too?
Glo. NotI 20

No, God forbid, that I should wish them sever’d
Whom God hath join’d together; ay, and ‘t were pity,
To sunder them that yoke so well together. A.

AK. Edw. pone your scorns, and your mislike,

aside,
Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey
Should not become my wife, and England’s queen.—
And you too, Somerset, and Montague,
Speak freely what you think.

Clar. Then this is mine opinion,—that King Lewis
Becomes your enemy, for mocking him 30
About the marriage of the Lady Bona.

Glo, And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge,
Is now dishonoured by this new marriage.

K. Edw, What, if both Lewis and Warwick be

appeas’d
By such invention as I can devise ?
Mont. Yet to have join’d with France in such
alliance, :
Would more have strengthen’d this our common-
' wealth
’Gainst foreign storms, than any home-bred marriage.

Hast. Why, knows not Montague, that of itself
England is safe, if true within itself? 40

Mont. Yes; but the safer, when ‘tis back’d with

France.
Hast. "Tis better using France, than trusting

Trance.
Let us be back’d with God, and with the seas,
Whicb he hath given for fence impregnable,

 

ScENE L—London. A Room in the Palace.
Enter GLOSTER, CLARENCE, SOMERSET, and MONTAGUE.

And with their helps only defend ourselves :
In them and in ourselves our safety lies. c
Clar. For this one speech Lord Hastings well
deserves
To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. .
K. Edw. Ay, what of that? it was my will, and
grant ;
And for this once my will shall stand for law. 50
Glo. And yet, methinks, your grace hath not done

well,
To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales
Unto the brother of your loving bride:
She better would have fitted me, or Clarence ;
But in your bride you bury brotherhood.

Clar. Or else you would not have bestow’d the heir
Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife’s son,

And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere.

K. Edw. Alas, poor Clarence ! is it for a wife,

That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee. 60

Clar. In choosing for yourself you show’d your

judgment ;
Which being shallow, you shall give me leave
To py the broker in-mine own behalt ;
And to that end I shortly mind to leave you.

K. Edw. Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king,
And not be tied unto his brother's will.

Q. Eliz. My lords, before it pleas’d his majesty
To raise my state to title of a queen,

Do me but right, and you must all confess
That I was not ignoble ot descent: 70
And meaner than myself have had like fortune.
But as this title honouys me and mine,
So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing,
Do cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow.
‘. Edw. My love, forbear to fawn upon their
frowns.
What danger, or what sorrow can befall thee,
So long as Edward is thy constant friend,
And their true sovereign, whom they must obey?
Nay, whom ae shall obey, and love thee too,
Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; 80
Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe,
And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath.
Glo, [Aside.] I hear, yet say not much, but think
the more.
Enter a Messenger.
K. Edw. Now, messenger, what letters, or what
news,
From France?
Mess. My sovereign liege, no letters, and few
words;
But such as J, without your special pardon,»
Dare not relate.

K. Edw. Go to, we pardon thee: therefore, in brief,
Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.
What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters? 91

Mess. At my depart these were his very words :—
“Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king,

That Lewis of France is sending over masquers,
To revel it with him and his new bride.”
KK. Edw. Is Lewis so brave? belike, he thinks me
Henry.
But what said Lady Bona to my marriage ?

Mess. ae were her words, utter’d with mild dis-

ain:

 

 
Scene ITI] KING HENRY

VILPART IID 211

 

“Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly,
T’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.” 100
K. Edw. T blame not her, she could say little less ;
She had the wrong: but what said Henry’s queen ?
For I have heard, that she was there in place.
Mess. ‘Tell him,” quoth she, ‘my mourning weeds
are ene é .
am ready to put armour on.
Are Tae. Belike, she minds to play the Amazon.
But what said Warwick to these injuries ?
| ~” Mess. He, more incens’d against your majesty
Than all the rest, discharg’d me with these words :—
“Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrong, 110
And therefore I’ll uncrown him ere’t be long.”
K. Edw. H1! durst the traitor breathe out so proud
words?
Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn’d :
They shall have wars, and pay for their presumption.
But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret? ,
Mess. Ay, gracious sovereign : they are so link’d in

friendship, Wey

That young Prince Edward marries Warwick’s
daughter.

Clar. Belike, the elder; Clarence will have the
younger.

Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast,
For I will hence to Warwick's other daughter ;
That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage
I may not prove inferior to yourself. —
You, that fove me and Warwick, follow me.
Exit CLARENCE, and SOMERSET follows.
Glo. [Aside.] NotI:
My thoughts aim at a further matter; I
Stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown.
K, Edw. Clarence and Somerset both gone to War-
wick!
Yet am I arm’d against the worst can happen,
And haste is needful in this desperate case.—
Pembroke, and Stafford, you in our behalf
Go levy men, and make prepare for war;
They are already, or quickly will be landed
Myself in person will straight follow you.
[Exreunt PEMBROKE and STAFFORD.
But, ere I go, Hastings, and Montague,
Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest,
Are near to Warwick by blood, and by alliance :
Tell me if you love Warwick more than me?
If it be so, then both depart to him:
Irather wish you foes, than hollow friends ;
But, if you mind to hold your true obedience,
Give me assurance with some friendly vow,
That I may never have you in suspect.
Mont. So God help Montague, as he proves true!
Hast. And Hastings, as he favours Edward’s cause!
K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, will youstand by us?
Glo. Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.
K. Edw. Why so; then am I sure of victory.
Now therefore let us hence ; and lose no hour,
Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power.
[Exeunt.

120

130

140

ScENE IJ.—A Plain in Warwickshire.

Enter Warwick and OXFORD with French and
other Forces.
War. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well:
The common people by numbers swarm to us.

Enter CLARENCE and SOMERSET.

But see, where Somerset and Clarence come!
Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends?
Clar. Fear not that, my lord.
War. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto War-
7 wick:
And welcome, Somerset.—I hold it cowardice,
To rest mistrustful where a noble heart
Hath pawn’d an open hand in sign of love ;
Else might I think, that Clarence, Edward’s brother,
Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings: 11
But SSE sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be
e.

 

 

And now what rests, but in night's coverture,
Thy brother being carelessly encamp’d,
His soldiers lurking in the towns about,
And but attended by a simple guard,
We may surprise and take him at our pleasure ?
Our scouts have found the adventure very easy :
That as Ulysses, and stout Diomede,
With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus’ tents, 20
And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds ;
So we, well cover’d with the night’s black mantle,
At unawares may beat down Edward's guard,
And seize himself; I say not, slaughter him,
For I intend but only to surprise him.—
You, that will follow me to this attempt,
Applaud the name of Henry with your leader.
[They all ery, ‘“ Henry!”
Why, then, let’s on our way in silent sort.
For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George!
[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—Epwarp’s Camp near Warwick.

Enter certain Watchmen, to guard the Ki1na’s Tent.

1 We eee Come on, my masters, each man take his
stand :
The king by this is set him down to sleep.

2 Watch. What, will he not to bed?

1 Watch. Why, no; for he hath madea solemn vow,
Never to lie and take his natural rest,

Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress’d.

2 Watch. To-morrow then, belike, shall be the day,
If Warwick be so near as men report.

3 Watch. But say, I pray, what nobleman is that,
That with the king here resteth in his tent? 10

1 ee 1 the Lord Hastings, the king’s chiefest

riend.

3 Watch. O! is itso? Butwhy commands the king,
That his chief followers lodge in towns about him,
While he himself keeps in the cold field ?

2 Watch. ’Tis the more honour, because more

dangerous. :

3 Watch. Ay, but give me worship and quietness ;
I like it better than a dangerous honour.

If Warwick knew in what estate he stands,
’T is to be doubted, he would waken him.
1 Watch. Unless our halberds did shut up his
assage. 20

2 Watch. Ay; wherefore else guard we his royal tent,

But to defend his person from night-foes?

Enter WARWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD, SOMERSET,
and Iorces.
War. This is his tent; and see, where stand his
guard.
Courage, my masters! honour now, or never!
But follow me, and Edward shall be ours.
1 Watch. Who goes there?
2 Watch. Stay, or thou diest.
[WaARWICK, and the rest, cry all—“ Warwick ?
Warwick!” and set upon the Guard; wio
fly, crying—“ Arm! Arm!” WaRWICK, and
the rest, following them.

Drums beating, and trumpets sounding, re-enter
Warwick, and the rest, bringing the Kine out
in his gown, sitting in a chair: GLOSTER and
HASTINGS jly over the stage.

Som. What are they that fly there ?
War. Richard, and Hastings: let them go; here’s

the duke.
K. Edw. The duke! why, Warwick, when we
parted last,
Thou call’dst me king!
War. : Ay, but the case is alter’d: 30
When you disgrac’d me in my embassade,
Then I degraded you from being king,
And come now to create you Duke of York.
Alas! how should you govern any kingdom,
That know not how to use ambassadors,
Nor how to be contented with one wife,
Nor how to use your brothers brotherly,

 

 
 

212 KING HENRY

VIL—PART Til. [Act IV,

 

Nor how to study for the people’s welfare,
Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies ?
AK. ay, at brother of Clarence, art thou here
00 40
Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down.—
Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance,
Of thee thyself, and all thy complices,
Edward will always bear himself as king:
Though fortune’s malice overthrow my state,
My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.
Var. Then, for his mind, be Edward England's
king: (Takes off his crown.
But Henry now shall wear the English crown,

 

Wer. “ But Henry now shall wear the English crown.”

And be true king indeed ; thou but the shadow. —
My Lord of Somerset. at my request,
See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey’d
Unto my brother, Archbishop of York. ‘
When [have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,
I'll follow you, and tell what answer
Lewis, and the Lady Bona, send to him :—
Now, for a while, farewell, good Duke of York.
K. Edw. What fates impose, that men must needs

abide :
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.
Exit King Epwarb, led out ; SOMERSET
with him.
Oxf. What now remains, my lords, for us to do,
But march to London with our soldiers?
War. Ay, that’s the first thing that we have to do;
To free King Henry from imprisonment,
And see him seated in the regal throne. [Exeunt.

 

ScEeNE IV.—London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter Queen ELIZABETH and RIVERS.
Riv. Madam, what makes you in this sudden
change ?
. Eliz. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn,
What late misfortune is befall’n King Edward ?
Riv. What! loss of some pitch’d battle against
Warwick ?
. Eliz. No, but the loss of his own royal person.
iv. Then is my sovereign slain ?

Q. Eliz. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner ;
Either betray’d by falsehood of his guard,
Or by his foe surpris’d at unawares :

And, as I further have to understand,
Is new committed to the Bishop of York,
Fell Warwick’s brother, and by that our foe.

Riv. These news, I must confess, are full of grief ;
Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may:
Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day.

10

 

Q. Eliz. Till then, fair hope must hinder life’s decay;
And I the rather wean me from despair,
For love of Edward's offspring in my womb:
This is it that makes me bridle passion.
And bear with mildness my misfortune’s cross:
Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear,
And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs,
Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown
King Edward’s fruit, true heir to the English crown,
Riv. But, madam, where is Warwick then become?
Q. Eliz. I am informed, that he comes towards
London,
To set the crown once more on Henry’s head.
Guess thou the rest; King Edward’s friends
must down:
But to prevent the tyrant’s violence,
(For Hae ah him that hath once broken
aitn, 30
Il hence forthwith unto the sanctuary,
To save at least the heir of Edward's right:
There shall I rest secure from force, and traud,
Come therefore ; let us fly while we may fly:
It Warwick take us, we are sure to die.
[Ezeunt.

20

Scene V.—A Park near Middleham Castle
in Yorkshire.

Enter GLOSTER, HASTINGS, Sir WILLIAM
STANLEY, and others.
Glo. Now, my Lord Hastings, and Sir

William Stanley,

Leave off to wonder why IJ drew you hither,

Into this chiefest thicket of the park.

Thus stands the case. You know, our king,
my brother,

Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands

He hath good usage and great liberty,

And often, but attended with weak guard,

Comes hunting this way to disport himself.

I have advertis’d him by secret means,

That if about this hour he make this way,

Under the colour of his usual game,

He shall here find his friends, with horse and men,

‘ro set him free from his captivity.

Enter King EpwarRp and a Huntsman.
Hunt. This way, my lord, for this way lies the game.
K. Edw. Nay, this way, man: see, where the hunts-

men stand. —
Now, brother of Gloster, Lord Hastings, and the rest,
Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop's deer?
Glo. Brother, the time and case requireth haste.
Your horse stands ready at the park-corner.
K. Edw. But whither shall we then ? 20
Hast. To Lynn, my lord; and ship from thence to
Flanders.
Glo. Well guess'd, believe me; for that was my
meaning.
K. Edw. Stanley, I will requite thy forwardness.
Glo. But wherefore stay we? ’tis no time to talk.
A. cigar eo what say’st thou? wilt thou go
along? ,
Hunt. Better do so, than tarry and be hang’d.
Glo. Come then; away! let’s have no more ado.
K, Edw. Bishop, farewell: shicld thee from War-
wick’s frown,
And pray that I may repossess the crown.

10

[Ezeunt.

ScENE VI.—A Room in the Tower.

Enter King HENRY, CLARENCE, WARWICK, SOMER-
SET, young RICHMOND, OXFORD, MONTAGUE,
Lieutenant of the Tower, and Attendants.

K. Hen. Master lieutenant, now that God and
friends

Have shaken Edward from the regal seat,

And turn’d my captive state to liberty,

My fear to hope, my sorrows unto Joys,

At our enlargement what are thy due fees?

 
wre

 

Scan VII.)

KING HENRY VI.—PART III. 213

 

Lieu. Subjects may challenge nothing of their
sovereigns ;
But if an humble prayer may prevail,
I then crave pardon of your majesty.

K. Hen. For what, lieutenant? for well using me?
Nay, be thou sure, I'll well requite thy kindness,
For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure :
‘Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds
Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts,

At last by notes of household harmony
They guite forget their loss of liberty. —
But, arwick, after God, thou set’st me free,
And chiefly therefore I thank God, and thee;
He was the author, thou the instrument.
Therefore, that I may conquer fortune’s spite,
By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, 20
And that the people of this blessed land
May not be punish’d with my thwarting stars,
Warwick, although my head still wear the
crown,
There resign my government to thee,
For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds.
War. Your grace hath still been fam’d for
virtuous,
And now may seem as wise as virtuous,
By spying, and avoiding, fortune’s malice ;
For few men rightly temper with the stars:
Yet in this one thing let me blame your grace, 30
For choosing me when Clarence is in place.
Clar. No, Warwick, thou art worthy of the
sway,
To whom the heavens in thy nativit;
Adtade a an olive branch, and laurel crown,
As likely to be blest in peace, and war;
And, therefore, I yield thee my free consent.
War. And I choose Clarence only for pro-
tector.
K. Hen. Warwick, and Clarence, give me both your

ands,
Now join your hands, and ‘with your hands your
hearts,
That no dissension hinder government: 40
Imake you both protectors of this land,
While I myself will lead a private life,
And in devotion spend my latter days,
To sin’s rebuke, and my Creator’s praise.
War. ae answers Clarence to his sovereign’s
will?
Clar. That he consents, if Warwick yield consent ;
For on thy fortune I repose myself.
War. Why then, though loath, yet must I be
content.
We'll yoke together, like a double shadow
To Henry’s body, and supply his place; 50
I mean, in bearing weight of government,
While he enjoys the honour, and his ease.
And, Clarence, now then, it is more than needful,
Forthwith that Edward be pronounc’d a traitor,
And all his lands and goods be confiscate.
Clar, What else? and that succession be determin’d.
War. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his

part.
K. Hen. But, with the first of all your chief affairs,
Let me entreat (for I command no more),
That Margaret your queen, and my son Edward, 60
Be sent for to return trom France with speed :
For, till I see them here, by doubtful fear
My joy of liberty is half eclips’d.
Clar. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed.
K. Hen. My Lord of Somerset, what youth is that,
Of whom you seem to have so tender care?
Som. My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond.
K. Hen. Come hither, England’s hope. [Lays his
hand on his head.| If secret powers
Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts,
This pretty lad will prove our country’s bliss. 70
His looks are full of pencetul majesty ;
His head by nature fram’d to wear a crown,
His hand to wield a sceptre ; and himself
Likely in time to bless a regal throne.
Make much of him, my lords; for this is he,
Must help you more than you are hurt by me,

 

 

Enter a Messenger.

War. What news, my friend ?

Mess. That Edward is escaped from your brother,
And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy.

War. Unsavoury news! but how made he escape?

Mess. He was convey’d by Richard Duke of Gloster,

 

K, Hen. ‘‘ This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss.

And the Lord Hastings, who attended him

In secret ambush on the forest side,

And from the bishop’s huntsmen rescu’d him ;
For hunting was his daily exercise.

War. My brother was too careless of his charge.—
But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide
A salve for any-sore that may betide.

Exeunt all but SOMERSET, RICHMOND,
and OXFORD.

Som. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward’s:
For, doubtless, Burgundy will yield him help, 90
And we shall have more wars, before’t be long.

As Henry’s late presaging prophecy

Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond,
So doth my heart misgive me, in these conflicts
What may befall him, to his harm and ours:
Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst,
Forthwith we’ll send him hence to Brittany,

Till storms be past of civil enmity.

Oxf. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown,

’T is like that Richmond with the rest shall down. 100

Som. It shall be so; he shaJl to Brittany.

Come therefore; let’s about it speedily. [Exeunt.

ScENE VII.—Before York.

Enter King EDWARD, GLOSTER, HASTINGS, and
Forces.
K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and
the rest,
Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends,
And says that once more J shall interchange
eG waned state for Henry’s regal crown.
Well have we pass’d, and now repass’d the seas,
And brought desired help from Burgundy:
What then remains, we being thus arriv’d
From Ravenspurg haven before the gates of York,
But that we enter, as into our dukedom ?

Glo. The gates made fast !—Brother, I like not this;
For many men, that stumble at the threshold, 11
Are well foretold that danger lurks within.

k&. Edw. Tush, man! abodements must not now

atfright us:

 
 

 

KING HENRY

VI-PART IN. [Act IV.

 

By fair or foul means we must enter in,
For hither will our friends repair to us.
Hast. My liege, 1’ll knock once more to summon
them.

Enter, on the walls, the Mayor of York, and his
rethren.

May. Mylords, we were forewarned of your coming,
And shut the gates for safety of ourselves ;
For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. :
K. Edw. But, master mayor, if Henry be your kin
Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York.
May. True, my good lord ; I know you for no less.
K. Edw. Why, and I challenge nothing but my
dukedom,
As being well content with that alone. or
Glo. [Aside.] But when the fox hath once got in his
nose,
He 11 soon find means to make the body follow.
Hast. Why, master mayor, why stand you in a
doubt ?
Open the gates: we are King Henry’s friends.
May. Ay, say youso? the gates shall then be open’d.
[Exeunt from above.
Glo. A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded! 30
Hast. heen old man would fain that all were
well,
So’t were not ‘long of him; but, being enter’d,
I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade
Both him and all his brothers unto reason.

g,
21

Re-enter the Mayor. and two Aidermen, below.

A. Edw. So, master mayor: these gates must not
be shut,
But in the night, or in the time of war.
What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys,
[Takes his keys.
For Edward will defend the town, and thee,
And all those friends that deign to follow me.

March. Enter MONTGOMERY and Forces.

Glo. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery,
Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiv’d.
K. Edw. Welcome, Sir John; but why come you
in arms?
Mont. To help King Edward in his time of storm,
As every loyal subject ought to do.
kK. Edw. Thanks, good Montgomery ; but we now
forget
Our title to the crown, and only claim
Our dukedom, till God please to send the rest.
Mont. Then fare you well, for I will hence again :
I came to serve a king, and not a duke.—
Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. 50
[4 march begun.
AK. Edw. Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile; and wel
debate,
By what safe means the crown may be recover'd.
Mont. What talk you of debating? in few words,
If you'll not here proclaim yourself our king,
I'll leave you to your fortune, and be gone
To keep them back that come to succour you.
Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title ?
Glo. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice

40

points ?
K. Edw. When we grow stronger, then we ‘ll make
our claim.
Till then, ‘tis wisdom to conceal our meaning. 60
Hast. Away with scrupulous wit! now arms must

rule.
Glo. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.
Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand:
‘The bruit thereof will bring you many friends.
Kk. Edw. Then be it as you will; fortis my right,
And Henry but usurps the diadem.
Mont. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself,
And now will I be Edward's champion.
Hast, Sound, trumpet! Edward shall be here pro-
claim‘d.-—
Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclamation. 70

 

(Gives him a paper. Flourish.

Sold. [Reads.] ‘Edward the Fourth, by the grax
of God, King of England and France, and Lord c:
Ireland, &c.”

Mont. And whoso’er gainsays King Edward's right,
By this I challenge him to single fight.

(Throws down his gauntlet.
All. Long live Edward the Fourth!
4. Edw. Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks
unto you all:
If fortune serve me, I’ll requite this kindness,
Now, for this night, let’s harbour here in York,
And when the morning sun shall raise his car 80
Above the border of this horizon,
We'll forward towards Warwick, and his mates;
For, well I wot, that Henry is no soldier.—
Ah, froward Clarence ! how evil it beseems thee,
To flatter Henry, and forsake thy brother!
Yet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and War-
wick.—
Come on, brave soldiers : doubt not of the day;
And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.
{Ezeunt.

ScENE VIII.—London. A Room in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter King HENRY, WARWICK, CLARENCE,
MontTaGvuE, EXETER, and OXFORD.

War. What counsel, lords? Edward from Belgia,

With hasty Germans, and blunt Hollanders,

Hath pass'd in safety through the narrow seas,
And with his troops doth march amain to London;
And many giddy people flock to him.

K. Hen. Let's levy men, and beat him back again.

Clar. A little fire 1s quickly trodden out,

Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.

War. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; 10
Those will I muster up :—and thou, son Clarence, :
Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent,

The knights and gentlemen to come with thee :—
Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,
Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find
Men well inclin’d to hear what thou command ’st :—
And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov’d
In Oxfordshire, shalt muster up thy friends.—
My sovereign, with the loving citizens,
Like to his island girt in with the ocean, 20
Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,
Shall rest in London, till we come to him.—
Fair lords, take leave, and stand not to reply.—
Farewell, my sovereign.

A. Hen. Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy’s true

pe.

Clar. In sign of truth, I kiss your highness’ hand.

A. Hen. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate.

Alont. Comfort, my lord ;—and so I take my leave.

Oxf. (Kissing HENRY’s hand.] And thus I seal my

truth, and bid adieu.

K. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, 30
And all at once, once more a happy farewell.

War. Farewell, sweet lords: let's meet at Coventry.

[Exeunt WaRwWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD
and MONTAGUE.

K. Hen. Here at the palace will I rest awhile.
Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?
Methinks, the power, that Edward hath in field,
Should not be able to encounter mine.

Exe. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest.

AK. Hen, That’s not my fear ; my meed hath got me

ame.
T have not. et mine ears to their demands,
Nor posted off their suits with slow delays ; 40
My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds,
My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griets,
My mercy dry’d their water-flowing tears ;
I have not been desirous of their wealth,
Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies,
Nor forward of revenge, though they much err’d.
Then, why should they love Edward more than me?
No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace:

 
 

————

Scene VIIL]

KING HENRY VIL—PART III.

215

 

And, when the lion fawns uport the lamb,
The lamb will never cease to follow him. 50

Exe. Hark, hark, my lord! what shouts are these?
Enter King EDWARD, GLOSTER, and Soldiers.
K. Edw. Scize on the shame-fac’d Henry ! bear him
hence,
And once again proclaim us King of England.—
You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow:
Now stops thy spring ; my sea shall suck them dry,

[Shout within: “A Lancaster! A Lancaster!” °

' An@ swell so much the higher by their ebb.
' Hence with him to the Tower! let him not speak.
: [Exeunt some with King HENRY.
: And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,
: Where peremptory Warwick now remains.
! The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay, 60
| Cold biting winter mars our hop’d-for hay.
Glo. Away betimes, before his forces join,
And take the great-grown traitor unawares:
Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry.
[Ezeunt.

 

     
    
  
 

 

Nel eh s Warwick. :
ah FIIERE is the post that came from valiant

(93) Oxford ?

How far hence is thy lord, mine honest
3

ellow ? 3
1 Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching
itherward.
War. How far off is our brother Mon-
tague ?—
Where is the post that came from Mon-
tague
2 Mess. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop.
Enter Sir JOHN SOMERVILLE.
War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son?
And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now ?
Som. At Southam I did leave him with his forces,
And do expect him here-some two hours hence. 10
Drum heard.
War. Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum.
Som. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies: —
The drum our honour hears marcheth from Warwick.

War. ho should that be? belike, unlook’d-for
friends.

Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly
know.

March. Flourish. Enter King EDWARD, GLOSTER,
and Forces.

E. Edw. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a

parle.
Glo. See, how the surly Warwick mans the wall.
War. O unbid spite! is sportful Edward come?
Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc’d,
That we could hear no news of his repair ? 20
K. Edw. N oy Warwick, wilt thou ope the city
gates
Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee,
Call Edward king, and at his hands beg mercy,
And he shall pardon thee these outrages.
War. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence,
Confess who set thee up and pluck’d thee down?
Call Warwick patron, and be penitent,
And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. —
Glo. I thought, at least, he would have said—the

king,
Or did he make the jest against his will ? 30
War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift ?
Glo, Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give:
I'll do thee service for so good a gift. —
War. ’Twas I, that gave the kingdom to thy
brother.

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE 1.—Coventry.
Enter, upon the walls, WARWICK, the Mayor of Coventry, two Messengers, and others.

K. HE eae then, ’tis mine, if but by Warwick’s
itt. i

War. Thou art no Atlas for so great. a weight:
And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again ;
And Henry is my king, Warwick his subject.

kK. Edw. But Warwick’s king is Edward’s prisoner;
And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: 40
What is the body, when the head is off?

Glo. Alas! that Warwick had no more forecast,
But, whiles he Lg tes to steal the single ten,
The king was slily finger’d from the deck!
You left poor Henry at the bishop's palace,
And,.ten to one, you’ll meet him in the Tower.

A. Edw. ’Tis even so: yet you are Warwick still.

Glo. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down,

kneel down,

Nay. when? strike now, or else the iron cools.

War. Thad rather chop this hand off at a blow, 50
And with the other fling it at thy face,
Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee.

A. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide

thy friend,

This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair,
Shall, whiles thy head is warm, and new cut off,
Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood, —
““Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.”

Enter OXFORD, with drum and colours.

War. O cheerful colours! see, where Oxford comes.
Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster!
[OxFORD and his Forces enter the city.
Glo. The gates are open, let us enter too. i
kK. Edw. So other foes may set upon our backs.
Stand we in good array ; for THEY, no doubt,
Will issue out again, and bid us battle :
If not, the city being but of small defence,
We'll quickly rouse the traitors in the same.
War. 0! welcome, Oxford, for we want thy help.

Enter MonTAGUE, with drum and colours.

Mont. Montague, Montague, for Lancaster !
{He and his Forces enter the city.
Glo. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this
treason,
Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear.
K. Edw. The harder match’d, the greater victory :
My mind presageth happy gain, and conquest. 1

Enter SOMERSET, with drum and colours.

Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster !
e and his Forces enter the city.
Glo. Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset,

 

 
 

216 KING HENRY

VI—PART III. {Act V.

 

 

Have sold their lives unto the house of York ;
And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold.

Enter CLARENCE, with drum and colours.

War. oe lo! where George of Clarence sweeps
along,
Of force enough to bid his brother battle ;
With whom an upright zeal to right prevails,
More than the nature of a brother's love. —
[GLOSTER and CLARENCE whisper.
Come, Clarence, come ; thou wilt, if Warwick calls.
Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what this
means? (Taking the red rose out of his hat.
Look here, I throw my infamy at thee: 82
I will not ruinate my father’s house,
Who gave his blood to lime the stones together,
And set up Lancaster. Why, trow’st thou, Warwick,
That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt-unnatural,
To bend the fatal instruments of war
Against his brother, and his lawful king?
Perhaps, thou wilt object my holy oath:
To keep that oath, were more impiety
Than Jephtha’s, when he sacrific'd his daughter.
Iam so sorry for my trespass made,
That to deserve well at my brother’s hands,
I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe ;
With resolution, wheresoe’er I meet thee,
(As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad,)
To plague thee for thy foul misleading me.
And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee,
And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. —
Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends;
And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults,
For I will henceforth be no more unconstant.
A. Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more
belov’d,
Than if thou never hadst deserv’d our hate.
Glo. Welcome, good Clarence : this is brother-like.
War. O passing traitor, perjur'’d, and unjust!
K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the
town, and fight,
Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears?
War. Alas! Iam not coop'd here for defence :
I will away towards Barnet presently, 110
And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar’st.
K. Edw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads

the way.—
Lords, to the field! Saint George, ang victory!

100

arch, Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Field of Battle near Barnet.

Alarums and Excursions. Enter King EDWARD,
bringing in WARWICK wounded.
K. Edw. So, lie thou there: dic thou, and die our
ear; g
For Warwick was a bug, that fear'd us all. —
Now, Montague, sit fast: I seek for thee,
That Warwick's bones may keep thine Tena
it.
War. Ah! who is nigh? come to me, friend or foe,
And tell me, who is victor, York, or Warwick ?
Why ask I that? my mangled body shows,
My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows,
That I must yield my body to the earth,
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. 10
Thus yields the cedar to the axe’s edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle,
Under whose shade the rem pine lion slept;
Whose top-branch overpeer’d Jove’s spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter’s powerful wind.
These eyes, pas now are dimm’d with death’s black
veil,
Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun,
To search the secret treasons of the world:
The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood,
Were liken’d oft to kingly sepulchres ;
For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?
Lo, now my glory smear’d in dust and blood !
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,

 

Even now forsake mé; and, of all my lands,

Is nothing left me, but my body’s length.

eae what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

Enter OXFoRD and SOMERSET.
Som. Ah, Warwick, Warwick! wert thou as we

are,
We might recover all our loss again. 30
The queen from France hath brought a puissant
power;
Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou fly!
War. Why, then I would not fly.—Ah, Montague !
If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand,
And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile.
Thou lov’st me not; for, brother, if thou didst,
Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood,
That glues my lips, and will not let me speak.
Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead.
Som. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breath’d his
. 40

last ;
And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick,
And said—‘‘Commend me to my valiant brother.”
And more he would have said; and more he spoke,
Which sounded like a cannon in a vault,
That mought not be distinguish’d: but, at last,
I well might hear, deliver’d with a groan,—
“O, farewell, Warwick!”
War. Sweet rest his soul!—Fly, lords, and save
yourselves ;
For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven.
es.
Oxf. Away, away, to meet the queen’s great power!
[Exeunt, bearing off W ARWICK’S body.

ScENE ITII.—Another Part of the Field.

Flourish. Enter King EDWARD in triumph; with
CLARENCE, GLOSTER, and the rest.

K. Edw. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward
course,
And we are grac’d with wreaths of victory.
But, in the midst of this bright-shining day,
I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud,
That will encounter with our glorious sun,
Ere he attain his easeful western bed :
I mean, my lords, those powers, that the queen
Hath rais’d in Gallia, have arriv’d our coast,
And, as we hear, march on to fight with us.

Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud, 10
And blow it to the source from whence it came:

Thy very beams will dry those vapours up,
For over cloud engenders not a storm.

Glo. The queen is valu’d thirty thousand strong,
And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her ;

If she have time to breathe, be well assur’d,
Her faction will be full as strong as ours.

K. Edw. We are advertis’d by our loving friends,
That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury.
We, having now the best at Barnet field, 20
Will thither straight, for willingness rids way ;

And, as we march, our strength will be augmented

In every county as we go along.—

Strike up the drum! cry—Courage! and away.
(Flourish. Exeunt.

 

ScEeNnE IV.—Plains near Tewksbury.

March. Enter Queen MARGARET, Prince EDWARD,
SOMERSET, OXFORD, and Soldiers.

Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail
their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
What though the mast be now blown overboard,
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost,
And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood;
Yet lives our pilot still: is’t meet that he
Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad,
With tearful eyes add water to the sea,

 

T
 

 

Scene V.] KING HENRY

VI—PART III. 217

 

And give more strength to that which hath too much;
Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have sav'd ?
Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!
Say, Warwick was our anchor ; what of that?

‘And Montague our topmast ; what of him?

Our slaughter’d friends the tackles ; what of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor,

And Somerset another goodly mast? e

The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings ?
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I

For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge ?

We will not from the helm, to sit and weep,

But keep our course, though the rough wind say no,
From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack.
‘As good to chide the waves, as speak them fair.

and what is Edward but a ruthless sea?

What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?

And Richard but a ragged fatal rock ?

‘All these the enemies to our poor bark.

Say, you can swim; alas! ‘tis butawhile: |.
Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink :
Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,

Or else you famish ; that’s a threefold death.

This speak I, lords, to let you understand,

In case some one of you would fly from us,

That there’s no hop’d-for mercy with the brothers,
More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks.
Why, courage, then! what cannot be avoided,

*T were childish weakness to lament, or fear.

Prince. Methinks, a woman of this valiant spirit
Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, 40
Infuse his breast with magnanimity,

And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.
I speak not this as doubting any here ;

For, did I but suspect a fearful man,

He should have leave to go away betimes,
Lest, in our need, he might infect another,
And make him of like spirit to himself.

If any such be here,—as God forbid !—

Let him depart before we need his help.

Oxf. Women and children of so high a courage, 50
And warriors faint! why, ’t were perpetual shame.—
O brave young prince! thy famous grandfather
Doth live again in thee: long may’st thou live,

To bear his image, and renew his glories!

Som. And he, that will not fight for such a hope
Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day,

If he arise, be mock’d and wonder’d at.

Q. Mor Thanks, gentle Somerset :—sweet Oxford,

anks.

Prince. And take his thanks, that yet hath nothing

se.

20

30

Enter a Messenger.

Mes. Pepe you, lords, for Edward is at hand, 60
Ready to fight: therefore, be resolute.

Oxf. I thought no less: it is his policy
To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided.

Som. But he’s deceiv’d: we are in readiness.

Q. Mar. This cheers my heart to see your for-

wardness.
Oxf. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge.

Flourish and march. Enter King EDWARD,
CLARENCE, GLOSTER, and Forces.

K. Edw. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny
w

ood,
Which, by the heavens’ assistance and your strength,
Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night.
Ineed not add more fuel to your fire, 70
For, well I wot, ye blaze to burn them out.
Give signal tothe fight, and to it, lords!
Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I
should say,
My tears gainsay ; for every word I speak,
Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes.
Therefore, no more but this:—Henry, your sovereign,
Is prisoner to the foe ; his state usurp'd,
His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects slain,
8 statutes cancell’d, and his treasure spent ;

 

And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. 80
You fight in justice : then, in God’s name, lords,
Be valiant, and give signal to the fight.

[Exeunt both Armies.

 

ScENE V.—Another Part of the Same.

Alarums: Excursions: and afterwards a Retreat.
Then enter King EDWARD, CLARENCE, GLOSTER,
and Forces; with Queen MARGARET, OXFORD,
and SOMERSET, prisoners.

K. Edw. Now, here a period of tumultuous broils.

Away with Oxford to Ham’s Castle straight :

For Somerset, off with his guilty head.

Go, bear them hence: I will not hear them speak.
Oxf. For my part, I'll not trouble thee with words.
Som. Nor I; but stoop with patience to my fortune.

|Exeunt OxFORD and SOMERSET, guarded.
Q. Mar. So part we sadly in this troublous world,

To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem.

K. Edw. Is proclamation made, that who finds
Edward

Shall have a high reward, and he his life? 1

Glo. It is: and lo, where youthful Edward comes!

Enter Soldiers, with Prince EDWARD.
K. Edw. coe forth the gallant: let us hear him
speak.
What! can so young a thorn begin to prick?
Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make,
For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects,
And all the trouble thou hast turn’d me to?

Prince. Speak like a subject, proud ambitious York.
Suppose, that Iam now my father’s mouth :
Feosiea thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou,
Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee, 20
Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to.

2. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so resolv’d!

Zo. That you might still have worn the petticoat,
And ne’er have stol’n the breech from Lancaster.
Prince. Let Atsop fable in a winter’s night ;
His currish riddles sort not with this place.
Glo. By Heaven, brat, I’l1 plague you for that word.
0. Mar. Ay, thou wast born to be a plague to men.
Zo. For God’s sake, take away this captive scold.
Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crook-back,
rather. 30

K. Edw. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your

tongue.

Clar. Untutor’d Jad, thou art too malapert.

Prince. I know my duty: you are all undutiful.
Lascivious Edward,—and thou perjur’d George,—
And thou misshapen Dick,—I tell ye all,

Iam your better, traitors as ye are ;
And thou usurp’st my father’s right and mine.
kK. Edw. Take that, the likeness of this railer here.
[Stabs him.
Glo, Sprawl’st thou? take that, to end thy agony.
(Stabs him.
Clar. And there’s for twitting me with eS ury. 40

Stabs him.
. Mar. O, kill me too!
7lo. Marry, and shall. {Offers to kill her.

K. Edw. Hold, Richard, hold! for we have done
too much.

Glo. Why should she live, to fill the world with
we

ords
K. Edw. What! doth she swoon? use means for
her recovery.
Glo. Clarence, excuse me to the king, my brother.
I'll hence to London on a serious matter :
Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news.
Clar. What? what?
Glo. The Tower! the Tower! (Exit.
Q. Mar. 0 Ned! sweet Ned! speak to thy mother
0.

oy:
Canst thou not speak ?—O traitors! murderers !
They that stabb’d Ceesar shed no blood at all,
Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,

If this foul deed were by to equal it:

He was a man; this, in respect, a child;

 
 

 

218 KING HENRY

VIL—PART II. {Act V.

 

And men ne’er spend their fury on a child.

What’s worse than murderer, that I may name it?
No, no; my heart will burst, an if I speak ;

And I will speak, that so my heart may burst.—
Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals !

How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp’d

60

   

Q Mar. ‘0. kill me too!”

You have no children, butchers ! if you had,
The thought of them would have stirr’d up remorse:
But, if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off,
As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince!
AK Bae. Away with her! go, bear her hence per-
orce.
Q. Mar. Nay. never bear me hence, despatch me

ere:

Here sheathe thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death. 70

What! wilt thou not ?—then, Clarence, do it thou.
Clar, By Heaven, I will not do thee so much

ease.
Q. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do
thou do it.
Clar, Pidet thou not hear me swear I would not do
it?
Q. Mar, Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself :
°T was sin before, but now 't is charity.
What! wilt thon not?. Where is that devil’s butcher,
Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?
Thou art not here : murder is thy alms-deed ;
Petitioners for blood thou ne'er putt’st back. 80
K. Edw, Away, I say! I charge ye, bear her hence.
Q. Mar. So come to you, and yours, as to this
prince! (Exit.
K. Edw. Where’s Richard gone ?
Clar. To London, allin post; and, as I guess,
To make a bloody supper in the Tower.
K. Hee ve ’s sudden, if a thing comes in his
ead.
Now march we hence: discharge the common sort
With pay and thanks, and let ’s away to London,
And see our gentle queen how well she fares:
By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. 90
[Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—London. <A Room in the Tower.

King Henry is discovered sitting with a book in his
hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter GLOSTER.

Glo. Good day, my lord. What! at your book so

hard
ik. Hen. Ay, my good lord: my lord, I should say
rather:

 

’T is sin to flatter; good was little better:
Good Gloster, and good devil, were alike,
And both preposterous ; therefore, not good lord.
Glo, Sirrah, leave us to ourselves: we must confer.
[Exit Lieutenant.
_K, Hen. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf :
So first the harmless sheep doth
yield his fleece,
And next his throat unto the
butcher’s knite,—
What scene of death hath Roscius
now to act? 10
Glo. Suspicion always haunts
the guilty mind:
The thief doth fear each bush an
officer.
K. Hen. The bird, that hath been
limed in a bush,
With trembling wings misdoubteth
every bush;
And I, the hapless male to one
sweet bird,
Have now the fatal object in my

eye, %
Where my poor young was lim’d,
was caught, and kill’d.
Glo. Why, what a peevish fool
was that of Crete,
That taught his son the oftice of a
fowl?

And yet, for all his wings, the fool
was drown’d. 20
K. Hen. I, Deedalus; my poor

ee :
Thy father, Minos, that denied our
course ;
The sun, that sear’d the wings of my sweet boy,
Thy brother Edward ; and thyself, the sea,
Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life.
Ah! kill me with thy weapon, not with words.
My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point,
Than can my ears that tragic history.
But wherefore dost thou come? is’t for my life
Glo. Think’st thou I am an executioner?
K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art:
If murdering innocents be executing,
Why, then thou art an executioner.
Gio. Thy-son I kill'd for his enone
ik. Hen. Hadst thou been kill’d, when first thou
didst presume,
Thou hadst not liv’d to kill a son of mine.
And thus I prophesy,—that many a thousand,
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear;
And many an old man’s sigh, and many a widow’s,
And many an orphan’s water-standing eye, —
Men for their sons’, wives for their husbands’,
Orphans for their parents’ timeless death, —
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.
The owl shriek’d at thy birth, an evil sign ;
The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time ;
Dogs howl’d, and hideous tempest shook down
trees;
The raven rook’d her on the chimney’s top,
And chattering pies in dismal discords sung.
Thy mother felt more than a mother’s pain,
And yet brought forth less than a mother’s hope ; 50
To wit,—an indigested and deformed lump,
Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree.
Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou wast

born,
To signify, thou cam’st to bite the world:
And, if the rest be true which I have heard,
Thou cam’st—
Glo. I'll hear no more ;—die, prophet, in thy speech:
[Stabs him.
For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain’d.
AK. ae Ay, and for much more slaughter after
his.
O! God forgive my sins, and pardon thee. [Dies.
Glo. What! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster 61
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have
mounted,

 
 

 

 

ScenE VI.) KING HENRY V1i.-PART III. 219

 

See, how sd sword weeps for the poor.king’s Then, since the heavens have shap’d my body so,
death ! Let hell make crook’d my mind to answer it.
O, may such purple tears be always shed I have no brother, I am like no brother ;
From those that wish the downfall of our house !— And this word love, which greybeards call divine,
If any spark of life be yet remaining, | Be resident in men like one another,
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither: | And not in me: Iam myself alone. —
[Stabs him again. | Clarence, beware : thou keep’st me from the light;

at

(
MW

 

Glo. * See, how my sword weeps for the poor king's death |”

I, that have neither pity, love nor fear. ' But I will sort a pitchy day for thee:

Indeed, ’tis true, that Henry told me of ; For I will buz abroad such prophecies,

For I have often heard my mother say, 70 | ‘That Edward shall be fearful of his life ;

I came into the world with my legs forward. And then, to purge his fear, I’l1 be thy death.

Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, King Henry, and the prince his son, are gone:

And seek their ruin that usurp’d our right? Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest ; 90
The midwife wonder'd ; and the women cried, Counting myself but bad, till I be best. —

“O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!” I'll throw thy body in another room,

And so I was; which plainly signified And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom.

That I should snarl. and bite, and play the dog. ! [Evit, with the body.

 
 

 

220 KING HENRY

VI—PART III. (Act V.

 

 

ScENE VII.--The Same. A Room in the Palace.

King EDWARD 1s discovered sitting on his throne;
Queen ELIZABETH with the infant Prince, CLAR-

waER GLOSTER, HasvTines, and others, near

um.

&K. Edw. Once more we sit in England’s royal
throne,

Re-purchas’d with the blood of enemies.

What valiant foemen, like to autumn’s corn,

Have we mow’d down, in tops of all their pride !

Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd

For hardy and undoubted champions ;

Two Cliftords, as the father and the son;

And two Northumberlands: two braver men

Ne’er spurr’d their coursers at the trumpet’s sound;

With them, the two brave bears, arwick and

Montague, A 10

That in their chains fetter’d the kingly lion,

And made the forest tremble when they roar'd.

‘Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat,

And made our footstool of security.—

Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.—

Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles, and myself,

Have in our armours watch’d the winter's night

Went all a-foot in summer's scalding heat,

That thou might’st repossess the crown in peace ;

And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. 2
Glo. [Aside.] I'll blast his harvest, if your head

were laid;

 

For yet I am not look’d on in the world.
This shoulder was ordain’d so thick, to heave ;
And heave it shall some weight, or break my back,—
Work thou the way,—and thou shalt execute.
K. Edw. Clarence, and Gloster, love my lovely
queen,
And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both.
Clar. The duty, that I owe unto your majesty,
I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe.
Q. Eliz. Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy brother,

thanks. 0
Glo. And, that I love the tree from whence thou
sprang’st,
Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.—
[Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kiss’d his master,
And cried—All hail! when as he meant—all harm,
EK. Edw. Now am I seated as my soul delights,
Having my country’s peace, and brothers’ loves.
Clar. Waat at your grace have done with Mar-
gare
Reignier, her father, to the King of France
Hath pawn’d the Sicils and Jerusalem,
And hither have they sent it for her ransom. 40
4. Edw. Away with her, and waft her hence to
France.—
And now what rests, but that we spend the time
With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,
Such as befits the pleasure of the court ?
Sound, drums and trumpets !—farewell, sour annoy !
For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

—aer ROM the besieged Ardea all in post,

Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,

eee Tarquin leaves the Roman
host,

And to Collatium bears the lightless fire

Which, in oe embers hid, lurks to aspire,

And girdle ales embracing flames the

wails

(\7 “ ) < *
Of Collatine’s fair love, Lucrece the
0 \ chaste.
. Hapl,

y that name of chaste unhappily set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite ;
When Collatine unwisely did not let 10
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph’d in that sky of his delight ;
Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven’s beauties,
With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

 

For he the night before, in Tarquin’s tent,

Unlock’d the treasure of his happy state ;

What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent

In the possession of his beauteous mate:

Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
That kings might be espoused to more fame, 20
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy’d but of a few!

And, if possess'd, as soon decay’d and done,

As is the morning’s silver-melting dew

Against the golden splendour of the sun;

An expir’d date, cancell’d ere well begun :
Honour and beauty, in the owner’s arms,
Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator ; 30
What needeth then apologies be made
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ sovereignty

pagrested this proud issue of a king;

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:

Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,

Braving compare, disdainfully did sting 40
His high-pitch’d thoughts, that meaner men should

vaunt
That golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate
His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those:
His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state,
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows.
O rash-false heat, wrap ’d in repentant cold,
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne’er grows old!

When at Collatium this false lord arriv’d, 50
Well was he welcom’d by the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue striv’d
Which of them both should underprop her fame:
When virtue bragg’d, beauty would blush for shame ;
When pay boasted blushes, in despite
Virtue would stain that or with silver white.

 

LUCRECE.

But beauty, in that white intituled, ;
From Venus’ doves doth puatenge that fair field ;
Then virtue claims from beauty beauty’s red,
Which virtue gave the Eoldon age to gild. :
Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield ;
Teaching them thus to use it in the fight,—
When aoa assail’d, the red should fence the
white.

This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen,
Argu’d by beauty’s red, and virtue’s white:
Of either’s colour was the other queen,
Proving from world’s minority their right:
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight;
The sovereignty of either being so great,
That oft they interchange each other’s seat. 70

This silent war of lilies and of roses,
Which Tarquin view’d in her fair face’s field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; |
Where, lest between them both it should be kill’d,
The coward captive vanquished doth yield
To those two armies, that would let him go,
Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

Now thinks he, that her husband’s shallow tongue—
The niggard prodigal that prais’d her so—
In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, 80
Which far exceeds his barren skill to show:
Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe
Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise,
In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.

This earthly saint, adored by this devil,
Little suspecteth the false worshipper ;
For unstain’d thoughts do seldom dream on evil,
Birds never lim’d no secret bushes fear :
So guiltless she securely gives good cheer,
And reverent welcome to her pruicely guest, 90
Whose inward ill no outward harm express’d:

For that he colour’d with his high estate,
Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty ;
That nothing in him seem’d inordinate,
Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,
Which, having all, all could not satisfy ;
But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,
That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

But she, that never cop’d with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, 100
Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies
Writ in the glassy margents of such books:
She touch’d no unknown baits, nor fear’d no hooks ;
Nor could she moralise his wanton sight,
More than his eyes were open’d to the light.

He stories to her ears her husband’s fame,

Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ;

And decks with praises Collatine’s high name,

Made glorious by his manly chivalry

With bruised arms and wreaths of victory : 110
Her joy with heav’d-up hand she doth express,
And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success.

 

 
 

222 LUCRECE.

 

Far from the purpose of his coming thither,

He makes excuses for his being there:

No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather

Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear ;

‘Lill sable Night, mother of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison stows the Day.

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, 120
Intending weariness with heavy spright:
For after supper long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night:
Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight,
And every one to rest themselves betake,
Save mere and cares, and troubled minds, that
wake.

As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving

The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining ;

Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,

Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining:

Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining ; ’
And when great treasure is the mced propos’d,
Though death be adjunct, there ’s no death suppos’d.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond,
That what they have not, that which they Di
They scatter and unloose it from their bond,
And so, by hoping more, they have but less ;
Or, gaining more, the profit of excess
Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,
That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. 140

The aim of all is but to nurse the life
With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;
And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,
That one for all, or all for one we gage ;
As life for honour in fell battles’ rage ;
Honour for wealth ; and oft that wealth doth cost
The death of all, and all together lost.

So that in venturing ill we leave to be
The things we are for that which we expect;
And this ambitious foul infirmity, 150
In having much, torments us with defect
Of that we have: so then we do neglect
The thing we have; and, all for want of wit.
Make something nothing, by augmenting it.

Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his lust,
And for himself himself he must forsake :
Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust ?
When shall he think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds, betrays 160
To slanderous tongues, and wretched hateful days?

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had clos’d up mortal eyes ;
No comfortable star did lend his light,
No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries:
Now serves the season that they may surprise
The silly lambs; pure thoughts are dead and still,
While lust and murder wakes to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; 170
Is madly toss’d between desire and dread;
Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm;
But honest Fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul charm,
Doth too-too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brain-sick rude Desire.

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly,
Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly : 180
“As from this cold flint I enfore’d this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire.”

 

Here pale with fear he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise :
Then looking scornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of still-slaughter’d lust,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust.

“ Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not 190
To darken her whose light excelleth thine ;
And die, unhallow’d thoughts, before you blot
‘With your uncleanness that which is divine;
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine:
Let tair humanity abhor the deed
That Pps and stains love’s modest snow-white
weed.

‘‘O shame to knighthood and to shining arms!
O toul dishonour to my household’s grave !
O impious act, including all foul harms!
A martial man to be soft fancy’s slave! 200
True valour still a true respect should have;
Then my digression is so vile, so base,
That it will live engraven in my face.

“Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eyesore in my golden coat ;
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me how fondly I did dote;
That my posterity, sham’d with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
To wish that I their father had not bin. 210

““What win I, if I gain the thing I seek?

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.

Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week,

Or sells eternity to get a toy?

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy ?
Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,
Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

“Tf Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent ? 220
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,
This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame ¢

““O! what excuse can my invention make,

When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,

Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed?

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed;
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, 20
But coward-like with trembling terror die.

‘‘Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire,
Or Jain in ambush to betray my life,
Or were he not my dear friend, this desire
Might have excuse to work upon his wife,
As in revenge or ce of such strife ;
But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,
The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

“Shameful it is ;—ay, if the fact be known:
Hateful it is ;—there is no hate in loving : 240
I'll beg her love ;—but she is not her own:
The worst is but denial, and reproving. |
My will is strong, past reason’s weak removing :
Who fears a sentence, or an old man’s saw,
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.”

Thus, graceless, holds he disputation

*T ween frozen conscience and hot-burning will,

And with good thoughts makes dispensation,

Urging the worser sense for vantage still ;

Which in a moment doth confound and kill 250
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed,
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.

 
 

 

LUCRECE.

223

 

Quoth he: “She took me kindly by the hand,
And gaz’d for tidings in my eager eyes, -
Fearing some hard news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Collatinus lies. __
O, how her fear did make her colour rise !

‘First red as roses that on lawn we lay,

Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

“ And how her hand, in my hand being lock’d, 260
Fore’d it to tremble with her loyal fear! ,
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock’d,
Until her husband’s welfare she did hear ;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,
That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
Self-love had never drown’d him in the flood.

“Why hunt I then for colour or excuses?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth:
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth’
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth; 271
And when his gaudy banner is display’d,
The coward fights, and will not be dismay’d.

“Then, childish fear, avaunt! debating, die!

Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age !

My heart shall never countermand mine eye:

Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage;

My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.
Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize ;
Then, ee fears sinking where such eae,

ies?” 2

As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear

Is almost chok’d by unresisted lust.

Away he steals with open listening ear,

Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust ;

Both which, as servitors to the unjust, 7
So cross him with their opposite persuasion,
That now he vows a league, and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,
And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine : .
That eye which looks on her confounds his wits;
That eye which him beholds, as more divine,
Unto a view so false will not incline ;
But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,
Which, once corrupted, takes the worser part

290

And therein heartens up his servile powers,

Who, flatter’d by their leader’s jocund show,

Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours;

And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,

Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.
B soprobate desire thus madly led, 300
The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,

Each one by him enfore’d, retires his ward;

But as they open they all rate his ill.

Which drives the ereepin thief to some regard:

The threshold grates the door to have him heard;
Night-wandering weasels shriek, to see him there;
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,
rough little vents and crannies of the place
The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case;
But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch :

And being lighted, by the light he spies

Lucretia’s glove, wherein her needle sticks :

He takes it from the rushes where it lies,

And sriping it, the needle his finger pricks; | ;

As who should say, ‘“‘ This glove to wanton tricks 320
Is not inur’d; return again in haste; ,
Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.

310

 

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him ;
He in the worst sense construes their denial :
The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him,
He takes for accidental things of trial,
Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial,
Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let,
Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

‘‘So, so,” quoth he; “these lets attend the time,
Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,
‘Yo add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.
Pain pays the income of each precious thing ;
Huge rocks, neh winds, strong pirates, shelves and
sands,
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.”

330

Now is he come unto the chamber-door,
That shuts him from the heaven of his thought,
Which with a yielding latch, and with no more,
Hath barr’d him from the blessed thing he sought. 340
So from himself impiety hath wrought,

That for his prey to pray he doth begin,

As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,
Having solicited the eternal power
That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the hour,
Even there he starts :—quoth he, ‘‘I must deflower:
The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact,
How can they then assist me in the act ? 350

“Then Love and Fortune he my gods, my guide!
My will is back’d with resolution :
Thoughts are but dreams, till their effects be tried ;
The blackest sin is clear’d with absolution ;
Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution.

The eye of heaven is out, and misty night

Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.”

This said, his guilty hand pluck’d up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide.
The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch :
Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. 3
Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside ;
But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting.

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,

And gazeth on her yet unstained bed.

The curtains being close, about he walks,

Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head:

By their high treason is his heart misled ;
Which gives the watchword to his hand full soon,
To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. 371

Look, as the fair and Hery-pomied sun,
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight ;
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light :
Whether it is that she reflects so bright,
‘hat dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed,
But blind they are, and keep themselves eaelosed.

O! had they in that darksome prison died,
Then had they seen the period of their ill: 38)
Then Collatine again, by Lucrece’ side,
In his clear bed might have reposed still ;
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill,
And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight
Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,

Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss ;

Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder,

Swelling on either side, to want his bliss;

Between whose hills her head entombed is:
Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies,
To be admir’d of lewd unhallow'd eyes.

390

 

 
224 LUCRECE.

 

 

 

Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white
Show’d like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath’d their light,
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair, like golden threads, play’d with her breath;
O modest wantons ! wanton modesty! 401
Showing life’s triumph in the map of death,
And death’s dim look in life’s mortality:
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,

As if between them twain there were no strife,

But that life liv’din death, and death in life.

Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,
A pair of maiden worlds unconquered,
Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew,
And him by oath they truly honoured. 410
These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred;
Who, like a foul usurper, went about
From this fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see, but mightily he noted?
What did he note, but strongly he desir'd?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his wilful eye he tir’d.
With more than admiration he admir’d
Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. 420

As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey,

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,

So o'er this sleeping soul doth Hak ag stay,

His rage of lust by gazing qualified;

Slack’d, not suppress’d ; for standing by her sid
His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,
Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins :

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting,
Obdurate vassals, fell exploits effecting,
In bloody death and ravishment delighting, 430
Nor children’s tears, nor mothers’ groans respecting,
Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting :

Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,

Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking.

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye,
His eye commends the leading to his hand;
His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, march’d on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land,
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale. 441

They, mustering to the quiet cabinet

Where their dear governess and lady lies,

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,

And fright her with confusion of their cries:

She, much amaz’d, breaks ope her ee eyes,
Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,
Are by his flaming torch dimm’d and controll’d.

Imagine her as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, 450
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect set every joint a-shaking ;
What terror ’tis! but she, in worser taking,

From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view

The sight which makes supposed terror true.

Wrapp’d and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies ;
She dares not look; yet, winking, their appears
Quick-shifting anticks, ugly in her eyes:
Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries ; 460
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

 

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,

(Rude ram to batter such an ivory wall,)

May feel her heart (poor citizen !) distress’d,

Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,

Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.
This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity,
To make the breach, and enter this sweet city.

First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin 47(
To sound a parley to his heartless foe ;
Who o’er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarm to know,
Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show;
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still,
Under what colour he commits this ill.

Thus he replies: ‘‘ The colour in thy face,
That even for anger makes the lily pale,
And the red rose blush at her own disgrace,
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale ; 480
Under that colour am I come to scale —
Thy never-conquer’d fort: the fault is thine,
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

‘“‘ Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide:

Thy beauty hath ensnar'd thee to this night,

Where thou with patience must my will abide,

Ae will, that marks thee for my earth’s delight,
hich I to conquer sought with all my might ;
But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. 490

“I see what crosses my attempt will bring;

I know what thorns the growing rose defends ;

I think the honey guarded with a stmg:

All this, beforehand, counsel comprehends;

But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends:
Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,
And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or duty.

“‘T have debated, even in my soul,
What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed;
But nothing can affection’s course control, 500
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed.
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,

Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity ;

Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.”

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which, like a falcon eee in the skies
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade,
Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies:
So under his insulting falchion lies
Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells 510
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s bells.

“Lucrece,” quoth he, ‘this night I must enjoy thee:
If thou deny, then force must work my way,
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee:
That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll slay,
To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay;
And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,
Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.

“So thy surviving husband shal] remain
The scornful mark of every openeye; |, 520
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,
Thy issue blurr’d with nameless bastardy :
And thou, the author of their obloguy,
Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding times.

“ But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend :

The fault unknown is as a thought: unacted ;

A little harm, done to a great good end,

For lawful policy remains enacted.

The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted 530
In a pure compound ; being so applied,
His venom in effect is purified.

 
 

 

LUCRECE.

225

 

“Then for thy husband and thy children’s sake,
Tender my suit: bequeath not to their lot
The shame that from them no device can take,
-The blemish that will never be forgot ;
Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour’s blot:
For marks descried in men’s nativity
‘Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.”

Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye 540
He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause ;
While she, the picture of pure piety, .
Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp claws,
Pleads in a wilderness, where arc no laws,

To the rough beast that knows no gentle right,

Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

But when a black-fac’d clond the world doth threat
In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding,
From earth’s dark womb some gentle gust doth get,
Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding,
Hindering their present fall by this dividing : 5d1
So his unhallowed haste her words delays,
And moody Pluto winks, while Orpheus plays.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth :
Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly,
A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth.
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth
No penetrable entrance to her plaining :
Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix’d 561
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face ;
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix’d,
Which to her oratory adds more grace.
She puts the period often from his place ;
And ’midst the sentence so her accent breaks,
That twice she doth begin, ere once she speaks.

She conjures him by high almighty Jove,
By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath,
By her untimely tears, her husband’s love, 570
By holy human law, and common troth,
By heaven and earth, and all the power of both,
‘hat to his borrow’d bed he make retire,
And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

iF

uoth she : “* Reward not hospitality

ith such black payment as thou hast pretended ;
Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee;
Mar not the thing that cannot be amended ;
End thy ill aint before thy shoot be ended:

He is no woodman that doth bend his bow

To strike a poor unseasonable doe.

580

“ My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me ;
Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me;
Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me;
Thou look’st not like deceit, do not deceive me:
My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee.
f ever man were mov’d with woman’s moans,
Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans.

“ All which together, like a troubled ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threatening heart,
To soften it with their continual motion ;
For stones dissolv’d to water do convert.
O, if no harder than a stone thou art,

Melt at my tear's and be compassionate !

Soft pity enters at un iron gate.

590

“Tn Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee;
Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame?
To all the host of heaven I complain me, .
Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely name:
Thou art not what thou seem’st; and it the same, 600
Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a king;
For kings like gods should govern everything.

 

“ How will thy shame be seeded in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring ?
If in thy hope thou dar’st do such outrage,
What dar'st thou not, when once thou art a king ?
O, be remember’d ! no outrageous thing

From vassal actors can be wip’d away ;

Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.

“This deed will make thee only lov’d for fear ;
But happy monarchs still are fear’d for love :
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like offences prove :
If but for fear of this, thy will remove ;
For princes are the glass, the school, the book,
Where subjects’ eyes do jearn, do read, do look.

610

‘* And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn?
Must he in thee read lectures of such shame ?
Wilt thou be glass, whercin it shall discern
Authority for sin, warrant for blame,
To poeteee dishonour in thy name ?
Thou back’st reproach against long-living laud,
And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd.

620

“Hast thou command? by him that gave it thee,
From a pure heart command thy rebel will
Draw not thy sword to guard Jniqulty,
For it was lent thee all that brood to kill.
Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil,
hen, pattern’d by thy fault, foul Sin may say,
He learn’d to sin, and thou didst teach the way? 630

“Think but how vile a spectacle it were,
To view thy present trespass in another.
Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear ;
Their own transgressions partially they smother:
This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother,
O, how are they wrapp’d in with infamies,
That trom their own misdeeds askance their eyes!

“ To thee, to thee, my heav’d-up hands appeal,
Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier ;
T sue for exil’d majesty’s repeal ;
Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire :
His true respect will prison false desire,
And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,
That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.”

640

“Have done,” quoth he: “my uncontrolled tide
Turns not, but swells the higher by this let.
Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide,
And with the wind in greater fury fret:
The petty streams, that pay a daily debt
To their salt sovereign with their fresh falls’ haste,
Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.” 651

“Thou art,” quoth she, “a sea, a sovereign king ;
And, lo! there falls into thy boundless flood
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.
If all these petty ills shall change thy good,
Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hears'd,
And not the puddle in thy sea dispers’d.

‘«So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave:
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ; 660
Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave ;
Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride:
The lesser thing should not the greater hide ;

The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot,

But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root.

“So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state ”—
“No OTe, quoth he; “by Heaven, I will not hear
ee:
Yield to my love; if not, enforced hate,
Instead of love’s coy touch, shall rudely tear thee ;
That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee 670
Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,
To be thy partner in this shameful doom.”

 

 
 

 

LUCRECE.

 

This said, he sets his foot upon the light,

For light and lust are deadly enemies :

Shame folded up in blind concealing night,

When most unseen, then most doth tyrannise.

The wolf hath seiz’d his prey, the poor lamb cries ;
Till with her own white fleece her voice controll'd
Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold:

For with the nightly linen that she wears 680

He pens her piteous clamours in her head,

Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears

That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.

O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed !

The spots whereof could weeping purify,
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,
And he hath won what he would lose again ;
This forced league doth force a further strite ;
This momentary joy breeds months of pain:
This hot desire converts to cold disdain.

Pure Chastity is rifled of her store,

And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before.

690

Look, as the full-fed hound, or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell, or speedy eee
Make slow port or altogether bal
The prey wherein by nature they delight;
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night:
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
Devours his will, that liv'd by foul devouring. 700

O deeper sin than bottomless conceit

Can comprehend in still imagination !

Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt,

Ere he ean sce his own abomination.

While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation
Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire,
Till, like a jade, Self-will himself doth tire.

And then, with lank and lean discolour’d cheek,
With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace,
Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek, 710
Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case :
The flesh being proud, Desire doth fight with Grace,
For there it revels ; and when that decays,
The guilty rebel for remission prays.

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chas’d ;
For now against himself he sounds this doom,—
That through the length of times he stands disgrac’d;
Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defac’d ;
To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, 720
To ask the spotted princess how she fares.

She says, her subjects with foul insurrection
Have batter'd down her consecrated wall,
And by their mortal fault brought in subjection
Her immortality, and made her thrall
To living death, and pain perpetual :
Which in her prescience she controlled still.
But her foresight could not forestall their will.

Even in this thought through the dark night he
stealeth
A captive victor that hath lost in gain;
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,
The scar that will despite of cure remain ;
Leaving his spoil perplex’d in greater pain.
She hears the load of lust he left behind,
And he the burden of a guilty mind.

He, like a thievish dog, creeps sadly thence,
She like a wearied lamb lies panting there ;
He scowls, and hates himself for his offence,
She desperate with her nails her flesh doth tear;
He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear,
She stays, exclaiming on the direful night ;
He runs, and chides his vanish’d, loath’d delight.

 

He thence departs a heavy convertite,

She there remains a honeless castaway ;

He in his speed looks for the morning light,

She prays she never may behold the gays

“For day,” quoth she, “night's scapes doth open lay,
And my true eyes have never practis’d how
To cloak offences with a cunning brow.

“They think not but that every eye can see 750
The same disgrace which they themselves behold,
And therefore would they still in darkness be,
To have their unseen sin remain untold ;
For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,

And grave, like water that doth eat in steel

Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.”

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind.
She wakes her heart by beating on her breast,
And bids it leap from thence where it may find 760
Some purer chest to close so pure a mind.
Frantic an grief, thus breathes she forth her
spite
Against the unseen secrecy of night: |

‘“*O comfort-killing Night, image of hell!

Dim register and notary of shame!

Black stage for tragedies and murders fell!

Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame!

Blind muffled bawd! dark harbour for defame!
Grim cave of death, whispering conspirator
With close-tongu’d treason and the ravisher ! 770

‘‘O hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night !
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,
Make war against proportion’d course of time:
Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb
His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed,
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.

“With rotten damps ravish the morning air ;
Let their exhal’d unwholesome breaths make sick
The life of purity, the supreme fair,
Ere he arrive his weary noontide prick ;
And let thy misty vapours march so thick,
That in their smoky ranks his smother’d light
May set at noon, and make perpetual night.

“Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night’s child,
The silver-shining queen he would distain ;
Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defil'd,
Through Night’s black bosom should not peep again:
So should I have co-partners in my pain ;
And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, 790
As palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrimage.

‘“Where now I have no one to blush with me,

To cross their arms, and hang their heads with mine,

To mask their brows, and hide their infamy ;

But I alone alone must sit and pine,

Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine;
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

“O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke,
Let not the jealous Day behold that face 800
Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak
Immodestly lies martyr’d with disgrace:
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
That all the faults which in thy reign are made
May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade.

“Make me not object to the tell-tale Day !

The light will show, character’d in my brow,

The story of swect chastity’s decay.

The impious breach of holy wedlock vow :

Yea, the illiterate, that. know not how 810
To cipher what is writ in learned books,
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.

 
 

 

LUCRECE.,

227

 

“The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,
And fright her crying babe with Tarquin’s name;
The orator, to deck his oratory,
Will couple my reproach to Tarquin’s shame ;
Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,

Will tie the hearers to attend each line,

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.
“Let my good name, that senseless reputation, 820
For Collatine’s dear love be kept unspotted :
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeserv’d reproach to him allotted,

That is as clear from this attaint of mine,

As [ere this was pure to Collatine.

“O unseen shame! invisible disgrace!

O unfelt sore! crest-wounding, private scar!

Reproach is stamp’d in Collatinus’ face,

And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot afar,

How he in peace is wounded, not in war.
Alas, how many bear such shameful blows,
Which ee themselves, but he that gives them

knows.

830

“Tf, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,

From me by strong assault it is bereft.

My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee,

Have no perfection of my summer left,

But robb'd and ransack’d by injurious theft :
In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,
And suck’d the honey which thy chaste bee kept. 840

“Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack ;—
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him ;
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been dishonour to disdain him ;
Besides, of weariness he did complain him,
And talk'd of virtue :—O unlook’d-for evil,
When virtue is profan’d in such a devil!

“Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud,
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud ?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests ?
But no perfection is so absolute,
That some impurity doth not pollute.

850

“The aged man that coffers-up his gold,
Is plagu’d with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits,
And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,
But like still-pining Tantalus he sits,
And useless barns the harvest of his wits ;
Having no other pleasure of his gain,
But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

860

“So then he hath it, when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master’d by his young ;
Who in their pride do presently abuse it :
Their father was too weak, and they too strong,
To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long.
The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours,
Even in the moment that we call them ours,

“Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring;
Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers ;
The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ; 871
What virtue breeds, iniquity devours:
We have no good that we can say is ours,

But ill-annexed Opportunity

Or kills his life, or else his quality.

0 Opportunity! thy guilt is great:

T is thou that execut’st the traitor’s treason ;

Thou sett’st the wolf where he the lamb may get;
hoever plots the sin, thou point’st the season :

Tis thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason ; 880
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,
Sits Sin to seize the souls that wander by him.

 

“Thou mak’st the vestal violate her oath ;
Thou blow’st the fire, when temperance is thaw’'d ;
Thou smother’st honesty, thou murder’st troth :
Thou foul abettor ! thou notorious bawd!
Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud :

Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,

Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!
“Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, 890
Thy private feasting to a public fast,
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name,
Thy sugar’d tongue to bitter wormwood taste :
Thy violent vanities can never last.

ow comes it then, vile Opportunity,
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ?

“When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s friend,

And bring him where his suit may be obtain’d ?

When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end,

Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain’d?

Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain’d? 901
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for

thee,
But they ne’er meet with Opportunity.

“The patient dies while the physician sleeps ;

The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds ;

Justice is feasting while the widow weeps ;

Advice is sporting while infection breeds:

Thou grant’st no time for charitable deeds :
Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder’s rages,
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages, $10

“When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid :
They buy thy help; but Sin ne’er gives a fee ;
He gratis comes, and thou art well-appay'd
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
My Collatine would else have come to me,
When Tarquin did ; but he was stay’d by thee,

“ Guilty thou art of murder and of theft ;
Guilty of perjury and subornation ;
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift ;
Guilty of incest, that abomination:
An accessary by thine inclination
To all sins past, and all that are to come,
From the creation to the general doom.

920

“‘Misshapen Time. copesmate of ugly Night,

Swift-subtle post, carrier of grisly care,

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,

Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare ;

Thou nursest all, and murder’st all that are.
O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time! 930
Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.

‘Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,
Betray’d the hours thou gav’st me to repose?
Cancell’d my fortunes, and enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to fine the hate of foes ;

To eat up errors by opinion bred,

Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

“Time’s glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light,
To stamp the seal of time in aged things,
To wake the morn, and sentinel the night,
To wrong the wronger till he render right,
To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,
And smear With dust their glittering golden towers:

940

“To fill with worm-holes stately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books, and alter their contents.
To pc the quills from ancient ravens’ wings,
To dry the old oak’s sap, and cherish springs,
To spoil antiquities of hammer’d steel,
And turn the giddy round of Fortune’s wheel :

950

 
 

228

LUCRECE.

 

“To show the bedlam daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter,
'To tame the unicorn and lion wild,
To mock the subtle, in themselves beguil’d,
To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge stone3 with little water-drops.
“*Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage, 960
Uniess thou couldst return to make amends ?
One poor retiring minute in an age
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,
Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends:
O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come

back,
I could prevent this storm, and shun thy wrack!

‘*Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,
With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight :
Devise extremes beyond extremity,
To make him curse this cursed crimeful night :
Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright,
And the dire thought of his committed evil
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.

970

“Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances,

Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans ;

Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,

To make him moan, but pity not his moans:

Stone him with harden‘d hearts, harder than stones ;
And let mild women to him lose their mildness,
Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. 980

“‘Let him have time to tear his curled hair,
Let him have time against himself to rave,
Let him have time of time’s help to despair,
Let him have time to live a loathed slave,
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave,
And time to see one that by alms doth live
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.

“Let him have time to see his friends his foes,
And merry fools to mock at him resort ;
Let him have time to mark how slow time goes
In time of sorrow, and how swift and short
His time of folly, and his time of sport:

And ever let his unrecalling crime

Have time to wail the abusing of his time.

990

““O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,

Teach me to curse him that thou taught’st this ill!

At his own shadow let the thief run mad,

Himself himself seek every hour to kill!

Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spill ;
For who so base would such an office have 1000
As slanderous death’s-man to so base a slave?

“The baser is he, coming from a king,

To shame his hope with deeds degenerate :

The mightier man, the mightier is the thing

That makes him honour’d, or begets him hate ;

For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
The moon being clouded presently is miss’d,
But little stars may hide them when they list.

“The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,
And unperceiy'd fly with the filth away ; 101
But if the like the snow-white swan desire,
The stain upon his silver down will stay.
Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day.
Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly,
But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye.

“Out, idle words! servants to shallow fools,

Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators !

Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools ;

Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters;

To trembling clients be you mediators : 2
For me, [ force not argument a straw,

 

Since that my case is past the help of law.

“Tn vain I rail at Opportunity, .
At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night ;
In vain I cavil with mine infamy, —,
In vain I spurn at my confirm’d despite; |
‘This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.
The remedy indeed to do me good,
Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood.

“*Poor hand, why quiver’st thou at this decree? 103
Honour thyself to rid me of this shame ;
For if I die, my honour lives in thee,
But if I live, thou liv’st in my defame:
Since thou couldst not detend thy loyal dame,
And wast afear’d to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.”

This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth,
To find some desperate instrument of death;
But this no-slaughter-house no tool imparteth,
To make more vent for passage of her breath;
Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth
As smoke from Attna, that in air consumes,
Or that which from discharged cannon fumes.

104

“Tn vain,” quoth she, “I live, and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life :

I fear’d by Tarquin’s falchion to be slain,

Yet for the selisame purpose seek a knife;

But when J fear’d, I was a loyal wife.

So am I now :—O no! that cannot be;

Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. 1050
““O! that is gone, for which I sought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die.

To clear this spot by death, at least I give

A badge of fame to slander's livery ;

A dying life to living infamy.
Poor helpless Des the treasure stol'n away,
To burn the guiltless casket where it lay!

“Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know

The stained taste of violated troth ;

I will not wrong thy true alfection so,

To flatter thee with an infringed oath ;

This bastard gratf shall never come to growth:
He shall not boast, who did thy stock pollute,
That thou art doting father of his fruit.

1060

“Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state;
But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought
Basely with gold, but stol’n from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,

And with my trespass never will dispense,

Till life to death acquit my fore'd offence.

1070

“T will not poison thee with my attaint,

Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin’d excuses ;

My sable ground of sin I will not paint,

To hide the truth of this false night’s abuses:

My tongue shall utter all: mine eyes, like sluices,
As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale,
Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.”

By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tun’d warble of her nightly sorrow,
And solemn night with slow-sad gait descended
To ugly hell; when, lo! the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow:
But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloister’d be.

1080

Revealing day through every cranny spies,

And seems to point her out where she sits weeping }

To whom she sobbing speaks: ‘*O eye of eyes!

Why pry’st thou through my window? leave thy

_ PCGDIne f

Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping:
Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, 1091
For day hath nought to do what’s done by night.”

 

 

t
 

 

 

LUCRECE. 229

Thus cavils she with everything she sees : ‘“My body or my soul, which was the dearer,
True grief is fond and testy as a child, When the one pure, the other mad : divine?
Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees: Whose love of either to myself was nearer,
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild ; When both were kept for heaven and Collatine?
Continuance tames the one; the other wild, Ah me! the bark peel’d from the lofty pine,

Like an unpractis’d swimmer plunging still, His leaves will wither, and his sap decay :

With too much labour drowns for want of skill. So must my soul, her bark being peel’d away.
So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care, 1100 | ‘‘ Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted, 1170

Holds disputation with each thing she views,

‘And to herself all sorrow doth compare :

No object but her passion’s strength renews,

‘And as one shifts, another straight ensues :
Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words;
Sometime ’t is mad, and too much talk aifords.

The little birds that tune their morning's joy

Make her moans mad with their sweet melody :

For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy ;

Sad souls are slain in merry company ;

Grief best is pleas'd with grief’s aoe :
True sorrow then is feelingly suffic'd,
When with like semblance it is sympathis’d.

1110

'T is double death to drown in ken of shore ;
He ten times pines that pines beholding food ;
T'o see the salve doth make the wound ache more ;
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good;
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Who, being prope id. the bounding banks o’erflows;
Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. 1120

“You mocking birds,” quoth she, “your tunes entomb
Within your hollow-swelling feather’d breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb !—
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests ;
A woful hostess brooks not merry guests.—
Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ;
Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with tears.

“Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my dishevell’d hair:
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So Lat each sad strain will strain a tear,
And with deep groans the diapason bear ;
For burden-wise I’]l hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descant’st better skill.

1130

“ And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,

To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,

To imitate thee well, against my heart

Will fix a sharp knife, to atfright mine eye,

Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.
These means, as frets upon an instrument, 1140
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.

“And for, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the day,

As shaming any eye should thee behold,

some dark-deep desert, seated from the way,

That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold,

Will we find out ; and there we will unfol
To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds:
Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.”

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze,
Wildly coher mans which way to fly, 1150
Or one encompass’d with a winding maze,
i That cannot tread the way out readies
So with herself is she in mutiny,
To live or die which of the twain were better,
When life is sham’d, and death reproach’s debtor.

“To kill myself,” quoth she, ‘‘alack! what were it,

But with my body my poor soul’s pollution ?

Thoy that lose half, with greater patience bear it,

Than they whose whole is swallow’d in confusion.

That mother tries a merciless conclusion, 1160
Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one,
Will slay the other, and be nurse to none.

 

Her mansion batter’d by the enemy ;
Her sacred temple spotted, spoil’d, corrupted,
Grossly engirt with daring infamy:
Then let it not be call’d impiety,
Tf in this blemish’d fort I make some hole,
Through which I may convey this troubled soul.

“Yet die I will not, till my Collatine

Have heard the cause of my untimely death,

That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,

Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.

My stained blood to Tarquin I’ll bequeath,
Which by him tainted shall for him be spent,
And as his due writ in my testament.

1180

“ My honour I’Jl bequeath unto the knife

That wounds my body so dishonoured.

’T is honour to deprive dishonour’d life ;

The one will live, the other being.dead :

So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred ;
For in my death I murder shameful scorn:

My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. 1190

“Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,

What legacy shall I bequeath to thee?

My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,

By whose example thou reveng’d may’st. be.

How Tarquin must be us’d, read it in me:
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.

“‘This brief abridgment of my will I make :—
My soul and body to the skies and ground;
My resolution, husband, do thou take; 1200
Mine honour be the knife’'s that makes my wound ;
My shame be his that did my fame confound;

And all my fame that lives disbursed be

To those that live, and think no shame of me.

“Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will;

How was I overseen that thou shalt see it!

My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill;

My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it.

Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, ‘‘So be it :”
Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee : 1210
Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.”

This plot of déath when sadly she had laid,
And wip’d the brinish peel from her bright eyes,
With untun’d tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies ;
For fleet-wing'’d duty with thought’s feathers flies.
Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so,
As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow,
With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow,
For why her face wore sorrow’s livery ;
But durst not ask of her audaciously

Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,

Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash’d with woe.

1220

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,

Each flower moisten’d like a melting eye,

Even so the maid with swelling drops ‘gan wet

Her circled eyne, enfore’d by sympathy

Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky, 1230
Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night.

 

 
 

230 LUCRECE.

 

 

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling :
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause but company of her drops spilling:
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,
Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts,
And then they drown their eyes, or break their
hearts:
For men have marble, women waxen minds, 1240
And therefore are they form'd as marble will;
The weak A soa the ea omnes of strange kinds
Is form’d in them by force, by fraud, or skill:
Then call them not the authors of their ill,
No more than wax shall be accounted evil,
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil.

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,

Lays open all the little worms that creep;

In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain

Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep.

Through crystal walls each little mote will peep:
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
Poor women's faces are their own faults’ books.

1250

No man inveigh against the wither’d flower,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill’d:
Not that devour’d, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. QO! let it not be hild
For women’s faults, that they are so fulfill’d
With men’s abuses: those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.
The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, 1261
Assail’d by night, with circumstances strong
Of present death, and shame that might ensue
By that her death, to do her husband wrong :
Such danger to resistance did belong,
That dying fear through all her body spread ;
And who cannot abuse a body dead?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining:
‘*My girl,” quoth she, ‘‘on what occasion break 1270
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are
raining?
If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

“ But tell me, girl, when went”—(and there she stay'd
Till after a deep groan)—*t Tarquin from hence?”
“*Madam, ere I was up,” replied the maid;
““The more to blame my sluggard negligence:
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense,—
Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
And, ere | rose, was Tarquin gone away.

1280

“But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,
She would request to know your heaviness.”
““O, peace!” quoth Lucrece: *‘if it should be told,
The repetition cannot make it less ;
For more it is than I can well express:
And that deep torture may be call’d a hell,
When more is felt than one hath power to tell.

“Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen,—
Yet save that labour, for I have them here.
What should I say ?—One of my husband’s men
Pid thou be ready by-and-by, to bear
A letter to my lord, my love, my dear:

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it;

The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.”

1290

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill.
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight ;
What wit sects down is blotted straight with will;
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill: 1
Much like a press of people at a door
‘Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

 

At last she thus begins: ‘‘Thou worthy lora
Of that unworthy wife that grecteth thee,
Health to thy person ! next, vouchsafe t’ afford
(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see)
Some present speed to come and visit me.
So I commend me from our house in grief:
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief,”

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe, 131
Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.
By this short schedule Collantine may know
er grief, but not her grief’s true quality :
She dares not thereof make discovery,
Lest he should hold it her own enone abuse,
Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d excuse,

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her;

When sighs and groans and tears may grace th
fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her 132

From that suspicion which the world might bea

er. ‘
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told;
For then the eye interprets to the ear
The heavy motion that it doth behold,
When every part a part of woe doth bear:
’T is but a part of sorrow that we hear ;
Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,
And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ, 133)
“At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste.”
The post attends, and she delivers it,
Charging the sour-fac’d groom to hie as fast
As lagging fowls before the northern blast :
Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems
Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain court’sies to her low ;
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll, without or yea or no, 134
And forth with bashful innocence doth hie:
But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie ,
Imagine every eye beholds their blame ;
For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her shame:

When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect

Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.

Such harmless creatures have a true respect

To talk in deeds, while others saucily

Promise more speed, but do it leisurely :
Even so this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn’d honest looks, but laid no words to gage.

1350

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,

That two red fires in both their faces blaz’d;

She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s lust,

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz’d;

Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd:
The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,
The more she thought he spied in her some blemish.

But long she thinks till he return again,

And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.

The weary time she cannot entertain,

For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan:

So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

136(

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece

Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy ;

Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,

For Helen's rape the city to destroy,

Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy ; 137(
Which the conceited painter drew so proud,
As heaven, it seem'd, to kiss the turrets bow’d.

 
 

 

 

 

LUCRECE. 231

A thousand lamentable objects there, To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life. To find a face where all distress is stell’d.
Many a dry drop seem’ a@ weeping tear, Many she sees, where cares have carved some,
Shed for the slaughter’d husband by the wife: But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d,
The red blood reek’d, to show the painter’s strife ; Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,

And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights, Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes,

Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies.
There might 7 see the labouring pioner 1380 | In her the painter had anatomis’d 1450

Begrim’d with sweat, and smeared all with dust ;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:
Such sweet observance in this work was had,
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and maiesty

You might behold, triumphing in their faces ;

. In youth quick bearing and dexterity ;

And here and there the painter interlaces 1390

Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces:
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,
That one monic swear he saw them quake and

tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art

Of physiognomy might one behold!

The face of either cipher’d either’s heart ;

Their face their manners most expressly told:

In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d;
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent

Show’d deep regard and smiling government. 1400

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As ’t were encouraging the Greeks to fight ;
Making such sober action with his hand,
That it beguil’d attention, charm’d the sight.
In speech, it seem’d, his beard, all silver white,
ageg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly
Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the sky.

About him were a press of gaping faces,

Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice ;

All jointly listening, but with several graces,

As if some mermaid did their ears entice :

Some high, some low, the painter was so nice,
The scalps of many, almost hid behind, :
To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind.

1410

Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head,

* His nose being shadow’d by his neighbour’s ear ;
Here one, being throng’d, bears back, all boll’n and red;
Another, smother’d, seems to pelt and swear ;

And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,
As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, 1420
It seem’d they would debate with angry swords.

For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, s0 compact, so kind,
That for Achilles’ image stood his spear,
Grip’d in an armed hand: himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined.

And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march’d to field.
Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy 1
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they such odd action yield,
That through their light joy seemed to appear
(Like bright things stain’d) a kind of heavy fear.

And from the strond of Dardan, where they fought,
To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran,
Whose waves to imitate the battle sought
With swelling ridges; and their ranks began
To break upon the galled shore, and than
Retire again, till meeting greater ranks
They join, and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks,

1440

 

Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack, and grim care’s reign :

Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis’d ;

Of what she was no semblance did remain ;

Her blue blood chang’d to black in every vein,
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,
Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead.

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries,
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes: 1460
The painter was no god to lend her those;
And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong,
To give her so much grief, and not a tongue.

‘*Poor instrument,” quoth she, ‘‘ without a sound,
I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,
And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound,
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long,
And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes
Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. 1470

“‘Show me the strumpet that began this stir,

That with my nails her beauty I may tear.

Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur

This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear:

Thine eye kindled the fire that burneth here;
And here, in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter, die.

‘“*Why should the private pleasure of some one

Become the public plague of many moe?

Let sin, alone committed, light alone

Upon his head that hath transgressed so ;

Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe.
For one’s offence why should so many fall,
To plague a private sin in general ?

1480

“Lo! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,
Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds,
Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,
And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,
And one man’s lust these many lives confounds :
Had doting Priam check’d his son’s desire, 1490
Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.”

Here feelingly she weeps Troy’s painted woes ;
For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell,
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell:
So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell
To pencill’d pensiveness and colour’d sorrow;
She gad them words, and she their looks doth
orrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting round,
And who she finds forlorn she doth lament: 1500
At last she sees a wretched image bound,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent ;
His face, though full of cares, yet show’d content.
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,
So mild, that Patience seem’d to scorn his woes.

In him the painter labour’d with his skill

To hide deceit, and give the harmless show

An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,

A brow unbent that seem’d to welcome woe ;

Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so
That blushing red no guilty instance gave,
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have.

1516

 

 
 

rm
wo
bo

LUCRECE.

 

 

But, like a constant and confirmed devil,

He entertain'd a show so seeming-just,

And therein so ensconc’d his secret evil,

That jealousy itself could not mistrust

False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into so bright a day such black-fac’d storms,
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.

The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew 1520
For perjur’d Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous old Priam after slew ;
Whose words like wild-fire burnt the shining glory
Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry,

And little stars shot from their fixed places,

When their glass fell wherein they view’d their faces.

This picture she advisedly perus’d,

And chid the painter for his wondrous skill,

Saying, some shape in Sinon’s was abus’d ;

So fair a form lodg’d not a mind so ill:

And still on him she gaz’d, and gazing still,
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied,
That she concludes the picture was belied.

1530

“Tt cannot be,” quoth she, ‘‘ that so much guile "—
She would have said ‘‘can lurk in such a look ;”
But Tarquin’s shape came in her mind the while,
And from her tongue “can lurk” from ‘‘ cannot” took ;
“Tt cannot be” she in that sense forsook,
And turn'd it thus: ‘It cannot be, 1 find,
But such a face should bear a wicked mind: 1540
“For even as subtle Sinon here is painted,
So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,
(As if with grief or travail he had fainted,)
To me came Tarquin armed ; so beguil'd
With outward honesty, but yet defil’d
With inward vice : as Priam him did cherish,
So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish.

“Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes,
To see those borrow’d tears that Sinon sheds!
Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise? 1550
For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds:
His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds;
Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity,
Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.

“Such devils steal effects from lightless hell ;

For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,

And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell;

These contraries such unity do hold,

Only to flatter fools, and make them bold:
So Priam’s trust false Sinon’s tears doth flatter, 1560
That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.”

Here, all enrag’d, such passion her assails,
That. patience is quite beaten from her breast.
She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,
Comparing him to that yeaa guest
Whose deed hath made herself herself detest :
At last she smilingly with this gives o’er;
‘Fool! fool!” quoth she, ‘his wounds will not be
sore.

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
And time doth weary time with her complaining. 1570
She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow,
And both she thinks too long with her remaining.
Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sustaining :
Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ;
And they that watch see time how slow it creeps.

Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought,
That she with painted images hath spent,
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought
By deep surmise of others’ detriment ;
Losing her woes in shows of discontent.

It caseth some, though none it ever cur’d,

To think their dolour others have endur’d.

1580

 

’

But now the mindful messenger, come back,

Brings home his lord and other company ;

Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black ;

And round about her tear-distained eye

Blue circles stream’d, like rainbows in the sky:
These water-galls in her dim element
Foretell new storms to those already spent.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, 1590
Amazedly in her sad face he stares:
Her eyes, though sod in tears, look’d red and raw;
Her lively colour kill’d with deadly cares.
He hath no ower to ask her how she fares ;

Both stood like old acquaintance in a trance,

Met far from home, wondering each other's chance.

At last he takes her by the bloodless hand,
And thus begins: ‘‘ What uncouth ill event
Hath thee befall’n, that thou dost trembling stand?
Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent? 1600
Why art thou thus attir’d in discontent?

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,

And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.”

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe:
At length address'd to answer his desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe ;

While Collatine and his consorted lords

With sad attention long to hear her words. 1610

And now this pale swan in her watery nest
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.
“Few words,” quoth she, “shall fit the trespass best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending:
In me moe woes than words are now depending ;
And my laments would be drawn out too long,
To tell them al) with one poor tired tongue.

“Then be this all the task it hath to say:
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed
A stranger came, and on that pillow lay
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head ;
And what wrong else may be imagined
By foul enforcement might be done to me,
From that, alas! thy Lucrece is not free.

1620

“For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
With shining falchion in my chamber came
A creeping creature, with a flaming light,
And softly cried : ‘ Awake, thou Roman dame,
And entertain my love; else lasting shame

On thee and thine this night I will inflict,

If thou my love's desire do contradict.

1630

“«*Wor some hard-favour’d groom of thine,’ quoth he,
‘Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,
I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee,
And swear I found you where you did fulfil
The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill

The lechers in their deed : this act will be

My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.’

‘‘With this I did begin to start and cry,
And then against my heart he set his sword,
Swearing, unless I took all patiently,
T should not live to speak another word ;
So should my shame still rest upon record,
And never be forgot in mighty Rome
The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.

1640

“Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
And far the weaker with so strong a fear:
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak ;
No rightful plea might plead for justice there : s
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear 1650
That my poor beauty had purloin’d his eyes:
And when the judge is robb’d, the prisoner dies..

 
 

 

LUCRECEH.

233

 

“OQ! teach me how to make mine own excuse,
Or, at the least, this refuge let me find :
Though my gross blood be stain’d with this abuse,
Immaculate and spotiess is my mind ;
Tnat was not fore’d ; that never was inclin’d
To accessary yieldings, but still pure
Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure.”

Lo! here the hopeless merchant of this loss, 1660
With head deciin’d, and voice damm ‘d up with woe,
With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across,
From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow
The grief away, that stops his answer so:

But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain ;

W hat he breathes out, his breath drinks up again.

As through an arch the violent roaring tide
Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste,
Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
Back to the strait that forc’d him on so fast,
In rage sent out, recall’d in rage, being past :
Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw,
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.

1670

Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,
And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh :
“ Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth
Another power ; no flood by raining slaketh.
My woe too sensible thy passion maketh
inore feeling-painful : let it then sutrice
To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. 1680
“ And for my sake, when I might charm theeso,
For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me:
Be suddenly revenged on my foe,
Thine, mine, his own: suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past: the help that thou shalt lend me
Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die ;
For sparing justice feeds iniquity. '

“But ere I name him, you, fair lords,” quoth she
(Speaking to those that came with Collatine),
“Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine ;
For ’tis a meritorious fair design,
To chase injustice with revengeful arms:
Eenighis, by their oaths, should right poor ladies’
arms.”

1690

At this request, with noble disposition

Each present lord began to promise aid,

As bound in knighthood to her imposition,

Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray’d ;

But she, that yet her sad task hath not said,
The protestation stops. “*O! speak,” quoth she, 1700
“How may this forced stain be wip’d from me?

“What is the quality of mine offence,

Being constrain’d with dreadful circumstance?

May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,

My low-declined honour to advance?

May any terms acquit me from this chance?
The poison’d fountain clears itself again ;
And why not I from this compelled stain ?”

With this, they all at once began to He
Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears;
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carv’d in it with tears.
“No, no,” quoth she; ‘‘no dame, hereafter living,
By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving.”

1710

Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquin’s name: “He, he,” she

says,
But more than “‘ he” her poor tongue could not speak ;
Till after many accents and delays, 1720

Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,
She utters this: He, he, fair lords, ’tis he,
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.”

 

Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed:
That biow did bail it from the deep unrest
Or that polluted prison where it breathed ;
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed
Her wee spright, and through her wounds doth

y,
Life’s lasting date from cancell’d destiny.

Stone-still astonish’d with this deadly decd,

Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew;

‘rill Lucrece’ father, that beholds her bleed,

Himself on her self-slaughter’d body threw :

And trom the purple fountain Brutus drew
The murderous knife, and, as it left the | lace,
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase ;

And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who like a late-sack’d island vastly stood,
Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remain’d,
And some peed black, and that false Tarquin
stain’d.

1730

1740

About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood a watery rigol goes,
Which seems to weep upon the tainted place:
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows;
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrified. 1750
“Daughter, dear daughter!” old Lucretius cries,
‘That life was mine, which thou hast here deprivd.
If in the child the father’s image lies,
Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unliv’d?
Thou wast not to this end from me deriv’d.
If children pre-decease progenitors,
We are their offspring, and they none of ours.

“Poor broken glass, I often did behold
In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born ;
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare-bon’d death by time outworn.
QO! from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
And shiver’d all the beauty of my glass,
That I no more can see what once I was.

1760

“O time! cease thou thy course, and last. no longcr,
If they surcease to be that should survive.
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger,
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive:
Then live, sweet Lucrece; live again, and see 1771
Thy father die, and not thy father thee!”

By this starts Collatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place:
And then in key-cold Lucrece’ bleeding stream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space ;
Till manly shame bids him possess his breath,
And live to be revenged on her death. °

The deep vexation of his inward soul

Hath serv’d a dumb arrest upon his tongue ;

Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,

Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,

Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng
Weak words so thick, come in his poor heart's aid,
That no man could distinguish what he said. :

1780

Yet sometime “ de in” was pronounced plain,
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his sorrow’s tide to make it more;
At last it rains, and busy winds give o’er: 1790
Then son and father weep with equal strife,
Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife.

 
 

234

LUCRECE. -

 

 

The one doth call her his, the other his,

Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.

The father says: ‘‘She’s mine.” ‘‘O! mine she is,”

Replies her husband, ‘‘do not take away

My sorrow’s interest; let no mourner say
te weeps for her, for she was only mine,
And only must be wail'd by Collatine.”

“O!” quoth Lucretius, “I did give that life, 1800

Which she too early and too late hath spill’d.” __

“Woe, woe!” quoth Collatine, “she was nn wife,

I ow’ her, and ’t is mine that she hath kill'd.”

“ My daughter” and “ My wife” with clamours fill’d
The dispers’d air, who, holding Lucrece’ life,
Answer’d er cries, ‘‘My daughter” and ‘‘My

wife.”

Brutus, who pluck’d the knife from Lucrece’ side,
Seeing such emulation in their woe,
Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,
Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show.
He with the Romans was esteemed so

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings, .

For sportive words, and uttering foolish things :

1810

But now he throws that shallow habit by,

Wherein deep policy did him disguise,

And arm’d his long-hid wits advisedly,

To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes.

“Thou wronged lord of Rome,” quoth he, “arise:
Let my unsounded self, supposd a fool, !
Now set thy long-experienc’d wit to school. 1820

* Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe?

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds?

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow,

 

For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds?
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds;
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

“‘Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart

In such relenting dew of lamentations,

But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,

‘lo rouse our Roman gods with invocations,

That they will suffer these abominations,
Since Kome herself in them doth stand disgrac’d,
By our signe arms from forth her fair streets

chas’d. if

1830

“Now, by the Capitol that we adore,

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain’d,

By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store,

By all our country rights in Rome maintain’d,

And by chaste Lucrece’ soul, that late complain’d
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knite, 1840
We will revenge the death of this true wife.”

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,

And kiss’d the fatal knife to end his vow;

And to his protestation urg’d the rest,

Who, wondering at him, did his words allow:

Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow;
And that deep vow which Brutus made before,
He doth again repeat, and that they swore.

| When they had sworn to this advised doom,

They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence; 1850
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence :
Which being done wit epee diligence,
The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment.

 

 

 

 
 

 

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

; TRANIO,
BIONDELLO,

CHRISTOPHER SLY, a Tinker.
Hostess, Page, Players, Hunts-
men, and Servants.

Persons in the

A Lord.
Induction.

BaPTisTA, a rich Gentleman of Padua.
VINCENTIO, an old Gentleman of Pisa.
Lucentio, Son to Vincentio.
PETRUCHIO, a Gentleman of Verona.

GREMIO, } Se, e
HORTENSIO, Suitors to Bianca.

} Servants to Lucentio.

GRUMIO, ?
Curtis, §
A Pedant.

KATHARINA,

BIANCA,

Widow.

Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on
Baptista and Petruchio.

Servants to Petruchio.

} Daughters to Baptista.

SCENE—Sometimes in Papua, and sometimes in PETRUCHIO's House in the Country.

INDUCTION.
ScreNE I.—Before an Ale-house on a Heath.
7 Enter Hostess and Suy.

  
  
 
   
  
  
   

Sly.
pee you, in faith.
ost. A pair of stocks, you rogue!
Sly. Y’ are a baggage: the Slys are no
rogues ; look in the chronicles, we came
in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore,
paucas pallabris; let the world slide.
Sessa !
Host. You will not pay for the glasses
you have burst? .
Siy. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint
Jeronimy : go to thy cold bed, and warm
thee. 12
Host. I know my remedy: I must go
fetch the thirdborough. [Exit.
Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough,
I'll answer him by law. I'll not budge

an inch, te let him come, and kindly.

[Lies down on the ground, and falls asicep.

Wind Horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with
Huntsmen and Servants.

Lord. Diuntemian, I charge thee, tender well my
ounds:
Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d,
And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach. 20
Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?
I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.
1 Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord ;
He cried upon it at the merest loss,
And twice to-day pick’d out the dullest scent:
Trust me, I take him for the better dog.
Lord. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
I would esteem him worth a dozen such.
But sup them well, and look unto them all: 30
To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
1 Hun. I will, my lord.
Lord, What’s here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth
he breathe ?
2 Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not
warm’d with ale,
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

 

 

Lord. ut monstrous beast! how like a swine he
ies!
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What think you, if he were convey’d to bed,
Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
A most delicious banquet by his Sed 41
And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
Would not the beggar then forget himself?
1 Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.
2 Hun. It aa seem strange unto him when he
wak'd.
Lord. aye as uw flattering dream, or worthless
‘ancy.
Then take him up, and manage well the jest.
Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,
And hang it round with all my wanton pictures ;
Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters, 50
And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet.
Procure me music ready when he wakes,
To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ;
And if he chance to speak, be ready straight,
And, with a low submissive reverence,
Say, ‘“‘ What is it your honour will command?”
Let one attend him with a silver basin,
Full of rose-water, and bestrew'd with flowers ;
Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,
And say, ‘“ Will’t please your lordship cool your
hands?” 60
Some one be ready with a costly suit,
And ask him what apparel he will wear;
Another tell him of his hounds and horse,
And that his lady mourns at his disease.
Persuade him, that he hath been lunatic ;
And, when he says he is —, say, that he dreams,
For he is nothing but a mighty lord.
This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs :
It will be pastime passing excellent,
If it be husbanded with modesty. 70
1 Hun. My lord, I warrant you, we will play our

part,
As he shall think, by our true diligence,
He is no less than what we say he is.

 
 

 

236

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

[INDUCTION.

 

Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him,
And each one to his office when he wakes. —
[SLY is borne out. A trumpet sounds.
Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds :—
[Exit Servant.
Belike, some noble gentleman, that means,
Travelling some journey, to repose him here.— ‘

Re-enter Servant.

How now? who is it?
Serv. An it please your honour,
Players that offer service to your lordship.
Lord. Bid them come near.

Enter Players.

Now, fellows, you are welcome.
Players. We thank your honour.
Lor. Do you intend to stay with me to-night ?
A Pia So please your lordship to accept our
uty.
Lord, With all my heart.—This fellow I remember,
Since once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son :—
’T was where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well.
LT have forgot your name; but, sure, that part
Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform’d.
A Play. I think, ‘twas Soto that your honour
means. 90
Lord. ’Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.
Well, you are come to me in happy time,
The rather for I have some sport in hand,
Wherein your cunning can assist me much.
There is a lord will hear you play to-night ;
But I am doubtful of your modesties,
Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,
(For yet his honour never heard a play,)
You break into some merry passion,
And so offend him ; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile he grows impatient.
Play. Fear not, my lord: we can contain our-
selves,
Were he the veriest antick in the world.
Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
And give them friendly welcome every one:
Let them want nothing that my house affords.—
{Exreunt Servant and Players.
[To a Servant.] Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my

100

page,
And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady:
That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber:
And call him madam, do him obeisance. 11
Tell him from me, as he will win my love,
He bear himself with honourable action,
Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies
Unto their lords by them accomplished :
Such duty to the drunkard let him do,
With soft low tongue, and lowly courtesy ;
And say, “‘ What is ‘t your honour will command,
Wherein your lady, and your humble wife,
May show her duty, and make known her love?”
And then, with kind embracements, tempting kisses,
And with declining head into his bosom, 12
Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd
To see her noble lord restor’d to health,
Who, for this seven years, hath esteemed him
No better than a poor and loathsome beggar.
And if the boy have not a woman’s gift,
To rain a shower of commanded tears,
An onion will do well for such a shift,
Which, in a napkin being close convey’d,
Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. 130
See this despatch’d with all the haste thon canst:
Anon ['ll give thee more instructions. [Hxit Servant.
Iknow, the boy will well usurp the grace,
Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman :
Tlong to hear him call the drunkard husband,
And how my men will stay themselves from laughter,
When they do homage to this simple peasant.
I'll in to counsel them: haply, my presence
May well abate the over-merry spleen,
Which otherwise would grow into extremes. 140
[Heeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Bed-chamber in the Lord’s House.

Sty is discovered in a rich night-gown, with Atten-
dants; some with apparel, others with basin, ewer,
and other appurtenances. Enter Lord, dressed
like a servant.

Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale!
1 Serv. Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of

sack ?

2 Serv. Will’t please your honour taste of these

conserves ?

3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

Sly. Iam Christophero Sly; call not me honour,
nor lordship: I ne’er drank sack in my life; and if
you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef.
Ne’er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no
more doublets than backs, no more stockings than
legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay, sometime,
more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look
through the overleather. 12

Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your

honour !
O, that a mighty man, of such descent,
Of such possessions, and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

Sly. What! would you make me mad? Am not 1
Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son, of Burton Heath, by
birth a pedlar, by education a card-maker, by trans-
mutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession
a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of
Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not
fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me
up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I
am not bestraught. Here 's—

1 Serv. O! this it is that makes your lady mourn.

2 Serv. O! this it is that makes your servants droop.

Lora. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your

ouse,

As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth; 30
Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,
And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
Look how thy servants do attend on thee,
Each in his office ready at thy beck:
Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,
And twenty caged nightingales do sing:
Or wilt thou sleep? we’ll have thee to a couch
Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis.
Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground: 40
Or wilt thou ride, thy horses shall be trapp’d,
Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
Dost thou love hawking? thou hast. hawks will soar
Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt?
Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

1 Serv. a wilt course, thy greyhounds are as

swift

As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee

straight

Adonis painted by a running brook, 50
And Cytherea all in sedges hid,
Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,
Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

Lord, We'll show thee Io as she was a maid,
And how she was beguiled and surpris’d,
As lively painted as the deed was done.

3 Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds;
And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,

So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. 60

Lord, Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:
Thou hast a lady, far more beautiful
Than any woman in this waning age.

1 Serv. ane, till the tears that she hath shed for

ee,
Like envious floods, o’erran her lovely face,
She was the fairest creature in the world;
And yet she is inferior to none.

Sly. Am Ta lord? and have I such a lady 2?
Or do I dream? or have I dream’d till now 2?

[Music. .

 

 
 

Scene II.]

I do not sleep ; I see, I hear, I speak ; 70
I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things.—
Upon my life, I am a lord indeed,
And not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly.—
Well, bring our lady hither to our sight ;
And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.
2 Serv. Will’t please your mightiness to wash your
hands?
[Servants present a ewer, basin, and napkin.
O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d!
O, that once more you knew but what you are!
These fifteen years you have been in a dream,
Or, when you wak’d, so wak'd as if you slept. 80
Sly. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.
But did I never speak of all that time ?
1 Serv. O! yes, my lord, but very idle words ;—
For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
Yet would you say, ye were beaten out of door,
And rail upon the hostess of the house,
And say you would present her at the leet,
Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts.
Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.
Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. 90
3 Serv. Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such
maid,
Nor no such men, as you have reckon’d up, —
As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,
And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpernell,
And twenty more such names and men as these,
Which never were, nor no man ever saw.
ay Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends!
All, Amen,
Sly. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it.

Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants.

Page. How fares my noble lord ?
Sly. Marry, I fare well, for here is cheer enough.
Where is my wife?
Page. per noble lord: what is thy will with
er
Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me husband?
My men should call me lord: Iam your goodman.

   

Lucentio.
#, R.ANIO, since for the great desire I had
#} To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,
IT am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy,
The pleasant pacer of great Italy ;
And, by my father’s love and leave, am
arm'd
With his good will, and thy good company,
My trusty servant, well approv'd in all;
Here let us breathe, and haply institute

A course of learning, an ingenious
: studies. ae
Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, 10

Gave me my being, and my father first,
A merchant of great traffic through the world,
Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii.
Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence,

 

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

Scene J.—Padua.
Enter LUCENTIO and TRANIO.
+ It shall become, to serve all hopes conceiv’d,

237

Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and
husband ;

Iam your witc in all obedience.
Sly. I know it well.—What must I call her?
Lord. Madam.
Sly. Al’ce madam, or Joan madam ? 110
Lord. Madam, and nothing else: so lords call ladies.
Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d

‘And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,
Being all this time abandon’d from your bed.

Sly. "Tis much.—Servants, leave me and her alone.—
Madam, undress you, and come now to bed.

Page. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you
To pardon me yet for a sae or two;

Or if not so, until the sun be set: .
For your physicians have expressly charg’d,
In peril to incur your former malady,

That I should yet absent me from your bed.
I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

Sly. Ay, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry so
long; but {i would be loath to fall into my dreams again:
‘ a therefore tarry, in despite of the flesh and the

ood.

120

Enter a Servant,
Serv. Your honour’s players, hearing your amend-
ment,
Are come to play a pleasant comedy ; 130
For so your doctors hold it very mect,
Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood,
And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:
Therefore, they egos it good you hear a play,
And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,
Which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life.
Sly. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a com-
monty a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling-trick ?
Page. No, my good lord: it is more pleasing stuff.
Sly. What, household stuff? 140
Page. It isa kind of history.
Sly. Well, we'll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by
my side,
And let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger.
[They sit down.

 

ACT I.

A Public Place.

To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds :
And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,
Virtue, and that part of philosophy
Will L apply, that treats of happiness
By virtue specially to be achiev’d. 20
Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left,
And am to Padua come, as he that leaves
A shallow plash, to plunge him in the deep,
And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.
Tra. Mi perdonate, gentle master mine,
T am in all affected as yourself,
Glad that you thus continue your resolve,
To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.
Only, good master, while we do admire
This virtue, and this moral discipline, 30
Let’s be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray ;

 
 

238

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

* [Act I.

 

 

 

Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks,

As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d.

Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,

And practise rhetoric in your common talk:

Music and poesy use to quicken you.

The mathematics, and the metaphysics,

Fall to them, as you find your stomach serves you.

No profit grows, where is no pleasure ta’en.—

In brief, sir, study what you most affect. 40
Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.

If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,

We could at once put us in readiness,

And take a lodging fit to entertain

Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.

But stay awhile: what company is this?
Tra. Master, some show, to welcome us to town.

Enter Baptista, KATHARINA, BIANCA, GREMIO, and
HorTeENSIO. LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand aside.
Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no further,

For how I firmly am resolv’d you know ;

That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter, 50

Before I have a husband for the eider.

If either of you both love Katharina,

Because I know you well, and love you well,

Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.
Gre. [Aside] To cart her rather: she’s too rough

for me.—

There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife?

Kath. [To Bap.] I pray you, sir, is it your will
To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

Hor. Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates

for you,

Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. 60
Kath. I faith, sir, you shall never need to fear:

I wis, itis not half way to her heart;

But, if it were, doubt not her care should be

To comb your noddle with a three-legged stool,

And paint your face, and use you like a fool.

Hor. From all such devils, Rood Lord, deliver us!

Gre. And me too, good Lord!

Tra. sere as here is some good pastime to-

ward:

That wench is stark mad, or wonderful froward.
Luc. But in the other’s silence do I see

Maid’s mild behaviour and sobriety.

Peace, Tranio!

Tra. Well said, master: mum! and gaze your fill.

Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good
What I have said,—Bianca, get you in:

And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,

For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl.

Kath. A pretty peat! it is best
Put finger in the eye,—an she knew why.

Bian. Sister, content you in my discontent.— 80
Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe:

My books, and instruments, shall be my company,

On them to look, and practise by myself.

Tuc, Hark, Tranio! thou may’st hear Minerva

speak. :

Hor. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?
Sorry am I, that our good will effects
Bianca's grief.

Gre. Why, will you mew her up,

Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,

And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

Bap. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d.— 90
Go in, Bianca. [£xrit BIaNca.
And for I know, she taketh most delight
In music, instruments, and poetry,
Schoolmasters will I keep within my house,
Fit to instruct her youth.—If you, Horton,
Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such,
Prefer them hither; for to cunning men
I will be very kind, and liberal
To mine own children in good bringing-up;
And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay, 99
For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Eait.

Kath. Why, and I trust, I may go too; may I not?
What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike,
I knew not what to take, and what to leave? eit

 

Gre. You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are
so good, here’s none will hold you.—Their love is not
so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails to-
gether, and fast it fairly out: our cake’s dough on both
sides. Farewell :—yet, for the love I bear my sweet
Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to
teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him
to her father. 112

Hor. So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray.
Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brook’d
parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,—
that we may yet again have access to our fair mis-
tress, and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love,—to labour
and effect one thing specially.

Gre. What’s that, I pray?

Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. 120

Gre. A husband! a devil.

_Hor. I say, a husband.

Gre. I say, a devil. Think’st thou, Hortensio,
though her father be very rich, any man is so very a
fool to be married to hell?

Hor. Tush, Gremio! though it pass your patience
and mine, to endure her loud alarums, why, man,
there be good fellows in the world, an a man could
light on them, would take her with all faults, and
money enough. S 130

Gre. T cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry
with this condition,—to be whipped at the high-cross
every morning.

Hor. ’Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in
rotten apples, But, come; since this bar in law makes
us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained,
till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband,
we set his youngest free fora husband, and then have
to’t afresh._Sweet Bianca !—Happy man be his dole!
He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you,
Signior Gremio? 141

Gre. Iam agreed: and ’would I had given him the
best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would
thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid
the house of her. Come on.

Exeunt GREMIO and HORTENSIO.

Tra. [Advancing.| I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible,
That love should of a sudden take such hold?

Luc. O Tranio! till I found it to be true,

I never thought it possible, or likely ;

But see! while idly I stood looking on,

I found the effect of Jove in idleness ;

And now in plainness do confess to thee,—
That art to me as secret, and as dear,

As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, —
Tranio, I burn, I pine; I perish, Tranio,

If I achieve not this young modest girl.
Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst:
Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now;
Affection is not rated from the heart :

If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so,—
Redime te captum, quam queas minimo.

Luc. Gramercies, lad; go forward ; this contents;
The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. |

Tra. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid,
Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all.

Luc. O! yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,

Such as the daughter of Agenor had,
That made great Jove to humble him to herhand, _.
When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand. 170
Tra. Saw you no more! mark’d you not, how her
sister
Began to scold, and raise up such a storm,
That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?
Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,
And with her breath she did pertume the air:
Sacred, and sweet, was all I saw in her. 3
Tra. Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his
trance.—
I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,

150

Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it
stands:
Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd, 180

That, till the father rid his hands of her,
Master, your love must live a maid at home:

 

 
 

——

Scene IT.J

And therefore has he closely mew’d her up,
Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors.
Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he!
But art thou not advis’d, he took some care
To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?
ra. Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now ‘tis plotted.
Lue. I have it, Tranio.
Tra. Master, for my hand,
Both our inventions meet and jump in one.
Luc. Tell me thine first.
Tra. You will be schoolmaster,
And undertake the teaching of the maid:
That’s your device.
Lue. It is: may it be done?
Tra. Not possible ; for who shall bear your part,
And be in Padua, here, Vincentio’s son ;
Keep house, and ply his book, welcome his friends,
Visit his countrymen, and banquet them?
Luc. Basta, content thee; for I have it full.
We have not yet been seen in any house,
Nor can we be distinguished by our faces,
For man or master: then, it follows thus :—
Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,
Keep house, and port, and servants, as I should.
I will some other be ; some Florentine,
Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.
‘Tis hatch’d, and shall be so :—Tranio, at once
Uncase thee, take my colour’d hat and cloak :
When Biondello comes, he waits on thee;
But I will charm him first to ary his tongue.
Tra. So had you need. (They exchange habits.
In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, 211
And I am tied to be obedient
(For so your father charg’d me at. our parting ;
“ Be serviceable to my son,” quoth he,
Although, I think, ’t was in another sense),
lam content to be Lucentio,
Because so well I love Lucentio.
Lue. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves,
And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid
Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye.

Enter BIONDELLO.
Here comes the rogue.—Sirrah, where have you
221

200

een
Bion. Where have I been? Nay, how now? where
are you?

Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes,
Or you stol’n his, or both ? pray, what’s the news?
Tue. Sirrah, come hither : tis no time to jest,

And therefore frame your manners to the time.
Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life,
Puts my apparel and my countenance on,
And I for my escape have put on his ;
For in a quarrel, since I came ashore,
Tkill'd a man, and fear I was descried.
Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,
While I make way from hence to save my life.
You understand me?
Bion. I, sir? ne’er a whit.
Luc. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth :
Tranio is chang’d into Lucentio.
Bion. The better for him; ’would I were so too! |
Tra. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish

230

after,
That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest

daughter.
But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master’s, I
advise 2
You usé your manners discreetly in all kind of

companies :
When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;
But in all places else, your master, Lucentio.
Luc. Tranio, let’s go.—
One thing more rests, that thyself execute ;
To make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why,
Sufficeth, my reasons are both good and weighty.
—_ [Ezxeunt.
1 Serv. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the
play.
Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter,
| sure ly: comes there any more of it? 250

 

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

23%

Page. My lord, ’t is but begun.
Sly. "Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam
lady : would ’t were done!

SCENE JI.—The Same. Before HORTENSIO’s House.

Enter Petruchio and GRUMIO,
Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave,
To see my friends in Padua ; but, of all,

il

ai

iN

Pet. ‘’Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock, I’ll wring it.”

My best beloved and approved friend,
Hortensio ; and, I trow, this is his house.—
Here, sirrah Grumio! knock, I say.
Gru. Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is there
any man has rebused your worship?
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

Gru. Knock you here, sir? why, sir, what am I,
sir, that I should knock you here, sir? 10
Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate;
And rap me well, or I'll knock your knave’s

Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome.—-
knock you first,
And then I know after who comes by the worst.
Pet. Will it not be?
Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock, Ill wring it:
I'll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it.
[He wrings GRUMIO by the ears.
Gru. Help, masters ne my master is mad.
Pet. Now,

ate.
should

knock when I bid you: sirrah ! villain!

Enter HORTENSIO.

Hor. How now? what’s the matter?—My_old
friend Grumio, and my good friend Petruchio !—How
do you all at Verona? 22

Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray ?
Con tutto il core ben trovato, may I say.

 

 

 
 

240

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

[Act I.

 

 

Hor, Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato
signior mio Petruchio.

Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel.

Gru. Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ‘leges in
Latin.—If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave
his service,—look you, sir,—he bid me knock him, and
rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to
use his master so; being, perhaps, (for aught I see)
two-and-thirty,—a pip out? ¢
Whom, ’would to God, I had well knock’d at first,
Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

Pet. A senseless villain !--Good Hortensio,

I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,
And could not get him for my heart to do it.

Gru. Knock at the gate ?—O heavens!

Spake you not these words plain,—‘‘Sirrah, knock

me here, 40
Rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly ?”
And come you now with knocking at the gate?

Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

Hor. Petruchio, patience : Iam Grumio’s pledge.
Why, this’ a heavy chance ‘twixt him and you,

Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.
And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale
Blows you to Padua, here, from old Verona?
Pet. Such ae as scatters young men through the
world,
To seek their fortunes further than at home, 50
Where small experience grows. But, in a few,
Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:
Antonio, my father, is deceas’d,
And I have thrust myself into this maze,
Haply to wive, and thrive, as best I may.
Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,
And so am come abroad to see the world.

Hor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee,
And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife?
Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel ; 60
And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,

And very rich :—but thou ’rt too much my friend,
And Ill not wish thee to her.

Pet, Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we
Few words suflice ; and therefore, if thou know
One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife
(As wealth is burthen of my wooing dance),

Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,

As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd

As Socrates’ Xanthippe, or a worse: 70
She moves me not, or not removes, at least,
Affection’s edge in me,—were she as rough

as are the swelling Adriatic seas :

I come to wive it wealthily in Padua ;

If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his
mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him
to a puppet, or an aglet-baby ; or an old trot with ne’er
a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases
as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss,
so money comes withal.

Hor. Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in,

I will continue that I broach’d in jest.
Ican, Petruchio, help thee to a wife
With wealth enough, and young, and beauteous,
Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman :
Her only fault, and that is faults enough,
Is, that she is intolerable curst,
And shrewd, and froward ; so beyond all measure,
That, were my state far worser than it is, 90
I would not wed her for a mine of gold.
Pet. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s
effect.—
Teli me her father’s name, and ’t is enough ;
For I will board her, though she chide as loud
As thunder, when the clouds in autumn crack,
Hor, Her father is Baptista Minola,
An affable and courteous gentleman ;
Her name is Katharina Minola,
Renown’'d in Padua ior her scolding tongue.

Pet. I know her father, though I know not her, 100
And he knew my deceased father well.

I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;
And therciore let me be thus bold with you,

 

To give you over at this first encounter,
Unless you will accompany me thither,

Gru. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour
lasts. O’ my word, an she knew him as well as I do,
she would think scolding would do little good upon
him. She may, perhaps, call him half a score knaves,
or so; why, that’s nothing: an he begin once, he
rail in his rope-tricks. I'll tell you what, sir,—an she
stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her
face, and so disfigure her with it, that she shall have
no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him
not, sir.

or. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,
For in pape keep my treasure is:
He hath the jewel of my life in hold,
His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,
And her withholds from me, and other more
Suitors to her, and rivals in my love;
Supposing it a thing impossible,

120

 

Gre. “‘ And see you read no other lectures to her.”

For those defects I have before rehears’d,
That ever Katharina will be woo’d:
Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en,
That none shall have access unto Bianca,
Till Katharine the curst have got a husband.

Gru. Katharine the curst !

A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,
And offer me, disguis’d in sober robes, 131
To old Baptista as a schoolmaster
Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca ;

That so I may, b this device, at least
Have leave and icisure to make love to her,
And unsuspected court her by herself.

Enter GREMIO, and LUCENTIO disguised, with books
under his arm.

Gru. Here’s no knavery! Sce, to beguile the old
folks, how the young folks lay their heads together!
Master, master, look about you: who goes there ? ha!

Hor. Peace, Grumio: ’t is the rival of my love. 140
Petruchio, stand by awhile.

Gru. A proper stripling, and an amorous! .

(They retire.

Gre. O! very well; I have perus’d the note.

Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound:

 
 

 

Scene II.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

241

 

All books of love, see that at any hand,
And see you read no other lectures to her.
You understand me.—Over and beside
Signior Baptista’s liberality,
I fi mend it with a largess.—Take your papers, too,
And let me have them very well perfum’d, 150
For she is sweeter than perfume itself,
To whom they go to. hat will you read to her?
Luc. Whate’er I read to her, Ill plead for you,
As for my patron, stand you so assur'd,
As firmly as yourself were still in place;
Yea, and perhaps with more successful words
Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.
Gre. O, this learning ! what a thing it is!
Gru. O, this woodcock ! what an ass it is!
Pet. Peace, sirrah ! 160
Hor. Grumio, mum !—[Coming forward.] God save
you, Signior Gremio!
Gre. And you're well met, Signior Hortensio. Trow

ou,
Whither Tain going ?—To Baptista Minola.
I promis’d to inquire carefully
Aint a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca ;
And, by good fortune, I have lighted well
On this young man ; for learning, and behaviour,
Fit for her turn; well read in postry,
And other books, --good ones, [ warrant ye.
Hor. ’Tis well: and I have met a gentleman,
Hath promis’d me to help me to another,
A fine musician to instruct our mistress :
So shall I no whit be behind in duty
To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me.
Gre. Belov’d ot me, and that my deeds shall prove.
Gru. And that his bags shall prove.
Hor. Gremio, 't is now no time to vent our love.
Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,
I'll tell you news indifferent good for either.
Here is a gentleman, whom by chance I met,
ae agreement from us to his liking,
ill undertake to woo curst Katharine;
Yea, -and to marry her, if her dowry please.
Gre. So said, so done, is well.—
Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?
Pet. I know, she is an irksome, brawling scold :
If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. :
Gre. No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman ?
Pet. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son:
My father dead, my fortune lives for me; 190
And I do hope good days and long tosee. |
Gre. O! sir, such a life, with such a wife, were
strange ;
But if you have a stomach, to’t o’ God’s name :
You shall have me assisting you in all.
But will you woo this wild-cat ?
Will I live?

Pet.
Gru, Will he woo her? ay, or I’ll hang her.
Pet. Why came I hither, but to that intent ?
Think you, a little din can daunt mine ears?
Have I not in my time heard lions roar ?
Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,
Rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat ?
Have I not hear eat ordnance in the field,
And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies ?
Have I not in a pitched battle heard
Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang ?
And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,
That i hae not half so great a blow to hear
As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire?
Tush! tush! fear boys with bugs.

Gre. Hortensio, hark.

This gentleman is happily arriv’d,
My mind presumes, for his own good, and ours,
or. I promis’d we would be contributors,

And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er.

170

180

200

For he fears none.
210

 

Gre. And so we will, provided that he win her.
Gru. [ would, I were as sure of a good dinner.

Enter TRANIO, bravely apparelled ; and BIONDELLO.
Tra. Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,
Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way
To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?
Gre. He that has the two fair daughters :—is ’t he
you mean ? 220
Tra. Kven he.—Biondello !
Gre. Hark you, sir: you mean not her too?
Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir: what have you to do?
Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.
Tra. I love no chiders, sir.—Biondello, let’s away.
Luc. (Aside.] Well begun, Tranio.
Hor. : : Sir, a word ere you go.
Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea, or no?
Tra, Anit I be, sir, is it any offence ?
Gre. No; if without more words you will get you
hence.
Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free 230
For me, as for you?
Gre. But so is not she.
Tra. For what reason, I beseech you?
Gre. For this reason, if you’ll know,
That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio.
Hor. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio.
Tra. Softly, my masters! if you be gentlemen,
Do me this right ; hear me with patience.
Baptista is a noble gentleman,
To whom my father is not all unknown ;
And were his daughter fairer than she is,
She may more suitors have, and me for one.
Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers ;
Then, well one more may fair Bianca have,
And so she shall. Lucentio shall make one,
Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.
Gre. What! this gentleman will out-talk us all.
Luc. Sir, give him head: I know, he’ll prove a

240

jade.
Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words?
Hor. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,
Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter ?

Tra. No, sir; but hear I do, that he hath two,
The one as famous for a scolding tongue,

As is the other for beauteous meee

Pet. Sir, sir, the first’s for me ; let her go iy

Gre. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,
And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve.

Pet. Sir, understand you this of me: in sooth,
The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,
Her father keeps from all access of suitors,

And will not promise her to any man,
Until the elder sister first be wed ;
The younger then is free, and not before.

Tra. It it be so, sir, that you are the man
Must stead us all, and me among the rest;

And if you break the ice, and do this feat,
Achieve the elder, set the younger free

For our access,—whose hap shall be to have her
Will not so graceless be, to be ingrate.

Hor. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive ;
And since you do profess to be a suitor, 270
You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,

To whom we all rest generally beholding.

Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack : in sign whereof,

Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,
And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health ;
And dc as adversaries do in law,

Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

Gru., Bion. O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be

gone.

Hor. The motion’s good indeed, and be it,so.—
Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. 280

[Exeunt.

250

 

th

 
 

 

 

ACT II.
ScenE I.—The Same. A Room in BaPptTista’s House.
Enter KATHARINA and BIANCA.

  
 

5 _ Bianca. Kath. Her silence flouts me, and I'll be reveng’d.
w= OOD sister, wrong me not, nor wrong x , [Flies after BIANCA.
. yourself, — Bap. What! in my sight ?—Bianca, get thee in. 30
To make a bondmaid and a slave of me: [Exit Bianca.
That I disdain ; but for these other gawds, Kath. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now1see,
Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off | She is your treasure, she must have a husband;
myself, . I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,
Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat; And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.
Or what you will command me, will I do, | Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep,
So well I know my duty to my elders. Till I can find occasion of revenge. (Exit.
Kath. Of all ry suitors, here I charge Bap. Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I?—
ee Sink Choad But who comes here?
ou lov’st best: see thou dis-
whe Eeauie not. Enter GREMIO, with LucEnTIo in the habit of a
Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive, 10 mean man; PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a
I never yet beheld that special face - musician; and TRANIO, with BIONDELLO bearing
Which Tr could fancy more than any other. a lute and books.
Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is ’t not Hortensio? Gre. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.
Bian. If you affect him, sister, here I swear, Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save
I'll plead for you myself, but you shall have him. ; you, gentlemen ! 41

Pet. And you, good sir. Pray,
have you not a daughter,
Call’d Katharina, fair, and virtuous?
Bap. Ihave a daughter, sir, call'd
Katharina.
Gre. You are too blunt: go to it
orderly.
Pet. You wrong me, Signior
Gremio: give me leave. —
Tam a gentleman of Verona, sir,
That, hearing of her beauty, and her
wit,
Her affability, and bashful modesty,
Her wondrous qualities, and mild
behaviour, 5
Am bold to show myself a forward

 

gues
Within your house, to make mine
eye the witness
Of that ee which I so oft have
e

ard.
And, for an entrance to my enter-
tainment,
I do present you with a man of mine,
resenting HORTENSIO.
Cunning in music and the mathe-

 

“Bap. ‘‘ Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?"”

. matics, 7
Toinstruct her fully in thosesciences,

Kath. O! then, belike, vee fancy riches more Whereof, I know, she is not ignorant.
You will have Gremio to keep you fair. Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:

Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so? His name is Licio, born in Mantua.
Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive, Bap. You’re welcome, sir; and he, for your good
You have but jested with me all this while. 20 sake.
I pr’ythee, sister Kate, untie my hands. But for my daughter Katharine, this I know,

Kath, If that be jest, then all the rest was so. She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

[Strikes her. Pet. I see, you do not mean to part with her,
Enter BAPTISTA. Or else you like not of my. company.

: Bap. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.
Bap. Why, how now, dame! whence grows this | Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?

; insolence ?— Pet. Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son ;
Bianca, stand aside :—poor girl! she weeps.— A man well known throughout all Italy.
Go ply thy needle ; meddle not with her.— Bap. Iknow him well: you are welcome for his sake.
For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, Gre. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, 7

Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee? | Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too.
When did she cross thee with a bitter word? | Backare! you are marvellous forward.

 
 

 

ScENE LJ]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

243

 

Pet. O! pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain
be doing. |
Gre. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your
wooing.— | ;
Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it.
To express the like kindness, myself that have been
more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give
unto you this young scholar [presenting LUCENTIO],
that hath been long studying at Rheims; as cunning
in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in
music and mathematics. His name is Cambio: pray
accept his service. 83
Bap. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome,
good Cambio.—[7o0 TRANIO.] But, oe sir, methinks,
you walk like a stranger: may I be so bold to know
the cause of your coming ?
Tra. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,
That, being a stranger in this city here,
Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, 90
Unto Bianca, fair, and virtuous.
Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,
In the preferment of the eldest sister.
This liberty is all that I request,—
That, upon knowledge of my parentage,
Imay have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo,
And free access and favour as the rest.
And, toward the education of your daughters,
I here bestow a simple instrument,
And this small packet of Greek and Latin books: 100
If you accept them, then their worth is great.
‘ap. Lucentio is your name? of whence, I pray ?
Tra. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.
Bap. A mighty man of Pisa; by report
I know him well: you are very welcome, sir.—
[To Hor.] Take you the lute, [to Luc.] and you the
set of books;
You shall go see your pupils presently.
Holla, within !
Enter a Servaut.

Sirrah, lead these gentlemen
To my daughters ; and tell them both,
These are their tutors: bid them use them well. 110
[Exit Servant, with HoRTENSIO, LUCENTIO,
and BIONDELLO.
We will go walk a little in the orchard,
And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,
And so I pray you all to think yourselves.
Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,
And every day I cannot come to woo.
You knew my father well, and in him, me,
Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,
Which I have better’d rather than decreas’d :
Then tell me,—if I get your daughter’s love,
What dowry shall I have with her to wife? 120
Bap. After my death, the one half of my lands;
And in possession twenty thousand crowns.
Pet. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of
- Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,
In all my lands and leases whatsoever.
Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,
That covenants may be kept on either hand.
Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d,
That is, her love ; for that is all in all.
Pet. Why, that is nothing ; for I tell you, father, 130
Iam as peremptory as she proud-minded ;
And where two raging fires meet together,
They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:
Though little fire grows great with little wind,
Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all;
So I to her, and so she yields to me,
For I am rough, and woo not like a babe.
Bap. Well anny 3 thou woo, and happy be thy
speed!
But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words.
Pet. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,
That shake not, though they blow perpetually. 141

Re-enter HoRTENSIO, with his head broken.

Bap. How Deny, my friend? why dost thou look so
pale
Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

 

Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good
musician ?
Ffor. I think, she’ll sooner prove a soldier:
Iron may hold her, but never lutes.
Bap. Why, hen thou canst not break her to the
ute

Hor. Why, no, for she hath broke the lute to me.
I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering, 150
When, with a most impatient, devilish spirit,
‘Frets oy you these?” quoth she; “I’ll fume with

hem:

And with that word she struck me on the head,
And through the instrument my pate made way ;
And there I stood amazed for a while,
As on a pillory, looking through the lute,
While she did call me rascal fiddler,
And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,
As had she studied to misuse me so.

Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench!
l love her ten times more than e’er IJ did:
O, how I long to have some chat with her!

Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited ;
Proceed in practice with my younger daughter ;
She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns,—
Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,

Or shall I send my ane hier Kate to you?
Pet. I pray you do; [ will attend her here,
[Ezeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, and
HORTENSIO.
And woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Say, that she rail ; why, then I’ll tell her plain, 170
She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:
Say, that she frown ; I’ll say, she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash’d with dew:
Say, she be mute, and will not speak a word;
Then I’ll commend her volubility,
And say, she uttereth piercing eloquence:
If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,
As though she bid me stay by her a week:
If she deny to wed, I’]l crave the day
When I shall ask the banns, and when be married.—
But here she comes ; and now, Petruchio, speak. 181

160

Enter KATHARINA,

Good morrow, Kate, for that’s your name, I hear.
Kath. Too you heard, but something hard of
earing :
They call me Katharine, that do talk of me.
Pet. You lie, in faith ; for you are call’'d plain Kate,
And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;
But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom ;
Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,
For dainties are all cates: and therefore, Kate,
Take this of me, Kate of my consolation :—
Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town,
Thy virtues spoke of, and ae beauty sounded,
Yet not so cee as to thee belongs,
Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife.
Kath. Mov’d! in good time: let him that movd
you hither,
Remove you hence.
You were a movable.

Pet.
Kath. A joint-stool.
Pet. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.
kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you.
Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. 200
Kath. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean.
Pet. Alas, good Kate! I will not burden thee;
For, knowing thee to be but young and light,—
Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to catch,
And yet as heavy as my weight should be.
Pet. Should be? should buz.
Kath. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard.
Pet. Oslow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?
Kath, Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.
Pet. Come, come, you wasp; i’faith, you are too

210

I knew you at the first,

Why, what’s a movable?

angry.

Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out.

Kath, Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies.

 

 
 

 

244

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

[Acr II,

 

Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his |

sting ?

In his tail.
Kath.
Pet. Whose tongue?

Kath. Yours, if you talk of tails; and so farewell.
Pet. What! with my tongue in your tail? nay, come
again:

Good Kate, Iam a gentleman.
Kath. That I'll try. [Striking him.
Pet. I swear Ill cuff you, if you strike

again.
Kath. So may you lose your arms:
If you strike me, you are no gentleman,
And if no gentleman, why, then ae

arms. 2

Pet. A herald, Kate? O! put me in

thy books.

Kath. What is your crest? a coxcomb?

Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be

my hen.

Kath. No cock of mine ; you crow too

like a craven. :

Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must

not look so sour.

Kath. It is my fashion when I see a

crab.

Pet. Why, here’s no crab, and there-

fore look not sour.

Kath. There is, there is.

Pet. Then show it me.

Kath. Had I a glass, I would.

Pet. What, you mean my face?

Kath. Well aim’d

of such a young one, 231

Pet. Now, by Saint George, I am too

young for you.

Kath. Yet you are wither'd.

Pet. *T is with cares.

Kath. I care not.
Pet. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you’scape not so.
Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry : let me go.

Pet. No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle.

’T was told me, you were rough, and coy, and sullen,

And now I find report a very liar ;

For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,

But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers.

Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,

Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will ; 242

Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk ;

But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers,

With gentle conference, soft and affable.

Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?

O slanderous world! Isate, like the hazel-twig,

Is straight, and slender ; and as brown in hue

As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels.

O! let me see thee walk : thou dost not halt. 250
Kath, Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command.
Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove,

As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?

O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,

And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful.
Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech?
Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

Kath. A witty mother! witless else her son.

Pet. Am I not wise?

Kath. Yes; keep you warm.

Pet. My so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy
ed. j

And therefore, setting all this chat aside,

Thus in plain terms :--your father hath consented
That you shall be my wife ; your dowry ‘greed on;
And, will you, nill you, I will marry you.

Now, Kate, Iam a husband for your turn;

For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,
Thou must be married to no man but me:

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
Conformable, as other household Kates.

Here comes your father : never make denial ;

I must and will have Katharine to my wife.

In his tongue.

270

 

Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO.

Bap. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with
my daughter ?

Pet. How but well, sir? how but well ?
It were impossible I should speed amiss. |

Bap. ws ns now, daughter Katharine? in your

umps :

Kath, Call you me daughter? now, I promise you,

You have show’d a tender fatherly regard,

   

Bap. ‘God send you joy, Petruchio! 't is a match.”

To wish me wed to one half lunatic;
A mad-cap ruffian, and a swearing Jack,
That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

Pet. Father, tis thus :—yourself and all the world,

That talk’d of her, have talk’d amiss of her.

If she be curst, it is for policy,

For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove;

She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;

For patience she will prove a second Grissel,

And Roman Lucrece for her chastity ;

And to conclude,—we have ‘greed so well together,

That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. 291
di<ath, I'll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.

Gre. Hark, Petruchio: she says, she’ll see thee

hang’d first.

Tra. Is this your speeding? nay then, good night

our part.

Pet. Be patient, gentlemen, I choose her for myself:
If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you?
*Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone,
That she shall still be curst in company.

I tell you, ‘tis incredible to believe

How much she loves me. O, the kindest Kate!
She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss

She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,

That in a twink she won me to her love.

O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see,

How tame, when men and women are alone,

A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.—
Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice,

To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.—

Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;

I will be sure, my Katharine shall be fine. 310

Bap. I know not what to say; but give me your

hands:
God send you joy, Petruchio! ’tis a match.
c., Tra, Amen, say we : we will be witnesses,

Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu.

I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace.

We will have rings, and things, and fine array ;

And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday.
[Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA, severally.

280

300

 
 

Scene I.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

245

 

Gre. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly?
Bap. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s
part,
And venture madly on a desperate mart. 320
Tra. ’T was a commodity lay fretting by you:
TY will bring you gain, or perish on the seas.
Bap. The gain I seek is—quiet in the match.
Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.—
But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter.
Now is the day we long have looked for :
Jam your neighbour, and was suitor first.
Tra. And Iam one, that love Bianca more
Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.
Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. 330
Tra. Grey-beard, thy love doth freeze.
Gre. But thine doth fry.
Skipper, stand back: ’t is age, that nourisheth.
ra. But youth, in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth.
Bap. Content you, gentlemen ; I’l1 compound this
strife :
*T ig deeds must win the prize; and he, of both,
That can assure my daughter greatest dower,
Shall have Bianca’s love.—
Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her ?
ed irst, as you know, my house within the city
Is.richly furnished with plate and gold: 34
Basins, and ewers, to lave her dainty hands;
My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry ;
In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns;
In cypress chests my arras, counterpoints,
Costly apparel, tents, and’canopies, _
Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,
| Valance of Venice gold in needlework,
-Pewter and brass, and all things that belong
-To house, or housekeeping : then, at my farm,
Ihave a hundred milch-kine to the pail, 350
Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls,
And all things answerable to this portion.
Myself am struck in years, I must confess ;
And if I die to-morrow, this is hers,
If whilst I live she will be only mine.
Tra. That “ only ” came well in.—Sir, list to me:
Iam my father’s heir and only son:
If I may have your daughter to my wife,
I'll leave her houses three or four as good,

Within rich Pisa walls, as any one 360

y Lucentio.
7 [DDLER, forbear : you grow too forward,
sir.
Have you sosoon forgot the entertainment
Her sister Katherine welcom’d you withal?
Hor. But, wrangling pedant, this is
The patroness of heavenly harmony :
Then give me leave to have prerogative ;
And when in music we have spent an hour,
Your lecture shall have leisure foras much.
Luc. Preposterous ass, that never read
so far
Toknow thecause why music wasordain’d!
_ _ Was it not to refresh the mind of man, 11
After his studies, or his usual pain ?
Then give me leave to read philosophy,
And while I pause serve in your harmony.

 

 

 

| Old Signior Gremio has in Padua ;

Besides two thousand ducats by the year

Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.—

What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio?

Gre. Two thousand ducats by the year of land!

My land amounts not to so much in all:

That she shall have ;_ besides an argosy,

That now is lying in Marseilles’ road.—

What, have I chok'd you with an argosy?

Tra, Gremio, ‘tis known, my father hath no less 370
Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses,
And twelve tight galleys: these I will assure her,
And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next.

Gre. Nay, I have offer’d all, I have no more ;

And she can have no more than all I have :—

If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all the

world,

By your firm promise. Gremio is out-vied.

Bap. I must confess, your offer is the best ;
And, let your father make her the assurance,

She is your own; else, you must pardon me:

If you should die before him, where ’s her dower ?
Tra. That.’s but a cavil: he is old, I young.
Gre. And may not young men die, as well as old?
Bap. Well, gentlemen,

IT am thus resolvy’d.—On Sunday next, you know,

My daughter Katharine is to be married :

Now, on the Sunday following shall Bianca

Be bride to you, if you make this assurance ;

If not, to Signior Gremio: 390

And so I take my leave, and thank you both. [£vit.
Gre. Adieu, good neighbour.—Now I fear thee not:

Sirrah, young gamester, your father were a fool

To give thee all, and, in his waning age,

Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy!

An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hi
Yet I have faced it with a card of ten.

’T is in my head to do my master good :—

Isee no reason, but suppos’d Lucentio

Must get a father, call’d—suppos’d Vincentio ;

And that’s a wonder: fathers, commonly,

Do get their children; butin this case of wooing,

A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my eee fs

: att.

380

a

400

 

ACT ITI.
ScENE I.—A Room in Baprista’s House.

Enter Lucentio, HortTENsIO, and BIANCA.

Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.
Bian. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong,
To strive for that which resteth in my choice.
Iam no Prererans echoley in the schools ;
I'll not be tied to hours, nor ’pointed times,
But learn my lessons as I please myself. 20
And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down :—
Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;
His lecture will be done, ere you have tun’d.
Hor, You'll leave his lecture, when I am in tune?
| Retires.
Luc. That will be never :—tune your instrument.
Bian. Where left we last ?
Luc. Here, madam :—
Hic tbat Simois ; hic est Sigeia tellus ;
Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.
Bian. Construe them. 30

 

 
 

246

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

[Act III,

 

 

Luc. Hic tbat, as I told you before,—Simois, I am
Lucentio,—hic est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa,—
Sigeia tellus, disguised thus to get your love ;—Hic
steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing,—
Priami, is my man Tranio,—regia, bearing my port,
—celsa senis, that we might beguile the old SP aTailocn

Flor. [Returning.] Madam, my instrument’s in tune.

 

Bian. ‘0 fie! the treble jars.”

Bian. Let’s hear. [Hor. plays.] O fie! the treble
ars.

Lue. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it: 40
Hic ibat Simois, I know you not ;—hic est Sigeia
tellus, I trust you not:—Hic steterat Priami, take
heed he hear us not;—regia, presume not ;—celsa
senis, despair not.

Hor. Madam, ’tis now in tune.

Lue. All but the base.

Hor. The base is right; ‘tis the base knave that

jars.
How fiery and forward our pedant is!
Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:
Pedascule, I’ watch you better yet.

Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

Luc. Mistrust it not; for, sure, Avacides
Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather.

Bian. I must believe my master; else, I promise

50

you,
I should be arguing still upon that doubt:
But let it rest.—Now, Licio, to you.
Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,
That I have been thus pleasant with you both.
Hor. [To LUcCENTIO.] You may go walk, and give
me leave awhile:
aly lessons make no music in three parts.
uc. Are you so formal, sir? [Aside.] Well, I must
60

wait,
And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,
Our fine musician groweth amorous.
Hor. Madam, before you touch the instrument,
To learn the order of my fingering,
I must begin with rudiments of art ;
To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,
More pleasant, pithy, and effectual,
Than hath been taught by any of my trade:
And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.
Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago.
Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.
Bian. [Reads.]
“Gamut I am, the ground of all accord,
Are, to plead Hortensio's passion ;
B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord,
C fa ut, that loves with all affection:
D sol re, one cliff, two notes have I:
E la mi, show pity, or I die.”
Call you this gamut? tut! I like it not:
Old fashions please me best ; I am not so nice,
To change true rules for odd inventions.

70

80

 

Enter a Servant.
Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave your

ooks,
And help to dress your sister’s chamber up :
You know, to-morrow is the wedding-day.
Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both: I must be
gone. (Exeunt Branca and Servant.
fue. ’Faith, mistress, then I have no
cause to stay. [Ezit.
Hor. But I have cause to pry into
this pedant:
Methinks, ne looks as though he were

in love.

Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so
umble,

To cast thy wandering eyes on every

stale,
Seize thee that list : if once I find thee

ranging, 90
Hortensio will be quit with thee by
changing. [Exit.

ScENE II.—The Same. Before

Baptista’s House.

Enter Baptista, GREMIO, TRANIO,
KATHARINA, Bianca, LUCENTIO,
and Attendants.

Bap. Signior Lucentio, this is the
*pointed day,

That Katharine and Petruchio should be married,

And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.

What will be said? what mockery will it be,

To want the bridegroom, when the priest attends

To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage !

What says Lucentio to this shame of ours ?

Kath. no epee but mine: I must, forsooth, be
ore

To give my hand, oppos’d against my heart,

Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen ;

Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at leisure.

1 told you, I, he was a frantic fool,

Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour ;

And to be noted for a merry man,

He'll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage,

Make friends, invite them, and proclaim the banns;

Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d.

Now must the world point at peer Katharine,

And say,—‘“ Lo, there is mad Petruchio’s wife,

If it would please him come and marry her.”

Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and Baptista too.

Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,

Whatever fortune stays him from his word:

Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise ;

Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest.

Kath. "Would Katharine had never seen him
though !
[Exzit, weeping, followed by BIANcA and others.
Bap. Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep,
For such an injury would vex a very saint,
Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

Enter BIONDELLO.

Bion. Master, master ! old news, and such news as
you never heard of ! 31

Bap. 1s it new and old too? how may that be? ,

Bion. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s
coming ?

Bap. Is he come?

Bion. Why, no, sir.

Bap. What then?

Bion. He is coming.

Bap. When will he be here?

Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees you
there. 41

Tra. But, say, what to thine old news?

Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat, and
an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches, thrice turned; a
pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled,
another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the

10

 
 

 

Scene II.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

247

 

town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless;
with two broken points: his horse hipped, with an ol:

mothy saddle, and stirrups of no kindred ; besides,
possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the
chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the
fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed
with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled
with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in
the back, and shovlder-shotten ; ne’er-legged before,
and witha half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s
leather; which, being restrained to keep him from
stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired
with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman's
crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name
fairly set down_in studs, and here and there pieced
with packthread. . ; 62

Bap. Who comes with him?

Bion. O, sir! his lackey, for all the world capari-
soned like the horse ; with a linen stock on one leg,
and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a
red and blue list; an old hat, and ‘‘the humour of
forty fancies” pricked in ’t for a feather : a monster,
a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian
footboy, or a gentleman’s lackey. : 70

Tra. "Tis some odd humour pricks him to this

fashion ;
Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell'd.

Bap. Iam glad he is come, howsoe’er he comes.

Bion. Why, sir, he comes not.

Bap. Didst thou not say, he comes?

Bion. Who? that Petruchio came?

Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came.

Bion. No, sir; I say, bis horse comes, with him on
his back.

Bap. Why, that’s all one. 80

Bion. Nay, by Saint Jamy,

I hold you a penny,
A horse and a man
Is more than one,

And yet not many.

Enter PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO.
Pet. Come, panera be these gallants? who’s at
ome
Bap. You are welcome, sir.
et. And yet I come not well.
Bap. And yet you halt not.
Tra. Not so well apparell’d,
As I wish you were.

Pet. Were it better, I should rush in thus. 90
But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride ?—

How does my father ?—Gentles, methinks you frown:
And wherefore gaze this goodly company,

As if they saw some wondrous monument,

Some comet, or unusual prodigy ?

Bap. Why, sir, youknow, this is your wedding-day.
First were we sad, fearing you would not come ;
Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.

Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,
An eyesore to our solemn festival.

Tra. And tell us what occasion of import
Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife,
And sent ae hither so unlike yourself?

Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear :
Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word,

Phone) in some part enforced to digress ;

Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse

As you shall well be satisfied withal.

But, where is Kate? I stay too long from her:

The morning wears, ’t is time we were at church. 110
Tra. oe not your bride in these unreverent

robes.

Go to my chamber: put on clothes of mine.

Pet. Not I, believe me: thus Ill visit her.

Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

Pet. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done

with words:
To me she’s married, not unto my clothes.
Could I repair what she will wear in me,
As I can change these poor accoutrements,
T were well for Kate, and better for myself.
But what a fool am I to chat with you,

100

120

 

When IJ should bid good-morrow to my bride,
And seal the title with a lovely kiss!
[Zzeunt PETRUCHIO, GRUMIO, and BIONDELLO.
Tra. He hath some meaning in his mad attire.
We will persuade him, be it possible,
To put on better ere he go to church.
Bap. I'll after him, and see the event of this. [Zvit.
Tra. But to her love concerneth us to add
Her father’s liking: which to bring to pass,
As I before imparted to your worship,
Iam to get a man,—whate’er he be,
It skills not much, we’ll fit him to our turn,—
And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,
And make assurance, here in Padua,
Of greater sums than I have promised.
So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,
And marry sweet Bianca with consent.
Luc. Were it not that my fellow-schoolmaster
Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,
’T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ;
Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,
Iu keep mine own, despite of all the world.
Tra. 'That by degrees we mean to look into,
And watch our vantage in this business.
We'll over-reach the grey-beard, Gremio,
The narrow-prying father, Minola,
The quaint musician, amorous Licio ;
for my master’s sake, Lucentio.

130

140

Re-enter GREMIO.
Signior Gremio, came you from the church ?
Gre. As willingly as e’er I came from school.
Tra. And is the bride, and bridegroom, coming
home? 150
Gre. A bridegroom say you? tis a groom indeed,
A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.
Tra. Curster than she? why, ’tis impossible.
Gre. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend.
Tra. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam.
Gre. Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool to him.
Ill tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest
Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife,
“ Ay, by gogs-wouns,” quoth he ; and swore so loud,
That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book ; 160
And, as he stoop’d again to take it up,
This mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff,
That down fell priest and book, and book and priest:
“Now take them up,” quoth he, ‘‘if any list.”
Tra. What said the wench, when he arose again?
Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp’d, and
swore,
As if the vicar meant to cozen him.
But after many ceremonies done,
He calls for wine :—‘‘ A health!” quoth he; as if
He had been aboard, carousing to his mates 170
After a storm :—quaff’d off the muscadel,
And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face ;
Having no other reason, |.
But that his beard grew thin and hungerly,
And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking.
This done, he took the bride about the neck,
And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack,
That, at the parting, all the church did echo.
And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame ;

And after me, I know, the rout is coming: 180
Such a mad marriage never was before.
Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [Music.

Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA,
HorrTENSIO, GRUMIO, and Train.

Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your

pains.

I know, you think to dine with me to-day,

And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer ;

But, so it is, my haste doth call me hence,

And therefore here I mean to take my leave.
Bap. Is’t possible you will away to-night?
Pet. I must away to-day, before night come.

Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,

You would entreat me rather go than stay.—

And, honest companys I thank you all,

That have beheld me give away myself

190

 
 

 

248 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. [Act IIL

To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Pet. Grumio, my horse!

Dine with my father, drink a health to me, Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten
For I must hence: and farewell to you all. the horses.

Tra, Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. Kath. Nay, then,

NCQ

AWAY
\ A
Xr

~
4

r

N °
S
ze

‘i

 

 

Pet. “ Come, where be these gallants? who’s at home?”

Hon It may not be. Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ;

re. Let me entreat you. No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself.
Pet. It-cannot be. The door is open, sir, there lies your way, ‘
Kath. Let me entreat you. You may be jogging whiles your boots are ieee 210
Pet, Tam content. For me, I'll not be gone, till I please myself.—
Kath. Are you content to stay? 200 | "Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom,
Pet. [am content you shall entreat me stay, That take it on you at the first so roundly.

But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. et. Q, Kate! content thee: pr'ythee, be not
Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. angry.

 
 

 

SCENE IL]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 249

 

Kath. I will be angry. What hast thou to do?—
Father, be quiet ; he shall stay my leisure.
Gre. Ay, Marry, sir, now it begins to work.
Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner,
Isee, a woman may be made a fool,
If she had not a spirit to resist. 220
Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy com-
mand.—
Obey the bride, you that attend on her:
Go to the feast, revel and domineer,
Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,
Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves.
But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.
Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ;
I will be master of what is mine own.
She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,
My household stuff, my field, my barn,
My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything ;
And here she stands ; touch her whoever dare,
I'll bring mine action on the proudest he
That stops my way in Padua.—Grumio,
Draw forth thy weapon ; we’re beset with thieves:

| Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.—
Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee,

ate:
I'll buckler thee against a million.
[Axeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and
GRUMIO.
Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.
Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with
laughing. 240
Tra. Of all mad matches never was the like!
Lue. Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister?
Bian. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated.
Gre. | warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.
Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride and
bridegroom wants
For to supply the places at the table,
You know, there wants no junkets at the feast.—
Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place,
And let Bianca take her sister’s room. é
Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?
Bap. She shall, Lucentio.—Come, gentlemen, let’s
go. nxeunt. |

 

 

Grumio.
IE, fie, on all tired jades, on all mad
masters, and all foul ways! Was ever
man so beaten? was ever man so rayed ?
5 Was ever man so weary? I am sent
2.before to make a fire, and they are
coming after to warm them. Now,
were not 1 a little pot, and soon hot, my
very lips might freeze to my teeth, my
tongue to the roof of my mouth, my
heart in my belly, ere I should come by
a fire to thaw me; but, I, with blowing
the fire, shall warm myself, for, con-
sidering the weather, a taller man than
I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis! 14

Enter Curtis.
Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ?
Gru. A piece of ice: if thou doubt
t it, thou may’st slide from my shoulder
bs to my heel, with no greater a run but
my head and my neck. A fire, good
_ Curtis. 20

Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

Gru. O! ay, Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire ; cast
on no water.

Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported?

Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but,
thou know’st, winter tames man, woman, and beast,
for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress,
and myself, fellow Curtis.

Curt. Away, you three-inch fool! Iam no beast. 29

Gru. Am I but three inches? why, thy horn is a
foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou
make a fire, or shail I complain on thee to our
mistress, whose hand (she being now at hand) thou
shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in
thy hot office?

   

\ AY

[ACT Iv.
ScENE I.—A Hall in PETRUcHIO’s Country House.
"Enter GRUMIO.

Curt. I pr’ythee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes
the world
Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine;

and, therefore, fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty,
for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death.

Curt. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good
Grumio, the news. 42

Gru. Why, “Jack, boy! ho, boy!” and as much
news as thou wilt.

Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catching.

Gru. Why, therefore, fire: for I have caught
extreme cold. Where’s the cook? is supper ready,
the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept;
the serving-men in their new fustian, their white
stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on ?
Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, the
carpets laid, and everything in order? 52

Curt. Allready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

Gru. First, know, my horse is tired; my master and
mistress fallen out.

Curt. How? .

Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt ; and thereby
hangs a tale.

Curt. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio,

Gru. Lend thine ear. 60

Curt. Here.

Gru. There. [Striking him.

Curt. This is to fee] a tale, not to hear a tale.

Gru. And therefore 'tis called a sensible tale; and
this cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech
listening. Now I begin: Jmprimis, we came down a
foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,—

Curt. Both of one horse?

Gru. What’s that to thee ?

Curt. Why, a horse. 70

Gru. Tell thou the tale :—but hadst thou not crossed
me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and

 

she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard, in

 

 
 

 

250

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

[Act IV.

 

how miry a place; how she was bemoiled; how he left
her with the horse upon her; how he beat me because
her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt
to pluck him off me; how he swore; how she prayed,
that never prayed before; how I cried; how the
horses ran away ; how her bridle was burst; how I
lost my crupper;—with many things of worthy
memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou
return unexperienced to thy grave. 82

 

Gru. “‘ And thereby hangs a tale.”

Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.
Gru. Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all
shall find, when he comes home. But what talk I of
this ?—Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip,
Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest: let their heads be
sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed, and their
garters of an indifferent knit: let them curtsy with
their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my
master’s horsetail, till they kiss theirhands. Are they
all ready ? 92
Curt. They are.
Gru. Call them forth.
Curt. Do you hear? ho! you must meet my master,
to countenance my mistress.
Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own.
“Curt. Who knows not that?
Gru. Thou, it seems, that callest for company to
countenance her. 100
Curt. I call them forth to credit her.
Gru. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

Enter several Servants.

Nath. Welcome home, Grumio.

Phil. How now, Grumio?

Jos. What, Grumio!

Nich. Fellow Grumio!

Nath. How now, old lad?

Gru. Welcome, you;—how now, you ;—what, you;
—fellow, you;—and thus much for greeting. Now,
my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things
neat? 111

Nath. All things is ready. How near is our master?

Gru. E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore
be not—Cock’s passion, silence !—I hear my master.

Enter PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA.
Pet. wes be these knaves? What! no man at
oor,
To hold my stirrup, nor to take my horse %
Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ?— ®

 

All Serv. Here, here, sir ; here, sir. 3
Pet. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!
You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms!
What, no attendance? no regard? no duty ?—
Where is the foolish knave I sent before?
Gru. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.
Pet. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse
drudge!
Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,
And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?
Gru. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,
And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel ;
There was no link to colour Peter’s hat,
And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing:
There were none fine, but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;
The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; 132
Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.
Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. —
[Exeunt Servants,
[songs] Where is the life that late I led—
V here are those--? Sit down, Kate, and welcome.
Soud, soud, soud, soud ! :

120

Re-enter Servants, with supper.
Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.
Ott with my boots, you rogues, you villains! When?
[Sings.] It was the friar of orders grey, 140
As he forth walked on his way :—
Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:
Take that, and mend the plucking of the other.—
(Strikes him.
Be merry, Kate.—Some water, here ; what, ho !—
Where’s my spaniel Troilus ?—Sirrah, get you hence,
And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:
Exit Servant.
One, Haan, ea you must kiss, and be acquainted
wil

Where are my slippers?_Shall I have some water?

Enter a Servant with a basin and ewer.
Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. —
You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall? 150

[Strikes him.
Kath. Patience, I pray you; 'twasa fault unwilling.
Pet. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave!
Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a stomach.
Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?
What’s this? mutton ?
1 Serv. Ay.
Pet. Who brought it ?
1 Serv. ; 7
Pet. ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.
What dogs are these !—Where is the rascal cook?
How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,
And serve it thus to me that love it not?
There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. 160
[Throws the meat, &c., at them.
You heedless joltheads, and unmanner’d slaves !
What! do you grumble? 1°11 be with you straight.
Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet:
The meat was well, if you were so contented.
Pet. J tell thee, Kate, ’t was burnt and dried away,
And I expressly am forbid to touch it,
For it engenders choler, planteth anger;
And better ’t were, that both of us did fast,
Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,
Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.
Be patient, to-morrow ’t shall be mended,
And for this night we 1l fast for company.
Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.
[Exveunt PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and CURTIS.
Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like?
Peter. He kills her in her own humour.

Re-enter CURTIS.

Gru. Where is he ?

Curt. In her chamber,
Making a sermon of continency to her;
And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, 180
And sits as one new-risen from a dream,
Away, away! for he is coming hither.

170

[Exeunt.

 
 

 

-—

ScEvE II.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. 251

 

Re-enter PETRUCHIO.

Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
And ’t is my hope to end successfully.
My falcon now is sharp, and passing empty,
And, till she stoop, she must not be tull-gorg’d,
For then she never looks upon her lure.
Another way I have to man my haggard,
To make her come, and know her keeper’s call ;

 

ScENE II.—Padua. Before Baprisra’s House.

Enter TRANIO and HORTENSIO.
Tra. Is’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca

Doth fancy any other but Lucentio?
I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand.

Hor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,

Stand by, and mark the manner of his teaching.

{They stand aside.

Pet. “ There, take It to you, trenchers, cups, and all.”

That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites, 190
That bate, and beat, and will not be obedient.

She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ;

Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not:
As with the meat, some undeserved fault

I'll find about the making of the bed ;

And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
This way the coverlet, another way the sheets :—
Ay, and amid this hurly, I intend,

That all is done in reverent care of her;

And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night:
And, if she chance to nod, I’ll rail and brawl,

And with the clamour keep her still awake.

This is a way to kill a wife with kindness ;

And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour.
He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Now let him speak : tis charity to show.

200

Enter BIANCA and LUCENTIO.

Luc. Now, mistress, profit for in what you read?
Bian. as master, read you? first resolve me
al

Luc. I read that I profess, the Art to Love.
Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of your art!
Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my
heart. They retire.
Hor. (Coming forward.] Quick proceeders, marry !
Now tell me, I pray, 11
You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca
Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio.
Tra. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind !—
I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful.
Hor. Mistake no more: I am not Licio,

[Exit. | Nor a musician, as I seem to be,

 
 

252

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

(act IV.

 

 

But one that scorns to live in this disguise,

For such a one, as leaves a gentleman,

And makes a god of such a cullion. 20
Know, sir, that Lam call’d Hortensio,

Tra, Signior Hortensio, I have often heard
Of your entire affection to Bianca ;

-And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,
T will with you, if you be so contented,
Forswear Bianca and her love for ever.

Hor. See, how they kiss and court !—Signior Lu-

centio,
Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow
‘Never to woo her more : but do forswear her,
As one unworthy all the former favours 30
That I have fondly flatter’d her withal.

Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath,
Never to marry with her; though she would entreat.
Fie on her! see, how beastly she doth court him.

Hor. Would all the world, but. he, had quite for-

sworn!

For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,
I will be married to a wealthy widow,
Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me,
As I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard.
And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.— 40
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
Shall win my love :—and so I take my leave,
In resolution as I swore before.

[Eevit Horrensio.—LUCENTIO and BIANCA advance.

Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace,
As ‘longeth to a lover's blessed case !

Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,
And have forsworn you, with Hortensio.

Bian. Tranio, you jest. But have you both for-

sworn me ?

Tra. Mistress, we have.

Lue. Then we are rid of Licio.

Tra. TY faith, he Tl have a lusty widow now, 5
That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day.

Bian. God give him joy!

Tra. Ay, and he’ll tame her.

Bian. He says so, Tranio.

Tra. ’Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

Bian. Tite taming-school! what, is there such a

place?

Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master;
That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,

To tame a shrew, and charm her chattering tongue.

Enter BIONDELLO, running.
Bion. O master, master! I have watch’d so long
That I’m dog-weary ; but at last I spied
An ancient angel coming down the hill,
Will serve the turn.
Tra. What is he, Biondello?
Bion. Master, a mercatant, or a pedant,
I know not what; but formal in apparel,
In gait and countenance surely like a father.
Luc. And what of him, Tranio?
Tra. If he be credulous, and trust my tale,
I'll make him glad to seem Vincentio,
And exe assurance to Baptista Minola,
As if he were the right Vincentio. 70
Take in your love, and then let me alone.
[Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.

Enter a Pedant.
Ped. God save you, sir!
Ta. And you, sir! you are welcome.
Travel you far on, or are you at the furthest ?
Ped. Sir, at the furthest for a week or two;
But then up further, and as far as Rome,
And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.
Tra, What countryman, I pray?
Ped. Of Mantua,
Tra. Of Mantua, sir?—marry, God forbid !
And come to Padua, careless of your life?
Ped. My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard.
Tra. ’Tis death for any one in Mantua 81
To come to Padua. Know you not the cause ?
Your ships are stay'’d at Venice ; and the duke,
For private quarrel ’twixt your duke and him,

 

Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly.

’Tis marvel; but that you are but newly come,

You might have heard it else proclaim’d about.
Ped. Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so ;

For I have bills for money by exchange

From Florence, and must here deliver them. 90
Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy,

This will I do, and this I will advise you.—

First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?

Ped. Ay, sir, in Pisa have J often been ;

Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. :
Tra. Among them, know you one Vincentio?
Ped. I know him not, but I have heard of him:

A merchant of incomparable wealth.

Tra. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,

In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. 100
Bion. [Aside.] As much as an apple doth an oyster,
and all one.

Tra. To save your life in this extremity,
This favour will I do you for his sake ;
And think it not the worst of all your fortunes,
That you are like to Sir Vincentio.
His name and credit shall you undertake,
And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d.
Look, that you take upon you as you should!
You understand me, sir ;—so shall you stay
Till you have done your business in the city. 110
If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it.
Ped. O! sir, Ido; and will repute you ever
The patron of my life and liberty.
Tra. Then go with me, to make the matter good.
This, by the way, I let you understand :
My father is here look’d for every day,
To pass assurance of a dower in marriage
’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:
In all these circumstances I'll instruct you.
Go with me, to clothe you as becomes you. 120
[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—A Room in PETRUcHIO’s House.

Enter KATHARINA and GRUMIO.
Gru. No, no, forsooth ; I dare not, for my life.
Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite
appears.

What, did he marry me to famish me ?

Beggars, that come unto my father's door,

Upon entreaty, have a present alms;

If not, elsewhere they meet with charity :

But I, who never knew how to entreat,

Nor never needed that I should entreat,

Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;

With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. 10

And that which spites me more than all these wants,

He does it under name of perfect love;

As who should say, if T should sleep, or eat,

*T were deadly sickness, or else present death.

I pr’ythee go, and get me some repast ;

I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

Gru. What say you to a neat’s foot ? .
Kath. ’T is passing good : I pr’ythee let me have it.
Gru. I fear, it is too choleric a meat.

How poy en to a fat tripe, finely broil’d? 20
Kath. 1 like it well: good Grumio, fetch it me.
Gru. I cannot tell; I fear, ’t is choleric.

What say you to a piece of beef, and mustard ?
Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon.

Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard
rest.

Gru. Nay, then I will not: you shall have the
mustard,

Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt.

Gru, Why, then the mustard without the beef. 30

Aath, Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,
Beats him.

That feed’st me with the very name of meat.

Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you,

That triumph thus upon my misery !

Go, get thee gone, I say.

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

253

 

Enter PETRUCHIO, with a dish of meat, and
HORTENSI1O.

Pet. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all
amort ?
Hor. Mistress, what cheer ?
Kath. i ’Faith, as cold as can be.
Pet. Pluck up thy spirits ; look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,
To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee: 40
[Sets the dish on a table.
Tam sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks,
What! nota word? Nay then, thou lov’st it not,
And all my pains is sorted to no proof.—
Here, take away this dish.
Kath. I pray you, let it stand. rc
Pet. The poorest service is repaid | KI |
with thanks, WH
And so shall mine, before you touch | \
the meat. .
Kath. I thank you, sir. N
Hor. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are
to blame.
Come, Mistress Kate, I’l1 bear you
company.
Pet. [Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio,
if thou lov’st me.— 50
Much good do it unto thy gentle heart !
Kate, ot By eee now, my honey
ove,
Will we return unto thy father’s house,
And revel it as bravely as the best,
With silken coats, and caps, and golden

rings, :

With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales,
and things ;

With scarfs, and fans, and double
change of bravery,

With amber bracelets, beads, and all
this knavery.

What, hast thou din’d?_ The tailor stays thy leisure,

To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. 60

i

   
   

 

a

   

 

Pet.

“

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments ;
Lay forth the gown. —

Enter Haberdasher.
What news with you, sir?
Hab. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.
Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer ;
A velvet dish :—fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy.
Why, ’t is a cockle or a walnut-shell,
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:
Away with it! come, let me have a bigger.

Kath. I'll have no bigger: this doth fit the time,
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. 70
Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one too;

And not till then.
Hor. [Aside.] That will not be in haste.
Kath. Why, sir, I trust, I may have leave to speak,
And speak I will; Iam no child, no babe:
Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,
And, if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break:
And, rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
Pet. Why, thou say’st true: it is a paltry cap,
A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie.
Tlove thee well, in that thou lik’st it not.
Kath. Love me, or love me not, I like the cap,
And it I will have, or I will have none.
(Evit Haberdasher.
Pet. Thy gown? why, ay:—come, tailor, let us
see’t

80

O, mercy, God! what masking stuff is here?

What’s this? a sleeve? ’t is like a demi-cannon:
What! up and down, carv’d like an apple-tart ?
Here’s snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash, 90
Like to a censer in a barber's shop.— :
Why, what, o’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this?

 

Hor. [Aside.] I see, she’s like to have neither cap
nor gown.
Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well,
According to the fashion and the time.
Pet. Marry, and did: but if you be remember’d,
I did not bid you mar it to the time.
Go, hop me over every kennel home,
For you shall hop without my custom, sir.
I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it. 100
Kath. I never saw a better-fashion’d gown,
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable.
Belike, you mean to make a puppet of me.
Pet. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of
thee.
\

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i

Rat
i is
Fs y i

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S

   

        

  

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4

hy, what, o' devil's name, tailor, call’st thou this?”

Tai. She says, your worship means to make a
puppet of her. .
Pet. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou
thread,

Thou thimble, ;
Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail!
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou !—
Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread ? 110
Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard,
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st!
I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown.

Tai. Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made
Just as my master had direction.

Grumio gave order how it should be done.

Gru. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff.

Tai. But how did you desire it should be made?

Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

Tai. But did you not request to have it cut?

Gru. Thou hast faced many things.

Tai. Thave.

Gru. Face not me: thou hast braved many men;
brave not me: J will neither be faced nor braved. I
say unto thee,—I bid thy master cut out the gown;
but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest.

120

Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to
testify.

Pet. Read it. 130

Gru. The note lies in’s throat, if he say I said so.

Tai. ‘* Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.”

Gru. Master, if everI said loose-bodied gown, sew
me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a
bottom of brown thread. I said, a gown.

Pet. Proceed.

Tai. ‘With a small compassed cape.”

Gru. I confess the cape.

Tai. ‘With a trunk sleeve.”

Gru. I confess two sleeves. 140
‘Tai. ‘The sleeves curiously cut.”

Pet. Ay, there’s the villainy.

Gru. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I com-

manded the sleeves should be cut out, and sewed up

 
 

 

254

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

{Act Iv,

 

again ; and that I'll prove upon thee, though thy little

finger be armed in a thimble.

Tai. This is true, that I say: an I had thee in place
where, thou shouldst know it.
Gru. Iam for thee straight: take thou the bill, give

me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. 150
a God-a-mercy, Grumio, then he shall have no

odds.

Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.
Gru. You are i’ the right, sir: ’tis for my mistress.
Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use.

Gru. Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress’
gown for thy master’s use!

Pet. Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that? |

Gru. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for.

Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! 160

O, fie, fie, fie! : .
Pet, | Aside.) Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor

paid.—

Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

Hor. Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown to-morrow:

Take no unkindness of his hasty words.

Away, I say ; commend me to thy master.

[Exit Tailor.
Pet. Well, come, my Kate; we willuntoyour fathers,

Even in these honest mean habiliments.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor:

For ’t is the mind that makes the body rich ;

And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,

So honour peereth in the meanest habit.

What, is the jay more precious than the lark,

Because his feathers are more beautiful?

Or is the adder better than the eel,

Because his painted skin contents the eye?

O! no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse

For this poor furniture, and mean array.

If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me;

And therefore frolic: we will hence forthwith,

To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. —

Go, call my men, and let us straight to him;

And bring our horses unto Long Lane end;

There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.—

Let's see; I think, ’tis now some seven o'clock,

And well we may come there by dinner-time.
Kath. I dare assure you, sir, ‘tis almost two,

And ’t will be supper-time, ere you come there.
Pet. It shall be seven, ere I go to horse.

Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do,

You are still crossing it.—Sirs, let ’t alone:

I will not go to-day; and ere I do,

It shall be what o'clock I say it is.

Alor. Why, so this gallant will command the sun.
Excunt.

170

180

190

SceENE IV.—Padua. Before BApTista’s House.

Enter TRANIO, and the Pedant dressed like
VINCENTIO.
Tra. Sir, this is the house: please it you, that I call?
Ped. Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,
Signior Baptista may remember me,
Near twenty years ago, in Genoa,
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.
_Tra. ’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,
With such austerity as ‘longeth to a father.

Enter BIONDELLO.

Ped. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;
*T were good he were school'd.

Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, 10
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you:
Imagine ’t were the right Vincentio.

Bion. Tut! fear not me.

Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

Bion. I told him, that your father was at Venice,
And that you look’d for him this day in Padua.

Tra, Thou’rt a tall fellow: hold thee that to drink,
Here comes Baptista.—Set your countenance, sir.—

Enter BAPTisTa and LUCENTIO,
Signior Baptista, you are happily met.—

 

Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of. 20
I pray you, stand good father to me now,
Give me Bianca for my patrimony.
Ped. Soft, son !—
Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua
To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio
Made me acquainted with a weighty cause
Of love between jour daughter and himself:
And, for the good report I hear of you,
And for the love he beareth to your daughter,
And she to him,—to stay him not too long, 30
I am content, in a good father’s care,
To have him match’d; and, if you please to like
No worse than I, upon some agreement,
Me shall you find ready and willing
With one consent to have her so bestow’d
For curious I cannot be with you,
Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.

Bap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say:

Your plainness, and your shortness please me well.
Right true is it, your son Lucentio here

Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him,

Or both dissemble deeply their affections;

And, therefore, if you say no more than this,

That like a father you will deal with him,

And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,

The match is made, and all is done:

Your son shall have my daughter with consent.

Tra. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know

est,
We be affied, and such assurance ta’en,
As shall with either part's agreement stand ? 50

Bap. Not in my house, Lucentio ; for, you know,
Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants.
Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,

And, happily, we might be interrupted.
Tra. Then at my lodging, an it like you:
There doth my father le, and there this night
We'll pass the business privately and well.
Send for your daughter by your servant here;
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.
The worst is this,—that, at so slender warning, 60
You’re like to have a thin and slender pittance.

Hap. It likes me well :—Cambio, hie you home,
And bid Bianca make her ready straight ;

And, if you will, tell what hath happened:
Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua,
And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife.

Luc. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart!

Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.—
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way ?

Welcome: one mess is like to be your cheer. 70
Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

Bap. I follow you.

[Exeunt TRANIO, Pedant, and BAPTISTA.

Bion. Cambio !—

Luc. What say’st thou, Biondello?

a on. You saw my master wink and laugh upon
you

Luc. Biondello, what of that?

Bion, ’Faith, nothing; but he has left me here
behind, to expound the meaning or moral of his signs
and tokens. 80

Luc. I pray thee, moralise them. ,

Bion. Thenthus. Baptista is safe, talking with the
deceiving father of a deceitful son.

Luc. And what of him?

Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to the
aupper,

auc, And then?— 3

Bion. The old priest at Saint Luke’s Church is at
your command at all hours.

Luc, And what of all this? 90

Bion. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a
counterfeit assurance: take you assurance of her, cum
privilegio ad imprimendum solum. To the church!
—take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest
witnesses,
If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say,
But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.

Luc. Hear’st thou, Biondello?

Bion. I cannot tarry ; I knew a wench married inan

,

 

 
 

 

Scene V.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

255

 

afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff

arabbit; and so may you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My

master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s, to bid

the priest be ready to come against you come with

your appendix. ath Exit.
Luc. I may, and will, if she be so contented:

She will be pleas’d, then wherefore should I doubt ?

Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her:

It shall go hard, if Cambio go without her. [ Exit.

 

ScENE V.—A Public Road.

Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and HORTENSIO.

Pet. Come on, 0’ God’s name: once more toward
our father’s.

Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon!
Kath. The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.
Pet. I say, it is the moon that shines so bright.
Kath. I know, it is the sun that shines so bright.
Pet. Now, by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,

It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,

Or ere I journey to your father’s house.—

Go one, and fetch our horses back again.—

Evermore cross’d, and cross’d ; nothing but cross’d!10
Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go.

Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,

And be it moon, or sun, or what you please.

An if you please to call it a rush-candle,

Henceforth, I vow, it shall be so for me.

Pet. I say, it is the moon.
Kath. I know, it is the moon.
Pet. Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun.

Kath. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun:

But sun it is not, when you say it is not,

And the moon changes, even as your mind. 20

What you will have it nam’d, even that it is;

And so it shal] be so for Katharine.

Hor. Petruchio, go thy ways: the field is won.
Pet. Well, forward, forward! thus the bow] should
run,

And not unluckily against the bias.—

But soft; what company is coming here?

Enter VINCENTIO, tn a travelling dress.

[To VINcENTIO.] Good morrow, gentle mistress:
where away ?—
Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks! 30
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,
As those two eyes become that heavenly face ?—
Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.—
Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake.
on ’A will make the man mad, to make a woman
of him.
Kath. Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and
sweet,
Whither away, or where is thy abode?
Happy the parents of so fair a child ;
Happier the man, whom favourable stars 40
Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow !
Pet. Wie, how now, Kate? I hope thou art not
mad:

This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,
And not a maiden, as thou say’st he is.
Kath, Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,
That have been so bedazzled with the sun,
That everything I look on seemeth green.
Now I perceive thou art a reverend father;
Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking.
Pet. Do, good old grandsire; and, withal, ma
5

: known
Which way thou travellest: if along with us,
We shall be joyful of thy company.

 

Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,
That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me,
My name is call'd Vincentio; my dwelling—Pisa ;
And bound I am to Padua, there to visit
A son of mine, which long I have not seen.

Pet. What is his name ?

“in. Lucentio, gentle sir.

Pet. Happily met; the happier for thy son.
And now law, as well as reverend age, 60
I may entitle thee—my loving father :
The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,
Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,

 

Kath. “ Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet.”

Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem,
Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth
Beside, so qualified as may beseem
The spouse of any noble gentleman.
Let me embrace with old Vincentio ;
And wander we to see thy honest son,
Who will of iy arrival be full joyous.
Vin. But is this true? or is it else your pleasure,
Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest
Upon the company you overtake ?
Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is.
Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof ;
For our first merriment hath made thee jealous.
[Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and
VINCENTIO.
Hor. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart.
Have to my widow ; and if she be froward,
Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be biel .
hacit.

 

 
 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—Padua. Before LUCENTIO’s House.
Enter on one side BIONDELLO, LUCENTIO, and BIANCA; GREMIO walking on the other side.

    

Sali Seo Biondello.
OFTLY and swiftly, sir, for the priest is

Luc. I fly, Biondello; but they may chance
to need thee at home: therefore leave us.

Bion. Nay, ‘faith, I] see the church 0’

your back; and then come back to my

master as soon as I can.

[Exeunt LUCENTIO, BIANCA, and
BIONDELLO. :

4 Gre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this

while.

Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, VINCENTIO, and
Attendants.

Pet. Sir, here’s the door, this is Lucentio’s house :
My father's bears more toward the market-place ; 11
Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

Vin. You shall not choose but drink before you go.
I think, I shall command your welcome here, __

And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward. [Knocks.

Gre. They ‘re busy within; you were best knock
louder. ;

Enter Pedant above, at a window.

Ped. What’s he, that knocks as he would beat down
the gate? heen ie

Vin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir? _, 20

Ped. He's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.

Tin. What, if a man bring him a hundred pound or
two, to make merry withal?

Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he
shall need none, so long as I live. .

Pet. Nay, I told you, your son was well beloved in
Padua.—Do you hear, sir?—to leave frivolous circum-
stances,—I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio, that his
father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to
speak with him. : 30

Ped. Thou liest: his father is come from Pisa, and
here looking out at the window.

Vin. Art thot his father ?

Ped. Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe

her.

Pet. [To VINCENTIO.] Why, how now, gentleman!
Why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another
man’s name.

Ped. Lay hands on the villain. I believe, ’a means
to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.

Re-enter BIONDELLO.

Bion. T have seen them in the church together:
God send ’em good shipping !—But who is here? mine
old master, Vincentio! now we are undone, and
brought to nothing.

Vin. [Sceingy BIONDELLO.]
hemp.

Bion. I hope I may choose, sir.

Vin. Come hither, you rogue.
forgot me ?

Come hither, crack-

What, have you

Bion. Forgot you? no, sir: I could not forget you,

i,
for I never saw you before in all my life. 51
Vin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou never
see thy master’s father, Vincentio?
Bion. What, my old, worshipful old master? yes,
marry, sir; see where he looks out of the window.

 

Vin. Is’t so, indeed? {Beats BIONDELLO.
Bion. Help, help, help! here’s a madman _ will
murder me. (Exit.
Ped. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista ! 59
[Exit from the window.

Pct. Pr’ythee, Kate, let’s stand aside, and see the
end of this controversy. [They retire.

Re-enter Pedant below ; BAPTISTA, TRANIO, and
Servants.

ati Sir, what are you, that offer to beat my ser-
vant

Vin. What am I, sir? nay, what are you, sir?—O
immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet! a
velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat !—O,
I am undone! I am undone! while I play the good
husband at home, my son and my servant spend all .
at the university.

Tra. How now? what’s the matter? 70

Bap. What, is the man lunatic?

Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by
your habit, but your words show you a madman.
Why, sir, what ‘cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold?
I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it.

Vin. Thy father? O villain! he is a sail-maker in
Bergamo.

Bap. You mistake, sir: you mistake, sir.
what do you think is his name?

Vin. His name? as if I knew not his name: I have
brought him up ever since he was three years old, and
his name is Tranio. 82

Ped. Away, away, mad ass! his name is Lucentio;
and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me,
Signior Vincentio.

“in. Lucentio! O! he hath murdered his master.—
Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke’s name.--
O, my son, my son!—Tell me, thou villain, where is
my son Lucentio?

Tra. Call forth an officer. 90

Enter one with an Officer.

Carry this mad knave to the gaol.—Father Baptista, I
charge you see that he be forthcoming.

Vin. Carry me to the gaol!

Gre. Stay, officer : he shall not go to prison.

Bap. Talk not, Signior Gremio. I say, he shall go
to ee

re. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-

catched in this business. I dare swear this is the
right Vincentio,

Ped. Swear, if thou darest. 100

Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it.

Tra. Then thou wert best say, that I am not
Lucentio.

Gre. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. _.

Bap. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him!

Vin. Thus strangers may be haled and abus’d.—
O monstrous villain!

Re enter BIONDELLO, with LUCENTIO and BIANCA.
Bion. O, we are spoiled! and yonder he is: deny
him, forswear him, or else we are all undone.
Luc. Pardon, sweet father. [Kneeling.
Vin. sweet son? 110
edant run out.

Pray,

Lives m
[BIONDELLO, TRANIO, and

 
 

 

ScENE IL]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

257

 

Bian. Pardon, dear father. (Kneeling.
Bap. : How hast thou offended ?
Where is Lucentio?
Lue. Here’s Lucentio,
Right son to the right Vincentio ;
That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,
While counterfeit supposes blear'd thine eyne.
Gre. Here’s packing with a witness, to deceive us
all!
Vin. Where is that damned villain, Tranio,
That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so?
Bap. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?
Bion. Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio,
Luc. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love
Made me exchange my state with Tranio,
While he did bear my countenance in the town ;
And happily I have arrived at the last
Unto the wished haven of my bliss.
What Tranio did, myself enfore’d him to;
Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake.
Vin. I'll slit the villain’s nose, that would have sent
me to the gaol. : 130
Bap. [To LuUcENTIO.] But do you hear, sir? Have
you married my daughter without asking my good
will?
Vin. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you: go
to; but I will in, to be revenged for this villainy. [Exié.
Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this kneivery. m
rit.
Luc, Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not
Town. [Exeunt LUCENTIO and BIANCA.
_. Gre. My cake is dough ; but I'll in among the rest,
Out of hope of all, but my share of the feast. ([Hzit.

PETRUCHIO and KAaTHARINA advance.
Kath. Husband, let’s follow, to see the end of Le

120

ado.

Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

Kath. What, in the midst of the street?

Pet. What! art thou ashamed of me?

Kath. No, sir, God forbid ; but ashamed to kiss.

Pet. Why, then let’s home again.—Come, sirrah,
let's away. .

Kath. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee,
love, stay.

Pet. Is not this well?—Come, my sweet Katey ,

Better once than never, for never too late. [Hxeunt.

ScENE IJ.—A Room in LUCENTIO’s House.

A Banquet set out. Enter BAPTISTA, VINCENTIO,
Gremio, the Pedant, LUCENTIO, BIANCA, PE-
TRUCHIO, KATHARINA, HORTENSIO, and Widow ;
TRANIO, BIONDELLO, GRUMIO, and others, attend-
ing.

Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:

And time it is, when raging war is done,

To smile at scapes and perils overblown.—

wy fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,
hile I with selfsame kindness welcome thine.—

Brother Petruchio,—sister Katharina,—

And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,

Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:

real banquet is to close our stomachs up,

After our great good cheer. Pray you, sitdown; 10

For now we sit to chat, as well as eat.

[They sit at table.
Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat!
Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio.
Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind.
Hor. Hor both our sakes I would that word were

rue.
Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow.
Wid. Then never trust me, if I be afeard.
Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my
sense:

Imean, Hortensio is afeard of you.

Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
ae ouedls replied.

at. Mistress, how mean you that?

 

Wid, Thus I conceive by him. 22
Pet. Conceives by me !—How likes Hortensio that ?
Hor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale.

Pet. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good

widow.
Kath. He that is giddy thinks the world turns
round :—
I pray you, tell me what you meant by that.
Wid. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,
Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe:

And now you know my meaning. 30
Kath, A very mean meaning.
Wid. Right, I mean you.

Kath. And Iam mean, indeed, respecting you.

Pet. To her, Kate!

Hor. To her, widow!

Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down,

Hor. That’s my office.

Pet. Spoke like an officer.—Ha’ to-thee, lad.

[Drinks to HoRTENSIO.

Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks?

Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well.

Bian. Head and butt? an hasty-witted body 40
Would say, your head and butt were head and horn.

Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you?

Bian. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore, I'll sleep

again.
Pet. Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun,
Have at you for a bitter jest or two.
Bian. Am TI your bird? I mean to shift my bush,
And then pursue me as you draw your bow.—
You are welcome all.
[Exeunt BIANCA, KATHARINA, and Widow,
Pet. She hath prevented me.—Here, Signior Tranio;
This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not: 50
Therefore, a health to all that shot and miss’d.
Tra. O sir! Lucentio slipp’d me, like his greyhound,
Whieh runs himself, and catches for his master.
Pet. A good swift simile, but something currish.
Tra. ’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:
*T is thought, your deer does hold you at a bay.
Bap. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now.
Luc. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio.
Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here?
Pet. ’A has a little gall’d me, I confess ;
And, as the jest did glance away from me,
’T is ten to one it maim’d you two outright.
Bap. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,
I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all.
Pet. Well, I say no: and therefore, for assurance,
Let’s each one send unto his wife ;
And he, whose wife is most obedient
To come at first when he doth send for her,
Shall win the wager which we will propose.
Hor. Content. What is the wager?
Lue. Twenty crowns.
Pet. Twenty crowns! 71
I’) venture so much of my hawk, or hound,
But twenty times so much upon my wife.
Luc. A hundred then.

Hor.
Pet. A match! ’tis done.
Hor. Who shall begin?

That will I.

Lue.

Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me.
Bion. Igo. |. : (Exit.
Bap. Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes.

Luce. I'll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself.

Re-enter BIONDELLO.
How now! what news?
Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word,
That she is busy, and she cannot come, 81
Pet. How! she is busy, and she cannot come!
Is that an answer?

Content.

Gre. Ay, and a kind one too:
Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse.
Pet. Lhope, better.
Hfor. Sirrah Biondello, go, and entreat my wife
To come to me forthwith. [Exit BIONDELLO.
Pet. O ho! entreat her!
Nay, then she must needs come. :

 
258

Hor. i Iam afraid, sir,
Do what you can, yours will not be entreated.

Re-enter BIONDELLO,
Now, where’s my wife? 90

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

[Act V.

Hor. She will not.
Pet. The fouler fortune mine, a

Enter KaTHARINA.
Bap. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina!

nd there an end.

Kath. “In token of which duty, if he please, my hand Is ready.”

Bion. She says, you have some goodly jest in hand;
She will not come: she bids you come to her.
Pet. Worse and worse: she will not come? O vile,
Intolerable, not to be endur’d!
Sirrah Grumio, goto your mistress; say,
I command her come to me. (Exit GRUMIO.
Hor. I know her answer.
Pet. What?

 

Kath, What is your will, sir, that you send for me?
Pet. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife? 102
Kath. They sit conferring by the parlour fire.

Pet. Go, fetch them hither: if they deny to come,
Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands.
Away, I say, and bring them hither straight.

Exit KATHARINA.

Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder.

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

 

Hor. And so itis. I wonder what it bodes.

Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,
An awful rule, and right supremacy ; 110
And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy?

Bap. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio!

The wager thou hast won; and I will add
Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns;
Another dowry to another daughter,
For she is chang’d, as she had never been.
Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet,
And show more sign of her obedience,
Her new-built virtue and obedience.
See, where she comes, and brings your froward wive:
As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. — 121

Re-enter KATHARINA, with BIANCA and Widow.

Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not:

Off with that bauble, throw it under foot.
(KAaTHARINA pulls off her cap, and throws it down.
Wid. Lord! let me never have a cause to sigh,

Till I be brought to such a silly pass !

Bian. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this?
Luc. I would, your duty were as foolish too:

The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,

Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper-time.
Bian. The more fool you for laying on my duty. 130
Pet, Katharine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong

women,

What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.
Wid. Come, come, you’re mocking: we will have

no telling.
Pet. Come on, I say; and first begin with her.
Wid. She shall not.
Pet. I say, she shall :—and first begin with her.
Kath. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind

brow,
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,
To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:
It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads, 140
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds,
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.
A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty ;
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will oe to sip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee,

 

And for thy maintenance ; commits his body

To painful labour, both by sea and land, 150

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe ;

And craves no other tribute at thy hands,

But love, fair looks, and true obedience,

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

And when she’s froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

And not obedient to his honest will,

What is she but a foul contending rebel, 169

And graceless traitor to her loving lord ?—

Iam asham’d, that women are so simple

To offer war, where they should icneel for peace;

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,

Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,

Should well agree with our external parts?

Come, come, you froward and unable worms,

My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

My heart as great, my reason, haply, more

To bandy word for word, and frown for frown;

But now I see, our hinces are but straws,

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,—

That seeming to be most, which we indeed least are.

Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

And place your hands below your husband’s foot :

In token ot which duty, if he please,

My hand is ready; may it do him ease. 180
Pet. Why, there’s a wench !—Come on, and kiss me,

ate.
Luc. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t.
Vin. ’Tis a good hearing, when children are toward.
Luc. Buta harsh hearing, when women are froward.
Pet. Come, Kate, we’ll to bed.—

We three are married, but you two are sped.

’T was I won the wager, though you hit the white ;

And being a winner, God give you good night.

[FHzeunt PeTRUCHIO and KATHARINA.

Hor. Now go thy ways, thou hast tam’d a curst

170

shrew.
Luc. ’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd
so. 190
[Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

KING RICHARD III.

| DRAMATIS PERSONA.

KING eran ae Wont
EDWARD, Prince of Wales, e
RicHaRp, Duke of York, | s50n8 to the King.
GeEorRGE, Duke of Clarence, )
RICHARD, Duke of Gloster, 5
A young Son of Clarence.
Henry, Earl of Richmond.
CARDINAL BOURCHIER, Archbishop of Canterbury.
THOMAS ROTHERHAM, Archbishop of York. °

JOHN Morton, Bishop of Ely.

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

DUKE OF NORFOLK.

EARL OF SURREY, his Son.

EARL Rivers, Brother to King Edward's Queen.
Marquess OF DorsET, and LORD GREY, her Sons.
EARL OF OXFORD.

Lorp HastTINGs.

LoRD STANLEY.

Lorp LOvVEL.

Sir THOMAS VAUGHAN. |

SCEN.

Brothers to the King.

   

Gloster.
OW is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of

nouse

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious

wreaths ;

Our bruised arms hung up for monu-

ments ;

Our stern alarums chang’d to merry

meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful

measures.

Grim-visag’d war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front ;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds, 10
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
~But I, that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty,
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph ;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature,
Deform’d, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

20

 

And that so Jamely and unfashionable,
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ;—

 

Sir RICHARD RATCLIFF.

Sirk WILLIAM CATESBY.

Sir JAMES TYRREL.

Sir JAMES BLOUNT.

Sir WALTER HERBERT.

Sir ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the

Tower.
CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a Priest. Another Priest.
Sheriff of Wiltshire.

Lord Mayor of London.

ELIZABETH, Queen of King Edward 1V.

MARGARET, Widow of King Henry VI.

DUcHEss oF YorK, Mother to King Edward IV.,
Clarence, and Gloster.

LaDy ANNE, Widow of Edward Prince of Wales.

young Daughter of Clarence.

Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a
Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers,
Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c.

—ENGLAND.

ACT I.
ScENE I.—London.
inter GLOSTER.

A Street.

Why I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to see my shadow in the sun,

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain,

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one against the other:

And if King Edward be as true and just,

AsTam subtle, false, and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,

About a prophecy, which says—that G

Ot Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. 40

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here Clarence
comes.

Entcr CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY.

Brother, good day. What means this armed guard,
That waits upon.your grace?

Clar. His majesty,
Tendering my person’s safety, hath appointed
This conduct to convey me to the Tower.

Glo. Upon what cause ?

Clar. Because my name is George.

Glo. Alack! my lord, that fault is none of yours;
He should, for that, commit your godfathers.

 

 
 

 

ScENE II]

KING RICHARD IIT. 261

 

O! belike, his majesty hath some intent,
That you should be new-christen’d in the Tower. 50
But what’s the matter, Clarence? may I know ?
Clar. Yea, Richard, when I know ; but I protest,
As yet I do not: but, as I can learn,
He hearkens after prophecies and dreams;
And from the cross-row plucks the letter G,
‘And says, a wizard told him, that by G
His issue disinherited should be;
‘And, for my name of George begins with G,
It follows in his thought that I am he.
These, as I learn, and such like toys as these, 60
Have mov’d his highness to commit me now.
Glo, Why, this it is, when men are rul’d by women !
Tis not the ne that sends you to the Tower:
My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, ’tis she
That tempers him to this extremity.
Was it not she, and that good man of worship,
Antony Woodville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower,
From whence this present day he is deliver’d ?
We are not safe, Clarence ; we are not safe. 70
Clar. By Heaven, I think, there is no man secure
But the queen’s kindred, and night-walking heralds
That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore.
Heard you not, what an humble suppliant
Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery?
Glo. Humbly complaining to her deity
Got my lord chamberlain his liberty.
I'll tell you what ; I think, it is our way,
If we will keep in favour with the king,
To be her men, and wear her livery : 80
The jealous o’erworn widow, and herself,
Since that our brother dubb’d them gentlewomen,
Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.
Brak. I beseech your graces both to pardon me:
His majesty hath straitly given in charge,
That no man shall have private conference,
Of what degree soever, with his brother.
Glo. gt so; an’t please your worship, Braken-
ary,
You may partake of anything we say.
We speak no treason, man; we say, the king 90
Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen
Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous :—
We say that Shore’s wife hatha pretty foot,
A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue ;
And that the queen’s kindred are made gentlefolks.
How say you, sir? can you deny all this?
Brak. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do.
Glo. Neuebe to do with Mistress Shore? I tell thee,
fellow,
He that doth naught with her, excepting one,
Were best to do it secretly, alone. 100
Brak. What one, my lord?
Glo. Her husband, knave. Wouldst thou betray me?
Brak. I beseech your-grace to pardon me; and
withal,
Forbear your conference with the noble duke.
Clar. i know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will
obey.
Glo. We are the queen’s abjects, and must obey.—
Brother, farewell : I will unto the king ;
And whatsoe’er you will employ me in,
Were it to call King Edward’s widow sister,
I will perform it to enfranchise you.
Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood
Touches me deeper than you can imagine.
Clar. I know, it pleaseth neither of us well.
Glo. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long ;
I will deliver you, or else lie for you:
Meantime, have patience.
Clar. I must perforce : farewell.
(Ezeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and Guard.
Glo. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne’er return,
Simple, plain Clarence !—I do love thee so,
That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If Heaven will take the present at our hands. |
But who comes here? the new-deliver’d Hastings ?

Enter HASTINGS.
Hast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord.

110

120

 

Glo. As much unto my good lord chamberlain.
Well are you welcome to this open air.

How hath your lordship brook’d imprisonment ?

Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must ;
But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks,

That were the cause of my imprisonment.

Glo. No doubt, no doubt, and so shall Clarence too;
For they that were your enemies are his, 130
And have prevail’d as much on him as z

Hast. More pity that the eagle should be mew’d,
While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

Glo. What news abroad ?

Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at home :—
The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy,

And his physicians fear him mightily.

Glo. Now, by Saint Paul, that news is bad indeed.
O! he hath kept an evil diet long,

And overmuch consum’d his royal person: 140
’Y is very grievous to be thought upon.
What, is he in his bed?

Hast. He is.

Glo. Go you before, and J will follow you.

[Exit HasTINGs.
He cannot live, I homes and must not die,
Till George be pack’d with posthorse up to heaven.
I’ll in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence,
With lies well steel’d with weighty arguments;
And, if I fail not in my deep intent,
Clarence hath not another day to live :
Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy,
And leave the world for me to bustle in :
For then I’l] marry Warwick’s youngest daughter:
What though I kill’d her husband, and her father ?
The readiest way to make the wench amends,
Is to become her husband and her father :
The which will 1; not all so much for love
As for another secret close intent,
By marrying her which I must reach unto.
But yet 1 run before my horse to market: 160
Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns;
When they are gone, then must I count my gains.

[Eavit.

ScENE II.—The Same. Another Street.

Enter the corse of King HENRY the Sixth, borne in
an open coffin, Gentlemen bearing halberds, to
guard it; and Lady ANNE as mourner.

Anne. Set down, set down your honourable load—
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse—
Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament
The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.—
Poor key-cold figure of a holy king !
Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster!
Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood!
Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost,
To hear the lamentations of poor Anne,
Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter’d son, 10
Stabb’d by the selfsame hand that made these wounds!
Lo, in these windows, that let forth thy life,
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes :—
O, cursed be the hand that made these holes!
Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it!
Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence!
More direful hap betide that hated wretch,
That makes us wretched by the death of thee,
Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads,
Or any creeping venom’d thing that lives! 20
If ever he have child, abortive be it,
Prodigious, and untimely brought to light,
Whose ugly and unnatural aspect
May fright the hopeful mother at the view ;
And that be heir to his poh eee !
If ever he have wife, let her be made
More miserable by the death of him,
Than I am made by my young lord, and thee !—
Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load,
Taken from Paul’s to be interred there ;
And still, as you are weary of this weight,
Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry’s corse.
(The Bearers take up the corse and advance.

+

 
 

 

262 KING RICHARD IIT.

Enter GLOSTER.

Glo, Stay you, that bear the corse, and set it down.
alnne. What black magician conjures up this fiend,
To stop devoted charitable deeds?
Glo. Villains! set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul,
I'll make a corse of him that disobeys.
1 Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.
Glo. Unmanner'd dog! stand thou when I command:
Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
Or, by Saint Paul, I’ll strike thee to my foot,
And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness.
[The Bearers set down the coffin.
Anne. What! do you tremble? are you all afraid ?
Alas! I blame you not; for you are mortal,
And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.—
Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body,
His soul thou canst not have: therefore, be gone.
Glo. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
anne. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble
us not; 50
For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell,
Fill’d it with cursing cries, and deep exclaims.
If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds,
Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.—
O, gentlemen! see, see! dead Henry’s wounds
Open their congeal’d mouths and bleed afresh !—
Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity,
For ‘tis thy presence that exhales this blood
From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells:
Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, 60
Provokes this deluge most unnatural.—
O God, which this blood mad’st, revenge his death !
O earth, which this blood drink’st, revenge his death!
Wither, neon with lightning strike the murderer
ead,
Or, earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick,
As thou dost swajlow up this good king’s blood,
Which his hell-govern’d arm hath butchered !
Glo. Lady, you know no rules of charity,
Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
Anne. Villain, thou know’st no law of God nor
man: 70
No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.
Glo. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
alnne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth!
Glo, More wonderful, when angels are so angry.—
Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed evils, to give me leave,
By circumstance, but to au myself.
inne. Vouchsafe, ditfus’d infection of a man,
For these known evils but to give me leave,
By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self. 80
Glo. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have
Some patient leisure to excuse myself.
Anne. Fou than heart can think thee, thou canst
make
No excuse current, but to hang thyself.
Glo. By such despair, I should accuse myself.
Anne. And by despairing shalt thou stand excus’d ;
For doing worthy vengeance on thyself,
That didst unworthy slaughter upon others.
Glo. Say, that I slew them not.
Anne. Then say they were not slain :
But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. 90
Glo. I did not kill your husband.
Anne. ; Why, then he is alive.
Glo. Nay, he is dead; and slain by Edward's hand.
Anne. In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret

saw
Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood;
The which thou once didst bend against her breast,
But that thy brothers beat aside the point.
Glo. I was provoked by her sland’rous tongue,
That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders.
inne. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind,
That never dreamt on aught but butcheries.
Didst thou not kill this king ?
Glo. I grant ye.
Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog? then, God grant
me too,

 

[Act I. |

Thou may’st be damned for that wicked deed!
O! he was gentle, mild, and virtuous.
Glo, The better for the King of heaven that hath

him.
Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never

come.
Glo. Let him thank me, that holp to send him
thither ;
For he was fitter for that place than earth.
Anne._And thou unfit for any place but hell.
Glo. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.
Anne. Some dungeon.
lo. Your bed-chamber. i
Anne. Tl rest betide the chamber where thou liest !
Glo. So will it, madam, till I lie with you.
Anne. I hope so.
Glo. ; I know so.—But, gentle Lady Anne,—
To leave this keen encounter of our wits,
And fall somewhat into a slower method,
Is not the causer of the timeless deaths
Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward,
As blameful as the executioner ?
Anne. Thou wast the cause, and most accurs’d
120

effect.
Glo. Your beauty was the cause of that effect ;
Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep,
To undertake the death of all the world,
So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom.
Anne. If I phonet that, I tell thee, homicide,
These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks,
Glo. These eves could not endure that beauty’s
wrack ;
You should not blemish it, if I stood by :
As all the world is cheered by the sun,
So I by that; it is my day, my life. 130
Anne. jee night o’ershade thy day, and death thy
ife !
Glo. Curse not thyself, fair creature ; thou art both.
Anne, I would I were, to be reveng’d on thee.
Glo. It is a quarrel most unnatural,
To be reveng’d on him that loveth thee.
Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable,
To be reveng’d on him that kill’d my husband.
Glo. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband,
Did it to help thee to a better husband.
Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth.
Glo. He lives that loves you better than he could.
Anne, Name him.
Glo. Plantagenet.
Anne. Why, that was he.
Glo. The selfsame name, but one of better nature.
Anne. Where is he?
Glo. Here. [She spitteth at him.]
Why dost thou spit at me?
Anne. ’Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake!
Gio. Never came poison from so sweet a place,
Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad.
Out of my sight ! thou dost infect mine eyes. _
Glo. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine.
Anne. ’Would they were basilisks, to strike thee
dead ! 150
Glo. I would they were, that I might die at once ;
For now they kill me with a living death.
Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears,
Sham ’d their aspects with store of childish drops:
These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear ;
No, when my father York and Edward wept
To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made, |
When black-fac’d Clifford shook his sword at him ;
Nor when thy warlike father, like a child,
Told the sad story of my father’s death, 160
And twenty times made pause to sob and weep,
That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks,
Like trees bedash‘d with rain : in that sad time
My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear ;
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, |
Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping.
T never sued to friend, nor enemy ;
My. tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word ;
But now thy beauty is propos’d my fee,
My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak.
[She looks scornfully at him.

 

 
 

Scene IL] KING

Teach not thy lip such scorn ; for it was made
For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive,

Lo! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword ;
Which if thou please to hide in this true breast,

RICHARD III. 263

171 | But’t was thy heavenly face that set me on.

[She lets fall the sword.

Take up the sword again, or take up me. ;
Anne. Arise, dissembler : though I wish thy death,

I will not be thy executioner.

 

And let the soul forth that adoreth thee,
I hy it naked to the deadly stroke,
And humbly beg the death upon my knee. pias
[He lays his breast open: she offers at it with
his sword.
Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry ;—
But ’t was thy beauty that provoked me. 180
Nay, now despatch; ’twas I that stabb’d young
Edward ;—

 

 

Glu. ‘‘ And humbly beg the death upon my knee.”

Glo. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it.
Anne. I have already.
Glo. That was in thy rage:
Speak it again, and even with the word,
This hand, which, for thy love, did kill thy love,
Shall, for thy love, kill a far truer love:
To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary.
Anne. I would, I knew thy heart.
Glo. ’Tis figur'd in my tongue.

 
264

KING RICHARD II.

{Act 1,

 

 

Anne. I fear me, both are false.

Glo. Then never man was true.

Anne, Well, well, put up your sword.

Glo. Say, then, my peace is made.

Anne. That shalt thou know hereafter.

Glo. But shall I live in hope?

Anne. All men, I hope, live so.

Glo, Vouchsafe to wear this ve

Anne, To take is not to give. [She puts on the ring.

Glo. Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger,
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ;

Wear both of them, for both of them are thine,
And if thy poor devoted servant may

But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,

Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.

Anne, What is it?

Glo. That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him that hath more cause to be a mourner, 211
And presently repair to Crosby Place ;

Where, after I have solemnly interr’d,
At Chertsey monastery, this noble king,
And wet his grave with my repentant tears,
I will with all expedient duty see you:
For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you,
. Grant me this boon.

Anne. With all my heart ; and much it joys me too,
To see you are become so penitent. — 220
Tressel, and Berkley, fo along with me.

Glo. Bid me farewell.

Anne. ’T is more than you deserve;
But since you teach me how to flatter you,

Imagine I have said farewell already.
[Exeunt Lady ANNE, TRESSEL, and BERKLEY.

Glo. Sirs, take up the corse.

Gent. Towards Chertsey, noble lord?

Glo. No, to White Friars ; there attend my coming.

Fireunt the rest, with the corse.
Was ever woman in this humour woo'd?
Was ever woman in this humour won?
I 11 have her, but I will not keep her long.
What! I, that kill’d her husband, and his father,
To take her in her heart’s extremest hate ;
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of her hatred by ;
Having God, herconscience, and these bars against me,
And I no friends to back my suit withal,
But the plain devil, and dissembling looks,
ant yet to win her,—all the world to nothing!

al
Hath she forgot already that brave prince, 240
Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since,
Stabb’d in my angry mood at Tewksbury ?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, —

Fram’d in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,—
The spacious world cannot again afford. :

And will she yet abase her eyes on me,

That cropp’d the golden prime of this sweet prince,
And made her widow to a woful bed ?

On me, whose all not equals Edward’s moiety ? 250
On me, that halt, and am misshapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier,

1 do mistake my person all this while:
Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot,
Myself to be a marvellous proper man.

Ill be at charges for a looking-glass ;

And entertain a score or two oF waslors,

To study fashions to adorn my body:
Since I am crept in favour with myself,

I will maintain it with some Hittle cost.
But, first, I’ll turn yon fellow in his grave,
And then return lamenting to my love.—
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass.

200

230

260

Exit.

 

Screnk ITI.—The Same. A Room in the Palace.
Enter Queen ELIZABETH, Lord Rivers, and Lord
GREY. :
Riv. Have patience, madam: there’s no doubt, his
majesty
Will soon recover his accustom’d health.

 

Grey. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse :
Therefore, for God’s sake, entertain good comfort,
And cheer his grace with quick and merry words.

Q. Eliz. If he were dead, what would betide on

me
Grey. No other harm, but loss of such a lord.
ne The loss of such a lord includes all harms,

‘rey. The heavens have bless’d you with a goodly
son,

To be your comforter when he is gone. 10
Q. Eliz. Ab! he is young; and his minority

Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloster,

A man that loves not me, nor none of you.
Riv. Is it concluded, he shall be protector ?
Q. Eliz. It is determin’d, not concluded yet:

But so it must be, if the king miscarry.

Enter BUCKINGHAM and STANLEY.

Grey. TS Soule the Lords of Buckingham and
anley.
Buck. Good time of day unto your royal grace.
Stan. God make your majesty joyful as you have
een !
Q. flee ene Countess Richmond, good my Lord of
20

To your good prayer will scarcely say Amen.
Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she’s your wife,
And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur’d,
I hate not you for her proud arrogance.
Stan. I do beseech you, either not believe
The envious slanders of her false accusers ;
Or, if she be accus’d on true report,
Bear with her weakness, which, I think, proceeds
From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice.
Q. Eliz. Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of
Stanley? .
Stan. But now, the Duke of Buckingham and I
Are come from ee his majesty.
. Lliz. What likelihood of his amendment, lords?
uck, Madam, good hope: his grace speaks cheer-

fully ‘
Q. Eliz. God grant him health! Did you confer
with him? .

Buck. Ay, madam: he desires to make atonement
Between the Duke of Gloster and your brothers,
And between them and my lord chamberlain ;

And sent to warn them to his royal presence.
Q. ae ’Would all were well !—But that will awe

e.
I fear, our happiness is at the height.

Enter GLosSTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET.

Glo. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it.—
Who are they that complain unto the king,
That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not?
By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly
That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours.
Because I cannot flatter, and speak fair,
Smile in men’s faces, smooth, deceive, and cog,
Duck with French nods and apish courtesy,
I must be held a rancorous enemy. 50
Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm,
But thus his simple truth must be abus’d
With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks?

Grey. To oe in all this presence speaks your

Ce

Glo. To thee: that hast nor honesty nor grace.
‘When have I injur’d thee ? when done thee wrong ?—
Or thee ?—or thee? or any of your faction?
A plague upon you all! is royal person :
(Whom God preserve better than you would wish !)
Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing-while, |
But yeu must trouble him with lewd complaints.

Q. Eliz. Brother of Gloster, you mistake the matter.
The king, on‘his own royal disposition,
And not peeve @ by any suitor else,
Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred,
That in your outward action shows itself
Against my children, brothers, and myself,
Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather
The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it.

Glo. I cannot tell ;— the world is grown so bad, 70

 

 
 

 

Scene III.]

KING RICHARD III.

 

That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch:
Since every Jack became a gentleman,
There's many a gentle person made a Jack.
Q. Eliz. Come, come, we know your meaning,
brother Gloster :
You envy my advancement, and my friends’.
God grant, we never may have need of you!
Glo. Meantime, God grants that we have need of
you:
Our brother is imprison’d by your means,
Myself disgrac’d, and the nobility
Held in contempt: while great promotions
Are daily given, to ennoble those
That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble.
Q. Eliz. By Him that rais’d me to this careful

80

height
From that contented hap which I enjoy'd,
Inever did incense his majesty
Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been
An earnest advocate to plead for him.—
My lord, you do me shameful injury,
Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.

Glo. You may deny, that you were not the mean 90
Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.

Riv, She may, my lord ; for—

Glo. She may, Lord Rivers,—why, who knows not

so?
She may do more, sir, than denying that :
She may help you to many fair preferments,
«And then deny her aiding hand therein,
qua lay those honours on your high desert.
What may she not? She may,—ay, marry, may she,—

Riv. What, marry, may she?

Glo. What, marry, may she? marry with a king,

A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. 101
I wis, your ndam had a worser match.

Q. Eliz. My Lord of Gloster, I have too long borne
Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scotfs ;
BY Heaven, I will acquaint his majesty
Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur’d.
Thad rather be a country serving-maid,

Than a great queen, with this condition,
To be so baited, scorn’d, and stormed at:
Small joy have I in being England’s queen.

Enter Queen MARGARET, behind.
Q. Ma "eae lessen’d be that small, God, I beseech
im!

Thy honour, state, and seat. is due to me.

Glo. What! threat you me with telling of the king?
Tell him, and spare not : look, what I have said
I will avouch in presence of the king:

I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower.
‘Tis time to speak ; my pains are quite forgot.

Q. Mar, Out, devil! Ido remember them too well:
Thou kill’dst my husband Henry in the Tower, .
And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. 120

Glo. Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband

110

ng,
Twas a pack-horse in his great affairs ;
A weeder-out of his proud adversaries,
A liberal rewarder of his friends;
To royalise his blood, I spent mine own,
Q. Mar. Ay, and much better blood than his, or

ine.
Glo. In all which time, you, and your husband

; rey,
Were factious for the house of Lancaster :—
- And, Rivers, so were you.—Was not your husband

In Margaret's battle at Saint Albans slain? 130
Let me put in your minds, if you forget,
What you have been ere this, and what you are ;
Withal, what I have been, and what I am.

. Mar. A murd'rous villain, and so still thou art.

lo. Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick,
Ay, and forswore himself,—which Jesu pardon !

. Mar. Which God revenge!

lo. To fight on Edward's party, for the crown ;
And, for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd ab
I would to God. my heart were flint, like Edward's,
Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine : 141
Tam too childish-foolish for this world.

 

Q. Mar. HG thee to hell for shame, and leave this
world,
Thou cacodemon! there thy kingdom is.
Riv. My Lord of Gloster, in those busy days,
Which here you urge to prove us enemies,
We follow’d then our lord, our sovereign king ;
So should we you, if you should be our king.
Glo. If I should be !—I had rather be a pedlar.
Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof !
Q. Eliz. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose
You should enjoy, were you this country’s king,
As little joy you may suppose in ne
That I enjoy, being the queen thereof.
Q. Mar. <A little joy enjoys the queen thereof ;
For I am she, and altogether joyless.
I can no longer hold me patient.— (Advancing.
Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out
In sharing that which you have pill’d from me!
Which of you trembles not, that looks on me ?
If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects,
Yet that, by you depos'd, you quake like rebels }—
Ah! gentle villain, do not turn away.
Glo. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my
ight ?
Q. Mar. But repetition of what thou hast marr‘d ;
That will I make, before I let thee go.
Glo, Wert thou not banished on pain of death?
Q. Mar. Iwas; but I do find more pain in banish-
ment
Than death can yield me here by my abode.
A husband, and a son, thou ow’st to me,—
And thou, a kingdom ;—all of you, allegiance:
This sorrow that I have, by right is yours,
And all the pleasures you usurp are mine.
Glo. The curse my noble father laid on thee,
When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper,
And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes ;
And then, to dry them, gav’st the duke a clout,
Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland ;—
His curses, then from bitterness of soul
Denounc’d against thee, are all fallen upon thee;
And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed.
Q. Eliz. So just is God, to right the innocent.
Hast. O! ’t was the foulest deed to slay that babe,
And the most merciless, that eer was heard of.
Riv. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported.
Dor. No man but prophesied revenge for it.
Buck, Northumberland, then present, wept to see it.
Q. Mar. What! were you snarling all, before I
came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat,
And turn you all your hatred now on me? 190
Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with Heaven,
That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death,
Their kingdom's loss, my woful banishment,
Should all but answer for that peevish brat ?
Can curses pierce the clouds, and enter heaven ?—
Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick
curses !—
Though not by war, by surfeit die your king,
As ours by murder, to make him a king!
Edward, thy son, that now is Prince of Wales,
For Edward. my son, that was Prince of Wales,
Die in his youth by like untimely violence !
Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen,
Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self!
Long may'st thou live, to wail thy children’s loss,
And see another, as I see thee now,
Deck’d in thy rights, as thou art stall’d in mine!
Long die thy happy days before thy death ;
And, after many lengthen’d hours of grief,
Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen !
Rivers, and Dorset, you were standers-by,
And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, When my son
Was stabb’d with bloody daggers: God, I pray him,
That none of you may live his natural age,
But by some unlook’d accident cut off!
Glo. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither’d

hag.
Q. Mar. And leave out thee? stay, dog, for thou
shalt hear me.
If Heaven have any grievous plague in store,

150

160

170

180

200

210

265

 
 

 

 

266 KING

RICHARD III.

[Acr I

 

Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,

O! let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe,

And then hurl down their indignation

On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace !
The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul!
Thy friends suspect for traitors while. thou liv’st,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!
No sleep close up that deadly eye ot thine,
Unless it be while some tormenting dream
Attrights thee with a hell ot ugly devils!

Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog!
Thou that wast seal’d in thy nativity

The slave of nature, and the son of hell!

Thou slander of thy heavy mother’s womb!
Thou loathed issue of thy father’s loins!

Thou rag of honour! thou detested—

    

TAA
Ni

 
  
  

      
 
    
  

ai:

Glo. Margaret.

; Mar. Richard!

0.
2. Mar. I call thee not.
Ho. Lery thee mercy then; for I did think,

That thou hadst call’d me all these bitter names.
Mar. Why, so I did; but look’d for no reply.
O! let me make the period to my curse.
Glo. "Tis done by me, and ends in—Margaret.
Q. Eliz. Thus have you breath’d your curse against
yourself. 240
Q. Mar. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my
fortune!
Why strew’st thou sugar on that bottled spider,
Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about ?
Fool, fool! thou whett’st a knife to kill thyself.
The day will come that thou shalt wish for me
To help thee curse this pois’nous bunch-back’d toad.
Hast. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,
Lest to thy harm thou move our patience.
Q. Mar. Foul shame upon you! you have all mov’d

mine.

Riv. Were you well sery’d, you would be taught
your duty. at
Q. Mars, ig serve me well, you all should do me
uty,

Teach me to be your gueen and you my subjects.

O! serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty.
Dor. Dispute not with her, she is lunatic.
Q. Mar. Peace, master marquess ; you are malapert :

Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current.

O! that your young nobility could judge,

What. ’t were to lose it, and be miserable!

They that stand high have many blasts to shake them,

And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces.

TT

Q. Mar, “Thou rag of honour! chou detested"—

260 .

TIT
| li

sll

 

Glo. Good counsel, marry :—learn it, learn it, mar-

quess.

Dor. It touches you, my lord, as much as me.

Glo, Ay, and much more; but:-I was born so high,
Our aery buildeth in the cedar’s top,

And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun,

@. Mar. And turns the sun to shade,—alas! alas !—
Witness my son, now in the shade of death ;
Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath
Hath in eternal darkness folded up.

Your aery buildeth in our aery’s nest.—
O God! that seest it, do net suffer it:
As it was won with blood, lost be it so!

Buck. Peace, peace! for shame, if not for charity.

Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to me:
Uncharitably with me have you dealt,

And shametully my hopes by you
are butcher’d.
MIN | l 1 ll My charity is outrage, life my
| | | | | ! shame,
A ae | And in that shame still live my
een
i Hh
i
)

270

    

Ti

fill I
| il

     

  

sorrow’s rage !
Buck. Have done, have done.
Q. Mar. O princely Buckingham!
: I'll kiss thy hand, 280
In sign Of lesgue and amity with

 

  

ee:
Now fair befall thee and thy noble
ouse !

Thy garments are not spotted with
our blood,
Nor thou within the compass of my
curse.
Buck. Nor no one here; for curses
. never pass
The lips of those that breathe them

in the air.
Q. Mar. I will not think but they
ascend the sky,
And there awake God’s gentle-
sleeping peace. — -
O Buckingham! take heed of yon-

der dog:
Look, when he fawns, he bites;
and, when he bites, 290
His venom tooth will rankle to
the death:
Have not to do with him, beware of him;
Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks on him,
And all their ministers attend on him.
Glo. What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham?
Buck. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord.
Q. Mar. What! dost thou scorn me for my gentle
counsel,
And soothe the devil that I warn thee from?
O! but remember this another day,

When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, 300
And say, poor Margaret was a prophetess.—
Live each of you the subjects to his hate, .
And he to yours, and all of you to God's! (Exit.
Hast. y hair doth stand on end to hear her
curses.
Riv. And so doth mine. I muse, why she’s at
liberty.

Glo. I cannot blame her: by God’s holy mother,
She hath had too much penne and I repent
My part thereof, that I have done to her.
Q. Eliz. I never did her any, to my knowledge.
Glo. Yet you have all the Wantage of her wrong. 310
I was too hot to do somebody good,
That is too cold in thinking of it now.
Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid;
He is frank’d up to fatting for his pains ;—
God pardon them that are the cause thereof! ,
Riv. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion,
To pray for them that have done scath to us.
lo. So do I ever, [aside] being well advis’d;
For had I curs’d now, I had curs’d myself.

Enter CATESBY.

Cates. Madam, his majesty doth call for you;
And for your grace; and you, my noble lords.

320

 

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.)

KING RICHARD III.

267

 

Q. Eliz. CReShy, I come.—Lords, will you go with
me

Riv. We wait upon your grace.
Execunt all but GLOSTER.

Glo. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.
The secret mischiefs that I set abroach,
[lay unto the grievous charge of others.
Clarence, whom I, indeed, have cast in darkness,
Ido beweep to many simple gulls ;
Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham ;
And tell them, ’tis the queen and her allies
That stir the king against the duke my brother.
Now they believe it; and withal whet me
To be reveng’d on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey:
But then I sigh, and, with a piece of Scripture,
Tell them, that God bids us do good for evil:
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends stol’n forth of holy writ,
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

Enter two Murderers.

But soft ! here come my executioners.—
How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates ! 310
Are you now going to despatch this thing?
1 Murd. We are, my lord; and come to have the
warrant,
That we may be admitted where he is.
Glo. Well thought upon ; I have it here about me.
[Gives the warrant.
When you have done, repair to Crosby Place.
But, sirs, be sudden in the execution,
Withal obdurate : do not hear him plead,
For Clarence is well-spoken, and, perhaps,
May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him.
1 Murd. Tut, tut! my lord, we will not stand to
prate ; 350
Talkers are no good doers: be assur’d,
We go to use our hands, and not our tongues.
Glo. Your eyes drop millstones, when fools’ eyes
fall tears :
Ilike you, lads ;—about your business straight ;
Go, fo. despatch.
1 Murd.

330

We will, my noble lord. [Kzeunt.

ScENEIV.—London. A Room in the Tower.

Enter CLARENCE and BRAKENBURY.

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ?
Clar. 0! I have pass'd a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,

That, as Iam a Christian faithful man,

I would not spend another such a night,

Though’t were to buy a world of happy days;

So full of dismal terror was the time.
Brak, What was your dream, my lord? I pray you,

tell me.
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark’d to cross to Burgundy ; 10
And in my company my brother Gloster,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches: thence we look’d toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,

* During the wars of York and Lancaster

That had befall'’n us. As we pac’d along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
ethought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling,

. Struck me (that tho ge kt to stay him) overboard,

Into the tumbling billows of the main. 20
0 Lord! methought, what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks ;

A thousand men that fishes gnaw’d upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter’d in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men’s skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept

30
’twere in scorn of eyes) retiecting gems,

 

That woo’d the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter’d by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?
Clar. Methought I had, and often did I strive
To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood
Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air ;
But smother’d it within my panting bulk, 40
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awak’d you not in this sore agony?
Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen’d after life ;
O! then began the tempest to my soul !
I pass’d, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that sour ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick ;
Who spake aloud,—‘‘ What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?”
And so he vanish’d. Then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek’d out aloud,—
“Clarenceis come, —false, fleeting, perjur’d Clarence, —
That stabb’d me in the field by Tewksbury ;—
Seize on him, Furies! take him unto torment!”
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling wak’d, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell;
Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you ;
Tam afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. Ah, keeper, keeper! I have done these things,
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me !—}
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee,
But thou wilt be aveng’d on my misdeeds,
Yet execute thy wrath in me alone:
O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children !—
Keeper, I pr’ythee, sit by me awhile ;
ay soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
rak. I will, my lord: God give your grace good
rest.— [CLARENCE sleeps.
Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil ;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares:
So that, between their titles, and low name,
There’s nothing differs but the outward fame.

inter the two Murderers.

1 Murd. Ho! who’s here?
Brak. What wouldst thou, fellow? and how cam’st
thou hither?
1 Murad. I would speak with Clarence, and I came
hither on my legs.
Brak. What! so brief?
2 Murd. ’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. —
Let him see our commission, and talk no more. 90
i paper delivered to BRAKENBURY, who reads it.
rak. 1am, in this, commanded to deliver
The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands :—
I will not reason what is meant hereby,
Because I will be guiltless from the meaning.
There lies the duke asleep, and there the keys.
Ill to the king, and signity to him,
That thus I have resign’d to you my charge.
1 Murd. You may, sir; ‘tis a point of wisdom: fare
you well. [Eait BRAKENBURY.
2 Murd. What, shall we stab him as he sleeps? 100
1 Murd. No; he’ll say, ’t was done cowardly, when
he wakes.
2 Murd. Why, he shall never wake until the great
judgment-day.
1 Murd. Why, then he'll say, we stabb’d him
sleeping.
2 Murd. The urging of that word, judgment, hath
bred a kind of remorse in me.

50

60

80

 

 
 

268

KING RICHARD III.

{Act I,

 

 

1 Murd. What! art thou afraid?

2 Murd. Not to kill him, having a warrant ; but to
be danin’d for killing him, from the which no warrant
can defend me.

1 Murd. I thought, thou hadst been resolute.

2 Murd. So I am, to let him live.

1 Murd. Ill back to the Duke of Gloster, and tell

him so.

2 Murd. Nay, I pr’ythee, stay a little: I hope, this
passionate humour of mine will change ; it was wont
to hold me but while one tells twenty.

1 Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? 120

2 Murd. Some certain dregs of conscience are yet
within me.

a 1 Murd. Remember our reward, when the deed’s
one.

2 Murd. ’Zounds! he dies: I had forgot the reward.

1 Murd. Where’s thy conscience now?

2 Murd. O! in the Duke of Gloster’s purse.

1 Murd. When he opens his purse to give us our
reward, thy conscience flies out.

2 Murd. ’Tis no matter; let it go: there’s few a |

none will entertain it.

1 Murd. What, if it come to thee again?

2 Murd. I'll not meddle with it; it makes a mana
coward ; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a
man cannot swear, but it checks him ; a man cannot
lie with his neighbour’s wife, but it detects him: ’tis
a blushing shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a
man’s bosom ; it fills a man full of obstacles: it made
me once restore a purse of gold, that by chance I
found ; it beggars any man that keeps it: it is turned
out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and
every man, that means to live well, endeavours to
trust to himself, and live without it.

 

1 Murd. ’Zounds ! it is even now at my elbow, per- | i
{ O! know you yet, he doth it publicly ;

suading me not to kill the duke.
2 Murd. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe

him not: he would insinuate with thee, but to make |

thee sigh.
1 Murd. Iam strong-fram’d ; he cannot prevail wie
15

me.

2 Murd. Spoke like a tall man that respects his
reputation. Come, shall we fall to work?

1 Murd. Take him on the costard with the hilts of
thy sword, and then throw him into the malmsey-butt
in the next room

2 Murd. O excellent device! and make a sop of him.

1 Murd, Soft! he wakes.

2 Murd. Strike.

1 Murd. No; we'll reason with him.

Clar. [TVaking.] Where art thou, keeper? give me

a cup of wine. 160

1 Murd. You shall have wine enough, my lord,

anon.

Clar. In God's name, what art thou?

1 Murd. A man, as you are.

Clar. But not, as Lam, royal.

1 Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal.

Unto the frowning judge ? or who pronoune’d
The bitter sentence of poor Clarence’ death?
Before I be convict by course of law,
To threaten me with death is most unlawful.
I charge you, as you hope to have redemption
By Christ’s dear blood shed for our grievous sins,
That you depart, and lay no hands on me; 190
The deed you undertake is damnable.
1 Murd. What we will do, we do upon command.
2M me And he that hath commanded is our
ing.
Clar. Erroneous vassals! the great King of kings
Hath in the table of his law commanded,
That thou shalt do no murder: will you then
Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a man’s?
Take heed ; for he holds vengeance in his hand,
To hurl upon their heads that break his law.
2 Murd. And that same vengeance doth he hurl on
200

thee,
For false forswearing, and for murder too.
Thou didst receive the sacrament, to fight
In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. ess
1 Murd. And, like a traitor to the name of God,
Didst ea that vow, and with thy treacherous
ade
Unripp’dst the bowels of thy sovereign’s son.
2 Murd. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and
defend.
1 Murd. How canst thou urge God’s dreadful law to

us,
When thou hast broke it in such dear degree?

Clar. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed? 210
For Edward, for my brother, for his sake:
He sends you not to murder me for this;

3 | For in that sin he is as deep as I.

If God will be avenged for the deed,

Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm:
He needs no indirect or lawless course,
To cut off those that have offended him.

1 Murd. Who made thee then a bloody minister,
When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet, 220
That princely novice, was struck dead by thee?

Clar. My brother’s love, the devil, and my rage.

1 Murd. Thy brother’s love, our duty, and thy

faults,
Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee.

Clar. If you do love my brother, hate not me;

I am his brother, and I love him well.
If you are hir’d for meed, go back again,

, And I will send you to my brother Gloster;

Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are |

humble.

1 Murd. My voice is now the king's, my looks mine |

own.
Clar. How darkly, and how deadly dost thou
speak !
Your eyes do menace me: why look you pale ?
Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come?

Both Murd. To, to, to—

Clar. To murder me?

Both Murd. Ay, ay.

Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,
And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it.
Wherein, my friends, have I offended you?

1 Murd. Offended us you have not, but the king.

Clar. I shall be reconcil’d to him again.

2 Murd, Never, my lord; therefore prepare to

170

ie.
Clar. Are you drawn forth among wu world Py

men,

To slay the innocent? What is my offence ?
Where are the evidence that do accuse me?
What lawful quest have given their verdict up

Who shall reward you better for my life

Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 230
2 Murd. You are deceiv’d; your brother Gloster
hates you.

Clar. O! no; he loves me, and he holds me dear.
Go you to him from me.

Both Mura. Ay, 80 we will.

Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father York
Bless’d his three sons with his victorious arm,

And chord us from his soul to love each other,
He little thought of this divided friendship:
Bid Gloster think on this, and he will weep.

1 Murd. Ay, millstones; as he lesson’d us to weep.

Clar. O! do not slander him, for he is kind. 240

1 Murd. Right; as snow in harvest.—Come, you

deceive yourself ;
’T is he that sends us to destroy you here.

Clar. It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune,
And hugg’d me in his arms, and swore, with sobs,
That he would labour my delivery.

1 Murd. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you
From this earth’s thraldom to the joys of heaven. |.

2 Murad. ae peace with God, for you must die,

my lord.

Clar. Have you that holy feeling in your souls,
To counsel me to make my peace with God,
And are you yet to your own souls so blind,
That you will war with God by murdering me?
O! sirs, consider, they that set you on
To do this deed, will hate you for the deed.

2 Murd. What shall we do?

250

 

 
 

Scene IV.]

KING RICHARD III.

269

 

Relent, and save your souls.

Clar. x
1 Murd. Relent! no: ‘tis cowardly, and womanish.

&

aN

G \ i

; Hh
| NR
i
Neg

   

one x
1 Clar. ‘‘ My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks.”
|

Clar. Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish.—
| Which of you, if you were a prin ‘e’s son,

 

Being pent from liberty, as Iam now,
If two such murderers as yourselves came to you, 260
Would not entreat for life 7—
My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks;
QO! if thine eye be not a flatterer,
Come thou on my side, and entreat for me,
As you would beg, were you in my distress.
A begging eee what beggar pities not?
2 Murd. Look behind you, my lord.
1 Murd. Take that, and that: [stabs him] if all this
will not do,
I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within.
{Exit, with the body.
2 Murd. A bloody deed, and desperately despatch’d!
How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands 271
Of this most grievous murder.

Re-enter First Murderer.
1 Murd. How now! what mean’st thou, that thou
help’st me not ?
By Heaven, the duke shall know how slack you have

been.
2 Murd. I would he knew that I had sav’d his
brother!
Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say,

For I repent me that the duke is slain. [Evcit.
1 Murd. So do not I: go, coward, as thou art.
Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole,
Till that the duke give order for his burial: 280
And when I have my meed, I will away;
| For this will out, and then I must not stay. [Excit.

 

|
|
|

 

 

 

 

ACT II.
ScENE I.—London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King EDWARD, led in sick, Queen oe ee RIVERS, HASTINGS, BUCKINGHAM, GREY,
and others.

King Edward.
1” HY, so:—now have I done a good day’s
} work.—

You peers, continue this united league:

Levery day expect an embassage

From my Redeemer toredeem me hence;

And more in peace my soul shall part to
heaven,

Since I have made my friends at peace
on earth.

Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s

4 hand;

Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.

Riv. By Heaven, my soul is purg’d from grudging

10

 

hate ;
| And with my hand I seal my true heart’s love.
Hast. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!
K. Edw. Take heed, you dally not before your king;
Lest he that is the supreme King of kings
onfound your hidden falsehood, and award
Hither of you to be the other’s end.
Hast. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love !
Riv. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart!
K. Edw. _Madam, yourself are not exempt from

this,—
Nor you, son Dorset,—Buckingham, nor you ;—
' You have been factious one against the other. 20

. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your har¥ ;
\ And what you do, do it unfeignedly.

 

. Be he unto me.

Q. Eliz. There, Hastings :—I will never more re-
member
Our former hatred, so thrive I, and mine!
K. Edw. Dorset, embrace him ;— Hastings, love
lord marquess.
Dor. This interchange of love, I here protest,
Upon my part shall be inviolable.
Hast. And so swear I, my lord. [They embrace.
K. EON Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this
eague
With thy embracements to my wife's allies, 30
And make me happy in your unity.
Buck, Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate
Upon you grace [to the QUEEN], but with all duteous
ove
Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me
With hate in those where I expect most love.
When I have most need to employ a friend,
And -nost assured that he is a friend,
Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile,
This do I beg of Heaven,
When I am cold in love to you or yours. 40
[They embrace.
K. Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham,
Is this thy vow unto my sickly fear.
There wanteth now our brother Gloster here,
To make the blessed period of this peace.
Buck. ae in good time, here comes the noble
ke.

 

 
 

270 KING RICHARD III.

(Act IL.

 

 

Enter GLOSTER.

Glo. Good morrow to my sovereign king, and queen ;
And, princely peers, a happy time of day !

K. Edw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day.—
Gloster, we have done deeds of charity ;
Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, 50
Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.

Glo. A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord.—
Among this princely heap, if any here,
By false intelligence, or wrong surmise,
Hold me a foe;
If I unwittingly, or in my rage,
Have aught committed that is hardly borne
By any in this presence, I desire
To reconcile me to his friendly peace :
’T is death to me to be at enmity ; 60
I hate it, and desire all good men’s love.—
First, madam, I entreat true peace of you,
Which I will purchase with my duteous service ;
Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham,
If ever any grudge were lodg’d between us;
Of you, and you, Lord Rivers, and of Dorset,
That all without desert have frown'd on me;
Of you, Lord Woodville, and, Lord Scales, of you,
a, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all.
I do not know that Englishman alive 70
With whom my soul is any jot at odds,
More than the infant that is born to-night :
I thank my God for my humility.

Q. Eliz. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter :—
I would to God, all strifes were well compounded.—
My sovereign lord, I do beseech your highness
To take our brother Clarence to your grace.

Glo. Why, madam, have I offer’d love for this,
To be so flouted in this royal presence ?
Who knows not, that the gentle duke is dead? 80

[They all start.

You do him Py to scorn his corse.

K. Hae, Who knows not, he is dead! who knows

e is?
. Hliz. All-seeing Heaven, what a world is this!
uck, Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest?

Dor. Ay, my good lord ; and no man in the presence,
But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks.

&. Edw. Is Clarence dead? the order was revers’d.

Glo. But he, poor man, by your first order died,
And that a winged Mercury did bear ;
Some tardy cripple bare the countermand, 90
That came too lag to see him buried.
God grant that some, less noble and less loyal,
Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood,
Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did,
And yet go current from suspicion.

Enter STANLEY.

Stan. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done !

K. Edw. 1 prthes, peace: my soul is full of sorrow.

Stan. I will not rise, unless your highness hear me.

kK, Edw. Then say at once, what is it thou re-

uest’st.

Stan. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life;
Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman, 10
Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk.

K. ae Hine I a tongue to doom my brother's

eath,
And shall that tongue give pardon toa slave?
My brother kill’d no man, his fault was thought,
And yet his punishment was bitter death.
Who sued to me for him? who, in my wrath,
Kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advis’d ?
‘Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love?
Who told me, how the poor soul did forsake 110
The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me?
‘Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury,
When Oxford had me down, he rescu’d me,
And said, “ Dear brother, live, and be a king?”
Who told me, when we both lay in the field,
Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me
Even in his garments; and did give himself,
All thin and naked, to the numb-cold night ?
All this from my remembrance brutish wrath
Sinfully pluck’d, and not a man of you 120

 

Had so much grace to put it in my mind.
But when your carters, or your waiting-vassals,
Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac’d
The precious image of our dear Redeemer,
You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon;
And I, unjustly too, must grant it you.
But for my brother not a man would speak,
Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself
For him, poor soul.—The proudest of you all
Have been beholding to him in his life, 130
Yet none of you would once beg for his life.—

God! I fear, thy justice will take hold
On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this,—
Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Ah, poor

Clarence !
[E£zeunt K1nc, QUEEN, HastTinGs, RIVERs,
DORSET, and GREY.

Glo. This is the fruit of rashness.—Mark’d you not,
How that the guilty kindred of the queen
Look’d pale, when hey did hear of Clarence’ death ?
QO! they did urge it still unto the king:
God will revenge it. Come, lords; will you go,
To comfort Edward with our company ? 140

Buck. We wait upon your grace. [Ezeunt.

ScENE II.—London. A Room in the Palace.
Enter the Duchess of YORK, with a Son and
Daughter of CLARENCE.

Son. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?
Duch. No, boy.
Daugh. Why do you weep so oft? and beat your

reast 3
And cry—‘ O Clarence, my unhappy son!”

 

Son. ‘Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead?”

Son. Wig 6 you look on us, and shake your
ead,
And call us orphans, wretches, castaways,
If that our noble father were alive ?

Duch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both;
I do lament the sickness of the king,
As loath to lose him, not your father’s death. 10
It were lost sorrow to wail one that’s lost. |

Son. Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead?
The king mine uncle is to blame for it:
God will revenge it; whom I will importune
With earnest pace all to that effect.

Daugh. And so will I.
Duch. Peace, children, peace ! the king doth love
you well:

Incapable and shallow innocents,

You cannot guess who caus’d your father’s death.
Son. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloster

Told me, the king, provok’d to it by the queen,

Devis’d impeachments to imprison him:

And when my uncle told me so, he wept,

And pitied me, and kindly kiss’a my cheek;

Bade me rely on him as on my father,

And he would love me dearly as his child.

 
 

Scene IIL]

KING RICHARD II.

271

 

Duch. ot that deceit should steal such gentle
shape,
And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice!
He is my son, ay, and therein my shame,

Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. 30
Son. Think you, my uncle did dissemble, grandam?
Duch. Ay, boy

Son. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this?

Enter Queen ELIZABETH, distractedly ; RIVERS
and Dorset following her.
Q. Eliz. Ah! who shall hinder me to wail and weep,
To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'lljoin with black despair against my soul,
And to myself become an enemy.
Duch. What means this scene of rude impatience ?
Q. Eliz. To make an act of tragic violence :—
Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead !— 40
Why grow the branches, when the root is gone?
Why wither not the leaves, that want their sap ?—
If you will live, lament ; if die, be brief ;
That our swift-winged souls may catch the king’s;
Or, like obedient subjects, follow him
To his new kingdom of ne’er changing night.
Duch. Ah! so much interest have [in thy sorrow,
As [had title in thy noble husband.
Ihave bewept a worthy husband’s death,
And liv’d with looking on his images ;
But now, two mirrors of his princely semblance
Are crack’d in pieces by malignant death,
And I for comfort have but one false glass,
That grieves me when I see my shame in him.
Thou art a widow: yet thou art a mother,
And hast the comfort of thy children left:
But death hath snatch’d my husband from mine arms,
And pluck’d two crutches from my feeble hands,
Clarence and Edward. O! what cause have I
(Thine being but a moiety of my moan), 60
To over-go thy woes, and drown thy cries!
Son. Ah, aunt! you wept not for our father’s death;
How can we aid you with our kindred tears?
Daugh. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan’d;
Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept.
Q. Eliz. Give me no help in lamentation ;
Iam not barren to bring forth complaints.
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes,
That I, being govern’d by the watery moon,
May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world!
Ah, for my husband, for my dear lord Edward! 71
Chil. Ah, for our father, for our dear lord Clarence!
Duch. Alas, for both! both mine, Edward and
Clarence.
Q. Eliz. What stay had I but Edward? and he’s

pene

Chil. What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s
gone,

Duch. What stays had I but they? and they are

gone.
, Hliz. Was never widow had so dear a loss.
Chil, Were never orphans had so dear a loss.
Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss.
Alas! Iam the mother of these gricfs : 80
Their woes are parcell’d, mine are general.
She for an Edward weeps, and so do 1;
Ifor a Clarence weep, so doth not she:
These babes for Clarence weep, and so dol;
Ifor an Edward weep, so do not they :—
Alas! you three on me, threefold distress’d,
Pour all your tears, I am your sorrow’s nurse,
And I will pamper it with lamentation.
Dor. Comfort, dear mother: God is much displeas’d,
at you take with unthankfulness his doing. 90
Incommon worldly things ’tis call’d ungrateful,
With dull unwillingness to repay a debt,
| Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent;
uch more to be thus opposite with Heaven,
For it requires the royal debt it lent you.
Riv. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
| or the young prince your son: send straight for him;
| Let him be crown’d ; in him your comfort lives.
| Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave,

And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne. 100

 

 

Enter GLOSTER, BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, HASTINGS,
Ratcuirr, and others.

Glo. Sister, have comfort: all of us have cause
To wail the dimming of our shining star ;
But none can cure their harms by wailing them.—
Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy ;
I did not see your grace.—Humbly on ny knee
I crave your blessing.
Duch. God bless thee, and put meekness in thy
breast,
Love, charity, obedience, and true duty.
Glo. Amen ; [aside] and make me die a good old
man !—
That is the butt-end of a mother’s blessing ;
I marvel, that her grace did leave it out.
Buck. You cloudy princes, and heart-sorrowing

110

peers,

That bear this heavy mutual load of moan,

Now cheer each other in each other’s love:

‘Though we have spent our harvest of this king,

We are to reap the harvest of his son.

The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts,

But lately splinter’d, knit, and join’d together,

Must gently be preserv'd, cherish’d, and kept:

Me seemeth good, that, with some little train,

Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet

Hither to London, to be crown'd our king.

Riv. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buck-
ingham?
Buck. Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude,

The new-heal’d wound of malice should break out ;

Which would be so much the more dangerous,

By how much the estate is green, and yet ungovern’d;

Where every horse bears his commanding rein,

And may direct his course as please himself,

As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent,

In my opinion, ought to be prevented.

Glo. IT hope the king made peace with all of us;

And the compact is firm and true in me.

Riv. And soin me; and so, I think, in all:

Yet, since it is but green, it should be put

To no apparent likelihood of breach,

Which, haply, by much company might be urg’d :

Therefore, I say with noble Buckingham,

That it is meet so few should fetch the prince.
Hast. And so say I. 140
Glo. Then be it so; and go we to determine

Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow.

Madam,—and you, my sister,—will you go

To give your censures in this business?

Exeunt all but BUCKINGHAM and GLOSTER.
Buck. My lord, whoever journeys to the prince,

For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home:

For by the way 1’ll sort occasion,

As index to the story we late talk’d of,

To part the queen’s proud kindred from the prince.
Glo. My other self, my counsel’s consistory, 150

My oracle, my prophet !—My dear cousin,

I, as a child, will go by thy direction.

Towards Ludlow then, for we’ll not stay behind.

[Exeunt.

12)

130

ScENE III.—The Same. A Street.

Enter two Citizens, meeting.
1 Cit. Good, morrow, neighbour: whither away so
ast ?
2 Cit. I promise you, I scarcely know myself.
Hear you the news abroad?
1 Cit. Yes; that the king is dead.
2 Cit. Tl news, by’r lady ; seldom comes the better:
I fear, I fear, ’t will prove a giddy world.

Enter another Citizen.
3 Cit. Neighbours, God peed:
1 Cit. ive you good morrow, sir.
3 Cit. Det ine news hold of good King Edward’s
eat
2 Cit. Ay, sir, itis too true ; God help, the while!
3 Cit. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world.

 

 
 

272

KING RICHARD III.

[Acr fie |

 

 

1 Cit. No, no; by God's good grace, his son shall
rei 10

reign.
3 Cit. Woe to that land that’s govern’d by a child!
2 Cit. In him there is a hope of government ;
That, in his nonage, council under him,
And, in his full and ripen’d years, himself,
No doubt, shall then, and till then, govern well.
1 Cit. So stood the state, when Henry the Sixth
Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old.
3 Cit. Stood the state so? no, no, good friends, God

wot;
For then this land was famously enrich’d
With politic grave counsel: then the king 20
Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace.
1 Cit. Why, so hath this, both by his father and
mother.
3 Cit. Better it were, they all came by his father,
Or by his father there were none at all;
For emulation, who shall now be nearest,
Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not.
O! full of danger is the Duke of Gloster ;
And the queen's sons and brothers haught and proud:
And were they to be rul’d, and not to rule,
This sickly land might solace as before. 30
1 Cit. Come, come; we fear the worst; all will be

well.
3 Cit. When clouds are seen, wise men put on their
cloaks ;
When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand;
When the sun sets, who doth not look for night ?
Untimely storms make men expect a dearth.
All may be well; but, if God sort it so,
’Tis more than we deserve, or I expect.
2 Cit. Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear:
You cannot reason almost with a man
That looks not heavily and full of dread. 40
3 Cit. Before the days of change, still is it so.
By a divine instinct, men’s minds mistrust
Ensuing dangcr; as by proof we see
The water swell before a boisterous storm.
But leave it all to God. Whither away?
2 Cit. Marry, we were sent for to the justices.
3 Cit. And so was I: I'll bear you company.
[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Archbishop of YorK, the young Duke of
YORK, Queen ELIZABETH, and the Duchess of
YORK.

Arch, ae night, I heard, they lay at Stony Strat-
ord,

And at Northampton they do rest to-night :

To-morrow, or next day, they will be here.

Duch. I long with all my heart to see the prince.

I hope, he is much grown since last I saw hiin.

Q. Eliz. But I hear, no: they say, my son of York

Hath almost overta’en him in his growth.

York. Ay, mother, but 1 would not have it so.
Duch. Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow.
York. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper,

My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow 11

More than my brother: ‘* Ay,” quoth my uncle Gloster,

““Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow

apace :”

And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast,

Because Seek flowers are slow, and weeds make

aste.

 

Duch. ’Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold

In him that did object the same to thee:

He was the wretched’st thing when he was young,

So long a-growing, and so leisurely,

That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious, 20
Arch, And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious madam.
Duch. I hope, he is ; but yet let mothers doubt.
York. Now, by my troth, if I had been remember'd,

I could have given my uncle’s grace a flout,

To touch his growth nearer than he touch’
Duch. How, my young York?
ee pee it ‘

“ork. Marry, they say, my uncle grew so fast,

That he could gnaw a crust at two fours old: ”

°T was full two years ere I could get a tooth.

Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. 30
Duch. I pr’ythee, pretty York, who told thee this?
York. Grandam, his nurse.

Duch. Te nurse! why, she was dead ere thou wast
orn.

York. If ’t were not she, I cannot tell who told me,

Q. Eliz. A parlous boy. Go to, you are too shrewd.

«rch, Good madam, be not angry with the child.

Q. Eliz. Pitchers have ears.

Enter a Messenger.
«lrch. Here comes a messenger : what news ?
Mess. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report.
Q. Eliz. How doth the prince?
Mess. Well, madam, and in health.
Duch. What is thy news?
ee oo Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pom-
ret,

And with them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners.

Duch. Who hath committed them ?

\ mine.
I pr'ythee, let me

Mess. The mighty dukes,
Gloster and Buckingham.
airch. For what offence?

Mess. The sum of all I can, I have disclos‘d:
Why, or for what, the nobles were committed,

Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord.

Q. Eliz. Ah me! I see the ruin of my house.
The tiger now hath seiz’d the gentle hind;
Insulting tyranny begins to jet
Upon the innocent and awless throne :

elcome, destruction, blood, and massacre!
I see, as in a map, the end of all.

Duch, Accursed and unquiet wrangling days,

How many of you have mine eyes beheld!

My husband lost his life to get the crown,

And often up and down my sons were toss’d,

For me to joy, and weep, their gain and loss:

And being seated, and domestic broils

Clean over-blown, themselves, the conquerors,

Make war upon themselves ; brother to brother,

Blood to blood, self against self :—O! preposterous

And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen,

Or let me die, to look on death no more.

Q. Eliz. Come, come, my boy; we will to sanc-

tuary.—

Madam, farewell.

Duch. Stay, I will go with you.

Q. Eliz. You have no cause,

Arch, [To the QUEEN.) My gracious lady, go,
And thither bear your treasure and your goods.
For my part, I’ll resign unto your grace
The seal I keep : and so betide to me,

As well I tender you, and all of yours.

Go; I ‘ll conduct you to the sanctuary. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT

ITl.

ScENE I.—London. <A Street.

The Trumpets sound.

WEE Buckingham.
n= —_" FELCOME, sweet prince, to
ae London, to your
chamber.
Glo. Welcome, dear cousin, my
thoughts’ sovereign :
The weary way hath made you me-

   
  
 

Jancholy.
Prince. No, uncle; but our crosses
on the wa
Have made it tedious, wearisome
and heavy :

I want more uncles here to welcome

me.
Glo. Sweet prince, the untainted
virtue of your years

Hath not yet div’d into the world’s deceit :

No more can you distinguish of a man

Than of his outward show ; which, God he knows, 10

Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart.

Those uncles which you want were dangerous ;

Your grace attended to their sugar’d words,

But look’d not on the poison of their hearts :

God keep you from them, and from such false friends !
Prince. God keep me from false friends! but they

were none.

Glo. My lord, the mayor of London comes to grect you.

Enter the Lord Mayor, and his Train.
May. God bless your grace with health and happy
days!

ys!
Prince. I thank you, good my lord; and thank you
all,.— [Exeunt Mayor, &c.
I thong my mother and my brother York 20
Would long ere this have met us on the way:
Fie! what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not
To tell us whether they will come or no.

Enter HASTINGS.
Buck. And in good time here comes the sweating

ord.
Prince. Welcome, my lord. What! will our mother
come?
Hast. On what occasion, God he knows, not I,
The queen your mother, and your brother York,
Have taken sanctuary: the tender prince
Would fain have come with me to meet your grace,
But by his mother was perforce withheld. 30
Buck. Fie! what an indirect and peevish course
Is this of hers.—Lord cardinal, will your grace
Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York
Unto his princely brother presently 2
If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him,
And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce.
Card. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory
Can from his mother win the Duke of York,
Anon expect him here: but if she be obdurate
To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid 40
We should infringe the holy privilege
Of blessed sanctuary ! not for all this land
Would I be guilty of so great a sin.
Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord,
Too ceremonious and traditional :
Weigh it but with the grossness of this age,
ou break not sanctuary in seizing him.

Enter the Prince of WALES, GLOSTER, BUCKINGIIAM,
Cardinal BOURCHIER, and others.

The benefit thereof is always granted
To those whose dealings have deserv’d the place,
And those who have the wit to claim the place :
This prince hath neither claim’d it, nor deserv’d it ;
And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it :
Then, taking him from thence that is not there,
You break no privilege nor charter there.
Oft have I heard of sanctuary men,
But sanctuary children, ne'er till now.
Card. My lord, you shall o’er-rule my mind for
once.—
Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me?
Hast. I go, my lord.
Prince. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you
may.—-  [Hxeunt Cardinal and HASTINGS.
Say, uncle Gloster, if our brother come, 61
Where shall we sojourn till our coronation ?
Glo. Where it seems best unto your royal sclf.
If I may counsel you, some day or two
Your highness shall repose you at the Tower:
Then, where you pees and shall be thought most fit
For your best health and recreation.
rinée. I do not like the Tower, of any aed
Did Julius Cesar build that place, my lord ?
Buck. He did. my gracious lord, begin that place,
Which, since, succeeding ages have re-editfied. 71
Prince. Is it upon record, or else reported
Successively from age to age, he built it?
Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord.
Prince. But say, my lord, it were not register’d,
Methinks, the truth should live from age to age,
As ‘'t were retail’d to all posterity,
Even to the general all-ending day.
Glo. [Aside.] So wise sq young, they say, do never
live long.
Prince. What say you, uncle? 89
Glo. I say, without characters, fame lives long.*
Aside.] Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity,
moralise two meanings in one word.
Prince. That Julius Cassar was a famous man:
With what his valour did enrich his wit,
His wit set down to make his valour live:
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror,
For now he lives in fame, though not in life.—
T’ll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham, —
Buck. What, my gracious lord?
Prince. An if I live until I be a man,
I'll win our ancient right in France again,
Or die a soldier, as I liv’d a king.
Glo. [Aside.] Short summers lightly have a forward
spring.

Enter York, HASTINGS, and the Cardinal.
Buck. Wow, 40 good time, here comes the Duke of

50

99

ork.

Prince. Richard of York! how fares our noble
brother ? :

York. Well, my dread lord; so must I call you now.
Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours.

Too late he died, that might have kept that title,

Which by his death hath lost much majesty. 100
Glo. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York ?
York, I thank you, gentle uncle. O! my lord,

You said, that idle weeds are fast in growth:

| The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

 

 

rQ

 
 

 

274

Glo, He hath, my lord. z

York. And therefore is he idle?
Glo. O! my fair cousin, I must not say so.

York. Then he is more beholding to you, than I.
Glo. He may command me as my sovereign,

But you have power in mc as in a kinsman.

York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger.
Glo. My dagger, little cousin? with all my heart.
Prince. A beggar, brother?

York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give;

And being but a toy, which is no grief to give,

Glo. A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin.

York. A greater gift? O! that’s the sword to it.

Glo. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. __

York. ee I see, you’ll part but with light
gifts:

In weightier things you'll say a beggar, nay.
Glo. It is too weighty for your grace to wear. 120
York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier.

Glo. What! would you have my weapon, little lord?

York. I would, that I might thank you as you call
me,

Glo. How?

York. Little.

Prince. My Lord of York will still be cross in talk.—

Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him.
York. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me.

Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me.

Because that I am little, like an ape, 130

He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders.
Buck, With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons!

To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle,

He prettily and aptly taunts himself.

So cunning, and so young, is wonderful.

Glo. My lord, will’t pleasc you pass along?

Myself, and my good cousin Buckingham,

Will to your mother, to entreat of her

To meet you at the Tower, and welcome you.

York. What! will you go unto the Tower, my lord?
Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so, 141
York. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower.

Glo. Why, what should you fear?

York. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost:

My grandam told me, he was murder'd there.

vince. I fear no uncles dead.

Glo. Nor none that live, I hope.

Prince. An if they live, I hope, I need not fear.
But come, my lord; and, with a heavy heart,
Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. 150

[4 Sennett. Kxeunt PRINCE, YORK, HAST.,
Card., and Attendants.

Buck. Think you, my lord, this little prating York

Was not incensed by his subtle mother

To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ?

Glo. No doubt, no doubt. O! ‘tis a parlous boy ;

Bold, aul ingenious, forward, capable:

He’s all the mother’s, from the top to toe.

Buck. Well, let them rest.—Come hither, Catesby;

thou art sworn

As deeply to effect what we intend,

As closely to conceal what we impart.

Thou know’st our reasons urg’d upon the way :—

What think’st thou? is it not an vasy matter

To make William Lord Hastings of our mind,

For the instalment of this noble duke

In the seat royal of this famous isle ?

Cates, He for his father’s sake so loves the prince,

That he will not be won to aught against him.

Buck. ae think’st thou then of Stanley? will not

e
Cates. He will do all in all as Hastings doth.
Buck. Well then, no more but this. Go, gentle
_Catesby,

And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings, 170

How he doth stand affected to our purpose;

And summon him to-morrow to the Tower,

To sit about the coronation.

If thou dost find him tractable to us,

Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons:

If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling,

Be thou so too, and so break off the talk,

And give us notice of his inclination ;

110

160

 

ea s ol

KING RICHARD III.

[Act II,

For we to-morrow hold divided councils,
Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ’d.
Glo. Commend me to Lord William:
. _ Catesby,
His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries
To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle ;
And bid my lord, for joy of this good news,
Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.
Buck. Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly,
Cates. My good lords both, with all the heed I can,
Glo. Shall we hear from yous Catesby, ere we sleep?
Cates. You shall, my lord.
Glo. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both.
[E£ait CatEspy,
Buck. Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we per-
ceive
Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?
Glo. Chop off his head ;—something we will deter-

180
tell him,

mine :—
And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me
The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables
Whereof the king, my brother, was possess’d.
Buck, I'll claim that promise at your grace’s hand.
Gio. And look to have it yielded with all kindness.
Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards
We may digest our complots in some form. 200
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Before Lord Hastincs’ House.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, my lord !—

Hast. [Within.] Who knocks?
Mess. One from the Lord Stanley.
Hast. (Within.] What is ’t o’clock ?
Mess. Upon the stroke of four.

Enter HASTINGS.

Hast. Cee Lord Stanley sleep these tedious
nights
Mess. So tt appears by that I have to say.
First, he commends him to your noble self.
Hast. What then?
Mess. Then certifies your lordship, that this night 10
He dreamt the boar had rased off his helm:
Besides, he says, there are two councils held;
And that may be determin’d at the one,
Which may make you and him to rue at th’ other.
Therefore, he sends to know your lordship’s pleasure,—
If you will presently take horse with him,
And with all speed post with him toward the north,
To shun the danger that his soul divines.
Hast. Go, fellow, go: return unto thy lord;
Bid him not fear the separated councils: 20
His honour and myself are at the one,
And at the other is my good friend Catesby,
Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us,
Whereof I shall not have intelligence.
Tell him, his fears are shallow, without instance:
And for his dreams—I wonder he’s so simple
To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers.
To fly the boar, before the boar pursues,
Were to incense the boar to follow us,
And make pursuit, where he did mean no chase. 30
Go, bid thy master rise and come to me;
And we will both together to the Tower,
Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly.
Mess. 1’11 go, my lord, and tell him what you nie ‘
rit.

[kxnocking.

Enter CATESBY.

Cates. Many good morrows to my noble lord!
Hast. Good morrow, Catesby: you are early stir-

ring.

What news, what news, in this our tottering state?
Cates. It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord;

And, I believe, will never stand upright,

Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. 40
Hast. How! wear the garland! dost thou mean the

erown
Cates. Ay, my good lord.

 

 
 

 

 

Scene IV.] KING RICHARD III. 275
Hast. I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my | I am in your debt for your last exercise ;
shoulders, Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you. 110

Before I'll see the crown so foul misplac’d.
But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?
Cates. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you
forward
Upon his party, for the gain thereof:
And thereupon he sends you this good news, —
That this same very day your enemies,
The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret. 50
Hast. Indeed, Iam no mourner for that news,
Because they have been still my adversaries ;
But, that I’ll give my voice on Richard’s side,
To bar my master’s heirs in true descent,
God knows, I will not do it. to the death.
Cates. God keep your lordship in that gracious mind.
Hast. But I shall laugh at this a twelvemonth hence,
That they which brought me in my master’s hate,
I live to look upon their tragedy.
Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make mc older, 60
I'll send some packing that yet think not on’t.
Cates. ’T is a vile thing to die, my gracious lord,
When men are unprepar’d, and look not for it.
Hast. O monstrous, monstrous! and so falls it out
With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so ’t will do
With some men else, who think themselves as safe
As thou and I; who, as thou know’st, are dear
To princel Richard, and to Buckingham.
Cates. The princes both make high account of you;
[Aside.] For they account his head upon the bridge. 70
Hast. I know they do, and I have well deserv’d it.

Enter STANLEY.
Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man?
Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided?
Stan. My lord, good morrow:—good morrow,
Catesby.—
You may jest on, but, by the holy rood,
I do not like these several councils, I.
Hast. My lord, I hold my life as dear as yours;
And never, in my days, I do protest,
Was it so precious to me as ’t is now.
Think you, but that I know our state secure, 80
I would be so triumphant as I am?
Stan. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from
London,
Were jocund, and suppos’d their states were sure,
And they, indeed, had no cause to mistrust ;
But yet, you see, how soon the day o’ercast :
This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt.
Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward!
What, shall we toward the Tower? the day is spent.
Hast. Come, come, have with you.—Wot you what,
my lord?
To-day, the lords you talk of are beheaded. 90
Stan. tne for their truth, might better wear their
eads,
Than some that have accus’d them wear their hats.
But come, my lord, let’s away.

Enter a Pursuivant.
Hast. Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow.
[Exeunt STANLEY and CATESBY.
How now, sirrah? how goes the world with thee?
Purs. The better, that your lordship please to ask.
Hast. I tell thee, man, ’tis better with me now,
Than when thou mett’st me last, where now we meet :
Then was I going prisoner to the Tower,
By the suggestion of the queen’s allies; 100
But now, I tell thee (keep it to thyself),
This day those enemies are put to death,
And I in better state than e’er I was.
Purs. God hold it, to your honour’s good content.
Hast. Gramercy, fellow. There, drink that for me.
Throwing him his purse.
Purs. I thank your honour. [Exit.

Enter a Priest.
Priest. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your

honour.
Hast. i aa thee, good Sir John, with all my
eart.

 

Enter BUCKINGHAM.
Buck. Wret, talking with a priest, lord chamber-
lain!

Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest :
Your honour hath no shriving work in hand.
Hast. ’Good faith, and when I met this holy man,
The men you talk of came into my mind.
What, go you toward the Tower?
Buck. I do, my lord; but long I cannot stay there:
I shall return before your lordship thence.
Hast. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there.
Buck. [Aside.) And supper too, although thou
know’st it not. 120
Come, will you go?
Hast. ‘ll wait upon your lordship. [Hxeunt.

Scene III.—Pomfret. Before the Castle.

Enter RATcuiFF, with a Guard, conducting RIVERS,
(GREY, and VAUGHAN to exccution.
Riv. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this :—
To-day shalt thou behold a subject die
For truth, for duty, and for loyalty.
Grey. God ries the prince from all the pack of
you
A knot you are of damned blood-suckers.
Paugh. mo live, that shall cry woe for this here-
after.
Rat. Despatch: the limit of your lives is out.
Riv. O Pomfret, Pomfret! thou bloody prison,
Fatal and ominous to noble peers! ;
Within the guilty closure of thy walls
Richard the Second heré was hack’d to death :
And, for more slander to thy dismal seat,
We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink.
Grey. now Margaret’s curse is fallen upon our
eads,
When she exclaim’d on Hastings, you, and I,
For standing by when Richard stabb’d her son.
Riv. Then curs’d she Richard, then curs’d she
Buckingham,
Then curs’d she Hastings :—O, remember, God,
To hear her prayer for them, as now for us!
And for my sister, and her princely sons, 20
Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood,
Which, as thou know’st, unjustly must be spilt!
Rat. Make haste: the hour of death is expiate.
Riv. Come, Grey,—come, Vaughan ;—let us here
embrace :
Farewell, until we meet again in heaven.

10

[Exeunt.

ScenE IV.—London. A Room in the Tower.

BUCKINGHAM, STANLEY, Hastinas, the Bishop of
Ey, CaTessy, LOVEL, and others, sitting at a
table: Officers of the Council attending.

Hast. Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met
Is, to determine of the coronation:

In God's name, speak, when is the royal day ?

Buck. Are all things ready for the royal time?

Stan. They are ; and wants but nomination.

Ely. To-morrow then I judge a happy day.

Buck. Who knows the lord protector’s mind herein?
Who is most inward with the noble duke?

Ely. Your er we think, should soonest know his

mind.

Buck. We know each other’s faces; for our hearts,
He knows no more of mine than I of yours; ll
Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine.

Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love.

Hast. I thank his grace, I know he loves me well;
But, for his purpose in the coronation,

I have not sounded him, nor he deliver’d

His gracious pee any way therein :

But you, my honourable lords, may name the time;

 

 
 

278

KING RICHARD II.

[Act TL

 

 

 

And in the duke’s behalf I'll give my voice,
Which, I presume, he ’ll take in gentle part.

Enter GLOSTER.
Ely. In happy time, here comes the duke himself.
Glo. My noble lords and cousins, all, good morrow.
I have been poe a sleeper; but, I trust,
My absence doth neglect no great design,
Which by my presence might have been concluded.
Buck. Had you not come upon your cue, my lord,
William Lord Hastings had pronounc’d your part,
I mean, your voice, for crowning of the king. —
Glo. hap ay Lord Hastings, no man might be
older : .
His lordship knows me well, and loves me well. 30
My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn,
Isaw good strawberries in your garden there ;
I do beseech you, send for some of them.
Ely. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my wis: -
ortt.
Glo. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you.
[Takes him aside.
Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,
And finds the testy gentleman so hot,

 

Glo, “ Look how I am bew!tch'd.”

That he will lose his head, ere give consent,

His master’s child, as worshipfully he terms it,

Shall lose the royalty of England’s throne. 40
Buck. Withdraw yourself awhile; I 11 go with you.

(Ezxeunt GLOSTER and BUCKINGHAM.

Stan. We have not yet set down this day of triumph.

To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden ;

For I myself am not so well provided,

As else I would be, were the day prolong’d.

Re-enter Bishop of Evy.

Ely. Where is my lord, the Duke of Gloster?
I have sent for these strawberries.

Hast. His grace looks cheerfully and smooth this

morning:

There ’s some conceit or other likes him well,
When that he bids good morrow with such spirit.
I think, there ’s never a man in Christendom
Can lesser hide his love or hate than he;
For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

Stan, What of his heart perceive you in his face,
By any livelihood he show’d eee

Hast. Marry, that with no man here he is offended;
For, were he, he had shown it in his looks.

50

Re-enter GLOSTER and BUCKINGHAM.
Glo. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve,
That do conspire my death with devilish plots
Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail’d
Upon my body with their hellish charms?
‘ast. The tender love I bear your grace my lord,

60

5 | Makes me most forward in this princely presence .

To doom the offenders: whosoe’er they be,

I say, my lord, they have deserved death. |
Glo. Then be your eyes the witness of their evil.

Look how Iam bewitch’d; behold mine arm

Is, like a blasted sapling, wither’d up:

And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch,

Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore,

That by their witchcraft thus have marked me.
Hast. If they have done this deed, my noble lord,—
Glo. If! thou protector of this damned strumpet,

Talk'st thou to me of ifs ?—Thou art a traitor :

Off with his head !—now, by Saint Paul I swear,

I will not dine until I see the same.—

Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done ;

The rest that love me, rise, and follow me.

[Exeunt Council, with GLOSTER and
BUCKINGHAM.
Hast. Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me:

For I, too fond, might have prevented this.

Stanley did dream, the boar did rase his helm ;

And I did scorn it, and disdain’d to fly.

' Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble,

| And started when he look’d upon the Tower,

As loath to bear me to the slaughter-

 

house.
O! now I need the priest that spake to
me:

Inow repent I told the pursuivant,
As too ee how mine enemies

To-day at omfret bloodily were
butcher'd,

And I myself secure in grace and
favour.

O Margaret, Margaret! now thy heavy
curse

Is lighted on peek Hastings’ wretched
head.

Rat. Come, come, despatch; the

duke would be at dinner:
Make a short shrift, he longs to see

your head.
Hast. O momentary grace of mortal
men!
Which we more hunt for than the
grace of God.
Who builds his hope in air of your
good looks,

Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast ;
Ready with every nod to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep. 100
Lov. Come, come, despatch; tis bootless to exclaim.
Hast. O bloody Richard !—miserable England!
I prephesy, the fearfull’st time to thee,
That ever wretched age hath look’d upon.
Come, lead me to the block, bear him my head:
They smile at me, who shortly shall be dead. [Ereunt.

The Tower Walls.

Enter GLOSTER and BUCKINGHAM, in rotten armour,
marvellous ill-favoured.
Glo. Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change
y colour,
Murder thy breath in middle of a word,
And then again begin, and stop again,
As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror?
Buck. Tut! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian ;
Speak, and look back, and pry on every side,
Tremble and start at wagging of a straw,
Intending deep suspicion : ghastly looks
Are at my service, like enforced smiles ;
And both are ready in their offices,
At any time to grace my stratagems.
But what! is Catesby gone? _
Glo. He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along.

Finter the Lord Mayor and CATESBY.
Buck. Lord mayor,—
Glo. Look to the drawbridge there! .

ScENE V.—The Same.

10

 

 

 
 

ScENE V.] KING RICHARD III. 277

 

That breath’d upon the earth a Christian ;
Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded
The history of all her secret thoughts:

Buck. Hark! a drum.
Glo, Catesby, o’erlook the walls.
Buck. Lord mayor, the reason we have sent—

 

 

Glo. ‘Now will I go, to take some privy order.
To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight.”

Glo. Look back, defend thee: here are enemies. | So smooth he daub’d his vice with show of virtue,

Buck. God and our innocency defend and guard us! | Ele his apparent open guilt omitted,
I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife, 30

Enter LOVEL and Ratcuirr, with Hastines’ head. He liv’d from all attainder of suspect.
Glo. Be eet, they are friends ; Ratcliff ae Buck. Well, well, he was the covert’st shelter’d

Love. traitor
Lov. Here is the head of that i noble traitor, That ever liv’d.—
The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. Would you imagine, or almost believe
Glo. So dear I lov’d the man, that I must weep. (Were ’t not that by great preservation

 

I took him for the plainest harmless creature We live to tell it), that the subtle traitor

 
 

 

278

KING RICHARD III.

[Act III

 

This day had plotted, in the council-house,
To murder me, and ny good Lord of Gloster ?
May. Had he done so? ; ‘
Glo. What! think you we are Turks, or infidels? 40
Or that we would, against the form of law,
Proceed thus rashly in the villain’s death,
But that the extreme peril of the case,
The peace of England, and our persons’ safety,
Enforc’d us to this execution? 5
May. Now, fair befall you! he deserv’d his death ;
And your good graces both have well proceeded,
To warn false traitors from the like attempts.
Buck. I never look’d for better at his hands,
After he once fell in with Mistress Shore; 50
Yet had we not determin’d he should die,
Until your lordship came to see his end ;
Which now the loving haste of these our friends,
Something against our meanings, have prevented:
Because, my lord, I would have had you heard
The traitor speak, and timorously confess
The manner and the purpose of his treasons ;
That you might well have signified the same
Unto the citizens, who haply, may
Misconster us in him, and wail his death. 60
May. But, my good lord, your grace’s words shall
serve,
As well asI had seen, and heard him speak :
And do not doubt, right noble princes both,
But I’ll acquaint our duteous citizens
With all your just proceedings in this case.
Glo. And to that end we wish’d your lordship here,
To avoid the censures of the carping world.
Buck. But since you come too late of our intent,
Yet witness what you hear we did intend:
And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell. 7
Exit Lord Mayor.
Glo. Go after, after, cousin Buckingham.
The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post
There, at your meetest vantage of the time,
Infer the bastardy of Edward’s children :
Tell them, how Edward put to death a citizen,
Only for saying he would make his son
Heir to the crown; meaning, indeed, his house,
Which by the sign thereof was termed so.
Moreover, urge his hateful luxury,
And bestial appetite in change of lust ; 8)
Which stretch'd unto their servants, daughters, wives,
Even where his Teging eye, or savage heart,
Without control lusted to make a prey.
Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person :
Tell them, when that my mother went with child
Of that insatiate Edward, noble York,
My princely father then had wars in France ;
And by true computation of the time,
Found that the issue was not his begot ;
Which well appeared in his lineaments, 90
Being nothing like the noble duke my father.
Yet touch this sparingly, as ’t were far off ;
Because, my lord, you know, my mother lives.
Buck. Doubt not, my lord, I'll play the orator,
As if the golden fee, for which I plead,
Were for myself: and so, my lord, adieu.
Glo. If aoe thrive well, bring them to Baynard’s
vastle ;
Where you shall find me well accompanied
With reverend fathers, and well-learned bishops.
Buck. I go; and, towards three or four o’clock, 100
Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. [Exit.
Glo. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw,—
Go thou [to CATEs.] to Friar Penker :—bid them both
Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle.
[Ezeunt LOVEL and CATESBY.
Now will I go, to take some privy order,
To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight;
And to give notice, that no manner person
Have any time recourse unto the princes.

»

[Exit.

 

ScENE VI.—The Same. A Street.
Enter a Serivencr.
Scriv. Here is the indictment of the good Lord
Hastings ;

 

Which in a set hand fairly is engross’d,

That it may be to-day read o'er in Paul's:

And mark how well the sequel hangs together.
ileven hours I have spent to write it over,

For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me.

‘The precedent was full as long a-doing ;

And yet within these five hours Hastings liv’d,
Untainted, unexamin’d, free, at liberty.

Here’s a good world the while !—Who is so gross, 10
‘That cannot see this palpable device ?

Yet who so bold but says he sees it not?

Bad is the world ; and all will come to naught,
When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. [Exit

ScENE VII.—The Same. The Court of Baynard’s
Castle.

Enter GLOSTER at one door, and BUCKINGHAM at
another.
Glo. How now, how now? what say the citizens?
Buck. Now by the holy mother of our Lord,
The citizens are mum, say not a word.
Glo. Touch’dyouthe bastardy of Edward's children?
Buck. I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy,
And his contract by deputy in France ;
The insatiate greediness of his desires,
And his enforcement of the city wives ;
His tyranny for trifles ; his own bastardy,
As being got, your father then in France ; 10
And his resemblance, being not like the duke.
Withal I did infer your lineaments,
Being the right idea of your father,
Both in your form and nobleness of mind;
Laid open all your victories in Scotland,
Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace,
Your bounty, virtue, fair humility ;
Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose
Untouch’d, or slightly handled in discourse ;
And, when my oratory drew toward end, 20
I bade them that did love their country's good,
Cry—‘‘ God save Richard, England's royal king !”
Glo. And did they so?
Buck. No, so God help me, they spake not a word;
But, like dumb statuas, or breathing stones,
Star’d each on other, and look’d deadly pale.
Which when I saw, I reprehended them,
And ask’d the mayor, what meant this wilful silence:
His answer was, the people were not us'd
To be spoke to but by the recorder. 30
Then he was urg’d to tell my tale again :—
‘‘Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr’d ;”
But nothing spoke in warrant from himself.
When he had done, some followers of mine own,
At lower end of the hall, hurl’d up their caps,
And some ten voices cried, ‘‘God save King Richard!”
And thus I took the vantage of those few,—
“Thanks, gentle citizens, and friends,” quoth I;
“This general applause and cheerful shout
Argues your wisdom, and your love to Richard:” 40
And even here brake off, and came away.
Glo. What tongueless blocks were they! would they
not speak ?
Will not the mayor then and his brethren come ?
Buck. The mayor is here at hand. Intend some

fear ;
Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit:
And look you get a prayer-book in your hand,
And stand between two churchmen, good my lord:
For on that ground I’ll make a holy descant :
And be not easily won to our requests ; boiSs
Play the maid's Pare, still answer nay, and take it. 50
Glo. I go; and if you plead as well for them
As I can say nay to thee for myself,
No doubt we bring it to a happy issue.

Buck, Go, £0, up to the leads! the lord mayor
knocks. [Zxit GLOSTER.

Enter the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens.

Welcome, my lord: I dance attendance here ;
I think the duke will not be spoke withal.—

 
 

ScenE VII]

KING RICHARD III.

279

 

Enter, from the Castle, CATESBY.

Now, Catesby ! what says your lord to my request ?
Cates. He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord,

To visit him to-morrow, or next day.

He is within, with two right reverend fathers, 60

Divinely bent to meditation ;

And in no worldly suits would he be mov’'d,

To draw him from his holy exercise.

Buck. Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke :

Tell him, myself, the mayor and aldermen,

In deep designs, in matter of great moment,

No less importing than our general good,

Are come to have some conference with his grace.
Cates. I'll signify so much unto him straight. [Evit.
Buck. Ah, ha! my lord, this prince is not an

Edward ; 70

He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed,

But on his knees at meditation ;

Not dallying with a brace of courtesans,

But meditating with two deep divines ;

Not sleeping, to engross his idle body,

But praying, to enrich his watchful soul.

Happy were England, would this virtuous prince

Take on his grace the sovereignty thereof ;

But, sure, I fear, we shall not win him to it.

May. Marry, God defend his grace should say a

nay!
Buck. I fear, he will. Here Catesby comes again.—-

Re-enter CATESBY.

Now, Catesby, what says his grace ?
Cates. He wonders to what end you have assembled
Such troops of citizens to come to him :
His grace not being warn’d thereof before,
He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him:
Buck. Sorry Iam, my noble cousin should
Suey me, that I mean no good to him:
By Heaven, we come to him in perfect love ;
And so once more return, and tell his grace. 90
[Exit CaTESBY.
When holy and devout religious men
Are at their beads, ’tis much to draw them thence;
So sweet is zealous contemplation.

Enter GLOSTER, in a gallery above, between two
ishops. CATESBY returns.

May. See, where his grace stands *tween two
clergymen!
Buck. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince,
To stay him from the fall of vanity ;
And, see, a book of prayer in his hand,
True ornament to know a holy man.—
Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince,
Lend favourable ear to our requests, 100
And pardon us the interruption
Of thy devotion, and right Christian zeal.
Glo. My lord, there needs no such apology ;
Ido beseech your grace to pardon me,
Who, earnest in the service of my God,
Deferr’d the visitation of my friends.
But, leaving this, what is your grace’s pleasure?
Buck. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above,
And all good men of this ungovern’d isle.
Glo. I do suspect, I have done some offence, 110
That seems disgracious in the city’s eye;
And that you come to reprehend my ignorance.
Buck, You have, my lord: ’would it might please
your grace,
On our entreaties to amend your fault.
Glo. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land?
Buck. Know then, it is your fault that you resign
The supreme seat, the throne majestical,
The scepter’d office of your ancestors,
Your state of fortune, and your due of birth,
The lineal glory of your royal house, 120
To the corruption of a blemish’d stock ;
Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts,
hich here we waken to our country’s
This noble isle doth want her proper limbs ;
er face defac’d with scars of a
Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants,

 

And almost shoulder’d in the swallowing gulf
Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion.
Which to recure we heartily solicit
Your gracious self to take on you the charge 130
And kingly government of this your land:
Not as protector, steward, substitute,
Or lowly factor for another’s gain;
But as successively from blood to blood,
Your right of birth, your empery, your own.
For this, consorted with the citizens,
Your very worshipful and loving friends,
And by their vehement instigation,
In this just cause come I to move your grace.
Glo. I cannot tell, if to depart in silence, 110
Or bitterly to speak in your reproof,
Best fitteth my degree, or your condition:
If not to answer, —you might haply think,
Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded
To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty,
Which fondly you would here impose on me;
If to reprove you for this suit of yours,
So season’d with your faithful love to me,
Then, on the other side, I check’d my friends.
Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, 150
And then, in speaking, not to incur the last,
Definitely thus I answer you.
Your love deserves my thanks; but my desert
Unmeritable shuns your high request.
First, if all obstacles were cut away,
And that my path were even to the crown,
As the ripe revenue and due of birth,
Yet so much is my poverty of spirit,
So mighty, and so many, my defects,
That I would rather hide me from my greatness, 160
Being a bark to brook no mighty sea,
Than in my greatness covet to be hid,
And in the vapour of my glory smother’d.
But, God be thank’d, there is no need of me;
And much I need to help you, were there need;
The royal tree hath left us royal fruit,
Which, mellow’d a the stealing hours of time,
‘Will well become the seat of majesty,
And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign.
On him I lay that you would lay on me, 170
The right and fortune of his happy stars ;
Which God defend that I should wring from him!
Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in your

e

TACE ;

But the respects thereof are nice and trivial,

All circumstances well considered.

You say, that Edward is your brother’s son :

So say we too, but not by Edward’s wife ;

For first was he contract to Lady Lucy—

Your mother lives a witness to his vow—

And afterward by substitute betroth’d 180

To Bona, sister to the King of France.

These both put off, a poor petitioner,

A care-craz'd mother to a many sons,

A beauty-waning and distressed widow,

Even in the afternoon of her best days,

Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,

Seduc’d the pitch and height of his degree

To base declension and loath’d bigamy.

By her, in his unlawful bed, he got

This Edward, whom our manners call the prince. 190

More bitterly could I expostulate,

Save that, for reverence to some alive,

I give a sparing limit to my tongue.

Then, good my lord, take to your royal self

This proffer’d benefit of dignity ;

If not to bless us and the land withal,

Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry

From the corruption of abusing times,

Unto a lineal true-derived course. 199
May. Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you.
Buck. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer'd love,
Cates. O! make them joyful: grant their lawful suit.
Glo. Alas! why would you heap this care on me?

I am unfit for state and majesty:

I do beseech you, take it not amiss;

I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you.

Buck. If you refuse it,—as in love and zeal,

 

 
 

 

 

280 KING RICHARD III. [Act IV,
Loath to depose the child, your brother’s son ; Since you will buckle fortune on my back,

AS well we know your tenderness of heart, To bear her burden, whe’r I will, or no,

And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, | 210 | I must have patience to endure the load :

Which we have noted in you to your kindred, But if black scandal, or foul-fac’d reproach,

And equally, indeed, to all estates,— Attend the sequel of your imposition, 230

Yet know, whe’r you accept our suit or no,
Your brother’s son shall never reign our king;
But we will plant some other in the throne,
To the disgrace and downfall of your house:
And in this resolution here we leave you.—
Come, citizens, we will entreat no more.
[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and Citizens.
Cates. Call him again, sweet prince; accept their
suit:
If you deny them, all the land will rue it. 220
‘lo. Will you enforce me to a world of cares?
Call them again : Iam not made of stone,
But penetrable to your kind entreaties,
[Exit CATESBY.
Albeit against my conscience and my soul.—

Reenter BUCKINGHAM, and the rest.
Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men,

 

Your mere entorcement shall acquittance me
From all the impure blots and stains thereof ;
For God doth know, and you may partly see,
How far I am from the desire of this.
May. God bless
say it.
Glo. In saying so, you shall but say the truth.
Buck. Then I salute you with this royal title,—
“Long live King Richard, England’s worthy king!”
All. Amen. 239
Buck. To-morrow may it please you to be crown’d?
Glo. Even when you please, for you will have it so.
Buck, To-morrow then we will attend your grace :
And so most jovedly we take our leave.
Glo. [To the Bishops.] Come, let us to our holy
work again.—
Farewell, my cousin :—farewell, gentle friends.
[Exeunt,

your grace! we see it, and will

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—Before the Tower. j
Enter, on one side, Queen ELIZABETH, Duchess of YORK, and Marquess of DORSET; on the other, ANNE,

x

     

Duchess.
HO meets us here?—my niece Plantagenet,
7 Led in the hand of her kind aunt of
Gloster !

‘ower,
On purc heart’s love, to grect the tender
princes,—
Daughter, well met.
x Anne. God give your graces both
A happy and a joyful time of day.
Q. Eliz. As see to you, good sister: whither
away
Anne. No further than the Tower; and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves,
To gratulate the gentle princes there. 10
Q. Eliz. dane sister, thanks: we'll enter all to-
gether.

Enter BRAKENBURY.

And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes.—
Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave,
How doth the prince, and my young son of York?
Brak, Right well, dearmadam. By your patience,
I may not suffer you to visit them:
The king hath strictly charg’d the contrary.
9. Eliz. The king! who’s that?
rak. I mean the lord protector.
Q. Hite TBE Lord protect him from that kingly
itle !
Hath he set bounds between their love and me? 20
Iam their mother; who shall bar me from them ?
Duch. Lam their father’s mother ; I will see them.
Anne. Their aunt lam in law, in love their mother:
Then bring me to their sights ; Tl bear thy blame,
And take thy oftice from thee, on my peril.

Now, for my life, she’s wand ring to the

Duchess of GLOSTER, leading Lady MARGARET PLANTAGENET, CLARENCE’S young daughter.

Brak. No, madam, no; I may not leave it so:
Iam bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. [Fzit.

Enter STANLEY.

Stan. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence,
And [ll salute your grace of York as mother,
And reverend looker-on of two fair queens.— 30
[To ANNE.] Come, madam, you must straight to West-

minster,

There to be crowned Richard’s royal queen.

Q. Eliz. Ah! cut my lace asunder,
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news.

Anne. Despiteful tidings! O, unpleasing news!

Dor. Be ot good cheer :—mother, how fares your

grace?

Q. Eliz. O Dorset! speak not to me, get thee gone;
Death and destruction dog thee at thy heels:
Thy mother’s name is ominous to children. 40.
If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas,
And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell.
Go, hie thee, hie thee, from this slaughter-house,
Lest thou increase the number of the dead,
And make me die the thrall of Margaret’s curse,—
Nor mother, wife, nor England’s ‘counted queen.

Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsel,

madam.—
Take all the swift advantage of the hours;
You shall have letters from me to my son
In your behalf, to meet you on the way:
Be not ta’en tardy by unwise delay.
Duch. O ill-dispersing wind of misery !—
O, my accursed womb! the bed of death,
A cockatrice hast thou hatch’d to the world,
Whose unavoided eye is murderous !
Stan. Come, madam, come: I in all haste was sent.

50

-

 

 
 

Scene II.]

 

Were red-hot steel to sear me to the brain! 60
Anointed let me be with deadly venom;
And die, ere men can say—God save the queen !
Q. Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, I envy not thy glory ;
To feed ay humour, wish thyself no harm.
Anne. No! why?—When he, that is my husband

now,
Came to me, as I follow’d Henry’s corse ;
When scae the blood was well wash'd from his
ands,
Which issu’d from my other angel husband,
And that dear saint which then I weeping follow’d ;
O! when, I say, I look’d on Richard’s face, 70
This was my wish,--“* Be thou,” quoth I, ‘‘accurs’d,
¥or making me, so young, so old a widow!
And, when thou wedd'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed ;
And be thy wife (if any be so mad)
More miserable by the life of thee,
Than thou hast made me by my dear lord’s death !”
Lo! ere I can repeat this curse again,
Within so small a time, my woman’s heart
Grossly grew captive to his honey words,
And prov’d the subject of mine own soul's curse :
Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest ;
For never yet one hour in his bed
Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep,
But with his timorous dreams was still awak’d.
Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick,
And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me.
Q. Eliz. Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining.
Anne. No more than with my soul I mourn for
yours.
Dor. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory.
.tnne. Adieu, poor soul, that tak’st thy leave of it. 90
Duch. [To Dor.) Go thou to Richmond, and good
fortune guide thee !—
[To ete Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend
t !

80

ee !—
[To Q. Ex1z.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts
possess thee !--
Ito my grave, where peace and rest lie with me!
Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen,
And each hour’s joy wrack’d with a week of teen.
Q. Eliz. Stay yet; look back with me unto the
Tower.
Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes,
Whom envy hath immur’d within your walls ;
Rough cradle for such little pretty ones!
Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow
For tender princes, use my babies well!
So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. [Hreunt.

100

ScENE IT.—A Room of State in the Palace.

Flourish of Trumpets. RICHARD, crowned ; BUCK-
INGHAM, CaTESBY, a Page, and others.
K. Rich. Stand allapart.—Cousin of Buckingham,—
Buck. My  Salealls sovereign !
K. Rich. Give me thy hand. [RicH. ascends the
throne.] Thus high, by thy advice,
And thy assistance, is King Richard seated :—
But shall we wear these glories for a day,
Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
Buck. Still live they, and for ever let them last!
K. Rich. Ah! Buckingham, now doI play the touch,
To try if thou be current gold indeed.—
Young Edward lives.—Think now what I would
speak. 10
Buck. Say on, my loving lord.
K. Rich. Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be king.
Buck, Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord.
K. Rich. Ha! am Iking? "Tis so; but Edward lives.
Buck, pines noble prince.
. Rich.
That Edward
. prince. —
Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull :—

O bitter consequence,
still should live !—‘‘ True, noble

 

KING RICHARD IIT. 281
Anne. And I with all unwillingness will go.— Shall I be plain ?—I wish the bastards dead ;
O! ’would to God, that the inclusive verge And I would have it suddenly perform'd.
Of golden metal, that must round my brow, What say’st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief. 20

leasure.

Buck. Your grace may do your
ice, thy kindness

K. Rich. Tut, tut! thou art al
freezes.
Bay, have I thy consent that they shall die?
uck. Give me some little breath, some pause, dear
ord,
Before I positively speak in this:
I will resolve you herein presently. [Evzit.
Cates. oe e.] The king is angry: see, he gnaws
is lip.
K. Rich. [Descends from his throne.] I will converse
with iron-witted fools,
And unrespective boys : none are for me
That look into me with considerate eye.
ope Buckingham grows circumspect.
oy !—
Page. My lord.
kk. Rich. Know’st thou not any, whom corrupting

30

go.
Will tempt unto a close exploit of death?
Page. I know a discontented gentleman,
Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit :
Gold were as good as twenty orators,
And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything. 39
His name, my lord, is Tyrrel.

EK. Rich. What is his name ?
Page.

Rich. I partly know the man: go, call him
[fait Page.

K
hither, boy.--
The deep-revolving witty Buckingham
No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels.
Hath he so long held out with me untir’d,
And stops he now for breath ?— well, be it so.—
Enter STANLEY.

How now, Lord Stanley ? what’s the news?

Stan. Know, my loving lord,
The Marquess Dorset, as [ hear, is fled
To Richmond, in the parts where he abides.

K. Rich. Come hither, Catesby : rumour it abroad,
That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick ; bl
I will take order for her keeping close.

Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman,
Whom I will marry straight to Clarence’ daughter :—
The boy is foolish, and I fear not him.—
Look, how thou dream’st !—I say ane give out,
That Anne, my queen, is sick, and like to die:
About it; for it stands me much upon,
To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.—
[Exit CATESBY.

I must be married to my brother’s daughter, 60
Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.—
Murder her brothers, and then marry her?
Uncertain way of gain! ButIam in
So far in blood, that sin will pluck on sin.
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. —

Re-enter Page, with TYRREL.
Is thy name Tyrrel?

Tyr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject.

A. Rich. Art thou, indeed?

Tyr. Prove me, my gracious lord.

K. Rich. Dar’st thou resolve to killa friend of mine?

Tyr. Please you; but I had rather kill two enemies.

K. Rich. Why, then thou hast it: two deep enemies,
Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep’s disturbers, 72
Are they that I would have thee deal upon.

Tyrrel, [ mean those bastards in the Tower.

Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them,
And soon I[’ll rid you from the fear of them.

kK. Rich. Thou sing’st sweet music. Hark, come

hither, Tyrrel:
Go, by this token.—Rise, and lend thine ear.
' ate (Whispers.
There is no more but so :—say, it is done,
And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it. 80
Tyr. I will despatch it straight. (Exit.

Re-enter BUCKINGHAM.
Buck. My lord, I have consider’d in my mind

 

. The late request that you did sound me in.

 

 
 

 

KING RICHARD II.

(Act Iv.

 

A. Rich. Wells let that rest. Dorset is fled to Rich-

mond,

Buck. I hear the news, my lord,

K. Rich. Stanley, he is your wife’s son :—well look

unto it.

Buck. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise,
For which your honour and your faith is pawn’d ;
The earldom of Hereford, and the movables,

Which you have promised I shal] possess. 90

 

K. Rich

“Rise, and lend thine ear.”

K. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife: if she convey
Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it.
Buck. What says your highness to my just request?
K. Rich. 1 do remember me,— Henry the Sixt
Did prophesy, that Richmond should be king,
When Richmond was a little peevish boy.
A king !—perhaps—
Buck. My lord,—
AK. Rich. How chance, the prophet could not at that
time
Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him? 100
Buck. My lord, your promise for the earldom,—
dx. Rich. Richmond !—When last I was at Exeter,
The mayor in courtesy show’d me the castle,
And call’d it—Rougemont: at which name I started,
Because a bard of Ireland told me once,
I should not live long after I saw Richmond.
Buck. My lord,—
K. Rich. Ay ; what’s o'clock 2
Buck. Iam thus bold to put your grace in mind
Of what you promis’d me.
K. Rich. Well, but what’s o'clock ?

Buck. Upon the stroke of ten.
A. Rich. Well, let it strike.
Buck. Why, let it strike?

A. Rich. al that, like a Jack, thou keep’st the
stroke
Betwixt thy begging and my meditation.
I am not in the giving vein to-day.
Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will, or

no.
A. Rich. Thou troublest me: Iam not in the vein.
[Zxreunt King RicHaRD and Train.
Buck. And is it thus? repays he my deep service
With such contempt? made I him king for this?
O! let me think on Hastings, and be gone 120
To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on. [Ezit.

ScENE ITI.—The Same,

Enter TYRREL,

Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody act is done ;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre,
That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn
To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs,
Melted with tenderness and mild compassion,
Wept like to children in their death's sad story.

 

“Oh! thus,” quoth Dighton, ‘‘lay the gentle babes,’—
“Thus, thus,” quoth Forrest, ‘ girdling one another 10
Within their alabaster innocent arms :

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,

| And, in their summer beauty, kiss’d cach other.

A book of prayers on their pillow lay ;
Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘“‘almost chang’d my

mind;
But, O! the devil ”—there the villain Stopre s
When Dighton thus told on,—‘*t We smothered
The most replenished sweet work of nature,
That, from the prime creation, e’er she fram’d.”
Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse : 20
They could not speak ; and so I left them both,
To bear this tidings to the bloody king.

Enter King RicHARD.

And here he comes.—All health, my sovereign lord!
4d. Rich. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news?
Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge

Beget your happiness, be happy then,

For it is done.

KK. Rich. But didst thou see them dead ?
Tyr. I did, my lord.
A. Rich. 7 And buried, gentle Tyrrel?

Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them;

But where, to say the truth, I do not know. 30
K. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after-supper,

When thou shalt tell the process of their death,

Meantime, but think how I may do thee good,

And be inheritor of thy desire.

Farewell till then.

Tyr. Ihumbly take my leave. Peet.
KK. Rich. The son of Clarence have I pent up close;

His daughter meanly have I match’d in marriage ;

The sons of Edward acer in Abraham’s bosom,

And Anne, my wife, hath bid this world good night.

Now, for I know the Bretagne Richmond aims 40

 

Tyr. “* Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘¢irdling one another
Within their alabaster innocent arms.’"

At young Elizabeth, my brother’s daughter,
And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown,
To her go I, ajolly thriving wooer.

Enter CATESBY.
Cates. My lord !— oh
K. Rich. Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so
bluntly? . .
Cates. Bad ao my lord: Morton is fled to Rich-
mond ;
And Buckingham, back’d with the hardy Welshmen,
Is in the field, and still his power increaseth.
K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more

near, .
Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. 50
Come; I have learn’d, that fearful commenting

Is leaden servitor to dull delay ;

Delay leads impotent und snail-pac’d beggary:

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

 

 

KING RICHARD II. 283

Then fiery expedition be my wing, And now I cloy me with beholding it,

Jove’s Mercury, and herald for a king. Thy Edward he is dead, that kill’d my Edward;

Go, muster men: my counsel is my shield ; Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward;

We must be brief, when traitors brave the field. Young York he is but boot, because both they

{Exeunt. | Match not the high perfection of my loss.
— Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb’d my Edward ;
And the beholders of this frantic play,
ScENE IV.—Before the Palace. The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey,

Untimely smother’d in their dusky graves. 70

Enter Queen MARGARET.
Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mellow,
And drop into the rotten mouth of death.
Here in these confines slily have I lurk'd,
To watch the waning of mine enemies.
A dire induction am I witness to,
And will to France; hoping, the consequence
Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical.
Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret: who comes
here? [Retiring.
Enter Queen ELIZABETH and the Duchess of York.
Q. Eliz. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes!
My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! 10
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air,
And be not fix’d in doom perpetual,
Hover about me with your airy wings,
And hear your mother’s lamentation.
Q. Mar. Hover about her; say, that right for right
Hath dimm’d your infant morn to aged night.
Duch. So many miseries have craz’d my voice,
That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.—
Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead?
Q. Mar. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet ;
Edward for Edward pays a ane debt.
Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God! fly from such gentle

lambs,
And throw them in the entrails of the wolf?
When didst thou sleep, when such a deed was done?
. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son.
uch. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living

20

ghost,
Woe's scene, world's shame, grave’s due by life

usurp’d,
Brief abstract and record of tedious days,
Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth,
[Sitting down.
Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood ! 30
Q. Eliz. Ah! that thou wouldst as soon afford a

grave,
As thou canst yield a melancholy seat ;
Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here!
Ah! who hath any cause to mourn but we?
Sitting down by her.
Q. Mar. [Coming forward.] If ancient sorrow be
most reverend,
Give mine the benefit of seniory,
And let my griefs frown on the upper hand.
If sorrow can admit society, [Sitting down with them.
Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine :—
Thad an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; 40
Ihad a Henry, till a Richard kill’d him ;
Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him;
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him.
Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him;
Thad a Rutland too; thou holp’st to kill him.
Q. Mar. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard
kill’d him.
From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept
A hell-hound, that doth hunt us all to death ;
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes,
To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood :
That foul defacer of God’s han ror
That excellent grand-tyrant of the earth,
That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls,
Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves.—
O! upright, just, and true-disposing God,
ow do I thank thee, that this carnal cur
Preys on the issue of his mother’s body,
And makes her pew-fellow with others’ moan!
Duch. O, Harry’s wife! triumph not in my woes:
God witness with me, I have wept for thine.
Q. Mar. Bear with me: Iam hungry for revenge,

50

Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer,
Only reserv’d their factor, to buy souls,
And send them thither ; but at hand, at hand,
Ensues his piteous and unpitied end:
Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray,
To have him suddenly convey’d from hence. —
Cancel his bond of life, dear God! I pray,
That I may live and say, the dog is dead.
Q. Eliz. O! thou didst prophesy, the time would

come,
That I should wish for thee to help me curse 80
That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back’d toad.
Q. Mar. I call’d thee then vain flourish of my
fortune ;
I call'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen ;
The presentation of but what I was;
The flattering index of a Ca ae ane :
One heav’d o’ high, to be hurl’d down below ;
A mother only mock’d with two fair babes ;
A dream of what thou wast; a garish flag,
To be the aim of every dangerous shot ;
A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble ; 90
A queen in jest, only to fill the scene.
Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers?
Where be thy two sons? wherein dost thou joy?
Who sues, and kneels, and says—God save the
queen?
Where be the bending peers that flatter’d thee?
Where be the thronging troops that follow’d thee?
Decline all this, and see what now thou art.
For happy wife, a most distressed widow ;
For joytul mother, one that wails the name;
For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;
For queen, a very caitiff crown’d with care ;
For she that scorn'd at me, now scorn’d of me;
For she being fear’d of all, now fearing one;
For she commanding all, obey’d of none.
Thus hath the curse of justice whirl’d about,
And left thee but a very prey to time;
Having no more but thought of what thou wast,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not
Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow ?
Now thy proud neck bears half my burden'd yoke ;
From which, even here, I slip my wearied head,
And leave the burden of it all on thee.
Farewell, York’s wife, and queen of sad mischance:
These English woes shall make me smile in France.
Q. Eliz. O thou! well skill’d in curses, stay awhile,
And teach me how to curse mine enemies.

Q. M

100

110

ar. Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the

day ;

Compare dead happiness with living woe;
Think that thy babes were fairer than they were, 120
And he that slew them fouler than he is:
Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse:
Revolving this will teach thee how to curse.

Q. lie, My words are dull; O! quicken them with

ine!
Q. Mar. Thy woes will make them sharp, and
ierce like mine. Exit.

Duch. Why should calamity be full of words?

Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client woes,
Airy succeeders of intestate joys,
Poor breathing orators of miseries !
Let them have scope: though what the
Help nothing else, yet do they ease the

Duch. If

do impart
eart. 131
so, then be not tongue-tied: go with

me,

And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother

My damned son, that thy two sweet sons smother’d.
[4 Trumpet heard.

 

The trumpet sounds: be copious in exclaims.

 

 
 

 

 

284

Enter King RicuHarp, and his Train, marching.

Kx. Rich. Who intercepts me in my expedition ?
Duch. O! she that might have intercepted thee,
By strangling thee in her accursed womb,
From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done.
Q. Eliz. Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden
crown, ; : 140
Where should be branded, if that right were right,
The slaughter of the prince that ow'd that crown,
And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers ?
Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children?
Duch. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother
arence,
And little Ned Plantagenet, his son?
Q. Eliz. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan,

Grey
Duch, Where is kind Hastings?

 

K. Rich. ‘* Who Intercepts me in my expedition?”

KING RICHARD III.

[Act IV,

 

If I be so disgracious in your eye,
Let me march on, and not offend you, madam.—
Strike up the drum!

Duch. pr’ythee, hear me speak. 180

K. Rich. You speak too bitterly.

uch. Hear me a word;
For I aot oo speak to thee again.
ch. So

Duch. Kither thou wilt die by God’s just ordinance,
Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror;
Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish,
And never more behold thy face again.
Therefore, take with thee my most grievous curse :
Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more
Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st! 190
My prayers on the adverse party fight ;
And there the little souls of Edward’s children

. Whisper the spirits of thine enemies,

And promise them success and
victory.
Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy

end;
Shame serves thy life, and doth thy
death attend. (Exit.
Q. Eliz. Though far more cause,
yet much less spirit to
curse
Abides in me: I say Amen to her.
. 5 (Going.
ix. Rich. Stay, madam, I must
talk a word with you.
Q. Eliz. I have no more sons of
the royal blood 200
For thee _to slaughter: for my
daughters, Richard,
They shall be praying nuns, not
weeping queens;
And ee level not to hit their
ives.

ix. Rich. You have a daughter
call’d Elizabeth,
Virtuous and fair, royal and

gracious.
Q. Eliz. And must she die for
this? QO! let her live,
And I 11 corrupt her manners, stain
her beauty ;
Slander myself as false to Edward's

:

K. Rich. A flourish, trumpets!—strike alarum, , Throw over her the veil of infamy:

drums!
Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women
Rail on the Lord’s anointed. Strike, I say !—
{Flourish. Alarums.
Either be patient, and entreat me fair,
Or with the clamorous report of war
Thus will I drown your exclamations.
Duch. Art thou my son?
A. Rich. Ay; I thank God, my father, and yourself.
Duch. Then patiently hear my impatience.
K, Rich. Madam, I have a touch of your condition,
That cannot brook the accent of reproof.
Duch. O! let me speak.
K. Rich. Do, then; but [11 not hear.
Duch. Twill be mild and gentle in my words. 161
dK. Rich. And brief, good mother; for lam in haste.
Duch. Art thou so hasty? I have stay’d for thee,
God knows, in torment and in agony.
KK. Rich. And came I not at last to comfort you?
Duch, No, by the holy rood, thou know’st it well,
Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell.
A grievous burden was thy birth to me;
Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy ;
Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious;
Thy prime of manhood daring, bold and venturous ;
Thy age confirm’d, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, 172
More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred:
What comfortable hour canst thou name,
That ever grac’d me with thy company ?
KA. Rich. "Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that
eall’d your grace
To breakfast once, forth of my company.

150

 

So she may live unscarr’d of bleeding slaughter, 210
I will confess she was not Edward's daughter.
AK. Rich. Wrong not her birth; she is a royal .
princess. i
. Eliz. To save her life, I'll say she is not so.
I, Rich. Her life is safest only in her birth.
. Eliz. And only in that safety died her brothers.
.. Rich. Lo! at their birth good stars were opposite.
. Eliz. No, to their lives ill friends were contrary.
Kc. Bich. All unavoided is the doom of destiny.

Q. Eliz. True, when avoided grace makes destiny.
My babes were destin’d to a fairer death, 220
If grace had bless’d thee with a fairer life. y

dk. Rich. You speak, as if that I had slain my cousins.

Q. Eliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle

cozen’d {
Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life.
Whose hands soever lanc’d their tender hearts,
Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction:
No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt,
Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,
To revel in the entrails of my lambs.
But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame, 230
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys,
Till that my nails were anchor’d in thine eyes ;
And I, in such a desperate bay of death,
Likea ees bark, of sails and tackling reft,
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom.

dx. Rich. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise,
And dangerous success of bloody wars,

As I intend more good to you and yours,
Than ever you or yours by me were harm’d!

 

 

 
 

 

ScmnE IV.)

 

KING RICHARD III. 285
Q. Eliz. What good is cover’d with the face of | But mine shall be a comfort to your age.
; heaven, 240 | The loss you have is but a son being king,
To be discover’d, that can do me good? And by that loss your daughter is made queen.
’ K. Rich, The advancement of your children, gentle | Icannot make you what amends I would, 310

lady.
Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their
heads?

K. Rich. Unto the ieee eh height of fortune,
The high imperial type of this earth’s glory.

Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrow with report of it :

Tell me, what state, what dignity, what honour,
Canst thou demise to any child of mine?

K, Rich, Even all I have; ay, and myself and all,
Will I withal endow a child of thine ; 250
So in the Lethe of thy angry soul
Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs,
Which thou supposest I have done to thee.

Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kind-

ness
Last longer Laat than thy kindness’ date.

K. Rich. Then know, that from my soul I love thy

daughter.

Q. Eliz. mid daughter’s mother thinks it with her

sou

oul.
K. Rich. What do you think ?
Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter from thy

soul.

So, from thy soul’s love, didst thou love her brothers ;
And from my heart’s love I do thank thee for it. 261
K. Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning.

I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter,
And do intend to make her Queen of England.
Q. Eliz. Well then, who dost thou mean shall be

er king?
kK. Rich. Even he that makes her queen: who else
should be?
Q. Eliz. What! thou?
K. Rich. Even so: how think you of it ?
Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her?
K. Rich. That I would léarn of you,
As one being best acquainted with her humour. — 270
. Eliz, And wilt thou learn of me?
. Rich. Madam, with all my heart.
Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew her
brothers, 5
A pate of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave
Edward and York ; then, haply, will she weep:
Therefore present to her—as sometime Margaret
Did to thy father, steep’d in Rutland’s blood,—
A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain
The purple sap from her sweet brothers’ body,
And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal.
If this inducement move her not to love, 280
Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;
Tell her, thou mad’st away her uncle Clarence,
Her uncle Rivers ; ay, and, for her sake,
Mad’st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne.
Rich. You mock me, madam; this is not the way
To win your daughter.
Q. Eliz. There is no other way,
Unless thou couldst put on some other shape,
And not be Richard that hath done all this.
K. Rich. Say, that I did all this for love of her?
Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose but
. hate thee, 290
Hae bought love with such a bloody spoil.
K. Rich.” Look, what is done cannot be now
. amended :
Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes,
Which after-hours give leisure to repent:
IfI did take the kingdom from your sons,
To make amends I ‘ll give it to your daughter.
IfI have kill’d the issue of your womb,
To quicken your increase, I will beget
Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter.
A grandam’s name is little less in love
Than is the doting title of a mother:
ey are as children but one step below,
Even of your mettle, of your very blood :
f all one pe ys for a night of groans
Endur’d of her, for whom you bid like sorrow.
Your children were vexation to your youth ;

300

 

Therefore accept such kindness as I can.
Dorset, your son, that with a fearful soul
Leads discontented steps in foreign soil,

This fair alliance quickly shall call home

-To high promotions and great dignity:

The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife,
Faiiliarly shall call thy Dorset brother ;
Again shall you be mother to a king,
And all the ruins of distressful times
Repair’d with double riches of content. 320
What! we have many goodly days to sce:
The liquid drops of tears that you have shed,
Shall come again transform’d to orient pearl,
Advantaging their loan with interest
Of ten times double gain of happiness.
Go then, my mother; to thy daughter go:
Make bold her bashful years with your experience ;
Prepare her ears to hear a wooer’s tale;
Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame
Of golden sovereignty ; acquaint the princess 330
With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys :
And when this arm of mine hath chastised
The petty rebel, dull-brain’d Buckingham,
Bound with triumphant garlands will I come,
And lead thy daughter to a conqueror’s bed ;
To whom I will retail my conquest won,
And she shall be sole victress, Ceesar’s Ceesar.
Q. Eliz. What were I best to say? her father’s

brother
Would be her lord? or shall I say, her uncle?
Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles? 340

Under what title shall I woo for thee,

That God, the law, my honour, and her love,

Can make seem pleasing to her tender years?
kK. Rich. Infer fair England's peace by this alliance.
Q. Eliz. Which she shall purchase with still lasting

war.
K. Rich. Tell her, the king, that may command,

entreats.

Q. Eliz. That at her hands, which the kings’ King
forbids.

K. Rich. Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen.

Q. Eliz. To wail the title, as her mother doth.

A. Rich. Say, I will love her everlastingly. 350

Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title, ever, last ?

dx. Rich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life’s end.

Q. alle ay how long fairly shall her sweet life
ast

K. Rich. As long as Heaven, and nature, lengthens
it:

Q. Eliz. As long as hell, and Richard, likes of it.

AK. Rich. Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject low.

Q. Eliz. ane she, your subject, loathes such sove-
reignty.

K. Rich. Be eloquent in my behalf to her.

Q. Eliz. An honest tale speeds best, being plainly
told. 339

K. Rich. Then plainly to her tell my loving tale.

Q. Eliz. Plain, and not honest, is too harsh a style.

K. Rich. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick.

Q. Eliz. O, no, my reasons are too deep and dead ;—

Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves.

kK. Rich. Harp not on that string, madam ; that is
past.

Q. Eliz. Harp on it still shall I, till heartstrings

break.
K. Rich. Now, by my George, my garter, and my

crown,—
9 Eliz. Profan’d, dishonour’d, and the third usurp’d.
. Rich. Iswear—

Q. Eliz. By nothing ; for this is no oath.
Thy George, profan’d, hath lost his holy honour; 370
Thy garter, blemish’d, pawn’d his knightly virtue ;
Thy crown, usurp’d, divpracd his kingly elory,

If something thou wouldst swear to be believ’d,
Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong’d.
K. Rich. Now, by the world,—
Q. Eliz. ’T is full of thy foul wrongs.

 

 
 

286

. KING RICHARD III.

[Act IV.

 

 

K. Rich. My father’s death, — Few
Q. Eliz. Thy life hath it dishonour’d.
kK. fe Then, by myselt,—

. Liliz,

7 Thyself is self-misus’d.
ds. po Why then, by
Wi.

God,—
i i God's wrong is most of all.
Tf thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him,
The gee the king my husband made, __ 380
Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died.
If thou hadst fear’d to break an oath by Him,
The imperial metal, circling now thy head,
Had grac’d the tender temples of my child ;
And both the princes had been breathing here,
Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust,
Thy broken faith hath made the prey for worms.
What canst thou swear by now ?
EK. Rich. The time to come.
Q. Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the time o’er-
past ;
For I myself have many tears to wash

39)
Hereafter time, for time past, wrong'd by thee.
The children live, whose fathers thou hast slaughter’d,
Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age:
The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher’d,
Old barren plants, to wail it with their age.
Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast
Misus’d ere us’d, by times ill-us’d o’erpast.
ix. Rich. As lintend to prosper, and repent,

So thrive I in my dangerous affairs
Of hostile arms! myself myself confound!
Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours !
Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest !
Be opposite all planets of good luck
To my proceeding, if, with dear heart's love,
Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts,
I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter !
In her consists my happiness and thine :
Without her, follows to myself, and thee,
Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul,
Death, desolation, ruin, and decay:
It cannot be avoided but by this;
It will not be avoided but by this.
Therefore, dear mother (I must call you so),
Be the attorney of my love to her.
Plead what I will be, not what I have been ;
Not my deserts, but what I will deserve:
Urge the necessity and state of times,
And be not peevish-fond in great designs.

. Hliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?

. Rich. Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good. 420

. liz. Shall I forget myself to be myself?

400

410

 

. Rich. Ay, if yourself’s remembrance wrong |

yourself.
. Hliz. Yet thou didst kill my children.
IC. ae But in your daughter’s womb I bury
hem:
Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed
Selves of themselves to your recomforture.
. Hliz, Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?
<. Rich. And be a happy mothep by the deed.
Q. Eliz. I go.--Write to me very shortly,
And you shall understand from me her mind. 430
4. Rich. Bear her my true love's kiss, and so fare-
well. [Kissing her. Exit Q. ELIZABETU.
Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman !
How now? what news?

Enter RATCLIFF ; CATESBY following.
Rat. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast
Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores
Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends,
Unarm’d, and unresolv’d to beat them back.
"Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral;
And there they hull, expecting but the aid
Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. 440
AK. A eons light-foot friend post to the Duke of
Norfolk :—
Ratcliff, thyself,—or Catesby ; where is he?
Cates. Here, my good lord.
K. Rich, Catesby, fly to the duke.
Cates. I will, my lord, with all convenient haste.
K. Rich, Ratelitf, come hither. Post to Salisbury :

 

When thou com’st thither,_[To CaTEs.] Dull, un-
mindful villain,
Why stay’st thou here, and go’st not to the duke?
Cates. First, mighty liege, tell me your highness’
pleasure,
What from your grace I shall deliver to him.
kK. Rich. O! true, good Catesby.—Bid him levy
straight 450
The greatest strength and power he can make,
And meet me suddenly at Salisbury.
F [Eait,
Rat. What, may it please you, shall I do at
Salisbury ?

Cates. I go.
K. Fel Why, what wouldst thou do there, before

go?
Rat. Your highness told me, I should post before.

Enter STANLEY.

K. Rich. My mind is chang’d.—Stanley, what news

with you?

Stan. None good, my liege, to please you +vith the

hearing ; ;
Nor none so bad, but well may be reported.

K. Rich. Heyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad?
What need’st thou run so many miles about, 461
When thou may’st tell thy tale the nearest way?
Once more, what news?

Stan. Richmond is on the seas.

AK. Rich. There let him sink, and:be the seas onhim!
White-liver'd runagate ! what doth he there?

Stan. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess.

kA. Rich. Well, as you guess?

Stan. Stirr’d up by Dorset, Buckingham, and

Morton, 3
He makes for England, here to claim the crown.

K. Rich. Is the chair empty? is the sword unsway'd?

Is the king dead? the empire unpossess’d?

What heir of York is there alive, but we?

And who is England’s king, but great York’s heir?
Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas?

Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess.

kk. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege,
You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes.
Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear.

Stan. No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not.

K. Rich. Where is thy power then to beat him back?
Where be thy tenants, and thy followers? 481
Are they not now upon the western shore,
Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships?

Stan. No, my good lord, my friends are in the north.

K. Rich. Cold friends to me: what do they in the

north, 4
When they should serve their sovereign in the west?

Stan. They have not been commanded, mighty king.

Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave,
I'll muster up my friends, and meet your grace,
Where, and what time, your majesty shall please. _
K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with
Richmond : 491
But I'll not trust thee.
Stan. Most mighty sovereign,
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful.
I never was, nor never will be false. K

K. Rich. Go then, and muster men: but leave behind
Your son, George Stanley. Look your heart be firm,
Or else his head's assurance is but frail.

Stan. So deal with him, as I prove true to you. |

[Exit.
Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire,
As I by friends am well advertised, 500
Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate,
Bishop ot Exeter, his elder brother,

With many more confederates, are in arms.
Enter another Messenger. :

2 Mess. In Kent, my liege, the Guildfords are in

arms ;
And every hour more competitors
Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong.

Enter a third Messenger.
3 Mess. My lord, the army of great Buckingham—

 

 
 

—

ScENE V.] KING RICHARD II. 287

 

a j He strikes him.
There, take thou that, till thou bring better news.

3 Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty 410
Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters,
Buckingham’s army is dispers'd and scatter'd ;

And he himself wander’d away alone,
No man knows whither.

K. Rich. I cry thee mercy:
There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine.
Hath any well-advised friend proclaim’d
Reward to him that brings the traitor in ?

3 aa enen proclamation hath been made, my

ord.

Enter a fourth Messenger.

4 Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel, and Lord Marquess
Dorset,
*T is said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms: 520
But this good comfort bring I to your highness, —
The Bretagne navy is dispers’d by tempest.
Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat
Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks,
If they were his assistants, yea, or no;
Who answer’d him, they came from Buckingham.
Upon his party: he, mistrusting them,
Hois’d sail, and made his course again for Bretagne.
K. Rich. March on, march on, since we are up in

arms;
If not to fight with foreign enemies, 530
Yet to beat down these rebels here at home.

Enter CATESBY.

Cates. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken;
That is the best news. That the Karl of Richmond

K. Rich. Out on ye, owls! nothing but songs of :
death

 

Is with a mighty power landed at Milford,
Is colder news, but yet they must be told.
K. Rich. Away towards Salisbury! while we reason

here,
A royal battle might be won and lost. —
Some one take order, Buckingham be brought
‘To Salisbury : the rest march on with me.  [Exeunt.

ScENE V.—A Room in Lord STANLEY's House.

Enter STANLEY and Sir CHRISTOPHER URSWICK.
Stan. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from

me :—

That, in the sty of the most bloody boar,

My son George Stanley is frank’d up in hold:

If I revolt, off goes young George’s head ;

The fear of that holds off my present aid.

So, ane thee gone : commend me to thy lord.

Withal, say, that the queen hath heartily consented,

He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter.

But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now ?
Chris. At Pembroke, or at Ha’rford-west, in Wales.
Stan. What men of name resort to him?

Chris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier,

Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley ;

Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt,

And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew ;

And many other of great name and worth:

And towards London do they bend their power,

If by the way they be not fought withal.

Stan. Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand;

20

My letter will resolve him of my mind. 2
Farewell. [Giving papers to Sir CHRISTOPHER.
[Hxeunt.

 

 

 

   

Buckingham. R
SILL not ing Richard let me speak with

im
Sher. No, my good lord; therefore be
patient.
Buck, Hastings, and Edward's chil-
dren, Grey, and Rivers,
Holy ne Henry, and thy fair son
Edward, F ;
Vaughan, and all that have miscarricd
By underhand corrupted foul injustice,
ee If that your moody discontented souls
Do through the clouds behold this
fe hour, |
Even for revenge mock my destruction !—
This is All-Souls’ day, fellow, is it not? 10
Sher. It is.
Buck. why; then All-Souls’ day is my body’s dooms-

This is the day, which, in King Edward’s time,
I wish’d might fall on me, when I was found
False to his children, or his wife’s allies :

This is the day, wherein I wish’d to fall

By the false faith of him whom most I trusted ;
This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul

 

 

 

ACT V.
‘ é ScENE I.—Salisbury. An Open Place.

Enter the Sheriff, and Guard, with BUCKINGHAM, led to execution.

Is the determin’d respite of my wrongs.

That high All-Seer, which I dallied with, 20

Hath turn’d my feigned prayer on my head,

And given in earnest what I begg’d in jest.

Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men

To turn their own points in their masters’ bosoms:

Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck :—

““When he,” quoth she, ‘shall split thy heart with

sorrow,

Remember, Margaret was a prophetess.”—

Come, lead me, officers, to the block of shame ;

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the duc of blame.
[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and Officers.

 

Scene II.—A Plain near Tamworth.

Enter, with drum and colours, RICHMOND, OXFORD,
Sir JAMES BuunT, Sir WALTER HERBERT, and
others, with Forces, marching.

Richm. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruis’d underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we march’d on without impediment:

And here receive we from our father Stanley

 

 
 

 

288 KING RICHARD III,

Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, ;
That spoil’d your summer fields and fruitful vines, —
Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his
trough : ‘
In your embowell’d bosoms, this foul swine 10
Lies now even in the centre of this isle,
Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn:
From Tamworth thither is but one day’s march.
In God’s name, cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace
By this one bloody trial of sharp war.
Oxf. Every man’s conscience is a thousand men,
To fight against this guilty homicide.
Herb. | doubt not, but his friends will turn to us.
Blunt. He hath no friends, but what are friends tor

fear,
Which in his dearest need will fly from him.
Richm. All for our vantage: then, in God’s name,
march. :
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings ;
Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.
[Ezeunt.

ScENE IIJ.—Bosworth Field.

Enter King Ricutarp, and Forces; the Duke of
NorFOLK, Earl of SURREY, and others.
A. Rich. Here pitch our tents, even here in Bos-
worth Field,—
My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad ?
Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks.
K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk, —
Nor. Here, most gracious liege.
AK. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks ; ha! must
we not?
Nor. We must both give and take, my loving lord.
K. Rich. Up with my tent! here will I lie to-night ;
But where to-morrow ?—Well, all’s one for that. —
Who hath descried the number of the traitors ?
Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. 10
A. Rich. Why, our battalia trebles that account :
Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength,
Which they upon the adverse faction want.
Up with the tent !—Come, noble gentlemen,
Let us survey the vantage of the ground.—
Call for some men of sound direction.—
Let’s lack no discipline, make no delay,

For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. [Exeunt.

Enter, on the other side of the ficld, RicuMonpD, Sir
WILLIAM BRANDON, OXFORD, and other Officcrs.
Some of the Soldicrs pitch RICHMOND'S Tent.
Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden set,

And, by the bright track of his fiery car,

Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. --

Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard,—

Give me some ink and paper in my tent:

I'll draw the form and model of our battle,

Limit each leader to his several charge,

And part in just proportion our small power.

My Lord of Oxford,—you, Sir William Brandon,—

And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me.

The Karl of Pembroke keeps his regiment :

Good Captain Blunt, bear my good night to him, 30

And by the second hour in the morning

Desire the earl to sce me in my tent.—

Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me;

Where is Lord Stanley quarter’d, do you know?
Biunt. Unless I have mista’en his colours much

(Which, well Iam assur’d, I have not done),

His regiment lies half a mile, at least,

South from the mighty power of the king.

Richm. If without peril it be possible,
Sweet alin, make some good means to speak ay
im,

And give him from me this most needful note.
Blunt. Upon my life, my lord, I'll undertake it:

And so, God give you quiet rest to-night !

Richm. Good night, good Captain Blunt. Come,
gentlemen,

 

Let us consult upon to-morrow’s business ;

{Act V.
In to my tent; the dew is raw and cold.

[They withdraw into the Tent,

Enter, to his Tent, King RIcHARD, NORFOLK,
RatTcuirF, and CATESBY.
- po What is ’t pcloeks 4
‘ates. It’s supper-time, my lord ; it’s nine o'clock.
A. Rich. I will not sup to-night.— e
Give me some ink and paper.— 30
What, is my beaver easier than it was,
And all my armour laid into my tent?
Cates. It is, my liege ; and all things are in readi-

ness.

K. Rich. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge.
Use careful watch ; choose trusty sentinels.

Nor. I go, my lord.

K. aie a with the lark to-morrow, gentle Nor-

olk.

Nor. I warrant you, my lord. Exit.

AY. Rich. Ratclitf! l

Rat. My lord?

ix. Rich. _ Send out a pursuivant-at-arms 6)
To Stanley’s regiment: bid him bring his power
Before sun-rising, lest his son George fall
Into the blind cave of eternal night.—

Fill me a bowl of wine. Give mea watch.

Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow.

Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy.—
Ratclitf!— .

Rat. My lord?

A. Rich, Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord North-

umberland ?

Rat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and himself, 70
Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop
Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers.

kK. Rich. So: I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of

wine:
I have not that alacrity of spirit,
Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have.—
Set it down.—Is ink and paper ready?

fat. It is, my lord.

K. Rich. Bid my guard watch. Leave me.
Ratcliff, about the mid of night come to my tent,
And help to arm me.—Leave me, I say.

[King RIcHARD retires into his Tent.
Lxeunt RATCLIFF and CATESBY.

RICHMOND'S Tent opens, and discovers him and his
Officers, &c.

Enter STANLEY.
Stan. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm!
Richm. All comfort that the dark night can afford,
Be to thy person, noble father-in-law !
Tell me, how fares our loving mother ?
Stan. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother,
Who prays continually for Richmond’s good.
So much for that.—The silent hours steal on,
And flaky darkness breaks within the east.
In brief, for so the season bids us be, ;
Prepare thy battle early in the morning ; 90
And put thy fortune to the arbitrement
Of bloody strokes, and mortal-staring war.
IT, as I may (that which I would I cannot),
With best advantage will deceive the time,
And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms:
But on thy side I may not be too forward,
Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George,
Be executed in his father’s sight.
Farewell. The leisure and the fearful time
Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love, 190
And ample interchange of sweet discourse,
Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon.
God give us leisure for these rites of love!
Once more, adieu.—Be valiant, and speed well!
Richm. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment.
I'll strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap:
Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow,
When I should mount with wings of victory.
Once more, good night, kind lords, and gentlemen.
[Axeunt Lords, &c., with STANLEY.

 

 
 

=

ScENE III.] KING

RICHARD III.

289

 

OQ! Thou, whose captain I account myself,
Look on my forces with a gracious eye ;

Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath,
That they may crush down with a heavy fall

| |

 

 

The usurping helmets of our adversaries !

Make us thy ministers of chastisement,

That we may praise thee in thy victory !

To thee I do commend my watchful soul,

Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes :

Sleeping, and waking, O! defend me still! [Sleeps.

The Ghost of Prince EDWARD, Son to HENRY the
Sixth, rises bétween the two Tents.

to-morrow !

 

Ghost. [To K. Ricu.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul I
120 | [To RicHM.] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror !

110 | Think, how thou stabb’dst me in my prime of youth

At Tow eeury despair, therefore, and dic.—
To Hicem.) © e cheerful, Richmond ; fer the wronged
80

 

Ghost. “Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.”

Of butcher’d princes fight in thy behalf :
King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee.

The Ghost of King Henry the Sizth rises.
Ghost. [ ae a . RicH.] When I was mortal, my anointed
joay
By thee was punched full of deadly holes.

Think on the Tower, and me: despair, and die ;
Harry the Sixth bids thee despair, and die !—

|
t
i

 

 

19
 

290 KING

RICHARD III.

 

{Act V,

 

Harry that prophesy’d thou shouldst be king, 121
Doth comfort thee in sleep: live, and flourish!

The Ghost of CLARENCE rises.
Ghost. [To K. Ricu.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul
to-morrow !

I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine,
Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray’d to death!
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die!
[Zo RicuHM.]} Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster,
The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee;

The Ghosts of RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN, rise.
Ghost of Riv. [To K. Ricu.] Let me sit heavy on
thy soul to-morrow !
Rivers, that died at Pomfret. Despair, and die!
Ghost of Grey. [To kK. Ricu.] Think upon Grey, and
let thy soul despair.
Ghost of Vaugh. (To #K. Ricu.] Think upon Vaughan,
and with guilty tear
Let fall thy lance. Despair, and die !—
All. [To RicHM.] Awake, and think, our wrongs in
Richard’s bosom
Will conquer him.—Awake, and win the day!

The Ghost of HASTINGS rises.
Ghost. [To K. Ricu.] Bloody and guilty, guiltily
awake;
And in a bloody battle end thy days. :
Think on Lord Hastings. Despair, and dic !— 150
{To RicuM.] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake !
Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England’s sake.

The Ghosts of the twa young Princes rise.
Ghosts. [To K. Ricu.] Dream on thy cousins
smother’d in the Tower: :
Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard,
And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death.
Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair, and die! —
[To RicuM.] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and
wake in joy ;
Good nee guard thee from the boar’s annoy!
Live, and beget a happy race of kings.

Edward’s unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. 160 ©

The Ghost of Queen ANNE rises.
Ghost. [To K. Ricu.] Richard, thy
wretched Anne thy wife,

That never slept a quiet hour with thee,
Now fills thy sleep with perturbations:
To-morrow in the battle think on me,
And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die !—
[7'o RicHM.] Thou, quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep ;
Dream of success and happy victory:
Thy adversary’s wife doth pray for thee.

The Ghast of BUCKINGHAM rises.
Ghost. [To K. Ricu.] The first was I that help’d thee
to the crown;
The last was I that felt thy tyranny. 170
O! in the battle think on Buckingham,
And die in terror of thy guiltiness.
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death :
Fainting, despair ; despairing, yield thy breath !—
Ge RicuM.] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid:
ut cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay’d :
God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side;
And Richard falls in height of all his pride.
[The Ghosts vanish. King RICHARD starts
out of his dreain.
K. Rich. Give me another horse!—bind up my
wounds !—
Have mercy, Jesu!--Soft! I did but dream.— 180
O, coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me !—
The lights burn blue. —It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What, do I feargnyself? there’s none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, Iam I.
Is there a murderer here?: No;—yes; Iam:
hen fly,--what, from myself? Great reason, why:

: ' Murder, stern murder, in the dir’st degree ;
Good angels guard thy battle! Live, and flourish! 140 |

 

wife, that |

 

Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?
Alack! I love myself. Wherefore? for any good
That I myself have done unto myself?

O! no: alas! I rather hate myself, ‘
For hateful deeds committed by myself.
Lamavillain. Yet I lie; 1 am not.

Fool, of thyself speak well :—fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,

And every tale condemns me for a Villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high’st degree;

All several sins, all us’d in each degree, 200
Throng to the bar, crying all,-—Guilty! guilty!

I shall despair.—There is no creature loves me;

And if I die, no soul shall pity me :—

Nay, wherefore should they? since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself. ,
Methought, the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.

Enter RATCLIFF.
Rat. My lord,— .
K. Rich. Who’s there ? 210
Rat. Ratcliff, my lord; ’tisI. The carly village cock
Hath twice done salutation to the morn:
Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour.
&. Rich. O Ratcliff! I have dream’d a fearful
dream.—
What thinkest thou? will our friends prove all true?
Rat. No doubt, my lord.
K. Rich. O Ratcliff! I fear, I fear,—
Rat. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows.
K. Rich. By the Apostle Paul, shadows to-night
Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard,
Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers, 220
Armed in proof, and led by shallow Richmond.
It is not yet near day. Come, go with me:
Under our tents I ’ll play the eaves-dropper,

To hear if any mean to shrink from me. [Exeunt.

RIcHMOND wakes. Enter OXFORD and others.
Lords. Good morrow, Richmond.
Richm. Cry mercy, lords, and watchful gentlemen,
That you have ta’en a tardy sluggard here.
Lords. How have you slept, my lord?
Richm. The sweetest sleep, and fairest-boding
dreams, :
That ever enter’d in a drowsy head, 230
Have I since your departure had, my lords.
Methought, ‘their souls, whose bodies Richard
murder’d,
Came to my tent, and cried on victory:
I promise you, my heart is very jocund
In the remembrance of so fair a dream.
How far into the morning is it, lords?
Lords. Upon the stroke of four. i
Richm. Why, then ’tis time to arm, and give direc-
tion. — [He advances to the Troops.
More than I have said, loving countrymen,
The leisure and enforcement of the time 240
Forbids to dwell on: yet remember this,—
God and our good cause fight upon our side ;
The prayers of holy saints, and wronged souls,
Like high-rear’d bulwarks, stand before our faces.
Richard except, those whom we fight against
Had rather have us win, than him they follow.
For what is he they follow ? truly, gentlemen,
A bloody tyrant, and a homicide ;
One rais’d in blood, and one in blood establish’d;
One that made means to come by what he hath, _ 250
And Heer those that were the means to help
im;
A base foul stone, made precious by the foil
Of England's chair, where he is falsely set:
One that hath ever been God’s enemy.
Then, if you fight against God’s enemy, ‘
God will, in justice, ward you as his soldiers ;
If you do sweat to put a tyrant down,
You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain ; :
If you do fight against your country’s foes,

 
 

 

Scene IIL]

KING RICHARD III. 291

 

Your a shall pay your pains the hire; 260

If you do fight in safeguard of your wives,

Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors ;

If you do free your children from the sword,

Your children’s children quit it in your age.

Then, in the name of God, and all these rights,

Advance your standards, draw your willing swords.

For me, the ransom of my bold attempt

Shall be this cold corse on the earth’s cold face ;

But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt,

The least of you shali share his pat thereof. 270

Sound, drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully ;

God and Saint George! Richmond and victory !
[Excunt.

Re-enter King RICHARD; RATCLIFF, Attendants, and
ces.
K. Rich. What said Northumberland, as touching
Richmond?
Rat. That he was never trained up in arms.
K. Fateh ie said the truth: and what said Surrey
en
Rat. He smil’d and said, the better for our purpose.
K. Rich. He wasi’ the right ; and so, indeed it is.
: [Clock strikes.
Tell the clock there.— Give me a calendar. -—
Who saw the sun to-day ?
Not I, my lord.

Rat.
K. kich. Then he disdains to shine! for, by the book,
He should have brav’d the east an hour ago: 281
A black day will it be to somebody. —
Ratcliff, --
Rat. My lord?
K. Rich. The sun will not be seen to-day :
The sky doth frown and lour upon our army.
] would, these dewy tears were from the ground.
Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me
More than to Richmond? for the selfsame heaven,
That frowns on me, looks sadly upon him.

Enter NOR¥KOLK.
Nor. Arm, arm, my lord! the foe vaunts in the
field. 299

e
K. Rich. Come, bustle, bustle. open my horse.
.Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power.
I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain,
And thus my battle shall be ordered.
My forward shall be drawn out all in length,
Consisting equally of horse and foot :
Our archers shall be placed in the midst.
John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey,
Shall have the leading of the foot and horse.
They thus directed, we will follow 300
In fle main battle ; whose puissance on either side
Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse.
This, and Saint George to boot !—What think’st thou,
Norfolk ?

Nor. A good direction, warlike sovereign.—

This found I on my tent this morning.
(Giving a scroll.

K. Rich. [Reads.] “ Jocky of Norfolk, be not too bold,
For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.”
A thing devised by the enemy.—
Go, gentlemen ; every man to his charge.
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls ;
Conscience is but a word that cowards use,
Devis’d at first to keep the strong in awe:
Our strong arm be our conscience, swords our law.
March on, join bravely, let us to ’t pell-mell ;
Tf not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell.—
What shall I say more than I have inferr’d?
Remember whom you are to cope withal ;--
A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways,
A scum of Bretagnes, and base lackey peasants,
Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth — 320
To desperate adventures and assur’d destruction.
You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest ; :
You having lands, and bless’d_with beauteous wives,
They would restrain the one, distain the other.
And who doth lead them, but a paltry fellow,
Long kept in Bretagne at our mother's cost?
A milksop, one that never in his life ~

310

 

Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow?

Let’s whip these stragglers o’er the seas again ;

Lash hence these overweening rags of France,

These famish’d beggars, weary of their lives ;

Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit,

For want of means, poor rats, had hang’d themselves,

If we be conquer’d, let men conquer us.

And not these bastard Bretagnes, whom our fathers

Have in their own land beaten, bobb’d, and thump’d,

And, on record, left them the heirs of shame.

Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives?

Ravish our daughters?—[Drum afar off.) Hark; I
hear their drum.

Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeomen! 340

Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head !

Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood :

Amaze the welkin with your broker staves!

330

Enter a Messenger.

What sey? Lord Stanley? will he bring his power ?

Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come.

XK. Rich. Off with his son George’s head!

Nor. My lord, the enemy is pass’d the marsh :
After the battle let George Stanley die.

A. Teoh. A thousand hearts are great within my

osom.

Advance our standards! set upon our foes ! 330
Our ancient word of courage, tair Saint George,
Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons!

Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. [Exeunt.

ScENE IV.---Another Part of the Field.

Alarum: Excursions. Enter NORFOLK, and Forces;
to him CaTEsBy.
Cates. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk ! rescue, rescue !
The king enacts more wonders than a man,
Daring an opposite to every danger.
His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights,
Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost!

Alarum. Enter King RicHARD.
K. Rich. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a
horse!

Cates. Withdraw, my lord; I'll help you to a horse.

&K. Rich, Slave! Ihave set my life upon a cast,
And I will stand the hazard of the die. 10
I think there be six Richmonds in the field ;
Five have I slain to-day, instead of him.—
A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse ! [Hxewnt.

Alarums. Enter King RICHARD and RICHMOND:
and exeunt fighting. Retreat and flourish. Then
enter RICHMOND, STANLEY bearing the crown, with
divers other Lords, and Forces.

Richm. God, and your arms, be prais’d, victorious
. friends,

The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.

Stan. Courapeots Richmond, well hast thou acquit
ec.

Lo! here, this long-usurped royalty

From the dead temples of this bloody wretch

Have I pluck’d off, to grace thy brows withal :

Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. 20
Richm. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all !—

But, tell me, is young George Stanley living ?

Stan. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town,

Whither, if you please, we may withdraw us.

Richm. What men of name arc slain on cither side?
Stan. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers,

Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon.
Richm. Inter their bodies as becomes their births.

‘Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled

That in submission will return to us; 30

And then, as we have ta’en the sacrament,

We will unite the white rose and the fed :—

Smile Heaven upon this fair conjunction,

That long hath frown’d upon their enmity !—

What traitor hears me, and says not Amen?

 

 
 

292

KING RICHARD III.

[Acr v. |

 

England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself ;
The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood,

The father rashly slaughter’d his own son,

The son, compell’d, been butcher to the sire ;

All this divided York and Lancaster

Divided in their dire division.—

QO! now, let Richmond and Elizabeth,

The true succeeders of each royal house,

By God’s fair ordinance conjoin together!

And let their heirs (God, if thy will be so)

 

 

 

40

 

Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac’d peace,

With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days !

Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord,

That would reduce these bloody days again,

And make poor England weep in streams of blood! 50

Let them not live to taste this land’s increase,

That would with treason wound this fair land's
_ peace !

Now civil wounds are stopp’d, peace lives again:

That she may long live here, God say Amen! [Hzeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a Clown.
OLD Gosso, Father to Launcelot.
LEONARDO, Servant to Bassanio.

 

DUKE OF VENICE.

PRINCE OF Morocco \ . spit
PRINCE OF ARRAGON, Suitors to Portia.

ANTONIO, the Merchant of Venice. BALTHAZAR, : “ie

BASSANIO, his Friend. STEPHANO, t Servants to Portia.

GRATIANO, ; : ‘ Portia, a rich Heiress

BOEINTO, 3 Friends to Antonio and Bas:anio. NERISSA, her Waiting-maid.
Jessica, Daughter to Shylock.

LORENZO, in love with Jessica.
SHYLOCK, a Jew. .
TUBAL, a Jew, his Friend.

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,
Gaoler, Servants, and other Attendants.

SCENE—Partly at VENICE, and partly at BELMONT.

 

ACT I.
Scene I.—Venice. <A Street.
Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO.

   

Antonio. Ant. Believe me, no. I thank my fortune for it,
*N sooth, I know not why I am so sad. My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
It wearies me: ie say, it wearies you; | Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born,
Tam to learn;
And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.
Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean,
There, where your argosies with portly sail,
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, 11
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That curt’sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Solan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would
Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still _
Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads ;
And every object that might make me fear 20
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt,
Would make me sad. ;
Salar. My wind, cooling my broth,
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
What harm a wind too great might do at sea.
Ishould not see the sandy hour-glass run,
But I should think of shallows and of flats,
And see my wealthy Andrew, decks in sand,
Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs,
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church,
And see the holy edifice of stone, 30
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
Which touching but my gentle vessel’s side,
Would scatter all her spices on the stream,
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, Salar. “ Why, then you are in love.”
And, in a word, but even now worth this,
And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought :
To think on this, and shall I lack the thought, Upon the fortune of this present year :
That such a thing bechanc’d would make me sad? Therefore, my merchandise makes me not sad.
But tell not me: I know, Antonio Salar. Why, then you are in love. ;
Is sad to think upon his merchandise. 40 Ant. Fie, fie!

 

 

 

 
 

294

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Acr I,

 

 

Salar. Not in love neither? Then let’s say you are
Because you are not merry ; and ’t were as easy
For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are merry,

Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,.

Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time: bl
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes,
And laugh, like parrots, at a bag-piper ;

And other of such vinegar aspect, |

That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO.

Solan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kins-

man,
Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare you well:
We leave you now with better company.

Salar. I would have stay’d till I had made yon

merry,
If worthier friends had not prevented me.
Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard.
I take it, your own business calls on you,
And you embrace the occasion to depart.
Salar. Good morrow, my good lords.
Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh?
say, when? .
You grow exceeding strange : must it be so?
Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.
Exeunt SALARINO and SOLANIO.
Lor. My lord Bassanio, since you have found
Antonio, :
We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, 70
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you. ‘
Gra. You look not well, signior Antonio ;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it that do buy it with much care.
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. .

Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano ;
A stage, where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.

Gra. Let me play the fool:

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, 80
And let my liver rather heat with wine,

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,

Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice

By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,—

I laze thee, and it is my love that speaks, —

There are a sort of men, whose visages

Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond,

And do a wilful stillness entertain, 90
With purpose to be dress’d in an opinion

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit ;

As who should say, ‘‘I am Sir Oracle,

And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark !”’

O! my Antonio, I do know of these,

That therefore only are reputed wise,

For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.
I'll tell thee more of this another time:

But fish not, with this melancholy bait,

For this fool-gudgeon, this opinion,—

Come, good Lorenzo.—Fare ye well awhile:

I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

Lor. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time.
I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Gra. Well, keep me company but two years moe,
Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Ant. Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear. 110

Gra. Thanks, i’ faith; forsilenceis only commendable
In a neat’s tongue driec, and a maid not vendible.

Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO.

Ant. Is that anything now?

Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing,
more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as
two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you
shall seek all day ere you find them; and when you
have them, they are not worth the search.

 

Ant. Well; tell me now, what lady is the same
To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
That you to-day promis’d to tell me of ?

Bass. ’Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
How much I have disabled mine estate,
By something showing a more swelling port
Than my faint means would grant continuance :
Nor do I now make moan to be‘abridg’d
From such a noble rate ; but my chief care
Is to come fairly off from the great debts,
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,
I owe the most, in money and in love ;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburthen all my oe and purposes,
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it:
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur’d,
My purse, 1, PESO my extremest means,
Lie all unlock’d to your occasions.

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, ,
141

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way with more advised watch,
To find the other forth ; and by adventuring both,
Toft found both. I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost ; but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
As I will watch the aim, or to find both, 150
Or bring your latter hazard back again,
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant. You know me well, and herein spend but

time,

To wind about my love with circumstance ;
And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong,
In making question of my uttermost,
Than if you had made waste of all I have:
Then, do but say to me what I should do,
That in your knowledge may by me be done,
And Iam prest unto it: therefore, speak.

Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages.
Her name is Portia ; nothing undervalued
‘Lo Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia;
Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,
For the four winds blow in from every coast
Renowned suitors ; and her sunny locks
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece ; 170
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos’ strand ;
And many Jasons come in quest of her.
O my Antonio! had I but the means
To hold a rival place with one of them,
I have a mind presages me such thrift,
That I should questionless be fortunate.

Ant. Thou know’st, that all my fortunes are at sea:
Neither have I money, nor commodity
To raise a present sum: therefore, go forth;
Try what my credit can in Venice do:
That shall be rack’d, even to the uttermost,
To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
Where money is, and I no question make,
To have it of my trust, or for my sake.

160

180

[Exeunt.

ScENE JI.—Belmont. An Apartment in Port1a’s
House.

Enter PorRTIA and NERISSA.

Por. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary
of this great world. ee

Ner. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries
were in the same abundance as your good fortunes
are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that
surfeit with too much, as they that starve with
nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be

 

 
 

 

Scene IIT.)

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

295

 

seated in the mean: superfluity comes sooner by
white hairs, but competency lives longer.

Por. Good sentences, and well pronounced. 10

Ner. They would be better, if well followed.

Por. If todo were as easy as to know what were
good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s
cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that
follows his own instructions: I can easier teach
twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the
twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may
devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps o'er
a cold decree: such a hare is madness, the youth, to
skip o’er the meshes of good counsel, the cripple. But
this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose mea
husband.—O me! the word choose! I may neither
choose whom I would, nor refuse whom I dislike; so
is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a
dead father.—Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I canno
choose one, nor refuse none? 26

 

Por. “God made bim, and therefore let him pass fur a man.”

Ner. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men
at their death have good inspirations ; therefore, the
lottery, that he hath devised in these three chests, of
gold, silver, and lead, (whereof who chooses his mean-
ing, chooses you) will, no doubt, never be chosen by
any rightly, but one who you shall rightly love. But
what warmth is there in your affection towards any
of these princely suitors that are already come?

Por. I pray thee, over-name them, and as thou
namest them, I will describe them; and, according to
my description, level at my affection.

Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. _ 38

Por. Ay, that’s a colt, indeed, for he doth nothing
but talk of his horse: and he makes it a great appro-
| ee to his own good parts, that he can shoe him

imself. I am much afraid, my lady his mother
played false with a smith.

er. Then is there the county Palatine.

Por. He doth nothing but frown, as who should
say, ‘“‘An you will not have me, choose.” He hears
merry tales, and smiles not: I fear he will prove the
weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full
of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had-rather be
married to a death’s-head with a bone in his mouth,
than to either of these. God defend me from these

two! 52 |

ae How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le
on

Por. God made him, and therefore let him pass for
aman. In truth, I know it isa sin to be a mocker;
but, he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapoli-
tan’'s, a better bad habit of frowning than the count
Palatine: he is every man in no man; if a throstle
sing, he falls straight a capering: he will fence with

8 own shadow. If I should send him, I should
oo twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I
would forgive him ; for if he love me to madness, I
shall never requite him. 64

 

Ner. What say you_then to Faulconbridge, the

young baron of England?

or. You know, I say nothing to him, for he under-
stands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin,
French, nor Italian ; and you will come into the court
and swear, that I have a poor penny-worth in the
English. He is a proper man’s picture; but, alas!
who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he
is suited! I think, he bought his doublet in Italy, his
round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and
his behaviour every where.
‘, ace What think you of the Scottish lord, his neigh-

our

Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him;
for he borrowed a box of the ear ot the Englishman,
and swore he would pay him again, when he was
able: I think, the Frenchman became his surety, and
sealed under for another. 82

Ner. How like you the young German, the duke of
Saxony’s nephew ?

Por. Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober,
and most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk:
when he is best, he is a little worse than a man; and
when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An
the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift
to go without him. 90

Ner. If he should offer to choose, and choose the
right casket, you should refuse to perform your
father’s will, if you should refuse to accept him.

Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee,
set_a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary
casket, for, if the devil be within, and that temptation
without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything,
Nerissa, ere I will be married to a spunge.

Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having any of
these lords: they have acquainted me with their
determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their
home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless

ou may be won by some other sort than your father’s
imposition, depending on the caskets.

Por. If Llive to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as
chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner
of my father’s will. Iam glad this parcel of wooers
are so reasonable ; for there is not one among them
but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant
them a fair departure. 11

Ner. Do you not remember, lady, in your father’s
time, a Venetian, a scholar, and a soldier, that came
hither in company of the marquess of Montferrat ?

Por. Yes, yes; it was Bassanio: as J think, so was
he called.

Ner. True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my
q0gLoE eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair
ady.

Por. I remember him well, and I remember him
worthy of thy praise. 120

Enter a Servant.

How now? what news?

Serv. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to
take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from
a fifth, the prince of Morocco, who brings word, the
prince, his master, will be here to-night. _

Por. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good
heart, as I can bid the other four farewell, [should be
glad of his approach: if he have the condition of a
saint, and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he
should shrive me than wive me. 1
Come, Nerissa.—Sirrah, go before.—

Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another
knocks at the door. Exeunt.

 

x

Scene III.—Venice. A public Place.

Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK.

Shy. Three thousand ducats,—well.

Bass. Ay, sir, for three months.

Shy. For three months,—well. .

re i For the which, asI told you, Antonio shall be
bound.

 
 

296

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Acr el

 

 

Shy. Antonio shall become bound, —well.

Bass. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me?
Shall I know your answer ?

Shy. Three thousand ducats for three months, and
Antonio bound. 10

Bass. Your answer to that.

Shy. Antonio is a good man. 2

Bass. Have you heard any imputation to the con-
trary? : :

Shy. Ho! no, no, no, no:—my meaning, in saying
he is a good man, is to have you understand me, that
he is sufficient ; yet his means are in supposition. He
hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the
Indies; I understand moreover upon the Rialto, he
hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and
other ventures he hath squandered abroad. But ships
are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats,
and water-rats, water-thieves, and land-thieves, I
mean, pirates: and then, there is the peril of waters,
winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding,
sufficient. Three thousand ducats:—I think, I may
bie his pond. 4

ass. Be assured you may.

Shy. I will be assured I may ; and, that I may be
assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with
Antonio? ; 31

Bass. If it please you to dine with us. a

Shy. Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation

which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil |
into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with |

you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not |
eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you.
What news on the Rialto?—Who is he comes here ?

Enter ANTONIO.

Bass. This is Signior Antonio.
Shy. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he
looks! 40
Ihate him for he is a Christian; |
But more, for that, in low simplicity,
He lends out money gratis, and brings down
The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
If I can catch him once upon the Ps y
I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift,
Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe, 50
If I forgive him!
Bass. Shylock, do you hear?
Shy. Iam debating of my present store,
And, by the near guess of my memory,
I cannot instantly raise up the gross
Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?
Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,
Will furnish me. But soft! how many months
Do you desire?—[To ANTONIO.] Rest you fair, good
signior ;
Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

Ant. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow, 60
By taking, nor by giving of excess,

Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
I'll break a custom. —Is he yet possess’d,
How much ye would?

Shy. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

Ant. And for three months.

Shy. I had forgot :—three months; you told me so.
Well then, your bond; and let me see.--But hear you:
omega you said, you neither lend nor borrow
Upon advantage.

nt. I do never use it.
Shy. When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s sheep,- -
This Jacob from our holy Abram was 71
(As his wise mother wrought in his behalf)
The third possessor ; ay, he was the third, —

Ant. And what of him? did he take interest ?

Shy. No; not take interest ; not, as you would say,
Directly interest : mark what Jacob did.

When Laban and himself were compromis'd,
That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied,
Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes, being rank,
In end of autumn turned to the rams ;

 

And when the work of generation was
Between these woolly breeders in the act,
The skilful shepherd peel’d me certain wands,
And, in the doing of the deed of kind,
He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,
Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time
Fall party-colour’d lambs, and those were Jacob's,
This was a way to thrive, and he was blest,:
And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.
Ant. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv’d for:
A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
But sway'd and fashion’d by the hand of Heaven.
Was this inserted to make interest good ?
Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?
hy. I cannot tell: I make it breed as fast.—
But note me, signior.
Pah Mark you this, Bassanio,
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
An evil soul, producing holy witness,
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,
A goodly apple rotten at the heart. 100
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath !
Shy. Three thousand ducats;—’tis a good round
sum.
Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.
Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?
Shy. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Rialto, you have rated me
About my moneys, and my usances:
Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears, you need my help:
Go to then; you come to me, and you say,
“Shylock, we would have moneys:” you say so;
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold : moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
‘‘Hath a dog money? Is it possible,
A cur can lend three thousand ducats?” or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman’s key,
With bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say this :—
‘Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last ;
You spurn’d me such a day ; another time
You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies
111 lend you thus much moneys?”
Ant. Iam as like to call thee so again,
To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not
As to thy friends ; for when did friendship take
A breed of barren metal of his friend ?
But lend it rather to thine enemy ;
Who, if he break, thou may’st with better face
Exact the penalty.

110

120

130

Shy. Why, look you, how you storm!
I would be friends with you, and have your love,
Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with,
Supply your present wants, and take no doit
Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me. 140
This is kind I offer.

Ant. This were kindness.

Shy. This kindness will I show.
Go with me to a notary, seal me there
Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,

If you repey me not on such a day,

In such a place, such sum or sums as are
Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit
Be nominated for an equal pound

Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me.

Ant. Content, in faith: I'll seal to such a bond,
And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

Bass. You shall not seal to such a bond for me:
I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

Ant. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it:
Within these two months, that’s a month before
This bond expires, I do expect return
Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

150

 

 
 

Scene II.) THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 297

 

Shy. O father Abram! what these Christians are, , _ Shy. Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s.
Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect 160 , Give him direction for this merry bond,
The thoughts of others !—Pray you, tell me this: And I will go and purse the ducats straight,
If he should break his day, what should I gain See to my house, left in the fearful guar
By the exaction ot the forfeiture? Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man, I will be with you.
Is not so estimable, profitable neither, Ant. Hie thee,- gentle Jew. [Exit SHyLocK.
As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, This Hebrew will turn Christian : he grows kind.
To buy his favour, I extend this friendship : Bass. | like not fair terms, and a villain’s mind.
If he will take it, so ; if not, adieu ; ‘Ant. Come on: in this there can be no dismay ;
And, for my love, I pray you, wrong me not. My ships come home a month before the day. 18
Ant. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. 170 | [Exeunt.

 

 

 

ACT IT.
ScrnE I.—Belmont. An Apartment in PorTia’s House.

Enter the Prince of Morocco, and his Followers ; Portia, NERISSA, and others of her Train.
Flourish cornets.
: Morocco. Por. First, forward to the temple: after dinner
o ISLIKE me not for my complexion, Your hazard shall be made.
The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun, Mor. Good fortune then,
'@ To whom I ama neighbour, and near bred. | To make me blest, or cursed’st among men!
VY Bring me the fairest creature northward Cornets, and exeunt.

Z. SS) born,

ITT Where Pheebug fire scarce thaws the icicles,

And let us make incision for your love,

To ive whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
Hath fear’d the valiant: by my love, I swear,
AN The best-regarded virgins of ourclime —_10
4

   
   

Have lov’d it too. I would not change this

ue,

Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.
Por. In terms of choice I am not solely led

By nice direction of a maiden’s eyes :
Besides, the lottery of my destiny
Bars me the right of voluntary choosing ;
But, if my father had not scanted me,
And hedg’d me by his wit, to yield myself
His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair,
As any comer I have look’d on yet,

For my affection.

Mor. Even for that I thank you:
Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets,
To try my fortune. By this scimitar,—

That slew the apa and a Persian prince

That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,—

I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,
Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
Pluck the young suckling cubs from the she-bear,
Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,

To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!

If Hercules and Lichas play at dice,

 

 

Which is the better man, the greater throw Mor. “ Even for that I thank you.”
May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: ey
So is Alcides beaten by his page ; ‘

And so may I, blind fortune leading me, | Scene [.—Venice. A Street.
ms Laide Peek oe may attain, Enter LAUNCELOT GoBBo.

‘or. You must take your chance ; Laun. Certainly, my conscience will serve me to
And either not attempt to choose at all, run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine
Or swear before you choose,—if you choose wrong, 40 | elbow, and tempts me, saying to me,—“ Gobbo,
Never to speak to lady afterward 7 Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,” or “ good Gobbo,”
In way of marriage : therefore be advis’d. or “good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the

start, run away.” My conscience says,—‘‘No; take

Mor. Nor will not : come, bring me unto my chance.

 

 

 
 

 

 

298

heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest Gobbo ;”
or, as uforesaid, ‘*honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not
run; scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most
courageous fiend bids me pack: ‘‘Via!” says the
fiend; “away!” says the fiend; “for the heavens,
rouse up a brave mind,” says the fiend, ‘‘and run.

Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my
heart, says very wisely to me,—‘t My honest friend
Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,”—or rather an
honest woman’s son;—for, indecd, my father did
something smack,—something grow to,—he had a
kind of taste :—well, my conscience says, “Launcelot,
budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend: ‘ budge not,

says my conscience. ‘‘Conscience,” say I, “you
counsel well;” “fiend,” say I, ‘tyou counsel well:

to be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the
Jew my master, who (God bless the mark !) is a kind
of devil ; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be

 

Gob. “Master, young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way
to Master Jew’s?”

ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the
devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil
incarnation, and, in my conscience, my conscience is
but a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel me
to sae with the Jew, The fiend gives the more
friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at
your commandment; I will run. 31

Enter Old GossBo, with a basket.

Gob. Master, young man, you; I pray you, which is
the way to Master Jew's?

Laun. [Aside.| O heavens! this is my true-begotten
father, who, being more than sand-blind, high gravel-
blind, knows me not :—I will try confusions with him.

Gob. Master, young gentleman, I pray you, which
is the way to Master Jew's?

Laun. Turn up on your right hand at the next
turning, but at the next turning of all, on your left;
marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but
turn down directly to the Jew's house. 42

Gob. By God's sonties, ’t will be a hard way to hit.
Can you tell me, whether one Launcelot, that dwells
with him, dwell with him, or no?

Laun. Talk you of young Master Launcelot?—
Aside.] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters.—
To him.) Talk you of young Master Launcelot ?

Gob. No master, sir, but a poor man’s son: his
father, though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor
man; and, God be thanked, well to live. él

Laun. Well, let his father be what ’a will, we talk
of young Master Launcelot.

‘ob. Your worship’s friend, and Launcelot, sir,

Laun. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I be-
seech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot ?

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

 

 

[Act II:

Gob. Of Launcelot, an’t please your mastership.

Laun. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master
Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman (ac-
cording to Fates and Destinies, and such odd sayings,
the Sisters Three, and such branches of learning) is,
indeed, deceased ; or, as you would say, in plain terms,
gone to heaven. 63

Gob. Marry, God forbid! the boy was the-very staff
of my age, my i prop.

Laun. Do I look like a cudgel, or a hovel-post, a
staff, or a prop?—Do you know me, father?

Gob. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentle-
man; but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy (God rest his
soul!) alive, or dead? 70

Laun. Do you not know me, father?

Gob. Alack, sir, Iam sand-blind; I know you not.

Laun. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might
fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows
his own child. ell, old man, I will tell you news of
your son. [Kneels.] Give me your blessing: truth will
come to hght; murder cannot be hid long, a man’s
son may, but in the end truth will out.

Gob. eet you, sir, stand up. I am sure you are
not Launcelot, my boy. 80

Laun. Pray yuu, let’s have no more fooling about
it, but give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your
boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.

Gob. I cannot think you are my son.

Laun. I know not what I shal) think of that; but I
am Launcelot, the Jew’s man, and, I am sure, Margery,
your wife, is my mother.

Gob. Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn,
if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and
blood. Lord jrorsbinpg might he be! what a beard
hast thou got: thou hast got more hair on thy chin,
than Dobbin my phill-horse has on his tail. 2

Laun. It should seem then that Dobbin’s tail grows
backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail,
than I have of my face, when I last saw him.

Gob. Lord! how art thou changed! How dost thou
and thy master agree? I have Wrought him a present.
How ’gree you now?

Laun. Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have
set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest ull I
have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew:
give him a present! give him a halter: I am famish’d
in his service; you may tell every finger I have with
my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me
your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed,
gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run
as far as God has any ground.—O rare fortune! here
comes the man :—to hin, father ; for 1 ama Jew, if I
serve the Jew any longer. 109

Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, and other
ollowers.

Bass. You may do so ;—but let it be so hasted, that
supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock.
Sce these letters delivered: put the liveries to making,
and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

[Exit a Servant.

Laun. To him, father.

Gob. God bless your worship !

Bass. Gramercy. Wouldst thou aught with me?

Gob. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy,—

Laun. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew’'s man,

, that would, sir—as my father shall specify,—-

Gob. He hat:
say, to serve—

Laun. Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the
Jew, and have a desire, —as my father shall specify,—

Gob. His master and he (saving your worship’
reverence) are scarce cater-cousins,—

Laun. To be brief, the very truth is, that the Jew,
having done me wrong, doth cause me,—as my father,
being, I hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you,—-

Gob. I have here a dish of doves, that I would
bestow upon your worship; and my suit is,— 30

Laun. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to
myself, as your worship shall know by this honest
old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet
poor man, my father.

a great infection, sir, as one world

 

 
 

ScENE V.]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

 

Bass. One speak for both.—What would you?

Laun. Serve you, sir.

Gob. That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

Bass. I know thee well: thou hast obtain’d thy suit.
Shylock, thy master, spoke with me this day,

And hath preferr’d thee; if it be preferment, 140
To leave a rich Jew’s service, to become
The follower of so poor a gentleman.

Laun. The old proverb is very well parted between
my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace
of God, sir, and he hath enough.

Bass. Thou speak’st it well.—Go, father, with thy

son. —
Take leave of thy old master, and inquire
My lodging out.—[To0 his Followers.) Give him a liver,
More guarded than his fellows’: see it done. 149
Laun. Father, in.—I cannot get a service,—no; I
have ne’er a tongue in my head.—Well; [looking on
his palm] if any man in Italy have a fairer table,
which doth offer to swear upon a book,—I shall have
ood fortune.—Go to; here’s a simple line of life!
ere ’3 a small trifle of wives: alas! fifteen wives is
nothing : eleven widows, and nine maids, is a simple
coming-in for one man; and then, to ’scape drowning
thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a
feather-bed :—here are simple scapes! Well, if For-
tune be a woman, she’s a good wench for this gear.—
Father, come;:I’ll take my leave of the Jew in the
twinkling of an eye. 162
/ ‘xeunt LAUNCELOT and Old GOBBo.
Bass. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this.
These things being bought, and orderly bestow’d,
Return in haste, for I do feast to-night
My best-esteem’d acquaintance: hie thee; go.
Leon. My best endeavours shall be done herein.

Enter GRATIANO.

Gra. Where is your master?
Leon. Yonder, sir, he walks. [Ezit.
Gra. Signior Bassanio !

Bass. Gratiano! 170

Gra. I have a suit to you.

Bass. You have obtain’d it.

Gra. You must not deny me. I must go with you
to Belmont.

Bass. Why, then you must; but hear thee, Gratiano.
Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice ;—
Parts, that become thee happily enough,

And in such eyes as ours appear not faults ;

But where thou art not known, why, there they show

Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain

To allay with some cold drops of modesty _ 180

Thy skipping spirit, lest, thrones thy wild behaviour,

I be misconstrued in the place I go to,

And lose my hopes. 7
Gra. Signior Bassanio, hear me:
If I do not put on a sober habit,

Talk with reaper, and swear but now and then,

Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,

Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes

Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say amen,

Use all the observance of civility,

Like one well studied in a sad ostent ‘

To please his grandam, never trust me more.

‘ass. Well, we shall see your bearing.
Gra. Nay, but I bar to-night ; you shall not gage me

By what we do to-night.

Bass. No, that were pity.

I would entreat you rather to put on
| Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
| That purpose merriment. But fare you well:

Ihave some business.

..Gra. And I must to Lorenzo, and the rest ;

But we will visit you at supper-time.

190

200
[Ezxeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same. A Room in SHYLOCK’S
House.

Enter Jessica and LAUNCELOT.
Jes, Iam sorry, thou wilt leave my father so

 

 

Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee:
And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
Lorenzo, who is thy new master’s guest ;
Give him this letter ; do it secretly ;
And so farewell: I would not have my father
See me in talk with thee. 9
Laun, Adieu!—tears exhibit my  tonguc.—Most
beautiful pagan,—most sweet Jew! Ifa Christian did
not play the knave, and get thee, Iam much deceived.
But, adieu! these foolish drops do somewhat drown
my manly spirit : adieu!
Jes. ‘Farewell, good Launcelot.— [Exit LAUNCELOoT.
Alack, what heinous sin is it in me,
To be asham’d to be my father’s child!
But though I am a daughter to his blood,
Iam not to his manners. O Lorenzo!
If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, 20
Become a Christian, and thy loving wife. [Evit.

Scrnr IV.—The Same. A Strect.

Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SOLANIO.
Lor, Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
Disguise us at my lodging, and return
All in an hour.
Gra. We have not made good preparation.
Salar. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.
Solan. ’T is vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d,
And better, in my mind, not undertook.
Lor. ’Tis now but four o’clock: we have two hours
To furnish us.—

Enter LAUNCELOT, with a letter.
Friend Launcelot, what’s the news ?

Laun. An it shall please you to break up this, it
shall seem to signify. [Giving a letter.

Lor. I know the hand: in faith, ’tisa fair hand; 12
And whiter than the paper it writ on,

Is the fair hand that writ.
Gra. . Love-news, in faith.
Laun. By your leave, sir.

Lor. Whither goest thou?

Laun. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to
sup to-night with my new master, the Christian.

Lor. Hold here, take this.—Tell gentle Jessica,

I will not fail her :—speak it privately ; go.— 2

[Eait LAUNCELOT.

Gentlemen,

Will you prepare you for this masque to-night?

Iam provided of a torch-bearer.

Salar, Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.

Solan. And so will I.

Lor. Meet me, and Gratiano,

At Gratiano’s lodging some hour hence.

Salar. ’T is good we do so.

[Exeunt SALARINO and SOLANIO.

Gra. Was not that letter from fair Jessica ?

Lor. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed,
How I shall take her from her father's house ; 30
What gold and jewels she is furnish’d with ;

What page’s suit she hath in readiness.

If e’er the Jew her father come to Heaven,

It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake ;

And never dare misfortune cross her foot,

Unless she do it under this excuse,

That she is issue to a faithless Jew.—

Come, go with me: peruse this, as thou goest.

Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. [Ezxeunt.

ScENE V.—The Same. Before SHYLOcK’s House.

Enter SHYLock and LAUNCELOT.
Shy. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy

judge,
The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio :—-
What, Jessica !—thou shalt not gormandize,

 

 
 

 

300

THE MERCHANT OF VENIOE.

(Act IL

 

As thou hast done with me ;—what, Jessica !—
And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out.—
Why, Jessica, I say !

Laun. Why, Jessica!
Shy. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

Shy. “Jessica, my girl, look to my house.”

Laun, Your per hip was wont to tell me, I could
do nothing without bidding.

Enter JESSICA.
Jes. Call you? What is your will? 10
Shy. Iam bid forth to supper, Jessica:
There are my keys.—But wherefore should I go?
Iam not bid for love; they flatter me:
But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
The prodigal Christian.—-Jessica, my girl,

 

Look to my house.—I am right loath to go:
here is some ill a brewing towards my rest,
For I did dream of money-bags to-night.
Laun. I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth
expect your reproach. 20

Shy. So do I his. .

Laun. And they have conspired together :—I will
not say, you shall see a masque ; but if you do, then it
was not for nothing that my nose fell a bleeding on
Black-Monday last, at six o'clock i’ the morning, fall-
ing out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year
in the afternoon.

Shy. What! are there masques?—Hear you me,

Jessica :

Lock up my doors ; and when you hear the drum,

 

spe
2

 

 

‘

Scene VIL]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

301

 

And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck’d fife, 30
Clamber not you up to the casements then,

Nor thrust your head into the public street

To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces,

But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements :

Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter

My sober house.—By Jacob’s stattf, I swear,

T have no mind of feasting forth to-night ;

But I will go.—Go you before me, sirrah :

Say, I will come.

Lan, I will go before, sir.—Mistress, look out at
window, for all this ; 41
There will come a Christian by,

Will be worth a Jewess’ eye. [Exit.
Shy. What says that fool of Hagar’s offspring? ha!
Jes. His words were ‘‘ Farewell, mistress ;” nothing

else.

Shy. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder,
Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
More than the wild-cat : drones hive not with me;
Therefore I pe with him, and part with him
To one that I would have him help to waste
His borrow’d purse.—Well, Jessica, go in:
Perhaps I will return immediately.
Do, as I bid you; shut doors after you:
Fast bind, fast find; | ;
A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

es. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,

Lhave a father, you a daughter, lost. [

59

Exit.

ScENE VI.—The Same.

Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued.

Gra. This is the penthouse, under which Lorenzo
Desir’d us to make stand.
Salar. His hour is almost past.
Gra. And it is marvel he outdwells his hour,
For lovers ever run before the clock.
Salar. O! ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly
To seal love’s bonds new-made, than they are wont
To keep obliged faith unforfeited !
Gra. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
With that keen appetite that he sits down ?
Where is the horse that doth untread again
His tedious measure with the unbated fire
That he did pace them first? All things that are,
Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d.
How like a younker, or a prodigal,
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
Hugg’d and embraced by the strumpet wind!
How like the prodigal doth she return,
With over-weather’d ribs, and ragged sails,
Lean, rent, and beggar’d by the strumpet wind!

Enter LORENZO.
Salar. Here comes Lorenzo:—more of this here-
after. 3 20
Lor. Sweet friends, your patience for my long
ey
Not I, but my affairs have made you wait:
When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
Ill watch as long for you then.—Approach ;
Here dwells my father Jew.—Ho! who’s within!

Enter Jessica above, in boy's clothes.

Jes, Who are you? Tell me for more certainty,
Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.

Lor. Lorenzo, and thy love.

Jes. Lorenzo, certain; and my love, indeed,
For who love Iso much? And now who knows,
But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

Lor. Heaven, and thy thoughts are witness that

thou art.

Jes. Here, catch this casket: it is worth the pains.
Tam glad ’t is night, you do not look on me,

For Tam much asham’d of my exchange;
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see

The pretty follies that themselves commit ;
For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
To see me thus transformed to a boy.

30

 

Lor. Descend, for Pies must be my torch-bearer. 40
Jes. What! must I hold a candle to my shames?

They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light.
hy, ’t is an office of discovery, love,

And I should be obscur’d.
Lor. r So are you, sweet,

Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.

But come at once;

For the close night doth rer the runaway,

And we are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast.
Jes. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself

With some more ducats, and be with you straight. 50

: xit from above.

Gra, Now, by my hood, a Gentile, and no Jew.
Lor. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily;

Yor she is wise, if Ican judge of her,

And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,

And true she is, as she hath prov’d herself ;

And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,

Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

Enter JESSICA.
What, art thou come?—On, gentlemen; away!
Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.
[Exit with JESSICA and SALARINO.

Enter ANTONIO.

Ant. Who’s there?

Gra. Signior Antonio?

Ant. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
’T is nine o'clock ; our friends all stay for you.
No masque to-night: the wind is come about ;
Bassanio presently will go aboard:

I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

Gra. Lam glad on ’t: I desire no more delight,

Than to be under sail and gone to-night. |Ezeunt.

60

Scene VII.—Belmont. An Apartment in PoRTIA’s
House.

Enter Portia, with the Prince of Morocco, and both
their Trains,
Por. Go, draw aside the curtains, and discover
The several caskets to this noble prince.—
Now make your choice.
Mor. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears :
“Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men
desire.”
The second, silver, which this promise carries:
‘*Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.”
This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt:
“Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he

hath,
How shall I know if I do choose the right? 10
Por. The one of them contains my picture, prince:
If you choose that, then I am yours withal.
Mor. Some god direct my judgment? Let me see.
I will survey the inscriptions back again :
What says this leaden casket?
“Who pape me, must give and hazard all he
ath.”

Must give—for what? for lead? hazard for lead?
This casket threatens. Men that hazard all,

Do it in hope of fair advantages :

A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;

I'll then nor give, nor hazard, aught for lead.
What says the silver, with her virgin hue?
““Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.”
As much as he deserves?—Pause there, Morocco,
And weigh thy value with an even hand.

If thou be’st rated by thy estimation,

Thou dost deserve enough ; and yet enough
May not extend so far as to the lady ;

And yet to be afeard of my oe

Were but a weak disabling of myself.

As much as I deserve !— Why, that’s the lady:
Tdo in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,

In graces, and in qualities of breeding;

But more than these in love I do deserve.

What if I stray’d no further, but chose here?—

20

30

 

 
 

 

302

THE MERCHANT OF

VENICE. [Act II.

 

Let.’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold:
“Who eeeeet me, shail gain what many men
desire.”

Why, that’s the lady: all the world desires her ;
From the four corners of the earth they come,

To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint.
The Hyrcanian deserts, and the vasty wilds

Of wild Arabia, are as throughfares now,

For princes to come view fair Portia:

The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar

To stop the foreign spirits, but they come,

As o’er a brook, to see fair Portia.

One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
Is’t like, that lead contains her? ’T were damnation,
To think so base a thought: it were too gross 59
‘To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.

Or shall I think in silver she’s immur'd,

Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?

O sinful thought ! Never so rich a gem

Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
A coin, that bears the figure of an angel
Stamped in gold, but that’s insculp’d upon ;
But here an angel in a golden bed

Lies all within.—Deliver me the key:

Here do I choose, and thrive Ias I may!

40

60 |

Por. There, take it, prince; and if my form lie |

there,
Then I am yours. [ee unlocks the golden casket.
Mor. O hell! what have we here?

A carrion death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll. I'll read the writing.
[Reads.] ‘‘ All that glisters is not gold;

Often have you heard that told:

Many a man his life hath sold,

But my outside to behold:

Gilded tombs do worms infold.

Had you been as wise as bold,

Young in limbs, in judgment old,

Your answer had not been inscroll’d :

Fare you well; your suit is cold.”

Cold, indeed, and labour lost :
Then, farewell, heat; and, welcome, frost.—
Portia, adieu. I have too griev’d a heart,
To take a tedious leave: thus losers part. [Ezit.
Por. A gentle riddance.—Draw the curtains: go.

Let all of his complexion choose me so. [Exveunt.

Scene VIII.—Venice. A Street.
Enter SALARINO and SOLANIO.
Salar. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail :
With him is Gratiano gone along ;
And in their ship, I’m sure, Lorenzo is not.
Solan. ate vilain Jew with outcries rais’d the
uke,
Who went with him to search Bassanio’s ship.
Salar. He came too late, the ship was under sail:
But there the duke was given to understand,
That in a gondola were seen together
Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica.
Besides, Antonio certified the duke,
They were not with Bassanio in his ship.
Solan. I never heard a passion so confus’d,
So strange, outrageous, and so variable,
As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:
“*My daughter!—O my ducats !—-O my daughter!
Fled with a Christian !—O my christian ducats!
Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!
A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
Of double ducats, stol’n from me by my daughter !
And jewels! two stones, two rich and precious stones,
Stol’n by my daughter !—Justice! find the girl! 21
She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats!”
Salar, Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.
Solan. Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
Or he shall pay for this.

10

Salar. : Marry, well remember’d.
I reason’d with a Frenchman yesterday,

|
|
|
|

 

Who told me, in the narrow seas that part
The French and English, there miscarried
A vessel of our country, richly fraught. 20
I thought upon Antonio when he told me,
And wish’d in silence that it were not his.

       

   

Solan. ‘*‘ My daughter !—O my ducats!—O my daughter!’”

Solan. You were best to tell Antonio what you

ear 5

Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.
Salar. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.

I saw Bassanio and Antonio part.

Bassanio told him, he would make some speed

Of his return : he answer’d—‘“‘ Do not so;

Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio,

But stay the very riping of the time;

And for the Jew’s bond, which he hath of me,

Let it not enter in your mind of love.

Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts

To courtship, and such fair ostents of love

As shall conveniently become you there.”

And even there, his eye being big with tears,

Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,

And with affection wondrous sensible

He wrung Bassanio’s hand; and so they parted.
Solan. I think, he only loves the world for him. 50

I pray thee, let us go, and find him out,

And quicken his embraced heaviness

With some delight or other.
Salar.

40

Do we so. [Exeunt.

ScENE IX.—Belmont. An Apartment in PorT14’s
House.

: Enter NERISSA, with a Servitor.
Ner. Quick, quik, I pray thee, draw the curtain
straight. .
The prince of Arragon hath ta’en his oath,
And comes to his election presently.

Enter the Prince of ARRAGON, PorT1A, and their
Trains. Flourish cornets.

Por. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince.

If you choose that wherein I am contain’d,
Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz’d ;
But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,

You must be gone from hence immediately.

Ar, Lam enjoin’d by oath to observe three things:
First, never to unfold to anyone 10
Which casket ’t was I chose: next, if I fail
Of the right casket, never in my life

 
 

 

 

 

Scenr IX.] THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 303
To woo a maid in way of marriage : ‘“Who chooseth me, shall have as much as he
Lastly, . deserves.”
If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head ?
Immediately to leave you and be gone. Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?
Por. To these injunctions every one doth swear, Por. To offend, and judge, are distinct offices,
That comes to hazard for my worthless self. And of opposed natures.
Ar. And so have Laddress’d me. Fortune now adr. What is here? 60
To my heart’s hope !—Gold, silver, and base lead. [Reads.] ‘‘ The fire seven times tried this:
“Who chooseth me, must give and hazard all he Seven times tried that judgment is
ath :” : That did never choose amiss.
You shall Jook fairer, ere I give, or hazard. 20 Some there be that shadows kiss;
What says the golden chest? ha ! let me see :— Such have but a shadow’s bliss.
“Who chooseth me, shall gain what many men There be fools alive, I wis,
desire.” > Silver’d o’er; and so was this.
What many men desire :—that many may be meant, Take what wife you will to bed,
By the fool multitude, that choose by show, I will ever be your head ;
Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, So be gone : you are sped.” 70

Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,

Builds in the weather on the outward wall,

Even in the force and road of casualty.

I will not choose what many men desire,

Because I will not Jom with common spirits,

And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.

Why, then, to thee, thou silver treasure-housce ;

Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:

“Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.”

And well said too; for who shall go about

To cozen fortune, and be honourable,

Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume

To wear an undeserved dignity.

O! that estates, degrees, and offices,

Were not deriv’d corruptly ! and that clear honour 40

Were purchas’d by the merit of the wearer !

How many then should cover, that stand bare;

How many be commanded, that command ;

How much low peasantry would then be glean’d

From the true seed of honour; and how much

honour

Pick’d from the chaff and ruin of the times,

To be new-varnish’d! Well, but to my choice:

““Who chooseth me, shall get as much as he deserves.”

I will assume desert.—Give me a key for this,

And instantly unlock my fortunes here. 50

He opens the silver casket.

Por. ue long a pause for that which you find

there.
Ar, What’s here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,
Presenting me a schedule ! I will read it.
How much unlike art thou to Portia !
-How much unlike my hopes, and my deservings!

30

 

 

Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here:
‘With one fool’s head I came to woo,
But I go away with two.—
Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,
Patiently to bear my wroth.
[Exzeunt ARRAGON and Train.
Por. Thus hath the candle sing’d the moth.
O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.
Ner. The ancient saying is no heresy :—
Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
Por. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Where is my lady?
Por. Here; what would my lord?
Mess. Madam, there is alighted at your gate
A young Venetian, one that comes before
To signify the appEsae ue of his lord,
From whom he bringeth sensible regreets ;
To wit, (besides commends, and courteous breath)
Gifts of rich value ; yet I have not seen
So likely an ambassador of love. ~ 90
A day in April never came so sweet,
To show how costly summer was at hand,
As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.
Por. No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard
Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee.
Thou spend’st such high-day wit in praising him.—
Come, come, Nerissa ; for I long to see
Quick Cupid’s post, that comes so mannerly.
Ner. Bassanio, Lord love, if thy will it be! [Exzeunt.

80

7

Ae ‘i

ACT ITI.

ScENE I.—Venice.

A Street.

Enter SOLANIO and SALARINO.

   

oe
—— Solano. .

OW, what news on the Rialto?

Salar. Why, yet, it lives there un-
eneck’d, that Antonio hath a ship of rich
lading wrack’d on the narrow seas; the
‘Goodwins, I think they call the place: a
very dangerous flat, and fatal, where the

é carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried,
as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman
of her word. ar

Solan. I would she were as lying’ a gossip in that,

 

©

|

as ever knapped ginger, or made her neighbours
believe she wept for the death of a third husband.
But it is true, without any slips of prolixity, or cross-
ing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio,
the honest Antonio,—O, that I had a title good enough
to keep his name company !—

Salar. Come, the full stop.

Solan. Ha!—what say’st thou?—Why, the end is,
he hath losta ship. | 19

Salar, I would it might prove the end of his losses.

Solan. Let me say amen betimes, lest the devil

 
 

304

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Act II,

 

 

cross my prayer; for here he comes in the likeness
of a Jew.
Enter SHYLOCK.

How now, Shylock? what news among the merchants?

Shy. You knew, none so well, none so well as you,
of my daughter's flight.

Salar. That’s certain: I, for my part, knew the
tailor that made the wings she flew withal.

Salan. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the
bird was fledg’d; and then it is the complexion of
them all to leave the dam. 31

Shy. She is damned for it. :

Salar. That’s certain, if the devil mF be her judge.

Shy. My own flesh and blood to rebel!

Solan. Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these
years ?

any I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.

Salar. There is more ditference between thy flesh
and hers, than between jet and ivory ; more between
your bloods, than there is between red wine and
rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio
have had any loss at sea or no? 42

Shy. There I have another bad match : a bankrupt,
a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the
Rialto ;—a beggar, that used to come so smug upon
the mart.—Let him look to his bond: he was wont to
call me usurer ;—let him look to his bond: he was wont
to lend money for a Christian courtesy ;—let him look
to his bond.

Salar. Why, Iam sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not
take his flesh: what's that good for? 51

Shy. To bait fish withal : if it will feed nothing else,
it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million, laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies ;
and what ’s his reason? Lama Jew. Hath not a Jew
eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food,
hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same
diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and
cooled ty the same winter and summer, as a Christian
is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us,
do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die?
and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are
like you in the rest, we willresemble you in that. If a
Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? revenge.
If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his suffer-
ance be by Christian example? why, revenge. The
villany you teach me, J willexecute; and it shall go
hard but I will better the instruction. 71

Enter a Servant.

Serv. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house,
and desires to speak with you both. :
Salar. We have been up and down to seek him.
Solan. Here comes another of the tribe: a third
cannot be matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.
[Exeunt SOLANIO, SALARINO, and Servant.

Enter TUBAL.

Shy. How now, Tubal? what news from Genoa?
hast thou found my daughter ?

Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but can-
not find her. 80

Shy. Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond

‘one, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort.
The curse never fell upon our nation till now ; I never
felt it till now :—two thousand_ducats in that, and
other precious, precious jewels.—I would, my daughter
were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear!
*would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in
her coffin! Nonews of them ?—Why, so ;—and I know
not what ’s spent in the search: why, thou—loss upon
loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find
the thief, and no satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill
luck stirring, but what lights o’ my shoulders; no sighs,
but o’ my breathing; no tears, but o’ my shedding. 93

Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too. Antonio, as I
heard in Genoa,—

Shy. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?

 

Tub. —hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tri-

polis.

Shy. I thank God! I thank God ! Is it true? is it true?

Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped
the wrack. 101

Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal.—Good news, good
news! ha! ha !--Where? in Genoa?

Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one
night, fourscore ducats.

Shy. Thou stick’st a daggerin me. Ishall never see
my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting ! four-
score ducats !

Tub. There came divers of Antonio’s creditors in
my company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose
but break. : 112

Shy. Iam very glad of it: I 11 plague him ; I'll tor-
ture him; I am glad of it.

Tub. One of them showed me a ring, that he had of
your daughter for a monkey. s

Shy. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it
was my turquoise; I had it of Leah, when I was a
bachelor: I would not have given it for a wilderness
of monkeys. 120

Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone.

Shy. Nay, that’s true, that’s very true. Go, Tubal
fee me an officer, bespeak him a fortnight before.
will have the heart of him, if he forfeit ; for were he
out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will.
Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue: go, good
Tubal ; at our synagogue, Tubal. ceunt,

ScENE II.—Belmont. An Apartment in PortTiA’s
couse.

Enter BAaSSANIO, PoRTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and
Attendants.

Por. I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two,
Before you hazard ; for, in choosing wrong,

I lose your company : therefore, forbear awhile.
There ’s something tells me (but it is not love),

I would not lose you; and you know yourself,
Hate counsels not in such a quality.

But lest you should not understand me well,
(And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought)
I would detain you here some month or two,
Before you venture for me. I could teach you 10
How to choose right, but then I am forsworn ;
So will I never be: so may you miss me;

But if you do, you ‘ll make me wish a sin,

That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,
They have o’erlook’d me, and divided me:

One half of me is yours, the other half yours,—
Mine own, I would say ; but if mine, then yours,
And so all yours! O! these nasty times

Put bars between the owners and their rights ;
And so, though yours, not yours.—Prove it so, 20
Let fortune go to hell for it,—not L—

I speak too long; but ’t is to peise the time,

To eke it, and to draw it out in length,

To stay you from election.

Bass. Let me choose ;
For, as Iam, I live upon the rack. t

Por. Upon the rack, Bassanio? then confess
What treason there is mingled with your love.

Bass. None, but that ugly treason of mistrust,
Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love.
There may as well be amity and life ; 30
’T ween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

Por. Ay, but, I fear, you speak upon the rack,
Where men enforced do speak anything.

Bass. Promise me life, and I ‘Il confess the truth.

Por. Well then, confess, and live.

Bass. Confess, and love,
Had been the very sum of my confession.

O happy torment, when my torturer
Doth teach me answers for deliverance!
But let me to my fortune and the caskets.
Curtain drawn from before the caskets.

Por. Away then. Iam lock’din one ofthem: 40

If you do love me, you will find me out.—

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

305

 

Nerissa, and the rest, stand all aloof.—

Let music sound, while he doth make his choice ;

Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,

Fading in music: that the comparison

May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream,

And watery death-bed for him. He may win;

And what is music then? then music is

Even as the flourish when true subjects bow

To a new-crowned monarch: such it is, 50

As are those dulcet sounds in break of day,

That creep into the dreaming bridegroom’s ear,

And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,

With no less presence, but with much more lov

Than young Alcides, when he did redeem

The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy

To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice ;

The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,

With bleared visages, come forth to view

The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules! 60
_ Live thou, I live :—with much, much more dismay

I view the fight, than thou that mak’st the fray.

A Song, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets
to himself.

Tell me, where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head 2?
How begot, how nourished ?
Reply, reply.
It is engender’d in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy’s knell: 70
I'll begin it,_Ding, dong, bell.
All. Ding, dong, bell. ;
Bass. Bo may the outward shows be least them-
selves: '
The world is still deceiv’'d with ornament.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,
But, being season’d with a gracious voice,
Obscures the show of evil? In religion,
What damned error, but some sober brow
Will bless it, and approve it with a text,
Hiding the grossness with fair ornament ? 80
There is no vice so simple, but assumes
Sonie mark of virtue on his outward parts.
How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars,
Who, inward search’d, have livers white as milk ;
And these assume but valour’s excrement,
To render them redoubted. Look on beauty,
And you shall see’t is purchas’d by the weight ;
Which therein works a miracle in nature, 90
Making them lightest that wear most of it:
So are those crisped snaky golden locks,
Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
Upon supposed fairness, often known
To be the dowry of a second head,
The scull that bred them, in the sepulchre.
Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty ; in a word, .
The seeming truth which cunning times put on __ 100
To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,
Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee ;
Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge
Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,
Which rather threat’nest than dost promise aught,
Thy es moves me more than eloquence,
And here choose I. Joy be the consequence!
Por. How all the other passions fleet to air,
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac’d despair,
And shuddering fear, and green-ey’d jealousy ! 110
O love! be moderate; allay thy ecstacy ;
In measure rain thy joy ; scant this excess:
I feel too much thy blessing ; make it less,

or fear I surfeit !
'a88. What find I here?
i x [Opening the leaden casket.
Fair Portia’s counterfeit ! What demi-god
th come so near creation? Move these eyes?
Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,

 

Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips,
Parted with sugar breath ; so sweet a bar
Should sunder such sweet friends. Here, in her hairs,
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven 121
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes !—
How could he see to do them? having made one,
Methinks, it should have power to steal both his,
And leave itself unfurnish’d: yet look, how far
The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
In underprizing it, so far this shadow
Doth limp behind the substance.—Here’s the scroll,
The continent and summary of my fortune. 130
[Reads.] ‘‘ You that choose not by the view,

Chance as fair, and choose as true!

Since this fortune falls to you,

Be content, and seck no new.

If you be well pleas’d with this,

And hold your fortune for your bliss,

Turn you where your lady is,

And claim her with a loving kiss.”
A gentle scroll.—Fair lady, by your leave;

[Kissing her.

I come by note, to give and to receive. 140
Like one of two contending in a prize,
That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes,
Hearing applause, and universal shout,
Giddy in spirit, still gazing, in a doubt
Whether those peals of praise be his or no ;
So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so,
As doubtful whether what I see be true,
Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you.

Por. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
Such as Iam: though for myself.alone 150
I would not be ambitious in my wish,

To wish myself much better; yet for you
I would be trebled twenty times myselt ;
A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more

rich ;
That only to stand high in your account,
I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends,
Exceed account: but the full sum of me
Is sum of nothing ; which, to term in gross,
Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d :
Happy in this, she is not yet so old __ 160
But she may learn; Dapaler than this,
She is not bred so dull but she can learn ;
Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit
Commits itself to yours to be directed,
As from her lord, her governor, her king.
Myself, and what is mine, to you, and yours,
Is now converted: but now I was the lord
Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now,
This house, these servants, and this same myself, 170
Are yours, my lord. I give them with this ring,
Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
Let it presage the ruin of your love,
And be my vantage to exclaim on you.
Bass. Madam, you have bereft me of all words:
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins ;
And there is such confusion in my powers
As after some oration, fairly spoke
By a beloved prince, there doth appear
Among the buzzing pleased multitude ; 10
Where every something, being blent together,
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,
Express’d, and not express'd. But when this ring
Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:
QO! then be bold to say, Bassanio’s dead.
Ner. My lord and lady, it is now our time,
That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,
To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady! /
Gra. My lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady,—-
I wish you all the joy that you can wish; 190
For, Iam sure, you can wish none from me;
And, when your honours mean to solemnize
The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,
Even at tnat time I may be married too.
Bass. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.
Gra. I thank your lordship, you have got me one.
My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours,—

 

a
 

 

306

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Act III.

 

You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid ;
You lov’d, I lov’d; for intermission

No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
Your fortune stood upon the caskets there,
And so did mine too, as the matter falls ;

200

 

Gra. We'll play with them the first boy for a
thousand ducats.
Ner. What! and stake down?
Gra. No; we shall ne’er win at that sport, and
stake down.—

Bass. ‘‘ Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence.”

For wooing here, until I sweat again,
And swearing, till my very roof was dry
With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,
I got a promise of this fair one here,
To have her love, provided that your fortune
Achiev’d her mistress.
Por. Is this true, Nerissa ?
Ner. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal.
Bass. And do sage Gratiano, mean good faith? 210
Gra. Yes, ‘faith, my lord.
Bass. Our feast shall be much honour’d in your
marriage.

But who comes here? Lorenzo, and his infidel?
What! and my old Venetian friend Solanio ?
Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SOLANIO.

Bass. Lorenzo, and Solanio, welcome hither,

If that the youth of my new interest here

Have power to bid you welcome.—By your leave,

1 bid my very friends and countrymen,

Sweet Portia, welcome.

oi

Por. So do I, my lord:
They are entirely welcome.

Lor. I thank your honour.—For my part, my lord,
My purpose was not to have seen you here ;

 

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE IV.] THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 307
But meeting with Solanio by the way, First, go with me to church, and call me wife,
He did entreat me, past all saying nay, And then away to Venice to vour friend ;
To come with him along. : For never shall you lie by Portia’s side
Solan. _, I did, my lord, With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold
And I have reason for it.—Signior Antonio 230 | To pay the petty debt twenty times over:
Commends him to you. [Gives Bassanto a letter. | When it is paid, bring your true friend along.
Bass. Ere I ope his letter, My maid Nerissa and myself, meantime,
I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth, Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!
Solan. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind ; For you shall hence upon your wedding-day. 310

Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there
Will show you his estate. [BASSANIO reads the letter.

Gra. Nerissa, cheer yon stranger ; bid her welcome.
Your hand, Solanio. What’s the news from Venice?
How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?

I know, he will be glad of our success ;
We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. 240

Solan. i mould you had won the fleece that he hath

ost!

Por. There are some shrewd contents in yon same

aper,
That steal the colour from Bassanio’s cheek :
Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world
Could turn so much the constitution
Of any constant man. What, worse and worse ?—
With leave, Bassanio ; I am half yourself,
And I must freely have the half of anything
That this same paper brings you.

Bass. O sweet Portia!
Here are a few of the unpleasant’st words 250
That ever blotted paper. Gentle lady,

When I did first impart my love to you,

J freely told you, all the wealth I had

Ran in my veins,—I was a gentleman :

And then I told you true, and yet, dear lady,

Rating myself at nothing, you shall see

How much J was a braggart. When I told you,

My state was nothing, I should then have told you,
That { was worse than nothing ; for, indeed,

Thave engag’d myself to a dear friend, 260
Engag’d my friend to his mere enemy,

To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady ;

The paper as the body of my friend, :

And every word in it a gaping wound,

Issuing life-blood.—But is it true, Solanio?

Have all his ventures fail’d? What, not one hit ?
From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England,

From Lisbon, Barbary, and India?

And not one vessel ‘scape the dreadful touch

Of merchant-marring rocks ?

Solan. Not one, my lord.
Besides, it should appear, that if he ha
The present money to discharge the Jew,

He would not take it. Never did I know

A creature, that did bear the shape of man,

So keen and greedy to confound a man.

He plies the duke at morning, and at night,
And doth ee the freedom of the state,

If they deny him justice : twenty merchants,
The duke himself, and the magnificoes 7

Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;
But none can drive him from the envious plea
Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. .

Jes. When I was with him, I have heard him swear

To Tubal, and to Chus, his countrymen,
That he would rather have Antonio’s flesh,
Than twenty times the value of the sum
That he did owe him ; and I know, my lord,
If law, authority, and power deny not,

It will go hard with poor Antonio. ;

Por, Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?
Bass. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man.
The best-condition’d and unwearied spirit 29

In doing courtesies ; and one in whom
The ancient Roman honour more appears,
Than any that draws breath in Italy.

Por. at sum owes he the Jew?

Bass. For me, three thousand ducats.

Por. What, no more?
Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond :
Double six thousand, and then treble that,
Before a friend of this description

‘ Shall lose a hair through Bassanio’s fault.

270

280

300

 

Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer ;
Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.—
But let me hear the letter of your friend.

Bass. |Reads.} “Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all
miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is
very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit ; and since, in
paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are
cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at
my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if

our love do not persuade you to come, let not my

etter.” 321
Por. O love, despatch all business, and be gone.
Bass. Since I have your en leave to go away,

I will make haste; but till I come again,
No bed shall e’er be guilty of my stay,
Nor rest be interposer ’twixt us twain. [Exeunt.

A Street.

Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler,
Shy. Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy.—
This is the fool that lent out money gratis.—
nap look to him.
t.

ScENE IITI.—Venice.

nt. Hear me yet, good Shylock.
Shy. ae a my bond; speak not against my
on

I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.

Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause,

But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

The duke shall grant me justice.-I do wonder,

Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond

To come abroad with him at his request. 10
Ant. I pray thee, hear me speak.
Shy. I'll have my bond ; I will not hear thee speak:

I’ll have my bond, and therefore speak no more.

I'll not be made « soft and dull-ey’d fool,

To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield

To Christian intercessors. Follow not;

I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.
Salar. It is the most impenetrable cur,

That ever kept with men.

[Ecit,

Ant. Let him alone:
I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. 20
He seeks my life ; his reason well I know.
I oft deliver’d from his forfeitures
Many that have at times made moan to me;
Therefore he hates me.
Salar. Iam sure, the duke
Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.
Ant, The duke cannot deny the course of law ;
For the commodity that strangers have
With us in Venice, if it be denied,
Will much impeach the justice of the state;
Since that the trade and profit of the city 30
Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:
These griefs and losses have so bated me,
That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
To-morrow to my bloody creditor.—
Well, gaoler, on.—Pray God, Bassanio come
To see me pay his debt, and then I care not! [Ereunt.

 

ScEeNE IV.—Belmont. A Room in Portra’s House.

Enter PorTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and
BALTHAZAR.

Lor. Madam, although I speak it in your presence,
You have a noble and a true conceit
Of god-like amity ; which appears most strongly
In bearing thus the absence of your lord.

 
 

308

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Act ITI.

 

 

But, if you knew to whom you show this honour,
How true a gentleman you send reliet,
How dear a lover of my lord, your husband,
I know, you would be prouder of the work,
Than customary bounty can enforce you.
Por. I never did repent for doing good, 10
Nor shall not now: for in companions
That do converse and waste the time together,
Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,
There must be needs a like proportion
Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit ;
Which makes me think, that this Antonio,
Being the bosom lover of my lord,
Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,
How little is the cost I have bestow’d,
In purchasing the semblance of my soul 20
From out the state of hellish cruelty !
This comes too near the praising of myself;
Therefore, no more of it: hear other things.—
Lorenzo, I commit into your hands
The husbandry and manage of my house,
Until my lord’s return: for mine own part,
I have toward heaven breath’d a secret vow
To live in prayer and contemplation,
Only attended by Nerissa bere,
Until her husband and my lord’s return. 30
There is a monastery two miles off,
And there we will abide. I do desire you
Not to deny this imposition,
The which my love, and some necessity,
Now lays upon you.
Lor. Madam, with all my heart :
I shall obey you in all fair commands. :
Por. My people do already know my mind,
And will acknowledge you and Jessica
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.
So tare you well, till we shall meet again. 40
Lor. Fair thoughts, and happy hours, attend on
you!
Jes. I wish ‘late ladyship all heart’s content.
Por. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd
To wish it back on you: fare you well, Jessica.—
[Zzeunt JEssica and LORENZO.
Now, Balthazar,
‘As I have ever found thee bonest-true,
So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,
And use thou all the endeavour of a man
In speed to Padua: see thou render this
Into my cousin’s hand, doctor Bellario ; 50
And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,
Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin’d speed
Unto the traject, to the common ferry
Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,
But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.
Bal. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. [Zzit.
Por. Come on, Nerissa: I have work in hand,
That you yet know not of. We'll see our husbands,
Before they think of us.
Ne Shall they see us?

er.
Por. cee shall, Nerissa ; but in sucha habit, 60
That they shall think we are accomplished

With that we lack. I’ll hold thee any wager,

When we are both accoutred like young men,

I’ll prove the prettier fellow of the two;

And wear my dagger with the braver grace ;

And speak between the change of man and boy,
With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps

Into a manly stride; and speak of frays,

Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies,

How honourable ladies sought my love, 70
Which I denying, they fell sick and died;

I could not do withal ;—then I'll repent,

And wish, for all that, that I had not kill’d them.
And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,

That men shall swear, I have discontinued school
Above atwelvemonth. I have within my mind

A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,
Which I will practise.

Ner. Why, shall we turn to men?
Por. Fie, what a question ’s that,
If thou wert near a lewd interpreter ! 80

But come: I'll tell thee all my whole device

 

When I am in my coach, which stays for us
At the park gate; and therefore haste away,
For we must measure twenty miles to-day. [Ezxeunt,

 

ScENE V.—The Same. A Garden.

Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA.

Laun. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the
father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I
promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with
you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter;
therefore, be of good cheer ; for, truly, I think, you
are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do
you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope
neither.

Jes. And what hope is that, I pray thee?

Laun. Marry, you may partly hope that your father
got you not, that you are not the Jew's daughter. 11

Jes. That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so
the sins of my mother should be visited upon me.

Laun. Truly then I fear you are damned both by
father and mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your
father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother. ell, you
are gone both ways.

Jes. I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made
me a Christian. 19

Laun. Truly, the more to blame he: we were
Christians enow before; e’en as many as could well
live one by another. This making of Christians will
raise the price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-
eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals
for money.

Jes. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say:
here he comes.

Enter LORENZO.

__Lor, T shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot,
if you thus get my wife into corners. 29

Jes. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot
and lare out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy
for me in heaven, because I am a Jew’s daughter:
and he says, you are no good member of the common-
wealth, for, in converting Jews to Christians, you
raise the price of pork.

Lor. {shall answer that better to the commonwealth,
than you can the getting up of the negro’s belly: the
Moor is with child by you, Launeclot

Laun, It is much, that the Moor should be more
than reason ; but if she be less than an honest woman,
she is, indeed, more than I took her for.

Lor. How every fool can play upon the word! I
think, the best grace of wit will shortly turn into
silence, and discourse grow commendable in none
only but parrots.—Go in, sirrah : bid them prepare for
dinner.

Laun, That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.

Lor. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you!
then bid them prepare dinner.

Laun. That is done too, sir; only, cover is the word.

Lor. Will you cover then, sir? bl

Laun. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. :

Lor. Yet more quarrelling with occasion? Wilt
thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant?
1 pray thee, understand a plain man in his plain
meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table,
serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.

Laun. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for
the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in
to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits
shall govern. [Bait

Lor. O dear discretion, how his words are suited!
The fool hath planted in his memory 63
An army of good words ; and I do know
A many fools, that stand in better place,

Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word
Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica ?
And now, good sweet, say thy opinion :

How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife?

Jes. Past all expressing. It is very meet, 70
The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, :

 

 
 

 

SceNnE V.]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE,

309

 

For, having such a blessing in his lady,

He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;

And, if on earth he do not mean it, then

In reason he should never come to heaven.

Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match,
And on the wager lay two earthly women,

And Portia one, there must be something else
Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world
Hath not her fellow.

 

 

Even such a husband 80

Lor. y a
Hast thou of me, as she is for a wife.

Jes. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

Lor. I will anon ; tirst, let us go to dinner.

Jes. Nay, let me praise you, while I have a stomach.
Lor. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk ;

Then howsoe’'er thou speak’st, mong other things
I ae digest it.
es.

Well, I’ll set you forth. [Ezeunt.

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I. -—Venice.

A Court of Justice.

Enter the DUKE; the Magnificoes ; ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SALARINO, SOLANIO, and others.

Duke.
AT, is Antonio here?
Ant. Ready, so please your grace.
Duke. I am sorry for thee: thou art
come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.
Ant. I have heard,
Your grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose 10
My patience to his fury, and am arm’d
To suffer with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his. _
Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Salar. He’s ready at the door. He comes, my lord.

Enter SHYLOCK.
Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our

ace.—
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead’st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then, ’tis thought,
Thou ‘lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange,
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ; 21
And where thou now exact’st the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh,
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But touch’d with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal ;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down,
And pluck commiseration of his state 30
From brassy bosoms, and rough hearts of flint,
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train’d
To offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
Shy. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn,
To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter, and your city’s freedom.
You'L ask me, why I rather choose to have 40
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive
Three thousand ducats? I’ll not answer that :
But, say, it is my humour: is it answer’d?
What if my house be troubled with a rat,
AndI be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats
To have it baned ? hat, are you answer'd yet ?
Some men there are love not a gaping pig ;

   

 

Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;
And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose,
Cannot contain their urine: for affection,
Master of passion, sways it to the mood 50
Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer.
As there is no firm reason to be render’d,
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig ;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
Why he, a woollen bagpipe ; but of force
Must yield to such inevitable shame,
As to offend himself, being offended ;
So can I give no reason, nor I will not, ;
More than a lodg’d hate, and a certain loathing, 60
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
Bass. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty. .

Shy. Iam not bound to please thee with my answer.

Bass. Do all men kill the things they do not love?

Shy. Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

Bass. Every offence is not a hate at first.

Shy. What! qouldst thou have a serpent sting thee

twice?

Ant. I pray you, think you question with the Jew.
You may as well go stand upon the beach, 71
And bid the main flood bate his usual height ;

You may as well use question with the wolf,

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines

To wag their high tops, and to make no noise,
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven ;
You may as well do any thing most hard,

As seek to soften that (than which what’s harder ?)
His Jewish heart.—Therefore, I do beseech you, 80
Make no more offers, use no further means ;

But with all brief and plain conveniency,

Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.

Bass. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

Shy. If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parle, and every part a ducat,

I would not draw them,—I would have my bond.

Duke. How peal thou hope for mercy, rendering

none

Shy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchas‘d slave, 90
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish pee
Because you bought them :—shall I say to you,

Let them be free; marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burdens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season’d with such viands? You will answer:

| The slaves are ours.—So do I answer you:
 

310

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Act IV,

 

The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought, ‘tis mine, and I will have it. 100
If you deny me, fie upon your law! 3
There is no force in the decrees of Venice. _
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
Salar. My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
Duke. Bring us the letters: call the messenger. 110
Bass. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage

yet!
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
Ant. Iam a tainted wether of the flock, |
Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit

 

Shy. ‘To cut the forfelture from that bankrupt there.”

Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me.
You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.

Enter Nrerissa, dressed like a lawyer’s clerk.
Duke. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? 119
Ner. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your

grace. Presents a letter.
Bass. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
Shy. Tocut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Gra. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou mak’st thy knife keen; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?
Shy. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
Gra. O, be thou damn‘d, inexorable dog,
And for thy life let justice be accus'd!
Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith,
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
Govern’d a wolf, who, hang’d for human slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And whilst thou Jay’st in thy unhallow’d dam,
Infus’d itself in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, stary’d, and ravenous.
Shy. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud. 140

130

 

Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
‘lo cureless ruin.—I stand here for law.

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned doctor to our court.—
Where is he?

Ner. He attendeth here hard by,

To know your answer, whether you 11 admit him.

Duke. With all my heart :—some three or four of

ou,
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.
Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario’s letter, 149

Clerk. (Reads.} ‘‘ Your grace shall understand, that,
at the receipt of your letter, I am very sick ; but in the
instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation
was with me a young doctor of Rome; his name is
Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in con-
troversy between the Jew and Antonio, the merchant:
we turned o'er many books together: he is furnish’d
with my opinion; which, better’d with his own
learning, the greatness whereof I cannot enough com-
mend, comes with him, at my importunity, to fill up
peur grace’s request in my stead. I beseech you, let

is lack of years be no impediment to let him lacka
reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a
body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious
acceptance, whose tria] shall better publish his com-
mendation.”

Duke. You hear the learn’d Bellario, what he writes:
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.—

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws.
Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario?

Por. I did, my lord.

Duke. You are welcome: take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference 170
That holds this present question in the court?

Por. Iam informed throughly of the cause.—
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

Por. Is your name Shylock? :

Shy. Shylock is my name.

Por. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed.—

(To ANTONIO.] You stand within his danger, do you

not?
Ant. Ay, so he says.
Por. Do you confess the bond? 180
Ant. I do. 7
Por. Then must the Jew be merciful.

Shy. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
Por. The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d ;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
’T is mightiest in the mightiest, it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty, = 0
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It isan attribute to God himself, __ 5
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,—
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 200
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much,
To mitigate the justice of thy plea, .
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there.
Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
Por. Is he not able to discharge the money?
Bass. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er, 210
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart.
If this will not suftice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,

 

 
that,
If she were by to hear you make the offer.

 

Scene I.]

THE MERCHANT

OF VENICE. 311

 

Wrest once the law to your authority :
To do a great right, do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will.
Por. It must not be. There is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established :
*T will be recorded for a precedent,
And many an error, by the same example,
Will rush into the state. It cannot be.
Shy. A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel !---
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!
Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Shy. Here ’t is, most reverend doctor; here it is.
Por. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offer’d thee.
Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven.
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice. :
Por. _ Why, this bond is forfeit,
And my by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart.—Be merciful ;
Take thrice thy money: bid me tear the bond.
Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. —
It doth appear you are a worthy judge ;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear,
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me. I stay here on my bond.
Ant. Most, heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
Por. Why then, thus it is :--
You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
Shy. O noble judge! O excellent young man!
Por. For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty,
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
Shy. ’Tis very true. O wise and upright judge!
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
Por. Therefore, lay bare your bosom.
Shy. _ Ay, his breast ;
So says the bond :—doth it not, noble judge ?—
Nearest his heart : those are the very words.
Por. Itisso. Are there balance here to weigh
The flesh ?
Shy. Ihave them ready.
Por. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your
charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ?
Por. It is not so express'd ; but what of that ?
’T were good you do so much for charity.
Shy. I cannot find it: ‘tis not in the bond.
Por. You, merchant, have you anything to say ?
Ant. But little: Iam arm’d, and well prepavid.-—
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well.
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom : it is still her use.
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow,
An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance
Of such misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honourable wife :
Tell her the process of Antonio’s end;
Say how I lov’d you, speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge,
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,
And he repents not that he pays your debt ;
For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
T'll pay it ee with all my heart.
Bass. Antonio, Iam married to a wife, —\
Which is as dear to me as life itself ;
But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
Are not with me esteem’d above thy life:
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all,
Here to this devil, to deliver you.
Por. Your wife would give you little thanks for

220

230

240

250

260

270

280

 

‘a. Ihave a wife, whom, I protest, I love : 290

 

I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
Ner. ’Tis well you offer it behind her back ;

The wish would make else an unquiet house.
Shy. These be the Christian husbands! I have a
daughter ;
*Would any of the stock of Barrabas
Had been her husband, rather than a Christian !
We trifle time; I ee thee, pursue sentence.

Por. A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine:
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 300

Shy. Most rightful judge!

Por. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast :
The law allows it, and the court awards it.

Shy. Most learned judge!—A sentence!

prepare !

Por. Tarry a little: there is something else.—
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh:
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 310
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.

Gra. O aeeht judge !—Mark, Jew:—O learned

judge!

judge :
Shy. Is that the law?
Por. . Thyself shalt see the act ;
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d,
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
Gra. O learned judge!—Mark, Jew :—a learned
judge!
Shy. I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.
Bass.
Por.

Come,

: Here is the money.
Soft! 320
The Jew shall have all justice ;—soft !—no haste :—
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
Gra. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
Por. Therefore, aprepene thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less, nor more,
But just a pound of flesh : if thou tak’st more,
Or less, than a just pound,—be it but so much
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
Gra. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew !
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.
Por, Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go.
Bass. [have it ready for thee: here it is.
Por. He hath refus’d it in the open court:
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Gra. A Daniel, still say 1; a second Danie] !—
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ?
Por. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Shy. Why, then the devil give him good of it!
I e stay no longer question.

330

340

or. Tarry, Jew:

The law hath yet another hold on you.

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be prov'd against an alien,

That, by direct or indirect attempts,

He seek the life of any citizen,

The party, ’gainst the which he doth contrive,

Shall seize one half his goods: the other half

Comes to the privy coffer of the state ;

And the offender’s life lies in the mercy

Of the duke only, ’gainst all other voice.

In which predicament, I say, thou stand’st ;

For it appears by manifest proceeding,

That, indirectly, and directly too,

Thou hast contriv’d against the very life

Of the defendant, and thou hast incurr’d

The danger formerly by me rehears'd.

Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
Gra. Beg, that thou may’st have leave to hang

thyself ;

350

360

 
312

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

[Act IV.

 

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
Thou hast not left the value of a cord ;
Therefore, thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge.
Duke. coal thou shalt see the difference of our
spirit.

Ant, So please my lord the duke, and all the court,
To quit the fine for one half of his goods ; 381
Iam content, so he will let me have

The other half in use, to render it,

Upon his death, unto the gentleman

 

Por. ‘‘ Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.”

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it.

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio’s :

The other half comes to the general state,

Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
Por. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio.
Shy. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:

You take my house, when you do take the prop

That doth sustain my house ; you take my life,

When you do take the means whereby I live. _
Por. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake!

370 |

That lately stole his daughter : .
Two things provided more,—that, for this favour,
He presently become a Christian ;
The other, that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, of all he dies possess’d,
Unto his son Lorenzo, and his daughter.
Duke. He shall do this, or else I do recant
The pardon, that I late pronounced here.
Por. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
Pee Iam content.
07".

390

Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

 

 
 

 

 

Scene II.]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 313

 

Shy. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence.
Iam not well. Send the deed after me,

And I will sign it.

Duke. ‘ _ Get thee gone, but do it.

Gra. In christening thou shalt have two godfathers ;
Had 1 been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. !

[£xit SHYLOCK.

Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

Por. I say do desire your grace of pardon:

J must away thts night toward Padua,
And it is meet I presently set forth.

Duke. Iam sorry, that your leisure serves you not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,

For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
[Ezeunt DUKE, Magnificoes, and Train.

Bass. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend '
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
Of grievous penalties ; in lieu whereof, 410
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,

We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
Ant. And stand indebted, over and above,
In love and service to you evermore.
Por. He is well paid, that is well satisfied ;
And I, delivering you, am satisfied,
And therein do account myself well paid :
My mind was never yet more mercenary.
I pray you, know me, when we meet again :
I wish you well, and so 1 take my leave. 420

Bass. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further :
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,

Not asafee. Grant me two things, I pray you;
Not to deny me, and to pardon me.

Por. You press me far, and therefore I will yield.
Give me your gloves, I ‘ll wear them for your sake ;
And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you.—
Do not draw back your hand; [ ’ll take no more;
And you in love shall not deny me this.

Bass. This ring, good sir ?—alas, it is a trifle ;

I will not shame myself to give you this. _ .

Por. 1 will have nothing else but only this;
And now, methinks, I have a mind to it.

Bass. There ’s more depends on this than on the

430

value. : 4
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
And find it out by proclamation:

Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.
Por. J see, sir, you are liberal in offers.
You taught me first to beg, and now, methinks,
You teach me how a beggar should be answer’d. 440
Bass. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife ;
And, when she put it on, she made me vow,
That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it.
Por. That ’scuse serves many men to save their

gifts.
An if your wife be not a mad-woman,
And know how well I have deserv’d this ring,
She would not hold out enemy for ever,
For giving it tome. Well, peace be with you.
[Exeunt PorTIA and NERISSA.
Ant. My lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
Let his deservings, and my love withal, 450
Be valued ’gainst your wife’s commandment.
Bass. Go, Gratiano; run and overtake him ;
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,
Unto Antonio’s house.—Away ! make haste.
[Exit GRATIANO.

 

Come, you and I will thither presently,
And in the morning early will we bot
Come, Antonio.

Fly toward Belmont. [Exeunt.

 

Por. “ Away! make haste: thou know'st where I will tarry.”

ScENE Il.—The Same. A Street.
Enter Portia and NERISSA.
Por. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this

eed,
And let him sign it. Well away to-night,
and be a day before our husbands home.
This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.

Enter GRATIANO,

Gra. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en.
My lord Bassanio, upon more advice,
Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat
Your company at dinner.
Por. That cannot be.
His ring I do accept most thankfully,
And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore, 10
I pray you, show my youth old Shylock’s house.
Gra. That will I do,
Ner. __ Sir, I would speak with you.—
le PortiA.] I ll see if I can get my husband’s ring,
hich I did make him swear to keep for ever.
Por. Thou may’st, I warrant. e shall have old
swearing,
That they did give the rings away to men;
But we ’ll outface them, and outswear them too.
Away! make haste: thou know’st where I will tarry.
Ner. Come, good sir; will you show me to this
house ? [Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

CT

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—Belmont.

   

Lorenzo. .
HE moon shines bright.—In such a night
as this, P 7
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the

And they did’ make no noise, in such a
Troilus, mathinles, mounted the Trojan
And siira hin soul toward the Grecian
Were Cressid lay that night.

es. In such a night
Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew ;
And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay’d away. .
or. In such a night é
Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 10
Upon the wild sea-banks, and wav’'d her love
To come again to Carthage. :
es. ~ Tn such a night
Medea gather’d the enchanted herbs
That did renew old Aéson. :
Lor. In such a night
Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, 3
And with an unthrift love did run from Venice,
As far as Belmont.
Jes. In such a night
Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,
And ne'er a true one. :
Lor. In such a night 20
Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.
Jes. I would out-night you, did no body come;
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

Enter STEPHANO.
Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night?
Steph. A friend.
Lor. A friend? what friend? your name, I pray you,
friend?
Steph. Stephano is my name ; and T bring word,
My mistress will before the break of day
Be here at Belmont: she doth stray about. 30
By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays
For happy wedlock hours.
Lor. Who comes with her?
Steph. None, but a holy hermit, and her maid.
I pray you, is my master yet return’d?
Lor. ae is not, nor we have not heard from
im.—
But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
And ceremoniously Jet us prepare :
Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

Enter LAUNCELOT.

Laun. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

Lor. Who calls? 40

Laun. Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo, and
Mistress Lorenzo? sola, sola !

Lor. Leave halloing, man; here.

Laun. Sola! where? where?

Lor, Here.

Laun. Tell him, there’sa post come from my master,

 

‘The Avenue to PortIa’s House.
Enter LORENZO and JESSICA.
; With his horn full of good news: my master will be

here ere morning. Exit.

Lor. Sweet soul, let’s in, and there expect their
coming.

And yet no matter ;—why should we go in? 50

My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
Within the house, your mistress is at hand;
And bring your music forth into the air.—
; [£xit STEPHANO,
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !
Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night,
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.
There’s not the smallest orb, which thou behold’st, 60
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-ey’d cherubins ;
Such harmony is in immortal souls ;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Enter Musicians.
Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn:

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear,
And draw her home with music. (Music.
Jes. Jam never merry when I hear sweet music.

Lor. The reason is, fone spirits are attentive: 70
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
Which is the hot condition of their blood ;
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze,
By the sweet power of music: therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, 81
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,
Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,
1s fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus.
Let no such man be trusted.—Mark the music.

Enter Portia and NERISSA, at a distance.
Por, That light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams! 90
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the
candle.
Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less:
A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by ; and then his state
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters. Music! hark!
Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect.
Methinks, it sounds much sweeter than by day. 100
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended ; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,

 

 
 

 

Scene I.]

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

 

When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season season’d are
To their right praise, and true perfection !—
Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion,
And would not be awak’d!
That is the voice, 110

ir.
Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia.
Por. He knows me, as the blind man knows the

cuckoo,
By the bad voice.
‘Lor. Dear lady, welcome home.
Por. We have been praying for our husbands’
welfare,

Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return’d
Lor. Madam, they are not yet;
But there is come a messenger before,
To signify their coming. :
Por. Go in, Nerissa :
Give order to my servants, that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence ;— 120
Nor you, Lorenzo ;—Jessica, nor you.
[4 tucket sounded.
Lor, Your husband is at hand: I hear his trumpet.
Weare no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.
Por. This night, methinks, js but the day-light sick;
It looks a little paler: ‘tis a day,
Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

Enter Bassanio, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their
Followers.
Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes,
If you would walk in absence of the sun.
Por. Let me give light, but let me not be light ;
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, 130
And never be Bassanio so for me:.
But God sort all !—You are welcome home, my lord.
ass. I thank you,madam. Give welcome to my
friend :
This is the man, this is Antonio,
To whom I am so infinitely bound.
Por. You should in all sense be much bound to him,
For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.
Ant. No more than I am well acquitted of.
Por. Sir, you are very welcome to our house :
It must appear in other ways than words, 140
Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.
Gra. [To Nertssa.] By yonder moon, I swear, you
do me eon
In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk:
Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,
Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.
Por. A quarrel, ho, already ! what’s the matter?
Gra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
That she did give me; whose posy was
For all the world like cutlers’ poetry
Upon a knife, ‘‘ Love me, and leave me not.” 150
er. What talk you of the posy, or the value?
You swore to me, when I did give it you,
That you would wear it till your hour of death,
And that it should lie with you in your grave:
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, |
You should have been respective, and have kept it.
Gave it a judge’s clerk! no, God’s my judge, 7
The clerk will ne’er wear hair on his face, that had it.
Gra. He will, an if he live to be a man.
Ner. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. 160
Gra, Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,
A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,
No higher than thyself, the judge’s clerk ;
A prating boy, that begg’d it as a fee :
I could not for my heart deny it him. ;
Por. Yourwere to blame, I must be plain with you,
To Per so slightly with your wife’s first gift ;
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger,
And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.
Igave my love a ring, and made him swear
Never to part with it; and here he stands: 2
I dare be sworn for him, he would not leave it,
Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth _
hat the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,

170

 

You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:
An’t were to me, I should be mad at it.
Bass. Lage Why, I were best to cut my left hand

om,
And swear I lost the ring defending it.

Gra. My lord Bassanio gave his ring away
Unto the judge that begg’d it, and, indeed,
Desery’d it too; and then the boy, his clerk,

That took some pains in writing, he begg’d mine ;
And neither man, nor master, would take aught
But the two rings.

180

Por. What ring gave you, my lord?
Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me.

Bass. If 1 could add a lie unto a fault,

I would deny it; but you see, my finger
Hath not the ring upon it: it is gone.

Por. Even so void is your false heart of truth.
By heaven, I will ne’er come in your be
Until I see the ring.

Ner. Nor I in yours,

Till I again see mine.
ass. Sweet Portia,
If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring,
And would conceive for what I gave the ring,
And how unwillingly I left the ring,
When nought would be mecopted but the ring,
You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

Por. If you had known the virtue of the ring,

Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, 200
Or your own honour to contain the ring,

You would not then have parted with the ring.

What man is there so much unreasonable,

If you had pleas’d to have defended it

With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty

To urge the thing held as a ceremony ?

Nerissa teaches me what to believe :

I'll die for’t, but some woman had the ring.

Bass. No, by mine honour, madam, by my soul,
No woman had it; but a civil doctor, 210
Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me,

And begg’d the ring, the which I did deny him,
And suffer'd him to go displeas’d away,

Even he that had held up the very life

Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady ?
I was enfore’d to send it after him ;

I was beset with shame and courtesy ;

My honour would not let ingratitude

So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady,

For, by these blessed candles of the night, 220
Had you been there, I think, you would have begg’d
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

Por. Let not that doctor e’er come near my house.

Since he hath got the jewel that I lov’d,

And that which you did swear to keep for me,

I will become as liberal as you:

Ill not deny him any thing I have;

No, not my body, nor my husband's bed.

Know him I shall, Iam well sure of it:

Lie not a night from home ; watch me like Argus;

If you do not, if I be left alone, : 231
Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,

I'll have that doctor for my bedfellow.

Ner. And I his clerk; therefore, be well advis’d,
How you do leave me to mine own protection.

Gra. Well, do you so: let not me take him then;
For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk’s pen.

Ant. Iam the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

Por. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwith-

standing.

Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; 240
And in the hearing of these many friends
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,
Wherein I see myself,—

Por. Mark you but that!

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself ;
In each eye, one :—swear by your double self,
And there ’s an oath of credit.
‘ass. Nay, but hear me.
Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear,
I never more will break an oath with thee.
Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth,

 

 
 

 

316 ©

Which, but for him that had your husband’s ring, 250
Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again,

My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord

Will never more break faith advisedly.

Por. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this,
And bid him keep it better than the other.

Ant. Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.

Bass. By heaven! it is the same I gave the doctor.

Por. Thad it of him: pardon me, Bassanio,
For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.

Ner. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano,

For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk,
In lieu of this last night did lie with me.

Gra. Why, this is like the mending of highways
In summer, where the ways are fair enough.
What! are we cuckolds, ere we have deserv’d it?

Por. Speak not so grossly.—You are allamazd:
Here is a letter, read it at your leisure ;
It comes from Padua, from Bellario:
There you shall find, that Portia was the doctor ;
Nerissa there, her clerk. Lorenzo here
Shall witness, I set forth as soon as you,
And even but now return’d: I have not yet
Enter’d my house.—Antonio, you are welcome;
And I have better news in store for you,
Than you expect: unseal this letter soon ;
There you shall find, three of your argosies
Are richly come to harbour suddenly.
You shall not know by what strange accident
I chanced on this letter.

Ant. Iam dumb.

260

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

 

[Act Vv,

Bass, Were you the doétor, and I knew you not?
Gra, Were you the clerk that is to make me
cuckold ? 281
Ner. Ay; but the clerk that never means to do it,
Unless he live until he be a man.
Bass. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow:
When I am absent, then lie with my wife.
Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living,
For here I read for certain that my ships
Are safely come to road.
Por. How now, Lorenzo?
My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.
er. Ay, and I’ll give them him without a fee,—
There do I give to you and Jessica, 291
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,
After his death, of all he dies possess’d of.
Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starved people.
‘or. It is almost morning,
And yet, Iam sure, you are not satisfie
Of these events at full. Let us goin;
And charge us there upon inter’gatories,
And we will answer all things faithfully.
Gra. Let it be so: the first inter’gatory, 300
That my Nerissa shall be sworn on, is,
Whether till the next night she had rather stay,
Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:
But were the day come, I should wish it dark,
Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk.
Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

THESEUS, Duke of Athens.

EceEus, Father to Hermia.

Be cerey in love with Hermia.
PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus.
QUINCE, a Carpenter.

Snue, a Joiner.

Bottom, a Weaver.

FLUTE, a Bellows-mender.

Snout, a Tinker.

STARVELING, a Tailor.

HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons.

HerRmIa, in love with Lysander.
HELENA, in love with Demetrius.

OBERON, King of the Fairies.
TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies.
Puck, or Robin Good-fellow.

en
OBWEB sags
Morn, ” Fairies.
MUSTARD-SEED.

Other Fairies attending their King and Queen.
Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.

SCENE—ATHENS, and a Wood not far from it.

 

ACT I.
ScENE J.—Athens. A Room in the Palace of THESEUS.

Theseus.
_OW, fair Hippolyta, our. nuptial hour
if Draws on apace: four happy days bring
N

    

in
\ Another moon; but, O, methinks, how

slow
S This old moon wanes! she lingers my
S\, desires,
» Like toa step-dame, or a dowager,
Long withering. out a young man’s
revenue.
Hip. Four days will quickly steep
themselves in nights ;
Four nights will quickly dream away
the time ;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the
night 11

The. Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments ;
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth :
Turn melancholy forth to funerals ;
The pale companion is not for our ee

‘ aid [Eait PHILOSTRATE.
Bipnolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword,
And won thy love doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. 20

Enter Ecrus, HerMiA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS.

ie Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!
The. ee ire good Egeus: what’s the news with
thee
Ege. Full of vexation come I, with complaint
Against my child, my daughter Hermia.—
Stand forth, Demetrius.—My noble lord,
This man hath my consent to marry her.—
Stand forth, Lysander ;—and, my gracious duke,

Of our solemnities.
The

 

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and Attendants.

This man hath bewitch’d the bosom of my child:
Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast sven her rhymes,
And interchang’d love-tokens with my child: 30
Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
With feigning voice, verses of feigning love;
And stol’n the impression of her fantasy
With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,
Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats (messengers
Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth):
With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart,
Turn’d her obedience, which is due to me,
To stubborn harshness.— And, my gracious duke,
Be it so she will not here before your grace
Consent to marry with Demetrius,
I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,
As she is mine, I may dispose of her;
Which shall be either to this gentleman,
Or to her death, according to our law
Immediately provided in that case.
he. What say you, Hermia? be advis’d, fair maid.
To you your father should be as a god ;
One that compos’d your beauties ; yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax,
By him imprinted, and within his power
To leave the figure, or disfigure it.
Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.
Her. So is Lysander.
The. In himself he is:
But, in this kind, wanting your father’s voice,
The other must be held the worthier.
Her. I would, my father look’d but with my eyes!
The. Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.
Her. I do entreat your grace to pardon me.
I know not by what power I am made bold, 60
Nor how it may concern my modesty,
In such a presence here, to plead my thoughts ;
But I beseech your grace, that I may know
The worst that may befall me in this case,
If I refuse to wed Demetrius,

 
 

318

- MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

[Acr I.

 

 

The. Either to die the death, or to abjure
For ever the society of men. | ‘
Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires ;
Know of your youth, examine well your blood,
Whether, if you yield not to your father’s choice,
You can endure the livery of a nun, |
For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d,
To live a barren sister all your life, _
Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.

70

   
  

    

\ a”

The. ‘* Wippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword.”

Thrice blessed they, that master so their blood,
To undergo such maiden pilgrimage :
But earthlier happy is the rose distill’d,
Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn,
Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

Her. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,
Ere I will yield my virgin patent up
Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke
My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

The. Take time to pause: and by the next new

moon,

The sealing-day betwixt my love and me
For everlasting bond of fellowship,
Upon that day either prepare to die,
For disobedience to your father’s will,
Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would ;
Or on Diana's altar to protest, 90
For aye, austerity and single life.

Dem. Relent, sweet Hermia ;—and, Lysander, yield
Thy crazed title to my certain right.

Lys. You have her father’s love, Demetrius ;
Let. me have Hermia’s: do you marry him.

at ge Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,
And what is mine my love shall render him;
And she is mine, and all my right of her
I do estate unto Demetrius.

Lys. Tam, my lord, as well deriv’d as he,
As well possess’d ; my love is more than his;
My fortunes every way as fairly rank’d

80

100

 

“* How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

 

(If not with vantage), as Demetrius’;

And, which is more than all these boasts can be,
Iam belov’d of beauteous Hermia.

Why should not I then prosecute my right ?
Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head,

Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena,

And won her soul ; and she, sweet lady, dotes,
Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,

Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

Lhe. I must confess, that I have heard so much,
And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof ;
But, being over-full of self-affairs,

My mind did lose it.—But, Demetrius, come;
And come, Egeus: you shall go with me,
Ihave some private schooling for you both.—
For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself
To fit your fancies to your father’s will,
Or else the law of Athens yields you up
(Which by no means we may extenuate)
To death, or to a vow of single life.—
Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love —
Demetrius, and Egeus, go along:
I must employ you in some business
Against our nuptial, and confer with you
Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.
dge. With duty and desire we follow you.
[Excunt Turs., Hip., EGE., DEM., and Train.
Lys. How now, my love? Why is your cheek so
pale?
130

Her. Belike, for want of rain, which I could well
Beteem them from the tempest of mine eyes.
Lys. Ahme! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth ;
But, either it was different in blood,—
Her. O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low!
Lys. Or else misgratted, in respect of years,—
Her. O spite! too old to be engag’d to young!
Lys. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, —
Her. O hell! to choose love by another’s eyes! 141
Lys. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
Making it momentany as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, short as any dream,
Briet as the lightning in the collied night,
That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say,—behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
So quick bright things come to confusion.
Her. If then true lovers have been ever cross'd,
It stands as an edict in destiny :
Then let us teach our trial patience,
Because it is a customary cross,
As due to love as thoughts, and dreams,

110

120

150

and

sighs,
Wishes, and tears, poor fancy’s followers.
Lys. A_ good persuasion: therefore,
Hermia.
I have a widow aunt, a dowager °
Of great revenue, and she hath no child:
From Athens is her house remote seven leagues; 160

hear me,

.And she respects me as her only son.

There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee,

And to that place the sharp Athenian law
Cannot pursue us. If thou lov’st me then,
Steal forth thy father’s house to-morrow night,

. And in the wood, a league without the town

(Where I did meet thee once with Helena,
To do observance to a morn of May),
There will I stay for thee.
Her. My good Lysander!
Iswear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow,
By his best arrow with the golden head,

170

* By the simplicity of Venus’ doves,

By that which knitteth souls, and prospers loves,
And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen,
When the false Trojan under sail was seen,

By all the vows that ever men have broke,

In number more than ever women spoke:

In that same place thou hast appointed me,
To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 319

 

Keep promise, love.

Lys.
Helena.

Look, here comes
180

Enter HELENA,

Her. God speed fair Helena! Whither away?

Hel. Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.
Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!
Your eyes are lode-stars, and your tongue’s sweet

‘ air
More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear,
When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
Yickness is catching: O, were favour so,
Yours would I catch, fair Hermia ! ere I go;
My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
a tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody.

ere the world mine, Demetrius being bated, 191
The rest I’ll give to be to you translated.

0! teach me how you look, and with what art
You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart.

Her. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

Hel. O, that your frowns would teach my smiles

such skill!

Her. I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

Hel. O, that my prayers could such affection

move!

Her. The more I hate, the more he follows me.

Hel. The more I love, the more he hateth me. 200

Her. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

Hel. None, but your beauty : ‘would that fault were

mine!

Her. Toke comfort: he no more shall see my

‘ace ;
Lysander and myself will fly this place.—
Before the time I did Lysander see, ,
Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me :,
O then, what graces in my love do dwell,
That he hath turn’d a heaven unto a hell!

Lys. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold.
To-morrow night, when Pheebe doth behold 210
Her silver visage in the wat’ry glass,

Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,
(A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal)
Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal.
Her, And in the wood, where often you and I
Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,
Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,
There my Lysander and myself shall meet ;
And thence, from Athens, turn away our eyes,
To seek new friends and stranger companies. 220
Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us,
And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius !—
Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight
From lovers’ tood, till morrow deep midnight.
Lys. I ee my Hermia. [Hxit Herm.]—Helena,
adieu:
As you on him, Demetrius dote on you! [Ezit.

Hel. How happy some o’er other some can be!
Through Athens I am thought as fair as she ;

But what of that?) Demetrius thinks not so ;

He will not know what all but he do know; 230
And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes, *

So I, admiring of his qualities.

Things base and vile, holding no quantity,

Love can transpose to form and dignity.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.

Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste ;

Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste:

And therefore is Love said to be a child, ,

Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d. 240
As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,

So the boy Love is perjur’d every where;

For ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne,

He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine;

And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,

So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did melt.

I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight :

Then to the wood will he, to-morrow night,

Pursue her; and for this intelligence

If I have thanks, it is a dear expence: % 250
But herein mean I to enrich my pain, : ;
To have his sight thither, and back again. [Exit.

 

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BoTTroM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and
STARVELING,
uin. Is all our company here?
ol, You_were best to call them generally, man by
man, according to the scrip.

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man’s name, which
is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our inter-
jude peter’ the duke and duchess on his wedding-day
at night.

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play
treats on; then read the names of the actors, and so
grow to a point. 10

Quin. Marry, our play is—The most lamentable
comedy, and most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and

A Room in QUINCE’s House.

 

Bot. ** This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant's vein.”

a merry.—Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your
actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.
Quin. Answer, as I call you.—Nick Bottom, the
weaver.
Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.
Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.
Bot. What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant? 2
Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for

love.

Bot. That willask some tears in the true performin
of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes;
will move storms, I will condole in some measure.
To the rest :—yet my chief humour is for a tyrant: I
could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to
make all split.

“The raging rocks,
And shivering shocks, 30
Shall break the locks
Of prison gates:
And Phibbus’ car
Shall shine from far,
And make and mar
The foolish Fates.”

This was lofty !—Now name the rest of the players.—
This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more
condoling.

uin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 40

‘lu. Here, Peter Quince.

Bee You must take Thisby on you.

‘lu. What is Thisby? a wandering knight ?

win. It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

lu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman: I have
a beard coming.

 
 

320

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

—

[Act IL

 

 

 

 

Quin. That’s all one. You shall play it ina mask,
and you may speak as small as you will. ,

Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too.
I’ll speak in a_monstrous little voice :—‘‘ Thisne,
Thisne,”—‘‘ Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! thy Thisby
dear, and lady dear!” 2

Quin, No, no; you must play
you Thisby.

Bot. Well, proceed.

uin. Robin Starveling, the tailor.
tar. Here, Peter Quince. eee

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby’s
mother.—Tom Snout, the tinker.

Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 60

in. You, Pyramus’s father; myself, Thisby’s
father.—Snug, the joiner, you, the lion’s part ;—and,
I hope, here is a play fitted. ;

Snug. Have you the lion’s part written? pray you,
if it be, give it me, for] am slow of study. | .

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing
but roaring. 3

Bot. Let me play the lion too. I will roar, that I
will do any man’s heart good to hear me: I will roar,
that I will make the duke say, ‘Let him roar again,
let him roar again.” 71

in, An you should do it too terribly, you would
fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would
shriek ; and that were enough to hang us all.

All. That would hang us, every mother’s son.

2.
Pyramus, and, Flute,

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright ©

 

the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more
discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my
voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking
dove: I will roar you an’t were any nightingale. 80
Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus; for
Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one
shall see in a summer’s day ; a most lovely, gentleman-
like man ; therefore, you must needs play Pyramus,
Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I
best to play it in? :
yore hy, what you will.
ot. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour
beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain
beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your per-
fect yellow. 91
Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair at
all, and then you will play bare-faced.— But, masters,
here are your parts; and [ am to entreat you, request
you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night,
and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the
town, by moonlight: there will we rehearse ; for if we
meet in the city, we shall be dogged with company,
and our devices known. Inthe meantime I will draw
a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray
you, fail me not. 101
Bot. We will meet; and there we may rehearse
more obscenely, and courageously. Take pains; be
perfect ; adieu.
win. At the duke’s oak we meet.
‘ot. Enough ; hold, or cut bowstrings.

[Exeunt.

 

ACT II.
Scene I.—A Wood near Athens.
Enter a Fairy and Puck from opposite sides.

   
 

7

SF) Puck.
OW now, spirit! whither wander you?
) fai. Over hill, over dale, .
{ Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon's sphere ;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green:
The cowslips tall her pensioners be ;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits: I’ll be gone:
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
Puck. The king doth keep his revels here to-night.
Take heed, the queen come not within his sight ;
For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, 29
Because that she as her attendant hath
A lovely boy, stol'n from an Indian king:
She never had so sweet a changeling ;
And jealous Oberon would have the child
Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;
But she, perforce, withholds the loved boy,
Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy.
And now they never meet in erere, or green,
By fountain clear, or spangle starlight sheen,
But they do square; that all their elves, for fear,
Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there.

ll

30)

 

fai. Either I mistake your shape and making quite,

   
 

Puck. “ ram that merry wanderer of the
ght.”

Or else you are that shrewd and
<navish sprite,
Call’d Robin Good-fellow.

not he,

That frights the maidens of the
villagery ;

Skim milk, and sometimes labour
in the quern,

And bootless make the breathless
housewife churn ;

Are you

 

 
 

 

Scene IT]

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

321

 

And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, 40
You do their work, and they shall have good luck.
Are not you he?
Puck. Thou speak’st aright ;
Jam that merry wanderer of the night.
I jest to Oberon, and make him smile,
When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
ae sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl,
In very likeness of a roasted crab ;
And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob,
And on her wither’d dewlap pour the ale.
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me ;
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
And “tailor” cries, and falls into a cough ;
And then the whole quire hold their hips, and laugh,
And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear
A merrier hour was never wasted there.—
But room, fairy : here comes Oberon.
Fai. And here my mistress.—’ Would that he were
gone!

ScENE II.

Enter OBERON from one side, with his Train, and
TITANIA from the other, with hers.
Obe. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.
Tita. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence:
Ihave forsworn his bed and company.
Obe. Tarry, rash wanton. Am not I thy lord?
Tita. Then I must be thy lady ; but I know
When thou hast stol’n away from fairy land,
And in the shape of Corin sat all day,
Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love
To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
Come from the farthest steep of India, 10
But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love,
To Theseus must be wedded? and you come
To give their bed joy and prosperity.
Obe. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania,
Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
Knowing I know thy love to Theseus ?
Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night
From Perigenia, whom he ravished ?
And make him with fair Afglé break his faith, 20
With Ariadne, and Antiopa?
Tita. These are the forgeries of jealousy :
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain, or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margin of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea 30
Contagious fogs ; which, falling in the land,
Have every pelting river made so proud,
That they have overborne their continents :
The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,
The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
Hath rotted, ere his youth attain’d a beard :
The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
And crows are fatted with the murrain flock :
The nine men’s morris is fill’d up with mud ;
‘And the quaint mazes in the wanton green 40
For lack of tread are undistinguishable :
The human mortals want their winter here :
No night is now with hymn or carol blest ;—
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases do abound :
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter : hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose ;
And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown, 50
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,

 

The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries ; and the mazed world,
By their increase, now knows not which is which.
And this same progeny of evils comes
From our debate, from our dissension :
We are their parents and original.
Obe. Do you amend it then ; it lies in you.
Why should Titania cross her Obcron ? 60
I do but beg a little changeling boy,
To be my henchman.
Tita. Set your heart at rest,
The fairy land buys not the child of me.
His mother was a votaress of my order:
And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
Full often hath she gossip’d by my side,
And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands,
Marking the embarked traders on the flood ;
‘When we have laugh’d to see the sails conceive,
And grow big-bellied, with the wanton wind; 70
Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait
Following, he womb then rich with my young
squire} .
Would imitate, and sail upon the land,
To fetch me trifles, and return again,
As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
But she, being mortal, of that boy did die ;
And for her sake I do rear up her boy,
And for her sake I wil] not part with him.
Obe. How long within this wood intend you stay ?
Tita. Perchance, till after Theseus’ wedding-day.
If you will patiently dance in our round, 81
And see our moonlight revels, go with us;
If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.
Obe. Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.
Tita. Not for thy fairy kingdom.—Fairies, away !
We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.
[£ait TITANIA, with her Train.
Obe. Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this

grove,
Till I torment thee for this injury.—

My gentle Puck, come hither : thou remember’st
Since once I sat upon a promontory,

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

That the rude sea grew civil at her song,

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid’s music.

Puck. J remember.

Obe. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not),
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west,
And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts.
But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft
Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound,
And maidens call it Love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I show’d thee once:
The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, 111
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again,
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth

100

In forty minutes. i aoe Exit.
Obe. Having once this juice,

I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,

And drop the liquor of it in her eyes:

The next thing then she waking looks upon 120

(Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,

On meddling monkey, or on busy ape),

She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
And ere I take this charm off from her sight
(As I can take it with another herb),

I’)] make her render up her page to me.—
But who comes here? l am invisible,

And I will overhear their conference.

 
 

329 A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT:S DREAM.

[Act IL

 

 

 

Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him.

Dem. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.

Where is Lysander, and fair Hermia?

The one I tl slay, the other slayeth me. |

Thou toldst me, they were stol'n into this wood ;
And here am I, and wood within this wood,
Because I cannot meet my Hermia.

Hence! get thee gone, and follow me no more.

Hel. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant :
But yet you draw not iron, for my heart
Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw,
And I shall have no power to follow you.

Dem. Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?

Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth
Tell you [ do not, nor I cannot love you?

Hel. And even for that do I love you the more.

Iam your spaniel ; and, Demetrius,

The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:

Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love

(And yet a place of high respect with me),

Than to be used as you use your dog? zs

Dem. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,
For I am sick when I do look on thee.

Hel. And I am sick when I look not on you.

Dem. You do impeach your modesty too much,
To leave the city, and commit yourself
Into the hands of one that loves you not;

To trust the opportunity of night,
And the ill counsel of a desert place,
With the rich worth of your Virginity.

Hel. Your virtue is my privilege for that.

It is not night, when I do see your face,
Therefore I think Iam not in the night;
Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,
For you, in my respect, are all the world:
Then how can it be said I am alone,

When all the world is here to look on me?

Dem. Y’llrun from thee, and hide me in the brakes,
And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

Hel. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. 170
Run when you will, the story shall be chang'd ;
Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase :

The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind
Makes speed to catch the tiger. Bootless speed,
When cowardice pursues, and valour flies !

Dem. I will not stay thy questions: let me go;
Or, if thou follow me, do not believe
But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

Hel. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!

Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex.
We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
‘We should be woo’d, and were not made to woo.
I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell,
To die upon the hand I love so well.
[Exeunt DEMETRIUS and HELENA.
Obe. Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this

grove,
Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love.—

Re-enter Puck.

Hast thou the flower there?) Welcome, wanderer.
Puck. Ay, there it is.
Obe. I pray thee, give it me.
1 know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows ;
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania, some time of the night,
Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
And with the juice of this I'l] streak her eyes,
And make her full of hateful fantasies.
Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove.
A sweet Athenian lady is in love
With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;
But do it, when the next thing he espies

130

140

150

160

180

190

200

 

May be the Jady. Thou shalt know the man
By the Athenian garments he hath on.
Effect it with some care, that he may prove
More fond on her, than she upon her love.
And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.
Puck. Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.
[Ezxeunt.

 

Scene III.—Another Part of the Wood.

Enter TITanta, with her Train.
Tita. Come, now a roundel, and a fairy song;

Then, for the third part of a minute, hence:
Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds;
Some, war with rear-mice for their leathern wings,
To make my small elves coats ; and some, keep back
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders
At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
Then to your oftices, and let me rest.

FAIRIES’ SONG.
I
1 Fat. You spotted snakes, with double tongue,
Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen;
Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong ;
Come not near our fairy queen.

Chorus.
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby ;
Lulia, lulla, tullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullaby :
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
IL.
2 Fai. Weaving spiders, come not here ;
Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence; 20
Beetles black, approach not near ;
Worm, nor snail, do no offence.

Chorus.
Philomel, with melody, &c.

1 Fai. Hence, away! now all is well.

One, aloof, stand sentinel.
Exeunt Fairies. TITAnta sleeps.
Enter OBERON, and squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S
eyelids.
Obe. What thou seest, when thou dost wake,

Do it for thy true-love take;
Love, and languish for his sake:
Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,
Pard, or boar with bristled hair, 30
In thy eye that shall appear
When thou wak’st, it is thy dear.
Wake when some vile thing is near.

Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA.
Lys. Fair love, you faint with wandering in the
a :

[Exit.

ood ;
And, to speak troth, I have forgot our mare
We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,
And tarry for the comfort of the day.

Her. Be itso, Lysander: find you out a bed,
For I upon this bank will rest my head.

Lys. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both: 40
One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth.

Her. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,
Lie further off yet: do not lie so near. |

ys. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!

Love takes the meaning in love’s conterence.
I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit,
So that but one heart we can make of it:
Two bosoms interchained with an oath;
So then, two bosoms, and a single troth.
Then, by your side no bed-room me deny, 50
For, lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.

Her. Lysander riddles very prettily.

 

 
\

 

ScENE III.J A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. 323

Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,
If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.

But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy

Lie further off; in human modesty

Enter PucK.

Puck. Through the forest have I gone,
But Athenian found I none,

 

Obe. ‘‘ What thou seest, when thou dost wake,
Do it for thy true-love take.”

Such separation as may well be said

Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend.
Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end!

On whose eyes I might approve

This flowers force in stirring love.

Night and silence ?— Who is here ?

Weeds of Athens he doth wear: 70

 

fue Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I;
And then end life, when I end loyalty !
Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!
Her. With half
press’d !

at wish the wisher’s eyes be
hey sleep.

This is he, my master said,

Despised the Athenian maid;

And here the maiden, sleeping sound
On the dank and dirty ground.
Pretty soul! she durst not lie

 
 

324

Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.

Churl, upon thy eyes I throw

All the pene this charm doth owe,

When thou wak'st, let love forbid

Sleep his seat on thy eyelid. 80
So awake when I am gone; :
For I must now to Oberon. [Exit

 

Puck. “Through the forest have I gone.”

Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running.

Hel. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.
Dem. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me

thus.
Hel. O! wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so,
Dem. Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go. [Exit.
Hel. O! Tam out of breath in this fond chase.
The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies ;
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:
If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers.
No, no, Iam as ugly as a bear ;
For beasts, that meet me, run away for fear;
Therefore, no marvel, though Demetrius
Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus.
What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne?—
But who is here ?—Lysander! on the ground?
Dead, or asleep ?—I see no blood, no wound,—

100
Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake.

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

[Act IL

Lys. [Awaking.] And run through fire I will, for
thy sweet sake.
Transparent Helena! Nature here shows art,
‘hat through thy bosom makes me see thy heart,
Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word
Is that vile name to perish on my sword!
Hel. Do not say so, Lysander ; say not so.
What though he love your Hermia? Lord! what
though?
Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.
Lys. Content with Hermia! No: I do repent
The tedious minutes I with her have spent.
Not Hermia, but Helena I love.
Who will not change a raven for a dove?
The will of man is by his reason sway’d,
And reason says you are the worthier maid.
Things growing are not ripe until their season;
So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason ;
And touching now the point of human skill,
Reason becomes the marshal to my will,
And leads me to your eyes; where I o’erlook 120
Love’s stories, written in love's richest book.
Hel. MW heretore was I to this keen mockery
orn
When, at your hands, did I deserve this scorn?
Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man,
That I did never, no, nor never can,
Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye,
aes must flout my insufficiency ?
Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,
In such disdainful manner me to woo.

110

But fare you well: perforce I must confess, 130
I thought you lord of more true gentleness.

O, that a lady of one man refus’d

Should of another therefore be abus’d ! (Exit.

Lys. he sees not Hermia.—Hermia, sleep thou
ere;
And never may’st thou come Lysander near.
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings;
Or, as the heresies, that men do leave,
Are hated most of those they did deceive:
So thou, my surfeit, and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me.
And, all my powers, address your love and might
To honour Helen, and to be her knight. (Exit.
Her. [Awaking.] Help me, Lysander, help me! do ©
thy best,
To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast.
Ah me, for pity !—what a dream was here !
Lysander, look, how I do quake with fear.
ethought a serpent eat my heart away,
And you sat smiling at his cruel prey.—
Lysander! what, remov’d? Lysander ! lord!
What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?
Alack ! where are you? speak, an if you hear;
Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.
No?—then I well perceive you are not nigh:
Either death, or you, I'll find immediately.

140

150

[Exit.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT

ScENE I.—The Same.

ITT.
TITANIA lying asleep.

Enter QuINCE, SNuG, BortroM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.

Quin. Pat, pat; and here’s a mar-
vellous convenient place for our
rehearsal. This green plot shall be
our stage, this hawthorn-brake our
tiring-house; and we will do it in
action, as we will do it before the
duke.

Bot. Peter Quince,—

Quin. What say’st thou, bully
Bottom? 1

Bot. There are things in this
comedy of ‘‘ Pyramus and Thisby,”
that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a
sword to kill himself, which the ladies cannot abide.
How answer you that?

Snout. By r lakin, a parlous fear.

Star. I believe, we must leave the killing out, when
all is done.

Bot. Not a whit: I have a device to make all well.
Write me a prologue ; and Jet the prologue seem to
say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that
Pyramus is not killed indeed: and, for the more
better assurance, tell them, that I, Pyramus, am not
Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver. This will put
them outoffear. .

Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue, and it
shall be written in eight and six.

Bot. No, make it two more: let it be written in
eight and eight.

mout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion ?

Star. I fear it, I promise you. 7

Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves:
to bring in, God shield us! a lion among ladies, is a most
dreadful thing ; for there is not a more fearful wild-
fowl than your lion living, and we ought to look to it.

Snout. Therefore, another prologue must tell he is
not a lion. 3

Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half his
face must be seen through the lion’s neck; and he
himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the
same defect :—‘ Ladies,” or, ‘‘Fair ladies, I would
wish you,” or, ‘“‘I would request you,” or, “I would
entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: my life for
yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were
pity of my life: no, Iam no such thing : I am a man
as other men are;” and there, indeed, let him name
his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug, the joiner.

in. Well, it shall be so, But there is two hard
things: that is, to bring the moonlight into a
chamber ; for you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet
by moonlight. ‘ 52
Snug. Doth the moon shine that night we play our

 

play ?
Bot. A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanac ;
find out moonshine, find out moonshine.

win. Yes, it doth shine that night.

‘ot. Why, then you may leave a casement of the
great chamber-window, where we play, open; and
the moon may shine in at the casement. 60

Quin. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of
thorns and a lanthorn, and say, he comes to disfigure,
or to present, the person of Moonshine. Then, there
is another thing: we must have a wall in the great

 

chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story,
did talk through the chink of a wall.

Snug. You can never bring in a wall.—What say
you, Bottom?

Bot. Some man or other must present Wall; and let
him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-
cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his
anger thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus
and Thisby whisper. .

Quin. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit
down, every mother’s son, and rehearse your parts.
Pyramus, you begin. When you have spoken your
speech, enter into that brake; and so every one
according to his cue.

Enter Puck behind.

Puck. What hempen home-spuns have we swagger-
ing here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen? 80
What, a play toward? I’ll be an auditor;
An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.
uin. Speak, Pyramus.—Thisby, stand forth.
yr. ‘“Thisby, the flowers of odious savours

,
sweet, ’—
in. Odours, odours.
yr. —“ odours savours sweet:
So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby, dear.
But, hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,
And by and by I will to thee appear.” ie.

Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e’er play’d hee ! a

eit.

This. Must I speak now ?

Quin. Ay, Marry, must you; for you must under-
stand, he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is
to come again

This. ‘Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of

ue,
Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,

Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,

As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire,

I’']l meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny’s tomb.”

Quin. Ninus’ tomb, man. Why, you must not speak
that yet; that you answer to Pyramus. You speak all
your part at once, cues and all.—Pyramus, enter: your
cue is past; it is, ‘‘never tire.”

Re-enter Puck, and Bottom with an ass’s head.
This. O!—“ As true as truest horse, that yet would
never tire.”
Pyr. “If 1 were fair, Thisby, I were only thine.”—
Quin. O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted.
Pray, masters! fly, masters! help! [Hxreunt Clowns.
Puck, I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round,
Through poe through bush, through brake, through
rier :
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, 110
A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. [Hzit.
Bot. Why do they run away? this is a knavery of
them, to make me afeard.

Re-enter SNOUT.
Snout. O Bottom! thou art changed : what do I see
on thee? (Exit.

 
 

 

 

326

Bot. What do you see? you sce an ass-head of your
own, do you? 119

Re-enter QUINCE.

Quin. Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou_art
translated. (Exit.
Bot. I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of
me, to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir
from this place, do what they can. I will walk upand
down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am
not afraid. [Sings.
The ousel-cock, so black of hue,
With orange-tawny bill,
The throstle with his note so true,
The wren with little quill. 130
Tita. [Awaking.] What angel wakes me from my
- flowery bed?
Bot. The finch, the sparrow, and the lark,
The plain-song cuckoo gray,
Whose note full many a man doth mark,
And dares not answer, nay ;
for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird?
who would give a bird the lie, though he cry **cuckoo”
never so?

Tita. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again :
Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note; 140
So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape ;

And thy fair virtue’s force, perforce, doth move me,
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.

Bot. Methinks, mistress, you should have little
reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason
and love keep little company together now-a-days.
The more the pity, that some honest neighbours will
not make them friends. Nay, 1 can gleek upon
occasion.

Tita. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. 150

Bot. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get
out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own
turn.

Tita. Out of this wood do not desire to go:

Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.
Iam a spirit of no common rate;

The summer still doth tend upon my state ;

And I do love thee: therefore, go with me;

I ll give thee fairies to attend on thee,

And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, 160
And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep :
And I will purge thy mortal grossness so,

That thou shalt like an ping ene go.—
Pease-blossom ! Cobweb! Moth ! and Mustard-seed !

Enter Four Fairies.
1. Fai. Ready.
i And I.

2. Fai.

3. Iai. Andi.

4, Fai. Where shall we go?

Tita. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman:
Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes;

Feed him with apricocks, and dewberries,

With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.

The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees, 170
And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs,

And light them at the fiery glow-worm’s eyes,

To have my love to bed, and to arise ;

And pluck the wings from painted butterflies,

To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.

Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

1. Fai. Hail, mortal!

2. Fai. Hail!

3. Fai. Hail!

4. Fai. Hail! 180

Bot. Icry your worships mercy, heartily.—I beseech
your worship’s name.

Cob. Cobweb.

Bot. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good
Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make
bold with you.— Your name, honest gentleman ?

Peas. Pease-blossom.

Bot. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash,
your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father.
Good Master Pease-blossom, I shall desire you of more
acquaintance too.—Your name, I beseech you, sir?

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

[Act III.

Mus. Mustard-seed.

Bot. Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your
atience well: that same cowardly, giant-like oxbeef
ath devoured many a gentleman of your house, I

promise you, mour kindred hath made my eyes water
ere now. esire you more acquaintance,
Master Mustard-seed. = aot
Tita. Come, wait upon him : lead him to my bower.
The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye; 200
And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,
Lamenting some enforced chastity.
Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. [Ezcunt,

 

Scene II.—Another Part of the Wood.

Enter OBERON.
Obe. I wonder, if Titania be awak’d ;

 

Obe. ‘I wonder, if Titania be awak’d.”

Then, what it was that next came in her eye,
Which she must dote on in extremity.

Enter Puck.
Here comes my messenger.—How now, mad spirit?
What night-rule now about this haunted grove?
Puck. My mistress with a monster is in love.
Near to her close and consecrated bower,
While she was in her dull and sleeping hour
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,
That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, 10
Were met together to rehearse a play.
Intended for great Theseus’ nuptial day.
The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,
Who Pyramus presented in their sport,
Forsook his scene, and enter’d in a brake,
When I did him at this advantage take ;
An ass’s now! I fixed on his Head:
Anon, his Thisbe must be answered, :
And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,
As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, 20

Or poet choughs, many in sort, |

 

Rising and cawing at the gun’s report,
 

 

Scene II]

 

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 327
Sever themselves, and madly sweep the sky ; By some illusion see thou bring her here:
So, at his sight, away his fellows fly, I’ll charm his eyes against she do appear.
And, at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls: Puck. I go, I go; look how I go; 100
He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Swifter than arrow from the Tartar’s bow. [Exit.
‘heir sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus Obe. Flower of this purple die,
strong, — . Hit with Cupid’s archery,
Made senseless things begin to do them wrong ; Sink in apple of his eye.
For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch ; When his love he doth espy,
Some, sleeves, some, hats, from yielders all things Let her shine as gloriously
catch, 30 As the Venus of the sky.—
Tled them on in this distracted fear, When thou wak’st, if she be by,
‘And left sweet Pyramus translated there ; Beg of her for remedy.
When in that moment (so it came to pass)
Titania wak'd, and straightway lov’d an ass. Re-enter PucCK.
Ove. This falls out better than I could devise. Puck. Captain of our fairy band, 11¢

But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes
With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?
Puck. I took him sleeping, (that is finish’d too)
And the Athenian woman by his side,
That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d. 40

Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA.

Obe. Stand close: this is the same Athenian.

Puck. This is the woman ; but not this the man.

Dem. O! why rebuke you him that loves you so?
Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

er. Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,
For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse.
If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,
Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,
And kill me too.
The sun was not so true unto the day, 50
Ashetome. Would he have stol’n away
From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon,
This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon
May through the centre creep, and so displease
Her brother’s noontide with the Antipodes.
It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him ;
So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

Dem. So should the murder’d look, and so should I,
Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty ;
Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, 60
As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

Her. What’s this to my Lysander? where is he?
Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

Dem. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

Her. Out, dog! out, cur! thou driv’st me past the

bounds
Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him then?
Henceforth be never numbered among men!
O! once tell true, tell true, e’en for my sake ;
Durst thou have look’d upon him, being awake,
And hast thou kill’d him sleeping? O brave touch! 70
Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?
An adder did it ; for with doubler tongue
Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

Dem. You spend your passion on a mispris’d mood :
Iam not guilty of Lysander’s blood,

Nor is he dead, for ought that I can tell.

Her. I pray thee, tell me then, that he is well.

Dem. An it I could, what should I get therefore?

Her. A privilege, never to see me more.—

And from thy hated presence part I so; 80
See me no more, whether he be dead or no. (Exit.
Dem. There is no following her in this fierce vein :

Here, therefore, for a while I will remain.
So sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow
For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe ;
Which now in some slight measure it will pay,
If for his tender here I make some stay. [Lies down.
Obe. What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken
uite,
And laid the love-juice on some true-love’s sight :
Of thy misprision must perforce ensue
Some true-love turn’d, and not a false turn’d true.
Puck. Te fate o’er-rules, that, one man holding
roth,
A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

Obe, About the wood go swifter than the wind,

And Helena of Athens look thou find:
All fancy-sick she is, and pale of cheer
With sighs of love, that cost the fresh blood dear.

 

 

Helena is here at hand,

fer. “ And from thy hated presence part I so.”

And the youth, mistook by me,
Pleading for a lover’s fee.

Shall we their fond pageant see?
Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Obe. Stand aside: the noise they make
Will cause Demetrius to awake.
Puck. Then will two at once woo one;

That must needs be sport alone ;
And those things do best please me,
That befall preposterously.

120

Enter LYSANDER and HELENA.

Lys. Why should you think that I should woc in
scorn ?

Scorn and derision never come in tears:
Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,
In their nativity all truth appears.
How can these things in me seem scorn to you,
Bearing the badge of faith to prove them true?

Hel. You do advance your cunning more and more.
When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!
These vows are Hermia’s: will you give her o'er?
Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:
Your vows, to her and me, put in two scales,
Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

aye Thad no judgment, when to her I swore.

el. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er. 130
Lys. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

 

 
 

328

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

(Act IIL

 

 

Dem. [Awaking.] O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect,
divine!
To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
Crystalis muddy. O! how ripe in show
Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
That pure congealed white, high Taurus’ snow,
Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow,
When thou hold’st up thy hand. O, let me kiss
This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!
Hel. O spite! O hell! I see, you all are bent
To set against me, for your merriment:
If you were civil and knew courtesy,
You would not do me thus much injury.
Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
But you must join in souls to mock me too?
If you were men, as men you are in show,
You would not use a gentle lady so ;
‘To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
When, I am sure, you hate me with your hearts.
You both are rivals, and love Hermia,
And now both rivals, to mock Helena.
A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes
With your derision ! none of noble sort
Would so offend a virgin, and extort
A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport.
ys. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;
For you love Hermia; this, you know, I know:
nd here, with all good will, with all my heart,
n Hermia’s love I yield you up my part;
And yours of Helena to me bequeath,
Whom I do love, and will do till my death.
Hel. Never did mockers waste more idle breath.
Dem. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:
If e’er I lov'd her, all that love is gone.
My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d,
And now to Helen is it home return’d,
There to remain.

140

160

170

Lys. Helen, it is not so.

Dem. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,
Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. —
Look, where thy love comes: yonder is thy dear.

Enter HERMIA.
Her. Dark night, that from the eye his function
akes,

The ear more quick of apprehension makes ;
Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,
It pays the hearing double recompense.—
Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;
Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound.
But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

Lys. ny, should he stay, whom love doth press to

180

go
Her. et love could press Lysander from my
side |
Lys. Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide,
Fair Helena, who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery O's and eyes of light.
Why seek’st thou me? could not this make thee

now,

The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so? 190

Her. You speak not as you think : it cannot be.

Hel. Lo! she is one of this confederacy.
Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three,
‘To fashion this false sport in spite of me.
Injurious Hermia! most ungratetul maid!
Have you corso ¢ have you with these contriv’d
To bait me with this foul derision ?
Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d,
The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us,—O! is all forgot?
All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both Ee ot one song, both in one key,
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,

But yet an union in partition ; 210

 

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
Due but to one, and crowned with one crest.
And will you rend our ancient love asunder,
To join with men in scorning your poor friend?
It is not friendly, ‘tis not maidenly :
Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,
Though I alone do feel the injury.
Her. Iam amazed at your passionate words. 220
I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me.
Hel. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,
To follow me, and praise my eyes and face,
And made your other love, Demetrius,
(Who even but now did spurn me with his foot)
To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare,
Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this
To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander
Deny your love, so rich within his soul,
And tender me, forsooth, affection, 220
But by peur setting on, by your consent?
What though I be not so in grace as you,
So hung upon with love, so fortunate,
But miserable most to love unlov’d,
This you should pity rather than despise.
Her. T understand not what you mean by this.
Hel. Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,
Make mouths upon me when I turn my back;
Wink at each other ; hold the sweet jest up:
This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. 240
If you have any pity, grace, or manners,
You would not make me such an argument.
But, fare ye well: ’tis partly mine own fault,
Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.
Lys. Stay, gentle Helena! hear my excuse:
My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena!
Hel. O excellent!
Her. Sweet, do not scorn her so.
Dem. If she cannot entreat, I can compel.
Lys. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat:
Thy threats have no more strength than her weak
prayers.— 250
Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do:
I swear by that which I will lose for thee,
To prove him false, that says I love thee not.
Dem. I say, I love thee more than he can do.
Lys. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.
Dem. Quick, come,—

Her. Lysander, whereto tends all this ?
Lys. Away, you Ethiop!
Dem. No, no, sir :—

Seem to break loose; take on, as you would follow;
But yet come not. You are a tame man, go! |
Lys. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, det

loose,
Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent. :
Her. Why are you grown so rude? what change is

is,
Sweet love?
Lys. Thy love ? out, tawny Tartar, out!
Out, loathed medicine! O hated potion, hence!
Her. Do you not jest?
Hel. Yes, sooth ; and so do you.
Lys. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.
Dem. I would, I had your bond; for, I perceive,
A weak bond holds you: I’ll not trust your word.
Lys. What! should I hurt her, strike her, kill her

dead ? =

Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so. 270

Her. me y can you do me greater harm than

ate

Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love?
Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander?
Iam as fair now, as I was erewhile. |
Since night you lov’d me; yet, since night you left me.
Why, then you left me (O, the gods forbid !)
In earnest, shall I say ?

ae Ay, by my life;
And never did desire to see thee more.
Therefore, be out of hope, of question, of doubt;
Be certain, nothing truer: ’t is no jest, 280
That I do hate thee, and love Helena,

 

 
 

 

Scene II]

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

Her. O me !—you juggler! you canker-blossom !
You thief of love! what, have you come by night,
And stol’n my love’s heart from him?

Hel. ‘ : Fine, i faith!
Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,
No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear
Impatient answers from my gentle tongue ?
Fie, fie! you counterfeit, ay puppet you!

Her. Puppet! why so? Ay, that way goes the

game.
Now I perceive that she hath made compare 290
Between our statures: she hath urg’d her height,
And with her personage, her tall personage,
Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail’d with him.—
And are you grown so high in his esteem,
Because Tam so dwarfish, and so low?
How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak ;
How low am I? Iam not yet so low,
But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

Hel. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,
Let her not hurt me: I was never curst ; 300
Thave no gift at all in shrewishness ;

Tam aright maid for my cowardice : .
Let her not strike me. You, perhaps, may think,
Because she is something lower than myself,
That I can match her.

Her. Lower! hark, again.

Hel. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.
Ievermore did love you, Hermia,

Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong’d you;
Save that, in love unto Demetrius,
I told him of your stealth unto this wood. 310
He follow’d you; for love, I follow’d him ;
But he hath chid me hence, and threaten’d me
To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too:
And now, so you will let me quiet go,
To Athens will I bear my folly back,
And follow you no further. Let me go:
You see how simple and how fond I am. ;
Her. Why, get you gone. Who is’t that hinders
¢ you? 2

Hel. A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.

Her. What, with Lysander? .

Hel. With Demetrius. 320

Lys. Be not afraid : she shall not harm thee, Helena.

Dem. No, sir; she shall not, though you take her

part.

Hel. O! when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd.
She was a vixen, when she went to school ;

And, though she be but little, she is fierce. |

Her. Little again? nothing but low and little ?—
Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?

Let me come to her.

Lys. Get you gone, you dwarf ;
You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made ;
You bead, you acorn.

Dem. You are too officious 330
In her behalf that scorns your services.

Let her alone; speak not of Helena;
Take not her part, for if thou dost intend
Never so little show of love to her,

Thou shalt aby it.
Lys. Now she holds me not;

Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right,

Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. ;
Dem. Follow? nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole.

[Exreunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS.

Her. You, mistress, all this coil is long of you.

Na 3° not back.

el. I will not trust you, I, 340
Nor longer stay in your curst company.
Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray ; ts
My legs are longer though, to run away. (Exit.

er. I am amaz’d, and know not what to say.
Exit

Obe. This is thy negligence : still thou mistak’st,
Or else committ’st thy knaveries wilfully. _

Puck. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.
Did not you tell me, I should know the man
By the Athenian garments he had on? |
And so far blameless proves my enterprise,
That I have ‘nointed an Athenian’s eyes:

350

 

And so far am I glad it so did sort,
As this their jangling I esteem a sport.
Obe. Thou seest, these lovers seek a place to fight :-
Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night ;
The starry welkin cover thou anon
With emapine. fog, as black as Acheron ;
And lead these testy rivals so astray,
As one come not within another's way.
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ;
And from each other look thou lead them thus,
Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep
With leaden legs and ee wings doth creep:
Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye;
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,
To take from thence all error with his might,
And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.
When they next wake, all this derision 370
Shall seem a dream, and fruitless vision ;
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend,
With league whose date till death shall never end.
Whiles I in this attfair do thee employ,
I'll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy ;
And then I will her charmed eye release
From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace.
Puck. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,
For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,
And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger ; 380
At WHOSE, BPDROEEDs ghosts, wandering here and
ere,
Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,
That in crossways and floods have burial,
Already to their wormy beds are gone ;
For fear lest day should look their shames upon,
They wilfully themselves exile from light,
And must for aye consort with black-brow’d night.
Obe. But we are spirits of another sort.
I with the morning's love have oft made sport ;
And, like a forester, the groves may tread, 390
Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,
Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.
But, notwithstanding, haste ; make no delay :

360

We may etfect this business yet ere day. [Exit.
Puck. Upand down, up and down;
I will lead them up and down:
Iam fear’d in field. and town ;
Goblin, lead them up and down.
Here comes one. 400

Re-enter LYSANDER.
Lys. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou

now.
Puck. Here, villain ! drawn and ready. Where art
thou?
Lys. I will be with thee straight.
uck. Follow me then
To plainerground. [Fait Lys. as following the voice.
Re-enter DEMETRIUS.
Dem. Lysander, speak again.
Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled ?
Speak ! in oe bush? Where dost thou hide thy
ead?
Puck. Thou coward! art thou bragging to the stars,
Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,
And wilt ate come? Come, recreant; come, thou
child ;
I'll whip thee with a rod: he is defil’d, 410
That draws a sword on thee.
Yea; art thou there?

em.
Puck. Follow my voice : we ’1l try no manhood here.
[Exeunt.

~ Re-enter LYSANDER.

Lys. He goes before me, and still dares me on;
When I come where he calls, then he is gone.
The villain is much lighter-heel’d than I:
I follow’d fast, but faster he did fly ;
That fallen am J in dark uneven way,
And nee rest me. [Lies down.] Come, thou gentle
lay !

 
 

 

330

4 MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

[Act IV.

 

For if but once thou show me thy grey light,
I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite.

Re-enter Puck and DEMETRIUS.
Puck, Ho! ho! ho! Coward, why com’st thou

no
Dem. Abide me, if thou dar’st ; for well I wot,
Thou runn’st before me, shifting every place,
And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face.
Where art thou now?
Puck.
Dem. Nay, then thou mock’st me.
this dear, i
If ever I thy face by day-light see: |
Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me
To measure out my length on this cold bed :
By day’s approach look to be visited. 430
[Lies down and sleeps.

Re-enter HELENA.

Come hither: I am here.
Thou shalt buy

Hel. O weary night, O long and tedious night,
Abate thy hours: shine, comforts, from the east,
That I may back to Athens, by day-light,

From these that my poor company detest.

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,

ee _ awhile from mine own company.
‘uck,

[Sleeps.
Yet but three? Come one more ;

Two of both kinds make up four.

Here she comes, curst and sad.

420
[Sieeps.

 

Cupid is a knavish lad,

440
hus to make poor females mad.

Re-enter HERMIA.

Her. Never so weary, never so in woe,
Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers :.
I can no further crawl, no further go;

My legs can keep no pace with my desires.
Here will I rest me till the break of day.
Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!

[Lies down.
Puck. On the ground
Sleep sound ;
I’ apply 450
To your eye,

Gentle lover, remedy.
[Squeezing the juice on LYS.’s eye.
When thou wak'st,
Thou tak’st
True delight
In the sight
Of thy former lady’s eye:
And the country proverb known,
That every man should take his own,
In your waking shall be shown: 460
Jack shall have Jill;
Nought shall go ill ;
The man shall have his mare again,
And all shall be well.
[Exit Puck.—DEMETRIUS, HELENA, ce. sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—The Same.
Enter TiTania and Bottom, Fairies attending ; OBERON behind unseen.

Titania.
: OME, sit thee down upon this flowery

es ed,
While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,
And stick musk-roses in thy sleek
smooth head,
And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle

yey:
Bot. Where’s Pease-blossom ?
Peas. Ready.

Bot. Scratch my head, Pease-blossom.—Where’s
Monsieur Cobweb?

Cob. Ready. 9

Bot. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get your
weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped
humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good
monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret
yourself too much in the action, monsieur; and,
good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break
not: I would be loath to have you over-flown with
a Honey-laes signior.—Where’s Monsieur Mustard-
see

Must. Ready.

Bot. Give me your neif, Monsieur Mustard-seed.
Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. 20

Must. What's your will?

Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalery
Cobweb toscratch. I must to the barber’s, monsieur ;
for, methinks, Iam marvellous hairy about the face ;
and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle
me, I must scratch,

 

 

; Pita. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet
ove?

Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in music: let’s
have the tongs and the bones. 30

Tita. Or, say, sweet love, what thou desir’st to eat.

Bot. Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch
your good dry oats. Methinks, I have a great desire
toa bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek
The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.

Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of dried
peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir
me: I have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

Tita. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. Al

[Excunt Fairies.
So doth the woodbine the sweet honey-suckle
Gently entwist; the female ivy so
Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.
O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee! [They sleep.

. Enter Puck.
Obe. [Advancing.] Welcome, good Robin.

Seest
thou this sweet sight ?
Her dotage now I do begin to pity ;
For, meeting her of late behind the wood,
Seeking sweet savours for this hateful fool, a
I did upbraid her, and fall out with her ; 50

For she his hairy temples then had rounded
With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers ;
And that same dew, which sometime on the buds

 

 
 

 

 

SoENE: I.] A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 331
Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, And think no more of this night’s accidents,
Stood now within the pretty flowerets’ eyes, But as the fierce vexation of a dream.

But first I will release the fairy queen. 70

When I had at my pleasure taunted her,

Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.
And she in mild terms begg’d my patience, |

 

Be, as thou wast wont to be;
See, as thou wast wont to see:

Tita. “O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!”

I then did ask of her her changeling child :
Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent
To bear him to my bower in fairy land.

And now I have the boy, I will undo

This hateful imperfection of her eyes:

And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scaip
From off the head of this Athenian swain,

That, he awaking when the other do,

May all to Athens back again repair,

60 |

Dian’s bud o’er Cupid’s flower
Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania! wake you, my sweet queen.
Tita. My Oberon! what visions have I seen!
Methought, I was enamour’d of an ass.
Obe. There lies your love.
Tita. How came these things to pass?
O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now !
Obe. Silence awhile.—Robin, take off this head.—
 

 

332

Titania, music call; and strike more dead 80
Than common sleep of all these five the sense.

Tita. Music, ho! music! such as charmeth sleep.

Puck. Now, when thou wak’st, with thine own

fool’s eyes peep.

Obe. Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands

with me,
And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.
Now thou and I are new in pry,
And will to-morrow midnight solemnly
Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly,
And bless it to all fair prosperity. 90
There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be
Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.
Puck. Fairy king, attend, and mark,
I do hear the morning lark.

Obe. Then, my queen, in silence sad,
Trip we after the night's shade ;
We the globe can compass soon,
Swifter than the wandering moon.

Come, my lord; and in our night
Tell me how it came this night,
That I sleeping here was tound
With these mortals on the ground. [Exreuwnt.
[Horns sound within.

Tita.
100

Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEusS, and Train.

The. Go, one of you, find out the forester ;
For now our observation is perform’'d :

And since we have the vaward of the day,

My love shall hear the music of my hounds.—
Uncouple in the western valley: let them go! —
Despatch, I say, and find the forester.—

We will, fair queen, oP to the mountain’s top,
And mark the musical confusion

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hip. 1 was with Hercules and Cadmus once,
When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear
With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seem’d all one mutual ery. I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

The. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flew’d, so sanded ; and their heads are hung 120
With ears that sweep away the morning dew ;
Crook-knee’d, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls ;
Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never halloo’d to, nor cheer’d with horn,

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly :
Judge, we ze hear.—But, soft! what nymphs are
these

Ege. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep ;
And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is ;

This Helena, old Nedar's Helena:
I wonder of their being here together.

The. No doubt, they rose up early, to observe
The rite of May, and, hearing our intent,

Came here in grace of our solemnity.—

But speak, Egeus, is not this the day

That Hermia should give answer of her choice ?
fe It is, my lord.

The. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their

110

130

orns.
[Horns, and shout within. DEMETRIUS, LYSAN-
DER, HERMIA, and HELENA, wake and start up.
The. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is

past ;
Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?
Jys. Pardon, my lord.
[He and the rest kneel to THESEUS.
The. I pray you all, stand up.
I know, you two are rival enemies:
How comes this gentle concord in the world,
That hatred is so far from jealousy,
To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity ?
Lys. My lord, I shall reply amazedly,
Half ’sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,
I cannot truly say how I came here ;
But, as I think, (for truly would I speak,—
‘And now I do bethink me, so it is)

140

150

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

Act IV,

I came with Hermia hither: our intent
Was to be gone from Athens, where we might
Without the peril of the Athenian law—

Ege. Enough, enough! my lord, you have enough.
I beg the law, the law, upon his head.

They would have stol’n away ; they would, Demetrius,
Thereby to have defeated you and me;

You, of your wite, and me, of my consent,

Of my consent that she should be your wife.

Dem. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,
Of this their purpose hither, to this wood ; 161
And I in fury hither follow’d them,

Fair Helena in fancy following me.

But, my good lord, I wot not by what power
(But by some poren it is) my love to Hermia,
Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now
As the remembrance of an idle gawd,
Which in my childhood I did dote upon ;
And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,

 

Bot, “I have had a most rare vision.”

The object and the pleasure of mine eye, 170

Is only Helena. To her, my lord,

Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia :

But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food ;

But, asin health, come to my natural taste,

Now do I wish it, love it, long for it,

And will for evermore be true to it.

The. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met.

Of this discourse we more will hear anon.—

Egeus, I will overbear your will,

For in the temple, by and by with us, 180

These couples shall eternally be knit.

And, for the morning now is something worn,

Our purpos’d hunting shall be set aside.

Away, with us, to Athens: three and three,

We ’ll hold a feast in great solemnity.—

Come, Hippolyta. ;
Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPoLyTa, EcEus, and Train.
em. ey things seem small and undistinguish-

able,

Like far-off mountains turned into clouds.

Her. Methinks, I see these things with parted eye,

When every thing seems double.

He So methinks: 190

el.
And I have found Demetrius, like a jewel,
Mine own, and not mine own.
Dem. Are you sure
That we are awake? It seems to me .
That yet we sleep, we dream.—Do not you think

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

333,

 

The duke was here, and bid us follow him?

Her. Yea, and my father.

Hel. And Hippolyta.

Lys. And he did bid us follow to the temple.

Dem. Why then, we are awake. Let’s follow him;
And by the way let us recount our dreams. [Exveunt.

Bot. [Waking.] When my cue comes, call me, and
I will answer :—my next is, “‘ Most fair Pyramus.”—
Hey, ho!—Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender !
Snout, the tinker! orn God’s my life! stolen
hence, and left me asleep. have had a most rare
vision. I have had a dream,—past the wit of man
to say what dream it was: man jis but an ass, if he go
about to expound this dream. Methought I was—
there is no man can tell what. Methought I was,
and methought I had,—but man is but a patched fool,
if he will offer to say what methought I had. The
eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not
seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to
conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
I will Fe Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream :
it shall be called Bottom’s Dream, because it hath no
bottom ; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play,
before the duke : peradventure, to make it the more
gracious, I shall sing it at her death, [Exit.

Scene IT.—Athens. A Room in QUINCE’s House.

Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING.

Quin. Have you sent to Bottom’s house? is he come
home yet ?

Star. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt, he is
transported.

Flu. If he come not, then the play is marred. It
goes not forward, doth it?

uin. It is not possible: you have not a man in all

Athens able to discharge Pyramus, but he,

 

Flu. No; he hath simply the best wit of any handi-
craft man in Athens. 10

Quin. Yea, and the best person too ; and he is a very
paramour for a sweet voice.

Flu, You must say, paragon: a paramour is, God
bless us! a thing of naught.

Enter SNuG.

Snug. Masters, the duke is coming from the temple,
and there is twoor three lords and ladies more married.
If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made
men.

Flu. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost six-
pence a day during his life ; he could not have ‘scaped
sixpence a day: an the duke had not given him six-
oe a day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged;

e would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyra-
mus, or nothing.

Enter Bottom.

Bot. Where are these lads? where are these hearts?

Quin. Bottom!—O most courageous day! O most
happy hour !

Bot, Masters, I am to discourse wonders; but ask
me not what, for, if I tell you, 1am no true Athenian.
I will tell you every thing, right as it fell out. 30

uin. Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

‘ot. Nota word of me. All that I will tell you is,
that the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together,
good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your
bumps : meet presently at the palace ; every man look
o’er his part; for, the short and the long is, our play
is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen,
and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails,
for they shall hang out tor the lion’s claws. And,

most dear actors, eat no onions, nor garlic, for we are
to utter sweet breath, and I do not doubt, but to hear
them say, it is a sweet comedy. No more words:
away! go; away!

[Exeunt.

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—The Same. An Apartment in the Palace of THESEUS.
4 Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, Lords, and Attendants.

   

Hippolyta.

yiS strange, my Theseus, that these lovers
speak of.

The. More strange than true: I never

may believe

These antick fables, nor these fairy toys.

Lovers and madmen have such seething
brains,

Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend

More than cool reason ever comprehends.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,

Are of imagination all compact:

One sees more devils than vast hell can

hold;
That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic, 10
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to
heaven;
And, as Anagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen,
urns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

 

; A local habitation, and a name.

Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy: 20
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush suppos’d a bear?
Hip. But all the story of the night told over,
And all their minds transfigur’d so together,
More witnesseth than fancy’s images,
And grows to something of great constancy,
But, howsoever, strange, and admirable.
The. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.

Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and
HELENA.

Joy, gentle friends! joy, and fresh days of love,
Accompany your hearts!

Lys. More than to us 30
Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

The. Come now; what masques, what dances shall

we have,

To wear away this long age of three hours,

 
 

334

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT S DREAM.

[Act ¥.

 

 

Between our after-supper, and bed-time?
Where is our usual manager of mirth?
What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?

Call Philostrate.
hit. Here, mighty Theseus. :
The. Say, what abridgment have you for this
evening? :

What masque, what music? How shall we beguile 40
The lazy time, if not with some dclight? :

Phil. There is a brief how many sports are ripe ;
Make choice of which your highness will see first.

[Giving a paper.

 

NY #

      

 

 

< Wl j
ier hy
Wes

FT my

Phil. ‘‘ There is a brief how many sports are ripe.”

The. [Reads.] “‘ The battle with the Centaurs, to be
sun

e
By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.”
e’ll none of that: that have I told my love,
In glory of my kinsman Hercules.
“ The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.”
That is an old device; and it was play’d 50
When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.
“The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
Of Learning, late deceas’d in beggary.”
That is some satire keen, and critical,
Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.
‘“‘ A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus,
And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.”
Merry and tragical! Tedious and brief!
That is, hot ice, and wonderous strange snow.
How shall we find the concord of this discord? 60
Phil. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
Which is as brief as I have known a play;
But ad ten words, my lord, it is too long,
Which makes it tedious; for in all the play
There is not one word apt, one player fitted.
And tragical, my noble lord, it is,
For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess,
‘Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears
The passion of loud laughter never shed. 70
The. What are they that do play it?
Phil. Hard-handed men, that work in Athens here,
Which never labour’d in their minds till now,
And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories
With this same play, against your nuptial.

 

The. And we will hear it.
Phil. No, my noble lord;
It is not for you: I have heard it over,
And it is nothing, nothing in the world,
Unless you can find sport in their intents,
Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain, 80
To do you service.
The. I will hear that play :
For never anything can be amiss,
When simpteness and duty tender it.
Go, bring them in ;—and take your places, ladies.
; [Exit PHILOSTRATE,
Hip. 1 love not to see wretchedness o’ercharg’d,
And duty in his service perishing.
The. wee gentle sweet, you shall see no such
thing.
Hip. He says, they can do nothing in this kind.
The. The kinder we, to give them thanks for no-

thing.
Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: 90
And what poor duty cannot do,
Noble respect takes it in might, not merit.
Where I have come, great clerks have purposed
To greet me with premeditated welcomes;
Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,
Make periods in the midst of sentences,
Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears,
And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off,
Not paying mea welcome. Trust me, sweet,
Out of this silence, yet, I pick’d a welcome; 100
And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much, as from the rattling tongue
Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity,
In least speak most, to my capacity.

Re-enter PHILOSTRATE.

Phil. So please your grace, the Prolo
The. Let him approach. [Flouris

e is addrest.
of trumpets.

Enter the Prologue.

Prol. “If we offend, it is with our good will.
That you should think, we come not to offend,

But with good will. To show our simple skill, 110
That is the true beginning of our end.

Consider then, we come but in despite.

We do not come as minding to content you,

Our true intent is. All for your delight,

Weare not here. That you should here repent you,
The actors are at hand; and, by their show,

You shall know all, that you are like to know.”

The. This fellow doth not stand upon points.

Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he
knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not
enough to speak, but to speak true. 121

ae Indeed, he hath played on this prologue like a
child on a recorder, a sound, but not in government.

The. His speech was like a tangled chain,
Nothing impair’d, but all disordered.

Who is next ?

Enter PyraMus and THISBE, Wall, Moonshine, and
Lion, as in dumb-show.
Prol. “Gentles, perchance, you wonder at this
show ;
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
This man is Pyramus, if you would know;
This beauteous lady Thisby is, certain. 130
This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present
Wall, that vile Wall, which did these lovers sunder;
And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content
To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.
This man, with lantern, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo.
This grisly beast, which Lion al by name,
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, 140
id scare away, or rather did affright ; -
And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall,
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.
Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,

 

 

 
 

 

Scene I.)

And finds his trusty Thisby’s mantle slain:
Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
He bravely broach d his boiling bloody breast ;
And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,

 

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

 

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,

Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.”

a a Would you desire lime and hair to speak
etter

H Qian mt}

Zann ‘i iii i
\eor rial -
I

nv

 

Pyr. ‘I see a voice: now will I to the chink.”

His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,
Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain,
At large discourse, while here they do remain.”
Exeunt Prol., THISBE, Lion, and Moonshine.

The. I wonder, if the lion be to speak.

Dem. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when
Many asses do.

all. “In this same interlude it doth befall,

That I, one Snout by name, present a wall;
And such a wall, as I would have you think,
That had in it a cranny’d hole, or chink, .
Firough which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,
Did whisper often very secretly.
This lime, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show
That Iam that same wall: the truth is so;

150

Dem. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard
discourse, my lord.
The. Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!

Enter PYRAMUS.
Pyr. “O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so
black ! 170
O night, which ever art, when day is not!
O night! O night! alack, alack, alack!
I fear my Thisby’s promise is forgot.—
And thou, O wall! O sweet, O lovely wall!
That stand’st between her father’s ground and mine;
Thou wall, O wall! O sweet and lovely wall!
Show me thy chink to blink through with mine eyne.
[Wall holds up his fingers.

 

 
 

336

A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM.

[Act V,

 

 

Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for
this !

But what see 1? No Thisby do I see. |
O wicked wall! through whom I see no bliss;
Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me!”
The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should
curse again. oe
Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not.—‘‘ Deceiving
me,” is Thisby’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am to
spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will fall
pat as I told you.—Yonder she comes.

Enter THISBE.

This. ‘‘O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,
For parting my fair Pyramus and me:
My cherry lips have often kissd thy stones, 190
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.”

Pyr. “Isee a voice: now will I to the chink,
To spy an I can hear my Thisby’s face.
Thisby!” es

This. “My love! thou art my love, I think.

Pyr. “Think what thou wilt, Iam thy lover’s grace;
And like Limander am I trusty still.” ;

This. ‘And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.”

Pyr. “Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.”

This. ‘‘ As Shafalus to Procrus, Ito you.” 200

Pyr. “O! eis me through the hole of this vile

wall.”

180

This. “1 kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all.”
Pyr. ‘‘ Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straight-

way?”

This. “’Tide life, tide death, I come without delay.”

Wall. ‘Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so;
And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.”

[Zreunt Wall, PyRAMUS and THISBE.

The. Now is the mural down between the two
neighbours.

Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful
to hear without warning. 210

Hip. This is the silliest stuff that e’er I heard.

The. The best in this kind are but shadows, and the
worat are no worse, if imagination amend them.
ae ip. It must be your imagination then, and not

eirs.

The. If we imagine no worse of them than they of
themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here
come two noble beasts in, a moon and a lion.

Enter Lion and Moonshine.

Lion. ‘You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear
The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, 220
May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here,
When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.

Then know, that I, one Snug the joiner, am
A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam:

For, if I should as lion come in strife

Into this place, ’t were pity on my life.”

The. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience.

Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I
saw.

Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. 230

The. True; and a goose for his discretion.

Dem. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry
his discretion, and the fox carries the goose.

The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his
valour, for the goose carries not the fox. It is well:
leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.

Moon. ae lantern doth the horned moon pre-

sent.

Dem. He should have worn the horns on his head.

The. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible
within the circumference. :

Moon. ‘‘ This lantern doth the horned moon present;
Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be.”

he. This is the greatest error of all the rest. The
man should be put into the lantern: how is it else the
man i’ the moon?

Dem. He dares not come there for the candle; for,
you see, it is already in snuff.

Hip. Tam aweary of this moon: ’would, he would
change !

The. Wt appears by his small light of discretion, that

 

he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason,
we must stay the time. 252

Ins. Proceed, Moon.

Moon. All that I have to say, is, to tell you, that the
lantern is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this
thorn-bush, my thorn-bush ; and this dog, my dog.

Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for
all these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes
Thisbe.

Enter THISBE.

[The Lion roars.—THISBE runs off.
Dem. Well roared, Lion.
The. Well run, Thisbe.
Hip. Well shone, Moon.—Truly, the moon shines
with a good grace.

[The Lion tears THISBE’S mantle, and exit,
The. Well moused, Lion.
Dem. And then came Pyramus,
Lys. And so the lion vanished.

Enter PyRaMwS. :

Pyr. ‘Sweet moon, I thank thee for thy sunny

beams: 270
I thank thee, moon, for shining now so bright,
For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering streams,
I trust to taste of truest Thisby’s sight.
But stay ;—O spite!
But mark, poor knight,
What dreadful dole is here ?
Eyes, do you see?
How can it be?
O dainty duck! O dear!
Thy mantle good,
What! stain’d with blood?
Approach, ye Furies fell!
O Fates ! come, come ;
Cut thread and thrum ;
Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!”

The. This passion, and the death of a dear friend,
would go near to make a man look sad.

Hip. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Pyr. “O, wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame.
Since lion vile hath here deflour’d my dear? 290
Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame,

That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer.
Come, tears, confound ;
Out, sword, and wound

The pap of Pyramus:
Ay, that left pap,
Where heart doth hop :—
Thus die I, thus, thus, thus!
Now am I dead,
Now am I fled ;
My soul is in the sky:
Tongue, lose thy light !
Moon, take thy Hight
Now die, die, die, die, die.” .
[Dies.—Exit Moonshine.

Dem. No die, but an ace, for him ; for he is but one.

Lys. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is
nothing. ‘

The. With the help of a surgeon, he might yet
recover, and yet prove an ass. :

Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone, before Thisbe
comes back and finds her lover? 11

The. She will find him by starlight.—Here she
comes, and her passion ends the play.

Enter THISBE.

Hip. Methinks, she should not use a long one for
such a Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.

Dem. A moth willturn the balance, which Pyramus,
which Thisbe, is the better; he for a man, Go
warrant us ; she for a woman, God bless us.

Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet
eyes. 320
Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet :-—

This. “Asleep, my love ?

What, dead, my dove?

280

300

 

 
 

 

Scene II] A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM. 337
O Pyramus, arise ! And the wolf behowls the moon;
Speak, speak! Quite dumb? Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
Dead, dead? A tomb All with weary task fordone.
Must cover thy sweet eyes, Now the wasted brands do glow,
These lily lips, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
This cherry nose, Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
These yellow cowslip cheeks, 330 In remembrance of a shroud.
Are gone, are gone. Now it is the time of night,
Lovers, make moan ! That the graves, all gaping wide, 10
His eyes were green as leeks. Every one lets forth his sprite,
O Sisters Three, In the church-way Paths to glide:
Come, come to me, And we fairies, that do run
With hands as pale as milk; By the triple Hecate’s team,
Lay them in gore, From the presence of the sun,
Since you have shore Following darkness like a dream,
With shears his thread of silk. Now are frolic ; not a mouse
Tongue, not a word.— 340 Shall disturb this hallow’d house :
Come, trusty sword ; Iam sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door. 20

Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with
their Train.

mering light,

Every elf, and fairy sprite,
brier ;

And this ditty after me

Sing, and dance it trippingly.

rote

By the dead and drowsy fire;

Obe. Through the house give glim-

Hop as light as bird from

Tita. First, rehearse your song by

To each word a warbling note:
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,

 

 

THE BERGOMASK.
‘

Come, blade, my breast imbrus:
And farewell, friends.—
Thus Thisby ends:
Adieu, adieu, adieu.” [Dies.

The. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

Dem. Ay, and Wall too.

Bot. No, I assure you; the wall is down, that
parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the
epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two
of our company ? 351

. Now, until the break of day,

stray.
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be ;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.
So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be;
And the blots of Nature’s hand

Will we sing, and bless this
place. 30
Song and dance.

Through this house each fairy

Shall not in their issue stand : 40

Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.

With this field-dew consecrate,

Every fairy take his gait,

And each several chamber bless,
Through this palace with sweet peace,
Ever shall in safety rest,

And thé owner of it blest.

The. No epilogue, I pray a for your play needs Trip away!
no excuse. Never excuse, for when the players are Make no stay ;
all dead, there need none to be blamed. arry, if he Meet me all by break of day.

that writ it had play’d Pyramus, and hanged himself in

Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy ; and

so it is, truly, and very notably discharged. But come,
our Bergomask : let your epilogue alone. [A dance.
he iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.—

Lovers, to bed: ’t is almost fairy time.

I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn,

 

 

Puck.

50

Exeunt OBERON, TITANIA, and Train.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here,
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,

As much as we this night have overwatch’d. Gentles, do not reprehend : 60
This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d If you pardon, we will mend.
The heavy gait of night.—Sweet friends, to bed.— And, as I’m an honest Puck,
A fortnight hold we this solemnity, If we have unearned luck
Ih nightly revels, and new jollity. [Exeunt. Now to ’scape the ee tongue,
s We will make amends ere long:
s IL Else the Puck a liar call.
CENE Il. So, good night unto you all.
Enter Puck. Give me your hands, if we be friends, :
Puck, Now the hungry lion roars, And Robin shall restore amends, [Ezit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

KING

JOHN.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.E.

Kine JOHN.

Prince Henry, his Son.

ARTHUR, Duke of Bretagne.

WILLIAM MARESHALL, Larl of Pembroke.
GerrrRey Firz-PETeER, Earl of Essex,
WILLIAM LoNGSWORD, /arl of Salisbury.
Rosert Bigot, Earl of Norfolk. ie
HUBERT DE BuRGH, Chamberlain to the King.
ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE.

PHILIP FAULCONBRIDGE. :
JAMES GURNEY, Servant to Lady Faulconbridge.
PETER of Pomfret.

Puiip, King of France.

| Lewis, the Dauphin.
ae OF yates :
ARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope’s Legate.
MELUvN, a French Lord. = 2
CHATILLON, Ambassador from France.

ELINOR, Widow of King Henry IT.

CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur.

BiLancH, Daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile.
LADY FAULCONBRIDGE.

Lords, Ladies, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds,
Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and See

SCENE-—Sometimes in ENGLAND, and sometimes in FRANCE.

 

ACT I.
Scene I.—Northampton. A Room of State in the Palace.

   
 
 

King John.
SOW, say, Chatillon, what would France
with us? e
Chat. Thus, after greeting, speaks the
King of France,

) In my behaviour, to the majesty,
The borrow’d majesty of England here.
Eli. A strange beginning ;—borrow’d

majesty !
K. John. Silence, good mother : hear the
embassy. ie
e Chat. Philip of France, in right and true
behalf

Of thy deceased brother Geffrey’s son,
Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim
To this fair island, and the territories, .
To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
Desiring thee to lay aside the sword
Which sways usurpingly these several titles,
And put the same into young Arthur's hand,
Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. :
K. John. What follows, if we disallow of this?
Chat. The proud control of fierce and bloody war,
To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld.
K. nate Here have we war for war, and blood for
ood,
Controlment for controlment: so answer France. 20
Chat. Then take my king's defiance from my mouth,
The farthest limit of my embassy. :
kK. John. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace.
Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France ;
For ere thou canst report I will be there,
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard. :
So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath,
And sullen presage of your own decay.—
An honourable conduct let him have:
Pembroke, look to’t. Farewell, Chatillon. 30
[Exeunt CHATILLON and PEMBROKE.
Eli, What now, my son? have I not ever said,
How that ambitious Constance would not cease,

10

Enter King Joun, Queen ELINOR, PEMBROKE, EssEx, SALISBURY, and others,
with CHATILLON.

Till she had kindled France, and all the world,
Upon the right and party of her son?
Th is might have been prevented, and made whole,
With very easy arguments of love,
Which now the manage of two kingdoms must
With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.

&K. John. Our strong possession, and our right, for

us.

Eli. Your sirong possession much more than your
right, 40

Or else it must go wrong with you and me:

So much my conscience whispers in your ear,

Which none but Heaven, and you, and I, shall hear.

Enter the Sheriff of Northamptonshire, who
whispers ESSEX.

Essex. My liege, here is the strangest controversy,
Come from the country to be judg’d by you,
That e’er I heard: shall 1 produce the men? é
K. John. Let them approach.— [Exit Sheriff.
Our abbeys, and our priories, shall pay
This expedition’s charge.—

Re-enter Sheriff, with ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, and
PHILIP, his Bastard Brother.

What men are you?
Bast. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman
Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son,
As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge,
A soldier, by the honour-giving hand
Of Cordelion knighted in the field.
K. John. What art thou? fe
Rob. The son and heir to that same Fanlean bridge.
K. John. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir
‘You came not of one mother then, it seems.
Bast. Most certain of one mother, mighty king;
That is well known: and, as I think, one father:
But, for the certain knowledge of that truth

 

I pu you o’er to Heaven, and to my mother:
Of that I doubt, as all men’s children may.

 

 
 

 

 

Scene I} KING

JOHN. 339

 

Eli. Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy
mother,
And wound her honour with this diffidence.
Bast. I, madam ? no, I have no reason for it:
That is my brother’s plea and none of mine:
The which if he can prove, ’a pops me out
At least from fair five hundred pound a year.

Heaven guard my mother’s honour, and my land! 70

 

Essex. “Shall I produce the men?”

K. sane. A good blunt fellow.—Why, being younger

orn,
Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance ?

Bast. 1 know not why, except to get the land.

But, once, he slander’d me with bastardy :

But whe’ I be as true-begot, or no,

That still I lay upon my mother’s head;

But, that [am as well-begot, my liege,

(Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!)

rompare our faces, and be judge yourself.

If old Sir Robert did beget us both,

And were our father, and this son like him ;—

0 old Sir Robert, father, on my knee

I give Heaven thanks, I was not like to thee!
4K. John. Why, what a madcap hath Heaven lent

us here!

Eli. He hath a trick of Cordelion’s face ;

The accent of his tongue affecteth him.
Do you not read some tokens of my son
In the large composition of this man ?

&K. John. Mine eye hath well examined his parts,
And finds them perfect Richard.—Sirrah, speak: 90
What doth move you to claim your brother’s land ?

Bast. Because he hath a half-face, like my father !
With half that face would he have all my land,

A half-fac’d groat five hundred pound a year!
Rob. ay _prneons liege, when that my father

80

Vv a
Your brother did employ my father much,—
Bast. Well, sir; by this you cannot get my land:
Your tale must be, how he employ’d my mother.
Rob. And once despatch’d him in an embassy
To Germany, there, with the emperor,

100
To treat of high aifairs touching that time.

‘The advantage of his absence took the king,

And in the mean time sojourn’d at my father’s ;
Where how he did prevail I shame to speak,

But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores
Between my father and my mother lay,

As I have heard my father speak himself,
When this same lusty gentleman was got.
Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath’d
His lands to me; and took it on his death,
That this, my mother’s son, was none of his;
An if he were, he came into the world

Full fourteen weeks before the course of time.

Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine,
My father's land, as was my father's will.
ik. John. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;
Your father’s wife did after wedlock bear him;
And if she did play false, the fault was hers,
Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands
That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,
Who, as you say, took pains to get this son,
Had of your father claim’d this son for his ?
In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept
This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world;
In sooth, he might: then, if he were my brother’s,
My brother might not claim him, nor your father,
Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes:
My mother’s son did get your father's heir ;
Your father’s heir must have your father’s land.
Rob. Shall then my father’s will be of no force
To dispossess that child which is not his?
Bast. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir,
Than was his will to get me, as I think. ‘i
li. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge,
And, like thy brother, to enjoy thy land,
Or the reputed son of Cordelion,
Lord of thy presence, and no land beside?
Bast. Madam, an if my brother had my shape,
And I had his, Sir Robert his, like him;
And if my legs were two such riding-rods, __
My arms such eel-skins stuif’d, my face so thin,
That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose,
Lest men should say, “‘ Look, where three-farthings

120

130

140

goes ;
And, to his shape, were heir to all this land,
(Would I might never stir from off this place)
I’d give it every foot to have this face:
I would not be Sir Nob in any case.
Eli. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune,
Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me?
I am a soldier, and now bound to France. 150
Bast. Brother, take you my land, I’!] take my chance.
Your face hath got five hundred pounds a year,
Yet sell your face for five pence, and ’tis dear.—
Madam, I’ll follow you unto the death.
Eli. Nay, I would have you go before me thither.
Bast. Our country manners give our betters way.
kK. John. What is thy name?
Bast. Philip, my liege; so is my name begun;
Philip, good old Sir Robert’s wife’s eldest son.
K. John. From henceforth bear his name whose
form thou bearest : 160
Kneel thou down Philip, but arise more great ;
Arise Sir Richard, and Plantagenet.
Bast. EROGRCE by the mother’s side, give me your
and :
My father gave me honour, yours gave land.—
Now blessed be the hour, by night or day
When I was got, Sir Robert was away !
li. The very spirit of Plantagenet!
Iam thy grandam, Richard : call me so.
Bast. te py chance, but not by truth; what
oug:
Something about, a little from the right, 170
In at the window, or else o'er the hatch:
Who dares not stir by day, must walk by night,
And have is have, however men do catch.
Near or far off, well won is still well shot,
And Iam I, howe’er I was begot.
K. vole Go, Faulconbridge: now hast thou thy
esire ;
A landless knight makes thee a landed squire.—
Come, madam, and come, Richard: we must speed
For France, for France, for it is more than need.
Bast. Brother, adieu: good fortune come to thee,
For thou wast got i’ the way of honesty.— 183
[Exeunt all but Bastard.
A foot of honour better than I was,
But many a many foot of land the worse.
Well, now can I make any Joan a lady.
“Good den, Sir Richard.”—‘' God-a-mercy, fellow ;”
And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter ;
For new-made honour doth forget men’s names:
°T is too respective, and too sociable,
For your conversion. Now your traveller,

 

 
 

 

340

KING

JOHN. [Act IIL,

 

 

 

 

  

He and his toothpick at my worship’s mess ; 190 Bast. Philip! sparrow! James,
And when my knightly stomach is suffic’d, There’s toys abroad: anon I’ll tell thee more.—
Why then I suck my teeth, and catechise | [zit GURNEY.
My picked man of countries :—‘* My dear sir,” Madam, I was not old Sir Robert’s son :
Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin, Sir Robert might have eat his part in me
“T shall beseech you”—that is question now ; Upon Good Friday, and ne’er broke his fast.
And then comes answer like an absey-book : Sir Robert could do well: marry, to confess,
“O sir,” says answer, ‘‘at your hest command ; Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it:
At your employment; at your service, sir:” We know his handiwork.—Therefore, good mother,
“No, sir,” says question, ‘I, sweet sir, at yours:” To whom am I beholding for these limbs?
And so, ere answer knows what question would, 200 | Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. 240
Saving in dialogue of compliment, Lady F. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,
And talking of the Alps, and Apennines, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?
The Pyrenean, and the river Po What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?
It draws toward supper in conclusion so. Bast. Knight, knight, good mother,—Basilisco-like,
But this is worshiptul society, What! Tam dubb’d; I have it on my shoulder,
And fits the mounting spirit, like myself ; But, mother, J am not Sir Robert’s son ;
For he is but a bastard to the time, I have disclaim’d Sir Robert, and my land ;
That doth not smack of observation ; Legitimation, name, and all is gone. F
(And so am I, whether I smack, or no;) Then, good my mother, let me know my father :
And not alone in habit and device, 210 | Some proper man, I hope; who was it, mother? 250
Exterior form, outward accoutrement, Lady F’. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?
But from the inward motion to deliver Bast. As faithfully as I deny the devil.
Swect, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth: Lady F. King Richard Cordelion was thy father,
Which, though I Giltaae practise to deceive, By long and vehement suit I was seduc’d
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; To make room for him in my husband’s bed.—
For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.— Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge !—
But who comes in such haste, in riding-robes? Thou art the issue of my dear offence,
What woman-post is this? hath she no husband, Which was so strongly urg’d, past my defence.
That will take pains to blow a horn before her? we ems bale Het were I 0 | et again,
adam, I would not wish a better father.
Enter Lady FAULCONBRIDGE and JAMES GURNEY. Some sins do bear their privilege on earth,
O me! it is my mother.--How now, good lady ? 220 | And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:
‘What brings you here to court so hastily? Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose,
Lady F. Where is that slave, thy brother? where Subjected tribute to commanding love,
is he, : Against whose fury and unmatched force
That holds in chase mine honour up and down? The awless lion could not wage the fight,
Bast. ay brother Robert? old Sir Robert’s son? Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand.
Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man? He that perforce robs lions of their hearts,
Is it Sir Robert's son, that you seek so? May easily win a woman’s. Ay, my mother,
Lady F. Sir Robert’s son! Ay, thou unreverent | With all my heart I thank thee for my father! 270
. boy, Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well
Sir Robert’s son: why scorn’st thou at Sir Robert? When I was got, I’ll send his soul to hell.
He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou. Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin;
Bast. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave | And they shall say, when Richard me begot,
awhile? au 230 | If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin: _-*
Gur. Good leave, good Philip. | Who says it was, he lies: I say, ’t was not. [Exeunt.
Po ~~ TA ety Va W —
OT IN 4 \
r ( DA FR DeN\, ove Os
\ CONE Se ES” ZINS) /y G ae
SSS OCIS EL AGEN AE

 

 

SceNnE I.—France.

 

ACT II.
Before the Walls of Angiers.

Enter, on one side, the Duke of AUSTRIA, and Forces; on the other, Pu1Lip, King of France, and Forces;

EWIS, CONSTANC

Lewis.
EFORE Angiers well met, b
Austria.—
Arthur, that g¢

   
 

eart,
And fought the holy wars in P:

At our importance hither is he come
To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf,

reat forerunner of thy

Bi a: blood,
yY Richard, that robb’d the lion of his

ine,
By this brave duke came early to his

And, for amends to his posterity,

E, ARTHUR, and Attendants.

And to rebuke the usurpation

Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. :

Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.
Arth. God shall forgive you Cordelion’s death,

The rather, that you give his offspring life,

Shadowing their right under your wings of war.

I give you welcome with a powerless hand,

But with a heart full of unstained love:

Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke. .
Lew. A noble boy! Who wouid not do thee right?
Aust. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,

As seal to this indenture of my love, 20

That to my home I will no more return,

| Till Angiers, and the rigbt thou hast in France,

rave 10

ales-

 
 

 

Scene I.) KING

JOHN. 341

 

Together with that pale, that white-fac’d shore,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean’s roaring tides,
And coops from other lands her islanders,
Even till that England, hedg’d in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure
And confident from foreign purposes,
Even till that utmost corner of the west
Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,
Will I not think of home, but follow arms.

Const. O! take his mother’s thanks, a widow’s

thanks,

Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength,
To make a more requital to your love.

Aust. The peace of Heaven is theirs that lift their

swords

In such a just and charitable war.

K. ne a then, to work. Our cannon shall be

en

Against the brows of this resisting town.
Call for our chiefest men of discipline,
To cull the plots of best advantages.
We 11 lay before this town our royal bones,
Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen’s blood,
But we will make it subject to this boy.

Const. Stay for an answer to your embassy,
Lest unadvis'd zoe stain your swords with blood.
My Lord Chatillon may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in war;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood,
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.

Enter CHATILLON.

K. Phi. A wonder, lady !—lo, upon thy wish,
Our messenger, Chatillon, is arriv’d.—
What England says, say briefly, gentle lord ;
We coldly pause for thee : Chatillon, speak.
Chat. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege,
And stir them up against a mightier task.
England, impatient of your just demands,
Hath put himself in arms. The adverse winds,
Whose leisure I have stay’d, have given him time
To land his legions al] as soon as I.
His marches are expedient to this town,
His forces strong, his soldiers confident.
With him along is come the mother-queen,
An Até, stirring him to blood and strife ;
With her her niece, the eey Blanch of Spain ;
With them a bastard of the king’s deceas‘d :
And all the unsettled humoursof the land,
Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries,
With ladies’ faces, and fierce dragons’ spleens,
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English bottoms have waft o’er,
Did never float upon the swelling tide,
To do offence and scath in Christendom,
; . (Drums heard within.
The interruption of their churlish drums
Cuts off more circumstance : they are at hand,
To parley, or to fight : therefore, prepare.
K. Phi. How much unlook’d for is this expedition!
Aust. By how much unexpected, by so much 80
We must awake endeavour for defence,
For courage mounteth with occasion :
Let them be welcome then, we are prepar’d.

Enter King JoHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the Bastard,
PEMBROKE, and Forces.

K. John. Peace be to France, if France in peace
. permit
Our just and lineal entrance to our own ;
If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven,
Whiles we, God’s wrathful agent, do correct
Their proud contempt that beat his peace to heaven.
K. Phi. Peace be to England, if that war return
From France to England, there to live in peace. 90
England we love; and, for that England’s sake,
With burden of our armour here we sweat:
This toil of ours should be a work of thine ;
But thou from loving England art so far,

30

40

50

60

70

That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king,
Cut off the sequence of posterity,
Outfaced infant state, and done a rape
Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.
Look here upon thy brother Geffrey’s face :
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his! 100
This little abstract doth contain that large
Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time
Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,
And this his son; England was Geffrey’s right,
And this is Geffrey’s. In the name of God,
How comes it then, that thou art call’d a king,
When living blood doth in these temples beat,
Which owe the crown that thou o’ermasterest ?
K. John. From whom hast thou this great commis-
sion, France, 110
To draw my answer from thy articles?
K. Phi. From that supernal Judge, that stirs good
thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
‘To look into the blots and stains of right.
That Judge hath made me guardian to this boy :
Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong,
And by whose help I mean to chastise it.
K. John. Alack! thou dost usurp authority.
K. Phi. Excuse: it is to beat usurping down.
Eli. Who is it, thou dost call usurper, France?
Const. Let me make answer :—thy usurping son.
Eli. Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king,
That thou may’st be a queen, and check the world!
Const. My bed was ever to thy son as true,
As thine was to thy husband, and this boy
Liker in feature to his father Geffrey,
Than thou and John, in manners being as like
As rain to water, or devil to his dam,
My boy a bastard! By my sou, I think,
His father never was so true-begot : 130
It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother.
Eli. There’s a good mother, boy, that blots thy

120

father.

Const. There’s a good grandam, boy, that would
blot thee.

Aust. Peace!

Bast. Hear the crier.

A What the devil art thou?

ust.
Bast. One that will play the devil, sir, with you,
An ’a may catch your hide and you alone.
You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard.
I’ll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right.
Sirrah, look to ’t; i’ faith, I will, i’ faith. 140
Blanch. O! well did he become that lion’s robe,
That did disrobe the lion of that robe.
Bast. It lies as sightly on the back of him,
As great Alcides’ shows upon an ass.—
But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back,
Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.
Aust. What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath 7—
King,—Lewis, determine what we shall do straight.
Lew. Women and fools, break off your conference. —
King John, this is the very sum of all: 151
England, and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee.
Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thy arms?
K. John. My life as soon: I do defy thee, France.—
Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand,
‘And, out of my dear love, I’ll give thee more
Than e’er the coward hand of France can win.

Submit thee, boy.
Eli. Come to thy grandam, child.
Const. Do, child, go to it grandam, child;
Give grandam kin dom, and it grandam will
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:
There ’s a good grandam.
Arth. Good my mother, peace !
I would that I were low laid in my grave:
Iam not worth this coil that’s made for me.
Eli. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.
Const. Now shame upon you, whe’ she does, or no!
His grandam’s wrongs, and not his mother’s shames,

160

 

 

 
 

 

 

342 KING

JOHN. [Acr II,

 

Draw those Heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,
Which Heaven shall take in nature ofafee:
Ay, with these crystal beads Heaven shall be brib’d
To do him justice, and revenge on you.
Eli. Thou monstrous slanderer of Heaven and
earth!
Const. Thou monstrous injurer of Heaven and earth!
Call not me slanderer : thou, and thine, usurp
The dominations, royalties, and rights
Of this oppressed boy. This is thy eldest son’s son,
Infortunate in nothing but in thee :
Thy sins are visited in this poor child;
The canon of the law is laid on him,
Being but the second generation
Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.
K. John. Bedlam, have done.
Const. I have but this to say,—
That he is not only plagued for her sin,
But God hath made her sin and her the plague
On this removed issue, plagu’d for her,
And with her plague, her sin; his injury
Her injury, the beadle to her sin, |
All punish’d in the person of this child,
And all for her. A plague upon her!
Eli, Thou unadvised scold, I can produce
A will, that bars the title of thy son. | ;
Const. Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will;
A woman’s will; a canker’d grandam’s will !
K. Phi. Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate.
It ill beseems this presence, to cry aim
To these ill-tuned repetitions.—
Some trumpet summon hither to the walls
These men of Angiers: let us hear them speak,
Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John’s. 200

180

190

Trumpets sound. Enter Citizens upon the walls.
Cit. Who is it, that hath warn’d us to the walls?
KK. Phi. ’Tis France, for England.
K. John. England, for itself.
You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,—
K. Phi. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's
subjects,
Our trumpet call’d you to this gentle parle, —
K. John. For our advantage, therefore, hear us

first. —

These flags of France, that are advanced here
Before the eye and prospect of your town,
Have hither march’d to your endamagement:
The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, 210
And ready mounted are they to spit forth
Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls:
All preparation for a bloody siege
And merciless proceeding by these French,
Confront your city’s eyes, your winking gates ;
And, but for our approach, those sleeping stones,
That as a waist do girdle you about,
By the compulsion of their ordnance
By this time from their fixed beds of lime
Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made
For bloody power to rush upon your peace.
But, on the sight of us, your lawful king,
Who painfully, with much expedient march,
Have brought a countercheck before your gates,
To save unscratch’d your city’s threaten’d cheeks,
Behold, the French amaz’d vouchsafe a parle ;
And now, instead of bullets wrapp’d in fire,
To make a shaking fever in your walls,
They shoot but calm words, folded up in smoke,
To make a faithless error in your ears: 30
Which trust accordingly, kind citizens.
And let us in, your king, whose labour’d spirits,
Forwearied in this action of swift speed,
Crave harbourage within your city walls.

Kk. Phi. When Thave said, make answer to us both.
Lo! in this right hand, whose protection
Is most divinely vow’d upon the right
Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet,
Son to the elder brother of this man,
And king o’er him, and all that he enjoys.
For this down-trodden equity, we tread
In warlike march these greens before your town,
Being no further enemy to you,

220

240

 

Than the constraint of hospitable zeal,
In the relief of this oppressed child,
Religiously provokes. Be pleased then
To pay that duty which you truly owe,
To him that owes it, namely, this young prince;
And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,
Save in aspect, have all offence seal’d up.
Our cannons’ malice vainly shall be spent
Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven ;
And with a blessed and unvex’d retire,
With unhack’d swords, and helmets all unbruis’d,
We will bear home that lusty blood again,
Which here we came to spout against your town,
And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace,
But if you fondly pee our proffer'd offer,
’T is not the roundure of your old-fac’d walls
Can hide you from our messengers of war, 260 |
Though all these English, and their discipline, \
Were harbour’d in their rude circumference.
Then, tell us, shall your city call us lord,
In that behalf which we have challeng’d it,
Or shall we give the signal to our rage,
And stalk in blood to our possession ?
Cit. In brief, we are the King of England’s subjects :
For him, and in his right, we hold this town.
K. John. Acknowledge then the king, and let mein.
cit. That can we not; but he that proves the king,
To him will we prove loyal ; till that time 271
Have we ramm’‘d up our gates against the world.
EK. al, Doth not the crown of England prove the
cing?
And if not that, I bring you witnesses,
Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England’s breed,—
Bast. Bastards, and else.
&. John. To verify our title with their lives.
KK. Phi. As many, and as well-born bloods as those,—
Bast. Some bastards too.

Xk. Phi. Stand in his face to contradict his claim.
cit. Till you compound whose right is worthiest,
We for the worthiest hold the right from both. 282

KK. John. Then God forgive the sin of all those

250

 

souls,
That to their everlasting residence,
Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,
In dreadful trial of our kingdom’s king!
AK. Phi, Amen, Amen.—Mount, chevaliers! to arms!
Bast, Saint George, that swing’d the dragon, and
e’er since
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess’ door,
Teach us some fence !—[7o AuUSTRIA.] Sirrah, were I
at home, 290
At your den, sirrah, with your lioness,
I would set an oxhead to your lion’s hide,
And make a monster of yéu.
Aust. Peace! no more.
Bast. O! tremble, for you hear the lion roar.
K. sa ve higher to the plain; where we'll set
ort.
In best appointment all our regiments.
Bast. Speed then, to take advantage of the field.
K. Phi. It shall be so;—{to Lewis] and at the
other hill r
Command the rest to stand.—God, and ourright! |
Hxeun.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Alarums and Excursions ; then a Retreat. Enter
a French Herald, with trumpets, to the gates.
F. Her. You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,
And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in,
Who by the hand of France this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lie seatter’d on the bleeding ground;
ae a widow’s husband grovelling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolour’d earth ;
And victory, with little loss, doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French,
Who are at hand, triumphantly display'd, 10
To enter conquerors, and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne England’s king, and yours.

 

 
 

 

Scene II.] KING

JOHN. 343

 

| Asin a theatre, w.

f Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend

Enter an English Herald, with trumpets.
E. a eee you men of Angiers, ring your
ells :

King John, your king and England’s, doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day.
Their armours, that march’d hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen’s blood.
There stuck no poe in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France ;
Our colours do return in those same hands, 20
That did display them when we first march’d forth ;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Dy’d in the dying slaughter of their foes.
Open your gates, and give the victors way.

Cit. Heralds, from off our towers we might behold,
From first to last, the onset and retire
Of both your armies ; whose equality
ay our best eyes cannot be censured :
Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer’d

30

lows ;
Strength match’d with strength, and power confronted
re

ower :
Both are alike ; and both alike we like.

One must prove greatest : while they mee so even,
We hold our town for neither, yet for bot:

Enter, at one side, King Joun, with his Power,
ELINOR, BLANCH, and the Bastard ; at the other,
King Puiip, LEWIs, AUSTRIA, and Forces.

K, John. Ean, hast thou yet more blood to cast
awa;
Say, shall the current of our right roam on?
ose passage, vex’d with thy impediment,
Shall leave his native channel, and o’erswell
With course disturb’d even thy confining shores,
Unless thou let his silver water keep
A peaceful ane ress to the ocean.
K. Phi. England, thou hast not sav’d one drop of

blood,
In this hot trial, more than we of France ;
Rather, lost more: and by this hand I swear,
That sways the earth this climate overlooks,
Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,
We'll put thee down, ’gainst whom these arms we

bear,
Or add a royal number to the dead,
Gracing the scroll, that tells of this war’s loss,
With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.
Bast. Ha! majesty: how high thy glory towers,
When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!
O! now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel
The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs ;
And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men,
In undetermin’d differences of kings. —
Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?
Cry, havoc, kings! back to the stained field,
You equal-potents, fiery-kindled spirits !
Then let confusion of one part confirm 60
The other’s epee till then, blows, blood, and death !
K, John. Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?
K. Phi. Speak, citizens, for England ; who’s your

50

king?
Cit. The King of England, when we know the king.
K. Phi. Know him in us, that here hold up his right.
K. John. In us, that are our own great deputy,
And bear possession of our person here, :
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.
Cit. A greater power than we denies all this ;
And, till it be undoubted, we do lock
Our former scruple in our strong-barr’d gates,
Kings, of our fear ; until our fears, resolv’d,
Be by some certain king purg’d and depos’d.
Bast. By Heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout
., _you, Kings,
And stand secure y on their battlements,
ence they gape and point
At your industrious scenes and acts of
Your royal presences be rul’d by me:
Do like the mutines of Jerusalem

eath.

Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town.
By east and west let France and England mount
Their battering cannon charged to the mouths,
Till their soul-tearing clamours have brawl’d down
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city :
Id play incessantly upon these jades,
Even till unfenced desolation
Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.
That done, dissever your united strengths,
And part your mingled colours once again ;
Turn face to face, and bloody porn to point ;
Then, in a moment, Fortune shall cull forth
Out of one side her happy minion,
To whom in favour she shall give the day,
And kiss him with a glorious Victory.
How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?
Smacks it not something of the policy ?
BK dele. em by the sky that hangs above our

I like it well.—France, shall we knit our powers,
And lay this Angiers even with the ground,
Then, after, fight who shall be king of it?
Bast. An if thou hast the mettle of a king,
Being wrong’d as we are by this peevish town,
Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,
As we will ours, against these saucy walls ;
And when that we have dash’d them to the ground,
Why, then defy each other, and, pell-mell,
Make work upon ourselves, for heaven, or hell.
K. Phi. Let it be 30.—Say, where will you assault ?
K. John. We from the west will send destruction
Into this city’s bosom. lll

Aust. I from the north.

K. Phi. Our thunder from the south
Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.

Bast. [Aside.] O prudent discipline! From north

to south,
Austria and France shoot in each other’s mouth:
I'll stir them to it.—Come, away, away !

Cit. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay,
And I shall show you peace, and fair-fac’d league ;
Win you this city without stroke, or wound ;
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,

That here come sacrifices for the field.
Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.
&K. John. Speak on, with favour: we are bent to

ear.
Cit. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch,
Is niece to England. Look upon the years
Of Lewis the Dauphin, and that lovely maid.
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch ?
It zealous love should go in search of virtue,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch ? 130
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch ?
Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,
Is the young Dauphin every way complete :
If not complete of, say, he is not she;
_ And she ape wants nothing, to name want,
‘If want it be not, that she is not he:
He is the half part of a blessed man,
‘ Left to be finished by such as she ;—
' And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
QO! two such silver currents, when they join,
Do pony the banks that bound them in;
And two such shores to two such streams made one,
Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings,
To these two princes, if you marry them.
This union shall do more than battery can
To our fast-closed gates; for, at this match,
. With swifter spleen than powder can enforce,
The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,
And give you entrance ; but, without this match,
The sea enraged is not half so deaf,
| Lions more confident, mountains and rocks
' More free from motion : no, not Death himself
' In mortal fury half so peremptory,
As we to keep this city.

120

140

150

Bast. Here’s a stay,
That shakes the rotten carcase of old Death

 

 

 
 

344

KING JOHN.

(Acr IL

 

 

Out of his rags! Here’s a large mouth, indeed,

That spits forth death, and mountains, rocks, and
seas,

Talks as familiarly of roaring lions, 160

As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs.

What cannoneer begot this lusty blood ?

He speaks plain cannon, fire, and smoke, and bounce ;

He gives the bastinado with his tongue ;

Our ears are cudgell’d: not a word of his,

But buffets better than a fist of France.

*Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words,

Since I first call’d my brother's father, dad.

#li. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match.
Give with our niece a dowry large enough ; 170
For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie
Thy now unsur’d assurance to the crown,

That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe
The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.
I see a yielding in the looks of France ;

Mark, how they whisper: urge them, while their souls

Are capable of this ambition,
Lest zeal, now melted, by the windy breath
Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse,
Cool and congeal again to what it was.

Cit. Why answer not the double majesties
This friendly treaty of our threaten’d town?

K. Phi. Speak England first, that hath been forward

first
To speak unto this city: what say you?
AK. John. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely

son,
Can in this book of beauty read, I love,
Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen:
For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers,
And all that we upon this side the sea
(Except this city now by us besieg’d)
Find liable to our crown and dignity,
Shall gild her bridal bed, and make her rich
In titles, honours, and promotions,
As she in beauty, education, blood,
Holds hand with any princess of the world.
AK. Phi. bed say’st thou, boy? look in the lady’s
ace.
Lew. I do, my lord ; and in her eye I find
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,
The shadow of myself form’d in her eye,
Which, being but the shadow of your son,
Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow.
I do protest, I never lov’d myself,
Till now infixed I beheld eels
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye.
; [Whispers with BLANCH.
Bast. Drawn in the flattering table of her eye,
Hang’d in the frowning wrinkle of her brow,
And quarter'd in her heart, he doth espy
Himself love’s traitor : this is pity now,
That hang’d, and drawn, and quarter’d, there should

210

190

200

be,

In such a love, so vile a lout as he.

Blanch. My uncle's will in this respect is mine.
If he see aught in you, that makes him like,
That anything he sees, which moves his liking,
Ican with ease translate it to my will ;
Or if you will, to speak more properly,
I will enforce it easily to my love.
Further I will not flatter you, my lord,
That all I see in you is worthy love,
Than this,—that nothing do I see in you,
Though churlish thoughts themselves should be yous

judge,
That I can find should merit any hate.
4K. John. What say these young ones? What say
you, my niece?
Blanch. That she is bound in honour still to do
Whaiyou in wisdom still vouchsafe to say.
K. John. Speak then, Prince Dauphin: can you
love this lady ?
Lew. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love ;
For I do love her most untelere 2
kK. John, Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine,

aine,
Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces,

 

180 |

 

With her to thee ; and this addition more,
Ball diate eo asan marks of English coin.—
Philip of France, if thou be pleas’d withal,
Command Lay son and daughter to join hands.

K. shies It tikes us well.—Young princes, close your

ands.

Aust. And your tg too ; for I am well assur'd,
That I did so, when I was first assur'd.

K. Phi. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,
Let in that amity which you have made;
For at Saint Mary’s Chapel presently ~

230

 

oe

New)

 

Lew. ‘‘ Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love.”

The rites of marriage shall be solemnis’d — 240
Is not the Lady Constance in this troop?
I know, she is not ; for this match, made up,
Her presence would have interrupted much.
Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.
Lew. She is sad and passionate at your highness’

tent.
K. Phi. ena by my faith, this league, that we have
made,

Will give her sadness very little cure.—
Brother of England, how may we content
This widow lady? In her right we came,
Which we, God knows, have turn’d another way, 250
To our own vantage. : ;

K. John. We will heal up all;
For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Bretagne,
And Earl of Richmond, and this rich fair town
We make him lord of.—Call the Lady Constance:
Some speedy messenger bid her repair
To our solemnity.—I trust, we shall,
If not fill up the measure of her will,
Yet in some measure satisfy her so,
That we shall stop her exclamation.
Go we, as well as haste will suffer us, 260
To this unlook’d-for unprepared pomp. me

[Exeunt all but the Bastard.—The Citizens
retire from the walls. ae

Bast. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition !
John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,
Hath willingly departed with a part ;
‘And France, whose armour conscience buckled on,
Whom zeal and charity brought to the field,
As God’s own soldier, rounded in the ear 7
With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil,
That broker that still breaks the pate of faith,
That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, at
Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,—
Who having no external thing to lose |
But the word maid, cheats the poor maid of that ;—
That smooth-fac’d gentleman, tickling commodity,
Commodity, the bias of the world;
The world, who of itself is peised well,
Made to run even, upon even ground,

 

 
 

 

Scene IT.] KING

JOHN. 345

 

Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, -
This sway of motion, this commodity,

Makes it take head from all indifferency, 280
From all direction, purpose, course, intent:
And this same bias, this commodity,

This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word,
Clapp’d on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin’d aid,
From a resolv’d and honourable war,

To a most base and vile-concluded peace.—
And why rail I on this commodity ?

| But for because he hath not woo’d me yet.
| Not that I have the power to clutch my hand, 290
| When his fair angels would salute my paln ;
But for my hand, as unattempted yet,
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail,
And say, there is no sin but to be rich ;
And being rich, my virtue then shall be,
To say, there is no vice but beggary.
Since kings break faith upon commodity, ’
Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee ! [ Exit.

 

 

 

ACT III.

Scene I.—The Same.

   

4 Constance.
x-ONE to be married! gone to swear a

peace ! 2.03
False blood to false blood join’d! gone
. to be friends!
Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch
those provinces? | A
It is not so; thou hast misspoke, mis-

eard ;
Be well advis’d, tell o’er thy tale again :
It cannot be; thou dost but say, ’tis so.
I trust, I may not trust thee, for thy
word
Is but the vain breath of a common man:
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man:
Ihave a king’s oath to the contrary. _ 10
Thou shalt be punish’d for thus frighting me ;
For I am sick, and capable of fears ;
Oppress’d with wrongs, and therefore full of fears ;
A widow, husbandless, subject to fears ;
A woman, naturally born to fears ; 7
And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,
With my vex’d spirits I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head ?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? : 20
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o’er his bounds?
Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words ?
Then speak again ; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.

Sal. As true as, I believe, you think them false,
That give you cause to prove my saying true.

Const. O! if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die ; 30
And let belief and life encounter so,

As doth the fury of two desperate men,

ich in the very meeting fall, and die.—
Lewis marry Blanch! O boy! then where art thou?
France friend with England, what becomes of me ?—
Fellow, be gone ; I cannot brook thy sight :
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.

Sal. What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done? _

Const. Which harm within itself so heinous is, 40
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.

Arth. I do beseech you, madam, be content.

Const. If thou, that bidd’st me be content, wert

grim,

The French King’s Tent.

Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY.

Ugly, and slanderous to thy mother’s womb,
Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious,
Patch’d with foul moles, and eye-offending marks,
I would not care, I then would be content ;
For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. 50
But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy,
Nature and Fortune join’d to make thee great:
Of Nature’s gifts thou may’st with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose. But Fortune, O!
She is corrupted, chang’d, and won from thee:
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluck’d on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to Fortune, and King John; 60
That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John !—
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words, or get thee gone,
And leave those woes alone, which I alone
Am bound to underbear.

Sal. Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the kings.
Const. = ou may’st, thou shalt: Iwill not go with

ee.
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud,
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop. ‘
To me, and to the state of my great grief, 70
Let kings assemble ; for my grief’s so great,
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit ;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

[Seats herself on the ground.

Enter King JoHN, King PHILIP, LEWIS, BLANCH,
ELINoR, Bastard, AUSTRIA, and Attendants.

K. Ne Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed

ay
Ever in France shall be kept festival :
To solemnise this day, the glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist,
Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold: 80
The yearly course, that brings this day about,
Shall never see it but a holiday.

Const. [Rising.] A wicked day, and not a holy day!
What hath this day deserv’d? what hath it done,
That it in golden letters should be set,

Among the high tides, in the calendar?

 

 

 
 

346

Nay, rather, turn this day out of the week ;
This day of shame, oppression, perjury :
Or if it must stand still, let wives with child
Pray, that their burdens may not fall this day, 90
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd.
But on this day let seamen fear no wrack ;
No bargains break, that are not this day made;
This day all things begun come to ill end;
Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!
K. Phi. By Heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the fair proceedings of this day.
Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty ?

 

Const. ‘* (ere is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.”

Const. You have beguil’d me with a counterfeit,
Resembling majesty, which, being touch’d and tried,
Proves valucless. You are forsworn, forsworn; 101
You came in arms to spill mine enemies’ blood,

But now in arms you strengthen it with yours:

The grappling vigour and rough frown of war

Is cold in amity and painted peace,

And our oppression hath made up this league.—
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings !
A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens !
Let not the hours of this ungodly day

Wear out the day in peace ; but, ere sunset,

Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur’d kings !
Hear me, O, hear me!

Aust. Lady Constance, peace!

Const. War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war.
O Limoges! O Austria! thou dost shame
That bloody spoil: thou slave, thou wretch, thou

coward;

Thou little-valiant, great in villainy !
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou Fortune’s champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety ! thou art perjur’d too, 120
And sooth’st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool, to brag, and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame,
And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

lust. O, that a man should speak those wort

110

me!

Bast. ae hang a ealf'sskin on those recreant.
imbs.

Aust. Thou dar’st not say so, villain, for thy life.

Bast. am hang a calf's-skin on those recreant
imbs.

K. John. We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.

KING JOHN.

 

[Acr II,

Enter PANDULPH.

K. Phi. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope.
Pand. Hail, you anointed deputies of Heaven
To thee, King John, my holy errand is.
I, Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,
And from Pope Innocent the legate here,
Do in his name religiously demand, 0
Why thou against the Church, our holy mother,
So wilfully dost spurn ; and, force perforce,
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen aren platens
Of Canterbury, from that holy see?
This, in our 'toresaid holy father’s name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.
. John. What earthly name to interrogatories
Can task the free breath of a sacred king?
Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name
So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, 150
‘To charge me to an answer, as the Pope.
Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England
Add thus much more,—that no Italian priest
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions ;
But as we under Heaven are supreme head,
So, under him, that great supremacy,
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,
Without the assistance of a mortal hand:
So tell the Pope; all reverence set apart
To him, and his usurp’d authority. 160
K. Phi. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this,
K. John. Though you, and all the kings of Christen-

om,

Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,

Dreading the curse that money may buy out,

And, by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,

Purchase corrupted aoe of a man,

Who, in that sale, sells pardon from himself;

Though you, and all the rest, so grossly led,

This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish:

Yet I alone, alone do me oppose 170

Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes.
Pand. Then, by the lawtul power that I have,

Thou shalt stand curs’d, and excommunicate :

And blessed shall he be that doth revolt

From his allegiance to an heretic ;

And meritorious shall that hand be call’d,

Canonised, and worshipp’d as a saint,

That takes away by any secret course

Thy hateful life.
Const. O! lawful let it be,

That I have room with Rome to curse awhile. 180

Good father cardinal, cry thou Amen

To my keen curses; tor, without my wrong, |

There is no tongue hath les to curse him right.
Pand. There’s law and warrant, lady, for my curse.
Const. And for mine too: when law can do no right,

Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong.

Law cannot give my child his kingdom here,

For he that holds his'kingdom holds the law:

Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong,

How can the law forbid my tongue to curse ? 190
Pand. Philip of France, on peril of a curse,

Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, _

‘And raise the power of France upon his head,

Unless he do submit himself to Rome.
Eli. Look’st thoupale, France? donot let go thy hand.
Const. Look to that, devil, lest that France repent,

And, by disj yaee hands, hell lose a soul.
Aust. King Philip, listen to the cardinal. :
Bast. And hang a calf’s-skin on his recreant limbs.
Aust. Well, ruffian, Imust pocket up these wrongs,—

Because—
Bast. Your breeches best may enrey them. 201
K. John. Philip, what say’st thou to the cardinal?
Const. What should he say, but_as the cardinal?
Lew. Bethink you, father ; for difference

Is, purchase of a heavy curse fro Rome,

Or the light loss of England for a ‘friend:

Forego the casier.
Blanch, That’s the curse of Rome.
Const. O Lewis, stand fast! the devil tempts thee

here,
In likeness of a new-uptrimmed bride.

 

 
 

SceNE L] KING JOHN. 317

 

Blanch. The Lady Constance speaks not from he K. Phi. 1 am perplex’d, and know not what to say.

r
faith, 10 | Pand, What canst thou say, but will perplex thee
But from her need. more,

If thou stand excommunicate, and curs’d?
K. Phi. Good reverend father, make my person yours,

Const. ; O! if thou grant my need,
Which only lives but by the death of faith,

  

Pund. ‘I will denounce a curse upon his head.”

That need must necds infer this principle, And tell me how you would bestow yourself.
That faith would live again by death of need ; This royal hand and mine are newly knit,
0! then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up; | And the conjunction of our inward souls
Keep my need up, apd faith is trodden down. Married in league, coupled and link’d together
K. John. The king is mov’d, and answers not to , With all religious strength of sacred vows;
this. The latest breath that gave the sound of words, 220
Const. O! be remov’d from him, and answer well. Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,
Aust. Do so, King Philip: hang no more in doubt. | Between our kingdoms, and our royal selves ;
Bast. Hang nothing but a calf’s-skin, most sweet | And even before this truce, but new before,
lout. 220 | No longer than we well could wash our hands.

 

 

 
 

318 KING JOHN.

[Act III.

 

To clap this royal bargain up of peace, if
Heaven knows, they were besmear’d and overstain’d
With slaughter’s pencil; where revenge did paint
The fearful difference of incensed kings :
‘And shall these hands, so lately purg’d of blood,
So newly join’d in love, so strong in both,
Unyoke this seizure, and this kind regreet?
Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with Heaven,
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
As now again to snatch our palm from palm,
Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed
Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,
And make a riot on the gentle brow
Of true sincerity? O! holy sir,
My reverend father, let it not be so.
Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose
Some gentle order, and then we shall be bless’d
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.
Pand. All form is formless, order orderless,
Save what is opposite to England’s love.
Therefore, to arms! be champion of our Church,
Or let the Church, our mother, breathe her curse,
A mother’s curse, on her revolting son.
France, thou may’st hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth. 260
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.

K. Phi. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.

Pand. So mak’st thou faith an enemy to faith;
And, like a civil war, sett’st oath to oath,

Thy tongue against thy tongue. O! let thy vow,

First made to Heaven, first be to Heaven perform’d ;

That is, to be the champion of our Church.

What since thou swor'st is sworn against thyself,

And may not be performed by thyself :

For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss, 270

Is not amiss when it is truly done:

And being not done, where doing tends to ill,

The truth is then most done not doing it.

The better act of purposes mistook

Is, to mistake again: though indirect,

Yet indirection thereby grows direct,

And falsehood falsehood cures ; as fire cools fire,

‘Within the scorched veins of one new-burn’d.

It is religion that doth make vows kept ;

But thou hast sworn against religion 280

By what thou swear'st, against the thing thou
swear'st,

And mak’st an oath the surety for thy truth

Against an oath: the truth, thou art unsure

To swear, swears only not to be forsworn ;

Else, what a mockery should it be to swear!

But thou dost swear only to be forsworn ;

And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.

Therefore, thy later vows, against thy first,

Is in thyself rebellion to thyself ;

And better conquest never canst thou make, 290

Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts

Against these giddy loose suggestions:

Upon which better part our prayers come in,

If thou vouchsafe them; but, if not, then know,

The peril of our curses light on thee

So heavy, as thou shalt not shake them off,

But in despair die under their black weight.

Aust. Rebellion, flat rebellion !

Bast. Will’t not be?
Will not a calf’s-skin stop that mouth of thine?

Lew. Father, to arms!

Blanch. Upon thy wedding-day ?
Against the blood that thou hast married? 301
What! shall our feast be kept with slaughter’d men?
Shall braying trumpets, and loud churlish drums,
Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp?

O husband, hear me !—ah, alack ! how new

Is husband in my mouth !—even for that name,
Which till this time my tongue did ne’er pronounce,
Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms
Against mine uncle.

Const. O! upon my knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do aed to thee,
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom
Forethought by Heaven !

310

 

Blanch. Now shall I see thy love. What motive
may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?
Const. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,
His honour. O! thine honour, Lewis, thine honour,
Lew. I muse, your majesty doth seem so cold,
When such profound respects do pull you on.
Pand. I will denounce a curse upon his head.
K. Phi. Thou shalt not need.—England, I'll fall
from thee. 320
Const. O fair return of banish’d majesty !
li. O foul revolt of French poeone ner!
4k. John. France, thou shalt rue this hour within

this hour.
Bast. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton

Time,
Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.
Blanch. aie eum ’s o'ercast with blood: fair day,
adieu!
Which is the side that I must go withal ?
Iam with both: each army hath a hand;
And in their rage, I having hold of both,
They whirl asunder, and dismember me. 330
Husband, I cannot pray that thou may’st win ;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou may’st lose ;
Father, I may not wish the fortune thine ;
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
Assured loss, before the match be play’d.
Lew. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.
Blanch. There where my fortune lives, there my life

dies.
K. John. Cousin, go draw our puissance a alin
(Exit Bastard.
France, Iam burn’d up with inflaming wrath ; 340
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood and dearest-valu’d blood, of France.
. Phi. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou
shalt turn
To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire.
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. --
EK. John. No more than he that threats.—To arms
let’s hie! [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. Plains near Angiers.

Alarums ; Excursions. Enter the Bastard, with
AUSTRIA’S head.

Bast. Ney by my life, this day grows wondrous
ot ;

Some airy devil hovers in the sky, 7
And pours down mischief. Austria’s head, lie there,
While Philip breathes.

Enter King Joun, ARTHUR, and HUBERT.

K. John. Hubert, keep this boy.—Philip, make up:
My mother is assailed in our tent,
And ta’en, I fear.
Bast. My lord, I rescu’d her ;
Her highness is in safety, fear you not:
But on, my liege; for very little pains

Will bring this labour toan happy end. 10 [Ezeunt.

 

Scene III.—The Same.

Alarums; Excursions; Retreat. Entcr King JOHN,
ELinor, ARTHUR, the Bastard, HUBERT, and
Lords.

K. John. [To Extinor.] So shall it be; your grace
shall stay behind, s

So strongly guarded._[To ARTHUR.] Cousin, look

not sad :

Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will

As dear be to thee as thy father was. :
Arth. O! this will make my mother die with grief.
K. John. [To the Bastard.] Cousin, away for Eng-

land: haste before ;

And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags

Of hoarding abbots ; imprisoned angels

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

Scene IV.] KING JOHN. 349
Set at liberty: the fat ribs of peace Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
Must by the hungry now be fed upon: 10 | By Heaven, I would do it.

Use our commission in his utmost force.

Bast. pee book, and candle, shall not drive me
ack,

When gold and silver becks me to come on.

Lleave your highness.—Grandam, I will pray

(If ever I remember to be holy)

For your fair safety : so I kiss your hand.
Elt. Farewell, gentle cousin.
K. John. Coz, farewell. [Exit Bastard.
Eli. Come hither, little kinsman ; hark, a word.

[She takes ARTHUR aside.
K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle
Hubert,

We owe thee much: within this wall of flesh

20

 

/ gil

OO

  

 

Eli, “Come, hither, little kinsman ; hark, a word.”

There is a soul, counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
And, my peed friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,—
But I will fit it with some better tune.
By Heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham’d
To say what good respect I have of thee.
Hub, Iam much bounden to your majesty.
K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say a8
i 3

yet;

But thou shalt have: and creep time ne’er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
Thad a thing to say,—but let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds,
To give me audience :—if the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound on into the drowsy race of night ;
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak’d thy blood, and made it heavy-thick,
(Which, else, Tuns tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men’s eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes ;)
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words:
Then, in despite of brooded-watchful day,—
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts.
But, ah! I will not :—yet I love thee well ;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov’st me well.

Hub, So well, that what you bid me undertake,

40

50

 

K. John. Do not I know, thou wouldst?
Good Hubert! Hubert,—Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend, 60
He is a very serpent in my way ;
And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.
Tub. And I’ll keep him so,
That he shall not offend your majesty.
KK. John. Death.
ETub. My lord.
K. John.
Hub.
K. John.
I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee ;
Well, 1’ll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember.—Madam, fare you well : 70
I’ send those powers o’er to your majesty.
Eli. My blessing go with thee! s
K, John. For England, cousin: go.
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
With all true duty.—On toward Calais, ho! [Hxeunt.

A grave.
He shall not live.
nough.

Scene IV.—The Same. The French King’s Tent.

Enter King Pui.ip, Lewis, PANDULPH, and
Attendants.

K. Phi. So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado of connected sail
Is scatter'd, and disjoin’d from fellowship.
Pand. Courage and comfort ! all shall yet go well.
K. Phi. What can go well, when we have run so ill ?
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost ?
Arthur ta’en prisoner? divers dear friends slain ?
And bloody England into England gone,
O’erbearing interruption, spite of France ?
Lew. What he hath won, that hath he fortified: 10
So hot a speed with such advice dispos’d,
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause,
Doth want example. Who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this ?
K. Phi. Well could I bear that England had this
praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame.

Enter CONSTANCE.

Look, who comes here? a grave unto a soul;

Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,

In the vile prison of afflicted breath. —

I pr’ythee, lady, go away with me. 20
Const. Lo now, now see the issue of your peace !
K. Phi. Patience, good lady: comfort, gentle Con-

stance ! .

Const. No, I defy all counsel, all redress,

But that which ends all counsel, true redress,

Death, death.—O amiable lovely death !

Thou odoriferous stench ! sound rottenness !

Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,

Thou hate and terror to prosperity,

And I will kiss thy detestable bones,

And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows,

And ring these fingers with thy household worms,

And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust,

And be a carrion monster like thyself:

Come, grin on me ; and J will think thou smil'st,

And buss thee as thy wife! Misery’s love,

O, come to me!

. Phi. O fair affliction, peace!

Const. No, no, I will not, having breath to ery.—
O! that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth;
Then with a passion would I shake the world,
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,

Which cannot hear a lady’s feeble voice,

Which scorns a modern invocation.

Pand, Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.

Const. Thou art unholy to belie me so.

I am not mad: this hair I tear, is mine ;

30

40

 

My name is Constance ; I was Geffrey’s wife

 

 
 

 

KING JOHN. {Act III.
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost ! When there is such disorder in my wit.
Tam not mad :—I would to Heaven, I were, O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son !
For then, ‘tis like I should forget myself : “4 My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
O, if I could, what grief should I forget !--- 50 Aly eid -Sarneoats and my sorrow’s cure ! [Exit.
Preach some philosophy to make me mad, Kk. Phi. I fear some outrage, and I’ll follow her,

HMTH Ht
rhay

ut! HI \ AN |

   

 

 

Const. Thou art unboly to belle me so.”

And thou shalt be canonis’d, cardinal ;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver’d of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son,
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he.
Iam not mad: too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity. 60
AK. Phi. Bind up those tresses. O! what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glue themselves in sociable griet ;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.
Const. To England, if you will.
A. Phi. Bind up your hairs.
Const. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I doit? |
I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud, 70
““O, that these hands could so redeem my son,
As they have given these hairs their liberty !”
But now I envy at their liberty, :
And will again commit them to their bonds, '
Because my poor child is a prisoner.—
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven.
If that be true, I shall see my boy again ; |
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire, 80
There was not such a gracious creature born. |
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, I
And chase the native beauty from his cheek, |
And he will look as hollow as a ghost, 1
As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit,
And so he'll die ; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven,
I shall not know him: therefore, never, never |
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
Pand. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. 90
Const. He talks to me, that never had a son.
K. Phi. You are as fond of grief as of your child.
Const. Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.—
I will not keep this form upon my head,

100

Exit,
Lew. There’s nothing in this world can ade me

joy:

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,

Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man ;

And bitter shame hath spoil’d the sweet world’s taste,

That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. 111
Pand. Before the curing of a strong disease,

Even in the instant of repair and health,

The fit is strongest: evils that take leave,

On their departure most of all show evil.

What have you lost by losing of this day?

Lew. All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
Pand. If you had won it, certainly, you had.
No, no: when Fortune means to men most good,

She looks upon them with a threatening eye.

In this which he accounts so clearly won.

Are not you griev’d, that Arthur is his prisoner?
Lew. As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.
Pand. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.

Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit ;

For even the breath of what I mean to speak

Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,

Out of the path which shall directly lead

Thy foot to England’s throne ; and therefore mark.

John hath seiz’d Arthur ; and it cannot be, 131

That whiles warm life plays in that infant’s veins,

The misplac’d John should entertain an hour,

One minute, nay, one es breath of rest.

A sceptre, snatch’d with an unruly hand,

Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d ;

And he that stands upon a slippery place,

Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:

That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;

So be it, for it cannot be but so. 40
Lew. But what shall I gain by young Arthur’s fall?
Pand. You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife,

May then make all the claim that Arthur did.

Lew. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
Pand. How green you are, and tresh in this old
world !

John lays you plots; the times conspire with you

For he that steeps his safety in true blood,

Shall find but bloody safety, and untrue.

This act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts

Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal,

 

Pand. ‘‘ How green you are.”

That none so small advantage shall step forth
To check his reign, but they will cherish it:
No natural exhalation in the sky,

No scope of Nature, no ebetenaper day,

No common wind, no customed event,

 

120 |
‘Tis strange, to think how much King John hath lost

 
 

 

Scene IV.) KING

JOHN. 351

 

But they will pluck away his natural cause,

And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,

Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven,

Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.
Lew. May be, he will not touch young Arthur’s life,

But hold himself safe in his prisonment. 161
Pand. O! sir, when he shall hear of your approach,

If that young Arthur be not gone already,

Even at that news he dies ; and then the hearts

Of all his people shall revolt from him,

And kiss the lips of unacquainted change,

And pick strong matter of revolt, and wrath,

Out of the bloody fingers’ ends of John.

Methinks, I see this hurly all on foot :

And, O! what better matter breeds for you, 170

Than I have nam’d !—The bastard Faulconbridge

Is now in England ransacking the Church,

Offending charity : if but a dozen French

Were there in arms, they would be as a call

To train ten thousand English to their side ;

Or as a little snow, tumbled about,

Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,

Go with me to the king. "lis wonderful,

What may be wrought out of their discontent,

Now that their souls are topful of offence. 180

For England, go; I will whet on the king.

Lew. Strong reasons make strongactions, Letus go:

' Tf you say, ay, the king will not say, no. [Exeunt.

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE J.- Northampton. A Room in the Castle.
{ ; Enter HUBERT and two Attendants.

   
 
 

yi Hubert.

HAT me these irons hot; and look thou stand
Within the arras: when I strike my foot
{ Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,
S\N And bind the boy, which you shall find with

me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful. Hence, and

watch.

1 Atten. I hope, your warrant will bear
out the deed.

Hub. Uncleanly scruples! fear not you:
look to’t.— [Hxeunt Attendants.

Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.

Enter ARTHUR.

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.
ITub. Good morrow, little prince.
Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 0
To be more prince) as may be.—You are sad.

Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.

Arth. Mercy on me!
Methinks, nobody should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my christendom,
So 1 were out of prison, and kept sheep,
Ishould be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him.
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey’s son?
No, indeed, is’t not ; and I would to Heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

Hub. [Aside.| If I talk to him, with his innocent

prate

He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale to-day.
In sooth, I would you were a little sick,
That I might sit all night, and watch with you: 30
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.

Hub. Ca sities) is words do take possession of my

osom.—

Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.
m Aside.) How now, foolish rheum!

| pumming dispiteous torture out of door!

I must be brief, lest resolution drop

Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.—

Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?

20

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Hub. Young boy, I must.
rth. And will you?

Hub. And I will.
Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did
but ache, 41

I knit my handkerchief about your brows,

(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)

And I did never ask it you again ;

And with my hand at midnight held your head,

And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,

Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time,

Saying, “ ee lack you?” and, ‘‘Where liss your

grief?”

Or, ‘‘What good love may I perform for you?”

Many a poor man’s son would have lain still,

And ne’er have spoke a loving word to you;

But you at your sick-service had a prince.

Nay, you may think my love was crafty love,

And call it cunning: do, an if you will.

If Heaven be pleas’d that you will use me ill,

Why, then you must.—Will you put out mine eyes?

These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,

So much as frown on you?

50

Flub. I have sworn to do it,
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Arth, Ah! none but in this iron age would do it. 60
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench this fiery indignation
Even in the matter of mine innocence;
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should Dut out mine eyes,
I would not have believ’d him; no tongue but
Hubert’s. 7
Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.

Re-enter Attendants, with cords, trons, &c.

Do as I bid you do.
Arth. O! save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are

out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous-rough?
I will not struggle ; I will stand stone-still.

 

 
 

 

352

KING JOHN.

[Act Iv,

 

For Heaven’s sake, Hubert, let. me not be bound,
Nay, hear me, Hubert: drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 80
Nor look upon the iron angerly. ,
Thrust but these men away, and I ll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to. 3 .
Hub. Go, stand within: let me alone with him.
1 itten. Lam best pleas’d to be from such a deed.
{Exeunt Attendants.
Arth, Alas! I then have chid away my friend:
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart.—
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Arth, Is there no remedy ?
Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.
Arth. O Heaven !—that there were but a moth in
yours, : : 91
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense !

 

-Lrth, ““O! spare mine eyes.”

Then, fecling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Hub. Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert:

Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,

So I may keep mine eyes. O! spare mine eyes;

Though to no use, but still to look on you.

Lo! by my troth, the instrument is cold,

And would not harm me.
Hub. I can heat it, boy.

Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief,

Being create for comfort, to be us’d

In undeserv’d extremes: see else yourself ;

There is no malice in this burning coal ;

The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,

And strew’d repentant ashes on his head. 110
Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
Arth, An if you do, you will but make it blush,

And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert :

Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ;

And like a dog that is compell’d to fight,

Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.

All things that you should use to do me wrong,

Deny their office : only you do lack

That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends,

Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. 120
Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes

For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:

Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,

With this same very iron to burn them out.

 

Arth. O! now you look like Hubert: all this while
You were disguised. ‘

Hub. Peace! nomore. Adieu,
Your uncle must not know but you are dead:
I’ll fill these dorged spies with false reports.

And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, 130
Will not offend thee.

Arth. O Heaven !—I thank you, Hubert.

Hub. Silence! no more. Go closely in with me;
Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Excunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. <A Room of State in the
Palace.

Enter King JOHN, crowned ; PEMBROKE, SALISBURY,
and other Lords. The KiNG takes his State.

EK. John. Here once again we sit, once again

crown’d,

And look’d upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.

Pem. nee ae again, but that your highness

pleas a,

Was once superfluous : you were crown’d before,

And that high royalty was ne’er pluck’d off,

The faiths of men ne’er stained with revolt ;

Fresh expectation troubled not the land

With any long’d-for change, or better state.

Sal. Therefore, to be possess’d with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before, 10
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,

To throw a perfume on the violet,

To smooth the ice, or add another hue

Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.

Pem. But that your royal pleasure must be done,
This act is as an ancient tale new-told,

And in the last repeating troublesome,
Being urged at a time unseasonable.

Sal. In this, the antique and well-noted face
Of plain old form is much disfigured ;

And, like a shifted wind unto a sail,

It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about,
Startles and frights consideration,

Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected,
For putting on so new a fashion’d robe.

Pem. When workmen strive to do better than well,
They do confound their skill in covetousness ;

And, oftentimes, excusing of a fault 30
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse:

As patches, set upon a little breach,

Discredit more in hiding of the fault,

Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.

Sal. To this effect, before you were new-crown’d,
We breath’d our counsel : but it pleas’d your highness
To overbear it, and we are all well pleas’d ;

Since all and every part of what we would,
Doth make a stand at what your highness will.

K. John. Some reasons of this double coronation 40
Ihave possess’d you with, and think them strong ;
And more, more strong, when lesser is ing ea,

I shall indue you with: meantime, but as.
What you would have reform’d that is not well;
And well shall you ae how willingly

I will both hear and grant you your requests.

Pem. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these,
To sound the purposes of all their hearts,

Both for myself and them, but, chief of all, 4
Your safety, for the which myself and them 50
Bend their best studies, heartily egies: ‘
The enfranchisement of Arthur ; whose restraint
Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent

To break into this dangerous argument:

If what in rest you have, in right you hold,

Why then your fears, which, as they say, attend
The steps of wrong, should move you to mew up
Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days

With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth

The rich advantage of good exercise? | 60
That the time’s enemies may not have this 7

 

 
 

Scene II.] KING

JOHN. 353

 

To grace occasions, let it be our suit,

That you have bid us ask his liberty ;

Which for our goods we do no further ask,
Than whereupon our weal, on you depending,
Counts it your weal, he have his liberty.

Enter HUBERT.

K. John. Let it be so: Ido commit his youth
To your direction.—Hubert, what news with you?
[HUBERT whispers the KING.
Pem. This is the man should do the bloody deed :
He show’d his warrant to a friend of mine. 70
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye: that close aspect of his
Does show the mood of a much troubled breast ;
And I do fearfully believe ’tis done,
What we so fear’d he had a charge to do.
Sal. The colour of the king doth come and go,
Between his purpose and his conscience,
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set.
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
Pem. And when it breaks, I fear, will issue thence
The foul corruption of a sweet child’s death.
K. John. We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand.—
Good lords, although my will to give is living,
The suit which you demand is gone and dead:
He tells us, Arthur is deceas’d to-night.
Sal. Indeed, we fear’d his sickness was past cure.
Pem. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was,
Before the child himself felt he was sick.
This must be answer’d, either here, or hence.
K. John. Why do you bend such solemn brows
on me? 90
Think you I bear the shears of destiny ?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life ?
Sal. It is apparent foul play ; and ’tis shame,
That greatness should so grossly offer it.
So thrive it in your game! and so farewell.
Pem. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury ; I’ll go with thee,
And find the inheritance of this poor child,
His little kingdom of a forced grave.
That blood which ow’d the breadth of all this isle,
Three foot of it doth hold. Bad world the while! 100
This must not be thus borne: this will break out
To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt.
[Exeunt Lords.
K. John. They burn in indignation. I repent:
There is no sure foundation set on blood,
No certain life achiev’d by others’ death.

Enter a Messenger.

A fearful eye thou hast. Where is that blood,
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks ?

So foul a sky clears not without a storm:

Pour down thy weather.—How goes all in France?

Mess. From France to England.—Never such a

power, 110
For any foreign preparation,
Was levied in the body of a land.
The oony of your speed is learn’d by them ;
For, when you should be told they do ere panes
The tidings comes that they are all arriv’d.

K. John. O! where hath our intelligence been drunk?
Where hath it slept? Where is my mother’s care,
That such an army could be drawn in France,
And she not hear of it ?

Mess. My liege, her ear
Is stopp’d with dust: the first of April, died
Your noble mother ; and, as I hear, my lord,

The Lady Constance in a frenzy died
Three days before: but this from rumour’s tongue
lidly heard ; if true, or false, I know not.

K. John. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion !

o! make a league with me, till I have pleas’d
My discontented peers.—What ! mother dead !
How wildly then walks my estate in France !—
Under whose conduct came those powers of France,
That thou for truth 130

Mess. Under the

120

iv’st out are landed here ?
auphin.

. John. Thou hast made me giddy

 

) i Enter the Bastard, and PETER of Pomfret.

With these ill tidings.—Now, what says the world
To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff
My head with more ill news, for it is full.
ast. But, if you be afeard to hear the worst,

Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head.

K. John. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz’d
Under the tide; but now I breathe again
Aloft the flood, and can give audience
To any tongue, speak it of what it will.

Bast. How I have sped among the clergymen,
The sums I have collected shall express.
But as I travell’d hither through the land,
I find the people strangely fantasied,
Possess’d with rumours, full of idle dreams,
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear.
And here’s a prophet, that I brought with me
From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found
With many hundreds treading on his heels ;
To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,
That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, 161
Your highness should deliver up your crown.

kK. John. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou

140

so?
Peter. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out

so.
K. John. Hubert, away with him: imprison him ;
And on that day at noon, whereon, he says,
Ishall yield up my crown, let him be hang’d.
Deliver him to safety, and return,
For I must use thee. [Hxzit HUBERT with PETER.]—
O my gentle cousin,
Hear’st thou the news abroad, who are arriv’d? 160
Bast. Ths Brenly my lord ; men’s mouths are full
of it:
Besides, I met Lord Bigot, and Lord Salisbury,
With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,
And others more, going to seek the grave
Of Arthur, whom they say is kill'd to-night
On your suggestion.
K. John. Gentle kinsman, go,
And thrust thyself into their companies.
I have a way to win their loves again:
Bring them before me.

Bast.
K. John. Nay, but
before.
O! let me have no subject enemies,
When adverse foreigners affright my towns
With dreadful pomp of stout invasion.
Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels,
And fly, like thought, from them to me again.
Bast. The spirit of the time shall teach me SDe
cit,
K. John. Spoke like a spriteful noble gentleman. —
Go after him ; for he, perhaps, shall need
Some messenger betwixt me and the peers,

And be thou he.
Mess. With all my heart, my liege. [Evit.
K. John. My mother dead! 181

Re-enter HUBERT.
Hub. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-

night:
Four fixed ; and the fifth did whirl about
The other four in wondrous motion.

K. John. Five moons?

Hub. Old men, and beldams, in the streets
Do prophesy upon it dangerously. 1
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths ;
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;

And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer’s wrist, 190
Whilst he that hears makes fearful action,

With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
Isaw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,

The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,

With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news ;

Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers (which his nimble haste

Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet),

Told of a many thousand warlike French,

I will seek them out.
make haste; the better toot

 

That were embatteled and rank’d in Kent. 200

 

23

“

 
 

354

KING JOHN.

[Act Iv,

 

 

Another lean unwash’d artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur’s death.
A. ee way seek’st thou to possess me with these
ears
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur’s death?
Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had a mighty cause
To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill hin.
Hub. No had, ny lord! why, did you not provoke
me?
K. John. It is the curse of kings, to be attended
By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant
To break within the bloody house of life,
And, on the winking of authority, ‘
To understand a law, to know the meaning
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns
More upon humour than advis’d respect.
Hub. Here is your hand and seal for what I did.
K. John. O! when the last account ’twixt Heaven
and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal
Witness against us to damnation.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds
Makes deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark’d,
Quoted, and sign’d, to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind ;
But, taking note of thy abhorr’d aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
Apt, liable, to be employ’d in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death ;
And thou, to be endeared to a king,
Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.
Hub. My lord,— 230
AK. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made

220

a pause,
When I spake darkly what I purposed,
Or turn’d an eye of doubt upon my face,
As bid me tell my tale in express words,
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me :
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again parley with sin;
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,
And consequently thy rude hand to act 240
The deed which both our tongues held vile to name.
Out of my sight, and never see me more !
My nobles leave me, and my state is brav’d,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns
Between my conscience and my cousin's death.
Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,
I’ make a peace between your soul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter’d yet
The dreadful motion of a murderous thought ;
And you have slander'd nature in my form,
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind,
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
KK. John. Doth Arthur live? O! haste thee to the
peers, 260
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience.
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature ; for my rage was blind,
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
O! answer not; but to my closet bring
The angry lords, with all expedient haste.
I conjure thee but slowly ; run more fast,

250

[Exeunt.

 

ScENE III.—The Same. Before the Castle.

Enter ARTHUR, on the walls.
Arth. The wall is ee ; and. yet will I leap down.—
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not !—

 

‘There ’s few, or none, do know me; if they did,

This ship-boy’s semblance hath disguis’d me quite.

I am afraid ; and yet I'll venture it.

If I get down, and do not break my limbs,

1’ll find a thousand shifts to get away :

As good to die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down,

Ome! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones.—

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! 10

Dies,

Enter PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and Bicot.

Sal. Lands, I will meet him at Saint Edmund's
ury :
It is our safety, and we must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.
Pem. Who brought that letter from the cardinal 2
Sal. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France;
Whose private with me, of the Dauphin’s love,
Is much more general than these lines import.
Big. To-morrow morning let us meet him then.
Sal. Or rather then set forward : for ’t will be
Two long days’ journey, lords, or e’er we meet.

Enter the Bastard.

Bast. “aaa more to-day well met, distemper'd
ords.
The king by me requests your presence straight.
Sal. The king hath dispossess’d himself of us.
We will not line his thin bestained cloak
With our pure honours, nor attend the foot
That leaves the print of blood where’er it walks.
Return, and tell him so: we know the worst.
Bast. Whate’er you think, good words, I think,
were best.
Sal. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now.
Bast. But there is little reason in your grief : 30
Therefore, ’t were reason you had manners now.
Pem. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
Bast. ’Tis true; to hurt his master, no man else.
Sal. This is the prison.—[Seeing ARTHUR.] Whatis
he lies here?
Pem. O death, made proud with pure and princely
beauty !
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
Sal. Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge.

Big. Or when he doom’'d this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
Sal. Sir Richard, what think you?

beheld,

Or have you read, or heard? or could you think?
Or do you almost think, although you see,
That you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another? This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder’s arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savagery, the vildest stroke,
That ever wall-ey’d wrath, or staring rage,
Presented to the tears of soft remorse. oan

Pem. All murders past do stand excus’d in this:
And this, so sole and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,
To the yet unbegotten sin of times,
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.

Bast. It is a damned and a bloody work ;
The graceless action of a heavy hand,
If that it be the work of any hand.

Sal. If that it be the work of any hand ?—
We had a kind of light what would ensue:
It is the shameful work of Hubert’s hand ;
The practice, and the purpose, of the king:
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,
And breathing to his breathless excellence
The incense of a vow, a holy vow,
Never to taste the pleasures of the world,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
Till I have set a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge.

‘Pem., Big. Our souls religiously confirm thy words.

20

Have you

50

70

 

 

 
°

 

 

Scene II.] KING JOHN. 355
. Hub. ’T is not an hour since I left him well:
eer HUBERT. , r | I honour’d him, I lov’d him ; and will weep
Hub. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. My date of life out for his sweet life’s loss.
Arthur doth live: the king hath sent for you. al. Trust-not those cunning waters of his eyes.
Sal. O! he is bold, and blushes not at death.— For villainy is not without such rheum ;
Avaunt, thou hateful villain! get thee gone. And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Hub. Iam no villain. Like rivers of remorse and innocency. 110

Must I rob the law ?
[Drawing his sword.
Bast. Your sword is bright, sir: put it up again. i

| Sal.

| Sal. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer’s skin.
|

|

|

i

|

|

\

|

Bast. ** Put up thy sword betime.”

Hub. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, Isay:
By Heaven, I think, my sword’s as sharp as yours.
J would not have you, lord, forget yourself,
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence ;
| Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
' Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.
Big. Out, dunghill! dar’st thou brave a nobleman ?
Hub. Not for my life ; but yet I dare defend
My innocent life against an emperor.
Sal. Thou art a murderer.
ud. Do not prove me so: 90
Yet, am none. Whose tongue soe’er speaks false,
Not truly speaks ; who speaks not truly, lies.
Pem. Cut him to pieces.
Bast. Keep the peace, I say.
Sal. Stand by, orI shall gall you, Faulconbridge.
Bast. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury :
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
Ill strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime,
Or I’ll so maul you and your toasting-iron,
That you shall think the devil is come from hell. 100
Big. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge?
Second a villain, and a murderer?
Hub. Lord Bigot, I am none.
Big. Who kill'd this prince?

 

 

 

Away, with me, all you whose souls abhor

The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house,

For I am stifled with this smell of sin.
Big. Away, toward Bury: to the Dauphin there!
Pem. There, tell the king, he may inquire us out.

[Exeunt Lords.
Bast. Hee a good world !—Knew you of this fair
work?
Beyond the infinite and boundless reach

' Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,

Art thou damn’d, Hubert.

Hub. Do but hear me, sir.

Bast. Ha! I'll tell thee what ; 120
Thou art damn’d as black—nay, nothing is so black ;
Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer:
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell,

As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child.

Hub. Upon my soul,—

Bast. If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair ;

And if thou want’st a cord, the smallest thread,

That ever spider twisted from her womb,

Will serve to strangle thee ; a rush will be a beam

To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, 130
Put but a little water in a spoon,

And it shall be as all the ocean,

Enough to stifle such a Villain up.

I do suspect thee very grievously. -

Hub. [f Lin act, consent, or sin of thought,
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath,
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me.

T left him well.

Bast. Go, bear him in thine arms.—
Iam amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.—
How easy dost thou take all England up!
From forth this morsel of dead royalty,

The life, the right, and truth of all this realm
Is fied to heaven ; and England now is left

T'o tug and scamble, and to part by the teeth
The unowed interest of proud-swelling state.
Now for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty

Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest,

And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace: 150
Now powers from home, and discontents at home,
Meet in one line ; and vast confusion waits,

As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,

The imminent decay of wrested pomp.

Now happy he whose cloak and ceinter can

Hold out this tempest.—Bear away that child,

And follow me with speed: I'll to the king.

A thousand businesses are brief in hand,

And Heaven itself doth frown upon the land. [Hxeunt.

140

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.

ScENnE I.—The Same.

   

King John.
)tLUS have I yielded up into your hand
m} The circle of my glory.
Pand. [Giving JOHN the crown.] Take

again
From this my hand, as holding of the
Pope,
Your sovereign greatness and authority.
&. John. Now keep your holy word: go
meet the French ;
And from his holiness use all your power
To stop their marches, ‘fore we are in-
flam’d.
Our discontented counties do revolt,
Our people quarrel with obedience,
Swearing allegiance, and the love of soul, 10
To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.
This inundation of mistemper’d humour
Rests by you only to be qualified. .
Then pause not; for the present time's so sick,
That present medicine must be minister’d,
Or overthrow incurable ensues.
Pand. It was my breath that blew this tempest up,
Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope ;
But since you are a gentle convertite,
My tongue shall hush again this storm of war, 20
And make fair weather in your blustering land.
On this Ascension-day, remember well,
Upon your oath of service to the ape
Go I to make the French lay down their arms. [Fait.
K. John. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the
prophet
Say, that before Ascension-day at noon
My crown IJ should give off? Even so I have,
I did suppose it should be on constraint ;
But, Heaven be thank’d, it is but voluntary.

Enter the Bastard.
Bast. All Kent hath yielded ; nothing there holds
ou 3

But Dover Castle : London hath receiv’d,
Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers.
Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone
‘Co offer service to your enemy ;
And wild amazement hurries up and down
The little number of your doubtful friends.
kK. John. Would not my lords return to me again,
After they heard young Arthur was alive?
Bast. They found him dead, and cast into the
streets ;
An empty casket, where the jewel of life 40
By some damn'd hand was robb’d and ta’en away.
K. John. That villain Hubert told me he did live.
Bast. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.
But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad ?
Be great in act, as you have been in thought ;
Let not the world see fear, and sad distrust,
Govern the motion of a kingly eye:
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;
Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow
Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes, 50
That borrow their behaviours from the great,
Grow great by your example, and put on
The dauntless spirit of resolution.
Away ! and glister like the god of war,

 

A Room in the Palace.

Enter King JOHN, PANDULPH with the crown, and Attendants.

When he intendeth to become the field :
Show boldness, and aspiring confidence.
What, shall they seek the lion in his den,
And fright him there? and make him tremble there?
O! let it not be said.—Forage, and run
To meet displeasure further from the doors, 60
And grapple with him, ere he come so nigh.

K. John. The legate of the Pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him;
And he hath promis’d to dismiss the powers
Led by the Dauphin.

Bast. O inglorious league !
Shall we, aon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce,
To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,
A cocker’d silken wanton, brave our fields, 70
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with colours idly spread,
And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms:
Perchance, the cardinal cannot make your peace ;.
Or if he do, let it at least be said,
They saw we had a purpose of defence.

K. John. Have thou the ordering of this present

time.

Bast. Away then, with good courage; yet, I know,

Our party may well meet a prouder foe. [Ezxeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Plain near Saint Edmund@’s Bury.

Enter in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY, MELUN,
PEMBROKE, BiGot, and Soldiers.

Lew. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance.
Return the precedent to these lords again ;
That, having our fair order written down, :
Both they, and we, perusing o’er these notes,
May know wherefore we took the sacrament,
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.

Sal. on our sides it never shall be broken.
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear
A voluntary zeal, and unurg’d faith, 1¢
To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,
I am not glad that such a sore of time
Should seek a plaster by contemn’d revolt,
And heal the inveterate canker of one wound
By making many. O! it grieves my soul,
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker; O! and there,
Where honourable rescue, and defence,
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury.
But such is the infection of the time, 20
That, for the health and physic of our right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice and confused ea
And is ’t not pity, O my grieved friends,
That we, the sons and children of this isle,
Were born to see so sad an hour as this;
Wherein we step after a stranger march
Upon her gentle bosom, and fill w
Her enemies’ ranks, (I must withdraw, and weep
Upon the spot of this enforced cause,) 30
To grace the gentry of a land remote,

 

 
 

 

 

Scene IT.) §

KING JOHN.

357

 

And follow unacquainted colours here ?

What, here ?—O nation, that thou couldst remove !

That Neptune’s arms, who clippeth thee about,

Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,

And grapple thee unto a pagan shore,

Where these two Christian armies might combine

The blood of malice in a vein of leagine,

And not to spend it so unneighbourly !
Lew. A noble temper dost thou show in this ;

And great affections wrestling in thy bosom

Do make an earthquake of nobility. ;

O! what a noble combat hast thou fought,

Between compulsion, and a brave respect !

Let me wipe off this honourable dew,

That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks.

My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,

Being an ordinary inundation ;

But this effusion of such manly drops,

This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul,

Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz’d

Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven

Figur’d yes o’er with burning meteors.

Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,

And with a great heart heave away this storm:

Commend these waters to those baby eyes,

That never saw the giant world enrag’d,

Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,

Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping.

Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep 60

Into the purse of rich Bensperity,

As Lewis himself :—so, nobles, shall you all,

That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.

Enter PANDULPH, attended.
And even there, methinks, an angel spake:
Look, where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant trom the hand of Heaven,
And on our actions set the name of right
With holy breath.

Pand. Hail, noble Prince of France !
The next is this :---King John hath reconcil’d
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,

That so stood out against the hey Church,
The great metropolis and see of Rome.
Therefore, thy threat’ning colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war,
That, like a lion foster’d up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace
And be no further harmful than in show.
Lew. Your grace shall pardon me; I will not

40

50

70

ack :
Iam too high-born to be propertied,
To be a secondary at control,
Or useful serving-man, and instrument,
To ny sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars
Between this chastis’d kingdom and myself,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire ;
And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest to this land,
Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart;
And come ye now to tell me, John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, ‘
After young Arthur, claim this land for mine ;
And, now it is half-conquer’d, must J back,
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I HESS slave? What penny hath Rome

orne,

What men provided, what munition sent,
To underprop this action? Is’t not I
That undergo this charge? who else but I,

_ And such as to my claim are liable,
Sweat in this business, and maintain this war?
Have I not heard these islanders shout out,
Vive le roy ! as I have bank’d their towns?
Have I not here the best cards for the game,
To win this easy match play’d for a crown?
And shall I now give o’er the yielded set?
No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said.

80

90

100

 

Pand. You look but on the outside of this work.
Lew. Outside or inside, I will not return 110
Till my cael so much be glorified,
As to Hes ample hope was promt
Before I drew this gallant head of war,
And culld these fiery spirits from the world,
To outlook conquest, and to win renown
Even in the jaws of danger and of death.—
[Trumpet sounds.
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?

Enter the Bastard, attended.
Bast. According to the fair play of the world,

| Let me have audience: I am sent to speak.—

My holy Lord of Milan, from the king
I come, to learn how you have dealt for him;
And, as you answer, [ do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.
Pand. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,
And will not temporise with my entreaties:
He flatly says, he ll not lay down his arms.
Bast. By all the blood that ever fury breath’d,
The youth says well.—Now, hear our English king ;
For thus his royalty doth speak in me.
He is prepar’d ; and reason too, he should : 130
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness’d masque, and unadvised revel,
This unhair’d sauciness, and boyish troops,
The king doth smile at, and is well prepar’d
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.
That hand, which had the strength, even at your
oor,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch;
To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells ;
To crouch in litter of your stable planks;
To lie like pawns lock’d up in chests and trunks ;
To hug with swine ; to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake,
Even at the crying of your nation’s crow,
Thinking this voice an armed Englishman:
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement ?
No! Know, the gallant monarch is in arms,
And like an eagle o’er his aery towers,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.—
And you Sen enel ite, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, upping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame:
For your own ladies, and pale-visag’d maids,
Like Amazons, come BEDE after drums;
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,
Their neelds to lances, and their gentle hearts
To fierce and bloody inclination.
Lew. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in
peace;
We pare thou canst outscold us: fare thee well; 160
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.
Pand. Give me leave to speak.
Bast. No, I will speak.
Lew. We will attend to neither.—
Strike up the drums! and let the tongue of war
Plead for our interest, and our being here.
Bast. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry

out ;
And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start
An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac’d,
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine ;
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin’s ear,
And mock the deep-mouth’d thunder : for at hand
(Not trusting to this halting legate here,
Whom he hath us’d rather for sport than need)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
Lew. Strike up our drums, to find this danger

out.
Bast. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.
[Exeunt.

140

170

 
 

KING

JOHN. [Act V,

 

Scene III.—The Same. A Field of Battle.

Alarums. Enter King JOHN and HUBERT.

Kx. John. How goes the day with us? O! tell me,
Hubert. :
Hub. Badly, I fear. How fares your majesty?
Kk. John. This tever, that hath troubled me so long,
Lies heavy on me: O! my heart is sick.

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulcon-
bridge,
Desires your majesty to leave the field,
And send him word by me which way you go.
ix. John. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey
there.
Mess. Be of good eomfort; for the great supply,
That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wrack’d three nights ago on Goodwin Sands.
This news was brought to Richard but even now.
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.
K. John. Ah me! this tyrant fever burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.
Set on toward Swinstead ; to my litter straight :
Weakness possesseth me, andIam faint. [Axeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Same. Another Part of the Same.

Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, BiGot, and others.
Sal. I did not think the king so stor’d with friends.
Pem. Up once again; put spirit in the French:
If they miscarry, we miscarry too.
Sal. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,
In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.
Pem. They say, King John, sore sick, hath left the
field.
Enter MELUN wounded, and led by Soldiers.
Mel. Lead me to the revolts of England here.
Sal, When we were happy, we had other names.
Pem., It is the Count Melun.
Sal. Wounded to death.
Mel. Fly, noble English; you are bought and sold;
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, ll
And welcome home again discarded faith.
Seek out. King John, and fall before his fect;
For if the French be lords of this loud day,
He means to recompense the pains you take,
By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at Saint Edmund’s Bury ;
Even on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.
Sal. May this be possible? may this be true?
Mel. Have I not hideous death within my view,
Retaining but a quantity of life,
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure ’gainst the fire?
What in the world should make me now deccive,
Since I must lose the use of all deceit ?
Why should I then be false, since it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth ?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,
He is forsworn, if e’er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the east :
But even this night, whose black contagious breath
Already smokes about the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire,
Paying the fine of rated treachery
Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your king;
The love of him,—and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an, Englishman,—
Awakes my conscience to confess all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumour of the field ;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires.

30

40

Sal. We do believe thee,—and beshrew my so
But I do love the favour and the form oe
Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damned flight ;
And, like a bated and retired flood, »
Leaving our rankness and irregular course,
Stoop low within those bounds we have o’erlook’d
And calmly run on in obedience, ;
Even to our ocean, to our great King John.—
My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence,
For I do see the cruel pangs of death
Right in thine eye.—Away, my friends! New flight :
And happy newness, that intends old right. GL

[Exeunt, leading off MELUN.

 

SCENE V.—The Same. The French Camp.

Enter Lewis and his Train.
Lew. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to

set,
But stay’d, and made the western welkin blush,
When the English measur'd backward their own

ground,
In faint retire. O! bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night,
And wound our tattering colours clearly up,
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!

Enter a Messenger.
AIess. Where is my prince, the Dauphin?
Lew, Here.—What news?
Aless. a Count Melun is slain; the English
ords, 10
By his persuasion, are again fall’n off ;
And your supply, which you have wish’d so long,
Are cast away, and sunk, on Goodwin Sands.
Liw. an foul shrewd news!—Beshrew thy very
eart !
I did not think to be so sad to-night,
As this hath made me.—Who was he that said,
King John did fly an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary Pengers
Aless. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.
Lew. Well; keep good quarter and good care to-
night: 2
The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE VI.—An Open Place in the Neighbourhood
of Swinstead Abbey.

Enter the Bastard and HUBERT, severally.

Hub. eee there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I

shoot.

Bast. A friend.—What art thou?

Hub. Of the part of England.

Bast. Whither dost thou go?

Hub. What’s that to thee? why may not I demand
Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?

Bast. Hubert, I think.

‘ub. Thou hast a perfect thought:
I will, upon all hazards, well belicve
Thou art my friend, that know’st my tongue so well.
Who art thou ?

Bast. Who thou wilt : and, if thou please.
Thou may’st befriend me so much as to think 10
I come one way of the Plantagenets.

Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and endless

night,
Have done me shame :—brave soldier, pardon me,
That any accent breaking from thy tongue
Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
Bast. Come, come; sans compliment, what news

abroad ? F
Hub, Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,

To find you out.
Bast. Brief then ; and what’s the news?

 

 

 
 

Scene VIL]

Hub. O! my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,
Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.

Bast. Show me the very wound of this ill news:
Lam no woman; I'll not swoond at it.

Hub. The king, I fear, is poison’d by a monk:

I left him almost speechless, and broke out

To acquaint you with this evil, that you might

The better arm you to the sudden time,

Than if you had at leisure known of this. ;
Bast. How did he take it? who did taste to him?
Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,

Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king

Yet speaks, and, peradventure, may recover. |
Bast, Whom didst thou leave to tend his majesty ?

30

 

KING JOHN.

 

359

Tub. es know you not? the lords are all come
ack,
And brought Prince Henry in their company ;
At whose request the king hath pardon’d them,
And they are all about his majesty.

| ' en

.
NB

ip
I : ie
ue

tl
ASA

Sal. “ You breathe these dead news in as dead an car.”

Bast. Withhold thine
Heaven,

And tempt us not to bear above our power!

I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,

Passing these flats, are taken by the tide; 40

These Lincoln washes have devoured them:

Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap’d.

Away, before! conduct me to the king ;

I doubt, he will be dead or e’er I come.

indignation, mighty

[Ezeunt.

 
 

360

KING JOHN.

[Act Vv.

 

SceNnrE VII.—The Orchard of Swinstead Abbey.

Enter Prince HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT.
P. Hen. It is too late: the life of all his blood
Is touch’d corruptibly ; and his pure brain
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.

Enter PEMBROKE.

Pem. His highness yet doth speak ; and holds belief,
That being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.

P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here.—
Doth he still rage? [Exit Bicor.

Pem. He is more patient 11
Than when you left him: even now he sung.

P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes
In their continuance will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them, invisible ; and his siege is now
Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds
With many legions of strange fantasies,
Which, in their throng and press to that last hold,
Confound themselves. ’Tis strange that death oe

sing. 2

Iam the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.

Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born
To set a form upon that indigest,
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.

Re-enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King
JOHN in a chair.

K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room ;
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom, 30
That all my bowels crumble up to dust :
Iam a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.

. Hen. How fares your majesty ?

K. John, Poison’d,—ill fare ;--dead, forsook, cast off:
And none of you will bid the winter come,
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw;
Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course
Through my burn’d bosom ; nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips, 40
And comfort me with cold.—I do not ask you much:
I beg cold comfort ; and you are so strait,
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.

P. Hen. O, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!

K. John. The salt in them is hot.
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannise
On unreprievable-condemned blood.

Enter the Bastard.
Bast. O! Tam scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your majesty.
KK. John. O cousin! thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crack’d and burn'd ;
And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:

 

My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered,
And then all this thou seest is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty.

Bast. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward,
Where Heaven he knows how we shall answer him:
For, in a night, the best part of my power, 61
As I upon advantage did remove,

Were in the washes, all unwarily.
Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The K1nc dies,

Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an

ear.—
ae Sy my lord !—But now a king, now thus,

. Hen. Even so must I run on, and even so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a king, and now is clay?

Bast. Art thou gone so? Ido but stay behind, 70
To do the office for thee of revenge,

And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,

As it on earth hath been thy servant still.—

Now, now, you stars, that: move in your right spheres,

Where he your powers? Show now your mended
‘aiths,

And instantly return with me again,

To push destruction, and perpetual shame,

Out of the weak door of our fainting land.

Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought:

The Dauphin rages at our very heels.

Sal. It seems you know not then so much as we.
The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,

Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin,
And brings from him such offers of our peace,
As we with honour and respect may take,

With purpose presently to leave this war.

Bast. He will the rather do it, when he sees
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.

Sal. Nay, it is in a manner done already ;

For many carriages he hath despatch’d

To the sea-side, and pat his cause and quarrel
To the disposing of the cardinal :

With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To consummate this business happily. Z

Bast. Let it be so.—And you, my noble prince,
With other princes that may best be spar‘d,

Shall wait upon your father’s funeral. ;

P. Hen. At Worcester must his body be interr'’d;
For so he willd it.

Bast. Thither shall it then. 100
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land :

To whom, with all submission, on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services
And true subjection everlastingly.
Sal. And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore. A
FP. Hen. I have a kind soul, that would give you
thanks, i
And knows not how to do it, but with tears.

Bast. O! let us pay the time but needful woe, 110
Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.—
This England never did, nor never shall,

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.

But when it first did help to wound itself. |

Now these her princes are come home again,

Come the three corners of the world in arms,

And we shall shock them. Naught shall make usrue,
If England to itself do rest but true. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

KING RICHARD II.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Kinc RICHARD THE SECOND. LORD WILLOUGHBY.

EDMUND OF LANGLEY, Duke of York. LorpD FITZWATER.

JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster. Bishop of Carlisle.

HENRY BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hercford. Abbot of Westminster.

DUKE OF AUMERLE, Son to the Duke of York. Lord Marshal, and another Lord.
Tuomas Mowsray, Duke of Norfolk. Sirk PIERCE oF Exton.

DUKE OF SURREY. SIR STEPHEN SCROOP.

EARL OF SALISBURY. Captain of a Band of Welshmen.
Eek, BERELES: Queen to King Richard.

DUCHESS OF GLOSTER.

pow ( Creatures to King Richard. DucHESS OF YORK.

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND. Lady attending on the Queen.

Henry PERcY, his Son, Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper,
Lorp Ross. Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants.

SCENE —Dispersedly in ENGLAND and WALES.

ACT I.
ScENE I.—London. A Room in the Palace.
4 Enter King RicuarD, attended ; JOHN OF GAUNT, and other Nobles, with him.

 

 

en Richard. kK. Rich. We thank you both: yet one but flatters
LD John_of Gaunt, time-honour'd | us,
Lancaster, As well appeareth by the cause you come:
Hast thou, according to thy oath and | Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.—
f band, Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object
Z%\ Brought hither Henry Hereford thy | Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray ?
= bold son, oling. First, (Heaven be the record to my speech !)
Here to make good the boisterous late | In the devotion of a subject’s love, 31
appeal, Tendering the precious safety of my prince,
Which then our leisure would not let | And free from other misbegotten hate,
us hear, Come I appellant to this princely presence.—
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas | Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,
Mowbray? And mark my greeting well; for what I speak,
Gaunt. I have, my liege. My body shall make good upon this earth,
K. Rich. Tell me, moreover, hast | Or my divine soul answer it in heaven.
thon sounded him, Thou art a traitor, and a miscreant ;
If he appeal the duke on ancient | Too good to be so, and too bad to live ; 40
malice, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,
Or worthily, as a good subject should, 10 | The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.
On some known ground of treachery in him? Once more, the more to aggravate the note,
Gaunt. As near as J could sift him on that argu- | With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat,
ment, And wish, (so please my sovereign) ere I move,
On some apparent danger seen in him, What my tongue speaks, my right-drawn sword may
Aim’d at your highness,—no inveterate malice. prove.
K. Rich. Then call them to our presence: face to face, Nor. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.
And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear ’T is not the trial of a woman’s war,
The accuser, and the accused, freely speak. -- The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,
[Ezxeunt some Attendants. | Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain : 50
High-stomach’d are they both, and full of ire, The blood is hot that must be cool’d for this.
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Yet can I not of such tame patience boast,
‘ As to be hush’d, and nought at all to say.
Re-enter Attendants, with BOLINGBROKE and First, the fair reverence of your highness curbs me
NORFOLK. From giving reins and spurs to my free speech ;
Boling. Many years of happy days befall 20 | Which else would post, until it had return’d
My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege ! These terms of treason doubled down his throat,
Nor. Each day still better other’s happiness ; Setting aside his high blood’s royalty,
Until the heavens, envying earth’s good hap, And let him be no kinsman to my liege,

Add an immortal title to your crown! ' Ido defy him, and I spit at him; 60

 

 
 

362

 

 

KING RICHARD ITI. (Act I.
Call him a slanderous coward, and a villain: But, ere I last receiv'’d the sacrament,
Which to maintain I would allow him odds, I did confess it, and eg begg’d 140
And mect him, were I tied to run afoot Your grace’s pardon, and, I hope, I had it,

Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable,
Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
Meantime, let this defend my loyalty :—
By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie.
Boling. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my
gage,
Disclaiming here the kindred of the king ; 70
And lay aside my high blood’s royalty,
Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except :
If guilty dread have left thee so much strength,
As to take up mine honour’s pawn, then stoop.
By that, and all the rights of knighthood else,
Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,
What I have spoke, or thou canst worse devise.

Nor. I take it up; and by that sword I swear.
Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder,
I’ll answer thee in any fair degree, 80
Or chivalrous design of knightly trial :
And, when I mount, alive may I not light,
If I be traitor, or unjustly fight !

A. Rich. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray’s

charge ?

It must be great, that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him.

Boling. Look, what I said, my life shall prove it

true :—

That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles,
Tn name of lendings for your highness’ soldicrs,
The which he hath detain’d for lewd employments, 90
Like a false traitor, and injurious villain.
Besides, I say, and will in battle prove,
Or here, or elsewhere, to the furthest verge
That ever was survcy'd by English eye,
That all the treasons, for these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land,
Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.
Further [ say, and further will maintain
Upon his bad life to make all this good,
That he did plot the Duke of Gloster’s death,
Suggest his soon-helieving adversaries,
And, consequently, like a traitor coward,

100

Sluic’d out his innocent soul through streams of .

blood :
Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,
Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,
To me for justice and rough chastisement ;
And, by the glorious worth of my descent,
This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.

kK. Rich. How high a pitch his resolution soars !
Thomas of Norfolk, what say’st thou to this?

wor. O! let my sovereign turn away his face,
nd bid his ears a little while be deaf,

Till I have told this slander of his blood,
How God, and good men, hate so foul a liar.

A. Rich. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears:
Were he my brother, nay, our kingdom’s heir,
As he is but my father’s brother's son,

Now by my sceptre’s awe I make a vow,
Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood
Should nothing privilege him, nor partialise
The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.
He is our subject. Mowbray ; so art thou:
Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.

Nor. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,
Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.
Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais,
Disburs‘d I duly to his highness’ soldiers :

The other part reserv’d I by consent :

For that my sovereign liege was in my debt,
Upon remainder of a dear account,

Since last I went to France to fetch his queen.
Now swallow down that lie.—For Gloster’s death,
I slew him not; but to mine own disgrace
Neglected my sworn duty in that case. —

For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,

The honourable father to my foe,

Once did T lay an ambush for your life,

A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul ;

110

120

130

 

This is my fault : as for the rest appeal’d,
It issues from the rancour of a villain,

A recreant and most degenerate traitor ;
Which in myself I boldly will defend,
And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor’s foot,

To prove myself a loyal gentleman

Even in the best blood chamber’d in his bosom.
In haste whereof, most heartily I pray 150
Your highness to assign our trial day.

A. Rich. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul’d by me.
Let’s purge this choler without letting blood.

This we prescribe, though no physician ;

Deep malice makes too deep incision :

Forget, forgive ; conclude, and be eed.
Our doctors say, this is no month to bleed.—
Good uncle, let this end where it begun;

We ‘ll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.

Gaunt. To be a make-peace shall become my age.—
Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk’s gage. 161

A. Rich. And, Norfolk, throw down his.

Gaunt. When, Harry, when?
Obedience bids, I should not bid again.

BK. Hieh Norfolk, throw down, we bid; there is no

oot.

Nor. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.
My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:
The one my duty owes; but my fair name,
Despite of death that lives upon my grave,

To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.
Lam disgrac’d, impeach’d, and baffled here:
Pierc’d to the soul with slander’s venom'd spear;
The which no balm can cure, but his heart-blood
Which breath’d this poison.

Ix. Rich. Rage must be withstood.

Give me his gage :—lions make leopards tame.
ror. Yea, but not change his spots: take but my
shame,
And I resign my gage. My dear. dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away,
Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay.
A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
Mine honour is my life ; both grow in one:
Take honour from me, and my life is done.
Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try ;
In that I live, and for that will I die.
AK. ie Cousin, throw down your gage: do you
egin. y

Boling. O! God defend my soul from such deep sin!
Shall I seem crest-fall’n in my father’s sight?

Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height

Before this outdar'd dastard?_ Ere my tongue

Shall wound mine honour with such feeble wrong,

Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear

The slavish motive of recanting fear,

And pit it bleeding in his high disgrace,

Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray’s face.
Exit GAUNT.

K,. Rich. We were not born to sue, but to command:

Which since we cannot do to make you friends,

Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,

At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.
There shall your swords and lances arbitrate
The swelling difference of your settled hate.
Since we cannot atone you, we shall see
Justice design the victor’s chivalry.—

Lord marshal, command our ofticers-at-arms
Be ready to direct these home-alarms,

170

180

190

200

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—_The Same. A Room in the Duke of
LANCASTER’S Palace.

Enter GAuUNT and Duchess of GLOSTER.

Gaunt. Alas! the part I had in Gloster’s blood
Doth more solicit me than your exclaims,

 

 
 

 

Scene II.]

To stir against the butchers of his life.

But since correction lieth in those hands,
Which made the fault that we cannot correct,
Put we our guarrel to the will of Heaven;

KING RICHARD II.

 

363

| One phial full of Edward’s sacred blood,

One flourishing branch of his most royal root, —
Is crack’d, and all the precious liquor spilt ;
Is hack’d down, and his summer leaves all vaded, 20

 

Nor. “Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.”

Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,
Will rain hot vengeance on offenders’ heads.

Duch. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur 10

Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?
Edward’s seven sons, whereof thyself art one,
Were as seven phials of his sacred blood,

Or seven fair branches springing from one root:
Some of those seven are dried by nature’s course,
Some of those branches by the Destinies cut ;

But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster, —

By envy’s hand, and murder’s bloody axe.
Ah! Gaunt, his blood was thine: that bed, that womb,
That mettle, that self mould, that fashion’d thee,
Made him a man; and though thou liv'st, and
breath’st,
Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent
In some large measure to tay father’s death,
In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,
Who was the model of thy father’s life.
| Call it not patience, Gaunt, it is despair:

 

 
 

361

KING RICHARD II.

[Act I,

 

 

In sutfering thus thy brother to be slaughter’d, 30
Thou show’st the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.
That which in mean men we entitle patience,
Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.
What shall I say? to safeguard thine own life,
The best way is to venge my Gloster’s death. _
Gaunt. God’s is the quarrel ; for God’s substitute,
His deputy anointed in his sight,
Hath caus'd his death ; the which, if wrongfully,
Let Heaven revenge, for I may never lift
An angry arm against his minister.
Duch. Where then, alas! may I complain myself?
Gaunt. To God, the widow's champion and defence.
Duch. Why then, I will.—Farewell, old Gaunt.
Thou go’st to Coventry, there to behold
Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.
OQ! sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford’s spear,
That it may enter butcher Mowbray’s breast.
Or, if misfortune miss the first career,
Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom, 50
That they may break his foaming courser’s back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford.
Farewell, old Gaunt: thy sometimes brother's wife
With her companion grief must end her life.
Gaunt. Sister, farewell: I must to Coventry.
As much good stay with thee, as go with me!
Duch. ve — word more.—Grief boundeth where
it falls.
Not with the empty hollowness, but weight:
I take my leave before I have begun, 60
For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.
Commend me to my brother, Edmund York.
Lo! this is all:—nay, yet depart not so;
Though this be all, do net so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him—O! what ?—
With all good speed at Plashy visit me.
Alack ! and what shall good old York there see,
But empty lodgings and unfurnish’d walls,
Pnneop ed oftices, untrodden stones?
And what hear there for welcome, but my groans? 70
Therefore commend me; let him not come there,
To seek out sorrow that dwells everywhere.
Desolate, desolate will I hence, and die:
The lact leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [Ereunt.

ScENE IIT.—Open Space near Coventry.

Lists set out, and athrone. Heralds, &c., attending.

Enter the Lord Marshal and AUMERLE.
Mar. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm’d?
Aum, Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in.
Mar. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold,
Stays but the summons of the appellant’s trumpet.
Aum. Why then, the champions are prepard, and

stay
For nothing but his majesty’s approach.

Flourish. Enter King RIcHARD, who takes his seat
on his throne; GAUNT, BusHY, BAGOT, GREEN,
and others, who take their places. .A trumpet is
sounded, and answered by another trumpet within.
Then enter NORFOLK, in armour, preceded by a
Herald. ¢
KK. Rich. Marshal, demand of yonder champion

The cause of his arrival here in arms:

Ask him his name, and orderly proceed

To swear him in the justice of his cause. 10
Mar. In God's name, and the king’s, say who thou

art,

And why thou com’st thus knightly clad in arms,

Against what man thou com’st, and what thy quarrel.

Speak truly, on thy knighthood, and thine oath ;

And so defend thee Heaven and thy valour!

Nor. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of

Norfolk:

Who hither come engaged by my oath,

(Which God defend a knight should violate !)

 

Both to defend my loyalty and truth

To God, my king, and his succeeding issue, 20
Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;

And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,

To prove him, in defending of myself,

A traitor to my God, my king, and me:

And, as I truly fight, defend me Heaven!

Trumpet sounds. Enter BOLINGBROKE, in armour,
, preceded by a Herald.
K. Rich. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,
Both who he is, and why he cui tir bitues
Thus plated in habiliments of war;
And formally, according to our law,

Depose him in the justice of his cause. 30
Mar. a is thy name, and wherefore com’st thou
ither,

Before King Richard in his royal lists?
Against whom comest thou? and what’s thy quarrel?
Speak like a true knight, so defend thee Heaven!

Boling. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Am 1; who ready here do stand in arms,
To prove by God’s grace, and my body’s valour,
In lists, on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
That he’s a traitor, foul and dangerous,
To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me: 10
And, as I truly fight, defend me Heaven!

Mar, On pain of death no person be so bold,
Or daring-hardy, as to touch the lists,
Except the marshal, and such officers
epee ee to direct these fair designs.

‘oling. Lord marshal, let me kiss my sovereign’s

and,
And bow my knee before his majesty :
For Mowbray and myself are like two men
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage ;
Then let us take a ceremonious leave, 50
And loving farewell of our several friends.
Mar. The ee in all duty greets your highness,
And craves to kiss your hand, and take his leave.
K. Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our arms.
Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,
So be thy fortune in this royal fight.
Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,
Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.
Boling. O! let no noble eye profane a tear
For me, if I be gor’d with Mowbray’s spear. 60
As confident as is the falcon’s flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.—
My loving lord, I take my leave of you ;
Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle ;—
Not sick, although I have to do with death,
But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.
Lo! as at English feasts, so I regreet
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet:
O thou, the earthly author of my blood,—
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, 70
Doth with a two-fold vigour lift me up
To reach at victory above my head,
Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,
And with thy blessings steel my lance’s point,
That it may enter Mowbray’s waxen coat,
And furbish new the name of John of Gaunt,
Even in the lusty haviour of his son.
Gaunt. Godin thy good cause make thee prosperous!
Be swift like lightning in the execution ;
And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, 80
Fall like amazing thunder on the casque
Of thy adverse pernicious enemy: | ;
Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.
Boling. Mine innocence, and Saint George to
thrive!
Nor. However God, or fortune, cast my lot,
There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,
A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.
Never did captive with a freer heart
Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace
His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement, 90
More than my dancing soul doth celebrate
This feast of battle with mine adversary.—
Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,
Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.

 

 
 

 

Scene III.)

KING RICHARD II.

 

As gentle and as jocund, as to jest,
Go Lto fight. Truth hath a quiet breast.
K. Rich. Farewell, my lord: securely I espy
Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. --
Order the trial, marshal, and begin.
Mar. Harry of Heretord, Lancaster, and Derby, 100
Receive thy lance ; and God defend the right!
Boling. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry, Amen.
Mar. [To an Offcer.] Go bear this lance to Thomas,
Duke of Norfolk.
1 Her. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, ‘
On pain to be found false and recreant,
To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,
A traitor to his God, his king, and him;
And dares him to set forward to the fight.
2 Her. Here standeth Thomas
Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
On pain to be found false and
recreant, lil
Both to defend himself, and to
: auproys
Henry os ereford, Lancaster, and
erby,
To God, his sovereign, and to him,
7 disloyal ; :
Courageously, and with «a free

esire,
Attending but the signal to begin.
Mar. Sound, trumpets; and set
forward, combatants.
(4 charge sounded.
Stay, the king hath thrown his
warder down. .
K. Rich. Let them lay by their
helmets and their spears,
And both return back to their chairs
again. — 120
Withdraw with us; and let the
trumpets sound,
While we return these dukes what
we decree. —
[4 long flourish.
Draw neaz,
And list, what with our council we have done.
For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soil'd
With that dear blood which it hath fostered ;
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect %
Of civil wounds podem, up with neighbours’ swords;
And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, 130
With rival-hating envy, set on you
To wake our peace, which in our country’s cradle
Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;
Which so rous’d up with boisterous untun’d drums,
With harsh resounding trumpets’ dreadful bray,
And grating shock.of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace,
And make us wade even in our kindred's blood:
Therefore, we banish you our territories :—-
You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,
Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our fair dominions,
But tread the stranger paths of banishment.
Heleng., Sour willbe done. This must my comfort

140

ie:
That sun that warms you here shall shine on me;
and those his golden beams, to you here lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my banishment.
Rich. Norfolk, tor thee remains a heavier

doom,
Which I with some unwillingness pronounce :
The sly slow hours shall not determinate
The dateless limit of thy dear exile.
The hopeless word of —never to return,
Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. | ;
Nor. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,
And all unlook'd for from your highness’ mouth.
dearer merit, not so deep a main
As to be cast forth in the common air,
Have I deserved at your highness’ hands.
The language I have learn’d these forty years,

150

 

My native English, now I must forego ;

And now my tongue’s use is to me no more

Than an unstringed viol, or a harp ;

Or like a cunning instrument cas’d up,

Or, being open, put into his hands

That knows no touch to tune the harmony.

Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue,

Doubly portcullis'd, with my teeth and lips ;

And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance

Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

Iam too old to fawn upon a nurse, 170

Too far in years to be a pupil now ;

What is thy sentence then but speechless death,

Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath ?
K. Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate :

After our sentence plaining comes too late.

   

Nor. “ But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know.”

Nor. Then thus I turn me from my country’s light,
To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [Retrring.
K. Rich. Return again, and take an oath with thee.
Lay on our royal sword your ba ish’d hands;
Swear by the duty that ye owe to God, 180
(Our part therein we banish with yourselves)
To keep the oath that we administer :—
You never shall (so help you truth and God !)
Embrace each other's love in banishment ;
Nor never look upon each other's face :
Nor never write regreet, nor reconcile
This lowering tempest of your home-bred hate ;
Nor never by advised purpose meet,
To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,
’Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.
Boling. I swear.
Nor. And I, to keep all this.
Boling. Norfolk, so far, as to mine enemy ;
By this time, had the king permitted us,
One of our souls had wander’d in the air,
Banish’d this frail sepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish’d from this land :
Confess thy treasons, ere thou fly the realm ;
Since thou hast far to go, bear not along
The clogging burden of a guilty soul.
Nor. No, Bolingbroke ; if ever I were traitor,
My name be blotted from the book of life,
And I from heaven banish’d, as from hence.
But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. —
Farewell, my liege.—Now no way can I stray:
Save back to England, all the world’s my way. [Ezit.
K. Rich. Uncle, even in the glasses of tine eyes
Isee thy grieved heart : thy sad aspect
Hath from the number of his banish’d years 210
Pluck’d four away.—[Zo BOLINGBROKE.] Six frozen
winters spent,
Return with welcome home from banishment.

190

200

 

 
 

366

KING RICHARD II.

[Act I,

 

Boling. How long a time lies in one little word !
Four lagging winters and four wanton springs
End in a word: such is the breath of kings.

Gaunt. I thank my liege, that in regard of me
He shortens four years of my son’s exile ;

But little vantage shall I reap thereby :

For, ere the six years that he hath to spend,

Can change their moons, and bring their times about,
My oil-dried lamp, and time-bewasted light, 221
Shall be extinct with age and endless night ;

My inch of taper will be burnt and done,

And blindfold death not let me see my son. :

AK. Rich. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.

Gaunt. But not a minute, king, that thou canst

give:
Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow,
And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow ;
Thou canst help Time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage ;
Thy word is current with him for my death ;
But, dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.

K. Rich. Thy son is banish’d upon good advice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.

Why at our justice seem’st thou then to lower? ’

Gaunt. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion

sour.
You urg’d me as a judge; but I had rather,
You would have bid me argue like a father.
O! had it been a stranger, not my child, :
To smooth his fault [should have been more mild. 240
A partial slander sought I to avoid,
And in the sentence my own life destroy’d.
Alas ! I look’d when some of you should say,
I was too strict, to make mine own away ;
But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue,
Against my will, to do myself this wrong.

AK. Rich. Cousin, farewell ;—and, uncle, bid him so ;
Six years we banish him, and he shall go.

[Flourish. Exreunt King Richarp and Train.

«lum. Cousin, farewell: what presence must not

know,
From where you do remain, let paper show. 230

Mar. My lord, no leave take I; for I will ride,

As far as land will let me, by your side.
Gaunt. O! to what purpose dost thou hoard thy
words,
That thou return’st no greeting to thy friends?

Boling. I have too few to take my leave of you,
When the tongue’s office should be prodigal
To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.

Gaunt. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.

Boling. Joy absent, grief is present for that time.

Gaunt. What is six winters? they are quickly gone.

ae men in joy; but grief makes one hour

en. 261

Gaunt. Callita travel, that thou tak’st for pleasure.

Boling. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,
Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.

Gaunt. The sullen passage of thy weary steps
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set
The precious jewel of thy home-return.

Boling. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make
Will but remember me, what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love. 270
Must I not serve a long apprenticehood
To foreign passages, and in the end,

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else
But that I was a journeyman to grief ?

Gaunt. All places that the eye of Heaven visits,
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;

There is no virtue like necessity.

Think not, the king did banish thee,

But thou the king. Woe doth the heavier sit,
Where it perceives it is but faintly borne.

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not the king exil’d thee; or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,

And thou art flying to a fresher clime.

Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go’st, not whence thou com’st.
Suppose the singing birds musicians,

99,
pay)

280

 

The grass whereon thou tread’st the presence strew’d,

The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more 290

Than a delightful measure, or a dance;

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite

The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
Boling. O! who can hold a fire in his hand

By thinking on the frosty Caucasus ?

Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite

By bare imagination of a feast ?

Or wallow naked in December snow

By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat ?

O! no: the apprehension of the good

Gives but the greater feeling to the worse :

Fell sorrow’s tooth doth never rankle more,

Than when it bites, but lanceth not the sore.

300

 

(annt, “Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.”

Gaunt. Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy

way.

Had I thy youth and cause, I would not stay.
Boling. Then, England’s ground, farewell; sweet

soil, adieu:

My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!

Where’er I wander, boast of this I can,

Though banish’d, yet a true-born Englishman.

[Exeunt.

SceNnEIV.—The Same. A Room in the King’s Castle.

Enter King RICHARD, BaGoT, and GREEN, at one
door ; AUMERLE at another.

K. Rich. We did observe.—Cousin Aumerle, .
How far brought you high Hereford on his way?

Aum. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,
But to the next highway, and there I left him.

KK. Rich ‘i at say, what store of parting tears were

she
Aum. Faith, none for me; except the north-east

wind, :
| Which then blew bitterly against our faces,

 

‘

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING RICHARD II.

367

 

Awak’d the sleeping rheum, and so by chance
Did grace our hollow ponsing with a tear.
K. Rich. What said our cousin, when you parted
with him ? 10
Aum. Farewell:
And, for my heart disdained that my tongue
Should so profane the word, that taught me craft
To counterfeit oppression of such grief,
That words scem'd buried in my sorrow’s grave.
Marry, vee the word “farewell” have lengthen’d
ours,
And added years to his short banishment,
He should have had a volume of farewells ;
But, since it would not, he had none of me.

K. Rich. He is our cousin, cousin ; but ’tisdoubt, 20
When time shall call him home from banishment,
Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.
Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,

Observ'd his courtship to the common people,

How he did seem to dive into their hearts,

With humble and familiar courtesy ;

What reverence he did throw away on slaves,

Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles,

And patient underbearing of his fortune,

As’t were to banish their affects with him. 30

Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench ;

A brace of draymen bid—God speed him well,

And had the tribute of his supple knee,

With — “Thanks, my countrymen,
friends ;”—_

As were our England in reversion his,

And he our subjects’ next degree in hope.

my loving

 

Green. Well, he is gone; and with him go these
thoughts.

Now for the rebels, which stand out in Ireland ;—
Expedient manage must be made, my liege,
Ere further Icisure yield them further means, 46
For their advantage, and your highness’ loss.

K. Rich. We will ourself in person to this war.
And, tor our coffers with too great a court
And liberal largess are grown somewhat light,
Weare enfore’d to farm our royal realm,
The revenue whereof shall furnish us
For our affairs in hand. If that come short,
Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters ;
Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,
They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold, 50
And send them after to supply our wants ;
For we will make for Ireland presently.

Enter Busuy.

Bushy, what news ?
Bushy. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my

ord,
Suddenly taken, and hath sent post-haste,
To entreat your majesty to visit him.

A. Rich. Where lies he?

Bushy. At Ely House.

K. Rich. Now put it, God, in his physician’s mind,
To help him to his grave immediately ! 60
The lining of his coffers shall make coats
To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.—

Come, gentlemen, let’s all go to visit him :

: Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late!

[EHeeunt.

 

 

 

     
 
 
  
  
 

LE _.. Gaunt.
<——— ILL the king come, that I
AN may breathe my last
In wholesome counsel to his
unstaid youth?
York. Vex not yourself, nor strive
_not with yeur breath ;
For all in vain comes counsel to his

ear.
Gaunt. O! but they say, the tongues
\ of dying men
\. Enforce attention like deep harmony.
Where words are scarce, they are
seldom spent in vain,
For they breathe truth that breathe
their words in pain
He that no more must say is listen’d more,
Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;
More are men’s ends mark’d than their lives before. 11
The setting sun, and music at the close,
As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,
Writ in remembrance more than things long pest:
Though Richard my life’s counsel would not hear,
My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.
ork, No; it is stopp’d with other flattering sounds,
As praises of his state: then there are fond
ascivious metres, to whose venom sound
‘he open ear of youth doth always listen : 20
Report of fashions in proud Italy,

 

 

ACT II.
ScENE J.—London. An Apartment in Ely House.
GAUNT on a couch ; the Duke of Yor«K and others standing by him.

Whose manners still our tardy apish nation
Limps after in base imitation.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity,
So it be new, there’s no respect how vile,
That is not quickly buzz’d into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard,
Where will doth mutiny with wit’s regard.
Direct not him whose way himself will choose:
Tis brea thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou
ose.
Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new inspir’d, _
And thus, expiring, do foretell of him.
His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,
For violent fires soon burn out themselves ;
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes ;
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, 40
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress, built by Nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war ;
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands ;

 

 
 

 

368

KING RICHARD II.

[Act IL

 

 

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This uurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, dl
Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,
Renowned for their deeds as far from home

(For Christian service and true chivalry),

As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry

Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son :

This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,

Is now leas’d out, I die pronouncing it,

Like to a tenement, or pling farm. 60
England, bound 1n with the triumphant sea,

Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege

Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots, and rotten parchment bonds :

That England, that was wont to conquer others,
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

Ah! would the scandal vanish with my life,

How happy then were my ensuing death !

Enter King RICHARD and QUEEN ; AUMERLE,
BusHy, GREEN, BaGcot, Ross, and WILLOUGHBY.
York. The king is come: deal mildly with his youth;
For young hot colts, being rag’d, do rage the more. 70
ween. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster ?
Kk. Rich. What comfort, man? how is’t with aged
Gaunt ?
Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composition !
Old Gaunt, indeed ; and gaunt in being old.
Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast ;
And who abstains from meat, that is not gaunt ?
For sleeping England long time have I watch’'d ;
Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all gaunt.
The pleasure that some fathers feed upon
Is my strict fast, | mean my children’s looks; 80
And therein fasting hast thou made me gaunt.
Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,
Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.
4. Rich. Can sick men play so nicely with their
names ?
Gaunt. No; misery makes sport to mock itself.
Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,
I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.
A. anche Should dying men flatter with those that
ive
Gaunt. No, no; men living flatter those that die.
&. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say'st, thou flatter’st
me. 90
Gaunt. O! no; thou diest, though I the sicker be.
4x. Rich. Tam in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.
Gaunt. Now, He that made me knows I see thee ill;
Tl in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.
Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land,
Wherein thou liest in reputation sick :
«nd thou, too careless patient as thou art,
Committ’st thy anointed body to the cure
Of those physicians that first wounded thee.
A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,
Whose compass is no bigger than thy head ;
And yet, incaged in so small a verge,
The waste is no whit lesser than thy land,
O! had thy grandsire, with a prophet’s eye,
Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons,
From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,
Deposing thee before thou wert possess‘d,
Which art possess’d now to depose thyself.
Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,
It were a shame to let this land by lease ;
But, for thy world, enjoying but this land,
Is it not more than shame to shame it so?
Landlord of England art thou now, not king:
ae x state of law is bondslave to the law,
nd—
ix, Rich. And thou a lunatic lean-witted fool,
Presuming on an ague’s privilege,
Dar’st with thy frozen admonition
Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood
With fury from his native residence.
Now, by my seat’s right royal majesty,
Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son,
This tongue, that runs so roundly in thy head,
Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.

100

110

 

Gaunt. O! spare me not, my brother Edward’s son,
For that I was his father Edward’s son.
That blood already, like the pelican,
Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous’d.
My brother Gloster, plain well-meaning soul,
(Whom fair befall in heaven ’mongst happy souls!) 130
May be a precedent and witness good,
That thou respect’st not spilling Edward’s blood.
Join with the present sickness that I have,
And thy unkindness be like crooked age,
To crop at once a too-long withered flower.
Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee:
These words hereafter thy tormentors be !—
vonyey me to my bed, then to my grave:
Love they to live, that love and honour have.
; [Exit, borne out by his Attendants,

k. Rich. And let them die, that age and sullens

have ; 140
For both hast thou, and both become the grave.

York. I do beseech your majesty, impute his words

To wayward sickliness and age in him:
He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear
As Harry, Duke of Hereford, were he here.
&. Rich. Right, you say true: as Hereford’s love,
so his;
As theirs so mine; and all be as it is,
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

North. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your

majesty.

Kk. Rich. What says he?

North. Nay, nothing; all is said.
His tongue is now a stringless instrument ; 150
Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.

York. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!
Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

K. Rich. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he:
His time is spent; our pilgrimage must be.

So much for that.—Now for our Irish wars.

We must suppose those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom, where no venom else,
But only they, hath privilege to live.

And for these great affairs do ask some charge,
Towards our assistance we do seize to us

The plate, coin, revenues, and movables,
Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess’d.

York. How long shall I be patient? Ah! how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?

Not Gloster’s death, nor Hereford’s banishment,
Not Gaunt’s rebukes, nor England’s private wrongs,
Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke

About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,
Have ever made me sour my patient cheek,

Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign’s face.
Iam the last of noble Edward’s sons,

Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first ;
In war was never lion rag’d more fierce,

In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,
Than was that young and princely gentleman,
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,
Accomplish’d with the number of thy hours ;
But. when he frown'd, it was against the French,
And not against his friends: his noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that
Which his triumphant father’s hand had won:
His hands were guilty of no kindred blood,

But bloody with the enemies of his kin. _

O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,

Or else he never would compare between.

K. Rich. Why, uncle, what’s the matter? fe

York. O my liege,
Pardon me, if you please ; if not, I, pleas’d
Not to be pardon’d, am content withal.

Seek you to seize, and gripe into your hands,
The royalties and rights cf banish'd Hereford?

Is not Gaunt dead, and doth not Hereford live?
Was not Gaunt just, and is not. Harry true?

Did not the one deserve to have an heir?

Is not his heir a well-deserving son ? x
Take Hereford’s rights away, and take from time
His charters and his customary rights;

Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day ;

160

170

190

 

 
 

 

Scene II.) KING

RICHARD I.

369

 

Be not thyself ; for how art thou a king,
But by fair sequence and succession ? 200
Now, afore God, (God forbid, I say true !)
If you do wrongfully seize Hereford’s rights,
Call in the letters-patents that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue
is livery, and deny his offer’d homage,
You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,
You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,
And prick my tender patience to those thoughts,
Which honour and allegiance cannot think.
K. Rich. Thtnk what you will: we seize into a
1

hands
His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.
York. I’ll not be by the while. My liege, farewell :
What will ensue hereof, there’s none can tell ;
But by bad courses may be understood,

That their events can never fall out good. [Exit.
K. Rich. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight:

Bid him repair to us to Ely House,

To see this business. To-morrow next

We will for Ireland ; and ’tis time, I trow:

And we create, in absence of ourself, 220

Our uncle York lord governor of England,
For he is just, and always lov’d us well.—
Come on, our queen: to-morrow must we part;
Be merry, for our time of stay is short. ,
ourish. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY,
AUMERLE, GREEN, and Bacot.
North. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.
Ross. And living too; for now his son is duke.
Willo. Barely in title, not in revenue.
North. Richly in both, if justice had her right.
Ross. My heart is great; but it must break with
silence,
Ere 't be disburden’d with a liberal tongue. 230
North. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er
speak more,
That speaks thy words again to do thee harm !
Willo. Tends that thou’dst speak to the Duke of
Hereford ?
If it be so, out with it boldly, man;
Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.
Ross. No good at all that I can do for him,
Unless you call it good to pity him,
Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
North. Now, afore God, ’tis shame such wrongs
are borne
In him, a royal prince, and many more 240
Of noble blood in this declining land.
The king is not himself, but basely led
By flatterers ; and what they will inform,
erely in hate, ’gainst any of us all,
That will the king agen rosecute
’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.
Ross. The commons hath he pill’d with grievous

. , taxes,
And ale oe their hearts: the nobles hath he
n

For ancient ae, and quite lost their hearts.
Willo. An daily new exactions are devis’d ;

As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what:

But what, o’ God’s name, doth become of this?
North. Wars hath not wasted it, for warr’d he

hath not,

But basely yielded upon compromise

That which his ancestors achiev'd with blows.

More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.
Ross. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.
Willo. The king’s grown bankrupt, like a broken

250

man.
North. eeraen and dissolution hangeth over
im.

Ross. He hath not money for these Irish wars, 260
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,
But by the robbing of the banish’d duke.

North. His noble kinsman: most degenerate king!
But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,
Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm ;
We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,
And yet we strike not, but securely perish.

Ross. We see the very wrack that we must suffer ;

 

And unavoided is the danger now,
For suffering so the causes of our wrack. 270
North. qe? even through the hollow eyes of
eath,
I spy life peering ; but I dare not say
How near the tidings of our comfort is.
Willo. Nay, let us share thy thoughts, as thou dost

ours.
Foss. Be confident to speak, Northumberland :

We three are but thyself ; and, speaking so,

Thy words are but as thoughts: therefore, be bold.
North. Ht thus :—I have from Port le Blanc, a

2)

In Brittany, receiv’d intelligence,

That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,

That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, 281

His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,

Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,

Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis

Quoint,

All these well furnish’d by the Duke of Bretagne,
With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,
Are making hither with all due expedience,
And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.
Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay
The first departing of the king for Ireland.
If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,
Imp out our drooping country’s broken wing,
Redeem from broking pawn the blemish’d crown,
Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre’s gilt,
And make high majesty look like itself,
Away with me in post to Ravenspurg ;
But if you faint, as fearing to do so,
Stay and be secret, and myself will go.

Ross. To horse, to horse! urge doubts to them that

fear.
Willo. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.
[Ezeunt.

290

ScENE JI.—The Same. An Apartmeni in the Palace.

Enter QUEEN, BusHy, and BaGot.
Bushy. Madam, your majesty is too much sad:
You promis’d, when you parted with the king,
To lay aside life-harming heaviness,
And entertain a cheerful disposition.
Queen. To please the king, I did; to please myself,
I cannot do it; yet I know no-cause
Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,
Save bidding farcwell to so sweet a guest
As my sweet Richard. Yet, again, methinks,
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune’s womb, 10
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles : at something it grieves
More than with parting from my lord the king.
Bushy. Each substance of a grief hath twenty
shadows,
Which show like grief itself, but are not so.
For sorrow’s eye, glazed with blinding tears,
Divides one thing entire to many objects ;
Like perspectives, which, rightly gaz’d upon,
Show nothing but confusion ; ey'd awry,
Distinguish form : so your sweet majesty, 20
Looking awry upon your lord’s departure,
Finds shapes of grief more than himself to wail ;
Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows
Of what itis not. Then, thrice-gracious queen,
More than your lord’s departure weep not: more’s
not seen ;
Or if it be, tis with false sorrow’s eye,
Which for things true weeps things imaginary.
Queen. It may be so; but yet my inward soul
Persuades me, it is otherwise: howe’er it be,
I cannot but be sad, so heavy sad, 30
As—though, in thinking, on no thought I think—
Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.
Bushy. ’Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.
Queen. ’Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv’d
From some forefather grief; mine is not so,
For nothing hath begot my something grief;
Or something hath the nothing that I grieve:

 

24

 
 

KING RICHARD II.

[Act IL

 

*T is in reversion that I do possess ;
But what it is, that is not yet known; what
I cannot name: ’t is nameless woe, I wot. 40

Enter GREEN.

Green. God save your majesty!—and well met,
gentlemen.—
I hope, the king is not yet shipp'd for Ireland. :
Queen. Why hop’st thou so? 'tis better hope he is,
For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope :
Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp’'d?
Green. That he, our hope, might have retir’d his
power, ?
And driven into despair an enemy's hope,
Who strongly hath set footing in this land.
The banish’d Bolingbroke repeals himself,
And with uplifted arms is safe arriv’d 50
At Ravenspurg. k
Queen. Now, God in heaven forbid ! F
Green. Ah! madam, ‘tis too true: and that is

worse,
The Lord Northumberland, his son, young Henry

Percy,
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,
With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.
Bush ey WF have you not proclaim’d Northumber-

an

And the rest of the revolted faction traitors?

Green. We have : whereuponthe Earl of Worcester
Hath broke his staff, resign’d his stewardship,
And all the household servants fled with him 60
To Bolingbroke.

Queen. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,
And Bolingbroke my sorrow’s dismal heir :
Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy,
And I, a gasping new-deliver’d mother,
Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join’d.

Bushy. Despair not, madam.

Queen. Who shall hinder me?
i will despair, and be at enmity
With cozening hope: he is a flatterer,
A parasite, a keeper-back of death, 70
Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,
Which false hope lingers in extremity.

Enter YORK.

Green. Here comes the Duke of York.

Queen. With signs of war about his aged neck.
O! full of careful business are his looks. —
Uncle, for God’s sake, speak comfortable words.

York. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts:
Comfort’s in heaven ; and we are on the earth,
Where nothing lives but crosses, care, and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off, 80
Whilst others come to make him lose at home:
Here am I left to underprop his land,

0, weak with age, cannot support myself.

Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;
Now shall he try his friends that flatter’d him.

Enter a Servant.
Serv. My lord, your son was gone before I came.
York, He od t-Why, so.—Go all which way it
will !—

The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold,
And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford’s side.—
Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloster; 90
Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.
Hold ; take my Hine.

Serv. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship :
To-day, as I came by, I called there;
But I shall grieve you to report the rest.

York. What is’t, knave?

Serv. An hour before I came, the duchess died.

York. God for his mercy ! what a tide of woes
Comes rushing on this woful land at once !
I know not what te do:—I would to God,
(So my untruth had not provok’d him to it)
The king had cut off my head with my brother’s.—
What! are there no posts despatch’d for Ireland ?—
How shall we do for money for these wars ?—
Come, sister,—cousin, I would say: pray, pardon me.—

100

 

[To the Servant.] Go, fellow, get thee home 3 provide
_ some carts,
And. bring away the armour that is there.—
: Exit S
Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I ioe ath

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Queen. “ Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words."

How, or which way, to order these affairs,
Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, 110
Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen:
The one is my sovereign, whom both my oath
And duty bids defend ; the other again
Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong’d,
Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.
Well, somewhat we must do.—Come, cousin,
I'll dispose of you.—Gentlemen, go muster up your
men,
And meet me presently at Berkley Castle.
I should to Plashy too,
But time will not permit.—All is uneven, 120
And everything is left at six and seven.
[Exeunt YorK and QUEEN.
Bushy. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland,
But none returns. For us to levy power,
Proportionable to the enemy,
Is all unpossible.
Green. Besides, our nearness to the king in love
Is near the hate of those love not the king. ¥
Bagot. jand that’s the wavering commons; for their
love
Lies in their purses, and whoso empties them,
By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. 130
‘Bushy. Wherein the king stands generally con-
demn‘d.
Bagot. If judgment lie in them, then so do we,
Because we ever have been near the king. 2
Green. Well, I'll for refuge straight to Bristol
Castle ;
The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.
Bushy. Thither will I with you; for little office
Will the hateful commons perform for us,
Except like curs to tear us all to pieces.—
Will you go along with us?

 
 

 

 

Scene IIT.]

KING RICHARD II.

371

 

Bagot. No; I will to Ireland to his majesty. 140
Farewell: if heart’s presages be not vain,
We three here part, that ne’er shall meet again.
Bushy. roe sas York thrives to beat back Boling-
roke.
Green. Alas, poor duke! the task he undertakes
Is numbering sands, and drinking oceans dry :
Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.
Farewell at once ; for once, for all, and ever.
Bushy. Well, we may meet again.

Bagot. I fear me, never. [Hxeuni.

ScENE III.—The Wilds in Glostershire.

Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, with
Forces.
Boling. How far is it, my lord, to Berkley now?
North. Believe me, noble lord,
Iam a stranger here in Glostershire.
These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome ;
‘And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
But, I bethink me, what a weary way
From Ravenspurg to Cotswold will be found

.. In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company; 10

Which, I protest, hath very much beguil’d
The tediousness and process of my travel :
But theirs is sweeten’d with the hope to have
The present benefit which I possess ;
And hope to joy is little less in joy
Than hope enjoy’d: by this the weary lords
Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done
By sight of what I have, your noble company.
Boling. Of much less value is my company,
Than your good words. But who comes here? 20

Enter Harry PERCY.

North. It is my son, young Harry Percy,
Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.—
Harry, how fares your uncle?

Percy. I had thought, my lord, to have learn’d his

health of you.
North. Why, is he not with the queen ?
Percy. No, my good lord: he hath forsook the

court,
Broken his staff of office, and dispers’d
The household of the king.
North. What was his reason ?
He was not so resolv’d, when last we spake together.
Percy. Because your lordship was proclaimed
traitor. 30
But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurg,
To offer service to the Duke of Hereford,
And sent me over by Berkley, to discover
What power the Duke of York had levied there ;
Then with direction to repair to Havenspary.
North. Ree a you forgot the Duke of Hereford,
oy
Percy. No, my good lord ; for that is not forgot
Which ne’er I did remember : to my knowledge,
Inever in my life did look on him.
North. Then learn to know him now: this is the
duke. 40
Percy. My gracious lord, I tender you my service,
Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young,
Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm
To more an ore service and desert.
Boling. I thank thee, gentle Percy ; and be sure,
I count myself in nothing else so happy,
As in a soul remembering my good friends ;
And as my fortune ripens with thy love,
It shall be still thy true love’s recompense :
heart this covenant makes, my hand thus ones

it.
North. How far is it to Berkley? and what stir
Keeps good old York there, with his men of war?
Percy. There stands the castle, by yond tuft of

trees,
Mann’d with three hundred men, as I have heard ;

 

And in it are the Lords of York, Berkley, and Sey-
mour ;
None else of name and noble estimate.

Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY.

North. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,
Bloody with spurrine, fiery-red with haste.

Boling. Welcome, my lords. I wot, your love
ursues
A banish’d traitor: all my treasury 60

Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich’d,
Shall be your love and labour’s recompense.
Ross. four presence makes us rich, most noble
ord.
Willo. And far surmounts our labour to attain it.
Boling. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the

oor ;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,
Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?

Enter BERKLEY.
North. It is my Lord of Berkley, as I guess. 70
Berk. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.
Boling. My lord, my answer is to Lancaster,
And I am come to seek that name in England ;
And I must find that title in your tongue,
Before I make reply to aught you oe
Berk. Mistake me not, my lord: ’tis not my
meaning
To raze one title of your honour out.
To you, my lord, I come, (what lord you will,)
From the most gracious regent of this land,
The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on
To take advantage of the absent time,
And fright our native peace with self-borne arms. 80

Enter York«, attended.

Boling. Ishall not need transport my words by you:
Here comes his grace in person.—My noble uncle! ,

[Kneels.

York. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy

nee,
Whose duty is deceivable and false.

Boling. My gracious uncle—

York. Tut, tut!
Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle:
Iam no traitor’s uncle; and that word ‘‘ grace,”
In an ungracious mouth, is but profane.
Why have those banish’d and forbidden legs 90
Dar’d once to touch a dust of England’s ground ?
But then more why,—why have they dar'd te march
So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,
Frighting her pale-fac’d villages with war,
And ostentation of despised arms ?
Com'st thou because the anointed king is hence?
wee foolish boy, the king is left behind,
And in my loyal bosom lies his power.
Were I but now the lord of such hot youth,
As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself, 100
Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,
From forth the ranks of many thousand French,
O! then, how quickly should this arm of mine,
Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise thee,
And minister correction to thy fault !

Boling. My gracious uncle, let me know my fault:
On what condition stands it, and wherein ?

York. Even in condition of the worst degree ;
In gross rebellion, and detested treason :
Thou art a banish’d man, and here art come
Before the expiration of thy time,
In braving arms against thy sovereign.

Boling. As Iwas banish’d, I was banish’d Hereford ;
But as I come, I come for Lancaster.
And, noble uncle, I beseech your grace,
Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye:
You are my father, for, methinks, in you
I see old Gaunt alive: O! then, my father,
Will you permit that I shall stand condemn’d
A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties
Pluck’d from my arms perforce, and given away
To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?
If that my cousin king be King of England,

.

110

120

 

 
 

372 KING

It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble kinsman ;
Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,
He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father,
To rouse his wrongs, and chase them to the bay.
Iam denied to sue my livery here,
And yet my letters-patents give me leave:
My father's goods are all distrain’d and sold ;
And these, and all, are all amiss employ’d.
What would you have me do? Iam a subject,
And challenge law. Attorneys are denied me,
«nd therefore personally I lay my claim
To my inheritance of free descent.
North. The noble duke hath been too much abused.
Ross. It stands your grace upon, to do him right.
Willo. Base men by his endowments are made

great.
York. My lords of England, let me tell you this : 0
I have had feeling of my cousin’s wrongs,
And labour’d all [ could to do him right ;
But in this kind to come, in braving arms,
Be his own carver, and cut out his way,
To find out right with wrong, —it may not be;
And you, that do abet him in this kind,
Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.
North. The noble duke hath sworn, his coming is
But for his own; and for the right of that,
We all have strongly sworn to give him aid; 150
And let him ne’er see joy that breaks that oath!
| York. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms :
I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,
Because my power is weak, and all ill left ;
But if I could, by Him that gave me life,
I would attach you all, and make you stoop
Unto the sovereign mercy of the king;
But, since I cannot, be it known to you,
I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;
Unless you please to enter in the castle,
And there repose you for this night.
Boling. An offer, uncle, that we will accept.
But we must win your grace to go with us

160

RICHARD II.

130

 

; And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.

[Acr TIL,

To Bristol Castle ; which, they say, is held
By Buchy, Bagot, and their complices,
The caterpillars of the commonwealth,
Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
York. It may be, I will go with you;—but yet I

yale.
For I am loath to break our country’s laws.

Nor friends, nor foes, to me welcome you are: 170
Things past redress are now with me past care.
[Exeunt.

 

ScrenEe IV.—A Camp in Wales.

Enter SALISBURY and a Captain.
Cap. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay’d ten

ays,
And hardly kept our countrymen together,
And yet we hear no tidings from the king;
Therefore, we will disperse ourselves: farewell.

Sal. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman:
The king reposeth all his confidence in thee.

Cap. "Tis thought the king is dead: we will not

stay.

The bay-trees in our country are all wither’d,
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The Paletac moon looks bloody on the earth, 10
And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change,
Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap,
The one, in fear to lose what they enjoy,
The other to enjoy by rage and war.
These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.
Farewell: our countrymen are gone and fled,
As well assur’d Richard, their king, isdead. [Ezit.

Sal. Ah, Richard! with the eyes of heavy mind
Isee thy glory, like a shooting star,
Fall to the base earth from the firmament. 20
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest.
Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes, awit

exit,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 

xf Bolingbroke.

W/RING forth these men.—

Bushy, and Green, I will not vex
your souls—

Since Lint your souls must part
your bodies—

With too much urging your pernicious
lives,

For 't were no charity ; yet, to wash
your blood

From off my hands, here in the view

 

; of men,
I will unfold some causes of your

eaths.
You have misled a prince, a royal
king,
A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,
By you unhappied and disfigur’d clean : 10

You have, in manner, with your sinful hours,
Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him,

ACT ITT.
ScENE I,—BOLINGBROKE’S Camp at Bristol.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, WILLOUGHBY,
Ross; BusHy and GREEN, prisoners.

Broke the possosion of a royal bed,

And stain’d the beauty of a fair queen’s cheeks

With tears, drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs.

Myself, a prince by fortune of my birth,

Near to the ne in blood, and near in love,

Till you did make him misinterpret me,

Have stoop’d my neck under your injuries,

And sigh’d my English breath in foreign clouds, 20

Eating the bitter bread of banishment ;

Whilst you have fed upon my signories,

Dispark’d my parks, and fell’d my forest woods,

From mine own windows torn my household coat,

Raz’d out my impress, leaving me no sign,—

Save men’s opinions, and my living blood,—

To show the world I am a gentleman. 4 :

This and much more, much more than twice all this,

Condemns you to the death.—See them deliver’d over

To execution and the hand of death. 30
Bushy. More welcome is the stroke of death to me,

Than Bolingbroke to England.—Lords, farewell.

 

 
 

i@ivg IL]

KING RICHARD II.

373

 

Green. My comfort is, that Heaven will take our
0

souls,
And plague injustice with the pains of hell.
Boling. Big pond Northumberland, see them des-
pal
[Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND and others,
with BUSHY and GREEN.
Uncle, you say the queen is at your house:
For God’s sake, fairly let her be entreated ;
Tell her, I send to her my kind commends;
Take special care my greetings be deliver'd.
York. A gentleman of mine I have despatch’d 40
With letters of your love to her at large.
Boling. Thanks, gentle uncle.—Come, lords, away,
To fight with Glendower and his complices:
Awhile to work, and after holiday. [Exeunt.

ScenE II.—The Coast of Wales. A Castle in view.

Flourish: drums and_ trumpets. Enter King
RICHARD, Bishop of CARLISLE, AUMERLE, and
Soldiers.

K. Rich. Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?
Aum. Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the

air,
After your late tossing on the breaking seas?
K. Rich. Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy,
To stand upon my kingdom once again. —
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs :
As a long-parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, 10
And do thee favour with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense ;
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet,
Which with usurping steps do trample thee.
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies:
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder, 20
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies. -—-
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:
This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.
Bishop. Fear not, my lord: that Power that made
you king, .
Hath power to keep you king, in spite of all.
The means that Heaven yields must be embrac’d,
And not neglected ; else, if Heaven would, 30
And we will not, Heaven's offer we refuse,
The proffer’d means of succour and redress.
Aum. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss ;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great in substance, and in friends.
K. Rich. Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not,
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid
Behind the globe, and lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen,
In murders and in outrage bloody here; 40
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines,
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,
Whilst we were wandering with the Antipodes,
hall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day, |
But, self-affrighted, tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
_Can wash the balm from an anointed king;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose

 

 

The deputy elected by the Lord.
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d,
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,

  
   

       

 

God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay 60
we WEG RR QQ A
wt ‘ WANA CHR 88 WOR MO
nt KK at WOE SSS \”
SS

 

WES

   

P

Bishop. “ Fear not, my lord: that Power that made you king,
Hath power to keep you King, in spite of all.”

A glorious angel: then, if angels fight, ;
Weak men must fall, for Heaven still guards the right.

Enter SALISBURY.

Welcome. my lord. How far off lies your power?
Sal. Nor near, nor further off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue,

And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear, my noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy papey days on earth.
O! call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men:
To-day, to-day, unhappy day. too late,
O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers’d, and fled.
Aum. Comfort, my liege! why looks your grace so

ale ?
K. Rich. But now, the blood of twenty thousand
men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled ;
And till so much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale and dead ?
All souls that will be safe, fly from my side ; 80
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.
Aum, Comfort, my liege! remember who you are.
K. Rich. Thad forgot mysclf. Am I not king?
Awake, thou sluggard majesty ! thou sleepest.
Is not the king’s name forty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a pny subject strikes
At thy great glory.—Look not to the ground,
Ye iavourites of a king: are we not high?
High be our thoughts. I know, mv uncle York
Hath power enough toserve our turn. But who comes
here? 90
Enter ScrRoop.

Scroop. More health and happiness betide my liege,
Than can my care-tun‘d tongue deliver him!

K. Rich. Mine ear is open, and my heart prepar’d:
The worst is worldly Joss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? why, ’t was my care ;
And what loss is it to be rid of care?

 

 
 

374

KING RICHARD II.

 

 

Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be: if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so.
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend ;
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
Cry woe, destruction, ruin, loss, decay ;
The worst is death, and death will have his day. |
Scroop. Glad am I, that your highness is so arm’d
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day, ‘
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolv’d to tears ;
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land 110
With hard bright steel, and hearts harder than steel.
Weiabe pean have arm’d their thin and hairless
; scalps :
Against thy majesty; and boys, with women’s voices,
Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown;
Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state ;
Yea, distatf-women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell. 120
K. Rich. Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire ? where is Bagot ?
What is become of Bushy ? where is Green ?
That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.
1 warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.
Scroop. ee have they made with him, indeed,
my lord.
K. Rich. O villains, vipers, damn’d without re-
demption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! 130
Snakes, _ my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my
eart!
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
Scroop. Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate.
Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made
With heads and not with hands: those whom you
curse,
Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound,
And lie full low, grav’d in the hollow ground. 140
Aum. a ae Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire,
ea
Scroop. Yea, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.
Aum. Where is the duke, my father, with his power?
&K. Rich. No matter where. Of comfort no man
speak :
Let's talk of graves. of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let ’s choose executors, and talk of wills:
And yet not so,—for what can we bequeath,
Save our deposed bodies to the ground ?
Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke’s,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth,
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground,
And tell sad stories of the death of kings :—
How some have been depos’d, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos’d,
Some poison’d by their wives, some sleeping kill’d,
All murder’d :—for within the hollow crown, 160
That rounds the mortal temples of a king,
Keeps Death his court, and there the antick sits,
Scofting his state, and grinning at his pomp;
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchise, be fear’d, and kill with looks;
Infusing him with self and vain conceit.
As if this flesh, which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable ; and, humour’d thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and—farewell king ! 170
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood

100

150

 

With solemn reverence : throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
llive with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends. Subjected thus,
How can you say to me, Iam a king?
Bishop. My lord, wise men ne’er wail their present
woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, 180
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,
And so your follies fight against yourself.
Fear, and be slain ; no worse can come to fight :
And fight and die is death destroying death ;
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

«Aum. My father hath a power, inquire of him,
And learn to make a body of a limb.

4&. Rich. Thou chid’st me well.—Proud Boling.

broke, I come
To change blows with thee for our day of doom.
This ague-fit of fear is over-blown:
An easy task it is to win our own.—
Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?
Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.

Scroop. Men judge by the Gomi plexion of the sky

The state and inclination of the day ;

So may you by my dull and heavy eye,

My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.

I play the torturer, by small and small,

To lengthen out the worst that. must be spoken,
Your uncle York is join’d with Bolingbroke, 200
And all your northern castles yielded up,

And all your southern gentlemen in arms

Upon his party.

. Rich. Thou hast said enough.—
Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth
Of that sweet way I was in to despair !

What say you now? what comfort have we now?
a Heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly

That bids me be of comfort any more.

Go to Flint Castle: there I’ll pine away ;

A king, woe’s slave, shall kingly woe obey. 210
That power I have, discharge ; and let them go

To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,

For I have none.—Let no man speak again

To alter this, for counsel is but vain.

Aum, My liege, one word.

K. Rich. He does me double wrong,
That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
Discharge my followers: let them hence away,
From Richard’s night to Bolingbroke’s fair ae

[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—Wales. <A Plain before Flint Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE and
Forces ; YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and others.
Boling. So that by this intelligence we learn,

The Welshmen are dispers'd, and Salisbur,

Is gone to meet the king, who lately lande

With some few private friends upon this coast.
North. The news is very fair and good, my lord:

Richard, not far from hence, hath hid his head.
York. It would beseem the Lord Northumberlend,

To say, King Richard :—alack, the heavy day,

When such a sacred king should hide his head!
North. Your grace mistakes ; only to be brief, 10

Left I his title out.

York. The time hath been, |.

Would you have been so brief with him, he would

Have been so brief with you, to shorten you,

For taking so the head, your whole head's length.
Boling. Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.
York. eee good cousin, further than you

should,

Lest you mistake : the heavens are o’er your head.
Boling. 1 know it, uncle ; and oppose not myself

Against their will.—But who comes here ?

Enter Percy.
Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield? 20

 

 

 
 

 

CENE III.]

KING RICHARD II.

375

 

t—
\ Percy. The castle royally is mann’d, my lord,
Against thy entrance.

oling. Royally?

Why, it contains no king?

Percy. : : _ Yes, my good lord,
It doth contain a king: King Richard lies
Within the limits of yond lime and stone,
And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,
Sir Stephen Scroop ; besides a clergyman
Of holy reverence, who, I cannot learn.

North. O! belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle. 30

Boling. [To NORTHUMBERLAND.] Noble lord,
Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle
Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parle
Into his ruin’d ears,
And thus deliver. Henry Bolingbroke
On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand,
And sends allegiance, and true faith of heart,
To his most royal person ; hither come
Even at his feet to lay my arms and owe
Provided that my banishment repeal’d, 40
And lands restor’d again, be freely granted.
Tf not, I’ll use the advantage of my power,
And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood,
Rain’d from the wounds of slaughter’d Englishmen :
The which, how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke
It is, such crimson tempest should bedrench
The fresh green lap of fair King Richard’s land,
My stooping duty tenderly shall show.
Go, signify as much, while here we march
Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.
Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum,
That from the castle’s tatter’d battlements
Our fair appointments may be well perus’d.
Methinks, King Richard and myself should meet
With no less terror than the elements
Of fire and water, when their thundering shock
At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.
Be he the fire, I’ll be the yielding water:
The rage be his, while on the earth I rain
My waters ; on the earth, and not on him.— 60
March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.

A parley sounded, and answered by a trumpet with-
in. Flourish. Enter on the walls King RicHaRbD,
the Bishop of CARLISLE, AUMERLE, SCROOP, and
SALISBURY.

Boling. See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,

As doth the blushing discontented sun

From out the fiery portal of the east,

When he perceives the envious clouds are bent

To dim his glory, and to stain the track

Of his bright passage to the occident.

York. Yet looks he like a king: behold, his eye,

As poem as is the eagle’s, lightens forth

Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe, 70

That any harm should stain so fair a show !

K. Rich. [To NORTHUMBERLAND.] We are amaz’d ;
and thus long have we stood

To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,

Because we thought ourself thy lawful king:

And if we be, how dare thy joints forget

To pay their awful duty to our presence ?

If we be not, show us the hand of God

That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship ;

For well we know, no hand of blood and bone

Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, 80

Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.

And though you think that all, as you have done,

Have torn their souls by turning them from us,

And we are barren and bereft of friends,

Yet know, my master, God omnipotent,

Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf

Armies of pestilence ; and they shall strike

Your children yet unborn, and unbegot,

That lift your vassal hands against my head,

And threat the glory of my precious crown. 90

Tell Bolingbroke, for yond, methinks, he stands,

That every stride he makes upon my land

Ig dangerous treason: he is come to ope

The purple testament of bleeding war ;

But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,

 

Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers’ sons

Shall ill become the flower of England’s face,

Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace

To scarlet indignation, and bedew

Her pastures’ pees with faithful English blood. 100
North. The King of heaven forbid, our lord the king

Should so with civil and uncivil arms

Be rush’d upon! Thy thrice-noble cousin,

Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;

And by the honourable tomb he swears,

That stands upon your royal grandsire’s bones,

And by the royalties of both your bloods,

Currents that spring from one most gracious head,

And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt,

And by the worth and honour of himself, 110

Comprising all that may be sworn or said,

His coming hither hath no further scope,

Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg

Enfranchisement immediate on his knees :

Which on thy royal party granted once,

His ellvering arms he will commend to rust,

His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart

To faithful service of your majesty.

This swears he, as he is a prince, is just ;

And, as I am a gentleman, I credit him. 120
KK. Rich. Northumberland, say,—thus the king re-

turns :—

His noble cousin is right welcome hither ;

And all the number of his fair demands

Shall be accomplish’d without contradiction.

With all the gracious utterance thou hast,

Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.—

[NORTHUMBERLAND retires to BOLINGBROKE.
[To a ‘We do debase ourself, cousin, do we
not, 5

To look so poorly, and to speak so fair ?

Shall we call back Northumberland, and send

Defiance to the traitor, and so die? 130
Aum. No, good my lord: let’s fight with gentle

words,
Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful

swords.
K. Rich. O God! O God! that e’er this tongue of
mine,
That laid the sentence of dread banishment
On yon proud man, should take it off again
With words of sooth! O! that I were as great
As is my grief, or lesser than my name,
Or that I could forget what I have been,
Or not remember what I must be now !
Swell’st thou, proud heart? I ’ll give thee scope to beat,
Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. 141
Aum. Per eunberlane: comes back from Boling-
roke.
K. Rich. What must the king do now? Must he
submit ?
The king shall do it. Must he be depos’d ?
The king shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king? o’ God’s name, let it go:
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,
My gay apparel for an alms-man’s gown,
My figur goblets for a dish of wood, 150
My sceptre for a palmer’s walking-staff,
My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little little grave, an obscure grave ;
Or I'll be buried in the king’s highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects’ feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head ;
For on my heart they tread, now whilst I live,
And, buried once, why not upon my head ?—
Aumerle, thou weep’st ; my tender-hearted cousin !—
We’ll make foul weather with despised tears ; 161
Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn,
And make a dearth in this revolting land.
Or shall we play the wantons with our woes,
And make some pretty match with shedding tears ?
As thus ;—to drop them still upon one place,
Till they have fretted us a pair of graves
Within the earth ; and, therein laid,—-‘‘ There lies”
Two kinsmen, digg’d their graves with weeping eyes.”

 

 
 

376

KING RICHARD II.

[Acr 1h

 

 

Would not this ill do well?—Well, well, I see 170
I talk but idly, and you mock at me.—
Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,
What says King Bolingbroke? will his majesty
Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?
You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says—ay.
North. My lord, in the base court he doth attend
To speak with you; may ’t please you to come down?
K. Rich. Down, down, I come; like glistering
Phaeton, :
Wanting the manage of unruly jades.
NORTHUMBERLAND retires again to
BOLINGBROKE.

ee),
Sa

 

K. Rich. “‘ Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee.”

In the base court? Base court, where kings grow
180

ase,
To come at traitors’ calls, and do them grace.
In the base court? Come down? own, court!
down, king!
For night-owls shriek, where mounting larks should
sing. (Exeunt from above.
Boling. What says his majesty ?
North. Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man:
Yet he is come.

Enter King RICHARD, and his Attendants, below.
Boling. Stand all apart,
And show fair duty to his majesty.—
Meus lord,— [Kneeling.
. Rich. Fair cousin, you debase your princely
knee, 190

To make the base earth proud with kissing it :

Me rather had, my heart might feel your love,

Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy.

re cousin, a your heart is up, I know,

Thus high at least, although your knee be low.
Boling. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.
K. Rich. Your own is yours; and I am yours, and all.
Boling. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,

Je service shall deserve your love.

A. rh Well you deserve: they well sii
ave,

' It doth remember me the more of sorrow ;

 

That know the eerong st and surest way to get.—
Uncle, ve me your hand: nay, dry your eyes ;
Tears show their love, but want their remedies.—
Cousin, I am too young to be your father,
Though you are old enough to be my heir.
What you will have, I'll give, and willing too;
For do we must what force will have us do.—
Set on towards London.—Cousin, is it so?
Boling. Yea, my good lord.
A. Rich. Then I must not say no.
[Flourish. Ezxeunt.

ScENE IV.—Langley. The Duke of Yorx’s Garden.

Enter the QUEEN and two Ladies.
Queen. What sport shall we devise here in this
garden,
To drive away the heavy thought of care?
1 Lady. Madam, we'll play at bowls. ~
Queen. ’T will make me think the world is full of

rubs,

And that my fortune runs against the bias.

1 Lady. Madam, we’ll dance.

een. My legs can keep no measure in delight,

When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief :
Therefore, no dancing, girl some other sport.

1 Lady.’ Madam, we'll tell tales. 10

Queen. Of sorrow, or of joy?

1 Lady. Of either, madam.

Queen. Of neither, girl ;
For if of joy, being altogether wanting,

Or if of grief, being altogether had,

It adds more sorrow to my want of joy ;

For what I have, I need not to repeat,

And what I want, it boots not to complain.
1 Lady. Madan, I'll sing.

 

Queen, *T is well that thou hast cause
Butthoushouldst please me better, wouldst thou wee]
1 Lady. I could weep, madam, would it do ye

good, :

Queen. And I could sing, would weeping do n

good,

And never borrow any tear of thee.

But stay, here come the gardeners :

Let’s step into the shadow of these trees.

My wretchedness unto a row of pins,

They ’ll talk of state ; for every one doth so

Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. . -
[QUEEN and Ladies retir

Enter a Gardener and two Servants.
Gard. Go, bind thou up yond dangling apricocks, é
Which, like unruly children, make their sire
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight :
Give some supportance to the bending twigs.—
Go thou, pnd i e an executioner
Cut off the heads of too-fast-growing sprays,
That look too lofty in our commonwealth :
All must be even in our government, —
You thus employ’d, I will go root awa;
The noisome weeds, that without profit suck
The soil’s fertility from wholesome flowers.
1 Serv. Why should we, in the compass of a pale,
Keep law, and form, and due proportion,
Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,
When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,
Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers chok’d up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun’d, her hedges ruind,
Her knots disorder’d, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with caterpillars?
Gard. Hold thy peace.
He that hath suffer’d this disorder’d spring, . 2
Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf: ‘
The weeds that his broad-spreading leaves did shelte:
That seem’d in eating him to hold him up,
Are pluck’d up, root and all, by Bolingbroke ;
I mean, the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.
1 Serv. What! are they dead? ;
Gard. They are ; and Bolingbrol
Hath seiz’d the wasteful king.—O ! what pity is it,

 
 

 

Scene IV.] KING RICHARD II. 377

 

As we this garden! We at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees,
Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,
With too much riches it confound itself :
Had he done so to at and growing men,
They might have liv’d to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.
1 Serv. acces , think you then, the king shall be
epos
Gard. peer he is already ; and depos’d,
*T is doubt, he will be. Letters came last night 70
To a dear friend of the good Duke of York’s,
That tell black tidings.
Queen. O! I am press’d to death through want of
speaking. (Coming forward. °
Thou, old Adam’s likeness, set to dress this garden,
How dares thy harsh-rude tongue sound this unpleas-
ing news? |
What Eve, what serpent hath suggested thee f
To make a second fall of cursed man ? :
Why dost thou say King Richard is depos’d ? i
Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how 80
Cam’st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.
Gard. Pardon me, madam: little joy have I,
To breathe these news, ‘he what I say is true.
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bolingbroke ; their fortunes both are weigh'd:
In your lord’s scale is nothing but himself,
And some few vanities that make him light ;
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Besides himself, are all the English peers,
And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. 90
Post you to London, and youll find it so;
Ispeak no more than every one doth know.
ween. Nimble mischance, that art so light of

That he had not so trimm’d and dress’d his land, | Gard. Poor queen ! so that thy state might be no

worse, ;
I would my skill were subject to thy curse.—

oot,

Doth not thy embassage belong to me,

And am I last that knows it? O! thou think’st

To serve me last. that I may longest keep

Thy sorrow in my breast.—Come, ladies, go Gard. “Pardon me, madam: little joy have I,

To meet at London London’s king in woe.-— To breathe these news, yet what I say is true.”

What! was I born to this, that my sad look ‘

Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?— 100 | Here did she fall a tear ; here, in this place,

Gardener, for telling me these news of woe, I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace ;

Pray God the plants thou graft’st may never grow. Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
[Zzeunt QUEEN and Ladies. ' In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—London. Westminster Hall.
The Lords Spiritual on the right side of the throne; the Lords Temporal on the left ; the Commons below.

Enter BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, SURREY, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, FITZWATER, another Lord, the Bishop
of CARLISLE, the Abbot of WESTMINSTER, and .1ttendants. Officers behind, with BaGor.

 

vty Bolingbroke. Boling. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that
SW ALL forth Bagot.— man. .
Y Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind, Bagot. My Lord Aumerle, [know yourdarng angie

What thou dost know of noble Gloster’s | Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver’d.
death, In that dead time when Gloster’s death was plotted, 10

Who wrought it with the king, and who | I heard you say,—‘‘Is not my arm of length,

erform’d That reacheth from the restful English court
The bloody office of his timeless end. As far as Calais, to mine uncle’s head ?”

Bagot. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle. : Amongst much other talk, that very time,

 

 
 

378

KING RICHARD II.

[Acr Iy,

 

 

I heard you say, that you had rather refuse

The offer of an hundred thousand crowns,

Than Bolingbroke’s return to England ;

Adding withal, how blest this land would be

In this your cousin’s death.

Aum. Princes, and noble lords,
What answer shall I make to this base man? 0
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars,

On equal terms to give him chastisement?

Either I must, or have mine honour soil’d

With the attainder of his slanderous lips.—

There is my gage, the manual seal of death,

That marks thee out for hell: I say, thou liest,

And will maintain, what thou hast said, is false,

In thy heart-blood, though being all too base

To stain the temper of my knightly sword. __
Boling. Bagot, forbear: thou shalt not take it up. 30
Aum. Excepting one, I would he were the best

In all this presence, that hath mov’d me so. _

Fitz. If that thy valour stand on sympathies,
There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine.

By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand’st,

I i éard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak’st it,

That thou wert cause of noble Gloster's death.

If thou deny’st it twenty times, thou liest ;

And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,

Where it was forged, with my rapier’s point. 40
Aum. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.
Fitz. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.
Aum. Fitzwater, thou art damn’d to hell for this.
Percy. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true

In this appeal, as thou art all unjust;

And, that thou art so, there I throw my gage,

To prove it on thee to the extremest point

Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st.

Aum. An if Ido not, may my hands rot off,

And never brandish more revengeful steel 50

Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

Lord. yi the earth to the like, forsworn Au-

merle ;

And spur thee on with full as many lies

As may be holla'd in thy treacherous ear

From sun tosun. There is my honour’s pawn:

Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.

Aum. wen sets me else? by Heaven, I'll throw

at all.

I have a thousand spirits in one breast,

To answer twenty thousand such as you.

Surrey. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well 60
The very time Aumerle and you did talk.

Fitz. "Tis very true: you were in presence then;
And you can witness with me, this is true.

Surrey. As false, by Heaven, as Heaven itself is true.

Fitz. Surrey, thou liest.

Surrey. Dishonourable boy !

That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword,

That it shall render vengeance and revenge,

Till thou, the lie-giver, and that lie, do lie

In earth as quiet as thy father’s skull.

In proof whereof, there is my honour’s pawn: 70

Engage it to the trial, if thou dar’st. :
fitz. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse !

If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,

I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,

And spit upon him, whilst I say, he lies,

And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith,

To tie thee to my strong correction.

As I intend to thrive in this new world,

Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal.

Besides, I heard the banish’d Norfolk say,

That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of iy men

To execute the noble duke at Calais.

Aum. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage.
That Norfolk lies, here do I throw down this,

If he may be repeal’d to try his honour.

Boling. These differences shall all rest under gage,
Till Nortolk be repeal’d: repeal'd he shall be,

And, though mine enemy, restor'd again

To all his lands and signories ; when he’s return’d,

Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.

ishop. That honourable day shall ne’er be seen.
Many a time hath banish’d Norfolk fought

80

 

For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,
Breen the ensign of the Christian cross,
Against black pegans, Turks, and Saracens ;
And, toil’d with works of war, retir’d himself
To Italy, and there at Venice gave
His body to that pleasant country’s earth,
And his pure soul unto his captain Christ,
Under whose colours he had fought so long. 100
Boling. Why, bishop, is Norfolk dead?
Bishop. As surely as I live, my lord.
Boling. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the
bosom
Of good old Abraham !—Lords appellants,
Your differences shall all rest under gage,
‘Till we assign you to your days of trial.

Enter York, attended.

York. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to thee
From plume-pluck’d Richard, who with willing soul
Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields
To the possession of thy a hand. 110
Ascend his throne, descending now from him,

And long live Henry, of that name the fourth!
Boling. In God's name, I’ll ascend the regal throne.
Bishop. Marry, God forbid !—

Worst in this royal presence may I speak,

Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.

Would God, that any in this noble presence

Were enough noble to be upright judge

Of noble Richard : then true nobless would

Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. 120

What subject can give sentence on his king?

And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?

Thieves are not judg’d, but they are by to hear,

Although Sppareith guilt be seen in them;

And shall the figure of God’s majesty,

His captain, steward, deputy elect,

Anointed, crowned, planted many years,

Be judg’d by subject and inferior breath,

And he himself not present? O! forfend it, God,

That, in a Christian climate, souls refin'd 130

Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed !

I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,

Stirr'd up by God thus boldly for his sae

My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,

Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford’s king;

And if you crown him, let me prophesy,

The blood of English shall manure the ground,

And future ages groan for this foul act;

Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,

And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars 140

Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind confound;

Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,

Shall here inhabit, and this land be call’d

The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls.

O! if rae raise this house against this house,

It will the wofullest division prove,

That ever fell upon this cursed earth.

Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,

Lest child, child’s children, cry against you—woe!
North. Well have you argu’d, sir; and, for your

pens 150

Of capital treason we arrest you here.

My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge

To keep him safely till his day of trial.— :

May it please you, lords, to grant the commons’ suit?
Boling. Fetch hither Richard, that in common

view

He may surrender: so we shall proceed

Without suspicion. ;
York. I will be his conduct. (Exit.
Boling. Lords, you that here are under our arrest,

Procure your sureties for your days of answer.—

[7'0 the Bishop.| Little are we beholding to your love,

And little look'd for at your helping hands. 161

Re-enter YORK, with King RIcHARD, and Officers
bearing the crown, &c.

K. Rich. Alack! why am I sent for to a king,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts .
Wherewith I reign’d? I hardly yet have learn’d
To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my limbs:

 

 
 

 

ScENE I.]

KING RICHARD II.

379

 

Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me

To this submission. Yet I well remember

The favours of these men: were they not mine?

Did they not sometime cry, All hail! to me?

So Judas did to Christ: but he, in twelve, 170

Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand,

none.

God save the king !—Will no man say, Amen?

Am I both priest and clerk? well then, Amen.

God save the king! although I be not he;

And yet, Amen, if Heaven do think him me.—

To do what service am I sent for hither?

York. To do that office, of thine own good will,

Which tired majesty did make thee offer,

The resignation of thy state and crown

To Harry Bolingbroke. 180
K. Rich. Give me the crown.—Here, cousin, seize

the crown;

Here, cousin,

On this side my hand, and on that side, thine.

Now is this golden crown like a deep well,

That owes two buckets filling one another ;

The emptier ever dancing in the air,

The other down, unseen, and full of water:

That bucket down, and full of tears, am I,

Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.
Boling. I thought you had been willing to resign. 190
K. Rich. My crown, I am; but still my griefs are

mine.

You may my glories and my state depose,

But not a ee : still am I king of those.

Boling. Part of your cares you give me with your
crown.

K. ae Your cares set up do not pluck my cares
own.

My care is loss of care, by old care done:

Your care is gain of care, by new care won:

The cares I give, I have, though given away;

They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.
Boling. Are you contented to resign the crown? 200
K. Rich. Ay, no ;—no, ay ;—for I must nothing be;

Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.

Now mark me how I will undo myself :—

I give this heavy weight from off my head,

And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,

The pride of kingly sway from out my heart ;

With mine own tears I wash away my balm,

With mine own hands I give away my crown,

With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,

With mine own breath release all duty’s rites:

All pomp and majesty I do forswear;

My manors, rents, revenues, I forego;

My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny:

God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!

God keep all vows unbroke, that swear to thee!

Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,

And thou with all pleas’d, that hast all achiev’d!

Long may’st thou live in Richard’s seat to sit,

And soon lie Richard in an earthy pit!

God save King Henry, unking’d Richard says,

And send him many years of sunshine days !—

What more remains?

North. [Offering a paper.) No more, but that you
reas

These accusations, and these grievous crimes,

Committed by your person, and your followers,

Against the state and profit of this land ;

That, by confessing them, the souls of men

May deem that you are worthily depos’d.

K. Rich. Must I do so? and must I ravel out

My weav’d-up follies? Gentle Northumberland, 230

If thy offences were upon record,

Would it not shame thee, in so fair a troop,

To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,

There shouldst thou find one heinous article,

Containing the deposing of a king.

And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,

Mark’d with a blot, damn’d in the book of Heaven.—

Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me,

Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,

Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, 240

Showing an outward pity; yet you Pilates

210

220

 

Have here deliver’d me to my sour cross,
And water cannot wash away your sin.

North. My lord, despatch : read o’er these articles.
K. Rich. Mine eyes are full of tears, I cannot see ;
And yet salt water blinds them not so much,

But they can see a sort of traitors here.
Nay, if [ turn mine eyes upon myself,
I find myself a traitor with the rest ;
For I have given here my soul’s consent,
To undeck the pompous body of a king ;
Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave,
Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.
North. My lord,—
K. Rich. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting

man,
Nor no man’s lord: I have no name, no title,—
No, not that name was given me at the font,—
But ’tis usurp’d.—Alack, the heavy day !
That I have worn so many winters out,
And know not now what name to call myself.
O! that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke,
To melt myself away in water-drops !—
Good king,—great king,—and yet not greatly good,
An if my word be sterling yet in England,
Let it command a mirror hither straight,
That it may show me what a face I have,
Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
Boling. Go some of you, and fetch a looking-glass.
[Exit an Attendant.
North. Read o’er this paper, while the glass aa
27

250

260

come, Z
K. Bea diene: thou torment’st me ere I come to
ell.
Boling. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.
North. The commons will not then be satisfied.
K. Rich. They shall be satisfied: I’ll read enough,
When I do see the very book indeed,
Where all my sins are writ, and that ’s—myself.

Re-enter Attendant, with a glass.

Give me that glass, and therein will I read.—
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine,
And made no deeper wounds ?—0 flattering glass ! 280
Like to my followers in prosperity,
Thou dost beguile me. Was this face the face,
That every day under his household roof
Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face,
That like the sun did make beholders wink ?
Was this the face, that fac’d so many follies,
And was at last outfac’d by Bolingbroke ?
A brittle glory shineth in this face:
As brittle as the Bory is the face;
(Dashes the giass cae the ground.
For there it is, crack’d in a hundred shivers.— 290
Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport,
How soon my sorrow hath destroy’d my face.
Boling. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy’d
The shadow of your face.
x. Rich. Say that again.
The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let’s see :—
*T is very true, my grief lies all within ;—
And these external manners of laments
Are merely shadows to the unseen grief,
That swells with silence in the tortur’d soul ;
There lies the substance: and I thank thee, king, 300
For thy great bounty, that not only giv’st
Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way
How to lament the cause. Ill beg one boon,
And then be gone and trouble you no more.
Shall I obtain it?
Boling. Name it, fair cousin.
K. Rich. Fair cousin? I am greater than a king;
For, when I was a king, my flatterers
Were then but subjects; being now a subject,
I have a king here to my flatterer.
Being so great, I have no need to beg.
Boling. Yet ask.
kK. Rich. And shall I have it?
Boling. You shall.
K. Rich. Why then, give me leave to go.

310

 

 
 

380

KING RICHARD II.

[Act V.

 

Boling. Whither?

K. Rich. oe you will, so I were from your
sights.

Boling. Go, some of you; convey him to the Tower.

K. Rieh. O, good! Convey?—Conveyers are you

all,
That rise thus nimbly by a true king’s fall.
(Exeunt King RIcHARD and Guard.

Our coronation : lords, prepare yourselves. 321
[Exeunt all but the Abbot, Bishop of CARLISLE,
and AUMERLE,
Abbot. A woful pageant have we here beheld.

Boling. On Wednesday next we solemnly set ao |

Bishop. The woe’s to come: the children yet unbo!
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as {hoe me
Aum. You holy clergymen, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?
Abbot. My lord, before I freely speak my mind
herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament
To bury mine intents, but also to effect
Whatever I shall eppen to devise. 330
I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears:
Come home with me to supper; I will lay

A plot, shall show us all a merry day. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

   

Queen.
w HIS way the king will come: this is the
wa
To Julius Ceesar's ill-erected tower,
To whose flint bosom my condemned lord
Is doom’d a prisoner
broke.
Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth
Have any resting for her true king's queen.

Enter King RICHARD and Guards.
But soft, but see, or rather do not see,
My fair rose wither: yet look up, behold,
That you in pity may dissolve to dew,

And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.— 10
Ah! thou, the model where old Troy did stand,

Thou man of honour, thou King Richard’s tomb,

And not King Richard, thou most beauteous inn,
Why should fard-favour'd grief be lodg’d in thee,
When triumph is become an ale-house guest?

K. Rich. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,

To make my end too sudden: learn, good soul,

To think our former state a happy dream ;

From which awak’d, the truth of what we are

Shows us but this. Iam sworn brother, sweet, 20
To grim necessity ; and he and I

Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,
And cloister thee in some religious house :

Our holy lives must win a new world’s crown,

Which our profane hours here have stricken down.

Queen. What! is my Richard both in shape and mind
Transform'd and weakened? Hath Bolingbroke
Depos’d thine intellect? hath he been in thy heart?
The lion, dying, thrusteth forth his paw,

And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage 30
To be o’erpower'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,
Take thy correction mildly? kiss the rod,
And fawn on rage with base humility,
Which art a lion, and a king of beasts?
K. Rich. A king of beasts, indeed; if aught but
beasts,
I had been still a happy king of men.
Good sometime queen, prepare thee hence for France :
Think I am dead, and that even here thou tak'st,
As from my death-bed, my last living leave.
In winter’s tedious nights sit by the fire 40
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales
Of woful ages, long ago betid ; :
And, ere thou bid good night, to quit their grief,

 

 

y proud Boling- . 3

 

 

 

ACT V.
te ScENE I.—London. A Street leading to the Tower.
( Enter QUEEN and Attendants.

Tell thou the lamentable fall of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds.

K. Rich. “1 am sworn brother, sweet, to grim necessity.”

For why the senseless brands will sympathise

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,

And in compassion weep the fire out ;

‘And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,
For the deposing of a rightful king. 50

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, attended.
North. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang’d:

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.]

KING RICHARD II.

381

 

You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.—

And, madam, there is order ta’en for you:

With all swift speed you must away to France.

K. Rich. Northumberland, thou ladder, wherewithal

The mounsing: Bolingbroke ascends my throne,

The time shall not be many hours of age

More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head

Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think,

Though he divide the realm, and give thee half, 60

It is too little, helping him to all;

He shall think, that thou, which know’st the way

To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,

Being ne’er so little urg’d, another way

To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.

The love of wicked friends converts to fear ;

That fear to hate; and hate turns one, or both,

To worthy danger and deserved death.

North. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.

Take leave, and ee for you must part forthwith. 70
K. Rich. Doubly divorc'd !—Bad men, ye violate

A two-fold marriage ; *twixt my crown and me,

And then betwixt me and my married wife.—

Let me unkiss the oath ‘twixt thee and me;

And yet not so, for with a kiss ’t was made.

Part us, Northumberland: I towards the north,

Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime ;

My wife to France: from whence, set forth in pomp,

She came adorned hither like sweet May,

Sent back like Hallowmas, or short’st of day. 89
Queen. And must we be divided? must we part?
K. Rich. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart

from heart. : :
Queen. Banish us both, and send the king with me.
North. That were some love, but little policy.
ueen. Then whither he goes, thither let me go.
. Rich. So two, together weeping, make one woe.

Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here ;

Better far off, than near, be ne’er the near’.

Go, count thy way with sighs, I mine with groans.

een. So longest way shall have the longest moans.
. Rich. Twice for one step I’ll groan, the way
being short, 91

And piece the way out with a heavy heart.

Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,

Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.

One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly Pee os

Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. [They kiss.
Queen. Give me mine own again; ’t were no good

part,
To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.
{They kiss again.
So, now I have mine own again, be gone,
That I may strive to kill it with a groan. 100
K. Rich, We make woe wanton with this fond

: soley:
Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. [Hxeunt.

A Room in the Duke of Yorx’s
Palace.

Scene II.—London.

Enter York and the DUCHESS.

Duch. My lord, you told me, you would tell the rest,
When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that sad stop, my lord,
Where rude misgovern’d hands, from windows’ tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the duke, aoe Bolingbroke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem’d to know,

With slow but stately pace kept on his course, _10
While o tanec cried—‘‘ God save thee, Boling-
roke !”

You would have thought the very windows spake,
So ay greedy looks of young and old

Tek casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon is visage ; and that all the walls

v ith painted imagery had said at once,—

“Jesu preserve thee ! welcome, Bolingbroke !”

 

Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed’s neck,
Pea them thus, —‘ I thank you, countrymen :” 20
And thus still doing, thus he pass’d along. :

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac’d actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious ;
Even so, or with much more contempt, men’s eyes
Did scowl on Richard : no man cried, God save him ;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home ;
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head, 30
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The basics of his grief and patience.
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel’d
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,

Whose state and honour I for aye allow. 40
Duch. Here comes my son Aumerle.
York Aumerle that was ;

But that is lost for being Richard’s friend,
And, madam, you must call him Rutland now.
I am in parliament pledge for his truth

And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

Enter AUMERLE.

Duch. Welcome, my son. Whoare the violets now,
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring ?

Aum. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not;
God knows, I had as lief be none, as one.

York, Well, bear you wellin this new spring of time,
Lest you be cropp’d before you come to prime. bl
What news from Oxford? hold those justs and

triumphs?

Aum. For aught I know, my lord, they do.

York. You will be there, I know.

Aum. If God prevent not, I purpose so.

York. What seal is that, that hangs without thy

bosom ?
Yea, look’st thou pale? let me see the writing.

Aum. My lord, ’tis nothing.

York. No matter then who sees it:
I will be satisfied, let me see the writing.

Aum. I do beseech your grace to pardon me. 60
It is a matter of small consequence, ?
Which for some reasons I would not have seen.

York. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.

I fear, I fear, —

Duch. What should you fear?

*T is nothing but some bond that he is enter’d into
For gay apparel ’gainst the triumph day.
York. Bound to himself? what doth he with a bond
That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.—
Boy, let me see the writing.
Aum. I do beseech you, pardon me: I may not show
70

it.
York. I will be satisfied: let me see it, I say.
[Snatches tt, and reads.
Treason! foul treason !—Villain ! traitor! slave!
Duch. What is the matter, my lord ?
York. Ho! who is within there?

Enter a Servant.
Saddle my horse.
God for his mercy ! what treachery is here!
Duch, Why, what is it, my lord?
York. Give me my boots, I say: saddle my horse.—
: [Exit Servant.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,

I will appeach the villain.
Duch. What’s the matter?
York. Peace, foolish woman.
Duch. I will not peace.—What is the matter,
Aumerle?
Aum. Good mother, be content: it is no more
Than my poor life must answer.

uch, Thy life answer?

 

 
 

382

KING RICHARD II.

[Act Vv;

 

 

York, Bring me my boots: I will unto the king.

Re-enter Servant, with boots.
Duch. Strike him, Aumerle.—Poor boy, thou art

amaz'd.—
Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.—
[Exit Servant.
York. Give me my boots, I say.
Duch, Why, York, what wilt thou do?
Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?
Have we more sons, or are we like to have?
Is not my teeming date drunk up with time,
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age,
And rob me of a happy mother’s name ?
Is he not like thee? is he not thine own?
York. Thou fond, mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy ?
A dozen of them here have ta’en the sacrament,
And interchangeably set down their hands,
To kill the king at Oxford.
He shall be none ;

Duch.
We'll keep him here: then, what is that to him? 100
York. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times
My son, I would appeach him.
ch. Hadst thou groan’d for him,
As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.
But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect,
That I have been disloyal to thy bed,
And that he is a bastard, not thy son.
Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind:
He is as like thee as a man may be,
Not like to me, nor any of my kin,
And yet I love him.
York.

90

Make way, unruly woman! [Fzit.
Duch, After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse:

Spur, post, and get before him to the king, 112

And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.

I'll not be long behind ; though I be old,

I doubt not but to ride as fast as York :

And never will I rise up from the ground,

Till Bolingbroke have pardon’d thee. Away! be gone.

[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—Windsor. A Room in the Castle.

Enter BOLINGBROKE as King; Percy, and other
Lords.

Boling. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son?
’T is full three months, since I did see him last.
If any plague hang over us, ’tis he.
I would to God, my lords, he might be found.
Inquire at London, ’mongst the taverns there,
For there, they say, he daily doth frequent,
With unrestrained loose companions,
Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes,
And beat our watch, and rob our passengers;
Which he, young wanton, and effeminate boy,
Takes on the point of honour, to support
So dissolute a crew.

Percy. My lord, some two days since I saw the

rince,
And ici tien of these triumphs held at Oxford.
Boling. And what said the gallant?
Percy. His answer was,—he would unto the stews,
And from the common’st creature pluck a glove,
And wear it as a favour ; and with that
He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.
Boling. As dissolute, as desperate: yet through both
I see some sparks of better hope, which elder days 21
May happily bring forth. But who comes here?

Enter AUMERLE.

Aum. Where is the king?

Boling. What means our cousin, that he stares
And looks so wildly ?

Aum. God save your grace,

majesty,

To have some conference with your grace alone.

Boling. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here

_ alone.— {Exeunt Percy and Lords.

What is the matter with our cousin now?

10

I do beseech your

 

Aum. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, 30
ee Kneels,
My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,
Unless a pardon, ere I rise, or speak.
Boling. Intended, or committed, was this fault ?
If on the first, how heinous e’er it be, «
To win thy after-love, I pardon thee.
Aum. Then give me leave that I may turn the key,
That no.man enter till my tale be done. 7
Boling. Have thy desire. [AUMERLE locks the door.
York. [Within.] My liege, beware ! look to thyself:
Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. 40
Boling. Villain, I’ll make thee safe. [Drawing.
Aum. Stay thy revengeful hand: thou hast no cause

to fear.
York. [Within.] Open the door, secure, foolhardy
Ing:
Shall I for love speak treason to thy face ?
Open the door, or I will break it open.
[BOLINGBROKE opens the door.

Enter YORK.

Boling. What is the matter, uncle? speak ;
Recover breath : tell us how near is danger,

That we may arm us to encounter it.

York. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know
The treason that my haste forbids me show.

«lum. Remember, as thou read’st, thy promise past:
I do repent me; read not my name there ;

My heart is not confederate with my hand.
ork, "T was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.—
I tore it from the traitor’s bosom, king :
Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.
Forget to pity him, lest ed pity prove
A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.

Boling. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy !|—
O loyal father of a treacherous son ! 60
Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,

From whence this stream ES muddy passages
Hath held his current, and defil’d himself !

Thy overflow of good converts to bad ;

And thy abundant goodness shall excuse

This deadly blot in thy digressing son.

York. So shall my virtue be his vice’s bawd,
And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers’ gold.

Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, 70

Or my sham’d life in his dishonour lies:

Thou kill’st me in his life ; giving him breath,

The traitor lives, the true man’s put to death. ;
Duch. [Within.] What, ho! my liege! for God’s

sake, let me in.

Boling. What shrill-voic’d suppliant makes this

eager cry ? , :
Duch. A woman, and thine aunt, great king; ’tis I.
Speak with me, pity me, open the door:

A beggar begs that never bege’d before. “
Boling. Our scene is altered, from a serious thing,
And now chang’d to “‘ The Beggar and the King.”—80

My dangerous cousin, let your mother in:

I know, she’s come to vey for your foul sin.
York. If thou do pardon, whosoever pray,

More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.

This fester’d joint cut off, the rest rests sound ;

This, let alone, will all the rest confound.

Enter DUCHESS.

Duch. O king! believe not this hard-hearted man :
Love, loving not itself, none other can.
York. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make

here ?
Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? 90
Duch. Sweet York, be patient. Hear meg gentle

iege.
Boling. Hise up, good aunt.
Duch. Not yet, I thee beseech:

For ever will I walk upon my knees,

And never see day that the happy sees,

Till thou give doy 3 until thou bid me joy,

By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.
Aum. Unto my mother’s prayers I bend my pee

eels.

 

 
 

 

ScENE V.]

KING RICHARD II.

383

 

York. Against them both my true joints bended be.
neels.
Til may’st thou thrive, if thou grant any grace !
Duch. Pleads he in earnest? look upon his face ; 100
His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest ;
His words come from his mouth, ours from our
breast :
He prays but faintly, and would be denied ;
We pray with heart, and soul, and all beside:
His weary joints would aay rise, I know;
Our knees shall kneel till to the ground they grow:
His prayers are full of false hypocrisy ;
Ours of true zeal and deep ieee:
Our prayers do out-pray his ; then let them have

That mercy which true prayers ought to have. 110

Boling. Good aunt, stand up.
Duch. Nay, do not say—stand up ;
But, pardon first, and afterwards, stand up.

An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,
Pardon should be the first word of thy speech.
I never long'd to hear a word till now ;
Say -pardon, king; let pity teach thee how:
The word is short, but not so short as sweet ;
No word like pardon for kings’ mouths so meet.
York. Speak it in French, king: say, pardonnez-mot.
Duch. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy ? 120
Ah! my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,
That sett’st the word itself against the word !
alee pardon, as ‘tis current in our land!
The chopping French we do not understand.
Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there,
Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,
That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,
Pity may move thee pardon to rehearse.
oling. Good aunt, stand up.
Duch. I do not sue to stand :
Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. 130
Boling. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
Duch. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!
Yet am I sick for fear: epeale it again ;
‘Twice saying pardon doth not pardon twain,
But makes one pardon strong.

Boling. With all my heart
I pardon him.
ch. A god on earth thou art.

Boling. But for our trusty brother-in-law, and the

abbot,
With all the rest of that consorted crew,
‘Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.—
Good uncle, help to order several powers 140
To Oxford, or where’er these traitors are:
They shall not live within this world, I swear ;
But I will have them, if I once know where.
Uncle, farewell,—and cousin too, adieu:
Your mother well hath pray’d, and prove you true.
Duch. Come, my old son: I pray God make thee
new. [Exeunt.

 

ScEeNE IV.

Enter Sir PIERCE of EXTON and a Servant.
Exton. Didst thou not mark the king, what words
he spake ? : z
“Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?”
Was it not so?
Serv. Those were his very words.
Exton. “ Have I no friend?” quoth he: he spake it

twice,
And urg’d it twice together, did he not?
Serv. He did.
Exton. And, speaking it, he wistly look’d on me,
As who should say,—I would thou wert the man
That would divorce this terror from my heart,
Meaning the king at Pomfret, Come, let’s go: 10
Tam the king's friend, and will rid his foe. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE V.—Pomfret. The Dungeon of the Castle.

Enter King RicHArpD.
K. Rich. Ihave been studying how I may compare
This prison, where I live, unto the world:

 

And for because the world is populous,

And here is not a creature but myself,

T cannot do it; yet I’ll hammer it out.

My brain I’ll prove the female to my soul ;

My soul, the father : and these two beget

A generation of still-breeding thoughts,

And these same thoughts people this little world,
In humours like the people of this world,

For no thought is contented. The better sort,

As thoughts of things divine, are intermix’d

With scruples, and do set the word itself

Against the word:

As thus,—‘‘ Come, little ones ;” and then again, —
“Tt is as hard to come, as for a camel

To thread the postern of a needle’s eye.”
Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders : how these vain weak nails
May tear a passaee through the flinty ribs . 20
Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls ;

And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves,
That they are not the first of fortune’s slaves,

Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars,

Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,
That many have, and others must sit there:

And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortune on the back

Of such as have before endur’d the like. 30
Thus play I, in one person, many people,

And none contented: sometimes am [ king;

Then treason makes me wish myself a beggar,
And so Iam: then, crushing penur

Persuades me I was better when a king;

Then am I king’d again ; and, by-and-by,

Think that Iam unking’d by Bolingbroke,

And straight am nothing.—But whate’er I am,
Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,

With nothing shall be pleas’d till he be eas’d 40
With being nothing.—{ Music.] Music do I hear?
Ha, ha! keep time.—How sour sweet music is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept!

So is it in the music of men’s lives.

And here have I the daintiness of ear,

To check time broke in a disorder’d string ;

But, for the concord of my state and time,

Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;

For now hath time made me his numbering clock: 5)
My thoughts are minutes, and with sighs they jar
Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,
Whereto my finger, like a dial’s point,

Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, sir, the sound, that tells what hour it is,

Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell : so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time
Runs posting on in Bolingbroke’s proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his Jack o’ the clock. 60
This music mads me: let it sound no more ;

For though it hath holp madmen to their wits,

In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad,

Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!

For ’tis a sign of love, and love to Richard

Is astrange brooch in this all-hating world,

Enter Groom.

Groom. Hail, royal prince!

K. Rich Thanks, noble peer ;
The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.
What art thou? and how comest thou hither,
Where no man never comes, but that sad dog 70
That brings me food to make misfortune live?
Groom. I was a poor groom of thy stable, king,
When thou wert king; who, travelling towards

York,
With much ado, at length have gotten leave
To look upon my sometimes royal master’s face.
O! how it yearn’d my heart, when I beheld
In London streets that coronation day,
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary!
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,
That horse that I so carefully have dress’d! 80

 

 
 

 

384

K. Rich. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle
friend,
How went he under him ? ;
Groom. So ) proudly, as if he disdain’d the ground. |
AK. ae o proud that Bolingbroke was on his
ack !

K. Rich. “ That band shall burn in never-quenching fire,
That staggers thus my person.”

That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;

This hand hath made him proud with clapping him,
Would he not stumble? would he not fall down
(Since pride must have a fall), and break the neck
Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse ! why do I rail on thee,

Since thou, created to be aw’d by man,

Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse ;

£0

KING RICHARD II,

 

[Acr Vv,
And yet I bear a burden like an ass,

Spur-gall’d, and tir’d, by jauncing Bolingbroke.

Enter Keeper, with a dish.

Keep. [To the Groom.] Fellow, give placc: here is
no longer stay.

K. Rich. If thou love me, ‘tis time thou wert
away.

Groom. What my tongue dares not, that my heart
shall say. [Exit.

Keep. My lord, will ’t please you to fall to?

&. Rich, Taste of it first, as thou art wont to do.

Keep. My lord, I dare not: Sir Pierce of Exton, who

lately came from the king, commands the contrary.

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

KING RICHARD IZ.

385

 

K. Rich. The devil take Henry of Lancaster, and
thee! 102
Patience is stale, and Iam weary of it.
[Strikes the Keeper.
Keep. Help, help, help!

Enter Sir PIERCE of EXTON, and Servants, armed.

K. Rich. How now! what means death in this rude
assault?
Villain, thine own hand yields thy death’s instrument.
Snatching a weapon, and killing one.
Go thou, and fill another room in hell.
He kills another: EXTon strikes him down.
That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire,
That sta; gers thus my person.—Exton, thy fierce

an
Hath with the king’s blood stain’d the king’s own land.
Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is upon high, 111
Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to Bie
ies.
Exton. As full of valour as of royal blood :
Both have I spilt; O, would the deed were goed!
For now the devil, that told me I did well,
Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.
This dead king to the living king I ll bear. —
Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.
[Axeunt.

ScENE VI.—Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle.

Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE and YORK, with
Lords and Attendants.
Boling. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
Is, that the rebels have consum’d with fire
Our town of Cicester in Glostershire ; ,
But whether they be ta’en, or slain, we hear not.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.
Welcome, my lord. What is the news?
North. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happi-
ness.
The next news is,—I have to London sent
The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent.
The manner of their taking may appear
At large discoursed in this paper here. 10
. [Presenting a paper.
Boling. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

Enter FITZWATER.
Fitz. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,
Two of the dangerous consorted traitors,
That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
Boling. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot ;
Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

Enter PERCY, with the Bishop of CARLISLE.
Percy. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westmin-

ster,
With clog of conscience and sour melanchol 20
Hath yielded up his body to the grave ; a
But here is Carlisle living, to abide
Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.

 

Boling. Carlisle, this is your doom :—
Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life ;
So, as thou liv’st in peace, die free from strife:
For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

 

ill

epliiti

HRY
Ss
i

Tea
Dy es "3 2 De

 

 

 

Boling. ‘‘ Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander.”

Enter Exton, with Attendants bearing a coffin.

Exton. Great king, within this coffinI present 30
Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies
The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.
Boling. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast
wrought
A deed of slander, with thy fatal hand,
Upon my head and all this famous land.
Exton. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this

eed.
Boling. They love not poison that do poison need,

Nor do J thee: though I did wish him dead,

lI hate the murderer, love him murdered. 40

The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,

But neither my good word, nor pels favour:

With Cain go wander through the shades of night,

And never show thy head by day nor light.—

Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe,

That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow:

Come, mourn with me for that I do lament,

And put on sullen black, incontinent.

I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,

To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. 50

March sadly after ; grace my mournings here,

In weeping after this untimely bier. [Ezeunt.

 

 

25

 
 

 

“Au
A 8

 

ene
aE
(|

US

a

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

NG ELENRY ae ponte. 1

ENRY, rince O, ales, *
PRINCE JOHN of LANCASTER, | S08 to the King.
EARL OF WESTMORELAND.

SIR WALTER BLUNT.

Tuomas Percy, Earl of Worcester.

HENRY Percy, Earl of Northumberland.
HENRY PERCY, surnamed Hotspur, his Son.
EDMUND MortiM_ER, Earl of March.

Scroop, Archbishop of York.

ARCHIBALD, Earl of Douglas.

OWEN GLENDOWER.

SiR RICHARD VERNON.

SiR JOHN FALsTaFF.

Lords,

ae MICHAEL, a Friend to the Archbishop of York.
OINS.

GADSHILL.

PETO.

BaARDOLPH.

ne Percy, Wife to Hotspur, and Sister to Mor-

umer.

Lapy Mortimer, Daughter to Glendower, and Wife
to Mortimer.

MISTRESS QUICKLY, Hostess of a Tavern in East-
cheap.

Officers, rere Vintner, Chamberlain,
Drawers, Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants,

SCENE—ENGLAND.

 

ACT I.

ScENE J.—London. An Apartment in the Palace.
Enter King HENRY, WESTMORELAND, Sir WALTER BLUNT, and others.

   
      

Gf on on Dy King Henry. r
70 shaken as we are, so wan with care,
Find we a time for frighted peace to

pant,

And breathe short-winded accents of
new broils

To be commenc’d in stronds afar re-
mote. 5

Nomore the thirsty entrance of this soil

Shall daub her lips with her own chil-
dren’s blood ;

No more shall trenching war channel
her fields,

Nor bruise her flowerets with the
armed hoofs

Of hostile paces: those opposed eyes,

Which, like the meteors of a troubled
heaven, 10

All of one nature, of one substance bred,

Did lately meet in the intestine shock

And furious close of civil butchery,

Shall now, in mutual, well-beseeming ranks,

March all one way, and be no more oppos’d

Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:

The edge of war, like an ill-sheathed knife,

No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends,

As far as to the sepulchre of Christ,

(Whose soldier now, under whose blessed cross 20

We are impressed and engag’d to fight,)

Forthwith a power of English shall we levy,

Whose arms were moulded in their mothers’ womb

To chase these pagans, in those holy fields,

Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet,

Which, fourteen hundred years ago, were nail’d

For our advantage on the bitter cross.

But this our purpose is a twelvemonth old,

And bootless ’tis to tell you, we will go:

Therefore we meet not now.—Then, let me hear 30

 

Of you, my gentle cousin Westmoreland,
What yesternight our council did decree,
In forwarding this dear expedience.

West: My liege, this haste was hot in question,
And many limits of the charge set down
But yesternight ; when, all athwart, there came
A pet from Wales loaden with heavy news;
Whose worst was, that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight
Against the irregular and wild Glendower, 40
Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken,

A thousand of his people butchered ;

Upon whose dead corse there was such misuse,
Such a shameless transformation,

By those Welshwomen done, as may not be
Without much shame re-told or spoken of. .

K. Hen. It seems then, that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land. :

West. ce match’d with other like, my gracious

ord;
For more uneven and unwelcome news 50
Came from the north, and thus it did report:
On Holy-rood day, the gallant Hotspur there,
Young Harry Percy, and brave Archibald,
That ever-valiant and approved Scot,
At Holmedon met,
Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour,
As by discharge of their artillery,
And shape of likelihood, the news was told;
For he that brought them, in the very heat
And pride of their contention did take horse, 60
Uncertain of the issue any way.

K, Hen. Here is a dear and true-industrious friend,
Sir Walter Blunt, new lighted from his horse,
Stain’d with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours ;

The Earl of Douglas is discomfited ;

And he hath brought us smooth and welcome news.

 

 
 

 

Scene II.] KING HENRY

IVi-PART I. 387

 

Ten thousand bold Scots, two-and-twenty knights,
Balk’d in their own blood, did Sir Walter see
On Holmedon’s plains: of prisoners, Hotspur took 70
Mordake the Earl of Fife, and eldest son
To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol,
Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honourable spoil?
A gallant prize? ha, cousin, is it not?

est. In faith, .
It is a conquest for a prince to boast of.

. Hen. Yea, there thou mak'st me sad, and mak’st

me sin

Inenvy that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the father of so blest a son:
A son, who is the theme of honour’s tongue ;
Amongst a grove the very straightest plant ;
Who is sweet Fortune’s minion, and her pride:
Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him,
See riot and dishonour stain the brow
Of my young Harry. O! that it could be prov’d,
That some night-tripping fairy had exchang’d
In cradle-clothes our children where they lay,
And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet!
Then would I have his Harry, and he mine. 90
But let him from my thoughts.—What think you, coz,
Of this young Percy’s pride? the prisoners,
Which he in this adventure hath surpris’d,
To his own use he keeps, and sends me word,
Ishall have none but Mordake Earl of Fife.

West. This is his uncle’s teaching, this is Worcester,
Malevolent to 7 in all aspects ;

Which makes him prune himself, and bristle up
The crest of youth against your dignity.

K. Hen. But I have sent for him to answer this ; 100

And, for this cause, awhile we must neglect
Our holy purpose to Jerusalem.
Cousin, on Wednesday next our council we
Will hold at Windsor : so inform the lords ;
But come yourself with speed to us again ;
For more is to be said, and to be done,
Than out of anger can be uttered.

West. I will, my liege.

80

[Ezeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Same. Another Apartment in the
Palaee.

Enter Henry, Prince of Wales, and FALSTAFF.

Fal, Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

P. Hen. Thou art so fat-witted, with drinking of
old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and
sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast
ee ae to demand that truly, which thou wouldst
truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the
time of the day? unless hours were cups of sack, and
minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and
dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun
himself a fair hot wench in flame-colour’d taffeta, I
see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to
demand the time of the day. 12

Fal. Indeed, you come near me, now, Hal; for we,
that take purses, go by the moon and the seven stars,
and not by Phcebus,—he, “‘ that wandering knight so
fair.” And, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, when thou art king,
—as, God save thy grace—majesty, I should say, for
grace thou wilt have none,—

P. Hen. What! none?

Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to
be prologue to an egg and butter. 21

. Hen. Well, how then? come roundly, roundly. _

Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king,
let not us, that are squires of the night’s body, be
called thieves of the day’s beauty: let us be Diana’s
foresters, ces of the shade, minions of the
moon; and let men say, we be men of good govern-
ment, being governed as the sea is, by our noble and
chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance
we steal. 30

P. Hen. Thou say’st well, and it holds well, too;
for the fortune of us, that are the moon’s men, doth
ebb and flow like the sea, being governed as the sea

 

is, by the moon. As for proof now: a purse of gold
most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most
dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with
swearing—lay by; and spent with ne cee in;
now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, and,
by-and-by, in as high a flow as the ridge of the
gallows. 40

Fal. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not
my hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?

P. Hen. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the
castle. And is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of
durance ?

Fal. How now, how now, mad wag! what, in thy
quips, and thy quiddities ? what a plague have I todo
with a buff jerkin ?

P. Hen. Why, what a pox have I to do with my
hostess of the tavern? 50

Fal. Well, thou hast called her toa reckoning many
a time and oft.

P. Hen. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

ae No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all
there.

P. Hen. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin
would stretch ; and, where it would not, I have used
my credit.

Fal. Yea, and so used it, that were it not here ap-
parent that thou art heir-apparent,— But, I pr’ythee,
sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in er
land when thou art king, and resolution thus fobbed,
as it is, with the rusty curb of old father Antick the
law? Do not thou, when thou art a king, hang a
thief.

P. Hen. No; thou shalt.

Fal. ShallI?: Orare! By the Lord, I'll bea brave
judge.

2 P Hen. Thou judgest false already: I mean, thou
shalt have the hanging of the thieves, and so become
a rare hangman. 71

Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps
with my humour, as well as waiting in the court, I
can tell you. “she .

P. Hen. For obtaining of suits?

Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the hang-
man hath no lean wardrobe. ‘“Sblood, I am as melan-
choly as a gib cat, or a lugged bear.

P. Hen. Or an old lion, or a lover’s lute.

Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.

P. Hen. What say’st thou to a hare, or the melan-
choly of Moor-ditch ? 3 82

Fal. Thou hast:the most unsavoury similes, and
art, indeed, the most comparative, rascalliest,—sweet
young prince.—But, Hal, I pr’ythee, trouble me no
more with vanity. I would to God, thou and I knew
where a commodity of good names were to be bought.
An old lord of the council rated me the other day in
the street about you, sir; but I marked him not: and
yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not:
and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too. 91

P. Hen. Thou didst well: for wisdom cries out in
the streets, and no man regards it.

Fal. O! thou hast damnable iteration, and art, in-
deed, able to corrupt asaint. Thou hast done much
harm upon me, Hal :—God forgive thee for it. Before
I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am J, if
a man should speak truly, little better than one of
the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will

ive it over; by the Lord, an I do not, Iam a villain:

‘11 be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

P. Hen. Where shall we take a purse to-morrow,
Jack ? : 10.

Fal. ’Zounds! where thou wilt, lad, I’ll make one;
an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me.

P. Hen. I see a good amendment of life in thee:
from praying to purse-taking.

Enter Poins, at a distance.

Fal. Why, Hal, ’t is my vocation, Hal: ’tis no sin
for a man to labour in his vocation. Poins!—Now
shall we know if Gadshill have set a match.—O! if
men were to be saved by merit, what hole in hell were
hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent
villain, that ever cried, ‘‘Stand!” to a true man.

 

 
 

 

388

P. Hen. Good morrow, Ned.

Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal.—What says Mon-
sieur Remorse?) What says Sir John Sack-and-
Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about
thy soul, that thou soldest him on Good Friday last,
for a cup of Madeira, and a cold capon’s leg?

P. Hen. Sir John stands to his word: the devil
shall have his bargain, for he was never yet a breaker
of proverbs she will give the devil his due, 122

Poins. Thén art thou damned for keeping thy word
with the devil.

P. Hen. Else he had been damned for cozening the
devil.

Poins. But, my lads, my lads. to-morrow morning,
by four o'clock, early at Gadshill. There are pilgrims
going to Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders
riding to London with fat purses: I have visors for
you all, you have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies
to-night in Rochester; I have bespoke supper to-
morrow night in Kastcheap: we may do it as secure
as sleep. [f you will go, I will stuff your purses full
of crowns; if you will not, tarry at home, and be
hanged. ;

Fal. Hear ye, Yedward: if I tarry at home, and go
not, I'l] hang you for going.

Poins. You will, chops ?

Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one? 140

P. Hen, Who, I rob? La thief? not I, by my faith.

Fal. There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good
fellowship in thee, nor thou cam’st not of the blood
royal, if thou darest not stand for ten shillings.

P. Hen. Well then, once in my days, I’ll be a mad-
cap.

Fal. Why, that’s well said.

P. Hen. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home.

Fal, By the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou
art king. 150

P. Hen. V care not.

Poins. Sir John, I pr’ythee, leave the prince and me
alone: I will lay him down such reasons for this
adventure, that he shall pro.

Fal, Well, God give thee the spirit of persuasion,
and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest
may move, and what he hears may be believed, that
the true prince may (for recreation sake) prove a false
thief; for the poor abuses of the time want counte-
nance. Farewell: you shall find me in Eastcheap. 160

P. Hen. Farewell, the latter spring! Farewell,
All-hallown summer ! [Exit FALSTAFF.

Poins. Now, my good swect honey lord, ride with
us to-morrow : I have a jest to execute, that I cannot
manage alone. Ialstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gads-
hill, shall rob those men that we have already way-
laid : yourself and I will not be there ; and when they
have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this
head off from my shoulders.

P. Hen. But how shall we part with them in setting
forth ? 171

Poins. Why, we will set forth before or after them,
and appoint them a place of meeting, wherein it is at
our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure
upon the exploit themselves, which they shall have
no sooner achieved, but we ‘ll set upon them.

P. Hen. Yea, but tis like that they will know us
by our horses, by our habits, and by every other
Te to be ourselves. 79

oins. Tut! our horses they shall not see, I'll tie
them in the wood; our visors we will change, after
we leave them ; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram
for the nonce, to immask our noted outward garments.
x P. Hen. Yea, but I doubt they will be too hard
or us.

Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as
true-bred cowards as ever turned back; and for the
third, if he fight longer than he sees reason, J ’ll for-
swear arms. The virtue of this jest will be, the
incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will
tell us, when we meet at supper: how thirty at least
he fought with; what wards, what blows, what
extremities he endured ; and in the reproof of this lies
the jest.

P. Hen. Well, Il go with thee: provide us all

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

 

[Act I.

things necessary, and meet me to-morrow ni i

Eastcheap, there I'll sup. Farewell. weir
Poins. Farewell, my lord. [Exit.
P. Hen. I know you all, and will awhile uphold -

The unyok’d humour of your idleness. 200

Yet herein will I imitate the sun,

Who doth permit the base contagious clouds

To smother up his beauty from the world,

That when he please again to be himself,

Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,

By breaking through the foul and ugly mists

Of vapours, that did seem to strangle him.

If all the year were playing holidays,

To sport would be as tedious as to work:

But when they seldom come, they wish’d-for come, 210

nd nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,

and pay the debt I never promised,

By how much better than my word I am,

By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;

And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,

My reformation, glittering o’er my fault,

Shall show more goodly, and attract more eyes

Than that which hath no foil to set. it off.

I'll so offend, to make offence a skill ; 220

Redeeming time, when men think least I will. LEzit.

 

ScENE III.—The Same. Another Apartment in the

‘alace.

Enter King HENRY, NORTHUMBERLAND, WORCESTER,
Hotspur, Sir WALTER BLUNT, and others.
K. Hen. My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities,
And you have found me; for, accordingly,
You tread upon my patience: but, be sure,
I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty, and to be fear’d, than my condition,
Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
And therefore lost that title of respect,
Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.
Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little deserves
The scourge of greatness to be used on it ; 1
And that same greatness too which our own hands
Have poles make so portly.
North. lord,—
K. Hen. Worcester, get thee gone ; for I do see
Danger and disobedience in thine eye.
O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory,
And majesty might never yet endure
The moody frontier of a servant brow.
You have good leave to leave us; when we need 20
Your use and counsel, we shall send for you.—
[Eazit WORCESTER.
[To NORTHUMBERLAND.] You were about to speak.
North. : Yea, my good lord.
Those prisoners in your highness’ name demanded,
Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, —
Were, as he says, not with such strength denied
As was deliver’d to your majesty :
Either envy, therefore, or misprision
Is guilty of this fault, and not my son.
ot. My liege, I did deny no prisoners ;
But, I remember, when the fight was done, 30
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, |
Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress’d,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap‘,
Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner,
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon |
He gave his nose, and took ’t away again ;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, 40
Took it in snuff :—and still he smil'd and talk’d;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He call'd them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms

 
 

Scene IIL]

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

389

 

 

He question’d me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience
Answer’d neglectingly, I know not what,
He should, or he should not ; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman
Of guns, and drums, and wounds, God save the mark !
And telling me, the sovereign’st thing on earth
Was parmacity for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villainous saltpetre should be dige’d
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d
So cowardly ; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald unjointed chat of his, my lord,
Ianswer'd indirectly, as I said;
And, I beseech you, let not his report
Come current for an accusation,
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Blunt. The circumstance consider’d, good my lord,
Whatever Harry Percy then had said 71
To such a person, and in such a place,
At such a time, with all the rest re-told,
May reasonably die, and never rise
To do him wrong, or any way impeach °*
What then he said, so he unsay it now.
K. Hen. Why, yet he doth deny his prisoners,
But with proviso, and exception,
That we, at our own charge, shall ransom straight
His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer ; 80
Who, on my soul, hath wilfully betray’d
The lives of those that he did lead to fight
Against the great magician, damn’d Glendower,
Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of March
Hath lately married. Shall our coffers then
Be emptied to redeem a traitor home ?
Shall we buy treason, and indent with fears,
When they have lost and forfeited themselves?
No, on the barren mountains let him starve ;
For I shall never hold that man my friend,
Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny cost
To ransom home revolted Mortimer.
Hot. Revolted Mortimer!
He never did fall off, my sovereign liege,
But by the chance of war: to prove that true,
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds,
Those mouthed wounds, which valiantly he took,
When on the gentle Severn’s sedgy bank,
In sage opposition, hand to hand,
He did confound the best part of an hour
In changing hardiment with great Glendower.
Three abe ee breath’d, and three times did they
rink,
Upon agreement, of swift Severn’s flood,
Who then, affrighted with their bloody looks,
Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds,
And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank
Blood-stained with these valiant combatants.
Never did base and rotten policy
Colour her working with such deadly wounds ;
Nor never could the noble Mortimer 110
Receive so many, and all willingly :
Then let him not be slander’d with revolt. 7
K. Aten Eten dost belie him, Percy, thou dost belie
im:
He never did encounter with Glendower.
I tell thee,
He durst as well have met the devil alone,
As Owen Glendower for an enemy.
Art thou not asham’d? But, sirtah, henceforth
Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer.
Send me your prisoners with the speedicst means, 120
Or you shall hear in sucha kind from me
As will displease you.—My Lord Northumberland,
We license your departure with your son,—
Send us your prisoners, or youll hear of it. .
Exeunt King HENRY, BLUNT, and Train.
Hot. And if the devil come and roar for them,

60

100

 

I will not send them.—I will after straight,
And tell him so; for I will ease my heart,
Although it be with hazard of my head.
North. What! drunk with choler? stay, and pause
awhile:
Here comes your uncle.

 

  

CN

 

Hot. “‘Zounds! [ will speak vf him.”

Re-enter WORCESTER.

Fot. Speak of Mortimer!
*Zounds ! I will speak of him; and Jet my soul
Want mercy, if I do not join with him:

In his behalf, I’ll empty all these veins,
And shed my dear blood ron by drop i’ the dust,
But I will litt the down-trod Mortimer
As high i’ the air as this unthankful king,
ae Ce rate and canker’d Bolingbroke.
orth.

130

To WoRCESTER.] Brother, the king hath
made your nephew mad.
Wor. Who struck this heat up after I was gone?
Hot. He will, forsooth, have all my prisoners ;
And when I urg’d the ransom once again
Of my wife’s brother, then his cheek look’d pale,
And on my face he turn’d an eye of death,
Trembling even at the name of Mortimer,
Wor. I cannot blame him. Was he not proclaim’d
By Richard, that dead is, the next of blood?
North. He was; I heard the proclamation:
And then it was, when the unhappy king
(Whose wrongs in us God pardon !) did set forth
Upon his Irish expedition ;
From whence he, intercepted, did return :
To be depos’d, and shortly murdered.
Wor. And for whose death, we in the world’s wide
mouth
Live scandalis’d, and foully spoken of.
Hot. But, soft! I pray you, did King Richard then
Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer
Heir to the crown?
North. He did: myself did hear it.
Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king,
That wish’d him on the barren mountains starve.
But shall it be that you, that set the crown
Upon the head of this forgetful man,
And for his sake wear the detested blot
Of murd’rous subornation, shall it be,
That you a world of curses undergo,
Being the agents, or base second means,
The cords, the ladder, or the hangman rather ?-—
O! pardon me, that I descend so low,
To show the line and the predicament,
Wherein you range under this subtle king.—
Shall it, for shame, be spoken in these days,
Or fill up chronicles in time to come,
That men of your nobility and power
Did page them both in an unjust behalf
(As both of you, God pardon it! have done),

110

150

160

170

 

 
 

390 KING HENRY

IV.—PART 1. [Acr I,

 

 

To oe down Richard, that sweet lovely rose,
And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke?
And shall it, in more shame, be further spoken,
That you are fool’d, discarded, and shook otf
By him, for whom these shames ye underwent?
No! yet time serves, wherein you may redeem
Your banish’d honours, and restore yourselves
Into the good thoughts of the world again :
Revenge the jeering and disdain’d contempt
Of this proud king, who studies day and night
To answer all the debt he owes to you,
Even with the bloody payment of your deaths.
Therefore, I say,—

or. Peace, cousin! say no more.
And now IJ will unclasp a secret book,
And to ee quick-conceiving discontents
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
As full of peril and adventurous spirit,
As to o’er-walk a current, roaring loud,
On the unsteadfast footing of a spear.

Hot. If he fall in, good night !—or sink or swim:

Send danger from the east unto the west,

So honour cross it from the north to south,

And let them grapple :—O! the blood more stirs
To rouse a lion than to start a hare.

North. Imagination of some great exploit
Drives him beyond the bounds of patience.

Hot. By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy leap
To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep,

Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks,

So he that doth redecm her thence might wear
Without corrival all her dignities :

But out upon this half-fac’d fellowship!

Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here,
But not the form of what he should attend.—
Good cousin, give me audience for a while,

And list to me.

Hot. I cry you mercy.

Wor. Those same noble Scots,
TH are your prisoners, —

0

180

190

200

210

S I'll keep them all.
By God, he shall not have a Scot of them:
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.
I’ll keep them, by this hand.

Wor. You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes.

Those prisoners you shall keep.

Flot. Nay, I will:
He said, he would not ransom Mortimer ;
Forbad my tongue to speak of Mortimer;
But I will find him when he lies asleep,
And in his ear I'l] holla—Mortimer !

that’s flat.
220

vay,

I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak
Nothing but Mortimer, and give it him,
To keep his anger still in motion.

Wor. Hear you, cousin, a word.

Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy,
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke : 230
And that same sword-and-buckler Prince of Wales,
But that I think his father loves him not,
And would be glad he met with some mischance,
I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale.

Wor. Farewell, kinsman. I will talk to you,
When you are better temper’d to attend.

North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool
Art thou, to break into this woman's mood,
Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own!

 

Hot, Why, look you, I am whipp’d and scour, "d
with rods,

Nettled, and stung with pismires, when I hear

Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.

In Richard’s time,—what do ye call the place 2—

A plague upon ’t—it is in Glostershire ;—

*T was where the madcap duke his uncle kept,

His uncle York,—where I first bow'd my knee

Unto this king of smiles, this Bolingbroke,

*Sblood!

When you and he came back from Ravenspurg.
North. At Berkley Castle.

Hot. You say true.—

Why, what a candy deal of courtesy

This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!

Look,—‘“ when his infant fortune came to age,”

And,—“gentle Harry Percy,”—and,—* kind cousin,’—

O, the devil take such cozeners !—God forgive me !—

Good uncle, tell your tale, for I have done.

Wor. Nay, if you have not, to’t again;
We'll stay your leisure.
Hot. ' Thave done, i’ faith.
Wor. Then once more to your Scottish prisoners, 260

Deliver them up without their ransom straight,

And make the Douglas’ son your only mean

For powers in Scotland; which, for divers reasons,

Which I sha]l send you written, be assur’d,

Will coy be granted.tTo NORTHUMBERLAND.]

ou, my lord,

Your son in Scotland being thus employ’d,

Shall secretly into the bosom creep

Of that same noble prelate well belov’d,

The archbishop.

Hot. Of York, is it not?
Wor. ‘True; who bears hard

His brother's death at Bristol, the Lord Scroop.

I speak not this in estimation,

As what I think might be, but what I know

Is ruminated, plotted, and set down ;

And only stays but to behold the face

Of that occasion that shall bring it on.

Hot. I smell it:

Upon my life, it will do wondrous well. |
North. Before the game’s afoot, thou still lett’st slip.
Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble pet 281

And then the power of Scotland and of York,

To join with Mortimer, ha?

" And so they shall.

Wor.
Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim’d.
Wor. And. ’tis no little reason bids us speed,
To save our heads by raising of a head ;
For, bear ourselves as even as we can,
The king will always think him in our debt,
And think we think ourselves unsatisfied,
Till he hath found a time to pay us home.
And see already how he doth begin
To make us strangers to his looks of love. :
Hot. He does, he does: we’ll be reveng’d on him.
Wor. Cousin, farewell.—No further go in this,
Than I by letters shall direct ao course.
When time is ripe (which will be suddenly),
Ill steal to Glendower, and Lord Mortimer ;
Where you and Douglas, and our powers at once,
AsI will fashion it, shall happily meet,
To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms,
Which now we hold at much uncertainty. i
North. Farewell, good brother: we shall thrive, I
trust.
Hot. Uncle, adieu.—O! Jet the hours be short,

Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport.
[Exeunt,

250

270

290

300

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

ACT II.

: “ 1 Carrier.

i; EIGH-HO! <An’t be not four by the
day, I’ll be hanged: Charles’ wain is
over the new chimney, and yet our
horse not packed. What, ostler!

Ostler. [Within.] Anon, anon.

1 Car. I pr’ythee, Tom, beat Cut’s
saddle, put a few flocks in the point;
the poor jade is wrung in the withers
out of all cess.

Enter another Carrier.

2 Car. Peas and beans are as dank
here as a dog, and that is the next way
to give poor jades the bots: this house
is turned upside down, since Robin
ostler died. .

1 Car. Poor fellow! never joyed since the price of
oats rose: it was the death of him.

2 Car. I think, this be the most villainous house in
all London road for fleas: I am stung like a tench.

1 Car. Like a tench? by the mass, there is ne’er a
king in Christendom could be better bit than I have
been since the first cock. . 21

2 Car. Why, they will allow us ne’er a jordan, and
then we leak in your chimney; and your chamber-lie
breeds fleas like a loach.

1 Car. What, ostler! come away and be hanged,
come away.

 

2 Car, I have a gammon of bacon, and two razes of ! ;

ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing Cross.

1 Car. ’Odsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are
quite starved.—What, ostler!—A plague on thee!
hast thou never an eye in thy head? canst not hear?
An’t were not as good a deed as drink, to break the
ol of thee, I am a very villain.—Come, and be

anged :—hast no faith in thee?

Enter GADSHILL.

Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What’s o’clock?

1 Car. I think it be two o’clock.

Gads. I pr’ythee, lend me thy lantern, to see my
gelding in the stable.

Car. Nay, soft, I pray ye: I know a trick worth
two of that, 1’ faith. 40

Gads. I pr’ythee, lend me thine.

2 Car. Ay, when? canst tell?-Lend me thy lantern,
quoth ’a?—marry, I ll see thee hanged first.

Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to
come to London?

2 Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I
warrant thee.—Come, neighbour Mugs, we’ll call up
the gentlemen: they will along with company, for
they have great charge. (Exeunt Carriers.

Gads. What, ho! chamberlain! 50

Cham. Within.] At hand, quoth pick-purse.

Gads. That’s even as fair as—at hand, quoth the
chamberlain; for thou variest no more from picking
of purses, than giving direction doth from labouring ;
thou lay’st the plot how.

Enter Chamberlain.
Cham. Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds cur-
rent that I told you yesternight: there’s a franklin in
the wild of Kent, hath brought three hundred marks

SceNE I.—Rochester.
Enter a Carrier, with a lantern in his hand.

 

An Inn Yard.

with him in gold: I heard him tell it to one of his
company, last night at Bupper akind of auditor ; one
that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what.
They are up already, and call for eggs and butter:
they will away presently.

Gads. Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas’
clerks, I’ll give thee this neck.

 

1 Car. “’Odsbody! the turkeys in my pannier are quite starved.”

Cham, No, I’ll none of it: I pr’ythee, keep that for
the hangman; for, I know, thou worshipp’st Saint
Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may. 68

Gads. What talkest thou to me of the hangman? if
Thang, I'll make a fat pair of gallows; for, if I hang,
old Sir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he’s no
starveling. Tut! there are other Trojans that thou
dreamest not of, the which, for sport sake, are content
to do the profession some grace; that would, if matters
should be looked into, for their own credit sake, make
all whole. I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no
long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mus-
tachio-purple-hued malt-worms: but with nobility
and tranquillity ; burgomasters, and great oneyers;
such as can hold in, such as will strike sooner than
speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner
than pray: and yet I lie; for they pray continually to
their saint, the commonwealth ; or, rather, not pray
to her, but prey on her, for they ride up and down on
her, and make her their boots.

Cham. What! the commonwealth their boots? will
she hold out water in foul way ?

Gads. She will, she will; justice hath liquored her.

 

 
 

392 KING HENRY

IV.—PART I. {Act II.

 

 

We steal as in a castle, cock-sure; we have the receipt
of fern-seed, we walk invisible.

Cham. Nay, by my faith; I think you are more
beholding to the night, than to fern-seed, for your
walking invisible.

Gads. Give me thy hand: thou shalt have a share
in our purchase, as I am a true man.
ees Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false
thief.

Gads. Go to; homo is a common name to all men.
Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of the stable.
Farewell, you muddy knave. 100

[Ezeunt.

ScENE IJ.—The Road by Gadshill.

Enter Prince HENRY and Pons; BARDOLPH and
PETO, at some distance.
Poins. Come, shelter, shelter: I have removed
Falstaff’s horse, and he frets like a gumined velvet.
P. Hen, Stand close. :

Enter FALSTAFF.

Fal. Poins! Poins, and be hanged! Poins!

P. Hen. Peace, ye fat-kidneyed rascal]!
brawling dost thou oe 2

Fal. Where's Poins, Hal? :

P. Hen. He is walked up to the top of the hill: I'll
go seek him. (Pretends to seck POINS.

Fal. Jam accursed to rob in that thief's company 3
the rascal hath removed my horse, and tied him I
know not where. If I travel but four foot by the
sguire further afoot, Ishall break my wind. Well, I
doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I scape
hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his
company hourly any time this two-and-twenty years,
and yet I am bewitched with the rogue’s company. If
the rascal have not given me medicines to make me
love him, I’ll be hanged; it could not be else: I have
drunk medicines.—Poins !—Hal !—a plague upon you
both !—Bardolph !—Peto!—I'll starve, cre I’ll rob a
foot further. An ’t were not as good a deed as drink,
to turn true man, and leave these rogues, I am the
veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight
yards of uneven ground is threescore and ten miles
afoot with me, and the stony-hearted villains know it
wellenough. A plague upon ’t, when thieves cannot
be true to one another! [Thcy whistle.] Whew !—A
plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you rogues ;
give me my horse, and be hanged. 30

P. Hen. Peace, ye fat-guts! lie down: lay thine ear
close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the
tread of travellers.

Fal. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being
down? ‘'Sblood! I’ll not bear mine own flesh so far
afoot again, for all the coin in thy father’s exchequer.
What a plague mean ye to colt me thus?

P. Hen. Thou liest: thou art not colted; thou art
uncolted.

Fal. I pr’ythee, good Prince Hal, help me to my
horse, good king’s son. 41

P. Hen. Out, you rogue! shall I be your ostler?

Fal. Go, hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent
garters! If I be ta’en, I'll peach for this. An I have
not ballads made on you all, and sung to filthy tunes,
let a cup of sack be my poison: when a jest is so for-
ward, and afoot too, I hate it.

What a

Enter GADSHILL.
Gads. Stand.
Fal. So I do, against my will.

Poins. O!’tis our setter : I know his voice. 50

Enter BARDOLPH.

Bard. What news?

Gads, Case ye, case ye; on with your visors: there's
money of the king’s coming down the hill; ’tis going
to the king’s exchequer.

Fal. You lie, you rogue: 'tis going to the king's
tavern.

 

Gads. There’s enough to make us all.

Fal. To be hanged.

P. Hen. Sirs, you four shall front them in the nar-
row lane; Ned Poins and I will walk lower: if they
scape from your encounter, then they light on us. 61

Peto, How many be there of them ?

Gads. Some eight, or ten.

Fal. ’Zounds! will they not rob us?

 

Fat. ** Poins !—Hal !—a plague upon you both!”

P. Hen. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch?

Fal. Indeed, Iam not John of Gaunt, your grand-
father ; but yet no coward, Hal.

P. Hen. Well, we leave that to the proof. _,

Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the
hedge: when thou needest him, there thou shalt find
him. Farewell, and stand fast. TL
Fal. Now cannot I strike him, if I should be hanged.

P. Hen. {Aside to Poins.] Ned, where are our dis-
guises ?

Poins. Here, hard by : stand close.

[Excunt Prince HENRY and PoINs.

Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say

I: every man to his business.

Enter Travellers.

1 Trav. Come, pee the boy shall lead our
horses down the hill; we'll walk afoot awhile, and
ease our legs. 80

Thicves. Stand !

Travellers. Jesu bless us ! ae

Fal. Strike; down with them; cut the villains
throats. Ah! whoreson caterpillars ! bacon-fed knaves!
they hate us youth: down with them; fleece them.

Travellers. O! we are undone, both we and ours,
for ever. a

Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves. Are ye undone?
No, ye fat chuffs; I would, your store were here!
On, bacons, on! What! ye knaves, young men must
live. You are grand-jurors, are ye? We'll jure oa

faith.
[Ezeunt FaustaFr, dc., driving the Traveters ea. |

 
 

 

Scene III.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

393

 

Re-enter Prince HENRY and Pons.

P. Hen. The thieves have bound the truemen. Now
could thou and I rob the thieves, and go merrily to
London, it would be argument for a week, iui
for a month, and a good jest for ever.

Poins. Stand close ; I hear them coming.

Re-enter Thieves.

Fal. Come, my masters; let us share, and then to
horse before day. An the prince and Poins be not
two arrant cowards, there’s no equity stirring: there's
no more valour in that Poins, than in a wild duck.

P. Hen. Your money. [Rushing out upon them.

Poins. Villains.

[As they are sharing, the PRINCE and PoINs set
upon them. They all run away, and Fat-
STAFF, after a blow or two, runs away too,
leaving the booty behind them.

P. Hen. Got with much ease. Now merrily to horse:
The thieves are scatter’d, and possess’d with fear
So strongly, that they dare not meet each other ;
Each takes his fellow for an officer.
ae good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death,

a

And lards the lean earth as he walks along:
Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him. 110
Poins. How the rogue roar’d! [Exewunt.

Scene II.—Warkworth. A Room in the Castle.

Enter HoTSPuR, reading a leticr.

—‘ But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well
contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear
your house.”—He could be contented,—why is he not
then? In respect of the love he bears our house :—he
shows in this, he loves his own barn better than he
loves our house. Let me see some more, ‘The
purpose you undertake, is dangerous ;”—why, that’s
certain: ’tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to
drink ; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle,
danger, we pluck this flower, safety. “The purpose
you undertake, is dangerous; the friends you have
named, uncertain ; the time itself unsorted, and your
whole plot too a for the counterpoise of so great
an opposition.”—Say you so, say you so? I say unto
ag again, you are a shallow, cowardly hind, and you
ie. hat a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot
is as good a plot as ever was laid; our friends true
and constant: a good plot, good friends, and full of
expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends.
What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord
of York commends the plot and the general course of
the action. ’Zounds! an I were now by this rascal, I
could brain him with his lady’s fan. Is there not my
father, my_uncle, and myself? Lord Edmund Mor-
timer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is
there not, besides, the Douglas? Have I not all their
letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth of the next
month, and are they not, some of them, set forward
already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel!
Ha! you shall see now, in very sincerity of fear and
cold heart, will he to the king, and lay open all our pro-
ceedings, O! I could divide myself and goto buffets,
for moving such a dish of skimmed milk with so
honourable an action. Hang him! let him tell the
king ; we are prepared. I will set forward to-night.

Enter Lady PERCY.

How now, Kate? I must leave you within these two
ours.

Lady. O, my good lord! why are you thus alone?
For what offence have I this fortnight been
A banish’d woman from my Harry’s bed?
Tell me, sweet lord, what is’t that takes from thee 40
sf stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep ?

dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,

And start so often when thou sitt’st alone?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks,
| And given my treasures, and my rights of thee,

¢fo thick-ey’d musing, and curs’d melancholy ? '

 

In thy faint slumbers I by thee hath watch’d,

And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars,

Speak terms of a to thy bounding steed,

Cry, ‘“‘ Courage !—to the field!” And thou hast talk’a
Of sallies, and retires; of trenches, tents, él
Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets,

Of basilisks, of cannon, culverin,

Of prisoners’ ransom, and of soldiers slain,

And all the currents of a heady fight.

Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,

And thus hath so bestirr’d thee in thy sleep,

That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

Like bubbles in a late-disturbed stream ;

 

Lady. ‘‘ What is it carries you away?”

And in thy face strange motions have appear’d, 60
Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some a sudden hest. O! what portents are
ese?
Some heavy business hath my lord in hand,
And I must know it, else he loves me not.
Hot. What, ho!

Enter Servant.

Is Gilliams with the packet gone?
Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago.
Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the
sheriff?
Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now.
Hot. What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?
Serv. It is, my lord.
Hot. That roan shall be my throne. 70
Well, I will back him straight: 0, Esperance!
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. [Hit Servant.
Lady. But hear you, my lord.
Hot. What say’st thou, my lady?
Lady. What is it carries you away?
Hot. Why, my horse, my love, my horse.
Lady. Out, you mad-headed ape!
A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen,
As you are toss’d with. In faith,
I’ll know your business, Harry, that I will. 80
I fear, my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his title, and hath sent for you,
To line his enterprise. But if you go—
Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.
pede: Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
Directly unto this question that I ask.
In faith, I'll break thy little ne Harry,

An if thou wilt not tell me all things true.
Hot. Away,
Away, you trifler !—Love !—I love thee not, 90

I care not for thee, Kate. This is no world,
To play with mammets and to tilt with lips:

 

 
 

394 KING HENRY

IV.—PART I. (Act IL

 

 

We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns,
And pass them current too.—God’s me, my horse !—
What say’st thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have
with me? :
Lady. Do you not love me? do you not, indeed ?
Well, do not then; for since you love me not,
I will not love myself. Do you not love me?
Nay, tell me, if you speak in jest, or no?
Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride?
And when J amo’ horseback, I will swear
T love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate ;
I inust not have you henceforth question me
Whither 1 go, nor reason whereabout.
Whither I must, I must; and, to conclude,
This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate.
I know you wise; but yet no further wise
Than Harry Percy’s wife: constant you are,
But yet a woman: and for secrecy,
No lady closer; for I well believe
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know ;
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.
Lady. How! so far?
Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate:
Whither I go, thither shall you go too;
To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you.
Will this content you, Kate?
Lady. It must, of force.

100

110

[Exeunt.

ScENnE IV.—Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head
Tavern.

Enter Prince HENRY and PoIns.

P. Hen. Ned, pr'ythee,
and lend me thy hand to laugh a little.

Poins. Where hast been, Hal?

P. Hen. With three or four loggerheads, amongst
three or four score hogsheads. have sounded the
very basestring of humility. Sirrah, lam sworn brother
to a leash of drawers, and can call them all by their
Christian names, as—Tom, Dick, and Francis. They
take it already upon their salvation, that though I be
but Prince of Wales, yet lam the king of courtesy, and
tell me flatly Iam no proud Jack, like Falstaff, but a
Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a good boy, (by the Lord,
so they call me,)—and when I am King of England, I
shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap. ‘They
eall drinking deep, dying scarlet; and ala you
breathe in your watering, they cry, ‘*Hem!” and bid
you play it off. To conclude. I am so good a proficient
in one quarter of an hour, that I can drink with an
tinker in his own language during my life. I teil
thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour, that thou wert
not with me in this action. But, sweet Ned,—to
sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this penny-
worth of sugar, clapped even now into my han by an
under-skinker, one that never spake other English in
his life, than—‘‘ Fight shillings and sixpence,” and—
“You are welcome;” with this shrill addition,--
‘“‘Anon, anon, sir! Score a pint of bastard in the
Half Moon,” or so. But, Ned, to drive away the time
till Falstaff come, I pr’ythee, do thou stand in some
by-room, while I question my puny drawer to what
end he gave me the sugar; and do thou never leave
calling—Francis ! that his tale to me may be nothing
but—anon. Step aside, and I’ll show thee a precedent.

Poins. Francis!

P. Hen. Thou art perfect.

Poins. Francis!

Enter FRANCIS.

Fran. Anon, anon, sir.—Look down into the Pome-
granate, Ralph.

P. Hen, Come hither, Francis.

Fran. My lord.

P. Hen, How long hast thou to serve, Francis ?

Fran. Forsooth, five years, and as much as to—

Poins. [Within.] Francis !

Fran. Anon, anon, sir.

P. Hen. Vive years! by’r lady, a long lease for the
clinking of pewter. But, Francis, darest thou be so

[Exit.

40

come out of that fat room,
|

 

valiant as to play the coward with thy inden
to show it a fair pair of heels, and eae from wee ait
_ Fran. O Lord, sir! I’ll be sworn upon all the books
in England, I could find in my heart— 50

Poins. [Within.] Francis !

an. Anon, anon, sir.
P. Hen. How old art thou, Francis?
Fran. Let me see,—about Michaelmas next I shall

e—
que. atte) Penal
ran. Anon, sir.—Pray you, stay a little, my lord,
P. Hen. Nay, but hark you, Francis. For the sugar
thou gavest me,—’t was a pennyworth, was’t not?

=

|

FL
fra

a

v=

 

P. Hen, “ Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them call?”

Fran. O Lord, sir! I would it had been two. 60

P. Hen. I will give thee for it a thousand pound:
ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it.

Poins. [Within.] Francis!

Fran. Anon, anon.

P. Hen. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-mor-
row, Francis; or, Francis, on Thursday ; or, indeed,
Francis, when thou wilt. But, Francis,—

Fran. My lord? :

P. Hen. ilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal- |
button, nott-pated, agate-ring, puke-stocking, caddis-
garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch,— il

Fran. O Lord, sir, who do you mean ? 4

P. Hen. Why then, your brown bastard is your
only drink : for, look you, Francis, your white canvas
doublet will sully. In Barbary, sir, it cannot come to
so much.

Fran. What, sir?

Poins. (Within.] Francis!

P. Hen. Away, yourogue ! Dost thou not hear them
call? [Here they both call him ; the Drawer stands

amazed, not knowing which way to go.

Enter Vintner.

Vint. What! stand’st thou still, and _hear’st such &
calling? Look to the guests within. [Exit FRANCIS.]
My lord, old Sir John, with half a dozen more, are at
the door: shall I let them in?

P. Hen, Let them alone awhile, and then open
the door. [Exit Vintner.] Poins!

Re-enter Potns.

Poins. Anon, anon, sir. .

P. Hen. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves
are at the door. Shall we be merry?

Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye;
what cunning match have you made with this jest of
the drawer? come, what’s the issue? 92

P. Hen. Tam now of all humours, that have show'd
themselves humours, since the old days of goodman

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.) KING. HENRY

IV.—PART I. 395

 

_ Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o’clock
at midnight.
Re-enter FRANCIS, with wine,

What’s o’clock, Francis? :
Fran. Anon, anon, sir. eee
.P. Hen. That ever this fellow should have fewer

words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman!

His industry is—up-stairs, and down-stairs ; his elo-
uence, the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of
ercy’s mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills

me some six.or seven dozen of Scots at a

breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his

wife,—‘ Fie upon this quiet life! I want
work.” ‘‘O my sweet Harry,” says she, “how
many hast thou killed to-day?” “Give my
roan horse a drench,” says he, and answers,

“Some fourteen,” an hour after; ‘‘a trifle, a

trifle.”—I pr’ythee, call in Falstaff: Ill play

Percy, and that damned brawn shall play

Dame Mortimer his wife. ‘‘ Rivo!” says the

drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow.

Enter FALSTAFF, GADSHILL, BARDOLPH,
and PETO.

Poins. Welcome, Jack. Where hast thou
been ? .

Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a
vengeance too! marry, and amen !—Give me
a cup of sack, boy.—Ere I lead this life long,
I'll sew nether-stocks, and mend them, and
foot them too. A plague of all cowards!— }
Give me a cup of sack, rogue.—Is there no
virtue extant? He drinks.

P. Hen. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a
dish of butter (pitiful-hearted Titan), that
melted at the sweet tale of the sun? if thou
didst, then behold that compound.

Fal. You rogue, here’s lime in this sack
too: there is nothing but roguery to be found
in villainous man: yet a coward is worse than
a cup of sack with lime in it: a villainous
coward.—Go thy ways, old Jack; die when
thou wilt. If manhood, good manhood, be
not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am
I a shotten et There live not three
good men unhanged in England, and one of
them is fat, and eras old: God help the
while! a bad world, I say. I would I were a
weaver; I could sing psalms or anything.
Apes of all cowards, I say still. 140

z Hen. How now, wool-sack? what mutter
you

Fal. A king’s son! If I do not beat thee out
of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and
drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild

eese, I'll never wear hair on my face more. You

rince of Wales !

P. Hen, Why, you whoreson round man, what’s
the matter?

Fal. Are you not a coward? answer me to that ; and
Poins there ? 151

Poins. ’Zounds! ye fat-paunch, an ye call me
coward, I ll stab thee.

Fal. I call thee coward! I’ll see thee damned ere I
call thee coward ; but I would give a thousand pound,
Icould run as fast as thou canst. You are straight
enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your
back : call you that backing of your friends? A plague
upon such backing! give me them that will face me.
—Give me a cup of sack: Iama rogue, if I drunk
to-day. 161

P. Hen. O villain! thy lips are scarce wiped since
thou drunk’st last.

Fal. All’s one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all
cowards, still say I.

P. Hen. What’s the matter?

Fal. What’s the matter? there be four of us here
have ta’en a thousand pound this day morning.

P. Hen. Where is it, Jack? where is it?

 

 

Fal. Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred
npon poor four of us. 171

P. Hen. What, a hundred, man ?

Fal. [am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with
a dozen of them two hours together. I have ’scap’d
by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the
doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut
through and through; my sword hacked like a hana-
saw: ecce signum. I never dealt better since I was a
man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards !—
Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth,
they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

P, Hen. Speak, sirs: how was it?

 

Fal. ‘And thus I bore my point.”

Gads. We four set upon some dozen,—

Fal. Sixteen, at least, my lord.

Gads. And bound them.

Peto. No, no, they were not bound.

Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of
them; or Iam a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh

men set upon us, — 190
Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the
other.

P. Hen. What, fought ye with them all?

Fal. All? I know not what ye call all; but if [fought
not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish: if
there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old
Jack, then am I no two-legged creature.

P. Hen. Pray God, you have not murdered some of
them. . 199
Fal. Nay, that’s past praying for: I have peppered
two of them: two, I am sure, have paid, two
rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,—if I
tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou
knowest my old ward :—here I lay, and thus I bore
my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me,—

P. Hen. What, four? thou saidst but two, even

now.
Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four.

Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. 269

 

 
 

396 KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

(Act I,

 

 

 

Fal. These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust
at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their
seven points in my target, thus.

P. Hen. Seven? why, there were but four, even now.

fal. In buckram?

Poins. Ay, four, in buckram suits.

Ful. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

P. Hen. Pr'’ythee, let him alone: we shall have
more anon.

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?

P. Hen, Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. Th
nine in buckram, that I told thee of,—

P. Hen. So, two more already.

Fal. Their points being broken, —

Poins. Down fell their hose.

Fal. Began to give me ground; but I followed me
close, came in, foot and hand, and with a thought
seven of the eleven I paid.

P. Hen, O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown
out. of two. 230

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three mishe-

otten knaves in Kendal green caine at my back and
fet drive at me; tor it was so dark, Hal, that thou
couldst not see thy hand.

P, Hen. These lies are like the father that begets
them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why.
thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou
whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-ketch,—

Fal. What! art thou mad? art thou mad? is not
the truth the truth ? 240

P. Hen. Why, how couldst thou know these men in
Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not
see thy hand? come, tell us your reason: what sayest
thou to this ?

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Fal. What. upon compulsion?) No; were I at the
strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not
tell you on compulsion. Give you a rcason on com-
pulsion ! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I
would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I. 250

P. Hen. Vl be no longer guilty of this sin: this
sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-
breaker, this huge hill of flesh ;—

Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried
neat’s-tongue, bull’s-pizzle, you stock-tish,—O, for
breath to utter what is like thee !—you tailor's-
ala you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing
tuck ;—

P. Hen, Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again ;
and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons,
hear me speak but this. 261

Poins. Mark, Jack.

P. Hen. We two saw you four set on four, and you
bound them, and were masters of their wealth.—
Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down.—
Then did we two set on you four, and, with a word,
outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and
can show it you here in the house,—And, Falstaif,
you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick
dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and
roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art
thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then
say, it wasin fight! What trick, what device, what
starting-hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee
from this open and ee shame?

Poins. Come, let’s hear, Jack : what trick hast thou
now ?

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that
made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Wasit forme
to kill the heir-apparent? Should I turn upon the
true prince?) Why, thou knowest, Iam as valiant as
Hercules; but beware instinct: the lion will not
touch the true prince. Instinct isa great matter, I
was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of
myself and thee, during my lite; I for a valiant lion,
and thou for a true pene. But, by the Lord, lads, I
am glad you have the money.—Hostess, op to the
doors: watch to-night, pray  to-morrow.—Gallants,
lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellow-
ship come to you! What! shall we be merry? shall
we have a play extempore? 291

220
ese

 

P. Hen. Content ;—and th 1
dipping uway. € argument shall be, thy
Fal. Ab!'no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me.

‘ Enter Hostess.
poe oO ee My lord ve Dimes
. fen. How now, my la the h
say’st thou to me? oe e OaheeT “aig
ost. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the
court at door, would speak with you: he says, he
comes from your father. 30

P. Hen. Give him as much as will make him a
royal man, and send him back again to my mother,

fal. What manner of man is he?

a ee ag ae

al. at doth gravity out of his bed at midnight?
—Shall I give him his anewer? ate

P. Hen, Pr’ythee, do, Jack.

fal. ’Faith, and I’ll send him packing. (Exit.

P. Hen. Now, sirs; by 'r lady, you fought fair :—so
did you, Peto ;—so did you, Bardolph : you are lions,
too, you ran away upon instinct, you will not touch
the true prince, no ;—fie !

Bard. ’Faith, Tran when I saw others run.

P. Hen. ’Faith, tell me now in earnest : how came
Falstaff's sword so hacked ? i

Peto, Why, he hacked it with his dagger, and said
he would swear truth out of England, but he woul
make you believe it was done in fight ; and persuaded
us to do the like.

Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with spear-
grass, to make them bleed; and then to beslubber
our garments with it, and to swear it was the blood
of true men. I did that I did not this seven years
before ; I blushed to hear his monstrous devices.

P. Hen, O villain! thou stolest a cup of sack
eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner,
and ever since thou hast blushed extempore. Thou
hadst fire and sword on thy side, and yet thou rann’st
away. What instinct hadst thou for it?

Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors? do you
behold these exhalations ? 331

P. Hen, 1 do.

Bard. What think you they portend ?

P. Hen, Hot livers and cold purses.

Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken.

P, Hen. No, if rightly taken, halter.

Re-enter FALSTAFF,
Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. How
now, my sweet creature of bombast? How long is’t
ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee?

Fal. My own knee? when I was about thy years,
Hal, I was not an eagle’s talon in the waist; I could
have crept into any alderman’s thumb-ring. eee
of sighing and grief! it blows a man up like a bladder.
There's villainous news abroad: here was Sir John
Bracy from your father : . must to the court in the
morning. That same mad fellow of the north, Percy,
and he of Wales, that gave Amaimon the bastinado,
and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the devil his
true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook,—
what, a plague, call you him ?— 350

Poins. O! Glendower. .

Fal. Owen, Owen; the same ;—and his son-in-law,
Mortimer, and old Northumberland ; ard that
sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas, that runs o’ horse-
back up a hill perpendicular. — 4 .

P. Hen. He that rides at high speed, and with his
pistol kills a sparrow flying.

Fal. You have hit it.

P. Hen, So did he never the sparrow.

Fal. Well, that rascal hath good mettle in him; he
will not run. 361

P, Hen. Why, what arascal art thou then, to praise
him so for running ? .

Fal. 0’ horseback, ye cuckoo! but, afoot, he will
not budge a foot.

P. Hen. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. 7

Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well, he is there
too, and one Mordake, and a thousand blue-caps more,
Worcester is stolen away to-night; thy father’s beard

 

 
 

Scene IV.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART I. 397

 

is turned white with the news; you may buy land now
as cheap as stinking mackerel. 371

P. Hen. Why then, it is like, if there come a hot
June, and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy
maidenheads as they buy hob-nails, by the hundreds.

Fal. By the mass, lad, thou sayest true; it is like,
we shall have good trading that way.—But, tell me,
Hal, art thou not horribly afeard? thou being heir-
apparent, could the world pick thee out three such
enemies again, as that fiend Douglas, that spirit
Percy, and that devil Glendower? Art thou not
horribly afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it? 381

P. Hen. Not a whit, i'faith: I lack some of thy
instinct.

Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow,
when thou comest to thy father. If thou love me,
practise an answer. :

P. Hen. Do thou stand for my father, and examine
me upon the particulars of my life.

Fal. Shall 1? content.—This chair shall be my state,
this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

P. a Thy state is taken from a joint-stool, thy
golden sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious
rich crown for a pitiful bald crown! 393

Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of
thee, now shalt thou be moved.—Give me a cup of
sack, to make mine eyes look red, that it may be
thonght Ihave wept ; for I must speak in passion, and
I will do it in King Cambyses’ vein.

P. Hen. Well, here is my leg.

Fal. And here is my speech.—Stand aside, nobility.

Host. O Jesu! This is excellent sport, i’ faith. 401

Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are

vain.
Host. O, the father ! how he holds his countenance!
Fal. For God’s sake, lords, convey my tristful

queen,
For tears do stop the flood-gates of her eyes.

Host. O Jesu! he doth it as like one of these
harlotry players as ever I see.

Fal. Peace, good pint-pot! peace, good tickle-brain!
—Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest
thy time, but also how thou art accompanied: for
though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the
. faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the
sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have partly
thy mother’s word, partly my own opinion; but
chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye, and a foolish
hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant me. If
then thou be son to me, here lies the point :—why,
being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the
, blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat black-
berries? a question not to be asked. Shall the son of
. England prove a thief, and take purses? a question to
be asked. There is a thing, Harry, which thou hast
often heard of, and it is known to many in our land
by the name of pitch: this pitch, as ancient writers
' do report, doth defile; so doth the company thou
keepest ; for, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in
drink, but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion ;
not in words only, but in woes also.—And yet there is
a virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy com-
pany, but I know not his name. 430
| 2. Hen, What manner of man, an it like your
| majesty ?

‘al. A goodly portly man, i’ faith, and a corpulent;
of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble
carriage ; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by’r
lady, inclining to threescore, and now I remember me,
| his name is Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly

fen he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in

is looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit,
| as the fruit by the tree, then, peremptorily I speak it,
there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep with, the
| Test banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet,
tell me, where hast thou been this month ? 3

P. Hen. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou
stand for me, and I’ll play my father.

Fal. Depose me? if thou dost it half_so gravely, so
| Majestically, both in word and matter, Pang ne up by
| the heels for a rabbit-sucker, or a poulter’s hare.
| 2, Hen, Well, here I am set.

 

 

Fal, And here I stand._Judge, my masters. 450

P. Hen. Now, Harry! whence come you?

Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

P. Hen. The complaints I hear of thee are grievous.

Fal. ’Sblood, my lord, they are false :—nay, I'll
Bee ye for a young prince, i’ faith.

P. Hen. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? hence-
forth ne’er look on me. ‘Thou art violently carried
away from grace: there is a devil haunts thee, in the
likeness of a fat old man: atun of man is thy com-

anion. Why dost thou converse with that trunk of
humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swoln
parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that
stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox
with the pudding in his belly, that reverend Vice, that
grey Iniquity, that father ruflian, that Vanity in years?
Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it?
wherein neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and
eat it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty,
but in villainy ? wherein villainous, but in all things?
wherein worthy, but in nothing? : 470

Fal. I would your grace would take me with you.
Whom means your grace ? :

P. Hen. That villainous abominable misleader of
youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

Fal. My lord, the man I know.

P. Hen. I know thou dost.

Fal. But to say, I know more harm in him than in
myself, were to say more than I know. That he is
old, the more the pity, his white hairs do witness it:
but that he is, saving your reverence, a whoremaster,
that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God
help the wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then
many an old host that I know is damned: if to be fat
be to be_ hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine are to be
loved. No, my good lord: banish Peto, banish Bar-
dolph, banish Poins; but for sweet Jack Falstatt, kind
Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Fal-
staff, and therefore more valiant, being, as he is, old
Jack Falstaff, banish not him thy Harry's company :
banish plump Jack, and banish all the world. 490

P. Hen. I do, I will. knocking heard.

[Exeunt Hostess, FRANCIS, and BARDOLPH.

Re-enter BARDOLPH, running.
Bard. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff, with a most.
monstrous watch, is at the door.
Fal. Out, you rogue! Play out the play: I have
much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.
Re-enter Hostess.

Host. O Jesu! my lord, my lord !—

P. Hen. Heigh, heigh! the devil rides upon a fiddle-
stick. What’s the matter?

Host. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door:
they are come to search the house. Shall Ilet them in?

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? never call a true piece of
gold a counterfeit: thou art essentially mad, without
seeming so. 503

P. Hen. And thou a natural coward, without
instinct. .

Fal. Ideny your major. If you will deny the sheriff.
so; if not, let him enter: if I become not a cart as
well as another man, a plague on my bringing up! I
hope [I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as
another. . 510

P. Hen. Go, hide thee behind the arras :—the rest
walk up above. Now, my masters, for a true face,
and good conscience.

Fal. Both which I have had; but their date is out.
and therefore I’ll hide me.

[Exeunt all but the PRINCE and PETO.

P. Hen. Call in the sheriff.

Enter Sheriff and Carrier.

Now, master sheriff, what’s your will with me?

Sher. First, pardon me, my lord. A hue and cry
Hath follow’d certain men unto this house.

P. Hen. What men? 520

Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious lord ;
A gross fat man.

‘ar. As fat as butter.
P. Hen. The man, I do assure you, is not here,

 

a

 
 

398

 

For I myself at this time have employ’d him.
And, sheriff, I will engage my word to thee,
That I will, by to-morrow dinner-time,

Send him to answer thee, or any man,

And so, let me entreat you, leave the house.

Have in this robbery lost three hundred marks.

KING HENRY IV.—PART I. {Act IL:

P. Hen. This oily rascal is known as well as Paul's,

Go, call him forth.
eto. Falstaff!—Fast asleep behind the arras, and
540

snorting like a horse.

 

Peto, *‘ Fast asleep behind the arras, and snorting like a horse.”

P. Hen. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. Search

Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord. :
P. Hen. Let’s see what they be: read ahem, od
foe AO

For anything he shall be charg’d withal: |
| his pockets. [PreTo searches.] What hast thou found.
|

Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen 530
P. Hen. It may be so: if he have robb’d these men, Peto. [Reads.] ‘‘Item, A capon .

 

He shall be answerable; and so, farewell. Item, Sauce ..... . o .
Sher. Good night, my noble lord. Item, Sack, two gallons ....... + 5% 8d.
P. Hen. 1 think it is good morrow, is it not? Item, Anchovies, and sack after supper . 28, 6d.
Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think it be two o'clock. Item, Bread . . 1. we ew ee ee .

[Ezeunt Sheriff and Carrier. | P. Hen. O monstrous! but one half-pennyworth of

 
 

SCENE Ww

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

399

 

bread to this intolerable deal of sack !—What there
is else, keep close: we'll read it at more advantage.
There let him sleep till day. I'll to the court in the
morning : we must all to the wars, and thy place shall
pe honourable. I’ll procure this fat rogue a charge

 

of foot; and, I know, his death will be a march of
twelve-score. The money shall be paid back again
with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morn-
ing; and so, good morrow, Peto.

eto. Good morrow, good my lord. 560
[Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

   

Mortimer.

, LESE promises are fair, the parties sure,

{And our induction full of prosperous hope.
Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glen-

dower,

Will you sit down +? y

And, uncle Worcester :—a plague upon it!

I have forgot the map. :
Glend. No, here it is.

Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hot-

spur ;
For by that name as oft as Lancaster
Doth speak of you,

His cheek looks pale, and with a rising sigh 10
He wisheth you in heaven.

Hot. And you in hell, as oft as he hears
Owen Glendower spoke of.

Glend. I cannot blame him. At my nativity
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets ; and at my birth,
The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shak’d like a coward, .

Hot. Why, so it would have done at the same
season, if your mother’s cat had but kitten’d, thoug!
yourself had never been born. 2

Glend. I say, the earth did shake when I was born.

Hot. And I say, the earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook. .
lend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did
tremble.

Hot. O! then the earth shook to see the heavens on

 

re,
And not in fear of your nativity.
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions : oft the teeming earth
Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d 30
By the imprisoning of unruly wind. nix
ithin her womb; which, for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldam earth, and topples down
Steeples, and moss-grown towers. At your birth,
Our grandam earth, having this distemperature,
In paeeion shook.
» Glend. Cousin, of many men
Ido not bear these crossings. Give me leave
To tell you once again,—that at my birth
' The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes ;
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds 40
Were strangely clamorous to the frighted fields.
hese signs have mark’d me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show,
Iam not in the roll of common men.
here is he living,—clipp’d in with the sea
That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,—
Which calls me pupil, or hath read to me?
And bring him out, that is but woman’s son,
; Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,
And hold me pace in deep experiments. 50
i

 

 

ACT III.
ScenE I.—Bangor. A Room in the Archdeacon’s House.
Enter HoTsPuR, WORCESTER, MORTIMER, and GLENDOWER.

Hot. I think, there is no man speaks better Welsh.
I'll to dinner.
Mort. Peace, cousin Percy! you will make him

mad,
Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man ;
But will they come, when you do call for them ?
Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command
the devil.
Ffot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil,
By telling truth : tell truth, and shame the devil.—
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, 60
And I’ll be sworn, I have power to shame him hence.
O! while you live, tell truth, and shame the devil. ~
Mort. Come, come ;
No more of this unprofitable chat.
Glend. Flt times hath Henry Bolingbroke made
ea
Against my power : thrice from the banks of Wye,
And sandy-bottom’d Severn, have I sent him
Bootless home, and weather-beaten back.
Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too!
How ’scapes he agues, in the devil's name? 70
Glend. come, here’s the map. Shall we divide our
right,
According to our three-fold order ta’en ?
Mort. The archdeacon hath divided it
Into three limits very equally.
England, from Trent and Severn hitherto,
By south and east, is to my part assign’d:
All westward, Wales, beyond the Severn shore,
And all the fertile land within that bound,
To Owen Glendower :—and, dear coz, to you
The remnant northward, lying off from Trent. 80
And our indentures tripartite are drawn,
Which being sealed interchangeably
(A business that this night may execute),
To-morrow, cousin Percy, you, and I,
And my good Lord of Worcester, will set forth,
To meet your father, and the Scottish power,
As is apuelnres us, at Shrewsbury.
My father Glendower is not ready yet,
Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days.—
Within that space you may have drawn together 90
Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring gentlemen.
Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords;

| And in my conduct shall your ladies come,

From whom you now must steal, and take no leave;
For there will be a world of water shed,
Upon the parting of your wives and you.

Hot. Methinks, my moiety, north from Burton here,
In quantity equals not one of yours.
See, how this river comes me cranking in,
And cuts me from the best of all my land
A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out.
Ill have the current in this place damm’d up,
And here the smug and silver Trent shall run

100

 

 
 

 

400

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

[Act IIL.

 

In a new channel, fair and evenly:

It shall not wind with such a deep indent,

To rob me of so rich a bottom here. 5
Glend. Not wind? it shall, it must : you see, it doth.
Mort. Yea, but

Mark, how he bears his course, and runs me up

With like advantage on the other side ;

Gelding the opposed continent as much

As on the other side it takes from you.

«matt eeeestl num URA EM lt RRU MA ALCL A YAU
pga MM
i t al
‘ i

110

Hist 5

 

 

 

   

MNT

AAA :

Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him here,
And on this north side win this cape of land ;
And then he runs straight and even.
Hot. I'll have it so; a little charge will do it.
Glend. I will not have it alter’d.
Will not you?

Hot.
Glend. No, nor you shall not.

ot. 7 Who shall say me nay ?
Glend. Why, that will I.

Hot. Let me not understand you then:

Speak it in Welsh. 120

Glend. I can ae English, lord, as well as you,
For I was train’d up in the English court ;
Where, being but young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty, lovely well,
And gave the tongue a helpful ornament ;
A virtue that was never seen in you.
Hot. Marry, and I’m glad of it with all my heart.
I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew,
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers:
I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn’d,
Or a dry wheel grate on the axle-tree ;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry :
°*T is like the fore’d gait of a shutHing nag.
Glend. Come, you shall have Trent turn’d.
Hot. I do not care: I'll give thrice so much land
To any well-deserving friend ;
But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair.
Are the indentures drawn? shall we be gone? 140
Glend. aa moon shines fair, you may away by
night:
I'll haste the writer, and, withal,
Break with your wives of your departure hence.
Iam afraid my daughter will run mad,
[Exit.

130

So much she doteth on her Mortimer.
Mort. Fie, cousin Percy! how you cross my father!
Hot. I cannot choose : sometime he angers me

With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant,

Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies,

And of a dragon, and a finless fish,

A clip-wing’d griffin, and a moulten raven,

A couching lion, and a ramping cat,

And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff

150

 

As pute me from my faith. I tell you what,—

He held me, last night, at least nine hours,

In reckoning up the several devils’ names,

That were his lackeys: I cried, ‘‘ Humph,” and “ Well,

‘0 to,

But marik'd him not a word. O! he’s as tedious
As a tired horse, a railing wife ;
Worse than a smoky house. I had rather live
With cheese and garlic in a windmill, far,
Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me
In any summer-house in Christendom.

Mort. In faith, he is a worthy gentleman,
Exceedingly well read, and profited
In strange concealments, valiant as a lion,
And wondrous affable, and as bountiful
As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin?
He holds your temper in a high respect,
And curbs himself even of his natural scope,
When you do cross his humour; ’faith, he does.
I warrant you, that man is not alive,
Might so have tempted him as you have done,
Without the taste of danger and reproof:
But do not use it oft, let me entreat you.

Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too wilful-blame ;
And since your coming hither, have done enough
To put him quite beside his patience.
You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault :
Though sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood,
(And that’s the dearest grace it renders you,) 181
Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage,
Defect of manners, want of government,
Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain :
The least of which, haunting a nobleman,
Loseth men’s hearts, and leaves behind a stain
Upon the beauty of all parts besides,
Boguiing them of commendation.

Hot. Well, 4 ae school’d; good manners be your

speed !

Here come our wives, and let us take our leave. 190

Re-enter GLENDOWER, with the Ladies.

Mort. This is the deadly spite that angers me,
My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh.
Glend. My daughter weeps; she will not part with

you:
She'll be a soldier too; she’ll to the wars.
Mort. Good father, tell her, that she, and my aunt

160

170

Percy,
Shall follow in your conduct speedily.
[GLENDOWER speaks to her in Welsh, and she
answers himinthe same. . ;
Glend. She’s desperate here; a peevish self-will’d
harlotry,
One that no persuasion can do good upon.
(She speaks to MORTIMER in Welsh.
Mort. I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh
Which thou pourest down from these swelling heavens,
I am too perfect in: and, but for shame, 201
In such a parley should I answer thee. .
[She speaks again.
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that’s a feeling disputation:
But I will never be a truant, love,
Till I have learn’d thy language; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn’d,
Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower,
With ravishing division, to her lute.
Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad. 210
[She speaks again.
Mort. O! I am ignorance itself in this.
Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you

own,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness :
Making such difference ’twixt wake and sleep,
As is the ditference betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harness’d team
Begins his golden progress in the east. ; 220
Mort. With all my heart I’ll sit, and hear her sing:
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.

 

 
| Accompany the greatness of thy blood,

| Quit all offences with as clear excuse,

 

 

Scene IL] KING HENRY

IV.—PART I. 401

 

Glend. Doso; _

And those musicians that shall play to you,
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence;
And straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend.

Hot. Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down:
come, quick, quick ; that I may lay my head in thy lap.

Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose. — [The pee Se

Hot. Now I perceive, the devil understands Welsh ;
And ’tis no marvel, he is so humorous. 23
By ’r lady, he’s a good musician.

Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical,
for you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still,
ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh.

i a I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in
rish.

Lady P. Wouldst have thy head broken ?

Hot. No.

Lady P. Then be still.

Hot. Neither ; ’tis a woman’s fault.

Lady P. Now, God help thee!

Hot. To the Welsh lady’s bed.

Lady P. What’s that?

Hot. Peace! she sings.

[4 Welsh song sung by Lady MORTIMER.

Hot. Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.

Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth.

Hot. Not yours, in good sooth! ’Heart! you swear
like a comfit-maker's wife. ‘‘ Not you, in good sooth ;”
and, ‘‘ As true as I live;” and, ‘“‘ As God shall mend
me;” and, “ As sure as day:” 251
And giv’st such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,

As if thou never walk’dst further than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,

A good mouth-filling oath; and leave *‘in sooth,”
And such protest of Hepner sneer bread,

To velvet-guards, and Sunday-citizens.

Come, sing.

Lady P. I will not sing.

Hot. "Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be red-
breast teacher. An the indentures be drawn, I'll aney
within these two hours; and so come in when ve ae

xtt,

Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow
As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.

By this our book is drawn: we will but seal,
And then to horse immediately.
Mort. With all my heart.

240

{[Hxeunt.

 

ScENE II.—London. A Room in the Palace.

Enter King Henry, Prince of WALES, and Lords.
K. Hen. Tpnas, give usleave. The Prince of Wales
an

Must have some private conference: but be near at

and,
For we shall presently have need of you.—

[Exeunt Lords.
Iknow not whether God will have it so,
For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood
He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me;
But thou dost, in thy passages of life,
Make me believe, that thou art only mark’d
For the hot vengeance and the rod of Heaven,
To punish my mistreadings. ‘Tell me else,
Could such inordinate and low desires,
Such pour, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,
Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match’d withal, and grafted to,

10

And hold their level with thy princely heart?
P. Hen. So please your majesty, I would I could
As well as, I am doubtless, I can purge 20
Myself of many I am chareg’d withal:
Yet such extenuation let me beg,
As, in reproof of many tales devis’d
(Which oft the ear of greatness needs must hear)
By smiling pick-thanks and base newsmongers,

 

may, for some things true, wherein my youth

Hath faulty wander’d and irregular,
Find pardon on my true submission.

K. oe God pardon thee!—yet let me wonder,

arry,

At thy affections, which do hold a wing 30
Quite from the flight of all thy ancestors.
Thy place in council thou hast rudely lost,
Which by thy younger brother is supplied ; ,
And art almost an alien to the hearts /
Of all the court, and princes of my blood.
The hope and expectation of thy time
Is ruin’d, and the soul of every man
Prophetically does forethink thy fall.
Had I so lavish of my presence been,
So common-hackney’d in the eyes of men,
So stale and cheap to vulgar company,
Opinion, that did help me to the crown,

ad still kept loyal to possession,
And left me in reputeless banishment,
A fellow of no mark, nor likelihood.
By being seldom seen, I could not stir,
But like a comet I was wonder’d at;
That men would tell their children, ‘‘ This is he ;”
Others would say,—‘‘ Where? which is Bolingbroke ?”
And then I stole all courtesy from Heaven, 0
And dress’d myself in such humility,
That I did pluck allegiance from men’s hearts,
Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths,
Even in the presence of the crowned king.
Thus did I keep my person fresh, and new;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne’er seen but wonder’d at: and so my state,
Seldom, but sumptuous, showed like a feast,
And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits,
Soon kindled, and soon burn’d ; carded his state,
Mingled his royalty with carne fools,
Had his great name profaned with their scorns,
And gave his countenance, against his name,
To laugh at gibing boys, and stand the push
Of every beardless vain comparative ;
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff’d himself to popularity,
That, being daily swallow’d by men’s eyes,
They surfeited with honey, and began
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
More than a little is by much too much.
So, when he had occasion to be seen,
He was but as the cuckoo is in June,
Heard, not regarded ; seen, but with such eyes,
As, sick and blunted with community,
Afford no extraordinary gaze, _
Such as is bent on sun-like majesty,
When it shines seldom in admiring eyes; 80
But rather drows’d, and ee their eyelids down,
Slept in his face, and render’d such aspect
As cloudy men use to their adversaries,
Being with his presence glutted, gorg’d, and full.
And in that very line, Harry, stand’st thou ;
For thou hast lost thy princely privilege
With vile participation. Not an eye
But is aweary of thy common sight,
Save mine, which hath desir’d to see thee more;
Which now doth that I would not have it do,
Make blind itself with foolish tenderness,

P. Hen I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord,

Be more myself.

K. Hen. For all the world,
As thou art to this hour, was Richard then,
When I from France set foot at Ravenspurg ;
And even as I was then, is Percy now.
Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot,
He hath more worthy interest to the state,
Than thou the shadow of succession :
For, of no right, nor colour like to right,
He doth fill fields with harness in the realm,
Turns head against the lion’s armed jaws,
And, being no more in debt to years than thou,
Leads ancient lords and reverend bishops on
To bloody battles, and to bruising arms.
What never-dying honour hath he got

40

60

70

90

100

 

aL

 
 

402

KING HENRY

IV.—PART I. [Act ITIL

 

 

Against renowned Douglas, whose high deeds,
Whose hot incursions, and great name in arms,
Holds from all soldiers chief majority,

And military title capital, _ 110
Through all the kingdoms that acknowledge Christ.
Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathing-clothes,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises

Discomfited great Douglas: ta’en him once,

Enlarged him, and made a friend of him,

To fill the mouth of deep defiance up,

And shake the peace and safety of our throne.

‘And what say you to this? Percy, Northumberland,
The Archbishop’s Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer,
Capitulate against us, and are up. 120

Z ER
a
ih

 

 

 

P. Hen. ‘ This, in the name of God, I promlse here.”

But wherefore do I tell these news to thee?
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes,

Which art my near'st and dearest enemy?
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear,
Base inclination, and the start of spleen,

To fight against me under Percy's pay,

To dog his heels, and curtsy at his frowns,

To show how much thou art degenerate.

P. Hen. Do not think so; you shall not find it so:
And God forgive them that so much have sway’d 130
Your majesty’s good thoughts away from me!

I will redeem all this on Percy’s head,

And, in the closing of some glorious day,

Be bold to tell you that Iam your son;

When I will wear a garment all of blood,

And stain my favours in a bloody mask,

Which, wash’d away, shall scour my shame with it:
And that shall be the day, whene’er it lights,
That this same child of honour and renown,
This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight,
And your unthought-of Harry, chance to meet.
For every honour sitting on his helm,

*Would they were multitudes; and on my head
My shames redoubled! for the time will come,
That I shall make this northern youth exchange
His glorious deeds for my indignities.

Percy is but my factor, ood my lord,

To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf;
And I will call him to so strict account,

That he shall render every glory up,

Yea, even the slightest worship of his time,

Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart.
This, in the name of God, I promise here:

The which, if he be pleas’d I shall perform,

I do beseech your majesty, may salve

The long-grown wounds of my intemperance:
If not, the end of life cancels all bands,

And I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ie’er break the smallest parcel of this vow.

140

150

 

K. Hen. A hundred thousand rebels die in this : 169
Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein,

Enter BLuNT.

How now, good Blunt? thy looks are full of speed.

Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of,
Lord Mortimer of Scotland hath sent word,

That Douglas and the English rebels met,
The eleventh of this month, at Shrewsbury.
A mighty and a fearful head they are,

If promises be kept on every hand,

As ever offer’d foul play in a state.

K. Hen. The Karl of Westmoreland set forth to-day,
With him my son, Lord John of Lancaster; 171
For this advertisement is five days old.—

On Wednesday next, Harry, you shall set forward;

On Thursday we ourselves will march:

Our meeting is Bridgnorth ; and, Harry, you

Shall march through Glostershire ; by which account,

Our business valued, some twelve days hence

Our general forces at Bridgnorth shall meet.

Our hands are full of business: let’s away ;

Advantage feeds him fat, while men delay. 180
[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—Eastcheap. A Room in the Boar’s Head
Tavern.

Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH.

Fal. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since
this last action? doI not bate? do I not dwindle? Why,
my skin hangs about me like an old lady’s loose gown:
I am wither’d like an old apple-John. Well, [’ll re-
are and that suddenly, while I am in some liking;

shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have
no strength to repent. An I have not forgotten what
the inside of a church is made of, I am a pepper-corn,
a brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company,
villainous company, hath been the spoil of me. 10

Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live

long.

Fal. Why, there is it.-Come, sing me a bawdy
song; make me merry. I was as virtuously given as
a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough: swore
little; diced not above seven times a week ; went toa .
bawdy-house not above once in a quarter—of an hour;
paid money that I borrowed three or four times; lived
well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all
order, out of all compass. 5 20

Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must
needs be out of all compass, out of all reasonable
compass, Sir John.

Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my
life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern
in the poop,—but ’tis in the nose of thee: thou art the
Knight of the Burning Lamp.

Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

Fal. No; I’ll_be sworn, I make as good use of it as
many a man doth of a death's-head, or a memento mort.
I never see thy face but I think upon_hell-fire, and
Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes,
burning, burning. If thou wert any way given to
virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be,
“ By this fire, that’s God’s angel.” But thou art alto-
gether iven over, and wert indeed, but for the light
in thy face, the sun of utter darkness. en thou
rann’st up Gadshill in the night to catch my horse, if
I did not think thou hadst been an ignis fatuus, or
a ball of wildfire, there’s no purchase in money. OU:
thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-
light. Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links
and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt
tavern and tavern: but the sack that thou hast drunk
me, would have bought me lights as good cheap, at
the dearest chandler’s in Europe. I have maintaine
that salamander of yours with fire any time this two-
and-thirty years: God reward me for it! -

i rite ’Sblood! I would my face were in yon
elly.

Fal. God-a-mercy ! so should I be sure to be heart-

| burned.

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART TI.

403

 

Enter Hostess.
How now, Dame Partlet the hen? have you inquired

yet who cues my pocket?
- Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think, Sir John?
Do you think I keep thieves in my house? I have
searched, I have inquired, so has my husband, man
by man, boy by boy, servant by servant: the tithe of
a hair was never lost in my house before.

Fal. You lie, hostess; Bardolph was shaved, and
lost many a hair; and I’ll be sworn, my pocket was
picked. Goto, you are a woman; go. 62

Host. Who, I No. I defy thee: God’s light!
Iwas never called so in mine own house before.

Fal. Go to, I know you well enough.

Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me,
Sir John: I know you, Sir John: you owe me
money, Sir John, and _now you pick a quarrel
to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of
shirts to your back. 70

Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given
them away to bakers’ wives, and they have
made bolters of them.

Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of
eight shillings an ell. You owe money here
besides, Sir John, for your diet, and by-drinkings,
and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound.

Fal. He had his part of it: let him pay.

Host. He? alas! he is poor: he hath nothing.

Fal. How! poor? look upon his face; what
call you rich? let them coin his nose, let them
coin his cheeks, I’ll not pay a denier. What,

i you make a younker of me? shall I not
take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have
my pocket picked? I have lost.a seal-ring of my
grandfather's, worth forty mark.

Host. O Jesu! I have heard the prince tell
him, I know not how oft, that that ring was

copper.
Fal. How! the prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup;

’sblood! an he were here, I would cudgel him like a

dog, if he would say so. 92

Enter Prince HENRY and 'PoINs, marching. FAt-
STAFF meets the PRINCE, playing on his truncheon,
__ like a fife.

Fal. How now, lad? is the wind in that door, i
faith? must we all march?

Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate-fashion.

Host. My lord, I pray you, hear me.

P. Hen, What sayest thou, Mistress Quickly? How
does thy husband? I love him well, he is an honest

man.

Host. Good my lord, hear me. 100

fal. Pr’ythee, let her alone, and list to me.

P. Hen. What sayest thou, Jack? 7

Fal. The other night I fell asleep, here, behind the
arras, and had my pocket picked: this house is
turned bawdy hose ; they pick pockets.

P. Hen. What didst thou lose, Jack ?

Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or four bonds
of forty pound a-piece, and a seal-ring of my grand-
father’s.

P. Hen. A trifle; some eight: penny, matter. 110

Host. So I told him, my lord; and I said I heard
your grace say so: and, my lord, he speaks most
vilely of you, ike ‘a foul-mouthed man as he is, and
said he would cudgel you.

P. Hen. What! he did not?

ost. There’s neither faith, truth, nor womanhood
in me else, ,

1. There’s no more faith in thee than in a
stewed prune; nor no more truth in thee than in a
| drawn fox; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may

oe the deputy’s wife of the ward to thee. Go, sen

ing, go.
Host.’ Say, what thing? what thing?
Fal. What thing? why, a thing to thank God on.
Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I would thou
: shouldst know it; I am an honest man’s wife ; and,
peculnng thy knighthood aside, thou art a knave to call
80,

 

Fal. Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast
to say otherwise. 0

Host. Say, what beast, thou knave, thou?

Fal. What beast? why, an otter.

P. Hen. An otter, Sir John! why an otter?

Fal. Why? she’s neither fish nor flesh; a man
knows not where to have her.

Host, Thou art an unjust man in saying so: thou
or any man knows where to have me, thou knave

ou!

P. Hen. Thou sayest true, hostess ; and he slanders
thee most grossly. 140

 

Host. ‘Thou art a knave to call me so.”

Host. So he doth you, my lord ; and said this other
day, you ought him a thousand pound.

P. Hen, Sirrah! do I owe you a thousand pound ?

Fal. A thousand PO
is worth a million ; thou owest me th

Host. Nay, my lord, he called you
would cudgel you.

Fal. Did I, Bardolph ?

Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so.

Fal. Yea; if he said my ring was copper. 150

P. Hen. I say, ’tis copper; darest thou be as good
as ay word now ?

Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art but a
man, I dare; but as thou art a prince, I fear thee, as
I fear the roaring of the lion’s whelp.

P. Hen. And why not as the lion ?

Fal. The king himself is to be feared as the lion.
Dost thou_think, I’ll fear thee as I fear thy father?
nag, an I do, I pray God, my girdle break ! 5!

. Hen. O! if it should, how would thy guts fall
about thy knees! But, sirrah, there’s no room for
faith, truth, nor honesty, in this bosom of thine; it
is filed up with guts and midriff. Charge an honest
woman with picking thy pocket! Why, thou whore-
son, impudent, embossed rascal, if there were any-
thing in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, memoran-
dums of bawdy-houses, and one poor pennyworth of
sugar-candy to make thee long-winded ; if thy pocket
were enriched with any other injuries but these, I am
a villain. And yet you will stand to it, you will not
pocket up wrong. Art thou not ashamed ? 171

Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? thou knowest, in the
state of innocency, Adam fell; and what should poor
Jack Falstaff do, in the days of villainy? Thou seest
I have more flesh than another man, and therefore
more frailty. You confess then, you picked my-
pocket ?

P. Hen. It appears so by the story.

Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go, make ready
breakfast ; love thy husband, look to thy servants,
cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me tractable to
any honest reason : thou seest I am pacified.—Still ?—

al! a million: thy love
love.
ack, and said he

 

 
 

———,

 

 

404 KING HENRY IV.—PART I. [Acr Iv,

Nay, pr’ythee, be gone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to P. Hen. Bardolph!

the news at court: for the robbery, lad,—how is that Bard. Mz lord. : :

answered ? P. Hen. Go bear this letter to Lord John of Lan-
P. Hen. O! my sweet beef, I must still be good caster,

angel to thee.—The money is paid back again. Mi

Fal. O! I do not like that paying back; "tis a
double labour.

P. Hen. I am good friends with my father, and may
do anything. :

Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou
dost, and do it with unwashed hands too.

Bard. Do, my lord.

P. Hen. (have procured thee, Jack, a charge of foot.

Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall
I find one that can steal well? O, for a fine thief, of
the age of two-and-twenty, or thereabouts! I am
heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for
these rebels; they offend nong but the virtuous: I
laud them, I praise them. 201

Tomy beether John ; this to my Lord of Westmore-
land.—

Go, Poins, to horse, to horse! for thou and I
Have thirty miles to ride yet ere dinner-time.—
Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple Hall
At two o’clock in the afternoon :
There shalt thou know thy charge, and there re-
ceive 210
Money, and order for their furniture.
The land is burning, Percy stands on high,
And either they, or we, must lower lie.
(Ezeunt PRINCE, PoINs, and BARDOLPH.

Fal. Rare words! brave world !—Hostess. my
breakfast ; come.—
O! Icould wish, thistavern weremy drum.  [Erzit.

 

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.

a Hotspur.

fELL said, my noble Scot. If speaking
truth

  

In this fine age were not thought flattery,
Such attribution should the , Douglas

ave,
As not a soldier of this season's stamp
Should go so general current through

e the world.
oO By God, I cannot flatter: I defy
The bose of soothers; but a braver
ace

In my heart’s love hath no man than yourself.
ney task me to my word ; a) lee me, lord.
oug. Thou art the king of honour: 10
No man so potent breathes upon the ground,
But I will beard him.
Hot. Do so, and ’t is well.—

Enter a Messenger, with letters.
What letters hast thou there ?~I can but thank you.
Mess._ These letters come from your father, —
Hot. Letters from him! why comes he not himself?
Mess. He cannot come, my lord: he’s grievous sick.
Hot. ’Zounds ! how has he the leisure to be sick
In such a justling time? Who leads his power ?
Under whose government come they along?
Mess. His letters bear his mind, not I, my lord. 20
Wor. Dees tell me, doth he keep his bed ?
Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth ;
And at the time of my departure thence,
He was much fear’d by his physicians.
Wor. I would the state of time had first been whole,
Ere he by sickness had been visited :
His health was never better worth than now.
Hot. Sick now! droop now! this sickness doth infect
The very life-blood of our enterprise :
*T is catching hither, even to our camp. 30
He writes me here,—that inward sickness—
‘And that his friends by deputation could not
So soon be drawn; nor did he think it meet,
To lay so dangerous and dear a trust
On any soul remov’d, but on his own.

 

Enter HOTSPUR, WORCESTER, and DOUGLAS.

Yet doth he give us bold advertisement,
That with our small conjunction we should on,.
To see how fortune is dispos’d to us ;
For, as he writes, there is no quailing now,
Because the king is certainly possess'd 40
Of all our purposes. What say you to it?

Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us.

Hot. A perilous gash, a very limb lopp’d off :—
And yet, in faith, tis not; his present want
Seems more than we shall find it.—Were it good,
To set the exact wealth of all our states
All at one cast? to set so rich a main
On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour?
It were not good; for therein should we read
The very bottom and the soul of hope, 50
The very list, the very utmost bound
Of all our fortunes.

Doug. *Faith, and so we should;
Where now remains a sweet reversion:
We may boldly spend upon the hope of what
Is to come in:
A comfort of retirement lives in this.

+ Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto,

If that the devil and mischance look big
Upon the maidenhead of our affairs.

‘or. But yet, I would your father had been here.
The quality and hair of our attempt 61
Brooks no division. It will be thought
BY some, that know not why he is away,

That wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike
Of our proceedings, kept the earl from hence.
And think, how such an apprehension
May turn the tide of fearful faction, /
And breed a kind of question in our cause:
For, well you know, we of the offering side
Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, 70.
And stop all sight-holes, every loop, from whence
The eye of reason may pry in upon us. :
This absence of your father’s draws a curtain,
That shows the ignorant a kind of fear
Before not dreamt of.
‘ot. You strain too far.
I, rather, of his absence make this use :—

 
 

 

 

ScENE TII.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

405

 

It lends a lustre, and more great opinion,
A larger dare to our great enterprise,
Than if the earl were here: for men must think,
If we, without his help, can make a head
To push against the kingdom, with his help,
We shall o’erturn it topsy-turvy down.—
Yet all goes well, yet all our joints are whole.
Doug. As heart can think : there is not such a word
Spoke of in Scotland as this term of fear.

Enter Sir RICHARD VERNON,

Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

Ver, Pray God, my news be worth a welcome, lord.
The Earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,
Is marching hitherwards ; with him, Prince John.

Hot. No harm: what more?

Ver. And further, I have learn’d,
The king himself in person is set forth, 91
Or hitherwards intended speedily, =
With strong. and mighty preparation.

Hot. He shall-be welcome too. Where is his son,
The nimble-footed madcap Prince of Wales,
And his comrades, that daff’d the world aside,
And bid it pass?

Ver. All furnish’d, all in arms,

All plum’d like estridges, that with the wind
Bated,—like eagles having lately bath’d ;
Glittering in golden coats, like images;

As full of spirit as the month of May,

And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer ;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
Isaw young Harry, with his beaver on,

His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d,

Rise from the ground like feather’d Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat,

As if an angel dropp’d down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship. —_ 110

Hot. No more, no more: worse than the sun in

March,
This praise doth nourish agues, Let them come ;
They come like sacrifices in their trim,
And to the fire-ey’d maid of smoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them :
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,
And yet not ours.—Come, let me taste my horse,
Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt,
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales:
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,
Meet, and ne’er part, till one drop down a corse.—
0, eat Glendower were come!
er.

100

5 There is more news:
Tlearn’d in Worcester, as I rode along,
He cannot draw his power this fourteen days.
Doug. That’s the worst tidings that I hear of yet.
Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound.
Hot. What may the king’s whole battle reach unto?
Ver. To thirty thousand.
jt. Forty let it be: 130

Hot.
My father and Glendower being both away,
The powers of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily :
Deomedayy is near; die all, die merrily.

Doug. Talk not of dying: I am out of fear
. Of death, or death’s hand, for this one half year.
[Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Public Road near Coventry.

Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH.

Fal. en get thee before to Coventry : fill me
abottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through;
we'll to Sutton Co’fil’ to-night.

Bard. Will you give me money, captain ?

Fal. Lay out, lay out.

Bard. This bottle makes an angel. aid)

Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; and if it
make twenty, take them all, Ill answer the coinage.
Bid my lieutenant Peto meet me at the town’s end. 9

Bard. I will, captain: farewell. (Exit.

 

Fal. lf I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a
soused gurnet. I have misused the king’s press dam-
nably. I have got, in exchange of a hundred and
fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd pounds. I press
me none but good householders, yeomen’s sons;
inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been
asked twice on the banns; such acommodity of warm
slaves, as had as lief hear the devil as a drum; such
as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck
fowl, or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none but
such _toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their bellies
no bigger than pins’ heads, and they have bought
out their services ; and now my whole charge consists
of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of com-
panies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth,
where the glutton’s dogs licked his sores; and such
as, indeed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust
serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, re-
volted tapsters, and ostlerstrade-fallen ; the cankers of
a calm world, and a long peace; ten times more dis-
honourable ragged than an old faced ancient: and
such have I, to fill up the rooms of them that have
bought out their services, that you would think that
I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals, lately
come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and
husks. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told
me I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the
dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows.
I'll not march roa Coventry with them, that’s
flat :—nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the
legs, as if they had gyves on; for, indeed, I had the
most of them out of prison, There’s not a shirt and
a half in all my company: and the half-shirt is two
napkins, tacked together, and thrown over the
shoulders like a herald’s coat without sleeves; and
the shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at
Saint Albans, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry.
pat that’s all one ; they ’ll find linen enough on every

edge.

Enter Prince HENRY and WESTMORELAND.

P. Hen. How now, blown Jack? how now, quilt? 50

Fal. What, Hal! How now, mad wag? what a devil
dost thou in Warwickshire ?—My good Lord of West-
moreland, I cry you_mercy: I thought your honour
had already been at Shrewsbury.

West. Faith, Sir John, ’tis more than time that I
were there, and you too; but my powers are there
already. The king, I can tell you, looks for us all: we
must away all night.

Fal. Tut, never fear me: Iam as vigilant as a cat
to steal cream.

P. Hen. I think, to steal cream indeed; for thy
theft hath already made thee butter. But tell me,
Jack ; whose fellows are these that come after ?

Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.

P. Hen. 1 did never see such pitiful rascals.

Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for

owder, food for powder; they’ll fill a pit, as well as
Fetter: tush, man, mortal men, mortal men.

West. Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceed-
ing poor and bare; too beggarly. 70

al. Faith, for their poverty, I know not where
they had that; and for their bareness, I am sure, they
never learned that of me.

P. Hen. No, I’ll be sworn; unless you call three
fingers on the ribs, bare. But, sirrah, make haste:
Percy is already in the field.

Fal. What, is the king encamped?

West. He is, Sir John: I fear we shall stay too long.

Fal. Well, Oat
To the latter end of a fray, and the beginning oS

feast,
Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE III.—The Rebel Camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter HoTSPUR, WORCESTER, DOUGLAS, and
VERNON.

Hot. We'll fight with him to-night.
Wo

or. It may not be.

 

 
 

406

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

[Act Iv,

 

 

Doug. You give him then advantage. :
Ver. Not a whit.
Hot. Why say you so? looks he not for supply ?
Ver. So do we. z
Hot. His is certain, ours is doubtful.
Wor. Good cousin, be advis’d: stir not to-night.
Ver. Do not, my lord.
Doug. You do not counsel well.
You speak it out of fear and cold heart. ‘
Ver. Do me no slander, Douglas: by my life,
And I dare well maintain it with my life,
If well-respected honour bid me on, 10
T hold as little counsel with weak fear, ,
As you, my lord, or any Scot that this day lives:
Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle,
Which of us fears.
Doug.
Ver.

Yea, or to-night.

Content.
Hot. To-night, say I.
Ver. Come. come, it may not be. I wonder much,
Being men of such great leading as you are,
That you foresee not what impediments
Drag back our expedition : certain horse
Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up; 20
Your uncle Worcester’s horse came but to-day ;
And now their pride and mettle is asleep,
Their couragé with hard labour tame and dull,
That not a horse is half the half of himself.
Hot. So are the horses of the enemy
In general, journey-bated, and brought low ;
The better part of ours are full of rest.
Wor. The number of the king exceedeth ours :
For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in.
[The trumpet sounds a parley.

Enter Sir WALTER BLUNT.

Blunt. I come with gracious offers from the king, 30
Tf you vouchsafe me hearing and respect.

Hot. Welcome, Sir Walter Blunt; and would to God
You were of our determination !
Some of us love you well; and even those some
Envy your great deservings and good name,
Because you are not of our quality,
But stand against us like an enemy.

Blunt. And God defend but still I should stand so,
So long as, out of limit and true rule,
You stand against anointed majesty. 40
But, to my charge.—The king hath sent to know
The nature of your griefs, and whereupon
You conjure from the breast of civil peace
Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land
Audacious cruelty? If that the king
Have any way your good deserts forgot,
Which he confesseth to be manifold,
He bids pon name your griefs, and, with all speed,
You shall have your desires with interest,
And pardon absolute for yourself, and these, 50
Herein misled by your suggestion.

Hot. The king is kind; and, well we know, the

king
Knows at what time to promise, when to pay.
My father, and my uncle, and myself,
Did give him that same royalty he wears ;
And, when he was not six-and-twenty strong,
Sick in the world’s regard, wretched and low,
A poor unminded outlaw sneaking home,
My father gave him welcome to the shore;
And, when he heard him swear, and vowto God, 60
He came but to be Duke of Lancaster,
To sue his livery, and beg his peace,
With tears of innocency, and terms of zeal,
My father, in kind heart and pity mov'd,
Swore him assistance, and perform’d it too.
Now, when the lords and barons of the realm
Perceiv’d Northumberland did lean to him,
The more and less came in with cap and knee ;
Met him in poreughs. cities, villages,
Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, 70
Laid gifts before him, proffer’d him their oaths,
Gave him their heirs as pages; follow’d him,
Even at the heels, in golden multitudes.
He presently, as greatness knows itself,

 

Steps me a little higher than his vow

Made to my father, while his blood was poor,
Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurg ;

And now, forsooth, takes on him to reform
Some certain edicts, and some strait decrees,
That lie too heavy on the commonwealth ; 80
Cries out upon abuses, seems to weep

Over his country’s wrongs ; and, by this face,
This seeming brow of justice, did he win
The hearts of al] that he did angle for;
Proceeded further ; cut me off the heads

Of all the favourites, that the absent king

 

 

Arch, “‘T must eo write again
To other friends; and so farewell, Sir Michael.”

In deputation left behind him here,
When he was personal in the Irish war.

Blunt, Tut! I came not to hear this.

Hot. Then, to the point.
In short time after he depos’d the king ; 90
Soon after that, depriv’d him of his life ;

And, in the neck of that, task’d the whole state ;
To make that worse, suffer’d his kinsman March
(Who is, if every owner were well plac’d,
Indeed his king) to be engag’d in Wales,

There without ransom to lie forfeited ;
Disgrac’d me in my happy victories ;

Sought to entrap me by intelligence ;

Rated my uncle from the council-board ;

In rage dismiss’d my father from the court;
Broke oath on oath, committed wrong on wrong,
And, in conclusion, drove us to seek out

This head of safety, and, withal, to pry

Into his title, the which we find

Too indirect for long continuance. .

Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the king? |

Hot. Not so, Sir Walter: we ‘ll withdraw awhile.
Go to the king, and let there be impawn'd
Some surety for a safe return again,

And in the morning early shall mine uncle 110
Bring him our purposes; and so farewell.

Blunt. | would you would accept of grace and love.

Hot. And, may be, so we shall.

Blunt. *Pray God, you do! .

[Ezxeunt.

100

A Room in the Archbishop's
House.

Enter the Archbishop of YoRK and Sir MICHAEL.
Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael : bear this sealed brief
With winged haste to the lord marshal ;
This to my cousin Scroop; and all the rest
To whom they are directed. If you knew.
“How much they do import, you would make haste.

ScENE IV.—York.

 

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

407

 

Sir M. My good lord,
I guess their tenor. __

Arch. _ Like enough, you do.
To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day,
Wherein the fortune of ten thousand men
Must bide the touch. For, sir, at Shrewsbury,
As I am truly given to understand,
The king, with mighty and quick-raised power,
Meets with Lord Harry: and, I fear, Sir Michael,
What with the sickness of Northumberland;
Whose power was in the first proportion,
And what with Owen Glendower'’s absence thence,
Who with them was a rated sinew too,
And comes not in, o’er-rul’d by prophecies,
J fear, the power of Percy is too weak
To bg an instant trial with the king.

Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not fear:
There is Douglas, and Lord Mortimer.

Arch. No, Mortimer is not there.

10

Sir M. wee there is Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry
ercy,
And there’s my Lord of Worcester, and a head
Of gallant warriors, noble gentlemen.
Arch. And so there is; but yet the king hath drawn
The specie! head of all the land together :
The Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster,
The noble Westmoreland, and warlike Blunt,
And many more corrivals, and dear men
Of estimation and command in arms.
Sir M. Doubt not, my lord, they shall be well oppos’d.
Arch. I hope no less, yet needful ’tis to fear ;
And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed:
For, if Lord Percy thrive not, ere the king
Dismiss his power, he means to visit us,
For he hath heard of our confederacy,
And ’t is but wisdom to make strong against him:

30

 

 

 

 

st

     
  

a

. And b;

  
 
 

A
At his

As now we meet. You have
And made us doff our easy robes of peace,
To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel :
This is not well, my lord ; this is not well.
What say you to it? will you again unknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war,
And move in that obedient orb again,

And be no more an exhal’d meteor,

Therefore, make haste. I must go write again 40
| To other friends ; and so farewell, Sir Michael.
[Exeunt,
ACT V.
ScENnE I.—The King’s Camp near Shrewsbury.
Enter King HENRY, Prince HENRY, Prince JOHN of LANCASTER, Sir WALTER BLUNT,
and Sir JOUN FALSTAFF.
) King Henry. In Richard’s time ; and posted day and night
‘OW bloodily the sun begins to peer To meet you on the way, and kiss your hand,
bove yon busky hill: the day looks pale When yet you were in place and in account
istemperature. Nothing so strong and fortunate as I.
P. Hen. The southern wind | It was myself, my brother, and his son,
Doth play the trumpet to his purposes ; That brought you home, and boldly did outdare 40
his hollow ey in the leaves The dangers of the time. You swore to us,
Foretells a tempest, and a blustering day. And you did swear that oath at Doncaster,
K. Hen. Then with the losers let it sym- | That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state,
athise, Nor claim no further than your new-fall’n right,
For nothing can seem foul to those that | The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster.
win.— [Trumpet sounds. | To this we swore our aid: but, in short space,
It rain’d down fortune showering on your head,
Enter WORCESTER and VERNON. ‘And such a flood of greatness fell on you,
How now, my Lord of Worcester? ’tis not well, What with our help, what with the absent king,
That you and I should meet upon such terms 10 | What with the injuries of a wanton time, 50
eceiv’d our trst, The seeming sufferances that you had borne,
And the contrarious winds, that held the king
So long in his unlucky Irish wars,
That all in England did repute him dead :
And, from this swarm of fair advantages,
You took occasion to be quickly woo’d
To gripe the general sway into your hand;
Where you did give a fair and natural light ; Ponsa your oath to us at Doncaster,
And, being fed by us, you us’d us so
20 | As that ungentle gull, the cuckoo’s bird, 60

A prodigy of fear, and a portent
f broached mischief to the unborn times ?
Wor. Hear me, my liege.
For mine own part, I could be well content
To entertain the lag-end of my life
With quiet hours; for, I do protest,
Ihave not sought the day of this dislike. .
K. He have not sought it! how comes it
then
Fail. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.
P. Hen. Peace, chewet, peace!
Wor. It pleas’d your majesty, to turn your looks 30
Of favour from myself, and all our house ;
And yet I must remember you, my lord,
e were the first and dearest of your friends.
For you my staff of office did I break

Useth the sparrow : did oppress our nest,
Grew by our feeding to so great a bulk,
That even our love durst not come near your sight,
For fear of swallowing; but with nimble wing
We were enfore’d, for safety sake, to fly
Out of your sight, and raise this present head ;
Whereby we stand opposed by such means
As you yourself have forg’d against yourself,
By unkind usage, dangerous countenance,
And violation of all faith and troth
Sworn to us in your younger enterprise.
K. Hen. These things, indeed, you have articulate,
Proclaim’d at. market-crosses, read in churches,
To face the garment of rebellion

70

 

With some fine colour, that may please the eye

 

 
 

408 KING HENRY

IV.—PART I. [Acr V.

 

 

Of fickle changelings and poor discontents,
Which gape, and rub the elbow, at the news
Of hurly-burly innovation: —
And never yet did insurrection want
Such water-colours, to impaint his cause ; 80
Nor moody beggars, starving for a time
Of pell-mell havoc and confusion. |
P. Hen. In both our armies there is many a soul
Shall pay full dearly for this encounter,
Tf once they join in trial. Tell your nephew,
The Prince of Wales doth join with all the world
In praise of Henry Percy : by my hopes,
This present enterprise set off his head,
I do not think, a braver gentleman,
More active-valiant, or more valiant-young, 90
More daring, or more bold, is now alive

 

Ful. “ What ig that word honour?”

To grace this latter age with noble deeds.

For my part, I may speak it to my shame,

I have a truant been to chivalry,

And so, I hear, he doth account me too;

Yet this before my father’s majesty :

Iam content, that he shall take the odds

Of his great name and estimation,

And will, to save the blood on either side,

Try fortune with him in a single fight. 100
K. Hen. And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture

thee,
Albeit considerations infinite
Do make against it.—No, good Worcester, no,
We love our people well; even those we love,
That are misled upon your cousin’s part;
And, will they take the offer of our grace,
Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man,
Shall be my friend again, and Il] be his.
So tell your cousin, and bring me word
What he will do; but if he will not yield,
Rebuke and dread correction wait on us,
And they shall do their office. So, be gone.
We will not now be troubled with reply :
We offer fair, take it advisedly.
.. LExeunt WORCESTER and VERNON.
P. Hen. It will not be accepted, on my life.
The Douglas and the Hotspur both together
Are confident against the world in arms.
K. Hen. Hence, therefore, every leader to his
charge;
For, on their answer, will we set on them;
And God befriend us, as our cause is just! 120
[Exeunt KinG, BLunt, and Prince JcHN.
Fal. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, and
bestride me, so; tis a point of friendship.
P. Hen. Nothing but a colossus can do thee that
friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell.
Fal. I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all well.

110

 

P. Hen. Why, thou owest God a death. [Ezit.
. Fal. ’T is not due yet: I would be loath to pay him
before his day. What need I be so forward with him
that calls not on me? Well, ’tis no matter; honour
pricks meon. Yea, but how if honour prick me off
when I come on? how then? Can honour set toa leg?
No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a
wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then?
No. What is honour? A word. What is that word
honour? ‘Air. A trim reckoning !—Who hath it? He
that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth
he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the
dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why?
Detraction will not suffer it.—Therefore, Il none of
it: honour is a mere scutcheon; and so ends m:
catechism. [Eait.

ScENE II.—The Rebel Camp.

Enter WORCESTER and VERNON.
Wor. O, no! my nephew must not know, Sir
Richard,

The liberal kind offer of the king.

Ver. ’"T were best, he did.

Wor. Then are we all undone.
It. is not possible, it cannot be,
The king should keep his word in loving us;
He will suspect us still, and find a time
To punish this offence in other faults :
Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes;
For treason is but trusted like the fox,
‘Who, ne’er so tame, so cherish’d, and lock’d up, 10
Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
Look how we can, or sad, or merrily,
Interpretation will misquote our looks;
And we shall feed like oxen at a stall,
The better cherish’d, still the nearer death.
My nephew’s trespass may be well forgot,
It hath the excuse of youth, and heat of blood ;
And an adopted name of privilege,
A hare-brain’d Hotspur, govern’d by a spleen.
All his offences live upon my head, 20
And on his father’s: we did train him on;
And, his corruption being ta’en from us,
We, as the spring of all, shall pay for all.
Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know
In any case the offer of the king.

Ver. Deliver what you will, Ill say ’t is so.
Here comes your cousin.

Enter Hotspur and Dovuctas; Officers and Soldiers,
behind.

Hot. My uncle is return’d :—deliver up

My Lord of Westmoreland.— Uncle, what news?

or. The king will bid you battle presently. 30

Doug. Defy him by the Lord of Westmoreland.
Hot. Lord Douglas, go you and tell him so. t
Doug. Marry, and shall, and very willingly. [Exit.
Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the king.
Hot. Did you beg any? God forbid!
Wor. I told him gently of our grievances,

Of his oath-breaking ; which he mended thus,

By now forswearing that he is forsworn :

He calls us rebels, traitors ; and will scourge

With haughty arms this hateful name in us. 40

Re-enter DOUGLAS.

Doug. Arm, gentlemen! to arms! for I have thrown
A brave defiance in King Henry’s teeth, ‘
And Westmoreland, that was engag’d, did bear it;
Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on.

Wor. The Prince of Wales stepp’d forth before the

king,
And, pepe challeng’d you to single fight.

Hot. O! ’would the quarrel lay upon our heads,
And that no man might draw short breath to-day,
But Iand Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me,
How show’d his tasking? seem’d it in contempt? 50

Ver. No, by my soul: I never in my life
Did hear a challenge urg’d more modestly,

Unless a brother should a brother dare

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.)

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

409

 

To gentle exercise and proof of arms.
He gave you all the duties of a man,
Trimm’d up your praises with a princely tongue,
Spoke your deservings like a chronicle,
Making you ever better than his praise,
By still dispraising praise, valu’d with you;
And, which became him like a prince indeed, 60
He made a blushing cital of himself,
And chid his truant youth with such a grace,
As if he master’d there a double spirit,
Of teaching, and of learning, instantly.
There did he pause. But let me tell the world,—
If he outlive the envy of this day,
England did never owe so sweet a hope,
So much misconstru’d in his wantonness.
Hot. Cousin, I think thou art enamoured
On his follies: never did I hear 70
Of any prince so wild a libertine.
But, be he as he will, yet once ere night
I will embrace him with a soldier’s arm,
That he sha]l shrink under my courtesy.
Arm, arm, with speed !—And, fellows, soldiers, friends,
Better consider what you have to do,
Than I, that have not well the gift of tongue,
Can lift your blood up with persuasion.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, here are letters for you.

Hot. I cannot read them now.— 80
O gentlemen ! the time of life is short ;
‘To spend that shortness basely, were too long,
If life did ride upon a dial’s point,
Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
An if we live, we live to tread on kings;
If die, brave death, when princes die with us.
Now, for our consciences, the arms are fair,
When the intent of bearing them is just.

Enter another Messenger.
Mess. My lord, prepare ; the king comes on apace.
Hot. I thank him, that he cuts me from my tale, 90
For I profess not talking. Only this,—
Let each man do his best: and here draw I
A sword, whose temper I intend to stain
With the best blood that I can meet withal
In the adventure of this perilous day.
Now,—Esperance !/—Percy !—and set on !—
Sound all the lofty instruments of war,
And by that music let us all embrace ;
For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall
A second time do such a courtesy. 100
[The trumpets sound. They embrace, and exeunt.

ScENE III.—Plain near Shrewsbury.

Excursions, and Parties fighting. Alarum to the
battle. Then enter DoUGLAS and BLUNT, meeting.
Blunt. What is thy name, that in the battle thus

Thou crossest me? what honour dost thou seek

Don my head? .

loug. Know then, my name is Douglas ;

And Ido haunt thee in the battle thus,

Because some tell me that thou art a king.

Blunt. They tell thee true.
rent The Lord of Stafford dear to-day hath bought

Thy likeness ; for, instead of thee, King Harry,

This sword hath ended him: so shall it thee,

Unless thou yield thee as my prisoner. 10
Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot ;

And thou shalt find a king that will revenge _ .

Lord Stafford’s death. [They fight, and BLUNT is slain.

Enter HOTSPUR.
Hot. panei hadst thou fought at Holmedon

us,
Inever had triumph’d upon a Scot. :
Doug. all ’s done, all’s won: here breathless lies the
ing. :
Hot. Where?
Doug. Here.

 

Hot. This, Douglas? no; I know this face full well :
A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt, 20
Semblably furnish’d like the king himself.

Doug. A fool go with thy soul, whither it goes!

A borrow’d title hast thou bought too dear:
Why didst thou tell me that thou wert a king?
ot. The king hath many marching in his coats.

Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats ;
Ill murder all his wardrobe, piece by piece,,

Until I meet the king.

A and away!

‘ot. Up,
Our soldiers stand full fairly for the day.

Alarums. Enter FALSTAFF.

Fal. Though I could ’scape shot-free at London, I
fear the shot here; here’s no scoring, but upon the

ate.—Soft! who art thou? Sir Walter Blunt :—there’s

onour for you; here’s no vanity.—I am as hot as
molten lead, and as heavy too: God keep lead out of
me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels.—
Ihave led my ragamufiins where they are peppered :
there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive,
and they are for the town’s end, to beg during life.
But who comes here ?

Enter Prince HENRY.
P. Hen. What! stand’st thouidle here? lend me thy
sword : 40
Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff
Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies.
Whose deaths are unreveng’d: prythee, lend me thy

[Exeunt.

sword.
Fal. O Hal! I pr’ythee, give me leave to breathe
awhile.—Turk Gregory never did such deeds in arms,
as Ihave done this day. I have paid Percy, I have
made him sure. 7
P. Hen. He is, indeed; and living to kill thee. I
Pree lend me thy sword. —
al. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou
gett’st not my sword ; but take my pistol, if thou wilt.
P. Hen. Give it me. What, is it in the case? 52
Fal. Ay, Hal; ’tis hot, ‘tis hot: there’s that will
sack a city. [The PRINCE draws out a bottle of sack.
P. Hen. What! is’t a time to jest and dally now?
: [Throws it at him, and exit.
Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, I’ll pierce him. If he
do come in my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his
willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not
such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath: give me
life; which if I can save, so; if not, honour comes
unlooked for, and there’s an end. tz: 60
ait,

ScEeNE IV.—Another Part of the Field.

Alarums. Excursions. Enter the Kine, Prince
Henry, Prince JOHN, and WESTMORELAND.
K. Hen. I pr’ythee,
Harry, withdraw thyself; thou bleed’st too much.—
Lord John of Lancaster, go you with him.
P. John. Not I, my lord, unless I did bleed too.
P. Hen. I beseech your majesty, make up,
Lest your retirement do amaze your friends.
K. Hen. I will do so.—
My Lord of Westmoreland, lead him to his tent.
West. Come, my lord, I’ll lead you to your tent.
P. Hen. Lead me, my lord? I do not need your

help:
And Heaven forbid, a shallow scratch should drive
The Prince of Wales from such a field as this,
Where stain’d nobility lies trodden on,
And rebels’ arms triumph in massacres !
P. John. We breathe too long.—Come, cousin West-
moreland,
Our duty this way fies : for God’s sake, come.
[Exeunt Prince JOHN and WESTMORELAND.
P. Hen. By God, thou hast deceiv’d me, Lancaster,
I did not think thee lord of such a spirit :
Before, I lov’d thee as a brother, John;
But now, I do respect thee as my soul. 20
K. Hen. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point,

 

 
 

410

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

[Act V,

 

 

With lustier maintenance than I did look for
Of such an ungrown warrior.

P. Hen. O! this boy
Lends mettle to us all.

Alarums. Enter DOUGLAS.

Bue. Another king ! they grow like Hydra’s heads.
Tam the Douglas, fatal to all those
That wear those colours on them.—What art thou,
That counterfeit’st the person of a king ? :
K. Hen. The king himself; who, Douglas, grieves
at heart,
So many of his shadows thou hast met, 30
And not the very king. I have two boys
Seek Percy, and thyself, about the field:
But, seeing thou fall’st on me so luckily,
I will assay thee ; and defend thyself. A
Doug. I fear thou art another counterfeit,
And yet, in faith, thou bear’st thee like a king:
But mine I am sure thou art, whoe’er thou be,
And thus I win thee.
[They fight : the Kine being in danger, re-enter
Brigce HENRY.

P. Hen. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like
Never to hold it up again ! the spirits 40
Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, are in my arms:
It is the Prince of Wales, that threatens thee,
Who never promiseth, but he means to pay.—

[They fight : DouGLAS flies.

Cheerly, my lord : how fares your grace ?—
Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent,
And so hath Clifton ; I’ll to Clifton straight.

dik. Hen. Stay, and breathe awhile.
Thou hast redeem’d thy lost opinion;
And show’d thou mak’st some tender of my life,
In this fair rescue thou hast brought to me. 50

P. Hen, O God! they did me too much injury,

That ever said I hearken’d for your death.
If it were so, I might have let alone
The insulting hand of Douglas over you;
Which would have been as speedy in your end,
As all the poisonous potions in the world,
And say’d the treacherous labour of your son.
AK. Hen. Make up to Clifton: I’ll to Sir Nicholas
Gawsey. (Exit.
Enter HOTSPUR.

Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth.

P. Hen. Thou speak’st as if I would deny my name.

Hot. My name is Harry Percy.

Why, then I see 61

P. Hen.
A very valiant rebel of that name.
Iam the Prince of Wales; and think not, Percy,
To share with me in glory any more:
Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere;
Nor can one England brook a double reign,
Of Harry Percy, and the Prince of Wales.
Hot. Nor shall it, Harry, for the hour is come
To end the one of us; and ’would to God,
Thy name in arms were now as great as mine! 70
P. Hen. I'll make it greater, ere I part from thee ;
And all the budding honours on thy crest
I'll crop, to make a garland for my head.
Hot. I can no longer brook thy vanities. [They fight.

Enter FALSTAFF.
Fal. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal!—Nay, you shall
find no boy’s play here, I can tell you.

Re-enter DovuGcias; he fights with FALSTAFF, who
falls down as if he were dead, and exit Doucuas.
HOTSPUR is wounded, and falls.

Hot. O Harry! thou hast robb’d me of my youth.

I better brook the loss of brittle life,

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me;

They wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my

[Exit.

flesh :
But, thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool ;
And time, that takes survey of all the world,
Must have a stop. O! I could prophesy,
But that the earthy and cold hand of death
Lies on my tongue.—No, Percy, thou art dust,
And food for— [Dies.

 

P. Hen. For worms, brave Percy.
great heart !—
Il-weav’d ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
When that this body did contain a spirit,
A kingdom for it was too small a bound ; 90
But now, two paces of the vilest earth
Is room enough :—this earth, that bears thee dead,
Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.
If thou wert sensible of courtesy,
I should not make so dear a show of zeal :—
But let my favours hide thy mangled face,
And, even in thy behalf, I’ll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness.
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heaven!

Fare thee well,

Thy ignomy sleep with thee in the grave, 100
But not remember'd in thy epitaph !—
He spieth FALSTAFF on the ground.

What ! old acquaintance! could not all this flesh
Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell!
I could have better spar’d a better man.
O! I should have a heavy miss of thee,
If I were much in love with vanity.
Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day,
Though many dearer, in this bloody fray.—
Embowell’d will I see thee by-and-by;
Till then, in blood by noble Percy lie. [Exit.

Fal. [Rising.] Embowelled ! if thou embowel me
to-day, I'll give you leave to powder me, and eat me
too, to-morrow. ’Sblood! ’t was time to counterfeit,
or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot
too. Counterfeit? I lie; Iam no counterfeit: to die,
is to be a counterfeit ; for he is but the counterfeit of
aman, who hath not the life of a man ; but to counter-
feit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no
counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life
indeed.’ The better part of valour is discretion; in the
which better part 1 have saved my life. ’Zounds!
I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be
dead. How, if he should counterfeit too, and rise?
By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better
counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure; yea, and
I'll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise, as well
asI? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees
me: therefore, sirrah, [stabbing him] with a new
wound in your thigh come you along with me.

[He takes Hotspur on his back.

Re-enter Prince HENRY and Prince JOHN.
P. Hen. Come, brother John ; full bravely hast thou
flesh’d 130

Thy maiden sword.

P. John. But, soft ! whom have we here?
Did you not tell me this fat man was dead?

P. Hen, 1 did; I saw him dead,

Breathless and bleeding on the ground.—

Art thou alive? or is it phantasy

That plays upon our eyesight? I pr'ythee, speak ;
We will not trust our eyes without our ears.
Thou art not what thou seem’st.

Fal. No, that’s certain: I am not a double man;
but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I Jack. There
is Percy: if your father will do me any honour, so; if
not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be
either earl or duke, I can assure you. 143,

P. Hen. ees Percy I killed myself, and saw thee

dead. ,
Fal. Didst thou?—Lord, Lord, how this world is
given to lying !—I grant you I was down, and out of
breath, and so was he; but we rose both at an instant,
and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I
may be believed, so; if not, let them that should
reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads.
I'll take it upon my death, I aioe him this wound in
the thigh: if the man were alive, and would deny it,
*zounds! I would make him eat a piece of my sword.
P. John. This is the strangest tale that e’er I heard.
P. Hen. This is the strangest fellow, brother John.—
Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back:
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace,
I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have. |
[4 retreat is sounded.
The trumpet sounds retreat ; the day is ours.

 

 
 

To see what friends are living, who are dead.
[Exeunt Prince HENRY and Prince JOHN.

 

Fal. I'll follow, as they say, for reward. He that
rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow great, I Il
grow less; for I’ll purge, and leave sack, and live
cleanly, as a nobleman should do. Lees, boca off

e body.

 

Scene V.—Another Part of the Field.

The trumpets sound. Enter King Henry, Prince
HENRY, Prince JOHN, WESTMORELAND, and others,
with WORCESTER, and VERNON, prisoners.

XK. Hen. Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke.—

=——

 

 

ScENE V.] KING HENRY IV.—PART I. 411

Come, brother, let us to the highest of the field, 160 | Il-spirited Worcester, did we not send grace,

Pardon, and terms of love to all of you?
And wouldst thou turn our offers contrary ?

 

 

Hot. “O Harry! thou hast robb’d me of my youth.”

Misuse the tenor of thy kinsman’s trust?

Three knights apen our party slain to-day,

A noble earl, and many a creature else,

Had been alive this hour,

If, like a Christian, thou hadst truly borne

Betwixt our armies true intelligence. 10
Wor. What I have done, my safety urg’d me

to,
And I embrace this fortune patiently,
Since not to be avoided it falls on me.
K. eit, Bear Worcester to the death, and Vernon
00:

 
 

 

412

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

{Act V.

 

Other offenders we will pause upon, —
[Exeunt WORCESTER and VERNON, guarded.
How goes the field?
P. Hen. The noble Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw
The fortune of the day quite turn’d from him,
The noble Percy slain, and all his men
Upon the foot of fear, fled with the rest ;
And falling from a hill he was so bruis’d,
That the pursuers took him. At my tent
The Douglas is, and I beseech your grace,
I may dispose of him.
. Hen. With all my heart.
P. Hen. Then, brother John of Lancaster, to you
This honourable bounty shall belong.
Go to the Douglas, and deliver him
Up to his pleasure, ransomless, and free:
His valour, shown upon our crests to-day,

20

Hath taught us how to cherish such high di
nie in the bosom. of our adversaries. sasigai ees
. John. ank your grace for this high
Which I shall give away immediately, ea
4k. Hen. Then this remains,—that we divide our
power. —
You, son John, and my cousin Westmoreland,
Towards York shall bend you, with your dearest

wee

To meet Northumberland, and the prelate Scroop,
Who, as we hear, are busily in arms:
Myself, and you, son Harry, will towards Wales,
To rane with Glendower and the Earl of March. 40
Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway,
Meeting the check of such another day :
And since this business so fair is done,

| Let us not leave till all our own be won.

(Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Kinc OF FRANCE.

DUKE OF FLORENCE.

BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon.

LaFev, an old Lord.

PAROLLES, a Follower of Bertram.

Several young French Lords, serving with Bertram.
Steward to the Countess of Rousillon.

Clown, in her Household.
A Page.

| CoUNTEss OF ROUSILLON, Mother to Bertram.

HELENA, a Gentlewoman protected by the Countess.
A Widow of Florence. = - ti
Diana, Daughter to the Widow.

AE neighbours and Friends to the Widow.

Lords, attending on the King ; Officers, Soldiers, &c.,
French and Florentine. te .

SCENE —Partly in FRANCE, and partly in Tuscany.

 

ACT TI.
ScENE I.—Rousillon. A Room in the CountEss’s Palace.

e/ Countess.
nN delivering my son from me, I bury a
fj second husband.

Ber. And I, in going, madam, weep o’er
/? my father’s death anew; but I must attend
his majesty’s command, to whom I am now
in ward, evermore in subjection.

Laf. You shall find of the king a husband,
madam ;—you, sir, a father. He that so
generally is at all times good, must of
necessity hold his virtue to you, whose
worthiness would stir it up where it wanted,
rather than lack it where there is such
2 abundance. : :

3 Count. What hope is there of his majesty’s
amendment? ac

Laf. He hath abandoned his physicians, madam ;
under whose practices he hath persecuted time with
hope, and finds no other advantage in the process but
only the losing of hope by time. 19

Count. This young gentlewoman had a father,—
O, that “‘had!” how sad a passage ’t is !—whose skill
was almost as great as his honesty ; had it stretched
so far, would have made nature immortal, and death
should have play for lack of work. ’Would, for the
king’s sake, he were living! I think it would be the
death of the king's disease.

Laf. How called you the man you speak of, madam?

Count. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and
| it was his great right to be so :—Gerard de Narbon. 29

. He was excellent, indeed, madam: the king
very lately spoke of him, admiringly and mourn-
ingly. He was skilful enough to have lived still, if
ino wledge could be set up against mortality. __

ae at is it, my good lord, the king languishes

of
Laf. A fistula, my lord.
Ber. I heard not of it before. .
Laf. I would it were not notorious.—Was this
gentlewoman the daughter of Gerard de Narbon? 39
Count. His sole child, my lord; and bequeathed
2 a overlooking. I have those pe of her good
a

   
 

her education promises: her dispositions she
inherits, which make fair gifts fairer; for where

 

Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, all in black.

an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities, there
commendations go with pity; they are virtues and
traitors too: in her they are the better for their
simpleness ; she derives her honesty, and achieves
her goodness,

Laf. Your commendations, madam, get from her
tears. 50

Count. ’'T is the best brine a maiden can season her
praise in. The remembrance of her father never
approaches her heart, but the tyranny of her sorrows
takes all livelihood from her cheek.—No more of this,
Helena: go to, no more; lest it be rather thought you
affect a sorrow, than to have. : ‘

Hel, I do affect a sorrow, indeed : but I have it too.

Laf. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,
excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Count. It the living be enemy to the grief, the
excess makes it soon mortal. 61

Ber. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.

Laf. How understand we that ?

Count. Be thou blest, Bertram; and succeed thy

father

In manners, as in shape! thy blood, and virtue,
Contend for empire in thee ; and thy goodness
Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few,
Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy
Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend
Under thy own life’s key : be check’d for silence, 76
But never tax’d for speech. What Heaven more will,
That thee may furnish, and my peers pluck down,
Fall on thy head! Farewell.— iy lord,
*T is an unseason’d courtier : good my lord,
Advise him.

Laf. He cannot want the best
That shall attend his love.

Count. Heaven bless him !—Farewell, Bertram.

{Hxit.

Ber. [To HELENA.] The best wishes that can be
forged in your thoughts be servants to you. Be com-
fortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much

of her. 81
. Farewell, pretty lady: you must hold the
‘ceunt BERTRAM and LAFEU.

credit of your father. f t
Hel. O, were that all !—I think not on my father ;

 

1

 

 
 

 

414

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

{Acr I

 

And these great tears grace his remembrance more
Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
Ihave forgot him: my imagination

Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s.

Iam undone: there is no living, none,

If Bertram be away. It were all one, 90
That I should love a bright particular star,

 

Count. ‘‘ Heaven bless him !—Farewell, Bertram.”

And think to wed it, he is so above me:

In his bright radiance and collateral light

Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

The ambition in my love thus plagues itself :
The hind that would be mated by the lion

Must die for love. ’T was pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw

His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

In our heart's table ; heart too capable

Of every line and trick of his sweet favour:

But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relics.—Who comes here?

One that goes with him: I love him for his sake,

100

And yet I know him a notorious liar,
Think him a great way fool, solely a coward ;
Yet these fix’d evils sit so fit in him,

That they take place, when virtue's steely bones
Look bleak in the cold wind: withal, full oft we see
Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 110

Enter PAROLLES.

Par. Save you, fair queen!

Hel. And you, monarch !

Par, No.

Hel. And no.

Par. Are you meditating on virginity ?

Hel. By You have some stain of soldier in you;
Jet me ask you a question. Man is enemy to virginity ;
how ma we barricado it against him?

Par. Keep him out.

Hel. But he assails; and our virginity, though
valiant in the defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us
some warlike resistance.

Par. There is none: man, sitting down before you,
will undermine you, and blow you up.

Hel. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and
blowers up !—Is there no military policy, how virgins
might blow up men?

Par. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier
be blown up: marry, in blowing him down again, with
the breach yourselves made, you lose your city. It is
not politic in the commonwealth of nature to preserve
virginity. Loss of virginity is rational increase ; and
there was never virgin got, till virginity was first lost.
That you were made of, is metal to make virgins.

 

Virginity, by being once lost, may be ten times found;
by being ever kept, it is ever lost. "Lis too cold a
companion: away with ’t.

Hel. I will stand for’t a little, though therefore 1
die a virgin.

Par, There’s little can be said in't: ‘tis against the
rwe of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to
accuse your mothers, which is most infallible disobe-
dience. He that hangs himself is a virgin: virginity
murders itself, and should be buried in highways, out
of all sanctified limit, as a desperate offendress a ainst
nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese,
consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with
feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish,
proud, idle, made of self-love, which is the most in-

ibited sin in the ‘canon. Keep it not: you cannot
choose but lose by ’t. Out with ’t: within the year it
will make itself two, which is a goodly increase, and
the principal itself not much the worse. Away with’t,
sales ee might one do, sir, to lose it to her own
iking
_ Par. Let me see: marry, ill, to like him that ne’er
it likes. "Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with
lying; the longer kept, the less worth: off with’t,
while ‘tis vendible : answer the time of request. Vir-
ginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of
fashion ; richly suited, but unsuitable: just like the
brooch and the toothpick, which wear not now.
Your date is better in your pie and your porridge
than in your cheek: and your virginity, your old vir-
ginity, is like one of our French withered pears: it
looks ill, it eats drily ; marry, ’tis a withered pear; it
was formerly better ; marry, yet, ‘tis a withered pear.
Will you anything with it?

fel. Not my virginity yet.

There shall your master have a thousand loves,
A mother, and a mistress, and a ériend,

A pheenix, captain, and an enemy,

A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,

A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear ;

His humble ambition, proud humility,

His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
His faith, his sweet disaster ; with a world

Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms,

That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he—

I know not what he shall :—God send him well !— 180
The court’s a learning-place ;—and he is one—

Par. What one, i’faith?

Hel. That I wish well.—’T is pity—

Par. What’s py! .

Hel. That wishing well had not a body in ’t,
Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,

Might with effects of them follow our friends,
And show what we alone must think ; which never
Returns us thanks,

Enter a Page.

Page. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for vor .

Par. Little Helen, farewell: if I can remember
thee, I will think of thee at court.

Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a
charitable star.

Par. Under Mars, I.

Hel. I especially think, under Mars.

Par. Why under Mars?

‘Hel. The wars have so kept you under, that you
must needs be born under Mars. 200

Par. When he was predominant. _

Hel. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.

Par. Why think you so?

Hel. You go so much backward, when you fight.

Par. That’s for advantage. :

Hel. So is running away, when fear proper the
safety. But the composition that your valour and fear
makes in you is a virtue of a good wing, and I like the
wear well. 209

Par. 1am so full of businesses, I cannot answer
thee acutely. I will return perfect courtier ; 10
which my instruction shall serve to naturalise thee.
so thou wilt be capable of a courtier’s counsel, aD

170

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.]

 

thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine igno-
rance makes thee away: farewell. When thou hast
leisure, say thy prayers; when thou hast none,
remember thy friends. Get thee a good husband,
and use him as he uses thee: so farewell. [Eait.

Hel. Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, 220

Par. “I will return perfect courtier.”

Which we ascribe to Heaven: the fated sky
Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull
Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love so high;
That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
The mightiest space in fortune Nature brings

io join like likes, and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those

That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose,
What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
To show her merit, that did miss her love ?

The king’s disease—my project may deceive me,
But my intents are fix’d, and will not leave me, [Ezit.

230

ScENE II.—Paris. A Room in the Kin@’s Palace.

Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE
with letters ; Lords and others attending.
King. The Florentines and Senoys are by the ears ;
Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
A braving war. :
1 Lord. So ’tis reported, sir.
King. Nay, tis most credible: we here receive it
A certainty, vouch’d from our cousin Austria,
With caution, that the Florentine will move us
For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
Prejudicates the business, and would seem
To have us make denial.

1 Lord. His love and wisdom,
Approv’d so to your majesty, may plead 10
For amplest credence.

Kin He hath arm’d our answer,

And Florence is denied before he comes :
Yet, for our gentlemen, that mean to see
The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
To stand on either part.
2 Lord. It may well serve
A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
For breathing and exploit.
King. What’s he comes here?

Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.
1 Lord. It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,
oung Bertram.
King. Youth, thou bear’st thy father’s face ;
Frank nature, rather curious than in haste, 20

 

 

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 415
understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else | Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father’s moral parts

May’st thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.

Ber. My thanks and duty are your majesty’s.

King. [would I had that corporal soundness now,
As when thy father, and myself, in friendship
First tried our soldiership. He did look far
Into the service of the time, and was
Discipled of the bravest : he lasted long
But on us both did haggish age steal on,
And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
To talk of your good father. In his youth
He had the wit, which I can well observe
To-day in our young lords; but they may jest,
Till their own scorn return to them unnoted,
Ere they can hide their levity in honour.
So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
Were in his pride, or sharpness; if they were,
His equal had awak’d them; and his honour,
Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
Exception bid him speak, and at this time 40
His tongue obey’d his hand: who were below him
He us’d as creatures of another place,
And bow’d his eminent top to their low ranks,
Making them proud of his humility,
In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
Might be a copy to these younger times,
Which, follow’d well, would demonstrate them now
But goers backward.

er. His good remembrance, sir,

Lies richer in oe thoughts, than on his tomb:
So in approof lives not his epitaph, 50
As in your royal pprenn.

King. ’Would I were with him! He would always

30.

say,
(Methinks, I hear him now: his plausive words
He scatter’d not in ears, but grafted them,
To grow there, and to bear,)—‘“‘ Let me not live,”—
Thus his good melancholy oft began,
On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
When it was out,—‘‘ Let me not live,” quoth he,
‘« After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses 60
All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
Mere fathers of their garments ; whose constancies
Expire before their fashions.”—This he wish’d :
J, after him, do after him wish too,
Since I nor wax, nor honey, can bring home,
I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
To give some labourers room.
You are lov’d, sir ;

2 Lord.
They, that least lend it you, shall lack you first.
King. I fill a place, I know ’t.—How long is’t, count,
Since the physician at your father’s died? 70
He was much fam’d.
Ber. Some six months since, my lord.
King. If he were living, I would try him yet :—
Lend me an arm :—the rest have worn me out
With several applications: nature and sickness
Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, count;
My son’s no dearer.
er.

Thank your majesty. [Hxreunt.

 

ScENE III.—Rousillon. A Room in the CoUNTEsS’s
Palace.

Enter CountsEss, Steward, and Clown.

Count. I will now hear: what say you of this gentle-
woman ?

Stew. Madam, the care I have had to even your
content, I wish might be found in the calendar of my
past endeavours; for then we wound our modesty,
and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when
of ourselves we ee cs them.

Count. What does this knave here? Get you gone,
sirrah: the complaints I have heard of you, I do not
all believe: ‘tis my slowness, that I do not; for I
know you lack not folly to commit them, and have
ability enough to make such knaveries yours. 12

Clo. ’Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor
fellow.

Count. Well, sir.

 

 

 
 

416

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[Act L,

 

 

Clo. No, madam; ’tis not so well, that I am_poor,
though many of the rich are damned. But, if I may
have your ladyship’s good will to go to the world,
Isbel, the woman, and [ will do as we may.

Count. Wilt thou needs be a beggar? 20

Clo. I do beg your good will in this case.

Count, In what case? > fe

Clo. In Isbel’s case, and mine own. Service is no
heritage, and, I think, I shall never have the blessing
of God, till I have issue of my body, for they say,
barnes are blessings. ;

Count. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.

Clo. My poor body, madam, requires it : lam driven
on by the flesh, and he must needs go, that the devil
drives. 30

Count. Is this all your worship’s reason ?

Clo. ’Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such
as they are.

Count. May the world know them ?

Clo. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as
you and all flesh and blood are; and, indeed, T do
marry that I may repent. ;

Count. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.

Clo. [am out o’ friends, madam ; and I hope to have
friends for my wife’s sake. 40

Count. Buok friends are thine enemies, knave.

Clo. You are shallow, madam ; e’en great friends;
for the knaves come to do that for me, which I am
aweary of. He that ears my land spares my team,
and gives me leave to inn the crop: if I be his cuck-
old, he’s my drudge. He that comforts my wife is
the cherisher of my flesh and blood ; he that cherishes
my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that
loves my flesh and blood is my friend: ergo he that
kisses my wife is my friend. If men could be contented
to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage ;
for young Charbon the Puritan, and old Poysam the
Papist, howsome’er their hearts are sévered in re-
ligion, their heads are both one; they may joll horns
together, like any deer i’ the herd.

Count. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouthed and
calumnious knave?

Clo. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth
the next way :

For I the ballad will repeat,
Which men full true shall find ;

Your marriage comes by destiny,
Your cuckoo sings by kind.

Count. Get you gone, sir: I’ll talk with you more
anon.

Stew. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen
come to you: of her I am to speak.

Count. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman, I would speak
with her; Helen I mean.

Clo. Was this fair face the cause, quoth she, 70

Why the Grecians sacked Troy ?
Fond done, done fond,

Was this King Priam’s joy ?
With that she sighed as she stood,
With that she sighed as she stood,

And gave this sentence then;
Among nine bad if one be good,
Among nine bad if one be good,

There's yet one good in ten.

Count. What! one good in ten? you corrupt the
none, sirrah,. 81

Clo. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a
purifying o’ the song. "Would God would serve the
world so all the year! we’d find no fault with the
tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten, quoth
’a! an we might have a good woman born but for
every blazing star, or at an earthquake, ’t would mend
the lottery well: a man may draw his heart out, ere
he pluck one.

Count. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I com-
mand you! 91

Clo. That man should be at woman’s command, and
yet no hurt done !—Though honesty be no Puritan, yet
it will do no hurt; it will wear the panes of humility
over the black gown of a big heart.—I am going, for-
sooth: the business is for Helen to comehither. [Ezit.

 

Count. Well, now.

Stew. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman
entirely. 99

Count. ’Faith, I do: her father bequeathed her to
me ; and she herself, without other advantage, may
lawfully make title to as much love as she finds: there
is more owing her than is paid, and more shall be
paid her than she’ll demand. 2

Stew. Madam, I was very late more near her than,
I think, she wished me: alone she was, and did com-
municate to herself, her own words to her own ears;
she thought, I dare vow for her, they touched not any
stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your son:
Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such
difference betwixt their two estates; Love, no god,
that would not extend his might, only where qualities
were level; Diana, no queen of virgins, that would
suffer her poor knight surprised, without rescue in the
first assault, or ransom afterward. This she delivered
in the most bitter touch of sorrow, that e’er I heard
virgin exclaim in; which I held my duty speedily to
acquaint you withal, sithence in the loss that may
happen, it concerns you something to know it. ly

‘ount. You have discharged this honestly : keep it

to yourself. Many likelihoods informed me of this
before, which hung so tottering in the balance, that
I could neither believe, nor misdoubt. Pray you,
leave me: stall this in your bosom, and I thank you
for your honest care. I will speak with you further
anon, ; [EZxit Steward,
Even so it was with me, when I was young.
If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn
Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong ;
Our blood to us, this to our blood is born : 130
It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impress’d in youth:
By our remembrances of days foregone,
Such were our faults ; or then we thought them none,

Enter HELENA,
Her eye is sick on’t: J observe her now.

Hel. What is your pleasure, madam ?

Count. You know, Helen,
I am a mother to you.

Hel. Mine honourable mistress,

Count. ay, a mother,
Why not a mother? When I said, a mother,
Methought you saw a serpent: what’s in mother, 140
That you start at it? Isay, Iam your mother,
And put you in the catalogue of those
That were enwombed mine. ’T is often seen,
Adoption strives with nature; and choice breeds
A native slip to us from foreign seeds ;

You ne’er oppress’d me with a mother’s groan,
Yet I express to you a mother’s care.—
God’s mercy, maiden ! does it curd thy blood,
To say, lam thy mother? What's the matter,
That this distemper’d messenger of wet,
The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye ?—
Why? that you aremy daughter ?

That I am not.

3 Pardon, madam ;
The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
I am from humble, he from honour’d name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble:
My master, my dear lord he is; and I
His servant live, and will his vassal die.
He must not be my brother.
Count. Nor I your mother?
Hel. You are my mother, madam: ’would you were
(So that my lord, your son, were not my brother) 161
Indeed my mother !—or were you both our mothers,
I care no more for, than I do for heaven,
So I were not his sister. Can’t no other,
But, I your daughter, he must be my brother? i
Count. me Helen, you might be my daughter-in-
aw. é
God shield, you mean it not! daughter, and mother,
So strive upon your pulse. What, pale again?
My fear hath catch’d your fondness: now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find 170

el.
Count. I say, Iam your mother.
Hel

 

 
 

 

Scene III.)

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WEILL.

41

 

Your salt tears’ head. Now to all sense ’t is gross,
You love my son: invention is asham’d,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,

To say, thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then, ’t is so :—for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, the one to the other; and thine eyes
See it so pare shown in thy behaviours,

That in their kind they speak it: only sin,

And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,

That truth should be suspected. Speak, is’t so?
If it be so, you have wound a goodly clue;

If it be not, forswear’t: howe’er, I charge thee,
As Heaven shall work in me for thine avail,

To tell me truly.

180

Hel. Good madam, pardon me.

Count. Do you love my son?

Hel. Your pardon, noble mistress.

Count. Love you my son?

el. Do not you love him, madam?

Count. Go not about: my love hath in’t a bond,
Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose
The state of your affection, for your passions
Have to the full appeach’d.

Hel. Then, I confess,
Here on my knee, before high Heaven and you,
That before you, and next unto high Heaven,
Tlove your son. —

My friends were poor, but honest ; so’s my love:
Be not offended, for it hurts not hit,

That he is lov’d of me. I follow him not

By any token of presumptucus suit ;

Nor would I have him, till I do deserve him,
Yet never know how that desert should be.

I know I love in vain, strive against hope ;

Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,

I still pour in the waters of my love,

And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like,
Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun, that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,

For loving where you do: but, if yourself,
Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,

Did ever, in so true a flame of liking,

Wish chastely, and love dearly, that your Dian
Was both herself and Love: O! then, give pity
To her, whose state is such, that cannot choose
But lend and give where she is sure to lose ;
That seeks not to find that her search implies,

190

200

210

 

But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies.
Count. Had you not lately an intent, speak truly,
To go to Paris?
Hel. Madam, I had.
Count. Wherefore? tell true.
Hel. I will tell truth ; by grace itself I swear.
You know, my father left me some prescriptions 220
Of rare and prov’d effects, such as his reading
And manifest experience had collected
For general sovereignty : and that he will’d me
In heedfull’st reservation to bestow them,
As notes, whose faculties inclusive were,
More than they were in note. Amongst the rest,
There is a remedy approv’d, set down
To cure the desperate languishings whereof
The king is render’d los
Count.
For Paris, was it? speak. ; 7
Hel. My lord, your son, made me to think of this ;
Else Paris, and the medicine, and the king,
Had, from the conversation of my thoughts,
Haply been absent then.
Count. But think you, Helen,
If you should tender your supposed aid,
He would receive it? He and his physicians
Are of a mind ; he, that they cannot help him, .
They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
Embowell’d of their doctrine, have left off 240
The danger to itself?

This was your motive

Hel. There’s something in ’t,
More than my father’s skill, which was the greatest
Of his profession, that his good receipt
Shall, for my legacy, be sanctified
By the luckiest stars in heaven: and, would your
honour
But give me leave to try success, I’d venture
The well-lost life of mine on his grace’s cure,
By such a day and hour.
Count. Dost thou believe ’t?
Hel. Ay, madam, knowingly.
Count. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave, and
love, . : 250
Means, and attendants, and my loving greetings
To those of mine in court. I’U stay at home,
And pray God’s blessing into thy attempt.
Be gone to-morrow ; and be sure of this, |
What I can help thee to, thou shalt not miss.
[Ezeunt.

 

ACT ITI.
A Room in the K1ne’s Palace.
Flourish. Enter K1ne, with divers young Lords taking leave for the Florentine war ; BERTRAM,

ScENE I.—Paris.

PAROLLES, and Attendants,

King. :
AREWELL, young lords: these warlike
rinciples
Do not throw from you :—and you, my
lords, farewell.— 2
Share the advice betwixt you; if both

gain, all ‘ :
. The gift doth stretch itself as’tis receiv’d,
And is enough for both.
1 Lord.

 

i *T is our hope, sir,
After vell-enter’d soldiers, to return
And find your grace in health.

King. No, no, it cannot be; and zen my heart
Will not confess he owes the malady
That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords ; 10
Whether I live or die, be you the sons
Of worthy Frenchmen : let higher Italy
(Those ’bated, that inherit but the fall
Of the last monarchy,) see, that you come
Not to woo honour, but to wed it: when
The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,
That fame may cry you loud. I say, farewell.
2 Lord. Health, at your bidding, serve your
majesty !

 

27

 
 

418 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[Act IL

 

King. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them:
They say, our French lack language to deny,
If they demand : beware of being captives,
Before you serve. : f
Both, Our hearts receive your warnings.
King. Farewell.—Come hither to me.
[The KiNG retires to a couch,
1 Lord. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind
x

us!
Par. ’Tis not his fault, the spark.
2 Lord. O,’tis brave wars!
Par. Most admirable : I have seen those wars.
Ber. 1am commanded here, and kept a coil with,—
“Too young,” and “the next year,” and ‘’tis too

early.
Par. An thy mind stand to ’t, boy, steal away
bravely.

Ber. I shall stay here the forehorse toa smock, 30
Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,
Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn,
But one to dance with. By Heaven! I’ll steal away.

1 Lord. There’s honour in the theft.

Par. Commit it, count.

2 Lord. Tam your accessary ; and so farewell.

Ber. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortured
body. 5

1 Lord. Farewell, captain.

2 Lord. Sweet Monsieur Parolles ! 39

Par. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin.
Good sparks and lustrous, a word, good metals:
—you shall find in the regiment of the Spinii,
one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of
war, here on his sinister cheek: it was this very
sword entrenched it: say to him, I live, and observe
his reports for me.

2 Lord. We shall, noble captain. [Hreunt Lords.

Par. Mars dote on you for his novices !—What will
you do?

Ber. Stay ; the king-- 50

Par. Use amore spacious ceremony to the noble
lords : you have restrained yourself within the list of
too cold an adieu: be more expressive to them; for
they wear themselves in the cap of the time, there
do muster true gait, eat, speak, and move under the
influence of the most received star; and though the
devil lead the measure, such are to be followed. After
them, and take a more dilated farewell.

Ber, And I will do so.

Par. Worthy fellows, and like to prove most sinewy
swordmen. [Excunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES.
Enter LAFEU.

Laf. (Knecling.] Pardon, my lord, for me and for
my tidings. 62
King. I'll fee thee to stand up.
Laf. Then pene ’s a man stands, that has bought his
pardon,
I would, you had kneel’d, my lord, to ask me mercy,
And that, at my bidding, you could so stand up.
King. I would I had ; so I had broke thy pate,
And ask’d thee mercy for ’t.
Laf. 00d faith, across. But, my good lord, ’tis
hus ;
Will you be cur’d of your infirmity ? 70
King. No.
Laf. O! will you eat no grapes, my royal fox?
Yes, but you will my noble grapes, an if
My royal fox could reach them. I have seen a medi-
cine
Thats able to breathe life into a stone,
Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary
With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch
Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,
To give great Charlemain a pen in’'s hand,
And write to her a love-line.
King. What her is this? 80
Laf. Why, doctor she. My lord, there’s one arriv’d,
If you will see her :—now, by my faith and honour,
_ If seriously I may convey my thoughts
In this my light deliverance, I have spoke
With one, that in her sex, her years, profession,
Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more

 

Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see h
(For that is her demand), and know her business ?
we done, laugh well at me.

King. Now, good Lafeu,
Bring in the admiration, that we with thee
May spend our wonder too, or take off thine,
By wond ring how thou took’st it.

Laf.
And not be all day neither. rit.
King. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues,

Re-enter LAFEU, with HELENA,

Laf. Nay, come your ways.

king. This haste hath wings, indeed,

Lay. Nay, come your ways.

This is his majesty, say your mind to him:

A traitor you do look like ; but such traitors

His majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid’s uncle,
That dare leave two together. Fare you well. [Ezit.

King. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?

Hel. Ay, my good lord. 102
Gerard de Narbon was my father,

In what he did profess well found.
King. I knew him.
Hel. The rather will I spare my praises towards
im;
Knowing him, is enough. On's bed of death
Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one,
Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,
And of his old experience the only darling,
He bade me store up as a triple eye,
Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so;
And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d
With that malignant cause, wherein the honour
Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,
I come to tender it and my appliance,
With all bound humbleness.

King. We thank you, maiden;
But may not be so credulous of cure,

When our most learned doctors leave us, and

The congregated college have concluded

That labouring art can never ransom Nature 120
From her inaidable estate; I say, we must not

So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,

To prostitute our past-cure malady

To empirics, or to dissever so

Our great self and our credit, to esteem

A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.

Hel, My duty then shall pay me for my pains:
I will no more enforce mine office on you ;
Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts
A modest one, to bear me back again.

King. I cannot give thee less, tu be call’d grateful.
Thou thought’st to help me, and such thanks I give,
As one near death to those that wish him live ;

But what at full I know, thou know’st no part,
I knowing all my peril, thou no art.

Hel. What I can do, can do no hurt to try,

Since you set up your rest ’gainst remedy.
He that of greatest works is finisher,
Oft does them by the weakest minister :

Nay, I'll fit you,
Exi

So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, 140
When indece have been babes; great floods have
own

From simple sources ; and great seas have dried,

When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there

Where most it promises ; and oft it hits,

Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits. 4
King. I ee not hear thee: fare thee well, kind

maid.

Thy pains, not us’d, must by thyself be paid:

Profters, not took, reap thanks for their reward. __
Hel. Inspired merit so by breath is barr’d. 150

It is not so with Him that all things knows,

As ’tis with us that square our guess by shows;

But most it is presumption in us, when

The help of Heaven we count the act of men.

Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent ;

Of Heaven, not me, make an experiment.

I am not an impostor, that proclaim

Myself against the level of mine aim ;

 

 
 

Scene II.J

But know I think, and think I know most sure,
My art is not nee power, nor you past cure,
King. Art thou so confident? Within what space

Baye thou my cure?
el. The great’st grace lending grace,
Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring

Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring,

Ere twice in murk and occidental damp

   

YY 4
YY 7 Meer 08

King. ‘“‘ Give me some help here, ho!"

Moist Hesperus hath quench’d his sleepy lamp;
Or four-and-twenty times the pilot’s glass
Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass,
What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,
Health shall live free, and sickness freely die. 170
King. Upon thy certainty and confidence,
What dar’st thou venture?
Hel. Tax of impudence,
A strumpet’s boldness, a divulged shame,
Traduc’d by odious ballads ; my maiden’s name
Sear’d otherwise; ne worse of worst extended,
With vilest torture let my life be ended.
King. Methinks, in thee some blessed spirit doth
spea
His powerful sound, within an organ weak ;
And what impossibility would slay
In common sense, sense saves another way. 180
Thy life is dear ; for all, that life can rate
Worth name of life, in thee hath estimate ;
Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all
That happiness and prime can happy call:
Thou this to hazard, needs must intimate
Skill infinite, or monstrous desperate.
Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try,
That ministers thine own death, if I die.
Hel, If I break time, or flinch in property

And well deserv'd. Not helping, death’s my fee ;
But, if I help, what do you promise me?
ae Make thy demand.
el.

King. Ay, by my sceptre, and my hopes of heaven.
Hel. Then shaJt thou give me with thy kingly hand
What husband in thy power I will command:
Exempted be from me the annennee
To choose from forth the royal blood of France,
we low and humble name to propagate
i

But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know
Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.

King. Here is my hand; the premises observ’d,
Thy will by my performance shall be serv’d :
So make the choice of thy own time ; for I,
Thy resolv’d patient, on thee still rely.
More should I question thee, and more I must,
Though more to know could not be more to trust,
From whence thou cam’st, how tended on; but rest

 

> taught.

Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die, 190

But will you make it even?

th any branch or image of thy state ; 200

 

Unquestion’d welcome, and undoubted blest.— 210

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 419

Give me some help here, ho !—If thou proceed
As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.
[Flouri_h. Hxeunt.

ScENE II.—Rousillon._A Room in the CounTEss’s
Palace,

Enter Countess and Clown.

Count. Come on, sir: I shall now put you to the
height of your breeding.

Clo. I will show myself highly fed, and lowly
g I know, my business is but to the court.

Count. To the court! why, what place make you
special, when you put off that with such contempt ?
But to the court !

Clo. Truly, madam,"if God have lent a man any
manners, he may easily put it off at court: he that
cannot make a leg, put off’s cap, kiss his hand, and
say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip, nor cap;
and, indeed, such a fellow, to say precisely, were not.
for the court. But, for me, I have an answer will
serve all men.

Count. Marry, that’s a bountiful answer, that fits
all questions.

Clo. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks ;
the pin-buttock, the quatch-buttock, the brawn-but-
tock, or any buttock. 1

Count. Will your answer serve fit to all questions?

Clo. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an
attorney, as your French crown for your taffeta punk,
as Tib’s rush for Tom’s forefinger, as a pancake for
Shrove Tuesday, a morris for Mayday, as the nail to
his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding quean
to a wrangling knave, as the nun’s lip to the friar’s
mouth ; nay, as the pudding to his skin.

Count. Have you, I say, an answer of such fitness
for all questions?

Clo. From below your duke to beneath your con-

stable, it will fit any question. 31

EE

 

 

Clo. ** Ask me, if I am a courtier.”

Count. It must be an answer of most monstrous
size, that must fit all demands. .

Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned
should speak truth of it. Here it is, and all that
belongs to ’t: ask me, if I am a courtier; it shall do
you no harm to learn. :

Count. To be young again, if we could. I will be
a fool in question, hoping to be the wiser by your
answer. I pray you, sir, are you a.courtier? 40

Clo. O Lord, sir !—there’s a simple putting off.—
More, more, a hundred of them.

 

 
 

420

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

(Acr I.

 

Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves

ou.
. Clo. O Lord, sir !—Thick, thick, spare not me.
Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely
meat.
Clo. O Lord, sir!—Nay, put me to ’t, I warrant you.
Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I think.
Clo. O Lord, sir !—Spare not me. _ , 50
Count. Do youcry, “‘O Lord, sir!” at your whipping,
and “Spare not me?” Indeed, your “O Lord, sir!
is very sequent to your whipping : you would answet
very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to 't.
Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life, in my—‘‘O
Lord, sir!” Isee, things may serve long, but not serve
ever.
Count. I play the noble housewife with the time,
To entertain it so.merrily with a fool. ,
Clo. O Lord, sir !—why, there ’t serves well again. 60
Count. An end, sir: to your business. Give Helen
his,
And urge her to a present answer back :
Commend me to my kinsmen, and my son.
This is not much.
Clo. Not much commendation to them.
Count. Not much employment for you: you under-
stand me?
Clo. Most fruitfully : Iam there before my legs.
Count. Haste you again. [Ezcunt severally.

Scene IIJ.—Paris. A Room in the K1no’s Palace.

Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES.

Laf. They say, miracles are past ; and we have our
philosophical persons, to make modern and familiar,
things supernatural and causeless, Hence is it, that
we make trifles of terrors, ensconcing ourselves into
seeming knowledge, when we should submit ourselves
to an unknown fear.

Par. Why, ‘tis the rarest argument of wonder, that
hath shot out in our latter times.

Ber, And so ‘tis.

Laf. To be relinquished of the artists,— 10

Par. So I say: both of Galen and Paracelsus.

Laf. Of all the learned and authentic fellows,—

Par. Right; soI say.

Laf. That gave him out incurable,—

Par. Why, there tis; so say I too.

Laf. Not to be helped,—

Par. Right; as ’t were a man assured of a—

Laf. Uncertain life, and sure death.

Par. Just, you say well; so would I have said.

Laf. [may truly say, it is a novelty to the world. 20

Par. It is, indeed: if you will have it in showing,
you shall read it in—what do you call there ?—

sae A showing of a heavenly effect in an earthly
actor.

Par. That’s it I would have said ; the very same.

Laf. Why, your dolphin is not lustier: fore me, I
speak in respect—

Par. Nay, tis strange, ’tis very strange, that is
the brief and the tedious of it; and he is of a most
facinorous spirit, that will not acknowledge it to be

31

io

Laf. Very hand of Heaven.

Par. Ay, solsay.

Laf. Ina most weak—

Par. And debile minister, great power, great tran-
scendence: which should, indeed, give us a further
use to be made, than alone the recovery of the king,
as to be—

Laf. Generally thankful.

Par. I would have said it; you say well. Here
comes the king. 41

Enter Kine, HELENA, and Attendants.

Laf. Lustick, as the Dutchman says: I'll like a
maid the better, whilst I have a tooth in my head.
Why, he’s able to lead her a coranto.

Par. Mort du vinaigre ! Is not this Helen?

Laf. ’Fore God, I think so.

 

King. Go, call before me all she lords in court.—

: cit an Atten 3
Sit, my preserver, by thy patient’s side : ee
And with this healthful hand, whose banish’d sense
Thou hast repeal’d, a second time receive 50
The confirmation of my promis’d gift,

Which but attends thy naming.

Enter several Lords.

Fair maid, send forth thine eye: this youthful parcel

Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing, B

O’er whom both sovereign power and father’s voice

LT have to use: thy frank election make.

Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake,
Hel. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress

Fall, when Love please !—marry, to each, but one.
Laf. I’d give bay curtal, and his furniture,

My mouth no more were broken than these boys’,

And writ as little beard.

King. Peruse them well:

Not one of those but had a noble father.

Hel. Gentlemen,

Heaven hath through me restor’d the king to health.
All. We understand it, and thank Heaven for you.
Hel. 1am a simple maid; and therein wealthiest,

That, I protest, I simply am a maid.—

Please it your majesty, I have done already :

The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me, 70

“We blush, that thou shouldst choose ; but, be refus’d,

Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever:

We'll ne’er come there again.”

King. Make choice; and see,
Who shuns thy love, shuns all his love in me.

Hel. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,

And to fee Love, that god most high,

Do my sighs stream.-—Sir, will you hear my suit?

1 Lord. And grant it.

Hel. ‘Thanks, sir: all the rest is mute.

Laf. I had rather be in this choice, than throw
ames-ace for my life. 80

Hel. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,
Before I speak, too threateningly replies :

Love make your fortunes twenty times above

Her that so wishes, and her humble love!

2 Lord. No better, if you please.

Hel, My wish receive,
Which great Love grant! and so I take my leave.

Laf. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of
mine, I’d have them whipped, or I would send them
to the Turk to make eunuchs of. |

Hel. [To 3 Lord.| Be not afraid that I your hand

should take ; 90

I'll never do you wrong for your own sake:

Blessing upon your vows! and in your bed

Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!

Laf. These boys are boys of ice, theyll none have
her: sure, they are bastards to the English: the French
ne’er got them.

Hel. You are too young, too happy, and too good,
To make yourself a son out of my blood.

4 Lord. Fair one, I think not so.

Laf. There’s one grape yet,—I am sure, thy father
drank wine.—But if thou be’st not an ass, Iam a youth
of fourteen: I have known thee already. 102

Hel. [To BERTRAM.] I dare not say, I take you; but

give

Me, and my service, ever whilst I live,

Into your guiding power.—This is the man. ‘

King. yy When, young Bertram, take her; she’s
thy wife. r

Ber. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your high-

ness
In such a business give me leave to use
The help of mine own eyes.

King. Know’st thou not, Bertram,
What she has done for me?
Ber. Yes, my good lord; 110
But never hope to know why I should marry her.

King. Thou know’st, she has rais’d me from my

sickly bed. ;

Ber. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down

Must answer for your raising? I know her well:

 

 
 

Scene II1.]

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

421

 

 

She had her breeding at my father's charge.

A poor physician’s daughter my wife !—Disdain

Rather corrupt me ever!

King. Tis only title thou disdain’st in her, the
which

Ican build up. Strange is it, that our bloods,

Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together,

Would quite confound distinction, yet stand otf

In differences so mighty. If she be

All that is virtuous (save what thou dislik’st,

A poor physician’s daughter), thou dislik’st

Of virtue for the name; but do not so:

From lowest qe when virtuous things proceed,

The place is dignified by the doer’s deed:

Where great additions swell ’s, and virtue none,

It is a dropsied honour. Good alone

Is good without a name; vileness is so:

The property by what it is should go,

Not by the ‘itle. She is young, wise, fair ;

In these to nature she ’s immediate heir,

And these breed honour: that is honour’s scorn

Which challenges itself as honour’s born,

And is not like the sire: honours thrive,

When rather from our acts we them derive,

Than our foregoers. The mere word’s a slave,

Debosh’d on every tomb ; on every grave,

A lying trophy ; and as oft is dumb,

Where dust and damn’d oblivion is the tomb

Of honour’d bones indeed. What should be said ?

If thou canst like this creature as a maid,

I can create the rest : virtue, and she,

Is her own dower ; honour and wealth from me.
Ber. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do’t.
King. Thou wrong’st thyself, if thou shouldst strive

to choose.
Hel, That you are well restor’d, my lord, I’m glad.

Let the rest go.

King. My honour’s at the stake, which to defeat 150

I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,

Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift,

That dost in vile misprision shackle up

My love, and her desert ; that canst not dream,

e, poising us in her defective scale,

Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know,

It is in us to plant thine honour, where

We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt:

Obey our will, which travails in thy good :

Believe not thy disdain, but presently

Do thine own fortunes that obedient right,

Which both thy duty owes, and our power claims ;

Or I will throw thee from my care for ever

Into the staggers and the careless lapse

Of youth and ignorance ; both my revenge and hate

Loosing upon thee, in the name of justice,

Without all terms of pity. Speak: thine answer.
Ber. Pardon, my gracious lord, for I submit

ey ence to youreyes. When I consider
Vhat great creation, and what dole of honour,

Files where you bid it, I find that she, which late

Was in my nobler thoughts most base, is now

The praised of the king ; who, so ennobled,

Is, as ’t were, born so.
ing. Take her by the hand,
And tell her, she is thine: to whom I promise
A counterpoise, if not to thy estate,
A balance more replete.
Ber. Itakeherhand. |
King. Good fortune, and the favour of the king, .
Smile upon this contract ; whose ceremony
Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,
And be perform’d to-night : the solemn feast
Shall more attend upon the coming space,
Expecting absent friends. As thou lov’st her,
Thy love’s to me religious, else, does err.
[Exeunt Kine, BERTRAM, HELENA, Lords,
and Attendants. :
Laf. Do you hear, monsieur? a word with you.
Par. Your pleasure, sir? .
Laf. Your lord and master did well to make his re-
cantation.
Par. Recantation ?—My lord? my master?
Lay. Ay ; is it not a language I speak?

120

130

140

160

170

180

190

 

Par. A most harsh one, and not to be understood
without bloody succeeding. My master?

Laf. Are you companion to the Count Rousillon ?

Par. To any count; to all counts; to what is man.

Laf. To what is count’s man: count’s master is of
another style.

‘ ee You are too old, sir: let it satisfy you, you are
oo old.

Laf. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man ; to which
title age cannot bring thee. 200

Par, What I dare too well do, I dare not do.

Laf. J did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a
pretty wise fellow: thou didst make tolerable vent of
thy travel: it might pass; yet the scarfs, and the ban-
nerets about thee, did manifoldly dissuade me from
believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I have
now found thee: when I lose thee again, I care not;

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Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee.”

yet art thou good for nothing but taking up, and that
thou rt scarce worth.
aoe” Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity mppn

ee, — 21

Laf. Donot plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou
hasten thy trial; which if—Lord have mercy on thee
forahen! So, my a window of lattice, fare thee
well: thy casement I need not open, for I lock through
thee. Give me thy hand.

Par. My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.

Laf. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.

Par. Ihave not, my lord, deserved it.

Laf. Yes, good faith, every drachm of it; and I will
not bate thee a scruple. 221

Par. Well, I shall be wiser.

Laf. H’en assoon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull
at a smack o’ the contrary. If ever thou be’st bound
in thy scarf, and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to
be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my
acquaintance with thee, or rather my knowledge,
that I may say, in the default, he is a man I know.

Par. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexa-
tion. 230
Laf, I would it were hell-pains for thy sake, and my
poor doing eternal: for doing Iam past, as I will by
thee, in what motion age will give me leave.  [Evit.

Par. Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace
off me, scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord !—Well, I must
be patient; there is no fettering of authority. I’
beat him, by my life, if I can meet him with any con-
venience, an he were double and double alord. I’ll
have no more pity of his age, than I would have of—
I'll beat him: an if I could but meet him again! 240

Re-enter LAFEU.

Laf. Sirrah, your lord and master’s married:
there’s news for you; you have a new mistress.

 

 
 

#22

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

{Act IL

 

 

Par. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to
make some reservation of your wrongs : he is my good
lord: whom I serve above is iny master.

Laf. Who? God?

Par. Ay, sir.

Laf. The devil it is, that’s thy master. Why dost
thou garter up thy arms o’ this fashion? dost make
hose of thy sleeves? do other servants so? Thou wert
best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By
mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I’d
beat thee: methinks ’t, thou art a general offence,
and every man should beat thee: T think, thou wast
created for men to breathe themselves upon thee.

i ee This is hard and undeserved measure, my
ord,

Laf. Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for
picking a kernel out of a pomegranate: you are a
vagabond, andnotrue traveller. Youare more saucy
with lords and honourable personages, than the com-
mission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry.
You are not worth another word, else I’d call you
knave. I leave you. (Exit.

Par. Good, very good; it is so then :—good, very
good. Let it be concealed awhile.

Re-enter BERTRAM.
Ber. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
Par. What is the matter, sweet-heart ?
Ber. Although before the solemn priest I have
sworn, I will not bed her. 270
Par. What, what, sweet-heart ?
Ber. Omy Parolles, they have married me! —
I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits
The tread of a man’s foot. To the wars!
Ber. There’s letters from my mother: what the
import is,
I know not yet.
Par. Ay, that would be known. To the wars, my
boy ! to the wars!
He wears his honour in a box, unseen,
That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home, 280
Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
Of Mars’s fiery steed. To other regions!
France is a stable; we, that dwell in ’t, jades;
Therefore, to the war !
Ber. It shall be so: I'll send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled; write to the king
That which I durst not speak. His present gift
Shall furnish me to those Italian ticlds,
Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife
To the dark house, and the detested wife.
Par. Will this capriccio hold in thee, art sure?
Ber. Go with me to my chamber, and advise me.
I'l) send her straight away: to-morrow
I'll to the wars, she to her singlé sorrow.
Par. Why, these balls bound; there ’s noise in it;
tis hard.
A young man married is a man that’s marr’d:
Therefore away, and leave her: bravely go;
The king has done you wrong; but, hush! ’tis so. 300
[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Same. Another Room in the Same.

Enter HELENA and Clown.

Hel. My mother greets me kindly : is she well?

Clo. She is not well; but yet she has her health:
she’s very merry; but yet she is not well: but thanks
be given, she’s very well, and wants nothing i’ the
world; but yet she is not well.

ffel. If she be very well, what does she ail, that
she’s not very well?

Clo. Truly, she’s very well, indeed, but for two
things.

fel. What two things? 10

Clo. One, that she’s not in heaven, whither God
send her quickly ! the other, that she’s in earth, from
whence God send her quickly !

 

Enter ParoLLEs,

Par. Bless you, my fortunate lady !

Hel. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine
own good fortunes.

Par. You had my prayers to lead them on; and to
keep them on, have them still.—O, my knave! How
does my old lady?

Clo. So that you had her wrinkles, and I her money,
I would she did as you say. 21

Par, Why, I say nothing.

Clo, Marry, you are the wiser man; for manya
man’s tongue shakes out his master’s undoing. To
say nothing, to do nothing, to know nothing, and to
have nothing, is to be a great part of your title, which
is within a very little of nothing.

Par. Away! thou ’rt a knave.

Clo. You should have said, sir, before a knave
thou rt_a knave; thatis, before me thou 'rt a knave:
this had been truth, sir. 31
eee Go to, thou art a witty fool; Ihave found

ee.

Clo. Did you find me in yourself, sir, or were you
taught to find me? The search, sir, was profitable;
and much fool may you find in you, even to the world’s
pleasure, and the increase of laughter.

Par. A good knave, i’ faith, and well fed.—
Madam, my lord will go away to-night ;

A very serious business calls on him. 40
The great prerogative and rite of love,
Which, as your due, time claims, be does acknow-

ledge,
But puts it off to a compell’d restraint ;
Whose want, and whose delay, is strew’d with sweets,
Which they distil now in the curbed time,
To make the coming hour o’erflow with joy,

And pice drown the brim.
Hel. What’s his will else?
Par. That you will take your instant leave o’ the

ing,
And make this haste as your own good proceeding,
Strengthen’d with what apology you think 50
May make it probable need.

Hel. What more commands he?

Par. That, having this obtain’d, you presently
Attend his further pleasure. :

Hel. In everything I wait upon his will.

Par. I shall report it so. :

Hel. pray you.—Come, sirrah. [Ezeunt.

ScgenrE V.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter LAFEU and BERTRAM.

Laf. But, I hope, your lordship thinks not him a
soldier.

Ber. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.

Laf. You have it from his own deliverance.

Ber. And by other warranted testimony. ;

Laf. Then my dial goes not true. I took this lark
for a bunting. | :

Ber. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in
knowledge, and accordingly valiant. : 9

Laf. I have then sinned against his experience, and
transgressed against his valour; and my state that
way is dangerous, since I cannot yet find in my heart
to repent. Here he comes. I pray you, make us
friends : I will pursue the amity.

Enter PAROLLES.
Par. [To BERTRAM.] These things shall be done,
sir.
Laf. Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?
Par, Sir? e) Se
Laf. O! I know him well. Ay, sir; he, sir, Is @
good workman, a very good tailor. _ 20
Ber. [Aside to PAROLLES.] Is she gone tothe king?
Par. She is.
Ber. Will she away to-night?
Par. As you'll have her.
Ber. [have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,

 

 
 

 

ScENE V.] ALL'S

WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

423

 

Given order for our horses; and to-night,
When I should take possession of the bride,
End, ere I do begin.
Laf, A good traveller is something at the latter end
of a dinner, but one that lies three thirds, and uses a

 

 

prayers. Fare you well, my lord; and_ believe this
of me, there can be no kernel in this light nut; the
soul of this man is his clothes: trust him not in matter
of heavy consequence; I have kept of them tame,
and know their natures.—Farewell, monsieur : I have

i mw
TST TT eae

NTT

Hel. ‘I would not tell you what I would, my lord!”

known truth to pass a thousand nothings with, should
be once heard, and thrice beaten.—God save you,
captain.

er. Is there any unkindness between my lord and
you, monsieur ?

Par. I know not how I have deserved to run into
my lord’s displeasure.

Laf. You have made shift to run into ’t, boots and
spurs and all, like him that leaped into the custard,
and out of it you'll run again, rather than suffer
question for your residence. 41

Ber, It may be, you have mistaken him, my lord. |

Laf. And shall do so ever, though I took him at his

: Some private speech wit.

spoken better of you, than you have or will deserve
at my hand; but we must do good against evil. |Eit.
Par. An idle lord, I swear. 51
Ber. I think so.
Par. Why, do you not know him?
Ber. Yes, 1 do know him well; and common speech
Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

Enter HELENA.

Hel. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,
Spoke with the king, and have procur’d his leave
For present parting ; only he desires
you.

 
 

424

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

[Acr IIL,

 

 

Ber. ht I shall obey his will.
You must not marvel, Helen, at my course, 60
Which holds not colour with the time, nor does
The ministration and required office
On my particular: prepar’d I was not
For such a business ; therefore am I found
So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you,
That presently you take your way for home ;
And rather muse than ask why I entreat you ;
For my respects are better than they seem,
And my appointments have in them a need.
Greater than shows itself, at the first view, 70
To you that know them not. This to my mother.
(Giving a letter.
*T will be two days ere I shall see you: so,
I leave you to your wisdom. 3
Hel. Sir, I can nothing say,
But that Iam your most obedient servant.
Ber. Come, come, no more of that.
Hel. : And ever shall
With true observance seek to eke out that,
Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail’d
To equal my great fortune.

 

Ber. : Let that go:
ee is very great. Farewell: hie home.
see ’Pray, sir, your Bangor
er. ell, what would you
Hel. Tam not worthy of the wea'th I owe - ae
Nor dare I say, ’t is mine, and yet it is ;
But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal
wae law does vouch mine own,
er. , What would you have?
Fel, Something, and scarce so much | alan in-

eed.—
I would not tell you what I would, my lord :—
Faith, yes ;—
Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.
Ber. I pray aes stay not, but in haste to horse.
Hel. t ane not break your bidding, good my
ord. §
Ber. Where are my other men, monsieur ?—Fare-
well. [Exit HELENA.
Go thou toward home ; where I will never come,
Whilst I can shake my sword, or hear the drum, —
Away ! and for our flight.

Par. Bravely, coragio. (Exeunt,

 

AgT TI.

Scene I.—Florence.

   

Duke.
$0 that, from point to point, now have
you heard
The fundamental reasons of this war,
Whose great decision hath much blood
let forth,
And more thirsts after.

1 Lord. Holy seems the quarrel
Upon yourgrace’s part; black and fearful
On the opposer.

Duke. Therefore we marvel much,

our cousin France
Would, in so just a business shut his
: bosom
feats our borrowing prayers.
Lord. Good my lord,
The reasons of our state I cannot yield,
But like a common and an outward man,
That the great figure of a council frames
By self-unable motion : therefore dare not
Say what I think of it, since I have found
Myself in ay uncertain grounds to fail
As often as I guess'd.

Duke. Be it his pleasure.

2 Lord. But I am sure, the younger of our nature,
That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
Come here for physic.

Duke. Welcome shall they be,

And all the honours that can fly from us

Shall on them settle. You know your places well ;
When better fall, for your avails they fell.
To-morrow to the field. [Flourish. Exeunt.

 

ScENE IT.—Rousillon. A Room in the COUNTESS’s
alace.
Enter CouNTEss and Clown.

Count. It hath happened all as I would have had it,
save that he comes not along with her.

 

A Room in the DuUKE’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, attended ; two French Lords, and
Soldiers.

Clo. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very
melancholy man.

Count. By what observance, I cs you?

Clo. Why, he will look upon his boot, and sing:
mend the ruff, and sing ; ask questions, and sing ; pick
his teeth, and sing. I know aman, that had this trick
of melancholy, sold a goodly manor for a song.

Count. Let me see what he writes, and when he
means to come. . ll

Clo. I have no mind to Isbel, since I was at court.
Our old ling and our Isbels o’ the country are nothing
like your old ling and your Isbels o’ the court: the
brains of my Cupid’s knocked out, and I begin to love,
as an old man loves money, with no stomach.

Count. What have we here ?

Clo, E’en that you have there. [Exit

Count. [Reads.] “I have sent you a daughter-in-
law : she had recovered the king, and undone me.
have wedded her, not bedded her ; and sworn to make
the not eternal. You shall hear, Iam runaway: know
it before the report come. If there be breadth enough
in the world, I will hold_a long distance. My duty to
you. Your unfortunate son, “

BERTRAM.
This is not well: rash and unbridled boy,
To fly the favours of so good a king!
To pluck his indignation on thy head,
By the misprising of a maid too virtuous 30
For the contempt of empire !

Re-enter Clown.

Clo. O madam! yonder is heavy news within, be-
tween two soldiers and my young lady.

Count, What is the matter?

Clo. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some
comfort: your son will not be killed so soon as I
thought he would.

Count. Why should he be kill'd?

Clo. So say I, madam, if he run awa;
does : the danger is in standing to’t; t

, as I hear he
at,’s the loss of

 

 
 

 

 

1 Gent. Save you, good madam.

Hel. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.

2 Gent. Do not say so.

Count.:Think upon patience.—’Pray you, gentle-

men
T have felt so many quirks of joy and grief,

That the first face of neither, on the start,

Can woman me unto’t:—where is my son, I pray

you? 5

2 Gent. Madam, he’s gone to serve the Duke of

Florence.
We met him thitherward; for thence we came,
And, after some despatch in hand at court,
Thither we bend again.

Hel. Look on his letter, madam: here’s my passport.
[Reads.] ‘‘When thou canst get the ring upon my
ae which never shall come off, and show me a
child begotten of thy body, that I am father to, then
call me husband: but in such a then I write a never.”
This is a dreadful sentence. 60

Count. Brought you this letter, gentlemen ?

1 Gent. Ay, madam ;
And, for the contents’ sake, are sorry for our pains.

Count. I pr’ythee, lady, have a better cheer ;

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,

Thou robb’st me of a moiety. He was my son,

But I do wash his name out of my blood,

And thou art ali ~y child.—Towards Florence is he?

2 Gent. Ay, madam.

Count. And to be a soldier ?

2 Gent. Such is his noble purpose ; and, believe ’t,
The duke will lay upon him all the honour 70
That good convenience claims.

Count. 7 Return you thither?

1Gent. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of

spee
_ Hel. [Reads.] “Till I have no wife, I have nothing
in France.”
Tis bitter.

Count, Find you that there?

Hel. Ay, madam.
1 Gent. "Tis but the boldness of his hand, haply,
which his heart was not consenting to.
Count. Nothing in France, until he have no wife!
There’s nothing here that is too good for him,
But only she; and she deserves a lord, 80
That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
And call her hourly, mistress. Who was with him?
1 Gent. A servant only, and a gentleman
Which I have sometime known.
Count.
1Gent. Ay, my good lady, he.
Count. A very tainted fellow, and full of wicked-
ness. '
a, son corrupts a well-derived nature
i
1

Parolles, was it not?

ith his inducement.
Gent. Indeed, good lady,
The fellow has a deal of that, too much,
Which holds him much to have.
Count. Y’ are welcome, gentlemen.
I will entreat you, when you see my son, 91
To tell him, that his sword can never win
The honour that he loses: more I'll entreat you
Written to bear along. .
2 Gent. We serve you, madam,
Tn that and all your worthiest affairs.
Count. Not so, but as we change our courtesies.
Will you draw near?
[Exeunt CounTEssS and Gentlemen.
Hel. “Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.”
Nothing in France, until he has no wife!
Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France; 100
Then hast thou all.again. Poor lord! is’t I
That chase thee from thy country, and expose
ose tender limbs of thine to the event
Of the none-sparing war? and is it I
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou

 

ScENE IV.] ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. 425
men, though it be the getting of children. Here they | Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
come will tell you more; for my part, I only hear pet Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
son was run away. [ t, That rine 8 on the a fire,
! y wi alse aim; move the still-’pearing air,
Enter HELENA and two Gentlemen. That sings with piercing, do not touch my lord! 110

Whoever shoots at him, I set him there ;

Whoever charges on his forward breast,

I am the caitiff that do hold him to it;

And, though I kill him not, I am the cause

His death was so effected. Better ’t were,

I met the ravin lion when he roar’d

With sharp constraint of hunger: better ’t were,

That all the miseries which nature owes

Were mine at once. No, come thou home, Rousillon,
Whence honour but of danger wins a scar, 120
As oft it loses all: I will be gone.

My being here it is that holds thee hence:

Shall I stay here to do’t? no, no, although

The air of paradise did fan the house,

And angels offic’d all: I will be gone. -

That pitiful rumour may report my flight,

To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day!

For with the dark, poor thief, [’ll steal away. [Ezit.

ScENE III.—Florence. Before the DUKr’s Palace.

Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, BERTRAM,
PaROLLEs, Lords, Officers, Soldiers, and others.
Duke. The general of our horse thou art ; and we,
Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
Upon thy promising fortune.
er. Sir, it is
A charge too heavy for my strength ; but yet
We'll strive to bear it, for your worthy sake,
To the extreme edge of hazard.
Duke. Then go thou forth,
And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,
As thy auspicious mistress !
Ber. This very day,
Great Mars, I put myself into thy file:
Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove 10
A lover of thy drum, hater of love. [Hzeunt.

 

ScENE IV.—Rousillon. A Room in the CountTsEss's
Palace.

Enter COUNTESS and her Sleward.

Count. Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
Might you not know, she would do as she has done,
By sending mea letter? Read it again.

Stew. [Reads.] ‘I am Saint Jaques’ pilgrim, thither

gone.

Ambitious love hath so in me offended,
That bare-foot plod I the cold ground upon,
With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
Write, write, that, from the bloody course of war,
My dearest master, your dear son, may hie:
Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far 10
His name with zealous fervour sanctify.
His taken labours bid him me forgive:
I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth
From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,
Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth:
He is too good and fair for Death and me,
Whom I myself embrace, to set him free.”

Count. Ah, what-sharp stings are in her mildest

words !—

Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much,
As letting her pass so: had I spoke with her, 20
I could have well diverted her intents,
Which thus she hath prevented.

Stew. Pardon me, madam:
If I had given you this at over-night,

She might have been o’erta’en ; and yet she writes,
Pursuit would be but vain.

Count. What angel shall
Bless this unworthy husband? he cannot thrive,
Unless her prayers, whom Heaven delights to hear,

 

 
 

426 ALL’S WELL

THAT ENDS WELL.

[Act IIL.

 

 

And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath

Of greatest justice.—Write, write, Rinaldo,

To this unworthy husband of his wife: 30

Let every word weigh heavy of her worth, |

That he does ae too light: my greatest grief,

Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.

Despatch the most convenient messenger.—

When, haply, he shall hear that she is gone,

He will return; and hope I may, that she,

Hearing so much, will speed her foct again,

Led hither by pure love. Which of them both

Is dearest to me, I have no skill in sense

To make distinction.— Provide this messenger.— 40

My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak ;

Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak.
[Haeunt.

ScrenE V.—Without the Walls of Florence.

A tucket afar off. Enter an old Widow of Florence,
DraNa, VIOLENTA, MARIANA, and other Citizens.

Wid. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city,
we shall loose all the sight.

Dia. They say, the French count has done most
honourable service.

Wid. It is reported that he has taken their greatest
commander, and that with his own hand he slew the
duke’s brother. We have lost our labour; they are
gone a contrary way: hark! you may know by their
trumpets. 9

Mar. Come; let’s return again, and suffice our-
selves with the report of it. Well, Diana, take heed
of this French earl: the honour of a maid is her
name, and no legacy is so rich as honesty.

Wid. Ihave told my neighbour, how you have been
solicited by a gentleman his companion.

Mar. I know that knave; hang him! one Parolles:
a filthy officer he is in those suggestions for the young
earl.—Beware of them, Diana; their promises, entice-
ments, oaths, tokens, and all these engines of lust, are
not the things they go under: many a maid hath been
seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that so
terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for
all that dissuade succession, but that they are limed
with the twigs that threaten them. I hope, Ineed not
to advise you further; but, I hope, your own grace
will keep you where you are, Hough there were no
pocther anger known, but the modesty which is so
ost.

Dia. You shall not need to fear me.

Wid. I hope so.—Look, here comes a pilgrim: I
know she will lie at my house; thither they send one
another. I'll question her.— 32

Enter HELENA, in the dress of a pilgrim.

God save you, pilgrim !—whither are you bound?
Hel. To Saint Jaques le Grand.

Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?
Wid. At the Saint Francis, here beside the port.
fel. Is this the way?
Wid. Ay, marry, is ’t.—Hark you!

2 [4 march afar off.

They come this way.—If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,

But till the troops come by,

I will conduct you where you shall be lodg’d: 40

The rather, for I think I know your hostess

As ample as myself.
Hel, Is it yourself 2?

Wid. If you shall please so, pilgrim.
Hel. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.
Wid. You came, I think, from France ?

Fel. I did so.
Wid. Here you shall see a countryman of yours,
That has done worthy service.

Hel, x His name, I pray you.
Dia. The Count Rousillon : know you such a one ?
Hel, But by the car, that hears most nobly of him;

His face I know not.

dict, Whatsoe'er is he, 50
He’s bravely taken here. He stole from France,

 

As ’tis reported, for the king had married him
Against his liking. Think you it isso?
el. Ay, surely, mere the truth : I know his lady.
Dia, There is a gentleman, that serves the count,
Reports but coarsely of her,
el. What's his name?

Dia. Monsieur Parolles.
Hel. ; O! I believe with him,
In argument of praise, or to the worth
Of the great count himself, she is too mean
To have her name repeated : all her deserving 60
Is a reserved honesty, and that
Ihave not heard examin’d.

Dia. Alas, poor lady !
’T is a hard bondage, to become the wife
Of a detesting lord.

Wid. Ay, right ; good creature, wheresoe’er she is,
Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do

her
A shrewd turn, if she pleas'd.

Hel. How do you mean?
May be, the amorous count solicits her
In the unlawful purpose.

Wid. He does, indeed ; ;
And brokes with all that can in such a suit 70
Corrupt the tender honour of a maid:

But she is arm’d for him, and keeps her guard
In honestest defence.
Mar. The gods forbid else!
Enter, with drum and colours, a_party of the
Florentine army, BERTRAM, and PAROLLES.
Wid. So, now they come.—
That is Antonio, the duke's eldest son ;
That, Escalus.
Hel. Which is the Frenchman?

Dia. CH
That with the plume: ’t is a most gallant fellow;
I would he lov’d his wife. If he were honester,
He were cones goodlier ; is’t not a handsome gentle-
man ‘
Hel, like him well.
Dia. ’T is pity, he is not honest.
knave,
That leads him to these places: were I his lady,
I would poison that vile rascal.
Which is he?

fel, :

Dia. That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he
melancholy ? :

Hel. Perchance he’s hurt. i’ the battle,

Par. Lose our drum! well. .

Mar. He’s shrewdly vexed at something. Look, he
has spied us.

Wid. Marry, hang you! : . 90

Mar. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier !

[Exeunt BERTRAM, PAROLLES, Officers,
and Soldiers. .

Come, pilgrim, I will

80
Yond’s that same

“id. The troop is past.
bring you a ;
Where you shall host : of enjoin’d penitents
There’s four or five, to Great Saint Jaques bound,
Already at my house.
Ffel. JT humbly thank you.
Please it this matron, and this gentle maid, |
To eat with us to-night, the charge and thanking
Shall be for me ; and, to requite you further,
1 will bestow some precepts of this virgin,

Worthy the note.
Both. We'll take your offer a a i
ceunt,

ScENE VI. Camp before Florence.

Entcr BERTRAM, and the two French Lords.

1 Lord. Nay, good my lord, put him to’t: let him
have his way. eat

2 Lord. If your lordship find him not a hilding, hold
me no more in your respect.

1 Lord. On my life, my lord. a bubble. | |,

Ber. Do you think I am so far deceived in him?

1 Lord. Believe it, my lord: in mine own direct

 

 
 

 

 

Scene VII.)

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

427

 

knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him
asmy kinsman, he’s a most notable coward, an infi-
nite and endless liar, an hourly promise-breaker, the
owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship’s
entertainment. 12

4 Lord. It were fit you knew him, lest, reposing
too far in his virtue, which he hath not, he might, at
some great and trusty business in a main danger, fail

ou.

? Ber. I would I knew in what particular action to
try him.

2 Lord. None better than to let him fetch off his
ern, which you hear him so confidently undertake
to do. 21

1 Lord. I, with a troop of Florentines, will sud-
denly surprise him: such I will have, whom, I am
sure, he knows not from the enemy. We will bind
and hoodwink him so, that he shall suppose no other
but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversa-
ries, when we bring him to our own tents. Be but
your lordship present at his examination: if he do
not, for the bette of his life, and in the highest
compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you, and de-
liver all the intelligence in his power against you, and
that with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath,
never trust my judgment in anything.

2 Lord. O! for the love of laughter, let him fetch
his drum: he says he has a stratagem for 't. When
your lordship sees the bottom of his success in’t, and
to what metal this counterfeit lump of ore will be
melted, if you give him not John Drum’s entertain-
ment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he
comes. 10

1 Lord. O! for the love of laughter, hinder not the
honour of his design: let him fetch off his drum in
any hand.

Enter PAROLLES.

Ber. How now, monsieur? this drum sticks sorely
in your disposition.

2 Lord. A pox on’t! let it go: ‘tis but a drum.

Par. But a drum! Is’t but a drum? A drum so
lost !-There was an excellent command, to charge in
with our horse upon our own wings, and to rend our
own soldiers ! 50

2 Lord. That was not to be blamed in the command
of the service: it was a disaster of war that Cesar
himself could not have prevented, if he had been
there to command,

Ber. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success :
some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum ; but
it is not to be recovered.

Par. It might have been recovered.

Ber, It might ; but it is not now. 59

Par. It is to be recovered. But that the merit of
service is seldom attributed to the true and exact
performer; I would have that drum or another, or hic
Jacet.

Ber. Why, if you have a stomach to ’t, monsieur, if
you think your mystery in stratagem can bring this
instrument of honour again into his native quarter,
be magnanimous in the enterprise, and go on; I will
grace the attempt for a worthy exploit : if you speed
well in it, the duke shall both speak of it, and extend
to you what further becomes his greatness, even to
the utmost syllable of your worthiness. 71

Par. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.

Ber. But you must not now slumber in it.

Par. I'll about it this evening: and I will presently
pen down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my cer-
tainty, put myself into my mortal preparation, and
by midnight look to hear further from me.

Ber. May I be bold to acquaint his grace you are
gone about it ?

Par. 1 know not what the success will be, my al i

‘| but the attempt I vow.

Ber. I know thou art valiant, and, to the
of thy soldiership, will subscribe for thee. Farewell.
Par. I love not many words. Exit.
1 Lord. No more than a fish loves water.—Is not
this a strange fellow, my lord, that so confidently
Seems to undertake this business, which he knows is

ossibility

 

not to be done, damns himself to do, and dares better
be damned than to do ’t? 89

2 Lord. You do not know him, my lord, as we do:
certain it is, that he will steal himself into a man’s
favour, and for a week escape a great deal of dis-
coveries; but when you find him out, you have him
ever after.

Ber. Why, do you think, he will make no deed at
all o this, that so seriously he does address himself
unto

1 Lord. None in the world ; but return with an in-
vention, and clap upon you two or three probable lies.
But we have almost embossed him, you shall see his
fall to-night ; for, indeed, he is not for your lordship’s
respect. 102

2 Lord. We'll make you some sport with the fox,
ere we case him. He was first smoked by the old
Lord Lafeu: when his disguise and he is parted, tell
me what a sprat you shall find him, which you shall
see this very night.

1 Lord. {£ must go look my twigs: he shall be

caught.

Ber. Your brother, he shall go along with me.

1 Lord. As’t please your lordship: I’ll leave an ‘2

gait.

Ber. Now will I lead you to the house, and ebow

ou
The lass f spoke of.

2 Lord. But, you say, she’s honest.

Ber. That’s allthe fault. I spoke with her but once,
And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,
By this same coxcomb that we have i’ the wind,
Tokens and letters which she did re-send ;
And this is all [have done. She’sa fair creature ;
Will you go see her?

2 Lord. With all my heart, my lord.

[Exeunt.

ScENE VII.—Florence. A Room in the Widow’s
House.

Enter HELENA and Widow.

Hel. If you misdoubt me that I am not she,
I know not how I shall assure you further,
But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.

Wid. Though my estate be fall’n, I was well born,
Nothing acquainted with these businesses,

And would not put my reputation now
In any staining act.

Hel. Nor would I wish you.
First, give me trust, the count he is my husband,
And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken,
Is so, from word to word; and then you cannot,
By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,

Err in bestowing it.

10

id. I should believe you;
For you have show’d me that which well approves
You are great in fortune. ;
Hel. Take this purse of gold,
And let me buy your friendly help thus far, s
Which I will over-pay, and pay again,
When I have found it. ‘The count he woos your
daughter,
Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,
Resolved to carry her : let her, in fine, consent,
As we’l!l direct her how ‘tis best to bear it.
Now, his important blood will nought deny
That she ’ll demand : a ring the county wears,
That downward hath succeeded in his house
From son to son, some four or five descents
Since the first father wore it: this ring he holds
In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,
To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,
open repented after.
Wi

20

id. Now I see
The bottom of your purpose.

Hel. You see it lawful then. It is no more,
But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,
Desires this ring, appoints him an encounter,
In fine, delivers me to fill the time,

Herself most chastely absent. After this,

30

 

 
 

428

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[Act Iv,

 

 

To marry her, I’ll add three thousand crowns
To what is past already. ;

Wid. I have yielded.
Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,
That time and place with this deceit so lawful
May prove coherent. Every night he comes
With musics of all sorts, and songs compos’d
To her unworthiness: it nothing steads us,

| To chide him from our eaves, for he persists,
As if his life lay on ’t.
Hel. Why then, to-night
Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,
Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,
And lawful meaning in a lawful act,
| Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact.
» But let ’s about it.

[Exeunt.

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—Without the Florentine Camp.

   

A 1 Lord. .
S =) E can come no other way but by this hedge-

AAeS® corner. When you sally upon him, speak
what terrible language you will: though you
understand it not yourselves, no matter ; for
we must not seem to understand him, unless
some one among us, Whom we must produce
for an interpreter. y

1 Sold. Good captain, let me be the inter-
preter. ‘ :

1 Lord. Art not acquainted with him?
knows he not thy voice? 11

1 Sold. No, sir, I warrant you.

1 Lord. But what linsey-woolsey hast thou to speak
to us again?

1 Sold, Even such as you speak to me.

1 Lord. He must think us some band of strangers i’
the adversary’s entertainment. Now, he hath
a smack of all neighbouring languages ; there-
fore, we must every one be a man of his own
fancy, not to know what we speak one to
another; so we seem to know, is to know
straight our purpose: chough’s language,
gabble enough, and good enough. As for you,
interpreter, you must seem very politic. But
couch, ho! here he comes, to beguile two
hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear
the lies he forges.

Enter PAROLLES.

Par. Ten o'clock : within these three hours
’t will be time enough to go home. What shall
Isay [have done? It must be a very plausive
invention that carriesit. They begin to smoke
me, and disgraces have of late knocked too
often at my door. I find, my tongue is too
foolhardy ; but my heart hath the fear of Mars
before it, and of his creatures, not daring the
reports of my tongue.

1 Lord. [Aside.J This is the first truth that
e’er thine own tongue was_guilty of. 38

Par. What the devil should move me to
undertake the recovery of this drum, being not igno-
rant of the impossibility, and knowing I had no such
purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and say, I
got them in exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry
it: they will say, “Came you off with so little?” and
great ones I dare not give. Wherefore? what’s the
instance? Tongue, I must put you into a butter-
woman's mouth, and buy myself another of Bajazet’s
mule, if you prattle me into these perils.

1 Lord. [Aside.] Is it possible, he should know what
he is, and be that he is 50

Par. I would the cutting of my garments would
serve the turn, or the breaking of my Spanish sword.

Enter First French Lord, with five or six Soldiers in ambush.

1 Lord. [Aside.] We cannot afford you so.
_ Par. Or the baring of my beard, and to say, it was
in stratagem.

1 Lord. [Aside.] ’T would not do.

Par. Or to drown my clothes, and say, I was
stripped.

1 Lord. [Aside.] Hardl

Par. Though I swore
the citadel—

1 Lord. [Aside.] How deep?

Par. Thirty fathom.

1 Lord. [Aside.] Three great oaths would scarce
make that be believed.

Par. I would I had any drum of the enemy’s: I
would swear I recovered it.

1 Lord. [ Aside.) You shall hear one anon.

Par, A drum now of the enemy's! [Alarum within.

serve,
leaped from the window of
61

 

Par. “O11 ransom, ransom !—Do not hide mine eyes.”

1 Lord. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo. 170
All. Cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.
Par. O ! ransom, ransom !—Do not hide mine eyes.

[They seize and blindfold him.
1 Sold. Boskos thromuldo boskos. '
Par. I know, you are the Muskos’ regiment;

And I shall lose my life for want of SEE aae

If there be here German, or Dane, low Dutch,

Italian, or French, let him speak to me:

I will discover that which shall undo

The Florentine.

1 Sold. Boskos vauvado :—

‘ J understand thee, and can speak thy tongue -— 8

 
Scene III.)

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

429

 

Kerelybonto:—Sir, |
Betake thee to thy faith, for seventeen poniards
Are at thy bosom.
1 Sold 0!
1 Sold. + pray, pray, pray.—
Manka revania dulche. aa
1 Lord. Oscorbi dulchos volivorco.
1 Sold. The general is content to spare thee yet,
And, hoodwink’d as thou art, will lead thee on
To gather from thee: haply, thou may’st inform
Something to save thy life.
Par. O! let me live,
And all the secrets of our camp I’ll show,

Their force, their purposes ; nay, I’ll speak that 90
Which you will wonder at. :
1 Sold. But wilt thou faithfully ?
Par. If I do not, damn me.
1 Sold. Acordo linta.—

Come on, thou art granted space.
xit, with PAROLLES guarded.
1 Lord. Go, tell the Count Rousillon, and my brother,
We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him

muffled,
Till we do hear from them.
2 Sold. Captain, I will.
1 Lord. ’A will betray us all unto ourselves,
Inform on that.
Sold. So I will, sir.
1 Lord. Till then, I’ll keep him dark, and_safely
lock'd. [Exeunt.

| SCENE Il.—Florence. A Room in the Widow’s House.

inter BERTRAM and DIANA.
Ber. They told me, that your name was Fontibell.
Dia. No, my good lord, Diana.
Titled goddess,

Ber.
And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,
In your fine frame hath love no quality ?
If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,
You are no maiden, but a monument:
When you are dead, you should be such a one
As you are now, for you are cold and stern ;
And now you should be as your mother was,

When your sweet self was got. 10
Dia. She then was honest.
Ber, So should you be.
0:

Dia.
My mother did but duty ; such, my lord,
As you owe to your wite.
Ber. No more o’ that!
Ipr’ythee, do not strive against my vows.
I was compell’d to her; but I love thee
By love’s own sweet constraint, and will for ever
Do thee all rights of service.
Dia. Ay, 80 you serve us,
Till we serve you; but when you have our roses,
You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
And mock us with our bareness.
er. How have I sworn!
Dia. ’T isnot the many oaths that make the truth, 21
But the plain single vow, that is vow’d true.
What is not holy. that we swear not by,
But take the Highest to witness: then, pray you,
tell me,
IfI should swear by Jove’s great attributes,
Llov’d you dearly, would you believe my oaths,

| When I did love you ill? This has no holding,

To swear by him, whom I protest to love,
That I will work against him. Therefore, your oaths
Are words, and poor conditions, but unseal’d ; 30
At least, in my opinion.
Ber. Change it, change it.
| Be not so holy-cruel : love is holy,
And my integrity ne’er knew the crafts

|} That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,

| But give thyself unto my sick desires,

| Who then recover: say, thou art mine, and ever
M love, as it begins, shall so persever.

f a. I see, that men make mene in such a scarr,

. That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.

 

—

 

Ber. I'll lend it thee, my dear ; but have no power
To give it from me.

Dia, Will you not, my lord ? 41

Ber. It is an honour ‘longing to our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors,

Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world
In me to lose.

Dia. Mine honour’s such a ring.

My chastity ’s the jewel of our house,
Bequeathed down from many ancestors,
Which were the greatest obloquy i’ the world
In me to lose. Thus, your own proper wisdom
Brings in the champion honour on my part
Against your vain assault.

Ber. Here, take my ring:
My house, mine honour, yea, my lite, be thine,
And I’ll be bid by thee.

Dia. When midnight comes, knock at my chamber-

window:
I’ll order take, my mother shall not hear.

 

Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
When you have conquer’d my yet maiden bed,
Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me.
My Teasone are most strong; and you shall know
them,
When back again this ring shall be deliver’d: 60
And on your finger, in the night, I'll put
Another ring, that what in time proceeds
May token to the future our past deeds.
Adieu, till then ; then, fail not. You have won
A wife of me, though there my hope be done.
Ber. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing nee
it.
Dia. For which live long to thank both Heaven and
me!
You may so in the end.—
My mother told me just how he would woo,
As if she sat in’s heart ; she says, all men 70
Have the like oaths. He had sworn to marry me,
When his wife’s dead ; therefore I’ll lie with him,
When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,
Marry that will, I live and die a maid:
Only, in this disguise, I think ’t no sin
To cozen him, that would unjustly win. [Exit.

ScENE III.—The Florentine Camp.

Enter the two French Lords, and two or three
ters,
1 Lord. You have not given him his mother’s letter?
2 Lord. I have delivered it an hour since: there is
something in’t that stings hisnature, foron the reading
it he changed almost into another man.

1 Lord. He has much worthy blame laid upon him,
for shaking off so Foe a wife, and so sweet a lady.
2 Lord. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting

displeasure of the king, who had even tuned his
bounty to sing ha pees to him. I will tell you a
thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly within you. 10

 
Ey

 

430

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WEZL.

[Act Iv,

 

 

1 Lord. When you have spoken it, ’tis dead, and I
am the grave of it.

2 Lord. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman,
here in Florence, of a most chaste renown, and this
night he fleshes his will in the spoil of her honour: he
hath given her his monumental ring, and thinks him-
self made in the unchaste composition,

1 Lord. Now, God delay our rebellion: as we are
ourselves, what things are we! ; 19

2 Lord, Merely our own traitors : and as in the com-
mon course of all treasons, we still see them reveal
themselves, till they attain to their abhorred ends,
so he that in this action contrives against his own
nobility, in his proper stream o’erflows himself.

1 Lord. Is it not meant damnable in us, to be trum-
peters of our unlawful intents? We shall not then
have his company to-night ? eae

2 Lord. Not till after midnight, for he is dieted to
his hour. 29

1 Lord. That approaches apace: I would gladly
have him see his company anatomised, that he might
take a measure of his own judgments, wherein so
curiously he had set this counterfeit. — .

2 Lord, We will not meddle with him till he come,
for his presence must be the whip of the other.

1 Lord. In the meantime, what hear you of these
wars?

2 Lord. 1 hear there is an overture of peace.

1 Lord. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.

2 Lord, What will Count Rousillon do then? will he
travel higher, or return again into France ! 41

1 Lord. I perceive by this demand, you are not alto-
gether of his council.

2 Lord. Let it be forbid, sir; so should I be a great
deal of his act. ;

1 Lord. Sir, his wife some two months since fled
from his house: her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint
Jaques le Grand, which holy undertaking with most
austere sanctimony she accomplished; and, there
residing, the tenderness of her nature became as a

rey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last

reath, and now she sings in heaven. 52

2 Lord. How is this justified ?

1 Lord. The stronger part of it by her own letters;
which makes her story true, even to the point of her
death : her death itself, which could not_be her oftice
to say is come, was faithfully confirmed by the rector
of the place.

2 Lord. Hath the count all this intelligence?

1 Lord. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point
from point, to the full arming of the verity. 61
an Lord, I am heartily sorry that he’ll be glad of

is. Q

1 Lord, How mightily, sometimes, we make us com-
forts of our losses!

2 Lord. And how mightily, some other times, we
drown our gain in tears. The great dignity, that his
valour hath here acquired for him, shall at home be
encountered with a shame as ample. 69

1 Lord. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn,
good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if
our faults whipped them not; and our crimes would
despair, if they were not cherished by our virtues.

Enter a Servant.
How now? where’s your master ?

Serv, He met the duke in the street, sir, of whom
he hath taken a solemn leave ; his lordship will next
morning for France. The duke hath offered him
letters of commendations to the king.

2 Lord, They shall be no more than needful there, if
they were more than they can commend. 80

1 Lord. _ cannot be too sweet for the king’s tart-
ness. Here’s his lordship now.

Enter BERTRAM.
How now, my lord ! is’t not after midnight?

Ber. T have to-night despatched sixteen businesses,
a month’s length a-piece, by an abstract of success:
I have conge’d with the duke, done my adicu with his
nearest, buried a wife, mourned for her, writ to my
lady mother I am returning, entertained my convoy ;

 

and between these main parcels of despatch effected
many nicer needs: the last was the greatest, but that
I have not ended yet. 91

2 Lord. If the business be of any difficulty, and this
morning your departure hence, it requires haste of
a losishit. ath

er, I mean, the business is not ended, as fearin;

hear of it hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue
between the fool and the soldier? Come, bring forth
this counterfeit model: he has deceived me, like a
double-meaning prophesier.

2 Lord. Bring him forth. [Exeunt Soldiers.) He
has sat i’ the stocks all night, poor gallant knave. 101

Ber, No matter; his heels have deserved it, in
USE Epane his spurs so long. How does he carry him-
self?

1 Lord. I have told your lordship already; the
stocks carry him. But, to answer you as you would
be understood, he weeps, like a wench that had shed
her milk. He hath confessed himself to Morgan,
whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his
remembrance to this very instant disaster of his set-
ting i’ the stocks ; and what think you he hath con-
fessed ? 2

Ber, Nothing of me, has ’a?

2 Lord. His confession is taken, and it shall be read
to his face: if your lordship be in’t, as I believe you
are, you must have the patience to hear it.

Re-entcr Soldiers, with PAROLLES.

Ber, A plague upon him! muffled? he can say
nothing of me: hush! hush!

1 Lord. Hoodman comes !— Porto tartarossa.

1 Sold. He calls for the tortures: what will you say
without ’em? 121

Par. Iwill confess what I know without constraint:
if ye pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.

1 Sold. Bosko chimurcho.

2 Lord. Boblibindo chicurmurco.

1 Sold. You are a merciful general.—Our general
bids you answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.

Par, And truly, as I hope to live.

1 Sold. ‘ First, demand of him, how many horse the
duke is strong.” What say you to that? 130

Par. Five or six thousand; but very weak and un-
serviceable: the troops are all scattered, and the
commanders very ae rogues, upon my reputation
and credit, and as I hope to live.

1 Sold. Shall I set down your answer so?

Par. Do: I'll take the sacrament on ’t, how and
which way you will.
ae All’s one to him. What a past-saving cae ie

is!

1 Lord. You are deceived, my lord : this is Monsieur
Parolles, the gallant militarist, (that was his own
phrase) that had the whole theoric of war in the knot
of his scarf, and the practice in the chape of his dagger.

2 Lord. I will never trust a man again for keeping
his sword clean; nor believe he can have everything
in him by wearing his apparel neatly.

1 Sold. Well, that’s set down. ;

Par. Five or six thousand horse, I said,—I will say
true,—or thereabouts, set down,—for I’ll speak truth.

1 Lord. He’s very near the truth in this. 50

Ber. But I con him no thanks for ’t, in the nature
he delivers it.

Par. Poor rogues, I pray you, say.

1 Sold. Well, that’s set down.

Par. Thumbly thank you, sir. A truth’s a truth:
the rogues are marvellous poor.

1 Sold._‘‘ Demand of him, of what strength they are
afoot.” What say you to that? ; 138

Par. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present
hour, I will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred
and fifty ; Sebastian, so many ; Corambus, so many;
Jaques, so many; Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and
Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own company,
Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each:
so that the muster file, rotten and sound, upon my
life, amounts not to fifteen thousand poll; half of
the which dare not shake the snow from off their
cassocks, lest they shake themselves to pieces.
 

Scene III.J

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

431

 

 

Ber. What shall be done to him?
1 Lord. Nothing, but let him have thanks.—Demand
of hia my condition, and what credit I have with the

duke. 172
1 Sold. Well, that’s set down. ‘ You shall demand

Par. I know him: he was a botcher’s ’prentice in
Paris, from whence he was whipped for getting the .
shrieve’s fool with child; a dumb innocent, that
could not say him, nay.

[DuMAIN lifts up his hand in anger.

 

=

=

LE

SEZ

=

LZ

SS
ie ra

BIE ee
ae

ee
a

oe

a Frenchman; what his reputation is with the duke;
what his valour, honesty, and expertness in wars; or
whether he thinks, it were not possible with well-
weighing sums of gold to corrupt him to a revolt.
at say you to this? what do you know of it?
Par. I beseech you, let me answer to the particular
of the inter’gatories : demand them singly. 181
1 Sold. Do you know this Captain Dumain ?

i

 

 

of him, whether one Captain Dumain be i’ the camp, |

 

Par. “ Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, f the stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.”

Ber. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though
I know, his brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.

1 Sold. Well, is this captain in the Duke of Flo-
rence’s camp ? 190

Par. Upon my knowledge he is, and lousy.

1 Lord. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of
your ee anon.

1 Sold. What is his reputation with the duke?

Par. The duke knows him for no other but a poor

 
 

432

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

[Act Iv,

 

officer of mine, and writ to me this other day to turn
_ him out o’ the band: I think, I have his letter in my

pocket.

1 Sold. Marry, we’ll search. : aes

Par. In good sadness, I do not know: either it is
there, or it is upon a file, with the duke’s other letters,
in my tent. 202

1 Sold. Here tis: here’s a paper; shall I read it to
you? J

Par. 1 do not know if it be it, or no.

Ber. Our interpreter does it well.

1 Lord. Excellently. i

1 Sold. (Reads.| * Dian, the count’s a fool, and full

of gold,” — :

Par. That is not the duke’s letter, sir: that is an
advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one
Diana, to take heed of the allurement of one Count
Rousillon, a foolish idle boy, but, for all that, very
ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up again.

1 Sold. Nay, I'll read it first, by your favour.

Par. My meaning in ‘t, I protest, was very honest
in the behalf of the maid: for I knew the young
count to be a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a
whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.

Ber. Damnable, both-sides rogue ! . :

1 Sold. [Reads.] ‘‘ When he swears oaths, bid him

rop gold, and take it; 220
After he scores,he never pays the score:
Half won is mafch well made; match, and well make

it:
He ne’er pays after debts ; take it before,
And say, a soldier, Dian, told thee this.
Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;
For count of this, the count ’s a fool, I know it,
Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.
Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear,
PAROLLES.”

Ber. He shall be whipped through the army, with
this rhyme in ’s forehead. 231

2 Lord, This is your devoted friend, sir; the mani-
fold linguist, and the armipotent soldier.

Ber. I could endure anything before but a cat, and
now he's a cat to me.

1 Sold. I perceive, sir, by our general's looks, we
shall be fain to hang you.

Par. My life, sir, in any case! not that I am afraid
to die; but that, my offences being many, I would
repent out the remainder of nature. Let me live, sir,
in a dungeon, i’ the stocks, or anywhere, so I my

i 4

live.

1 Sold. We'll see what may be done, so you confess
freely : therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain.
You have answered to his reputation with the duke,
and to his valour: what is his honesty ?

Par. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister: for
rapes and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He pro-
fesses not keeping of oaths; in breaking them he is
stronger than Hercules. He will lie, sir, with such
volubility, that you would think truth were a fool:
drunkenness is his best virtue ; for he will be swine-
drunk, and in his sleep he does little harm, save to his
bed-clothes about him; but they know his conditions,
and lay him in straw. Ihave but little more to say,
sir, of his honesty: he has everything that an honest
man should not have; what an honest man should
have, he has nothing.

1 Lord. I begin to love him for this.

Ber. For this description of thine honesty? A pox
upon him! for me he is more and more a cat. 261

1 Sold. What say ag to his expertness in war?

Par. ’Faith, sir, he has led the drum before the
English tragedians,—to belie him, I will not,—and
more of his soldiership I know not; except, in that
country, he had the honour to be the officer at a place
there called Mile End, to instruct for the doubling of
files : I would do the man what honour I can, but of
this I am not certain. :

1 Lord, He hath out-villained villainy so far, that
the rarity redeems him. 271

Ber. A ie on him! he’s a cat still.

1 Sold, His aualities being at this poor price, I need
not ask you, if gold will corrupt him to revolt.

 

Par. Sir, for a cardecue he will sell the fee-sim
of his salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut ple
entail from all remainders, and a perpetual succes-
sion for it penne vary
ie a hat’s his brother, the other Captain Du-

in 280

2 Lord, Why does he ask him of me?

1 Sold. What's he?

Par. Fen a crow o’ the same nest; not altogether
8o great as the first in goodness, but greater a great
deal in evil. _ He excels his brother for a coward, yet
his brother is reputed one of the best thatis. Ina
retreat he outruns any lackey ; marry, in coming on
he has the cramp.

1 Sold. Hey oE life be saved, will you undertake to
betray the Florentine?

Par. Ay, and the captain of his horse, Count
Rousillon.

1 Sold. I'll whisper with the general, and know his
Pee de} Vl

ar. [Aside.] I’llno more drumming; a plague of
all drums! Only to seem to deserve wall, aad to
beguile the supposition of that lascivious young boy
the count, have I run into this danger. Yet who
would have suspected an ambush, where I was
taken ? 300

1 Sold. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die,
The eeneral says, you, that have so traitorously disco-
vered the secrets of your army, and made such pesti-
ferous reports of men very nobly held, can serve the
world for no honest use; therefore you must die,
Come, headsman, off with his head.

Par. O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my
death!

1 Sold. That shall you, and take your leave of all
your friends. Unmuffling him.
So, look about you: know you any here? 311

Ber. Good morrow, noble captain.

2 Lord. God bless you, Captain Parolles.

1 Lord. God save you, noble captain.

2 Lord. Captain, what greeting will youto my Lord
Lafeu? I am for France.

1 Lord. Good captain, will you give me a copy of
the sonnet you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count
Rousillon? an I were not a very coward, I’d compel
it of you; but fare you well. 320

[Exeunt BERTRAM, Frenchmen, &c.

1 Sold. You are undone, captain ; all but your scarf,
that has a knot on’t yet.

Par. Who cannot be crushed with a plot?

1 Sold. If you could find out_a country where but
women were, that had received so_much shame, you
might begin an impudent nation. Fare you well, sir;
Iam for France too: we shall speak of you there.

[Exit.

Par. Yet am I thankful: if my heart were great,
°T would burst at this. Captain [’ll be no more;
But I will eat and drink, and sleep as soft
As captain shall: simply the thing Iam
Shall make me live. ho knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this; for it will come to pass,
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
Rust, sword! cool, blushes! and, Parolles, live
Safest in shame! being fool'd, by foolery thrive!
There’s place and means for every man alive! i
I'll after them. [Exit.

SceNnE IV.—Florence. A Room in the Widow's
House.

Enter HELENA, Widow, and DIANA.
Hel. That you may well perceive I have not wrong’d

you,
One of the greatest in the Christian world |
Shall be my surety : fore whose throne, ’tis needful,
Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel.
Time was, I did him a desired office,
Dear almost as his life ; which gratitude
Through flinty Tartar’s bosom would beep forth,
And answer, thanks. I duly am inform’d,
His grace is at Marseilles; to which place

 

 

 
SCENE vi

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

433

 

 

We have convenient convoy. You must know, 10 ;
Iam supposed dead: the army breaking,
My husband hies him home; where, Heaven aiding,
’ And by the leave of my good lord the king,
We'll be before our welcome.
Wid. Gentle madam,
You never had a servant, to whose trust
Your business was more welcome.
Fel. Nor you, mistress;
Ever a friend, whose thoughts more truly labour
To recompense your love. Doubt not, but Heaven
Hath brought me up to be your daughter's dower,
As it hath fated her to be my motive, 20
And helper toa husband. But, O strange men!”
That can such sweet use make of what they Hate,
When saucy trusting of the cozen’d thoughts
Defiles the pitchy night! so lust doth play
With what it loathes, for that which is away.
But more of this hereafter.—You, Diana,
Under my poor instructions, yet must suffer
Something in my behalf. &
Dia. ae Let death and honesty
Go with your impositions, I am yours

ge your will to suffer.
el. Yet, I pray you:

But with the word, the time will bring on summer,
When briars shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;

Our waggon is prepar’d, and time revives us:

All’s well that ends well : still the fine ’s the crown;
Whate’er the course, the end is the renown. [Hxeunt.

30

 

A Room in the CoUNTEss’s
lace.

Scene V.—Rousillon.

Enter CountgEsS, LAFEU, and Clown.

Laf. No, no, no; your son was misled with a snipt-
taffeta fellow there, whose villainous saffron would
have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a
nation in his colour: ae daughter-in-law had been
alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more
advanced by the king, than by that red-tailed humble-
bee I speak of.

Count. I would I had not known him. It was the
death of the most virtuous gentlewoman that ever
Nature had Reale for creating: if she had partaken of
my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a mother,
Icould not have owed her a more rooted love. 12

Laf.’T was a good lady, ’t was a good lady: we may

ick a thousand salads, ere we light on such another

erb.
Clo. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of the
salad, or rather the herb of grace.
Laf. They are not salad-herbs, you knave; they are
nose-herbs,
“ Clo. 1am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not
much skill in grass. 2
A is Whether dost thou profess thyself, a knave, or
a foo.
Clo. A fool, sir, at a woman’s service, and a knave
at a man’s,
Laf. Your distinction?
Clo. I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his
service.
Laf. So you were a knave at his service, indeed.
Clo. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to
-do her service.
Laf. I will subscribe for

1
thee, thou art both knave
and fool.

 

Clo. At your service,
Laf. No, no, no.

Clo. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serveas |

great a prince as you are.

Laf. Who’s that? a Frenchman?

Clo. ’Faith, sir, ’a has an English name; but his
phisnomy is more hotter in France, than there. 40

Laf. What prince is that?

Clo. The black prince, sir; alias, the prince of
darkness; alias, the devil.

Lay. Hold thee, there’s my purse. I give thee not
this to suggest thee from thy master thou talkest of:
serve him still.

Clo. 1am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved
a great fire; and the master I speak of, ever keeps a

ood fire. But, sure, he is the prince of the world;

et his nobility remain in’s court. I am for the house
with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for
omp to enter: some, that humble themselves, may ;

ut the many will be too chill and tender, and they ’ll
be for the flowery way, that leads to the broad gate,
and the great fire.

Laf. Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee;
and I tell thee so before, because I would not fall out
with thee. Go thy ways: let my horses be well looked
to, without any tricks. 59
_ Clo. If I put any tricks upon ’em, sir, they shall be
jades’ tricks, which are their own right by the law of
nature. [£zit.

Laf. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.

Count. So he is. My lord, that’s gone, made him-
self much sport out of him: by his authority he
remains here, which he thinks is a patent for his
sauciness; and, indeed, he has no pace, but runs
where he will.

Laf. I like him well; ’tis not amiss. And I was
about to tell you, since I heard of the good lady's
death, and that my lord your son was upon his return
home, I moved the king, my master, to speak in the
behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of
them both, his majesty, out of a self-gracious remem-
brance, did first Probert His highness hath promised
me to do it; and to stop up the displeasure he hath
conceived against your son, there is no fitter matter.
How does ae ladyship like it?

Count. ith very much content, my lord; and I
wish it happily eftected. 80

Laf. His highness comes post from Marseilles, of as
able body as when he numbered thirty: he will be
here to-morrow, or I am deceived by him that in such
intelligence hath seldom failed.

Count. It rejoices me that I hope-I shall see him
ere I die. I have letters that my son will be here to-
night: I shall beseech your lordship to remain with
me till they meet together. :

Laf. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I
might safely be admitted. oe

Count. Youneed but plead your honourable privilege.

Laf. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but,
I thank my God, it holds yet.

Re-enter Clown.

Clo. O madam! yonder’s ny lord your son with a
patch of velvet on’s face: whether there be a scar
under it, or no, the velvet knows; but ‘tis a goodly
patch of velvet. His left cheek is a cheek of two pile
and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.

Laf. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is « good
livery of honour; so, belike, is that. 100

Clo. But it is your carbonadoed face.

Laf. Let us go see your son, I pray you: I long to
talk with the young noble soldier.

Clo. ’Faith, there’s a dozen of ‘em, with delicate
fine hats, and most courteous feathers, which bow the
head, and nod at every man. [Exeunt.

 

 

28

 
 

   
  

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE J.—Marseilles. A Street,
Enter HELENA, Widow, and Diana, with two Attendants.

FTelena.

UT this exceeding posting, day and

Y night, oo

XO Must wear your spirits low: we
Y cannot help it;

But, since you have made the days

and nights as one,
To wear your gentle limbs in my

affairs, .
Be bold you do so grow in my re-
quital,
As nothing can unroot you. In
happy time;

Enter a Gentleman.

This man may help ae to his majesty’s ear,
If he would spend his power.—God save you, sir.
Gent. And you.
Hel. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France. 10
Gent. Ihave been sometimes there.
Hel. I do presume, sir, that you are not fallen
From the report that goes upon your goodness;
And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,
Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
The use of your own virtues, for the which
I shall continue thankful.
Gent. What's your will?
Hel, That it will please you
To zive this poor petition to the king,
And aid me with that store of power you have, 20
To come into his presence.
Gent. The king’s not here.
Hel, Nor here, sir?

Gent. Not, indeed:
He hence remov’d last night, and with more haste
Than is his use.

id. Lord, how we lose our pains!

Hel, All’s well that ends well yet,

Though time seem so adverse, and means unfit.—
1 do beseech you, whither is he gone?

Gent. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;

Whither I am going.
el. I do beseech you, sir,

Since you are like to see the king before me, 30

Commend the paper to his gracious hand;

Which, I presume, shall render you no blame,

But rather make you thank your pains for it.

I will come after you, with what good speed

Our means will make us means.

Gent. This I ll do for you.

Hel, And you shall find yourself to be well thank’d,
Whate’er falls more.—We must to horse again :—

Go, go, provide. [Exeunt.

 

ScENneE II.—Rousillon. The Inner Court of the
CounrTEss’s Palace.

Enter Clown and PAROLLES.

Par. Good Monsieur Lavatch, give my Lord Lafeu
this letter. I have ere now, sir, been better krawn
to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher
clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied. in Fortune's
mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong dis-
pleasure.

 

Clo. Truly, Fortune’s displeasure is but sluttish, if it
smell so strongly as thou speakest of : I will hence-
forth eat no fish of Fortune’s buttering. Pr’ythee
alle the wind. 4 j

ar. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir:
spake but by a metaphor. as a en

Clo. Indeed, sir, your metaphor pane I will stop
my nose; or against any man’s metaphor. Pr’ythi
get thee further. - oe

Par. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.

Clo, Foh! pr'ythee, stand away: a paper from
Fortune's close-stool to give to a nobleman! Look,
here he comes himself. 19

Enter Larru.

Here isa pe of Fortune’s, sir, or of Fortune’s cat (but
not a musk-cat), that has fallen into the unclean fish-
pond of her displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied
withal. Pray you, sir, use the carp as you may, for
he looks like a poor, decayed, ingenious, foolish,
rascally knave. I do pity- his distress in my smiles of
comfort, and leave him to your lordship, Exit,
Par. My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath
cruelly scratched. ee,
Laf. And what would you have me to do? ’Tis too
late to pare her nails now. Wherein have you played
the knave with Fortune, that she should scratch you,
who of herself is a good lady, and would not have .
knaves thrive long under her? There’s a cardecue
for you. Let the justices make you and Fortune
friends ; I am for other business.
zar I beseech your honour to hear me one single
word. .
Laf. You beg a single penny more : come, you shal)
ha’t; save your word.
Par. My name, my good lord, is Parolles. 40
Laf. You beg more than one word then,—Cox my
passion ! give me your hand.—How does your drum?
Par. Omy good lord! you were the first that found

me.
Laf. Was I, in sooth? and I was the first that lost

ee.

Par. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some
grace, for you did bring me out.

Laf. Out upon thee, knave! dost thou put upon me
at once both the office of God and the devil? one
brings thee in grace, and the other brings thee out.
fe sound.) The king’s coming; I know b

is trumpets.—Sirrah, inquire further after me: I hi
talk of you last night. Though you are a fool and a
knave, you shall eat: go to, follow.

Par. I praise God for you. [Exeunt,

ScENE III.—The Same. A Room in the CounrTESs's
Palace.

Flourish. . Enter Kinc, COUNTEsS, LaFEv, Lords,
Gentlemen, Guards, de,
King. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem
Was made much poorer by it: but your son,

As mad in folly, lack’d the sense to know
Her estimation home. ;
Count. ’'T is past, my liege;

 
 

 

ScENE IIL]

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

435

 

And I beseech your majesty to make it
Natural rebellion, done i’ the blaze of youth ;
When oil and fire, too strong for reason’s force,
O’erbears it, and burns on.

King. My honour'd lady,
Ihave forgiven and forgotten all,
Though my revenges were high bent upon him, 10
And watch'd the time to shoot.

Laf. This I must say,—
But first I beg my pardon,—the young lord
Did to his majesty, his mother, and his lady,
Offence of mighty note, but to himself
The greatest wrong of all: he lost a wife,
Whose beauty did astonish the survey
Of richest eyes ; whose words all ears took captive ;
Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn’d to serve
Humbly call’d mistress.
’ King. Praising what is lost
Makes the remembrance dear.—Well, call him hither.
We are reconcil’d, and the first view shall kill 21
All repetition. —Let him not ask our pardon:
The nature of his great offence is dead,
-And deeper than oblivion we do bury
The incensing relics of it: let him approach,
A stranger, no offender ; and inform him,
So ’tis our will he should.

Gent.
\ King. What says he to

spoke ?
Laf. All that he is hath reference to your highness,
King. Then shall we have amatch. I have letters
sent me. 3
That set him high in fame.

Enter BERTRAM.

Laf. He looks well on’t.

King. Tam not a day of season,
For thou may’st see a sunshine and a hail
In me at once; but to the brightest beams
Distracted clouds give way: so stand thou forth ;
The time is fair again.

- Ber. My high-repented blames,
Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
t All is whole ;

- King.

Not one word more of the consumed time.

Let’s take the instant by the forward top,

For we are old, and on our quick’st decrees 40
The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time

Steals, ere we can effect them. You remember

The daughter of this lord ?

I shall, my liege. [Exit.
your daughter? have you

Ber. Admiringly, my liege.
At first I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
Durst make too bold a herald of my tongue:
‘Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
Which warp’d the line of every other favour,
Scorn’d a fair colour, or express'd it stolen,
Extended or contracted all Froportions 50
Toa most hideous object. Thence it came,

That she, whom all men prais’d and whom myself,
Since I have lost, have lov’d, was in mine eye
The dust that did offend it.

Well excus'd :

King.
That ‘how didst love her, strikes some scores away
From the great compt. But love, that comes too late,
Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
To the great sender turns a sour offence,
_ Crying, “That ’s good that’s gone.” Our rash faults
Make trivial price of serious things we have, 60
Not pearl them, until we know their grave:
; Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust:
Our own love, waking, cries to see what's done,
While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.
Be this sweet Helen’s knell, and now forget her.
Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin :
e main consents are had; and here we'll stay
0 see our widower’s second marriage-day.
»: Count. Which better than the first, O dear Heaven,
bless! 70
Or, ere they meet, in me, O Nature, cess!
/ uf. Come on, my son, in whom my house's name
— _

 

Must be digested, give a favour from you,

‘Yo sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,

That she may Te come. [BERTRAM gives a ring.)
—By my old beard,

:And every hair that’s on’t, Helen, that’s dead,

Was a sweet creature; such a ring as this,

-The last that e’er I took her leave at court,

I saw upon her finger.

Ber. Hers it was not.

King. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye, 80
While I was speaking, oft was fasten’d to’t.—

This ring was mine; and, when I gave it Helen,

I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood

Necessitied to help, that by this token

I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her
Of what should stead her most?

Ber. My gracious sovereign,
Howe’'er it pleases you to take it so,

The ring was never hers.

Count. Son, on my life,
I have seen her wear it; and she reckon’d it
At her life's rate.

Laf. I am sure I saw her wear it. 90

Ber. You are deceiv’d: my lord, she never saw it.
In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,
Wrapp’d in a paper, which contain’d the name
Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought
I stood ingag’d: but when I had subscrib’d
To mine own fortune, and inform’d her fully,

I could not answer in that course of honour
As she had made the overture, she ceas’d,
In heavy satisfaction, and would never
Receive the ring again.

King. Plutus himself, 100
That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine,
Hath not in nature’s mystery more science,

Than I have in this ring: ’t was mine, ’t was Helen’s
Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know

That you are well acquainted with yourself,

Confess ’t was hers, and by what rough enforcement
You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety,
That she would never put it from her finger,
Unless she gave it to yourself in bed,
Where you have never come, or sent it us
Upon her great disaster.

110

Ber. She never saw it.

King. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour,
And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me,
Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove
That thou art so inhuman,—'t will not prove so ;—
And yet I know not :—thou didst hate her deadly,
And she is dead ; which nothing, but to close
Her eyes myself, could win me to believe,

More than to see this ring. —Take him ave
[Guards seize BERTRAM.

My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, 120

Shall tax my fears of little vanity,

Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him!

We'll sift this matter further.

Ber. If you shall prove
This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy
Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,

Where yet she never was. [Exit, guarded.

Enter a Gentleman.

King. Iam wrapp’d in dismal thinkings.

Gent. Gracious sovereign,
Whether I have been to blame, or no, I know not:
Here’s a petition from a Florentine,

Who hath, for four or five removes, come short
To tender it herself. I undertook it,
Vanquish’d thereto by the fair grace and speech
Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,

Is here attending: her business looks in her
With an importing visage, and she told me,

In a sweet verbal brief, it did concern

Your highness with herself.

King. [Reads.] ‘‘Upon his many protestations to
marry me, when his wife was dead, I blush to say it,
he won me. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower :
his vows are forfeited to me, and my honour’s paid to
him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave, andI

130

 

 
 

 

 

436

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL,

 

foilow him to his country for justice. Grant it me,
O king! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer
flourishes, and a poor maid is undone.
DIANA CAPILET.”
Laf. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll:
for this, I’ll none of him.
King. The heavens have thought well on thee,

ateu,
To bring forth this discovery.—Seek these suitors :—
Go speedily, and bring again the count.

[Ezeunt Gentleman and some Attendants.
Iam afeard, the life of Helen, lady,
Was foully snatch'd.

Count. Now, justice on the doers!

Re-enter BERTRAM, guarded.
King. I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you,

Ask him upon his oath, if he does think
He had not my virginity.

King. What say’st thou to her?

Ber, She’s impudent, my lord;
And was a common gamester to the camp.

Dia, He does me wrong, my lord: if I were 80,
He might have bought me at a common price :
Do not believe him. O! behold this ring,
Whose high respect, and rich validity
Did lack a parallel ; yet, for all that,

He gave it to a commoner o’ the camp,
If I be one.
Count. He blushes, and ’tis it :
Of six preceding ancestors, that gem
Conferr’d by testament to the sequent issue,
Hath it been ow’d and worn. This.is his wife:
That ring ’s a thousand proofs,
ing.
You sougone here in

190

Methought, you said,
court could witness

 

EEE ll

[a

1 TAT

Dia. “O! behold this ring.’

And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,
Yet you desire to marry. —

Re-enter Gentleman, with Widow and DIANA.
What woman's that?
Dia. Tam, my lord, a wretched Florentine,
Derived from the ancient Capilet :
My suit, as I do understand, you know,
And therefore know how far I may be pitied. 160
Wid. 1am her mother, sir, whose age and honour
Both suffer under this complaint we bring,
And both shall cease, without your remedy.
King. Come hither, count. Do you know these
women?
Ber. My lord, I neither can, nor will deny
But that i know them. Do they charge me further?
Dia. Why do you look so strange upon your wife?
Ber. She's none of mine, my lord.
Dia. If you shall marry,
You give away this hand, and that is mine;
You give away Heaven's vows, and those are mine ;170
You give away myself, which is known mine ;
For I by vow am so embodied yours,
That she which marries you must marry me;
Either both, or none.
Laf. [To BERTRAM.] Your reputation comes too
short for Li daughter : you are no husband for her.
Ber. My lord, this is a fond and desperate creature,
hom sometime I have laugh’d with.
highness |
Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour,
Than for to think that I would sink it here. _,, 180
King. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to
friend,
Till your deeds gain them: fairer prove your honour,
Than in my thought it lies.

Let your

Dia. Good my lord,

 

it.
Dia. I did, my lord, but loath am to
produce 200

So bad an instrument: his name’s Pa-'

rolles.
Laf. I oi the man to-day, if man he

ie.
King. Find him, and bring him hither.
[Exit an Attendant.
Ber. What of him?
He's quoted for a most perfidious slave,
With all the spots o’the world tax’d and

debosh’d,
Whose nature sickens but to speak a
truth.
Am T or that, or this, for what he’ll utter,
That will speak anything?
King. She hath that ring of yours.
Ber. I think, she has: certain it is, I
lik’d her,

And boarded her i’ the wanton way
1

youth.
She knew her distance, and did angle
for me,
Madding my eagerness with her re-
straint,
| As all impediments in fancy’s course
Are motives of more fancy ; and, in fine,
Her infinite cunning, with her modern grace,
Subdued me to her rate : she got the ring,
And I had that, which any inferior might
At market-price have bought.
ia. I must be patient ;
You, that have turn’d off a first so noble wife,
May justly diet me. I pray you yet,
(Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband,)
Send for your ring; 1 will return it home,
And give me mine again.
Ber. T have it not.
King. What ring was yours, I pray you?
Dia. Sir, much like
The same upon your finger. fi
King. Know you this ring? this ring was his of late.
Dia. And this was it I gave him, being a-bed. |
King. The story then goes false, you threw it him

Out of a casement,
I have spoke the truth.

Dia.
Re-enter Attendant with PAROLLES.

Ber. My lord, I do confess, the ring was hers. _ 230
King. You boggle shrewdly, every feather starts

you.—

Is this the man you speak of ?

Dia. Ay, my lord.

King. Tell me, sirrah, but tell me true, I charge you,
Not fearing the displeasure of your master
(Which, on your just proceeding, I’ll keep off),
By him, and by this woman here, what know you?

‘Par. So please your majesty, my master hath been
an honourable gentleman: tricks he hath had in him,
which gentlemen have.

 

King. Come, come, to the purpose. Did he love vd

| woman?

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.)

ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

 

437
Par. ’Faith, sir, he did love her; but how? He knows I am no maid, and he’! swear to ’t:
King. How, I jae ou? | I'll swear I am a maid, and he knows not. 290
Par. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a | Great king, I am no strumpet, by my life!
‘woman. am either maid, or else this old man’s wife.

King. How is that?

Par. He loved her, sir, and loved her not.

King. As thou art a knave, and no knave. What
an equivocal companion is this!

Par. 1am a poor man, and at your majesty’s com-
mand. 251

Laf.
orator. 3

Dia. Do you know, he promised me marriage ?

Par. ’Faith, I know more than Ill speak.

King. But wilt thou not speak all thou know’st ?

Par. Ye3, so please your majesty. I did go between
them, as I said ; but more than that, he loved her,—
for, indeed, he was mad for her, and talked of Satan,
and of limbo, and of Furies, and I know not what: yet
I was in that credit with them at that time, that I
knew of their going te bed, and of other motions, as
promising her marriage, and things that would derive
me ill will to speak of: therefore, I will not speak
what I know.

King. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou
canst say they are married. But thou art too fine
in thy evidence ; therefore, stand aside. —

This ring, you say, was yours ?
i Ay, my good lord.

Dia.
King. Where did you buy it ? or who gave it you ?
Dia. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it. 271

’ King. Who lent it you?
Dia. It was not lent me neither.
King. Where did you find it then?
Dia. I found it not.

King. If it were yours by none of all these ways, —
How could you give it him?

. 5
He’s wu good drum, my lord, but a naughty

Dia. I never gave it him.

Laf. This woman’s an easy glove, my lord: she
goes off and on at pleasure.

King. This ring was mine: I gave it his first wife.

Dia. It might be yours, or hers, for aught I know.

King. Take her away: I do not like her now. 280
To per with her; and away with him.—

Unless thou tell’st me where thou hadst this ring,
Thou diest within this hour. . ;
ia. I'll never tell you.

King. Take her away.

Dia. I'll put in bail, my liege.
King. I think thee now some common customer.
Dia. By Jove, if ever I knew man, ’t was you.
King. Wherefore hast thou accus’d him all this

 

while?
Dia. Because he’s guilty, and he is not guilty.

[Pointing to LAFEU.
King. She does abuse our ears. To prison with her!
Dia. Good mother, fetch my bail. [Exit Widow.]—
Stay, royal sir:
The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,
And he shall surety me. But for this lord,
Who hath abus'd me, as he knows himself,
Though yet he never harm’d me, here I quit him.
He knows himself my bed he hath defil’d,
And at that time he got his wife with child:
Dead though she be, she feels Der pene one kick.
So there’s my riddle,—one that’s dead is quick ;
And now behold the meaning.

300

Re-enter Widow, with HELENA.
King. Is there no exorcist
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
Is’t real, that I see?
No, my good lord;

Hel.
"Tis but the shadow of a wife you see ;
The name, and not the thing.

Ber. Both, both! O, pardon!

Hel. O my good lord, when I was like this maid,
I found you wondrous kind, There is your ring ;
And, look you, here’s your letter; this it says:
“When from my finger you can get this ring,
And are by me with child,” &c.—This is done.
Will you be mine, now you are doubly won?

Ber. If ea my liege, can make me know this

clearly,

310

‘Ill love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.

Hel. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
Deadly divorce step between me and you !—

O my dear mother, do I see you living?

Laf. Mine eyes smell onions, I shall weep anon.—
[Zo PaRoL_Es.] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handker-
chief: so, I thank thee. Wait on me home, I’ll make
sport with thee: let thy courtesies alone, they are
scurvy ones. 32

King. Let us from point to point this story know,
To make the even truth in pleasure flow.—

[To D1ana.] If thou be’st yeta fresh uncropped flower,
Choose thou thy husband, and I’ll pay thy dower ;
For I can guess, that by thy honest aid

Thou kept’st a wife herself, thyself a maid.—

Of that, and all the progress, more and less, 330

Resolvedly more leisure shall express :

All yet seems well ; and if it end so meet,

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
[Flourish.

EPILOGUE.

King. The king’s a beggar now the play is done.
All is well ended, if this suit be won,
That you express content ; which we will pay,

With strife to please you, day exceeding day:

Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts ;

Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.
[Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Kine HENRY THE FOURTH. | TRAVERS and Morton, Retainers of Northumber.
Henry, Prince of Wales, land.

THOMAS, Duke of Clarence, . His Sons. ‘FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, PISTOL, and a Page.
PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, : Poins and PETO. :

PrRiIncE HUMPHREY OF GLOSTER, SHALLOW and SILENCE, Country Justices.

EARL OF WARWICK, Davy, Servant to Shallow.

EARL OF WESTMORELAND, Moutpy, SHADOW, WRT, FEEBLE, and BULL-CALF,
EARL or SURREY, + Of the King’s Party. Recruits. Sa ;
GOWER, | Fane and SNARE, Sherif’s Officers.

Harcourt, Z Rumour, the Presenter.

Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. A Porter. A Dancer, Speaker of the Epilogue.

A Gentleman attending on the Chief Justice. Lapy NORTHUMBERLAND.

EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND,
Scroop, Archbishop of York, | ; Fee On eas
pe eens . Opposes to the Do. TEAR-SHEET.
ORD HASTINGS, ing.
Lorp BARDOLPH, - Lords, and Attendants ; Officers, Soldiers, Messenger,
Sirk JOHN COLEVILLE, i Drawers, Beadles, Grooms, &c.

SCENE—ENGLAND.

 

INDUCTION.
Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND’S Castle.
Enter RUMOUR, painted full of tongues.
Rumour. Can play upon it., But what need I thus 20

 

 

PEN your ears; for which of you will | My well-known body. to anatomise
\ stop Among my household? -Why is Rumour here?
The vent of hearing, when loud Rumour | I run before King Harry’s victory ;
speaks? ‘| Who in a bloody field by Shrewsbury
I, from the orient to the drooping west, Hath beaten down young Hotspur, and his troops, -
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold uenching the flame of bold rebellion
The acts commenced on this bal] of earth : Even with the rebels’ blood. But what mean I
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, To speak so true at first ? my office is
The which in every language I pronounce, To noise abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. Under the wrath of noble Hotspur’s sword, 30
I'speak of peace, while covert enmity, And that the king before the Douglas’ rage
Under the smile of safety, wounds the | Stoop’d his anointed head as low as death.
world: 10 | This have I rumour’d through the era towns
And who but Rumour, who but only I, Between that royal field of Shrewsbury
Make fearful musters, and prepar'd defence, And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone,
Whilst the big year, swoln with some other grief, Where Hotspur’s father, old Northumberland,
Is thought with child by the stern tyrant war, Lies crafty sick. The posts come tiring on,
And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe And not a man of them brings other news ,
Blown by sarmises, jealousies, conjectures, Than they have learn’d of me: from Rumours
And of so easy and so plain a stop, tongues
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, They bring smooth comforts false, worse than true
The still-discordant wavering multitude, wrongs. 10

[Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

ACT I.

   
  

MEE Lord Bardolph.

>

HO keeps the gute here? ho!
‘N

The Porter opens the gate.
Where is the earl?
Pert. What shall I say you are?
L. Bard. Tell thou the earl,
That the Lord Bardolph doth attend
him here.
Port. His lordship is walk’d forth
into the orchard:
Please it your honour, knock but at the

gate,
And he himself will answer.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.
L. Bard. Here comes the earl.
North. What news, Lord Bardolph?
every minute now
Should be the father of some stratagem.
' The times are wild: contention, like a

_ horse
Full of high feeding, madly hath broke

loose,
And bears down all before him. ‘

L. Bard. Noble earl,

. [bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.

North. Good, an God will!

L. Bard. as good as heart can wish.
The king is almost wounded to the death,
And, in the fortune of my lord your son,
Prince Harry slain outright ; and both the

Blunts

Kill’d by _the hand of Douglas; young
Prince John,

And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the

field ;
And Harry Monmouth’s brawn, the hulk
, Sir John,
Is prisoner to your son. QO! such a day, 20
0 fought, so follow’d, and so fairly won,
ame not till now to dignify the times,
Since Czesar’s fortunes.
North. - How is this deriv’d?
Saw you we field? came you from Shrews-
: ury ?
L. Bard. I spake with one, my lord, that
t came from thence ;
A gentleman well bred, and of good name,
That freely render’d me these news for true.
North. Here comes my servant, Travers, whom Isent
On Tuesday last to listen after news.
L. Bard. My lord, I over-rode him on the way; 30
And he is furnish’d with no certainties,
More than he haply may retail from me.

Enter TRAVERS.
North. Now, Travers, what good tidings come with

ou?
| _ Tra, My lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn’d me back
|| With joyful tidings ; and, being better hors’d,
Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard
A gentleman, almost forspent with speed,
| That cop ’d by me to breathe his bloodied horse.
wu

   
 
 
 
 
 
  
    
  
    

He ask’d the way to Chester ; and of him

ScENE I.—The Same.
Enter Lord BARDOLPH.

I did demand, what news from Shrewsbury. 40
He told me that rebellion had ill luck,
And that young Harry Percy’s spur was cold.
With that he gave his able horse the head,
And, bending forward, struck his armed heels
Against the panting sides of his poor jade
Up to the rowel-head ; and starting so,
He seem’d in running to devour the way,
Staying no longer question.
North. Ha !—Again.
Said he, young Harry Percy’s spur was cold?
Of Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion 50
Had met ill luck?

L. Bard. My lord, I’ll tell you what:
If my young lord your son have not the day,
Upon mine honour, for a silken point
I’ll give my barony : never talk of it.

 

Mor. ‘‘I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord.”

North. Why should that gentleman, that rode by
Travers, :
Give then such instances of loss?

L. Bard. Who, he?

- He was some hilding fellow, that had stolen

The horse he rode on, and, upon my life,
Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news,

Enter MORTON. |
erties this . man’s brow, like to a ae

Foretells the nature of a tragic volume:
So looks the strond, whereon the imperious flood

' Hath left a witness’d usurpation.
Say, Morton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury ?

Mor. ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord,

 

 
 

440 KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. [Acr 1.

 

 

Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask,
To fright our party.

North. How doth my son, and brother?
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek
Ts apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.
Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam’s curtain in the dead of night,

And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd:
But Priam found the fire, ere he is tongue, _

And I my Percy’s death, ere thou report'st it.

This thou wouldst say,—Your son did thus, and

70

thus ;
Your brother, thus; so fought the noble Douglas ;
Stopping my grecdy ear with their bold deeds:
But in the end, to Be? mine ear indeed,
Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, «
Ending with—brother, son, and all are dead.
Mor. Dougias is living, and your brother, yet;
But for my lord your son,— :
North. Why, he is dead.—
See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath !
He that but fears the thing he would not know,
Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others’ eyes,
That what he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton:
Tell thou thy earl his divination lies,
And I will take it as a sweet disgrace,
And make thee rich for doing me such wrong.
Mor. You are too great to be by me gainsaid :
Your ge is too true, your fears too certain.
North. Yet, for all this, say not that Percy’s dead.—
I see a strange confession in thine eye:
Thou shak’st thy head, and hold’st it fear, or sin,
To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so:
The tongue offends not that reports his death;
And he doth sin that doth belie the dead,
Not he which says the dead is not alive.
Yet the first bringer of unwelcome news
Hath but a losing office, and his tongue
Sounds ever after as a sullen bell,
Remember’d knolling a departing friend.
L. Bard. I cannot think, my lord, your son is dead.
Mor. 1 am sorry I should force you to believe
That which I would to Heaven I had not seen ;
But these mine eyes saw him in bloody state,
Bendering Gant quittance, wearied and outbreath’d,
To Harry Monmouth; whose swift wrath beat down
The never-daunted Percy to the earth, 1l
From whence with life he never more sprung up.
In few, his death, whose spirit lent a fire
Even to the dullest peasant in his camp,
Being bruited once, took fire and heat away
From the best-temper’d courage in his troops:
For from his metal was his party steel’d ;
Which once in him abated, all the rest
Turn’d on themselves, like dull and heavy lead.
And as the thing that’s heavy in itself,
Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed,
So did our men, heavy in Hotspur’s loss,
Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear,
That arrows fled not swifter toward their aim,
Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety,
Fly from the field. Then was that noble Worcester
‘Too soon ta’en prisoner ; and that furious Scot,
The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword
Had three times slain the Ee of the king,
"Gan vail his stomach, and did grace the shame
Of those that turn’d their backs ; and in his flight, 130
Stumbling in fear, was took. The sum of all
Is, that the king hath won, and hath sent out
A speedy power, to encounter you, my lord,
Under the conduct of young Lancaster,
And Westmoreland. This is the news at full.
North. For this I shall have time enough to mourn.
In poison there is physic; and these news,
Having been well, that would have made me sick,
Being sick, have in some measure made me well:
And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints, 140
Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life,
Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire
Out of his keeper's arms, even so my limbs,
Weaken’d with grief, being now enrag’d with grief,

80

90

100

120

 

Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice

A scaly gauntlet now, with joints of steel,
Must glove this hand: and hence, thou sickly quoif !
Thou art a guard too wanton for the head,

Which princes, flesh’d with conquest, aim to hit.

Now bind my brows with iron ; and approach

The ragged’st hour that time and spite dare bring,

To frown upon the enrag’d Northumberland !

Let heaven kiss earth! now, let not Nature’s hand

Keep the wild flood confin’d! let order die!

And let this world no longer be a stage,

To feed contention in a lingering act ;

But let one spirit of the first-born Cain

Reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set-

On bloody courses, the rude scene may end,

And darkness be the burier of the dead! 160
Tra. This strained passion doth you wrong, my lord, -
L. Bard. Sweet earl, divorce not wisdom from your

honour.

Mor. The lives of all your loving complices
Lean on your health; the which, if you give o’er
To stormy passion, must perforce decay.

You cast the event of war, my noble lord,

And summ’d the account of chance, before you said,—

Let us make head. It was your presurmise,

That in the dole of blows your son might drop:

You knew, he walk’d o’er perils, on an edge,

More likely to fall in than to get o’er:

You were advis’d, his flesh was capable

Of wounds and scars, and that his forward spirit

Would lift him where most trade of danger rang’d;

Yet did you say,—Go forth; and none of this,

Though strongly apprehended, could restrain

The stiff-borne action; what hath then befallen,

Or what hath this bold enterprise brought forth,

More than that being which was like to be?

L. Bar. We all, that are engaged to this loss,
Knew that we ventur'd on such dangerous seas,
That, if we wrought out life, ’t was ten to one;
And yet we ventur’d, for the gain propos’d
Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd,

And, since we are o’erset, venture again.

Come, we will all put forth, body, and goods.
Mor. ’Tis more than time: and, my most noble lord,

J hear for certain, and do speak the truth,

The gentle Archbishop of York is up,

With eranpeintied powers: he is a man,

Who with a double surety binds his followers.

My lord your son had only but the corse,

But shadows, and the shows of men, to fight;

For that same word, rebellion, did divide

The action of their bodies from their souls, |

And they did fight with queasiness, constrain’d,

As men drink potions, that their weapons only

Seem’d on our side: but, for their spirits and souls,

This word, rebellion, it had froze them up,

As fish are ina pond. But now the bishop

Turns insurrection to religion :

Suppos’d sincere and holy in his thoughts,

He’s follow’d both with body and with mind,

And doth enlarge his rising with the blood

Of fair King Richard, scrap’d from Pomfret stones;

Derives from Heaven his guarrel, and his cause;

Tells them, he doth bestride a bleeding land,

seeping for life under great TAP Rae

And more, and less, do flock to follow him.

North. I knew of this before; but, to speak truth,
This present grief had wip’d it from my mind. ail
Go in with me; and counsel every man
The aptest wey for safety, and revenge: |
Get posts and jetters, and make friends with speed:
Never so few, nor never yet more need. eunt,

130

170

180

190

200

 

Scene II.—London. A Street.
Enter Sir Joun FALstaFr, with his Page bearing his
sword and buckler.

Fal. Sirrah, you giant, what says the doctor to my
water?

 

 
 

Scene II.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART ILI.

441

 

Page. He said,-sir, the water itself was a good
healthy water; but for the party that owed it, he
might have more diseases than he knew for.

‘al. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me: the
brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able
to invent anything that tends to laughter, more than
Linvent, or is invented on me: [I am not only witty in
myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do
here walk before thee, like a sow that hath over-
whelmed all her litter but one, If the prince put thee
into my service for any other reason than to set me
off, why then, I have no judgment. Thou whoreson
mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap, than
to wait at my heels. I was never manned with an
agate till now: but I will set you neither in gold nor
silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back again to
your master, for a jewel; the juvenal, the prince your
master, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will sooner
have a beard grow in the palm of my hand, than he
shall get one on his cheek; and yet he will not stick

. to say, his face is a face-royal. God may finish it
when he will, it is not a hair amiss yet: he may keep
it still as a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn
sixpence out of it; and yet he will be crowing, as if he
had writ man ever since his father was a bachelor.
He may keep his own grace, but he is almost out of
mine, I can assure him.—What said Master Domble-
don about the satin for my short cloak, and my slops?

Page. He said, sir, you should procure him better
assurance than Bardolph ; he would not take his bond
and yours: he liked not the security. 33
. Fal. Let him be damned like the glutton! pray God
his tongue be hotter!—A whoreson Achitophel! a
rascally yea-forsooth knave, to bear a gentleman in
hand, and then stand upon security !—The whoreson
smooth-pates do now wear nothing but high shoes,

. and bunches of keys at théir girdles; and if a man is
thorough with them in honest taking ap then must
they stand upon security. I had as lief they would
put ratsbane in my mouth, as offer to stop it with

| security. I looked he should have sent me two-and-

. twenty yards of satin, as I am a true knight, and he

_ sends me securfty. Well, he may sleep in security ;

for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness

of his wife shines through it: and yet cannot he

see, though he have his own lantern to light him.—
Where’s Bardolph? . .

' Page. He’s gone into Smithfield to buy your worship

a horse. . 51
Fal. I paubht him in Paul’s, and he’ll buy me a

horse in Smithfield: an I could get me but a wife in

_the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived.

Enter the Lord Chief Justice and an Attendant.

Page. Sir, here comes the nobleman that committed
the prince for striking him about Bardolph.

Fal. Wait close ; I will not see him.

Ch. Just. What ’s he that goes there? |

Atten. Falstaff, an ’t please your lordship.

Ch. Just, He that was in question for the robbery ?

Atten. He, my lord; but he hath since done good
service at Shrewsbury, and, as I hear, is now going
with some charge to the Lord John of Lancaster. 63

Ch, Just. What, to York? Call him back again.
\Atten. Sir John Falstaff!

Fal. Boy, tell him I am deaf. 7

Page. You must speak louder, my master is deaf.

Ch, Just. Iam sure he is, to the hearing of anything
Cr pluck him by the elbow; I must ope

with him.
Atten. Sir John,—
Fal. What! a young knave, and beg? Is there not
wars? is there not employment? doth not the king
| lack subjects? do not the rebels want soldiers? Though
it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is worse
shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it
yore than the name of rebellion can tell how to make
it,
Atten. You mistake me, sir.
| Fal. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man?
setting my knighthood and my soldiership aside, I had
| lied in my throat if I had said so. 82

 

 

Atten. I pray you, sir, then set your knighthood and
your soldiership aside, and give me leave to tell you,
you lie in your throat, if you say I am any other than
an honest man.

Fal. I give thee leave to tell me so? I lay aside that
which grows tome? If thou gett’st any leave of me,
hang me: if thou takest leave, thou wert better be
hanged. You hunt-counter, hence! avaunt!

Atten. Sir, my lord would speak with you.

Ch. Just. Sir John Falstaff, a word with

_Fal. My good lord !—God give your lordship good
time of day. Iam glad to see your lordship abroad ; I
heard say, your lordship was sick: I ene your lord-
ship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though
not clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of age
in you, some relish of the saltness of time, and I most
humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverent care
of your health. 0

%. Just. Sir John, I sent for you before your ex-
pedition to Shrewsbury.

Fal. An ’t please your lordship, I hear his majesty.is
returned with some discomfort from Wales.

Ch. Just. I talk not of his majesty.—You would not
come when I sent for you.

_ Fal. And I hear, moreover, his highness is fallen
into this same whoreson apoplexy.

Ch. Just. Well, God mend him !—I pray you, let me
speak with you. 110

Fal. This apoplexy is, as I takeit, a kind of lethargy,
an ’t please your lordship; a kind of sleeping in the
blood, a whoreson tingling.

Ch. Just. What tell you me of it? be it as it is.

Fal. It hath its original from much grief; from
study, and perturbation of the brain. I have read the
cause of his effects in Galen: it is a kind of deafness.

Ch. Just. I think you are fallen into the disease, for
you hear not what I say to you.

Fal. Very well, my lord, very well: rather, an’t
please you, it is the disease of not listening, the malady
of not marking, that Iam troubled withal. 122

Ch. Just. To punish you by the heels would amend
the attention of your ears; and I care not, if I do
become your physician.

Fal. Yam as poor as Job, my lord, but not so patient:
your lordship may minister the potion of imprisonment
to me, in respect of poverty ; but how I should be your
patient to follow your prescriptions, the wise may make
some dram of a scruple, or, indeed, a scruple itself.

Ch. Just. I sent for you, when there were matters
against you for your life, to come speak with me. 132

Fal. As Iwas then advised by my learned counsel
in the laws of this land-service, I did not come. |

Ch. Just. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in
great py. oe

Fal. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in

less.

Ch. Just. Your means are very slender, and your
waste is great.

Fal. I would it were otherwise : I would my means
were greater, and my waist slenderer.

Ch. Just.. You have misled the youthful prince.

Fal. The young prince hath misled me: I am the
fellow with the great mele and he my dog.

Ch. Just. Well, I am loath to gall a new-healed
wound. Your day’s service at Shrewsbury hath a
little gilded over your night’s exploit on Gadshill: you
may thank the unquiet time for your quiet o’er-posting
that action, 150

Fal. My lord,— ;

Ch. Just. But since all is well, keep it so: wake not
a sleeping wolf. ;

Fal. To wake a wolf, is as bad as to smell a fox.

Ch. Just. What! you are as a candle, the better
part burnt out. :

Fal. A wassail candle, my lord; all tallow: if I did
say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.

Ch. Just. There is nota white hair on your face, but
should have his effect of gravity. 160

Fal. His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy.

Ch. Just. You follow the young prince up and down,
like his ill angel. . toe

Fal. Not so, my lord; your ill angel is light, but, I

 

 
 

442

KING HENRY IV.—PART I.

[Acr I?

 

 

hope, he that looks upon me will take me without
weighing: and yet in some respects, I grant, I cannot
go, Icannot tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these
costermonger times, that true valour is turned bear-
herd. Pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath his
quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all the other
gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of this age
shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You, that
are old, consider not the capacities of us that are

oung : you measure the heat of our livers with the
literhase of your galls; and we that are in the vaward
of our youth, I must confess, are wags too.

Ch, Just. Do you set down your name in the scroll
of youth, that are written down old with all the
characters of age? Have you not a moist eye, a dry
hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg,
an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your
wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and
every part about you blasted with antiquity, and will
you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!

Fal. My lord, I was born about three of the clock in
the afternoon, with a white head, and somethin:
round belly. For my voice, I have lost it with holla-
ing, and singing of anthems. To approve my youth
further, I will not: the truth is, Iam only old in judg-
ment and understanding; and he that will caper with
me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money,
and have at him. For the box o’ the ear that the
prince gave you, he ao it like a rude prince, and you
took it like asensible lord. I have checked him for
it, and the young lion repents ; marry, not in ashes and
sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.

Ch. Just. Well, God send the prince a better com-
panion !

Fal. God send the companion a better
cannot rid my hands uf him.

Ch, Just. Well, the king hath severed you and Prince
Harry. I hear, you are going with Lord John of
Lancaster against the archbishop, and the Earl of
Northumberland.

Fal, Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But
look you pray, all you that kiss my lady Peace at
home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, by
the Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I
mean not to s veat extraordinarily : if it’ be a hot day,
and I brandish anything but my bottle, I would I
might never spit white again. There is not a dan-
gerous action can peep out his head, but I am thrust
upon it. Well, I cannot last ever. But it was always
yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a
good thing, tomake it too common. it you will needs
say Iam an old man, you should give me rest. I would
to God, my name were not so terrible to the enemy as
it is: I were better to be eaten to death with rust,
than to be scoured to sible sd with perpetual motion.

Ch. Just. Well, be honest, be honest ; and God bless
your expedition. 221

Fal. Will your lordship lend me a thousand poun
to furnish me forth ?

_ Ch. Just. Not a penny, not a penny: you are too
impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well: commend
me to my cousin Westmoreland.

[Exewnt Chief Justice and Attendant.

Fal. If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle. A
man can no nore separate age and covetousness, than
he can part young limbs and lechery; but the gout
eae the one, and the pox pinches the other, and so

oth the degrees prevent my curses.— Boy ! 231

Page. Sir?

Fal. What money is in my purse?

Page. Seven groats and twopence.

Fal. I can get no remedy against this consumption
of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it
out, but the disease is incurable.—Go bear this letter
to my Lord of Lancaster ; this to the prince; this to
the Earl of Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress
Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to marry since
I perceived the first while hair on my chin. About it:
you know where to find me. [Exit Page.] A pox of
this gout! or, a gout of this pox! for the one, or the

prince! I
200

other, plays the rogue with my great toe. “Tis no.

matter, if I do halt; I have the wars for my colour,

 

and my pension shall seem the more reasonable. A
‘ood wit will make use of anything; I will turn
seases to commodity. [Evit..

Scene II.—York. x Room in the Archbishop's .
alace.

Enter the Archbishop of York, the Lords Hastings,
Moweray, and BARDOLPH. :
Arch. Thus have you heard our cause, and known.
our means;
And, my most noble friends, I pray you all,
Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes :—
And first, lord marshal, what say you to it?
Mowb. I well allow the occasion of our arms;
But gladly would be better satisfied,
How, in our means, we should advance ourselves
To look with forehead bold and big enough
Ui the power and puissance of the king.
‘ast. Our present musters grow upon the file
To five-and-twenty thousand men of choice ;
And our supplies live largely in the hope
Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns
With an incensed fire of injuries.
L. Bard. The question then, Lord Hastings,
standeth thus :— ; 5
Whether our present five-and-twenty thousand
May hold up head without Northumberland.
Hast. With him, we may. :
L. Bard. Ay, marry, there’s the point:
But if without him we be thought too feeble,
ht judgment is, we should not step too far, 20
Till we had his assistance by the hand ;
For in a theme so bloody-fac’d as this,
Conjecture, expectation, and surmise
Of aids incertain, should not be admitted.
Arch, ’T is very true, Lord Bardolph ; for, indeed,
It was young Hotspur’s case at Shrewsbury.

10

L. Bare t was, my lord; who lin’d himself with
ope,
Eating the air on promise of supply, +

Flattering himself with project of a power
Much smaller than the smallest-of his thoughts ;
And so, with great imagination,

Proper to madmen, led his powers to death,

And winking leap’d into destruction.

30°

To lay down likelihoods, and forms of hope.
L. Bard. Yes, if this present quality of war,
Indeed the instant action, a cause on foot,
Lives so in hope, as in an early spring :
We see the appearing buds; whic, to prove fruit,
Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair :
That frosts will bite them. When we mean to build, :
We first survey the plot, then draw the model,
And, when we see the figure of the house,
Then must we rate the cost of the erection ;
Which if we find outweighs ability,
What do we then, but draw anew the model
In fewer offices, or, at least, desist
To build at all? Much more, in this great work
(Which is, almost, to pluck a kingdom down,
And set another up) should we survey
The plot of situation, and the model ;
Consent upon a sure foundation ;
Question surveyors, know our own estate,
How able such a work to undergo,
To weigh against his opposite ; or else,
We fortify in paper, and in figures,
Using the names of men, instead of men:
Like one that draws the model of a house,
Beyond his power to build it ; who, half through,
Gives o’er, and leaves his part-created cost
A naked subject to the weeping clouds,
And waste for churlish winter’s tyranny. aes
Hast. Grant, that our hopes, yet likely of fair birth,
Should be still-born, and that we now possess’d
The utmost man of expectation,
I think we are a body strong enough,
Even as we are, to equal with the

 

ing. 4

Hast. But, by your leave, it never yet did hurt, 4 34

 
 

Scene III.)

KING HENRY

IV.—PART IT 443,

 

L. Bard. What! is the king but five-and-twenty

thousand?
Hast. To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bar-
dolph.
For his divisions, as the times do brawl, 70

Are in three heads: one power against the French,

And one against Glendower ; perforce, a third

Must take up us. So is the unfirm king

In three divided, and his coffers sound

With hollow poverty and emptiness.

Arch. That he should draw his several strengths
together, :

And come against us in full puissance,

Need not be dreaded.
ast. If he should do so,

He leaves his back unarm’d, the French and Welsh

Beying him at the heels: never fear that. 0
. Bard. Who is it like should lead his forces

hither? :
Hast. The Duke of Lancaster, and Westmoreland ;
Against the Welsh, himself and Harry Monmouth ;
But who is substituted ‘gainst the French,
[have no certain notice.
Arch. Let us on,
And publish the occasion of our arms.

 

The commonwealth is sick of their own choice,

Their Suet eects love hath surfeited.—

An habitation giddy and unsure

Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart. 90

O thou fond many! with what loud applause

Didst thou beat heaven with blessing Bolingbroke,

Before he was what thou wouldst have him be:

And being now trimm’d in thine own desires,

Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him,

That thou provok’st thyself to cast him up.

So, so, thou common dog, didst thou disgorge

Thy glutton bosom of the raya Richard,

And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up,

And how/lst to find it. What trust is in these times?

They that, when Richard liv’d, would have him die,

Are now become enamour’d on his grave: 102

Thou, that threw’st dust upon his goodly head,

When through proud London he came sighing on

After the admired heels of Bolingbroke,

Cry’st now, ‘O earth, eee us that king again,

And take thou this!” O thoughts of men accurst!

Past, and to come, seems best; things present, worst.
Mowb. Shall we go draw our numbers, and set on?
Hast. Weare time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.

(Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT II.
ScenE I.—London. A Street.

(> Hostess.

— ASTER Fang, have you entered
Sys the action?

y Fang. It is entered.

Host. Where’s your yeoman? Is’t a
lusty yeoman? will he stand to ’t?

Fang. Sirrah, where’s Snare ?

Host. O.Lord! ay : good Master.Snare.

Snare. Here, here.

Fang. Snare, we must arrest Sir John
Falstaff. 10

Host. Yea, good Master Snare; I have
entered him and all.

Snare. It may chance cost some of us
‘ our lives, for he will stab.

Host. Alas the day! take heed of him: he stabbed
me in mine own house, and that most beastly, In
good faith, he cares not what mischief he doth, if his
weapon be out: he will foin like any devil; he will
spare neither man, woman, nor child. ;

Fang. If Icanclose with him, I care not for his thrust.

Host. No, nor I neither: I’ll be at your elbow. 21

Fang. An I but fist him once; an he come but
within my vice,—

Host. Tam‘undone with his going; I warrant you,
-he’s an infinitive thing upon my score.—Good Master
Fang, hold him sure :—good Master Snare, let him
not ’scape. ’A comes continuantly to Pie Corner,
(saving your manhoods,) to buy a saddle ; and he "3
dindited to dinner to the Lubbar’s Head in Lumbert
Street, to Master Smooth’s the silkman: I pray ye,
since my exion is entered, and my case so openly
known to the world, let him be brought in to his
answer. A hundred mark is a long one for a poor
lone woman to bear; and I have borne, and borne,
-and borne ; and have been fubbed off, and fubbed off,

     
 

from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be.

 

Enter Hostess, FANG, and his Boy, with her ; and SNARE following.

thought on. There is no honesty in such dealing,
unless a woman should be made an ass, and a beast,
to bear every knave’s wrong.— 39

Enter Sir JoHN FaustarFrr, Page, and BARDOLPH.

Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose,
Bardolph, with him. Do your offices, do_your offices,
Master Fang, and Master Snare: do me, do me, do me
your offices.

Fal. How now? whose mare’s dead? what’s the
matter ?

Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress
Quickly.

Fal. Away, varlets!—Draw, Bardolph: cut me off
the villain’s head ; throw the quean in the channel. 49

Host. Throw me in the channel? I'll throw thee
there. Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue !
—Murder, murder! O, thou honey-suckle villain!
wilt thou kill God's officers, and the king’s? O, thou
honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a man-
queller, and a woman-queller. i

Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph.

Fang. A rescue! a rescue !

Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two.—Thou
wilt not? thou wilt not? do, do, thou rogue! do, thou
hemp-seed ! : 60

Fal. Away, you scullion ! you rampallian! you fus-
tilarian ! I’ll tickle your catastrophe.

Enter the Lord Chief Justice, atiended.

7 Ch. Just. What is the matter? keep the peace here,

o!

Host. Good my lord, be good tome! I beseech you,
stand to me!

Ch. Just. How now, Sir John!

brawling here 2?

Doth this become your place, your time, and business?

what, are you

 

 
 

444

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

[Acr II,

 

 

You should have been well on your way to York.— 69
Stand from him, fellow: wherefore hang’st upon him?

Host. O my most worshipful lord, an’t please your
grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is
arrested at my suit.

Ch, Just. For what sum ? Sad

Host. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all,
allI have. He hath eaten me out of house and home:
he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his;
but I will have some of it out again, or I will ride thee
o’ nights, like the mare. :

Fal. J think, I am as like to ride the mare, if I have
any vantage of ground to get up. ; 81

h. Just. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! what
man of good temper would endure this tempest of
exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a
poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own?

Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself,
and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a
parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at
the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday
in Wheeson week, when the prince broke thy head
Yor liking his father to a singing-man of Windsor ;
thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy
wound, to marry me, and make me my lady thy wife.
Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the
butcher’s wife, come in then, and call me gossip
Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar ;
telling us, she had a good dish of prawns, whereby
thou didst desire to eat some, whereby I told thee,
they were ill for a green wound? And didst thou not,
when she was gone down-stairs, desire me to be no
more so familiarity with such poor beople: saying,
that ere long they should call me madam? And didst
thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee _ thirty
shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath : deny it,
if thou canst.

Fal. My lord, this isa poor mad soul; and she says,
a and down the town, that her eldest son is like you.
She hath been in good case, and the truth is, poverty
hath distracted her. But for these foolish ofticers, I
beseech you, I may have redress against them. 111

Ch, Just. Sir John, Sir John, I am well acquainted
with your manner of wrenching the true cause the
false way. It is not a confident brow, nor the throng
of words that come with such more than impudent
sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level con-
sideration ; you have, as it appears to me, practised
upon the easy-yielding spirit of this woman, and made
her serve your uses both in purse and person.

Host. Yes, in troth, my lord. 120

Ch. Just. Pr’ythee, peace.—Pay her the debt you
owe her, and unpay the villainy you have done with
her : the one you may do with sterling money, and the
other with current repentance.

Fal. My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without
reply. You call honourable boldness, impudent sauci-
ness: if a man will ee and say nothing, he is
virtuous. No, my lord, my humble duty remember’d,
I will not be your suitor: I say to you, I do desire
deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty
employment in the king’s affairs. 131

Ch. Just. You speak as having power to do wrong:
but answer in the effect of your reputation, and satisfy
the poor woman.

fal. Come hither, hostess.

Enter GowEr.
Ch. Just. Now, Master Gower! what news?
Gow. The king, my lord, and Henry Prince of Wales
Are near at hand: the rest the paper tells.
Fal. Aslam a gentleman ;—
Host. Nay, you said so before 140
Fal. Aslam a gentleman ;—Come, no more words

[Taking her aside.

of it.

Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be
fain to pawn both my plate, and the tapestry of my
dining-chambers.

Fal. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking: and for
thy walls,—a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the
Prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work, is

 

worth a thousand of these bed-hangin: 8, and th a
bitten tapestries. Let it be ten oan , if ener
Come, an it were not for thy humours, there is not a
better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and
draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in this
humour with me. Dost not know me? Come, come,
I oy uaine eet a ee to this. ,
., Host. Pr’ythee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles:
i’ faith, lam loath to pawn a plate, in good eeenae ia

Fal. Let it alone; I'll make other shift : you'll be a
fool still.

Host. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my
gown. I hope, you'll come tosupper. You'll pay me
all together? ° 162

Fal. Will I live?—Go, with her, with her; hook on.
hook on. 4

ae Will you have Doll Tear-sheet meet you at
supper

al. No more words: let's have her.
[Exeunt Hostess, BARDOLPH, Officers, and Page,

Ch. Just. I have heard better news.

Fal. What.’s the news, my good lord?

Ch. Just. Where lay the king last night? 170

Gow. At Basingstoke, my lord.

Fal. I hope, my lord, all’s well: what is the news,
my lord?

Ch. Just. Come all his forces back ?

Gow. No; fifteen hundred foot, five hundred horse,
Are march’d up to my Lord of Lancaster,

Against Northumberland, and the archbishop.
: oe Comes the king back from Wales, my noble
or

Ch, Just. You shall have letters of me presently.
Come, go along with me, good Master Gower. 181

Fal. My lord!

Ch. Just. What’s the matter?

Fal. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to
dinner?

Gow. I must wait upon my good lord here: I thank
you, good Sir John.

Ch. Just. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being
you are to take soldiers up in counties as you go.

Fal. Will you sup with me, Master Gower? 190

Ch. Just. What foolish master taught you these
manners, Sir John?

Fal. Master Gower, if they become me not, he was
a fool that taught them me.—This is the right fencing
grace, my lord; tap for tap, and so part fair.

Ch. Just. Now, the Lord lighten thee! thou art a
great fool [Exeunt.

SceNE IL—The Same. Another Street.

Enter Prince HENRY and PoIns.

P. Hen. Trust me, I am exceeding weary. :

Poins. Is it come tothat? Ihad thought, weariness
durst not have attached one of so high blood.

P. Hen. ’Faith, it does me, though it discolours the
complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth
it not show vilely in me, to desire small beer?

Poins. y, @ prince should not be so loosely
studied, as to remember so weak a composition.

P. Hen. Belike then, ay appetite was not princely
got; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor
creature, small beer. But, indeed, these humble con-
siderations make me out of love with my greatness.
What a disgrace is it to me, to remember thy name?
or to know thy face to-morrow? or to take note how
many pair of silk stockings thou hast; viz. these, and
those that were thy peach-colour’d ones? or to bear
the inventory of thy shirts; as, one for superfiuity,
and one other for use?—but that the tennis-court-
eos knows better than I, for it is a low ebb of linen
with thee, when thou keepest not racket there, as
thou hast not done a great while, because the rest 0
thy low-countries have made a shift to eat up thy
holland: and God knows, whether those that bawl
out the ruins of thy linen shall inherit his kingdom;
but the midwives say, the children are not in the
fault, whereupon the world increases, and kindreds
are mightily st;engthened.

 

 
, There it is, boy.
.. Bard. An you do not mal

|. Bard. Well, my good lord.
, grace’s coming to town: there’s a letter for you.

So

+ not. !
_P. Hen. I do allow this wen to be as familiar with |

 

 

ScEnE II.] KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. 445

 

Poins. How ill it follows, after you have laboured
so hard, you should talk so idly! ‘Tell me, how many
good young princes would do so, their fathers being
so sick as yours at this time is? 31

P. Hen. Shall I tell thee one thing, Poins ?
acer: Yes, faith, and let it be an excellent good

‘ing.

P. Hen. It shall serve among wits of no hi
breeding than thine. - ener

Poins. Go to; I stand the push of your one thing
that you will tell.

P. Hen. Marry, I tell thee,—it is not meet that I
should be sad, now my father is sick: albeit I could
tell to thee (as to one it pleases me, for fault of a
better, to call my friend), I could be sad, and sad
indeed too.

Poins. Very hardly upon such a subject.

P, Hen. By this hand, thou think’st me as far in the
devil’s book, as thou and Falstaff, for obduracy and
persistency : let the end try the man. But I tell thee,
my heart bleeds inwardly, that my father is so sick ;
and keeping such vile company as thou art, hath in
reason taken from me all ostentation of sorrow. 50

Poins. The reason ?

PB aati What wouldst thou think of me, if Ishould
‘weep

Poins. I would think thee a most princely hypocrite.

P. Hen, It would be every man’s thought ; and thou
art a blessed fellow to think as every man thinks:
never a man’s thought in the world keeps the road-
way better than thine: every man would think me an
hypocrite indeed. And what accites your most wor-
shipful thought to think so? 60

oins, Why, because you have been so lewd, and
so much engraffed to Falstaff.

P. Hen. And to thee.

Poins. By this light, I am well spoken of; I can
hear it with mine own ears: the worst that they can
say of me is, that Iama second brother, and that I
am a proper fellow of my hands; and those two
things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here
comes Bardolph.

Enter BARDOLPH and Page.

P. Hen. And the boy that I gave Falstaff: he had
him from me Christian ; and look, if the fat villain
have not transformed him ape. 72

Bard. God save your grace.

P. Hen. And yours, most noble Bardolph.

Bard. {To the Page.] Come, you virtuous ass, you
bashful fool, must you be blushing? wherefore blush
on now? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you

ecome! Is it such a matter to get a pottle-pot’s |
maidenhead ? 1

Page. He called me even now, my lord, through a
red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face
from the window: at last, I spied his eyes; and,
methought, he had made two holes in the ale-wife’s
new petticoat, and peeped through.

P. Hen. Hath not the boy profited? ;

‘Bard. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away !
Page. Away, you rascally Althea’s dream, away!
P. Hen. Instruct us, boy: what dream, boy ? j
Page. Marry, my lord, Althea dreamed she was

delivered of a fire-brand ; and therefore I call him her
dream. ; _ oO,

P. Hen. A crown’s worth of good interpretation.— |
[Gives him money.

Poins. O, that this good blossom could be kept from. '
cankers !— Well, there is shipence to preserve thee. ;

e him be hanged among |
ou, the gallows shall have wrong.

P. Hen. And how doth thy master, Bardolph ?

He heard of yee
© Poins. Delivered with good respect.—And how doth |
the martlemas, your master ?

. Bard. In bodily health, sir.

Poins. Marry, the immortal part needs a physician ;

Y but that moves not him: though that be sick, it dies |

 

me as my dog; and he holds his place, for look you
how he writes. ; 109

Poins. [Reads.] ‘John Falstaff, knight,”- every
man must know that, as oft as he has occasion to name
himself; even like those that are kin to the king, for
they never prick their finger, but they say, ‘‘ There is
some of the king’s blood spilt:” ‘‘ How comes that?”
says he, that takes upon him not to conceive: the
answer is as ready as a borrower's cap; ‘‘I am the
ietng'g poor cousin, sir.”

P. Hen. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they will
fetch it from Japhet. But to the letter :-—

Poins. ‘‘Sir John Falstaff, knight, to the son of
the king, nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales,
greeting.”—Why, this is a certificate. 122

P. Hen. Peace!

 

 

 

 

 

Poins. ‘‘ My lord, 1 will steop this letter in sack, and make him
eat it.”

Poins. “I will imitate the honourable Romans in
brevity:”—he sure means brevity in breath, short-
winded.—‘‘I commend me to thee, I commend thee,
and I leave thee. Be not toofamiliar with Poins ; for
he misuses thy favours so much, that he swears, thou
art to marry his sister Nell, Repent at idle times as
thou may’st, and so farewell. ‘

Thine, by yea and no, (which is as much as to
say, as thou usest him,) JacK FALsTa¥FF, with
my familiars; JoHN, with my brothers and
; sisters; and Sirk JOHN with all Europe.” _
My lord, I will steep this letter in sack, and make him
eat it.

P. Hen. That’s to make him eat twenty_of his
words. But do you use me thus, Ned? must I marry
your sister? 2

Poins. God send the wench no worse fortune! but
I never said so. _ 141

P. Hen. Well, thus we play the fools with the time,
and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds, and mock
us.—Is your master here in London?

Bard. Yes, my lord. :

P. Hen. Where sups he? doth the old boar feed in

| the old frank?

Bard. At the old place, my lord, in Eastcheap.

P. Hen. What company?

Page. Ephesians, my lord; of the old church.

P. Hen. Sup any women with him?

Page. None, my lord, but old Mistress Quickly, and
Mistress Doll Tear-sheet.

P. Hen. What pagan may that be? :

Page. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kins-
woman of my master’s. : i

P. Hen. Even such kin as the. parish-heifers are to
the town-bull.—Shall we steal upon them, Ned, at
supper?

Poins. Iam your shadow, my lord ; Ill follow you.

P. Hen. Sirrah, you boy,—and Bardolph ;—no word
to your master that I am yet come to town: there’s
for your silence. ; 163

Bard. I have no tongue, sir.

150

 

 
 

 

446

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

[Acr I.

 

Page. And for mine, sir, I will govern it.

P. Fron. Fare ye well; go. [Exeunt BARDOLPH and
Page.|-—This Doll Tear-sheet should be some road.

Poins. I warrant you, as common as the way
between St. Albans and London. ;

P. Hen. How might we sce Falstaff bestow himself
to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen ?

Poins. Put on two leathern jerkins, and aprons, and
wait upon him at his table as drawers. | 173

P. Hen. From a god to a bull? a heavy declen-
sion! it was Jove’s case. From aprince toa prentice?
a low transformation! that shall be mine; for in.
everything the purpose must weigh with the folly.
Follow me, Ned. [Ezeunt.

Scene Il].—Warkworth. Before the Castle.

Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, Lady NORTHUMBERLAND,
and Lady PERCY.

North. I pray thee, loving wife and gentle daughter,
Give even way unto my rough affairs:

Put not you on the visage of the times,
And be like them to Percy troublesome.

Lady N. I have given over, I will speak no more.
Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.

North. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn,
And, but my going, nothing can redeem it.

Lady P. 0, yer for God’s sake, go not to these

wars!

The time was, father, that you broke your word, 10
When you were more endear’d to it than now;
When your own Percy, when my heart’s dear Harry,
Threw many a northward look, to see his father
Bring up his powers ; but he did long in vain.
Who then persuaded you to stay at home?
There were two honours lost, yours, and your son's:
For yours,—may heavenly glory brighten it!
For his,—it stuck upon him, as the sun
In the grey vault of heaven: and, by his light,
Did all the chivalry of England move
To do brave acts; he was, indeed, the glass
Whercin the noble youth did dress themselves,
He had no legs, that practised not his gait ;
And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish,
Became the accents of the valiant ;
For those that could speak low, and tardily,
Would turn their own perfection to abuse,
To seem like him: so that, in speech, in gait,
In diet, in affections of delight,
In military rules, humours of blood, 30
He was the mark and glass, copy and book,
That fashion’d others. And him,—O wondrous him!
O miracle of men !—him did you | ave,
(Second to none, unseconded by you,) -

- To look upon the hideous god of war
In disadvantage ; toabidea field, -
Where nothing but the sound of Hotspur’s name
Did seem defensible :—so you left him.
Never, O! never, do his ghost the wrong,
To hold your honour more precise and nice
With others, than with him: let’them alone.
The marshal, and the archbishop, are strong:
Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers,
To-day might I, hanging on Hotspur’s neck,
Have talk’d of Monmouth’s grave.

North. Beshrew your heart,
Fair daughter! you do draw my spirits from me,
With new lamenting ancient oversights.

But I must go, and meet with danger there,
Or it will seek me in another place,
And find me worse provided.
QO}! fly to Scotland, 50

Lady N.
Till that the nobles, and the armed commons,
Have of their puissance made a little taste.
Lady P. If they get ground and vantage of the king,
Then join you with them, like a rib of steel,
To make strength stronger ; but, for all our loves,
First let them try themselves. So did your son;
He was so suffer'd; so came I a widow,
And never shall have length of life enough,

 

 

To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes,
That it may grow and sprout as high as heaven, 60
For recordation to my noble husband.

North, Come, come, go in with me. "Tis with my

mind
As with the tide swell'd up unto its height,
That makes a still-stand, running neither way:
Fain would I go to meet the-archbishop,
But many thousand reasons hold me back,—
I will resolve for Scotland » there am I,
Till time and vantage crave my company. [Ezeunt.

 

SceNngE TV.—London. A Room in the Boar’s Head
Tavern, in Hastcheap.
Enter two-Drawers.

1 Draw. What the devil hast.thou brought there?
apple-Johns? thou know’st Sir John cannot endure an
apple-John. is

2 Draw. Mass, thou sayest true. The prince once
set a dish of apple-Johns before him, and told him,
there ‘were five more Sir Johns; and, punting off his
hat, said, “‘I will now take my leave of these six dry,
round, old, withered knights.” It angered him to the
heart, but he hath forgot that. 9

1 Draw. Why then, cover, and set them down: and
see if thou canst. find out Sneak’s noise; Mistress
Tear-sheet would fain have some music, Despatch :—
the room where they supped is too hot ; they ‘ll come
in straight.

2 Draw. Sirrah, here will be the prince, and Master
Poins anon ; and they will put on two of our jerkins
and aprons, and Sir John must not know of it: Bar-
dolph hath brought word.

1 Draw. .By the mass, here will be old utis: it will
be an excellent stratagem. 20

2 Draw. I'll see if I can find out Sneak. [Exit.

Enter Hostess and DoLL TEAR-SHEET.

Host. V faith, sweet-heart, methinks now, you are
in an excellent good temperality : ee pulsidge beats
as extraordinarily as heart would desire, and your
colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose; but, i’
faith, you have drunk too much canaries, and that’s
a marvellous’ searching wine, and it perfumes the
blood ere one can say,—What’s this? How do you now?

Doll. Better than Iwas. Hem.

Host. Why, that’s well said ;-a
gold. Lo! here comes Sir John.

Enter FALSTAFF, singing.

Fal. ‘When Arthur first in: court ”"—Empty the
jordan.—‘t And was a worthy king.” [Exit Drawer.]
How now, Mistress Doll? . -

Host. Sick of a calm: yea, goodsooth.

Fal.:So is all her sect ; an they be once in a calm,
they. are sick.

Doll. You muddy rascal, is that all the comfort you
giveme? |
: al, You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll. 40

Doll. I make them! gluttony and diseases make
them; Imakethem not... -

Fal. If the cook help to make the gluttony, you
help to make the diseases, Doll: we catch of you,
Doll, we catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue,
grant that. ~

Doll. Ay, marry ; our chains, and our jewels.

Fal. ‘Your brooches, pearls, and owches :”—for to
serve bravely, is to come halting off, you know: to
come off the breach with his pike bent bravely, and
to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charged
chambers bravely :— 5

a Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang your-
se.

good heart’s nt

Host. By my troth, this is the old fashion : you two
never meet, but you fall to some discord. You are
both, in good troth, as rheumatic as two toasts ;

ou cannot one bear with another's confirmities.

hat the good-year! one must bear, and that must

be you: you are the weaker vessel, as they say, _ |

emptier vessel.

 

 
 

Scene IV.] KING HENRY IV.—PART I. 447

 

Doll. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge | no swaggerers. J am in good name and fame with
full hogshead ? there’s a whole merchant's venture of | the very best.—Shut the door ;—there comes no swag-
Bourdeaux stuff in him: you have not seen a hulk | gerers here: I have not lived all this while, to have
better stuffed in the hold.—Come, I'll be friends with , swaggering now.—Shut the door, I pray you.
thee, Jack : thou art going to the wars; and whether | Fal. Dost thou hear, hostess ? 80

ied
Ve

 

 

Doll. ‘Come, I'll be friends with thee, Jack.”

cares, comes no swaggerers here,

Fal. Dost thou hear? it is mine ancient.

Host. Tilly-fally, Sir John, never tell me: your an-
cient swaggerer comes not in my doors. I was before
Master Tisick, the deputy, the other day; and, as he
said to me,—it was no longer ago than Wednesday
last,—‘‘ Neighbour Quickly,” says he ;—Master Dumb,
our minister, was by then ;—‘ Neighbour Quickly,”
says he, “receive those that are civil: for,” said he,
“you are in an ill name:”—now’a said so, I can tell

Re-enter Drawer.

Draw. Sir, Ancient Pistol’s below, and would speak
with you. 70
, Doll, Hang him, swaggering rascal! let him_not
come hither : it is the foul-mouthed’st rogue in Eng-

nd, ;
» Host. If he swagger. let him not come here: no, by

I shall ever see thee again, or no, there is nobody | Host. Pray you, pacify yourself, Sir John: there
|
my faith; I must hve amongst my neighbours ; Til

 

 

—
 

448

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

[Act IL

 

 

whereupon; “for,” says he, ‘you are an honest
woman, and well thought on; therefore take heed
what guests you receive: receive,” says he, “no
swaggering companions.”—There comes none here :
—you would bless you to hear what he said.—No, I'll
no swaggerers. . ““

Fal. He’s no swaggerer, hostess; a tame cheater, i’
faith ; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy grey-
hound: he will not swagger with a Barbary hen, if
her feathers turn back in any show of resistance.—
Call him up, drawer. 102

Host. Cheater, call you him? I will bar no honest
man my-house, nor no cheater; but I do not love
swaggering: by my troth, 1am the worse, when one
says—swagger. Feel, masters, how I shake ; look you,
I warrant you.

Doll. So you do, hostess,

Host. Do 1? yea, in very truth do I, an’t were an
aspen-leaf. I cannot abide swaggerers. 110

Enter PisToLt, BARDOLPH, and Page,

Pist. God save you, Sir John!
Fal. Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge
ou with a cup of sack: do you discharge upon mine
ostess.

% Pist. I will discharge upon her, Sir John, with two
uliets.

e Fal. She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall hardly offend
er.

Host. Come, I'll drink no proofs, nor no bullets. I’11
drink no more than will do me good, for no man’s
pleasure, I. 121

Pist, Then to you, Mistress Dorothy : I will charge

ou.

Doll, Charge me? I scorn you, scurvy companion.
What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen
mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! Iam meat
for your master.

Pist. I know you, Mistress Dorothy.

Doll. Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung,
away! By this wine, [’ll thrust my knife in your
mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me.
Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale
juggler, you!—Since when, I pray you, sir?—God’s
light ! with two points on your shoulder? much!

Pist. I will murder your ruff for this.

Fal. No more, Pistol: I would not have you go off
here. ee ee of our company, ‘istol.

Host. No, good Captain Pistol; not here, sweet
captain. 139

oll. Captain! thou abominable damned cheater,
art thou not ashamed to be called captain? An cap-
tains were of my mind, they would truncheon you
out, for taking their names upon you before you have
earned them. You a captain, you slave! for what?
for tearing a poor whore’s ruff in a bawdy-house ?—
He a captain ! hang him, rogue! he lives upon mouldy
stewed prunes, and dried cakes. A captain! these
villains will make the word captain as odious as the
word occupy, which was an excellent good word
before it was ill-sorted: therefore captains had need
look to "t. 151

Bard. Pray thee, go down, good ancient,

Fal. Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll.

Pst. Not I: I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph ;
I could tear her.—I'll be revenged on her.

Page. Pray thee, go down.

Pist. I'll see her damned first ;—to Pluto’s damned
lake, to the infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures
vile also. Hold hook and line, say I. Down! down,
dogs! down, fates! Have we not Hiren here? 160

ost. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; it is very
late, i’ faith, I beseek you now, aggravate your
choler.

Pist. These be good humours, indeed! Shall pack-

orses,
And hollow pamper’d jades of Asia,
Which cannot go but thirty miles a day,
Compare with Ceesars, and with Cannibals,
And Trojan Greeks? nay, rather damn them with
King Cerberus, and let the welkin roar,

Shall we fall foul for toys ? 170

 

aus By my troth, captain, these are very bitter
words.
Bard. Be gone, good ancient: this will grow to a
oe Die like di
ist. Die men like dogs; give crowns like pins,
Have we not Hiren here . ae
Host. On my word, captain, there’s none such here,
What the good-year! do you think I would deny her?
for God’s sake, be quiet.
Pist, Then feed, and be fat, my fair Calipolis, 180
Come, give’s some sack.
Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contente.—
Fear we broadsides? no, let the fiend give fire :
Give me some sack ; and, sweet-heart, lie thou there,
[Laying down his sword.
Come we to full points here, and are et ceteras

nothing?
Fal. Pistol, I would be quiet.
Pist. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neif. What! we have
seen the seven stars.
Doll. For God’s sake, thrust him down-stairs! I
cannot endure such a fustian rascal.
Pist. Thrust him down-stairs! know we not Gallo-
way nags?
al. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat
shilling : nay, an he do nothing but speak nothing, he
shall be nothing here.
Bard. Come, get you down-stairs.
Pist. What! shall we have incision? shall we
imbrue ?— [Snatching up his sword.
Then, death, rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days!
Why then, let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds
Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos, I say!
Host, Here’s goodly stuff toward ! 201
fal. Give me my rapier, boy.
Doll. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw.
Fal. Get you down-stairs. ‘awing.
Host. Here’sa coed, tumult! I'll forswear keeping
house, afore I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So;
murder, I warrant now.-—Alas, alas! put up your
naked weapons ; put up your naked weapons.
wceunt BARDOLPH and PISTOL.
Doil. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet: the rascal is gone.
Ah! you whoreson little valiant villain, you. 210
Host. Are you not hurt i’ the groin? methought, he
made a shrewd thrust at your belly.

Re-enter BARDOLPH.

Fal. Have you turned him out o’ doors?

Bard. Yes, sir: the rascal’s drunk. You have hurt
him, sir, in the shoulder.

Fal. A rascal, to brave me!

Doll. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor
ape, how thou sweat’st! Come, let me wipe thy face;
—come on, you whoreson chops.—Ah, rogue! i’ faith,
Ilove thee. Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy,
worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than
the Nine Worthies. Ah, villain! 222

Fal. A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue ina
blanket. ;

Doll. Do, if thou darest for thy heart : if thou dost,
I'll canvass thee between a pair of sheets.

Enter Music. .

Page. The music is come, sir.

Fal. Let them play.—Play, sirs.—Sit on my_knee,
Doll.—A rascal bragging slave! the rogue fled from
me like quicksilver. 330

Doll. I’faith, and thou followedst him like achurch, -
Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, |
when wilt thou leave fighting o’ days, and foining
a HiBlifss and begin to patch up thine old body for

eaven :

Enter behind, Prince HENRY and Porns, disguised
like Drawers. “a eS :
Fal. Peace, good Doll! do not speak like a death’s-
head: do not bid me remember mine end.
Doll. Sirrah, what humour is the prince of? :
Fal. A good shallow young fellow: he would have |,
mane a good pantler, he would have chipped’ mt
well, ett

 

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

449

 

Doll. They say, Poins has a good wit.

Fal. He a good wit? hang him, baboon! his wit is
as thick as Tewksbury mustard: there is no more
conceit in him, than is in a mallet.

Doll. Why does the prince love him so, then?

Fal. Because their legs are both of a bigness; and
he Pig hs at quoits well; and eats conger and fennel ;
and drinks off candles’ ends for flap-dragons; and
rides the wild mare with the boys; and jumps upon
joint-stools; and swears with a good grace; and
wears his boot very smooth, like unto the sign of
the leg; and breeds no bate with telling of discreet
stories ; and such other gambol faculties he has, that
show a weak mind and an able body, for the which
the prince admits him: for the prince himself is such
another; the weight of a hair will turn the scales
between their avoirdupois.

P. Hen. Would not this nave of a wheel have his
ears cut off? 260

Poins. Let’s beat him before his whore.

P. Hen. Look, whether the withered elder hath not
his poll clawed like a parrot.

Poins. Is it not strange, that desire should so many
years outlive performance ?

Fal. Kiss me, Doll.

P. Hen. Saturn and Venus this year in conjunction!
what says the almanac to that?

Poins. And, look, whether the fiery Trigon, his
man, be not lisping to his master’s old tables, his note-
book, his counsel-keeper. 271

Fal. Thou dost give me flattering busses.

Doll. Nay, truly; I kiss thee with a most constant

eart.

Fal. Lam old, I am old.

Doll. I love thee better than I love e’er a scurvy
young 4 of them all.

Fal. What stuff wilt thou have a kirtle of? I shall
receive money on Thursday; thou shalt have a cap
to-morrow. A merry song! come: it grows late;
we’llto bed. Thou’lt forget me, when I am gone. 281

Doll. By my troth, thou’lt set me a-weeping, an
thou ae so: prove that ever I dress myself hand-
some till thy return.—Well, hearken the end.

Fal. Some sack, Francis!

. Hen., Poins. Anon, anon, sir. (Advancing.

Fal. Ha! a bastard son of the king’s.— And art not
thou Poins his brother ?

P. Hen. Why, thou globe of sinful continents, what
alife dost thou lead ! 290

Fal. A better than thou: I am a gentleman; thou
art a drawer.

P. Hen. Very true, sir; and I come to draw you out
by the ears.

Host. O, the Lord preserve thy good grace! by my
troth, welcome to London.—Now, the Lord bless that
sweet face of thine! O Jesu! are you come from
Wales?

Fal. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty,—
by this light flesh and corrupt blood, thou art wel-
come. [Placing his hand upon DOL.

Doll. How, you fat fool? I scorn you. 302

Poins. My lord, he will drive you out of your
revenge, and turn all to a merriment, if you take
not the heat.

P. Hen. You whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely
did you speak of me even now, before this honest,
virtuous, civil gentlewoman ?

_ Host. God's blessing of your good heart! and so she

is, by my troth. 310
; Fal. Didst thou hear me?

P. Hen. Yes; and you knew me, as you did, when

ou ran away by Gadshill: you knew I was at your

ack, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience.

Fal. No, no, no; not so; I did not think thou wast

| Within hearing.

| P. Hen. I shall drive you, then, to confess the wilful
abuse ; and then I know how to handle you.

| _ Fal. No abuse, Hal, on mine honour; no abuse.

P. Hen. Not! to dispraise me, and call me pantler,

and bread-chipper, and I know not what? 321

Fal. No abuse, Hal.

 
 

 

Poins. No abuse! .

Fal. No abuse, Ned, i’ the world: honest Ned, none.
I dispraised him before the wicked, that the wicked
might not fall in love with him ;—in which doing, I
have done the part of a careful friend, and a true
subject, and thy father is to give me thanks for it.
No abuse, Hal ;—none, Ned, none;—no, ‘faith, boys,
none. 330

P, Hen. See now, whether pure fear, and entire
cowardice, doth not make thee wrong this virtuous

entlewonan to close with us? Is she of the wicked?

s thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is the boy of
the wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in
his nose, of the wicked ?

Poins. Answer, thou dead elm, answer.

Fal. The fiend hath pricked down Bardolph irre-
coverable; and his face is Lucifer’s privy-kitchen,
where he doth nothing but roast maltworms. For
the boy,—there is a good angel about him, but the
devil outbids him too. 342

P. Hen. For the women?

Fal. For one of them, she is in hell already, and
burns poor souls, For the other, I owe her money,
and whether she be damned for that, I know not.

Host. No, I warrant you. 2

Fal. No, I think thou art not; I think, thou art quit
for that. Marry, there is another indictment upon
thee, for suffering flesh to be eaten in thy house,
contrary to the law; for the which, I think, thou wilt
howl. 352

Host. All victuallers do so:
mutton or two in a whole Lent?

P. Hen. You, gentlewoman,—

Doll. What says your grace?

Fal. His grace says that which his flesh rebels

what’s a joint of

against. [Knocking heard.

Host. Who knocks so loud at door? look to the door

there, Francis. 360
Enter PETO.

P. Hen. Peto, how now? what news?

Peto. The king your father is at Westminster;
And there are twenty weak and wearied posts
Come from the north: and, as I came along,
I met, and overtook, a dozen captains,
Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff.

P. Hen. By Heaven, Poins, I feel me much to blame,
So idly to profane the precious time,
When tempest of commotion, like the south, 370
Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt,
And drop upon our bare unarmed heads.
Give me my sword and cloak.—Falstaff, good night.

Exeunt Prince HENRY, Poins, PETo, and
BARDOLPH.

Fal. Now comesin the sweetest morsel of the night,
and we must hence, and leave it unpicked. [Knocking
heard.] More knocking at the door!

Re-enter BARDOLPH.

How now? what’s the matter?

Bard. You must away to court, sir, presently ;
A dozen captains stay at door for you.

Fal. Fe the Page.] Pay the musicians, sirrah.—
Farewell, hostess ;—farewell, Doll. You see, my good
wenches, how men of merit are sought after: the
undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is
called on. Farewell, good wenches, If I be not sent
away post, I will see you again ere I go.

Doll. I cannot speak ;—if my heart be not ready to
burst,—well, sweet Jack, have a care of thyself.

Fal. Farewell, farewell.

[Excunt FaustaFr and BARDOLPH.

Host. Well, fare thee well: I have known thee
these twenty-nine years, come peascod-time; but an
bonester, and truer-hearted man,—well, fare thee well.

Bard. (Within.] Mistress Tear-sheet,— 392

Host. What’s the matter?

Bard. (Within.| Bid Mistress Tear-sheet come to
my master.

Host. O! run, Doll, run; run, good Doll. [EHxeunt.

 

29

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT III.
ScENE I.—A Room in the Palace.
Enter King HENRY in his night-gown, with a Page.

9 King Henry.

O, call the Earls of Surrey and of

oe Warwick; | :

But, ere they come, bid them o’er-

: read these letters,

And well consider of them. Make
good speed. [Hxit Page.

How many thousand of my poorest
subjects

Are at this hour asleep !—O sleep!
O gentle sleep!

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou nomore wilt weigh my eyelids down,

And steep my senses in forgetfulness? —__

Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 10

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy
slumber,

Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody?

© thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile,

In loathsome beds, and leav’st the kingly couch,

A watch-case, or a common ‘larum bell?

Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast.

Seal nt the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains

In cradle of the rude imperious surge, 20

And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them

With deaf’ning clamours in the slippery clouds,

That with the hurly death itself awakes?

Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose

To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ;

And in the calmest and most stillest night,

With all appliances and means to boot,

Deny it toa king! Then, happy low, lie down! 30

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Enter WARWICK and SURREY.

War. Many good morrows to your majesty !
K. Hen, Is it good morrow, lords?
War. 'Tis one o'clock, and past.
K. Hae, ae then, good morrow to you all, my
ords.
Have you read o'er the letters that I sent you?
War. We have, my liege.
K. Hen. Then you perceive, the body of our king-

  
 

dom
How foul it is; what rank diseases grow,
And with what danger, near the heart of it. 40

War. It is but as a body yet distemper’d,
Which to his former strength may be restor’d,
With good advice, and little medicine.
My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool’d.
Kk. Hen. O God! that one might read the book of

fate,
And see the revolution of the times
Make mountains level, and the continent,
Weary of solid firmness, melt itself
Into the sea! and, other times, to see
The beachy girdle of the ocean
Too wide for Neptune’s hips; how chances mock,
And changes fill the cup of alteration
With divers liquors! 0, if this were seen,

 

The happiest youth, viewing his progress through,
What pene past, what crosses to ensue,

Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.
’T is not ten years gone,

Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends,
Did feast together, and in two years after

Were they at wars: it is but eight years, since 60
This Percy was the man nearest my soul;

Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs,

And laid his love and life under my foot :

Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard,
Gave him defiance. But which of you was by,

 

 

War. ‘Your majesty hath been this fortnight il.”

[To WaRrwick.] (You, cousin Nevil, as I may re-
member,)

When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears,
Then check’d and rated by Northumberland,
Did speak these words, now prov’d a prophecy?
‘Northumberland, thou ladder, by the which 70
My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne ;”—
Though then, God knows, I had no such intent, -
But that necessity so bow’d the state,
That I and greatness were compell’d to kiss.
“The time shall come,” thus did he follow it,
“The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head,
Shall break into corruption :”—so went on,
Foretelling this same time’s condition,
And the division of our amity.

War. There is a history in all men’s lives, 80
Figuring the nature of the times deceas’d ;
The which observ’d, a man may prophesy,
With a near aim, of the main chance of things
As yet not come to life, which in their seeds,
And weak beginnings, lie intreasured. .
Such things become the hatch and brood of time;
And, by the necessary form of this,
King Richard might create a perfect guess, |
That great Northumberland, then false to him,
Would, of that seed, grow to a greater falseness,
Which should not find a ground to root upon,
Unless on you.

K. Hen. Are these things then necessities?

 

 
 

 

dang

 

Scene II] KING HENRY IV.—PART II. 451
Then let us meet them like necessities; Enter BARDOLPH, and one with him.
SndthakcemiG Wore SVeamow eties Gbben ms, Bard. Good morrow, honest gentlemen. I beseech

They say, the bishop and Northumberland
Are fifty thousand strong.

War. . It cannot be, my lord:
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo,
The numbers of the fear'd.—Please it your grace
To go to bed; upon my life, my lord,
The powers that you already have sent forth,
Shall Being this prize in very easily.
To comfort you the more, I have receiv’d
A certain instance that Glendower is dead.
Your majesty hath been this fortnight ill,
And these unseason’d hours, perforce, must add
Unto your sickness.

K. Hen. I will take your counsel :
And were these inward wars once out of hand
We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land. [Exeunt.

100

ScENE II.—Court before Justice SHaALLOWw’s House
in Glostershire.

Enter SHALLOW and_ SILENCE, meeting ; MOULDY, |

SHADOW, Wart, FEEBLE, BULL-CALF, and Ser-

vants, behind.

Shal. Come on, come on, come on, sir ; give me your
hand, sir, give me your hand, sir: an early stirrer, by
the rood. And how doth my good cousin Silence ?

Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

Shal. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow ?
and your fairest daughter, and mine, my god-
‘hter Ellen?

. Alas! a black ousel, cousin Shallow.

Shal. By yea and nay, sir, I dare say, my cousin
William is become a good scholar. He is at Oxford,
still, is he not? ll

Sil. Indeed, sir; to my cost.

‘ral. He must then to the inns of court shortly. I
-was once of Clement’s Inn; where, I think, they will
talk of mad Shallow yet. :

. Sil. You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin.

Shal. By the mass, I was called anything; and I
would have done anything, indeed, and roundly too.
There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and
black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will
Squele, a Cotswold man; you had not four such
swinge-bucklers in all the inns of court again: and, I
may say to you, we knew where the bona-robas were,
and had the best of them all at commandment. Then

' was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to

Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk.

Sil. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon
about soldiers ? 28

Shal. The same Sir John, the very same. Isaw him
break Skogan’s head at the court gate, when he was
acrack, not thus high: and the very same day did I
fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind
Gray's Inn. Jesu! Jesu! the mad days that I have
spent! and to see how many of mine old acquaintance
are dead !

Stl. We shall all follow, cousin.

Shal. Certain, ’tis certain; very sure, very sure:
death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all ; all shall
die. Howa good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair ?

Sil. Truly, cousin, I was not there. 40

_Shal. Death is certain.—Is old Double of your town
living yet?

Sil. Dead, sir.

Shal. Jesu! Jesu! dead!—he drew a good bow ;—
and dead !—he shot a fine shoot :—John of Gaunt loved
him well, and betted much uouey on his head. Dead!
—he would have clapped in the clout at twelve score ;
and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and four-
teen and a half, that it would have done a man’s
heart good to see.—How a score of ewes now? 50

Sil. Thereafter as they be; a score of good ewes
may be worth ten pounds.

hal, And is old Double dead?
ti ae Here come two of Sir John Falstaff’s men, as I
‘a!

 

 

you, which is Justice Shallow ?
al. Iam Robert Shallow, sir; a poor esquire of .

this county, and one of the king’s justices of the peace.

What is your good pleasure with me? 60

Bard, My captain, sir, commends him to you; my
captain, Sir John Falstaff: a tall gentleman, by
Heaven, and a most gallant leader.

Shal. He greets me well, sir: I knew him a good
backsword man. How doth the good knight? may I
ask, how my lady his wife doth?

Bard. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommo-
dated than with a wife.

Shal. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said
indeed too. Better accommodated !—it is good ; yea,
indeed, is it: good phrases are surely, and ever were,
very commendable. Accommodated! it comes of
accommodo : very good; a good phrase.

Bard. Pardon me, sir; I have heard the word.
Phrase, call you it? By this good day, I know not the
phrase: but I will maintain the word with my sword
to be a soldier-like word, and a word of exceeding
good command, by Heaven. Accommodated; that is,
when a man is, as they say, accommodated ; or, when
a man is,—being,—whereby,—he may be thought to
be accommodated, which is an excellent thing. 81

Enter FALSTAFF,

Shal. It is very just.—Look, here comes good Sir
John.—Give me 2 good hand, give me your wor-
ship's good hand. By my troth, you like well, and
bear your years very well: welcome, good Sir John.

Fal. I am glad to see you well, good Master Robert
Shallow.—Master Sure-card, as I think.

Shal. No, Sir John ; it is my cousin Silence, in com-
mission with me. ;

Fal. Good Master Silence, it well befits you should
be of the peace. 91

Sil. Your good worship is welcome.

Fal. Fie! this is hot weather.—Gentlemen, have
you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men ?

Shal. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit?

Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you.

Shal. Where’s the roll? where’s the roll? where’s
the roll?—Let me see, let me see, let me see: so, so,
so, so. Yea, marry, sir :--Ralph Mouldy !—let them
appear as I call; let them do so, let them do so.—Let
me see; where is Mouldy ?

Moul, Here, an it please you.

Shal. What think you, Sir John? a good-limbed
fellow ; young, strong, and of good friends.

Fal. Is thy name Mouldy ?

Moul. Yea, an it please you.

Fal. ’Tis the more time thou wert used.

Shal. Ha, ha, ha! most excellent, i’ faith! things
that are mouldy lack use: very singular good !—In
faith, well said, Sir John ; very well said. 110

Fal. [To SHALLOW.) Prick him.

Moul. I was pricked well enough before, an you
could have let me alone: my old dame will be undone
now, for one to do her husbandry, and her drudgery.
You need not to have pricked me; there are other
men fitter to go out than I.

Fal. Goto; peace, Mouldy ! you shall go. Mouldy,
it is time you were spent.

Moul. Spent!

Shal. Peace, fellow, peace! stand aside : know you
where you are?For the other, Sir John :—let me see.
—Simon Shadow ! 122

Fal. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he’s
like to be a cold soldier.

Shal. Where’s Shadow ?

Shad. Here, sir.

Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou?

Shad. My mother’s son, sir.

Fal. Thy mother’s son! like enough; and thy
father’s shadow: so the son of the female is the
shadow of the male: it is often so, indeed; but not
of the father’s substance. 132

Shal. Do you like him, Sir John?

 

 
 

452 KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. [Acr II.

 

 

Fal. Shadow will serve for summer,—prick him ;
po Ze have a number of shadows to fill up the muster-
ook.
Shal. Thomas Wart!
Fal. Where's he?
Wart. Here, sir.
Fal. Is thy name Wart?
Wart. Yea, sir.
Fal. Thou art a very ragged wart.
Shal. Shall I prick him, Sir John? fi :
Fal. It were superfluous, for his apparel is built
upon his back, and the whole frame stands upon pins:
prick him no more. aaa .
Shal. Ha, ha, ha !—you can do it, sir; you can do it:
I commend you well.—Francis Feeble !

140

 

Fal, “'Fore God, a likely fellow 1”

Fee. Here, sir.

Fal. What trade art thou, Feeble.

Fee. A woman's tailor, sir.

Shal. Shall I prick him, sir?

Fal. You may; but if he had been a man’s tailor,
he would have pricked you.—Wilt thou make as many
holes in an enemy’s battle, as thou hast done in a
woman's petticoat?

Fee. I will do my good will, sir: you can have no
more.

Fal. Well said, good woman’s tailor! well said,
courageous Feeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the
wrathful dove, or most magnanimous mouse.—Prick
the woman's tailor. Well, Master Shallow, deep
Master Shallow.

Fee. I would Wart might have gone, sir.

Fal. I would thou wert a man’s tailor, that thou
mightst mend him, and make him fit to go. I cannot
put him to a private soldier, that is the leader of so
many thousands: let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.

Fee. It shall suffice, sir.

Fal. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble.—Who is
next? 171

Shal. Peter Bull-calf of the green!

Fal. Yea, marry, let us see Bull-calf.

Bull. Here, sir.

Fal. "Fore God, a likely fellow !—Come, prick me
Bull-calf till he roar again.

Bull. O Lord! good my lord captain,—

Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?

Bull. O Lord! sir, 1am a diseased man,

Fal. What disease hast thou ? 180

Bull, A whoreson cold, sir; a cough, sir; which I
caught with ringing in the king’s affairs, upon his
coronation-day, sir.

Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown;
we will have away thy cold; and I will take such

150

order, that thy friends shall ring for thee.—Is here all? |

 

Shal. Here is two more called than your number:
you must have but four here, sir :—and i I pray re
go in with me to dinner. ij

Fal. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot
tarry dinner. I am glad to see you, by my troth,
Master Shallow. 193

Shal. O, Sir John, do you remember since we lay all
night in the windmill in Saint George's fields?

al. No more of that, good Master Shallow, no more
of that.

Shal. Ha, it was a merry
work alive?

Fal. She lives, Master Shallow.

Shal. She never could away with me. 200

Fal. Never, never: she would always say, she could
not abide Master Shallow.

Shal. By the mass, I could anger her to
the heart. She was then a bona-roba,
Doth she hold her own well?

Fal. Old, old, Master Shallow.

Shal. Nay, she must be old; she cannot
choose but be old; certain she’s old, and
had Robin Night-work by old Night-work,
before I came to Clement's Inn. 210

Sil. That’s fifty-five years ago.

Shal. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst
seen that that this knight and I have seen!
—Ha, Sir John, said I well?

Fal. We have heard the chimes at mid-
night, Master Shallow.

Shal. That we have, that we have, that
we have; in faith, Sir John, we have.
Our watchword was, ‘“ Hem, boys!’”—
Come, let’s to dinner; come, let’s to
dinner.—O, the days that we have seen!—
Come, come. 222

[Exeunt FaLstarr, SHALLOW, and
SILENCE.

Bull. Good Master corporate Bardolpk,
stand my friend, and here is four Harry
ten shillings in French crowns for you.
In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hanged,
sir, as go: and yet, for mine own part, sir,
I do not care; but rather, because I am
unwilling, and, for mine own part, have a desire to
stay with my friends: else, sir, I did not care, for
mine own part, so much. 231

Bard. Go to; stand aside.

Moul. And good master corporal captain, for my
old dame’s sake, stand my friend: she has nobod
to do anything about her, when I am gone; an
she is old, and cannot help herself. You shall have -
forty, sir.

Bard. Go to; stand aside. J

Fee. By my troth, I care not; a man can die but
once ;—we owe God a death. I'll ne’er bear a base
mind :—an ’t be my destiny, so; an ’t be not, so. No
man’s too good to serve his prince; and let it go which

it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next,
‘ard, Well said; thou art a good fellow. ‘
Fee. ’Faith, I’ll bear no base mind.

Re-enter FALSTAFF and Justices,

Fal. Come, sir, which men shall I have?

Shal. Four, of which you please.

Bard. Sir, a word with you.—I have three pound to
free Mouldy and Bull-calf.

Fal. Go to; well. : 2

Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you have?

Fal. Do you choose for me.

Shal. Marry then,—Mouldy, Bull-calf, Feeble, and
Shadow.

Fal. Mouldy, and Bull-calf :—for you, Mouldy, stay
at home till you are past service :—and, for your part,
Bull-calf, grow till you come unto it: I will none of

you.

Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong.
They are your likeliest men, and I would have you
served with the best. 3 261

Fal. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to
choose a man? Care I for the limb, the thewes,
the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man

night. And is Jane Night-

 

 
 

Scene II.)

KING HENRY IV.—PART II. 453

 

Give me the spirit, Master Shallow.—Here’s Wart ;—
you see what a ragged appearance it is: he shall
charge you, and discharge you, with the motion of a

ewterer’s hammer; come off, and on, swifter than

e that gibbets-on the brewer's bucket. And this
same half-faced fellow, Shadow,—give me this man:
he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman may
with as great aim level at the edge of a penknife.
And, for a retreat,—how swiftly will this Feeble, the
woman’s tailor, run off! O, give me the spare men,
and spare me the great ones.—Put me a caliver into
Warts hand, Bardolph.

Bard. Hold, Wart, traverse ; thus, thus, thus.

Fal. Come, manage me your caliver. So:—very
well :—go to:—very good :—exceeding good.—O, give
me always a little, lean, old, chapped, bald shot.—
Well said, i’faith, Wart: thou ’rt a good scab; hold,
there’s a tester for thee. 282

Shal. He is not his craft’s master, he doth not do it
right. I remember at Mile End Green, (when I lay at
Clement’s Inn,) I was then Sir Dagonet in Arthur’s
show, there was a little quiver fellow, and he would
manage you his piece thus: and he would about, and
about, and come you in: ‘‘rah, tah, tah,” would he
say; ‘ bounce,” would he say; and away again would
he go, and again would he come.—I shall never see
such a fellow. 291
Fal. These fellows will do well, Master Shallow.—
God keep you, Master Silence: I will not use many
words with you.—Fare you well, gentlemen both: I
thank you: I must a dozen mile to-night.—Bardolph,
give the soldiers coats.

Shal. Sir John, the Lord bless you, and God prosper
your affairs, and send us peace! As you return, visit
my house. Let our old acquaintance be renewed:
peradventure, I will with you to the court.

Fal. Fore God, I would you would.

Shal. Goto; [have spoke ata word. Fare you well.

Fal. Fare you well, gentle gentlemen. [Hxeunt
SHALLOW and SILENCE.] On, Bardolph; lead the
men sul 2 [Exeunt BARDOLPH, Recruits, f:c.] As
I return, I will fetch off these justices: I do see the
bottom of Justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject
we old men are to this vice of lying! This same
starved justice hath done nothing but prate to me of
the wildness of his youth, and the feats he hath done
about Turnbull Street; and every third word a lie,
duer paid to the hearer than the Turk’s tribute. I do
remember him at Clement’s Inn, like a man made
after supper of a cheese-paring : when he was naked,
he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a
head fantastically carved upon it witha knife: he was
so forlorn, that his dimensions to any thick sight were
invincible: he was the very genius of famine; yet
lecherous as a monkey, and the whores called him—
mandrake. He came ever in the rearward of the
fashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutched
huswives that he heard the carmen whistle, and
sware—they were his fancies, or his good-nights.
And now is this Vice’s daaeer become a squire,
and talks as familiarly of John of Gaunt, as if he
had been sworn brother to him; and I ’ll be sworn
he never saw him but once in the Tilt-yard, and
then he burst his head, for crowding among the
marshal’s men. I saw it, and told John of Gaunt,
he beat his own name; for you might have truss’d
him, and all his apparel, into an eel-skin: the case of
a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court; and
now has he land and beeves. Well, I will be ac-
quainted with him, if I return; and it shall go hard,
but I wHl make him a philosopher's two stones to me.
If the young dace be a bait tor the old pike, I see no
reason in the law of nature, but I may snap at him.
+ Let time shape, and there an end. [Exit.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScEeNE I.—A Forest in Yorkshire.

   

Archbishop.
SHAT is this forest call’d?
Hast. ’Tis Gualtree Forest, an ’t shall
lease your grace.
Arch. Here stand, my lords, and send
discoverers forth, ;
To know the numbers of our enemies.
: Hast. We have sent forth already.
7 Arch. ?T is well done.—
° My friends and brethren in these great
affairs,
I must acquaint you, that I have receiv’d
New-dated letters from Northumberland ;
Their cold intent, tenor and substance, thus :—
Here doth he wish his person, with such powers
As might hold sortance with his quality ;
The which he could not levy ; whereupon
He is retir’d, to ripe his growing fortunes,
To Scotland; and concludes in hearty prayers,
That your attempts may overlive the hazard
And fearful meeting of their opposite. | .
Mowb. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch

ground,
And dash themselves to pieces.

10

 

Enter the Archbishop of YORK, MowBRayY, HAsTINGS, and others.

Enter a Messenger.
Hast. Now, what news?
Mess. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,
In goodly form comes on the enemy 20
And, by the ground_they hide, I judge their number
Upon, or near, the rate of thirty thousand.
Mowb. The just proportion that we gave them out.
Let us sway on, and face them in the d.
Enter WESTMORELAND.
Arch, What well-appointed leader fronts us here?
Mowb. I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.
West. Health and fair greeting from our general,
The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.
Arch. Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace,
What doth concern your coming?
West. Then, my lord, 30
Unto your grace do I in chief address
The substance of my speech. If that rebellion
Came like itself, in base and abject routs,
Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rage,
And countenane’d by boys, and beggary ;
I say, if damn’d commotion so appear’d,
: In his true, native, and most proper shape,

 

 
 

454

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

[Act Iv,

 

 

 

 

You, reverend father, and these noble lords,
Had not been here, to dress the ugly form
Of base and bloody insurrection ! 40
With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,
Whose see is by a civil peace maintain’d; :
Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch’d ;
Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor’d ;
Whose white investments figure innocence,
The dove and very blessed spirit of peace:
Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself,
Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war? :
Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, 50
Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine
To a loud trumpet, and a point of war? :
Arch. Wherefore doI this ?—so the question stands.
Briefly to this end :—we are all diseas’d ;
And, with our surfeiting, and wanton hours,
Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,
And we must bleed for it: of which disease
Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.
But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,
I take not on me here as a physician, 60
Nor do I, as an enemy to peace,
Troop in the throngs of military men ;
But, rather, show awhile like fearful war,
To diet rank minds, sick of happiness,
And purge the obstructions, which begin to stop
Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.
I have in equal balance justly weigh’d
What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,
And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
‘We see which way the stream of time doth run, 70
And are enforec’d from our most quiet sphere -
By the rough torrent of occasion;
And have the summary of all our griefs,
‘When time shall serve, to show in articles,
Which, long ere this, we offer’d to the king,
And might by no suit gain our audience.
When we are wrong’d, and would unfold our griefs,
We are denied access unto his person,
Even by those men that most have done us wrong.
The dangers of the days but newly gone, 80
Whose memory is written on the earth
With yet-appearing blood, and the examples
Of every minute's instance, present now,
Have put us in these ill-beseeming arms;
Not to break peace, or any branch of it,
But to establish here a peace indeed,
Concurring both in name and quality.
West. hen ever yet was your appeal denied ?
Wherein have you been galled by the king
What peer hath been suborn’d to grate on you, 99
That you should seal this lawless bloody book
Of forg’d rebellion with a seal divine,
And consecrate commotion’s bitter edge?
Arch. My brother general, the commonwealth,
To brother born an household cruelty,
I make my quarrel in particular.
West. There is no need of any such redress ;
Or, if there were, it not belongs to you.
Mowb. Why not to him, in part, and to us all,
That feel the bruises of the days before, 100
And suffer the condition of these times
To lay a heavy and unequal hand
Upon our honours?
est. O! my good Lord Mowbray,
Construe the times to their necessities,
And you shall say indeed, it is the time,
And not the king, that doth you injuries.
Yet, for your part, it not appears to me,
Either from the king, or in the present time.
That you should have an inch of any ground.
To build a ee on. Were you not restor’d
To all the Duke of Norfolk's signiories,
Your noble and right-well-remember'd father’s ?
Mowb. What thing, in honour, had my father lost,
That need to be reviv'd, and breath’d in me?
The king, that lov’d him, as the state stood then,
Was, force perforce, compell’d to banish him :
And then that Harry Bolingbroke, and he,
Being mounted, and both roused in their seats,

110

 

Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,
Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down, 120
Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel,
And the loud trumpet blowing them together ;
Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay’d
My father from the breast of Bolingbroke
O! when the king did throw his warder down,
His own life hung upon the staff he threw:
Then threw he down himself, and all their lives,
That, by indictment, and by dint of sword,
Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.

West. You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know

not what. 130
The Earl of Hereford was reputed then
In England the most valiant gentleman :
Who knows, on whom fortune would then have
smil’d ?
But if your father had been victor there,
He ne’er had borne it out of Coventry ;
For all the country, ina general voice,
Cried hate Une, him ; and all their prayers, and love,
Were set on ereford, whom they doted on,
And bless’d, and seed indeed, more than the king.
But this is mere digression from my purpose. 140
Here come I from our princely general,
To know your griefs; to tell you from his grace,
That he will give you audience; and wherein
It shall appear that your demands are just,
You shall enjoy them ; ey ptything set off,
That might so much as think you enemies.
Mowb. But he hath fore’d us to compel this offer,
And it proceeds from policy, not love.
West. Mowbray, you overween, to take it so.
This offer comes from mercy, not from fear ; 150
For, lo! within a ken our army lies,
Upon mine honour, all too confident
To give admittance to a thought of fear.
Our battle is more full of names than yours,
Our men more perfect in the use of arms,
Our armour all as strong, our cause the best ;
Then, reason wills, our hearts should be as good:
ay you not then, our offer is compell’d.
‘owb. Well, by my will, we shall admit no ee
West. That argues but the shame of your offence:
A rotten case abides no handling. 161
Hast. Hath the Prince John a full commission,

In very ample virtue of his father,

To hear, and absolutely to determine

Of what conditions we shall stand upon?
West. That is intended in the general's name.

I muse you make so slight a question. i
Arch. Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this

schedule, :
For this contains our general grievances:
Each several article herein redress’d ; 170

All members of our cause, both here and hence,
That are insinew’d to this action,
Acquitted by a true substantial form ;
And present execution of our wills
To us, and to our purposes, consign’d ;
We come witbin our awful banks again,
And knit our powers to the arm of peace.

West. ae will I show the general.

ords,
In sight of both our battles we may meet:
And either end in peace, which God so frame, 180
Or to the place of difference call the swords
Which must decide it. :
My lord, we will do so.

Arch.
[Exit WESTMORELAND.
Mowbd. There is a thing within my bosom tells me,
That no conditions of our peace can stand.
Hast. Fear you not that : if we can make our peace
Upon such large terms, and so absolute,
As our conditions shall consist upon, i
Our peace shall stand as firm as vee. mountains.
Mowb. Ay, but our valuation shall be such,
That every slight and false-derived cause, 190
Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason,
Shall to the king taste of this action:
That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,
We shall be winnow’d with so rough a wind,

Please you,

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.] KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. 455

 

That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff,
And good from bad find no partition.
Arch, No, no, my lord. Note this,—the king is
weary ee .
Of dainty and such picking grievances:
For he hath found, to end one doubt by death,
Revives two greater in the heirs of life.
And therefore will he wipe his tables clean,
And keep no tell-tale to his memory,
That may repeat and history his loss
To new remembrance. For full well he knows,
He cannot so precisely weed this land,
As his misdoubts present occasion :
His foes are so enrooted with his friends,
That, plucking to unfix an enemy,
He doth unfasten so, and shake a friend.
So that this land, like an offensive wife,
That hath enrag’d him on to offer strokes,
As he is striking, holds his infant up,
And hangs resolv’d correction in the arm
That was uprear’d to execution.
Hast. Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods
On late offenders, that he now doth lack
The very instruments of chastisement ;
So that his power, like to a fangless lion,
May offer, but not hold.
Arch, *Tis very true:
And therefore be assur’d, my good lord marshal,
If we do now make our atonement well,
Our peace will, like a broken limb united,
Grow stronger for the breaking.
fowb. Be it so.
Here is return’d my Lord of Westmoreland.

Re-enter WESTMORELAND.

West. The prince is here at hand. Pleaseth your

lordship,
To meet his grace just distance tween our armies ?

Mowb. Your grace of York, in God’s name then, set
forward.

Arch. Before, and greet hisgrace, my lord: we come.

[Exeunt.

220

 

wf
\ ScENE II.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter, from one side, MowsBrRay, the Archbishop,
HastTIincs, and others: from the other side, Prince
JOHN of LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, Officers, and
Attendants.

P. John. You are well encounter’d here, my cousin
Mowbray.—

Good day to you, gentle lord archbishop ;

And so to you, Lord Hastings,—and to all.—

ay toe of York, it better show’d with you,

en that your flock, assembled by the bell,

Encircled you, to hear with reverence

Your exposition on the holy text,

Than now to see you here an iron man,

Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum,

Turning the word to sword, and life to death.

That man, that sits within a monarch’s heart,

And ripens in the sunshine of his favour,

Would he abuse the countenance of the king,

Alack ! what mischiefs might he set abroach,

In shadow of such greatness. With you, lord bishop,

It iseven so. Who hath not heard it spoken,

How deep you were within the books of God?

To us, the speaker in his parliament ;

To us, the imagin’d voice of God himself ;

The very opener and intelligencer,

Between the grace, the sanctities of heaven,

And our dull workings: O! who shall believe,

But you misuse the reverence of your place,

Employ the countenance and grace of Heaven,

As a false favourite doth his prince’s name,

In deeds dishonourable? You have taken up,

Under the counterfeited zeal of God,

The subjects of his substitute, my father;

And, both against the peace of Heaven and him,

Have here up-swarm’d them.

Arch, Good my Lord of Lancaster,

10

20

 

I am not here against your father’s peace; 31
But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland,
The time misorder’d doth, in common sense,
Crowd us, and crush us to this monstrous form,
To hold our safety up. I sent your grace
The parcels and parnotlare of our grief,
(The which Bae been with scorn shov’d from the
court,
Whereon this Hydra son of war is born;
Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm’d asleep,
With grant of our most just and right desires, 40
And true obedience, of this madness cur’d,
Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty.
Mowb. If not, we ready are to try our fortunes
To the last man.
Hast. And though we here fall down,
We have supplies to second our attempt ;
If they miscarry, theirs shall second them ;
And so success of mischief shall be born,
And heir from heir shali hold this quarrel up,
Whiles England shall have generation.
P. John. You are too shallow, Hastings, much too
shallow, 50
To sound the bottom of the after-times.
West. Pleaseth your grace, to answer them directly,
How far-forth you do like their articles?
P. John. Ilike them all, and do allow them well:
And swear here by the honour of my blood,
My father’s purposes have been mistook ;
And some about him have too lavishly
Wrested his meaning and authority.—
My lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress’d ;
Upon my soul, they shall. If this may please you, 60
Discharge your powers unto their several counties,
As we will ours; and here, between the armies,
Let ’s drink together friendly, and embrace,
That all their eyes may bear those tokens home,
Of our restored love and amity.
Arch. I take your princely word for these redresses.
P. John. I give it you, and will maintain my

word:
And thereupon I drink unto your grace.
Hast. [To an Officer.] Go, captain, and deliver to
the army
This news of peace: let them have pay, and part. 70
I know, it will well please them : hie thee, captain.
(Exit Officer.
Arch. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland.
West. I pledge your grace: an if you knew what
pains
I have bestow’d to breed this present peace,
You would drink freely ; but my love to you
Shall show itself more openly hereafter.
Arch. I do not doubt you.
West. Iam glad of it.—
Health to my lord, and gentle cousin Mowbray.
Mowb. You wish me health in very happy season ;
For I am, on the sudden, something ill. 80
Arch, Against ill chances men are ever merry,
But heaviness foreruns the good event.

West. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden
sorrow ;
Serves to say thus,_Some good thing comes to-

morrow.
Arch. Believe me, I am passing light in spirit.
Mowb. So much the worse, if your own rule be true.
2 [Shouts within.
P. John. The word of peace is render’d: hark, how
they shout!
Mowb. This had been cheerful after victory.
Arch. A peace is of the nature of a conquest ;
For then both parties nobly are subdued,
And neither party loser.
P. John. 7 Go, my lord,
And let our army be discharged too.—
(Exit WESTMORELAND.
And, good my lord, so please you, let our trains
March by us, that we may peruse the men
We should have cop’d withal. .
Arch. fee Go, good Lord Hastings,
And, ere they be dismiss’d, let them march by.
[Exit HastInes,

 

 
 

456

KING HENRY IV.—PART IL.

[Act Iv.

 

 

P. John. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night to-
gether.—

Re-enter WESTMORELAND.

Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still?
West. Theleaders, having charge from you to stand,
Will not go off until they hear you speak. 100
P. John. They know their duties,

Re-enter HASTINGS.

Hast. My lord, our army is dispers’d already.
Like youthful steers anvOA. they take their courses
East, west, north, south; or, like a school broke up,
Each hurries toward his home, and sporting-place.

West. Good tidings, my Lord Hastings; for the

which

I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason :—

 

West. *‘I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason.”

And you, lord archbishop,—and you, Lord Mowbray,
@f capital treason I attach you both.

Mowb., Is this proceeding just and honourable? 110
West. Is your assembly so?

Arch. Will you thus break your faith ?

P. John. I pawn’d thee none.
I promis’d you redress of these same grievances,
Whereof you did complain; which, by mine honour,
I will perform with a most Christian care.

But, for you, rebels, look to taste the due

Meet for rebellion, and such acts as yours.

Most shallowly did you these arms commence,
Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence.—
Strike up our drums! pursue the scatter'd stray ; 120
God, and not we, hath safely fought to-day.—

Some guard these traitors to the block of death ;
Treason’s true bed, and yielder up of breath. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—Another Part of the Forest.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter FALSTAFF and
COLEVILLE, meeting.

Fal. What’s your name, sir? of what condition are
you, and of what place, I pray ?

Cole. Tama knight, sir; and my name is Coleville of
the dale. ;

Fal. Well then, Coleville is your name, a knight is
your degree, and your place, the dale: Coleville shall
still be your name, a traitor your degree, and the
dungeon your place,—a place deep enough; so shall
you be still Coleville of the dale.

Cole. Are not you Sir John Falstaff? 10

fal. As good a man as he, sir, whoe’er Iam. Do ye
yield, sir, or shall I sweat for you? If I do sweat, they
are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy
death: therefore, rouse up fear and trembling, and do
observance to my mercy. ;

 

Cole. I think, you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that

thought yield me.
Fal. [have a whole school of tongues in this belly

of mine, and not a tongue of them all speaks any
other word but my name, An Thad but a belly of any
indifferency, I were siinply the most active fellow in
Europe: my womb, my womb, my womb undoes
me.—Here comes our general,

Enter Prince JOHN of LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND,
and others.

P. John. The heat is past, follow no further

now.—
Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland.—
[Exit WESTMORELAND,
Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while?
When everything is ended, then you come:
These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, .
One time or other break some gallows’ back. 29

Fal. I would be sorry, my lord, but it should
be thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and
check was the reward of valour. Do you think
me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have I,
in my poor and old motion, the expedition of
thought? I have speeded hither with the
very extremest inch of possibility: I have
foundered nine-score and odd posts, and here,
travel-tainted-as I am, have, in my pure and
immaculate valour, taken Sir John Coleville
of the dale, a most furious knight, and valorous
enemy. But what of that? he saw me,
and yielded; that I may justly say with the
hook-nosed fellow of Rome, I came, saw, and
overcame.

P. John. It was more of his courtesy than
your deserving.

Fal. I know not: here he is, and here I yield
him, and I beseech your grace, let it be booked
with the rest of this day’s deeds; or, by the
Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad else,
with mine own picture on the top of it, Cole-
ville kissing my foot. To the which course if
I be enforced, if ee do not all show like gilt
twopences to me, and I, in the clear sky of fame,
o'ershine you as much as the full moon doth the
cinders of the element, which show like pins’ heads
to her, believe not the word of the noble. Therefore
let me have right, and let desert mount.

P. John, Thine’s too heavy to mount.

fal. Let it shine then. . 60

P. John. Thine’s too thick to shine.

Fal. Let it do something, my good lord, that may do
me good, and call it what you will.

P. John. Is thy name Coleville? _ |

Cole. It is, my lord.

P. John. A famous rebel art thou, Coleville.

Fal. And a famous true subject took him.

Cole. Tam, my lord, but as my betters are,

That led me hither : had they been rul’d by me,
You should have won them dearer than you have.

Fal. 1 know not how they sold themselves: but
thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis,
and I thank thee for thee. a

Re-enter WESTMORELAND.

P. John. Now, have you left pursuit? ;

West. Retreat is made, and execution stay’d.

P. John. Send Coleville, with his confederates,

To York, to present execution. :

Blunt, lead him hence, and see you guard him sure.
[Exit CoLEVILLE, guarded.

And now despatch we toward the court, my lords.

Ihear, the king my father is sore sick :

Our news shall go before us to his majesty, _, 80

Which, cousin, you shall bear,—to comfort him ;

And we with sober speed will follow you.

Fal. My lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go
through Glostershire ; and, when you come to court,
stand my good lord, ‘pray, in your a odreport.

P. John. Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my condition,
Shall better speak of you than you deserve. wit.

Fal. I would, you had but the wit: ’t were better

 

 

—

 
 

 

ScENE IV.] KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. 457

 

than your dukedom.—Good faith, this same young
sober-blooded boy doth not love me, nor a man cannot
make him laugh; but that’s no marvel, he drinks no
wine. There's never any of these demure boys come
to any proof; for thin drink doth so over-cool their
blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall
into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when
they marry, they get wenches. They are generally
fools and cowards, which some of us should be too,
but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a
two-fold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain;
dries me there all the foolish, and dull, and crudy
vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive,

uick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable
shapes ; which, deliver'd o’er to the voice, the tongue,
which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second
property of your excellent sherris is, the warming of
the blood; which, before cold and settled, left the
liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusilla-
nimity and cowardice: but the sherris warms it, and
makes it course from the inwards to the parts extreme.
It illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives
warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to
arm; and then the vital commoners, and inland petty
spirits, muster me all to their captain, the heart, who,
great, and puffed up with this retinue, doth any deed
of courage ; and this valour comes of sherris. So that
skill in the weapon is nothing without sack, for that
sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold
kept by a devil, till sack commences it, and sets it in
act and use. Hereof comes it, that Prince Harry is
valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit
of his father, he hath, like lean, steril, and bare land,
manured, husbanded, and tilled, with excellent en-
deavour of drinking good, and good store of fertile
sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If
I had a thousand sons, the first human principle I
would teach them should be, to forswear thin pota-
tions, and to addict themselves to sack.

Enter BARDOLPH.

How now, Bardolph? ie 7%

Bard. The army is discharged all, and gone. 129

Fal. Let them ae I’ll through Glostershire ; and
there will I visit Master Robert Shallow, esquire: I
have him already tempering between my finger and
my thumb, and shortly will I seal with him. Come
away. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE IV.—Westminster. The Jerusalem Chamber.

Enter King HENRY, CLARENCE, Prince HUMPHREY,
WARWICK, and others.

K. Hen. Now, lords, if God doth give successful

end
To this debate that bleedeth at our doors,
We will our youth lead on to higher fields,
And draw no swords but what are sanctified.
Our navy is address’d, our power collected,
Our substitutes in absence well invested,
And everything lies level to our wish:
Only, we want a little personal strength,
And pause us, till these rebels, now afoot,
Come underneath the yoke of government. : 10
War. Both which we doubt not but your majesty
Shall soon enjoy.
AK. Hen. Humphrey, my son of Gloster,
Where is the prince your brother?
P. Humph. I think, he’s gone to hunt, my lord, at
Windsor.
K. Hen. And how accompanied ?
P. Humph. I do not know, my lord.
K, Hen. Is not his brother, Thomas of Clarence,
with him ? 3
P. Humph. No,mygoodlord; heisinpresencehere.
Clar. at would my lord and father?
K. Hen. Nothing but well to thee, Thomas of
Clarence.
How chance thou art not with the prince thy brother?
He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas. 21
Thou hast a better place in his affection,

 

Than all thy brothers: cherish it, my boy,
And noble offices thou may’st effect
Of mediation, after Iam dead,
Between his greatness and thy other brethren:
Therefore, omit him not; blunt not his love,
Nor lose the good advantage of his grace,
By seeming cold, or careless of his will;
For he is gracious, if he be observ’d : 50
He hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity ;
Yet, notwithstanding, being incens’d, he’s flint,
As humorous as winter, and as sudden
As flaws congealed in the spring of day.
His temper, therefore, must be well observ’d :
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclin’d to mirth ;
But, being moody, give him line and scope,
Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working. Learn
homas,
And thou shalt prove a shelter to thy friends,
A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in,
That the united vessel of their blood,
Mingled with venom of suggestion
(As, force perforce, the age will pour it in),
Shall never leak, though it do work as strong
As aconitum, or rash gunpowder.
Clav. I shall observe him with all care and love.
K. Hen. Why art thou not at Windsor with him,
Thomas? 50
Clar. He is not there to-day : he dines in London.
K. Het de how accompanied? canst thou tell
that
Clar. With Poins, and other his continual followers.
K, Hen. Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds ;
And he, the noble image of my youth,
Is overspread with them: therefore, my grief
Stretches itself beyond the hour of death.
The blood weeps from my heart, when I do shape,
In forms imaginary, the unguided days,
And rotten times, that you shalt look upon
When I am sleeping with my ancestors.
For when his headstrong riot hath no curb,
When rage and hot blood are his counsellors,
When means and lavish manners meet together,
O, with what wings shall his affections fly
Towards fronting peril and oppos’d decay !
War. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite.
The prince but studies his companions,
Like a strange tongue: wherein, to gain the language,
’T is needful, that the most immodest word 70
Be look’d upon and learn’d ; which once attain’d,
Your highness knows, comes to no further use,
But to be known and hated. So, like gross terms,
‘The prince will, in the perfectness of time,
Cast off his followers ; and their memory
Shall as a pattern or a measure live,
By which his grace must mete the lives of others,
Turning past evils to advantages.
K. Hen. ’T is seldom when the bee doth leave her

40
this,

60

comb
In the dead carrion.

Enter WESTMORELAND.
Who’s here? Westmoreland? 80
West. Health to my sovereign, and new happiness
Added to that that I am to deliver!
Prince John, your son, doth kiss your grace’s hand :
Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings, and all,
Are brought to the correction of your law.
There is not now a rebel’s sword unsheath’d,
But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere.
The manner how this action hath been borne,
Here at more leisure may your highness read,
With every course in his particular. 90
K. Hen. O Westmoreland! thou art a summer bird,
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings
The lifting up of day.

Enter HARCOURT.

_ _,Look! here ’s more news.
Har. From enemies Heaven keep your majesty ;

 

 
 

458

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

[Act Iv,

 

 

And, when they stand against you, may they fall

‘As those that Iam come to tell you of.

The Earl Northumberland, and the Lord Bardolph,

With a great power of English, and of Scots,

Are by the sheriff of Yorkshire overthrown.

The manner and true order of the fight,

This packet, please it you, contains at large.
K. Hen. And wherefore should these good news

make me sick? :

Will Fortune never come with both hands full

But write her fair words still in foulest letters}

She either gives a stomach, and no food,—

Such are the poor, in health ; or else a feast, _

And takes away the stomach,—such are the rich,

That have abundance, and enjoy it not.

I should rejoice now at this happy news, .

‘And now my sight fails, and my brain is giddy.— 110

Ome! come near me, nowIlammuchill. [Swoons.
P. Humph. Comfort, your majesty !
Clar. O my royal father !
West. My sovereign lord, cheer up yourself: look up!
War. Be patient, princes: you do know, these fits

Are with his highness very ordinary.

Stand from him, give him air; he'll straight be well.
Clar. No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs.

The incessant care and labour of his mind

Hath wrought the mure, that should confine it in,

So thin, that life looks through, and will break out. 120
P. Humph. The people fear me ; for they do observe

Unfather’d heirs, and loathly births of nature:

The seasons change their manners, as the year

Had found some monthsasleep, and leap'd them over.
Clar. The river hath thrice flow'd, no ebb between;

And the old folk, time’s doting chronicles,

Say, it did so, a little time before

That our great-grandsire, Edward, sick’d and died.
War. Speak lower, princes, for the king recovers.
P. Humph. This apoplexy will, certain, be his end.
K. Hen. I pray you, take me up, and bear me hence

Into some other chamber: softly, pray. 132

(They place the KiNG on a bed in an inner
part of the room.

Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends ;

Unless some dull and tavourable hand

Will whisper musie to my wearied spirit.
War. Call for the music in the other room.
K. Hen. Set me the crown upon my pillow here.
Clar. His eye is hollow, and he changes much.
War. Less noise, less noise !

Enter Prince HENRY.
P. Hen. Who saw the Duke of Clarence?
Clar. 1am here, brother, full of heaviness. 140
P. Hen. How now! rain within doors, and none

100

abroad !
How doth the king?
P. Humph. Exeeeding ill.
P. Hen. Heard he the good news yet?
Tell it him.

P. Humph. He alter’d much upon the hearing it.
P. Hen. If he be sick with joy,
He will recover without physic.
War. Not so much noise, my lords.—Sweet prince,
speak low;
The king your father is dispos’d to sleep.
Clar, Let us withdraw into the other room.
War, Will’t ea your ae to go along with us?
P. Hen. No; I will sit and watch here by the king.
Exeunt all but. Prince HENRY.
Why doth the crown lie there, upon his pillow, 152
Being so troublesome a bedfellow ?
O polish’d perturbation! golden care !
That keep’st the ports of slumber open wide
To many a watchful night !—sleep with it now!
Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet,
As he, whose brow with homely Tiecia bound,
Snores out the watch of night. O majesty!
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety. By his gates of breath
There lies a downy feather, which stirs not :
Did he suspire, that light and weightless down

160

 

Perforce must move.—My gracious lord! my father !—
This sleep is sound indeed ; this is a sleep, . —
That from this golden rigol hath divore’d
So many English kings. Thy due from me
Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood,
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, 170
Shall, O dear father ! pay thee plenteously :
ay due from thee is this imperial crown.
hich, as immediate from thy place and blood,
Derives itself to me. Lo! here it sits,
‘ ae it on his head.
Which Henge oa guard ; and put the world’s whole
strengt

Into one giant arm, it shall not force
This lineal honour from me. This from thee
Will I to mine leave, as ’t is left to me. [Exit.

kK. Hen. Warwick! Gloster! Clarence!

Re-enter WARWICK and the rest.

Clar. _ , Doth the king call?
War. What would your majesty? How fares your

grace? 180
A den oF did you leave me here alone, my
ords
Clar. We left the prince, my brother, here, my

iege,
Who undertook to sit and watch by you.
K. Hen. The Prince of Wales? here is he? let
me see him:
He is not here.
War. This door is open; he is gone this way.
PB. ee He came not through the chamber
where

we stay’d.
K. Hen. stn ere is the crown? who took it from my
low
War. When we withdrew, my liege, we left it here.

K. Hen. The prince hath ta’en it hence :—go, seek
him out. 190
Is he so hasty, that ‘he doth suppose
My sleep my death ?--
Find him, my Lord of Warwick, chide him hither.
ae: [Exit WARWICK.
This pe of his conjoins with my disease,
And helps to end me.—See, sons, what things you are!
How quick] y Nature falls into revolt,
When gold becomes her object!
For this the foolish over-careful fathers
Have broke their sleeps with thoughts,
Their brains with care, their bones with industry ; 200
For this they have engrossed and pil'd up
The canker'd heaps of strange-achieved gold ;
For this they have been thoughttul to invest
Their sons with arts, and martial exercises :
When, like the bee, culling from every flower
The virtuous sweets, i
Our thighs packed with wax, our mouths with honey,
We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees,
Are murder’d for our pains. This bitter taste
Yield his engrossments to the ending father.— 210

Ke-enter WARWICK.

Now, whete is he that will not stay so long,
Till his friend sickness hath determin’d me?

War. My lord, I found the prince in the next room,
Washing with kindly tears his gentle cheeks ;
With such a ae demeanour in great sorrow,
That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood, |
Would, by beholding him, have wash’d his knife
With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither.

K. Hen. But wherefore did he take away the crown?

Re-enter Prince HENRY.

Lo, where he comes.—Come hither to me, Harry.— 220
Depart the chamber, leave us here alone.
[Exeunt CLARENCE, Prince HUMPHREY,
Lords, &c.
P. Hen. I never thought to hear you speak again.
K. Hen, Thy wish was father, Harry, to that
thought:
I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair,
That thou wilt needs invest thee with mine honours

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.] KING HENRY IV.—PART II. 459

 

Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth! | To stab at half an hour of my life.
‘Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. | What! canst thou not forbear me half an hour? 240

Stay but a little ; for my cloud of dignity Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyselt,
Is held from falling with so weak a wind, 230 | And bid the merry bells ring to thine ear
That it will quickly drop: my day is dim. That thou art crowned, not that Iam dead.

 

P. Hen. “Lo! here It sits, which Heaven shall guard.”

Thou hast stol’n that, which, after some few hours, Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse,
Were thine without offence; and at my death Be drops of balm, to sanctify thy head ;

Thou hast seal’d up my expectation : Only compound me with forgotten dust :

Thy life did manifest thou lov’dst me not, Give that which gave thee life unto the worms.
And thou wilt have me die assur’d of it. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees ;
Thou hid’st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, For now a time is come to mock at form.

Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, Harry the Fifth is crown'd !—Up, vanity ! 250

 

 
 

460

KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. [Act IV.

 

 

Down, royal state! all you sage counsellors, hence !
And to the English court assemble now,
From every region, apes of idleness !
Now, neighbour confines, purge you of your scum :
Have you a ruftian that will swear, drink, dance,
Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit
The oldest sins the newest kind ot ways ?
Be happy, he will trouble you no more:
England shall double gild his treble guilt,
England shall give him office, honour, might ;
For the fifth Harry from curb’d license plucks
The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog
Shall flesh his tooth in every innocent.
O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! _
When that my care could not withhold thy riots,
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?
O! thou wilt be a wilderness again,
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. |
P. Hen. (Kneeling.| O, pardon me, my liege! but
for my tears,
The moist impediments unto my speech, 270
Thad forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke,
Ere you with grief had spoke, and I had heard
The course of it so far. ‘There is your crown:
And He that wears the crown immortally,
Long guard it yours! If I affect it more
Than as your honour and as your renown,
Let me no more from this obedience rise,
Which my most true and inward duteous spirit
Teacheth, this prostrate and exterior bending.
God witness with me, when I here came in, 280
And found no course of breath within your majesty,
How cold it struck my heart! if I do reign,
O! let me in my present wildness die,
And never live to show the incredulous world
The noble change that [ have purposed!
Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,
And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,
I spake unto the crown as having sense,
And thus upbraided it: ‘‘ The care on thee depending
Hath fed upon the body of my father ; 290
Therefore, thou, best of gold, art worst of gold.
Other, less fine in carat, is more precious,
Preserving life in medicine potable:
But thou, most fine, most honour’d, most renown'd,
Hast ie thy bearer up.” Thus, my most royal
iege,
Accusing it, I put it on my head ;
To try with it, as with an enemy
That had before my face murder’d my father,
The quarrel of a true inheritor,
But if it did infect my blood with joy,
Or swell my thoughts to any strain of pride;
If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
Did, with the least affection of a welcome,
Give entertainment to the might of it,
Let God for ever keep it from my head,
And make me as the poorest vassal is,
That doth with awe and terror kneel to it!
4A. Hen. O my son!
God put it in thy mind to take it hence,
That thou mightst win the more thy father’s love, 310
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it.
Come hither, Harry: sit thou by my bed,
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel
That ever I shall breathe. God knows, my son,

260

300

 

By what by-paths, and indirect crook’d ways,

I met this crown ; and I myself know well

How troublesome it sat upon my head:

‘To thee it shall descend with better quiet,

Better ote better confirmation ;

For all the soil of the achievement goes 320

With me into the earth. It seem’d in me |

But as an honour snatch'd with boisterous hand,

And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their assistances ;

Which daily grew to quarrel, and to bloodshed,

-Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears,

Thou seest, with pent I have answered ;

For all my reign hath been but as a scene

Acting that argument, and now my death

Changes the mode: for what in me was purchas’d, 330

Falls upon thee in a more fairer sort ;

So thou the garland wear’st successively.

Yet, though thou stand’st more sure than I could do,

Thou art not firm enough ; since griefs are green, %

And all thy friends, which thou must make thy

friends,

Have but their stings and teeth newly ta’en out;

By whose fell working I was first advanc’d,

And by whose power I well might lodge a fear

To be again displac’d: which to avoid,

I cut them ott; and had a purpose now 340

To lead out many to the Holy Land,

Lest rest, and lying still, might make them look

Too near unto my state. Therefore, my Harry,

Be it thy course, to busy giddy minds

With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence borne out,

May waste the memory of the former days.

More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,

That strength of speech is utterly denied me.

How I came by the crown, O God forgive ;

And grant it may with thee in true peace live! 350
P. Hen. My gracious liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;

Then plain and right must my possession be:

Which I with more than with a common pain

’Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.

Enter Prince JOHN of LANCASTER, WARWICK, Lords,
and others.

KK. Hen. Look, look, here comes my John of Lan-

caster.

P. John. Health, peace, and happiness to my royal
father!

K. Hen. Thou bring’st me happiness, and peace, son

n;
But health, alack, with cite wings is flown
From this bare, wither’d trunk: upon thy sight, 360
My worldly business makes a period.
Where is my Lord of Warwick? 2
. Hen. ~ My Lord of Warwick!

A. Hen. Doth any name particular belong
Unto the lodging where I first did swoon ?

War. ’T is call'd Jerusalem, my noble lord.

KK. Hen. Laud be to God !—even there my life must

end.
It hath been prophesied to me many years,
I should not die but in Jerusalem,
Which vainly I suppos’d the Holy Land.—
But, bear me to that chamber; there I'll lie: 370
In that Jerusalem shall Harry die. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SceNE I.—Glostershire.

  
 

i Shallow.
'Y cock and pie, sir, you shall not away
, to-night.—What, Davy, I say!

Fal. You must excuse me, Master
Robert Shallow. .

Shal. I will not excuse you; you
shall not be excused; excuses shall
not be admitted ; there is no excuse
shall serve; you shall not be ex-
cused.—_Why, Davy!

Enter Davy.

Davy. Here, sir. 10

Shal. Davy, Davy, Davy,—let me
see, Davy; let me see :—yea, marry,
William cook, bid him come hither.—Sir John, you
shall not be excused.

Davy. Marry, sir, thus; those precepts cannot be
served: and, again, sir,—shall we sow the headland
with wheat? a

Shal. With red wheat, Davy. But for William
cook :—are there no young pigeons? os

Davy. Yes, sir.—Here is now the smith’s note for
shoeing, and plough-irons.

Shal. Let it be cast, and paid.—Sir John, you shall

not be excused.
Davy. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket must needs

be had:—and, sir, do you mean tostop any of William’s
wages, about the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley
fair?

Shal. ’A shall answer it.—Some pigeons, Davy ; a
couple of short-legged hens, a joint of mutton, and any
pretty little tiny kick-shaws, tell William cook. 30

Davy. Doth the man of war stay all night, sir? .

Shal, Yea, Davy. I will use him well. <A friend i
the court is better than a penny in purse.. Use his
men well, Davy, for they are arrant knaves, and will
backbite. J :

Davy. No worse than they are backbitten, sir; for
they have marvellous foul linen. :

Shal. Well conceited, Davy. About thy business,

avy. hae

Davy. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William
Visor of Wincot against Clement Perkes of the hill. 41

Shal. There are many complaints, Davy, against
that Visor: that Visor is an arrant knave, on my
knowledge. i :

Davy. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir;
but yet, God forbid, sir, but a knave should have some
countenance at his friend’s request. An honest man,
sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not.

have served your worship truly, sir, these eight
years ; and if I cannot once or twice in a quarter bear
out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very
little credit with your worship. The knave is mine
honest friend, sir ; therefore, I beseech your worship,
et him be countenanced.

Shal. Go to; I say, he shall have no wrong. Look
about, Davy. [Exit Davy.] Where are you, Sir John?
Come, come, come; off with your boots.—Give me
your hand, Master Bardolph.

Bard. Tam glad to see your worship. |

Shal. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master
Bardolph:—[to the Page.) and welcome, my tall
fellow. Come, Sir John. 62

 

ACT V.
A Hall in SHALLOW’s House.
Enter SHALLOW, FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, and Page.

Fal. I'll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow.
Exit SHALLOW.] Bardolph, look toour horses. [Exeunt

ARDOLPH and Page.] .If I were sawed into quanti-
ties, Ishould make four dozen of such bearded hermit’s
staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful thing, to
see the semblable coherence of his men’s spirits and
his: they, by observing of him, do bear themselves
like foolish justices; he, by conversing with them, is
turned into a justice-like serving-man. Their spirits
are so married in conjunction with the participation
of society, that they flock together in consent, like so
many wild-geese. If I hada suit to Master Shallow,
I would humour his men with the imputation of eine
near their master: if to his men, I would curry with
Master Shallow, that no man could better command
his servants. It is certain, that either wise bearing,
or ignorant carriage, is caught, as men take diseases,
one of another : therefore, let men take heed of their
company. I will devise matter enough out of this
Shallow, to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter
the wearing-out of six fashions, which is four terms,
or two actions, and he shall laugh without interval-
tums. O1! it is much, that a lie with a slight oath,
and a jest with a sad brow, will do with a fellow that
never had the ache in his shoulders. O! youshallsee
him laugh, till his face be like a wet cloak ill Jaid up.

Shal. [Within.] Sir John !
Fal. come, Master Shallow: I come, Master
Shallow,
[Exit.

ScENE II.—Westminster. An Apartment in the
Palace.
Enter Warwick and the Lord Chief Justice.
War. How now, my lord chief justice? whither
away?
Ch. Just. How doth the king?

War. Exceeding well: his cares are now all ended.
Ch. Just. I hope, not dead.

War. He's walk’d the way of nature,
And to our purposes he lives no more.
Ch, Just. I would, his majesty had call’d me with

him:
The service that I truly did his life,
Hath left me open to all injuries.
War. Indeed, I think the young king loves you not.
Ch. Just. [know he doth not, and do arm myself, 10
To welcome the condition of the time ;
Which cannot look more hideously upon me
Than I have drawn it in my fantasy.

Enter Prince JoHN, Prince HUMPHREY, CLARENCE,
WESTMORELAND, and others.

War. Here come the heavy issue of dead Harry:
O! that the living Harry had the temper
Of him, the worst of these three gentlemen !
How many nobles then should hold their places,
That must strike sail to spirits of vile sort !
Ch. Just. O God! I fear, all will be overturn’d.
P. John. Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good
morrow. 20
P. Humph., Clar. Good morrow, cousin.
P. John. Wemeet like men that had forgot to speak.

 

 
 

462

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

[Act v,

 

War. We do remember; but our argument
Is all too heavy to admit much talk.
P, John, Well, peace be with him that hath made
us heavy !
Ch. Just. Peace be with us, lest we be heavier!
P. Humph. O! good my lord, you have lost a friend,
indeed ;
And I dare swear, you borrow not that face
Of seeming sorrow: it is, sure, your own.
P. John. Though no man be assur'd what grace ie

find,
You stand in coldest expectation.
Iam the sorrier ; would, ’t were otherwise.
Clar. Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff
fair,
Which swims against your stream of quality.
Ch, Just. Sweet princes, what I did, I did in honour,
Led by the impartial conduct of my soul ;
And never shall you see, that I will beg
A ragged and forestall’d remission.
If truth and upright innocency fail me,
I'll to the king, my master, that is dead, - 40
And.tell him who hath sent me after him.
War. Here comes the prince.

Enter King Henry the Fifth, attended.

Ch. Just. Good morrow, and God save your majesty !
King. This new and gorgeous garment, majesty,
Sits not so easy on me as you think. —
Brothers, you mix your sadness with some fear:
This is the English, not the Turkish court ;
Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds,
But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good brothers,
For, to speak truth, it very well becomes you: 50
Sorrow so royally in you appears,
That I will deeply put the fashion on,
And wear it in my heart. Why then, be sad;
But entertain no more of it, good brothers,
Than a joint burden laid upon us all.
For me, by Heaven, I bid you be assur’d,
Ill be your father and your brother too;
Let me but bear your love, I'll bear your cares:
Yet weep, that Harry ’s dead, and so willl;
But Harry lives, that shall convert those tears, 60
By number, into hours of happiness.
P. John, &c. We hope no other from your majesty.
King. You all look strangely on me :—[to the Chief
Justice] and you most;
You are, I think, assur’d I love you not.
Ch. Just. Tam assur'd if I be measur’d rightly,
Your mOniESHy hath no just cause to hate me.
King. No!
How might a prince of my pret hopes forget
So great indignities you laid upon me?
What! rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison 70
The immediate heir of England! Was this easy ?
May this be wash’d in Lethe, and forgotten ?
Ch. Just. I then did use the person of your father;
The image of his power lay then in me:
And, in the administration of his law,
Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth,
Your highness pleased to forget my place,
The majesty and power of law and justice,
The image of the king whom I presented,
And struck mein my very seat of judgment ; 80
Whereon, as an offender to your father,
I gave bold way to my authority,
And did commit you. If the deed were ill,
Be you contented, wearing now the garland,
To have a son set your decrees at nought;
To pluck down justice from your awful bench;
To trip the course of law, and blunt the sword
That guards the peace and safety of your person:
Nay, more; to spurn at your most royal image,
And mock your workings in a second body. 90
Question your royal thoughts, make the case yours,
Be now the father, and propose a son;
Hear your own dignity so much profan’d,
See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,
Behold yourself so by a son disdain’d,
And then imagine me taking your part,
And, in your power, soft silencing your son:

 

After this cold considerance, sentence me 3
And, as you are a king, speak in your state,
What I have done, that misbecame my place, 100
My person, or my iege’s sovereignty.

ing. You are right, justice; and you weigh this

well;
Therefore still bear the balance and the sword:
And J do wish your honours may increase,
Till you do live to see a son of mine
Otfend ee and obey you, as I did.
So shall I live to speak my father's words :—

ie

 

T
“4

Hil “6

 

King. “IT do commit into your hand
The unstained sword that you have used to bear.”
“Happy am I, that have a man so bold,
That dares do justice on my proper son ;
And not less happy, having such a son,
That would deliver up his greatness so
Into the hands of justice.”—You did commit me:
For which, I do commit into your hand
The unstained sword that you have used to bear;
With this remembrance, —that you use the same
With the like bold, just, and oe spirit,
As you have done ’gainst me. There is my hand;
You shall be as a father to my youth: .
My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear,
And I will stoop and humble my intents
To your well-practis’d, wise directions,—
And, princes all, believe me, I beseech you;
My father is gone wild into his grave,
For in his tomb lie my affections ;
And with his spirit sadly I survive,
To mock the expectation of the world,
To frustrate prophecies, and to raze out
Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down
After my seeming. The tide of blood in me
Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now:
Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea,
Where it shall mingle with the state of floods,
And flow henceforth in formal majesty.
Now call we our high court of parliament,
And let us choose such limbs of noble counsel,
That the great body of our state may go
In equal rank with the best govern’d nation;
That war, or peace, or both at once, may be
As things soqnainted and familiar to us;
[To the Lord Chief Justice.] In which you, father,
shall have foremost hand.— 140

Our coronation done, we will accite,
As I before remember’d, all our state:
And (God consigning to my good intents)
No prince, nor peer, shall have just cause to say,
God shorten Harry’s happy life one day. [Exceunt.

110

130

 

Scene III.—Glostershire. The Garden of SHALLOW'S
House.
Enter FALSTAFF, SHALLOW, SILENCE, BARDOLPH,
the Page, and Davy. r
Shal. Nay, you shall see mine orchard, where, inan

 

 

 
 

SceneE III.]

KING HENRY IV.—PART II.

463

 

arbour, we will eat a last year’s pippin of my own
graffing, with a dish of caraways, and so forth ;—
come, cousin Silence ;—and then to bed.

Fal. Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling,
and a rich.

Shal. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars
all, Sir _John:—marry, good air.—Spread, Davy;
spread, Davy ; well said, Davy.

Fal. This Davy serves you for good uses :
he is your serving-man, and your husband. 11

Shal. A good varlet, a good varlet, a very

ood varlet, Sir John :—by the mass, 1 have
rani too much sack at supper:—a good
varlet. Now sit down, now sit down.—
Come, cousin.

Sil. Ah, sirrah! quoth-a,—we shall
[Singing.| Do perhiog but eat, and make good

cheer,
And praise Heaven for the merry year ;
When flesh is cheap and Jemales dear, 20
And lusty lads roam here and there,
So merrily,
And ever among so merrily.

Fal. There’s a merry heart !—Good Master
Silence, I’ll give you a health for that anon.
ao Give Master Bardolph some wine,
| Davy.

Davy. Sweetsir, sit ; I'l] be with you anon:
®most sweet sir, sit.—Master page, good
master page, sit: proface! What you want
in meat, we ’ll have in drink. But you must
bear: the heart's all. [Exit.

Shal. Be merry, Master Bardolph ;—and
my little soldier there, be merry.

Sil. [(Singing.] Be merry, be merry, my wife has all;

For women are shrews, both short and tall:

"Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all,
And welcome merry shrove-tide.

Be merry, be Merry, ee

Fal. I did not think Master Silence had been a man
of this metal. 41

Sil. Who, I? Ihave been merry twice and once,
eré now.

 

Re-enter Davy.

Davy. There is a dish of leather-coats for you.
[Setting them before BARDOLPH.

Shal. Davy,—

Davy. Your worship ?—I 11 be with you straight.—
A cup of wine, sir ?

Sil. [Singing.] A cup of wine, that’s brisk and fine,

And drink unto the leman mine ;
And a merry heart lives long-a. 50

Fal. Wellsaid, Master Silence.

Sil. If we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet
of the night.

Fal. Health and long life to you, Master Silence.

Sil. [Singing.] Fill the cup, and let it come ;

I'l pledge you a mile to the bottom.

Shal. Honest Bardolph, welcome: if thou wantest
anything, and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart.—Wel-
come, my little tiny thief ; and welcome, indeed, too.—
I'll drink to Master Bardolph, and to all the cavale-
toes about London. f 1

Davy. I hope to see London once ere I die.

Bard. If I might see you there, Davy,—

Shal, By the mass, you’ll crack a guart together:
ha! will you not, Master Bardolph ?

Bard. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot.

Shal. By God’s liggens, I thank thee.—The knave
will stick by thee, I can assure thee that: he will not
out; he is true bred.

Bard. And 111 stick by him, sir. : 70

Shal. Why, there spoke a king. Lack nothing: be
merry. [Knocking heard.] Look, who's at door there.
Ho! who knocks ? ' [Exit Davy.

Fal. [To SILENCE, who drinks a bumper.) Why, now
you have done me right.

Sil. [Singing.] Do me right,

And dub me knight:

7 Samingo.

Is’t not so?

   

 

Fal. ’Tis so. 80
Sil. Is’t so? Why, then say, an old man can do
somewhat.
Re-enter Davy.
Davy. If it please your worship, there’s one Pistol

come from the court with news.
Fal. From the court? let him come in, —

4

i

Pist. “‘ And belter-skelter have I rode to thee.”

Enter PISTOL.
How now, Pistol?

Pist. Sir John, God save you, sir.

Fal. What wind blew you hither, Pistol?

Pist. Not the ill wind which blows no man to good.
—Sweet knight, thou art now one of the greatest men
in the realm. 91

Sil. By ’r lady, I think he be, but goodman Puff of
Barson.

Pist. Puff?

Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base !—
Sir John, [ am thy Pistol, and thy friend,

And helter-skelter have I rode to thee ;

And tidings do I bring, and lucky joys,

And golden times, and happy news of price.

Fal. I pr’ythee now, deliver them like a man of this
world. 101
Pist. A foutre for the world, and worldlings base !

I speak of Africa, and golden joys.

Fal. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news?
Let King Cophetua know the truth thereof.

Sil. [Sings.] And Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John.

Pist. Shall Dunghill curs confront the Helicons?
And shall good news be baffled ?

Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies’ lap.

Shal. Honest gentleman, I know not your breeding.

Pist. Why then, lament therefore. 111

Shal. Give me pardon, sir :—if, sir, you come with
news from the court, I take it, there is but two ways:
either to utter them, or to conceal them. Iam, sir,
under the king, in some authority.

Pist. Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die.

Shal. Under King start:

Pist. arry the Fourth? or Fifth?

Shal. Harry the Fourth. ;

Pist. A foutre for thine office !—
Sir John, thy tender lambkin now is king;
Harry the Fifth’s the man. I speak the truth: 120
When Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like
The bragging Spaniard.

Fal. What! is the old king dead?

Pist. As nail in door: the things I speak are just.

Fal. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse.—Master
Robert Shallow, choose what office thou wilt in the
land, ’t is thine.—Pistol, I will double-charge thee with
dignities.

Bard. O joyful day !—I would not take a knight-
hood for my fortune. 130

 

 
 

464

KING HENRY IV,—PART II.

 

[Act Vv,

 

Pist. What! I do bring good news?

Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed.— Master Shallow,
my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt, I am fortune’s
steward. Get on thy boots: we'll ride all night.—O
sweet Pistol!—Away, Bardolph. [Hxrit BARDOLPH.]—
Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and, withal, devise
something to do thyself good.—Boot, boot, Master
Shallow: [know, the young king is sick for me. Let
us take any man’s horses; the laws of England are at
my commandment. Happy are they which have been
my friends, and woe unto my lord chief justice! 141

ist. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also!
‘Where is the life that late I led,” say they ;
Why, here it is: welcome these pleasant days!
[Ezeunt.

Scene IV.—London. A Street.

Enter Beadles, dragging in Hostess QUICKLY and
DOLL TEAR-SHEET.

Host. No, thou arrant knave: I would to God I
might die, that I might have thee hanged;
thou hast drawn my shoulder out of joint.

1 Bead. The constables have delivered her
over to me, and she shall have whipping-
cheer enough, I warrant her. There hat)
been a man or two lately killed about her.

Doll, Nuthook, nuthook, you lie. Come on:
T 1Ltell thee what, thou damned tripe-visaged
rascal, An the child I now go with do mis-
carry, thou hadst better thou hadst struck
thy mother, thou paper-faced villain. 1

Host. O the Lord, that Sir John were
come! he would make this a bloody day to
somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her
womb miscarry !

1 Bead. If it do, you shall have a dozen of
cushions again; you have but eleven now.
Come, I charge you both go with me; for the
man is dead, that you and Pistol beat among
you. 21

Doll, Tl] tell thee what, thou thin man in
a censer, I will have you as soundly swinged
for this,—you blue-bottle rogue! you filth
famished correctioner! if you be not eo wee
I’}l forswear half-kirtles,

1 Bead. Come, come, you she knight-
errant, come.

Host. O God, that right should thus overcome might!
Well, of sufferance comes ease. 30

Doll. Come, you rogue, come: bring me to a justice.

Host. Ay ; come, you starved blood-hound.

Doll. Goodman death ! goodman bones!

Host. Thou atomy, thou!

Doll. Come, you thin thing ; come, you rascal!

1 Bead. Very well. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE V.—A Public Place near Westminster Abbey.

Enter two Grooms, strewing rushes.
1 Groom. More rushes, more rushes !
2 Groom. The trumpcts have sounded twice.
1 Groom. It will be two o'clock ere they come from
the coronation. Despatch, despatch. [Exeunt Grooms.

Enter FALsTAaFr, SHALLOW, PIsToL, BARDOLPH,

and the Page.

Fal. Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow: I
will make the king do you grace. I will leer upon
him, as he comes by, and ‘do but mark the countenance
that he will give me.

Pist. God bless thy lungs, good knight. 9

Fal. Come here, Pistol: stand behind me. —[To
SHALLOW.] O! if [had had time to have made new
liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I
borrowed of you. But tis no matter; this poor show
doth better: this doth infer the zeal I had to see him.

at Ht Lua so.

(al. It shows my earnestness of affection.

Shal. It doth on. si

 

 

Fal. My devotion.

Shal. It doth, it doth, it doth.

Fal. As it were, to ride day and night; and not to
deliberate, not to remember, not to have patience to
shift me. 22

Shal. It is most certain.

Fal. But to stand stained with travel, and sweating
with desire to see him: thinking of nothing else;
putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if there were
nothing else to be done but to see him.

Pist. 'Tis semper idem, for absque hoc nthil est,
’T is all in every part.

Shal. ’T is so, indeed.

Pist. My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver,
And make thee rage.

Thy Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts,

Is in base durance, and contagious prison ;

Haul’d thither

By most mechanical and dirty hand :—

Rouse up revenge from ebon den with fell Alecto’s

snake,
For Doll is in; Pistol speaks nought but truth.

 

King. ‘My lord chief justice, speak to that vain man.”

Fal. I will deliver her.
[Shouts within, and trumpets sound.
Pist. There_roar'd the sea, and trumpet-clangor
sounds. 40

Enter Kine and his Train, including the Chief
‘ Justice.
Fal. God save thy grace, King Hal! my royal Hal!
Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal
imp of fame!
Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy ! i
King. My lord chief justice, speak to that vain man.
Ch. Just. Have you your wits? know you what tis
you speak ?
Fal. My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!
Hane I know thee not, old man: fall to thy prayers;
How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
I have long dream'd of such a kind of man, a
So surfeit-swell’d, so old. and so profane ; 50
But, being awake, I do despise my dream.
Make less thy body, hence, and more thy grace;
Leave gormandising ; know, the grave doth gape
For thee thrice wider than for other men.
Reply not to me with a fool-born jest :
Presume not that I am the thing I was; F
For God doth know, so shall the world Pree
That I have turn’d away my former self ;
So will I those that kept me company.
‘When thou dost hear I am as I have been, 60
Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,
The tutor and the feeder of my riots:
Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,
As I have done the rest of my misleaders,

 

 

 
 

ScENE V.] KING HENRY

IV.—PART II. 465

 

 

Not to come near our person by ten mile.

For ec of life [ will allow you,

That lack of means enforce you not to evil: .

And as we hear you do reform yourselves,

We will, according to your strength and qualitics,

Give you advancement.—Be it your charge, my

ord, 70

To see pertorm’d the tenor of our word.—

Set on. [fxeeunt KING and his Train.
Fal. Master Shallow, [ owe you a thousand pound.
Shal. Ay, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you to

let me have home with me.

Fal. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do not
ou grieve at this: I shall be sent for in private to
him. Look you, he must seem thus to the world.

Fear not your advancement; I will be the man yet

that shall make you great. 80
Shal. T eannot perceive how, unless you should give

me your doublet, and stuff me out with straw. I

beseech you, good Sir John, let me have five hundred

of my thousand.
Fal. Siv, I will be as good as my word: this that you
heard was but a colour.

; pees A colour, I fear, that you will die in, Sir
ohn,

Fal. Fear no colours: go with me to dinner. Come, |

 

Lieutenant Pistol ;—come, Bardolph :—I shall be sent
for soon at night, 91

Re-enter Prince JOHN, the Chief Justice, Officers, dc.

Ch. Just. Go, carry Sir John Falstatf to the Fleet ;
Take all his company along with him.

Fal.. My lord, my lord !—

Ch. Just. [eannot now speak : I will hear you soon.
Take them away.

Pist. Si fortune me tormente, sperato me contente.

[Aveunt FALSTAFF, SHALLOW, Pistol, Bar-
DOLPH, Page, and Officers.

P. John, T like this fair proceeding of the king’s.
He hath intent, his wonted followers
Shall all be very well provided for ;
But all are banish’d, till their conversations
Appear more wise and modest to the world.

Ch. Just. And so they are.

Ps ae a king hath call’d his parliament, my

ord.
Ch. Just. He hath.
P. John. I will lay odds, that, ere this year expire,
We bear our civil swords, and native fire,
As faras France. I heard a bird so sing,
Whose music, to my thinking, pleas'd the king.
Come, will you hence? [Exeunt.

100

EPILOGUE.

First my fear, then my courtesy, last my speech.
My fear is your displeasure, my courtesy my duty,
and my speech to beg your pardons. If you look for
a good speech now, you undo me; for what I have to
say, is of mine own making; and what indeed I
should-say, will, I doubt, prove mine own marring.
But to the purpose, and so to the venture.—Be it
known to you (as it is very well), I was lately here in
the end of a displeasing play, to pray your patience
for it, and to promise you a better. I did mean,
indeed, to pay you with this; which, if, like an ill
venture, it come unluckily home, I break, and you,
my gentle creditors, lose. Here, I promised you, I
would be, and here I commit my body to your mercies:
bate me some, and I will pay you some; and, as most
debtors do, promise you infinitely. : *
If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me, will

you command me to use my legs? and yet that were

ut light payment, to dance out of your debt. Buta
good conscience will make any possible satisfaction,
and so will I. All the gentlewomen here have for-
given me: if the gentlemen will not, then the gentle-
men do not agree with the gentlewomen, which was
never seen before in such an assembly.

One word more, I beseech you. If you be not too
much cloyed with fat meat, our humble author will
continue the story, with Sir John in it, and make you
merry with fair Katharine of France: where, for
anything I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless
already he be killed with your hard opinions; for
Oldcastle died a martyr, and this is not the man. My
tongue is weary; when my. ieee are too, I will bid you
good night: and so kneel down before you; but,
indeed, to pray for the queen.

 

 

20

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

i.
HEN my love swears that she is made of
tr

uth, :
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutord

outh,
Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me

young,
Although I know my years be past the

 

est,
I smiling credit her false-speaking
tongue,

Outfacing faults in love with love's ill rest.

But wherefore says my love that she is young?

And wherefore say not I that Iam old? 10

O! love’s best habit is a soothing tongue,

And age, in love, loves not to have years to'd.
Therefore 1’ll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.

Il,

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man, right fair,
The worser spirit a woman, colour’d ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side, 20
And would corrupt a saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride:
And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell.
he truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

III.

Did not the hervenly rhetoric of thine eye,

’Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, 30

Persuade my heart to this false perjury ?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore; but I will prove,

Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:

My. vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;

Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me.

My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is:

Then thou, fair sun, that on this earth dost shine,

Exhale this vapour vow ; in thee it is:

If broken, then it is no fault of mine. 40
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
To break an oath, to win a paradise?

Iv.

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook,

With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,

Did court the lad with many a lovely look,

Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen.
She told him stories to delight his ear;

She show’d him favours to allure his eye;

To win his heart, she touch’d him here and there:
Touches so soft still conquer chastity.

 

But whether unripe years did want conceit,

Or he refus’d to take her figur'd proffer,

The tender nibbler would not touch the bait

But smile and jest at every gentle offer:
Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward:
He rose and ran away ; ah, fool too froward!

Ve

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
O! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow’d:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove;
Those ee to me like oaks, to thee like osiers
ow’'d. 60
Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live, that art can com-
prehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
Well learned e that tongue that well can thee com-
mend ;
All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire:
Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his dread-
ful thunder,
Which (not to anger bent) is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O! do not love that wrong,
To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.

VI.

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, 7
And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade,
When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,
A longing tarriance for Adonis made,
Under an osier growing by a brook,
A brook, where Adon us’d to cool his spleen:
Hot was the day; she hotter that did look
For his approach, that often there had been.
Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, __.
‘And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim; 80
The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye,
Yet not so wistly as this queen on him:
He, spying her, boune’d in, whereas he stood:
“O Jove,” quoth she, “ why was not I a flood?”

VIL.

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle;
Softer than wax, and yet as iron rusty:

A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her,

None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. 9”

Her lips to mine how often hath she join’d, aoa
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing!
How many tales to please me hath she coin ‘d,
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing!
Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.

She burn’d with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burn’d out love, as soon as straw out-burneth ; |
She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the framing;

50 | She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.

 

 
 

 

 

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 467
Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee ;
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. , my love, my love is young! a
Age, I do defy thee ; O, sweet shepherd! hie thee,
VII. For methinks thou stay’st too long.

If music and sweet poetry agree, 2
As they must needs, the sister and the brother, : uk
Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good ;
Because thou lov’st the one, and I the other. A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly ;
Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch A flower that dies, when first it ’gins to bud ; 170

Upon the lute doth ravish human sense ;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such,
As, passing all conceit, needs no defence.
Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus’ lute (the queen of music) makes ;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.

One god is god of both, as poets feign ;

One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

110

Ix,
Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love,
* a r * * * * a

Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,

For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild;

Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill:

Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds;

She, silly queen, with more than love’s good will,

Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds.

“Once,” quoth she, ‘did I see a fair sweet youth

Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,

Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth!

See, in my thigh,” quoth she, “‘ here was the sore.”
She showed hers; he saw more wounds than one,
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

120

x.

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded,
Pluck’d in the bud, and vaded in the spring! 131
Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded !
Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting!
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have ;
For why thou Jeft’st me nothing in thy will:
And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave ;
For why I craved nothing of thee still :

O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee;

140
Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

xi

Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her,

Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him:

She told the foe how god Mars did try her,
And as he fell to her, so she fell to him.

“Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god embrac’d

me;
And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms:
“Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god unlac’d

me,
As if the boy should use like loving charms.
“Even thus,” quoth she, ‘‘ he seized of my lips,”
And with her lips on his did act the seizure ;
And as she fetched breath, away he skips,
And would not take her meaning, nor her pleasure.
* Ah! that Lhad my lady at this bay,

To kiss and clip me till Iran away!

150

xiII.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together:
Youth is full of. pleasance, age is full of care ;
outh like summer morn, age like winter weather ;
Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare.
| Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short ; 160
Youth is nimble, age is lame:
| Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold ;
’ Youth is wild, and age is tame.

  
   
 

 

A brittle glass, that’s broken presently :
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found,
As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead lie wither’d on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemish’d once ’s for ever lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

XIV.

Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share : 180
She bade good night, that kept my rest away ;
And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
“Farewell,” quoth she, ‘and come again to-
morrow :”
Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,

In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether:

°T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile,

’T may be, again to make me wander thither:
“Wander,” a word for shadows like thyself,
As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

190

XV.

Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east!
My heart doth charge the watch ; the morning rise
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits and ee I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tune like the lark ;

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,

And drives away dark dreaming night:

The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty ; 200

Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight ;
Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow:
For why she sigh’d, and bade me come to-morrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too soon ;
But now are minutes added to the hours ;
‘To spite me now, each minute seems a moon ;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers!
Pack ehh, peep day; good day, of night now

Orrow :
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.

XVI.

It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three, 210
That liked of her master as well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman, the fair’st that eye
could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.

Long wag, the. pomabat doubtful, that love with love
i .
To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight :
To put in practice either, alas! it was a spite

Unto the silly damsel.

But one must be refused ; more mickle was the pain,
That nothing could be used, to turn them both to gain ;
For of the two the trusty knight was wounded we

disdain :
Alas, she could not help it.

 
 

 

468 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

 

Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day,

Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away ;

Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay ;
For now my song is ended.

XVIL.
On a day (alack the day !)
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air: :
Through the velvet leaves the wind, 230
All unseen, ’gan passage find ;
That the lover (sick to death)
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
“ Air,” quoth he, ‘‘thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alas! my hand hath sworn
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack! for youth unmeet :
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Thou for whom Jove would swear 240
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
‘Turning mortal for thy love.”

XVIIL
My flocks feed not,
My ewes breed not,
My rams speed not,
Allis amiss:
Love's denying,
Faith's defying,
Heart’s renying, 250
Causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady's love is lost, God wot:
Where her faith was firmly fix’d in love,
There a nay is plac’d without remove.
One silly cross
Wrought all my loss:
O frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame!
For now I see
Inconstancy 260
More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I,
All fears scorn I,
Love hath forlorn me,
Living in thrall:
Heart is bleeding,
Al help needing,
O cruel speeding!
Fraughted with gall.
My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal, 270
My wether’'s bell rings doleful knell;
My curtail dog, that wont to have play’d,
Plays not at all, but seems afraid;
My sighs so deep
Procure to weep,
In howling wise, to see my doleful plight.
How sighs resound
Through heartless ground,
Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody fight!

Clear wells spring not, 280
Sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not

Forth their dye;
Herds stand weeping,
Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back peeping

earfully :

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
-\ll our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled, 290
AU our love is lost, for Love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass, 7
Thy like ne’er was

For a sweet content, the eause of all my moan:

 

Poor Corydon
Must live alone,
Other help for him I see that there is none.

XIX.

Whenas thine ne hath chose the dame,
And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike,
Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as fancy, partial wight :
Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.

nd when thou com’st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,
Lest she some subtle practice smell ;
A cripple soon can find a halt:
But plainly say thou lov’st her well,
And set thy person forth to sell.

What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will clear ere night ;
And then too late she will repent
That thus dissembled her delight;

And twice desire, ere it be day,

That which with scorn she put away.

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say,—
‘*Had women been so strong as men)
In faith, you had not had it then.”

And to her will frame all thy ways:
oats not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing in thy lady's ear:
The strongest castle, tower, and town,
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,

And in thy suit be humble true ;

Unless thy lady prove unjust,

Seek never thou to choose anew.
When time shall serve, be thou not slack
To proffer, though she put thee back.

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know.
Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman’s nay doth stand for nought?

Think, women love to match with men
And not to live so like a saint :
Here is no heaven; they holy then
Begin when age doth them attaint.
Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.

But, soft ! enough,—too much, I fear;

For if my mistress hear my song,

She will not stick to ring my ear,

To teach my tongue to be so long:
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewray’d.

XX.

Live with me, and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
i shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

 

310

340

 
 

 

 

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 469
There will I make thee a bed of roses, -360 .. Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
With a thousand fragrant posies ; Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee.
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle King Pandion, he is dead,
Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle. All thy friends are lapp’d in lead,
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
A belt of straw andivy buds, Careless of thy sorrowing.
With coral clasps and amber studs ;
And if these pleasures may thee move, XXII.
Then live with me, and be my love. Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd :
LOVE'S ANSWER. Every one that flatters thee 400
- Is no friend in misery.
If that the world and love were young, Words are easy, like the wind;
And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, Faithful friends are hard to find:
These pretty pleasures might me move, 370 Every man will be thy friend,
To live with thee and be thy love. Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
XXI. No man will supply thy want.
As it fell upon a day If that one be prodigal, |
In the merry month of May, Bountiful they will him eall,
Sitting in a pleasant shade, And with such like flattering, 410
Which ee of myrtles made, “Pity but _he were a king.”
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, If he be addict to vice,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; Quickly him they will entice ;
Everything did banish moan, If to women he be bent,
Save the nightingale alone ; They have him at commandement:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 380 | But if Fortune once do frown,
Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn, Then, farewell his great renown ;
And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, They that fawn'd on him before
That to hear it was great pity. Use his company no more.
‘Fie, fie, fie!” now would she cry ; He that is thy friend indeed, 420

“Tereu, Tereu!” by-and-by ;

That to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain ;

For her griefs, so lively shown,

Made me think upon mine own.

Ah! thought I, thou mourn’'st in vain, 390
None takes pity on thy pain:

 

 

 

He will help thee in thy need:

If thou sorrow, he will weep ;

If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus of every grief in heart

He with thee does bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.

 

 
 

 

 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Don PEpRo, Prince of Arragon.
JOHN, his bastard Brother.
CLAUDIO, a young Lord of Florence.
BENEDICK, a young Lord of Padua.
LEoNATO, Governor of Messina.
ANTONIO, his Brother.

BALTHAZAR, Servant to Don Pedro.

BORACHIO, i Followers of John.

CONRADE,
DocBerryY, L rwo Officers. |

VERGES, $

FRIAR FRANCIS.
A Sexton.
A Boy.

HERO, Daughter to Leonato.
BEATRICE, Niece to Leonato.

Va } Gentlewomen attending on Hero.

Messengers, Watchmen, and Attendants,

SCENE—MEssINa.

ACT I.

  

Leonato.

» LEARN in this letter, that Don Pedro of

Arragon comes this night to Messina.

» Mess. He is very near by this: he was
not three leagues off when I left him.

Leon. How many gentlemen have you
lost in this action?

Mess. But few of any sort, and none
of name.

Leon. A victory is twice itself, when
the achiever brings home full numbers.
I find_here, that Don Pedro hath be-
stowed much honour on a young
Florentine, called Claudio.

Mess. Much deserved on his part, and
equally remembered by Don Pedro. He
hath borne himself beyond the promise
of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb
the feats of a lion: he hath, indeed,
better bettered expectation than you
must expect of me to tell you how. 20

Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be
very much glad of it.

Mess. I have already delivered him letters, and
there appears much joy in him; even so much, that
joy could not show itself modest enough without a
badge of bitterness. :

Leon. Did he break out into tears?

Mess. In great measure.

Leon. A kind overflow of kindness. There are no
faces truer than those that are so washed : how much
better is it to weep at joy, than to joy at weeping! 31

Beat. I pray you, is Signior Montanto returned from
the wars, or no?

Mess. I know none of that name, lady: there was
none such in the army of any sort.

Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece?

Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

Mess. O, he is returned, and as pleasant as ever ae
was. "

 

Beat. He set up his bills here in Messina, and
challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool,

ScENE I.—Before LEONATO’s House.
Enter LEONATO, HERO, BEATRICE, and others, with a Messenger.
; reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and

challenged him at the bird-bolt.—I pray you, how

 

Beat. ‘‘ But how many hath he killed?

many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But
how many hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to
eat all of his killing. °
Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too
much; but he ‘ll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

 

 

 
 

 

 

Scene I.]

Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these
ad

wars. 5.

Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath_holp to
eat it: he is a very valiant trencher-man; he hath an
excellent stomach.

Mess. And a good soldier too, lady.

Beat. And a good soldier to a lady ; but what is he
toa lord?

Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed
with all honourable virtues.

Beat. It is so, indeed: he is no less than a stuffed
man; but for the stufting,—well, we are all mortal. 60

Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There
is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and
her: they never meet, but there’s a skirmish of wit
between them.

Beat. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last
conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now
is the whole man governed with one; so that if he
have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear
it for a difference between himself and his horse; for
it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a
reasonable creature.—Who is his companion now?
He hath every month a new sworn brother. 72

Mess. Is ’t possible? «

Beat. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but
as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the
next block.
ne I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your

ooks. :

Beat. No: an he were, I would burn my study.
But, I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no
young squarer now, that will make a voyage with
him to the devil? 82

Mess. He is most in the company of the right noble
Claudio.

Beat. O Lord! he will hang upon him like a disease:
he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker
runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio!
if he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a

- thousand pound ere he be cured.

Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. 90

Beat. Do, good friend.

Leon. You will never.run mad, niece.

Beat. No, not tilla hot January.

Mess. Don Pedro is approached.

Enter Don PEDRO, JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK,
BALTHAZAR, and others.

D. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to
meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to
avoid cost, and you encounter it.

Leon, Never came trouble to my house in the like-
ness of your grace; for trouble being gone, comfort
should remain, but when you depart from me, sorrow
abides, and happiness takes his leave. 1

D, Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly.
I think, this is your daughter.

Leon. Her mother hath many times told me so.

Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

im Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a
child.

D. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick: we may
Mee by this what you are, being a man.—Truly, the
ady fathers herself.—Be happy, lady, for you are like
an honourable father. 111

Bene. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would
not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as

- like him as she is.

Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
Benedick : nobody marks you.
oes What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet

ving?

Beat. Is it possible disdain should die, while she
hath such meet food to feed it, as Signior Benedick ?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come
in her presence. 122

Bene. Then is ‘courtesy a turncoat. But it is cer-
tain, Iam loved of all ladies, only you excepted ; and
I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard
heart; for, truly, I love none.

Beat. A dear happiness to women: they would else

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

 

471

have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank
God, and my cold blood, [ am of your humour for
that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than
a man swear he loves me. lk

Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that mind; so
some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate
scratched face.

Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an ’t were
such a face as yours were.

Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

Beat, A bird of my tongue 1s better than a beast of
yours.

Bene. I would, my horse had the speed of your
tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way
o’ God’s name, I have done.

Beat. You always end with a jade’s trick: I know
you of old.

D. Pedro. This is the sum of all : Leonato, —Signior
Claudio, and Signior Benedick,—my dear friend
Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall
stay here at the least 3 month, and he heartily prays
some occasion may detain us longer: J dare swear he
is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. 150

Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be for-
sworn.—Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being re-
conciled to the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

John. I thank you: Iam not of many words, but I
thank you.

Leon. Please it your grace lead on?

D. Pedro. Your hand, Leonato: we will go together.

[Exeunt all but BENEDICK and CLAUDIO.

Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of

Signior Leonato? =
ene. I noted her not; but I looked on her. 160

Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ?

Bene. Do you question me, as an honest man should
do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have
me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant
to their sex?

Claud. No; I pray thee, speak in sober judgment.

Bene. Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a
high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little
for a great praise: only this commendation I can
afford her, that were she other than she is, she were
unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do
not like her. 172

Claud. Thou thinkest, I am in sport: I pray thee,
tell me truly how thou lik’st her.
wee Would you buy her, that you inquire after

er

Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel?

Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you
this with a sad bfow, or do you play the flouting Jack,
to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a
rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take
you, to go in the song? 182

Claud. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that
ever I looked on.

Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see
no such matter: there ’s her cousin, an she were not
possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty,
as the first of May doth the last of December. But I
hope, you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I had
sworn the contrary, it Hero would be my wife. 191

Bence. Is’t come to this, i’ faith? Hath not the world
one man, but he will wear his cap with suspicion?
Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Go
to, i faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a
yoke, wear the print of it, and sigh away Sundays.
Look, Don Pedro is returned to seek you.

Re-enter Don PEDRO.

D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you
followed not to Leonato’s?

Bene. I would your grace would constrain me ie
tell. 1

D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.

Bene. You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as
a dumb man, I would have you think so; but on my
allegiance,—mark you this, on my allegiance :—he is
4nlove. With who?—now that is your grace’s part.—

 

 
 

472 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Act 1,

 

 

Mark, how short his answer is :—with Hero, Leonato’s
short daughter, :

Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered,

Bene, Like the old tale, my lord: it is not so.
nor ’t was not so; but, indeed, God forbid it should
be so. 212

Claud. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid
it should be otherwise. 7

D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is
very well worthy. °

Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought.

Claud. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

Bene. And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I
spoke mine. 221

Claud. That I love her, I feel.

PD. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know.

Bene. That I neither feel how she should be loved,
nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion
si fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the
stake.

D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in
the despite of beauty. . : 5

Claud. And never could maintain his part, but in
the force of his will. 2:

Bene. That a woman conceived me, IT thank her ;
that she brought me up, I likewise give her most
humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded
in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible
baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I
will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will
do myself the right to trust none ; and the fine is (for
the which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor.

D. Pedro. 1 shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with
love. 241

Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger,
my lord; not with love: prove, that ever I lose more
blood with love, than I will get again with drinking,

ick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen, and

oh me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign
of blind Cupid.

D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this
faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument.

Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, and
shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped
on the shoulder, and called Adam. 252

D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try:

“In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.”

Bene. The savage bull may ; but if ever the sensible
Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns, and set
them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted,
and in such great letters as they write, ‘‘ Here is good
horse to hire,” let them signify under my sign,—
“Here you may see Benedick the married man.” 260

Claud. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be
horn-mad.

D. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his
quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

Bene. 1 look for an earthquake too then.

D. Pedro. Well, you will temporise with the hours,
In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to
Leonato’s: commend me to him, and tell him, I will
not fail him at supper; for, indeed, he hath made
great preparation. 270

Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for such
an embassage ; and so I commit you—

i Chghitl To the tuition of God: from my house, if I
ad it,—

D. Pedro. The sixth of July: your loving friend,
Benedick.

Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your
discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and
the guards are but slightly basted on neither : ere you
flout old ends any further, examine your conscience,
and so I leave you. Exit.

Claud. My liege, your highness now may do me

good.
Dz. oe My love is thine to teach: teach it but
ow,
And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn

Any hard lesson that may do thee good.
Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

 

D. Pedro. No child but Hero, she’s his only heir,
Dost thou affect her, Claudio? Pee
Naud. O! my lord,
When gon went onward on this ended action, 290
I look’d upon her with a soldier's eye,
That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand,
Than to drive liking to the name of love;
But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts
Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars.
D. Pedro. ‘Thou wilt be like a lover presently,
And tire the hearer with a book of words.
If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,
And I will break with her, and with her father,
And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end,
That thou begann’st to twist so fine a story ?
Claud. How sweetly do you minister to love,
That know love's griet by his complexion!
But jest my liking might too sudden seem,
I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise.
D. Pedro, What need the bridge much broader than
the flood?
The fairest grant is the necessity. 310
Look, what will serve is fit : "tis once, thou lovest,
And I will fit thee with the remedy.
I know we shall have revelling to-night :
I will assume thy part in some disguise,
And tell fair Hero Iam Claudio;
And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart,
And take her hearing prisoner with the force
And strong encounter of my amorous tale:
Then, after, to her father will I break;
And, the conclusion is, she shall be thine. 320
In practice let us put it presently. [Exeunt,

ScENE II.—A Room in LEonatTo’s House.

Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO.

Leon. How now, brother? Where is my cousin,
your son? Hath he provided this music?

int. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can
tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.

Leon. Are they good?

Ant. As the event stamps them; but they have a
good cover; they show well outward. The prince
and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley
in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man
of mine: the prince discovered to Claudio that he
loved my niece your dae ter, and meant to acknow-
ledge it this night in a dance; and, if he found her
accordant, he meant to take the present time by the
top, and instantly break with you of it. :

Date Hath the fellow any wit, that told you this?

Ant. A good sharp fellow: I will send for him, and
question him yourself. ah

Leon. No, no: we will hold it as a dream, till it
appear itself; but I will acquaint my daughter withal,
that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if

eradventure this be true. Go you, and tell her of it.

Several persons cross the stage.) Cousins, you know
what you have to do.—O, I cry you mercy, friend; go

ou with me, and I will use your skill.—Good cousin,
here a care this busy time. [Exeunt.

ScENE ITI.—Another Room in Lronato's House.

Enter JOHN and CONRADE.

Con. What the good-year, my lord! why are you
thus out of measure sad ? .

John. There is no measure in the occasion that
breeds ; therefore the sadness is without limit.

Con. You should hear reason, 7

John, And when I have heard it, what blessing
brings it? 4

Con. If not a present remedy, yet a patient suffer-
ance.

 

 

 
 

Scene III.)

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

473

 

John. I wonder, that thou, being (as thou say’st thou |
art) born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral |
medicine to a mortifying mischief. JI cannot hide |!
what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and
smile at no man’s jests ; eat when I have stomach, and
wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am drowsy,

» and tend on no man’s business: laugh when I am
merry, and claw no man in his humour,

Con. Yea; but you must not make the full show of
this, till you may do it without control-
ment. You have of late stood out against

our brother, and he hath ta’en you newly
into his grace; where it is impossible you
should take true root, but by the fair
weather that you make yourself: it is
needful that you frame the season for
your own harvest.

John. I had rather be a canker in a
hedge, than a rose in his grace; and it
better fits my blood to be disdained of all,
than to fashion a carriage to rob love
from any: in this, though I cannot be
said to be a flattering honest man, it must
not be denied but [ am a plain-dealing
villain. I am trusted with a muzzle, and
enfranchised with a clog; therefore I
have decreed not to sing in my cage. If
I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had
my liberty, I would do my liking: in the
meantime, let me be that I am, and seek

' not to alter me. 40

Con. Can you make no use of your
discontent?

- John. I make all use of it, for I use it
only. Who comes here? What news,
Borachio ?

Enter BoRACHIO.

Bora, I came yonder from a great supper: the
pune. your brother, is royally entertained by
Leonato, and I can give you intelligence of an
intended marriage.

John. Willit serve for any model to build mischief
on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to
unquietness ? 52

Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand.

John. Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

Bora. Even he. -

John. A proper squire! And who, and who? which |
way looks he?

ACT

Leonato.
AS not Count John here at supper?

Ant. I saw him not.

Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks:
Inever can see him, but I am heart-
burned an hour after. :

Hero. He is of a very melancholy dis-
position.

Beat. He were an excellent man that
were made just in the midway betwecn
5 him and Benedick: the one is too like
. an image, and says nothing; and the other too like
my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling.

 

 

a

     

Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of
Leonato.

John. A very forward March-chick! How came
you to this? 61

Bora. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I
was smoking a musty room, comes me the prince

' and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I

whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it
agreed upon, that the prince should woo Hero for

La eel

   

|
im}
|

Bora. “I whipt me bebind tbe arras.”

himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count
Claudio.

John. Come, come ; let us thither: this may prove
food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all
the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any
way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure.
and will assist me ? 73

Con. To the death, my lord.

John, Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the
greater, that I am subdued. ’Would the cook were of
my mind !—Shall we go prove what’s to be done ?

Bora. We'll wait upon your lordship. [Eaxeunt.

 

II.

SceNE I.—A Hall in LEonaTo’s House.
Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and others.

‘Leon. Then, half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count
John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy. in
Signior Benedick’s face,—

Beat. With a good leg, and a good foot, uncle, and
money enough in his purse, such a man would win any
woman in the world,—if he could get her good will.

Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee
a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. 20

Ant. In faith: she’s too curst.

Beat. Too curst is more than curst:.I shall lessen
God’s sending that way, for it is said, ‘God sends a
eurst cow short horns;” but to a cow too curst he
sends none.

 
 

ATL

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Act IL,

 

 

i, ag So, by being too curst, God will send you no
orns ‘

Beat. Just, if he send me no husband ; for the which
blessing, 1 am at him upon my knees every mornin:
and evening. Lord! I could not endure a husban
with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the
woollen. 32
‘: La You may light on wu husband that hath n

eard.

Beat. What should I do with him? dress him in my
apparel, and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He
that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that
hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is
more than a youth is not tor me; and he that is less
than a man, Iam not for him: therefore I will even
take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead
his apes into hell. 2

Leon. Well then, go you into hell? 3

Beat. No; but to the gate ; and there will the devil
meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head,
and say, ‘“‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to
heaven; here’s no Fince tor you maids:” so deliver
I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter: for the
heavens, he shows me where the bachelors sit, and
there live we as merry as the day is long.

Ant. [To HERO.] Well, niece, I trust, you will be
ruled by your father.

Beat. Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make
courtesy, and say, ‘Father, as it please you:” but yet
for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or
else make another courtesy, and say, ‘‘ Father, as it
please me.”

Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted
with a husband. 59

Beat. Not till God make men of some other metal
than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-
mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an
account of her life toa clod of wayward marl? No,
uncle, I'll none : Adam's sons are my brethren; and,
truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you: if the
prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your
answer.

Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you
be not woo’d in good time: if the prince be too im-
portant, tell him, there is measure in everything, and
so dance out the answer. For hear me, Hero: wooing,
wedding, and repenting, is as aScotch jig, a measure,
and a cinque-pace : the first suit is hot and hasty, like
a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding,
mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and
ancientry ; and then comes repentance, and with his
bad legs falls into the cinque-pacce faster and faster,
till he sink into his grave.

Leon, Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. 80

Beat. | have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church
by daylight.

Leon. The revellers are entering, brother. Make
good room!

Enter Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHAZAR,
JOUN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA, and others,
masked.

D. Pedro. Lady, will you walk about with your
friend? :

Hero, So you walk softly, and look sweetly, and say
nothing, I_am yours for the walk; and especially,
when I walk away. '

D. Pedro, With me in your company ? 90

ficro. I may suy so, when I please.

D, Pedro. And when please you to say so?

Hero, When 1 like your favour ; for God defend, the
lute should be like the case!

D. Pedro. My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the

house is Jove.
Hero. Why, then your visor should be thatch'd.
D. Pedro. Speak low, if you speak love.
Takes her aside.

Balth, Well, I would you did like me.

Marg. So would not I, for your own sake; for I
have many ill qualities.

Baith, Which is one? 100

 

ong I say my prayers aloud.
Balth. I love you the better: the hearers may cry
Amen.
Marg. God match me with a good dancer!
ele ‘ oe a
arg. An od keep him out of my sight, w)
the dance is done !—Answer, clerk. eee nee

Balth. No more words : the clerk is answered.

Urs. I know you well enough: you are Signior
Antonio. 110

7 nt. ~ a word, canine

rs. now you by the waggling of your head.

Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

Urs. You could never do him so ill-well, unless you
were the very man. Here's his dry hand up and
down: you are he, you are he.

Ant. Ata word, I am not.

Urs. Come, come: do you think I do not know you
by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to,
puny, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an
end. 121

Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so?

Bene, No, you shall pardon me.

Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are?

Bene. Not now.

Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good
wit out of the ‘‘Hundred Merry Tales.” Well, this
was Signior Benedick that said so.

Bene. What’s he?

Beat. Tam sure, you know him well enough. 130

Bene. Not I, believe me.

Beat. Did he never make eu laugh?

Bene. I pray you, what is he?

Beat. Why, he is the prince’s jester: a very dull
fool, only his gift is in devising impossible slanders:
none but libertines delight in him; and the commen-
dation is not in his wit, but in his villainy, for he both
pleases men, and angers them, and then they laugh
at him and beat him. Iam sure, he is in the fleet: I
would he had boarded me ! 140

Bene. When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him
what you say.

Beat. Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or two
on me; which, peradventure, not marked, or not
laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then
there 's a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat
no supper that night. [Music within.] We must
follow the leaders.

Bene. In every good thing.

Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them
at the next turning. lil

(Dance. Then exeunt all but JOHN, BORACHIO,
and CLAUDIO.

John. Sure, my brother is amorous on_ Hero,
and hath withdrawn her father to break with him

about it. The ladies follow her, and but one visor
remains. ; . :

Bora, And that is Claudio: I know him by his
bearing.

John, Are not you Signior Benedick ?

Claud. You know me well: Iam he. may

John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his
love: he isenamoured on Hero. Ipray you, dissuade
him from her; she is no equal for his birth: you may
do the part of an honest man in it.

Claud. How know you he loves her?

John. I heard him swear his affection.

Bora. So did I too; and he swore he would marry
her to-night.

John. Come, let us to the banquet. ‘

[Exeunt Joun and BORACHIO.

Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick,
But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. 170
’T is certain so :—the prince woos for himself.
Friendship is constant in all other things,
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent ; for beauty is a witch,
Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

 

 
 

 

Scene I.] MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 475

 

Re-enter BENEDICK. Bene. Why, that’s spoken like an honest drover:
: oe so they sell bullocks. But did you think, the prince
Bene. Count Claudio ? 180 | would have served you thus?
Claud. Yea, the same. Claud. I pray you, leave me.
Bene. Come, will you go with me? Bene. Ho! now you strike like the blind man:

 

 

 

 

 

 

D. Pedro. “ Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

 

’t was the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat
the post.
Claud. Tf it will not be, I'll leave you. [Exit.

Claud. Whither?

Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own
business, count. What fashion will you wear the
garland of? About your neck, like an usurer’s chain, Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl! Now will he creep into
or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You | sedges.—But, that my Lady Beatrice should know me,
must wear it one way, for the prince hath got your , and not know me! The prince's fool!—Ha! it may be,
Hero. | I go under that title, because Iam merry.-—Yea; but

Claud. I wish him joy of her. 190 | sol am apt to do myself wrong: I am not so reputed:

 

 

 
 

 

476

it is the base, though bitter disposition of Beatrice,
that puts the world into her person, and so gives me
out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.

Re-enter Don PEDRO.

D. Pedro. Now, signior, where's the count? Did

ou see him?

A Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of
Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a
lodge in a warren. I told him, and, I think, I told
him true, that your grace had got the good will of
this young lady; and J offered him my company toa
willow-tree, either to make him a garland, as being
forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to
be whipped. 3

D. Pedro, To be whipped! What’s his fault ?

Bene. The flat transgression of a school-boy ; who,
being overjoy’d with finding a birds’ nest, shows it his
companion, and he steals it. _ 22

D. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression ?
The transgression is in the stealer.

Bene. Yet it had not been amiss, the rod had been
made, and the garland too; for the garland he might
have worn himself, and the rod he might have be-
stow'd on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds’
nest.

D. Pedro. 1 will but teach them to sing, and restore
them to the owner.

Bene. If their singing answer your saying, by my
faith, you say honestly. 231

D. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you:
the gentleman, that danced with her, told her she is
much wronged by you.

Bene. O! she misused me past the endurance of a
block : an oak, but with one green leaf on it, would
have answered her: my very visor began to assume
life, and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I
had been myself, that I was the prince’s jester; that
I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon
sea with such impossible conveyance, upon me, that

stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army
shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word
stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her termina-
tions, there were no living near her; she would infect
to the north star. I would not marry her, though she
were endowed with all that Adam had left him before
he transgressed : she would have made Hercules have
turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the
fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the
infernal Até in good Sppate would to God, some
scholar would conjure her, for, certainly, while she is
here, a man may live as quiet in hell, as in a sanc-
ae and people sin upon purpose, because they
would go thither; so, indecd, all disquiet, horror, and
perturbation follow her.

Enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO.

D. Pedro. Look, here she comes.

Bene. Will your grace command me any service to
the world’s end? I will goon the slightest errand now
to the Antipodes, that you can devise to send me on:
Iwill fetch you a toothpicker now from the farthest
inch of Asia; bring you the leneth of Prester John’s
foot; fetch you a hair of the Great Cham’s beard;
do you any embassage to the Pigmies, rather than
hold three words’ conference with this harpy. You
have no employment for me?

D. Pedro. None, but to desire your good company.

Bene. O God, sir, here ’s a dish I love not: I cannot
endure my Lady Tongue. (Exit.

D. Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the
heart of Signior Benedick. 271

Beat, Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I
gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one:
marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,
therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.

D. Pedro, You have put him down, lady; you have
put him down.

Beat. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest
L should prove the mother of fools. I have brought
Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. 280

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

 

ta

D. Pedro. Why, how now, count? wherefore are
you sad?

Claud. Not sad, my lord.

D. Pedro. How then? sick?

Claud. Neither, my lord.

Beat. The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry
nor well; but civil, count, civil as an orange, an
something of that jealous eee eet

D, Pedro. TY faith, lady, I think your blazon to be
true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and
fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and
his good will obtained; name the day of marriage,
and God give thee joy! °

Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her
my fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and all
grace say Amen to it!

Beat. Speak, count, ’t is your cue.

Claud. Silence is the pertectest herald of joy : I were
but litle happy, if I could say how much.— Lady, as
you are mine, Iam yours: I give away myself for you,
and dote upon the exchange. 302

Beat. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss, and let him not speak neither.

D. Pedro, In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

Beat. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps
on the windy side of care.—My cousin tells him in his
ear, that he is in her heart.

Claud. And so she doth, cousin.

Beat. Good Lord, for alliance!—Thus goes every
one to the world but I,and 1am sun-burnt. I may sit
in a corner, and cry heigh-ho for a husband! 312

D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

Beat. I_would rather have one of your father's
on Hath your grace ne’er a brother like you?
Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could
come by them.

D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? ;

Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have another for
papi cane : your grace is too costly to wear every
day.—But, I beseech your grace, pardon me; I was
born to speak all mirth, and no matter. 322

D. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be
merry best becomes hae for, out of question, you
were born in a merry hour. ;

Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then
there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
—Cousins, God give you joy! :

Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I told
you of? 330

Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle.—By your grace’s
pardon. si Exit.

D. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. _

Leon. There’s little of the melancholy element in
her, my lord: she is never_sad, but when she sleeps;
and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter
say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness, and
waked herself with laughing.

D. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of ahusband.

Leon. O! by no means, she mocks all her wooers »
out of suit. ‘| 3al

D. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Benedick.

Leon. O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week
married, they would talk themselves mad.

D. Pedro. Count Claudio, when mean you to go to
church ? :

Claud. To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches,
till love have all his rites. aa

Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence
a just seven-night; anda time too brief too, to have
all things answer my mind. 351

Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long a
breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time
shall not go dully by us._ I will, in the interim, under-
take one of Hercules’ labours, which is, to bring
Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a moun,
tain of affection, the one with the other. I woul
fain have it a match; and I doubt not but to fashion
it, if poo three will but minister such assistance as
I shall give you direction. : 360

Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
nights’ watchings,

 

 
 

 

Screnz III.)

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. ATT

 

Claud. And I, my lord.

D. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero?

Hero. I will do any mudest office, my lord, to help
my cousin to a good husband.

D, Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest
husband that Iknow. Thus far can I praise him: he
is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed
honesty. I willteach you how to humour your cousin,
that she shall fall in love with Benedick ;—and I, with
your two helps, will so practise on Benedick, that, in
despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he
shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,
Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours,
for we are the only love-gods. Goin with me, and I
will tell you my drift. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Another Room in LEONATO’'s House.

Enter JOHN and BORACHIO. \

John. It is so: the Count Claudio shall marry the
daughter of Leonato. .

Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be
medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him,
and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges
evenly with mine. Howcanst thou cross this marriage?

Bora. Not honestly, my lord ; but so covertly that
no dishonesty shall appear in me.

John. Show me briefly how. 10

Bora. I think, I told your lordship, a year since,
how much Iam inthe favour of Margaret, the waiting-
gentlewoman to Hero.

John. I remember.

Bora. J can, at ae unseasonable instant of the
night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber-

window.
John. What life is in that, to be the death of this
marriage? 19

Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go
you to the prince your brother : spare not to tell him,
that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the re-
nowned Claudio (whose estimation do you mightily
hold up) to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

John. What proof shall I make of that ?

Bora. Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex
Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you
for any other issue? :

‘i Oe Only to despite them, I will endeavour any:
ing.

Bora. Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don
Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them, that

ou know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal

oth to the prince and Claudio (as in love of-your
brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and his
friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened
with the semblance of a maid), that you have dis-
covered thus. They will scarcely believe this with-
out trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no
less likelihood than tosce me at her chamber-window,
hear me call Margaret Hero; hear Margaret term me
Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night
before the intended wedding: for in the meantime
I will so fashion the matter, that Hero shall be absent,
and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's
disloyalty, that jealousy shall be call’d assurance, and
all the preparation overthrown. x

John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I wil]
put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this.
and thy fee is a thousand ducats. ; 50

Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and my
cunning shall not shame me. i .

John. I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

[Ezxeunt.

 

ScENE ITI.—LEonaTo’s Garden.

Enter BENEDICK.
Bene. Boy!
: Enter a Boy.
Boy. Signior.

 

Bene. In my chamber-window lies a book; bring
it hither to me in the orchard.

Boy. 1am here already, sir.

Bene. I know that; but I would have thee hence,
and here again. [Hit Boy.] I do much wonder, that
one man, seeing how much another man is a fool
when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after
he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others,
become the argument of his own scorn by falling in
love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known,
when there was no music with him but the drum and
the fife ; and now had he rather hear the tabor and
the pipe: I have known, when he would have walked
ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he
lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new
doublet. He was wont to speak plain, and to the
purpose, like an honest man, and a soldier; and now
is he turn’d orthographer : his words area very fantas-
tical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be
so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell;
I think not: I will not be sworn, but love may trans-
form me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till
he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make
me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well;
another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet
I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one
woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall
be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or 1’ll
never cheapen her; fair, or I’l) never look on her;
mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an
angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and
her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha!
the prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the
arbour. (Withdraws.

Enter Don PEDRO, LEONATO, and CLAUDIO, followed
by BALTHAZAR and Musicians.

D. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music?

Claud. Yea,my good lord. Howstill the.evening is,
As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony!

D. Pedro, See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

Claud. O, very well, my lord: the music ended, 41
We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

D. Pedro. Come, Balthazar, we'll hear that song

again.
Balth. O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.
D. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency,
To put a strange face on his own perfection.—
I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.
Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing ;
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes,
Yet will he swear he loves.
D, Pedro. Nay, pray thee, come:
Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Balth. Note this before my notes ;
There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting.
D. Pedro. on these are very crotchets that he
speaks ; :
Note, notes, forsooth, and noting ! [Music.
Bene. [Aside.] Now, divine air! now is his soul
ravish’d !—Is it not strange, that sheeps’ guts should
hale souls out of men’s bodies /—Well, a horn for my
money, when all’s done. 61
Balth. [Sings.]
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
den were deceivers ever ;
One foot in sea, and one on shore ;
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into, Hey nonny, nonny. 70

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo
Of dumps so dull and heavy ;
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.

 

Vt
 

478

D. Pedro. By my troth, a good song.

Balth. And an ill singer, my lord. .

D. Pedro. Ha? no, no; faith, thou singest ae
enough for a shift.

Bene, [Aside.] An he had been a dog that should
have howled thus, they would have hang'd him ; and
I pray God, his bad voice bode no mischief! I had as

 

 

Baith, ‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more."

lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague
could have come after it.

D. Pedro, Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthazar?
I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for to-morrow
night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber-
window.

Balth. The best I can, my lord. 89

D, Pedro. Do so: farewell. [Ereunt BALTHAZAR
and Musicians.) Come hither, Leonato: what was it

ou told me of to-day? that your niece Beatrice was in
ove with Signior Benedick?

Claud. O, ay.—[Aside to PEDRO.] Stalk on, stalk on;
the fowl sits.—I did never think that lady would have
loved any man.

Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful, that
she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she
hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor.

Bene. | Aside.) Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that
corner? 101

Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to
think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged
affection: it is past the infinite of thought.

D. Pedro. May be, she doth but counterfeit.

Claud. ’Faith, like enough.

Leon. O God! counterfeit! There was never coun-
terfeit of passion came so near the life of passion, as
she discovers it.

D. Pedro, Why, what effects of passion shows she?

Claud. [ Aside.) Bait the hook well: this fish will bite.

Leon. What ettects, my lord? She will sit you,—you
heard my daughter tell you how.

Claud. She did, indeed,

D. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me:
I would have thought her spirit had been invincible
against all assaults of affection.

Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially
against Benedick,

Bene. [Aside.] I should think this a gull, but that,

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. [Acr IL

the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot,
sure, hide himself in such reverence. : 1
Claud. [A side.] He hathta’en the infection: holdit up..
D. Pedro, Hath she made her affection known to
| Benedick ?
| _ Leon. No, and swears she never will: that’s h
| er
Tarn op aj
aud. is true, indeed; so your daughter
says: ‘‘Shall I,” says she, “that have so oft en-
Toe him with scorn, write to him that I love

im ?” 1

Leon. This says she, now, when she is Badianing
to write to him; for she'll be up twenty times a
night, and there will she sit in her smock, till she
have writ a sheet of paper.—My daughter tells ug
all.

Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I re-
member a pretty jest your daughter told us of.

_ Leon. O !—when she had writ it, and was reading
it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between
the sheet ?— 141

Claud. That.

Leon. O! she tore the letter into a thousand half-
pence ; railed at herself, that she should be so im-
modest to write to one that she knew would flout
her:—‘‘I measure him,” says she, ‘by my own
apni for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea,
thoegh I love him, I should.”

Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls,
weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays,
curses ;—“‘O sweet Benedick! God give me pa-
tience !” : 152

Leon. She doth indeed: my daughter says so; and
the ecstacy hath so much overborne her, that my
daughter is sometimes afeard she will doa desperate
outrage to herself. It is very true. :

D. Pedro, It were good, that Benedick knew of
it by some other, if she will not discover it.

laud. Towhatend? He would but make a sport
of it, and torment the poor lady worse. 160

D. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang
him. She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all
suspicion, she is virtuous.

Claud. And she is exceeding wise. :

D. Pedro. In everything, but in loving Benedick. |

Leon. O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in
so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one, that blood
hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as Tt have just
cause, being her uncle and her guardian. — 169

D. Pedro. I would, she had bestowed this dotage on
me ; I would have daff’d all other respects, and made
her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and
hear what a’ will say. .

Leon. Were it good, think you? : :

Claud. Hero thinks surely, she will die; for she
says, she will die if he love her not, and she will die
ere she make her love known, and she will die if he
woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her
accustomed crossness. : 179

D. Pedro. She doth well: if she should make
tender of her love, ‘tis very possible he’ll scorn it;
for the man, as you know all, hath a contemptible
spirit.

TO lai He is a very proper man. 4

D. Pedro. He hath, indeed, a good outward happi-

ness. aif

Claud. Before God, and in my mind, very wise... |

D. Pedro. He doth, indeed, show some sparks that |
are like wit. . ‘

Leon. And I take him to be valiant. _ 190

D, Pedro. As Hector, I assure you: and in the
managing of guatrels you may say he is wise; for
either he avoids them with great discretion, or under-
takes them with a most Christian-like fear.

Leon. If he do fear God, he must necessarily keep
peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter intoa
quarrel with fear and trembling.

D. Pedro. And so will he do; for the man doth
fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some
large jests he will make. Well, J am sorry for your

 

niece. Shall we go seek Benedick, and tell him of
» her love? 202

 

 
 

Scene III.]

 

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

479

 

Claud. Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out
with good counsel. |

Leon. Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her
heart out first. j

D. Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by your
daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick
well, and I could wish he would modestly examine
himself, to see how much he is unworthy to have so
good a a 7 211

Leon. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

Claud. Aside.) If he do not dote on her upon this,
I will never trust my expectation.

D. Pedro. [Aside.] Let there be the same net.spread
for her; and that must your daughter and her gentle-
woman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one
an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter:
that’s ‘the scene that I would see, which will be
merely a dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in
to dinner. 221

[Ezeunt Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and LEONATO.

Bene. [Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no
trick: the conference was sadly borne.—-They have
the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the
lady : it seems, her affections have their full bent.
Love me! why, it must be requited. I hearhow lam
censured : they say, I will bear myself proudly, if I
perceive the love come from her; they say, too, that
she will rather die than give any sign of affection.—
I did never think to marry.—I must not seem proud.—
Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can
put them to mending. They say, the lady is fair: ’t is
a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis
so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me.
By my troth, itis no addition to her wit, nor no great
argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love
with her. Imay chance have some odd quirks and
remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed
so long against pineele es but doth not the appetite
alter? A man loves the meat in his youth, that he
cannot endure in his age. Shall quips, and sentences,
and these paper bullets of the brain, awe a man from
the career of his humour? No; the world must be
peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did
not think I should live till I were married.—Here
comes Beatrice. By this day, she’s a fair lady: Ido
spy some marks of love in her.

 

Enter BEATRICE.
Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in
to dinner.
Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. 250
Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks, than

 

Bene. * This can be no trick.”

would not have come.

Bene. You take pleasure then in the message?

Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a
knife’s point, and choke a daw withal.— You have no
stomach, signior : fare you well. Exit.

Bene. Ha! ‘Against my will Iam sent to bid you
come in _ to dinner;”’—there’s a double meaning i
that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks, than
you took pains to thank me;”—that’s as much as
to say, any pains that I take for you is as easy as
thanks.—If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain;
if Ido not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her
picture. [Exit.

you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I

 

ACT III.

ScENE I.—LEONATO’s Garden.
Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.

Hero.
OOD Margaret, run thee to the parlour ;
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
Proposing with the prince and Claudio:
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and
Ursula :
Walk in the orchard, and our whole dis-

  

course

Is all of her; say, that thou overheardst
us,

And bid her steal into the pleached
bower, sd hie

Where honeysuckles, ripen’d by the

sun,
Forbid the sun to enter ; like favourites,
Made proud by princes, that advance their page 10

Against a power that bred it.—_There will she hide
er,

j To listen our propose. This is thy office;

Bear thee well in it, and leave us alone.

Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant you, Pee
cit,

Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,

As we do trace this alley up and down,

Our talk must only be of Benedick :

When I do name him, let it be thy part

To praise him more than ever man did merit.

My talk to thee must be, how Benedick 20

Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter

Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, !

That only wounds by hearsay.

Enter BEATRICE, behind.
Now begin;

For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

 

 
 

480

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

 

[Acr IM,

 

Urs. The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish
Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
And greedily devour the treacherous bait :
So angle we for Beatrice ; who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture. 30
Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose
nothing :
Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.—
No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful ;
I know, her spirits are as coy and wild
As haggards of the rock.

Urs. But are you sure
That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely ?

Hero. So says the prince, and my new-trothed lord.

Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam ?

Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; 40
But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick,

To wish him wrestle with affection,
And never to let Beatrice know of it.

Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
Deserve as full as fortunate a bed,

As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

Hero. O god of love! I know, he doth deserve
As much as may be yielded to a man;

But Nature never fram’d a woman’s heart

Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice: 50
Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
Misprising what they look on; and her wit

Values itself so highly, that to her

All matter else seems weak. She cannot love,

Nor take no shape nor project of affection,

She is so selieudeuren.

Urs. Sure, I think so;
And therefore, certainly, it were not good
She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

Hero. Why, you epenls truth. I never yet saw man,
How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd, 60
But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d,

She would swear the gentleman should be her sister ;
If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick,

Made a foul blot ; if tall, a lance ill-headed ;

If low, an agate very vilely cut;

If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds ;

If silent, why, a block moved with none.

So turns she every man the wrong side out,

      

   

SORA oe Sse x
ae rain casas

—

“Oe
BEATRICE 1N THE BOWER.

And never gives to truth and virtue that

Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.
Urs, Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.
Hero. No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions,

 

As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable.

von ao ee her so? a I should speak,

she would mock me into air: O! she would]

Out of myself, press me to death with wit, See

WN

N))

\\\\\

; «un ii

 

 

 

Urs. ‘OQ! do not do your cousin such a wrunys.”

Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire,
Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly :
It were a better death than die with mocks,
Which is as bad as die with tickling.
Urs. Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.
Hero. No; rather I will go to Benedick,
And counsel him to fight against his passion.
And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders
‘To stain my cousin with. One doth not know,
How much an ill word may empoison liking.
Urs. O! do not do your cousin such a wrong.
She cannot be so much without true judgment
(Having so swift and excellent a wit,
As she is priz’d to have), as to refusc 90
So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.
Hero. He is the only man of Italy,
Always excepted my dear Claudio.
Urs. I pray you, be not poe with me, madam,
Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,
For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour,
Goes foremost in report through Italy.
Hero. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.
Urs. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.—
When are you married, madam ? 100
Hero. Why, every day ;—to-morrow. Come, goin:
T’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel,
Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.
Urs. [Aside.] She's lim’d, I warrant you: we have
eament her, madam. .
Hero, Laer e.] If it prove so, then loving goes by
aps:
Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. ‘
Exeunt HERO and URSULA.
Beat. [Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can
this be true?

 

 
 

 

 

Scene III.)

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 481

 

Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt, farewell ! and maiden pride, adieu !
No glory lives behind the back of such.

esa Benedick, love on: I will requite thee,
Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand.

If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
To bind our loves up in a holy band;

For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly.

110

[Exit.

Scene II.—A Room in LEonaTO’s House.

_ Enter Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and
‘ LEONATO.

D. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be con-
summate, and ther go I toward Arragon.

Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll
vouchsafe me.

D.'Pedro. Nay ; that would be as great a soil in the
new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child his
new coat, and forbid him to wear it. I will only be
bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the
crown of his head to the soul of his foot, he is all
mirth: he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring,
and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He
hath a heart as sound as 4 bell, and his tongue is the
clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks.

Hone. Gallants, I 2m not as I have been.

Leon. So say I: methinks, you are sadder.

Claud. I hope he be in love.

D. Pedro. Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop
of blood in him, to be truly touch’d with love. If he
be sad, he wants money. :
Bene. I have the toothache. 20

D. Pedro. Draw it.

Bene. Hang it! f :

claus You must hang it first, and draw it after-
wards.

D. Pedro. What! sigh for the toothache?

Leon. Where is but a humour, or a worm?

Bene. Well, every one can master a grief, but he
that has it. .

Claud. Yet say I, he is in love. 29

D. Pedro. There is no substrates of fancy in him,
unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises ;
as, to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow,
or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German
from the waist downwards, all slops, and a Spaniard
from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a
fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no
fool for piney, as you would have it appear he is.

Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, there
is no believing old signs. He brushes his hat o’ morn-
a ; what should that bode? r 40

, Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

Claud. No, but the barber’s man hath been seen
with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath
already stuffed. tennis-balls. ¢
‘ Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the

loss of a beard. é
| D. Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet: can you
smell him out by that?

_ Claud. That’s as much as to say, the sweet youth’s
in love. 50

D. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face ?

D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which,
Thear what they say of him.

Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is now
crépt ‘into a lute-string, and now governed by stops.

. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him.
Conclude, conclude, he is in love.
Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him.

D. Pedro. That would I know too: I warrant, ane :

that knows him not. : x :
Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite
of all, dies for him.
wee She shall be buried with her face up-
rds, : af :

Bene. Yet is this no charm for the toothache.—Old -

 

signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or
nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-
horses must not hear.
[Hxeunt BENEDICK and LEONATO,
D. Pedro. For my lite, to break with him about
Beatrice. 71
Claud. ’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by
this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the
two bears will not bite one another when they meet.

Enter JOHN.

John. My lord and brother, God save you.

D. Pedro. Good den, brother.

John. If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

D. Pedro. In private?

John. If it B ease ue + yet Count Claudio may
hear, for what I would speak of concerns him. 80

D. Pedro. What’s the matter?

John. [To CLAuD.] Means your lordship to be
married to-morrow?

D. Pedro. You know, he does.

John. I know not that, when he knows what I know.

Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray you,
discover it.

John. You may think, [love you not: let that appear
hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will
manifest. For my brother, I think, he holds you well,
and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your
ensuing marriage ; surely, suit ill spent, and labour
ill bestowed !

D. Pedro. Why, what’s the matter ?

John. I came hither to tell you ; and circumstances
shortened (for she has been too long a talking of), the
lady is disloyal.

Claud.:Who? Hero?

John. Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every
man’s Hero. 100
Claud. Disloyal? :

John. The word is too good to paint out her wicked-
ness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a
worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till
further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall
see her chamber-window entered, even the night
before her wedding-day:-if you love her then, to-
morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour
to change your mind.

Claud. May this be so? 110

D. Pedro. I will not think it. %

John. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not
that you know. If you will follow me, I will show

ou enough; and when you have seen more, and

eard more, oe accordingly.

Claud. If I see anything to-night why I should not
marry her to-morrow : in the congregation, where I
should wed, there will I shame her.

D. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I
will ae with thee to disgrace her. 120

John. I will disparage her:no further, till you_are
my witnesses : bear it coldly but till midnight, and let
the issue show itself.

D. Pedro. O day untowardly turned!

Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting !

John. O plague right well prevented! So will you
say, when you have seen the sequel. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE III.—A Street.

Enter DoGBERRY and VERGES, with the Watch.

Dogb. Are you good men and true?

Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.

Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too good for
them, if they should have any allegiance in them,
being chosen for the prince’s watch.

Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour
oo.

Dogb. First, who think you the most desartless man
to be constable ? 10

1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal, for
they can write and read,

 

 
 

 

482

Dogb. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath
blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured
man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes
by nature.

2 Watch. Both which, master constable,—

Dogb. You have : I knew it would be your answer.
Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and
make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading,
let that appear when there is no need of such vanity.
You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit
man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear
you the lantern. This is your charge. You shall
comprehend all vagrom men: you are to bid any man
stand, in the prince’s name.

2 Watch. How, if a’ will not stand? 3

Dogb. Why, then take no note of him, but let him
go; and presently call the rest of the watch together,
and thank God youare rid ofaknave. 3

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is
none of the prince’s subjects. :

Dogb. True, and they are to meddle with none but
the prince’s subjects.—You shall also make no noise
in the streets; for, for the watch to babble and talk is
most tolerable, and not to be endured.

2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know
what belongs to a watch.

Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and _ most
quiet watchman, for 1 cannot see how sleeping should
offend ; only, have a care that pour bills be not stolen.
Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid
those that are drunk get them to bed.

2 Watch. How, if they will not?

Dogb. Why, then let them alone till they are sober :
if they make you not then the better answer, you may
say they are not the men you took them for.

2 Watch. Well, sir. .

Dogb. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, b:
virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for suc
kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them,
why, the more is for your honesty. 52

2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not
lay hands on him?

Dogb. Truly, by your office you may; but, I think,
they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peace-
able way for Ape if you do take a thief, is, to let him
show himself what he is, and steal out of your com-

pany.
Verg. You have been always called a merciful man,
partner. 61

Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will;
much more a man who hath any honesty in him.

Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must
call to the nurse, and bid her still it.

2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not
hear us?

Dogb. Why, then depart in peace, and let the child
wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear
her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when
he bleats, | 71

Verg. ’T is very true.

Dogb. This is the end of the charge. You, constable,
are to present the prince’s own person: if you meet
the prince in the night, you may stay him.

Verg. Nay, by r lady, that, I think, a’ cannot.

Dogb. Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that
knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, not
without the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch
ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a
man against his will. 81

Verg. oy r lady, I think, it be so.

Dogb. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an
there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.
Keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and good
night. Come, neighbour. -

2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge : let us
go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then
all to bed.

Dogb. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray
you, watch about Signior Leonatos door; for the
wedding being there to-morrow, there is a great coil
to-night. Adieu, be vigitant, I beseech you.

[Exeunt DoGBERRY and VERGES.

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

 

[Act m. |

Enter BoRACHIO and CONRADE.

Bora. What! Conrade!

Watch, [Aside.] Peace! stir not.

Bora. Conrade, I say!

Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow.

Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched ; I thought, there
would a peab follow,

‘on. IT will owe thee an answer for that; an
forward with thy tale. . mol

Bora, Stand thee close then under this penthouse,
for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard
utter all to thee. ;

oo [Aside.] Some treason, masters; yet stand
close.

Bora. Therefore know, I have earned of Don John
a thousand ducats.

Con. Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear?

Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask, if it were possible
any villainy should be so rich; for -when rich villains
have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what
price they will. 113

Con. I wonder at it.

Bora. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou
knowest, that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a
cloak, is nothing to a man.

Con. Yes, it is apparel.

Bora. I mean, the fashion. gi

Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. .. 120

Bora. Tush! I may as well say, the fool’s the fool.
But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion

is?

Watch, [Aside.] I know that Deformed; a’ has
been a vile thief this seven year; a’ goes up and down
like a gentleman. I remember his name.

Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody?

Con. No: ’t was the vane on the house. 128

Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief
this fashion is? how giddily a’ turns about all the hot
bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? some-
time, fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the
reechy painting ; sometime, like god Bel’s priests in
the old church-window ; sometime, like the shaven
Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where
his codpiece seems as massy as his club

Con. All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears
out more apparel than the man. But art not thou
thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast
shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

Bora. Not so neither; but know, that I have to-
night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman,
by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mis-
tress’ chamber-window, bids me a thousand times
good night, —I tell this tale vilely :—I should first tell
thee, how the prince, Claudio, and my master, planted,
and placed, and possessed by my master Don John,
saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.

Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero? 149

Bora. Two of them did, the prince and Claudio;
but the devil, my master, knew she was Margaret;
and partly by his oaths, which first Peet them,

artly by the dark night, which did deceive them,
Bat chiefly es my villainy, which did confirm any
slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio
enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was ap-
pointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before
the whole congregation, shame her with what he
saw over-night, and send her home again without a
husband. ; |, 160

1 Watch. We charge you in the prince's’ name,

stand.

2 Watch. Call up the right master constable. We
have here recovered the most dangerous piece of
lechery, that ever was known in the commonwealth.

1 Watch, And one Deformed is one of them: I know
him, a’ wears a lock.

Con. Masters, masters! ‘

2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I
warrant you. J70

Con, Masters, —

1 Watch. Never speak: we charge you, let us obey
you to go with us, ;

.

 

 

 
 

ScENE V.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

483

 

. Marg.

 

Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commodity,
being taken up of these men’s bills.

Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you.
[Exeunt.

Come, we’ll obey you.

 

|
Enter BEATRICE.

flero. Good morrow, coz.
| Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero.

Hero. Why, how now? do you speak in the
sick tune?

Beat. Tam out of ail other tune, methinks. 40

Marg. Clap us into ‘‘Light 0’ love;” that
goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’
dance it.

Beat. Yea, ‘Light o’ love,” with your heels!
—then, if your husband have stables enough,
you’ll see he shall lack no barns.

Marg. O illegitimate construction !
that with my heels.

Beat. Tis almost five o’clock, cousin: ’tis
time you were ready. By my troth, I am ex-
ceeding ill.—Heigh-ho! 51

Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband 2?

Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H.

Marg. Well, an you be not turned Turk,
there’s no more sailing by the star.

Beat. What means the fool, trow?

Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one
their heart’s desire!

ero. These gloves the count sent me, they
are an excellent perfume. 60

Beat. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell.

Marg. A. maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly
catching of cold.

Beat. O, God help me! God help me! how
long have you profess’d apprehension ?

Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my
wit become me rarely ?

Beat. It is not seen enoush, you should wear
it in your cap.—By my troth, I am sick.

Marg. Get you some of this distilled Carduus
Benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the
only thing for a qualm. 72

Hero. There thou prick’st her with a thistle.

Beat. Benedictus! why Benedictus? you

 

I scorn

 

1 Wuteh, “ We charge you in the prince's name, stand.”

ScENE IV.—A Room in LEonatTo’s House.

Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA.

Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and

desire her to rise.
Urs. I will, lady.

Hero. And bid her come hither.

Urs. Well. [Exit.

Marg. Troth, I think, your other rebato were better.

Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

Marg. By my troth’s not so good; and I warrant,
your cousin will say so.

Hero. My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another. Ill
wear none but this. il

Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, if the
hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a
most rare fashion, i’ faith, I saw the Duchess of
Milan’s gown, that they praise so.

Hero. O, that exceeds, they say.

Marg. By wy troth’s but a night-gown in respect of
yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with silver,
set withipearls down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts
round, underborne with a bluish tinsel ; but for a fine,
quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth
ten on’t. 22

Hero, God give me joy to wear it, for my heart is
exceeding heavy!

T sill Do heavier soon by the moe ofaman.

Hero. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed

Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is
not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your
lord honourable without marriage? I think, you
would have me say, saving your reverence,—a hus-
band: an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking,
Tl offend nobody. Is there any harm in—the heavier
fora husband? None, I think, an it be the right hus-
band, and the right wife; otherwise ‘tis light, and

not heavy : ask my Lady Beatrice else ; here she comes. |

have some moral in this Benedictus.
Marg. Moral? no, by my troth, I have no
moral TOBAMANG': I meant, plain holy-thistle.
You may think, perchance, that I think you are in
love: nay, by’r lady, I am not such a fool to think
what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor
indeed, I cannot think, if I would think my heart out
of thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be
in love, or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick
was such another, and now is he become a man: he
swore he would never marry; and yet now, in despite
of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and
how you may be converted, I know not, but, methinks,
you look with your eyes as other women do.
Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?
Marg. Not a false gallop.

Re-enter URSULA.

Urs.2 Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count,
Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of
the town, are come to fetch you to church.

Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good
Ursula. [Haxeunt.

 

ScENE V.—Another Room in LEONATO’s House.

Enter LEONATO, with DOGBERRY and VERGES.

Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour?

Dogb. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence
with you, that decerns you nearly.

Leon. Brief, I pray you; for, you see, it is a busy
time with me.

Dogb. Marry, this it is, sir.

Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.

Leon. What is it, my good friends?

Dogb. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the
matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt,
as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith,
honest as the skin between his brows. Li

Verg. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man

 

living, that is an old man, and no honester than I.

 

 
 

484

MUCH ADC ABOUT NOTHING,

[Act Iv,

 

 

Dogb. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neigh-
bour Verges.

Leon. ote ees, you are tedious.

Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are
the poor duke’s officers ; but, truly, for mine own part,
if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart
to bestow it all of your worship. 21

Leon. All thy tediousness on me? ha!

Dogb. Yea, an ’t were a thousand pound more than
*tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship,
as of any manin the city, and though I be but a poor
man, I am glad to hear it.

Verg. And so am I.

Leon. I would fain know what you have to say.

Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your
worship’s presence, have ta’en a couple of as arrant
knaves as any in Messina. <

Dogb. A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as
they say, when the age is in, the wit is out. God help
us! it is a world to see!—Well said, i’ faith, neighbour
Verges :—well, God’s a good man: an two men ride
of a horse, one must ride behind.—An honest soul,
i'faith, sir: by my troth he is, as ever broke bread ;
but, God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike ;
alas, good neighbour!

 

Dogb. Gitts that God gives.

Leon, I must leave you.

Dogb. One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have, indeed,
comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would
have them this morning examined before your
worship.

aes Take their ey 4 aloe San yourself, and bring it
me: I am now in great haste, as may appear un

Dogb. It shall be oution noe Coe i a

Leon, Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well.

Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.
1

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your
daughter to her husband. oes 52

Leon, I'll wait upon them: I am ready.

[Hxeunt LEONATO and Messenger.

Dogb. Go, good partner, go; ee you to Francis Sea-
coal ; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol:
we are now to examination these men.

Verg. And we must do it wisely.

Dogb. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you;
here's that shall drive some of them to a non-com:
only get the learned writer to set down our excom-
munication, and meet me at the gaol. [Ezeunt.

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—The Inside of a Church.
Enler Don PEDRO, JOHN, LEONATO, Friar FRANCIS, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, dc.

Fas Leonato.
72) OME, Friar Francis, be brief: only to
% the iene form of marriage, and you
shall recount their particular duties
afterwards.

Fri. You come hither, my lord, to
marry this lady?

Claud. No.

Leon. To be married to her; friar,
you come to marry her.

Fri. Lady, you come hither to be married to this
count? 1l

Hero. I do.

Fri. If either of you know any inward impediment,
why you should not be conjoined, I charge you on
your souls to utter it.

Claud. Know you any, Hero?

Hero. None, my lord.

Fri. Know you any, count ?

Leon. I dare make his answer; none.

Claud. O, what men dare do! what men may do!
what men daily do, not knowing what they do! 21

Bene. How now! Interjections?) Why then, some
be of laughing, as, ah! ha! he!

Claud. Stand thee by, friar.—Father, by your leave:
Will you with free and unconstrained soul
Give me this maid, your daughter?

Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me.

Claud. ong ene have Ito give you back, whose

wor
May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?
PD. Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again. 30
Claud. Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankful-
ness.—
There, Leonato, take her back again:
Give not this rotten orange to your friend;
She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour.—

 

 

Behold, how like a maid she blushes here :
O, what authority and show of truth
Can cunning sin cover itself withal !
Comes not that blood, as modest evidence,
To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,
All you that see her, that she were a maid,
By these exterior shows? But she is none:
She knows the heat of a luxurious bed ;
Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.
Leon. What do you mean, my lord?
Claud. | Not to be married,
Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.
Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth,
And made defeat of her virginity, —
Claud. I know what you would say: if I have
known her,
You’ll say, she did embrace me as a husband, 50
And so extenuate the forehand sin:
No, Leonato, 7
I never tempted her with word too large ;
But, as a brother to his sister, showed
Bashful sincerity, and comely love.
Hero, And seem’d I ever otherwise to you?
Claud. Out on thee, seeming! I will write against it:
You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown ;
But you are more intemperate in your blood 60
Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals
That rage in savage sensuality. ‘
Hero. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?
Claud. Sweet prince, why speak not you?
D. Pedro. What should I speak? |
I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about
To link my dear friend to a common stale.
Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?
John, Six, they are spoken, and these things are true.

 

 

 
 

Scene IL.) MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 485

 

Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. Claud. To make you answer truiy to your name. 80
Hero. True! O God! Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
Claud. Leonato, stand I here? 70 | With any just reproach?

Is this the prince? Is this the prince’s brother? Claud. Marry, that cen Hero:

Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own? Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.

Mit |
i‘

i
ll

Wi

 

beat, “ Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?”

Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? What man was he talk’d with you yesternight
Claud. Let me but move one question to your | Out at oe window, betwixt twelve and one?
daughter, Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.
And, by that fatherly and kindly power Hero. | talk’d with no man at that hour, my lord.
That you have in her, bid her answer truly. D. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden.—Leonato,
Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,
Hero. O God, defend me! how am I beset !— Myself, my brother, and this grieved count, 90

 

What kind of catechising call you this? Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night,

 

 
 

486 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Acr vv. |

 

 

Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window ;
Who hath, indeed, most like a liberal villain,
Confess’d the vile encounters they have had
A thousand times in secret.
John. Fie, tie: they are not to be nam’d, my lord,
Not to be spoke of ; :
There is not chastity enough in language,
Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,
Iam sorry for thy much misgovernment. 100
Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been,
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts, and counsels of thy heart !
But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,
Thou pure impiety, and impious purity!
For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious. i
Leon. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me?
HERO swoons.
Beat. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you
down? 111
John. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to
light,
Smother her spirits up.
Exeunt Don PepRo, JOHN, and CLAUDIO.
Bene. How doth the lady?
Beat. Dead, I think :—help, uncle !—
Hero! ways Hero !— Uncle! —Signior Benedick ! —
Friar !

Leon. O fate! take not away thy heavy hand:
Death is the fairest cover for her shame,
That may be wish’'d for.
Beat. How now, cousin Hero?
Fri, Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up?
fri. Yea; wherefore should she not?
Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly
thing 121
Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
The story that is printed in her blood ?—
Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes;
For did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one?
Chid I for that at frugal Nature’s frame?
O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
Why had I not with charitable hand
Took up a beggar’s issue at my gates;
Who smirched thus, and mir’d with infamy,
I might have said, *‘ No part of 1t is mine,
This shame derives itself from unknown loins?”
But mine, and mine I lov’d, and mine I prais’d,
And mine that I was proud on; mine so much,
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her; why, she—O! she is fallen
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little, which may season give
To her foul-tainted flesh !
Bene. Sir, sir, be patient.
For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder,
I know not what to say.
Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied !
Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night ?
Beat. No, truly, not; although, until last night,
I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. 150
Leon. Pontene, confirm’d! O, that is stronger
made,
Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron!
Would the two princes lic? and Claudio lie,
Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness.
Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her, let her dic.
Fri. Hear me a little; :
For I have only been silent so long,
And given way unto this course of fortune,
By noting of the lady : I have mark’d
A thousand blushing apparitions 1
To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames
In angel whiteness beat away those blushes;

130

140

 

And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire,
To burn the errors that these princes hold
Against her maiden truth.—Call me a fool;
Trust not my reading, nor my observation,
Which with experimental seal doth warrant
The tenor of my book ; trust not my age,
My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here 170
Under some bitimg error.
Leon. Friar, it cannot be.
Thou seest, that all the grace that she hath left,
Is, that she will not add to her damnation
A sin of perjury: she not denies it.
Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse
That which appears in proper nakedness ?
Fri. Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of ?
Hero. They know that do accuse me, I know none.
If I know more of any man alive,
Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, 180
Let all my sins lack mercy !—O my father !
Prove you that any man with me convers’d
At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
Maintain’d the change of words with any creature,
Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.
fri. There is some strange misprision in the princes.
Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour ;
And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
The practice of it lives in John the bastard,

Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. 190
Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,

The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
Nor age so eat up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor tny bad lite vett me so much of friends,
But they sha) , awak’d in such a kind,
Both strength of limb, and policy of mind,

 

Ability in means, and choice of friends, 200
To quit me of them thoroughly. :
Fri. Pause awhile, :

And let my counsel sway you in this case.

Your daughter here the princes left for dead;

Let her awhile be secretly kept in, ;
And publish it, that she is dead indeed: :
Maintain a mourning ostentation ;

And on your family’s old monument

Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites

That appertain unto a burial.

Leon. What shall become of this? what will this do?
Fri. Marry, this, well carried, shall on her behalf
Change slander to remorse; that issome good: 212

But not for that dream I on this strange course,

But on this travail look for greater birth.

She dying, as it must be so maintain’d,

Upon the instant that she was accus’'d,

Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d

Of every hearer ; for it so falls out,

That what we have we prize not to the worth,
Whiles we enjoy it, but being Jack’d and lost, 220
Why, then we rack the value; then we find

The virtue, that possession would not show us,
Whiles it was ours.—So will it fare with Claudio:
When he shall hear she died upon his words,

The idea of her life shall sweetly creep

Into his study of imagination,

And every lovely organ of her life

Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit,

More moving, delicate, and full of life,

Into the eye and prospect of his soul, 230
Than when she liv’d indeed :—then shall he mourn,
(If ever love had interest in his liver)

And wish he had not so accused her;

No, though he thought his accusation true.

Let this be so, and doubt not but success

Will fashion the event in better shape

Than I ean Jay it down in likelihood.

But if all aim but this be levell’d false,

The supposition of the lady’s death

‘Will quench the wonder of her infamy: 240
And, if it sort not well, you may conceal her,

As best befits her wounded reputation,

 

 
 

 

 

Scene II.]

In some reclusive and religious life,
Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries.

Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:
And though, you know, my inwardness and love
Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,

Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
’ As secretly and justly, as your soul
Should with your body. :

Leon. Being that I flow in grief, 250
The smallest twine may lead me.

Fri. ’Tis well consented: presently away,

For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.—

Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day,

Perhaps, is but prolong’d : have patience, and endure.
Exeunt Friar, HERO, and LEONATO.

Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

Bene. I will not desire that.

Beat. You have no reason; I do it freely.

Bene. Surely, I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged. 261

Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me
that would right her !

Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship?

Beat. A very even way, but no such friend.

Bene. May a man do it?

Beat. It is a man’s office, but not yours.

Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you.
Is not that strange ? ° 269

Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It were
as possible for me to say, I loved nothing so well as
you ; but believe me not, and yet I lie not: I confess
nothing, nor I deny nothing.—I am sorry for my
cousin. i

Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

Beat. Do not swear by it, and eat it.

Bene. I wiil swear by it, that you love me; and I
will make him eat it, that says I love not you.

Beat. Will you not eat your word?

Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I
protest, I love thee. 281

Beat. Why then, God forgive me!

Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice?

Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was
about to protest, I loved you.

Bene. And do it with all thy heart.

Beat. I love you with so much of my heart, that
none is left to protest.

Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee.

Beat. Kill Claudio.

Bene. Ha! not for the wide world.

Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

Beat. I am gone, though I am here.—There is no
love in you.—Nay, I pray you, let me go.

Bene. Beatrice,—

Beat. In faith, I will go.

Bene. We'll be friends first.

Beat. You dare easier be friends with me, than fight
with mine pneD ye 300

Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy ?

Beat. Is he not approved in the height a villain,
that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kins-
woman ?—O, that I were a man!—What! bear her in
hand until they come to take‘ hands, and then with
public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated
rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his
heart in the market-place.

Bene. Hear me, Beatrice,—

290

saying. ,
ene. Nay, but, Beatrice, —

- Beat. Sweet Hero !—she is wronged, she is slandered,
she is undone.

Bene. Beat—

Beat. Princes, and counties! Surely, a princely
testimony, a goodly count, count-confect; a sweet
gallant, surely! O, that I were a man for his sake!
or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake'
But manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into
compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and
trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Beat. Talk with a man out at a window !—a Proper

 

487

only tells a lie, and swears it.—I cannot be a man with
wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
ce Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love
ee.
Beat. Use it for my love some other way than
swearing by it.
Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio
hath wronged Hero? 330
Beat. Yea, as sure as J have a thought, or a soul.
Bene. Enough! Iam engaged, I will challenge him.

ee

es
SAI

Beat. “‘ Nay, I pray you, let me go.’

 

I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this
hand, Claudio shall render me adearaccount. Asyou
hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin :
I must say she is dead; and so, farewell. [Exeunt.

ScENE JI.—A Prison.

Enter DoGBERRY, VERGES, and Sexton, in gowns ;
and the Watch, with CONRADF and BoRACHIO.

Dogbd. Is our whole dissembly appeared ?

Verg. O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sexton. Which be the malefactors?

Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verg. Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition
to examine.

Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be
examined? let them come before master constable.

Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me.—What
is your name, friend? 10

ora. Borachio.

Dogb. Pray, write down Borachio.— Yours, sirrah ?

Con. [ama gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Dogb. Write down master gentleman Conrade.—
Masters, do you serve God?

Con., Bora. Yea, sir, we hope.

Dogb. Write down, that they hope they serve God:
—and write God first ; for God defend but God should
go before such villains !— Masters, it is proved already
that you are little better than false knaves, and it will
go hear to be thought soshortly. How answer you for
yourselves? . 22

Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none.

Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but
T will go about with him.—Come you hither, sirrah ; a
word in your ear, sir: I say to you, it is thought you
are false knaves.

Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none.

Dogb. Well, stand aside.—’Fore God, they are both
inatale. Have you writ down, that they are none ? 30

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the ey to
examine: you must call forth the watch that are their
accusers.

Dogb. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.—Let the

 

 
 

488

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Act V,

 

watch come forth.—Masters, I charge you, in the
prince’s name, accuse these men.

1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the
prince’s brother, was a villain. ee

Dogb. Write down—Prince John a villain.—Why,
this is flat perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain. 40

Bora, Master constable,— :

Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy
look, I promise thee. 5

Sexton. What heard you him say else?

2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand
ducats of Don John, for accusing the Lady Hero
wrongfully. .

Dogd. Fiat burglary as ever was committed.

Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is.

Sexton. What else, fellow? ‘ 50

1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon
his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assem-
bly, and fot marry her. ‘

Dogb. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into ever-
lasting redemption for this,

Sexton, What else ?

2 Watch. This is all.

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can
deny. Prince John is this morning Becredy crolen
away: Hero was inthis manner accused, in this very
manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly
died. Master constable, let these men be bound, and
brought to Leonato’s: I will go before, and show him
their examination. [Exit.

Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned.

Verg. Let them be in the hands—

Con. Off, coxcomb! .

Dogb. God’s my life! where 's the sexton? let him
write down the prince’s officer, coxcomb.—Come, bind
them.—Thou naughty varlet! 70

Con, Away! you are an ass; you are an ass.

   

Antonio.
ap F you go on thus, you will kill yourself ;
yy And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief
Against yourself.

eon. I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As waterinasieve. Give not me counsel;
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear,
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with

mine:

Bring me a father that so lov'd his child,

‘Whose doy, of her is overwhelm’d like mine,

And bid him speak of patience: 10

Measure his woe the length and breadth of

mine,

And let it answer every strain for strain ;

As thus for thus, and such a grief for such,

In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:

If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard,

And—sorrow, wag!—cry hem, when he should groan;

( Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk
With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,

And I of him will gather patience.

But there is no such man; for, brother, men

Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief

Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,

20

 

 

ACT

Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou
not suspect my years ?—O, that he were here to write
me down an ass !—but, masters, remember, that Iam
un ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not

   

ys OF SN : SS
WN pee :
NX . : .
NWS —
Dogb, * Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not sus-
pect ny years?”

that I am an ass.—No, thou villain, thou art -full of
piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I
am a wise fellow ; and, which is more, an officer;.and,
which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as
pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that
knows the law, goto; and a rich fellow enough, go to;
and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath
two gowns, and everything handsome about him.
Bring him away. O, that [had been writ down an
ass! [EHzeunt,

 

Vv.

ScENE J.—Before LEonaAtTo’s House.
Enter LEoNATO and ANTONIO.

Their counsel turns to passion, which before
Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
Charm ache with air, and agony with words.
No, no; ’t is all men’s office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow, °
But no man’s virtue, nor sufficiency,
To be so moral, when he shall endure E
The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:
My griefs cry louder than advertisement. eae
Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ.
Leon. I pray thee, peace! I will be flesh and blood;
For there was never yet philosopher,
That could endure the toothache patiently,
However they have writ the style of gods,
And made a push at chance and sufferance.
Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;
Make those that do offend you suffer too. 40
Leon. There thou speak’st reason : nay, I will do s0.
My soul doth tell me Hero is belied ; ~
And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince,
And all of them, that thus dishonour her.

Enter Don PEDRO and CLAUDIO. ie

30

 

Ant. Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily. _ .
D. Pedro. Good den, good den. ~ e

ar

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE ‘I.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

489

 

Claud. Good day to both of you.
Leon. Hear you, my lords,—
D. Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato.

Leon. Some haste, my lord !—well, fare you well,
my lord :—
Are you so hasty now ?— well, all is one.
~D. Pedro, Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.
Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling, 41
Some of us would lie low.
Claud. Who wrongs him ?
Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou, dissembler

ou.—

Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;

I fear thee not.
Claud.

If it should give

In faith, my han

Marry, beshrew my hand,
our age such cause of fear.
meant nothing to my sword.

 

Claud. * In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.”

Leon. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at

me:
I speak not like a dotard, nor a fool,
As, under privilege of age, to brag
What I have done being guns or what would do,
Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,
Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me,
That I am fore’d to lay my reverence by,
And with grey hairs, and bruise of many days,
Do challenge thee to trial of a man.
I gay, thou hast belied mine innocent child :
Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,
And she lies buried with her ancestors,
QO! in a tomb where never scandal slept, 70
Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villainy.
Claud. My villainy ? és
Leon. Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.
D. Pedro. You say not right, old man.
’ Leon, My lord, my lord,
I'll prove it on his body, if he dare,
Despite his nice fence, and his active practice,
His ay of youth, and bloom of lustihood.
Claud. Away! I will not have to do with you.
Leon. Canst thou so daffme? Thou hast kill’d my

child:

If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

Ant. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed: 80
But that’s no matter ; let him kill one first ;—
Win me and wear me ;—let him answer me.—
Come, follow me, boy ! come, sir boy, come, fol'!ow me.
Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence ;
Ta as I am a gentleman, I will.

on.. Brother,—
Ant. Content yourself.

God knows, I lov’d my
niece ;

 

 

And she is dead ; slander’d to death by villains,
That dare as well answer a man, indeed,
As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. £0
Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops !—
econ. Brother Antony,—
Ant. Hold you content. What, man! I know them,

yea,
And what they-weigh, even to the utmost scruple:
Scambling, outfacing, fashion-mong’ring boys,
That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave and slander,
Go antickly, and show outwar hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
How they ae hurt their enemies, if they durst ;
And this is all!
Leon. But, brother Antony,—
Ant. Come, ’t is no matter:
Do not you meddle, let me deal in this. 101
D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we
will not wake your pa-
ticnce.
My heart is sorry for your daugh-
, _ ter’s death ;
But,’ on my honour, she was
charg’d with nothing
But what was true, and very full
of proof.
Leon. My lord, my lord '—

D. Pedro. Twill not hear you.

Leon. No?

Come, brother, away.—I will be
heard.—

Ant. And shall, or some of us
will smart for it.
{Excunt LEONATO and
ANTONIO.

Enter BENEDICK.

D. Pedro. See, see: here comes

the man we went to seek.

Claud. Now, signior, whatnews?

Fene. Good day, my lord. 111

D. Pedro. Welcome, signior:
you are almost come to part
almost a fray.

Claud. We had like to have
had our two noses snapped off
with two old men without teeth.

D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What think’st
thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been
too young for them.

Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I
came to seek you both.

Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee;
for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain
have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit?

Bene. It isin my scabbard ; shall I draw it?

D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

Claud, Never any did so, though very many have
been beside their wit.—I will bid thee draw, as we do
the minstrels ; draw to pleasure us, 130

D. Pedro. AsI am an honest man, he looks pale.—
Art thou sick, or angry ?

Claud. What! courage, man! What though care
killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill
care.

Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an
xen charge it against me.—I pray you, choose another
subject.

Claud. Nay, then give him another staff: this last
was broke cross. . 140

D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more.
I think he be angry indeed.

Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

Bene. Shall I speak a. word in your ear?

Claud. God bless me from a challenge!

Bene. You are a villain.—I jest not.—I will make it
good how you dare, with what you dare, and when
you dare.—Do me right, or I will protest your
cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her
death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you.

eee Well, I will meet you, so I may have oe
cheer.

 

 
 

490

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Act Vv.

 

 

D. Pedro. What, a feast? a feast ?

Claud. Y faith, Ijthank him; he hath bid me toa
calf’s-head and a capon, the which if I do not carve
most curiously, say my knife’s naught.—Shall I not
find a woodcock too?

Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well: it goes easily.

D. Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy
wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit.
“True,” said she, ‘‘a fine little one.” ‘‘No,” said I,
“a great, wit.” “Right,” says she, ‘“‘a great gross
one.” “Nay,” said I, ‘ta good wit.”  ‘‘ Just,” said
she, “it hurts nobody.” ‘‘ Nay,” said I, ‘the gentle-
man is wise.” ‘‘ Certain,” said she, ‘‘a wise gentle-
man.” ‘‘Nay,” said I, ‘he hath the tongues.” ‘ That
I believe,” said she, ‘‘for he swore a thing to me
on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday
morning: there’s a double tongue;
there ’s two tongues.” Thus did she,

Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division;
and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well ee

D. Pedro. Who have you offended, masters, that you
are thus bound to your answer? this learned constable
is too cunning to be understood. What’s your offence?

Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no further to mine
answer: do you hear me, and let this count kill me,
have deceived even your very eyes: what your wis-
doms could not discover, these shallow fools have
brought to light; who, in the night, overheard me
confessing to this man, how Don John your brother
incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were
brought into the orchard, and saw me court Morearet
in Hero’s garments; how you disgraced her, when
you should marry her. My villainy they have upon
record, which I had rather seal with my death, ian

 

an hour together, trans-shape thy parti-
cular virtues ; yet at last she concluded
with a sigh, thou wast the properest
man in Italy.

Claud. For the which she wept
heartily, and said she cared not.

D. Pedro. Yea, that she did ; but yet,
for all that, an if she did not hate him
deadly, she would love him dearly.
The old man’s daughter told us all. 180

Claud. All, all; and moreover, God
saw him when he was hid in the
garden.

D., Pedro. But when shall we set the
savage bull’s horns on the sensible
Benedick’s head ?

Claud. Yea, and text underneath,
“Here dwells Benedick the married
man!”

Bene. Fare you well, boy: you know
my mind. I will leave you now to
your gossip-like humour: you_ break
jests as braggarts do their blades,
which, God be thanked, hurt not.—
My lord, for your many courtesies I
thank you: I must discontinue your
company. Your brother, the bastard,

 

is fled from Messina: you have, among
you, killed a sweet and innocent lady.
For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and
I shall meet ; and till then, peace be with him.

D, Pedro. He is in earnest. 202

Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant
you, for the love of Beatrice.

D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee?

Claud. Most sincerely. ;

D. Pedro, What a pretty thing man is, when he
goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off his wit!

Claud. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an
ape a doctor to such a man. 210

D. Pedro, But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my
peat), and be sad! Did he not say, my brother was

e

Enter DoGBERRY, VERGES, and the Watch, with
CONRADE and BORACHIO.

Dogb. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you,
she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance.
Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be
looked to.

D, Pedro. How now! two of my brother’s men
bound? Borachio one?

Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord! 220
Dz. gears Officers, what offence have these men

one

Dogb. Marry, sir, they have committed false report ;
moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily,
they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied
a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things;
and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done;
thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence; sixth and
lastly, why they_are committed; and, to conclude,
what you lay to their charge.

[Exit.
999

 

 

Dogb. * Marry, sir, they have comulcted false report.”

repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon
mine and my master’s false accusation ; and, briefly,
I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. 25
PD. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through
your blood ?
Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it.
D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this?
Bora. Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it.
D. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram’d of treachery.
And fled he is upon this villainy.
Claud. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear
in the rare semblance that I loved it first. !
Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time
our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the
matter. And, masters, do not forget to specify, when
time and place shall serve, that I am_an ass. 262
Verg. Here, here comes master Signior Leonato,
and the sexton too.

Re-enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, and the Sexton.

Leon. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes,
That when I note another man like him,
Imay avoid him. Which of these is he?
Bora. If you would know your wronger, look on me.
Leon. ee the slave, that with thy breath hast
ill’
Mine innocent child?
ora. Yea, even I alone.
Leon. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:
Here stand a pair of honourable men,
A third is fled, that had a hand in it.—
I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death:
Record it with your high and worthy deeds.
’T was bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

270

 

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE IT.]

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 491

 

Claud. I know not how to pray your patience,
Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;
Impose me to what penance your invention
Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not,

But in mistaking.

D, Pedro. |. By my soul, norI;
And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
J would bend under any heavy weight
That he’ll enjoin me to.

Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live
That were impossible: but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here,

How innocent she died ; and, if your love

Can labour aught in sad invention,

Hang her an epi h upon her tomb,

And sing it to her bones: sing it to-night.—
‘To-morrow one come you to my house,

And since you could not be my son-in-law,

Be yet ay nephew. My brother hath a daughter,
Almost the copy of my child that’s dead,

And she alone is heir to both of us:

Give her the right you should have given her cousin,
And so dies my revenge.

Claud. O noble sir,

Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me.
I do embrace your offer ; and dispose 300
From henceforth of poor Claudio.

=, Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your coming ;
To-night I take my leave.—This naughty man

Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,

Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong,

Hir’d to it by your brother.

Bora. No, by my soul, she was not;
Nor knew not what she did, when she spoke to me;
But always hath been just and virtuous,

In anything that I do know by her. 309

Dogb. Moreover, sir, which, indeed, is not under
white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did
call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his
punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of
one Deformed: cay say, he wears a key in his ear,
and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's
name; the which he hath used so long, and never
paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend
nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him upon
that point.

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. 320

Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most thankful
and reverend youth, and I praise God for you.

Leon. There’s for thy pains.

Dogb. God save the foundation !

Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I
thank thee.

Dogb. I leave an arrant knave with your worship ;
which I beseech your worship to correct yourself for
the example of others. God keep your worship; I
wish your worship well: God restore you to health.
I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry
meeting may be wished, God _ prohibit it !—Come,
neighbour. [Hxeunt DOGBERRY, VERGES, and Watch.

Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

Ant. Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

D. Pedro. We will not fail.

Claud. To-night I’ll mourn with Hero.

[Exeunt Don PEDRO and CLAUDIO.

Leon. Bring you these fellows on. We'll talk with

Margaret,
How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.
Exeunt.

290

ScENE II.—LronaTo’s Garden.

Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting.

Bene. Pray thee, swect Mistress Margaret, deserve
well at my hands by helping me to the speech of
Beatrice.

Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of
mny beauty ?

_ Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man
living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth,
thou deservest it.

 

Marg. To have no man come over me? why, shall
I always keep below stairs ? 10

Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth;
it catches. ‘

Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils,
which hit, but hurt not.

Bene. A most manly wit. Margaret; it will not hurt
a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give
thee the bucklers.

Marg. Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our
own.

Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in
the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous

weapons for maids. 22
Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who, I
think, hath legs.

Bene. And therefore will come.

[Singing.] The god of love,
That sits above,
And knows me, and knows me,
How pitiful I deserve,—

I mean, in singing; but in loving, Leander the good
swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a
whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers,
whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a
blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned
over and over as my poor self in love. Marry,

cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried : I can find out
no rhyme to ‘‘lady” but ‘‘ baby,” an innocent rhyme;
for “scorn,” ‘‘horn,” a hard rhyme; for *‘ school,”
“fool,” a babbling rhyme,—very ominous endings.
No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I
cannot woo in festival. terms.— 41

[Exit Mara.

Enter BEATRICE.
vue Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called
thee?

Beat. Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me.

Bene. O, stay but till then!

Beat. ‘*‘ Then” is spoken ; fare you well now :—and
yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came; which is,
with knowing what hath passed between you and
Claudio.

Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss

> 51

ee. 5

Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is
but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome ; therefore
I will pepe unkissed.

Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right
sense, so forcible is thy wit. But, I must tell thee
plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I
must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a
coward. And,I pray thee now, tell me, for which of
my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me? 60

Beat, For them all together; which maintained so
politic a state of evil, that they will not admit any
good part to intermingle with them. But for which
of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Bene. Suffer love! a good epithet. I do suffer love,
indeed, for I love thee against my will.

Beat. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor
heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for

ours; for I will never love that which my friend
ates. : 70

Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

Beat. It appears not in this confession: there’s not
one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived
in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not
erect, in this age, his own tomb ere he dies, he shall
live no longer in monument, than the bell rings, and
the widow weeps.

Beat, And how long is that, think you? 79

Bene. Question :—why, an hour in clamour, and a

uarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for
the wise (if Don Worm, his conscience, find no
impediment to the contrary), to be the trumpet of
his own virtues, as I am:‘to myself. So much for
praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
praiseworthy And now tell me, how doth your
cousin

 

 
 

 

 

192

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Acr Vv,

 

Beat. Very ill.

Bene. And how do you?

Beat. Very ill too. ot

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I
leave you too, for here comes onc in haste.

Enter URSULA.

Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle.
Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero
hath been falsely accused, the prince and Claudio
mightily abused ; and Don John is the author of all,
who is fled and gone. Will you come presently ?

Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior ?

 

  

9

Beat. ** Will you go hear this news, signior?”

 

SSS

Bene. T will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be
buried in thy eyes; and, moreover, I will go with thee
to thy uncle's. [Exeunt.

ScENE ITI.—The Inside of a Church.

Entcr Don PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and Attendants, with
music and tapers.

Claud, Is this the monument of Leonato?
Atten, It is, my lord.
Claud. [Reads from a scroll.}
“Done to death by slanderous tongues
Was the Hero that here lics:
Death, in querdon of her wrongs,
Gives her fame which never dies.
So the life, that dicd with shame,
Lives in death with glorious fame.”
Hang thou there upon the tomb,
Praising her when Iam dumb.— 10
Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
Sona.
Pardon, goddess of the night,
Those that slew thy virgin knight;
For the which, with songs of woe,
Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, assist our moan ;
Help us to sigh and groan,
Fleavily, heavily :
Graves, yawn, and yield your dead,
Till death be uttered, 20
Heavily, heavily.

 

Claud. Now, unto thy bones good night!
Yearly will I do this rite = .
D. Pedro. Good morrow, masters: put your torches

out.

The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle

Before the wheels of Bicehue, round abet mn

Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.

Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.
Claud. Good morrow, masters: each his several way.
D. Pedro, Come, let us hence, and put on other

30

weeds ;

Any ag ie Tenney we will go.
‘laud, An ymen now with luckier issue speed’

Than this, for whom we render'd up this woe at's

[Ezeunt.

 

ScENE IV.—A Room in LEonato’s House.

Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, MARGARET,
BEATRICE, URSULA, Friar FRANCIS, and HERO.
Fri. Did I not tell you she was innocent ?
Leon. So are the prince and Claudio, who accus’d her

Upon the error that you heard debated :

But Margaret was in some fault for this,

Although against her will, as it appears

In the true course of all the question.
int. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.
Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enfore’d

To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.
Leon. Well, ae et and you gentlewomen all, 10

Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,

And, when I send for you, come hither mask’d:

The prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour

To visit me. [Hxeunt Ladies.]—You know your office,

brother:

You must be father to your brother's daughter,

And give her to young Claudio.
aint, Which I will do with confirm’d countenance.
Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.
Fri. To do what, signior?

Bene. To bind me, or undo me; one of them.— 20 °

Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.
Leon. That eye my daughter lent her: ’tis most true.
Bene. And 1 do with an eye of love requite her.
Leon. The sight whereof, I think, you had from me,
From Claudio, and the prince. But what's your will?
Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical :
But, for my will, my will is, your good will
May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d
In the state of honourable marriage :—
In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.
Leon. My heart is with your liking.
t And my help.

Fri. ;
Here come the prince and Claudio.

Enter Don PEDRO and CLAUDIO, with Attendants.
D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. _.
Leon. Good morrow, prince ; good morrow, Claudio:

We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d

To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?
Claud. I'l hold my mind, were she an Ethiop.
Leon. Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready.

[Exit ANTONIO.
D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's
the matter, 40

That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?

Claud. I think, he thinks upon the savage bull.—
Tush! fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold,
And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,

As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
When he would play the noble beast in love.

Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low: |,
And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow.
And got a calf in that same noble feat, 50
Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked.
Claud. For this I owe you, here come other reckon-

ings.
Which is the lady I must seize upon?

 

 
 

Scene IV.] MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 493

 

 

Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. ! One Hero died defil’'d ; but I do live,
Claud. Why, then she’s mine.—Sweet, let me see | And, surely as I live, Iam a maid.
our face. ; D. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead!
Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d.
Before this friar, and swear to marry her. Fri. All this amazement can I qualify:

 

Claud. ‘Give me your band before this holy friar :

Iam your busband, if you like uf me.

Claud. Give me your hand before this holy friar: | When after that the holy rites are ended,
Tam your husband, if you like of me. : I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death:
Hero. And when I liv’d, I was your other wife: 60 | Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, 70
[Unmasking. | And to the chapel let us presently.
And when you lov’d, you were my other husband. Bene. Soft and fair, friar.—Which is Beatrice?
Claud. Another Hero? Beat. I answer to that name. [Unmasking.] What

ero, Nothing certainer. is your will?

 

 
 

494

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

[Act V,

 

 

Bene. Do not you love me?

Beat. Why, no; no more than reason. .

Bene. Why, then, your uncle, and the prince, and
Claudio, have been deceived: they swore you did.

Beat. Do not you love me?

Bene. Troth, no; no more than reason.

Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula,
Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did. 81

Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for

Bene.

Beat.
Leon.

man,

Claud. And I'll be sworn upon ’t, that he loves her;
For here’s a paper, written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
Fashion'd to Beatrice.

Hero. And here’s another,
Writ in my cousin’s hand, stol’n from her pocket,
Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! here’s our own hands against our
hearts.—Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I
take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny you ;—but, by this good day,
I yield upon great persuasion, and, partly, to save
your life, forI was told you were in a consumption.

Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth.

D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick, the married
man?

me.
‘Tis no such matter.—Then, you do not love
me?

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

Come, cousin, Iam sure you love the gentle-

90

 

 

Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince: a college of wi
crackers cannot flout me out of my humour, Dost
thou think, I care for a satire, or an epigram? No:
if a man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear
nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do
purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose
that the world can say against it: and therefore
never flout at me for what Ihave said against it, for
man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.—For
thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee;
but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live
unbruised, and love my cousin.

Claud. I had well hoped, thou wouldst have denied
Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy
single life, to make thee a double-dealer ; which, out
of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look
exceeding narrowly to thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends.—Let’s have a
dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our
own hearts, and our wives’ heels. 121

Leon. We'll have dancing afterward.

Bene. First, of my word; therefore play, music!—
Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get ise a wife:
phere is no staff more reverend than one tipped with

orn.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight,
And brought with armed men back to Messina.
Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow : I'll devise |
thee brave punishments for him.—Strike up, pipers.
Dance. Exeunt.

 
 

 

 

 

ne. pales THE FIFTH.

Dene oe BEpronn, i Brothers to the King.

DUKE OF EXETER, Uncle to the King.

DUKE OF YORK, Cousin to the King.

EARLS OF SALISBURY, WESTMORELAND, and WaR- |
WICK.

ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY.

BisHop OF ELY.

EARL OF CAMBRIDGE, )

Lorp Scroop, , Conspirators.

Sir THoMAS GREY, )}

Sir THOMAS ERPINGHAM, GOWER, FLUELLE™, Mac-
MORRIS, JAMY, Officers in King Henry's Army.

BaTEs, CouRT, WILLIAMS, Soldiers.

PISTOL, NYM, BARDOLPH.

Boy, Servant to them. .A Herald.

   

Chorus.

> FOR a muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention !

A kingdom for a stage, princes to act.
And monarchs to behold the swelling

scene! :
Then should the warlike Harry, like
himself, ;
Assume the port of Mars; and at his

eels, ;
Leash’d in like hounds, should famine,

e sword, and fire,
: Crouch for employment. But pardon,
gentles all,
The flat unraised spirits that have dar’d
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 10

So great an object : can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of Frar.ce? or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques,
That did affright the air at Agincourt?

 

KING HENRY V.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

CIIARLES THE SixtH, King of France.

Lewis, the Dauphin.

DUKES OF BURGUNDY, ORLEANS, and BOURBON.
The Constable of France.

RAMBURES and GRANDPRE, French Lords.
MonvJoy, a French Herald.

Governor of Harfleur.

Ambassadors to England.

ISABEL, Queen of France.

KATHARINE, Daughter of Charles and Isabel.
ALICE, a Lady attending on the Princess.
MISTRESS QUICKLY, a Hostess.

Chorus. :

Lords, Ladies, Officers, French and English Soldiers,
Messengers, and Attendants. :

SCENE—In ENGLAND and in FRANCE,

 

ACT I.
Enter Chorus.

O, pardon! since a crooked figure may

Attest in little place a million;

And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,

On your imaginary forces work.

Suppose, within the girdle of these walls

Are now confin’d two net monarchies,

Whose high upreared and abutting fronts

The perilous, narrow ocean parts asunder.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,

And make imaginary puissance :

Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth ;
For ‘tis your thoughts that now must deck’our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o’er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years

Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,

Admit me Chorus to this history ;

Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray, ,
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. [Zrit.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ScENE I.—London. An Ante-Chamber in the K1n@’s Palace.
r Enter the Archbishop of CANTERBURY and Bishop of ELy.

2 os Canterbury. a
< LD) Y lord, I'll tell you, that self bill is

urg'd,
Which in the eleventh year of
the last king's reign

  

against us,
We lose the better half of our possession ;
' For all the temporal lands, which men
devout .
By testament have given to the Church, 10
ould they strip from us; being valued thus,—
As much as would maintain, to the king’s honour,
Full fifteen earls, and fifteen hundred knights,
Six thousand and two hundred good esquires ;
And, to relief of lazars, and weak age, |
Of indigent faint souls, past corporal toil,
A hundred almshouses, right well supplied ;
And to the coffers of the king beside, .
A thousand pounds by the year. Thus runs the bill.
Ely. This would drink deep.
Cant. ’T would drink the cup and all.
Ely. But what prevention? 21
Cant. The king is full of grace, and fair regard.
Ely, And a true lover of the holy church.
Cant. The courses of his youth promis’d it not.
The breath no sooner left his father’s body,
But that his wildness, mortitied in him,
Seem’d to die too: yea, at that very moment,
Consideration like an angel came,
And bee in the offending Adam out of him,
Leaving his body as a paradise, 30
To envelop and contain celestial spirits.
Never was such a sudden scholar made ;
Never came reformation in a flood,
With such a heady currance, scouring faults;
Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness
So soon did lose his seat and all at once

As in this king.
Ely. We are blessed in the change.
Cant. Hear him but reason in divinity,
And, all-admiring, with an inward wish
‘You would desire the king were made a prelate: 40
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,
You would say, it hath been all-in-all his study:
List his discourse of war, and you shall hear
A fearful battle render’d you in music:
Turn him to any cause of policy,
The Gordian knot of it he will unloose,
Familiar as his garter; that, when he speaks,
The air, a charter’d libertine, is still,
And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears,
To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences; 50
So that the art and practic part of life
Must be the mistress to this theoric:
Which is a wonder, how his grace should glean it,
Since his addiction was to courses vain ;
His companies unletter’d, rude, and shallow ;
His hours fill’d up with riots, banquets, sports ;
And never noted in him any study,
Any retirement, any sequestration
From open haunts and popularity.

 

Ely. The strawberry grows underneath the nettle,
And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best, 61
Meishbeard by fruit of baser quality ;
And so the prince obscur’d his contemplation
Under the veil of wildness ; which, no doubt,
Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night,
Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.
Cant, It must be so; for miracles are ceas’d;
And therefore we must needs admit the means,
How things are perfected.
Ely. os But, my good lord,
How now for mitigation of this bill
Urg’d by the commons? Doth his majesty
Incline to it, or no?
Cant. _ _ He seems indifferent,
Or, rather, swaying more upon our part,
Than cherishing the exhibiters against us;
For I have made an offer to his majesty,—
Upon our spiritual convocation,
And in regard of causes now in hand,
Which I have open’d to his grace at large,
As touching France,—to give a greater sum
Than ever at one time the clergy yet 80
Did to his predecessors part withal.
Ely. How did this offer seem receiv’d, my lord?
Cant. With good acceptance of his majesty ;
Save, that there was not time enough to hear
(As, I perceiv’d, his grace would fain have done)
‘The severals, and unhidden passages
Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms,
And, generally, to the crown and seat of France,
Deriv’d from Edward, his Steet eran anor i
Ely. What was the impediment that broke this off?
Cant. The French ambassador upon that instant 91
Crav’d audience ; and the hour, I think, is come,
To give him hearing. Is it four o'clock?
Ely. Itis. .
Cant. Then go we in, to know his embassy,
Which I. could with a ready guess declare,
Before the Frenchman Seals Word ae it "
Ely. I'll wait upon you, an ong to hear il
y pon you, gs [Beceunt

ro

SceNE II.—The Same. A Room of State in the Same.

Enter King HENRY, GLOSTER, BEDFORD, EXETER,
WaRWICK, WESTMORELAND, and Attendants.

K. Hen. Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?

Exe, Not here in presence. 3

A. Hen. Send for him, good uncle.
West. Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege?
K. Hen. Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolv'd,

Before we hear him, of some things of weight,

That task our thoughts, concerning us and France.

Enter the Archbishop of 2 EES and Bishop
of ELy.
Cant. God and his angels guard your sacred throne,
And make you long become it !
. Hen. Sure, we thank you.
My learned lord, we pray you to proceed, 0
And justly and religiously unfold, ‘ 1
Why the law Salique, that they have in France,
Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim.
And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

 

How you awake our sleeping sword of war:
We charge you in the name'of God, take heed ;
For never two such kingdoms did contend
Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops
Are every one a woe, a sore complaint,
’Gainst him whose wrongs give edge unto the swords
That make such waste in brief mortality.
Under this conjuration, speak, my lord
And we will hear, note, and believe in heart, 30
That what you speak is in your conscience wash'd,
As pure as sin with baptism.
Cant. Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you
peers,
That owe yourselves, your lives, and services,
To this imperial throne.—There is no bar
To make against your highness’ claim to France,
But this, which they produce from Pharamond,—
interram Salicam mulieres ne succedant,
“No woman shall succeed in Salique land :”
Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze 40
To be the realm of France, and Pharamond
The founder of this law, and female bar.
Yet their own authors faithfully aftirm,
| That the land Salique is in Germany,
Between.the floods of Sala and of Elbe;
Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Saxons,
There left behind and settled certain French;
Who, holding in disdain the German women,
For some dishonest manners of their life, ,
Establish’d then this law,—to wit, no female 50
Should be inheritrix in Salique land :
Which Salique, as I said, twixt Elbe and Sala,
Is at this day in Germany call’d Meisen.
Then doth it well appear, the Salique law
Was not devised for the realm of France;
Nor did the French possess the Salique land
Until four hundred one-and-twenty years
After defunction of King Pharamond,
Idly suppos’d the founder of this law ;
Who died. within the year of our redemption 60
Four hundred twenty-six ; and Charles the Great
- Subdued the Saxons, and did seat the French
} Beyond the river Sala in the year
. Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say,
King Pepin, which deposed Childeric,
Did, as heir general, being descended
Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,
. Make claim and title to the crown of France.
Hugh Capet also,—who usurp’d the crown
Of Charles the Duke of Lorain, sole heir male 70
f the true line and stock of Charles the Great,—
To find his title with some shows of truth,
Though, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught,
Convey’d himself as the heir to the Lady Lingare,
Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son
To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son
Of Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth,
ho was sole heir to the usurper Capet,
Could not keep quiet in his conscience,
Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied 80
That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,
Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, .
Daughter to Charles the foresaid Duke of Lorain:
the which marriage the line of Charles

 

the

reat

Was re-united to the crown of France.
So that, as clear as is the summer's sun,
King Pepin’s title, and Hugh Capet’s claim,

Lewis his satisfaction, all appear
To hold in right and title of the female.
So do the Kings of France unto this day ; 90
Howbeit ey would hold up this Salique law,

. To bar your highness’ claiming from the female ;

And rather choose to hide them in a net.

 

 

KING HENRY J. 497
That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading, | Than amply to imbare their crooked titles
Or nicely charge your understanding soul. Usurp’d from you and your progenitors.
With opening titles miscreate, whose right A. Hen. May I with right and conscience make this
Suits not in native colours with the truth; claim ?
For God doth know, how many, now in health, Cant. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!
Shall drop their blood in approbation For in the Book of Numbers is it writ,—
Of what your reverence shall incite us to. 20 | When the man dies, let the inheritance
Therefore, take heed how you impawn our person, - Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord, 100

Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag;
Look back into your mighty ancestors:

Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire’s tomb,
From whom you claim: invoke his warlike spirit,
And your great uncle’s, Edward the Black Prince,
Who on the French ground play’d a tragedy,
Making defeat on the full power of France ;
Whiles his most mighty father on a hill

Stood smiling, to behold his lion’s whelp

Forage in blood of French nobility.

O noble English ! that could entertain

With half their forces the full pride of France,
And let another half stand laughing by,

All out of work, and cold for action.

Ely. Awake remembrance of these valiant dead,
And with your puissant arm renew their feats.
You are their heir, you sit upon their threne ;

The blood and courage, that renowned them,
Runs in your veins; and ay thrice-puissant liege
1s in the very May-morn of his youth, 120
Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.
Exe. “Buy SrOLEE kings and monarchs of the
eart
Do all expect that you should rouse yourself,
As did the former lions of your blood.
West. They know, your grace hath cause, and
means, and might :—
So hath yOUE highness—never King of England
Had nobles richer, and more loyal subjects,
Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England,
And lie pavilion’d in the fields of France.

Cant. O! let their bodies follow, my dear liege, 130
With blood, and sword, and fire, to win your right:
In aid whereof, we of the spiritualty
Will raise your highness such a mighty sum,

As never did the clergy at one time
Bring in to any of your ancestors.
A. Hen. e must not only arm to invade the
French,
But lay down our proportions to defend
Against the Scot, who will make road upon us
With all advantages.

Cant. They of those marches, gracious sovereign, 140
Shall be a wall sufficient to defend
Our inland from the pilfering borderers.

A. Hen. We do not mean the coursing snatchers

110

- only,

But fear the main intendment ef the Scot,
Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us:
For you shall read, that my great-grandfather
Never went with his forces into France,
But that the Scot on his unfurnish’d kingdom
Came pouring, like the tide into a breach,
With ample and brim fulness of his force,
Galling the gleaned land with hot essays,
Girding with grievous siege castles and towns ;
That England, being empty of defence, ‘i
Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.

Cant. She hath been then more fear’d than harm’d,

my liege ;

For hear her but eee by herself :
When all her chivalry hath been in France,
And she a mourning widow of her nobles,
She hath herself not only well defended,
Rut taken, and impounded as a stray,
The King of Scots; whom she did send to France,
To fill Se fame with prisoner kings,
And make her chronicle as rich with praise,
As is the ooze and bottom of the sea
With sunken wrack and sumless treasuries.

West. But there ’s a saying, very old and true,—

“Tf that you will France win,
Then with Scotland first begin :”

For once the eagle England being in prey,

150

160

 

 
 

 

498.

KING HENRY PV.

[Aor L

 

To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot 170
Comes sneaking, and so sucks her princely eggs ;
Playing the mouse in absence of the cat,
To tear and havoc more than she can eat.
Exe. It follows then, the cat must stay at home:
Yet that is but a crush’d necessity ; .
Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries,
And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves.
While that the armed hand doth fight abroad,
The advised head defends itself at home:
For government, though high, and low, and lower, 180
Put into parts, doth keep in one concent,
Congreeing in a full and natural close,
Like music. Be
Cant. Therefore doth Heaven divide
The state of man in divers functions,
Setting endeavour in continual motion ;
To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,
Obedience : for so work the honey-bees,
Creatures, that by a rule in nature teach
The act'of order to a peopled kingdom:
They have a king, and ofticers of sorts ;
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home,
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad,
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds ;
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
‘To the tent-royal of their emperor :
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing masons building roofs of gold,
‘The civil citizens kneading up the honey,
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,
The sad-ey'd justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy yawning drone. I this infer,—
That many things, having full reference
To one concent, may work contrariously ;
As many arrows, loosed several ways,
Come to one mark ; as many ways meet in one town:
As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea ;
As many lines close in the dial’s centre ; 210
So may a thousand actions, once afoot,
End in one purpose, and be all well borne
Without defeat. Therefore to France, my licge.
Divide your happy England into four ;
Whereof take you one quarter into France,
And you withal shall make all Gallia shake.
If we, with thrice such powers left at home,
Cannot defend our own doors from the dog,
Let us be worried, and our nation lose
The name of hardiness, and policy. 220
K. Hen. Call in the messengers sent from_ the
Dauphin. [Eaxit an Attendant.
Now are we well resolv’d : and by God's help,
And yours, the noble sinews of our power,
France being ours, we ’ll bend it to our awe,
Or break it all to pieces: or there we'll sit,
Ruling in large and ample emper,
O’er France, and all her almost kingly dukedoms,
Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn,
Tombless, with no remembrance over them:
Hither our history shall with full mouth 230
Speak freely of our acts; or else our grave,
Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth,
Not worshipp’d with a waxen epitaph.

190

200

Enter Ambassadors of France.

Now are we well prepar’d to know the pleasure
Of our fair cousin Dauphin ; for, we hear,
Your greeting is from him, not from the king.

1 Amb. May ’t please your majesty, to give us leave
Freely to render what we have in charge ;
Or shall we sparingly show you far otf
The Dauphin’s meaning, and our embassy ?

i. Hen. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king,
Unto whose grace our passion is as subject,
As are our wretches fetter'd in our prisons :
Therefore, with frank and with uncurbed plainness,
Tell us the Dauphin’s mind.

1 Amb. Thus then, in few.
Your highness, lately sending into France,

240

 

Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right

Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third.
In answer of which claim, the prince our master
Says, that you savour too much of your youth, 250
And bids you be advis'd, there’s naught in France
That can be with a nimble galliard won:

‘You cannot revel into dukedoms there,

_He therefore sends you, meeter for our spirit,

This tun of treasure ; and, in lieu of this,
Cees you, let pee dukedoms, una a claim,
ear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks,
= Hen, What treasure, a ¥ y
re. ennis-balls, my liege,
K. Hen. We are glad the Dauphin is so plenanit
" with us,
His present, and your pains, we thank you for: 260
When we have match‘d our rackets to these balls,

 

K. Hen. “ His present, and your pains, we thank you for.”

We will in France, by God’s grace, play a set,

Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard.

Tell him, he hath made a match with sucha wrangler,

That all the courts of France will be disturb'd

With chases. And we understand him well,

How he comes o’er us with our wilder days,

Not measuring what use we made of them.

We never valu’d this poor seat of England ;

And therefore, living hence, did give ourself 270

To barbarous license ; as tis ever common,

That men are merriest when they are from home.

But tell the Dauphin,—I will keep my state ;

Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness,

When I do rouse me in my throne of France;

For that I have laid by my majesty,

And plodded like a man for working-days ;

But I will rise there with so full a glory,

That I will dazzle all the eyes of France,

Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us.. 280

And tell the pleasant prince, this mock of his

Hath turn’d his balls to gun-stones ; and his soul

Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance

That shall. iy with them: for many a thousand
widows

Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands;

Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles dcwn ;

And some are yet: ungotten and unborn, |

That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin’s scorn.

But this lies all within the will of God,

To whom I do appeal; and in whose name, 290

Tell you the Dauphin, I am coming on,

To venge me as I may, and to put forth

 

 

 
 

 

Scene II.] KING HENRY VP. 499
My rightful hand in a well-hallow’d cause. For we have now no thought in us but France,
So, get you hence in peace ; and tell the Dauphin, Save those to God, that run before our business,
His jest will savour but of shallow wit, Theretore, let our proportions for these wars
When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.— Be soon collected, and all things thought upon,
Convey them with safe conduct.—Fare you well. That may with reasonable swiftness add
; [Exeunt Ambassadors. | More feathers to our wings ; for, God before,

Exe. This was a merry message. We'll chide this Dauphin at his father's door.

K. Hen. We hope to make the sender blush at it. Therefore, let every man now task his thought,
Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour, 300 | Chat this fair action may on foot be brought. 310
That may give furtherance to our expedition; [Exeunt.

 

 

 

eC . Chorus.
tt} OW all the youth of England are on fire,
{ And silken dalliance in the wardrobe

ies :

Now thrive the armourers, and honour'’s
thought

Reigns solely in the breast of every man.

They oe pasture now to buy the

Tse 5
Following the mirror of all Christian

ings, .
With winged heels, as English Mer-
curies.
For now sits Expectation in the air;
And hides a sword, from hilts unto the
point, | ‘
With crowns imperial,
coronets,
Promis’d to Harry and his followers.
The French, advis'd by good intelligence
Of this most dreadful preparation, __
Shake in their fear, and with pale policy
Seek to divert the English purposes.
O England! model to thy inward greatness,
Like little body with a mighty heart,
What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,
Were all thy children kind and natural !
But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out 20
A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills
With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,
One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,
Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,
Sir Thomas Grey. nee of Northumberland,
Have, for the gilt of France (O It, indeed !),
Confirm’d conspiracy with fearful France; __
And by their hands this grace of kings must die,
If hell and treason hold their promises,
Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton. 30
Linger your patience on: and we’ll digest
The abuse of distance ; force a play.
The sum is paid ; the traitors are eed ;
The king is set from London; and the scene
Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton :
| There is the playhouse now, there must you sit,
And thence to France shall we convey you safe,
And bring you back, charming the narrow seas
‘To give you gentle pass ; for, if we may,
We'll not offend one stomach with our play. 40
But, till the king come forth, and not till then,
Unto Southampton do we shift our scene.

crowns, and
10

 

Exit.

 

ScreNE I.—London. Eastcheap.
Enter NyM and BARDOLPH.
Bard, Well met, Corporal Nym.

a

 

 

ACT ITI.
Enter Chorus.,

iVym, Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.
fords What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends
ye :

Nym. For my part, I care not: I say little; but
when time shall serve, there shall be smiles ;—but
that shall be as it may. Idare not fight; but I will
wink, and hold out mine iron, It is a simple one;
but what though? it will toast cheese, and it will
endure cold as another man’s sword will; and there’s
an end. 11

Bard. I will bestow a breakfast to make you
friends, and we’ll be all three sworn brothers to
France : let it be so, good Corporal N; ve

Nym. Faith, I will live so long as I may, that’s the
certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I
will do as I may: that is my rest, that is the rendez-
vous of it.

Bard. It is certain, corporal, that he is married to
Nell Quickly; and, certainly, she did you wrong, for
you were troth-plight to her. 21

Nym. I cannot tell; things must be as they may:
men may sleep, and they may have their throats about
them at that time ; and some say, knives have edges,
It must be as it may : though patience bea tircd mare,
et she will plod. There must be conclusions, Well,

cannot tell.

Enter PISTOL and Mistress QUICKLY.

Bard. Here comes Ancient Pistol, and his wife.—
Good corporal, be patient here.—How now, mine host
Pistol? 30

Pist. Base tike, call’st thou me host?

Now, by this hand I swear, I scorn the term ;
Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

uick. No, by my troth, not long: for we cannot
lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen,
that live honestly by the prick of their needles, but it
will be mone we keep a bawdy-house straight.
[Nym draws his sword.] O well-a-day, Lady! if he be
not drawn!—Now we shall see wilful adultery and
murder committed. 40

Bard. Good lieutenant,—good corporal, offer no-
thing here.

Nym. Pish!

Pist. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear’d

cur of Iceland!

Quick. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and
put up your sword. ;

Nym. Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

Sheathing his sword.

Pist. Solus, egregious dog? viper vile!

The solus in thy most marvellous face ;

The solus in thy teeth, and in thy throat, 50
And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy ;
And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!

I do retort the solus in thy bowels:

 

 
 

500

KING HENRY V..

fAcr IL

 

 

For I can take, and Pistol’s cock is up,
And flashing tire will follow. 2
Nym. Iam not Barbason ; you cannot conjure me.
I have an humour to knbck you indifferently well. If
you grow foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with
my rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk
ott, [ would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as
Imay; and that’s the humour of it. . __, ol
Pist. O braggart vile, and damned furious wight !
The grave doth gape, and doting death is near ;
Theretore exhale. [PISTOL and NyM draw.
Bard. Hear me, hear me what I say:—he that
strikes the first stroke, I’ll run him up to the hilts, as
Iamasoldier. ~ (Draws.
Pist. An oath of mickle might, and fury shall abate.
Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give ;
‘Thy spirits are most tall. . 70
Nym. I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair
terms ; that is the humour of it.
Pist. Coupe le gorge! ;
That is the word. I thee defy again.
O hound ot Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get?
No; to the spital go, | ;
And from the powdering-tub of infamy
Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind,
Doll Tear-shect she by name, and her espouse :
Ihave, and I will hold, the guondam Quickly 80
For the only she ; and—pauca, there's enough. Go to.

: Enter the Boy.

Boy. Mine host Pistol, you must come to my
master, and your hostess.— He is very sick, and woul
to bed.—Good Bardolph, put thy face between his
sheets, and do the office of a warming-pan: ‘faith,
he’s very ill.

Bard. Away, you rogue!

Quick. By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding
one of these days: the king has killed his heart.—
Good husband, come home presently. 90

[Exeunt Mistress QUICKLY and Boy.

Bard. Come, shall I make you two friends?) We
must to France together. Why, the devil, should we
keep knives to cut one another's throats ?

Pist. Let floods o’erswell, and fiends for food howlon!

Nym, You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of
you at betting?

Pist. Base is the slave that pays.

ae That now I will have; that’s the humour
‘of it.

- Pist. As manhood shall compound. Push home.

aws.

Bard. By this sword, he that makes the first thrust,
I'll kill him; by this sword, I will. 102

Pist. Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their

course.

Bard. sei puch Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be
friends : an thou wilt not, why, then be enemies with
me too. Pr'ythee, put up.

Nym. I shall have my eight shillings I won of you
at betting ?

Pist. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay ;
And liquor likewise will I give to thee, 110
And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood :

I’ll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me.
Is not this just ? for I shall sutler be

Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.
Give me thy hand.

Nym. I shall have my noble?

Pist. In cash most justly paid.

Nym. Well then, that's the humour of it.

Re-enter Mistress QUICKLY.

Quick, As ever you came of women, come in quickly
to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a
burning quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable
to behold. Sweet men, come to him. 122

Nym. The king hath run bad humours on the knight,
that's the even of it.

Pist. Nym, thou hast spoke the right ;

His heart is fracted, and corroborate.

Nym. The king is a good king; but it must be as it

may : he passes some humours, and careers.

 

Pist. Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins, we
will live, Exeunt,

Scene II.—Southampton. A Council-Chamber,

Enter EXETER, BEDFORD, and WESTMORELAND.
Bed. ’Fore God, his grace is bold to trust these
traitors.
Exe. They shall be apprehended by-and-by,
West. How smooth and even they do bear them-
selves, :
As if allegiance in their bosom sat,
Crowned with faith, and constant loyalty.
Bed. The king hath note of all that they intend,
By interception which they dream not of.
fixe. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,
Whom he hath dull’d and cloy’d with gracious favours,
That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell 10
His sovereign’s life to death and treachery !

Trumpets sound. Enter King HENRY, ScROopP,
CAMBRIDGE, GREY, Lords, and Attendants.

K. Hen. Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard.

My Lord of Cambridge,—and my kind Lord of
Masham,— |

And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts,

Think you not, that the powers we bear with us

Will cut their passage through the force of France, ;

Doing the execution, and the act,

For which we have in head assembled them?
Scroop. No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best.
K. Hen, I doubt not that: since we are well per-

suaded, : 20

We carry not a heart with us from hence,

That grows not in a fair concent with ours;

Nor leave not one behind, that doth not wish

Success and conquest to attend on us.

Cam. Never was monarch better fear’d and lov’d
Than is your majesty : there's not, I think, a subject,
That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness
Under the sweet shade of your government.

Grey. True: those that were your father’s enemies,
Have steep’d their galls in honey, and do serve you 30
With hearts create of duty and of zeal.

K. Hen. We therefore have great cause of thank-

fulness,

And shall forget the office of our hand, .

Sooner than quittance of desert and merit, 5

According to the weight and worthiness.

Seroop. So service shall with steeled sinews toil,
And labour shall refresh itself with hope,

To do your grace incessant services.

K. Hen. We judge no less.—Uncle of Exeter,
Enlarge the man committed yesterday,

That rail’d against our person: we consider,

It was excess of wine that set him on;

And, on his more advice, we pardon him.

Scroop. That’s mercy, but too much security:

Let him be punish’d, sovereign; lest example

Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind.

K. Hen. O! let us yet be merciful.

Cam. So may your highness, and yet punish too.’

Grey. Sir, you show eee mercy, if you give him lit
After the taste of much correction. a

K. Hen. Alas! your too much love and care of mé
Are heavy orisons ‘gainst this poor wretch,

If little faults, proceeding on distemper, cl

Shall not be wink’d at, how shall we stretch our oye, !

When capital crimes, chew'd, swallow’d, and digested,

Appear before us ?—We'll yet enlarge that man, |.

Though Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, in their dear

care

And tender preservation of our person,

Would have him punish’d. And now

causes : .

Who are the late commissioners ?
Cam. Lone, my lord :

Your highness bade me ask for it to-day.
Scroop. So did you me, my liege.
rey, And I, ea ‘al sovereign.

K. Hen, Then, Richard Earl 6f Cambridge, there

is yours ;— aka

to our French
&

 

 
 

 

Scene IL]

KING HENRY V.

501

 

There yours, ee Scroop of Masham ;—and, sir
night,

Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours :—

Read them ; and know, I know your worthiness.—

My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter,

We will aboard to-night.—Why, how now, gentlemen?

. What see you in those papers, that you lose 71

So much complexion ?—Look ye, how they change :

Their cheeks are paper.—Why, what read you tfore:

That hath so cowarded and chas’d your blood

Out of appearance ? ,
Cam. I do confess my fault,

And do submit me to your highness’ mercy.
Grey, Scroop. To which we all appeal.
K. Heh e e mercy that was quick in us but

a

By your own counsel is suppress'd and kill’d:

You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy ;

For your own reasons turn into your bosoms,

As dogs upon their masters, worrying you.

See you, my princes, and my noble peers,

‘These Hpete monsters! My Lord of Cambridge

ere, —

You know how apt our love was, to accord

To furnish him with all appertinents

Belonging to his honour ; and this man

Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir’d,

And sworn unto the practices of France,

To kill us here in Hampton: to the which,

This knight, no less for bounty bound to us

Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn.—But O!

What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel,

Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature !

_ Thou, that didst bear the key of all my counsels,

That knew’st the very bottom of my soul,

That almost mightst have coin’d me into gold,

Wouldst thou have practis’d on me for thy use!

May it be possible, that foreign hire

Could out of thee extract one spark of evil,

That might annoy my finger? ‘tis so strange,

That, though the truth of it stands off as gross

As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it.

Treason and murder ever kept together,

As two yoke-devils sworn to either’s purpose,

Working so grossly in a natural cause,

That admiration did not whoop at them:

But thou, ’gainst all proportion, didst bring in

Wonder to wait on treason, and on murder:

And whatsoever cunning fiend it was,

That wrought upon thee so preposterously,

Hath got the voice in hell for excellence :

And other devils, that suggest by treasons,

Do botch and bungle up damnation

With patches, colours, and with forms, being fetch’d

From glistering semblances of piety ;

But he that temper’d thee bade thee stand up,

Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,

Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor.

If that same demon, that hath gull’d thee thus, 120

Should with his lion gait walk the whole world,

He might return to vasty Tartar back,

And tell the legions,—I can never win

A soul so easy as that Englishman’s.

0, how hast thou with jealousy infected

The sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful?

Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned ?

Why, so didst thou: come they of noble family ?
hy, so didst thou : seem they religious ?

Why, so didst thou : or are they spare in diet ;
ee from gross passion, or of mirth, or anger ;
Constant in Spirits not swerving with the blood ;

Garnish’d and deck’d in modest complement ;

Not working with the eye without the ear,
And but in purged judgment trusting neither ?
Such, and so aay. olted, didst thou seem ;
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,
To mark the full-fraught man, and best indued,
_With some suspicion. I will weep for thee ;
For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like
Another fall of man.—Their faults are open:
Arrest them to the answer of the law,
And God acquit them of their practices!
=

80

90

100

130

140

Exe. I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of
eee tee Ot PAmiDE eG:
arrest thee of high treason, by the name of H
Lord Scroop of finsharen * or
Tarrest thee of high treason, bv the name of Thomas
Grey, knight of Northumberland.

 

H
Ly

oo i

 

 

AK. Hen, “Thelr faults are open:
Arrest them to the aaswer of the law.”

Scroop. Our purposes God justly hath discover’d, 150
And I repent my fault more than my death ;

Which I beseech your highness to torgive,
Although my body pay the price of it.

Cam. For me,—the gold of France did not seduce,
Although I did admit it as a motive,

The sooner to effect what I intended.

But God be thanked for prevention ;
Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice,
Beseeching God and you to pardon me.

Grey. Never did faithful subject more rejoice
At the discovery of most dangerous treason,
Than I do at this hour joy o’er myself,
Prevented from a damned enterprise.

My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign.

K. Hen. God quit you in his mercy! ear your

sentence.
You have conspir’d against our royal person,
Join’d with an enemy proclaim’d, and from his coffers
Receiv’d the golden earnest of our death ;
Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter,
His princes and his peers to servitude, 170
His subjects to oppression and contempt,
‘And his whole kingdom into desolation.
Touching our person, seek we no revenge ;
But we our kingdom’s safety must so tender,
Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws
We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,
Poor miserable wretches, to your death ;
The taste whereof, God, of his mercy, give you
Patience to endure, and true repentance
Of all your dear offences.—Bear them hence 180
[Exeunt CAMBRIDGE, SCROOP, and GREY,
guarded.
Now, lords, for France ; the enterprise whereof
Shall be to you, as us, like glorious.

160

 

We doubt not of a fair and lucky war,

 

 
 

502

KING HENRY

Be {Acr II,

 

 

Since God so graciously hath brought to light
This dangerous treason, Jurking in our way
To hinder our beginnings : we doubt not now,
But every rub is smoothed on our way.
Then forth, dear countrymen : let us deliver
Our puissance into the hand of God,

Putting it straight in expedition.

Cheerly to sea ; the signs of war advance:

No King of England, if not King of France. [Exeunt.

190

Mistress QUICKLY’s House in
Eastcheap.

Enter Pisto., Mistress QUICKLY, NYM, BARDOLPH,
and Boy.

Quick. Pr'ythee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring
thee to Staines.

Pist. No; for my manly heart doth yearn.—
Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse Ce vaunting veins ;
Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
And we must yearn therefore.

Bard. ’Would I were with him, wheresome’er he is,
either in heaven, or in hell.

Quick. Nay, sure, he’s not in hell: he's in Arthur’s
bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. ’A made
a finer end, and went away, an it had been any
christom child; ’a parted even just between twelve
and one, even at the turning o’ the tide: for after I
saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with
flowers, and smile upon his fingers’ ends, I knew
there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp
as a pen, and a table of green fields. ‘‘ How now, Sir
John?” quoth I: “‘what, man! be of good cheer.”
So ’a cried out—“God, God, God!” three or fourtimes:
now I, to comfort him, bid him, ’a should not think of
God; I hoped, there was no need to trouble himself
with any such thoughts yet. So, 'a bade me lay more
clothes on his feet: I put my hand into the bed, and
felt them, and they were as cold as any stone; then I
felt to his knees, and so upward, and upward, and all
was as cold as any stone.

Nym. They say, he cried out of sack.

poe Ay, that ’a did.

ard. And of women.
Saeeek Nay, that ’a did not. 30
‘oy. Yes, that ‘a did; and said, they were devils
incarnate.

Quick. ’A could never abide carnation; ‘twas a
colour he never liked. 7

Boy. ’A said once, the devil would have him about
women,

Quick. ’A did in some sort, indeed, handle women ;
but then he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore
of Babylon.

Boy. Do you not remember, ’a saw a flea stick upon
Basiolph’s nose, and ’a said it was a black soul burning
in hell? - 42

Bard. Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that
fire: that’s all the riches I got in his service.

Nym. Shall we shog? the king will be gone from
Southampton.

Pist. Come, let’s away.—My love, give me thy lips.
Look to my chattels, and‘my movables :

Let senses rule, the word is, “ Pitch and pay ;”
Trust none;

For oaths are straws, men’s faiths are wafer-cakes,
And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:
Therefore, caveto be thy counsellor.

Go, clear thy erystals.— Yoke-fellows in arms,

Let us to France: like horse-leeches, my boys,

To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!

Boy. And that is but unwholesome food, they say.

Pist. Touch her soft mouth, and march.

Bard. Farewell, hostess. | Kissing her.

Nym. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but

ScENE III.--London.

50

adieu. 61

Pist. Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee
command,

Quick. Farewell; adieu. [Exeunt.

 

Scene IV.—France. A Room in the French Kine’s
Palace.

Flourish. Enter the French Kine, attended; t
DAUPHIN, the Duke of BURGUNDY, the mtg
and others. ;
Fr. King. Thus come the English with full power

upon us;

And more than carefully it us concerns,

To answer royally in our defences.

Therefore the Dukes of Berry, and of Bretagne,

Of Brabant, and of Orleans, shall make forth,

And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift despatch,

To line and new-repair our towns of war

With men of courage, and with means defendant:

For England his approaches makes as fierce :

As waters to the sucking of a gulf.

It fits us then to be as provident

As fear may teach us, out of late examples

Left by the fatal and neglected English

Upon our fields.

Dau. My most redoubted father,

It is most meet we arm us ‘gainst the foe;

For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom,

(Though war, nor no known quarrel, were in question,}

But that defences, musters, preparations,

Should be maintain’d, assembled, and collected,

As were a war in expectation.

Therefore, I say, ’tis meet we all go forth,

To view the sick and feeble parts of France:

And let us do it with no show of fear;

No, with no more, than if we heard that England

Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance:

For, my good liege, she is so idly king’d,

Her sceptre so fantastically borne

By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth,

That fear attends her not.

Con. ‘ O peace, Prince Dauphin!
You are too much mistaken in this king. 30
auastion your grace the late ambassadors,

Vith what great state he heard their embassy,
How well supplied with noble counsellors,

How modest in exception, and, withal,

How terrible in constant resolution,

And you shall find, his vanities forespent

Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus,

Covering discretion with a coat of folly ;

As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots

That shall first spring, and be most delicate.
Dau. Well, tis not so, my lord high constable;

But though we think it so, it is no matter:

In cases of defence, tis best to weigh

The enemy more au tty, than he seems:

So the proportions of defence are fill’d; __

Which, of a weak and niggardly projection,

Doth like a miser spoil his coat with scanting

A little cloth.

Fr. King. Think we Ring Harry strong; |
And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him.
The kindred of him hath been flesh’d upon us,
And he is bred out of that bloody strain,

That haunted us in our familiar paths:

Witness our too much memorable shame,

When Cressy battle fatally was struck,

And all our princes captiv’d, by the hand :

Of that black name, Edward Black Prince of Wales;

Whiles that his mountain sire,—on mountain standing,

Up in the air, crown’d with the golden sun,—

Saw his heroical seed, and smil'd to see him

Mangle the work of nature, and deface

The patterns that by God and by French fathers

Had twenty years been made. This is a stem

Of that victorious stock ; and let us fear

The native mightiness and fate of him.

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. Ambassadors from Harry King of England
Do crave admittance to your majesty. Go
»

10

49

50

60

Fr. King. We'll give them present audience.
and bring them, . ds
Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords.

You see, this chase is hotly follow’d, friends.

 

 

oe a ae

ar
 

 

Runs far before them. Good my sovereign,
Take up the English short, and let them know
Of what a monarchy you are the head:
Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin

As self-neglecting.

Re-enter Lords, with EXETER and Train.

Fr. King. From our brother England ?

Eze, From him ; and thus he orcs your majesty.
He wills you, in the name of God Almighty,

That you divest yourself, and lay apart
The borrow’d glories, that by gift of Heaven, 80
By law of nature, and of nations, ‘long
To him, and to his heirs; namely, the crown,
And all wide-stretched honours that pertain,
By custom and the ordinance of times,
Unto the crown of France. That you may know,
‘Tis no sinister, nor no awkward claim,
Pick’d from the worm-holes of long-vanish’d days,
Nor from the dust of old oblivion rak’d,
He sends you this most memorable line,
[Gives a pedigree.
In every branch truly demonstrative ; 90
Willing you overlook this pedigree,
And when you find him evenly deriv’d
From his most fam’d of famous ancestors,
Edward the Third, he bids you then resign
Your crown and kingdom, indirectly hel
From him, the native and true challenger.

Fr. King. Or else what follows? -

Exe. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown
Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it:
Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, 100
In thunder, and in earthquake, like a Jove,

That, if requiring fail, he will compel;

And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord,
Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy

On the poor souls, for whom this hungry war
Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head
Turning the widows’ tears, the orphans’ cries,

 

SoENE IV.] KING HENRY VP. 503
Dau. Turn head, and stop pursuit ; for coward dogs | The dead men’s blood, the pining maidens’ groans,
Most spend their mouths, when what they seem to | For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers,
threaten 70 | That shall be swallow d in this controversy. 110

This is his claim, his threat’ning, and my message ;
Unless the Dauphin be in presence here,
To whom Say I bring greeting too.

Fr. King. For us, we will consider of this further:
To-morrow shall you bear our full intent
Back to our brother England.

Dau. For the Dauphin.

I stand here for him: what to him from England?

Exe. Scorn and defiance, slight regard, contempt,
And anything that may not misbecome
The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. 120
Thus says my sng : an if your father’s highness,

Do not, in grant of all demands at large,
Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty,
He'll call you to so hot an answer of it,

That caves and womby vaultages of France
Shall chide your trespass, and return your mock
In second accent of his ordinance.

Dau. Say, if my father render fair return,
It is against my will: for I desire
Nothing but odds with England: to that end,
As matching to his youth and vanity,

I did present him with the Paris balls.

Exe. He’! make your Paris Louvre shake for it,
Were it the mistress court of mighty Europe:
And, be assur’d, you’ll find a difference,

As we, his subjects, have in wonder found,
Between the promise of his greener days,

And these he masters now. Now he weighs time,
Even to the utmost grain; that you shall read

In your own losses, if he stay in France. 140

Fr, ing. Tommerrew shall you know our mind at

ull.

Exe. Deeretee us with all speed, lest that our king
Come here himself to question our delay ;

For he is footed in this land already.
Fr, King. You shall be soon despatch’d with fair
conditions.
A night is but small breath, and little pause,
To answer matters of this consequence.

130

[Exeunt.

 

 

: ls. 0;
5 Ce
Cy 3 A (gs
We a i
ACT
Chorus

   

jHUS with imagin’d wing our swift scene

ies,

In motion of no less celerity

Than that of thought. Suppose, that you
have seen ;

The well-appointed king at Hampton pier

Embark his royalty ; and his brave fleet

With silken streamers the young Phoebus
fanning. ‘

Play wi pa fancies, and in them

eho.
Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climb-

ing;
Hear the shrill whistle, which doth order give
To sounds confus’d ; behold the threaden sails, 10
Borne with the invisible and creep wind,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,
Breasting the joy surge. O! do but think,
You stand upon the rivage, and behold
A city on the inconstant illows dancing;

 

 

 

IIT.

Enter Chorus.
. For so oe this fleet majestical,

Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow!

Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,

And leave your England, as dead midnight still,

Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women, 20

Either past, or not arriv’d to, pith and puissance:

For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’d

With one appearing hair, that will not follow

These cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France ?

Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege:

Behold the ordnance on their carriages,

With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.

Suppose, the ambassador from the French comes back ;

Tells Harry that the king doth offer him

Katharine his daughter ; and with her, todowry, 30

Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.

The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner

With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,
[Alarum, and chambers go off.

And down goes all before them. Still be kind,

And eke out our performance with your mind. [EF zit.

 

 
 

{Acr II.

 

 

504 KING HENRY VF.
ScrENE I.—France. Before Harfleur. Hee Fuay thee, corporal, oy i the knocks are too
; and for mine own .
Alarums. Enter King HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD, | Jives: the humour of it $e 4 ave not a case of

GLOSTER, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders.
K. Hen. Once more unto the breach, dear friends,
once more ;

Or close the wall up with our English dead !

In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a man,

As modest stillness and humility :

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger ;

 

 

 

A. Hen, “ Cry—God for Harry! Engiand und Saint George!"

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage ;

Then lend the cye a terrible aspect ;

Let it pry through the portage of the head,

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it,

As fearfully as doth a galled rock

O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and: wasteful ocean.

Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide;

Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit

To his full height !—On, on, you noblest English !

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,

Fathers, that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought, 20

And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument.

Dishonour not your mothers: now attest,

That those, whom you call’d fathers, did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war.—And you, good yeomen,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture ; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not ;

For there is none of you so mean and base,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 30

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:

Follow your ce aa and upon this charge,

Cry—God for Harry! England and Saint George!
[Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off.

 

Scene II.—The Same.
Enter NyM, BARDOLPH, PisToL, and Boy.

Bard. On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the
breach!

 

: r is too hot, that is the very
plain-song of it. -
Pist. The plain-song is most just, for humours do
abound ;
Knocks go and come, God’s vassals drop and die;
And sword and shield,
In bloody field, 10
Doth win immortal fame.
Boy. Would I were in an ale-house in London! I
would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety,
Pist. And I:
If wishes would prevail with me,
My parpise should not fail with me,
ut thither would I hie.
As duly,
But not as truly,
As bird doth sing on bough. 20

Enter FLUELLEN.

Flu. Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you
cullions ! [Driving them forward,

Pist. Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould!
Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage ;

Abate thy rage, great duke!
Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!

Nym. These be good humours !—your honour wins
bad humours. [Exeunt NYM, PISTOL, and BARDOLPH,

Sollowed by FLUELLEN.

Boy As young as I am, I have observed these three
swashers. Iam boy to them all three, but all they
three, though they would serve me, could not be man
to me; for, indeed, three such anticks do not amount
to a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered, and
red-faced ; by the means whereof, ’a faces it out, but
fights not. or Pistol, he hath a killing tongue, and
a quiet sword ; by the means whereof ’a breaks words,
and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard,
that men of few words are the best men; and there-
fore he scorns to say his prayers, lest ’a should _be
thought a coward : but his few bad words are match’d
with as few good deeds; for’a never broke any man’s
head but his own, and that was against a post when
he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it

urchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve

eagues, and sold it for three half-pence. Nym and
Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in Calais
they stole a fire-shovel ; I knew, by that piece of ser-
vice, the men would carry coals. They would have
me as familiar with men’s pockets, as their gloves or
their handkerchiefs: which makes much against my
manhood, if I should take from another's pocket, to

ut into mine ; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs.
r must leave them, and seek some better service:
their villainy goes against my weak stomach, and
therefore I must cast it up. [Ezit.

Re-enter FLUELLEN, GOWER following.

Gow. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to
the mines: the Duke of Gloster would speak with you.

Flu. To the mines! tell you the duke, it is not so
good to come to the mines. For, look you, the mines
is not according to the disciplines of the war; the
concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you,
th’athversary (you may discuss unto the duke, look
you) is digt himself four yard under the countermines.
By Cheshu, I think, ’a will plow up all, if there is
not better directions.

Gow. The Duke of Gloster, to whom the order of the
siege is given, is altogether directed by an Irishman;
a very valiant gentleman, i’ faith.

Flu. It is Captain Macmorris, is it not?

Gow. I think it be. 70

Fiu. By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world. I
will verify. as much in his peard: he has no more
directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look
you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.

Enter MacmMornis and JAmy, at a distance.

Gow. Here’a comes; and the Scots captain, Captain
Jamy, with him.

Boy.

 

 

 
 

Scens IV.]

KING HENRY VV.

505

 

Flu. Captain Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentle-
man, that is certain; and of great expedition, and
knowledge in the ancient wars, upon my particular
knowledge of his directions: by Cheshu, he will
maintain his ee ee well as any military man
in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of
the Romans. 83

Jamy. Isay, gud day, Captain Fluellen.

Flu. God-den to your worship, good Captain James.

Gow. How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit
the mines? have the pioners given o'er?

Mac. By Chrish la, tish ill done: the work ish give
over, the trumpet sound the retreat. By my hand, I
swear, and my father’s soul, the work isn ill done; it
ish give over: I would have blowed up the town, so
Chrish save me, la, in an hour. O! tish ill done, tish
ill done; by my hand, tish ill done.

Fiu. Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will
you vouchsafe me, look you, a few disputations with
you, as partly touching or concerning the disciplines
of the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument,
look you, and friendly communication; partly to
satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction,
look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of the
military discipline: that is the point.

Jamy. It sall be very gud, gud feith, gud captains

bath: and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick
occasion ; that sall I, marry.
' Mac. It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me.
The day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and
the king, and the dukes; it is no time to discourse.
The town is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the
breach, and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing: ’tis
shame for us all; so God sa’me, ‘tis shame to stand
still ; itis shame, by my hand; and there is throats to
be cut, and works to be done, and there ish nothing
done, so Chrish sa’ me, la. :

Jamy. By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take
themselves to slomber. aile de gud service, or aile lig
i’ the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and aile pay it
as valorously as Imay, that sal I surely do, that is the
brefi and the long. Marry, IJ wad full fain heard some
question 'tween you tway. 119

Flu, Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under
your correction, there is not many of your nation—

Mac. Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a
villain, and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal.
What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation?

Flw. Look you, if you_take the matter otherwise
than is meant, Captain Macmorris, pore ventare. I
shall think you do not use me with that affability as
in discretion you ought to use me, look you; being
as good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of
wars, and in the derivation of my birth, and in other
particularities.

Mac. I do not know you so good a man as myself:
so Chrish save me, I will cut off your head.

Gow. Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.

Jamy. Au! that’s a foul fault. [4 parley sounded.

Gow. The town sounds a parley.

Flu. Captain Macmorris, when there is more better
opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold
as to tell you, I know the disciplines of wars; and
there is an end. [Execunt.

 

ScENE III.--TheSame. Before the Gates of Harfleur,

The Governor and some Citizens on the walis ; the
English Forces below. Enter King HENRY and
his Train. :

K. Hen. How yet resolves the governor of the town?

This is the latest parle we will admit :

Therefore, to our best mercy give yourselves ;

Or, like to men proud of destruction, :

Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,

A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,

If begin the battery once again,

- Twill not leave the half-achieved Harfleur,

Till in her ashes she lie buried.

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up; 10

And the flesh’d soldier, rough and hard of heart,

fee

 

 

In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
Your fresh-tair virgins, and your flowering infants.
What is it then to me, if impious war,
Array’d in flames like to the prince of fiends,
Do, with his smirch’d complexion, all fell feats
Enlink’d to waste and desolation ?
What is’t tome, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand 20
Of hot and forcing violation ?
What rein can hold licentious wickedness,
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil,
As send precepts to the leviathan
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town, and of your people,
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command ;
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace 30
O'erbiows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy.
If not, why, in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters ;
Your fathers taken by the silver beards,
And their most reverend heads dash’d to the walls ;
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confus’d
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry _ 40
At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you? will you yield, and this avoid?
Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?

Gov. Our expectation hath this day an end.
The Dauphin, whom of succour we entreated,
Returns us, that his powers are yet not ready
To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king,
We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.
Enter our Eales ; dispose of us and ours;
For we no longer are defensible. 50

KK. Hen. Open your pales !_Come, uncle Exeter,
Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,
And fortify it strongly ’gainst the French:
Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,
The winter coming on, and sickness growing
Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.
To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest ;
To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

[Fiourish. The Kina, &c., enter the town.

ScenE IV.—Rouen. A Room in the Palace.

inter KATHARINE and ALICE.

Kate. Alice, tu as esté en Angleterre, et tu bien
parles le langage.

Alice. Un peu, madame.

Kath. Je te prie, nvenseigniez; il faut que je
apprend a parler. Comment appellez vous ie main
en Anglots ?

Alice. Le main? il est appellé, de hand.

Kath. Dehand. £t les doigts ?

Alice. Les doigts? ma foy, je oublie les doigts ;
mais jeme souviendray. Les doigts ? je pense, qwils
sont ge de fingres ; owy, de fingres. ll

Kath. Le main, de hand ; les doigts, de fingres. Je
pense, que je suis le bon escolier. Jai gagné deux
mots d’Anglois vistement. Comment appellez vous
les ongles ?

Alice. Les ongles ? ics appelions, de nails.

Kath. De nails. Escoutez; dites moy, si je parle
bien : de hand, de fingres, e¢ de nails.

Alice. C'est bien dict, madame; il est fort bon
Anglois. 20

Kath. Dites moy l_Anglots pour le bras.

Alice. De arm, madame,

Kath. Et le coude?

Alice. De elbow.

Kath. De elbow. Je m’en faitz la repetition de tous
les mots, a vous mavez apprins dés a present.

Alice. Il est trop difficile, madame, comme Je.
pense. :

 
 

 

506 KING HENRY V¥.

(Acr TIL

 

Kath. Excuse moy, Alice; escoute:
fingre, de nails, de arm, de bilbow,

Alice. De elbow, madame.

Kath. O Seigneur Diew ! je m’en oublie; de elbow.
Comment appellez vous le col?

Alice. De nick, madame.

Kath. De nick. Et le menton?

Alice. De chin. .

Kath. De sin. Le col, de nick; le menton, de sin.

Alice. Ouy. Sauf vostre honneur, en verité, vous
prononcez es mots aussi droict que les natifs
ad’ Angleterre. 40

Kath. Je ne doute point dapprendre par la grace
de Dieu, et en peu de temps.

de hand, de
30

 

Kath. “ Je rectterar une autre fors ma lecurt ensemble.”

Alice, N’avez vous deja oublié ce que je vous ay
enseigné 2

Kath. Non, je reciteray a vous promptement. De
hand, de fingre, de mails, —

Alice. De nails, madame.

Kath. De nails, de arme, de ilbow.

Alice. Sauf vostre honneur, de elbow.

Kath. Ainsi dis je; de elbow, de nick, et de sin.
Comment appellez vous le pied et la robe? dl

Alice. De foot, madame ; et de coun.

Kath. De foot, e¢ de coun? O Seigneur Dieu! ils
sont les mots de son mauvais, corruptible, grosse, ct
impudique, et non pour les dames de honneur d'user.
Je ne voudrois prononcer ces mots devant les Seig-
neurs de France, pour tout le monde. Il faut de foot,
et de coun, neant-moins. Je recitcrai une autre fois
ma lecon ensemble: de hand, de fingre, de nails,
de arm, de elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun. 60

Alice, Excellent, madame.

Kath. C'est assez pour une fois: allons nous a
disner. [Exewnt.

 

Scene V.—The Same. Another Room in the Same.

Enter the French Kina, the _Dauputn, Duke of
Bourwon, the Constable of France, and others.
n ’T is certain, he hath pass’d the river
Somme.
Con. And if he be not fought withal, my lord,
Let us not live in France ; let us quit all,
And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.
Dau. O Dieu vivant ! shall a few sprays of us,
The emptying of our fathers’ luxury,
Our scions, put in wild and savage stock,

 

Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,
And overlook their grafters ?

Bour, Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman

bastards, 10

Mort de ma vie! if they march alon;
Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedlon,
To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

Con. Diew de battailes! where have they this

mettle? :

Is not their climate foggy, raw, and dull,
On whon, as in despite, the sun looks pale,
Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,
A drench for suz-rein’d jades, their barley-broth,
Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? ~ _20
And shall our sue blood, spirited with wine,
Seem arene ! for honour of our land,
Let us not hang like roping icicles 3
Upon our houses’ thatch, whiles a more frosty neople
Sweat drops of salient youth in our rich fields ;
Poor we may call them in their native lords.

Dau. By faith and honour,
Our madams mock at us, and plainly say,
Our mettle is bred out ; and they will give
Their bodies to the lust of English youth, 30
To new-store France with hastard warriors.

Bour. They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
And teach lavoltas high, and swift corantos;
Saying, our grace is only in our heels,
And that we are most lofty runaways.

Fr. Ang: Whereis Montjoy, the herald? speed him

ence:

Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.—
Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edg’d
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
Charles Delabreth, high constable of France;
You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry,
Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy ;
Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
Beaumont, Grandpré, Roussi, and Fauconberg,
Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois ; :
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights,
For your great seats, now quit you of great shames,
Bar Harry England, that eee through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur:
Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat
The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon:
Go, down upon him,—you have power enough,—
And in a captive chariot into Roan
Bring him our prisoner.

Con. This becomes the great.

Sorry am I, his numbers are so few,

His soldiers sick, and famish’d in their march;

For, I am sure, when he shall see our army,

He'll drop his heart into the sink of fear,

And, for achievement, offer us his ransom. 60

Fr. King. Therefore, lord constable, haste on Mont-

JOY,
And let him say to England, that we send
To know what willing ransom he will give.—
Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Roan,
Dau. Not so, Ido beseech your majesty. ,
Fr. King. Be patient, for you shall remain with
us.—
Now, forth, lord constable, and princes all,
And quickly bring us word of England’sfall. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE VI.—The English Camp in Picardy.

Enter GOWER and FLUELLEN.

Gow. How now, Captain Fluellen? come you from
the bridge? r

Flu. T assure you, there is very excellent services
committed at the pridge.

Gow. Is the Duke of Exeter safe?

Flu. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous 2s
Agamemnon ; and a man that I love and honour with
my soul, and my heart, and my duty, and my life,
and my living, and my uttermost power: he is not

 

 

 
 

ScENE VI.]

KING HENRY FV.

507

 

 

(God be. praised and blessed !) any hurt in the world,
but keeps the pridge most val ly, with excellent
discipline. There is an aunchient lieutenant there at
the pridge,—I think, in my very conscience, he is as
valiant 2 man as Mark Antony ; and he is a man of
no estimation in the world: but I did see him do as
gallant service.

Gow. What do you call him ?

Flu. He is called Aunchient Pistol.

Gow. I know him not.

Enter PIsTo..

Flu. Here is the man. 20

Pist. Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours :
The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

Flu. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some
love at his hands. ;

Pist. Bardolph, a soldier firm and sound of heart,
And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate
And giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel,

That goddess blind,
That stands upon the rolling restless stone, — 29

Flu. By — patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune
is painted blind, with a muffler afore his eyes, tosignify
to you that Fortune is blind. And she is peihiem ales
with a wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of
it, that she is turning, and inconstant, and mutability,
and variation: and her foot, look you, is fixed upon a
spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls. In
good truth, the poet makes a most excellent description
of it: Fortune ts an excellent moral.

Pist, Fortune is Bardolph’s foe, and frowns on him;
For he hath stol'n a pax, and hanged must ’a be. 40
A damned death!

Let gallows gape for dog, let man go free,

And let not hemp his wind-pipe sutfocate.

But Exeter hath given the doom of death,

For pax of little price. 7

Therefore, go speak, the duke will hear thy voice,
And let not Bardolph’s vital thread be cut

With edge of penny cord, and vile reproach:
Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.

Flu, Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your
ae 51

Pist, Why then, rejoice therefore. . :

Flu. Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice
at; for if, look you, he were my brother, I would
desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put him
to execution ; for discipline ought to be used, :

Pist, Die and be damn’d; and figo for thy friendship !

Flu, It is well.

Pist. The fig of Spain!

Flu. Very good. :

Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal: I
remember him now ; a bawd, a cutpurse.

Flu. Vl assure you, ’a utter’d as prave words at the
pridge, as you shall see in a summer’s day. But it is
very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well, I
warrant you, when time is serve.

Gow. Why, ’tis a gull, afool, arogue; that now and
then goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return
into London under the form of a soldier. And such
fellows are perfect in the great commanders’ names,
and they will learn you by rote where services were
done ;—at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at
such a convoy ; who came off bravely, who was shot.
who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on; and

' this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which
they trick up with new-tuned oaths : and what a beard
of the general's cut, and a horrid suit of the camp, will
do among foaming bottles, and ale-washed wits, is
wonderful to be thought on. But you must learn to
know such slanders of the age, or else you may be
marvellously mistook. _ 8

Flu. I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive,

e is not the man that he would gladly make show to
the world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will tell

im my mind, [Drum heard.] Hark you, the king is
coming, and I must speak with him from the pridge.

Enter King HENRY, GLOSTER, and Soldiers.
Flu. God pless your majesty !

[Exit.
60

 

K. Hen. How now, Fluellen? cam’st thou from the
bridge? 88

Flu. Ay, 80 please your majesty. The Duke of
Exeter has very sollanily maintained the pridge: the
French is gone off, look you, and there is gallant and
most prave passages. arry, th’ athversary was have
possession of the pee BU he is enforced to retire,
and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge. I can
tell your majesty, the duke is a prave man.

4k. Hen. What men have you lost, Fluellen ?

Flu. The perdition of th’athversary hath been very
ie reasonable great: marry, for my part, I think the

uke hath lost never a man, but one that is like to be
executed for robbing a church; one Bardolph, if your
majesty know the man: his face is all bubukles, and
whelks, and knobs, and flames of fire; and his lips
blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of fire, some-
times plue, and sometimesred; but his nose isexecuted,
and his fire’s out.

K. Hen. We would have all such offenders so cut
off: and we give express charge, that in our marches
through the country there be nothing compelled from
the villages, nothing taken but paid for; none of the
French upbraided, or abused in disdainful language ;
for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, one

12

gentler gamester is the soonest winner.

Tucket. Enter MontTJoy.

Mont. You know me by my habit.

kK. Hen. Well then, I know thee: what shall I know

of thee?

Mont. My master’s mind,

KEK. Hen. Unfold it.

Mont. Thus says my king :—Say thou to Harry -of
England, though we seemed dead, we did but sleep ;
advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him,
we could have rebuked him at Harfieur; but that we
thought not good to bruise an injury, till it were full
ripe: now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is
imperial. England shall repent his folly, see his
weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him, there-
fore, consider of his ransom; which must proportion
the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost,
the disgrace we have digested; which, in weight to
re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. For our
losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the effusion of
our blood, the muster of his kingdom too faint a
number ; and for our disgrace, his own person, kneel-
ing at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction.
To this add defiance ; and tell him, for conclusion, he
hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is
pronounced. So far my king and master, so much my

office.
KK. Hen. What is thy name? I know thy quality.
Mont. Montjoy.
AK. dich, Thou dost thy office fairly.

ack,
And tell thy king,—I do not seek him now,
But could be willing to march on to Calais
Without impeachment; for, to say the sooth,
Though ’t is no wisdom to confess so much
Unto an enemy of craft and vantage,

My people are with sickness much enfeebled,
My numbers lessen’d, and those few I have
Almost no better than so many French:
Who, when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,

I thought upon one pair of English legs

Did march three Frenchmen.-— Yet, forgive me, God,
That I do brag thus !—this your air of France 151
Hath blown that vice in me: I must repent.

Go therefore, tell thy master, here Iam:

My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,

My army but a weak and sickly guard ;

Yet,’ God before, tell him we will come on,

Though France himself, and such another neighbour,
Stand in our way. There’s for thy labour, Montjoy.
Go, bid thy master well advise himself :

If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder'd, 160
We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour : and so, Montjoy, fare you well.

The sum of all our answer is but this:

We would not seek a battle, as we are;

Turn thee
140

 

 
 

 

508

Nor, as we are, we say, we will not shun it:

So tell your master. 4
Mont. I shall deliver so. Thanks to your mr

wit,
Glo. I hope they will not come upon us now. ;
K. a. Ve are in God's hand, brother, not in
theirs.
March to the bridge ; it now draws toward night : 170
Beyond the river we'll encamp ourselves,

And on to-morrow bid them march away. [Excunt.

ScENE VII.—The French Camp, near Agincourt.

Enter the Constable of France, the Lord RAMBURES,
the Duke of ORLEANS, the DAUPHIN, and others.
Con. Tut! I have the best armour of the world.

‘Would it were day!

7. You have an excellent armour; but let my
horse have his due.

 

 

Dau. * 1013 a theme as fluent as tle Bea,

Con. It is the best horse of Europe.

Orl. WillLit never be morning?

Dau. My Lord of Orleans, and my lord high con-
stable, you talk of horse and armour —

Orl. You are as well provided of both as any prince
in the world. 10

Dau, What a long night is this !—I will not change
my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns.
(a, ha! He bounds from the earth, as if his entrails
were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, qui a les
narines de feu! When I bestride him, I soar, I am
a hawk: he trots the air; the earth sings when he
touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical
than the pipe of Hermes.

Orl. He’s of the colour of the nutmeg. 19

Dau. And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast
for Perseus: he is pure air and fire; and the dull
elements of earth and water never appear in him,
but only in patient stillness, while his rider mounts
him: he is, indeed, a horse; and all other jades you
may call beasts.

Con. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and
et horse.

aw. It is the prince of palfreys: his neigh is like
the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance en-
forces homage. 30

Orl. No more, cousin.

Dau, Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from
the rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary
deserved praise on my palfrey : it is a theme as fluent
as the sea; turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and

KING HENRY V.

 

 

> [Aor TIL

my horse is argument for them all. ’Tis a subject for
a sovereign to reason on, and for a sovereign’s sové:
reign to ride on; and for the world (familiar to us, and
unknown) to lay apa their particular functions and
wonder at him. I once writ a sonnet in his praise
and began thus: ‘‘ Wonder of nature !”— 4£

Orl. [have heard a sonnet begin so to one’s mistress;

Dau, Then did they imitate that which I composed
to my courser ; for my horse is my mistress.

Orl, Your mistress bears well. 4

Dau. Me well; which is the prescript praise and
perfection of a good and particular mistress, 2

Con, Nay, for methought yesterday, your mistress
shrewdly shook your back. ;

Dau. So, perhaps, did yours. 50

Con. Mine was not bridled.

Dau. O! then, belike, she was old and gentle; and
you rode, like a kern of Ireland, your French hose ott,
and in your strait strossers.

Con. Youw'have good judgment in horsemanship.

Dau. Be warned by me, then: they that ride so,-
and ride not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather
have my horse to my mistress.

Con. Lhad as liet have my mistress a jade.

Dau. I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his
own hair. 5

Con. I could make as true a boast as that, if I hada
sow to my mistress.

Dau. Le chien est retourné & son propre vomisse-
ment, et la truie lavée au bourbier: thou makest use
of anything.

Con. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress; or
any such proverb, so little kin to the purpose.

Ram. My lord constable, the armour, that I saw in
your tent to-night, are those stars, or suns, upon it ?70

Con. Stars, my lord.

Dau. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.

Con. And yet my sky shall not want.

Dau. That may be; for you bear a many super-
fluously, and ’t were more honour some were away.

Con. Even as your horse bears your praises: who
would trot as well, were some of your brags —

| Mounted.

Dau, "Would I were able to load him with his
desert! Will it never be day? I will trot to-morrow
a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces,

Con. I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out
of my way. But I would it were morning, for I would
fain he about the ears of the English.

Ram. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty
prisoners? ,

Con. You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you
have them. .

Dau. Tis midnight: I'll go arm myself. [Exit.

Orl. The Dauphin longs for morning. 9

Ram. He longs to eat the English.

Con. I think he will eat all he kills. .

Orl. By the white hand of my lady, he's a gallant
prince.

cor Swear by her foot, that she may tread out the
oath.

Orl. He is simply the most active gentleman of
France. i L .

Con. Doing is activity, and he will still be doing...

Orl. He never did harm, that I heard of. 100

Con. Nor will do none to-morrow: he will keep that
good name still. .

1, I know him to be valiant. 5 =

Con. I was told.that, by one that knows him better
than you.

Orl, What’s he?

Con. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said, he
cared not who knew it. os :

Orl. He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.

Con. By my faith, sin, but it is; never anybody ng
it, but his lackey: ‘tis a hooded valour; and when i
appears, it will bate. 1g

Orl, Ill will never said well. . :

Con. I will cap that proverb with—There is flattery
in pends lay

Orl. And I will take up that with—Give the devil
his due.

 

 
 

ScENE VII.)

KING HENRY VP.

509

 

 

Con. Well placed : there stands your friend for the
devil: have at the very eye of that proverb, with—A
pox of the devil. : ' 120

Orl. You are the better at proverbs, by how much—
A fool’s bolt is soon shot.

Con. You have shot over.

Orl, "Tis not the first time you were overshot.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord high constable, the English lie within
fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

Con. Who hath measured the ground?

Mess, The Lord Grandpré.

Con. A valiant and most expert gentleman.—’ Would
it were day!—Alas, poor Harry ot England !—he longs
not tor the dawning, as we do. - 131

Orl. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this
King of England, to mope with his tat-brained
followers so tar out of his knowledge.

Con. If the English had any apprehension, they
would run away.

 

_ Orl. That they lack; for if their heads had an
intellectual armour, they could never wear ae
heavy head-pieces.

fam. That island of England breeds very valiant
creatures: their mastitts are of unmatchable courage.

Orl. Foolish curs! that run winking into the mouth
of a Russian bear, and have their heads crushed like
rotten apples. You may as well say, that’s a valiant
flea, that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Con. Just, just; and the men do sympathise with
the mastitis in robustious and rough coming on,
leaving their wits with their wives: and then give
them great meals of beef, and iron and steel, they
will eat like wolves, and fight like devils. 1
i oe Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of

eet. 3

Con. Then shall we find to-morrow, they have only
stomachs to eat, and none to fight. Now is it time to
arm ; come, shall we about it ?

Ort. It is now two o’clock : but, let me see, by ten,
We shall have each a hundred Englishmen. [E'xeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
Enter Chorus.

go Chorus

H — .

~~ \. OW entertain conjecture ofatime,

' When creeping murmur, and the poring

 
   
 

ark,
\ Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
‘From camp to camp, through the foul
womb of night,
* The hum of either army stilly sounds,
» That the fix’d sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other’s
N watch:
Fire answers fire, and through their paly
flames
Each battle sees the other's umber’d face :
Steed threatens steed, in high and boast-
ful neighs 10
Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from
: the tents,
The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up,
Give dreadful note of preparation.
The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty French
Do the low-rated English play at dice;
And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited night, 20
Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp.
So tediously away.. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
€ morning’s danger; and their gesture sad,
Anyesting lank-lean cheeks, and war-worn coats,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
‘So many horrid ghosts. O! now, who will behold
The royal captain of this ruin’d band,
Walking from watch to watch, from tent totent, 30
- Let him ery—Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and visits all his host,
Bids them pods aise with a modest smile,
‘And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
‘Upon his royal face there is no note,

 

How dread an army hath enrounded him;

Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour

Unto the weary and all-watched night:

But freshly looks, and overbears attaint

With cheerful semblance, and sweet majesty ; 40

That every wretch, pining and pale before,

Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.

A largess universal, like the sun,

His liberal eye doth give to every one,

Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all,

Behold, as may unworthiness define,

A little touch of Harry in the night.

And so our scene must to the battle fly;

Where, O for pity! we shall much disgrace--

With four or five most vile and ragged foils, 50

Right ill dispos’d in brawl ridiculous—

The name of Agincourt. Yet, sit and sce;

Minding true things by what their mockeries aie rm
: it.

 

ScENE I.—The English Camp at Agincourt.

Enter King HENRY, BEDFORD, and GLOSTER.
K. Hen, Gloster, tis true that we are in great
danger ;

The greater therefore should our courage be.—
Good morrow, brother Bedford.—God ue ea
There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out; .
For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
Which-is both-healthful and. gue husbandry :
Besides, they are our outward consciences,
And preachers to us all; admonishing, |
That we should dress us fairly for our end. 10
Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself.

a _,, . Lnter ERPINGHAM.
Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:

‘| ‘A good soft pillow for that good white head

Were better than a churlish turf of France.

 

 
 

510

KING HENRY YJ.

[Act IV,

 

 

Erp. Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me
better, :
Since I may say, now lie I like aking. ;
K. Hen. ’Tis good for men to love their present
pains poe
Upon example; so the spirit is eased:
And when the mind is quicken’d, out of doubt, 20
The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave, and newly move
With casted eloue and fresh legerity.
Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas.—Brothers both,
Commend me to the princes in our camp;
Do my good-morrow to them; and, anon,
Desire them all to my pavilion.
Glo. We shall, my liege.
Exeunt GLOSTER and BEDFORD.
Erp. Shall I atten
A. Hen.

your grace? fs
en. No, my good knight ;
Go with my brothers to my lords of England: 30
Iand my bosom must debate awhile,
And then I would no other company.
Erp. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Horry te
wit,

[
KK. Hen. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak’st
cheerfully.

Enter PISTOL.
Pist. Qui va li?
K. Hén. A triend.
Pist. Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
Or art thou base, common, and popular?
&K. Hen. Lam a gentleman of a company.
Pist. Trail’st thou the puissant pike? 40
K. Hen. Even so. What are you?
Pist. As good a gentleman as the emperor.
A. Hen. Then you are a better than the king.
Pist. The king’s a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame;
Of parents good, of fist most valiant :
I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heartstring
I love the lovely bully. What’s thy name?
K. Hen. Harry le Roy.
Pist. Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish
crew? 50
K. Hen. No, lam a Welshman.
Pist. Know’st thou Fluellen?
K. Hen. Yes.
Pist, Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his

pate,

Upon Saint Davy’s day.

4&. Hen. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap
that day, lest he knock that about yours.

Pist. Art thou his friend?

KK. Hen. And his kinsman too.

Pist. The figo for thee then! 60

A. Hen. I thank you. God be with you!

Pist. My name is Pistol called. [Exit.

KK. Hen. It sorts well with your fierceness.

Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER, severally.
Gow. Captain Fluellen!

lu. So, in the name of Cheshu Christ, speak lower.

It is the greatest admiration in the universal world,
when the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of
the wars is not kept. If you would take the pains but
to examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall
find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle taddle, nor
pibble pabble, in Pompey’s camp; I warrant you, you
shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of
it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety of it, and the
modesty of it, to be otherwise.

cee Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all
night.

Flu. If the enemy isan ass and a fool, and a prating
coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also,
look you, be an ass, and a fool, and a prating cox-
comb? in your own conscience now? 80

Gow. I will speak lower.

Flu. I pray you, and beseech you, that you will.

[Exeunt GOWER and FLUELLEN.

K. Hen. Though it appear a little out of fashion,

There is much care and valour in this Welshman.

 

Enter Bates, Court, and WILLIAMS,

Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning
which breaks yonder?

Bates. I think it be; but we have no great cause to
ee approach o ath b c

ill. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but
Echure we shall never see the end of ite Who sues
ere

K. Hen, A friend. fil

Will, Under what captain serve you?

KK, Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

Will, A good old commander, and a most kind
gentleman: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate?

4. Hen. Even as men wracked upon a sand, that
look to be washed off the next tide.

Bates. He hath not told his thought to the king?

KK. Hen. No; nor it is not meet he should. For
though I speak it to you, I think the king is buta man
as Iam: the violet smells to him, as it doth to me;
the element shows to him, as it doth to me; all his
senses have but human conditions: his ceremonies
laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man, and
though his affections are higher mounted than ours,

et, When they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.

herefore, when he sees reason of fears, as we do,
his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish as ours
are: yet, in reason, ho man should possess him with
any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should
dishearten his army. 12

Bates. He may show what outward courage he will;
but, I believe, as cold a night as ’tis, he could wish
himself in Thames up to the neck: and I by him, at
all adventures, so we were que here. 7

K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of
the king: I think, he would not wish himself any
where but where he is.

Bates. Then I would he were here alone; so should
he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's
lives saved. . 122

K. Hen. I dare say, you love him not so ill, to wish
him here alone, howsoever you speak this, to feel
other men’s minds. Methinks, I could not die any-
where so contented as in the king’s company, his
cause being just, and his quarrel honourable,

Will. That’s more than we know.

Bates. Ay, or more than we should seek after; for
we know enough, if we know we are the king’s-.sub-
jects. If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the

ing wipes the crime of it out of us. . 132

Will. But if the cause be not good, the king him-
self hath a heavy reckoning to make: when all those
legs, and arms, and heads, chopped off in a battle,
shall join together at the latter day, and cry all—“‘We
died at such a place ;” some swearing, some cryin,
for a surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behinc
them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their
children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die
well, that die in a battle ; for how can they charitably
dispose of anything, when blood is their argument
Now, if these men do not die well, it will be a black
matter for the king that led them to it, whom to dis-
obey were against all proportion of subjection.

BR Hea. So, if a son, that is by his father sent
about merchandise, do sinfully miscarry upon the S08,
the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, shoul
be imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a
servant, under his master’s command, transporting
a sum of money, be assailed by robbers, and die in
many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the busi-
ness of the master the author of the servant's damna-
tion. But this is not so: the king is not bound to
answer the particular endings of his soldiers, the
father of his son, nor the master of his servant; for
they purpose not their death, when they pe their
services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause
never so spotless, if it come to the arbitrement ol
swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers,
Some, peradventure, have on them the guilt of pre-
meditated and contrived murder ; some, of beguiling
virgins with the broken seals of perjury ; some, making
the wars their bulwark, that have before gored the

 

 

 
——

ScENE I.]

——

gentle bosom of peace with pillage and robbery. Now,
if these men have defeated the law, and outrun native
punishment, though they can outstrip men, they have
no wings to fly from God: war is his beadle, war is
his vengeance ; so that here men are punished, for
before-breach of the king's laws, in now the king’s
quarrel: where they feared the death, they have
borne life away, and where they would be safe, they
pereh Then, if they die unprovided, no more is the

ing guilty of their damnation, than he was before
guilty of those impieties for the which they are now
visited. Every subject's duty is the king’s ; but every
subject’s soul is his own. Therefore should ever
soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his bed,
wash every moth out of his conscience ; and dying so,
death is to him advantage ; or not dying, the time was
blessedly lost, wherein such preparation was gained :
and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think, that
making God so free an offer, he let him outlive that
day to see his greatness, and to teach others how they
should prepare.

Will. ’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill
upon his own head: the king is not to answer it.

Bates. I do not desire he should answer forme; and
yet I determine to feat lustily for him.

K. Hen. I myself heard the king say, he would not
be ransomed. 191

Will. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully ;
but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed,
and we ne’er the wiser.

K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his
word after.

Will, You pay him then! That’s a perilous shot
out of an elder gun, that a poor and a private dis-
pleasure can do against a monarch. You mayas well
go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his

‘ace with a peacock’s feather. You’ll never trust his
word after! come, ’tis a foolish saying. 202

K. Hen. Your reproof is something too round: I
should be prey with you, if the time were convenient.

Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

K. Hen. I embrace it.

Will. How shall I know thee again ?

K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear
in my bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge
it, I will make it my quarrel. 210

Will, Here’s my glove: give me another of thine.

K. Hen. There.

Will. This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou
come to me and say, after to-morrow, ‘“ This is my
glove,” by this hand, I will take thee a box on theear.

K. Hen. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

Will. Thou darest as well be hanged.

K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the
king’s company.

Will. Keep thy word : fare thee well. 220

Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we
ive French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to
reckon.

K. Hen. Indeed, the French may lay twenty French
crowns to one, they will beat us; for they bear them
on their shoulders : but it is no English treason to cut
French crowns, and to-morrow the king himself will
be a clipper. [Exeunt Soldiers.
Upon the king ! Jet us.our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our careful wives, 230
Our children, and our sins, lay on the king !—

We must bear all. O hard condition,

Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath
Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel

| But his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease
Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy !

And what have kings, that privates have not too,
Save ceremony, save general ceremony ?

And what art thou, thou idol ceremony ?

What kind of aS art thou, that suffer'st more

Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers? |
: at are thy rents? what are thy comings-in?

ceremony, show me but thy worth !
. What is thy soul of adoration ?
‘Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
| Creating awe and fear in other men?

240

 

KING HENRY YP.

 

511

Wherein thou art less happy, being fear’d,
Than they in fearing.
What drink’st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
But poison’d flattery? O! be sick, great greatness, 250
And bid thy ceremony give thee cure.
Think’st thou, the fiery fever will go out
With titles blown from adulation? 2
Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
’

 

. Hen. “What infinite heart's ease
Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!"

Canst thou, when thou command'’st the beggar's knee,
Command the health of it?) No, thou proud dream,
That play’st so subtly with a king's repose:
Tamaking, that find thee; and { know,

°T is not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,

The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,

The inter-tissued robe of gold and pearl,

The farced title running ‘fore the king,

The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp

That beats upon the high shore of this world ;
No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,

Not all these, laid in bed majestical,

Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
Who, with a body fill’d, and vacant mind,

Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread,
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell, 270
But, like a lackey, from the rise to set,

Sweats in the eye of Pheebus, and all night

Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn,

Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse ;

And follows so the ever-running year

With profitable labour to his grave:

And, but for ceremony, such a wretch, »

Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,
Had the forehand and vantage of a king.

The slave, a member of the country’s peace,
Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots,

What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,
Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

Enter ERPINGHAM.

Erp. My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,
Seek through your camp to find you.

K. Hen. Good old knight,
Collect them all together at my tent:
I 11 be before thee.

Erp. I shall do’t, my lord. [Exit.

K. Hen. O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts ;
Possess them not with fear; take from them now
The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers 290
Pluck their hearts from them !—Not to-day, O Lord!
O! not to-day, think not upon the fault
My father made in compassing the crown.

I Richard’s body have interred new,

And on it have bestow’d more contrite tears
Than from it issued forced drops of blood.
Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,

260

280

 

 
 

512

KING HENRY V.

[Acr IV,

 

 

Who twice a day their wither'd hands hold up |
Toward heaven, to pardon blocd; and I have built
Two chantries, where the sad_and solemn priests 300
Sing still for Nichard’s soul. More will I do;
Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all,
Imploring pardon.
Enter GLOSTER,

Glo, My liege! .

K. Hen. My brother Gloster’s voice ?—Ay ;
I know thy errand, I will go with thee :—
The day, my friends, and all things stay for me.

[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The French Camp.

Enter DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, RAMBURES, and others.
Orl. The sun doth gild our armour: up, my lords!
Dau. Meee acheval!—My horse! valet! lacquay!

a!
Orl. O brave spirit! .
Dau. Via !—les eaux et la terre!
Orl. Rien puis ? lair et le feu!
Dau, Ciel! cousin Orleans,

Enter Constable.
Now, my lord constable ! :
Con. Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh.
Dau. Mount them, and ‘make incision in their hides,
That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, 10
And dout them with superfluous courage : ha!
Ram. What, will you have them: weep our horses’

blood ?
How shall we then behold their natural tears?

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. The English are embattled, you French peers.
Con. ae horse, you gallant princes! straight to
orse !

Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
And your fair show shall suck away their souls,
Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.
There is not work enough for all our hands;
Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins, 20
To give each naked curtle-axe a stain,
That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,
And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,
The vapour of our valour will o’erturn them.
°T is positive ’gainst all exceptions, lords,
That our superfluous lackeys, and our peasants,
Who, in unnecessary action, swarm
About our squares of battle, were enow
To purge this field of such a hilding foe,
Though we upon this mountain's basis by 30
Took stand for idle speculation :
But that our honours must not. What's to say?
A very little little let us do,
And allis done. Then, let the trumpets sound
The tucket-sonance, and the note to mount:
Forour approach shall so much dare the field,
That England shall couch down in fear, and yield.

Enter GRANDPRE.

Grand. Why do you stay so long, my lordsof France?
Yon island earrions, desperate of their bones,
Iil-favour'dly become the morning field : 40
Their ragged curtains poorly are Tet loose,

And our air shakes them passing scornfully.

Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar’d host,
And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps.

The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,

With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,
The gum dyad ning from their pale-dead eyes,
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal’d bit

Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless; 50
And their executors, the knavish crows,

Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour.
Description cannot suit itself in words,

To demonstrate the life of such a battle,

Tn life so lifeless as it shows itself.

 

' Con. They have said their prayers, and th y
pian pray! ey stay for

Dau, Shall we go send them dinners, and fresh sui
And give their fasting horses provender, Ms
And after fight with them ?

Con. I stay but for my guard. On, to the field! 60
I will the banner from a trumpet take,

And use it for my haste. Come, come, away!
The sun is high, and we outwear the day. " [Exeunt,

Scene III.—The English Camp,

Enter the English Host ; GLOSTER, BEDForRD,
EXETER, SALISBURY, and WESTMORELAND,
Glo, Where is the king?
Bed. The king hurnisel’ is rode to view their battle.
West. Of fighting men they have full threescore

thousand.
Exe. ly five to one; besides, they all are
resh.

Sal. God’s arm strike with us! ’tis a fearful odds,

‘God be wi’ you, princes all; Ill to my charge:

If we no more meet, till we meet in heaven,
Then, joyfully,—my noble Lord of Bedford, —
My dear Lord Gloster,—and my good Lord Exeter,—
And my kind kinsman,—warriors all, adieu ! 10
Bed, Farewell, good Salisbury ; and good luck go
with thee!
Exe. Farewell, kind lord. Fight valiantly to-day:
And yet I do thee wrong, to mind thee of it,
For thou art fram’d of the firm truth of valour.
[Exit SALISBURY.
Bed. He is as full of valour as of kindness ;
Princely in bot’

Enter King HENRY.

West. O! that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England,
That do no work to-day!

A. Hen. : What’s he, that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland ?—No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark’d to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold ;

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires:

But, if it be a sin to covet honour,

Iam the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England: 30
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hope I have. O! donot wish one more:
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he, which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart, his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man’s company,

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian : 40
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say,—To-morrow is Saint Crispian : —

Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he ’ll remember with advantages,

What feats he didthat day. Then shall our names, 50
Familiar in his mouth as household words,—

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,—

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd. i
This story shall the good man teach his son,

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered ;

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY YV,

513

 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition :

And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themselves accurs’d, they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

Enter SALISBURY.
Sal. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:
The French are bravely in their battles set,
And will with all expedience charge on us.
K. Hen. All things are ready, if our minds be so. 70
West. Perish. the man whose mind is backward
now!
K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from Eng-
land, cousin ?
West. God’s will! my liege, "would you and I

60

alone,
Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
A. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish’d five thou-
sand men;
Which likes me better than to wish us one.—
You know your places: God be with you all!

Tucket. Enter MONTJOY.

Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, King
arry,
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
Before thy most assured overthrow :
For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf,
Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,
The constable desires thee, thou wilt mind
Thy followers of repentance ; that their souls
May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor
bodies
Must lie and fester.

89

. Hen. o hath sent thee now?

Mont. The constable of France.

K. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back :
Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones. 90
Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus ?
The man, that once did sell the lion’s skin
While the beast liv’d, was kill’d with hunting him.

A many of our bodies shall, no doubt,

Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,

Shall witness live in brass of this day’s work;

And those that leave their valiant bones in France,

Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,

They shall be fam’d: for there the sun shall greet
them,

And draw their honours reeking up toheaven, — 100

Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,

The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.

Mark then abounding valour in our English ;

That, being dead, like to the bullet’s grazing,

Break out into a second course of mischief,

Killing in relapse of mete

Let me speak proudly :—tell the constable,

Weare but warriors for the working-day:

Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d

With rainy marching in the painful field ;

There ’s not a piece of feather in our host

(Good argument, I hope, we will not fly),

And time hath worn us into slovenry :

But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;

And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night

‘They ’li be in fresher robes, or they will pluck

110

‘The gay new coats o’er the French soldiers’ heads,

And turn them out of service. If they do this
4As, if God please, they shall), my ransom then
Will soon be levied. erald, save thou thy labour ;
‘Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald: | 121
They shall have none, I swear,. but these my joints ;
‘Which, if they have.as I will leave ’em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the constable.
Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:
Thou never shalt hear herald any more. [Eait.
K, Hen. I fear, thou’lt once more come again for
ransom.

Enter the Duke of YorK.

York. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg
The leading of the vaward.
K. Hen, Take it, brave York.—Now, soldiers, march
180

away:
And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!
[Ezxeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Field of Battle.

Alarums ; Excursions. Enter French Soldier,
PisTOL, and Boy.

Pist. Yield, cur!

 

Pist. “Yield, cur!”

Fr. Sold. Je pense, que vous estes le gentilhomme de
bonne qualité.

Pist. Quality? Callino, castore me! Art thou a

entleman ?
What is thy name? discuss.

Fr. Sold. O Scigneur Dieu!

Pist. O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman.
Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark :—
O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
Except, O signieur, thou do give to me
Egregious ransom.

Fr. Sold. O, prenez misericorde! ayez pitié de
moy !

Pist. Moy shall not serve, I will have forty moys ;
For I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat,

In drops of crimson blood.

Fr, Sold. Est il impossible d’eschapper la force de
ton bras? -

Pist. Brass, cur?

Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,
Offer’st me brass?

Fr. Sold. O pardonne moy !

Pist, Say’st thou me so? is that a ton of moys?
Come hither, boy : ask me this slave in French,
What is his name.

Boy. Escoutez: comment estes vous appellé ?

Fr. Sold. Monsieur le Fer,

Boy. He says, his name is Master Fer.

Pist. Master Fer! I’ll fer him, and firk him, and

gerret him.—Discuss the same in French unto him. 30

Boy. Ido not know the French for fer, and ferret,
and firk.

Pist. Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.

Fr. Sold. Que dit-il, monsieur ?

Boy. Il me commande & vous dire que vous faites
vous prest ; car ce soldat icy est disposé tout a cette
heure de couper vostre gorge.

10

20

 

Pist. Ouy, couper le gorge, par ma foy, peasant,

 

 
 

 

bl4

Unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns ;
Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword. _ 40

Fr. Sold. O, je vous supplie pour Lamour de Die,
me pardonner! Je suis le gentithomme de bonne
maison: gardez ma vie, et je vous donneray deux
cents escus.

Pist. What are his words ? ‘ G

Boy. He prays you to save his life: he is a gentle-
man of a good house; and, for his ransom, he will
give you two hundred crowns.

Pist. Tell him,—my fury shall abate, and I the

crowns will take. ns :

Fr. Sold. Petit monsieur, que dit-il ? 50

Boy. Encore qwil est contre son jurement, de par-
donner aucun prisonicr ; neantmoins, pour les escus

ue vous Uavez promis, il est content a vous donner
a liberté, le franchisement. f

Fr. Sold. Sur mes genour, je vous donne mille
remerciemens ; ct ge miestime heureux que je suis
tombé entre les mains Cun chevalicr, je pense, le plus
brave, valiant, ct trées-distingué seigneur @ Angleterre.

Pist. kxpound unto me, boy. 59

Boy. He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand
thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath
fallen into the hands of one (as he thinks) the most
ees valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of Eng-
and,

Pist. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.
Follow me! [Fzit.

Boy. Suivez vous le grand capitaine. (Exit French
Soldier.) I did never know so full a voice issue from
so empty a heart: but the saying is true,—the empty
vessel makes the greatest sound. Bardolph and Nym
had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i’
the old play, that every one may pare his nails with a
wooden dagger; and they are both hanged ; and so
would this be, if he durst steal anything adventu-
rously. [must stay with the lackeys, with the luggage
of our camp: the French might have a good prey of
us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it, but
boys. [Eat.

Scent’ V.—Another Part of the Field of Battle.

Alarums. Enter DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, BOURBON,
Constable, RAMBURES, and others.

Con, O diable!
Orl. O setgneur !—le jour est perdu ! tout est perdlu!
Dau. Mort de ma vie ! all is confounded, all!
Reproach and everlasting shame
Sit mocking in our plumes.—O meschante fortune !
Do not run away. [4 short alarum.
Con. Why, all our ranks are broke.
Dau, O perdurable shane !—let’s stab ourselves,
Be these the wretches that we play’d at dice for?
Orl. Is this the king we sent to for his ransom ?
Bour. Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but
shame! 10
Let us die in honour !—Once more back again;
And he that will not follow Bourbon now,
Let him go hence, and, with his ae in hand,
Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door,
Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,
His fairest daughter is contaminated.
Con. Disorder, that hath spoil’d us, friend us now!
Let us, in heaps, go offer up our lives.
Orl. We are enough, yet living in the field,
To smother up the English in our throngs,
If any order might be thought upon.
Bour, The devil take order now! J’ll to the throng:
Let life be short, else shame will be too long. [Excunt.

20

—— ®
Scene VI.—Another Part of the Field.

Alarums, Enter Iing HENRY and Forces; EXETER,
and others.

K. Hen. Wellhave we done, thrice-valiant country-

sien : /
But all’s not done ; yet keep the French the field.

KING HENRY V.

|

 

 

[Acr tv, |

fixe. The Duke of York commends him to your
majesty,
IK. sani Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this
our f
Isaw him down, thrice up again, and fighting;
From helmet to the spur all blood he was, =
Exe. In which array, brave soldier, doth he li2,
Larding the plain; and by his bloody side
(Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds)
The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies,
Suffolk first died ; and York, all haggled over,
Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep‘d,
And takes him by the beard, kisses the gashes,
That bloodily did yawn upon his face;
He cries aloud,—" Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk !
My soul shall thine keep company to heaven:
Tarry, sweet soul, for mine; then fly abreast,
As in this glorious and well-foughten field
We kept together in our chivalry !”
Upon these words I came and cheer’d him up:
He smil’d me in the face, raught me his hand.
And, with a feeble gripe, says, “* Dear my lord,
Commend my service to my sovereign.”
So did he turn, and over Suffolk’s neck
He threw his wounded arm, and kiss’d his lips;
And so, espous’d to death, with blood he seal’d
A testament of noble-ending love.
The pretty and sweet manner of it fore’d
Those waters from me, which I would have stopp'd;
But I had not so much of man in me, 30
And all my mother came into mine eyes,
And gave me up to tears,
K. Hen. I blame you not;
For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.—[Alarum.
But, hark ! what new alarum is this same t—
The French have reinfore’d their scatter’d men :—
Then, every soldier kill his prisoners!
Give the word through. [Exeunt.

10

29

ScENE VII.—Another Part of the Field.
Alarums. Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER.

Flu. Kill the poys and the luggage! ‘tis expressly
against the law of arms: ‘tis as arrant a piece of
knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t; in your
conscience now, is it not?

Gow. ’T is certain, there ’s not a boy left alive; and
the cowardly rascals, that ran from the battle, have
done this slaughter: besides, vey have burned and
carried away all that was in the king’s tent; where-
fore the king most worthily hath caused every soldier
to cut his prisoner’s throat. O! ‘tis a gallant king. 10

Flu. Ay,he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower.
What call you the town’s name, where Alexander the
Pig was born?

Gow. Alexander the Great. g

Flu. Why, I pray you, is not pig, great? The pig,
or the great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the mag-
nanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase is a
little variations. i

Gow. I think, Alexander the Great was born in
Macedon: his father was called Philip of Macedon, as
I take it. 21

Flu. I think, it is in Macedon, where Alexander is
porn. I tell you, captain,—if you look in the maps of
the ’orld, I warrant, you shall find, in the comparisons |
between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, _
look you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon,
and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth: itis |
called Wye, at Monmouth; but it is out of my prains,
what is the name of the other river; but ’tis all one,
tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is
salmons in both. If you mark Alexander's life well,
Harry of Monmouth’s life is come after it indifferent
well; for there is figures in all things, Alexander,
(God knows, and you know,) in his rages, and his
furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods,
and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also
being a little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales
and his angers, look you, kill his pest friend, Cleitus.

 

 
 

ScENE VIII.]

KING HENRY VJ.

515

 

Gow. Our king is not like him in that: he never
killed any of his friends. 40

Flu. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the
tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I
speak but in the figures and comparisons of it: as
Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his ales
and his cups, so also Harry Monmouth, being in his
right wits and his good judgments, turned away the
fat knight with the great belly-doublet: he was full of
jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have
forgot his name.

Gow. ‘Sir John Falstaff. 50

Flu. Thatishe. I'll tell you, there is good men porn
at Monmouth.

Gow. Here comes his majesty.

Alarum. Enter King HENRY, with a part of the
English Forces; WARWICK, GLOSTER, EXETER,
and others.

K. Hen. I was not angry since I came to France

Until this instant.—Take a trumpet, herald ;

Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:

If they will fight with us, bid them come down,

Or void the field; they do otfend our sight.

If they ll do neither, we will come to them,

And make them skirr away, as swift as stones

Enforced from the old Assyrian slings. 5

Besides, we ‘ll cut the throats of those we have

60

| And not a man of them, that we shall take,

And gallop o’er the field.
_ Mont.

Shall taste our mercy.—Go, and tell them so.

Enter MontJoy.
Ere. Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.
Glo. His eyes are humbler than they us’d to be.
K. Hen. How now! what means this, herald?
know’st thou not,
That I have fin’d these bones of mine for ransom?
Com’st thou again for ransom ? :
Mont. No, great king:
I come to thee for charitable license,
That we may wander o’er this bloody field,
To book our dead, and then to bury them ;
To sort our nobles from our common men ;
For many of our princes, woe the while !
Lie drown'd and soak’d in mercenary blood
(So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
In blood of princes) ; and their wounded steeds
Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with wild rage
Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,
Killing them twice. O! give us leave, great king, 80
To view the field in safety, and dispose
Of their dead bodies.
K. Hen. I tell thee truly, herald,
Iknow not if the day be ours, or no ;
For yet_a many of your horsemen peer,

70

ont. The day is yours.
ie Bien cat be God, and not our strength, for
it!—

What is this castle call’d, that stands hard by?
Mont. They call it Agincourt. :
K. Hen. Then call we this the field of Agincourt,
Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. 90
Flu. Your grandfather of famous memory, an ’t
Please your majesty, and your ereetanele Edward
the Plack Prince of Wales, as I have read _in the
chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in France.
K. Hen. They did, Fluellen. .
Flu. Your majesty says very true. If your majes-
ties is remembered of it, the Welshmen did good
service in a garden where leeks did grow, wearing
leeks in their Monmouth caps; which, your majesty
know, to this hour is an honourable badge of the
service; and, I do believe, your majesty takes no
scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy’s day. 102
Hen. I wear it for a memorable honour:
Forlam Welsh, you know, good countryman.
u. All the water in ye cannot wash your

 

paesty’s Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you

3; Got pless it, and preserve it, as long as it pleases
ace, and his majesty too!
. Hen, Thanks, good my countryman. ~°

 

Flu. By Jeshu, I am your majesty’s countryman, I
care not who know it; I will confess it to all the orld:
I need not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised be
God, so long as your majesty is an honest man.

i. Hen. God keep me so!—Our heralds go with him:
Bring me just notice of the numbers dead,

On both our parts.—Call yonder fellow hither.
[Points to WILLIAMS. Exeunt MontJoy and
others.

Exe. Soldier, you must come to the king.

ix. Hen. Soldier, why wear’st thou that glove in thy
cap?

Will. An’t please your majesty, ‘tis the gage of one
that I should tight withal, if he be alive. 121

4A. Hen. An Englishman?

Vill. An’t please your majesty, a rascal that swag-
gered with me last night ; who, it’a live and ever daic
to challenge this glove, I have sworn to take hima box
o’ the ear: or, if [ can see my glove in his cap (which
he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear, if alive),
I will strike it out soundly.

i. Hen. What think you, Captain Fluellen? is it fit
this soidier keep his oath. 130

Flu. He is a craven and a villain else, an ’t please
your majesty, in my conscience.

AK. Hen. It may be, his enemy is a gentleman of
great sort, quite from the answer of his degree.

_ &lu._Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil
is, as Lucifer and Belzebub himself, it is necessary,
look your grace, that he keep his vow and his oath.
If he be perjured, see you now, his reputation_is as
arrant a villain, and a Jack-sauce, as ever his black
shoe trod upon God’s ground and his earth, in my
conscience, la. 141 |

K. Hen. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou
meet’st the fellow.

Will. So I will, my liege, as I live.

ds. Hen. Who servest thou under?

Will. Under Captain Gower, my liege.

Flu. Gower is a good captain, and is good know-
ledge, and literatured in the wars.

ds. Hen. Call him hither to me, soldier. 149

Trill. I will, my liege. [Exit.

4x. Hen. Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for
me, and stick it in thy cap. When Alencon and my-
self were down together, I plucked this glove from his
helm: if any man challenge this, he is a friend to
Alencon, and an enemy to our person; if thou en-
oe any such, apprehend him, an thou cost me

ove.

Flu. Your grace does me as great honours as can be
desired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain cee
the man, that has but two legs, that shall find himself
aggriefed at this glove, that is all; but I would fain see
it once, and please God of his grace, that I might see.

K. Hen. Knowest thou Gower? 163

Fiu. He is my dear friend, an ’t please you.

K. Hen. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to
my tent. Y

Flu. I will fetch him. [Exit.

K. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, and my brother

Gloster,
Follow Fluellen closely at the heels.
The glove, which I have given him for a favour,
Magy hap? purchase him a box o’ the ear:
It is the soldier's; I, by bargain, should :
Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick :
If that the soldier strike him (as, I judge
By his blunt bearing, he will keep his word),
Some sudden mischief may arise of it;
For I do know Fluellen valiant,
And, touch’d with choler, hot as gunpowder,
And quickly will return an injury :
Follow, and see there be no harm between them.— 180
Go you with me, uncle of Exeter. [Exeunt.

170

ScenE VIII.—Before King HENRY’S Pavilion.

Enter GoWER and WILLIAMS.
Will. I warrant it is to knight you, captain.

 

 
 

516 KING HENRY Y. [Acr Iv.

 

 

 

Enter FLUELLEN. | Gow, How now, sir! you villain!
ee ; . | Will. Do you think I’ll be forsworn?

Flu, God's will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech | Flu. Stand away, Captain Gower: I will giy
you now, come apace to the king: there is more good ' treason his payment into plows, I warrant you. ite
toward you, peradventure, than is in your knowledge Will. Iam no traitor. i
to dream of. | Flu, That’s a lie in thy throat.—I charge you in his

 

 

 

za

K. Hen. “OGod! thy arm was here,
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
ascribe we all.”

Will. Sir, know you this glove? majesty’s name, apprehend him: he is a friend of the
eee Know the glove? I know, the glove isaglove. | Duke Alencon’s.
Will. I know this, and thus I oumllenee is contin. Enter WARWICK and GLOSTER.

War. How now, how now! what’s the matter? 119

Flu. ’Sblood! an arrant traitor, as any’s in the ) , I
universal ’orld, or in France, or in England. 110 Flu, My Lord of Warwick, here is (praised be Go

 
 

 

Scene VIII]

KING HENRY V.

R17

 

for it!) a most contagious treason come to light, look
ou, a3 you shall desire in a summer's day. Here is
is majesty.

Enter King HENRY and EXETER.

K. Hen. How now! what’s the matter?

Flu. My liege, here is a villain, and a traitor, that,
look your grace, has struck the glove which your
magesty is take out of the helmet of Alengon.

ill. My liege, this was my glove; here is the
fellow of it; and he that I gave it to in change pro-
mised to wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him
if be did. I met this man with my glove in his cap,
and I have been as good as my word. 132

Flu. Your majesty hear now, saving your majesty’s
manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy
knave it is. I hope, your majesty is pear me testi-
mony, and witness, and will avouchment, that this is
the giove of Alencon, that your majesty is give me, in
your conscience now. .

K. Hen. Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is
the fellow of it. 140
T was I, indeed, thou promisedst to strike ;

And thou hast given me most bitter terms.

Flu. An’t please your majesty, let his neck answer
for it, if there is any martial law in the ’orld.

K. Hen. How canst thou make me satisfaction ?

Wiil. All offences, my lord, come from the heart:
never came any from mine, that might offend your
majesty.

K. Hen. It was ourself thou didst abuse. 149

Will. Your majesty came not like yourself: you
appearcd to me but as a common man; witness the
night, your garments, your lowliness ; and what your
highness suffered under that shape, 1 beseech you,
take it for your own fault, and not mine: for had you
been as I took you for, I made no offence ; therefore,
I beseech your highness, pardon me.

Hen. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with
crowns,
And give it to this fellow.—Keep it, fellow,
And wear it for an honour in thy cap,
Till I do challenge it.—Give him the crowns.— 160
And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.

Flu. By this day and this light, the fellow has
mettle enough in his belly.—Hold, there is twelve
pence for you, and I pray you to serve God, and keen
you out of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, an
dissensions; and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.

Will. I will none of your money. tak

Flu. It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will
serve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore
should you be so pashful? your shoes is not so good:
tis a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.

Enter an English Herald.
K. Hen. Now, herald, are the dead number’d? 172
Her. Here is the number of the slaughter'd French.
Delivers a paper.

 

AY Hen. Meat prisoners of good sort are taken,
uncle?
Exe. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king ;
John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt :
Of other lords, and barons, knights, and squires,
Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.
K. Hen. This note doth tell me of ten thousand
French,
That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number,
And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead 181
One hundred twenty-six: added to these,
Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,
Eight thousand and four hundred ; of the which,
Five hundred were but yesterday dubb’d knights:
So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries ;
The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires,
And gentlemen of blood and quality.
The names of those their nobles that liedead,— 190
Charles Delabreth, high constable of France ;
Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France ;
The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures ;
Great-master of France, the brave Sir Guischard
Dauphin ;
John Duke of Alencon; Antony Duke of Brabant,
The brother to the Duke of Burgundy ;
And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls,
Grandpré, and Roussi, Fauconberg, and Foix,
Beaumont, and Marle, Vaudemont, and Lestrale.
Here was a royal fellowship of death !— 200
Where is the number of our English dead?
[Herald presents another paper.
Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,
Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire:
None else of name; and of all other men,
But five-and-twenty. O God! thy arm was here,
And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
Ascribe we all.—When, without stratagem,
But in plain shock and even play of battle,
‘Was ever known so great and little loss,
On one part and on the other?Take it, God,
For it is none but thine!
*T is wonderful!

210

Exe.

K. Hen. Come, go we in procession to the village:
And be it death proclaimed through our host,
To boast of this, or take that praise from God,
Which is his only.

Flu. Is it not lawful, an’t please your majesty, to
tell how many is killed?

KK. Hen. Yes, captain; but with this acknowledg-

ment,
That God fought for us.
Flu. Yes, my conscience, he did us great good. 220
KK. Hen. Do we all holy rites:
Let there be sung Non nobis, and Te Deum,
The dead with charity enclos’d in clay.
And then to Calais; and to England then,
Where ne'er from France arriv’d more happy men.
[Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

, Ee Chorus.

Nw? ~ OUCHSAFE to those that have not

? read the story,

That I may prompt them: and of such
as have, .

I humbly pray them to admit the ex-

cuse

Of time, of numbers, and due course of
things,

Which cannot in their huge and proper

 

ife
Be here presented. Now, we bear the

ing
Toward Calais: grant him there; there
seen,
Heave him away upon your winged thoughts,
Athwart the sea. ehold, the English beach
Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys, 10
Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d
sea,
Which, like a mighty whiffler ‘fore the king,
Seems to prepare his way. So, let him land,
And, solemnly, see him set on to London.
So swift a pace hath thought, that even now
You may imagine him upon Blackheath ;
Where that his lords desire him to have borne
His bruised helmet, and his bended sword,
Before him, through the city: he forbids it,
Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; 20
Giving full trophy, signal, and ostent,
Quite from himself, to God. But now behold,
In the quick forge and working-house of thought,
How London doth pour out her citizens,
The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort,
Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
With the plebeians swarming at their heels,
Go forth, and fetch their conquering Ceesar in:
As, by a lower but loving likelihood,
Were now the general of our gracious empress 30
(As, in good time, he may) trom Ireland coming,
Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,
How many would the peaceful city quit,
To welcome him! much more (and much more cause)
Did they this Harry. Now, in London place him ;
As yet the lamentation of the French
Invites the King of England’s stay at home
(The emperor coming in behalf of France,
To order peace between them); and omit
All the occurrences, whatever chanc’d, 40
Till Harry’s back-return again to France :
There must we bring him ; and myself have play’d
The interim, by remembering you ’tis past.
Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,
After your thoughts, straight back again to erat
it,

ScENE I.—France. An English Court of Guard.

Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER.
Gow. Nay, that’s right; but why wear you your
jeck to-day? Saint Davy’s day is past.
Flu. There is occasions, and causes, why and
wherefore, in all things: I will tell you, as my friend,

 

ACT V.
NP Enter Chorus.

Captain Gower. The raseally, scald, beggarly, lousy,
pragging knave, Pistol, which you and yourself, and
all the ’orld, know to be no petter than a fellow, look
you now, of no merits, he is come to me, and prings
me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me
eat my leek. It was in a place where I couldnot
breed no contention with him; but I will be so bold
as to wear it in my cap till Isee him once again, and
then I will tell him a little piece of my desires.

ee Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-
cock.

Enter PIsTou.

Flu. ’Tisno matter for his swellings, nor histurkey-
cocks.—God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy,
lousy knave, God pless you!

Pist. Ha! art thou Bedlam? dost thou thirst, base

Trojan,
To have me fold up Parca’s fatal web? 20
Hence! I] am qualmish at the smell of leek.

Flu. I peseech you heartily, scurvy lousy knave, at
my desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat,
look you, this leek; because, look you, you do not
love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and
your digestions, does not agree with it, 1 woulddesire
you to eat it.

Pist. Not for Cadwallader, and all his goats. '

Flu. There is one goat for you. [Strikes him.] Will
you be so good, scald knave, as eat it? 30

Pist. Base Trojan, thou shalt die. 5,

Flu. You say very true, scald knave, when God's
will is. I will desire you to live in the meantime,
and eat your victuals: come, there is sauce for
it. [Striking him again.] You called me yesterday
mountain-squire. but I will make you to-day a squire
of low degree. I pray you, fall to: if you can mocka
leek, you can eat a leek. 2

Gow. Enough, ca pean : you have astonished him. 39

Flu. Tsay, I will make him eat some part of my.
leek, or I will peat his pate four days.—Bite, I pray
you; it is good for your green wound, and your ploody
coxcomb.

Pist. Must I bite?

Flu. Yes, certainly, and out of doubt, and out of
question too, and ambiguities. :

Pist. By this leek, I will most horribly revenge. I
eat, and eat I swear—

Flu. Eat, I pray you. Will you have some more
sauce to your leek? there is not enough leek to
swear by. 51

Pist. Quiet thy cudgel: thou dost see, leat.

Flu. Much good do you, scald knave, heartily.
Nay, pray you, throw none away; the skin is good
for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions
to see leeks hereafter, I pray you, mock at ’em; at
is all.

Pist. Good. : ;

Flu, Ay, lecks is good.—Hold you, there is a groat i
to heal your pate. 60 ;

Pist. Me a groat! : ;

Flu. Yes, verily, and in truth, you shall take it, or i
I have another leek in my pocket, which you shall |
eat, '

Pist. I take thy groat, in earnest of revenge.

 

XN
 

 

Scene IL]

 

KING HENRY VP. 519
Flu. If I owe you anything, I will pay you in Q. Isa. So happy be the issue, brother England,
cudgels: you shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothin Of this good day, and of this eis meeting,
of me but cudgels. God be wi’ you, and keep you, an As we are now glad to behold your eyes ;
heal your pate. 2 ; {Ezit. | Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them
Pist. All hell shall stir for this. 70 | Against the French, that met them in their bent,
Gow. Go, go; you are acounterfeit cowardly knave. | ‘he fatal balls of murdering basilisks :
Will you mock at'an ancient tradition, begun upon | The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,
an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable | Have lost their quality, and that this day
trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not avouch | Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. 20

in your deeds any of your words? J have seen you
gleeking and galling et this gentleman twice or

 

 

 

 

 

Flu. “ Will you have some iuore sauce tv your leek 1”

thrice. You thought, because he could not speak

English in the native garb, he could not therefore

handle an English cudgel: you find it otherwise; and,

henceforth, let a Welsh correction teach you a good

English condition. Fare ye well. it,
“st. Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?

News have I, that my Nell is dead i’ the spital

Of malady of France ;

And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.

Old I do wax, and from my weary limbs

Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,

And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.

To England will I steal, and there I'll steal:

And patches will I get unto these cudgell’d scars, 90

And swear, I got them in the Gallia wars. [Exit.

Scene II.—Troyes in Champagne. An Apartment
in the French K1Ne@’s Palace.

Enter, at one door, King HENRY, BEDFORD, GLOSTER,
EXETER, WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and other
Lords ; at another, the French KinG, Queen ISABEL,
the Princess KATHARINE, Lords, Ladies, dc., the
Duke of BuRGuNDY, and his Train.

K. Hen. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are
met!
Unto our brother France. and to our sister,
Health and fair time of day ;—joy and good wishes
To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine ;—
And, as a branch and member of this royalty,
: a) whom this great assembly is contriv’d,
edo salute you, Duke of Burgundy ;— ;
And, princes French, and peers, health to you all!
Fr, King. Right joyous are we to behold your face,
Most worthy brother agland ; fairly met :— 10
lo are you, princes English, every_one.

 

 

K. Hen. 'To ery Amen to that, thus we appear.
. Isa. You English princes all, I do salute you.
ur. My duty to you both, on equal love.
Great Kings of France and England, that I have
labour’d
With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours,
To bring your most imperial majesties
Unto this bar and royal interview,
Your mightiness on both parts best can witness.
Since then my office hath so far prevail'd,
That face to tace, and royal eye to eye,
You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me,
If I demand before this royal view,
What rub, or what impediment, there is,
Why that the naked, poor, and mangled Peace,
Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful births,
Should not in this best garden of the world,
Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?
Alas! she hath from France too long been chas’d,
And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,
Corrupting in its own fertility.
Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart.
Unpruned dies; her edges even-pleached,
Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,
Put forth disorder’d twigs ; her fallow leas
The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory,
Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts,
That should deracinate such savagery ;
The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth
The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover,
Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank,
Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems,
But hateful docks, rough thistles, Kecksies, burs,
Losing both beauty and utility ;
And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, wd hedges,
Defective in their natures, grow to wildness; ,
Even’'so our houses, and ourselves, and children,
Have lost, or do not learn, for want of time,
The sciences that should become our country,
But grow, like savages,—as soldiers will,
That nothing do but meditate on blood,—
To swearing, and stern looks, diffus’d attire,
And everything that seems unnatural.
Which to reduce into our former favour,
You are assembled ; and my speech entreats,
That I may know the let, why gentle Peace
Should not expel these inconveniencies,
And bless us with her former qualities.
kK. Hen. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the
peace, 7
Whose want gives growth to the imperfections
Which you have cited, you must buy that peace
With full accord to all our just demands ;
Whose tenors and particular effects
You have, enschedul’d briefly, in your hands.
Bur. The king hath heard them; to the which,
as yet,
There is no answer made.

K. Hen. Well then, the peace
Which you before so urg’d, lies in his answer.

7. King. I have but with a cursorary eye
O'erglane’d the articles: pleaseth your grace
To appoint some of your council presently
To sit with us once more, with better heed
To re-survey them, we will suddenly
Pass our accept, and peremptory answer.

K. Hen. Brother, we shall.—Go, uncle Exeter,—
And brother Clarence,—and you, brother Gloster,—
Warwick,—and Huntington,—go with the king ;
And take with you free power to ratify,
Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best
Shall see advantageable for our dignity,

Anything in, or out of, our demands,

30

40

50

60

70

80

 

 
 

 

520

KING HENRY VF.

[Acr Vv,

 

And we'll consign thereto.—Will you, fair sister, 90
Go with the princes, or stay here with us?

Q. Isa. Our gracious brother, I will go with them.
Haply a woman’s voice may do some good,

When articles, too nicely urg’d, be stood on. :

K. Hen. Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with

us:
She is our capital demand, compris’d
Within the fore-rank of our articles.

Q. Isa. She hath good leave.

[Exeunt all but King HENRY, KATHARINE,
and her Gentlewoman.

K. Hen. Fair Katharine, and most fair !
Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms,

Such‘as will enter at a lady’s ear, 100
And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

Kath. Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot
speak your England. . .

kK. Hen. O fair Katharine! if you will love me
soundly with your French heart, I will be glad to
hear you confess it brokenly with your English
tongue. Do you like me, Kate?

Kath. Pardonnez-moy, I cannot tell vat is—like
me.

Kk. Hen. An angel is like you, Kate; and you are
like an angel. 111

Kath. Que dit-il? que je suis semblable a les anges ?

Alice.
dit-il. ¥

K. Hen. I said so, dear Katharine, and I must not
blush to affirm it.

Kath. O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont
pleines de tromperies. .

kK. Hen, What says she, fair one? that the tongues
of men are full of deceits ? 12

Alice. Ouy; dat de tongues of de mans is be full of
deceits: dat is de princess.

KK. Hen. The princess is the better Englishwoman.
TY faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding :
I am glad, thou canst speak no better English ; for,
if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain
king, that thou wouldst think, I had sold my farm to
buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love,
but directly to say—I love you: then, if you urge me
further than to say—Do you in faith? I wear out my
suit. Give me your answer; i’ faith, do, and so clap
hands and a bargain. How say you, lady? 132

Kath. Sauf vostre honneur, me understand well.

A. Hen. Marry, if you would put me to verses, or
to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me:
for the one, I have neither words nor measure; and
for the other, I have no strength in measure, yet a
reasonable measure in strength. If I could_ win a
lady at leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with
my armour on my back, under the correction of
bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a
wife. Orif I might buffet for my love, or bound my
horse for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher,
and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off; but, before
God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my
eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation ;
only downright oaths, which I never use till urged,
nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a
fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth
sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love of
anything he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook.
I speak to thee plain soldier: if thou canst love me
for this, take me; if not, to say to thee, that I shall
die, is true; but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet
I love thee too. And while thou livest, dear Kate,
take a fellow of eon and uncoined constancy, for he
perforce must do thee right, because he hath not
the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows
of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into
ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out
again. What! a speaker is but a prater; a rhyme
is but a ballad. A good leg will fall, a straight back
will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curled
pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, a full eye
will wax hollow; but a good heart, Kate, is the sun
and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon,
for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his

Ouy, vrayment, sauf vostre grace, ainsi |

 

 

course truly. If thou would have such a one, take
me ; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take
aking. And what sayest thou then to my love?

speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
Kath. Is it possible dat I sould love
Fraunce ? ‘
K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should love
the enemy of France, Kate ; but, in loving me, you
should love the friend of France, for I love France so
well, that I will not ee with a village of it ; I will
have it all mine: and, Kate, when France is mine
and I am yours, then yours is France, and you are
180

mine.

Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat.

K. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French, which
I am sure will hang ae my tongue like a new-
married wife about her husband’s neck, hardly to be
shook off.—Quand j’ay le possession de France, et
quand vous avez le possession de moy, (let me see,
what then? Saint Dennis be my speed !)—done vostre
est France, et vous estes mienne. It is as easy for me,
Kate, to conquer the kingdom, as to speak so much
more French. I shall never move thee in French,
unless it be to laugh at me. 191

Kath. Sauf vostre honneur, le Francois que vous
parlez est meilleur que lV Anglois lequel je parle.

K. Hen. No, ‘faith, is ’t not, Kate; but thy speaking
of my tongue, and I thine, most truly falsely, must
needs be granted to be much atone. But, Kate, dost
thou understand thus much English? Canst thou
love me?

Kath. I cannot tell. 199

4. Hen. Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate?
I'll ask them. Come, I know, thou lovest me: and
at night when you come into your closet, you'll

uestion this gentlewoman about me; and I know,

ate, you will, to her, dispraise those fans in me,
that you love with your heart: but, good Kate, mock
me mercifully ; the rather, gentle princess, because I
love thee cruelly. If ever thou be’st mine, Kate, (as I
have a saving faith within me tells me thou shalt) I
get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore
needs pLoNe a good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou
and I, between Saint Dennis and Saint George, com-
pound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go
to Constantinople, and take the Turk by the beard?
eno we not? what sayest thou, my fair flower-de-

luce

Kath. I do not know dat.

Hen. No; ’tis hereu:ter to know, but now to
promise: do but now promise, Kate, you will en-
deavour for your French part of such a boy, and for
my Inglish moiety take the word of a king and a
bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katharine
du monde, mon trés cher et divin déesse ? 222

Kath. Your majesté have fausse French enough to
deceive de most sage damoiselle dat is en France. |

. Hen. Now, fie upon my false French! By mine
honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate: by which
honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood
begins to flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding
the poor and untempering effect of my visage. Now
beshrew my father's ambition! he was thinking of
civil wars when he got me: therefore was I created
with a stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that,
when I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in
faith, Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear:
my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer-up of beauty,
can do no more spoil upon my face: thou hast me, !
thou hast me, at the worst ; and thou shalt wear me,
if thou wear me, better and better. And therefore
tell me, most fair Katharine, will you have me? Put
off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your
heart with the looks of an empress; take me by the
hand, and say—Harry of England, I am thine: which
word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal, but
I will tell thee aloud—England is thine, Ireland is
thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is
thine; who, though I speak it before his face, if he
be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the
best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in
broken music; for thy voice is music, and thy English

171
de enemy of

 

 
 

ScENE IL] KING HENRY V. 521

 

 

broken ; therefore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy | K. Hen. hen I will kiss your lips, Kate.

mind to me in broken English : wilt thou have me? Kath. Les dames, et damoiselles, pour estre
Kath. Dat is, as it shall please de roy mon pére, 252 | baisées devant leur nopces, il n'est pas le costume de

' K. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate: it shall | “’rance.

please him, Kate. K. Hen. Madam my interpreter, what says she?

 

K. Hen. *O Kate! nice customs curtesy to great kings.”

Kath. Den it sall also content me. Alice. Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of
K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you | France,—I cannot tell what is baiser in English.
my queen. | KA. Hen. To kiss.

Kath. Laissez, mon scigneur, laissez, laissez ! Alice. Your majesty entendre bettre que moy.
Ma foy, je ne veux point que vous abbaissez vostre K, Hen, It is not a fashion for the maids in Peance
grandeur, en baisant le main d'une vostre indigne | to kiss before they are married, would she say ?
serviteur: excusez moy, je vous supplie, mon trés Alice. Ouy, vraiment.
puissant seigneur. 262 | KK. Hen. O Kate! nice customs curtesy to great

 

 
 

522

KING HENRY F.

{Act V,

 

 

kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined
within the weak list of a country’s fashion: we are
the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that
follows our places stops the mouths of all find-taults,
as I will do yours, for upholding the nice fashion
of your country in denying me a kiss: therefore,
patiently, and yielding. [Aissing her.] You have
witchcraft in your lips, Kate: there is more elo-
quence in a sugar touch of them, than in the tongues
of the French council; and they should sooner per-
suade Harry of England, than a general petition of
monarchs. Here comes your father.

Enter the French KinG_and QUEEN, BURGUNDY,
BEDFORD, GLOSTER, EXETER, WESTMORELAND,
and other French and English Lords.

Bur. God save your majesty! My royal cousin,
Teach you our princess English ?

. Hen. I would have her learn, my fair cousin,
how perfectly I love her; and that is good English.

Bur. Is she not apt? 292

K. Hen, Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition
is not smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor
the heart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up
the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in his true
likeness.

Bur. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer
you for that. If you would conjure in her, you must
make a circle; if conjure up love in her in his true
likeness, he must appear naked, and blind. Can you
blame her, then, hee a maid yet rosed over with the
virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the appearance
of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It
were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign

to.

AK. Hen. Yet they do wink, and yield, as love is
blind, and enforces.

Bur. They are then excused, my lord, when they
see not what they do. 310

&. Hen. Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to
consent winking.

Bur. Iwill wink on her to consent, my lord, if you
will teach her to know my meaning: for maids, well
summered and warm kept, are like flies at Bartholo-
mew-tide, blind, though they have their eyes; and
then they will endure handling, which before would
not abide looking on.

K. Hen. This moral ties me over to time, and a hot
summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in
the latter end, and she must be blind too. 321

Bur. As love is, my lord, before it loves.

K. Hen. It is so: and you may, some of you, thank
love for my blindness, who cannot see many a fair
French city, for one fair French maid that stands in
my way.

Fr. King. Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively:
the cities turned into a maid ; for they are all girdled
with maiden walls, that war hath never entered.

AK. Hen. Shall Kate be my wife? 330

Fr, King. So please you.

A. Hen. I am content; so the maiden cities you
talk of, may wait on her: so the maid, that stood in
Le for my wish, shall show me the way to my
will.

Fr. King. We have consented to all terms of reason.

 

4. Hen. Is ’t_ so, my lords of England ?

West. The king hath granted every article:
His daughter, first; and then, in sequel, all,
According to their firm proposed natures.

fixe. Only, he hath not yet subscribed this :—
Where ae majesty demands,—that the King of
France, having any occasion to write for matter of
grant, shall name your highness in this form, and
with this addition, in French,—Notre trés cher filz
Henry roy d Angleterre, heretier de France ; and he
in Latin,—Preclarissimus filius noster Henricus,
rex Anglie, et heres Francie.

Fr, King. Nor this I have not, brother, so denied,
But your request shall make me let it pass. 5

K. Hen. I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,
Let that one article rank with the rest ;
And, thereupon, give me your daughter.

. King. Take her, fair son; and from her blood
raise up

Issue to me, that the contending kingdoms
Of France and England, whose very shores look pale
With envy of each other's happiness,
May cease their hatred ; and this dear conjunction
Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord
In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance 360
His bleeding sword ’twixt England and fair France.

All. Amen!

4. Hen. Now welcome, Kate :—and bear me witness

all,
That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.
[Flourish.,

Q. Isa. God, the best maker of all marriages,
Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one!
As man and wife, being two, are one in love,
So be there ’twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,
That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,
Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage, 370
Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,
‘To make divorce of their incorporate league ;
That English may as French, French Englishmen,
Receive each other !—God speak this Amen!

All. Amen! :

ds. Hen. Prepare we for our marriage :—on which

ay, 2
My Lord of Burgundy, we 1l take your oath,
And all the peers’, for surety of our leagues.
Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;
And may our oaths well kept and poospetout be ! 7
zeunt,

 

Enter Chorus,

Chor. Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,
Our bending author hath pursu’d the story ;
In little room confining mighty men, .
Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.
Small time, but in that small most greatly liv'd
This star of England. Fortune made his sword,
By which the world’s best garden he achiev’d,
And of it left his son imperial lord. .
Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown’d king
Of France and England, did this king succeed ; 10
Whose state so many had the managing,
That they lost France, and made his England bleed:
Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,

' In your fair minds let this acceptance take. [Exit.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 
  
 

 

ELA

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wp wl be
as By

    

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

Sir JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, PIsTOL, NyM, Followers of Falstaff

FENTON. . Rosin, Page to Falstaff.
SHALLOW, a Country Justice. SIMPLE, Servant to Slender.
Forb, a] ., A
PAGE Two Gentlemen dwelling at Windsor. MIsTRESS ForpD.

” MISTRESS PAGE.

oP aoe Ee Coe? age. ANNE Pace, her Daughter, in love with Fenton.
Docror Catus, a Wrench "Physician. MISTRESS QUICKLY, Servant to Doctor Caius.
Host of the Garter Inn. Servants to Page, Ford, &c.

SCENE—WInNDsOoR, and the Parts adjacent.

|
SLENDER, Cousin to Shallow. Ruaesy, Servant to Doctor Caius.
|

ACT TI.
ScENE I.—Windsor. Before Pacr’s House.
Enter Justice SHALLOW, SLENDER, and Sir Hucit Evans.

a? Shallow. Shal. Ha! o’ my life, if I were young again, the
his Hugh, persuade me not; I will | sword should end it. ne

/ make a Star-chamber matter of it: | | Hva. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end
if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, ; it: and there is also another device in my prain, which,
he shall not abuse Robert Shallow,
esquire.

Slen. In the county of Gloster, |
justice of peace, and coram. !
Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and
cust-alorum. az 9
Slen. Ay, and_ratolorwm too;
and a gentleman born, master par-
son; who writes himself armigero ;
in any bill, warrant, quittance, or

obligation, armigcero.
Shal. Ay, that I do; and have
@; done any time these three hundred
x years.
Slen. All his successors, gone before him, hath
done ’t; and all his ancestors, that come after him,
may: they may give the dozen white luces in their

 
   
  
 
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
  
  

  
    

coat. 21 hee yy Hy
Shal. It is an old coat. i RA Se A/T
de, The dozen white louses do bagome an pia coat 3 NG la VEEN) WL We mL WAN

well; it agrees well, passant ; it is a familiar beast to Shal. Ha! o' my lite, i ere young i Fer

‘man, and signifies love. ae one o’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should
Shal. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an

old coat. peradventure, prings goot discretions with it. There
Slen. I may quarter, coz? is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George
Shal. You may, by marrying. Page, which is pretty eye
Eva, It is marring, indeed, if he quarter it. 30 Slen. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair,
Shal. Not a whit. and speaks small, like a woman. 51

Eva. Yes, per-lady : if he hasa quarter of your coat, va, It is that fery person for all the ’orld ; as just
there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple | as you will desire, and seven hundred pounds of
conjectures. But that is all one: if Sir John Falstaff | monies, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire, upon
have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the | his death’s-bed (Got deliver to a Joyful resurrections i
church, and will be glad to do my benevolence, to | give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years
make atonements and compromises between you. old, It were a goot motion, if we leave our pribbles

Shal. The Council shall hear it : it is a riot. and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master

Eva. It is not meet the Council heara riot ; thereis | Abraham and Mistress Anne Page.
no fear of Got ina riot. The Council, look you, shall Shal. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred

desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot: | pound? ‘1
take your vizaments in that. 42 | Hva, Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny.

 

 

 
 

524 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act I,

 

 

Shal. Iknow the young gentlewoman ; she has good
gitts. acta ‘
Eva. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is

good gifts.
Shal. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is
Falstaff there? ; ; 68

Eva. Shall I tell you a lie? Ido despise a liar as I
do despise one that is false; or, as I despise one that
is not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; and, I
beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. J will
peat the door for Master Page. [AKnocks.] What, hoa!
Got pless your house here!

Page. (Within.] Who's there?

Eva. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and
Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender,
that, peradventures, shall tell you another tale, if
mutters grow to your likings.

Enter PAGE.

Page. J am glad to see your worships well. I thank
you for my venison, Master Shallow. 81

Shal. Master Page, I am glad to see you: much

ood do it your good heart. I wished your venison
Better : it was ill kill’d.—How doth good Mistress
Page ?—and I thank you always with my heart, la;
with my heart.

Page. Sir, I thank you.

Shal. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do.

Page. Iam glad to see ce good Master Slender.

Slen. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard
say, he was outrun on Cotsall. 91

age. It could not be judged, sir.

Slen. You'll not confess, you'll not confess.

Shal. That he will not.—’Tis your fault, tis your
fault.—'T is a good dog.

Page. A cur, sir.

Shal. Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog; can
there be more said? he is good, and fair. Is Sir John
Falstaff here ?

Page. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do
a good office between you. 101

Eva. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak.

Shal. He hath wrong’d me, Master Page.

Page. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.

Shal. If it be confess’d, it is not redress’d: is not
that so, Master Page? He hath wrong'd me; indeed,
he hath ;—at a word, he hath ;—believe me :—Robert
Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wrong'’d.

Page. Here comes Sir John.

Enter Sir JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NyM, and
PISTOL.

Fal, Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me
to the king? 111

Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my
deer, and broke open my lodge.

Fal, But not kiss’d your keeper's daughter?

Shal. Tut, a pin! this shall be answered.

Fal. J will answer it straight:—I have done all
this.—That is now answer'd.

Shal. The Council shall know this.

Fal. ’T were better for you, if it were known in
counsel: you'll be laughed at. 120

Eva. Pauca verba, Sir John ; good worts.

Fal. Good worts? good cabbage.—Slender, I broke
your head : what matter have you against me ?

Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against
you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bar-
dolph, Nym, and Pistol. T ey carried me to the
tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards picked
my pocket,

Bard. You Banbury cheese !

Slen. Ay, it is no matter.

Pist. How now, Mephostophilus ?

Slen. Ay, it is no matter.

Nym. Slice, I say! pauca, pauca; slice! that’s my
humour.

Slen. Where’s Simple, my man?—can you tell,
cousin?

Eva, Peace! I pray you. Now let us understand:
there is three umpires in this matter, as I understand ;
that is—Master Page, jidclicet, Master Page; and

130

 

there is myself, fidelicet, myself; and the three party
is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. 141
eae We three, to hear it, and end it between
chem,

Eva. Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my
note-book ; and we will afterwards ‘ork upon the
cause, with as great discreetly as we can.

Fal. Pistol!

Pist. He hears with ears.

Eva. The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this,
“He hears with ear?” Why, itis affectations. 150
Fal. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse?

Slen. Ay, by these gloves, did he (or I would I
might never come in mine own great chamber again
else), of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two
Edward shovel-boards, that cost me two shilling and
two pence a-piece of Yed Miller, by these gloves.

Fal. Is this true, Pistol?

Eva. No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

Pist. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner !—Sir John and

master mine,
I combat challenge of this latten bilbo: 160
Word of denial in thy labras here ;
Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest.

Slen. By these gloves, then ’t was he.

Nym. Be avised, sir, and pass good humours. I will
say, ‘‘marry trap,” with you, if you run the nuthook’s
humour on me; that is the very note of it.

Slen. By this hat, then he in the red face had it; for
though I cannot remember what I did when you made
me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.

Fal. What say you, Scarlet and John? 170

Bard. Why, sir, for my part, I say, the gentleman
had drunk himself out of his five sentences.

Eva, It is his five senses: fie, what the ignorance is!

Bard. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashier’d;
and so conclusions pass'd the careires.

Slen. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but ’tis no
matter. I'll ne’er be drunk whilst L live again, but in
honest, civil, nodly company, for this trick: if I be
drunk, I’ll be drunk with those that have the fear of
God, and not with drunken knaves.

Eva. So Got ’udge me, that is a virtuous mind.

Fal. You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen ;
you hear it.

Enter ANNE PAGE, with wine; Mistress ForD and
Mistress PAGE following.
Page. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in ; well drink
within. [Exit ANNE PaGE.
Sten. O Heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page.
Page. How now, Mistress Ford?
Fal. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well
met: by your leave, good mistress. [Kissing her.
Page. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome.—Come,
we have a hot venison pasty to dinner: come, gentle-
men, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. 192
[Exeunt all but SHALLOW, SLENDER, and EVANS.
Slen. I had rather than forty shillings, I had my
Book of Songs and Sonnets here.

Enter SIMPLE.

How now, Simple! Where have you been? I must
wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of
Riddles about you, have you? .

Sim. Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to
Alice Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fortnight
afore Michaelmas ? 200

Shal. Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you.
A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, a8
*t were, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by
Sir Hugh here: do you understand me? A

Slen. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable: if it be
so, I shall do that that is reason.

Shal. Nay, but understand me.

Slen. So I do, sir.

Eva. Give ear to his motions, Master Slender
I will description the matter to you, if you be eanecly
of it.

Slen. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says.
I pray you pardon me; he’s a justice of peace in Mis
country, simple though IJ stand here.

 

 
 

 

ScENE I.]

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

525

 

Eva. But that is not the question; the question is |
concerning your marriage.

Shal. Ay, there’s the point, sir. i

Eva, Marry, is it, the very point of it; to Mistress |
Anne Page. |

Eva. Nay, Got’s lords and his ladies, you must speak
ossitable, if you can carry her your desires towards

er. 2:
Shal. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry,

marry her?

 

 

 

SARA

 

Anne, * The dinner {fs on the table; my father desires your worships’ company.”

Slen. Why, if it beso, I will marry her upon any
reasonable demands. 221

Eva. But can you affection the ’oman? Let us com- i
mand to know that of your mouth, or of your lips; for
divers philosophers hold, that the lips is parcel of the
mouth: therefore, precisely, can you carry your good |
will to the maid?

Shal. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her?

Slen. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one
that would do reason.

Slen. I will do a greater thing than that, upon your
request, cousin, in any reason.

Shal. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz:
what I do, is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the
maid? 239

Sten. I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if
there be no great love in the beginning, yet Heaven
may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we
are married, and have more occasion to know one
another: I hope, upon familiarity will grow more

 

 
 

526

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act I,

 

 

 

contempt: but if you say, “marry her,” I will marry
her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely.

Eva. It is a fery discretion answer; save, the faul
is in the ort dissolutely: the ’ort is, according to our
meaning, resolutely. His meaning is good.

Shal. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. 250

Slen. Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la!

Re-enter ANNE PAGE.

Shal. Here comes fair Mistress Anne.—’ Would I
were young, for your sake, Mistress Anne! .

-tnne. The dinner is on the table; my father desires
your worships’ company. :

Shal. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne.

Eva. Od's plessed will! I will not be absence at the
grace. [Exveunt SHALLOW and EVANs.
Anne. Will’t please your worship to come in, sir?

Slen. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily ; Iam very
well. 261

.{nne. The dinner attends you, sir.

Slen. Tam nota-hungry, I thank you, forsooth.—Go,
sirrah, for all you_are my man, go, wait upon my
cousin Shallow. [#xit SImPLE.] A justice of peace
sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man.
—I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother
be dead; but what though? yet I live like a poor
gentleman born.

{nne. I may not go in without your worship: they
will not sit, till you come. 271

Slen. V faith, [Ul eat nothing ; I thank you as much
as though I did.

Anne, I pray you, sir, walk in.

Slen. [had rather walk here, [thank you. I bruised
my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and
dagger with a master of fence (three veneys for a dish
of stewed prunes), and, by mv troth, I cannot abide
the smell of hot meat since.—Why do your dogs bark
so? be there bears i’ the town? 280

Anne. I think, there are, sir; I heard them talked of.

Slen. love the sport well; but I shall as soon quarrel
at itas any man in England. You are afraid, if you
see the bear loose, are you not?

Anne. Ay, indeed, sir.

Slen. That’#*meat and drink to me, now: I have
seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken
him by the chain; but, I warrant you, the women have
so cried and shrick’d at it, that it pass’d: but women,
indeed, cannot abide ‘em; they are very ill-favoured
rough things. 291

Re-enter PAGE.

Page. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we
stay tor you.

Sien. I'll eat nothing, I thank you, sir.

Page. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir.
Come, come.

Slen. Nay, pray you, lead the way.

Page. Come on, sir.

Slen. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.

anne. Not I, sir; pray you, keep on. 300

Slen. Truly, I will not go first: truly, la! I will not
do you that wrong.

anne. I pray you, sir.

Slen. I'll rather be unmannerly, than troublesome.
You do yourself wrong, indeed, la! [Ezxeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter Sir HuGH Evans and SIMPLE.

Eva. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house,
which is the way; and there dwells one Mistress
Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his
dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and
his wringer.

Sim. Well, sir.

Eva. Nay, it is petter yet.—Give her this letter; for
it is a ’oman that altogether’s acquaintance with
Mistress Anne Page: and the letter 1s, to desire and
require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress

 

Anne Page: I pray you, be gone. I will mak
of my dinner: there’s pippins and cheese to one.
[Exeunt,

ScENE II.—A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter FAtstarr, Host, BARDOLPH, NyM, PISTOL
and RoBIN. f
ae Mine host of the Garter!
‘ost. at says my bully-rook
' na wisely. ys my y ? Speak scholarly,
Fal. Truly, mine host, I must tur:
aa powers: . : nm away Some, of
ost. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier:
ve trot, trot. % eh tea
al. I sit at ten pounds a week.

Host. Thou’rt an emperor, Cesar, Keisar, and
Pheezar. [ will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw.
he shall tap: said I well, bully Hector? i

ie me ie good Tlie hes

ost. ave spoke; let him follow.—Let me s
thee froth, and lime: Iam at a word; follow. ce
Exit Host.

Fal. Bardolph, follow him. A ta ce is a good
trade: an old cloak makes a new derkin: a withered
serving-man, a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.

Bard. It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive.

7 . Exit.

a O base Gongarian wight! wilt thou the ee
wield‘ 20

Nym. He was gotten in drink; is not the humour
conceited? His mind is not heroic, and there’s the
humour of it.

Fal. TY am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box:
his thefts were too open; his fileching was like an
unskilful singer, he kept not time.

Nym. The good humour is to steal at a minim’s rest.

Pist. Convey, the wise it call. Steal? foh! a fico
for the phrase!

Fal. Well, sirs, Iam almost out at heels. 30

Pist, Why, then let kibes ensue.

oer There is no remedy ; I must cony-catch, I must
shift.

Pist. Young ravens must have food.

fal. Which of you know Ford of this town?

Pist. [ken the wight: he is of substance good.

Fal. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

Pist. Two yards, and more. 38

Fal. No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, Iam in the waist
two yards about; but Tam now about no waste; I
am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to
Ford’s wife: I spy entertainment in her; she dis-
courses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation:
I can construe the action of her familiar style; and
the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be Englished
rightly, is, ‘‘I am Sir John Falstaft’s.”

Pist. He hath studied her well, and translated her
well, out of honesty into English.

Nym. The anchor is deep: will that humour pass?

Fat. Now, the report goes, she has all the rule of
her husband's purse; she hath a legion of angels. 51

Pist. As many devils entertain, and ‘To her, boy,

say I.

Nym. The humour rises; it is good : humour me the
angels.

Fal. Ihave writ me here a letter to her; and here
another to Page’s wife, who even now gave me good
eyes too, examin’d my parts with most judicious
@iliads: sometimes the beam of her view gilded my
foot, sometimes my portly belly. 60

Pist. Then did the sun on dunghill shine.

Nym. I thank thee for that humour. . 5

Fal. O! she did so course o’er my exteriors with
such a greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye
did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here's
another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she is
a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be
cheaters to them both, and they shall be exchequers
tome: they shall be my East and West Indies, and
will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.}

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

527

 

Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford. We

will thrive, ads, we will thrive. 72
 Pist, Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,

And.by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!
Nym. I will run no base humour: here, take the

humour-letter. I will keep the haviour of reputation.

 

anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of
God’s patience, and the king’s English.

Rug. I'll go watch.

Quick. Go; and we’ll have a posset for’t soon at
night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.
| [Exit Ruesy.] An honest, willing, kind fellow, as

Fal. ite Roan] Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters | ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I
ightly :
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.—

[
|
|

 

Rogues, hence! avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;
Trudge, plod away o’ the hoof; seek shelter, pack! 8)
Falstaff will learn the humour of the age, |
French thrift, you rogues: myself, and skirted page.
[Exeunt FaLsTarr and ROBIN.
Pist. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and
fullam holds, | :
And high and low beguile the rich and poor.
Tester I'll have in pouch, when thou shalt lack,
Base Pape Turk. :
Nym. ave operations, which be humours of
revenge.
Pist. Wilt thou revenge?
Nym. By welkin, and her star.
Pist. With wit, or steel?
Nym. With both the humours, I:
I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.
Pist. And I to Ford shall eke unfold,
How Falstaff, varlet vile, .
His dove will prove, his gold will hold,
And his soft couch defile. pat
Nym. My humour shall not cool: I will incense
a to deal with poison; I will possess him with
yellowness, for the revolt of mien is dangerous: that
is my true humour. 101
Pist. Thou art the Mars of malcontents: I second
thee ; troop on. [Exeunt.

90

Scene IV.—A Room in Doctor Carvus’s House.

Enter Mistress QUICKLY, SIMPLE, and RUGBY.

Quick. What, John Rugby !—I pray thee, go to the
casement, and see if you can see my master, Master

Doctor Caius, coming: if he do, i faith, and find '

   

Pist. “shall | Sir Pandarus of Troy hecome, and by my side wear stcel?”

warrant you, no tell-tale, nor no breed-bate ; his worst
! fault is, that he is given to prayer; he is something
peevish that way, but nobody but has his
fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple you
say your name is?

Sim. Ay, for fault of a better.

uick. And Master Slender ’s your master?
im. Ay, forsooth.

Quick. Does he not wear a great round
beard, like a glover’s paring-knite ? 2)

Sim. No, forsooth: he hath but a little wee
face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-
coloured beard. . .

ick. A bore peated. man, is he not?

im, Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man
of his hands, as any is between this and his
head: he hath fought with a warrener.

Quick. How_say_ you?—O! I should re-
member him: does he not hold up his head,
as it were? and strut in his gait? 30

Sim. Yes, indeed, does he.

Quick. Well, Heaven send Anne Page no
worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans,
I will do what I can for your master: Anne
is a good girl, and I wish—

Re-enter RUGBY.

Rug. Out, alas! here comes my master.

Quick. We shall all be shent. un in here,
good young man; go into this closet. [Shuts
SIMPLE in the closet.] He will not stay long.
—What, John Rugby! John, what, John, I
say !—Go, John, go inquire for my master; I
doubt, he be not well, that he comes not home.
[Sings.] dnd down, down, adown-a, &c.

Enter Doctor Carus.

Caius. Vat is yousing? I do not like dese
toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my
closet un boitier vert ; a box, a green-a box: do intend
vat I speak? a green-a box.

Quick. Ay, forsooth; I'll fetch it you. [Ldside.] I

- am glad he went not in himself: if he had found the

young man, he would have been horn-mad. 50

Caius. Fe, fe, fe, fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je
mien vais & la cour,—la grande affaire.

Quick. Is it this, sir?

Caius. Ouy; mettez le au mon pocket; dépéchez,
quickly.—Vere is dat knave Rugby?

wick, What, John Rugby! John!
ug. Here, sir.

Caius. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack
Rugby : come, take-a your rapier, and come after my
heel to de court. 60

Rug. ’T is ready, sir, here in the porch.

Caius. By my trot, I tarry too long.—Od’s me!
puee Jj oublié 2 dere is some simples in my closet, dat

will not for the varld I shall leave behind.

Quick. [Aside.] Ah me! he’ll find the young man
there, and be mad.

Caius. O diable! diable! vat is in my closet ?—
Villainy! larron ! [Pulling SIMPLE out.] Rugby ; my
rapier!

uick. Good master, be content. 70

‘aius. Verefore shall I be content-a?

ick. The young man is an honest man.

‘aius. Vat shall de honest man do in my closet?
dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet.

Quick. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic; hear
the truth of it: he came of an errand to me from
Parson Hugh.

Caius. Vell.

Sim. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to —

uick, Peace, I pray you.

 

‘Jaius. Peace-a your tongue !— Speak-a your tale.

 

 
 

528

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Acr I,

 

 

Sim. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid,
to speak a aoe. word to Mistress Anne Page for my
master, in the way of marriage.

Quick. This is all, indeed, la; but I'll ne’er put my
finger in the fire, and need not. :

Yaius. Sir Hugh send-a you?—Rugby, baillez me
some paper: tarry you a little-a while. (Writes.

Quick, I am gla ;
thoroughly moved, you should have heard him so
loud, and so melancholy.—But notwithstanding, mar,

ee Peat ( Me |
Wi ALU a” ai Ht i
li va ey a eT i, i

ey mv

AULA)

Cuius. “* You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh.”

T’ll do you your master what good I can: and the
very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master,
—I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his
house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress
meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself ;—
ii Sais *T is a great charge, to come under one body’s
and.

great charge : and to be up early and down late ;—but
notwithstanding, to tell you in your ear (I would have
no words of it), my master himself is in love with
Mistress Anne Page: but notwithstanding that, I
know Anne’s mind; that’s neither here nor there.
Caius. You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh;
by gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in de
park; and I vill teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest. to
meddle or make.—You may be gone; it is not good
zou tarry here :—by gar, I vill cut all his two stones:
y gar, he shall not have a stone to trow at his dog. 110

 

he is so quiet: if he had been |

Quick, Alas! he speaks but for his friend.

Caius. It is no matter-a for dat :—do not you tell-a
me, dat I shall have Anne Page for myself By gar,
I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine
host of de Jartiere to measure our weapon.—By gar,
I will myself have Anne Page. »

Quick, Sir, the maid loves you,.and all shall be well,
We must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-
jer!.

Caius. Rugby, come to the court vit me.—By gar,

, if [have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of

my door.—Follow my heels, Rugby. 192
: [Exeunt Caius and Rucpy.
Quick. You shall have An fool’s-head of your
own. No, I know Anne’s mind for that: never a
woman in Windsor knows more of Anne’s mind
than I do, nor can do more than I do with her, I thank
Heaven.

Trent. [Within.] Who’s within there? ho!
Quick, Who’s there, I trow? Come near the house,
130

: I pray you.

 

[Exit SIMPLE, *

Enter FENTON.

Fent. How now, good woman? how dost thou?

eh The better, that it pleases your good worship
to ask.

Fent. What news? how does pretty Mistress
Anne?

Quick. In truth, sir, and she is pretty.
and gentle; and one that is your friend, i
that y the yey | I praise Heaven for it.

Fent. Shall I do any good, think’st thou? Shall I
not lose my suit? Neg ee 140

Quick, 'Troth, sir, all is in his hands above ; but not-
withstanding, Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book,
she loves you.—Have not your worship a wart above
your eye?

Fent. Yes, marry, have I; what of that? ;

Quick. Well, thereby Dane a tale.—Good faith, it
is such another Nan ;—but, I detest, an honest maid
as ever broke bread :—we had an hour's talk of that
wart.—I shall never laugh but in that maid’s com-

and honest,
can tell you

7 eer ct 98 pany ;—but, indeed, she is given too much to allicholly
Quick. Are you avis’d o’ that? you shall find it a | 3

and musing. But for you—well, go to. 13.
Fent. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there’s
money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf:
if thou seest her before me, commend me. ‘
Quick. Will 1? 7 faith, that we will; and I will tell
your worship more of the wart, the next time we have
confidence, and of other wooers.
Fent. Well, farewell; I am in great haste atc ‘
at

Quick. Farewell to your worship.—Truly, an honest
gentleman: but Anne loves him not; for I know
Anne’s mind as well as another docs,—Out upon’t!
what have I forgot? Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

ACT IT.
\ ScENE I.—Before Pacr’s House.

 
  
 

Mrs. Page.

“$i1AT! have I scaped love-letters in the
f holiday-time of my beauty, and am I
now asubject for them? Let me see.

\ [Reads.

“Ask me no reason why I love you;
for though Love use Reason for his
physician, he admits him not for his
counsellor. You are not young, no more
am I: go to then, there’s sympathy;
you are merry, so am I: ha! ha! then,
there’s more sympathy; you love sack,
and so do I: would you desire better
sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page, (at the
least, if the love of a soldier can suffice) that I love
thee. I will not say, pity me, ’tis not a soldier-like
phrase; but I say, love me. By me,

Thine own true knight,

By day or night,

Or any kind of light,

With all his might

For thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF,” 20
What a Herod of Jewry is this !—O wicked, wicked
world !—one that is well nigh worn to pieces with age,

  

 

Mrs. Page. “I was theu trugal of my mirth.”

toshow himself a young gallant ! Whatan unweighed
behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked (with
the devil’s name!) out of my conversation, that he
dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not
been thrice in my company.—What should I say to
him?—I was then frugal of my mirth :—Heaven for-

ive me!—Why, I 11 exhibit a bill in the parliament
or the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged
on him? for revenged I will be, as sure as his gutsare
made of puddings. 32

Enter Mistress FORD.

Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to
your house.

  
   
  
  
 

 

Enter Mistress Pace, with a letter.

Mrs. Page. And, trust me, I was coming to you.
You look very ill.

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I'll ne’er believe that: I have to
show to the contrary.

Mrs, Page. Faith, but you do, in my mind.

Mrs. Ford. Well, I do then; yet, I say, I could show
you to the contrary. O Mistress Page! give me some
counsel. 42

Mrs. Page. What’s the matter, woman ?

Mrs. Ford. 0 woman! if it were not for one trifling
respect, I could come to such honour.

Mrs. Page. Hang the trifle, woman; take the
honour. What is it?dispense with trifles ;—what is
it?

Mrs. Ford. If I would but go to hell for an eternal
moment or so, I could be knighted. 50

Mrs. Page. What %—thou liest.—Sir Alice Ford !—
These knights will hack; and so, thou shouldst not
alter the article of thy gentry.

Mrs. Ford. We burn daylight :—here, read, read;
—perceive how I might be knighted.—I shall think
the worse of fat men, as long as I haveaneye tomake
difference of men’s liking: and yet he would not
swear; praised women’s modesty, and gave such
orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeli-
ness, that I would have sworn his disposition would
have gone to the truth of his words; but they do
no more adhere and keep place together, than the
Hundredth Psalm to the tune of ‘‘Green Sleeves.”
What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so
many tuns of oilin his belly, ashore at Windsor? How
shall I be revenged on him? I think, the best way
were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire
of lust have melted him in his own grease.—Did you
ever hear the like? 69

Mrs. Page. Letter for letter, but that the name of
Page and Ford differs !—To thy great comfort in this
mystery of ill opinions, here’s the twin-brother of thy
letter: but let thine inherit first ; for, I protest, mine
never shall. I warrant, he hath a thousand of these
letters, writ with blank space for different names,
(sure more) and these are of the second edition. He
will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what
pe pale into the press, when he would put us two: I
had rather be a giantess, and lie under Mount Pelion.
Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles, ere one
chaste man. : 81

Mrs. Ford. Why, this is the Ge ‘same; the very
hand, the very words. What doth he think of us?

Mrs. Page. Nay, I know not: it makes me almost
ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I’ll enter-
tain myself like one that Iam not acquainted withal ;
for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I
know not myself, he would never have boarded mein

this fury. : 4
Mrs. Ford. Boarding call you it? Ill be sure to
keep him above deck. 91

Mrs. Page. So willl: if he come under my hatches,
I'll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him:
let ’s appoint him a meeting ; give him ashow of com-
fort in tie suit; and lead him on with a fine-baited
delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of
the Garter.

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy
against him, that may not sully the chariness of our

 

 
 

530 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. [Acr iL

 

 

honesty. O, that. my husband saw this letter! it
would give eternal food to his jealousy. 101

Mrs. Page. Why, look, where he comes; and my
good man too: he’sas far from jealousy, as Iam from
giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an unmeasur-
able distance. :

Mrs. Ford. You are the happier woman. | :

Mrs. Page. Let’s consult together against this
greasy knight. Come hither. [They retire.

Enter Forp, Pistou, PAGE, and NyM.
Ford. Well, I hope, it be not so. 4
Pist. Hope is a curtail dog in some affairs : 110
Sir John affects thy wife.
Ford. Why, sir, my wife is not young.

 

   

    
   

fy

im
it

ist. “Sir John affects thy wife.”

sigan iW
Gunny

| \}
ANY
i)

Pist. He woos both high and low, both rich and
poor,
Both young and old, one with another, Ford.
He loves the gally-mawfry : Ford, perpend.
Ford. Love my wife?
Pist. With liver burning hot: prevent, or go thou,
Like Sir Acton he, with Ringwood at thy heels.
O! odious is the name.
Ford. What name, sir? 120
Pist. The horn, Isay. Farewell:
Take heed; have open eye, for thieves do foot by

night :

Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo-birds do
sing.—

Away, Sir Corporal Nym.—

Believe it, Page ; he speaks sense. (Exit.

Ford. I will be patient : I will find out this.

Nym. [To PaGE.] And this is true; I like not the
humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some
humours: [should have borne the humoured letter to
her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my
necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and
the long. My name is Corporal Nym: I speak, and I
avouch ‘tis true :—my name is Nym, and Falstaff loves
your wife.—Adicu. I love not the humour of bread
and cheese ; and there's the humour of it. Adieu.

Exit.

Page. The humour of it, quoth ’a! here's a fae
frights humour out of his wits.

Ford. I will seek out Falstaff,

Page. I never heard such a drawling, affecting
rogue. 140

Yord. If I do find it :—well.

Page. 1 will not believe such a Cataian, though the
priest o’ the town commended him for a true man.

Ford. "T was a good sensible fellow : well.

Page. How now, Meg?

Mrs. Page. Whither go you, George +-Hark you.

 

Mrs, Ford. How now, sweet Frank? why art thou
melancholy ?

ord. J melancholy! I am not melancholy.—Get
you home, go. 150

Mrs, Ford. "Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy
head now.—Will you go, Mistress Page?

Mrs. Page. Have with you.—You’ll come to dinner,
George?—[ Aside to Mrs. Forp.] Look, who comes
yonder: she shall be our messenger to this paltry
knight.

Mrs. Ford. Trust me, I thought on her: she’ll fit it,

Enter Mistress QUICKLY.

Mrs. Page. You are come to see my daughter Anne?
Quick. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good
Mistress Anne ? 160
Mrs. Page. Go in with us, and see; we have an
hour’s talk with you.
[Excunt Mrs. Pace, Mrs. Forp, and
Mrs. QUICKLY.

Page. How now, Master Ford ?

AO rd. You heard what this knave told me, did you
not?

Page. Yes; and you heard what the other told me.

ford. Do you think there is truth in them?

Page. Hang ’em, slaves; I do not think the knight
would offer it: but these that accuse him, in his intent
towards our wives, are a yoke of his discarded men;
very rogues, now they be out of service. 171

Ford. Were they his men?

Page. Marry, were ag

Ford. 1 like it never the better for that.—Does he
lie at the Garter?

Page. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this
voyage towards my wife, I would turn her loose to
him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words,
let. it lie on my head. 179

Ford. I do not misdoubt my wife, but I would be
loath to turn them together. A man may be too con-
fident: I would have nothing lie on my head: I
cannot be thus satisfied.

Page. Look, where my ranting host of the Garter
comes. There is either liquor in his pate, or money in
We ae when he looks so merrily.—How now, mine

ost

Enter Host and SHALLOW.

Host. How now, bully-rook! thou 'rt a gentleman.—
Cavalero-justice, I say.

Shal. I follow, mine host, I follow.—Good even, and
twenty, good Master Page. Master Page, will you go
with us? we have sport in hand. : 192

oo Tell him, cavalero-justice; tell him, bully-
rook. ;

Shal. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir
Hugh, the Welch priest, and Caius, the French doctor.

Ford. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with

you,
Host. What say’st thou, my bully-rook? 199
[They go aside.

Shal. [To Pace.] Will you go with us to behold it?
My merry host hath had the measuring of their
weapons, and, I think, hath appointed them contrary
places ; for, believe me, I hear, the parson is no jester.
Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. - ;

Host. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my
guest-cavalier? :

Ford. None, I protest: but Ill give you a pottle of
burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him,
my name is Brook, only for a jest. j

Host. My hand, bully: thou shalt have egress and
regress; said I well? and thy name shall be Brook.
Itisa merry knight. Will you go, mynheers?

Shal. Have with you, mine host. = f

Page. 1 have heard, the Frenchman hath good skill
in his rapier. :

Shal. Tut, sir! I could have told you more: in these
times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes,
and I know not what: tis the heart, Master Page;
tis here, ‘tishere. Ihave seen the time, with my long
sword, I would have made you four tall fellows skip
like rats. 22

 

 

 

———_—_— ooo
 

ScENE II.]

Host. Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag?
Page. Have with you.—I had rather hear them
scold than fight. [Kxeunt Host, SHALLOW, and PaGE.
Ford. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so
firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my
opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page’s
house, and what they made there, I know not. Well,
I will look further into ’t; and I have a disguise to
sound Falstatf. If I find her honest, I lose not my
labour ; if she be otherwise, ’t is labour well bestowed.
[Exit.

ScENE II.—A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL.

Fal. I will not lend thee a penny.

Pist. Why, then the world’s mine oyster,
Which I with sword will open.

Fal. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you
should lay my countenance to pawn: I have grated
upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and
your coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked
through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am
damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen, my friends,

ou were good soldiers, and tall fellows; and when
Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took ‘t

upon mine honour thou hadst it not. 1z
Pist. Didst thou not share? hadst thou not fifteen
pence ?

Fal. Reason, you rogue, reason: think’st thou, I ‘ll
endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more
about me, Iam no gzibbet for you :—go :—a short knife
and a throng:—to your manor of Pickt-hatch, go.—
You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue !—you stand
upon your honour!—Why, thou unconfinable baseness,
it is as much as I can do, to keep the terms of my
honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the
fear of Heaven on the left hand, and hiding mine
honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge,
and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your
rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice
phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter
of your honour! You will not do it, you?

Pist. Ido relent: what would thou more of man?

Enter Rosin.

Rob. Sir, here’s a woman would speak with you.
Fal, Let her approach.

Enter Mistress QUICKLY.

» Quick, Give your worship good morrow.
| #al. Good morrow, good wife.
Quick. Not so, an’t please your worship.

fal. Good maid, then.

Quick. I'll be sworn; as my mother was, the first

hour I was born.

Fal. I do believe the swearer. What with me?

i isel Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or

wo

Fal. Twothousand, fair woman; and I’ll vouchsafe
thee the hearing. 41
Quick. There is one Mistress Ford, sir:—I pray,
come a little nearer this ways.—I myself dwell with
Master Doctor Caius.
Fal. Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say, —
Quick. Your worship says very true:—I pray your
_ worship, come a little nearer this ways.

Fal. I warrant thee, nobody hears: mine own
People, mine own people.
| Quick. Are they so? Heaven bless them, and make

them his servants! 51

Fal. Well: Mistress Ford ;—what of her?

Quick. Why, sir, she’s agoodcreature. Lord, Lord!
your worship’s a wanton: well, Heaven forgive you,
and all of us, I pray !
|. Fal. Mistress Ford ;—come, Mistress Ford,— ,

Quick. Marry, this is the short and the long of it.
You have brought her into such a canaries, as ‘t is
wonderful: the best courtier of them all, when the
‘court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to
s8uch a canary; yet there has been knights, and lords,

 

  
  
  
   
  

 

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

531

and gentlemen, with their coaches; I warrant you,
coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift;
smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I
warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant
terms; andin such wine and sugar of the best, and the
fairest, that would have won any woman’s heart, and,
I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of
her.—I had myself twenty angels given me this
morning; but I defy all angels, (in any such sort, as
they say) but in the way of “honesty :—and, I warrant
you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup
with the proudest of them all; and yet there has been

me

 

 

 

Fal. “ But what says she to me? be brief, my good she-Mercury.”

earls, nay, which is more, pensioners ; but, I warrant
you, all is one with her.

Fal. But what says she to me? be brief, my good
she-Mercury.

Quick. Marry, she hath received your letter, for the
which she thanks youa thousand times ; and she gives

ou to notify, that her husband will be absence from
lis house between ten and eleven.

Fal. Ten and eleven.

Quick. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and
see the picture, she says, that you wot of: Master
Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas! the
sweet woman leads an ill life with him; he’s a ver
jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with
him, good heart.

Fal. Ten and eleven.-Woman, commend me to
her; I will not fail her. 0.

Quick. Why, you say well. But I have another
messenger to your worship: Mistress Page hath her
hearty commendations to you too;—and let me tell you
in your ear, she’s as fartuous a civil modest wife, and
one (I tell you) that will not miss you morning nor
evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe’er be the
other: and she bade me tell your worship, that her
husband is seldom from home, but she hopes there
will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote
upon a man: surely, I think you have charms, la;
yes, in truth. 101

Fal. Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction of
my good oe aside, I have no other charms.

wick. Blessing on your heart for’t!

‘al. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford’s wife,
and Page’s wife, acquainted each other how they
love me? :

Quick. That were a jest, indeed !—they have not so
little grace, I hope :—that were a trick, indeed! But
Mistress Page would desire you to send her your

 

 

 
 

532

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

{Act IL.

 

 

little page, of all loves: her husband has a marvellous
infection to the little page; and, truly, Master Page
isan honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a
better life than she does : do what she will, say what
she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise
when she list, all is as she will; and, truly, she de-
serves it, for if there be a kind woman in Windsor,
she is one. You must send her your page; no
remedy.

Fal, Why, I will. 120

Quick. Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may
cone and go between you both; and, in any case,
have a nayword, that you may know one another's
mind, and the boy never need to understand any-
thing : for’tis not good that children should know
any wickedness ; old folks, you know, have discretion,
as they say, and know the world.

Fal. Fare thee well: commend me to them both.
There’s my purse; I am yet thy debtor.—Boy, go
along with this woman. [E£xcunt QUICKLY and
Rosin.]_ This news distracts me. 31

Pist. This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers. —

Clap on more sails ; pursue, up with your fights:
Give fire! She is my prize, or ocean whelm ere
rit.

Fal. Say’st thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I’ll
make more of thy old body than I have done. Will
they yet look afterthee? Wilt thou, after the expense
of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I
thank thee: let them say, ’tis grossly done; so it be
fairly done, no matter. 110

Enter BARDOLPH.

Bard. Sir John, there’s one Master Brook below
would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with
you; and hath sent your worship a morning's draught
of sack.

fal. Brook is his name?

Bard. Ay, sir.

fal. Callhimin. [Hit BARDoLPH.] Such Brooks
are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah!
ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encom-
passed you? go to; via! 150

Re-enter BARDOLPH, with ForD disguised.

Ford. Bless you, sir.

Fal. And you, sir: would you speak with me?

Ford. 1 make bold to press with so little prepara-
tion upon you.

Fal. You’re welcome. What’s your will?—Give
us leave, drawer. Hxrit BARDOLPH.

Ford. Sir, Tam a gentleman that have spent much:
my name is Brook.

fal. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaint-
ance of you. 160

ford. Good Sir John, [sue for yours; not to charge
you; for I must let you understand, I think myself in

etter plight for a lender than you are; the which
hath eenteane embolden’d me to this unseasoned
intrusion, for, they say, if money go before, all ways
do lie open.

Fal. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on.

Ford. Troth, and J have a bag of money here
troubles me: if you will help to bear it, Sir John,
take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. 170

Fal. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your
porter.

Ford. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the
hearing.

Fal, Speak, good Master Brook ; I shall be glad to
be your servant.

ford, Sir, I hear you are a scholar,—I will be brief
with you,—and you have been a man long known to
me, though I had never so good means, as desire, to
make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover
a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open
mine own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you
have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them un-
folded, turn another into the register of your own,
that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you
yourself know, how easy it is to be such an offender.

Fal. Very well, sir; proceed.

 

Ford. There is a_gentlewoman in this to
husband’s name is Ford. ey Men

Fal. Well, sir. 190

Ford, I have long loved her, and, I protest to you,
bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting
observance ; engrossed opportunities to meet her:
fee'd every slight occasion, that could but niggardly
give me sight of her; not only bought many presents
to give her, but have given largely to many, to know
what she would have given. Briefly, I have pursued
her, as love hath pursued me, which hath een, On
the wing of all occasions: but whatsoever I have
merited, either in my mind, or in my means, meed,
I am sure, I have received none, unless experience
be a jewel; that I have purchased at an infinite rate,
and that hath taught me to say this:

Love like a shadow flies, when substance love pursues;
Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues,

Fal. Have you received no promise of satisfaction
at her hands?

Ford. Never.

Fal. Have you importuned her to such a purpose?

lrord, Never, 210

Fal. Of what quality was your love then?

Ford. Like a fair house, built upon another man’s
ground ; so that I have lost my edifice, by mistaking
the place where I erected it.

Fal. To what purpose have you unfolded this to
me é

Ford. When I have told you that, I have told you
all. Some say, that though she appear honest to me,
yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far,
that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now,
Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a
gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse,
of great admittance, authentic in your place and
person, generally allowed for your many war-like,
court-like, and learned preparations.

fal. O, sir!

Ford. Believe it, for you know it.—There is money;
spend it, spend it: spend more; spend all I have,
only give me so much of your time in exchange of
it, as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this
Ford’s wife: use your art of wooing, win her to
consent to you; if any man may, you may as soon
as ay 233
Fal. Would it apply well to the vehemency of
your affection, that I should win what you would
enjoy? Methinks, you prescribe to yourself very pre-
posterously.

Ford. O! understand my drift. She dwells so
securely on the excellency of her honour, that the
folly of my soul dares not present itself: she is too
bright to be looked against. Now, could I come to
her with any detection in my hand, my desires had
instance and argument to commend themselves; I
could drive her then from the ward of her purity,
her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand
other her defences, which now are too too stron ly
enrbatpied against me. What say you to’t, Sir

ohn 5 :

Fal. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your
money ; next, give me your hand; and last, as Tama
gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife.

Ford. O good sir! 252

Fal. I say you shall.

Ford. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want

one.
Fal. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you
shall want none. I shall be with her (I may tell you)
by her own appointment; even as you came in to me,
her assistant, or go-between, parted from me: I say,
I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at
that time the jealous rascally knave, her husband,
will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall
know how I speed. 263
Ford. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you
know Ford, sir?
Fal. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! [know him
not.—Yet I wrong him, to call him poor: they say, the
jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money, for the

D

 

 

 
 

ScENE III]

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

533

 

 

 

 

which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use
her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer, and
there’s my harvest-home. 271

Ford. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might
avoid him, if you saw him.

Fal. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I
will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with
my cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o’er the
cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I
will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie
with his wife.—Come to me soon at night.—Ford’s a
knave, and I will desta te his style; thou, Master
Brook, shalt know him for a knave and cuckold.—
Come to me soon at night. [Exit.

Ford. What a damned Epicurean rascal is this !—
My heart is ready to crack with impatience.—Who
says, this is improvident jealousy? my wife hath sent
to him, the hour is fixed, the match is made. Would
any man have thought this?—See the hell of having
a false woman! my bed shall be abused, my coffers
ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not
only receive this villainous wrong, but stand under
the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that
does me this wrong. Terms! names!—Amaimon
sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they
are devils’ additions, the names of fiends: but cuckold!
wittol-cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a
name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his
wife, he will not be jealous: I will rather trust a
Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welchman
with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vite
bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than
my wife with herself: then she plots, then she ruini-
nates, then she devises; and what they think in their
hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts
but they will effect. Heaven be praised for my
jealousy !—Eleven o’clock the hour: I will prevent
this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and
laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too
soon, than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold!
cuckold! cuckold ! Exit.

ScENE III.—Windsor Park.

: Enter Catus and RuGBY.

Caius. Jack Rugby !

Rug. Sir.

Caius. Vat is de clock, Jack ? r

Rug. ’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised
to meet.

Caius. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no
come: he has ee, his Pible vell, dat he is no come.
By gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be
come.

Rug. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would
kill him, if he came. il
- Caius. By gar, de herring is no dead, so as I vill kill
him, Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I
vill kill him.

Rug. Alas, sir! I cannot fence.

Caius. Villainy, take your rapier.

Rug. Forbear ; here ’s company.

Enter Host, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE.
Host. Bless thee, bully doctor.
Shal. ’Save you, Master Doctor Caius.
Page. Now, good master doctor !
Slen. Give you good morrow, sir.

20

 

fi cot. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come
‘or

’ Host. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee |

traverse, to see thee here, to see thee there; to see
thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy dis-
tance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? is he
dead, my Francisco? ha, bully!’ What says my
AMsculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? ha! is he
dead, bully-stale? is he dead ? 30

Caius. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of the
vorld ; he is not show his face.

Host. Thou art a Castilian, King Urinal: Hector of
Greece, my boy.

Caius. I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay
six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no
come.

Shal. He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is
a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you
should fight, you go against the hair of your pro-
fessions. Is it not true, Master Page?

Page. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a
great fighter, though now a man of peace.

Shal. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old,
and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches
to make one. Though we are justices, and doctors,
and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of
a youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master

age,

Page. ’T is true, Master Shallow. 50
Shal. It will be found so, Master Page. Master
Doctor Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am

sworn of the peace: you have showed yourself a wise
physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise
and patient churchman. You must go with me,
master doctor. .

Host. Pardon, guest-justice: a word, Monsieur
Mock-water.

Caius. Mock-vater! vat is dat?

Host. Mock-water in our English tongue is valour,
bully. 61

Caius. By gar, then I have as much mock-vater as
de Englishman.—Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, me
vill cut his ears.

Host. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.

Caius. Clapper-de-claw ! vat is dat?

Host. That is, he will make thee amends.

Caius. By gar, me do look, he shall clapper-de-claw
me; for, by gar, me vill have it.

Host. And I will provoke him to’t, or let him wag.

Caius. Me tank you for dat. 71

Host. And moreover, bully,—but first, master guest,
and Master Page, and eke Cavalero Slender, go you
through the town to Frogmore. [Aside to them.

Page. Sir Hugh is there, is he?

Host. He is there: see what humour he is in, and I
mall Ding the doctor about by the fields. Will it do
well

Shal. We will do it.

Page, Shal., and Slen, Adieu, good master doctor.

Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.

Caius. By gar, me vill kill de priest, for he speak
for a jack-an-ape to Anne Page. 82

Host. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience : throw
cold water on thy choler. Go about the fields with
me through Frogmore; I will bring thee where
Mistress Anne Page is, at a farmhouse a-feasting, and
thou shalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well?

Caius. By gar, me tank you vor dat: by gar, I love
you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl,
de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. 90

Host. For the which I will be thy adversary toward
Anne Page: said I well?

Catus. By gar, ‘tis good ; vell said.

Host. Let us wag then.

Caius. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT

III.

ScENE I.—A Field near Frogmore.

Evans.

serving-man, and friend Simple by your
name, which way have oe looked for
Master Caius, that calls himself doctor
of physic?

Sim. Marry, sir, the Pitty-ward, the
park-ward, every way; old Windsor
way, and every way but the town way.

Eva. I most fehemently desire you,
you will also look that way. _, 10

Sim. I will, sir. (Retiring.

Eva. Pless my soul! how full of
cholers I am, and trempling of mind !—
I shall be glad, if he have deceived
me.—How melancholies I am!—I will
knog his urinals about his knave’s cos-
tard, when I have good opportunities

 

for the ‘ork :—pless my soul ! (Sings.
To shallow rivers, to whose falls ;
Melodious birds sing madrigals; 20

There will we make our peds of roses,
Anda thousand fragrant posies.
To shallow—
Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.
Melodious birds sing madrigals ;—
When as Isat in Pabylon,—
Anita thousand vagram posies,
To shallow—
Sim. [Coming forward.] Yonder he is coming, this
way, Sir Hugh. 30
Eva, He’s welcome.—
To shallow rivers, to whose falls—

Heaven prosper the right !—~What weapons is he ?
Sim. No weapons, sir. There comes my master,
Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frog-
more, over the stile. this way.
Eva. Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep it in
your arms.

Enter PaGrE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.

Shal. How now, master parson? Good morrow,
good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and
a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. 41

Slen. Ah, sweet Anne Page!

Page. Save you, good Sir Hugh.

Eva. ’Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you!

Shal. What! the sword and the word? do you
study them both, master parson ?

Page. And youthful still, in your doublet and hose,
this raw rheumatic day !

Eva. There is reasons and causes for it.

Page. We are come to you to do a good office, master
parson. dl

iva. Fery well: what is it?

Page, Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who,
belike having received wrong by some person, is at
most odds with his own gravity and patience that
ever you saw.

Shal. I have lived fourscore years, and upward; T
never heard aman of his place, gravity, and learning,
so wide of his own respect.

Eva, What is he? 60

 

Enter Sir HuGH Evans and SIMPLE.

Page. J think you know him; Master Doctor Caius,

PRAY you now, good Master Slender’s | the renowned French physician.

Eva. Got’s will, and his passion of my heart! I had
as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge.

Page. Why?

Eva. He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and
Galen,—and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave,
as you would desires to be acquainted withal.

Page. I warrant you, he’s the man should fight
with him. 70

Slen. O, sweet Anne Page!

 

 

 

Shal. It appears so, by his weapons.—Keep them
asunder :--here comes Doctor Caius.

Enter Host, Carus, and RueBY.

Page. Nay, good master parson, keep in your
weapon.

Shal. So do you, good master doctor. |

Host. Disarm them, and let them question: let them
keep their limbs whole, and hack our English. |

Caius. I pray you, let-a me speak a word vit your
ear: verefore vill you not meet-a me? 80

Eva. Pray you, use your patience : in

Caius. By gar, you are de coward,
John ape.

Eva. Pray you, let us not be laughing-stogs to other
men’s humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will
one way or other make you amends. —I will knog your
urinals about your knave's cogscomb for missing your
meetings and appointments.

Caius. Diable!—Jack Rugby,—mine host de Jar-
tiere, have I not stay for him to kill him? have I not,
at de place I did appoint ? 91

Eva. Aslam a Christians soul, now, look you, this
is the place appointed. I'll be judgment by mine host
of the Garter.

Host. Peace, I say ! Gallia and Guallia, French and
Welch, soul-curer and body -curer.

Caius. Ay, dat is very good: excellent.

Host. Peace, I say! hear mine host of

‘ood time.
e Jack dog,

the Garter.

 

 
 

ScENE ITI.)

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

535

 

 

Am I politic? am I subtle? am Ia Machiavel? Shall
I lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the
motions. Shall I lose my parson? my priest? my Sir
Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the no-
verbs.—Give me thy hand, terrestrial ; so.—Give me
thy hand, celestial; so.—Boys of art, I have deceived
ou both ; I have directed you to wrong places: your
hensts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt
sack be the issue.—Come, lay their swords to pawn.—
Follow me, lad of peace; follow, follow, follow.

Shal. Trust me, a mad host.—Follow, gentlemen,
follow. . 110

Slen. O, sweet Anne Page!

(Ezeunt SHALLOW, SLENDER, PAGE, and Host.

Caius. Ha! do I perceive dat? have you make-a de
sot of us? ha, ha!

Eva. This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog.
—I desire you, that we may be friends, and let us
knog our prains together to be revenge on this same
scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the
Garter. ‘ 118

Caius. By gar, vit all my heart. He promise to
bring me vere is Anne Page: by gar, he deceive me too.

Eva. Well, I will smite his noddles.—Pray you,
follow. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Street in Windsor.

Enter Mistress Pace and ROBIN.

Mrs. Page. Nay, keep your way, little gallant: you
were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader.
Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your
master’s heels?

Rob. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a
man, than follow him like a dwarf.

Mrs. Page. O! you are a flattering boy: now, I see,
you'll be a courtier.

Enter Forp.

Ford. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?

Mrs. Page. Truly, sir, to see your wife: is she at
home? 11

Ford. ay: and as idle as she may hang together,
for want of company. I think, if your husbands were
dead, you two would marry.

3, Page. Be sure of that,—two other husbands,
Ford. Where had you this pretty weathercock ?
Mrs. Page. I cannot tell what the dickens his name

is my husband had him of.—What do you call your
knight’s name, sirrah ?

Rob.~. Sir John Falstaff. 20

Ford, Sir John Falstaff! .

Mrs. Page. He, he; I can never hit on’s name.—
There is such a league between my good man and he!
Is vour wife at home, indeed?

Ford. Indeed, she is. . .

Mrs. Page. By your leave, sir: I am sick, till I see

er. [Hxeunt Mrs. PaGE and RoBIn.

Ford. Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes?
hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep ; he hath no
use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twent,
miles, as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blan
twelve score. He pieces out his wife's inclination ;
he gives her folly motion and advantage : and now
she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her.
A man may hear this shower sing in the wind :—and
Falstaff’s boy with her !—Good plots !—they are laid ;
and our revolted wives share damnation together.
Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck
the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seemin
Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure an
wilful Actseon ; and to these violent proces nee all
iy neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes.] The
clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me
Search ; there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather
praised for this than mocked; for it is as positive as
the earth is firm, that Falstaff is there : I will go.

Enter Paar, SHALLOW, SLENDER, Host, Sir HucGH
Evans, Caius, and RUGBY.

Page, Shal., &c. Well met, Master Ford.

 

 

Ford. Trust me, a good knot. I have good cheer at
home, and I pray you all go with me.

Shal. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. 50

Slen. And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine
with Mistress Anne, and I would not area with her
for more money than I'll speak of.

Shal. We have lingered about a match between
Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we
shall have our answer.

Slen. Lhope, I have your good will, father Page.

Page. You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly
for you :—but my wife, master doctor, is for you alto-
gether. 60

Caius. Ay, by gar; and de maid is love-a me: my
nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush.

Host. What say you to young Master Fenton? he
capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes
verses, he speaks holiday, he smells ae and May:
he will carry’t, he will carry ’t ; tis in his buttons; he
will carry ’t.

Page. Not by my consent, I promise you. The
gentleman is of no having: he kept company with
the wild prince and Poins; he is of too high a region ;
he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in
his fortunes with the finger of my substance: if he
take her, let him take her simply ; the wealth I have
waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that
way.

Ford. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home
with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have
sport; I willshow you a monster.—Master doctor, you
shall go:—so shall you, Master Page,—and you, Sir
Hugh. 80

Shal. Well, fare you well.—We shall have the freer
wooing at Master Page’s.

: [Exeunt SHALLOW and SLENDER.

Caius. Go home, John Rugby ; I come anon.

[Exit Ruasy.

Host. Farewell, my hearts. I will to my honest
knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. [Exit.

Ford, (Aside.] I think, I shall drink in pipe-wine
first with him; I’ll make him dance. Will you go,
gentles?

All, Have with you, to see this monster. [EHxeunt.

ScENE III.—A Room in Forp's House.

Enter Mistress ForpD and Mistress PAGE.

Mrs. Ford. What, John! what, Robert!
Mrs. Page. Quickly, quickly. Is the buck-basket—
Mrs. Ford. I warrant.—What, Robin, I say !

Enter Servants with a basket.

Mrs. Page. Come, come, come.

Mrs. Ford. Here, set it down.

: cl Page. Give your men the charge : we must be
rief,

Mrs. Ford. Marry, as I told you before, John, and
Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house ; and
when I suddenly call you, come forth, and (without
any pause, or staggering) take this basket on your
shoulders: that done, trudge with it in all haste, and
carry it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and
there empty it in the muddy ditch, close by the
Thames side.

Mrs. Page. You will do it?

Mrs. Ford. I have told them over and over; they
lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are
called. : [Hxeunt Servants.

Mrs. Page. Here comes little Robin. 20

Enter RoBIN.

Mrs. Ford. How now, my eyas-musket? what news
with you?

Rob. My master, Sir John, is come in at your back-
door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company.

Mrs. Page. You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been
true to us?

Rob. Ay, 1’ll be sworn. My master knows not of
your being here; and hath threatened to put me into

 

 
 

 

536 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act IIL,

 

everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it, for he swears
he'll turn me away. : 30

Mrs, Page. Thou’rt a good boy; this secrecy of
thine shall be a tailor to thec, and shall make thee
anew doublet and hose.—I’ll go hide me.

Mrs, Ford. Do so.—Go tell thy master, Iam alone.
[Exit Rosin.]— Mistress Page, remember you your cue.
Mrs. Page. I warrant thee: if I do not act it, hiss
e. [Ecit.
Urs. Ford, Go to then: we’ll use this unwholesome
humidity, this gross watery pumpion ;—we’ll teach
him to know turtles from jays. 40

Enter FALSTAFF,

Fal. Have I caught my heavenly jewel? Why, now
let me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the
period of my ambition. O this blessed hour !

Mrs. Ford. O sweet Sir John!

Fal. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate,
Mistress Ford. Now shall Isin in my wish: I would
thy husband were dead. I’ll speak it before the best
lord, I would make thee my lady.

Mrs. Ford. I your lady, Sir John! alas, I should be
a@ pitiful lady. 50

Fal, Let the court of France show me such another.
I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond: thou
hast the right arched beauty of the brow, that be-
comes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of
Venetian admittance.

Mrs. Ford, A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows
become nothing else ; nor that well neither.

Fal. By the Lord, thou art a tyrant to say so: thou
wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm
fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to
thy gait, in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what
thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy
friend: come, thou canst not hide it.

Mrs. Ford. Believe me, there's no such thing in

m

me.

Fal. What made me love thee? let that persuade
thee, there ’s something extraordinary in thee. Come:
I cannot cog, and say thou art this and that, like a
many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like
women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury
in simple-time: I cannot; but I love thee, none but
thee, and thou deservest it. 72

Mrs. Ford. Do not betray me, sir. I fear, you love
Mistress Page.

Fal. Thou mightst as well say, I love to walk by the
Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of
a lime-kiln.

Mrs. Ford. Well, Heaven knows, how I love you;
and you shall one day find it.

Fal. Keep in that mind ; I'll deserve it. 80

Mrs. Ford. Nay, I must tell you, so you do, or else

I could not be in that mind.

Rob. [Within.] Mistress Ford! Mistress Ford!
here's Mistress Page at the door, sweating, and blow-
ing, and looking wildly, and would needs speak with
you presently.

Fal. She shall not see me.
behind the arras.

Mrs. Ford. Pray you, do so: she’sa very tattling
woman.— [FaLsTaFF hides himself.

Re-enter Mistress PaGE and RosBIn.
What’s the matter? how now! 91

Mrs. Page. O Mistress Ford! what have you done?
You ’re shamed, you are overthrown, you ’re undone
for ever.

Mrs. Ford. What's the matter,
Page?

Mrs. Page. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford ! having an
honest man to your husband, to give him such cause
of suspicion !

Mrs. Ford, What cause of suspicion 2 100

Mrs. Page. What cause of suspicion ?—Out upon
you! how am I mistook in you!

Mrs. Ford. Why, alas! what’s the matter?

Mrs. Page. Your husband’s coming hither, woman,
with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentle-
man, that, he says, is here now in the house, by your

I will ensconce me

good Mistress

 

consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence,
are undone,

Mrs. Ford. ’Tis not so, I hope. 109

Mrs. Page. Pray Heaven it ve not so, that you have
sucha man here ; but ’tis most certain your husband’s
coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for
such a one: I come before to tell you. | If you know
yourself clear, why, Iam glad of it: but if you havea
friend here, convey him out. Be not amazed ; call all
your senses to you: defend your reputation, or bid
farewell to your good life for ever.

Mrs. Ford. What shall I do—Thereisa gentleman
my dear friend ; and I fear not mine own shame so
much as his peril: I had rather than a thousand
pound he were out of the house. 121

Mrs. Page. For shame! never stand “you had
rather,” and ‘‘you had rather:” your busband’s here
at hand ; bethink you of some conveyance: in the house
you cannot hide him.—O, how have you deceived me!
—Look, here is a basket: if he be of any reasonable
stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen
upon him, as if it were going to bucking: or, it is
ENE ene, send him by your two men to Datchet-
mead. 130
‘ aus Ford. He’s too big to go in there. What shall

0? :

Re-enter FALSTAFF.

Fal. Let me see ’t, letme see’t! O, let me see’t! I'll
in, I'll in.—Follow your friend’s counsel.—I’ll in,
Mrs. Page. What! Sir John Falstatf? Are these
your letters, knight?
Fal. I love thee: help me away; let me creep in
here; Ill never—
{He gets into the basket ; they cover him
with foul linen.
Mrs. Page. Help to cover your master, boy. Call
your men, Mistress Ford.—You dissembling knight!
Mrs. Ford. What, John! Robert! John! 1
[Ezit Rosin.

You

Re-enter Servants.

Go take up these clothes here, quickly; where’s the
cowl-staff? look, how you druinble: carry them to the
laundress in Datchet-mead ; quickly, come.

Enter FORD, PaGE, Carus, and Sir HucH Evans.

Ford. Pray you, come near: if I suspect without
cause, why, then make sport at me, then let me be
your jest ; I deserve it.—How now? whither bear you
this?

Serv. To the laundress, forsooth. ; 149

Mrs. Ford. Why, what have you to do whither they
bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing.

Ford. Buck? I would I could wash myself of the
buck! Buck, buck, buck? Ay, buck; I warrant you,
buck, and of the season too, it shall appear. [EHzxeunt
Servants with the basket.) Gentlemen, I have dreamed
to-night: I’ll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be
my keys: ascend my chambers, search, seek, find out:
I'll warrant, we’ll unkennel the fox.—Let me stop
this way first :—so, now uncape.

Page. Good Master Ford, be contented : you wrong,
yourself too much. 161

Ford. True, Master Page.—Up, gentlemen; you
shall see sport anon: follow me, gentlemen. | [Eait.

Eva. Thisisfery fantastical humours, and jealousies.

Caius. By gar, ’tis no de fashion of France: it is
not jealous in France. ‘

Page. Nay, follow him, gentlemen: see the issue of
his search. {[Exeunt Pace, Carus, and EVANS,

Mrs. Page. Is there not a double excellency in this?

Mrs. Ford. I know not which pleases me better,
that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. Til

Mrs. Page. What a taking was he in, when your
husband asked who was in the basket!

Mrs. Ford. I am_half afraid he will have need of
washing; so, throwing him into the water will do him
a benefit.

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would
all of the same strain were in the same distress. 1

Mrs. Ford. I think, my husband hath some specla

 

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

 

yet have more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute
disease will scarce obey this medicine.

Mrs. Ford. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mis-
tress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into
the water ; and give him another hope, to betray him
to another punishment ?

Mrs. Page. We'll do it: let him be sent for to-
morrow eight o’clock, to have amends. 190

Re-enter FORD, PAGE, Catts, and Sir Huau Evans.

Ford. I cannot find him: may be, the knave bragged
of that he could not compass.

Mrs. Page. Heard you that?

Mrs. Ford. You use me well, Master Ford, do you?

Ford. Ay, Ido so.

Mrs. Ford, Heaven make you better than your
thoughts!

Ford. Amen.

Mrs. Page. You do yourself mighty wrong, Master
Ford. . 200

Ford. Ay, ay; I must bear it.

Eva. If there be anypody in the house, and in the
chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses,
Heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment!

Caius. By gar, nor I too, dere is no bodies.

Page. Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed?
What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I
would not have your distemper in this kind for the
wealth of Windsor Castle.

Ford. ’Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it. 210

Eva. You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife
is as honest a’ omans as I will desires among five
thousand, and five hundred too.

Caius. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman.

Ford. Well; I promised you a dinner.—Come,
come, walk in the park: I pray you, pardon me; I
will hereafter make known to you, why I have done
this.—Come, wife:—come, Mistress Page: I pray you

. pardon me; pray heartily, pardon me. 21

Page. Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we ll
mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to
my house to breakfast; after, we ll a-birding together:
Ihave a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?

Ford. Anything.

Eva. If there is one, I shall make two in the com-
pany.

Caius. If there be one or two, I shall make a deturd.

Ford. Pray you, go, Master Page.

Eva. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on
the lousy knave, mine host. 230

Caius. Dat is good; by gar, vit all my heart.

Eva. A lousy knave! to have his gibes, and his
mockeries! [Excunt.

ScENE IV.—A Room in PaGE’s House.

Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE.

Fent. I see, I cannot get thy father’s love;
Therefore, no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.
Anne, Alas! how then?
Fent. Why, thou must be thyself.
He doth object, I am too great of birth,
And that my state being gall’d with my expense,
Iseek to heal it only by his wealth.
Besides these, other bars he lays before me,—
My riots past, my wild societies;
And tells me, ’t is a thing impossible
Ishould love thee, but as a property. 10
Anne. May be, be tells you true. .
Fent. No, Heaved so speed me in my time to come!
Albeit, I will confess, thy father’s wealth
Was the first motive that I woo’d thee, Anne:
Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value
Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags ;
And ’tis the very riches of thyself
That now I aim at. ;
nne. Gentle Master Fenton,
Yet seek my father’s love; still seek it, sir:
eo

 

 

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR. 537

suspicion of Falstaff’s being here; for I never saw | If opportunity and humblest suit 20
him so gross in his jealousy till now. 181 | Cannot attain it, why, then,—hark you hither.

Mrs. Page. I will lay a plot to try that; and we will [They converse apart.

 

 

 

 

«Anne. **Th.s is my father’s choice.”

Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and Mistress QUICKLY.

Shal. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kins-
man shall speak for himself.

Slen, I'll make a shaft or a bolt on’t. ’Slid, ’tis but
venturing.

Shal. Be not dismay’d.

Slen. No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for
that,—but that Iam afearu.

Quick. Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a
word with you. 0
Anne. I come to him.—This is my father’s choice.

O! what a world of vile ill-favour’d faults
Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!

Quick. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray
you, a word with you.

Shal. She’s coming; to her, coz.
a father!

Slen. I had a father, Mistress Anne: my uncle can
tell you good jests of him.—Pray you, uncle, tell
Mistress Anne the jest, how my father stole two
geese out of a pen, good uncle. 41

Shal. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you.

Slen. Ay, that Ido; as well as I love any woman in
Glostershire.

Shal. He will maintain you likea

Slen. Ay, that I will, come cut an
the degree of a squire.

Shal. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds
jointure. 49

Anne. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself,

Shal. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for
that good comfort. She calls you, coz: I’ll leave you.

Anne. Now, Master Slender.

Slen. Now, good Mistress Anne.

Anne. What is your will?

Slen. My will? od’s heartlings! that’s a pretty jest,
indeed. I ne’er made my will yet, I thank Heaven; I
am not such a sickly creature, I give Heaven praise.

Anne. I mean, Master Slender, what would you
with me? 60

Slen. Truly, for mine own part, I would little or
nothing with you. Your father, and my uncle, have

O boy! thou hadst

entlewoman.
long-tail, under

 
 

 

533

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act IIL

 

made motions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man
be his dole! They can tell you how things go better
than I can: you may ask your father; here he comes.

inter PAGE and Mistress PAGE.

Page. Now, Master Slender!—Love him, daughter
nne.—
Why, how now? what does Master Fenton here?
You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:
I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos’d of.

Fent. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. 70

Mrs. Page. Good Master Fenton, come not to my
child.

Page. She is no match for you.

Fent. Sir, will you hear me?

Page. No, good Master Fenton,—
Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.—
Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton.

[Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.
oe Speak to Mistress Page.
rent. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your
daughter

In such a righteous fashion as I do,
Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners,
I must advance the colours of my love, 81
And not retire: let me have your good will.

lnne. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool.

Mrs. Page. I mean it not; I seek you a better
husband.

Quick, That’s my master, master doctor.

«inne. Alas! I had rather be set quick i’ the earth,
And bowl d to death with turnips.

Mrs. Page. Come, trouble not yourself.—Good
Master Fenton,
I will not be your friend, nor enemy: 90

My daughter will I question how she loves you,
And as I find her, so am I affected.
Till then, farewell, sir: she must needs go in;
Her father will be angry.
[Exreunt Mrs, PAGE and ANNE,
Fent. Farewell, gentle mistress.—Farewell, Nan.
Quick. This is my doing, now.—Nay, said I, will
ou cast away your child on a fool, and a physician?
ook on Master Fenton.—This is my doing.
Fent. [thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night
Give my sweet Nan this ring. There's for thy pane:
Exit.
Quick. Now, Heaven send thee good fortune! A
kind heart he hath: a woman would run through
fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would
my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master
Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton
had her. I will do what I can for them all three, for
so I have promised, and I'll be as good as my word;
but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of
another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two
mistresses: What a beast am I to slack it! 110
[Exit.

ScENE V.—A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH.

Fal. Bardolph, I say,—

Bard. Here, sir.

Fal. Go fetch me_a quart of sack; put a toast in’t.
[2zit BARbDOLPH.] Have I lived to be carried in a
basket, like a barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be
thrown in the Thames? Well, if I be served. such
another trick, I’ll have my brains ta’en out, and
buttered, and give them to a dog for a new year's
gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as
little remorse as they would have drowned a blind
bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter; and you may
know by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity in
sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should
down. I had been drowned, but that the shore was
shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor, for the
water swells a man, and what a thing should I have
deen, when I had teen swelled! I should have been
a mountain of mummy.

 

Re-enter BARDOLPH with the wine.
Bard. Here’s Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with

you.
Fal. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thaines

water, for my belly ’s as cold, as if I had swallowed

snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in,
Bard. Come in, woman.

Enter Mistress QUICKLY.

Quick. By your leave.—I cry you mercy : give your
worship good morrow.
Fal. Take away these chalices.
pottle of sack finely.
ee are cues, ars oa
al. Simple of itself; no pullet-sperm in m
a e. Levit Ee scote | ow now? if
uick, Marry, sir, I come to your worship fro
Mistress Ford. Ls za
Fal. Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough: I was
thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford,
Quick. Alas the day! good heart, that was not her
fault : she does so take on with her men; they mistook
their erection.
Fal. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's
promise. 0
Quick, Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would
yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this
morning a-birding : she desires you once more to come
to her between eight and nine. I must carry her word
quickly: she ll make you amends, I warrant you.
Fal. Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid her
think, what a man is: let her consider his frailty, and
then judge of my merit.
ee Iwilltell her. —
Fal. Doso. Between nine and ten, say’st thou? 50
uick. Eight and nine, sir.
‘al, Well, be gone: I will not miss her.
a Peace be with you, sir. [Erit.
fal. I marvel, I hear not of Master Brook: he sent
me word to stay within. I like his money well. O!
here he comes.

Go, brew me a

Enter Forp.

Ford. Bless you, sir.

Fal. Now, Master Brook ; you come to know what
hath passed between me and Ford’s wife?

Ford. That, indeed, Sir John, is my business. 60

Fal. Master Brook, I will not lie to you. Iwas at
her house the hour she appointed me.

Ford. And sped you, sir ?

Fal. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook.

Ford. How so, sir? id she change her deter-
mination?

Fal. No, Master Brook; but the peaking Cornuto
her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual
‘larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our
encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested,
and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy;
and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither
provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, for-
sooth, to search his house for his wife’s love.

Ford. What, while you were there ?

Fal. While I was there.

Ford, And did he search for you, and could not fing

‘

ou?
* Fal. You shall hear. As good luck would have it,
comes in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of
Ford’s approach; and in her invention and Ford’s
wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-
basket.

ford, A buck-basket ! :

Fal. By the Lord, a buck-basket : rammed me in
with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, and
greasy napkins; that, Master Brook, there was the
rankest. compound of villainous smell, that ever
offended nostril.

ford, And how long lay you there? 90

Fal. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I
have suffered, to bring this woman to evil for your
good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of
Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their
mistress, to carry me in the name of foul clothes to

 

 

 
 

 

SCENE V.]

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

539

 

Datchet Lane : they took me on their shoulders ; met.
the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked
them once or twice what they had in their basket. I
quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave would have
searched it; but fate, ordaining he should be a
cuckold, held his hand. Well; on went he for a
search,and away went I for foul clothes. But mark
the eautel. Master Brook : I sutfered the pangs of three
several deaths: first, an intolerable fright, to be de-
tected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be
compassed, like a good bilbo, in the circumference of
a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be
stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking
clothes that fretted in their own grease: think of
that,—a man of my kidney,—think of that; that am
as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dis-
solution and thaw: it was a miracle, to scape suttfo-
cation. And in the height of this bath, when I was
more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to
be thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot,
in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that, —hissing
hot,—think of that, Master Brgok.

Ford. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my

 

sake you have suffered all this. My suit then is des-
perate ; you'll undertake her no more? 120 |

Fal. Master Brook, I will be thrown into A’tna, as
I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus.
Her husband is this morning gone a-birding : I have
received from her another embassy of meeting ; ’twixt
eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook.

ford. ’Tis past eight already, sir.

Fal. Is it? I will then address me to my appoint-
ment. Come to me at your convenient Icisure, and
you shall know how I speed, and the conclusion shall

be crowned with your enjoying her: adieu. You
shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you
shall cuckold Ford. it.

Ford. Hum: ha! is this a vision? is this a dream?
do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master
Ford! there’s a hole made in your best coat, Master
Ford. This ’tis to be married: this ‘tis to have linen,
and buck-baskets.—Well, I will proclaim myself
what Iam: I will now take the lecher; he is at my
house : he cannot scape me; "tis impossible be should:
he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse, nor into a
pepper-box ; but, lest the devil that guides him should
aid him, I will search impossible places. Though
what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not,
shall not make me tame: if I have horns to make one
mad, let the proverb go with me,—I ll be hom

cat.

 

ACT
SceNE I.—The Street.
Enter Mistress Pace, Mistress QUICKLY, and WILLIAM.

   

Mrs. aoe
3 he at Master Ford’s already, think’st
thou?

Quick. Sure, he is by this, or will be
presently; but truly, he is very coura-
geous mad about his throwing into the
water. Mistress Ford desires you to
come suddenly.

Mrs. Page. I'll be with her by-and-by :
I’ll but bring my young man here to
school. Look, where his master comes ;
‘tis a playing-day, I see. ll

Enter Sir HuGH Evans.

How now, Sir Hugh? no school to-day ?

Eva. No; Master Slender is let the
boys leave to play.

nick. Blessing of his heart !
rs. Page. Sir Hugh, my husband says, my son

profits nothing in the world at his book: I pray you,
ask him some questions in his accidence.

Eva. Come hither, William; hold up your head;
come. 20

Mrs. Page. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head;
answer your master, be not afraid.

Eva. William, how many numbers is in nouns?

Will.. Two.

Quick. Truly, I thought there had been one number
more, because they say, Od’s nouns. | ; ey,

Eva. Peace your tattlings !—What is fair, William?

Will, Pulcher. ; .

Quick. Polecats! there are fairer things than pole-
cats, sure. 30

Eva. You are a very simplicity ‘oman : I pray you,
peace.—What is lapis, William ?

Will. A stone. 7

Eva.. And what is a stone, William?

 

IV.

Will. A pebble.

Eva. No, it is lapis: I pray you remember in your
prain.

Will. Lapis.

Eva. That is good, William.
that does lend articles?

Will. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun; and
ie thus declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, haec,

oc.

‘Eva. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog ;—pray you, mark:
genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case ?

Will. Accusativo, hine.

Eva. 1 pray you, have your remembrance, child:
accusativo, hung, hang, hog.

Quick. Hang-hog is Latin for bacon, I warrant you.

va. Leave your prabbles, ’oman.—What is the
focative case, William ?

Will. O—vocativo, O.

Eva. Remember, William ; focative is, caret.

Quick. And that’s a good root.

Eva. ’Oman, forbear.

Mrs. Page. Peace!

Eva. What is your genitive case plural, William ?

Will. Genitive case?

Eva, Ay.

Will. Genitive,—horum, harum, horum. 60

Quick. Vengeance of Jenny's case! fie on her!—
Never name her, child, if she be a whore.

va, For shame, ‘oman!

Quick. You do ill to teach the child such words.—
He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they ‘ll do
fast enough of themselves; and to call whorum,—fie
upon you!

Eva. ’Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no under-
standings for thy cases, and the numbers of the gen-
ders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as
would desires.

What is he, ‘WL

I
7

 
 

 

540 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act IV,

 

Mrs. Page. Pr’ythee, hold thy peace. ;

Eva. Show me now, William, some declensions of
your pronouns.

Wil. Forsooth, I have forgot. ;

Eva. It is qui, que, quod ; if you forget your quies,
your quces, and your qguods, you must be preeches.
Go your ways, and play ; go.

 

 

Bed. * wememover, William; focative is, caret,”

Mrs. Page. He is a better scholar than I thought he
was.
va. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mis-
tress Page.
Mrs. Page. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [Exit Sir
Hueu.] Get you home, boy.—Cume, we stay too long.
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in Forn’s House.
Enter Fausta¥r and Mistress Forp.

Fal. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my
sufferance. I see, you are obsequious in your love,
and I profess requital to a hair's breadth: not only,
Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all
the accoutrement, complement, and ceremony of it.
But are you sure of your husband now ?

Mrs. Ford. He's a-birding, sweet Sir John.

Mrs. Page. [Within.] What ho! gossip Ford! what

0!
Mrs. Ford. Step into the chamber, Sir John. 10
L£xcit FALSTAFF.
Enter Mistress PAGE.

Mrs. Page. How now, sweetheart? who’s at home
besides yourself?

Mrs. Ford. Why, none but mine own people.

Mrs. Page. Indeed?

Mrs. Ford. No, certainly._[Aside.] Speak louder.
oo Page. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody

ere.

Mrs. Ford. Why? 18

Mrs. Page. Why, woman, your husband is in his
old lunes again: he so takes on yonder with my hus-
band ; so rails against all married mankind ; so curses
all Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever ; and
so buffets himself on the forehead, crying, ‘‘ Peer
out, peer out!” that any madness I ever yet beheld
seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this
his distemper he isin now. I am glad the fat knight
is not here.

Mrs. Ford. Why, does he talk of him? 28

Mrs. Page. Of none but him; and swears, he was
carricd out, the last time he searched for him, in a
basket: protests to my husband he is now here, and
hath drawn him and the rest of their company from
their sport, to make another experiment of his

 

suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here ; DOW
he shall see his own toolery.

Mrs, Ford. How near is he, Mistress Page?

Mrs. Page. Hard by; at street end : he will be here
anon.

Mrs. Ford. 1am undone! the knight is here. 39

Mfrs. Faye. Why, then you are utterly shamed, and
he’s but a dead man. What a woman are you !—
Away with him, away with him : better shame than
murder. ;

Mrs. Ford. Which way should he go? how should
I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again?

Re-enter FALSTAFF.
Fal. No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I
not go out, ere he come

irs. Page. Alas, three of Master Ford's brothers
watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out;

.otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But

what make you here ? 51

Fal. What shall I do?—I’ll creep up into the
chimney. .

Mrs. Ford. There they always use to discharge
their birding-pieces.

irs. Page. Creep into the kiln-hole.

Fal. Where is it ¢

Mrs. Ford. He willseek there, on my word. Neither
press, cotter, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an
abstract for the remembrance of such places; and
goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you mm
the house. 62

Fal. I'll go out then.

Mrs. Page. It you go out in your own semblance,
you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguised,—

Mrs. Ford. How might we disguise him?

irs. Page. Alas the day! I know not. There is
no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise he
light put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchiet, and so
escape. 70

fal. Good hearts, devise something : any extremity,
rather than a mischief.

Mrs. Ford. My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of
Brentford, has a gown above.

Mrs. Page. On my word, it will serve him; she’s
as big as he is, and there’s her thrummed hat, and
her muffler too.—Run up, Sir John.

Mrs. Ford. Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page
and I will look some linen for your head. 79

Mrs. Page. Quick, quick: we’ll come dress you
straight; put on the gown the while. [Hzit FaustaFr.

Mrs. Ford. J would, my husband would meet him
in tuis shape: he cannot abide the old woman of
srenttord; he swears, she’s a witch; forbade her my
house, and hath threatened to beat her. i

Mrs. Page. Heaven guide him to thy husband’s
cudgel, and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards!

Mrs. Ford. But is my husband coming ?

Mrs. Page. Ay, in good sadness, is he ; and talks of
the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. 90

Mrs. Ford. We'll try that ; for I’ appoint my men
to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door
with it, as they did last time. ‘

Mrs. Page. Nay, but he'll be here presently : let’s
go dress him like the witch of Brentford.

Mrs. Ford. I'll first direct my men, what they shall
do with the basket. Go up, I'll bring linen for him
straight. Fixit.

Mrs. Page. Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot
misuse him enough. : 100

We 1l leave a proof, by that which we will do,

‘Wives may be merry, and yet honest too:

We do not act, that often jest and laugh; fs

’T is old but true, ‘Still swine eat all the drat wit

Re-enter Mistress ForD with two Servants.

Mrs. Ford. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your
shoulders: your master is hard at door; if he bid you
set it down, obey him. Quickly; despatch.  [Ezit.

1 Serv. Come, come, take it up. ‘ ‘

2 Serv, Pray Heaven, it be not full of knight again.

1Serv. Lhope not; I had as lief bear so much lead. 110

 

 

 
 

ScENE IT.)

Enter ForD, PaGe, SHALLOW, Carus, and Sir
HuGuH Evans.

 

Ford. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have

 

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

WZ y=

 

541

Shal. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well; indeed.
Ford. So say I too, sir.

Re-enter Mistress FORD.

you any way then to unfold me again ?—Set down the | Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford, the honest

 

basket, villains.—Somebody call my wife.—Youth in
a basket !- O you panderly rascals! there *3 a knot, a
ange a pack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the
evil be shamed.—What, wife, I say !—Come, come
forth.—Behold what honest clothes you send forth to
bleaching.
, ae Why, this passes! Master Ford, you are not
to go loose any longer ; you must be pinioned. 120
ane ‘Why, this is lunatics; this is mad as a mad
log.

cee

 

Ford. “ Out of my door, you witch, you nag, you baggage, you polecat, you ronyon: out! out!”

woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that
hath the jealous fool to her husband !—I suspect with-
out cause, mistress, do I?
Mrs. Ford. Heaven be my witness, you do, if you
suspect me in any dishonesty. 130
Ford. Well said, brazen-face ; hold it out.—Come
forth, sirrah. (Pulls the clothes out of the basket.
Page. This passes!
i Ford. Are you not ashamed? let the clothes
alone.

 
 

512 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act Iv,

 

 

Ford. J shall find you anon.

Eva. ’Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your
wite'’s clothes? Come away.

Ford, Kmpty the basket, I say.

Mrs. Ford. Why, man, why,— 140

Ford. Master Page, as I ama man, there was one
conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket :
why may not he be there again? In my house I am
sure he is: my intelligence is true; my jealousy is
reasonable. —Pluck me out all the linen. :

Mrs. Ford. If you find a man there, he shall die a
flea’s death.

Page. Here’s no man.

Shal. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford ;
this wrongs you. 150

Eva, Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow
the imaginations of your own heart: this is jealousies.

Ford. Well, he’s not here I seek for.

Page. No, nor nowhere else, but in your brain.

Ford. Help to search my house this one time: if I
find not what I seck, show no colour for my ex-
tremity; Iet me for ever be your table-sport; let
them say of me, ‘‘ As jealous as Ford, that searched
a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.” Satisfy me
once more ; once more search with me. 160

Mrs. Fort. What ho! Mistress Page! come you
and the old woman down; my husband will come
into the chamber.

Ford. Old woman! What old woman’s that?

Mrs. Ford. Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brentford.

Ford. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean!
Have I not forbid her my house?) She comes of
errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not
know what's brought to pass under the profession of
fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by
the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our
element: we know nothing.—Come down, you witch,
you hay you; come down, [ say. 173

Mrs, lrord. Nay, good, sweet husband.—Good gen-
tlemen, let him not strike the old woman.

Re-enter FALSTAFF in woman's clothes, led by
Mistress PaGe.

Mrs. Page. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me
your hand.

Ford, 1'll prat her.—Out of my door, you witch,
[beats him] you hag, yeu baggage, you polecat, you
ronyon: out! out! I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell
you, [Exit FALSTAFF.

Mrs. Page. Are you not ashamed? I think, you
have killed the poor woman. :

Mrs. Ford. Nay, he will do it.—’Tis a goodly credit.
for you.

Ford, Hang her, witch!

Eva. By yea and no, I think, the ’oman is a witch
indeed : I like not when a ‘oman has a great peard; I
spy_a great peard under her muffler. 189

Ford. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you,
follow: see but the issue of my jealousy._ If I cry out
thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again.

Page. Let’s obey his humour a little further.
Come, gentlemen.

[Zccunt ForD, Pace, SHALLOW, and Evans.

Mrs. Page. ‘Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.

Mrs. Ford. Nay, by the mass, that he dia not; he
beat him most unpitifully, methought.

Mrs. Page. Ul have the cudgel hallowed, and hung
o'er the altar : it hath done meritorious service.

Mrs. Ford. What think you? May we, with the
warrant of womanhood, and the witness of a good
conscience, pursue him with any further revenge ? 202

Mrs. Page. The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared
out of him: if the devil have him not in fee-simple,
with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the
way ot waste, attempt us again.

Mrs. Ford. Shall we tell our husbands how we have
served him? 208

Mrs. Page. Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape
the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can
find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight
shall be any further afflicted we'two will still be the
ministers,

 

Mrs. Ford. I'll warrant, they'll have him publi
shamed, and, methinks, there Would be no ported
the jest, should he not be publicly shamed.

__ Mrs. Page. Come, to the forge with it then; shape
it: I would not have things cool. (Exeunt.

 

ScENE III.—A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Host and BARDOLPH.

Bard. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your
horses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at court,
and they are going to meet him.

Host. What duke should that be, comes so secretly?
T hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the
gentlemen; they speak English?

Bard. Ay, sir; I'll call them to you.

Host. 'Chey shall have my horses, but I’ll make
them pay ; I’ll sauce them: they have had my house
a week at command; I have turned away my other
guests: they must come off; I'll sauce them. ‘Come.

[Excunt.

SceNE IV.—A Room in Forp’s House.

Enter Pace, ForD, Mistress Pace, Mistress Forp,
and Sir Hueu Evans.
Eva. "Tis one of the pest discretions of a ’oman as
ever I did look upon.
Page. And did he send you both these letters at an
instant ?
Mrs. Page. Within a quarter of an hour.
ord, Fear me, wife. Hencetorth do what thou
wilt ;
IT rather will suspect the sun with cold
Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour

stand,
In him that was of late an heretic,
As firm as faith.
Page. Tis well, ‘tis well; no more. 10
Be not as extreme in submission
As in offence ;
But let our plot go forward : let our wives
Yet once again, to make us public sport,
Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow;
W here we may take him, and disgrace him for it.
ford. There is no better way than that they spoke

cf.

Page. low? to send him word they ’ll meet him in
the park at midnight? Fie, fie! he'll never come. 19

Eva. You say, he has been thrown in the rivers,
and_has been grievously peaten, as an old ‘oman:
methinks, there should be terrors in him, that he
should not come ; methinks, his flesh is punished, he
shall have no desires.

Page. So think I too.

Mrs. Ford. Devise but how you'll use him when he

comes,
And let us two devise to brin

Mrs. Page. There is an ol

the hunter,
Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest,
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, 30
Walk round about an oak, with prea ragg’d horns;
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle; |
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner:
You have heard of such a spirit ; and well you know,
The superstitious idle-headed eld
Received, and did deliver to our age,
This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.

Page. Why, yet there want. not many, that do fear
In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak. 40
But. what of this ?

Mrs. Ford, Marry, this is our device;

That Falstaff at. that oak shall meet with us,
Disguis'd like Herne, with huge horns on his head.

Page. Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come: .
And in this shape when you have brought him thither,
What shall be done with him? what is your plot?

him thither.
tale goes, that Herne

 

 
 

 

SCENE V.] THE MERRY

WIVES OF

WINDSOR. 543

 

Mrs. Page. That likewise have we thought upon,
and thus:
Nan Page my daughter, and my little son,
And three or four more of their growth, we'll dress
Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies, green and white, 50
With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads.
And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden, ,
As Falstatt, she, and I, are newly met,
Let them from torth a sawpit rush at once
With some ditused song: upon their sight,
We two in great amazedness will Hy :
Then let them all encircle him about,
And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight;
And ask him, why, that hour of fairy revel,

In their so sacred paths he dares to tread, 60
In shape profane.
Mrs. Ford. And till he tell the truth,

Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound,
And burn him with their tapers.

Mrs, Page. The truth being known,
We'll all present ourselves, dis-lorn the spirit,

And mock him home to Windsor.

Ford. The children must
Be practised well to this, or they'll ne’er do't.

Eva. I will teach the children their behaviours ; I
will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight
with my taber.

Ford. That will be excellent.

vizards. 7
Mrs. Page. My Nan shall be the queen of all the
fairies,
Finely attired in a robe of white.
Page. That silk will I go buy ;—[aside] and in that
tire
Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away,
Andmarry her at Eton.—Go send to Falstaff straight.

Ford. Nay, I'll to him again in name of Brook ;
He'll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he’ll come.

Mrs. Page. Fear not you that. Go, get us pro-

perties,
And tricking for our fairies.

Eva. Let us about it: it is admirable pleasures, and
fery honest knaveries. 81

[Exreunt Pace, Forp, and Evans.

Mrs. Page. Go, Mistress Ford,
Send Quickly to Sir John, to know his mind.
[Zxrit Mrs. Forp.

Ill to the doctor: he hath my good will,
And none but he, to marry with Nan Page.
That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot;
And he my husband best of all affects:
The doctor is well money’d, and his friends
Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,
Though twenty thousand worthier come to eran a
® eit.

I'll go buy them
70

 

SceNE V.—A Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter Host and SIMPLE.

Host. What wouldst thou have, boor? what, thick-
skin? speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick,
snap.

Sim. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John
Falstaff from Master Slender.

Host. There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, his
standing-bed, and truckle-bed: ’tis painted about with
the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go, knock
and call: he’ll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto
thee: knock, I say.

_ Sim. There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone up
into his chamber: I’ll be so bold as stay, sir, till she
come down; I come to speak with her, indeed.

Host. Ha! afat woman? the knight may be robbed :
I'll call.—Bully knight! Bully Sir John! speak from
thy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine host,
thine Ephesian, calls.

Fal, [Above.] How now, mine host! r

Host. Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming
down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let
her descend; my chambers are honourable: fie!
privacy ? fie! 22

 

Enter FALSTAFF.

Fal. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even
now with me, but she’s gone.

Sim. Pray you, sir, was’t not the wise woman of
Brentford ?

Fal. Ay, marry, was it, muscle-shell: what would
you with her?

Sim. My master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her,
seeing her go through the strects, to know, sir,
whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain,
had the chain, or no. 32

Fal. I spake with the old woman about it.

Sim, And what says she, I pray, sir?

Fal. Marry, she says, that the very same man, that
neue Master Slender of his chain, cozened him of
i

‘Sim. I would, I could have spoken with the woman
: i |
mi
H -
Hin
ihe

>

ahi

2» 2

 

Host. ‘‘ Where be my horses? speak well of them, vatletto.”

herself: I had other things to have spoken with her
too, from him. 40

Fal. What are they? let us know.

Host. Ay, come; quick.

Sim. I may not conceal them, sir.

Host. Conceal them, or thou diest.

Sim. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress
Anne Page; to know, if it were my master’s fortune
to have her, or no.

Fal. "Tis, tis his fortune.

Sim. What, sir?

Fal. To have her,—or no. Go; say, the woman told
me so. bl

Sim. May I be bold to say so, sir?

Fal. Ay, sir : like who more bold.
Sim. I thank your worship. I shall make_my

master glad with these tidings. Exit.

Host. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John.
Was there a wise woman with thee?

Fal. Ay, that there was, mine host; one, that. hath
taught me more wit than ever I learned before in my
life: and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid
for my learning. 61

Enter BARDOLPH.

Rard. Out, alas, sir! cozenage ; mere cozenage !

‘Host. Where be my horses?! speak well of them,
varletto.

Bard. Run away with the cozeners; for so soon as
I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind
one of them in a slough of mire; and set spurs,
and away, like three German devils, three Doctor
Faustuses.

Host. They are gone but to meet the duke, villain.
Do not say, they be fled: Germans are honest men. 71

 

 
 

SAL

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act Iv,

 

 

Enter Sir HuGH Evans.

Eva. Where is mine host?

Host. What is the matter, sir? 2

Eva. Have a care of your entertainments: there is
a friend of mine come to town, tells me, there is three
cousin-germans, that has cozened all the hosts of
Readings, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, ot horses and
money. I tell you for good will, look you: you are
wise, and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs, and 'tis not
convenient you should be cozened. Fare you ene,

Enter Doctor Catus.

Caius. Vere is mine host de Jartiere?

Host. Here, master doctor, in perplexity, and doubt-
ful dilemma.

Caius. I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me,
dat you make grand preparation for a duke de Jar-
many: by my trot, dere is no duke, dat de court is
know to come. I tell you for good vill: adieu. [E-rit.

Host. Hue and cry, villain! go.—Assist me, knight;
I am undone.—Fly, run, hue and ery, villain! I am
undone! [E£xeunt Host and BARDOLPH.

Fal. I would all the world might be cozened, for I
have been cozened, and beaten too. If it should come
to the ear of the court how I have been transformed,
and how my transformation hath been washed and
cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat, drop by
drop, and liquor fishermen’s boots with me: I warrant,
they would whip me with their fine wits, till I were
as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered
since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my
wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would
repent. 101

Enter Mistress QUICKLY.
Now, whence come you?

Quick. From the two parties, forsooth.

fal. The devil take one party, and his dam the
other, and so they shall be both bestowed. I have
suffered more for their sakes, more than the villainous
inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear.

Quick. And have not they suffered? Yes, 1 warrant;
speciously one of them: Mistress Ford, good heart, is
beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white
spot about her. 111

Fal. What tell’st thou meof black and blue? Iwas
beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow ; and
I was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brent-
ford: but that my admirable dexterity of wit, my
counterfeiting the action of an old woman, deliver'd
me, the knave constable had set me i’ the stocks, i’ the
common stocks, for a witch. 11

Quick, Sir, let me speak with you in yourchamber;
you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your
content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good
hearts! what ado here is to bring youtogether! Sure,
one of you does not serve Heaven well, that you areso
crossed.

Fal. Come up into my chamber

[Exeunt.

 

ScENE VI.—Another Room in the Garter Inn.

Enter FENTON and Host.
Host. Master Fenton, talk not to me: my mind is
heavy ; I will give over all.
dent. Yet hear mespeak. Assist me in my purpose,
And, as Iam a gentleman, I’ll give thee
«A hundred pound in gold more than your loss,
Host. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will,
at the least, keep your counsel.
ent. From time to time I have acquainted you
With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page ;
Who, mutually, hath answer'd my attection, 10
So tar forth as herself might be her chooser,
iiven to my wish. I have a letter from her
Of such contents as you will wonder at ;
The mirth whereof so larded with my matter,
That neither singly can be manifested,
Without the show of both ;—wherein fat Falstaff
Hath a great scene: the image of the jest
Ill show you here at large. Hark, good mine host:
To-night at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve and one,
Must my sweet Nan present the fairy queen; 20
The purpose why, is here ; in which disguise,
While other jests are something rank on foot,
Her father hath commanded her to slip
Away with Slender, and with him at Eton
Immediately to marry: she hath consented,
Now, sir,
Her mother, even strong against that match,
And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed
That he shall likewise shuffle her away, |
While other sports are tasking of their minds, 30
And at the deanery, where a priest attends,
Straight marry her: to this her mother’s plot
She, seemingly obedient, likewise hath
Made promise to the doctor.—Now, thus it rests:
Her father means she shall be all in white ;
And in that habit, when Slender sees his time
To take her by the hand, and bid her go, |
She shall go with him :—her mother hath intended,
The better to denote her to the doctor,
(For they must all be mask’d and vizarded) 40
That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob’d,
With ribands pendent, flaring ’bout her head ;
And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,
To pinch her by the hand ; and on that token
The maid hath given consent to go with him.
Host. Which means she to deceive? father or
mother? F
Fent. Both, my good host, to go along with me:
And here it rests,—that you ll procure the vicar
To stay for me at church ‘twixt twelve and one,
And, in the lawful name of marrying,
To give our hearts united ceremony. 7
Host. Well, husband your device: I'll to the vicar.
Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.
Fent. So shall I evermore be bound to thee ;
Besides, I’ll make a present recompense, [Eaceunt.

 

 

 
 

 

Falstaff.

R'YTHEE, no more prattling 3 go :—
I'll hold. This is the third time;
TI hope, good luck lies in odd num-
bers. Away, go. They say, there is
divinity in odd numbers, either in
nativity, chance, or death.— Away.

Quick. I'll provide you a chain,
and I'll do what I can to get you a
pair of horns.

Fal. Away, I say; time wears:
hold up your head, and mince. ll

{Exit Mrs, QUICKLY.

Enter Forp.
= How now, Master Brook? Master

Brook, the matter will be known to-night, or never.
Be you in the park about midnight, at Herne’s oak,
and you shall see wonders.

Ford. Went ee not to her yesterday, sir, as you
told me you had appointed ?

Fal. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like
a poor old man ; but I came from her, Master Brook,

 

like a poor old.woman. That same knave Ford, her |

husband. hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him,
Master Brook, that ever govowed frenzy. I will tell

‘ou :-—he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman ;
for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not
Goliah with a weaver’s beam, because I know also,
life is a shuttle. Iam in haste: go along with me;
I'll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese,
played truant, and whipped top, I knew not what it
was to be beaten, till lately. Follow me: I'll tell you
strange things of this knave Ford, on whom to-night
I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into

our hand Follow. Strange things in hand, Master

rook : follow. ; {Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Windsor Park.

Enter PaGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER.

Page. Come, come: we'll couch i’ the castle-ditch,
till we see the light of our fairies._Remember, son
Slender, my daughter. ‘

Slen. Ay, forsooth ; I have spoke with her, and we
have a nay-word, how to know one another. I come
to her in white, and cry, ‘‘mum;” she cries, ‘budget ;”
and by that we know one another.

Shal. That’s good too: but what needs either your
“mum,” or her ‘‘ budget?” the white will decipher
her well enough.—It hath struck ten o’clock. 10

Page. The night is dark ; light and spirits will be-
come it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man
means evil but the dexil and we shall know him by
his horns. Let’s away ; follow me. _ [Exeunt.

ScENE IJJ.—The Street in Windsor.
Enter Mistress Rats Misi reas Forp, and Doctor
AIU!

Mrs. Page. Master doctor, my daughter is in green:
when you see your time, take her by the hand, away

ACT

 

 

 

Na

ScENE J.—A Room in the Garter Inn.
Enter FaustaFr and Mistress QUICKLY.

with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go
before into the park : we two must go together.

Caius. I know vat Ihave todo. Adieu.

Mrs. Page. Fare you well, sir. [Exit Carus.] M
husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Fal-
staff, as he will chate at the doctor’s marrying my
daughter: but ’tis no matter; better a little chiding,
than a great deal of heart-break.

Mrs. Ford. Where is Nan now, and her troop of
fairies? and the Welch devil, Hugh?

Mrs. oe They are all couched in a pit hard by
Herne’s oak, with obscured lights; which, at the very
instant of Falstaff's and our meeting, they will at
once display to the night.

Mrs. Ford. That cannot choose but amaze him.

Mrs. Page. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked;
if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked.

Mrs. Ford. We’ll betray him finely. 20

Mrs. Page. Against such lewdsters, and their

lechery,
Those that betray them do no treachery.

Mrs. Ford. The hour draws on: to the oak, to the
oak! [Ezeunt.

SceENE IV.—-Windsor Park.

Enter Sir HuGH Evans, and Fairies.
Eva. Trib, trib, fairies : come : and remember your

parts. Se pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit,
and when I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid you.
Come, come ° trib, trib. Fixeunt.

Sceng V.—Another Part of the Park.

Enter FAtstaFF disguised, with a buck’s head on.

Fal. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the
minute draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist
me!—_Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy
Europa; love set on thy horns.—O powerful love!
that, in some respects, makes a beast a man; in some
other, a man a beast.—You were also, Jupiter, aswan,
for the love of Leda ;—O, omnipotent love! how near
the god drew to the complexion of a goose !—A fault
done first in the form of a beast ;—O Jove, a beastly
fault ! and then another fault in the semblance of a
fowl]: think on’t, Jove ; a foul fault.—When gods have
hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am
here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i’ the
forest : send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can
blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my
doe?

Enter Mistress FoRD and Mistress Pace.

Mrs. Ford. Sir John? art thou there, my deer? my
male deer? 18
Fal. My doe with the black scut ?—Let the sky rain
otatoes ; let it thunder to the tune of “‘Green Sleeves ;”
ail kissing-comfits, and snow eringoes; let there
come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.
[Embracing her.
" Mrs. Ford. Mistress Page is come with me, sweet- .
eart.
Fal. Divide me like a bribed buck, each a haunch:
I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the

 

35

 
 

 

6

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

[Act V,

 

fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your
husbands. Am I a woodman? ha! Speak I like
Herne the hunter?—Why, now is Cupid a child of
conscience ; he makes restitution, As I am a true
spirit, welcome. [Noise within.
Mrs. Page. Alas! what noise? | 32
Mrs. Ford. Heaven forgive our sins !
Fal. What should this be?

Mrs. Ford. \
Mrs. Page. § Away, away ! [They run off.

Fal. I think, the devil will not have me damned,
Jest the oil that is in me should set hell on fire; he
would never else cross me thus.

Enter Sir Hucu Evans, like a Satyr; ANNE PAGE,
as the Fairy Queen, attended by her Brother and
others, dressed like Fairies, with waxen tapers on
their heads.

Anne. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,

You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, 40

You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,

Attend your office, and your quality.—

Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

Hobgoblin. Elves, list your names: silence, you
airy toys!

Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:

Where fires thou find’st unrak’d, and hearths unswept,

There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:

Our Taiant queen hates sluts, and sluttery.

Fal. They are fairies; he that speaks tothem shall die:

I’ wink and couch. No man their works must eye.

[Lies down upon his face.
Eva. Where’s Bead?—Go you, and where you find
a maid, Sl

That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,

Raise up the organs of her fantasy,

Sleep she as sound as careless infancy ;

But those as sleep and think not on their sins,

Pinch mes arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and

shins.
Anne. About, about!

Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:

Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room,

That it may stand till the perpetual doom,

In state as wholesome, as in state ’tis fit,

Worthy the owner, and the owner it.

The several chairs of order look you scour

With juice of balm, and every precious flower:

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,

With loyal blazon, ever more be blest!

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look, you sing,

Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring:

The expressure that it bears, green let it be,

More fertile-fresh than all the field to see ; 70

And Honi soit qui mal y pense, write

In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue, and white ;

Like poeRnie pearl, and rich embroidery,

Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee:

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.

Away! disperse! But, till ’t is one o'clock,

Our dance of custom, round about the oak

Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget.

Eva. Pray you, lock hand in hand: yourselves in
order set ;

And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be 80

To guide our measure round about the tree.

But, stay! I smell a man of middle-earth,

Fal. Heavens defend me from that Welch

lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!

Hobgoblin. Vile worm, thou wast o’erlook’d even
in thy birth.
Anne. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end -

If he be chaste, the flame will back descend,

And turn him to no pain; but if he start,

It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

Hobgoblin. A trial! come.

Eva. Come, will this wood take fire?
[They burn him with their tapers.

Fal. Oh, oh, oh!

Anne. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire !

About him, fairies, sing a scornful rhyme;

And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

 

Song.
Fie on sinful fantasy !
Fie on lust ae eeeuens
Lust is but a bloody fire,
Kindled with unchaste desire,
Fred in heart ; whose flames aspire,
As thoughts do blow them higher and higher: 100
Pinch him, fairies, mutually ;
Pinch him for his villainy ;
Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,
Till candles, and star-light, and moonshine be out.

During this song, the Fairies pinch Fatstarr,
Doctor Caius comes one way, and steals away a
Fairy in green; SLENDER another way, and takes
off a Fairy in white; and FENTON comes, and
steals away ANNE PaGE. «A noise of hunting is
made within, All the Fairies run away. FALSTAFF
pulls off his buck's head, and rises.

Enter PaGE, Forp, Mistress Pace, and Mistress
Forp. They lay hold on him.
Page. Nay, do not fly: I think, we have watch’d
you now.
Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn?

Mrs. ee pray you, come; hold up the jest no

igher.— ‘
Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives?
See you these, husband? do not these fair yokes
Become the forest better than the town? 110

Ford. Now, sir, who’s a cuckold_ now?—Master
Brook, Falstaff’s a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here
are his horns, Master Brook: and, Master Brook, he
hath enjoyed nothing of Ford’s but his buck-basket,
his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must
be paid to Master Brook : his horses are arrested for
it, Master Brook.

Mrs. Ford. Sir John, we have had ill luck; we
could never meet. I will never take you for my love
again, but I will always count you my deer. 20

fal. I do begin to perceive, that I am made an ass.

Ford. Ay,and an ox too; both the proofs are extant.

Fal. And these are not fairies? I was three or four
times in the thought, they were not fairies ; and yet
the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my
powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into 2
received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme
and reason, that they were fairies. See now, how
wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when ’tis upon ill
employment! 130

va. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your
desires, and fairies will not pinse you.

Ford, Well said, fairy Hugh.

Eva. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you.

Ford. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou
art able to woo her in good English. say

Fal. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it,
that it wants matter to prevent so gross o’er-reachin|
as this? Am I ridden with a Welch goat too? shall
have a coxcomb of frize? ’Tis time I were choked
with a piece of toasted cheese. it

Eva. Seese is not good to give putter: your pelly is
all putter. ‘

Fal. Seese and putter! have I lived to stand at the
taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This
is enough to be the decay of lust, and Jate-walking
through the realm. :

Mrs. Page. Why, Sir John, do roe think, though
we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the
head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without
scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made
you our delight? 152

Ford. What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax?

Mrs. Page. A puffed man ?
ae Old: cold, withered, and of intolerable en-
trails

Ford. And one that is as slanderous as Satan?

Page. And as poor as Job?

Ford. And as wicked as his wife?

Eva. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and
sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings, an
swearings, and starings, pribbles and prabbles! 162

 

 

 
 

2 RT

 

Scene V.]

THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.

547

 

Fal. Well, I am your theme: you have the start
of me; Iam dejected; I am not able to answer the
Welch flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o'er
me: use me as you will.

Ford. Marry, sir, well bring you to Windsor, to
one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money,
to whom you should have been a pander: over and
above that you have suffered, I think, to repay that
money will be a biting affliction. 171

Page. Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt
eat a posset to-night at my house; where I
will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that
now laughs at thee. Tell her, Master
Slender hath married her daughter.

Mrs. Page. [Aside.] Doctors doubt that:
if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by
this, Doctor Caius’ wife.

Enter SLENDER.

Slen. Whoo, ho! ho! father Page! 180

Page. Son, how now? how now, son?
have you despatched?

Slen. Despatched !—I’ll make the best in
Glostershire know on’t; would I were
hanged, la, else.

Page. Of what, son ?

Slen. I came yonder at Eton to marry
Mistress Anne Page, and she’s a_ great
lubberly boy: if it had not been i’ the church,
I would have swinged him, or he should
have swinged me. [f I did not think it had
been Anne Page, would I might never stir,
and ’tis a postmaster’s boy. 9%

Page. Upon my life, then, you took th

wrong.

Slen. What need you tell me that? I
think so, when I took a boy for a girl:
if I had been married to him, for all he
was in woman’s apparel, I would not have had him.

Page. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell
you, how you should know my daughter by her
garments? 202

Slen. I went to her in white, and cried, “mum,” and
she cried, ‘‘ budget,” as Anne and I had appointed ;
and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster’s boy.

Mrs. Page. Good George, be not angry: I knew of
your PUEHOEE s turned my daughter into green; and
indeed, she is now with the doctor at the deanery,
and there married. 209

Enter Doctor Caivs.

Caius. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am
cozened ; I ha’ married un garcon, a boy ; un paysan,
by gar, a boy: it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am
cozened,

Mrs. Page. Why, did you take her in green?

Caius. Ay, bv gar, and’t isa boy: by gar, I’ll raise

all Windsor. (Exit.
a This is strange. Who hath got the right
nne

Page. My heart misgives me. Here comes Mabie’

Fenton.
Enter FENTON and ANNE PaGE.

How now, Master Fenton?

 

 

anne. ‘‘ Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon!”

Anne. Pardon, good father! good my mother,
pardon!

Page. Now, mistress; how chance you went not
with Master Slender? 4

Mrs. Page yy went you not with master doctor,

maid?

Fent. You do amaze her: hear the truth of it.
i You would have married her most shamefully,
' Where there was no proportion he!d in love.

 

FN
K
i |

mA

 

The truth is, she and I, long since contracted,

Are now so sure, that nothing can dissolve us.

The offence is holy that she hath committed,

And this deceit loses the name of craft,

Of disobedience, or unduteous title,

Since therein she doth evitate and shun

A thousand irreligious cursed hours,

Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.
Ford. Stand not amaz’d: here is no remedy,—

In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state:

Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. 240
Fal. I am glad, though you have ta’en a special

stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced.
Page. al what remedy? Fenton, Heaven give

thee joy.

What cannot be eschew’d, must be embrac’d.

Fal. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are

c ;
Mrs. Page. Well, I will muse no further. Master
nton,
Heaven give you many, many merry days.—
Good husband, let us every one go home,
And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire ;
Sir John and all.

 

| Ford. Let it be so.—Sir John, 250
| To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word ;
For he, to-night, shall lie with Mistress Ford.
: (Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

ET the bird of loudest lay,

On the sole Arabian tree,

Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wine
Save the eagle, feather’d hing:
Keep the obsequy so strict.

10

 

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,

Be the death-divining swan,
Lest. the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,

That thy sable gender mak’st

With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
’Mongst our‘mourners shalt thou go. 20

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead ;
Pheenix and the turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder ;

Distance, and no space was seen 30
’Twixt the turtle and his queen:

But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phenix’ sight :
Either was the other's mine.

 

 

THE PHGNIX AND TURTLE.

Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together ;

To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded,

That it cried, how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here inclos’d in cinders lie.

Death is now the phcenix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity :
"T was not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but ’t is not she;
‘Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair ;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

 

 

 

3

 
 

 

FeipriererresrreT

rei

 

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

OrsINO, Duke of Illyria. FABIAN, } cane
SEBASTIAN, Brother to Viola. Clown,” Sf Servants to Olivia.
ANTONIO, @ Sea Captain, Friend to Sebastian.

at Sea Captain, Friend to Viola. ; OLIVIA, a rich Countess.
CuRiG. TINE, ‘ Gentlemen attending on the Duke. qioEas iy fore ee pi

Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK. Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and
MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. | other Attendants.

SCENE —A City in ILLYRIA ; and the Sea-coast near it.

Sir Tosy BEtcu, Unele to Olivia. |

 

ACT I.
ScENE I.—An Apartment in the DUKE'’s Palace.
Enter DuKE, CuRto, Lords; Musicians attending.

: Duke. \ These sovereign thrones, are all sup lied, and fill’d
F music be the food of love, play on ; (Her sweet perfections) with one self king.—
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, Away, before me to sweet beds of flowers;
The appetite may sicken, and so die.— Love-thoughts lie rich, when canopied with bowers. 40
That strain again! it had a dying fall: [Ezeunt.

O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound =
That breathes upon a bank of violets, 3
Stealing and giving odour.—Enough! no ScENE II. —The Sea-coast.

 

more: : :
°T is not so sweet now, as it was before. Enter Vious, Captain, and Sailors.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art Vio. What country, friends, is this?
thou, ‘ap. This is Illyria, lady.
That, notwithstanding thy capacity 10 Vio, And what should I do in lyria?
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, My brother he is in Elysium.
Of what validity and pitch soe’er, Perchance, he is not drown’d:—what think you,
But falls into abatement and low price, sailors?
Even in a minute! so full of shapes is fancy, Cap. It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d.
That it alone is high-fantastical. Vio. O my poor brother! and so, perchance, may
Cur. Will you go hunt, my lord? he be.
Duke. What, Curio? Cap. True, madam: and, to comfort you with
r. The hart. chance, fs
Duke. Why, 80 I do, the noblest that I have. Assure yourself, after your ship did split,
O! when mine eyes did see Olivia first, When you, and those poor number saved with you,
(Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence) Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, 10
That instant was I turn’d into a hart, 20 | Most provident in peril, bind himself
And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice)

To a strong mast, that lived upon the sea;

Er since pursue me.— t 5
Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back,

 

Enter VALENTINE. I saw him hold ‘acquaintance with the waves
How now? what news from her? | So long as I could see. i
Val. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, Vio. For saying so there’s gold.
But from her handmaid do return this answer :— Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope,
The element itself, till seven years heat, Whereto thy speech serves for authority,
Shall not behold her face at ample view ; The like of him. Know’st thou this country?
But, like a cloistress, she will veiled walk, Cap. Ay, madam, well; for I was bred and born 20
And water once a day her chamber round Not three hours’ travel from this very place.
With eye-offending brine: all this, to season Vio. Who governs here? ‘|
A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh 30 Cap. A noble duke, in nature as in name.
And lasting in her sad remembrance. Vio, What is his name? :
Duke. O! she that hath a heart of that fine frame, Cap. | Orsino. ;
To pay this debt of love but to a brother, Vio. Orsino! J have heard my father name him:
How will she love, when the rich golden shaft He was a bachelor then.
Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else Cap. And so is now, or was so very late;

That live in her: when liver, brain, and heart, ' For but a month ago I went from hence,

 

 
 

 

 

550 TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. [Act lL
And then ‘t was fresh in murmur (as, you know, toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano

What great ones do, the less will prattle of), 30
That he did seek the love of fair Olivia.

Vio. What’s she?

Cap. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count
That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her
In the protection of hisson, her brother,

Who shortly also died: for whose dear love,
They = she hath abjur’d the company
And sight of men.

Vio. O! that I serv’d that lady,
And might not be deliver'd to the world,

Till I had made mine own occasion mellow,
What my estate is.

Cap. That were hard to compass,
Because she will admit no kind of suit,

No, not the duke’s. :

Vio. There is a fair behaviour in thee, captain ;
And though that nature with a beauteous wall
Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee
I will believe, thou hast a mind that suits
With this thy fair and outward character.

I pr'ythee (and I'll pay thee bounteously),
Conceal me what Iam, and be my aid 50
For such disguise as haply shall become

The form of my intent. I'll serve this duke:

Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him.

It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing,

And speak to him in many sorts of music,

‘That will allow me very worth his service.

What else may hap to time I will commit ;

Only, shape thou thy silence to my wit.

Cap. Be you his eunuch, and your mute I'll be:
When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. 60

Vio. I thank thee. Lead me on. [Exreunt.

40

ScENE III.—A Room in OLIvia's House.

Enter Sir ToBy BELCH and Maria.

Sir To. What a plague means my niece, to take the
death ot her brother thus?) Iam sure care’san enemy
to life.

Mar. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in
earlier o’ nights: your cousin, my lady, takes great
exceptions to your ill hours. .

Sir To. Why, let her except before excepted.

Mar, Ay, but you must confine yourself within the
modest limits of order. 9

Sir To. Confine? I'll confine myself no finer than
Iam. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and
80 be these boots too; an they be not, let them hang
themselves in their own straps.

Mar. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I
heard my lady talk of it yesterday, and of a foolish
knight, that you brought in one night here, to be her
wooer.

Sir To. Who? Sir Andrew Ague-cheek ?

Mar, Ay, he.

Sir To. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria. 20

Mar, What’s that to the purpose?

Sir To. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year.

Mar. Ay, but he'll have but a year in all these
ducats : he’s a very fool, and a prodigal.

Sir To. Fie, that you'll say so! he plays o’ the viol-
de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word
for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of
nature. 28

_Mar. He hath, indeed,—almost natural; for, be-
sides that he’s a fool, he's a great quarreller ; and, but
that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he

hath in Pl orp ‘tis thought among the prudent.

he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

Sir To. By this hand, they are scoundrels, and sub-
stractors, that say so of him. Who are they?

_ Mar, They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly
in your company.

Sir To. With drinking healths to my niece. I'll drink
to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and
drink in INyria. He’s a coward, and a coystril, that
will not drink to my nicce, till his brains turn o’ the

 

vulyo ; for here comes Sir Andrew Ague-face.

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir And. Sir Toby Belch! how now, Si
Belen? y , Sir Toky

Sir To. Sweet Sir Andrew.

Sir And. Bless you, fair shrew.

Mar. And you too, sir.

Sir To. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.

Sir And. What’s that? 50

Sir To. My niece’s chambermaid.

Sir And. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better
acquaintance.

Mar. My name is Mary, sir.

Str And. Good Mistress Mary Accost,—

 

Sir And. “ Marry, but you shall have; and here's ty hand.”

Sir To. You mistake, knight: accost is front her,
board her, woo her, assail her.

Sir And. By my troth, I would not undertake her
in this company. Is that the meaning of accost?

Mar, Fare you well, gentlemen. i 60

Sir To. An thou let part so, Sir Andrew, ‘would
thou mightst never draw sword again ! i

Sir And. An you part so, mistress, I would I might
never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you
have fools in hand ?

Mar. Sir, I have not you by the hand. ,

Sir And. Marry, but you shall have; and here’s
my hand. .

Mar. Now, sir, thought is free: I pray you, brin,
your hand to the buttery-bar, and let it drink. | 70

Sir And. Wherefore, sweet-heart? what’s your
metaphor?

Mar. It’s dary, sir.

Sir And. Why, I think so: I am_ not such an ass,
but I can keep my hand dry. But what's your jest?

Mar. A ary jest, sir.

Sir And. Are you full of them? :

Mar. Ay, sir; I have them at my fingers’ ends:
marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren.

[Exit MARIA.

Sir To. O knight! thou lack’st a cup of canary.
When did I see thee so put down? 81

Sir And. Never in your life, I think; unless you see
canary putme down. Methinks sometimes I have no
more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man has;
but I am a great eater of beef, and, I believe, that does
harm to my wit.

Sir To. No question. ss ‘

Sir And. An I thought that, I'd forswear it. I'll
ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby.

Sir To. Pourquoi, my dear knight? 90

Sir_And. What is pour ener ? do or not do?
would I had bestowed that time in the tongues, that
have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. 0,
but followed the arts ! f

Sir To. Then hadst thou had an excellent head o
hair!

 

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE V.]

!
TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

551

 

' Sir And, Why, would that have mended my hair?

Sir To. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl
by nature. i"

Sir And, Butit becomes me well enough, does’t not?
. Sir To. Excellent: it hangs like flax on a distaff,
and I hope to see a housewife take thee between her
legs, and spin it off.

Sir And, ’Faith, I'll home to-morrow, Sir Toby:
your niece will not be seen; or, if she be, it’s four to
one she’ll none of me. The count himself, here hard
by, woos her.

Sir To. She ll none o’ the count; she’ll not match
above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit ; I
have heard ber swear it. Tut, there’s life in’t, man.

Sir And. I'll stay a month longer. I ama fellow o’
the strangest mind i’ the world: I delight in masques
and revels sometimes altogether. 113

Sir To. Art thou good at these kick-shaws, knight ?

Sir And. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be,
under the degree of my betters: and yet I will not
compare with an old man.

Sir To. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight?

Sir And. ’Faith, I can cut a caper.

Sir To. And I can cut the mutton to’t. 120

Sir And. And,I think, I have the back-trick, simply
as strong as any man in Illyria.

Sir To. Wherefore are these things hid? wherefore
have these gifts a curtain before them? are they like
to take dust, like Mistress Mall's picture? why dost
thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in
acoranto? My very walk should be a jig: I would not
so much as make water, but in a sink-a-pace. What
dost thou mean? is it a world to hide virtues in? I
did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it
was formed under the star of a galliard. 131

Sir And. Ay, tis strong, and it does indifferent well
ina yee stock. Shall we set about some
revels

Sir To. What shall we do else? were we not born
under Taurus ?

Sir And. Taurus? that’s sides and heart.

Sir To. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see
thee caper. Ha! higher: ha, ha!—excellent!

[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—A Room in the DuKeE’s Palace.

Enter VALENTINE, and VIOLA in man’s attire.

Val. If the duke continue these favours towards
he Cesario, you are like to be much advanced: he

ath known you but three days, and already you are
no stranger.

Vio. You either fear his humour, or my nee iepnes,
that you call in question the continuance of his love.
Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours?

Val. No, believe me.

Vio. Ithank you. Here comes the count.

Enter DUKE, CuRI0, and Attendants.

Duke. Who saw Cesario, ho? 10
‘Vio. On your attendance, my lord ; here.
Duke. Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario,
Thou know’st no less but all: I have unclasp’d
To thee the book even of my secret soul ;
‘Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her:
. Be not denied access, stand at her doors,
And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow,
Till thou have audience.
to. Sure, my noble lord,
If she be so abandon‘d to her sorrow,
As it is spoke, she never will admit me,
Duke. Be clamorous, and leap all civil bounds,
Rather than make unprofited return.
Vio. Say, I do speak with her, my lord: what then?
Duke. O! then unfold the passion of my love;
Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith:
It shall become thee well to act my woes;
She will attend it better in thy youth,
Than in a nuncio of more grave aspect.
‘ Vio. I think not so, my lord.

uke. . Dear lad, believe it;

 

For they shall yet belie thy happy years, 30

That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip

Is not more smooth and rubious ; thy small pipe

Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound,

And all is semblative a woman’s part.

I know, thy constellation is right apt

For this affair.—Some four, or five, attend him;

All, if you will; for I myself am best,

When least in company.—Prosper well in this,

And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord

To call his fortunes thine.
Vio. I'll do my best, 40

To woo your lady: [aside] yet, a barful strife!

Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. [Exeunt.

ScENE V.—A Room in OLIvi4’s House.

Enter MaRiA and Clown.

Mar. Nay, either tell me where thou hast been, or T
will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter,
in way of thy excuse. My lady will hang thee for thy
absence.

Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in
this world needs to fear no colours.

Mar. Make that good.

Clo. He shall see none to fear.

Mar. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where
that saying was born, of, I fear no colours. 10

Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary ?

Mar. In the wars; and that may you be bold to say
in your foolery.

Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and
those that are fools, let them use their talents.

.Mar. Yet you will be hanged, for being so long
absent; or, to be turned away,—is not that so good as
a hanging to you?

Clo, Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage;
and for turning away, let summer bear it out. 20

Mar. You are resolute then?

Clo. Notso neither ; but lam resolved on two points.

Mar. That, if one break, the other will hold; or, if
both break, your gaskins fall.

Clo. Apt, in good faith; very apt. Well, go thy
way: if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as
witty a piece of Eve's flesh as any in Illyria.

Mar. Peace, you rogue, no more o’that. Here comes
my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were na 29

vit.

Clo. Wit, an’t be thy will, put me into good fooling!
Those wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove
fools; and I, that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a
wise man: for what says Quinapalus? Better a witty
fool, than a foolish wit.

Enter OLivia and MALVOLIO.

God bless thee, lady!

Oli. Take the fool away.

Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady.

Oli. Go to, you’re a dry fool; I’llno more of you:
besides, you grow dishonest. 39

Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good
counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then
jis the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend
himself: if he mend, he is no longer dishonest ; if he
cannot, let the botcher mend him, Anything that’s
mended is but patched: virtue that transgresses is
but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but
patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism
will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there
is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower.
—The lady bade take away the fool; therefore, I say
again, take her away. 51

Oli. Sir, I bade them take away you.

Clo. Misprision in the highest degree !—Lady, cu-
cullus non facit monachum : that’s as much to say as,
I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give
me leave to prove you a fool.

Oli. Can you do it?

Clo. .Dexteriously, good madonna.

Oli. Make your proof.

 

 
 

 

552

Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna. Good
my mouse of virtue, answer me. _ 61

Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, Ill bide
your proof.

Clo. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou?

Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death.

Clo, I think his soul is in hell, madonna,

Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Clo. The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your
brother’s soul being in heaven.—Take away the fool,
gentlemen. ‘ 70

Oli. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he
not mend?

Mal, Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death

 

eve NS
Clo. ** The more foo], madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul
being In heaven.”

shake him: infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever
make the better fool.

Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the
better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will'be sworn
that I am no fox, but he will not pass his word for
twopence that you are no fool.

oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? 380

Mal. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a
barren rascal: I saw him put down the other day with
an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone.
Look you now, he’s out of his guard already: unless
yon laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged.

protest, I take these wise men, that crow so at these
set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies.

Oli. O! youaresick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste
with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guilt-
Jess, and of free disposition, is to take those things for
bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets. There is no
slander in an allowed fool, ene he do nothing but
rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though
he do nothing but reprove.

Clo. Now, Mercury endue thee with leasing, for
thou speakest well of fools!

Re-enter MARIA.

Mar. Madan, there is at the gate a young gentleman
much desires to speak with you.

Oli. From the Count Orsino, is it ?

Mar. I know not, madam: ’tis a fair young man,
and well attended. 101

Oli. Who of my people hold him in delay ?

Mar. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman.

Oli. Fetch him off, | pray you: he speaks nothing
but madman. Fie on him! [H#zrit Marta.] Go you,
Malvolio: if it be a suit from the count, I am sick,
or not at home; what you will, to dismiss it. [Exit
MALVOLIO.] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows
old, and people dislike it. 109

Clo. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy
eldest. son should be a fool, whose skull Jove cram
with brains ; for here he comes, one of thy kin, has
a most weak pia mater.

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

 

| speak with you. I told him you were asleep: he seems

 

[Act I,
Enter Sir Tosy BELCcH.

Oli. By mine honour, half drunk.—What is he at
the gate, cousin?

Sir To. A gentleman.

Oli. A gentleman! What gentleman?

Sir To. Tis a gentleman here—a plague o’ these
pickle-herring !— How now, sot?

Clo. Good Sir Toby ! 120

Oli. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by

this soot ?
Sir To. Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at
the gate.

Oli. Ay, marry ; what is he?

Sir To. Let him be the devil, an he will, I care not:
give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one. [Exit

Oli, What’s a drunken man like, fool?

Clo, Like a drown’d man, a fool, and a madman:
one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second
mads him, and a third drowns him. 131

Oli. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit 0’
my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink, he’s
drown’d: go, look after him.

Clo. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall :
look to the madman. (Exit.
Re-enter MALVOLIO.

Mal. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will
speak with you. I told him you were sick : he takes
on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to

to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore
comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him,
lady? he’s fortified against any denial.

Oli, Tell him, he shall not speak with me.

Mal. Ha’s been told so; and he says, he'll stand at
your door like a sheriff's post, and be the supporter to
a bench, but he’ speak with you.

Oli. What kind o’ man is he}

Mal, Why, of mankind.

Oli, What manner of man? 150

Mal. Of very ill manner: he’ll speak with you, will
you, or no.

Oli. Of what personage and years is he?

Mal. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young
enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’t isa peascod,
or a codling when ’tis almost an apple: ’tis with him
in standing water, between boy and man. He is very
well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly: one
would think, his mother’s milk were scarce out of him.

Oli. Lethim approach. Callin my gentlewoman.

Mal. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. iz a

ait,

 

Re-enter MaRIa.

Oli, Give me my veil: come, throw it o’er my face.
We'll once more hear Orsino’s embassy.

Enter Vioua.
Vio. The honourable lady of the house, which is

she

Oli. Speak tome; Ishallanswerforher. Your will?

Vio. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable
beauty.—I pray you, tell me, if this be the lady of the
house, for i never saw her: I would be loath to cast
away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently
well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Goo
beauties, let me sustain noscorn ; Iam very comptible
even to the least sinister usage. 173

Oli. Whence came you, sir? 7

Vio. Ican say little more than I have studied,
and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one,
give me modest assurance if you be the lady of the
house, that I may proceed in my speech.

Oli, Are you a comedian?

Vio. No, my profound heart; and yet, by the very
fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are
you the lady of the house? 182

Oli. If I do not usurp myself, I am.

Vio. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp
yourself ; for what is yours to bestow, is not_yours to
reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on
with my speech in your praise, and then show you the
heart of my message.

 
 

ScENE V.]

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR,

WHAT YOU WILL. 553

 

 

Oli. Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you
9

the praise. 190
Vio. Alas! I took great pains to study it, and’tis
poetical.

Oli. It is the more like to be feigned: I pray you,
keep itin. I heard, you were saucy at my gates, and
allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than
to hear po If you be not mad, be gone ; if you have
reason, be brief: tis not that time of moon with me
to make one in so skipping a dialogue.

Mar. Will you hoist sail, sir? here lies your way.

Vio. No, good swabber; I am to hull here a little
longer.—Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.

Oli. Tell me your mind. 203

Vio. Iam a messenger.

Oli. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver,
en the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your
office.

Vio. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no over-

 

Oli. “Took you, sir; such a one I was this present: ist not
well done?”

ture of war, no taxation of homage. I hold the olive
in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter.

Oli. Yet you began rudely. What are you? what
would you? : 211

Vio. The rudeness that hath appear’d in me, have I
learn’d from my entertainment. What I am, and
what I would, are as secret as maidenhead: to your
ears, divinity ; to any other’s, profanation.

Oli. Give us the place alone. We will hear this
divinity. [Exit Marts.] Now, sir; what is your text?

Vio. Most sweet ee
_ Oli. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said
of it. Where lies your text? \ 22

Vio. In Orsino’s bosom.

Oli. In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom?
b Vio. To answer by the method, in the first of his

eart.

Oli. O!-Ihave read it: it is heresy.
more to say?

Vio. Good madam, let me see your face.

Oli. Have you any commission from your lord to
negotiate with my face? you are now out of your
text: but we will draw the curtain, and show you the
picture. Look you, sir; such a one { was this present :
1s’t not well done? [Unveiling.

Vio. Excellently done, if God did all. : 233

Oli. Tis in grain, sir: ‘t will endure wind and
weather. :

Vio. Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on.

ly, you are the cruell’st she alive,
If you will lead these graces to the grave,
And leave the world no copy. 240

Have you no

 

 

Oli. O! sir, I will not be so hard-hearted. I will
give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be
inventoried, and every particle, and utensil, labelled
to my will; as, item, two lips indifferent red; item,
two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one
chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise
me?

Vio. I see you what you are: you are too proud;
But, if you were the devil, you are fair.

My lord and master loves you: O! such love 250
Could be but recompens’d, though you were crown’d
The nonpareil of beauty!

Oli. How does he love me ?

Vio. With adorations, with fertile tears,

With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Oli. Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love

im:
Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble,
Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth ;
In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant :
And in dimension, and the shape of nature,
A gracious person ; but yet I cannot love him.
He might have took his answer long ago.

Vio. If I did love you in my master’s flame,
With such a suffering, such a deadly life,
In your denial I would find no sense:
I would not understand it.

260

Oli. Why, what would you?
Vio. Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love,
And sing them loud even in the dead of night ;
Holla your name to the reverberate hills,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, Olivia! O! you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth,
But you should pity me.
Olt. You might do much. What is your parentage?
Vio. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:
I ie gentleman.
7.

270

. Get you to your lord:

I cannot love him. Let him send no more,

Unless, perchance, you come to me again,

To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well:

I thank you for your pains. Spend this for me.
Vio. 1am no fee’d post, lady ; keep your purse:

My master, not myself, lacks recompense.

Love make his heart of flint that you shall love,

And let your fervour, like my master’s, be

Plac’d in contempt! Farewell, fair cruelty.
Oli. ‘‘ What is your parentage?”

“* Above my fortunes, yet my state is well:

I am a gentleman.”—I’ll be sworn thou art:

Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit,

Do give bi five-fold blazon.—Not too fast :—soft!

soft!

Unless the master were the man.—How now?

Even so quickly may one catch the plague?

Methinks, I feel this youth’s perfections

With an invisible and subtle stealth

To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be.—

What, ho! Malvolio.—

Re-enter MALVOLIO.
Mal. Here, madam, at your service.
Oli. Run after that same peevien messenger,
The county's man: he left this ring behind him,
Would I, or not: tell him, I’ll none of it.
Desire him not to flatter with his lord,
Nor hold him up with hopes: I am not for him.
If that the youth will come this way to-morrow,
I'll give him reasons for ’t. Hie thee, Malvolio.
Mal. Madam, I will. (Exit.
Oli. I do I know not what, and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe;
What is decreed must be, and be this so! {Exit.

280

[Exvit.

300

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT II.
ScENE J.—The Sea-coast.
Enter ANTONIO and SEBASTIAN.
come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your
Ba

C =
4D) Antonio.

TSILL you stay no longer? nor will you not
x that I go with you?
b Seb. By your patience, no. My stars
shine darkly over me: the malignancy
of my fate might, perhaps, distemper
yours; therefore, I shall crave: of you
your leave, that I may bear my evils
alone. It were a bad recompense for
your love, to lay any of them on you.

Ant. Let me yet know of you, whither
you are bound. . 11

Seb. No, ’sooth, sir. My determinate voyage is
mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excel-
lent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from
me what Iam willing to keep in: therefore, it charges
me in manners the rather to express myself. You
must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian,
which I called Rodorigo. My father was that Sebas-
tian of Messaline, whom, I know, you have heard of :
he left behind him myself and a sister, both born in
an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, ’would we
had so ended! but you, sir, altered that; for some
hour before you took me from the breach of the sea
was my sister drowned.

nt. Alas the a

Seb. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resem-
bled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful: but,
though I could not with such estimable wonder over-
far believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish
her,—she bore a mind that envy could not but call
fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water,
though I seem to drown her remembrance again with
more. 33

Ant. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment.

Seb. O good Antonio! forgive me your trouble.

Ant. If you will not murder me for my love, let me
be your servant,

Seb. If you will not undo what you have done, that
is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not.
Fare ye well at once: my bosom is full of kindness;
and Iam yet so near the manners of my mother, that,
upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales
of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court:
farewell. (Exit.

Ant. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee!
Ihave many enemies in Orsino’s court,
Else would I very shortly see thee there;
But, come what may, I do adore thee so,
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go.

   

[Exit

ScEeNE IT.—A Street.

Enter VioLa; MALVOLIO following.

Mal. Were not you even now with the Countess
Olivia?

Vio. Even now, sir: on a moderate pace I have
since arrived but hither.

Mal. She returns this ring to you, sir: you might
have saved me my pains, to have taken it away your-
self. She adds, moreover, that you should put your
Jord into a desperate assurance she will none of him.
And one thing more: that you be never so hardy to

1

\
|
I
|
{

 

lord’s taking of this. Receive it so.
Vio, She took the ring of me ;—I’ll none of it.
Mal. Come, sir; you peevishly threw it to her, and
her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth
stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his
that finds it. [Exit.
Vio. I left no ring with her: what means this lady?
Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her!
She made good view of me; indeed, so much,
That, methought, her eyes had lost her tongue,
For she did speak in starts distractedly.
She loves me, sure: the cunning of her passion
Invites me in this churlish messenger.
None of my lord’s ring! why, he sent her none.
Iam the man :—if it be so, as tis, ‘
Poor lady, she were better love a dream.
Disguise, I see, thou art a wickedness,
Wherein the pregnant enemy does much.
How easy is it for the proper-false
In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms!
Alas! our frailty is the cause, not we,
For such as we are made of, such we be.
How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly;
And I, poor monster, fond as much on him;
And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me.
What will become of this?) As I am man,
My state is desperate for my master’s love;
As [am woman,—now alas the day !—
What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe !
O Time! thou must untangle this, not I; 4
It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie. [Exit

20

30

 

ScENE III.—A Room in OLIvia’s House.

Enter Sir Tosy BrEtcu and Sir ANDREW
AGUE-CHEEK.

Sir To. Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed
after midnight is to be up betimes; and diluculo
surgere, thou know’st,—

Sir And. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I
know, to be up late, is to be up late. |

Sir To. A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled
can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then,
is early ; so that, to go to bed after midnight, is to go
to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four
elements ? : a 10

Sir And. ’Faith, so they say; but I think, it rather
consists of eating and cen

Sir To. Thou art a scholar; let us therefore eat and
drink.—Marian, I say !—a stoop of wine!

Enter Clown.

Sir And, Here comes the fool, i faith.
Clo. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the

icture of we three?
fi Now let’s have a catch. 18

Sir To. Welcome, ass.

Sir And. By my troth, the fool has an excellent
breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a
leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has, In
sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night,
when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians
passing the equinoctial of Queubus: 't was very ‘001 ’
j'faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman: hadst it

 

 

 
 

ScENE III.)

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 555

 

 

Clo. I did impeticos thy gratillity, for Malvolio’s
nose is no whipstock : my lady has a white hand, and
the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

Sir And. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling,
when all is done. Now, asong. d

Sir To. Come on: there is sixpence for you; let’s
have a song.

Sir And. There’s a testril of me too: if one knight
give a—
ieee Would you have a love-song, or a song of good

ife ? :
Sir To. A love-song, a love-song.
Sir And. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

Sone.
Clo. O mistress mine ! where are you roaming ?
O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming, 40
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting ;
Journeys end in lovers’ meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.
Sir And. Excellent good, i’ faith.
Sir To. Good, good.
Clo. What is love? ’tis not hereafter ;
Present mirth hath present laughter ;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty ; 50
Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Sir And. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.

Sir To. A contagious breath. .

Sir And. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith.

Sir To. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in conta-

ion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed ?

hall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will
draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do
that? 60
Sir And. An you love me, let’s do’t: Iam dog ata
eatch.

Clo. By ’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.
ote And. Most certain. Let our catch be, ‘‘Thou

nave.”

Clo. “Hold thy peace, thou knave,” knight? I
shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight.

Sir And. ’T is not the first time I have constrain’d
one to call me knave. Begin, fool: it begins, ‘‘ Hold
thy peace.” 70

Clo. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.

Sir And. Good, i’ faith. Come, begin.

{They sing a catch.
Enter Marta.

Mar. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If
my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio and
bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

Sir To. My lady’s a Cataian; we are politicians;
Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and ‘‘Three merry men
be we.” Am not I consanguineous? am I not of her
blood? Tilly-valley, lady! [Sings.] “There dwelt a
man in Babylon, lady, lady!” 80

Clo. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling.

Sir And. Ay, he does well enough, if he be dis-
pozel. and so do I too: he does it with a better grace,

ut I do it more natural. ;

. Sir To. [Sings.] “O! the twelfth day of December,”—

Mar. For the love o' God, peace!

Enter MALvouio.

Mal. My masters, are you mad? or what are you?
Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble
like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an ale-
house of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your
coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of
Voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time,
in you? 93

ir To. We did keep time, sir, in our catches.
Sneck up!

Mal. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady
bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as
her kinsman, she’s nothing allied to your disorders.
If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours,
you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would

 

pee you to take leave of her, she is very willing to
id you farewell. 102

Sir To. ‘Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs
be gone.”

Mar. Nay, good Sir Toby.

Clo. ‘“‘ His eyes do show, his days are almost done.”

Mal. Is’t even so?

Sir To, ‘‘ But I will never die.”

Clo. Sir Toby, there you lie.

Mal. This is much credit to you.

Sir To. “Shall I bid him go?”

Clo. ‘* What an if you do?”

Sir To. “Shall I bid him go, and spare not?”

Clo. ‘‘O! no, no, no, no, you dare not.”

Sir To. Out _o’time? Sir, ye lie. Art any more
than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art
virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? ;

Clo. Yes, by Saint Anne; and ginger shall be hot i’
the mouth too.

Sir To. Thou’rt i’ the right.—Go, sir, rub your
chain with crumbs.—A stoop of wine, Maria! 121

Mal. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour
at anything more than contempt, you would not give
means for this uncivil rule: she shall know of it, by
this hand. (Exit.

Mar. Go shake your ears.

Sir And. ’T were as good a deed as to drink when
a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him to the field, and
then to break promise with him, and make a sas

m.
Sir To. Do’t, knight: I'll write thee a challenge, or

I'll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth.
Mar. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for to-night.

Since the youth of the count’s was to-day with my

lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Mal-

volio, let me alone with him: if I do not gull him into

a nay-word, and make him a common recreation, do

not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. -

I know, I can do it.

Wee To. Possess us, possess us: tell us something ef
im, 1
Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan.
Sir And. O! if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog.
Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy exquisite

reason, dear knight?

Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I
have reason good enough.

Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything
constantly but a time-pleaser; an affectioned ass,
that cons state without book, and utters it by great
swarths: the best persuaded of himself; so crammed,
as he thinks, with excellences, that it is his ground of
faith, that all that look on him love him; and on that
— him will my revenge find notable cause to
work.

Sir To. What wilt thou do?

Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles
of love; wherein, by the colour of his beard, the shape
of his Jeg. the manner of his gait, the expressure of
his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find him-
self most feelingly personated. I can write very like
my lady, your niece: on a forgotten matter we can
hardly make distinction of our hands.

Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device.

Sir And. IT have’t in my nose too.

Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt
drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is
in love with him? ;

Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour.

Sir And. And your horse, now, would make him
anass.

Mar. Ass, I doubt not.

Sir And. O! ’t will be admirable.

Mar. Sport royal, I warrant you: I know, my
physic will work with him. I will plant you two,
and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the
letter: observe his construction of it. For this night,
to bed and dream, on the event. Farewell.

Sir To. Good night, Penthesilea. [Hoit Marta.

Sir And. Before me, she’s a good wench. 180

Sir To. She’s a beagle, true-bred, and one that
adores me: what o’ that?

110

 

 
 

 

 

556 TWELIFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. (Act II,

 

Sir And. I was adored once too. That old and antique song, we heard last night:

Sir To. Let’s to bed, knight.—Thou hadst need send | Methought, it did relieve wy passion sek’ oF
for more money More than light airs, and recollected terms,

Sir And. If I cannot recover your niece, Iam a foul | Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times:
way out. Come; but one verse.

.
Ti

|

But

 

Mal, ‘My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor
honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night?”

Sir To. Send for money, knight: if thou hast her Cur. He is not here, so please your lordship, that
not i’the end, call me cut. should sing it.
Sir And. If I do not, never trust me; take it how Duke. Who was it? 10
you will. 191 Cur. Feste, the jester, my lord; a fool, that the lady
Sir To. Come, come: I'll go burn some sack, ’tis too | Olivia's father took much delight in. He is about the
late to go to bed now. Come, knight; come, knight. | house. . .
[E£xeunt. Duke, Seek him out, and play the tune the while. |
: a . i [Exit CuRIo.—Musie.
Scene IV.—A Room in the DuKE's Palace. Come hither, boy: if ever thou shalt love,
2 ; ; In the sweet pangs of it remember me;
Enter DUKE, VioLa, CuRIO, and others. ‘ For such as I am all true lovers are:
Duke, Give me some music.—Now, good morrow, ' Unstaid and skittish in all motions else,
riends,— ‘ Save in the constant image of the creature
Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, | That is belov’d.—How dost thou like this tune? 20

 

 

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.]

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

557

 

Vio. It gives a very echo to the seat
Where love is thron’d.

Duke. Thou dost speak masterly.
My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye

Hath stay’d upon some favour that it loves;

Hath it not, boy? :

Vio. A little, by your favour.
Duke. What kind of woman is’t?

Vio. Of your complexion.

Duke. Sheisnot worth theethen. Whatyears, i’ faith?

Vio. About your years, my lord.

Duke. Too old, by Heaven. Let still the woman take
An elder than herself; so wears she to him, 3
So sways she level in her husband’s heart :

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,

Clo. “I am slain by a fair cruel maid.’”

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women’s are,
70. I think it well, my lord.
Duke. Then, let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses, whose fair flower,
Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour.
Vio. And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!

Re-enter CURIO and Clown.

Duke. O fellow! come, the song we had last night.--
Mark it, Cesario ; it is old, and plain:
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
And dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.
Clo. Are you ready, sir?
Duke. Ay ; pr’ythee, sing.
Sona.
Clo. Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid ;
Fly away, fly away, breath ;
Iam slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O! prepare it:
My part of death, no one so true
id share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend grect
My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O! where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there.

40

50
[Music.

60

 

 

Duke. There’s for thy pains. :

Clo. No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

Duke. I'l pay thy pleasure then.

Clo. Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time
or another. 71

Duke. Give me now leave to leave thee.

Clo. Now, the melancholy god protect thee, and the
tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy
mind is a very opal!—I would have men of such con-
stancy put to sea, that their business might be every-
thing, and their intent everywhere ; for that’s it, that
always makes a good voyage of eres ee

wit,

Duke. Let all the rest give place.—

i ; m citi uh

[Excunt CuRIo and Attendants.
Once more, Cesario,
Get thee to yond same sovereign

] j cruelty: 80
! i) Tell her, my love, more noble than
the world,

il Prizes not quantity of dirty lands:
| The parts that fortune hath be-
stow’d upon her,

Tell her, I-hold as giddily as for-

tl
tune ;
But ’tis that miracle and queen of
gems,
That nature pranks her in, attracts
my soul.
Vio. But, if she cannot love you,

sir
Duke. I cannot be so answer’d.
Vio. ’Sooth, but you must.
Say, that some lady, as perhaps
there is,
Hath for your love as great a pang
of heart 90
As you have for Olivia: you can-
not love her;
You tell her so ; must she not then
be answer’d?
Duke.

There is no woman’s
sides

Can bide the beating of so strong a passion
As love doth give my heart; no woman’s heart
So big to hold so much: they lack retention.
Alas! their love may be call’d appetite, —
No motion of the liver, but the palate,—
That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt ;
But mine is all as hungry as the sea,
And can digest as much. Make no compare
Between that love a woman can bear me,
And that I owe Olivia.

i Ay, but I know—

Vio.
Duke. What dost thou know?
Vio. Too well what love women to men may

owe:
In faith, they are as true of heart as we.
My father had a daughter lov’d a man,
As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,

I should your lordship.
Duke, And what’s her history?
Vio. A blank, my lord. She never told her
love,— 110
But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek : she pin’d in thought:
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
We en Duly say more, swear more; but, in-
eed,
Our shows are more than will, for still we prove
Much in our vows, but little in our love.
ke. put died thy sister of her love, my
oy ?
Vio. I am all the daughters of my father’s
120

ouse,
And all the brothers too; and yet I know not.—
Sir, shall I to this lady?
Duke, . ae that’s the theme.
To her in haste : give her this jewel ; say,
My love can give no place, bide nodenay. [EHxeunt.

 

 
 

558

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[Act IT.

 

 

Scene V.—OLIvia’s Garden.

Enter Sir ToBy BELCH, Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK,
and FABIAN.

Sir To. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. |

Fab. Nay, I’ll come: if I lose a scruple of this sport,
let_me be boiled to death with melancholy.

Sir To. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the
niggardly, rasvally sheep-biter come by some notable
shame ?

Fab. I would exult, man: you know, he brought
me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting
here.

Sir To. To anger him well have the bear again,
and we will fool him black and blue ;—shall we
not, Sir Andrew ? ;

Sir And. An we do not, it is pity of our lives.

Enter Marta.

Sir To. Here comes the little villain—How
now, my metal of India?

Mar. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Mal-
volio’s coming down this walk: he has been
yonder i’ the sun, practising behaviour to his own
shadow, this half-hour. Observe him, for the
love of mockery; for, I know, this letter will
make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in
the name of jesting! [Zhe men hidc themselves.}
Lie thou there [throws down a letter]; for here
comes the trout that must be caught with tickling.

[Exit.
Enter MALVOLIO.
Mal. ’Tis but fortune; all is fortune. Maria

once told me, she did affect me; and I have
heard herself come thus near, that, should she
tancy, it should be one of my complexion. Be-
sides, she uses me with a more exalted respect
than any one else that follows her. What should
I think on’t? 31

Sir To. Here’s an overweening rogue !

Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare
turkey-cock of him: how he jets under his ad-
vanced plumes!

Sir And, ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue,—

Sir To. Peace! I say.

Mal, To be Count Malvolio ;—

Sir To, Ah, rogue!

Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him.

Sir To. Peace! peace!

Mal. There is example for’t: the lady of the
Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe.

Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel!

Fab. O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how
imagination blows him.

_Mal. Having been three months married to her,
sitting in my state, —

Sir To. O, for a stone-bow, to hit him in the eye!

Mal. Calling my officers about me, in my branched
velvet gown ; having come from a day-bed, where I
have left Olivia sleeping :— 52

Sir To. Fire and brimstone!

Fab. O, peace! peace!

Mal. And then to have the humour of state: and
after a demure travel of regard,—telling them, I
know my place, as I would they should do theirs,—
to ask for my kinsman Toby.—

Sir To. Bolts and shackles !

Fab. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. 60

Mal. Seven of my people, with an obedient start,
make out for him. I frown the while; and, perchance,
wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel.
Toby approaches ; court’sies there to me.

Sir To. Shall this fellow live?

Fab. Though our silence be drawn from us with
cars, yet peace!

Mal. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my
familiar smile with an austere regard of control,—
_Sir To. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the
lips then? — 71

Mal. Saying, ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes, having
cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of
speech,”—

40 -

 

oe fe ont what ?

al, “‘ You must amend your drunkenness.”

Sir To. Out, scab! ae

ae Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our

plot.
Mal. “Besides, you waste the treasure of y
time with a feplish night ba
Sir And. That’s me, I warrant you.
Mal. “ One Sir Andrew,”—
é ed «And, I knew ’twas I; for many do call me
‘ool.
" Met, [Seeing the letter.] What employment have we
ere
Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin.

 

Mal. ‘* By my life, this is my lady’s hand!”

Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of humours inti-
mate reading aloud to him ! s

Mal. (Taking up the letter.) By my life, this is my
lady’s hand! these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her
T’s; and thus makes she her great P’s, It is, in con-
tempt of question, her hand.

Sir And. Her C’s, her U’s, and her 7’s: why that?

Mal. [Reads.] “To the unknown beloved, this, and
my good wishes :” her very phrases !—By your leave,
wax.—Soft!—and the impressure her Lucrece, with
which she uses to seal: ‘tis my lady. To whom
should this be ? 100

Fab. This wins him, liver and all.

Mal. [Reads.] ‘‘ Jove knows, I love;

But who?
Lips, do not move:
No man must know.”
“No man must know.”—What follows? the numbers
altered !—‘‘No man must know:’—if this should be
thee, Malvolio?
Sir To. Marry, hang thee, brock!
Mal. [Reads.] “I may command, where I adore; 110
But silence, like a Lucrece’ knife,
With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore:
M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.”

Fab. A fustian riddle.

Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 4

Mal. “M, O, A, I, doth sway my life.”—Nay, but
first, let me see,—let me see. 3 .

Fab. What a dish of poison has she dressed him!

oe To. And with what wing the stannyel ene
at it!

Mal. “‘I may command, where I adore.” Why, she
may command me: I serve her; she is my lady.
Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There
is no obstruction in this.—And the end,—what should

 

 

 
 

 

SCENE V.]

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

559

 

that alphabetical position portend? if I could make
that resemble something in me,--Softly !—M, O, 4, L—

sir To. O! ay, make up that. He is now ata cold
scent.

Fab. Sowter will cry upon’t, for all this, though it
be as rank as a fox. 13

Mal. M,—Malvolio:—M,—why, that begins my
name.

Fab. Did not I say, he would work it out? the cur
is excellent at faults.

Mal. M,—but then there is no consonancy in the
sequel; that suffers under probation: .4 should follow,
but O does.

Fab. And O shall end, I hope.

Sir To. Ay, or I’'Ilcudgel him, and make him cry, O/

Mal. And then I comes behind. 140

Fab. Ay, an you had an eye behind you, you might
see more detraction at your heels, than fortunes
before you.

Mal. M, O, A, I:—this simulation is not as the
former ;—and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow
to me, for every one of these letters are in my name.
Soft! here follows prose.—[Reads.] “ If this fall into
thy hand, revolve. In my stars | am above thee;
but be not afraid of greatness : some are born great,
some achieve greatness, and some have greatness
thrust upon them. Thy Fates open their hands; let
thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure
thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble
slough, and See fresh. Be opposite with a kins-
man, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang argu-
ments of state; put thyself into the trick of singu-
larity. She thus advises thee, that sighs for thee.
Remember who commended thy yellow stockings,
and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered: I say,
remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to

_ be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the
fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s
fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services
‘with thee,

THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.”
Daylight and champian discovers not more: this is
open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors,
I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaint-
ance, I will be polnbserice the very man. I do not
now fool myself, to let imagination jade me, for every

 

reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She
did commend my yellow stockings of late; she did
praise my leg being cross-gartered ; and in this she
manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of
injunction drives me to these habits of her liking. I

) | thank my stars, lam happy. I will be strange, stout,

in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with
the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be
praised !—Here is yet a postscript. [Reads.] ‘Thou
canst not choose but know who I am. If thou en-
tertainest my love, let it appear in thy smiling: thy
smiles become thee well; therefore in my presence
still smile, dear my sweet, I pr’ythee.”’—Jove, I thank
thee.—I will smile: I will do everything that thou
wilt have me. ; Exit.

Fab. I will not give my part of this sport for a
pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy.

Sir To. I could marry this wench for this device.

Sir And. So could I too,

Sir To, And ask no other dowry with her, but such
another jest. 191

Sir And. Nor I neither.

Fab, Here comes my noble gull-catcher.

Re-enter MaRia.

Sir To. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck ?

Sir And. Oro’ mine either? .

Sir To. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and
become thy bond-slave?

Sir And. I’ taith, or I either ?

Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream,
that when the image of it leaves him, he must run
mad. 201

Mar. Nay, but say true: does it work upon him?

Sir To, Like aqua-vitee with a midwife.

Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the sport,
mark his first approach before my lady : he will come
to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she
abhors; and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests;
and he will smile upon her, which will now be so
unsuitable to her sretoe On, being addicted to a
melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into
a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me. 211

Sir To. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent
devil of wit!

Sir And. I'll make one too. (Exeunt.

 

ACT III.

ScENE I.—Otivia’s Garden.

  

N
Ye)
Ye ys Viola. ie
(“AVE thee, friend, and thy music. Dost
thou live by. oe tabor?
Clo. No, sir, [ live by the church.

Vio. Art thou a churchman?
- Clo. No such matter, sir: I do live by
- the church; for I do live at_my_ house,
and my house doth stand by the church.
Vio. So thou may’st say, the king lies
by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him ;
or, the church stands by thy tabor, if thy
tabor stand by the church. uy
Clo. You have said, sir.—To see this
age! A sentence is but a cheveril glove
to a good wit: how quickly the wrong
side may be turned outward!

Vio. Nay, that’s certain: they, that dally nicely |

with words, may quickly make them wanton.

Enter Vioua, and Clown with a tabor.

_Clo. I would therefore, my sister had had no name,
sir.

Vio. Why, man? 20

Clo. Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally
with that word, might make my sister wanton. But,
tale words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced
them.

Vio. Thy reason, man?

Clo. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words ;
and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove
reason with them.

Fio. J warrant, thou art a merry fellow, and carest
for nothing. 30

Clo. Not so, sir, I do care for something ; but in my
conscience, sir, I do not care for you: if that be to
care for nothing, sir, I would it would make. you
invisible. 2

Vio, Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool?

 

 
 

 

560

Clo. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly:
she will kee? no fool, sir, till she be married; and
fools are as like husbands, as pilchards are to herrings,
the husband's the bigger. Iam, indeed, not her fool,
but her corrupter of words. 40

Vio. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s.

Clo. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb, like the
sun: it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but
the fool should be-as oft with your master, as with my
mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. 7

Vio. Nay, an thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with
thee. Hold, there ’s expenses for thee.

Clo. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send
thee a beard. :

Vio. By my troth, I'll tell thee: I am almost sick for
one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is
thy lady within? 2

Clo. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir?

Vio. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. —

Clo. I would play Lord Pandarus ot Phrygia, sir, to
bring a Cressida to this Troilus.

Vio. L understand you, sir, 't is well begg’d.

Clo. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging
but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is
within, sir. I will construe to them whence you
come; who you are, and what you would, are out of
my welkin: I might say, element, but the word is
overworn. [Exit.

Vio. This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit:

He must observe their mood on whom he jests,

The quality of persons, and the time,

And, like the haggard, check at every feather

That comes before his eye. This is a practice

As full of labour as a wise man’s art; 70
For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit,

But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit.

Enter Sir ToBY BELcH and Sir ANDREW
AGUE-CHEEK,
Sir To. Save you, gentleman.
Vio. And you, sir.
Sir And. Dieu vous garde, monsieur.
Vio. Et vous aussi: votre serviteur.
Sir And. IT hope, sir, you are ; and Iam yours,
Sir To. Will you encounter the house? my niece is
desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her.

“io. 1 am bound to your niece, sir: I mean, she is
the list of my voyage. 81
Sir To. Taste your legs, sir: put them to motion.

Vio. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I
ee what you mean by bidding me taste my
egs.

Sir To. I mean, to go, sir, to enter.

Vio, I will answer you with gait and entrance. But

we are prevented.

Enter OLIVIA and MARIA.

Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain
odours on you! : 90

Sir And. That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain
odours!” well.

Vio. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to yourown
most pregnant and vouchsafed ear.

Sir And. “ Odours,” areenane and ‘‘vouchsafed :”
—I1’ll get’em all three all ready.

Oli. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to
my hearing. [Exeunt Sir Tosy, Sir ANDREW, and
MariA.] Give me your hand, sir.

Vio. My duty, madam, and most humble service.

oli. What is your name ?

Vio, Cesario is your servant's name, fair princess.

Oli. My servant, sir? ’T was never merry world,
Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment.

You're servant to the Count Orsino, youth.

Vio, And he is yours, and his must needs be yours:
Your servant's servant is your servant, madam.

Oli. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts,
’W ould they were blanks, rather than fill’a with me!

Vio. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts
On his behalf :—

Oli. O! by your leave, I pray you: 111

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

 

{Acr III,

I bade you never speak again of him;
But, would you undertake another suit,
I had rather hear you to solicit that,
Than music from the spheres,

Vio. | Dear lady,—

Oli. Give me leave, “beseech you. I did send
After the last enchantment you did here,

A a in chase of you: so did I abuse

Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you.

Under your hard construction must I sit, 120

To force that on you, in a shameful cunning,

Which ao ee none of yours: what might you

in

Have you not set mine honour at the stake,

And baited it with all the unmuzzled thoughts

That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your
receiving

Enough is shown ; a cyprus, not a bosom,

Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak.

Vio. I pity you.

Oli. _That’s a degree to love.

Vio. No, not a grise ; for tis a vulgar proof,

That very oft we pity enemies. 30

Oli, Why then, methinks, ’t is time to smile again.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

If one should be a prey, how much the better

To fall before the lion than the wolf! [Clock strikes.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.—

Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you;

And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest,
Your wife is like to reap a proper man.

There lies your way due west.

Vio. : Then westward-ho!
Grace, and good co ai attend your ladyship! 140
You'll nothing, madam, to my lord by me?

Oli. Stay:

I pr'ythee, tell me what thou think’st of me.

Vio. That you do think, you are not what you are.

Oli, If I think so, I think the same of you.

Vio. Then think you right: I am not what I am.

Oli. I would, you were as I would have you be!

Vio. Would it be better, madam, than I am?

I wish it might ; for now I am your fool.

Oli. O! what a deal of scorn Jooks beautiful 150

In the contempt and anger of his lip!

A murderous guilt shows not itself more soon,

Than love that would seem hid: love's night is noon.

Cesario, by the roses of the spring,

By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything,

I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride,

Nor wit, nor reason, can my passion hide.

Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,

For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause ;

But rather, reason thus with reason fetter: 160

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Vio. By innocence I swear, and by my youth,

I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,

And that no woman has; nor never none

Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.

And so adieu, good madam: never more

Will I my master's tears to you deplore.

Oli. Yet come again, for thou perhaps may’st move
That heart, which now abhors, to like his love.

[Exceunt.

ScreneE IT.—A Room in OLIvia's House.

Enter Sir Tosy BELcH, Sir ANDREW, AGUE-CHEEK,
and FABIAN. ;
Sir And. No, faith, I'll not stay a jot longer.
Sir To, Thy reason, dear venom: give thy reason.
Fab. You niust needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew.
Sir And. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours
to the count’s serving-man, than ever she bestowed
upon me: I saw ’t i’ the orchard.
ae To. Did she see thee the while, old boy? tell me
that.
Sir And. As plain as I see you now. :
Fab. This was a great argument of love in her
toward you. ll
Sir And. Slight! will you make an ass o’ me?

__—_——/

 

 

 
 

Scene IV.]

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

561

 

Fab. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths
of judgment and reason.

Sir To. And they have been grand-jurymen, since
before Noah was a sailor.

Fab. She did show favour to the youth in your
sight only to exasperate you, toawake your dormouse
valour, to put fire in your heart, and brimstone in
your liver. You should then have accosted her, and
with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you
should have banged the youth into dumbness. This
was looked for at your hand, and this was balked:
the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash
off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s
opinion; where yu will bane. like an icicle on a
Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some
laudable attempt, either of valour, or policy.

Sir And. An’t be any way, it must be with valour,
for policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a
politician. : 31

Sir To. Why then, build me thy fortunes upon the
basis of valour: challenge me the count’s youth to
fight with him ; hurt him in eleven places: my niece
shall take note of it; and assure thyself, there is no
love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s
commendation with woman, than report of valour.

Fab. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew.

Sir And. Will either of you bear me a challenge to
him? 40

Sir To. Go, write it ina martial hand ; be curst and
brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent,
and full of invention: taunt him with the license of
ink: if thou thou’st him some thrice, it shall not be
amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy, sheet of
paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed
of Ware in England, set ’em down. Go, about it. Let
there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write
with a goose-pen, no matter. About it.

Sir And. Where shall I find you? 50

Sir To. We'll call thee at the cubiculo. Go.

[Ezit Sir ANDREW.

Fab, This is a dear manakin to you, Sir Toby.

Sir To. I have been dear to him, lad; some two
thousand strong, or so. ,

Fab. We shall have a rare letter from him; but
you ll not deliver it? i

Sir To. Never trust me then; and by all means stir
on the youth to an answer. I think, oxen and wain-
ropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he
were opencd, and you find so much blood in his liver
as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of the
anatomy. _ 62

Fab. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his
visage no great presage of cruelty.

Enter Marta.

Sir To. Look, where the youngest wren of nine
comes.

Mar. If you desire the spleen, and will Tap your-
selves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio
is turned heathen, a very renegado ; for there is no
Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly,
can ever believe such impossible passages of gross-
ness. He’s in yellow eee

Sir To. And cross-gartered

Mar. Most villainously ; like a pedant that keeps a
school i’ the church.—I have dogged him like his mur-
derer, He does obey every point of the letter that I
dropped to betray him: he does smile his face into
more lines, than are in the new map, with the aug-

-Mentation of the Indies. You have not seen suc
a thing as "tis; I can hardly forbear hurling things
at him. I know, my lady will strike him: if she do,
he'll smile, and take’t fora great favour. 82

Sir To. Come, pring us, bring us where he is.

: [Ezxeunt.

 

ScENE III.—A Street.

; . Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO.

‘Seb. I would not, by my will, have troubled you;
| But, since you make your pleasure of your pains,
will no further chide you.

 

 

-Ant. I could not stay behind you: my desire,

More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth ;

And not all love to see you (though so much,

As might have drawn one to a longer voyage),

But jealousy what might befall your travel,

Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger,

Unguided, and unfriended, often rome

Rough and unhospitable: my willing love,

The rather by these argunrents of fear,

Set forth in your pursuit.

Seb. My kind Antonio,

I can no other answer make, but, thanks,

And thanks, and ever thanks ; and oft good turns

Are shuffied off with such uncurrent pay ;

But, were my worth, as is my conscience, firm,

You should find better dealing. What’s to do?

Shall we go sce the reliques of this town?

Ant. To-morrow, sir: best first go see your lodging
Seb. Iam not weary, and ’tis long to night. ‘1

I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes

With the memorials, and the things of fame,

That do renown this city.

Ant. ’Would, you’d pardon me:

I do not without danger walk these streets.

Once, in a sea-fight ’gainst the count his galleys,

I did some service; of such note, indeed,

That, were I ta’en here, it would scarce be answer’d.
Seb. Belike, you slew great number of his people.
Ant. The offence is not of such a bloody nature, 30

Albeit the ony of the time, and quarrel,

Might well have given us bloody argument.

It might have since been answer’d in repaying

What we took from them ; which, for traftic’s sake,

Most of your city did: only myself stood out;

For which, if I be lapsed in this place,

I shall pay dear.

- Seb. Do not then walk too open.

Ant. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir; here’s my purse.

In the south suburbs, at the Elephant,

Is best to lodge: I will bespeak our diet, 40

Whiles you beguile the time, and feed your knowledge,

With viewing of the town: there shall you have me.
Seb. Why I your purse? 4
Ant, Haply your eye shall light upon some toy

You have desire to purchase; and your store,

I think, is not for idle markets, sir.

Seb. I’ll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an
our.

Ant. To the Elephant.—
Seb. I do remember.

50
[EHaxeunt.

Scenr IV.—OLtvia’s Garden.

Enter OLivia and Marta.

Oli. Ihave sent after him : he says, he’Il come;
How shall I feast him? what bestow of him?
For youth is bought more oft, than begg’d, or bor-

row’d.

I speak too loud.—
Where is Malvolio?—he is sad, and civil,
And suits well for a servant with my fortunes.—
Where is Malvolio?

Mar. He’s coming, madam; but in very strange
manner. He is sure possess’d, madam.

Oli. Why, what’s the matter? does he rave? 10

Mar. No, madam ; he does nothing but smile: your
ladyship were best to have some guard about you, if
he come, for sure the man is tainted in his wits.

Oli. Go call him hither.—I am as mad as he,
If sad and merry madness equal be.—

Enter MALVOLIO.

How now, Malvolio?

Mal. Sweet lady, ho, ho.

Oli. Smil’st thou ?
I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 19

Mal. Sad, lady? I could be sad, This does make
some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering ;
but what of that? if it please the eye of one, it is with

nea the very true sonnet is, “‘ Please one, and please
all. paar

 

 
 

562

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[Acr IIL,

 

Oli. Why, how dost thou, man? what is the matter
with thee?

Mal. Not black in my mind, though yellow in m
legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall
- aia I think we do know the sweet Sona

and, 3

 

 

Oli. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio?
we To bed? ay, sweet-heart, and I'll come to
thee.
Oli. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so,
and kiss thy hand so oft?
Mar. How do you, Malvolio?
n Mal, At your request? Yes; nightingales answer
aws.

 

 

Oli. ‘* Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft?”

Mar, Why appear you wi is ridi
betore mp lady? you with this ridiculous boldness
al. ** Be not afraid of greatness :”—’t i
Oli. What meanest thou by that, Malvolio? ss
Mal. ‘Some are born great,”—
Oli. Ha?

i

i H

 

Mal. “Some achieve grepbasss,
Oli. What say’st thou
Mal._‘ And some have greatness thrust upon them.
Oli. Heaven restore thee !

Mal. “Remember, who commended thy yellow

stockings,’”— 50
Olt, Thy yellow stockings ? 7
Mal. “ And wished to see thee cross-gartered.

 

 

—_——

 
 

Scunz IV.)

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

563

 

 

Oli. Cross-gartered ?

Mal. “Go to, thou art made, if thou desirest to be
80 :”—

Oli. Am I made?

Mal. “Tf not, let me see thee a servant still.”

Oli. Why, this is very midsummer madness.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Madam, the ee entleman of the Count
Orsino’s is returned. I could hardly entreat him back:
he attends your ladyship’s pleasure.

Oli. I'l come to him. [Hxit Servant.] Good Maria,
let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby ?
Let some of my people have a special care of him. I
would not have him miscarry for the half of 7 dowry.

. LEceunt OLIVIA and MARIA.

Mal. Oh, ho! do you come near me now? no worse
man than Sir Toby to look to me? This concurs
directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose,
that I may appear stubborn to him ; for she incites me
to that in the letter. ‘‘Cast thy humble slough,” says
she ;—“‘ be opposite with a kinsman, surly with ser-
vants,—let thy tongue tang with arguments of state,
put thyself into the trick of eine oy ;”—and conse-
quently sets down the manner how;; as, a sad face, a
reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some
sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her; but it is
Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when
she went away now, “Let this fellow be looked to:”
fellow ! not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow.
Why, everything adheres together, that no drachm
of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no
incredulous or unsafe circumstance.—What can be
said? Nothing that can be, can come between me
and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I,
is the doer ot this, and he is to be thanked.

Re-enter MARIA, with Sir ToBy BELCH and FABIAN.

Sir To. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity?
Ef all the devils in hell be drawn in little, and Legion
himself ot him, yet I’ll speak to him.

Fab. Here he is, here he is.—How is’t with you, sir?
how is’t with you, man? 90

Go off; discard you: let me enjoy my
private; go off.

Mar. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him!
did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to
have a care of him.

Mal. Ah, ha! does she so?

Sir To. Go to, go to: peace! peace! we must deal
gently wiv him; let me alone.—How do you, Malvolio?

ow ist with you? What, man! defy the devil: con-
sider, he’s an enemy to mankind. 100

Mal. Do you know what you say?

Mar. La you! an you speak ill of the devil, how he
takes it at heart! Pray God, he be not bewitched !

Fab. Carry his water to the wise-woman.

Mar. Marry, and it shall be done to-morrow
morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for
more than I ll say.

Mal. How now, mistress ?

Mar. O Lord! 109

Sir To. Pr’ythee, hold thy peace : this is not the way.
De you not see you move him? let me alone with him.

‘ab. No way but gentleness; gently, gently: the
fiend is Tone, and not be roughly used.

Sir To. Why, how now, my bawcock? how dost
thou, chuck ?

Mal. Sir!

Sir To. Ay, Biddy, come with me. What, man!
*tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan.
Hang him, foul coilier ! 7
.. Mar, Get him to say his prayers: good Sir Toby,
get.him to pray. 121

Mal. My jroo minx !

Mar. No, warrant you; he will not hear of godliness.

Mal. Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shallow
things: I am not of your element, You shall know
more hereafter. [Exit.

Sir To, Is’t possible?

Fab. If this were played upon a stage now, I could
condemn it as ah improbable fiction.

 

Sir To. His very genius hath taken the infection of
the device, man.

Mar. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air,
and taint.

Fab. Why, we shall make him mad, indeed.

Mar. The house will be the quieter.

Sir To. Come, we’ll have him in a dark room, and
bound. My niece is already in the belief that he's
mad: we may carry it thus, for our pleasure, and his
penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath,
prompt us to have mercy on him; at which time we
will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a
finder of madmen. But see, but see. 142

Enter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.

Fab. More matter for a May morning.

Sir And. Here’s the challenge; read it: I warrant,
there’s vinegar and pepper in’t.

Fab. Is’t so saucy

Sir And. Ay, is’t, I warrant him: do but read.

Sir To. Give me. [Reads.] ‘“‘ Youth; whatsoever
thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow.”

Fab. Good, and valiant. 150

Sir To. “Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind,
a I do eall thee so, for I will show thee no reason

‘or

eee A good note, that keeps you from the blow of
e law.

Sir To. “Thou eomest to the Lady Olivia; and in
my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy
throat ; that is not the matter J challenge thee for.”

Fab. ae brief, and to exceeding good sense—less.

Sir To, “I will waylay thee going home; where, if
it Be aie chance to kill me,”— 161

. Good.

Sir To. “Thou killest me like a rogue and a villain.”

ak Still you keep o’ the windy side of the law:
good.

Sir To, ‘‘ Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon
one of our souls! He may have merey upon mine,
but my hope is better; and so look to thyself. Thy
friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy,
ANDREW AGUE-CHEEK.”—If this letter move him not,
his legs cannot. I'll give’t him. 171

Mar. You may have very fit occasion for’t: he is
now in some commerce with my lady, and will by-and-
by depart.

Sir To. Go, Sir Andrew; scout me for him at the
corner of the orchard, like a bum-bailie. So soon
as ever thou seest him, draw, and, as thou drawest,
swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft, that a terrible
oath, with a swaggering accent, sharply twanged off,

ives manhood more approbation than ever proof
itself would have earned him. Away! 181

Sir And. Nay, let me alone for swearing. [Exit.

Sir To. Now will not I deliver his letter: for the
behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to
be of good capacity and BEE is employment
between his lord and my niece confirms no less; there-
fore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will
breed no terror in the youth: he will find it comes.
from aclodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge
by word of mouth; set upon Ague-cheek a notable
report of valour, and drive the gentleman (as, I know,
his youth will aptly receive it) into a most hideous
opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This
will so fright them both, that they will kill one another
by the look, like cockatrices.

Fab. Here he comes with your niece. Give them
way, till he take leave, and presently after him.

ir To. I will meditate the while upon some horrid
message for a challenge.
(Exeunt Sir ToBy, FABIAN, and MARIA.

Re-enter OLIViA, with VIOLA.

Oli. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, 200
And laid mine honour too unchary out:
There’s something in me that reproves my fault,
But such a headstrong potent fault it is,
That it but mocks reproof,

Vio. With the same haviour that your passion bears,
Goes on my master’s grief.

 

 
 

564

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

fAcr OL.

 

 

Oli. Here; wear this jewel for me: ’tis my picture.
Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you;
And, I beseech you, come again to-morrow.
What shall you ask of me, that I'll deny, 2
That honour, sav’d, may upon asking give ?

"io. Nothing but this; your true love for my
master. 2 .

Oli. How with mine honour may I give him that,
Which I have given to you? : ;

Vio. I will acquit you.

Oli. Well, come again to-morrow. Fare thee well:
A fiend like thee might bear my soul tohell. [zit.

Re-enter Sir TOBY BELCH, and FABIAN.

Sir To. Gentleman, God save thee.
Vio. And you, sir. 218
Sir To. That defence thou hast,

betake thee to’t: of what nature
the wrongs are thou hast done
him, I know not; but thy inter-
cepter, full of despite, bloody as the
hunter, attends thee at the orchard-
end. Dismount thy tuck; be yare
in thy preparation, for thy assailant
is quick, skilful, and deadly.

Fio. You mistake, sir: Iam sure,
no man hath any quarrel to me.
My remembrance is very free and
clear from any image of offence
done to any man, 23:

Sir To. You'll find it otherwise,
I assure you: therefore, if you hold
your life at any price, betake you to
your guard ; for your opposite hath
in him what youth, strength, skill,
and wrath, can furnish man withal.

Vio. I pray you, sir, what is he?

Sir To. He is knight, dubbed
with unhatch’d rapier, and on
carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private
brawl; souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and
his incensement at this moment is so implacable,
that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death
ae sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word: give ’t, or
take ’t.

=

0

Vio. I will return again into the house, and desire |

some conduct of the lady: Iam no fighter. I have
heard of some kind of men, that put quarrels purposely
on others to taste their valour; belike, this isa man
of that quirk. 252
Sir To. Sir, no; his indignation derives itself out of
a very competent injury: therefore, get you on, and
give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house,
unless you undertake that with me, which with as
much safety you might answer him: therefore, on, or
strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must,
that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.
Vio. This is as uncivil, as strange. I beseech you,
do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight
what my offence to him is: it is something of a

-negligence, nothing of my purpose.

Sir To. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you br
this gentleman till my return. Exit.

Vio. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?

Fab. I know, the knight is incensed against you,
even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing of the
circumstance more.

Vio. L beseech you, what manner of man is he? 270 |

Fab. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read
him by his form, as you are like to find him in the
props of his valour. ce is, indeed, sir, the most skilful,

loody, and fatal opposite that you could possibl
have found in any a of Diyria. Will you wal
towards him? I will
I can.
- Vio. I shall be much bound to you for’t : I'am’ one,
that would rather go with sir priest, than sir knight’:
I care not who. knows so much of my mettle. z an

eeunt,

. - Re-enter Sir Tony, with Sir ANDREW.
Sir To. Why, man, he’s.a very devil, I have not

make your peace with him, if |

seen such a firago. I had a
scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck-in with
such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable ; and on the
answer, he pays you as surely as- your feet hit the
ground they step on. They say, he has been fencer to
the Sophy.

Sir And. Pox on’t, Ill not meddle with ‘him. .

Sir To. Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian
can scarce hold him yonder. 290

Sir And, Plague on’t; an I thought he had been
valiant, and so cunning in fence, I’d have seen him
damned ere I’d have challenged him. Let him let the
matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet,

Sir To. I’ll make the motion. Stand here ; make a
good show on’t. This shall end without the perdition

 

Sir To. ‘Come, Sir Andrew, there's no remedy.”

' of souls, [Aside.] Marry, I'll ride your horse as well
as I ride you.

| Re-enter FABIAN and VIOLA.

| Ve Fastan.] I have his hoarse to take up the quarrel.
| T have persuaded him, the youth’s a devil.

Fab. (To Sir Topy,| He is as horribly conceited of
him; and pants, and looks pale, as if a bear were at
his heels.

Sir To. [To Vioua.] There’s no remedy, sir: he
will fight with you for ’s oath sake, Marry, he hath
' better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that
now scarce to be worth talking of : therefore draw for
the supportance of his vow: he protests, he will not
hurt you. . a

Vio. [Aside.] Pray God defend me! A little thing
would make me tell them how much I lack of a man.

Fab. Give ground, if you see him furious. 312

Sir To. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy: the
gentleman will, for his honour’s sake, have one bout,
with you: he cannot by the duello avoid it; but he
has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a.soldier,
he will not hurt you. Come on; to’t.

Sir And. Pray God, he keep his oath! | Draws.

Vio. I do assure you, ’t is against my will. [Draws

Enter ANTONIO.

Ant. Put up your sword.—If this young gentleman
Have done offence, I take the fault on. me: 321
If you offend him, Tfor him defy you. [Drawing.

Sir To. You, sir? why, what are you?

Ant. One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more,
Than you have heard him brag to you he will.

Sir To. Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for ths

Fab. 0 aed Sir Toby, hold ! here come the officers,

Sir To. 111 be with you anon. . x

Vio. Pray, sir, put your sword up, if rou lease.

Sir And. Marry, will I, sir :—and, for that I pro-
| mised you, I’ll be as good as my. word. He will bear
' you easily, and reins well. 332

Enter two Officers.
; 2 Off. This is the man: do thy office. a]

 

4

 

pass with him, rapier,

 

 

 
 

 

Scenz IV.)

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

 

2 Off. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit
Of Count Orsino.

Ant. g You do mistake me, sir.

1 Off. No, sir, no jot: I know your favour well,
Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.—
Take him away: he knows, I know him well.

Ant. I must obey.—[Jo VioLa.] This comes with |

: seeking you ;
But there ’s no remed
What will you do? ow my ay
Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me
Much more for what I cannot do for you,
Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d;
But be of comfort.
2 Of. Come, sir, away.
Ant. I must entreat of you some of that money.
Vio. What money, sir?
For the fair kindness you have show’d me here,
And part, being prompted by your present trouble, 350
Out of my lean and low ability
Ill lend you something. My having is not much:
I’ll make division of my present with you.
Hold, there is half my coffer.
Ant. Will you deny me now?
Is’t Possible, that my deserts to you ;
Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery,
Lest that it make me so unsound a man,
_As to,upbraid you with those kindnesses
That I have done for you.
Vio. I know of none;
Nor know I you by voice, or any feature.
I hate ingratitude more in a man,
Than lying vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Or any taint of vice, whose strong corruption
Inhabits our frail blood.
Ant. O heavens themselves !
2 Off. Come, sir: I pray you, £0.
Ant. le me speak alittle. This youth, that you see
. here, :

: I shall answer it. 340

360

 

| Lsnatch’d one half out of the jaws of death,

Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love,
And to his image, which, methought, did promise
Most venerable worth, did I devotion.
1 Of. What’s that to us? The time goes by: away!
Ant. But, O, how vile an idol proves this god !—
Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame,

| In nature there’s no blemish, but the mind;

None can be call’d deform’d, but the unkind:
Virtue is beauty ; but the beauteous-evil

Are empty trunks, o’erflourish’d by the devil.

1 Of. The man grows mad: away with him!:
Come, come, sir.
Ant. Lead me on. [Exeunt Officers with ANTONIO.
Vio. Methinks, his words do trom_such passion fly,
That he believes himself ; so do not I. 382
Prove true, ithagination, O, prove true,
That I. dear brother, be now ta’en for you!
Sir To. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian:
we'll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws.
Vio. He nam’d Sebastian : I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such, and so,
In favour was my brother ; and he went
Still in this fashions colour, ornament,
For him I imitate. O! if it prove,
Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in foves g
vit,
Sir To. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a
coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in
leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him;
and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.
Fab. A coward, a most devout coward, religious

in it.
Sir And. ’Slid, I'll after him again, and beat him.

Sir To. Do; cuff him soundly, but never draw thy
sword. 401
[Eait.

Sir And. An TI do not,—
Sir To. I dare lay any money ’t will be nothing yet.

390

Fab. Come, let’s see the event.

 

 

[Exeunt.
ACT IV.
ScENE I.—The Street before OLIVIA’s House.
Enter SEBASTIAN and Clown.
There ’s money for thee: if you tarry longer, 20

eS Clown. :
eC ==——ILL you make me believe
ms that I am not sent for you?’

Seb. Go to, go to; thou art a foolish

fellow:
Let me be clear of thee.

Clo. Well held out; i’faith! No, Ido
not know you; nor I am not sent to
you by my lady to bid you come speak
with her; nor your name is not Master
Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither.
—Nothing, that is so, is so. 10
, Seb. I pr’ythee, vent thy folly some-

i, where else:

2 Thou know’st not me. a.
Clo. Vent my folly! He has heard that word of
| ,Some great man, an: ow applies it to a fool. Vent

“ny folly!’ I am afraid this great lubber, the world,
| . Will préve a cockney. I pr’ythee now, ungird thy
| “strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady.
‘ Shall I vent to her that thou art coming? 7
| '’ Seb. I pr’ythee, foolish Greek, depart from me.

 
  
  

hc

Are all the people mad?

 

E shall give worse payment.

Clo. By my troth, thou hast an open hand.—These
wise men, that give fools money, get themselves a
good report after fourteen years’ purchase.

Enter Sir ANDREW.

Sir And. Now, sir, have I met you again? there’s
for you. [Striking SEBASTIAN.
Seb. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there.
[Beating Sir ANDREW.

Enter Sir ToBy and FABIAN.
Sir To. Hold, sir, or1’ll throw your dagger o’er ne

ouse.

Clo. This will I tell my lady straight.. I would not
be in some of your coats for twopence. [Exit.

Sir To. Come on, sir: hold. :

Sir And. Nay, Tet him alone; Ill go-another way
to work with him: I'll have an action of battery
against-him, if there be any law in Illyria, Though I

‘struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that.

 
 

566

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

[Act IV,

 

Seb. Let & thy hand. |
Sir To. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, m
young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed.
Come on. 41

What wouldst thou

Seb. I will es free from thee.
now
If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword.

 

Sir To. ‘Come, my young soldier, put up your fron.”

Sir To. What, what! Nay, then I must have an
ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.
[Draws.
Enter OLIVIA.

Oli. Hold, Toby! on thy life I charge thee, hold!
Sir To. Madam!
Oli. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch!
Fit for the mountains, and the barbarous caves,
Where sates ne’er were preach’d. Out of my
sight !— 50
Be not offended, dear Cesario.—
Rudesby, be gone!
[Exeunt Sir Tosy, Sir ANDREW, and FABIAN.
I pr’ythee, gentle friend,
Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway
In this uncivil and unjust extent
Against thy peace. Go with me to my house;
And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks
This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby
May’st smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go:
Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me,
He started one poor heart of mine in thee.
Seb. What relish is in this? how runs the stream?
Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.
Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep.
Oli. Nay; come, I pr’ythee. “Would thou’dst be
rul’d by me!
Seb. Madam, [ will.
Oli. O! say so, and so be. [EHxeunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in Onivra’s House.

Enter Maria and Clown.

Mar. Nay,I r’ythee, put on this gown, and this
beard: make him believe thou art Sir Topas the
curate: do it quickly; I’ll call Sir Toby the w. Vibe -

it,

 

Clo. Well, I'll put it on, and I will dissemble my-
self in’t: and I would I were the first that eve
dissembled in such a gown, I am not tall enough to
become the function well, nor lean enough fo be
thought a good student; but to be said an. honest
man, and a good housekeeper, goes as fairly as to say
a oe man, and a great scholar. The competitors
enter.

Enter Sir ToBy BELCH and Maria.

Sir To. Jove bless thee, master parson.

Clo. Bonos dies, Sir Toby : for as the old hermit of
Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said
to a niece of King Gorbodue, “‘ That, that is, is ;° so I,
being master parson, am master parson, for what is
that, but that? and is, but is?

Sir To. To him, Sir Topas.

Clo. What, ho! I say.— Peace in this prison.

Sir To, The knave counterfeits well; a good knave,

Mal. (Within.] Who calls there? 21

Clo. Sir Topas, the curate, who comes to visit
Malvolio the lunatic.

1 a Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my
lady.

lo. Out, hyperbolical fiend ! how vexest thou this
man! Talkest thou nothing but of ladies?

Sir To. Well said, master parson.

Mal. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged.
Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad: they have
laid me here in hideous darkness, 31

Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the
most modest terms; foram one of those gentle ones,
that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Sayest
thou, that house is dark?

Mal. As hell, Sir Topas.

Clo. Why, it. hath bay-windows transparent as
barricadoes, and the clear-stories towards the south-
north are as lustrous as ebony ; and yet complainest
thou of obstruction ? 40

Mal. Iam not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you, this
house is dark.

Clo. Madman, thou errest: I say, there is no dark-
ness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled
than the Egyptians in their fog.

Mal. I say, this house is as dark as ignorance,
though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say,
there was never man thus abused. I am no more

mad than you are: make the trial of it in any constant
question. 50

Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning
wild-fowl? :

Mal. That the soul of our grandam might haply
inhabit a bird.

Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion?

   

ie

Clo, ** What, ho! I say.—Peace in this prison.”

Mal. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve
his opinion. :

Clo. Fare thee well: remain, thou still in darkness,
Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras, ere Le
allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, les!
chow. dispossess the soul of thy grandam, Fare thee
we

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

,

ScENE III.) TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 567

Mal. Sir Topas! Sir Topas !— Clo. Iam gone, sir,

Sir To. My most exquisite Sir Topas! And anon, sir,

Clo. Nay, I am for all waters. IU be with you again,

Mar. Thou mightst have done this without thy In a trice,
beard and gown: he sees thee not. Like to the old Vice,

Sir To. To him in thine own voice, and bring Your need to sustain;
me word how thou findest him: I would, we were
well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently Who with dagger of lath
delivered, I would he were; for I am now so far in In his rage and his wrath, 130
offence with my niece, that I cannot pursue with any Cries, Ah, ha! to the devil:
safety this sport to the upshot. Come by-and-by to Like a mad lad,
my chamber. [Exeunt Sir ToBy and MARIA. Pare thy nails, dad,

: Adieu, goodman drivel. [ Exit.

Clo. [Singing.] ‘‘ Hey Robin, jolly Robin,
Teil me how thy lady Maes
Mal. F

. Fool,—
Clo, ‘‘ My lady is unkind, perdy.”
Mal. Fool,—
Clo. ‘‘ Alas, why is she so?” 80
Mal. Fool, I say ;—
. ‘She loves another.”—Who calls, ha?

Mal. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at
my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and
paper. As Iam a gentleman, I will live to be thank-

ul to thee for’t.

Clo. Master Malvolio!

Mal. Ay, good fool.

Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?

Mal. Fool, there was never man so notoriously
abused: I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. 91

Clo. But as well? then you are mad indeed, if you
be no better in your wits than a fool.

Mal. They have here propertied me; keep me in
darkness, send ministers: to me, asses! and do all
they can to face me out of my wits.

Clo, Advise you what you say : the minister is here.
—Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore!
endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble
babble. 1

Mal. Sir Topas,—

Clo. Maintain no words with him, good fellow.—
Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b’ wi’ you, good Sir

Tapas Meany, Amen.—I will, sir, I will.

; ‘al. Fool, fool, fool, I say.

Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you,sir? Iam
shent for speaking to you.

Mal. Good fool, help me to some light, and some
paper: I tell thee, I am as well in my wits, as any
man in Ilyria. 110

Clo. Well-a-day, that you were, sir! .

Mal. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink,
paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to
my lady: it shall advantage thee more than ever the
bearing of letter did.

Clo. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you
not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit?

Mal. Believe me, I am not: I tell thee true. :

Clo. Nay, I'll ne’er believe a madman, till I see his
brains, { will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. 120

Mal. Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I
pr’ythee, be gone.

 

 

ScENE ITI.—O.ivia’s Garden.

Enter SEBASTIAN.

Seb. This is the air; that is the glorious sun;
This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t;
And though ’t is wonder that enwraps me thus,
Yet ‘tis not madness. Where’s Antonio then?
I could not find him at the Elephant ;
Yet there he was, and there I found this credit,
That he did range the town to seek me out.
His counsel now might do me golden service:
For though my soul disputes well with my sense,
That this may be some error, but no madness, 10
Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune
So far exceed all instance, all discourse,
That I am ready to distrust mine eyes,
And wrangle with my reason, that persuades me
To any other trust but that Iam mad,—
Or else the lady’s mad: yet, if ’t were so,
She could not sway her house, command her fol-

lowers,
Take and give back affairs, and their despatch,
With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As, I perceive, she does. There’s something in'’t, 20
That is deceivable. But here the lady comes.

Enter Ouivia and a Priest.
Oli, Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean
well,

Now go with me, and with this holy man,
Into the chantry by; there, before him,
And underneath that consecrated roof,
Plight me the full assurance of your faith:
That my most jealous and too doubtful soul
May live at peace, He shall conceal it,
Whiles you are willing it shall come to note,
What time we will our celebration keep 30
According to my birth.—What do you say?

Seb, I'll follow this good man, and go with you,
And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.

Olt. Then lead the way, good father; and heavens

so shine,
That they may fairly note this act of mine! [Zzeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

ACT V.

 
  

Fabian.

=H W, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter.
\" Clo. Good Master Fabian, grant me
yf another request.

Fab. Anything.

Clo. Do not desire to see this letter. _
Fab. This is, to give a dog, and in
4 a recompense desire my dog again.

fi Se Bader DUKE, VioLa, and Attendants.
> Duke. Belong you to the Lady Olivia,
friends? 7

Clo. Ay, sir; we are some of her trappings. 10

Duke. I know thee well: how dost thou, my good
fellow?

Clo. Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse
for my friends.

   

Duke, Just the contrary ; the better for thy friends. |

Clo. No, sir, the worse.

Duke. How can that be? 17

Clo. Marry, sir, ee praise me, and make an ass of
me; now, my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that
by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself,
and by my friends I am abused: so that, conclusions
to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two
affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and
the better for my foes.

Duke. Why, this is excellent.

Clo. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to
be one of my friends.

sates Thou shalt not be the worse for me: there's
gold.

Clo, But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I
would you could make it another. 31

Duke. O, you give me ill counsel.

Clo, Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this
once; and let your flesh and blood obey it.

Duke. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a
double-dealer: there’s another.

Clo. Primo, secundo, tertio, is a good play; and the
old saying is, the third pays for all: the triplex, sir, is

a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet,
sir, may ae you in mind,—one, two, three. 40
Duke. You can fool no more money out of me at

this throw : if you will let your lady know, I am here
to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it
may awake my bounty further.

Clo. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty, till I come
again. I go, sir; but I would not have you to think,
that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness ;
but, as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will
awake it anon. [Exit.

Vio. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me,

Enter ANTONIO and Officers.
Duke, That face of his I do remember well;
Yet when I saw it last, it was besmear’d,
As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war,
A bawbling vessel was he captain of,
For shallow draught and bulk unprizable,
‘With which such scathful grapple did he make
With the most noble bottom of our fleet,
That very envy, and the tongue of loss,
Cried fame and honour on him.— What’s the matter?
1 Off. Orsino, this is that Antonio,
That took the Phoenix and her fraught from Candy ;

51

 

ScenE L—The Street before OLIv14’s House.
Enter Clown and FABIAN.

And this is he, that did the Tiger board,
When your young nephew Titus lost his leg.
Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state,
In pevaie brabble did we apprehend him.
to. He did me kindness, sir, drew on my side,

But, in conclusion, put strange speech upon me;
I know not what ’t was but distraction.

Duke. Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief,
What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies.
Whom thou, in terms so bloody, and so dear, 7
Hast made thine enemies ?

Ant. Orsino, noble sir,
Be pleas’d that I shake off these names you give me:
Antonio never yet was thief, or pirate,
Though, I confess, on base and ground enough,
Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither:
That most ingrateful boy there, by your side,
From the rude sea’s enrag’d and foamy mouth
Did I redeem ; a wrack past hope he was:
His life I gave him, and did thereto add
My love, without retention, or restraint,
All his in dedication ; for his sake
Did I expose myself, pure for his love,
Into the danger of this adverse town;
Drew to defend him, when he was beset:
Where being apprehended, his false cunning
(Not meaning to partake with me in danger)
Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance,
And grew a twenty-years-removed thing,
While one would wink, denied me mine own purse, 90
Which IJ had recommended to his use
Not half an hour before.

Vio, How can this be?

Duke. When came he to this town?

Ant. To-day, my lord ; and for three months before
(No interim, not a minute’s vacancy),
Both day and night did we keep company.

Enter Ouivia and Attendants.
Duke. Here comes the countess: now heaven walks
on earth !—
But for thee, fellow ; fellow, thy words are madness:
Three months this youth hath tended upon me ;
But more of that anon.—Take him aside.
Oli. What would my lord, but that he may not
have,
Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable ?—
Cesario, you do not keep promise with me.
Vio. Madam ?
Duke. Gracious Olivia,—
Oli. What do you say, Cesario?—Good my lord,—
Vio. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me.
Oli. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord,
It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear,
As howling after music.
uke. Still so cruel? 110
Oli, Still so constant, lord. a
Duke. What, to perverseness? you uncivil lady,
To whose ingrate and inauspicious altars :
My soul the faithfull’st offerings hath breath’d out,
That e’er devotion tender’'d! What shall I do?
Oli. Even what it please my lord, that shall become

him. :
Duke. Why should I not, had I the heart to.do it,
Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death,
Kill what I love? a savage jealousy,

 

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

569

 

 

That sometime savours nobly.—But hear me this : 120
Since you to non-regardance cast my faith,
And that I partly know the instrument
That screws me from my true place in your favour,
Live you, the marble-breasted tyrant, still;
But this your minion, whom, I know, you love,
And whom, by Heaven I swear, I tender dearly,
Him will I tear out of that cruel eye,
Where he sits crowned.in his master’s spite.—
Come, boy, with me: my thoughts are ripe in mischief:
I'll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, 130
To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.
Vio. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly,
To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die.
Oli. Where goes Cesario ?
Vio. After him I love,
More than I love these eyes, more than my life,
More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife.
If I do feign, you witnesses above,
Punish my life for tainting of my love!
Oli. Ah me! detested! how am I beguil’d!
Vio. Who does beguile po who does do you wrong?
Oli. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long? 141
Call forth the holy father ! [Exit an Attendant.
Duke. [To VIOLA.] Come away.
Oli. ither, my lord #—Cesario, husband, stay.

Duke. Husband ?

Oli. Ay, husband: can he that deny?
Duke. Her husband, sirrah ?

Vio. No, my lord, not I.
Oli. Alas! it is the baseness of thy fear,

That makes thee strangle thy propriety.

Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up;

Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art

As great as that thou fear’st.

Re-enter Attendant with the Priest.
O, welcome, father! 150

Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence,
Here to unfold (though lately we intended
To keep in darkness, what occasion now
Reveals before ’tis ripe) what thou dost know
Hath newly pass’d between this youth and me.

Priest. A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm’d by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings ;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal’d in my function, by my testimony:
Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave
Ihave travelled but two hours,

Duke. O thou dissembling cub! what wilt thou be,
When time hath sow’d a grizzle on thy case ?
Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow,
That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow ?
Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet,
Where thou and I henceforth may never meet.

Vio. My lord, I do protest,—

160

O! donotswear! 170

Oli.
Hold little faith, though thou hast too much fear.

inter Sir ANDREW AGUE-CHEER.

Sir And. For the love of God, a surgeon! send one

presently to Sir Toby.

Oli, What’s the matter ?

Sir And. He has broke my head across, and has
ven Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of
od, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were
at home.

Oli, Who has done this, Sir Andrew?

Sir And. The count’s gentleman, one Cesario: we
took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incar-
dinate. 182

Duke. My gentleman, Cesario ?

Sir And. Od’s lifelings! here he is.—You broke my
head for nothing ! and that that I did, I was set on to
do’t by Sir Toby. .

Vio. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you:
You drew your sword upon me, without cause ;

But I Peres you fair, and hurt you not.

Sir And. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have

hurt me: I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb.

 

Enter Sir ToBy BELcH and Clown.

Here comes Sir Toby halting; you shall hear more:
but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled
you othergates than he did.

Duke. How now, gentleman? how is’t with you?

Sir To. That’s all one: he has hurt me, and there’s
the end on’t.—Sot, didst see Dick surgeon, sot ?

Clo. O! he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone: his
eyes were set at eight i’ the morning.

Sir To. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy-measures
pavin. I hate a drunken rogue. 201

Oli. Away with him! Who hath made this havoc
with them ?

Sir And. Ill help you, Sir Toby, because we'll be
dressed together.

Sir To. Willyou help?—an ass-head, and a coxcomb,
and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull!

Oli, Get him to bed! and let his hurt be look’d to.

[Exeunt Clown, Sir ToBy, and Sir ANDREW.

Enter SEBASTIAN,

Seb. Iam sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman;
But had it been the brother of my blood, 210
I must have done no less, with wit and safety.

You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that
I do perceive it hath ottended you:
Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows
We made each other but so late ago.
Duke. One face, one voice, one habit, and two per-
sons ;
A natural perspective, that is, and is not!

Seb. Antonio? O my dear Antonio!

How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me,
Since I have lost thee ! 220

Ant. Sebastian are you?

Seb. Fear’st thou that, Antonio ?

Ant. How have you made division of yourself +
An apple cleft in two is not more twin
Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?

Oli. Most wonderful!

Seb. Do I stand there? I never had a brother ;

Nor can there be that deity in my nature,
Of here and everywhere. I had a sister,

Whom the blind waves and surges have devour’d.—
ee Vio.a.] Of charity, what kin are youto me? 230
hat countryman? what name? what parentage?

Vio. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father;
Such a Sebastian was my brother too,

So went he suited to his watery tomb.
If spirits can assume both form and suit,
You come to fright us.

Seb. A spirit Iam indeed ;

But am in that dimension grossly clad,
Which from the womb I did participate.
Were you a woman, as the rest goes even,
I should my tears let fall upon your cheek,

And say—Thrice welcome, drowned Viola!

Vio. My father had a mole upon his brow,—

Seb. And so had mine.

Vio. And died that day, when Viola from her birth
Had number’d thirteen years.

Seb. O! that record is lively in my soul.

He finished, indeed, his mortal act
That day that made my sister thirteen years,
Vio. It nothing lets to make us happy both,
But this my masculine usurp’d attire, 250
Do not embrace me, till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere, and jump,
That I am Viola: which to confirm,
I'll bring you to a captain in this town,
Where lie my maiden weeds: by whose gentle help
I was preserv’d, to serve this noble count.
All the occurrence of my fortune since
Hath been between this lady and this lord.
Seb. (To Oxivi1a.] So comes it, lady, you have been
mistook ; |
But nature to her bias drew in that. 260
You would have been contracted to a maid,
Nor are you therein, by my life, deceiv’d.
You are betroth’d both to a maid and man.
Duke. Be not amaz’d; right noble is his blood.—

240

 

 
 

 

570 TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL.

 

 

 

(Act V,
If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, Is now in durance at Malvolio’s suit,
1 shall have shure in this most happy wrack. A gentleman, and follower. of my lady’s.
[To VioLA.] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand li. He shall enlarge him.—Fetch Malvolio hither,—
times, ; And yet, alas, now I remember me, ;
Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract. 280
Roll
gi
ie
eae
or
i
Ol. “My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think mé as well a sister as a wife,
One day shall crown the alliance on't, 80 please you,
Here at my house, and at my proper cost.”
Vio. And all those sayings will I over-swear, A most extracting frenzy of mine own
And all those swearings keep as true in soul, From my remembrance clearly banish’d his.—
As doth that orbed continent, the fire 270 ‘
That severs day from night. Re-enter Clown, with a letter, and FABIAN.
ke. Give me thy hand; How does he, sirrah ? j
And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds. Clo. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the staves
Vio. The captain, that did bring me first on shore, end, as well as a man in his case may do. He has
Hath my maid's garments: he, upon some action, | here writ a letter to you: I should have given it you

 
 

 

 

 

Scene I.] TWELFTH-NIGHT: OR, WHAT YOU WILL. 571
to-day morning; but as a madman’s epistles are | Though, I confess, much like the character;

no gospels, so it skills not much when they are | But, out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand:

delivered. And now I do bethink me, it was she 350

Oli. Open it, and read it. 290

Clo. Look then to be well edified, when the fool
delivers the madman.—[Reads.] ‘‘By the Lord,
madam,”—

Oli. How now! art thou mad?

Clo, No, madam, I do but read madness: an your
ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must
allow voz. ‘

Oli. Pr’ythee, read i’ thy right wits,

Clo. So I do, madonna; but to read his right wits,
is to read thus: therefore perpend, my princess, and
give ear. 301

Oli. [To een, Read it you, sirrah.

Fab. (Reads.] “‘By the Lord, madam, you wrong
me, and the world shall know it: though you have
put me into darkness, and given your drunken cousin
rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses
as well as sone ladyship. I have your own letter
that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the
which I doubt not but to do myself much right, or

ou much shame. Think of me as you please. I
leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of

my injury. ‘ 312
The madly-used Marvo.io.”
Oli. Did he write this ?
Clo. Ay, madam.
Duke. This savours not much of distraction.
Oli. See him deliver’d, Fabian: bring him hither.
[Exit FaBran.
My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife, :
One day shall crown the alliance on’t, so please you,
Here at my house, and at my preper cost. 321
ke. Naeem, I am most apt to embrace your
offer. —
[To Vioua.] Your master quits you; and, for your
service done him,
So much against the mettle of your sex,
So far beneath your soft and tender breeding,
. And since you call’d me master for so long,
Here is my hand: you shall from this time be
Your master’s mistress.
Oli. - A sister !—you are she.

Re-enter FABIAN, with MALVOLIO.
Duke. Is this the madman ?
de
How now, Malvolio?

. Madam, you have done me wrong, 330
mone wrong.

Ay, my lord, this same.

i. Have I, Malvolio? no.
Mal. Lady, you have. Pray you, peruse that letter.
You must not now deny it is your hand:
Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase;
Or say, ’tis not your seal, nor your invention :
You can say none of this. Well, grant it then,
And tell me, in the modesty of honour,
Why you have given me such clear lights of favour,
Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you,
To put on yellow stoc! ings, and to frown
Upon Sir Toby, and the lighter eople ?
And, acting this in an obedient hope,
hy have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d,
ret in a dark house, visited by the priest,
And made the most notorious geck and gull
That e’er invention play’d on? tell me why.
Oli, Alas! Malvolio, this is not my writing,

 

First told me thou wast mad ; then cam’st in smiling,
And in such forms which here were presuppos’d
Upon thee in the letter. Pr’ythee, be content:

This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon thee;

But when we know the grounds and authors of it,

Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge

Of thine own cause.

Fab. Good madam, hear me speak ;

And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come,

Taint the condition of this present hour,

Which I have wonder'd at. In hope it shall not,

Most freely I confess, myself, and Toby,

Set this device against Malvolio here,

Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts
e had conceiv'’d against him. Maria writ

The letter at Sir Toby’s great importance:

In recompense whereof, he hath married her.

How with a sportful malice it was follow’d,

May rather pluck on laughter than revenge,

If that the injuries be justly weigh’d,

That have on both sides pass’d. 370
Oli. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!
Clo. Why, ‘“‘some are born great, some achieve

greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon

them.” I was one, sir, in this interlude; one Sir

Topas, sir; but that’s all one.—‘‘ By the Lord, fool,

I am not mad.’—But do you remember? “ Madam,

why laugh you at such a barren rascal? an you smile

not, he’s gage’d:” and thus the whirligig of time

brings in his revenges.
Mal. I'll be reveng’d on the whole pack of yor ay
it.

360

Oli. He hath been most notoriously abus’d.
Duke. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace,
He hath not told us of the captain yet:
When that is known and golden time convents,
A solemn combination shall be made
Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister,
We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come ;
For so you shall be, while you are a man;
But when in other habits you are seen,
Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen. 390
[Exeunt all, except Clown.

CLOWN sings.
When that Iwas and a littic tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind a id the rain;
A foolish thing was but a toy,
or the rain it raineth every day.

But when Icame to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate.
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came, alas! to wive,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
By swaggering could I never thrive,
For the rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
With toss-pots still had drunken heads,
For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day. LE at
tb.

409

 

 

 
 

   
  
 

 

 

AS YOU

LIKE IT.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

DUKE, living in exile.

FREDERICK, his Brother, Usurper of his dominions.
Mliina \ Lords attending upon the exiled Duke.
LE BEAU, @ Courtier.

CHARLES, a Wrestler.

OLIVER,
JAQUES, ;Sons of Sir Rowland de Bois.
ORLANDO,

tennis: \ Servants to Oliver.
TOUCHSTONE, a Clown.

The SCENE lies, first, near Quivene Hou: :

| StR OLIVER MAR-TEXT, a Vicar.

CoRIN,
SILVIUs, | Shepherds.

WILLIAM, a Country Fellow, in love with Audrey.
HYMEN.

ROSALIND, Daughter to the exiled Duke.
CELIA, Daughter to Frederick.

PHEBE, a Shepherdess.

AUDREY, a Country Wench.

Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants.
afterwards, in the Usurper’s Court, and in the

orest of ARDEN.

 

ACT I.
ScENE I.—An Orchard, near OLIVER’s House.

Orlando.
‘S Iremember, Adam, it was upon this
fashion bequeathed me by will but poor
a thousand crowns; and, as thou say’st,
i charged my brother on his blessing to
» breed me well: and there begins my sad-
ness. My brother Jaques he keeps at
school, and report speaks goldenly of his
profit: for my part, he keeps me rusti-
cally at home, or, to speak more properly,
stays me here at home unkept; for call
, you that keeping for a gentleman of my
birth, that differs not from the stalling
of an ox? His horses are bred better; for, besides
that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught
their manage, and to that end riders dearly hired:
but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth,
for the which his animals on his dunghills are as much
bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so
plentifully gives me, the something that Nature gave
me, his countenance seems to take from me: he lets
me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother,
and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with
my education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me;
and the spirit of my father, which I think is within
me, begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will
no longer .endure it, though yet I know no wise
remedy how to avoid it.
Adam. Yonder comes my master, your brother.
Orl. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how
he will shake me up. 30

a

Enter OLIVER.

Oli. Now, sir! what make you here?

Orl. Nothing: Iam not taught to make anything.

Oli. What mar you then,,sir?

Orl. Marry, sir, lam helping you to mar that which
God made, a poor unworthy brother of yours, with
idleness,

Oli. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be naught
awhile.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM.

| .Orl. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with
them? What prodigal portion have I spent, that I
should conie to such penury ? 41

Oli. Know you where you are, sir?

Orl. O! sir, very well: here, in your orchard.

Oli. Know you before whom, sir?

Orl. Ay, better than him Iam before knows me. I
know, you are my eldest brother ; and, in the gentle
condition of blood, you should so know me. . The
courtesy of nations allows youmy better, in that you
are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not
away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt
us. I have as much of my father in me, as you;
albeit, I confess, your coming before me is nearer
to his reverence. 53

Oli. What, boy!

ee Come, come, elder brother, you are too young
in this.

Oli, Wilt thou lay hands on me, villain? ’

Orl. I am no villain: I am the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Bois ; he was my father, and he is thrice
a villain, that says, such a father beaut villains, Wert
thou not my brother, I would not take this hand from
thy throat, till this other had pulled out thy tongue for
saying so : thou hast railed on thyself. 63

Adam. [Coming forward.] Sweet masters, be pa-
tient: for your father’s remembrance, be at accord, |

Oli. Let me go, I say. ‘

Orl. I will not, till I please : vou shall hear me. My
father charged you in his will to give me good edu-
cation : you have trained me like a peasant, obscuring
and hiding from me all gentleman-like qualities: the
spirit of my father grows strong in me, andI will n0
jonger endure it; therefore, allow me such exercises
as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor allot-
.| tery my father left me by testament: with that I will
go buy my fortunes. ,

Oli. And what wilt thou do? beg, when that is
spent? Well, sir, get you in: I will not long be
troubled with you; you shall have some part of your
will. I pray you, leave me.

 

Sa

 

 
 

 

Scéve IT.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

573°

 

Orl. I will no further offend you, than becomes me
for my good. 81

Oli. Get you with him, you old dog.

Adam. Is old dog my reward ? ost true, I have
lost my teeth in your service.—God be with my old
master! he would not have spoke such a word.

. [Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM.

Oli. Is it even so? begin you to grow upon me? I
will physic your rankness, and yet give no thousand
crowns neither. Holla, Dennis!

Enter DENNIs.

Den. Calls your worship?

Oli. Was not Charles, the duke’s wrestler, here to
speak with me? ‘ 1

Den. So please you, he is here at the door, and im-
portunes access to you.

Oli. Call him in. [Exit DENNIS.]—’T will be a good
way ; and to-morrow the wrestling is.

Enter CHARLES.

Cha. Good morrow to your worship.

Oli. Good Monsieur Charles, what’s the new news
at the new court? 98

Cha. There’s no news at the court, sir, but the old
news: that is, the old duke is banished by his younger
brother the new duke, and three or four loving lords
have put themselves into voluntary exile with him,
whose lands and revenues enrich the new duke;
therefore, he gives them good leave to wander.

Oli. Can you tell, if Rosalind, the duke’s daughter,
be banished with her father?

Cha. O! no; for the duke’s daughter, her cousin, so
loves her,—being ever from their cradles bred to-
Fen eat she would have followed her exile, or

ave died to stay behind her. She is at the court, and
no less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter ;
and never two ladies loved as they do. 112

Oli. Where will the old duke live ?

Cha. They say, he is already in the forest of Arden,
anda may merry men with him; and there they live
like the old Robin Hood of England. They say, many
young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet the
time carelessly, as they did in the golden world.

Oli. What,—you wrestle to-morrow before the new
duke? 120

Cha. Marry, do I, sir; and I came to acquaint you
withamatter. Iam given, sir, secretly tounderstand,
that your younger brother, Orlando, hath a disposition
to come in disguised against me to try a fall. To-
morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit, and he that
escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit
him well. Your brother is but young, and tender ;
and, for your love, I would be loath to foil him, as I
must for my own honour if he come in: therefore, out
of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint you
withal, that either you might stay him from his in-
tendment, or brook such disgrace well as he shall run
into, in that it is a thing of his own search, and alto-
gether against my will. 134
~ Olt. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which,
thou shalt find, I will most kindly requite. I had my-
self notice of my brother’s purpose herein, and have
by underhand means laboured to dissuade him from
it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee, Charles, it is the
stubbornest young fellow of France, full of ambition,
an envious emulator of every man’s good parts, a
secret and villainous contriver against me his natural
brother: therefore, use thy discretion. I had as lief
thou didst break his neck as his finger ; and thou wert
best look-to’t ; for if thou dost him any slight disgrace,
or if he do not mightily grace himself on thee, he will
practise against thee 7 poison, aden thee by some
treacherous device, and_never leave thee till he hath
ta’en thy life by some indirect means or other ; for, I
assure t! r
not one so young and so villainous this day living. I
speak but brotherly of him; but should I anatomise

im to thee as he is, I must blush and weep, and thou
must look pale and wonder. 154

ha, Lam heartily glad I came hither to you. If he

come to-morrow, I’ll give him his payment :.if ever .

ee (and almost with tears I speak it), there is -

 

he -e alone again, I’ll never wrestle for prize more;
and so, God keep your worship ! [Exit.
Oli. Farewell, good Charles.—Now will I stir this
gamester. I hope, I shall see an end of him; for my
soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he:
yet he’s gentle; never schooled, and yet learned; full
of noble device; of allsorts enchantingly beloved, and,
indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and espe-
cially of my own people, who best know him, that I
am altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long;
this wrestler shall clear all: nothing remains, but that
I kindle the boy thither, which now I’ll go a 2
it.

 

Scene II.—A Lawn before the DUKE’s Palace.

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Cel. I pray thee, Rosalind, sweet my coz, be merry.

Ros. Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mis-
tress of, and would you yet I were merrier? Unless
you could teach me to forget a banished father, you
must not learn me how to remember any extraordi-
nary pleasures.

Cel. Herein I see, thou lovest me not with the full
weight that I love thee. If my uncle, thy banished
father, had banished thy uncle, the duke, my father,
so thou hadst been still with me, I could have taught -
my love to take thy father for mine: so wouldst thou,
if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously
tempered, as mine is to thee. = 13

Ros. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate,
to rejoice in yours.

Cel. You know, my father hath no child but I, nor
none is like to have; and, truly, when he dies, thou
shalt be his heir: for what he hath taken away from
thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affec-
tion: by mine honour, I will; and when I break that
oath, let meturnmonster. Therefore, my sweet Rose,
alee Rose, be eed? R 22

os. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports.
Let me see; what think.you of falling in love?

Cel. Marry, I pr’ythee, do, to make sport withal:
but love no man in good earnest; nor no further in
sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou
may’st in honour come off again.

Ros. What shall be our sport then?

Cel. Let us sit, and mock the good housewife,
Fortune, from her wheel, that her gifts may hence-
forth be bestowed equally. a 32

_Ros. I would, we could do so; for her benefits are
fabely misplaced, and the bountiful blind woman
doth most mistake in her gifts to women.

Cel. "Lis true, for those that she makes fair, she
scarce makes honest; and those that she makes
honest, she makes very ill-favouredly.

Ros. Nay, now thou goest from Fortune’s office to
Nature’s: Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in
the lineaments of Nature. 41

Cel. No: when Nature hath made a fair creature,
may she not. by Fortune fall into the fire?-Though
Nature hath given us wit to flout at Fortune, hath not
Fortune sent in this fool to cut off the argument ?

Enter TOUCHSTONE.

Ros. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature,
when Fortune makes Nature’s natural the cutter-off
of Nature’s wit. 48

Cel. Peradventure, this is not Fortune’s work
neither, but Nature’s; who, peroeiying our natural
wits too dull to reason of such goddesses, hath sent
this natural for our whetstone: for always the dulness
of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.—How now,
wit? whither wander you?

Touch.. Mistress, you must come away to your
father.

Cel. Were you made the messenger?

r Touch. No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come
‘or you.

Ros. Where.learned you that oath, fool? 60

Touch. Of acertain knight, that swore by his honour
they were good pancakes, and swore by his honour

 

 
 

574

AS YOU LIKE IT.

{Acr L

 

 

the mustard was naught: now, I'll stand to it, the
pancakes were naught, and the mustard was good,
and yet was not the knight forsworn.

Cel. How prove you that, in the great heap of your
knowledge ?

Ros. Ay, marry: now unmuzzle your wisdom. _

Touch. Stand you both forth now: stroke your chins,
and swear by your beards that I am a knave. 7

== in|

Touch. “‘ No, by mine honour; but I was bid to come for you.”

Cel. By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

_, Touch. By my knavery, if I had it, then I were; but
if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn :
no more was this knight, swearing by his honour, for
he never had any; or, if he had, he had sworn it away
before ever he saw those pancakes, or that mustard.

Cel, Pr’ythee, who is ‘t that thou mean’st ?

Touch, One that old Frederick, your father, loves.

Cel. My father’s love is enough to honour him
enough. Speak no more of him: you'll be whipped
for taxation, one of these days. 81

Touch. The more pity, that fools may not speak
wisely, what wise men do foolishly.

_Cel. By my troth, thou say’st true; for since the
little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery
that wise men have makes a great show. Here comes
Monsieur Le Beau.

Enter LE BEAU.

Ros. With his mouth full of news.

Cel, Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their
young. 90

fos. Then shall we be news-cramm’d.

Cel. All the better ; we shall be the more market-
able. ; Bon jour, Monsicur Le Beau: what’s the
news
r ee Blea, Fair princess, you have lost much good

port.

Cel. Sport? Of what colour?

Le Beau, What colour, madam? How ghall I
answer you?

Ros. As wit and fortune will. 100

Touch. Or as the Destinies decree.

Cel. Well said : that was laid on with a trowel.

Touch. Nay, if Ikeep not my rank,—

Ros. Thou losest thy old smell.

Le Beau. You amaze me, ladies: I would have told

   

 

ae of good wrestling, which you have
of.
Ros. Yet tell us the manner
Le Beau. I will tell

Jost the sight

of the wrestling.
tell you the beginning; and, if it
pe your Jadyships, a mnay see the end, for the
est is yet to do: and here, where you are, they are
coming to perform it. _ 112
Cel. Well, the beginning, that is dead and buried.
Le Beau. There comes an old man, and his three
sons,—
Cel. I could match this beginning with an old tale,
Le Beau. Three proper young men, of excellent
growth and presence ;—
Ros. With bills on their necks,—“‘ Be it known unto
all men by these presents, ”— 120
Le Beau. The eldest of the three wrestled with
Charles, the duke’s wrestler; which Charles in a
moment threw him, and broke three of his ribs, that
there is little hope. of life in him: so he served the
second, and so the third. Yonder they lie, the poor
old man, their father, making such pitiful dole over
them, that all the beholders take his part with

Touch. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the
ladies have lost? 131

Le Beau, Why, this that I speak of.

Touch. Thus men may grow wiser every day! it is
the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was
sport for ladies.

Cel. Or I, I promise thee.

Fos. But is there any else longs to see this broken

| music in his sides? is there yet another dotes upon

rib-breaking ?—Shall we see this wrestling, cousin? ;
Le Beau. You must, if you stay here; for here is
the place appointed for the wrestling, and they are
ready to perform it. L 142
Cel. Yonder, sure, they are coming: let.us now stay
and see it.

Flourish. Enter Duke FREDERICK, Lords, ORLANDO,
CHARLES, and Attendants,

Duke F. Come on: since the youth will not be en-
treated, his own peril on his forwardness.

Ros, Is yonder the man?

Le Beau. Even he, madam.

Cel. Alas! he is too young: yet he lookssuccessfully.

Duke F. How now, daughter, and.cousin! are you
crept hither to see the wrestling? _ 151

‘os. Ay, my liege, so please you give us leave,

Duke F, You will take little delight in it, I can tell
you, there is such odds in the men. In pity of the
challenger’s youth I would fain dissuade him, but he
will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if
you can move him. Z

Cel. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau.

Duke F. Do so: I'll not be by. [DUKE goes apart,

Le Beau. Monsieur the challenger, the princess
call for you. 161

Orl. I attend them, with all respect and duty.
Ros. Young man, have you challenged Charles the
wrestler?

Orl. No, fair princess ; he is the general challenger:

I come but in, as others do, to try with him the
strength of my youth. ate

Cel. Young gentleman, your spirits.are too bold for

You have seen cruel proof of this mans

your years. \
strength: if ro saw yourself with your eyes, or knew
yourself with your judgment, the fear of your adven-

ture would counsel you to a more equal enterprise.
We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your owl
safety, and give over this attempt. |

Ros. Do, young sir: your reputation shall not there-
fore be mis vised. e will make it our suit to the
duke, that the wrestling pelpht not go forward. Wr

Ori. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard
thoughts, wherein I confess me much guilty, to deny
so fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your
fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial:
wherein if I be foiled, there is but one shamed that
but one dead that is

was never gracious; if killed,
a friends no wrong, for

willing to be so. I shall do my

 

 

 
 

ScENE IL]

AS YOU

J have none to lament me; the world no injury, for |

which may be better supplied when I have made it

\
|
1
| in it I have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place,
| empty.

|
|
|
|
|
|
|

 

 

LIKE IT. 575

Orl. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more
modest working.

Duke F. You shall try but one fall.

Cha. No, I warrant your grace, you shall not entreat

 

 

Ros.

Ros. The little strength that I have, I would it were |
) with you. 190
Cel, And mine, to eke out hers. : f
Ros, Fare you well. Pray Heaven, I be deceived in
; you
Cel. Your heart’s desires be with you. : |

| _ Cha. Come, where is this young gallant, that is so .

desirous to lie with his mother earth? |

 

E “*Gentleman,

Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, .

That could give more, but that her hand lacks means. "
\

him to a second, that have so mightily persuaded him
from a first. 2,
Orl. You mean to mock me after: you should not
have mocked me before ; but come your ways.
Ros. Now, Hercules be epee, young man!
Cel. I would I were invisible, to catch the strong
fellow by the leg. [CHARLES and ORLANDO wrestle.
Ros. O excellent young man!

 

 
 

 

 

576 AS YOU LIKE IT. [Act L
Cel. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell | And pity her for her good father’s sake ;

who should down. [CHARLES is thrown. Shout. | And, on my life, his malice ’gainst the lady
Duke F. No more, no more. 211 | Will suddenly break forth.—Sir, fare

Orl. Yes, I beseech your grace: I am not yet well
breathed.

Duke F. How dost thou, Charles?

Le Beau. He cannot speak, my lord. |

Duke F. Bear him away. [CHARLES is borne out.]

What is thy name, young man ? :

Orl. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir
Rowland de Bois.

Duke F. I would thou hadst been son to some man

else.

The world esteem’d thy father honourable, 220
But I did find him stillmine enemy: |. .
Thou shouldst have better pleas’d me with this deed,
Hadst thou descended from another house.
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth.
I would thou hadst told me of another father.

(Exeunt Duke FREDERICK, Train, and LE BEAU.

Cel. Were I my father, coz, would I do this?

Ori. Iam more proud to be Sir Rowland’s son,
His youngest son ;—and would not change that calling,
To be adopted heir to Frederick. :

Ros. My father lov’d Sir Rowland as his soul, 230
And all the world was of my father’s mind.

Had I before known this young man his son,
I should have given him tears unto entreaties,
Ere he should thus have ventur'd.

Cel. Gentle cousin,

Let us go thank him, and encourage him :

My father’s rough and envious disposition

Sticks me at heart.—Sir, you have well deserv'd:

If you do keep your promises in love

But justly, as you have exceeded all promise,

Your mistress shall be happy.

Ros. Gentleman, 240
[Giving him a chain from her neck.
Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune,

That could give more, but that her hand lacks

means.—
Shall we go, coz?
Cel. Ay.—Fare you well, fair gentleman.
Orl. Can I not say, Ithank you? My better parts

Are all thrown down, and that which here stands up
Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.
Ros. He calls us back. My pride fell with my
fortunes ;
T’ll ask him what he would.—Did you call, sir ?~
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies.
Cel, Will you go, coz?
Ros. Have with you.—Fare you well.
Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.
Orl. What passion hangs these weights upon my
tongue?
T cannot speak to her, yet she urg’d conference.
O poor Orlando! thou art overthrown.
Or Charles, or something weaker, masters thee.

Re-enter LE BEAv.

Le Beau. Good sir, I do in friendship counsel you
To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd
High commendation, true applause, and love,
Yet such is now the duke’s condition,

That he misconstrues all that you have done.
The duke is humorous: what he is, indeed,
More suits you to conceive, than I to speak of.

Orl. I thank you, sir; and, pray you, tell me this:
Which of the two was daughter of the duke,

That here was at the wrestling?

Le Beau. Neither his daughter, if we judge by

manners :
But yet, indeed, the smaller is his daughter :
The other is daughter to the banish’d duke,
And here detain'd by her usurping uncle,
To keep his daughter company ; whose loves
Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
But I can tell you, that of late this duke
Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece,
Grounded upon no other argument,
But that the people praise her for her virtues,

250

260

270

I you well:
Hereafter, in a better world than this, .
I shall desire more love and knowledge of you. 280
Orl. I rest much bounden to you: tare. you well,
Exit LE BEav,
Thus must I from the smoke into the smother; x
From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother.—
But heavenly Rosalind ! [Evit.

ScENE IIJ.—A Room in the Palace.

Enter CELIA and ROSALIND.
Cel. Why, cousin, why, Rosalind !—Cupid have
mercy !—Not a word ? *

 

 

ae Why, cousin, why, Rosalind !—Cupid have mercy !—Not

Cel.
a wor

Ros. Not one to throw at a dog.

Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away
upon curs, throw some of them at me: come, lame me
with reasons.

Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the
one should be lamed with reasons, and the other mad
without any.

Cel. But is all this for your father? 10

Ros. No, some of it is for my child’s father: O, how
full of briars is this working-day world! r

Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in
holiday foolery : if we walk not in the trodden paths,
our ag petticoats will catch them.

Ros. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are
in my heart.

Cel. Hem them a aT #

Ros. I would try, if I could ery hem, and have him.

Cel. Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

se O! they take the part of a better wrestler than
myself. ie ad set

Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will try in wume,
in despite of a fall.—But, turning these jests out 0!
service, let us talk in good earnest. Is it possible, 02
such a sudden, you should fall into so strong a liking
with old Sir Rowland’s youngest son?

Ros, The duke my father lov’d his father dearly.

 

 

 
 

Scene III.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

577

 

 

Cel. Doth it therefore ensue, that you should love
his son nares By this kind of chase, I should hate
him, for my father hated his father dearly ; yet I hate
not Orlando. 32

Ros. No, faith, hate him not, for my sake.

Cel. Why should I not? doth he not deserve well?

Ros. Let me love him for that; and do you love
him, because I do.—Look, here comes the duke.

Cel. With his eyes full of anger.

Enter Duke FREDERICK, with Lords.
Duke F. Mistress, despatch you with your safest

aste,
And get you from our court.
Me, uncle?

08.

Duke F. You, cousin:
Within these ten days if that thou be’st found 40
So near our public court as twenty miles,
Thou diest for it.

0s. I do beseech your grace,
Let me the Enowledee of my fault bear with me.
If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic
(As I do trust I am not), then, dear uncle,
Never so much as in a thought unborn
Did I offend your highness.
- Duke F. : Thus do all traitors:
If their purgation did consist in words,
They are as innocent as grace itself.
Let it suffice thee, that I trust thee not.
s. Yet your mistrust cannot make me a traitor,

Tell me, whereon the likelihood depends.

Duke F. Thou art thy father’s daughter; there’s

: -enough.
Ros, a wes I when your highness took his duke-
om ;
So was I when your highness banish’d him.
Treason is not inherited, my lord ;
Or, if we did derive it from our friends,
What’s that to me? my father was no traitor. 60
. Then, good my liege, mistake me not so much,
To think my poverty is treacherous.
Cel, Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
Duke F. Ay, Celia: we stay’d her for your sake;
Else had she with her father rang’d along.
Cel. I did-not then entreat to have her stay:
It was your pleasure, and your own remorse.
I was too young that time to value her;
But now I know her: if she be a traitor,
Why, soam I; we still have slept together,
Rose at an instant, learn’d, play’d, eat together ; 70
And wheresoe’er we went, like Juno’s Swans,
Still we went coupled, and inseparable.
Duke F. She is too subtle for thee ; and her smooth-
ness,
Her very silence, and her patience,
Speak to the people, and they pity her.
hou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name:
And thou wilt show more bright, and seem more
virtuous,
When she is gone. Then, open not thy lips:

 

Firm and irrevocable is my doom 80
Which I have pass’d upon her. She is banish’d.

Cel. Pronounce that sentence then on me, my liege:
I cannot live out of her company. |

Duke F. oe are a fool.—You, niece, provide your-

self: ?
If you outstay the time, upon mine honour,
And in the greatness of my word, you die.
Exeunt Duke FREDERICK and Lords.

Cel. O my poor Rosalind! whither wilt thou go?
Wilt thou change fathers? I will give thee mine.

I charge thee, be not thou more griev’d than Iam.

Ros. I have more cause.

Cel. Thou hast not, cousin. 90
Pr’ythee, be cheerful: know’st thou not, the duke
Hath banish’d me, his daughter?

That he hath not.

08.

Cel. No? hath not? Rosalind lacks then the love
Which teacheth thee that thou and I am one,
Shall we be sunder’d? shall we part, sweet girl?
No: let my father seek another heir.

Therefore, devise with me how we may fly,

Whither to go, and what to bear with us:

And do not seek to take your change upon you,

To bear your griefs yourself, and leave me out;

For, by this heaven, now at our sorrows pale,

Bay what thou canst, I’ll Fo along with thee.
‘os. Why, whither shall we go?

Cel. To seek my uncle in the forest of Arden.

Ros. Alas, what danger will it be to us,
Maids as we are, to travel forth so far!

Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.

Cel. I’ll put myself in poor and mean attire,
And with a kind of umber smirch my face.

The like do you: so shall we pass along,
And never stir assailants.
Were it not better,

Ros.
Because that Iam more than common tall,
That I did suit me all points like a man?
A gallant curtle-axe upon my thigh,
A_boar-spear in my hand; and, in my heart
Lie there what hidden woman’s fear there will,
We'll have a swashing and a martial outside;
As many other mannish cowards have,
That do outface it with their semblances.
Cel. What shall I call thee, when thou art a man? 120
Ros. I'll have no worse a name than Jove'’s own

100

110

page,
And therefore look you call me Ganymede.
But what will you be call’d?

Cel. Something that hath a reference to my state:
No longer Celia, but Aliena.

Ros. But, cousin, what if we essay’d to steal
The clownish fool out of your father’s court?
Would he not be a comfort to our travel? _

Cel. He'll go along o’er the wide world with me;
Leave me alone to woo him. Let’s away, 1
And get our jewels and our wealth together,
Devise the fittest time, and safest way
To hide us from pursuit that will be made
After my flight. Now go we in content

To liberty, and not to banishment. [Ezeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

  
   
     
     
  

Duke Senior. : .
‘W, my co-mates, and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life
more sweet

Than that of painted pomp? Are not
these woods

More free from peril than the en-
vious court ?

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons’ difference; as the icy

fang. 7

And churlish chiding of the winter's
wind,

Which when it bites, and blows upon
my bo eG .

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile,

and say,
This is no flattery: these are coun-
sellors 10
That feelingly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;
And this our life, ok from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your grace,
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so a and so sweet a style. 20
Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads,
Have their round haunches gor’d.
1 Lord. Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp,
Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you.
To-day ay. Lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along 30
Under an oak, whose Be root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood ;
To the which place a poor sequester'd stag,
That from the hunter's aim had ta’en a hurt,
Did come to languish: and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav’d forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Cours’d one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase: and thus the hairy fool, 40
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.
Duke §. . But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralise this spectacle ?
1 Lord. O! yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping into the needless stream ;
‘* Poor deer,” quoth he, ‘thou mak’st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
To that which had too much.” Then, being there

alone,
Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends ;
“'T is right,” quoth he ; “thus misery doth part
The flux of company.” Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,

 

ACT ITI.
SceNE I.—The Forest of Arden.
Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, and other Lords, like foresters.

And never stays to greet him: “ Ay,” quoth Jaques,
“* Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
*T is just the fashion : wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?”
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life ; swearing, that we 60
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what ’s worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their assign’d and native dwelling-place.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this contempla-

ion?
2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.
uke S. - : Show me the place.
I Jove to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he’s full of matter.

2 Lord. I'll bring you to him straight. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Room in the Palace.

Enter Duke FREDERICK, Lords, and Attendants.

Duke F. Can it bé possible that no man saw them?
It cannot be: some villains of my court
Are of consent and sufferance in this,

1 Lord. J cannot hear of any that did see her.

The ladies, her attendants of her chamber,
Saw her a-bed; and, in the morning early,
They found the bed untreasur’d of their mistress.

2) Tork My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
Your grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
Hesperia, the princess’ gentlewoman, 10
Confesses, that she secretly o’erheard
Your daughter and her cousin much commend
The parts and graces of the wrestler,
That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles ;
And she believes, wherever they are gone,
That youth is surely in their company.

Duke F. Send. to his brother: fetch that gallant

hither ;

If he be absent, bring his brother to me,
Ill make him find him. Do this suddenly,
And let not search and inquisition quail

20
To bring again these foolish runaways. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE ITI.—Before OLIVER’s House.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting.
Orl, Who's there?
Adam. What! my young master?—O my gentle
master!

O my sweet master! O you memor:
Of old Sir Rowland! why, what make oH here?
Why are you virtuous? why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The bony priser of the humorous duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. 10
Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours : your virtues, gentle master,

 

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orl. y, What’s the matter? “
Adam O unhappy youth!
Come not within these doors: within this roof
The enemy of all your graces lives.
Your brother—(no, no brother: yet the son—
Yet not the son—I will not call him son 20
Of him I-was about to call his father)—
Hath heard your praises, and this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it: if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him, and his practices.
This is no place; this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.
Orl. Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?
Adam. No matter whither, so youcome not here. 30

 

 

 

    

Orl. “Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?”

c=

Orl. weet! wouldst thou have me go and beg my

‘ood,
Or with a base and boisterous sword enforce
A thievish living on the common road ?
This I must do, or know not what to do;
Yet this I will not do, do how I can.
Irather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.
Adam. But do not so. I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav’d under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse, 40
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown.
Take that ; and He that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age! Here is the gold :
All this I ae you. Let me be your servant:
Though I look old, yet I am strong and lusty;
‘or in my youth I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ;
Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo 50
The means of weakness and debility ;
Therefore my age is as a lusty winter,
Tosty, but kindly. Let me go with you:
Tl do the service of a younger man
In all your business and necessities.

 

 

AS YOU LIKE. IT.

 

579

Orl. O.good old man! how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world,
When service sweat for duty, not for meed !
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat but for promotion, 60
And having that, do choke their service up
Even with the having: it is not so with thee.
But, poor old man, thou prun’st a rotten tree,
That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But come thy ways, we ’ll 4 along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.
Adam. Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty. 70
From seventeen years, till now almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek ;
But at fourscore it is too late a week:
Yet fortune cannot recompense me better,
Than to die well, and not my master’s debtor, [Hxeunt.

ScEeNE IV.—The Forest of Arden.

Enter ROSALIND in boy's clothes, CELIA dressed like
a shepherdess, and TOUCHSTONE.

Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!

Touch. I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not
weary.

Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man’s
apparel, and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort
the weaker vessel, as doublet and hose ought to show
itself courageous to petticoat: therefore, courage, good
Aliena! 3

Cel. I pray you, bear with me: I can go no further.

Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with you
than bear you: yet I should bear no cross, if I did
bear you; for I think you have no money in your purse.

Ros, Well, this is the forest of Arden.

Touch. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I:
when I was at home, I was in a better place; but
travellers must be content.

Ros. Ay, be so, good Touchstone.—Look you; who
comes here? a young man, and an old, in solemn talk.

Enter Corin and SILVIUS.

Cor. That is the way to make her scorn you still.
Sil. O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her !20
Cor. I partly guess, for I have lov’d ere now.
Sil. No, Corin; pene old, thou canst not guess,

Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover

As ever sigh’d upon a midnight pillow:

But if thy love were ever like to mine,

As sure I think did never man love so,

How many actions most ridiculous

Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy ?
Cor. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
Sil. O! thou didst then ne’er love so heartily.

If thou remember’st not the slightest folly

That ever love did make thee run into,

Thou hast not lov’d:

Or if thou hast not sat, as I do now, ;

Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress’ praise,

Thou hast not lov’d:

| Orif thou hast not broke from company,

Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov’d.—O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! [Hzit.
Ros. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own. 4
Touch. And I mine. I remember, when I was in
love I broke my sword upon a stone, and bid him take
that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and Iremember
the kissing of her batlet, and the cow’s dugs that her
pretty chopped hands had milked; and I remember
the wooing of a peascod instead of her, from whom I
took two cods, and, giving her them again, said with
weeping tears, ‘‘ Wear these for my sake.” We, that
are true lovers, run into strange capers; but as all is

 

 
 

 

 

580 AS YOU LIKE IT. [Acr IL
mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in | Go with me: if you like, upon report,
folly. 52 | The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,

Ros. Thou speakest wiser than thou art ware of. | I will your very faithful feeder be,

Touch. Nay, I shall ne’er beware of mine own wit, | And buy it with your gold right suddenly. [Exewnt,

till I break my shins against it. 3

Ros. Jove, Jove! this shepherd’s passion

Is much upon my fashion. !

Touch. And mine; but it grows something stale
with me. ,

Cel. I pray you, one of you question yond man, 60
Tf he for gold will give us any food:
I faint almost to death.

Touch. Holla, you clown !

 

Sil. “O Corin, that thou knew’st how I do love her!"

Ros.

Cor. Who calls?
Touch. Your betters, sir.

Cor. Else are they very wretched.

Peace, fool: he’s not thy kinsman.

‘0s. Peace, I say.—
Good even to you, friend.
Cor. And to you, gentle sir; and to you all.
Ros. I pr’ythee, shepherd, if that love, or gold,
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves, and feed.
Here’s a young maid with travel much oppress’d,
And faints for succour.
Cor. : Fair sir, I oe her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze ;
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality. 80
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale: and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on; but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
Ros, What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
Cor. That young swain that you saw here but ere-

while,

That little cares for buying anything.

Ros. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock, 90
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.

Cel. And we will mend thy wages. Ilike this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.

Cor. Assuredly, the thing is to be sold.

 

 

ScENE V.—Another Part of the Forest,
Enter AMIENS, JaQuES, and others,

Sona.
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his me note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. More, more! I pr’ythee, more. 9

Ami. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques,

Jag. I thank it. More! I pr’ythee more. I can
suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks
eggs. More! I pr’ythee, more.

Ami. My voice is ragged; I know I cannot please

Ami.

you. :
Jag. I do not desire you to please me; I do desire
ou to sing. Come, more; another stanza. Call you
em stanzas? .
Ami, What you will, Monsieur Jaques.

Jaq. Nay, I care not for their names; they owe me
nothing. ill you sing? a
Ami. More at your request than to please myself.

Jaq. Well then, if ever I thank any man, I'll thank
you: but that they call compliment is like the en-
counter of two dog-apes ; and when a man thanks me
heartily, methinks I have seven him a penny, and he
renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and
you that will not, hold your tongues. :

«fmi, Well, I'll end the song.—Sirs, cover the while;
the duke will drink under this tree.— He hath been all
this day to look you. : oe 31 |

Jaq. And I have been all this day toavoidhim. He
is too disputable for my company: I think of as many
matters as he, but I give Heaven thanks, and make
no boast of them. Come, warble ; come.

Sona.
Who doth ambition shun, [All together here.
And loves to live 7’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither: 40
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that I made
yesterday in despite of my invention.
Ami. And I'll sing it.
Jag. Thus it goes—
If it do come to pass,
Lhat any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease, 50
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame:
Here shail he see
Gross fools as he, ®
An tf he will come to me.

Ami. What’s that ducdame ? eee ;

Jaq. ’Tis a Greek invocation to call fools intoacircle,
I'll go sleep if I can; if I cannot, I'll rail against a
the first-born of Egypt. 4

Ami, And I'll go seek the duke: his banquet is
prepared. [Exeunt severally.

 

 

ScENE VI.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter ORLANDO and ADAM. .
Adam. Dear master, I can go no further: 0! Idie
pe ee?

 

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE VII.)

for food. Here lie I down, and measure out my grave.
Farewell, kind master.

Orl. Why, how now, Adam! no greater heart in
thee? Live a little; comfort a little; cheer thyself a
little. If this uncouth forest yield anything savage,
J will either be food for it, or bring it for food to thee.
Thy conceit is nearer death than thy powers. For my
sake be comfortable, hold death awhile at the arm’s
end, I will here be with thee presently, and if I bring
thee not something to eat, I will give thee leave to die;
but if thou diest before I come, thou art a mocker of
my labour. Wellsaid! thou look’st cheerily ; and I’ll
be with thee quickly.— Yet thou liest in the bleak air:
come, I will bear thee to some shelter, and thou shalt
not die for lack of a dinner, if there live anything in
this desert. Cheerly, good Adam, [Exeunt.

ScENE VII.—Another Part of the Forest.

A table set out. Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, Lords,
and others.

Duke S. I think he be transform’d into a beast,
“For I can nowhere find him like a man.

1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence:
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.—
Go, seek him: tell him, I would speak with him.

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.

Enter JAQUES.
Duke 8. ane how now, monsieur! what a life
is this,

That your poor friends must woo your company? 10
What, you look merrily.

Jaq. A fool, a fool !—I met a fool i’ the forest,
A motley fool—a miserable world !—
‘As I do live by food, I met a fool,
Who laid him down and bask’d him in the sun,
And rail’d on Lady Fortune in good terms,
In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

“Good morrow, fool,” quoth I:—*t No, sir,” quoth he,
“Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortune.”
And then he drew a dial from his poke, 20

And looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says very wisely, “It is ten o’clock :
Thus may we see,” quoth he, ‘how the world wags:
*Tis but an hour ago since it was nine,
And after one hour more ’t will be eleven ;
‘And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
‘And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,
‘And thereby hangs a tale.” When I did hear
he motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, 30
That fools should be so deep-contemplative ;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial.—O noble fool!
A Lia | fool! Motley’s the only wear.

Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. O worthy fool !—One that hath been a courtier,
And says, if ladies be but young and fair,
They have the gift to know it; and in his brain,
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, he hath strange places cramm’d 40
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms.—O, that I were a fool!
Iam ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Thou shalt have one. 7

Jaq. It is my only suit ;
Provided that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
That Iam wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,
To blow on whom I please ; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly, 50
They most must langh. And why, sir, must they so?
The way is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,

th very foolishly, although he smart,

Not to seem senseless of the bob; if not,

AS YOU LIKE IT..

 

581

The wise man’s folly is anatomis’d
Even by the squandering glances of the fool.
Invest me in my motley: give me leave
To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world, 6
If they will patiently receive my medicine.

Duke es Fie on thee! I can tell what thou wouldst

oO

Jag. What, for a counter, would I do but good?
Duke S. Most mischievous foul sin, in chiding sin:
For thou thyself hast been a libertine,
‘As sensual as the brutish sting itself ;
And all the embossed sores, and headed evils,
That thou with license of free foot hast oe
Wouldst thou disgorge into the general world
Jaq. Why, who cries out on pride, 70
That can therein tax any private party?
Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea,
Till that the ed very means do ebb?
What woman in the city do I name,
When that I say, the city-woman bears
The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders ?
Who can come in, and say that I mean her,
When such a one as she, such is her neighbour?
Or what is he of basest function,
That says, his bravery is not on my cost, 80
Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits
His folly to the mettle of my speech?
There then; how then? what then? Let me
wherein
My tongue hath wrong’d him: if it do him right,
Then he hath wrong’d himself; if he be free,
Why, then my taxing like a wild-goose flies,
Unclaim’d of any man.— But who comes here?

Enter ORLANDO, with his sword drawn.
Orl. Forbear, and eat no more.
Jay: Why, Ihave eat none yet.
Ori. Nor shalt. not, till necessity be serv’d.
Jaq. Of what kind should this cock come of? 90
Duke ae Art thou thus bolden’d, man, by thy dis-
ress, .
Or else a rude despiser of good manners,
That in civility thou seem’st so empty ?
Orl. You touch’d my vein at first: the thorny point
Of bare distress hath ta’en from me the show
Of smooth civility; yet am J inland bred,
And know some nurture. But forbear, I say:
He dies that touches any of this fruit,
Till Iand my affairs are answered.
Jag. An you will not be answered with reason, 100
I must die.
Duke S. What would you have? Your gentleness
shall force,
More than your force move us to gentleness.
Orl. I almost die for food, and let me have it.
Duke = a down and feed, and welcome to our
able.
Orl. Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you:
J thought, that all things had been savage here,
And therefore put I on the countenance
Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are,
That in this desert inaccessible, 110
Under the shade of ee al ec
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time,
If ever ‘a have look'd on better days,
Tf ever been where bells have knoll’d to church,
If ever sat at any good man’s feast,
If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear,
‘And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied,
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be:
In the which hope, I blush, and hide my sword.
Duke S. True is it that we have seen better days, 120
And have with holy bell been knoll’d to church,
‘And sat at good men’s feasts, and wip’d our eyes
Of drops that sacred pity hath engender’d ;
And therefore sit you down in gentleness,
‘And take upon command what help we have,
That to your wanting may be minister’d.
Orl. Then, but forbear your food a little while
Whiles, like a doe, I go to find my fawn,
And give it food. There is an old poor man,

see

 

 
 

 

582

Who after me hath many a weary step,
Limp’d in pure love: till he be first suffic'd,—

Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger,—

I will not touch a bit.
Duke S.., Go find him out,
And we will nothing waste till you return.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

130

[Act IL

They have their exits and their entrances ;

And one man in his time plays many parts

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Muling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail

 

 

 

 

Orl. “ Forbear, and cat no more.”

Orl. T ae ye, and be bless’d for your good
a

com-
Exit.

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy :

This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.

Jaq. All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:

140.

Unwilingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad ___,

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 150
Jealous in-honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation sae
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then, the justic

_ In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d, ase

 

 

 
 

Scene VII]

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His our hose well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice,
uening seen toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Re-enter ORLANDO, with ADAM.
Duke S. Welcome, Set down your venerabl
And let him feed. r sopeaciaal
Orl. I thank you most for him.
Adam. So had you need:
I scarce can speak to thank you for myself. 170
Duke S. Welcome ; fall to: I will not trouble you
As yet to question you about your fortunes.
Give us some music ; and, good cousin, sing.

Sone.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;

160

Ami.

 
 
   

Duke Frederick. =

OT see him since? Sir, sir, that
cannot be:

But were I not the better part
made mercy, 5

I should not seek an absent argu-
ment

Of my revenge, thou present. But

   
 

  
     
 

Nee Se
Re NS
are a
Sa :
SALE IS Find out thy brother, wheresoe’er
“ eis;
Seek him with candle; bring him,
ead or living,
Within this twelvemonth, or turn thou no more
To seek a living in our territory. ‘
Thy lands, and all things that thou dost call thine,
Worth seizure, do we seize into our hands, 10
Till thou canst quit thee by thy brother’s mouth,
Of what we think against thee. 2 enh
Oli. O, that your penne knew my heart in this!
Inever lov’d my brother in my life. ‘
Duke a More villain thou.—Well, push him out of
OOrs ;
And let my officers of such a nature
Make an extent upon his house and lands.

Do this expediently, and turn him going. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Forest of Arden.

: Enter ORLANDO, with a paper.

- Orl. Hang there, my verse, in witness of my love:
And thou, thrice-crowned queen of night, survey
With thy chaste eye, from thy pale sphere above,

 

AS YOU LIKE IT.

 

 

583

Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Then, heigh, ho! the holly! 182
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
That dost not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so shar
As friend remember’
Heigh, ho! sing, &c. 190

Duke S. If that you were the good Sir Rowland’s

son,
As you have whisper’d faithfully, you were,

And as mine eye doth his effigies witness

Most truly limn’d, and living in your face,

Be truly welcome hither. Iam the duke,

That lov’d your father. The residue of your fortune,
Go to my cave and tell me.—Good old man,

Thou art right welcome as thy master is.

Support him by the arm.—Give me your hand,

And let me all your fortunes understand.

not.

[Exewnt.

 

ACT ITT.
ScENE I.—A Room in the Palace.
Enter Duke FREDERICK, OLIVER, and Attendants.

Thy huntress’ name, that ay full life doth sway.
O Rosalind! these trees shall be my books,

And in their barks my thoughts I'll character,

That évery eye, which in this forest looks,

Shall see thy virtue witness’d everywhere.

Run, run, Orlando: carve on every tree

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she. - 10

: ‘Enter CORIN and TOUCHSTONE. [ew

Cor. And how like you this shepherd’s life, Master
Touchstone? .

Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, it is a
good life, but in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it
is naught. In respect that it is solitary, I like it very
well; but in respect that it is private, it is a very vile
life. Now, in respect it is in the fields, it pleaseth
me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is
tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my
humour well; but as there is no more plenty in it, it
goes much against my stomach. Hast any philosophy
in thee, shepherd? 22

Cor. No more, ‘but that I know, the more one
sickens, the worse at ease he is; and that. he that
wants money, means, and content, is without three
good friends ; that the property of rain is to wet, and
fire to burn ; that good pasture makes fat sheep, and
that a great cause of the night is lack of the sun; that
he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may
complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull
kindred. ; 3.

Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. Wast
ever in court, shepherd ?

Cor. No, truly.

Touch. Then thou art damned.

Cor. Nay, Thope,—__.

 

 
 

 

584

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[Act IIL

 

Touch. Truly, thou art damned, like an ill-roasted
egg, all on one side.

Cor. For not being at court? Your reason. 39

Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court, thou
never saw’st good manners; if thou never saw’st
good manners, then thy manners must be wicked;
and wickedness is sin, and sin is damnation. Thou
art in a parlous state, shepherd.

Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone: those that are good
manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country,
as the behaviour of the country is most mockable at
the court. You told me, you salute not at the court,
but you kiss your hands: that courtesy would be un-
cleanly, if courtiers were shepherds. 50

Touch. Instance, pricy come, instance.

Cor. Why, we are still handling our ewes, and their
fells, you know, are greasy.

- Touch. Why, do not your courtier’s hands sweat?
and is not the grease of a mutton as wholesome as the
sweat ofa man? Shallow, shallow. A better instance,
Isay; come.

Cor. Besides, our hands are hard.

Touch. Your lips will feel them the sooner: shallow
again. A more sounder instance ; come. 60

Cor. And they are often tarred over with the |

surgery of our ee and would you have us kiss
tar? The courtier’s hands are perfumed with civet.

Touch. Most shallow man! Thon worms-meat, in
respect of a good piece of flesh, indeed !—Learn of the
wise, and perpend: civet is of a baser birth than tar;
the very uncleanly flux of a cat. Mend the instance,
shepherd.

Cor. You have too courtly a wit for me: I'll rest.

Touch. Wilt thou rest damned? God help thee,
shallow man! God make incision in thee! thou art
raw. 72

Cor. Sir, I am a true labourer: I earn that I eat,

et that I wear; owe no man hate, envy no man’s

appiness, glad of other men’s good, content with my
harm; and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes
graze and my lambs suck.

Touch. That is another simple sin in you, to bring
the ewes and the rams together, and to offer to get
your living by the copulation of cattle ; to be bawd to
a bell-wether, and to betray a she-lamb of a twelve-
month, to a crooked-pated, old, cuckoldly ram, out of
all reasonable match. If thou be’st not damned for
this, the devil himself will have no shepherds: I
cannot see else how thou shouldst scape.

Cor. Here comes young Master Ganymede, my new
mistress’s brother.

Enter ROSALIND, reading a paper.
From the east to western Ind,
No jewel ts like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind, 90
Through all the world bears Rosalind,
All the pictures, fairest lin'd,
Are but black to Rosalind.
Let no face be kept in mind,
But the fair of Rosalind,

Touch. I'll rhyme you so eight years together,
dinners, and suppers, and sleeping hours excepted : it
is the right butter-women’'s rank to market.

Ros. Out, fool!

Touch. For a taste :—

“Tf a hart do lack a hind,
Let him seek out Rosalind.
If the cat will after kind,
So, be sure, will Rosalind.
Winter garments must be lin’d,
So must slender Rosalind.
They that reap must sheaf and bind,
Then to cart with Rosalind.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind,
Such a nut is Rosalind.
He that sweetest rose will find,
Must find love's prick, and Rosalind.”

This is the very false gallop of verses: why do you
infect yourself with them?
Ros. Peace! you dull fool: I found them on a tree.

Ros.

100

110

 

Touch. Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

Ros. I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it
with a medlar : then it will be the earliest fruit ? the
country ; for you'll. be rotten ere you be half ripe, and
that’s the right virtue of the medlar. ‘

Touch, You have said ; but whether wisely or no,
let the forest judge. "

Ros. Peace!

Here comes my sister, reading: stand aside.

 

Touch, ** This is the very talse gallop of verses.”

Enter CELIA, reading a paper.
Cel. Why should this a desert be ?
For itis unpeopled? No;
Tongues I'll hang on every tree,
That shall civil sayings show.
Some, how brief the life of man
Runs his erring pilgrimage, 130
That the stretching of a span
Buckles in his sum of age.
Some, of violated vows
’'Twiat the souls of friend and friend:
But upon the fairest boughs,
Or qt every sentence end,
will ¥ Rosalinda write ;
Teaching all that read, to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show. 140
Therefore Heaven Nature charg’d
That one body should be filld
With all graces wide enlargd:
Nature presently distill’
Helen’s cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra’s majesty,
Atalanta’s better part,
Sad Lucretia’s modesty.
Thus Rosalind of many parts f
By heavenly synod was devis'd, 160
Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,
To have the touches dearest prizd.
Heaven would that she these gifts should have, |
And I to live and die her slave.

Ros. O most gentle Jupiter !—what tedious homil
of love have you wearied your parishioners withal,
and never cried, ‘‘ Have patience, good people!

Cel. How now? back-friends.—Shepherd, go off a
little :—go with him, sirrah. 159

Touch. Come, shepherd, let us make an honourable
retreat; though not with bag and baggage, yet with
scrip and scrippage.
[Exeunt CoRIN and TOUCHSTONE.

Cel. Didst thou hear these verses ?

Ros. O! yes, I heard them all, and more too; for
some of them had in them more feet than the verses
would bear. ys

 

 

 
 

SceNE II.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

585

 

 

Cel. That’s no matter: the feet might bear the
verses.

Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear
themselves without the verse, and therefore stood
lamely in the verse.

Cel. But didst thou hear without wondering, how
thy aoe should be hanged and carved upon these

rees

Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the
wonder, before you came; for look here what I found
on a palm-tree: I was never so be-rhymed since
Pythagoras’ time, that I was an Irish rat, which I can
hardly remember.

Cel. Trow you, who hath done this? 180

Ros. Is it a man?

Cel. And a chain, that you once wore, about his
neck. Change you colour?

Ros. I pr’ythee, who?

Cel. O Lord, Lord ! it is a hard matter for friends to
meet; but mountains may be removed with earth-
quakes, and so encounter.

Ros. Nay, but who is it?

Cel, Is it possible ? ‘

Ros. Nay, I pr’ythee, now, with most petitionary
vehemence, tell me who it is. 191

Cel. O, wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
wonderful! and yet again wonderful! and after that,
out of all whooping!

Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, though
I am caparison’d like a man, I have a doublet and
hose in my disposition? One inch of delay more is a
South Sea of discovery ; I pr’ythee, tell me, who is it,
quickly, and speak apace. I would thou _couldst
stammer, that thou mightst pour this concealed man
out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-
mouth'd bottle ; either too much at once, or none at
all, I pr’ythee, take the cork out of thy mouth, that I
may drink thy tidings.

Cel. So yeu may put a man in your belly.

Ros. Is he of God’s making? What manner of man?
Is his head worth a hat, or his chin worth a beard?

Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard.

Ros. Why, God will send more, if the man will be
thankful. Let me stay the growth of his beard, if
thou delay me not the knowledge of his chin. 211

Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripp’d up the
wrestler’s heels and your heart, both in an instant.

Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking: speak sad

row, and true maid.

Cel. I’ faith, coz, ’tis he.

Ros. Orlando?

Cel. Orlando. 218

Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my doublet
and hose?—What did he, when thou saw’st him?
What said he? How look’d he? Wherein went he?
What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where
remains he? How parted he with thee, and when
shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word.

Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua’s mouth first:
*tis a word too great for any mouth of this age’s size.
To say, ay, and no, to these particulars is more than to
answer in a catechism. 2
_ fos. But doth he know that I am in this forest, and
in man’s apparel? Looks he as freshly as he did the
aay he wrestled? ‘ 231

‘el. It is as easy to count atomies, as to resolve the
ropositions of a lover: but take a taste of my findin,

im, and relish it with good observance. I foun
im under a tree, like a dropped acorn.

Ros. It may well be call’d Jove’s tree, when it drops
forth such fruit.

Cel. Give me audience, good madam.

Ros. Proceed. :

Cel. There lay he, stretch’d along like a wounded
knight. ; 24

Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, it well
becomes the ground. :

Cel. Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr’ythee ; it curvets
unseasonably. He was furnish’d like a hunter.

Ros. O ominous! he comes to kill my heart.

ring’st me out of tune.

Cel, I would sing my song without a burden: thou

 

Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? when I
think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. 50
Cel. You bring me out.—Soft ! comes he not here?

Ros. "Tis he: slink by, and note him.
[RosaLInpD and CELia retire,

Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES.

Jaq. I thank youfor your company ; but, good faith,
IT had-as lief have been myself alone.

Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion sake, I
thank you too for your society. 3

Jag. Good bye, you: let’s meet as little as we

can.

Orl. Ido desire we may be better strangers. _

Jag. I pray you, mar no more trees with writing
love-songs in their barks. 261

Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses with
reading them ill-favouredly.

Jag. Rosalind.is your love’s name ?

Ori. Yes, just.

Jaq. I do not like her name, :

Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you, when
she was christened.

Jag. What stature is she of ?

Orl, Just as high as my heart. 270

Jag. Youare full of pretty answers. Have you not
been acquainted with goldsmiths’ wives, and conn’d
them out of rings?

Orl. Not so; but I answer you right painted cloth,
from whence you have studied your questions.

Jaq. You have a nimble wit: I think ’t was made of
Atalanta’s heels. Will you sit down with me? and
we two will rail against our mistress the world, and
all our misery.

Orl. I will chide no breather in the world, but my-
self, against whom I know most faults. 981

Jag. The worst fault you have, is to be in love.

Ori. ’Tis a fault I will not change for your best
virtue. Iam weary of you. :

Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I
found you. .

Orl. He is drown’d in the brook: look but in, and
you shall see him.

Jag. There I shall see mine own figure.

Orl. Which I take to be either a fool, or a cypher. 290

Jaq. I’ll tarry no longer with you. Farewell, good
Signior Love.

Orl. I am glad of your departure.
Monsieur Melancholy.

[Exit JAQUES.—ROSALIND and CELIA come
orward.

Ros. [Aside to CeLIA.] I will speak to him like a
saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave
with him.—Do you hear, forester?

Orl. Very well: what would you?

Ros. I pray you, what is ’t o’clock ?

Orl. You should ask me, what time o’ day: there’s
no clock in the forest. 301

Ros. Then, there is no true lover in the forest; else
sighing every minute, and proaminks every hour, would
detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock.

Orl, And why not the swift foot of ime? had not
that been as proper? :

Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces
with divers persons, I’ll tell you, who Time ambles
withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops

Adieu, good

withal, and who he stands still withal. 310
Orl. I pr’ythee, who doth he trot withal ? ;
Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, be-

tween the contract of her marriage, and the day it is
solemnised: if the interim be but a se’nnight, Time’s
pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven years.

Orl. Who ambles Time withal? :

Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man
that hath not the gout; for the one sleeps easily,
because he cannot study ; and the other lives merrily,
because he feels no pai : the one lacking the burden
of lean and wasteful learning; the other knowing no
burden of heavy tedious penury. These Time ambles
withal. 323

Orl. Who doth he gallop withal?

Ros. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go

 

 
 

586

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—___,

[Act II,

 

 

i softly as foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon
there.

Orl. Who stays it still withal?

Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they sleep
between term and term, and then they perceive not
how Time moves. 331

Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth? i

Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here in the
skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.

Orl. Are you native of this place? .

Ros. As the cony, that you see dwell where she is
kindled.

Orl. Your accent is something finer than you could
purchase in so removed a dwelling. i

Ros. I have been told so of many: but, indeed, an
old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who
was in his youth an inland man; one that knew court-
ship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard
him read many lectures against it ; and I thank God,
Iam not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy
offences, as he hath generally taxed their whole sex
withal. ?

Orl. Can you remember any of the principal evils
that he laid to the charge of women ? 34

Ros. There were none principal: they were all like
one another, as half-pence are; every one fault seem-
ing monstrous, till its fellow fault came to match it.

rl Apex ihoe, recount some of them.

Ros. No; I will not cast away my physic but on
those that are sick. There isa man haunts the forest,
that abuses our young plants with carving Rosalind
on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and
elegies on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name
of Rosalind: if I could meet that. fancy-monger, I
would give him some good counsel, for he seems to
have the quotidian of love upon him. 361

Ort. Iam he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell
me your remedy.

tos. There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you:
he taught me how to know a man in love; in which
cage of rushes, I am sure, you are not prisoner.

rl. What were his marks?

Ros. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye,

and sunken, which you have not; an unquestionable

‘spirit, which you have not; a beard neglected, which |

you have not :—but I pardon you for that, for simply,

our having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue.—

hen, your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet
unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied,
and everything about you demonstrating a careless
desolation. But you are nosuch man: you are rather
point-device in your accoutrements ; as loving your-
self, than seeming the lover of any other.

Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I
love. 380

Ros. Me believe it? you may as soon make her
that you love believe it; which, I warrant, she is
apter to do, than to confess she does; that is one of
the points in the which women still give the lie to
their consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that
hangs the verses on the trees, wherein Rosalind is so
admired ?

Orl. I swear to thee, pot. by the white hand of
Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortunate he.

fos. But are you so much in love as your rhymes
speak ? 391

Ort. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how
much.

fos. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you,
deserves as Well a dark house and a whip as madmen
do; and the reason why they are not so punished and
cured, is, that the lunacy_is so ordinary, that the
whippers are in love too.
counsel,

Orl. Did you ever cure any so? 400

Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to
imagine me his love, his mistress, and I set him every
day to woo me: at which time would I, being but
a@ moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,

longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, |

inconstant, full of tears, full of smiles; for every

passion something, and for no passion truly anything, |

 

Yet I profess curing it by .

‘great reckoning in a little room.—Truly, I would the

 

as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle
this colour; would now like him, noe loathe cae
then entertain him, then forswear him; now weep
for him, then spit at him ; that I drave my suitor from
his mad humour of love, to a living humour of mad-
ness, which was, to forswear the full stream of the
world, and to live in a nook merely monastic. And
thus Icured him ; and this way will 1 take upon me to
wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart,
that there shall not be one spot of love in ’t.

 

 

Ros. ‘‘ There is none of my uncte’s marks upon you.”

Orl. I would not be cured, youth. ?

Ros. I would cure you, if you would but call me
Rosalind, and come every day to my cote, and woo me.

Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me
where it is. . 422

Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you; and, by
the way, you shall tell me where in the forest you live.
Will you go?

Orl. With all my heart, good youth. :

Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind.—Come, sister,
will you go? [Exeunt.

 

ScENE IJJ.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES behind,
observing them.

Touch. Come apace, good Audrey : I will fetch up
your goats, Audrey. And how, Audrey? am I the
man yet? doth my simple feature content you?

Aud. Your features? Lord warrant us! what
features?

Touch. I am here with thee and thy goats, as the
ee capricious poet, honest Ovid, was among the

oths. ;

Jag. [Aside.] O knowledge ill-inhabited, worse than
Jove in a thatched house! 10

Touch. When a man’s verses cannot be understood,
nor a man’s good wit seconded with the forward chil
Understanding, it strikes a man more dead than @

gods had made thee poetical. we
Aud. Ido not know what poetical is.

Is it honest
in deed and word? Is it a true thing? i

 

 
 

ScENE V.]

AS YOU LIKE IT.

587

 

 

Touch. No, truly, for the truest poetry is the most
feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, and what
they swear in poetry, may be said, as lovers they do

feign. > 21
Aud. Do you wish then, that the gods had made me
poetical?

Touch. I do, truly; for thou swear’st to me, thou
art honest: now, if thou wert a poet, I might have
some pope thou didst feign.

. Aud. Would you not have me honest?

Touch. No, truly, unless thou wert hard-favour’d,
for honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce
to sugar. * 30

. Jaq. ae | A material fool.

Aud, Well, 1am not fair, and therefore I pray the
gods make me honest.

Touch. .Truly, and to cast away honesty upon a foul
slut were to put good meat into an unclean dish.

; aoe Iam not a slut, though I thank the gods I am
‘oul.

“Touch. Well, praised be the gods for thy foulness :
sluttishness may come hereafter. But be it as.it may

‘be, I will marry thee; and to that end, I have been

with Sir Oliver Mar-text, the vicar of the next village,

who hath promised to meet me in this place of me

|, forest, and to couple us.

Jaq. [Aside.}. I would fain see this meeting.

Aud, Well, the gods give us joy!

Touch. Amen. A man may, if he were of a fearful
heart, stagger in this attempt; for here we have no
temple but the wood, no assembly but horn-beasts.
But what though? Courage! As horns are odious,
they are necessary. It is said,—many a man knows
no end of his goods: rene many a man has good
horns, and knows no end of them. Well, that is the
dowry of his wife: ‘tis none of his own getting.

‘Horns? Even so.—Poor men alone?—No, no; the
noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal. Is the
single man therefore blessed? No: as a walled town
is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of
a married man more honourable than the bare brow
ofa bachelor; and by how much defence is better
than no skill, by so much is a horn more precious than
to want. Here comes Sir Oliver. 61

Enter Sir OLIVER MAR-TEXT.
Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met: will you
despatch us here under this tree, or shall we go with
you to your chapel?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the woman?

Touch. I will not take her on gift of any man.

_ Sir Oli. Truly, she must be given, or the marriage
is not lawful.
: Jaq. [Coming forward.] Proceed, proceed: I'll are

er.

Touch. Good even, good Master What-ye-call’t:
how do you, sir? You are very well met: God ’ild
you for your last company. I am very glad to see
you.—Even a toy in hand here, sir.—Nay ; pray, be
cover'd,

Jag. Will you be married, motley?

Touch. As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his
curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires;
and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling. 79

Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding,
be married under a bush, like a beggar? Get you to
church, and have a good priest that can tell you what
Inarriagé is: this fellow will but join you together
as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a
shrunk panel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Touch. [Aside.] I am not in the mind but I were
better to be married of him than of another ; for he is
not like to marry me well, and not being well married,

it Will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my ;

e.
Jag. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.
Touch. Come, sweet Audrey :
We must be married, or we must live in bawdry.
Farewell, good Master Oliver! Not,—
O sweet Oliver!
O brave Oliver!
Leave me not behind thee:

 

but,~
Wind away,
Begone, I aay 100
I will not to we ding with thee.
ey JAQUES, TOUCHSTONE, and AUDREY.
Sir Oli. "Tis no matter: ne’er a fantastical knave
of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exit.

ScenE IV.—Another Part of the Forest. Before a
Cottage.
Enter RosaLiwD and CELIA.

Ros. Never talk to me: I will weep.

Cel. Do, I pr’ythee; but yet have the grace to con-
sider, that tears do not become a man.

Ros. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good cause as one would desire: therefore
weep.

Ros. His very hair is of the dissembling colour.

Cel. Something browner than Judas’s. Marry, his
kisses are Judas’s own children.

Ros. TY faith, his hair is of a good colour. 10

Cel. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever
the only colour. :

Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the
touch of holy bread.

Cel. He hath bought a ee of cast lips of Diana: a
nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously ;
the very ice of chastity isin them. ‘ :

fos. But why did he swear he would come this
morning, and comes not ?

Cel, Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 20

Ros. Do youthink so? *

Cel. Yes: I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-
stealer; but for his verity in love, I] do think him as
concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in ; but I think he is not in,

Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was.

Cel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of aloverisno
stronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the
confirmers of false reckonings. He attends here in
the forest on the duke your father. 31

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much
iiesnee with him. He asked me, of what parentage

was: I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed, and
let me go. But what talk we of fathers, when there
is such a man as Orlando?

Cel. O, that’s a brave man! he writes brave verses,
Speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, and breaks
them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his
lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one
side, breaks his staff like a noble goose. But all’s
brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides.—Who
comes here ? 43

Enter Corin.

Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir’d

After the shepherd that complain’d of love,
Who you saw ee yy me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess

‘hat was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play’d,
Between the pale complexion of true love, 50
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain,

Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Ros. O! come, let us remove:
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.—
Bring us to this sight, and you shall say

Ill prove a busy actor in their play. [Exeunt.

 

SceNnE V.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter Stuvivs and PHEBE.

Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe:
Say that you love me not; but say not so
In bitterness. The common executioner.

 

 
 

588

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[Act T1

 

 

Whose heart the accustom’d sight of death makes

ard,
Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon : will you sterner be
Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter RoSALIND, CELIA, and CoRIN, behind.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner :
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee. |
Thou tell’st me, there is murder in my mineeye: 10
°T is pretty, sure, and very probable, :
That eyes--that are the frail’st and softest things,
Who ohat their coward gates on atomies,—
Should be call’d tyrants, butchers, murderers !
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart; _
And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee;
Now counterfeit to swoon, why, now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame !
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee : 20
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it ; lean upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure r
Thy palm some moment keeps, but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not,
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

i O dear Phebe,

Sil.
If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love’s keen arrows make.
But till that time

Phe.
Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,
Affliict me with thy mocks, pity me not,
As till that time I shall not pity thee.

Ros. [Advancing.] And why, I pray you? Who

might be your mother,
That you insult, exult, and all at once,
Over Bae, mretohed What though you have no
eauty

(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed),
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? 10
Why, what means this?) Why do you look on me?
I see no more in you, than in the ordinary
Of nature’s sale-work.—Od’s my little life!
I think she means to tangle my eyes too.
No, ‘faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:
’T is not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship,—
You foolish a igo wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain? 50
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman: ’t is such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour’d children.
’T is not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can show her.—
But, mistress, know yourself: down on your knees,
And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love ;
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can: you are not for all markets. 60
Cry the man mercy ; love him; take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer
So, take her to thee, shepherd.—Fare you well.

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you, chide a year together.
IT had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

os. He’s fallen in love with your foulness, and

she'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast
as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll sauce
her with bitter words.—Why look you so upon me?

Phe. For no ill will I bear you. 70

 

Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
perl mae than vO made in wine:

esides, I like you not.—If you will know my house
‘Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.— ¥ _
Will you go, sister ?—Shepherd, ply her hard.--
Come, sister.—Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not ou though all the world could see,
Noné could be so abus’d in sight as he.
Come, to our flock.

Exeunt ROSALIND, CELtA, and CorIN.

Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might:

“Who ever lov'd, that lov’d not at first sight ?” 81

Sil. Sweet Phebe,—
Phe. Ha! what say’st thou, Silvius?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius,
Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be:
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin’d.
Phe. Thou hast my love: is not that neighbourly?
Sil. I would have you.
Phe. Why, that were covetousness, 90
Silvius, the time was that I hated thee,
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure, and I’ll employ thee too;
But do not look for further recompense,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.
Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop 100
To glean the broken ears after the man .
That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then -
A scatter’d smile, and that I'll live upon.
Phe. ee thou the youth that spoke to me ere-
while
Sil, Not very well; but I have met him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds,
That the old carlot once was master of.
Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him.
*T is but a peevish boy :—yet he talks well :—
But what care I for words? yet words do well 10
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth :—not very pretty :— .
But, sure, he’s proud ; and yet his pride becomes him.
He'll make a proper man: the best thing in him
Is his complexion ; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up,
He is not very tall ; yet for his years he’s tall.
His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well.
There was a pretty redness in his lip ;
A little riper, and more lusty red ; 120
Than that mix’d in his cheek: ’t was just the dif-
ference
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark’d him
In parcels, as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him ; but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet |
Have more cause to hate him than to love him:
For what had he todotochideatme?
He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black ;
And, now I am remember’d, scorn’d at me. 130
I marvel, why I answer’d not again: |
But that’s all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it ; wilt thou, Silvius?
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart. 5
Phe. I'll write it straight;
The matter’s in my head, and in my heart: '
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT IY.
ScENE I.—The Forest of Arden.
Enter RoSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.
Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be

   

Jaques.
PR’YTHEE, pretty youth, let me be better
acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say, you are w melancholy
fellow.

Jag, I am so: I do love it better than
laughing.

Ros. Those that are in extremity of
‘ either are abominable fellows, and betray
&=\\ themselves to every modern censure worse
than drunkards. 10
Jaq. Why, ’tis good to be sad and say
nothing.

Ros. Why then, "tis po to be a post.

Jag. I have neither the scholar’s melancholy, which
is emulation ; nor the musician’s, which is fantastical ;
nor the courtier’s, which is proud; nor the soldier's,
which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic ;
nor the lady’s, which is nice; nor the lover’s, which
is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own,
compounded of many simples, extracted from many
objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of
my travels; which, by often rumination, wraps me
in a most humorous sadness. 23

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great
reason to be sad. I fear, you have sold your own
lands, to see other men’s; then, to have seen much,
cern have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor

ands,

Jag. Yes, I have gained my oxperienee,

Ros. And your experience makes you sad. I had
rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience
to make me sad; and to travel for it too! 32

Enter ORLANDO.

Orl. Good day, and Happiness, dear Rosalind.

Jaq. Nay then, God be wi’ you, an you talk in
blank verse. [Exit.

Ros. Farewell, Monsieur Traveller. Look you lisp,
and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of
your own country ; be out of love with your nativity ;
and almost chide God for making you that coun-
tenance you are: or I will scarce think you have
swam in a gondola.—Why, how now, Orlando! where
have you been all this while? You a lover ?—An you
serve me such another trick, never come in my sight
more,

Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of
my promise. ;

Ros. Break an hour’s promise in love! He that
will divide a minute into a thousand. parts, and break
but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the
affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath
clapped him o’ the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him
heart-whole. 52

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. ,

_Ros..Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my
sight : I had as lief be woo'd of a snail.

Orl. Of a snail ?

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly,
he carries his house on his head, abetter jointure, I
think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings
his destiny with him. 60

Orl. What’s that?

 

beholding to your wives for: but he comes armed
in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker, and my Rosalind is
virtuous.

fos. And I am your Rosalind.

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a
Rosalind of a better leer than you. 69

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am ina
holiday humour, and like enough to consent.—What
would you say to me now, an I were your very very
Rosalind ?

Orl. I would kiss before I spoke.

Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when
you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take
occasion to kiss, Wery good orators, when they are
out, they will spit ; and for lovers, lacking (God warn
us!) matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

Orl. How if the kiss be denied ? 80

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there
begins new matter.

Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved
mistress ?

Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mis-
Sa or I should think my honesty ranker than my
wit.

Orl. What, of my suit ?

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your
suit. Am not I your Rosalind? 90

Orl, I take some joy to say you are, because I would
be talking of her.

Ros. Well, in her person, I say—I will not have you.

Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die.

Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. ‘The poor world is
almost six thousand years old, and in all this time
there was not any man died in his own person, vide-
licet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed
out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could
to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love.
Leander, he would have lived many a fair year,
though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for
a hot midsummer-night ; for, eee youth, he went
but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, bein
taken with the cramp, was drowned, and the foolish
chroniclers of that age found it was—Hero of Sestos.,
But these are all lies: {men have died from time to
time, and worms have éaten them, but not for love}.

Orl, I would not have my right Rosalind of th
mind, for, I protest, her frown might kill me. 110

Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But come,
now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on
disposition ; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

rl. Then love me, Rosalind.

Ros. Yes, faith will I; Fridays, and Saturdays,
and all.

Orl, And wilt thou have me?

Ros. Ay, and twenty such.

Orl. What say’st thou?

Ros, Are you not good? 120

Orl. I hope so. .

Ros. Why then, can one desire too much of a good
thing?—Come, sister, you shall be the priest, and
marry us.—Give me your hand, Orlando.—What do
you say, sister?

 

 
 

590

AS YOU LIKE IT.

[Act Iv,

 

 

Orl. Pray thee, marry us.
Cel. Lcannot say the words.
Ros. You must begin,—‘* Will you, Orlando,”"—
Cel. Go to.—Will you, Orlando, have to wife this
Rosalind ? 130
|  Orl. Iwill.
Ros. Ay, but when?
Orl. Why, now, as fast as she can marry us. :
Ros. Then you must say,—‘“‘I take thee, Rosalind,
for wife.”
Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife.

 

 

   

es oy ts. wi AINE vee

Cel. ‘* Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?”

Ros. I might ask you for your commission ; but,—I
do take thee, Orlando, for my husband :—there’s a
girl goes before the priest; and certainly, a woman's
thought runs before her actions. 1d

Ori. So do all thoughts : they are winged.

Ros. Now tell me how long you would have her,
after you have possessed her.

Orl. For ever, and a day.

Ros. Say aday, without the ever. No, no, Orlando:
men are April when they woo, December when they
wed; maids are May when they are maids, but the
sky changes when they are wives. I will be more
jealous of thee than a Barbary cock-pigeon over his
hen; more clamorous than a parrot against rain;
more new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my
desires than a monkey: I will weep for nothing, like
Diana in the fountain, and I will do that when you
are disposed to be merry; I will laugh like a hyen,
and that when thou art inclined to sleep.

Orl. But will my Rosalind do so?

Ros. By my life, she will do as I do.

Orl. O! but she is wise. 158

Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to do this:
the wiser, the waywarder. Make the doors upon a
woman's wit, and it will out at the casement; shut
that, and ’t will out at the key-hole; stop that, ’t will
fly with the sinoke out at the chimney.

Orl. A man that had a wife with such a wit, he
might say,—"* Wit, whither wilt?”

‘os. Nay, you might keep that check for it, till you
met your wife’s wit going to your neighbour's bed.

Orl, And what wit could wit have to excuse that ?

Ros. Marry, to say,—she came to seek you there.

 

You shall never take her without her answer, unless
you take her without her tongue: O! that woman
that cannot make her fault her husband’s occasion,
let her never nurse her child herself, for she will breed
it like a fool.

Orl. For these two hours, Rosalind, I will leave

ee.

Ros. Alas, dear love! I cannot lack thee two hours,

Orl. I must attend the duke at dinner: by two
o'clock I will be with thee again. 179

Ros. Ay, go your ways, go your ways.—I knew
what you would prove ; my friends told me as much,
and I thought no less:—that flattering tongue of
yours won me:—tis but one cast away, and so,—
come, death !—Two o'clock is your hour?

Orl. Ay, sweet Rosalind.

Ros. By my troth, and in good earnest, and so God
mend me, and by all pretty oaths that are not dan-
gerous, if you break one jot of your promise, or come
one minute behind your hour, I will think you the
most pathetical break-promise, and the most hollow
lover, and the most ae of her you call Rosalind,
that may be chosen out of the gross band of the un-
faithful. Therefore, beware my censure, and keep
your promise.

Orl, With no less religion, than if thou wert indeed
my Rosalind : so, adieu.

Ros. Well, Time is the old justice that examines all
such offenders, and let ‘lime try. Adieu. 198

[Exit ORLANDO.

Cel. You have simply misused our sex in your love-
prate. We must have your doublet and hose plucked
over your head, and show the world what the bird
hath done to her own nest.

Ros. O! coz, coz, coz, my pretty little coz, that thou
didst know how many fathom deep I am in love!
But I cannot be sounded: my affection hath an un-
known bottom, like the bay of Portugal.

Cel. Or, rather, bottomless; that as fast as you
pour affection in, it runs out.

Ros. No; that same wicked bastard of Venus, that
was begot of peony, conceived of spleen, and born
of madness, that blind rascally boy, that abuses every
one’s eyes, because his own are out, let him be judge
how deep I am in love.—I’ll tell thee, Aliena, I cannot
be out of the sight of Orlando. I'll go find a shadow,
and sigh till he come.

Cel. And I'l sleep. [Ezxeunt.

ScENE II.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter JAQUES and Lords, like foresters.

ag. Which is he that killed the deer?
1 Lord. Sir, it was I. .

Jaq. Let’s present him to the duke, like a Roman
conqueror; and it would do well to set the deer's
horns upon his head for a branch of victory.—Have
you no song, forester, for this purpose?

2 Lord. Yes, sir. 3 :

Jaq. Sing it: ’tis no matter how it be in tune, so it
make noise enough, s

ONG.

What shall he have, that kill'd the deer? 10
His leather skin, and horns to wear.
Then sing him home.
Take thou no scorn, to wear the horn;
Jt was a crest cre thou wast born,
Thy father's father wore it,
And thy father bore it:
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn,
Js not a thing to laugh to scorn.

[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter ROSALIND and CELIA.

Ros. How say you now? Is it not past two o'clock?
and here much Orlando!
Cel. I warrant you, with pure love, and troubled

 

 
 

 

Scene IIT.) AS YOU

LIKE IT. 591

 

brain, he hath ta’en his bow and arrows, and is gone
torth—to sleep. Look, who comes here.

Enter SILvius.

Sil. My errand is to you, fair youth.—

My gentle Phebe did bid me give you this:
(Giving a letter.

I know not the contents; but, as I guess
By the stern brow, and waspish action,

hich she did use as she was writing of it,
It bears an angry tenor. Pardon me,
Iam but as a guiltless messenger.

Ros. Patience herself would startle at this letter,
And play the sieer ee : bear this, bear all.
She says, I am not fair; that I lack manners;
She calls me proud, and that she could not love me,
Were man as rare as pheenix. Od’s my will!
Her love is not the hare that I do hunt:
Why writes she so to me ?—Well, shepherd, well;
This is a letter of your own device.

Sil. No, I protest; I know not the contents:

Phebe did write it.
Ros. : Come, come, you are a fool,
And turn’d into the extremity of love.
I saw her hand: she has a leathern hand,
A freestone-colour’d hand: I verily did think
That her old gloves were on, but ’t was her hands:
She has a housewife’s hand ; but that’s no matter.
I say, she never did invent this letter ;
This is a man’s invention, and his hand.
Sil. Sure, it is hers.
Ros. Why, 't is a boisterous and a cruel style,
A style for challengers: why, she defies me,
Like Turk to Christian. Woman's gentle brain
Could not drop forth such giant-rude invention,
Such Ethiop words, blacker in their effect
Than in their countenance.—Will you hear the letter?
Sil. So please you; for I never heard it yet,
Yet heard too much of Phebe’s cruelty.
Ros. She Phebes me. Mark how the tyrant writes.
“Art thou god to shepherd turn’d, 40
That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d?”—
Can a woman rail thus ? ,
Sil. Call you this railing?
Ros. “ Why, thy godhead laid apart,
Warr'st thou with a woman’s heart?”
Did you ever hear such railing ?—
““Whiles the eye of man did woo me,
___ That could do no vengeance to me.”—
Meaning me a beast.—
“Tf the scorn of your bright eyne
Have power to raise such love in mine,
Alack! in me what strange effect
Would they work in mild aspect ?
Whiles you chid me, I did love;
How then might your prayers move?
He that brings this love to thee,
Little knows this love in me:
And by him seal up thy mind ;.
Whether that thy youth and kind
Will the faithful offer take
Of me, and all that I can make;
Or else by him my love deny,
And then I’ll study how to die.”
Sil. Call you this chiding ? !
Cel. Alas, poor shepherd ! s
Ros. Do you pity him? no; he deserves no pity.—
Wilt thou love such a woman?— What, to make thee
an instrument, and play false strains upon thee? not
to be endured !—Well, go your way to her, (for I see,
love hath made thee a tame snake,) and say this to
her :—that if she love me, I charge her to love thee ;
if she will not, I will never have her, unless thou
entreat for her.—If you be a true lover, hence, and
not a word, for here comes more company.
‘ [Exit SILVIUS.

10

20

30

Enter OLIVER.

Oli. Good morrow, fair ones. Pray you, if you

ow,
Where in the purlieus of this forest stands
sheepcote, fenc’d about with olive-trees?

Cel. West of this place, down in the neighbour

bottom:
The rank of osiers, by the murmuring stream,
Left on i right hand, brings you to the place.
But at this hour the house doth keep itself ;
There ’s none within.
Oli. If that an eye may profit by a tongue,
Then should I know you by description;
Such garments, and such years :—“‘ The boy is fair,
Of female favour, and bestows himself
Like a ripe sister: the woman low, ‘
And browner than her brother.” Are not you
The owner of the house I did inquire for?
Cel, It is no boast, being ask’d, to say, we are.
Oli. Orlando doth commend him to you both;
And to that youth, he calls his Rosalind,
He sends this bloody napkin. Are you he?
Ros. lam. What must we understand by this?
Oli. Some of my shame; if you will know of me,
What man I am, and how, and why, and where
This handkercher was stain’d.

Cel.
Oli. When last the young

80

90

I pray you, tell it.
Orlando parted from

you,
He left a promise to return again
Within an hour ; and, pacing through the forest,
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy,
Lo, what befell! he threw his eye aside,
And, mark, what object did present itself !
Under an old oak, whose boughs were moss’d with

* age,

And high top bald with dry antiquity,
A wretched ragged man, o’ergrown with hair,
Lay sleeping on his back: about his neck
A peel and gilded snake had wreath'd itself,
Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach’d
The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, 1
Seeing Orlando, it unlink’d itself,
And with indented glides did slip away
Into a bush; under which bush’s shade
A lioness, with udders all drawn dry,
Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch,
When that the sleeping man should stir ; for tis
The royal disposition of that beast,
To prey on ncthing that doth seem as dead.
This seen, Orlando did approach the man,
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 120

Cel. O! I have heard him speak of that same

brother;

And he did render him the most unnatural
That liv’d ’mongst men.

oli. And well he might so do,
For well I know he was unnatural.

Ros. But, to Orlando.—Did he leave him there,
Food to the suck’d and hungry lioness?

Oli. Twice did he turn his back, and purpos’d so ;
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge,
And nature, stronger than his just occasion,
Made him give battle to the lioness,
Who quickly fell before him: in which hurtling
From miserable slumber I awak’d.

Cel. Are you his brother?
R Was it you he rescu’d?

08.

Cel. Wee t you that did so oft contrive to: kill

im

Oli. "T was 1; but tis not I. Ido not shame
To tell you what I was, since my conversion
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.

Ros. But, for the bloody napkin?

zt By-and-by.

Oli.
When from the first to last, betwixt us two,
Tears our recountments had most kindly bath’d,
As, how I came into that desert place :—
In brief, he led me to the gentle duke,
Who gave me fresh array, and entertainment,
Committing me unto my brother’s love:
Who led me instantly unto his cave,
There strapyd himself; and here, upon his arm,
The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled ; and now he fainted,

100

140

 

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind.
Brief, I recover’d him, bound up his wound; 150

 

 
 

592

AS YOU LIKE IT.

{Act V.

 

 

And, after some small space, being strong at heart,
He sent me hither, stranger as I am,

A.

   

oli. “He sent me hither, stranger as I am,
To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise.”

To tell this story, that you might excuse
His broken promise ; and to give this napkin,

 

| Dy’d in his blood, unto the shepherd youth

That he in sport doth call his Rosalind.
[ROSALIND swoons,

Cel. we how now, Ganymede? sweet Gany-

mede!

Oli. Many will swoon when they do look on

ood.

Cel. There is more in it.—Cousin !—Ganymede!

Oli. Look, he recovers.

Ros. I would I were at home.

Cel. ; We 11 lead you thither,—
I pray you, will you take him by the arm ?

Oli. Be of good cheer, youth.—You a man? You
lack a man’s heart.

‘os. I do so, I confess it. Ah, sirrah! a body

would think this was well counterfeited. I pray

ou, tell your brother how well I counterfeited.—
eigh-ho !—

Oli. 'This was not counterfeit: there is too great
testimony in your complexion, that it was a passion of
earnest. 171

Ros. Counterfeit, assure you.

Oli. Well then, take a good heart, and counterfeit
to be a man.

Ros. So I do; but, i’faith, I should have been a
woman by right.

Cel. Come; you look paler and paler: pray you,
draw homewards.—Good sir, go with us.

Oli. That will I, for I must bear answer back,
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind.

Ros. I shall devise something. But, I pray you,
commend my counterfeiting to him.—Will you go? ,

[Exeunt.

 

ACT V. .

ScENE I.—The Forest of Arden.
Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.

Touchstone.
E shall find a time, Audrey: patience,
gentle Audrey.

Aud. ’Faith, the priest was good
enough, for all the old gentleman's
saying.

Touch. A most wicked Sir Oliver,
Audrey; a most vile Mar-text. But,
Audrey, there is a youth here in the
forest lays claim to you.
lud. Ay, I know who ‘tis: he hath no interest in
mein the world. Here comes the man you mean. 11

Enter WILLIAM.

Touch. It is meat and drink to me to see a clown.
By my troth, we that have good wits have much to
answer for: we shall be flouting ; we cannot hold.

Will. Good even, Audrey. :

Aud. God ye good even, William.

Will. And good even to you, sir.

Touch. Good even, gentle friend. Cover thy head,
cover thy head, nay, pr’ythee, be covered. How old
are you, friend? 20

Will. Five-and-twenty, sir.

Touch. A ripe age. Is thy name William ?

Will. William, sir.

Touch, A fair name. Wast born i’ the forest here?

Will, ay sir, I thank God.

Touch, Thank God ;—a good answer. Art rich?

Will. ’Faith, sir, so, so,

 

 

Touch. So, so, is good, very good, very excellent,
good: and yet it is not; it is but so, so. Art thou
wise? ; 30

Will. Aye sir, I have a pretty wit.

Touch. Why, thou say’st well. I do now remember
a saying, ‘‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the
wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen
philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape,
would open his lips when he put it into his mouth,
meaning thereby, that grapes were made to eat, and
lips to open. You do love this maid?

Will. I do, sir.

Touch. Give me your hand. Art thou learned? 40

Will. No, sir. 4

Touch. Then learn this of me. To have, is to have;
for it is’a figure in rhetoric, that drink, being poured
out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty
the other ; for all your writers do consent, that ipse i8
he: now, you are not 7pse, for I am he.

Will. Which he, sir? . 4

Touch. He, sir, that must marry this woman.
Therefore, you clown, abandon,—which is in, the
vulgar, leave,—the society,—which in the boorish is,
company,—of this female,—which in the common 18,
woman; which together is, abandon the society of this
female, or, clown, thou perishest; or, to thy better
understanding, diest; or, to wit, I kill thee, make thee
away, translate thy life into death, thy liberty into
bondage. I will deal in poreon with thee, or in basti-
nado, or in steel: J will bandy with thee in faction; I

 

 
 

 

rc

ScENE III.)

AS YOU LIKE IT.

593

 

will o’errun thee with policy; I will kill thee a
hundred and fifty ways: therefore tremble, and
depart. 60

Aud. Do, good William.

Will. God rest you merry, sir. [Exit.

Enter Corin.

Cor. Our master and mistress seek you: come,
away, away! =

Touch. 'trip,. Audrey, trip, Audrey.—I attend, I
attend. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter ORLANDO and OLIVER.

Orl. Is’t possible, that on so little acquaintance you
should like her? that, but seeing, you should love her?
and, loving, woo? and, wooing, she should grant?
and will you persever to enjoy her?

Oli. Neither call the giddiness of it in question, the
poverty of her, the small acquaintance, my sudden
wooing, nor her sudden consenting ; but say with me,
Ilove Aliena ; say with her, that she loves me; con-
sent with both, that we may enjoy each other: it shall
be to your good; for my father's house, and all the
revenue that was old Sir Rowland’s, will I estate upon
you, and here live and die a shepherd. 12

Orl. You have my consent. Let your wedding be
to-morrow: thither will I invite the duke, and all his
contented followers. Go you, and prepare Aliena;
tor, look you, here comes my Rosalind.

Enter ROSALIND.

Ros. God save you, brother.

Oli. And you, fair sister. [Eait.

Ros. O! my dear Orlando, how it grieves me to see
thee wear thy heart in a scarf. 20

Orl. It is my arm.

Ros. I thought thy heart had been wounded with
the claws of a lion.

Orl. Wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady. ~

Ros. Did your brother tell you how I counterfeited
to swoon, when he showed me your handkercher?

Orl. Ay, and greater wonders than that.

Ros. O! I know where you are.—Nay, ’tis true:
there was never anything so sudden, but the fight of
two rams, and Ceesar’s thrasonical brag of—‘‘I came,
saw, and overcame:” for your brother and my sister
no sooner met, but they looked; no sooner looked,
but they loved; no sooner loved, but they sighed; no
sooner sighed, but they asked one another the reason ;
no sooner knew the reason, but they sought the
remedy : and in these degrees have they made a pair
of stairs to marriage, which they will climb inconti-
nent, or else be incontinent before marriage. They
are in the very wrath of love, and they will together:
clubs cannot part them. 40

' Orl. They shall be married to-morrow, and I will
bid the duke to the nuptial. But, O! how bitter a
thing it is to look into happiness through another
man’s eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow
be at the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I
shall think my brother happy in having what he
wishes for.

Ros. Why then, to-morrow I cannot serve your turn
for Rosalind ?

Orl. I can live no longer by thinking. 80

Ros. I will weary you then no longer with idle

ing. Know of me then (for now I speak to some
Purpose), that I know you are a gentleman of good
conceit. I speak not this, that you should_bear a
ee opinion of my knowledge. insomuch I say, I
ow you are; neither do I labour for a greater
esteem than miay in some little measure draw a belief
from you, to do yourself good, and not to grace me.
Believe then, if you: please, that I can do strange
things, have, since I was three years old, con-
versed with a magician, most profound in his art,
and yet not damnable. If you do love Rosalind so
near the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your
brother marries Aliena, shall] you marry her. I know

 

into what straits of fortune she is driven; and it is
not impossible to me, if it appear not inconvenient to
you, to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as
she is, and without any danger.

Orl. Speak’st thou in sober meaning? 69

Ros. By my life, I do; which I tender dearly,
though I say Iam a magician. Therefore, put you in
your best array, bid your friends, for if you will be
married to-morrow, you shall, and to Rosalind, if you
aes Look, here comes a lover of mine, and a lover
of hers.

Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE.

Phe. Youth, you have done me much ungentleness,
To show the letter that I writ to you.
Ros. I care not, if I have: it is my study
To seem despiteful and ungentle to you.
You are there follow’d by a faithful shepherd : 80
Look upon him, love him ; he worships you. ,
Phe. Soe shepherd, tell this youth what ‘tis to

ove.
Sil. It is to be all made of sighs and tears ;
And so am I for Phebe. S
Phe. And I for Ganymede.
Orl. And I for Rosalind.
Ros. And I for no woman.
Sil. It is to be all made of faith and service ;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And I for Ganymede. 90
Orl. And I for Rosalind.
Ros. And I for no woman.
Sil. It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes ;
All adoration, duty, and observance ;
All humbleness, all patience, and impatience ;
All pee all trial, all observance ;
And so am I for Phebe.
Phe. And so am I for Ganymede.
Orl. And so am I for Rosalind. 100
Ros. And so am I for no woman.
Phe. (To RosauinD.] If this be so, why blame you
me to love you?
Sil. [To PHEBE.] If this be so, why blame you me
to love you?
Orl. If this be so, why blame you me to love you?
Ros. Who do you speak to, “Why blame you me to
love you?”
Orl. To her, that is not here, nor doth not hear.
Ros. ay you, no more of this: ’tis like the howlin,
of Irish wolves against the moon.--[ 70 S1Lvius.]I wil
help you, if I can :—[Zo PHEBE.] I would love ra) ifI
could.—To-morrow meet me alltogether.—[ 70 PHEBE.]
I will marry you, if ever J marry woman, and I’]l be
married to-morrow :—[Zo0 ORLANDO.]I willsatisfy you,
if ever I satisfied man, and you shall be married to-
morrow :—[7o SiLvius.] I will content you, if what
pleases you contents you, and you shall be married
to-morrow.—_{7Zo ORLANDO.] As you love Rosalind,
meet :—[7o Sitvius.] As you love Phebe, meet: and
as I love no woman, I'll meet.—So, fare you well: I
have left you commands.

Sil. 1711 not fail, if I live. 120
Phe. Nor I.
Orl. Nor I. [Exeunt.

Scene III.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.

-Touch. To-morrow is the joyful day, Audrey: to-
Morrow will we be married.

Aud. I do desire it with all my heart, and I hone it
is no dishonest desire, to desire to be a woman of the
world. Here come two of the banished duke’s pages.

Enter two Pages.

1 Page. Well met, honest gentleman.

Touch. By my troth, well met. Come, sit, sit, and
asong. - .

2 Page. We are for you: sit i’ the middle.

1 Page. Shall we clap into ’t roundly, without

 

 
 

 

504 AS YOU LIKE IT.

[Act V.

 

hawking, or spitting, or ae we are hoarse, whicl

are the only prologues to a bad voice?

2 Page. I’ faith, i’ faith; and both in a tune, like two

gipsies on a horse.

<—

y
>
g
3

 

te

 

Between the acres of the rye

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,

These pretty country folks would lie,
In spring time, &c.

 

 

Ros. “You are there follow’d by a faithful shepherd:
Look upon him, love hin; he worships you.”

Sone.

It was a lover, and his lass,

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o’er the green corn-field did pase

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;

Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour, ‘
Witha hey. and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower
In spring time, &c.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
For love is crowned with the prime
In spring time, &c.

 

30

 
 

 

 

Scene IV.]

AS YOU LIKE IT. 595

 

Touch. Truly, young gentlemen, though there was
no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very
untuneable. ;

1 Page. You are deceived, sir: we kept time; we
lost not our time.

Touch. By my troth, yes; I count it but time lost to
hear such a foolish song. God be wi’ you; and God
mend your voices. Come, Audrey. 40

[Exewnt.

ScENE IV.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter DUKE Senior, AMIENS, JAQUES, ORLANDO,
OLIVER, and CELIA.
Duke S. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy
Can do all this that he hath promised?
Orl. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not,
As those that fear; they hope, and know they fear.

Enter ROSALIND, SILVIUS, and PHEBE.

Ros. Patience once more, whiles our compact is
urg’d.—
Ve the DUKE.] You say, if I bring in your Rosalind,
ou will bestow her on Orlando here?
Duke — That would I, had I kingdoms to give with

er.

Ros. [To ORLANDO.] And you say, you will have
her, when I bring her?

Orl. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. 10

Ros. [To PHEBE.] You say, you'll marry me, if I be

ad ae a
Phe. That will I, should I die the hour after.
Ros. But if you do refuse to marry me,
You'll give yourself to this most faithful shepherd ?
Phe. So is the bargain.
Ros. [To Stivius.J You say, that you ll have Phebe,
if she will?
Sil. Though to have her and death were both one

thing.

Ros. Ihave promis’d to make all this matter even.
Keep you your word, O duke! to give your daughter ;—
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter ;— 20
poe your word, Phebe, that you'll marry me,
Or else, refusing me, to wed this shepherd ;—

Keep your word, Silvius, that you ’ll marry her,
If she refuse me :—and from hence I go,
To make these doubts all even.
Exeunt ROSALIND and CELIA.

Duke S, I do remember in this shepherd-boy
Some aeely touches of my daughter's favour.

1. My lord, the first time that I ever saw him,
Methought he was a brother to your daughter ;
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born,

‘And hath been tutor’d in the rudiments
Of many desperate studies by his uncle,
Whom he reports to be a great magician,
Obscured in the circle of this forest.

Jag. There is, sure, another flood toward, and these
couples are coming to the ark. Here comes a pair of
Mas strange beasts, which in all tongues are called

ools,

30

Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.

Touch. Salutation and greeting to you all. 2

Jag. Good my lord, bid him welcome. This is the
motley-minded gentleman, that I have so often met in
the forest: he hath been a courtier, he swears.

Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put me to my

urgation. I have trod a measure; I have flattered a

dy; Ihave been politic with my friend, smooth with
Mine enemy; I have undone three tailors; I have had
four quarrels. and like to have fought one.

Jag. And how was that ta’en up?

Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quarrel was
upon the seventh cause. 5
tee: How seventh cause ?—Good my lord, like this

low.

Duke S. I like him very well. ;

Touch, God ’ild you, sir; I desire you of the like.

Press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country
copulatives, to swear, and to forswear, according as

“Marriage binds, and blood breaks.—A poor virgin,
eae ke et RN eee

 

sir, an ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own: a poor
humour of mine, sir, to take that no man else will.
Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house,
as your pearl in your foul oyster. 61

Duke S. By my faith, he is very swift and sen-
tentious.

Touch. According to the fool’s bolt, sir, and such
dulcet diseases.

Jaq. But, for the seventh cause, how did you find
the quarrel on the seventh cause?

Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed.—Bear
your body more seeming, Audrey.—As thus, sir. I
did dislike the cut of a certain courtier’s beard: he
sent me word, if [ said his beard was not cut well, he
was in the mind it was: this is called the “retort
courteous.” If I sent him word again it was not well
cut, he would send me word he cut it to please him-
self: this is called the ‘“‘quip modest.” If again, it
was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: this is
called the “reply churlish.” If again, it was not well
cut, he would answer, I spake not true: this is called
the ‘‘reproof valiant.” If again, it was not well cut,
he would say, I lie: this is called the ‘‘ countercheck

uarrelsome:” and so to the “lie circumstantial,” and
the “‘lie direct.” 82

Jag. And how oft did you say, his beard was not
well cut?

Touch. I durst go no further than the “‘lie circum-
stantial,” nor he durst not give me the “‘lie direct ;”
and so we measured swords, and parted.

Jag. Can you nominate in order now the degrees of
the lie ? 89
Touch. O sir, we quarrel in print; by the book,
as you have books for good manners: [ will name

you the degrees. ‘he first, the retort courteous;
the second, the quip modest; the third, the reply
churlish; the fourth, the reproof valiant; the fifth,
the countercheck quarrelsome; the sixth, the lie
with circumstance; the seventh, the lie direct. All
these you may avoid, but the lie direct ; and you may
avoid that too, with an if. I knew when seven
justices could not take up a quarrel; but when the
arties were met themselves, one of them thought
ut of an if, as if you said so, then I said so; and
they shook hands and swore brothers. Your if is the
ony peace-maker ; much virtue in if. 103
aq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord? he’s as good
at anything, and yet a fool.
Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and
under the presentation of that, he shoots his wit.

Enter HYMEN, leading ROSALIND in woman's clothes,
and CELIA.

Still Music.
Hym, Then is there mirth in heaven,

When earthly things made even

Atone together.
Good duke, receive thy daughter,
Hymen from heaven brought her ;

Yea, brought her hither,
That thou mightst join her hand with his,
Whose heart within her bosom is.

Ros. [To DUKE S.] To youl give myself, for lam

yours. :
[To ORLANDO.] To you I give myself, for Iam yours.

Duke S. If there be truth in sight, you are my
daughter. of

Orl. If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.

Phe. If sight and shape be true, 120

Why then, my love adieu!
Ros. [To DUKE S.] I’ll have no father, if you be not

em
[To ORLANDO.] I’ll have no husband, if you be not

110

e:—
[To PHEBE.] Nor ne’er wed woman, if you be not she.
Hym. Peace, ho! I bar confusion.
*T is I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events:
Here’s eight that must take hands,
To join in Hymen’s bands,

If truth holds true contents. 130

 

 
 

 

596

AS YOU LIKE IT.

{Act V,

 

[To ORLANDO and ROSALIND.] You and you
no cross shall part :

[To OLIVER and CrLIA.] You and you are
heart in heart:

[To PuEBE.] You to his love must accord,

Or have a woman to your lord:

[Zo TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY.] You and
you are sure together,

As the winter to foul weather.

Whiles a wedlock-hymn we sing,

Feed yourselves with questioning,

That reason wonder may diminish, J

How thus we met, and these things finish.

Sona.
Wedding is great Juno's crown:
O blessed bond of board and bed !
Tis Hymen peoples every town ;
High wedlock then be honoured.
Honour, high honour, and renown,
To Hymen, god of every town !

Duke S. O my dear niece! welcome thou art to me:
Even daughter, welcome in no less degree.

Phe. (To Sitvius.] I will not cat my word, now

thou art mine ;
Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. 150
Enter JAQUES DE Bois.

Jaq. de B. Let me have audience for a word or two.
Iam the second son of old Sir Rowland,
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly.—
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day
Men of great worth resorted to this forest,
Address'd a mighty power, which were on foot
In his own conduct, purposely to take
His brother here, and put him to the sword.
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came,
Where, meeting with an old religious man,
After some question with him, was converted
Both from his enterprise, and from the world ;

1

160

 

| 1 do engage my life.
Duke 8.

His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother,
And all their lands restor’d to them again,
That were with him exil’d. This to be true,

a : Welcome, young man;
Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding :
To one, his lands withheld ; and to the other,
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom.
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
‘That here were well begun, and well begot ;
And after, every of this happy number,
That have endur’d shrewd days and nights with us,
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states,
Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity,
And fall into our rustic revelry.—
Play, music! and you brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.

sine, Sir, by your patience.—If I heard you rightly,
The duke hath put on a religious life, 181
And thrown into neglect the pompous court ?

Jag. de B. He hath. .

Jag. To him will L: out of these convertites
There is much matter to be heard and learn’d,—
[Yo DuKE S.] You to your former honour I bequeath;
Your patience, and your virtue, well deserve it :—
[Zo ORLANDO.] You toa love, that your true faith doth

merit :-—
[To Guyen] You to your land, and love, and great
allies:

17)

To Sitvius.] You to a long and well-deserved bed :—
Yo TOUCHSTONE.] And you to wrangling; for thy
loving voyage I9l
Is but for two months victuall'd.—So, to your pleasures:
Iam for other than for dancing measures.
Duke S. Stay, Jaques, stay.
Jaq. To see no pastime, I:—what you would have,
I'll stay to know at your abandon’d cave. ait,
Duke S. Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,
As we do trust they ’ll end in true delights. [4 dance.

EPILOGUE.

Ros. It is not the fashion to sec the lady the epilogue;
but it is no more unhandsome, than to see the lord the
prologue. If it be true that good wine needs no bush,
‘tis true that a good play needs no epilogue; yet to good
wine they do use good bushes, and good weve prove
the better by the help of good epilogues. What a case
am I in then, that am neither a good epilogue, nor
cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good
play? Iam not furnished like a beggar, therefore to

eg will not become me: my way is, to conjure you;

and I’ll begin with the women. I charge you, O

women! for the love you bear to men, to like as much
of this play as please you: and I charge you, O men!
for the love you bear to women (as I perceive by your
simpering, none of you hates them), that between you
and the women, the play may please. If I were a
woman, I would kiss as many of you as had beards
that plesbed. me, complexions that liked me, and
breaths that I defied not; and, Iam sure, as many as

have good beards, or good faces, or sweet breaths,
will, for my kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me
farewell.

[Exeunt.

 
 

 

 

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

CLaupius, King of Denmark.

HAMLET, Son to the former, and Nephew to the
present King.

Horatio, Friend to Hamlet.

Potonius, Lord Chamberlain.

LAERTES, his Son.

VOLTIMAND, y

FRANCISCO, a Soldier.
REYNALDO, Servant to Polonius.
A Captain.

English Ambassadors,

Ghost of Hamlet's Father.
FORTINBRAS, Prince of Norway.
Players.

 

ee Two Clowns, Grave-diggers.
OSENCRANTZ, . ’
Coe naNetES, p Courtiers. GERTRUDE, Queen of Denmark, and Mother to
SRICK, ‘amlet.
4 Pte OPHELIA, Daughter to Polonius.
A Priest.
MARCELLUS, ) Officers Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers,
BERNARDO, § : : and Attendants,
SCENE—DENMARK.
ACT I.

ScENE I.—Elsinore.

A Platform before the Castle.

FRANCISCO on his post. Enter to him BERNARDO.

Bernardo.
HO’s there?

Fran. Nay, answer me: stand,
and unfold yourself.

Ber. Long live the king!

Fran. Bernardo?

Ber. He. :

Fran. You come most carefully
upon your hour.

Ber. ’T is now struck twelve : get
thee to-bed, Francisco.

Fran. Forthis relief much thanks:
’tis bitter cold,

 

And I am sick at heart. —
Ber, Have you had quiet guard? Shes
Fran. Not a mouse stirring. 10
Ber, Well, good night.

If you do meet Horatio and. Marcellus,

The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
Fran. I think I hear them.—Stand! Who’s there?

Enter HoRATIO and MARCELLUS.
Hor. Friends to this ground,

Mar. And liegemen to the Dane.
Fran. Give you good night. 7
ar. 6 ! farewell, honest soldier :
Who hath reliev’d you?

| Fran, Bernardo has my place. __
Give you good night. [Exit.
Mar. Holla! Bernardo!
Ber, Say.
What ! is Horatio there? :
lor. A piece of him.
Ber. Welcome, Horatio: welcome, good Marcellus.
Mar, What, has this thing appear’d again to-night?
Ber. T have seen nothing. 22
Mar. Horatio says, tis but our fantasy,
And will not let belief take hold of him,

 

‘Touching this dreaded sight twice seen of us.
Therefore, I have entreated him along
With us to watch the minutes of this night,
That, if again this apparition come,
He may approve our eyes, and speak to it.

Hor. Tush, tush ! ’t will not appear.

Ber. Sit down awhile, 30
And let us once again assail your ears,
That are so fortified against our story,
What we two nights have seen.

or. Well, sit we down,

And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.

Ber. Last night of all,
When yond same star, that’s westward from the pole,
Had made his course to illume that part of heaven
Where now it burns, Marcellus, and myself,
The bell then beating one,—

Mar. Peace! break thee off: look, where it comes

again ! 40
Enter Ghost.

Ber. In the same figure, like the king that’s dead.
Mar. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. _
Ber. Looks it not like the king? mark it, Horatio.
Hor. Most like :—it harrows me with fear and

wonder.
Ber. It would be spoke to. ;
ar. Question it, Horatio.
Hor. What art thou, that usurp’st this time of

night,
Together oils that fair and warlike form,
In which the majesty of buried Denmark
Did sometimes march? by Heaven, I charge thee, _

speak!
Mar. It is offended.
Ber. See! it stalks away.
Hor. Stay! speak: speak, I charge thee, speak!
[Exit Ghost.

 

 
 

 

 

598 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. [Act L
Mar. ’T is gone, and will not answer. If thou hast any sound, or use of voi
Ber. How now, Horatio? youtremble, and look pale: , Speak to me: " OF MOI

Is not this something more than fantasy ? 130

What think you on ’t?

Hor. Before my God, I might not this believe,
Without the sensible and true avouch
Of mine own eyes.

Mar. Is it not like the king?

Hor. As thou art to thyself.
Such was the very armour he had on, co
When he the ambitious Norway combated.
So frown’d he once, when, in an angry parle,
He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice.
Tis strange.

Mar. Thus, twice before, and just at this dead hour,
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.

Hor. In what particular thought to work, I know

not;

But in the gross and scope of my opinion,
This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that

knows,

Why this same strict and most observant watch
So nightly toils the subject of the land?
And why such daily cast of brazen cannon,
And foreign mart for implements of war?
Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task
Does not divide the Sunday from the week ?
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste
Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day,
Who is’t, that can inform me?

Hor. That can I;
At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, 80
Whose image even but now appear’d to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway,
Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride,
Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet
(For so this side of our known world esteem'd him)
Did slay this Fortinbras ; who, by a seal’d compact,
Well ratified by law and heraldry,
Did forfeit with his life all those his lands,
Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror:
Against the which, a moiety competent 90
Was gaged by our king; which had return’d
To the inheritance of Fortinbras,
Had he been vanquisher; as, by the same cov’nant,
And carriage of the article design’d,
His fellto Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras,
Of unimproved mettle hot and full,
Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there,
Shark’d up a list of landless resolutes,
For food and diet, to some enterprise
That hath a stomach in ’t: which is no other
(As it doth well appear unto our state)
But to recover of us, by strong hand
And terms compulsative, those ‘foresaid lands
So by his father lost. And this, I take it,
Is the main motive of our preparations,
The source of this our watch, and the chief head
Of this past hate and romage in the land.

Ber. I think, it be no other, but e’en so:
Well may it sort, that this portentous figure
Comes armed through our watch, so like the king 110
That was, and is, the question of these wars.

Hor. A moth it is to trouble the mind’s eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets :
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star,
Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands,

as sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: 120
And even the like precurse of fierce events—
As harbingers preceding still the fates,
And prologue to the omen coming on—
Have heaven and earth together demonstrated
Unto our climatures and countrymen.—
But, soft! behold! lo, where it comes again!

Re-enter Ghost.
T’ll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion!

100

 

It there be any good thing to be done,
That may to th f .
: ha tome:

10u art privy to thy country’s fate,
Which happily foreknowing may avoid,

O, speak !
thou hast uphoarded in thy life

ee do ease, and grace to me,

Or i

 

Hor. “* Stay, illusion !
If thou hast any suund, or use of voice,
Speak to me.”

Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, |
For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death,
Cock crows,
Speak of it :—stay, and speak !—Stop it, Marcellus.
Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan? 140
Hor. Do, if it will not stand.

Ber. *T is here!,
Hor. °T is here!
Mar. ’Tis gone! [Exit Ghost.

We do it wrong, being so majestical,
To offer it the show of violence ;

For it is, as the air, invulnerable,

And our vain blows malicious mockery.

Ber. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.

Hor. And then it started, like a pualty thing
Upon a fearful summons. I have heard,

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn,
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day; and, at his warning,
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,

The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine; and of the truth herein

This present object made probation.

Mar. It faded on the. crowing of the cock.
Some say, that ever ’gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,

The bird of dawning singeth all night long:

And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad ;,
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath pores to charm,
So hallow’d and so gracious is the time. ig

Hor. So have I heard, and do in part believe i
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.
Break we our watch up; and, by my advice,

150

160

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

599

 

 

Let us impart what we have seen to-night

Unto young Hamlet ; for, upon my lite,

‘his spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him.

Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it,

As needful in our loves, fitting our duty ?
Mar, Let’s do’t, I pray; and I this morning know

Where we shall find him most conveniently. |Hxeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Same. A Room of State.

Enter the KinG, QUEEN, HAMLET, POLONIUS,

LAERTES, VOLTIMAND, CORNELIUS, Lords, and

Attendants. :

King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's
death

The memory be green, and that it us befitted
To bear our hearts in grief, and our whoie kingdom
'To be contracted in one brow of woe;
Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature,
That we with wisest sorrow think on him,
‘Together with remembrance of ourselves. -
Therefore, our sometime sister, now our queen,
The imperial jointress of this warlike state,.
Have.we, as ’t were, with a defeated joy,— 10
With one auspicious, and one dropping eye,
With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage,
In equal scale weighing delight and dole,—
‘taken to wife: nor have we herein barr’d
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With this affair along: for all, our thanks.
Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,
Holding a weak supposal of our worth,
Or thinking, by our late dear brother’s death,
Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, 20
Colleagued with the dream of his advantage,
He hath not tail’d to pester us with message,
importing the surrender of those lands
Lost. by his father, with all bonds of law,
‘To our most valiant brother.—So much for him.
Now for ourself, and for this time of meeting.
Thus much the business is, We have here writ
To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,—
Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears
Of this his nephew’s purpose, —to suppress 30
His further gait herein, in that the levies,
The lists, and full proportions, are all made
Out of his subject: and we here despatch
You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltiiand,
For bearers of this greeting to old Norway;
Giving to you no further personal power
To business with the king, more than the scope
Of these dilated articles allow. :
Farewell ; and let your haste commend your duty.
Cor., rae In that, and all things, will we show oF
uty.
King. We doubt it nothing : heartily farewell.
[Exeunt VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS.
And now, Laertes, what ’s the news with you?
You told us of some suit ; what is ’t, Laertes?
You cannot speak of reason to the Dane,
And lose your voice: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes,
That shall not be my offer, not thy asking ?
The head is not more native to the heart,
The hand more instrumental to the mouth,
Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father.
What wouldst thou have, Laertes?
. Dread my lord, 50

er.
Your leave and favour to return to France ;
From whence though willingly I came to Denmark,
To show my duty in your coronation,
Yet now, I must confess, that duty done,
. My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France,
And bow them to your gracious leave and Pe nees
King, Have you your father’s leave? hat says
Polonius ?
Pol. aS hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow
leave,
By laboursome petition ; and, at last,
oon his will I seal’d my hard consent: 60
IT do beseech you, give him leave to go.

 

King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes ; time be thine,
And thy best graces spend it at thy will.—
ut now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,—
Ham. aa A little more than kin, and less than
ind.
King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Ham. Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun.
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do nut, for ever, with thy vailed lids 70
seek for thy noble father in the dust :
‘Lhou know’st, tis common ; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
Flam. Ay, madam, it is common.
Queen. If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
am. Seems, madam ! nay, itis; Iknow not seems.
"Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of fore’d breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 80
Nor the dejected haviour of the visage,
‘logether with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
‘hat can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,
Yor they are actions that a man might play ;
But I have that within, which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
King. Tis sweet and commendable in your nature,
Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a futher;
That tather lost, lost his; and the survivor bound 90
In filial obligation, for some term,
‘'o do obsequious sorrow : but to persever
In obstinate condolement, is a course
Of impious stubbornness ; ’t is unmanly grief ;
It shows a will most incorrect to Heaven,
A heart unfortified, a mind impatient,
An understanding simple and unschool'd:
For what, we know, must be, and is as common
As any the most vulgar thing to sense,
Why should we, in our peevish opposition,
Take it to heart? Fie! ‘tis a fault to Heaven,
A fauit against the dead, a fault to nature,
‘lo reason most absurd, whose common theme
Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried,
From the first corse till he that died to-day,
““This must be so.” We pray you, throw to earth
This unprevailing woe, and think of us
As of a father ; for let the world take note,
You are the most immediate to our throne;
And, with no less nobility of love,
‘Than that which dearest father bears his son,
Dolimpart toward you. For your intent
In going back to school in Wittenberg,
It is most retrograde to our desire ;
And we beseech you, bend you to remain
Here, in the cheer and comfort of our eye,
Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
Queen. ut not thy mother lose her prayers, Ham-
et:

100

110

I pray thee, stay with us ; go not to Wittenberg.
Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
King. Why, ’tis a loving and a fair reply :

Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come;

This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet

Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof,

No secund health that Denmark drinks to-day,

But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell, .

And the king’s rouse the heavens shall bruit again,

Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away.

[Flourish. Exeunt Kinc, QUEEN, Lords, &c.,
PoLonius, and LAERTES.

Ham. O! that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew; 13D
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! 0 God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,

Seem to me all the uses of this world !

Fie on’t! O fie! ’tis an unweeded garden,

That grows to seed ; things rank, and gross in nature,

Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

120

 

 
 

G00

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act I,

 

 

But two months dead !—nay, not so much, not two:

So excellent a king ; that was, to this,

Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, 140

That he might not beteem the winds of heaven

Visit her face too pougn Heaven and earth !

Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,

As if increase of appetite had grown

By what it fed on; and yet, within a month,— .

Let me not think on’t:—Frailty, thy name is
woman !—

A little month ; or ere those shoes were old,

With which she follow’d my poor father’s body,

Like Niobe, all tears ;—why she, even she,

(O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason, 150

Would have mourn’d longer,)—married with my

. uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules: within a month ;
Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing in her galled eyes,
She married.—O most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
It is not, nor it cannot come to, oot ¢
But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue !

Enter HoRATIO, BERNARDO, and MARCELLUS.
Hor. Hail to your lerdahan?
Ham. am glad to see you well :
Horatio,—or I do forget myself. 161
Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.
Ham. Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name
with you.
And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio ?—
Marcellus?
Mar. My good lord,—
Ham. Lam very glad to see you.—Good even, sir. —
But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord.
Ham. I would not hear your enemy say so; 170
Nor shall you do mine ear that violence,
To make it truster of your own report
Against yourself : I know, you are no truant,
But what is your affair in Elsinore?
We 1l teach you to drink deep, ere you depart.
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.
Ham. I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student ;
I think, it was to see my mother’s wedding.
Hor. Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.
Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak'd
1

meats 80
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
"Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Ere I had ever seen that day, Horatio !—
My father,—methinks, I see my father.
or. O! where, my lord?
Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio.
Hor. I saw him once: he was a goodly a
Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all,
I shall not look upon his like again.
Hor. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
Ham. Saw who?
Hor. My lord, the king your father.
Ham. The king my father!
Hor. Season your admiration for a while
With an attent ear, till I may deliver,
Upon the witness of these gentlemen,
This marvel to you.
Ham. ‘ For God’s love, let me hear.
Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen,
Marcellus and Bernardo, on their sratch,
In the dead waste and middle of the night,
Been thus encounter'’d: a figure like your father,
Armed at point, exactly, cap-a-pe,
Appears before them, and with solemn march
Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk'd,
By. their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes,
ithin his truncheon’s length ; whilst they, distill’d
Almost to jelly with the act of fear,
Stand dumb, and speak not tohim. This tome
In dreadful secrecy impart they did,
And I with them the third night kept the watch ;
Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time,

 

Form of the thing, each word made true and good, 210

The apparition comes. I knew your tather:

These hands are not more like.

am. . But where was this? .
Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch’d,
Ham. Did you not speak to it?

Hor. é My lord, I did;

But answer made it none: yet once, methought,

It lifted up its head, and did address

Itself to motion, like as it would speak ;

But, even then, the morning cock crew loud,

‘And at the sound it shrunk in haste away,

And vanish’d from our sight. ;
Ham. : ’Tis very strange. 220
Hor. AsI do live, my honour'd lord, ‘tis true ;

And we did think it writ down in our duty,

Yo let you know of it.

Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me.

Hold you the watch to-night ?

Mar., Ber. We do, my lord.
Ham. Arm’d, say you?
Mar., Ber. Arm’d, my lord.

Ham. From top to toe?
Mar., Ber. My lord, from head to foot.

Ham, - Then, saw you not his face?
Hor. O! yes, my lord; he wore his-beaver up. -
Ham. What, look’d he frowningly ?

Hor. A countenance more in sorrow than in enger.
Ham. Pale, or red? 231
Hor. Nay, very pale.
Ham. And fix’d his eyes upon you?
hoe Most constantly.

‘am. I would I had been there.
Hor, It would have much amaz’d you.
Ham. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long?
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a
hundred.
Mar., Ber. Longer, longer.
Hor. Not when 1 saw’t.
Ham. His beard was grizzled ? no?
Hor. It was, as I have seen it in his lite,
A sable silver'd.
Ham. I will watch to-night : 240
Perchance, ’t will walk again.
Hor. I warrant it will.
Ham. If it assume aay noble father’s person,
I’ spealt to it, though hell itself should gape,
And bid me hold my peace. I pay you all,
If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight,
Let it be tenable in your silence still ;
And whatsoever else shall hap to-night,
Give it an understanding, but no tongue:
I will requite your loves. So, fare you well. :
Upon the platform, ’twixt eleven and twelve, 250
Ill visit you.
All. Our duty to your honour.
Ham. Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell.
[Hxeunt HoRATIO, MARCELLUS, and BERNARDO.
My father’s spirit in arms! all is not well ;
I doubt some foul play : ‘would, the night were come!
Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s is

 

ScENE III.—A Room in Potontvus’ House.

Enter LAERTES and OPHELIA. t
Laer. My necessaries are embark’d: farewell ;
And, sister, 4s the winds give benefit,
And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, .
But let me hear from you. i
Oph. : Do you doubt that?
Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour;
Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood;
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute ;
No more,
Oph. No more but so?
Laer. Think it no more: 10
For nature, crescent, does not grow alone

 

 

 
 

SCENE IV.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

601

 

 

Grows wide withal.

*Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d ;

In thews, and bulk ; but, as this temple waxes,
‘The inward service of the mind and soul.
it Perhaps, he loves you now;
And now no soil, nor cautel, doth besmirch
The virtue of his will: but you must fear,
His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own,
For he himself is subject to his birth:
He may not, as unvalu’d persons do,
Carve for himself ; for on his choice depends 20
'The safety and the health of the whole state;
And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d
Unto the voice and yielding of that body,
Whereof he isthe head. Then, if he says he loves you,
It fits your wisdom so far to believe it,
As he in his particular act and place
May give his saying deed ; which is no further,
‘Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal.
Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain,
If with too credent ear you list his songs,
Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open
To his unmaster’d importunity.
Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister ;
And keep within the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire.
The chariest maid is prodigal enough,
If she unmask her beauty to the moon.
Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes:
The canker galls the infants of the spring,
40
And in the morn and liquid dew of youth
Contagious blastments are most imminent.
Be wary then; best safety lies in fear:
Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.

Oph. I shall the effect of this good lesson keep,
As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,
Whilst like a puff’d and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, 50
And recks not his own read.

Laer. Q! fear me not.
Istay too long ;—but here my tather comes.

Enter POLONIuS.

A double blessing is a double grace ;
Occasion smiles upon a second leave.

Pol. Yet here, Laertes? aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay’d for. There,—my blessing with

you; [Laying his hand on LAERTES’ head.

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. 60
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar :
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
popple them to thy soul with hoops of steel ;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel ; but, being in,
Bear’t, that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice ;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 70
But not express’d in fancy ; rich, not gaudy :
For the apparel oft proclaims the man ; ;
And they in France, of the best rank and station,
Are most select and generous, chief in that.
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be ;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all,—to thine own self be true ;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell; my blessing season this in thee!

Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord.

Pol. The time invites you: go, your servants tend.

Laer. Farewell, Ophelia ; and remember well
What I have said to you.
hh. *T is in my memory lock’d,
And you yourself shall keep the key of it. i
Laer, Barewell. ‘i [Exit.
Pol. What is ’t. Ophelia, he hath said to you?

80°

 

Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord
Hamlet.

Pol. Marry, well bethought : 90
°T is told me, be hath very oft of late
Given private time to you; and you yourself
Have of your audience been most free and bountcous.
If it be so, (as so ’tis put on me,

And that in way of caution,) I must tell you,
You do not understand yourself so clearly,
As it behoves my catenee, and your honour.
What is between you? give me up the truth.
hh. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me. 100

Pol. Attection? pooh! you speak like a green girl,
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.

Do you believe his tenders, as you call them ?

Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think.

Pol. Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself a baby ;
That yeu have ta’en these tenders for true pay,

Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly ;
Or, not to crack the wind of the poor phrase,
Sue thus, you’ll tender me a fool.

Oph. My lord, he hath importun’d me with love, 11¢
In honourable fashion.

Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.

Oph, And haw given countenance to his speech,

my lord,
With almost all the holy vows of heaven.

Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know,
When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul
Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter,
Giving more light than heat,—extinct in both,
Even in their promise, as it is a-making,—

You must not take for fire. From this time,

Be somewhat scanter of your maiden presence :

Set your entreatments at a higher rate,

Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet,

Believe so much in him, that he is young;

And with a larger tether may he walk,

Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia,

Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers

Not of that dye which their investments show,

But mere implorators of unholy suits,

Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,

The better to beguile. This is for all,—

I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth,

Have you so slander any moment leisure,

As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet.

Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways.
Oph. I shall obey, my lord.

129

150

[Exeunt.

ScenE IV.—The Platform.

Enter HAMLET, HoRATIO, and MARCELLUS.
Ham. The air bites shrewdly ; it is very cold.
Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air.

Ham. What hour now?
Hor.
Mar. No, it is struck.
Hor. Indeed? I heard it not: it then draws near
the season,
Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk.
A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance
shot off, within.
What does this mean, my lord?
Ham. The king doth wake to-night, and takes his
rouse,
Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels ;
And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, 10
The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out
The triumph of his pledge.
- Hor. :
Ham. Ay, marry, is’t:
But to my mind,—though I am native here,
And to the manner born,—it is a custom
More honour’d in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel, east and west,
Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations:
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition ; and, indeed, it takes

I think, it lacks of twelve.

Is it a custom?

 

 
 

602

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act L

 

 

From. our achievements, though perform’d at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.

So, oft it chances in particular men,

That for some vicious mole of nature in them,

As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin,)

By their o'ergrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ;

Or by some habit, that too much o’er-leavens

The form of plausive manners ;—that these men,— 30
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,

Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star, —

Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,

As infinite as man may undergo, >

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault : the dram of bale

Doth all the noble substance off and out

To his own scandal.

Enter Ghost.

Hor. Look, my lord! it comes.
Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d, 40
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,
Thou com’st in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane: O! answer me:
Let me not burst in ignorance ; but tell,
Why thy canonis’d bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements ; why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn’d,
Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws, 50
To cast thee up again. What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,
So horridly to shake our disposition,
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ?
Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?
The Ghost beckons HAMLET.
Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
‘To you alone.
Mar. Look, with what courteous action 60
It waves you to a more removed ground:
But do not go with it.
Hor. No, by no means,
Ham. It will not speak ; then will I follow it.
Hor. Do not, my lord.
Ham. Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And, for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing immortal as itself?
It waves me forth again :—I’ll follow it.
Hor. What, if it tempt you toward the flood, my

lord,
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff, 70
That beetles o’er his base into the sea,
And there assume some other horrible form,
Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason
And draw you into madness? think of it:
‘he very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea,
And hears it roar beneath.
Ham. It waves me still :—go on, Ill follow thee.
Mar. You shall not go, my lord.
‘am. Hold off your hands.
dm. Be rul'd: you shall not go.

am.
And makes each

etty artery in this body
As hardy as the

emean lion's nerve.—
[Ghost beckons.
Still am I call’'d.—Unhand me, gentlemen,—
[Breaking from them.
By Heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me :—
I say, away !—Go on, I’ll follow thee.
Exeunt Ghost and HAMLET.
Hor. He waxes desperate with imagination,
Mar, let's follow; ’t is not fit thus fo obey him.
Hor. Have after.—To what issue will this come? 89

My fate cries out, 81

 

Mar. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.

Hor. Heaven will direct it.
far. Nay, let’s follow him. [Ezeunt,

ScENE V.—A more remote Part of the Platform.

Enter Ghost and HAMLET.
Ham. Where wilt thou lead me? speak, I’ll go no
further.
Ghost. Mark me.
diam. I will. ie
ost. y hour is almost come
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames :
Must render up myself.
Ham, | Alas, poor ghost!
Ghost. Pity me not ; but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold.
Ham, Speak, I am bound to hear.
Ghost. 3o art thou to revenge, when thou shalt
ear.
Ham. What?
Ghost. Iam thy father’s spirit ;
Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, 10
And for the day confin’d to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature,
Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word ~
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
‘Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand an-end,
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine ; 20
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood.—List, Hamlet, O list !—
If thou didst ever thy dear father love,—
Ham, O God!
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
Ham, Murder?
Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is;
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Ham. pois me to know’t, that I, with wings as
sW
As meditation, or the thoughts of love, 30
May sweep to my revenge.
Ghost. I find thee apt;
And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed
‘That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,
Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear.
"Tis given out, that, sleeping in mine orchard,
A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
Rankly abus’d ; but know, thou noble youth,
The serpent that did sting thy father’s life
Now wears his crown.
Ham.
Mine uncle!
Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,
(O wicked wit, and gifts, that have the power
So to seduce !) won to his shameful lust
The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen.
O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there !
From me, whose love was of that dignity,
That it went hand in hand even with the vow
I made to her in marriage; and to decline
Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor
‘To those of mine!
But virtue, as it never will be mov’'d,
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,
So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d,
Will sate itself in a celestial bed,
And prey on garbage.
But, soft ! methinks, I scent the morning air:
Brief let me be.—Sleeping within mine orchard,
My custom always in the afternoon, 60
U pon my secure hour thy uncle stole,
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial,
And in the porches of mine ears did pour
‘The leperous distilment ; whose effect

O my prophetic soul! 40

 

 
 

 

SCENE V.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

G03

 

Holds such an enmity with blood of man,

That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through

The natural gates and alleys of the body ;

And with a sudden vigour it doth posset

And curd, like eager droppings into milk,

The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine ; 70

And a most instant tetter bark’d about,

Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust,

All my smooth body.

Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand,

Of life, of crown, and queen, at once despatch’d ;

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,

Unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d ;

No reckoning made, but sent to my account

With all my imperfections on my head:

O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!

If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not;

Let not the royal bed of Denmark be

A couch for luxury and damned incest.

But, howsoever thou pursu’st this act,

Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive

Against thy mother aught: leave her to Heaven,

And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,

‘To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once.

‘rhe glow-worm shows the matin to be near,

And ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire: 90

Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me. [Exit.
Ham. o at you host of heaven! Oearth! What

else

80

And shall I couple hell? O fie !—Hold, hold, my heart; |

And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,

But bear me stitHly up !—Remember thee !

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe. Remember thee !

Yea, from the table of my memory

I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,

All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,

That youth and observation copied there ;

And thy commandment all alone shall live

Within the book and volume of my brain,

Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by Heaven!

O most pernicious woman !

O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain !

My tables,—meet it is, I set it down,

That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;

At least, Iam sure, it may be so in Denmark:

(Writing.

So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; 110

It is, “‘ Adieu, adieu! remember me.”

I have sworn’t.
Hor. Taken

109

My lord! my lord!
Lord Hamlet !
Heaven secure him!

Mar. [Within

Hor. [Within.]

Mar. [Within.] So be it!
Hor. [Within.] Ilo, ho, ho, my lord!

Ham. Hillo, ho, ho, boy ! come, bird, come.

Enter HoRATIO and MARCELLUS.
Mar. How is’t, my noble lord ?
or. What news, my lord?
Ham. O, wonderful!
Hor. Good my lord, tell it.
Ham. No; you will reveal it.
ne Not I, my lord, by Heaven.
‘ar.
Ham. How say you, then ; would heart of man once
think it ?—
But you'll be secret ?
Hor., Mar. Ay, by Heaven, my lord.
Ham. There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Den-

mark,
But he’s an arrant knave.
Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the

grave,
To tell us this.
am. Why, right ; you are’i’ the right ;
And so, without more circumstance at all,
Lhold it fit that we shake hands, and part:
You, as your business and desire shall point you,
For every man hath business and desire,
Such as it is; and, for mine own poor part,
Look you, I’ll go pray.

130

Nor I, my lord. 120 -

 

Hor. These are but wild and whirling words, my

ord.

Ham. I am sorry they offend you, heartily; yes,
Faith, heartily.

Hor. There’s no offence, my lord.

Ham. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio,
And much offence too. Touching this vision here,
It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you:
For your desire to know what is between us,
O'ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, 140
As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers,
Give me one poor request.

Hor. What is’t, my lord? we will.

Ham. Never make known what you have seen to-

night.
Hor., Mar. My lord, we will not.
Ham. Nay, but swear’t.

Hor. ln taith,
My lord, not L
Mar. Nor I, my lord, in faith.

Ham. Upon my sword.

Mar. We have sworn, my lord, already.
Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.

Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear.

Ham. Ha, ha, boy! say’st thou so? art thou ve

true-penny ?

 

 

 

Ham. ‘ Ha,ha, boy! say’st thou so? art thou there, true-penny 2?”

Come on,—you hear this fellow in the cellarage,—
Consent to swear.

Hor. Propose the oath, my lord.

Ham. Never to sous of this that you have seen,
Swear by my sword.

Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear.

Ham. Hic et ubique ? then, we'll shift our ground.—
Come hither, gentlemen,
And lay your hands again upon my sword:
Never to speak of this that you have heard,
Swear by my sword. 160

Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear.

Ham. Well said, old mole! canst work i’ the earth

so fast ?

   
 
 

A worthy pioner !—Once more remove, good friends.
Hor. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!
Ham. And therefore as a stranger gixe it welcome.

There are more things in heaven and ear
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
But come ;—

Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, “~
How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,— 170
As I, perchance, hereafter shall.think meet

To put an antick disposition on,—

That you, at such times seeing me, never shall,

With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake,

Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase,

Horatio,

 

 
 

604

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Acr IL

 

As, “ Well, well, we know ;”—or, ‘‘ We could, an if we
would ;”.— ‘

Or, ‘If we list to speak;"—or, ‘‘ There be, an if they
might ;”— ; '

Or such ambiguous giving out, to note

That you know aught of me :—this not to do,

So grace and mercy at your most need help you,

Swear.
Ghost. [Beneath.] Swear.

180

Ham. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit !_So, gentlemen,
With all my love I AG commend me to ae }

| And what so poor a man as Hamlet is

| May do, to express his love and friending to you,

| God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together;

| And still your fingers on your lips, I pray.

| ‘The time is out of joint :—O cursed spite,

| That ever I was born to set it right!

iY 190
' Nay, come ; let’s go together. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

ACT II.

ScENE J.—A Room in PoLonivus’ House.
Enter PoLoNnius and REYNALDO.

r Polonius.
IVE him this money, and these
y notes, Reynaldo,
Rey. I will, my lord.
Pol. You shall do marvellous
wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before you visit him, to make
ANS inquiry
EN Of his behaviour. :
Rey. My lord, I did intend it.
Pol. Marry, wellsaid: very well.said. Look
you, sir,
Inquire me first what Danskers are in Paris ;
And how, and who, what means, and where
they keep, :
What company, at what expense ; and finding,
By this encompassment and drift of question, 10
That they do know my son, come you more
nearer
Than your particular demands will touch it:
Take you, as ’t were, some distant knowledge

of him;
‘As thus,—‘ I know his father, and his friends,
And, in part, him:”—do you mark this, Reynaldo?
Rey. Ay, very well, my lord.
Pol. vans in part, him ; but,”.you may say, “‘ not
well: ‘
But if ’t be he I mean, he’s very wild,
Addicted so and so;”—and there put on him
What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank
As may dishonour him: take heed of that ;
But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips,
As are companions noted and most known
Ts youn and liberty.

  
  

20

Ye As gaming, my lord.
Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,
Drabbing: you may go so far.
Rey. My ord, that would dishonour him.
Pol. Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge.
You must not put another scandal on him,
‘That he is open to incontinency : 30
That’s not my meaning; but breathe his faults so
; quaintly,
That they may seem the taints of liberty ;
The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind ;
A savageness in unreclaimed blood,
of general assault.
Rey. But, my good lord,—
Pol. Wherefore should you do this?

ey. Ay, my lord,
I would know that.
Pol.

Marry, sir, here ’s my drift 2

And, I believe, it is a fetch of warrant:
You laying these shout sullies on my son,
As ’t were a thing a little soil’d i the working,
Mark you, :

Your party in converse, him you would sound,
Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes

The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d,

He closes with you in this consequence :

“*Good sir,” or so; or ‘‘ friend,” or ‘‘ gentleman,”—
According to the phrase, or the addition,

Of man, and country.

40

Hey. Very good, my lord.

Pol. And then, sir, does he this,—he does—

What was I about to say? By the mass, I was

About to say something :—where did I leave?

Rey. At “closes in the consequence,”

At “friend or so,” and ‘‘ gentleman.”

Pol. At, closes in the consequence,—ay, marry:
He closes with you thus :—“‘ I know the gentieman;
I saw him yesterday, or t’ other day,

Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, as you

say,

There was he gaming; there o’ertook in’s rouse ;

There falling out at tennis;” or, perchance,

“‘I saw him enter such a house of sale,”

Videlicet, a brothel, or so forth.—

See you now ;

Your bait-of falsehood takes this carp of truth:

And thus do we of wisdom and of reach,

With windlaces, and with assays of bias,

By indirections find directions out :

So, by my former lecture and advice,

Shall you my son. You have me, have you not?
Aey. My lord, I have.
Pol. God be wi' you; fare you well.
eee Good my lord! 70
Pol. Observe his inclination in yourself.

. Rey. I shall, my lord.

Pol. And let him ply his music.

Pol, Farewell!
Enter OPHELIA.

2 How now, Ophelia? what’s the matter?
pet Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted!
‘ol. With what, in the name of God?

\ Oph. My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber,
Lord Hamlet,—with his doublet all unbrac’d;
No hat upon is head ; his stockings foul'd,
Ungarter’d, and down-gyved to his ancle ;
Pale as his shirt ; his knees knocking each other 5
And with a look so piteous in purport,

50

60

Well, my lord.
[Exit REYNALDO,

80

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.)

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

605

 

As if he had been loosed out of hell,
To speak of horrors,—he comes before me.
Pol. Mad for thy love?
7 Oph. ¥ My lord, I do not know ;
But, truly, I do fear it.
Pol. What said he?

Oph. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard;

Then goes he to the length of all his arm,
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face,

As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so:

At last,—a little shaking of mine arm,

And thrice his head thus waving up and down,—
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and protound,

That it did seem to shatter all his bulk,

And end his being. That done, he lets me go,
And, with his head over his shoulder jue,

He seem’d to find his way without his eyes;

For out o’ doors he went without their help,
And to the last bended their light on me.

Pol. Come, go with me: I will go seek the king.

This is the very ecstacy of love,

Whose violent property fordoes itself,

And leads the will to desperate undertakings,

As oft as any passion under heaven,

That does afflict our natures. I am sorry—
What! have you given him any hard words of late?

Oph. No, my good lord; but, as you did command,
I did repel his letters, and denied
His access to me.

Pol. That hath made him mad.
Iam sorry that with better heed and judgment
I had not quoted him: I fear’d he did but trifle,
And meant to wrack thee; but, beshrew my jealousy!
It seems, it is as proper to our age
To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions,

As it is common for the younger sort
To lack discretion. Come, gi we to the king:
This must be known; which, being kept close, might

move
More grief to hide, than hate to utter love.
Come.

90

100

110

120
[Ezeunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in the Castle.

Enter KinG, QUEEN, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN,
and Attendants.
King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz, and Guilden-
stern !
Moreover that we much did long to see you,
The need we have to use you did provoke
Our hasty sending. Something have you heard
Of Hamlet’s transformation ; so I call it,
Since not the exterior nor the inward man
Resembles that it was. What it should be, ;
More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him
So much from the understanding of himself,
Icannot dream of: I entreat you both, ‘ 10
That, being of so young days brought up with him,
And since so neighbour’d to his ycuth and humour,
That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court
Some little time ; so by your companies
To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather,
So much as from occasions you may glean,
Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus,
That, open’d, lies within our remedy. .
Queen. Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of
you,
And, sure I am, two men there are not living,
To whom he more adheres. If it will please you
To show us so much gentry, and good will,
As to expend your time with us awhile,
For the supply and profit of our hope,
Your visitation shall receive such thanks
As fits a king’s remembrance. Ble
Ros. Both your majesties
Might, by the sqvereign power you have of us,
Put your dread pleasures more into command

Than to entreaty.
Guil We both obey 3”

il, ;
And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, 30

9°

 

To lay our services freely at your feet,
To be commanded.
King. Thanks, Rosencrantz, and gentle Guilden-
stern.
Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern, and gentle Rosen-
erantz:
And I beseech pou instantly to visit
My too much changed son.—Go, some of you,
And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.

Guil. Heavens make our presence, and our prac-
tices,
Pleasant and helpful to him!
Queen. y, Amen!

[Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, and
some Attendants.

Enier POLONIvs.
Pol. The ambassadors from Norway, my good lord,
Are joyfully return’d. 41
King. Thou still hast been the father of good news.
Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege,
IT hold my duty, as I hold my soul,
Both to my God, and to my gracious king:
And IJ do think (or else this brain of mine
Hunts not the trail of policy so sure
As it hath us’d to do), that I have found
The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.
King. O! phot of that; that do I long to hear.
Pol. Give first admittance to the ambassadors ;
My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.
ing. Thyself do grace to them, and bring them
in.— Exit POLONIUS.
He tells me, my sweet queen, that he hath found
The head and source of all your son’s distemper.
Queen. I doubt, it is no other but the main ;
His father’s death, and our o’erhasty marriage.
King. Well, we shall sift him.—

Zte-enter POLONIUvS, with VOLTIMAND, and
CORNELIUS.
Welcome, my ceed friends.
say. Voltimand, what from our brother Norway ?
olt. Most fair return of greetings and desires. 60
Upon our first, he sent out to suppress
His nephew’s levies ; which to him appear'd
To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack :
But, better look’d into, he truly found
It was a eH your highness: whereat griev’d,—
That so his sickness, age, and impotence,
Was falsely borne in hand,—sends out arrests
On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys,
Receives rebuke from Norway, and, in fine,
Makes vow before his uncle, never more
To give the assay of arms against your majesty.
Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy,
Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fec,
And his commission to employ those soldiers,
So levied as before, against the Polack ;
With an entreaty, herein further shown.
_ [Giving a paper.
That it might please you to give quiet pass
Through your dominions for this enterprise ;
On such regards of safety, and allowance,
As therein are set down.
King. It likes us well ;
And, at our more consider’d time, we’ll read,
Answer, and think upon this business :
Meantime, we thank you for your well-took labour.
Go to your rest; at night we ll feast together:
Most welcome home!
[Exeunt VOLTIMAND and CORNELIUS.
Pol. This business is well ended.
My liege, and madam, to expostulate
What majesty should be, what duty is,
Why day is day, night, night, and time is time,
Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
J will be brief. Your noble son is mad:
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is ’t, but to be nothing else but mad ?
But let that go. ,

50

70

£0

 

 
 

606

HAMLET, PRINCE

OF DENMARK. (Act II,

 

gueen, More matter, with less art.
ol. Madam, I swear, I use no art at all.
That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity ;
And pity ‘tis ‘tis true: a foolish figure ;
But farewell it, for I will use no art.
Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains,
That we find out the cause of this effect ;
Or rather say, the cause of this defect,
For this effect defective comes by cause:
Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.
Perpend.
IT have a daughter ; have, whilst she is mine;
Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,
Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise.
—‘*To the celestial, and my soul's idol, the most beau-
tified Ophelia,” — 110
That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase: ‘“‘ beautified” is a
vile phrase; but you shall hear.—Thus :

“In her excellent-white bosom, these,” &¢c.—

Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her?

Pol. Good madam, stay awhile ; I will be faithful.—
[Reads.] ‘‘ Doubt thou, the stars are fire ;

Doubt, that the sun doth move ;
Doubt truth to be a liar ;
But never doubt, I love.

‘©O dear Ophelia! I am ill at these numbers: I have
not art to reckon my groans ; but that I love thee best,
O most best ! believe it. Adieu. 122

“Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this
machine is to him, HAMLET.”
This in obedience hath my daughter show’d me;
And more above, hath his solicitings,
As they fell out by time, by means, and place,
All given to mine ear.
i But how hath she

100

King.
Receiv’d his love?
Pol. What do you think of me?
King. As of a man faithful and honourable. 139
Pol. I would fain prove so. But what might you
thi

ink,
When I had seen this hot love on the wing,
(As I perceiv'd it, I must tell you that,
Before my daughter told me,) what might poms
Or my dear majesty, your queen here, think,
If I had play’d the desk, or table-book ;
Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb;
Or ipod. upon this love with idle sight:
What might you think? No, I went round to work,
And my young mistress thus I did bespeak : 140
*“*Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star;
This must not be:” and then I precepts gave her,
That she should lock herself from his resort,
Admit no messengers, receive no tokens,
Which done, she took the fruits of my advice ;
And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make,—
Fell into a sadness ; then into a fast ;
Thence to a watch; thence into a weakness 3
Thence to a lightness ; and, by this declension,
Into the madness wherein now he raves,
And all we wail for.
King. Do you think ’t is this?
ween. It may be, very likely.
ol. ae ee been such a time, I’d fain know
that,
That I have positively said, ‘‘’T is so,”
When it prov’d otherwise ?
i Not that I know.

King.
Pol. Take this from this, if this be otherwise.
If circumstances lead me, I will find
Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed
Within the centre.
King. How may we try it further?
Pol. You know, sometimes he walks four hours to-
gether, 160
Here in the lobby.
een, So he does, indeed.
‘ol. At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him:
Be you and I behind an arras then ;
Mark the encounter : if he love her not,
And he not from his reason fall’n thereon,
Let me be no assistant for a state,
But keep a farm, and carters.

150

 

King. We will try it.
Queen. TOs where sadly the poor wretch comes
reading.
Pol. Away ! I do beseech you, both away.
I'll board him presently :—O! give me leave.— 170
[Exeunt KING, QUEEN, and Attendants,

Enter HAMLET, reading.
How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Ham. Well, God-a-mercy.

Pol. Do you know me, my lord?

Ham. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger.

Pol. Not I, my lord.

Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man.

Pol. Honest, my lord ?

Ham. Ay, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, isto
be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Pol. That’s very true, my lord. 180

Ham. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog,
being a god kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter
Pol. I have, my lord. .

Ham. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a
blessing ; but not as your daughter may conceive.—
Friend, look to ’t.

Pol. How say you by that ?—[Aside.] Still harping
on my daughter :—yet he knew me not at first; he
said, I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone:
and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for
love ; very near this. I'll speak to him anain—4Vihal
do you read, my lord? 192

Ham. Words, words, words.

Pol, What is the matter, my lord?

Ham. Between who?

Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Ham. Slanders, sir: for the satirical slave says
here, that old men have grey beards; that their faces
are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and
plum-tree gum ; and that they have a plentiful lack of
wit, together with most weak hams: all of which, sir,
though I most powerfully and _ potently believe, yet
I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for
you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab
you could go backward.

Pol, et ca this be madness, yet there is
method in ’t.—Will you walk out of the air, my lord?

Ham. Into my grave? 208

Pol. Indeed, that is out o’ the air.—[Aside.] How
pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that
often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could
not so prosperously be delivered of. JI will leave him,
and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between
him and my daughter.—My honourable lord, I will
most humbly take my leave of you.

Ham. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that
I will more willingly part withal; except my life,
except my life, pecene my life.

Pol. Fare you well, my lord.

Ham. These tedious old fools! 220

Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERNS

Pol. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet ; there he is.

Ros. [To PoLONIvs.] God save you, sir!

[Exit PoLoNtvs.

Guil. Mine honour’d lord !—

Ros. My most dear lord !

Ham. My excellent good friends!
Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz!
do ye both?

‘os. As the indifferent children of the earth.

Guild. Happy, in that we are not overhappy ;

On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button. 230

Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe?

How dost thou,
Good lads, how

Ros. Neither, my lord. E 2

‘Ham. Then you live about her waist, or in the
middle of her favours?

Guwil, ’Faith, her privates we. ‘

Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most
true; she isa strumpet. What news?

Ros. None, my lord, but that the world’s grown
honest. 239

Ham. Then is doomsday near; but your news is not
true. Let me question more in particular: what have

 

 
 

Scene II.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

607

 

you, ee good friends, deserved at the hands of For-
tune, that she sends you to prison hither ?

Guil. Prison, my lord?

Ham. Denmark’s a prison.

Ros. Then is the world one.

Ham. A goodly one; in which there are many
confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one
of the worst.

Ros. We think not so, my lord. 250

Ham. Why, then ’tis none to you; for there is
nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it
so: to me it is a prison.

Ros. Why, then your ambition makes it one: ’tis
too narrow for your mind.

Ham. O God! I could be bounded in a nut-shell,
and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not
that I have bad dreams.

Guil. Which dreams, indeed, are ambition ; for the
very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow
of a dream. 261

Ham. A dream itself is but a shadow.

Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light
a quality, that it is but a shadow’s shadow.

am. Then are our beggars bodies, and our
monarchs, and outstretched heroes, the beggars’
shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I
cannot reason.

Ros., Guil. We’ll wait upon you. 269

Ham. No such matter: I will not sort you with the
rest of my servants ; for, tospeak to you like an honest
man, I am most ey attended. But, in the
beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?

Ros. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.

Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks ;
but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks
are too dear, a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is
it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come,
come ; deal justly with me: come, come ; nay, speak.

Guil. What should we say, my lord ? 2

Ham. Why, anything,—but to the purpose. You
were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in
your looks, which your modesties have not craft
enough to colour; I know, the good king and queen
have sent for you.

Ros. To what end, my lord?

Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure
you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the conso-
nancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-
preserved love, and by what more dear a better
proposer could charge you withal, be even and
direct with me, whether you were sent for, or no. 292

Ros. What say you?

Ham. Nay, then I have an eye of you.—If you love
me, hold not off.

QGuil. My lord, we were sent for.

Ham. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king
and queen moult no feather. I have of late (but
wherefore I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and, indeed, it goes so heavily
with my disposition, that this goonly frame, the earth,
seems to me a steril promontory ; this most excellent
canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging
firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden
fire, why, it appeareth no other thing to me than a
foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a
piece of work isa man! how noble in reason! how
infinite in faculty ! in form and moving, how express
and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in
apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
Mme; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling
you seem to say so. : ;

3s. My lord, there was no such stuff in my
thoughts.

Ham. Why did you laugh then, wher I said, man
delights not me? 319

Ros. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man,
what lenten entertainment the players shall receive

‘om you: we coted them on the way, and hither are
they coming to offer you service.

 

 

 

Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome; his
majesty shall have tribute of me: the adventurous
knight shall use his foil and target: the lover shall
not sigh gratis: the humorous man shall end his part
in peace: the clown shall make those laugh, whose
lungs are tickled o’ the sere: and the lady shall say
her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t.
What players are they ? _ 331

Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight
in, the tragedians of the city. ; :

‘am. How chances it they travel? their residence,
both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.

Ros. I think, their inhibition comes by the means
of the late innovation, : .

Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did
when I was in the city? Are they so followed ?

Ros. No, indeed, they are not. 310

Ham, How comes it? Do they grow rusty?

Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted
pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little
eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are
most tyrannically clapped for’t: these are now the
fashion ; and so berattle the common stages (so they
call them), that many wearing rapiers are afraid of
goose-quills, and dare scarce come thither. . ¢

Ham. What! are they children? who maintains
them? how are they escoted? Will they pursue the
quality no longer than they can sing? will they not
say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to
common players, (as it is most like, if their means are
not better,) their writers do them wrong, to make
them exclaim against their own succession ?

Ros. ’Faith, there has been much to do on both
sides ; and the nation holds it no sin, to tarre them to
controversy : there was, for a while, no money bid for
argument, unless the poet and the player went to cuffs
in the question. 360

Ham. Is it possible ?

Guil. O! there has been much throwing about of
brains. :

Ham. Do the boys carry it away ?

Ros. Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules, and his
load too.

Ham. It is not strange; for my uncle is ing of
Denmark, and those that would make mows at him
while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, an
hundred ducats a-piece, for his picture in little.
*Sblood, there is something in this more than natural,
if philosophy could find it out. 2

[Flourish of trumpets within.

Guil. There are the players.

Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore.
Your hands. Come, then; the appurtenance of wel-
come is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with
you in this garb, lest my extent to the players (which,
I tell you, must show fairly outward) should more
appear like entertainment than yours. You are
welcome; but my uncle-father, and aunt-mother,
are deceived. 381

Guil. In what, my dear lord?

Ham. I am but_mad north-north-west: when the
wind is southerly, I know a hawk trom a handsaw.

Re-enter POLONIUS.

Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen !

‘Ham. Mark you, Guildenstern ;—and you too ;—at
each ear a hearer: that great baby, you see there, is
not yet out of his swathing-clouts,

Ros. Happily he’s the second time come to them;
for, they say, an old man is twice a child. 390

Ham. I will prophesy, he comes to tell me of the
players ; mark it.—You say right, sir: for 0’ Monday
morning: ’t was so indeed.

Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you.

Ham. My lord, I have news to tell you. When
Roscius was an actor in Rome,—

Pol. The actors are come hither, my lord.

Ham. Buz, buz!

Pol. Upon my honour, —

Ham. Then came each actor on his ass,— 400

Pol. The best actors in the world, either for
tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,

 

 

 
 

 

603

historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comi-
cal-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

unlimited : Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus ©

too light.
are the only men. } :

Ham. ‘‘O Jephthah, judge of Israel,” what a
treasure hadst thou!

Pol, What a treasure had he, my lord? 410

Ham. Why,’

“One fair diughter, and no more,
The which he loved passing well.”

Pol. [Aside.] Still on my sure

Ham. Am [not i’ the right, old Jephthah?

Pol. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a
daughter that I love passing well.

Ham. Nay, that follows not.

Pol. What follows then, my lord ?

Ham, Why,
‘As by lot, God wot,”
and then, you know,
“Tt came to pass, as most like it was,”"—
the first row of the pious chanson will show you more ;
for look, where my abridgment comes.

420

Enter four or five Players.

You are welcome, masters ; welcome, all.—I am glad
to see thee well :—welcomé, good friends.—O, my old
friend! Why, thy face is valanced since I saw thee
last: com’st thou to beard me in Denmark?— What!
my young lady and mistress! By'r lady, your lady-
ship is nearer to heaven, than when I saw you last, by
the altitude of achopine. Pray God, your voice, like
a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the
ring. Masters, you are all welcome. Welle’en to't
like French falconers, fly at anything we see: we’ll
have a speech straight. Come, give us a taste of your
quality ; come, a passionate speech.

1 Play. What speech, my good lord? 138

Ham. J heard thee speak me a speech once,—but it

For the law of writ, and the liberty, these |

 

was never acted; or, if it was, not above once; for |

the play, Iremember, pleased not the million; ’t was
caviare to the general: but it was (as I received it,
and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in
the top of mine) an excellent play, well digested in the
scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning.
I remember, one said, there were no sallets in the
lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in
the phrase that might indite the author of atfecta-
tion, but called it an honest method, as wholesome
- sweet, and by very much more handsome than
ne.
tale to Dido; and thereabout of it especially, where
he speaks of Priam’s slaughter. If it live in your
memory, begin at this line: —Ict me sce, let me
see ;—
“The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,”

—'tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus :—

“The rugged Pyrrhus,—he, whose sable arms,
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble
When he lay couched in the ominous horse, 460
Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d
With heraldry more dismal ; head to foot
Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons;
Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets,
That lend a tyrannous and a damned fight
To their vile murders: roasted in wrath and fire,
And thus o’er-sized with coagulate gore,

With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus
Old grandsire Priam seeks.”— 7
So, proceed you.
Pol. ’Fore God, my lord, well spoken; with good
accent, and good discretion.
1 Play. “‘ Anon he finds him
Striking too short at Greeks: his antique sword,
Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls,
Repugnant to command. Unequal match’d,
Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage, strikes wide; .
But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword.
The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium,
Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top 481

One speech in it I chiefly loved: ’t was Atnea;' |

 

[Act II,

Stoops to his base ; and with a hideous crash
Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear : for, lo! his sword,
Which was declining on the milky head

Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick:
So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood ;

And, like a neutral to his will and matter,

Did nothing.

But, as we often see, against some storm,

A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, ' 499
The bold winds speechless, and the orb below
As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder
Doth rend the region : so, after Pyrrhus’ pause,
Aroused vengeance sets him new a-work ;

And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall

On Mars his armour, forg’d for proof eterne,
With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword
Now falls on Priam.—

Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! Al you gods,
In general synod, take ener her power ;
Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel,
And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven.

As low as to the fiends!”

Pol. This is too Done.

Ham. It shall to the barber's, with your beard.—
Pr'ythee, say on:—he’s for a jig, or a tale of bawdry,
or he sleeps.—Say on: come to Hecuba.

1 Play. ** But, who, O! who had seen the mobled

gucen —

Ham. The mobled queen? ’

Pol. That’s good; mobled queen is good. 510

1 Play. ‘‘Run barefoot up and down, threat'ning

the flames
With bisson rheum ; a clout upon that head,
Where late the diadem stood ; and, for a robe,
About her lank and all o’er-teemed loins,
A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;
Who this had seen, With tongue in venom steep’d,
’Gainst Fortune's state would treason have pro-
nounc’d:
But if the gods themselves did see her then,
When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport
In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, 520
‘The instant burst of clamour that she made,
(Unless things mortal move them not at all,)
Would have made milch the burning eyes of
heaven,
And passion in the gods.”

Pol. Look, whe’er he has not turned his colour, and
has tears in ’s eyes!—Pr'ythee, no more.

Ham. ’Tis well; I'll have thee speak out the rest of
this soon.—Good my lord, will you see the players
well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used;
for they are the abstracts, and brief chronicles, of the
time: after your death you were better have a bad
cmeph, than their ill report while you lived. 582
z Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their

esert. :

Ham. God’s bodikin, man, much better: use ever
man after his desert, and who should ’scape whipping?
Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less
they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take
them in.

Pol. Come, sirs. 540

Ham. Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to-
morrow. [Hzxit PoLonius, with all the Players ex-
cept the First.) Dost thou hear me, old friend? can
you play the Murder of Gonzago?

1 Play. Ay, my lord.

Ham. We'll have it to-morrow night. You could,-
for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixtecn
lines, which I would set down and insert in't, could
you not? oe

1 Play. Ay, my lord. 550)

Ham. Very well.—Follow that lord; and look you
mock him not. [Exit First Player.]_My good friends
[to Ros. and GuI1.], I’ll leave you till night: you are
welcome to Elsinore.

Ros. Good my lord!

Ham. Ay, so, God be wi’ ye.---

[EZzeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN:
ae Now Iam alone.
O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!

 

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

609

 

 

 

Is it not monstrous, that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his whole conceit,
That, from her working, all his visage wann’d;
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit? and all for nothing !
For Hecuba!
What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her? What would he do,
Had he the motive and the cue for passion,
That Ihave? He would drown the stage with tears,
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; 570
Make mad the guilty, and appa! the free,
Confound the ignorant ; and amaze, indeed,
ie rer faculties of eyes and ears.

et I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak,
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing; no, not for a king,
Upon whose property, and most dear lite,
A damn’d defeat was made. Am Ia coward?
Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across?
Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?
Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i’ the throat,
a deep as to the lungs? Who does me this?

a! :
*Swounds! I should take it ; for it cannot be,
But I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall

560

580

 

To make oppression bitter, or, ere this,

I should have fatted all the region kites _

With this slave’s offal. Bloody, bawdy villain!
Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, Kindless villain!
O, vengeance ! he 591
Why, what anassamI! Ay, sure, this is most brave ;
That I, the son of a dear father murder’d

Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,

Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words,
And fall a-cursing, like a very drab,

A scullion ! :

Fie upon ’t! foh! About, my brain !—I have heard,
That guilty creatures, sitting at a play,

Have by the very cunning of the scene 600
Been struck so to the soul, that presently

They have proclaim’d their malefactions3

For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father,
Before mine uncle: I’ll observe his looks ;

I’ tent him to the quick: if he but blench,

I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power

To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and, perhaps,
Out of my weakness, and my melancholy,

As he is very potent with such spirits,

Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds
More relative than this :—the play’s the thing,
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. {Ezit.

610

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IIl.
ScENE I.—A Room in the Castle.
Enter K1nG, QUEEN, POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN.

King.

ND can you, by no drift of circumstance, |
Get from him, why he puts on this confusion,
Grating so harshly all his days of quiet
With turbulent and dangerous lunacy ?

Ros. He does confess, he feels himself

   

SZT I distracted ; :

v et But from what cause he will by no means
Aa speak.
{© Quit. Nor do we find him forward to be

\ sounded,
But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof,
When we would bring him on to some confession

Of his true state.
een. Did he receive you well? 10
‘os. Most like a gentleman. ee hy matt Or
Guil. But with much forcing of his disposition.
Ros. Niggard of question ; but, of our demands,
Most free in his reply.
en.
To any pastime ? .
Ros. Madam, it so fell out, that certain players
We o’er-raught on the way: of these we told him ;
And there did seem in him a kind of joy
To hear of it. They are about the court;
And, as I think, they have already order 20
This pight to play before him.

Did you assay him

‘ol. *T is most true:
And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties,
To hear and see the matter. :
King. With all my heart; and it doth much content
me ;

 

To hear him so inclin’d.
Good gentlemen, give him a further edge,
And drive his purpose on to these delights.
Ros. We shall, my lord.
[Eneunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

King. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too;
For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither,
That he, as ’t were by accident, may here 30
Affront Ophelia.

Her father, and myself, (lawful espials,)
Will 50 bestow ourselves, that, seeing, unseen,
We may of their encounter frankly judge;
And gather by him, as he is behav’d,
If't be the affliction of his love, or no,
That thus he suffers for.
Queen. I shall obey you.—
And, for your pert, Ophelia, I do wish,
That your good beauties be the happy cause
Of Hamlet's wildness ; so shall I hope, your virtues 40
Will bring him to his wonted way again,
To both your honours.
h. Madam, I wish it may.
[Exit QUEEN.
Pol. Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please

you,

We will bestow ourselves.—_[7o OPHELIA.] Read on
this book ;

That show of such an exercise may colour

Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this,—

*T is too much prov’d, that, with devotion’s visage,

And pious action, we do sugar o’er

The devil himself.

 

 

39
 

610

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act III.

 

 

King. (Aside.] O! ’tis too true!
Howsmart a lash that speech doth give my conscience!
The harlot’s cheek, beautied with eek art, bl
Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it,
Than is my deed to my most painted word.
O heavy burden! ,

Pol. {hear him coming: let’s withdraw, my lord.

[Hxreunt Kine and PoLonivus.

Enter HAMLET.
Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the question :—
Whether tis nobler in the mind, to suffer

 

 

Ham. “To be, or not to be, that is the question.”

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune ;

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them ?—To die,—to sleep,
No more ;—and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,—’t is a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die,—to sleep :—

To sleep! perchance to dream :—ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death dreams may come,
When we have shufHed off this mortal coil,

60

Must give us pause. There’s the respect, (7, »~0 ¢ alech

That makes calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, 70
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,—
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,—puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.—Soft you, now!
The fair Ophelia.—Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
Oph. Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day ?
Ham. [humbly thank you ; well, well, well.
Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours,
That I have longed long to re-deliver;
I pray you, now receive them.
Tam, No, not I;
I never gave you aught.
Oph. My honour’d lord, you know right well you

1d ;
And, with them, words of so sweet breath compos’d,
As made the things more rich : their perfume lost,
Take these again ; for, to the noble mind,
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind,
There, my lord.
Ham. Ha, ha! are you honest?

 

Oph. My lord!

Ham. Are you fair?
Oph, What means your lordship?
Ham. That if you be honest, and fair, your honesty
should admit no discourse to your beauty.
Oph. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce
than with HONGSET f
Ham, Ay, tru y ; for the power of beauty will
sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd,
than the force of honesty can translate beauty into
his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now
the time gives it proof. I did love you once.
Oph. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
Ham. You should not have believed
me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our
old stock, but we shall relish of it. I
loved you not. 120
Oph. I was the more deceived.
am. Get thee to a nunnery: why
wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners?
Iam myself indifferent honest; but yet
I could accuse me of such things, that it
were better, my mother had not borne
me. I am very proud, revengeful, am-
bitious; with more offences at my beck,
than I have thoughts to put them in,
imagination to give them shape, or time
to act-them_in. What should such
fellows as_I do crawling between
heaven and earth? We are arrant
knaves, all; believe none of us. Go
thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your
father ?
h. At home, my lord.
am. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may
play the fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.
A. O! help him, you sweet heavens! 140
am. If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague
for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as
snow, thou shalt not escape calumny, Get thee toa
nunnery; go, farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry,
marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what
monsters you make of them. Toa nunnery, go; and
uickly too. Farewell.
A. O heavenly powers, restore him ! 148
am. I have heard of your paintings too, well
enough: God hath given you one face, and you make
yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp,
and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wan-
tonness your ignorance. Goto; I’ll no more on’t: it
hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more
Marriages: those that are married already, all but
one, shall live ; the rest shall keep as they are. Toa
nunnery, go. Exit.
Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword;
The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 160
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observ’d of all observers, quite, quite down!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck’d the honey of his music vows,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh ;
That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth
Blasted with ecstacy. O, woe is me,
To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!

Re-enter Kina and PoLonius.
King. Love! his affections do not that way tend ; 170
Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, _
Was not like madness. There’s something in his

soul,
O’er which his melancholy sits on brood ;

And, I do doubt, the hatch, and the disclose,

Will be some danger: which for to prevent,

I have, in quick determination,

Thus set it dawn. He shall with speed to England,
For the demand of our neglected tribute :
Haply, the seas, and countries different,

With variable objects, shall expel

This something-settled_ matter in his heart;
Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus

180

From fashion af himself. What think you on’t?

 

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

611

 

 

Pol. It shall do well: but yet do I believe,
The origin and commencement of his grief
Sprung from neglected love.—How now, Ophelia!
ou need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said ;
We heard it all.—My lord, do as you please ;
But, if you hold it fit, after the play,
Let his queen mother all alone entreat him
To show his Fricis : let her be round with him ;
And I'll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear
Ofall their conference. If she find him not,
To England send him ; or confine him, where
Your wisdom best shall think.
King. It shall be so:
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.
[Exewnt.

190

ScENE II.—A Hall in the Same.

Enter HAMLET and certain Players.

Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, asI pronounced
it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth
it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-
crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too
much with your hand, thus; but use all gently: for
in the very torrent, tempest, and (as J may say) the
whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget
a temperance, that may give it smoothness. O! it
offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-
pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to
split the ears of the groundlings; who, for the most
part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-
shows, and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped
for o’erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod: pray
you, avoid it.

1 Play. I warrant your honour. 16

Ham. Be ‘not too tame neither, but let your own
discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word,
the word to the action, with this special observance,
that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature; for any-
thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing,
whose end, both at the first, and now, was, and is,
to hold, as ’t were, the mirror up to nature; to show
virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the
very age and body of the time, his form and pressure.
Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make
the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious
grieve; the censure of the which one must, in your
allowance, o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O!
there be players, that I have seen play,—and heard
others praise, and that highly,—not to speak it pro-
fanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians,
nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so
strutted, and bellowed, that I have thought some of
nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made
them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

1 Play. Ihope, we have reformed that indifferently
with us. 38

Ham. O! reform it altogether. And let those that
Ylay your clowns speak no more than is set down for
them: for there he of them, that will themselves
laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to
iaugh too; though, in the meantime, some necessary
question of the play be then to be considered : that’s
villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the
rool that uses it. Go, make you ready.—

° [Exeunt Piayers.

Enter PoLONIUS, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN.

How now, milena will the king hear this piece of
wor
Pol. And the queen too, and that presently.
Ham. Bid the players make haste.—

. [Eait POLONIvs.
Will you two help to hasten them? 50

Ros., Guil. We will, my lord.
Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.
Ham. What, ho! Horatio!

Enter HORATIO.
Hor. Here, sweet lord, at your service.

 

Ham. Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man
As e’er my conversation cop’d withal,

Hor. O! my dear lord,—

Ham. Nay, do not think I flatter ;
For what advancement may hope from thee,
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits,
To teed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be

flatter’d?
No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, 60
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,
And could of men distinguish, her election
Hath seal’d thee for herself: for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing
A man, that Fortune’s buffets and rewards
Hast ta’en with equal thanks: and bless’d are those,
Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,
That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him
In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.—Something too much of this,—
There is a play to-night before the king;
One scene of it comes near the circumstance,
Which I have told thee, of my father's death:
I pr’ythee, when thou seest that act afoot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe mine uncle: if his occulted guilt 80
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note:
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face ;
And, after, we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming.
Well, my lord:

Hor.
If he steal aught, the whilst this play is playing,
And ’scape detecting, I will pay the theft.
Ham, They are coming to the play: I must be

idle ;
Get you a place.

Danish march. A flourish. Enter KING, QUEEN,
POLONIUS, OPHELIA, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDEN-
STERN, and others. -

King. How fares our cousin Hamlet?

Ham. Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish:
I eat the air, promise-crammed. You cannot feed
capons so.

ing. I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet:
these words are not mine.

Ham. No, nor mine now.—[To PoLonivus.] My
lord, you played once in the university, you say?

ol. That did I, my lord ; and was accounted a good

actor. 101
Ham. And what did you enact?

Pol. I did enact Julius Cesar: I was killed i’ the
Capitol; Brutus killed me.

Ham. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a
calf there.—Be the players ready ?

Ros. Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience,

Queen. Come hither, my good Hamlet, sit by me.

_Ham. No, good mother, here’s metal more attrac-

tive.
Pol. Oho! do you mark that?
Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your lap?
Lying down at OPHELIA’S feet.
ee No, my lord.

‘am. I mean, my head upon your lap?
Oph.. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Do you think, I meant country matters?
Oph. I think nothing, my lord.
i Ham. That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’
egs.
Oph. What is, my lord? 120
Hamm. Nothing.

Oph. You are merry, my lord.

‘am. Who, I?

Oph. Ay, my lord.

Ham. O God! your only jig-maker. What should a
man do, but -be merry? for, look you, how cheerfully

 

 
 

612

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act IIT,

 

 

my mother looks, and my father died within’s two
hours,
h. Nay, ‘tis twice two months, my lord. 129
Ham. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black,
for I'll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two
months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s
hope, a great man’s memory may outlive his life half
a year; but, by ’r lady, he must build churches then,
or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-
horse ; whose epitaph is, ‘‘ For, O! for, O! the hobby-
horse is forgot.’
Hautboys play. The dwimb-show enters.
Enter a King and a Queen, very lovingly ; the Queen
embracing him, and he her. She kneels, and makes
show of protestation unto him. He takes her up,
and declines his head upon her neck; lays him
down upon a bank of flowers; she, seeing him
asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes
off his crown, kisses it, and pours poison in the
King’s ears, and exit. The Queen returns, finds the
King dead, and makes passionate action. The
Poisoner, with some two or three Mutes, comes in
again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body
is carried away. The Poisoner woos the Queen
with gifts: she seems loath and unwilling awhile ;
but in the end accepts his love. [Exeunt.
Oph. What means this, pr lord?
Ham. Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means
mischief. 140
oe Belike, this show imports the argument of the
play.
Enter Prologue.
Ham. We shall know by this fellow: the players
cannot keep counsel; they 'll tell all.
opt Will he tell us what this show meant ?
am, Ay, or any show that dae will show him: be
not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you
what it means.
Oph. You are naught, you are naught. I’ll mark
the play. 150
Pro. For us, and for our tragedy.
Here sroopuie te your clemency,
‘We beg your hearing patiently. (Exit.
Ham. Ts this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
Oph. ’T is brief, my lord.
Ham. AS woman's love.

Enter a King and a Queen.
P. King. eu thirty times hath Phebus’ cart gone

roun

Neptune's salt wash, and Tellus’ orbed ground ;
And thirty dozen moons, with borrow’d sheen,
About the world have times twelve thirties been ; 160
Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands,
Unite commutual in most sacred bands.

P. Queen, So many journeys may the sun and moon
Make us again count o’er, ere love be done.
But, woe is me! you are so sick of late,
So far from cheer, and from your former state,
That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust,
Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must;
For women’s fear and love holds quantity,
In neither aught, or in extremity. 170
Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know;
And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so.
Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear;
Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

P. King. ’Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly

too ;

My operant powers their functions leave to do:
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind,
Honour'd, belov’d ; and, haply, one as kind
For husband shalt thou—

P. Queen. O, confound the rest !
Such love must needs be treason in my breast: 180
In second husband let me be accurst ;
None wed the second, but who kill’d the first.

Ham. [Aside.) Wormwood, wormwood. :

P. Queen. The instances, that second marriage

move,
Are base respects of thrift, but none of love:

 

A second time I kill my husband dead,
‘When second husband kisses me in bed.
P. King. I do believe you think what now you

speak ;
But what we do determine oft we break.
Purpose is but the slave to memory, 190
Of violent birth, but poor validity ;
Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fall unshaken, when they mellow be.
Most necessary ’tis, that we forget
To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt :
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
The violence of either grief or joy
Their own enactures with themselves destroy :
Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; 200
Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye; nor ‘tis not strange,
That even our loves should with our fortunes change:
For ‘tis a question left us yet to prove,
Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
The great man down, you mark, his favourite flies ;
The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies,
And hitherto doth love on fortune tend:
For who not needs shall never lack a friend ;
And who in want a hollow friend doth try, 210
Directly seasons him his enemy.
But, orderly to end where I begun,
Our wills and fates do so contrary run,
That our devices still are overthrown ;
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own:
So think thou wilt no second husband wed;
But die thy thoughts, when thy first lord is dead.
P. nee, Bee earth to me give food, nor heaven
ight!
Sport and repose lock from me, day and night!
To desperation turn my trust and hope!
An anchor’s cheer in privet be my scope !
Each opposite, that blanks the face of joy,
Meet what I would have well, and it destroy!
Both here, and hence, pursue me lasting strife,
If, once a widow, ever I be wife!
Ham. If she should break it now?
P. King. ’T Ae deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here
awhile :
My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile
The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps,
P. Queen. Sleep rock thy brain ;
And never conte mischance between us twain! [Exii.
Ham, Madam, how like you this play?
ae The lady protests too much, methinks.
‘am. O! but she’ll keep her word.
King. Have you heard the argument? Is there no
offence in’t ? . :
Ham. No, no; they do but jest, poison in jest: no
offence i’ the world.
King. What do you call the play 2 _ 238
Ham. The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically.
This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna:
Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista. You
shall see anon; tis a knavish piece of work: but what
of that? your majesty, and we, that have free souls,
it touches us not: let the galled jade wince, our
withers are unwrung.

Enter LucIaAnus.
This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king.
Oph. You are a good chorus, my lord.
Ham. J could interpret between you and your love,
if I could see the puppets dallying. e
Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. 250
Ham. It would cost you a groaning to take off my

edge.
Oph. Still better, and worse. P
am. So you must take your husbands.—Begin,
murderer: pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin.
Come :—the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time
agreeing ;
Confederate season, else no creature sant
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, 260

 

 

 
 

ScENE IL] HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 613

 

 

Thy natural magic and dire property, Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go weep,
On wholesome life usurp immediately. Tne hart ungalled play;
Pours the poison into the Sleeper’s ears. | For some must Watch, while some must sleep:

IIam. He poisons him i’ the garden for’s estate. | Thus runs the world away.
His name’s Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ in | Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers, (if the

 

Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief."

 

Ham.

choice Italian. Youshall see anon, how the murderer rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,) with two

gets ay nage Gonzago’s wife. Prayer chee ie i my ae shoes, get mea ier
i e king rises. ship in a cry of players, sir
‘am. What! frighted with false fire? | or. Half a share.
een. How fares my lord? | Ham. A whole one, I.
‘ol. Give o’er the play. 270 | For thou dost know, O Damon dear,
King. Give me some light !—away! This realm dismantled was
All. Lights, lights, lights ! Of Jove himself; and now reigns here

Exeunt all but HAMLET and HoRATIO. A very, very—pajock.

 

 

 

 
 

614

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

{Act ITI,

 

 

Hor. You might have rhymed.
Ham. O good Horatio! I'll take the ghost’s word
for a thousand pound. Didst perceive?
Flor. Very well, my lord. 290
Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning,—
Hor. I did very well note him.
Ham. Ah, ha!—Come, some music! come, the re-
corders !
For if the king like not the comedy,
Why then, belike,—he likes it not, perdy.—
Come, some music!

Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

Guil. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.

Ham. Sir, a whole history.

Guil. The king, sir, —

Ham. Ay, sir, what of him? 300

Guil. Is, in his retirement, marvellous distem-
pered.

Ham. With drink, sir?

Guil. No, my lord, rather with choler.

Ham. Your wisdom should show itself more richer,
to signify this to his doctor; for, for me to put him to
his purgation, would, perhaps, plunge him into far
more choler.

Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some
frame, and start not so wildly from my affair. 310

‘am. I am tame, sir ;—pronounce.

Guil. The queen, your mother, in most great afflic-
tion of spirit, hath sent me to you.

Ham. Youare welcome.

Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the
right breed. If it shall please you to make me a
wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s command-
ment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the
end of my business. a

‘0

Ham. Sir, I cannot.

Guil. What, my lord?

Ham. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit’s
diseased ; but, sir, such answer as I can make, you
shall command; or, rather, as you say, my mother:
therefore no more, but tothe matter. My mother, you

say,—

Ros. Then, thus she says. Your behaviour hath
struck her into amazement and admiration.

Ham, O wonderful son, that can so astonish a
mother !—But is there no sequel at the heels of this
mother’s admiration? impart. 1

Ros. She desires to speak with you in her closet,
ere 0 to bed.

am. eshall obey, were she ten times our mother.
Have you any further trade with us?

Ros. My lord, you once did love me.

Ham. And do still, by these pickers and stealers.

Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of dis-
temper? you do freely bar the door of your own
liberty, if you deny your griefs to your friend. 3410

Ham. Sir, I lack advancement.

Ros. How can that be, when you have the voice
of the king himself for your succession in Denmark?

Ham. Ay, sir, but “While the grass grows;”—the
proverb is something musty.

Enter Players with recorders.
O! the recorders: let me see one.—To withdraw with
you.—Why do you go about to recover the wind of
me, as if you would drive me into a toil?

Guil. O, my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is
too unmannerly.

Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play
upon this pipe?

Guil. My lord, I cannot.

Ham. I pray you.

Guil. Believe me, I cannot.

Ham. 1 do beseech you.

Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord.

Ham. It is as easy as lying: govern these ventages
with po finger and thumb, give it breath with your
mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music.
Look you, these are the stops. 361

Guil. But these cannot I command to any utterance
of harmony : I have not the skill.

 

Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing
you make of me. ou would play upon me; you
would seem to know my stops ; you wonld pluck out
the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from
my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there
is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet
cannot you make it speak. ‘Sblood! do you think
Iam easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me
what instrument you will, though you can fret me,
you cannot play upon me.— 373

Enter POLONIUS.
God bless you, sir!

Pol. My lord, the queen would speak with you, and
presently.

Ham. Do you see yonder cloud, that’s almost in
shape of a camel?

Pol. By the mass, and ’tis like a camel, indeed.

Ham. Methinks, it is like a weasel.

Pol. It is backed like a weasel.

Ham. Or, like a whale?

Pol. Very like a whale.

Ham. Then will I come to my mother by-and-by.—
rhe fool me to the top of my bent.—I will come by-
and-by.

Pol. J will say so. [Exit.

Ham. By-and-by is easily said._Leave me, friends.

[Exeunt ROoSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN,

Horatio, cc.
°T is now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day 392
Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother,—
O heart! lose not thy nature; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:
Let me be cruel, not unnatural.
I will speak daggers to her, but use none;
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites:
How in my words soever she be shent, :
To give them seals never, my soul, consent! iz 400
cit.

ScENE III.—A Room in the Same.

Enter KING, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN.

King. I like him not; nor stands it safe with us,
To let his madness range. Therefore, prepare you:
I your commission will forthwith despatch,
And he to England shall along with you.
The terms of our estate may not endure
Hazard so dangerous, as doth hourly grow
Out of his lunacies.
Guil. We will ourselves provide.
Most holy and religious fear it is,
To keep those many many bodies safe,
That live and feed upon your majesty. 10
Ros. The single and peculiar life is bound,
With all the strength and armour of the mind,
To keep itself from noyance ; but much more
That spirit, upon whose weal depends and rests
The lives of many. The cease of majesty
Dies not alone; but, like a gulf, doth draw
What’s near it with it: it is a massy wheel,
Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, _
To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things
Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which, when it falls, 20
Each small annexment, petty consequence,
Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone
Did the king sigh, but with a general groan.
King. Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;
For we will fetters put upon this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.
Ros., Guil. We will haste us.
[Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

Enter PoLonivus.
Pol. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet.
Behind the arras I'll convey myself,
To hear the process: I’ll warrant, she’ll tax him home j
And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 3

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.]

*T ig meet that some more audience than a mother,

Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear

The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege:

I'll call upon you ere you go to bed,

And tell you what I know.
King. Thanks, dear my lord.

. P [/xcit POLONIUS.

O! my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;

1t hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t,

A brother's murder !—Pray can I not,

Though inclination be as sharp as will:

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent ;

And, like a man to double business bound,

I stand in pause where I shall first begin,

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand

Were thicker than itself with brother's blood,

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens,

To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy,

But to confront the visage of offence ?

And what’s in prayer, but this two-fold force,—

'To be forestalled, ere we come to fall,

Or pardon’d, being down? Then, I'll look up: 50

My fault is past. But, O! what form of prayer

Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder !—

‘hat cannot be; since I am still possess‘d

Of those effects for which I did the murder,

My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen.

May one be pardon’d, and retain the offence?

In the corrupted currents of this world,

Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice ;

And oft ’tis seen, the wicked prize itself

Buys out the law: but ’tis not so above;

There is no shuffling, there the action lies

In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d,

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,

To give in evidence. What then? what rests?

Try what repentance can: what can it not?

Yet what can it, when one can not repent?

O wretched state! O bosom, black as death!

O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,

Art more engaged! Help, angels! make assay :

Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel,

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe.

All may be well. [Retires and kneels.

Enter HAMLET.
Ham. Now might I do it, pat, now he is praying ;
And now I’ll do’t:—and so he goes to heaven ;
And so am I reveng’d? That would be scann’d:
A villain kills my father; and, for that,
I, his sole son, do this same villain sen

40

To heaven.
Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge.
He took my father grossly, full of bread ; 80

sh
With all his crimes Tenad | blown, as flush as May ;
And how his audit stands, who knows, save Heaven?
But, in our circumstance and course of thought,
"Tis heavy with him.: And am I then reveng’d,
To take him in ‘he purging of his soul,
When he is fit and season’d for his passage ?

No.

UPR sword; and know thou a more horrid hent:
hen he is drunk, asleep, or in his rage ;

Or in the incestuous pleasures of his bed ;

At gaming, swearing; or about some act,

That has no relish of salvation in’t ;

Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,

And that his soul may be as damn’d, and black,

As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays:

This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. (Exit.

The KinG rises and advances.

King. My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts never to heaven go. [Evwit.

 

ScreNnE IV.—A Room in the Same.

Enter QUEEN and POLONIUS.
Pol. He will come: straight. Look, you lay home
to him ; s

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

615

Tell him, his pranks have been too broad to bear with,
And that your grace hath screen’d and stood between
Much heat and him. I[’ll silence me e’en here,
Pray you, be round with him.
‘am. [Within.] Mother, mother, mother!
Queen. I’ll warrant you ; fear me not:
Withdraw, I hear him coming.
[PoLonius hides himself behind the arras.

 

Ham. “Now might I do it, pat, now he 1s praying.”

Enter HAMLET.

Ham. Now, mother, what’s the matter?

Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

Ham. Mother, you have my father much offended.

Queen. Come, come; you answer with an idle
tongue. 12

Ham. Go, go; you question with a wicked tongue.

oe Why, how now, Hamlet?
am. What’s the matter now?
Queen. Have you forgot me?

‘am. No, by the rood, not so:

You are the queen, your husband’s brother’s wife ;
But—would you were not so !—you are my mother.
Queen. N S then, I’ll set those to you that can
speak.
Ham. Come, come, and sit you down ; you shall not
udge :
r You go not, till I set you up a glass 20
Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Queen. eae wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder
me
Help, help, ho!
Pol. (Behind.] What, ho! help, help, help!
Ham. How now! arat? [Draws.] Dead! for a ducat,
dead! (Makes a pass through the arras.

Pol. [Behind.] O! Iam slain. [Falls, and dies.
Queen. O me! what hast thou done?

Ham. Nay, I know not:
Is it the king?
Queen. what a rash and bloody deed is this!

0.
Ham. A bloody deed ; almost as bad, good mother,
As kill a king, and marry with his brother. 30

Queen. As killa king!
am. : Ay, lady, *t was my word.
[Lifts up the arras, and draws forth POLONIUS.
Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!

 

I took thee for thy better ; take thy fortune:

 

 
 

616

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act If,

 

 

Thou find’st, to be too busy is some danger.—
Leave wringing of your hands, Peace! sit you down,
And let me wring your heart: for so I shall,
If it be made of penetrable stuff;
If damned custom have not braz’d it so,
That it is proof and bulwark against sense.

Queen. What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy

tongue dU

In noise so rude against me?

Ham. Such an act,
That blurs the grace and blush of modesty ;
Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows
As false as dicers’ oaths: O! such a deed,
As from the body of contraction plucks
The very soul; and sweet religion makes
A rhapsody of words: heaven’s tace doth glow; :
Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 50
With tristful visage, as against the doom,
Is thought-sick at the act.

Ham. “ Look here, upon this picture, and on this.”

Queen. Ah me! what act,
That roars so loud, and thunders in the index?

Ham. Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See, what a grace was seated on this brow:
Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself ;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 60
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.
This was your husband : look you now, what follows.
Here is your husband; like a mildew’d ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love; for, at your age,
The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, 70
And waits upon the judgment ; and what judgment
‘Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have,
Else could you not have motion ; but, sure, that sense
Is apoplex’d ; for madness would not err,
Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d,
But it reserv’d some quantity of choice,
To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t,
That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind?
Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, 80
Or but a sickly part of one true sense
Could not so mope.

 

   

 

O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones,
‘To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame,
When the compulsive ardour gives the charge;
Since frost itself as actively doth burn,
And reason panders will.

Queen. O Hamlet! speak no more!
Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul ;
And there I see such black and grained spots,
As will not leave their tinct.

lam. Nay, but to live

In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed ;
Stew’d in corruption ; honeying, and making love
Over the nasty sty ;—

Queen. O, speak to me no more!
These words like daggers enter in mine ears:
No more, sweet Hamlet!

Ham. A murderer, and a Villain ;
A slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord :—a Vice of kings ;
A cutpurse of the empire and the rule,
That from a shelf the precious diadem stole,
And put it in his pocket!

Queen. No more!

Ham. A king of shreds and patches.—

Enter Ghost.
Save me, and hover o’er me with your wings,
You heavenly euands !—What would your gracious
gure ¢
Queen. Alas! he’s mad.
Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide,
That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by
The important acting of your dread command?
O, say! ; 110
Ghost. Do not forget. This visitation
Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose.
But, look ! amazement on thy mother sits;
O, step between her and her fighting soul ;
Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works:
Speak to her, Hamlet. iy 4
Ham. How is it with you, lady?
Queen. Alas! how is ’t with you,
That you do bend your eye on vacancy,
And with the incorporal air do hold discourse?
Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep ;
And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm,
Your bedded hair, like life in excrements,
Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son!
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look?
Ham. On him, on him!—Look you, how pale he
glares!
His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones,
Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me;
Lest with this piteous action you convert
My stern effects: then, what I have to do
Wall want true colour; tears, perchance, for blood.
een. To whom do you ne this?
am. 0 ro see nothing there?
Sects, Nothing at all; yet all, that is, I see.
‘am. Nor did you nothing hear?
ween. No, nothing but ourselves.
‘am. Why, look you there! look, how it steals
away !
My father, in his habit as he liv’d!
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal !
[Exit Ghost.
Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain:
This bodiless creation ecstacy
Is very cunning in.
Ham Ecstacy ! z
My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time,
And makes as healthful music. It is not madness
That I have utter’d : bring me to the test,
And I the matter will re-word ; which madness
Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace,
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul,
That not your trespass, but my madness speaks:
It will but skin and film the ulcprous place ;
Whilst rank corruption, minin: : all within,

120

140

 

 

 
 

ScENnE IV.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

617

 

 

Infects unseen. Confess yourself to Heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come ;
And do not spread the compost on the weeds,
To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue ;
For, in the fatness of these pursy times,
Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg,
Yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him good.
Queen. O Hamlet! thou hast cleft my heart in
twain.
Ham. O, throw away the worser part of it,
And live the pier with the other half.
Good night ; but go not to mine uncle’s bed:
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat,
Oft habits’ devil, is angel yet in this,
That to the use of actions fair and good
He likewise gives a frock, or livery,
That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night ;
And that shall lend a kind of easiness
To the next abstinence: the next more easy ;
For use almost can change the stamp of nature,
And master the devil, or throw him out 170
With wondrous potency. Once more, Eos night:
And when you are desirous to be bless'd,
I'll blessing beg of you.—For this same lord,
[Pointing to POLONIvS.
I do repent: but Heaven hath pleas‘d it so,—
To punish me with this, and this with me,—
That I must be their scourge and minister.
I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So, again, good night.—
I must be cruel, only to be kind:
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.—
One word more, good lady.
. Queen. What shall I do?
‘am. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:
Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed;
Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse ;

150

160

 

180

And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses,

Or peeve in your neck with his damn’d fingers,
Make you to ravel all this matter out,

That I essentially am not in madness,

But mad in craft. "I were good, you let him know ;

For who, that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, 19
Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib,
Such dear concernings hide? who would do so?
No, in despite of sense, and secrecy,
Unpeg the basket on the house’s top,
Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape,
To try conclusions, in the basket creep,
And break your own neck down.
Queen. Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath,
And breath of life, I have no life to breathe
What thou hast said to me. 200
Ham. I must to England; you know that.
Queen. Alack !
Thad forgot: ’t is so concluded on.
Ham. There’s letters seal’d: and my two school-
fellows,—
Whom I will trust, as I will adders fang’d,—
They bear the mandate ; they must sweep my way,
And marshal me to knavery. Let it work ;
For ’t is the sport, to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar: and ’t shall go hard,
But I will delve one yard below their mines,
And blow them at the moon. O! ’tis most sweet, 210
When in one line two crafts directly meet. —
This man shall set me packing :
I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.—
Mother, good night.—Indeed, this counsellor
Is now most still, most secret, and most grave,
Who was in life a foolish ae knave.
Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you.
Good night, mother.
[Excunt severally; HAMLET dragging in
POLONIUS.

 

 

 

   
   

King: \
RE’S matter in these sighs: these pro- \
found heaves |
(You must translate ; tis fit we understand |
, them. |
= Where is your son? ’ '
‘ Queen. Bestow this place on us a little |
while.— '
[Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and |
GUILDENSTERN. |
Ah, my good lord, what have I seen
to-night!
King. What, Gertrude?) How does
Hamlet ?
Queen. Sad as the sea, and wind, when both con-
ten

Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit,

Behind the arras hearing something stir,

He whips his rapier out, and cries, * A rat! arat!” 10

And, in this brainish apprehension, kills

The unseen good old man.
ing. O heavy deed!

It had been so with us, had we becn there.

His liberty is full of threats to all;

ScENE I.—-The Same.
Enter KING, QUEEN, ROSENCRANTZ, and GUILDENSTERN.
To you yourself, to us, to every one.
Alas! how shall this bloody deed be answer’d?
It will be laid to us, whose providence
Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt,

This mad young man; but so much was our love,

We would not understand what was most fit;

But, like the owner of a foul disease,

To keep it trom divulging, let it feed

Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone?
Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill’d;

O’er whom his very madness, like some ore

Among a mineral} of metals base,

Shows itself pure : he weeps for what is done.
King. O Gertrude! come away.

The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch,

But we will ship him hence; and this vile deed

We must, with all our majesty and skill,

Both countenance and excuse.—Ho! Guildenstern !

Re-enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.
Friends both, go join you with some further aid.
Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, .
And from his mother’s closet hath he drase him:
Go, seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body

20

30

 

 
 

618

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act Iv,

 

 

Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this.
[Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.

Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends ;

And let them know, both what we mean to do,

And what’s untimely done: so, haply, slander— 40

Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter,

As level as the cannon to his blank, |

Transports his poison’d shot—may miss our name,

And hit the woundless air. O, come away!

My soul is full of discord, and dismay. [Exeunt.

ScreNnE II.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter HAMLET.
stowed.
Within.] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!
O! here

Ham. Safel,

Ros., Guil.

Ham. What noise? who calls on Hamlet?
they come.

Enter ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN,
Ros. bite a you done, my lord, with the dead
0

y

Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto ’tis kin.

Ros. Tell us where ’tis; that we may take it thence,
And bear it to the chapel.

Ham. Do not believe it.

Ros. Believe what? 10

Ham. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine
own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what
replication should be made by the son of a king?

Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

Ham. Ay, sir; that soaks up the king’s countenance,
his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the
king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an
ape, in the corner of his jaw ; first mouthed, to be last
swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it
is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry
again. 21

Ros. I understand you not, my lord.

Ham. 1am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a
foolish ear.

Ros. My lord, you must tell us where the body is,
and go with us to the king. .

Ham. The body is with the king, but the king is not
with the body. The king is a thing—

Guil. A thing, my lord!

Ham. Of nothing: bring me tohim. Hide fox, and
all after. eunt,

 

ScENE III.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter Kine, attended.

King. T have sent toseek him, and to find the body.
How dangerous is it, that this man goes loose!
Yet must not we put the strong law on him:
He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude,
Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes;
And where ’tis so, the offender’s scourge is weigh’d,
But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even,
This sudden sending him away must seem
Deliberate pause : diseases, desperate grown,
By desperate appliance are reliev’d, 10
Or not at all.—

Enter ROSENCRANTZ.
How now! what hath befallen?

Ros. Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord,
We cannot get from him.

King. But where is he?

Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to know your

ee
King. Bvirg him before us.
fos. Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my lord.

Enter HAMLET and GUILDENSTERN.
King. Now, Hamlet, where’s Polonius?

Ham, At supper.
King. At supper! Where? 19
Ham. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a

 

certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him.

Your worm is your only emperor for diet: w

all creatures else, to fat us, and we fat ourselves a
maggots: your fat king, and your lean beggar, is but
variable service ; two dishes, but to one table: that’s
the end.

‘King. Alas, alas!

Ham. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat
of a king; and eat of the fish that hath fed of that
worm.

King. What dost thou mean by this? = i

Ham. Nothing, but to show you how a king may go
a progress through the guts of a beggar.

King. Where is Polonius?

Ham. In heaven: send thither to see; if your mes-
senger find him not there, seek him i’ the other place
yourself. But, indeed, if you find him not within this
month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into
we ace

ing. [To some Attendants.] Go seek him there.
Ham. ch will stay till you come. o
‘ . [Excunt Attendants,

King. Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,—
Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve
For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence
With fiery quickness ; therefore, prepare thyself.
The bark is ready, and the wind at help,

The associates tend, and everything is bent 2

For England.
For England?
Ay, Hamlet.
Good.

King. So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.
Ham. I see a cherub that sees them.—But, come:
for England !—Farewell, dear mother. jl

King. Thy loving father, Hamlet.

Ham. My mother: father and mother is man and
wife, man and wife is one flesh ; and so, my mother,
Come, for England ! [Exit

King. Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed

aboard :
Delay it not, 1 ll have him hence to-night.
Away, for everything is seal’d and done,
That else leans on the affair : pray you, make haste.
[Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN.
And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught, 60
(As my great power thereof may give thee sense,
Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red
After the Danish sword, and thy free awe
Pays homage to us,) thou may’st not coldly set
Our sovereign process, which imports at FR
By letters conjuring to that effect,
The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England;
For like the hectic in my blood he rages,
And thou must cure me. Till I know ’tis done,
Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun. iz -
rit,

SceENE IV.—A Plain in Denmark.

Enter FoRTINBRAS, a Captain, and Soldiers,
marching.
For. Go, captain; from me per the Danish king;
Tell him, that, by his license, Fortinbras
Claims the conveyance of a promis’d march
Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous.
If that his majesty would aught with us,
We shall express our duty in his eye,

And let him know so.

Cap. I will do ’t, my lord.

For, Go softly on. :
[Exeunt ForTINBRAS and Soldiers.

Enter HAMLET, ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, £¢.
Ham. Good sir, whose powers are these?
Cap. They are of Norway, sir. 10
Ham. How purpos’d, sir, I pray you?
Cap. a some part of Poland.
Ham. Who commands them, sir?
Cap. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir,

Or for some frontier ?

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE V.] HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 619
Cap. Truly to speak, sir, and with no addition, So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
We go to gain a little eee of ground, ’ It spills itself in tearing to te alk 20

That hath in it no profit but the name.
To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it ; 20
Nor will it yield to Norway, or the Pole,
A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
Cap. Yes, ‘tis already garrison’d.
Ham. Two thousand souls, and twenty thousand

ducats,
Will not debate the question of this straw :
This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace,
That inward breaks, and shows no cause without
Why the man dies.—I humbly thank you, sir.
Cap. God be wi’ you, sir. [Exit.
r . Will’t please you go, my lord?
‘Ham.\1’ll be with you straight. Goa little before.
[Exeunt ROSENCRANTZ, GUILDENSTERN, cc.
How all occasions do inform against me, 32
And spur my dull revenge ! hat is a man,
If his chief good, and market of his time,
Be but to sleep, and feed ? a beast, no more.
Sure, He, that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unus’d. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 40
Of thinking too precisely on the event,—
A thought, which, quarter’d, hath but one part
wisdom,
And ever three parts coward,—I do not know
Why yet I live to say, “This thing’s to do ;”
Sith [have cause, and will, and strength, and means,
Todo’t. Examples, pros: as earth, exhort me:
Witness this army, of such mass and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince,
Whose spirit. with divine ambition puff’d,
Makes mouths at the invisible event ;
Exposing what is mortal, and unsure,
To all that fortune, death, and danger, dare,
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw,
When honour’s at the stake. How stand I then,
That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d,
Excitements of my reason, and my blood,
‘And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men, 60
That, for a fantasy and trick of fame,
Go to their graves like beds ; fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause ;
Which is not tomb enough, and continent,
To hide the slain?~O! from this time forth,

My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! [Ezit.

 

Scenr V.—Elsinore. A Room in the Castle.

Enter QUEEN and HoRATIO.

ween. I will not speak with her.
or. She is importunate ; indeed, distract:
Her mood will needs be pitied.
ueen. What would she have?
‘or. She speaks much of her father; says, she

ears,

There’s wok i’ the world; and hems, and beats her
eart ;

Spurns enviously at straws ; speaks things in doubt,

at carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,

Yet the unshaped use of it doth move |

The hearers to collection ; they aim at it,

And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; 10

Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield

’ them,

Indeed would make one think, there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily.
T were good she were spoken with, for she may strew
Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.

Queen, Let her come in. [Exit Horatio.
To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, .
h toy seems prologue to some great amiss :

as

 

 

Re-enter HoRATIO, with OPHELIA.
Oph. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark ?
Queen. How now, Ophelia ?
Oph. [Sings.] How should I your true love know
‘om another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.

Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
Oph, Say you? nay, pray you, mark.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone; 30
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
O, ho!
Queen. Nay, but, Ophelia,—
Oph. Pray you, mark.
White his shroud as the mountain snow,—

Enter Kine.
Queen. Alas! look here, my lord.

Oph. Larded with sweet flowers ;
Which bewept to the grave did go,
With true-love showers.
King. How do fon. pretty lady ? 40
Oph. Well, God’ield you! They say, the owl was a
baker’s daughter. Lord! we know what we are, but
know not what we may be. God be at your table!
King. Conceit upon her father.
Oph. Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but
when they ask you what it means, say you this:
To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day,
Allin the morning betime,
And Ia maid at your window,
To be your Valentine: _
Then up he rose, and donn’d his clothes,
And dupp’d the chamber door ;
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more.

King. Pretty Ophelia!
Oph. Indeed, la! without an oath, Ill make an end

on’t:

By Gis, and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie for shame!

Young men will do’t, if they come to’t; 60
By cock, they are to blame.

Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
You promis’d me to wed:

So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.

King. How long hath she been thus ?

Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient:
but I cannot choose but weep, to think, they should
Jay him i’ the cold ground. y brother shall know of
it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come,
my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet
Jadies ; good night, good night. Exi

King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I

_ pray you. [Exit HoRATIO.
O! this is the poison of deep grief ; it springs
All from her father’s death. And now, behold,
O Gertrude, Gertrude !
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions. First, her father slain:
Next, your son gone ; and he most violent author
Of his own just remove: the people muddied, 80
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whis-

pers,

For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but
greenly, : :

In hug; eregEey to inter him: poor Ophelia

Divided from herself, and her fair judgment,

Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts:

Last, and as much containing as all these,

Her brother is in secret come from France,

Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds,

And wants not buzzers to infect his ear

 
 

620

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

fAct Iv,

 

 

With pestilent speeches of his father’s death ; 99

Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d,

Will nothing stick onr person to arraign

In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude! this,

Like to a murdering-piece, in many places

Gives me superfluous death. [4 noise within.
Queen. Alack! what noise is this?

Enter a Gentleman,
King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard
the door.
What is the matter?
Gent. Save yourself, my lord;
The ocean, overpeering of his list,
Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste,
Than young Laertes, in a riotous head,
O’erbears your officers. The rabble call him lord ;
And, as the world were now but to begin,
Antiquity forgot, custom not known,
The ratifiers and props of every word,
They cry, ‘‘Choose we; Laertes shall be king !”
Caps, hands, and tongues, applaud it to the clouds,
“Laertes shall be king, Laertes king!”
Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!
O! this is counter, you false Danish dogs.
King. The doors are broke. [Noise within.

Enter LAERTES, armed; Danes following.

Laer. Where is this king?—sirs, stand you all

without. 111

Dan. No, let’s come in.
Laer.

Dan, We will, we will.

eed retire without the door.

Laer. I thank you: keep the door.—O thou vile

I pray you, give me leave.

ing,
Give me my father.
Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.
Laer. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me
bastard ;
Cries, cuckold, to my father; brands the harlot
Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow
Of my true mother.
King. What is the cause, Laertes,
That thy rebellion looks so giant-like ?—
Let him go, Gertrude ; do not fear our person:
There’s such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason can but peep to what it would,
Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes,
Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude.—
Speak, man.
Laer, Where is my father?
King.
ween. ;
Ying. Let him demand his fill.
Laer. How came he dead?
with.
To hell, allegiance ! vows, to the blackest devil !
Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit !
I dare damnation. To this point I stand,
That both the worlds I give to negligence ;
Let come what comes, only I'll be reveng’d
Most throughly for my father.
King. Who shall stay you?
Laer. My will, not.all the world:
And, for my means, I’ll husband them so well,
They shall go far with little.

ad.
But not by him.

I'll not be juggled

130

ing. Good Laertes,

If you desire to know the certainty :
Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge,
That, swoopstake, you will draw both friend and foe,
Winner and loser ?%

Laer. None but his enemies.

King. Will you know them then?

Laer. To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my

arms;
And, like the kind life-rendering pelican,
Repast them with my blood.
King. Why, now you speak
Like a good child, and a true gentleman.
That Iam guiltless of your father’s death,
And am most sensibly in grief for it.

 

It shall as level to your judgment pier

As day does to your eve. ae Mae
Danes. [Within.] Let her come in.
Laer. How now! what noise is that?

Re-enter OPHELIA.
O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye !—
By Heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! ,
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia !—
O heavens! is’t possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man’s life?
Nature is fine in love; and, where ’t is fine, 160
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.
Oph. They bore him barefac'd on the bier ;
Hey non nonny, nonny, hey nonny :
And in his grave raind many a tear ;—
Fare you well, my dove!
Laer, Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade
revenge,
It could not move thus.

Oph. You must sing, Down a-down, an you call him
a-down-a. QO, how the wheel becomes it! It is the
false steward, that stole his master’s daughter. 171

Laer, This nothing ’s more than matter.

Oph. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance;
pray you, love, remember: and there is pansies, that’s
for thoughts.

Laer. A document in madness; thoughts and re-
membrance fitted.

Oph, There’s fennel for you, and columbines;—
there ’s rue for you; and here’s some for me : we may
call it herb-grace o’ Sundays :—O, you must wear your
rue with a difference.—There’s a daisy: I would give
you some violets; but they withered all when my
tather died.—They say, he made a good end,— 183

For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,—

Laer, Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
She turns to favour, and to prettiness.
Oph. And will he not come again?
aind will he not come again ?
No, no, heis dead:
Go to thy death-bed: 190
He never will come again.

His beard as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll ;
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan:
God ha@ mercy on his soul!
And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God be wae
wxit,
Laer. Do you see this? O God! 5
King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief,
Or you deny me right. Go but apart, :
Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge ’twixt you and me.
If by direct, or by collateral hand :
They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give,
Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours,
To you in satisfaction ; but if not,
Be you content to lend your patience to us,
‘Ane we shall jointly labour with your soul
To give it due content.
Laer. Let this be so:
His means of death, his obscure burial,— 210
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment, o’er his bones,
No noble rite, nor formal ostentation,—-
Cry to be heard, as t were from heaven to earth,
That I must call’t in question.
i So you shall;

king.
And, where the offence is, let the great axe fall.
I pray you, go with me. [Ex

ScEeNE VI.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter HorATIo and a Servant.
Hor. What are they, that would speak with me?

 

 

ea
 

ScENE VI]

Serv. Sailors, sir: they say, they have letters for you.
Hor. Let them come in.— [Exit Servant.
I do not know from what part of the world

Ishould be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet.

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

 

621

king: they have letters for him. Ere we were two
days old at sea, a pirete of very warlike appointment
gave uschase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we
put on a compelled valour; in the grapple 1 boarded

 

Enter Sailors.

1 Sail. God bless you, sir.
Hor. Let him bless thee too.

letter for you, sir: it comes from the ambassador that
was bound for England, if your name be Horatio, as
iam iet to know it is. 11

Hor. [Reads.} ‘“‘ Horatio, when thou shalt have over-
looked this, give these fellows some means to the

 

1 Sail. He shall, sir, an’t please him. There's a !

Oph. “ There’s fennel for you, and columbines ;—there’s rue for you ; and here’s some for me.”

them : on the instant they got clear of our ship, so I
alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with
me like thieves of mercy; but they knew what they
did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the king
have the letters I have sent; and repair thou to me
with as much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have
words to speak in thine ear, will make thee dumb;
yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter.
These good fellows will bring thee where I am.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for

 
 

622 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

{Acr rv, |

 

 

England : of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell,
He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.

Come, I will give you way for these your letters; 30

And do 't the speedier, that you may direct me

To him from whom you brought them. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE VII.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter Kine and LAERTES.
King. Now must your conscience my acquittance
seal,
And you must put me in your heart for friend,
Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear,
That he, which hath your noble father slain,
Pursu'd my life.

Laer. It well appears: but tell me
Why you proceeded not against these feats,

So crimeful and so capital in nature,
As by your safety, wisdom, all things else,
You mainly were stirr’d up.

King. O! for two special reasons ;
Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, 10
And yet to me they are strong. The queen, his mother,
Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,

(My virtue, or my plague, be it either which,)
She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul,
That, as the star moves not but in his sphere,
I could not but by her. The other motive,
Why to a public count I might not go,
Is the great love the general gender bear him ;
Who, dipping all his faults in their affection,
Would, Eke the spring that turneth wood to stone, 20
Convert his gyves to graces; so that m:
Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind,
Would have reverted to my bow again,
And not where I had aim’d them.
Laer. And so have I a noble father lost;
A sister driven into desperate terms;
Whose worth, if praises may go back again,
Stood challenger on mount of all the age
For her perfections. But my revenge will come.
King. Break not your sleeps for that ; you must not
think, 30
That we are made of stuff so flat and dull,
That we can let our beard be shook with danger,
And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more:
Tlov'’d your father, and we love ourself ;
And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine, —

Enter a Messenger.
How now! what news?

Mess. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet.
This to your majesty : this to the queen.

King. From Hamlet! who brought them?

Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not:
They were given me by Claudio, he receiv’d them 40
Of him that brought them.

King. Laertes, you shall hear them.—
Leave us. Exit Messenger.
[Reads.] ‘‘High and mighty, you shall know, I am
set naked on your kingdom. ‘To-morrow shall I beg
leave to see your kingly eyes; when I shall, first
asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions
of my sudden and more strange return. HaMLET.”
What should this mean? Are all the rest come back?
Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Laer. Know you the hand?

King. ’T is Hamlet’s character. ‘Naked.
And, in a postscript. here, he says, ‘‘ alone.”

Can you advise me?
Laer. I’m lost in it, my lord. But let him come:
. It warms the very sickness in my heart,
That I shall live and tell him to his teeth,
“Thus diddest thou.”
King. If it be so, Laertes,
(As how should it be so? how otherwise?)
Will you be ruled by me?
Laer. Ay, my lord ;
So you will not o’er-rule me to a peace.
King. To thine own peace. If he be now return’d,—

arrows,

"61

 

As checking at his voyage, and that he means 61
No more to undertake it,—I will work him
To an exploit, now ripe in my device,
Under the which he shall not choose but fall;
And for his death no wind of blame shall breathe,
But even his mother shall uncharge the practice,
And call it accident.

Laer. 7 My lord, I will be rul’d;
The rather, if you could devise it so,
That I might be the organ,

i It falls right.

King. *
You have been talk’d of since your travel much, 70
And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality
Wherein, ee say, you shine: your sum of parts
Did not together pluck such envy from him,

As did that one; and that, in my regard,
Of the unworthiest siege.
Laer. What part is that, my lord?
King. A very riband in the cap of youth,
Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes
The light and careless livery that it wears,
Than settled age his sables, and his weeds,
Importing health and graveness.—Two months since,
Here was a gentleman of Normandy :—
I have seen myself, and serv’d against, the French,
And they can well on horseback ; but this gallant
Had witchcraft in ’t; he grew unto his seat;
And to such wondrous doing brought his horse,
As he had been incorps’d and demi-natur’d
With the brave beast: so far he tonpid my thought,
That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks,
Come short of what he did.

Laer.

King. A Norman.

Laer. Upon my life, Lamord.

King. | _ _ The very same.

Laer. I know him well: he is the brooch, indeed,
And gem of all the nation.

King. He made confession of you;

And gave you such a masterly report,
For art and exercise in your defence,
And for your rapier most especially,
That he cried out, ’t would be a sight indeed,
If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation,
He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye, 100
If you popes @ them. Sir, this report of his
Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy,
That he could nothing do, but wish and beg
Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him.
Now, out of this, —
Laer. What out of this, my lord?
King. Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?

Laer. Why ask you this?

King. Not that I think you did not love your father;
But that I know love is begun by time; 110
And that I see, in passages of proof,

Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.

There lives within the very flame of love

A kind of wick, or snuff, that will abate it ;

And nothing is at a like goodness still ;

For goodness, growing to a plurisy,

Dies in his own too-much. That we would do, e

We should do when we would; for this “ would
changes,

And hath abatements and delays as many,

As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents, 120

‘And then this “should” is like a spendthrift sigh,

That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o’ the ulcer:

Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake,

To show yourself your father’s son in deed,

More than in words?

Laer. To cut his throat i’ the chureh.

King. No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarise;
Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,
Will you do this, keep close within your chamber.
Hamlet, return’d, shall know you are come home:
We'll put on those shall praise your excellence, 130
And set a double varnish on the fame
The Frenchman gave you; bring you, in fine, together,
And wager on your heads: he, being remiss,

A Norman, was’t?

 

 

 
 

ScENE VII]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

623

 

Most generous, and free from all contriving,
Will not peruse the foils ; so that with ease,
Or with a little shufHing, you may choose

A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,
Requite him for your father.

 

| With this contagion, that, if I gall him slight]
It may be death. = poe
ing. Let’s further think of this;
Weigh, what convenience, both of time and means,
May fit us to our shape. If this should fail,

OPHELIA ON THE WILLOW.

Laer. I will do’t;
And, for that purpose, I’ll anoint my.sword.
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal, that but dip a knife in it,
ere it draws blood, no cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death,

140

That is but scrateh’d withal : I’ll touch my point

And that our drift look through our bad performance,

*T were better not assay’d: therefore, this project 151

Should have a back, or second, that might hold,

If this should blast in proof. Soft !—let me see :—

ae ‘11 make a solemn wager on your cunnings,—
at:

When in your motion you are hot and dry,

(As make your bouts more violent to that end,)

 

 
 

 

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act Vv,

 

And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him
A chalice for the nonce ; whereon but sipping,

If he by chance feat your venom’d stuck, |
Our purpose may hold there. But stay! what noise?

Enter QUEEN.
How now, sweet queen ?

Queen, One woe doth tread upon another’s heel,
So fast they follow.—Your sister’s drown'd, Laertes.

Laer. Drown’d !—O, where?

Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream ;
There with fantastic garlands did she come,

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 1

But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them :

There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke,

When down her weedy trophies, and herself,

Fell in ae weeping brook. Her clothes spread
wide,

And, mermaid-like, awhile ee bore her up:
Which time, she chanted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indu’d
Unto that element: but long it could not be,
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulld the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Laer. Alas! then, is she drown’d ?

ueen. Drown’d, drown’d.

aer, Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia,
And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet
It is our trick ; nature her custom holds,
Let shame say what it will: when these are gone,
The woman will be out.—Adieu, my lord!

Ihave a speech of fire, that fain would blaze,
But that this folly douts it. cit,
King. Let’s follow, Gertrude.
How much I had to do to calm his rage!
Now fear I, this will give it start again ;

| Therefore, let’s follow.

180

190

 

Hxeunt,

 

 

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—A Churchyard.
Enter two Clowns, with spades and mattocks.

   

Rats tt 1 Clown.
LS %S she to be buried in Christian burial, that
wilfully seeks her own salvation ?

2 Clo. I tell thee, she is; and therefore
make her grave straight : the crowner hath
sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.

1 Clo. How can that be, unless she drowned
herself in her own defence ?

2 Clo. Why, ’tis found so. 8

1 Clo. It must be se offendendo ; it cannot
be else. For here lies the point: if I drown
myself wittingly, it argues an act, and an
act hath three branches; it is, to act, to do,
and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.

2 Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman delver.—

1 Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the water; good:
here stands the man; good: if the man go to this
water, and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he
goes; mark you that: but if the water come to him,
and drown him, he drowns not himself: argal, he
that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his
own life. 21

2 Clo. But is this law ?

1 Clo. Ay, marry, is't, crowner’s quest-law.

2 Clo. Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not
been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out
of Christian burial.

1 Clo. ee there thou say’st; and the more pity,
that great folk shall have countenance in this world
to drown or hang themselves, more than their even-
Christian. Come, my spade. There is no ancient
gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers;
they hold up Adam’s profession. 32

2 Clo. Was he a gentleman?

1 Clo. He was the first that ever bore arms.

2 Clo. Why, he had none.

1 Clo. What, art a heathen? How dost thou under-
stand the Scripture? The Scripture says, Adam
digged : could he dig without arms? I’ll put another
question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the
purpose, confess thyself— 40

2 Clo. Go to.

1 Clo. What is he, that builds stronger than cither
the mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter?

2 Clo. The gallows-maker ; for that frame outlives a
thousand tenants.

1 Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith : the gallows
does well ; but how does it well? it does well to those
that do ill: now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is
built stronger than the church: argal, the gallows
may do well to thee. To’t again; come. 50

2 Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, a ship-
wright, or a carpenter ?

1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.

2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell.

1 Clo. To't.

2 Clo. Mass, I cannot tell.

Enter HAMLET and Horatio, at a distance.

1 Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your
dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and,
when you are asked this question next, say, a grave-
maker: the houses that he makes last till doomsday.
Go, get thee to Yaughan ; fetch me a stoop of He Oke

[Exit 2 Clown.
1 Clown digs, and sings.
In youth, when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet,
To contract, O! the time, for-a ! my behove,
O, methought, there was nothing-a meet.

Ham. Hath this fellow no feeling of his business,
that he sings at grave-making ?
Hor. Custom hath made it in him a property of
easiness,
Ham. ’Tis e’en so: the hand of little employment
hath the daintier sense. 7
1Clo. But age, with his stealing sieee,
Hath claw'd me in his clutch,
And hath shipped me intil the land.
As tf Thad never been such.

 

[Throws up a skull.

 

ee

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

625

 

Ham, That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing
once : how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it
were Cain’s jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This
might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now
par orioes, one that would circumvent God, might it
not. 81

Hor. It might, my lord.

Ham. Or of a courtier, which could say, ‘Good
morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?”
This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that praised my
Lord Such-a-one’s horse, when he meant to beg

1 Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall recover
his wits there; or, if he do not, ‘tis no great matter
there.

Ham. Why?

1 Clo. ’T will not be seen in him there; there the
men are as mad as he. 161

Ham. How came he mad?

1 Clo. Very strangely, they say.

Ham. How strangely ? ;

1 Clo, ’Faith, e’en with losing his wits.

 

it, might it not?

Hor. Ay, my lord. 8s

Ham. Why, een so, and now my Lady
Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the
mazzard with a sexton’s spade. Here’s fine
revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did
these bones cost no more the breeding, but to
play at loggats with ’em? mine ache to think
on ’t,
1Clo. A pick-axe, and a spade, a spade,

For and a shrouding sheet :
O! a pit of clay for to be made
For such a guest is meet. 99
Throws up another skull.

Ham. There’s another: why may not that be
the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits
now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his
tricks ? why does he suffer this rude knave now
to knock him about the sconce with a dirty
shovel, and_will not tell him of his action of
battery? Humph! This fellow might be in’s
time a great buyer of land, with his statutes,
his recognisances, his fines, his double vouchers,
his recoveries : is this the fine of his fines, and
the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine

ate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch

im no more of his purchases, and double ones
too, than the length and breadth of a pair of
indentures? The very conveyances of his lands |
will hardly lie in this box, and must the inheritor
himself have no more? ha?

Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.

Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins?

Hor. Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too.

Ham. They are Se and calves, which seek out
assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose
grave’s this, sir? 122

1 Clo. Mine, sir.—

O! a pit of clay for to be made
for such a guest is meet.

Ham. I think it be thine, indeed ; for thou liest in’t.

1 Clo. You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore it is not
yours; for my part, I do not lie in’t, and yet it is
mine.

Ham. Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t, and say it is
thine: ’tis for the dead, not for the quick; therefore,
thou liest. 2

1 Clo. ’Tis a quick lie, sir; *t will away again, from
me to you.

Ham. What man dost thou dig it for?

1 Clo. For no man, sir.

Ham. What woman, then?

1 Clo. For none, neither.

Ham. Who is to be buried in ’t?

1Clo. One, that was a woman, sir; but, rest her
soul, she’s dead. 11

Ham. How absolute the knave is! we must speak
by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the
Lord, Horatio, this three years I have taken note of
it; the age is grown so picked, that the toe of the
peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he
galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-
maker ?

1 Clo. Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that
day that our last King Hamlet o’ercame Fortinbras.

lam. How long is that since? 151

1 Clo. Cannot ou tell that? every fool can tell that.
It was the very day that young Hamlet was born ; he
that is mad, and sent into England.

Ham, Ay, marry ; why was he sent into England?

Pe

 

 

 

Ham. “ Alas, poor Yorick !”

Ham. Upon what ground?
1 Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton
here, man, and boy, thirty years.
Ham. How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he
170

rot?

1 Clo. ’Faith, if he be not rotten before he die, (as
we have many pocky corses now-a-days, that will
scarce hold the laying in,) he will last you some eight
year, or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.

Ham. Why he more than another?

1 Clo. Why, sir, his hide is so tanned with his trade,
that he will keep out water a great while; and your
water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body.
Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain i’ the earth
three-and-twenty years.

Ham. Whose was it?

1 Clo. A whoreson mad fellow’s it was: whose do
you think it was?

Ham. Nay, I know not.

1 Clo. A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ’a
poured a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This
same skull, sir, this same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull,
the king’s jester.

Ham. This?

1 Clo. E’en that. 190

Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor
Yorick !—I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on
his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred
my imagination is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung
those lips, that I have kissed I know not how oft.
Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your
songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to
set the table on aroar? Not one now, to mock your
own grinning? quite chap-fallen? Now, get you to
my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch
thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh
at that.—Pr’ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing. 203

Hor. What’s that, my lord?

Ham. Dost thou think, Alexander looked o’ this
fashion 7 the earth?

Hor. E’en so.

 

40

 
 

626

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act Vv,

 

 

Ham. And smelt so? pah! [Puts down the skull.
Hor. K’en so, my lord. |
Ham. To what base uses we may return, Horatio!

Why may not imagination trace the noble dust of

Alexander, till he find it stopping’a bung-hole? 212
Hor. ’! were to consider too curiously, to con-

sider so. :
Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither

with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as
thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexan-
der returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth
we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he

was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel? 220
Imperious Cesar, dead, and turn’d to clay,

Might stop a hole to keep the wind away :

O! that that earth, which kept the world in awe,

Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!
But soft! but soft! aside :—here comes the king,

Enter Priests, &c., in procession; the Corse of
OPHELIA, LAERTES and Mourners following ;
KING, QUEEN, their Trains, dc.

The queen, the courtiers. Who is that they follow,

And with such maimed rites?) This doth betoken,

The corse they follow did with desperate hand

Fordo its own life; ’t was of some estate.

Couch we awhile, and mark. 230

[Retiring with HORATIO.

Laer. What ceremony else?
lam. That is Laertes,

A very noble youth: mark.

Lacr. What ceremony else?
Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d

As we have warrantise: her death was doubtful ;

And, but that great command o’ersways the order,

She should in ground unsanctified have lody’d,

Till the last Lecmpet ; for charitable prayers,

Shards, flints, and pebbles, should be thrown on her;

Yet here she is allow’d her virgin crants, 240

Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home

Of bell and burial.

Laer. Must there no more be done ?
Priest. No more be done:

We should profane the service of the dead,

To sing a requiem, and such rest to her,

As to peace-parted souls.

Laer, Lay her i’ the earth;

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh

May violets spring !—I tell thee, churlish priest,

A ministering angel shall my sister be,

When thou liest howling.

Ham. What! the fair Ophelia ? 250
Queen. Sweets to the sweet: farewell.
[Scattering flowers.

IT hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife :

I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid,

And not bave strew'd thy grave.

Laer. O! treble woe

Fall ten times treble on that cursed head,

Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense

Depriv’d thee of !~ Hold off the earth awhile,

Till I have caught her once more in mine arms.

[Leaping into the grave.

Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead,

Till of this flat a mountain you have made, 260

To o'er-top old Pelion, or the skyish head

Of blue Olympus.

Ham, (Advancing.] What is he, whose grief

Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow

Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand,

Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I,

Hamlet the Dane. [Leaping into the grave.
Laer, The devil take thy soul!

(Grappling with him.
Ham. Thou pray'st not well.

I pr’ythee, take thy fingers from my throat;

For though I am not splenitive and rash,

Yet have I something in me dangerous,

Which let thy wiseness fear. Away thy hand!
King. Pluck them asunder.
Queen.

All. Gentlemen,—

270

Hamlet! Hamlet !

 

Hor. Good my lord, be quiet.
[The Attendants part them, and they come
out of the grave.

Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme,
Until my eyelids will no longer wag.

Queen. _O my son! what theme?

Ham. J lov’d Ophelia: forty thousand brothers
Could not, with all their quantity of love,
Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her? 280

King. O! he is mad, Laertes.

ee For love of God, forbear him.

am. ’Swounds! show me what thou lt do:
Woo't ween? woo't fight? woo't fast? woo't tear thy-
self?

Woo't drink up Esill? eat a crocodile?
I'll do ’t.—Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so willl:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou ’lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou.

Queen. . This is mere madness :
And thus awhile the fit will work on him;
Anon, as patient as the female dove,
When that her golden couplet are disclos’d,
His silence will sit drooping.

Ham. Hear you, sir:
What is the reason that you use me thus?
I lov’d you ever: but it is no matter ;

Let Hercules himself do what he may, 300
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. [Exit
King. I pray you, good Horatio, wait upon him.—

{Exit Horatio,
[To LaERTEs.] Strengthen your patience in our last
Diente speech ;
We ’ll put the matter to the present push.—
Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.
This grave shall have a living monument:
An hour of quiet shortly shall we see ;
Till then, in patience our proceeding be. [Ezeunt.

ScENE II.—A Hall in the Castle.

Enter HAMLET and Horatio.
Ham. So much for this, sir: now let me see the

other ;—

You do remember all the circumstance ?

Hor. Remember it, my lord! .

Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting,
That would not let me sleep : methought, I lay
Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. Rashly,—
And prais’d be rashness for it,—let us know,
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well,
When our dear plots do pall; and that should teach

us,

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, 10

Rough-hew them how we will,— :
or. That is most certain.

Ham. Up from my cabin,

My sea-gown scarf’d about me, in the dark

Grop’d I to find out them ; had my desire ;

Finger’d their packet ; and, in fine, withdrew

To mine own room again: making so bold,

My fears forgetting manners, to unseal 2

Their grand commission ; where I found, Horatio,

O royal knavery ! an exact command,—

. Larded with many several sorts of reasons, 20

Importing Denmark's health, and England's too,
With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life,—
That, on the supervise, no leisure bated,
No, not to stay the grinding of the axe,
My head should be struck off. .
Tor. Is't possible?
Ham. Here’s the commission: read it at more
leisure.
But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?
Hor. Ay *beseech you. hatha
Ham. Being thus benetted round with villainies,—

 

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

627

 

 

Ere I could make a prologue to my brains, 30
They had begun the play,—_I sat me down, -
Devis’d a new commission ; wrote it fair :
T once did hoid it, as our statists do,
A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much
How to forget that learning; but, sir, now
It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know
The effect of what I wrote ?
Hor. Ay, good my lord.
Ham. An earnest conjuration from the king,—
As England was his faithful tributary,
As love between them as the palm should flourish, 40
AS pees should still her wheaten garland wear,
And stand a comma ’tween their amities,
And many such-like as’s of great charge,—
That, on the view and know of these contents,
Without debatement further, more or less,
He should the bearers put to sudden death,
Not shriving-time allow’d.
Hor. How was this seal’d?
Ham. Why even in that was Heaven ordinant.
I had my father’s signet in my purse,
Which was the model of that Danish seal ; 50
Folded the writ up in form of the other ;
Subscrib’d it; gave ’t the impression ; plac’d it safely,
The changeling never known. Now, the next day
Was our sea-fight ; and what to this was sequent
Thou know’st already.
Hor. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to 't.
Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this
employment:
They are not near my conscience: their defeat
Does by their own insinuation grow.
*T is dangerous, when the baser nature comes 60
Between the pass and fell-incensed points
Of mighty opposites.
Hor. Why, what a king is this!
Ham. Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now

upon —

He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother ;

Popp'd in between the election and my hopes ;

Thrown out his angle for my proper life,

And with such cozenage—is ’t not perfect conscience,

To guit him with this arm? and is ’t not to be damn’d.

To let this canker of our nature come

In further evil? 70
Hor. Ty must be shortly known to him from Eng-

and,
What is the issue of the business there.

Ham. It will be short : the interim is mine;
And a man’s life no more than to say, one.
But Iam very sorry, good Horatio,

That to Laertes I forgot myself ;

For, by the image of my cause, I see

The portraiture of his: I’]l court his favours:

But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me

Into a towering passion.
or. Peace! who comes here? 80

Enter OSRICK.

Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Den-
mark.

Ham. I humbly thank you, sir.—Dost know this
water-fly ?

Hor. No, my good lord. .

Ham. Thy state is the more gracious; for ‘tis a
vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile:
let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand
at the king’s mess: ‘tis a chough; but, as I say,
spacious in the possession of dirt. 90

Osr. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I
should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

Ham._I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of
spirit, Your bonnet to his right use; ‘tis for the

ea

Osr. I thank your lordship, ’t is very hot. . 7

Ham. No, believe me, ’tis very cold; the wind is
northerly.

Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

Ham. But yet, methinks, it is very sultry and hot,
for my complexion. ha 101

sr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as

nr a ee

 

‘t were,—I cannot tell how.—But, my lord, his majesty
bade me signify to you, that he has laid a great wager
on your head. Sir, this is the matter,—

Ham. I beseech you, remember—

(HAMLET moves him to put on his hat.

Osr. Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in good
faith. Sir, here is newly come to court, Laertes;
believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excel-
lent differences, of very soft society, and great show-
ing: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card
or calendar of gentry, for you shall find in him the
continent of what part a gentleman would sec. 113

Ham. Sir, his definement sutfers no perdition in
you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially,
would dizzy the arithmetic of Tae and it but yaw
neither, in respect of his quick sale. But, in the
verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great
article ; and his infusion of such dearth and rareness,
as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his
mirror; and who else would trace him, his umbrage,
nothing more. 122

Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.

Ham. The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the
gentleman in our more rawer breath?

Osr. Sir?

Hor. 1s't not possible to understand in another
tongue? You will do't, sir, really. -

Ham. What imports the nomination of this gentle-
man? 130

Osr. Of Laertes?

Hor. His purse is empty already; all’s golden word:
are spent.

Ham. Of him, sir.

Osr. I know, you are not ignorant—

Ham. I would, you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did,
it would not much approve me.—Well, sir.

Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence
Laertes is— 139

Ham. I dare not confess that, lest Ishould compare
with him in excellence; but, to know a man well,
were to know himself.

Osr, I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the im-
putation laid on him by them, in his meed he’s un-
tellowed.

Ham. What’s his weapon?

Osr. Rapier and dagger.

Ham, That’s two of his weapons: but, well. 148

Osr. The king, sir, hath wagered with him six Bar-
bary horses: against the which he has imponed, as I
take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their
assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so. Three of the car-
riages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive
tothe hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal
conceit.

Ham. What call you the carriages?

Hor. I knew, you must be edified by the margent
ere you had done.

Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. 159

Ham. The phrase would be more german to the
matter, if we could carry cannon by our sides: I
would it might be hangers till then. But, on: six
Barbary horses sane six French swords, their
assigns, and three Jiberal-conceited carriages; that’s
the French bet against the Danish. Why is this
imponed, as you call it?

Osr. The king, sir, hath laid, sir, that in a dozen
passes between yourself and him, he shall not exceed
you three hits: he hath laid on twelve for nine; and
that would come to immediate trial, if your lordship
would vouchsafe the answer. 171

Ham. How, if I answer no?

; Oa mean, my lord, the opposition of your person
in trial.

Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please
his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me;
let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and
the king hold his purpose, I will win for him, if I can;
i not, I will gain nothing but my shame, and the odd

its.

Osr. Shall I re-deliver you e’en so?

Ham. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your
nature will.

 

 
 

 

628

Osr. Icommend my duty to your lordship.

Ham. Yours, yours. (Exit Osrick.]—He does well
to commend it himself; there are no tongues else
for’s turn.

Hor. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his
head. 189
Ham. He did comply with his dug before he sucked
it. Thus has he (and many more of the same bevy,
that, I know, the drossy age dotes on) only got the
tune of the time, and outward habit of encounter, a
kind of yesty collection, which carries them
through and through the most fond and
winnowed opinions: and do but blow them

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

[Act V.

Till by some elder masters, of known honour,
I have z voice and precedent of peace,
To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time,
I do receive your offer'd love like love,
And will not wrong it.

I embrace it freely ;

Ham.
And will this brother’s wager frankly play.—
Give us the foils.—Come on.

260

Laer, , Come, one for me.
Ham. 111 be your foil, Laertes: in mine ignorance,

 

to their trial, the bubbles are out.

Enter a Lord,

Lord. My lord, his majesty commended
him to you by young Osrick, who brings
back to him, that you attend him inthe hall:
he sends to know, if your pleasure hold to
pee with Laertes, or that you will take
onger time. 203

Ham. Jam constant to my purposes; they
follow the king's pleasure: if his fitness
speaks, mine is ready; now, or whensoever,
provided I be so able as now.

Lord. The king, «nd queen, and all are
coming down.

Ham. In happy time. 210

Lord. The queen desires you to use some
gentle entertainment to Lacrtes, before you
fall to play.

Ham. She wellinstructs me. [Hit Lord.

Hor. You will lose this wager, my lord.

Ham. I do not think so: since he went into
France, I have been in continual practice ;
I shall win at the odds. Thou wouldst not
think, how ill all’s here about my heart;
but it is no matter. 2:

Hor. Nay, good my lord,—

Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a
kind of gain-giving, as would, perhaps,
trouble a woman.

Hor. If your mind dislike anything, obey it: I will
forestall their repair hither, and say, you are not fit.

Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury: there is a
special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be
now, ’tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be
now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness
is all. Since no man has aught of what he leaves,
what is’t to leave betimes? Let be. 232

Enter KING, QUEEN, LAERTES, Lords, OSRICK, and
Attendants with foils, dc.

Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand

from me.

[The Ki1nG puts the hand of LAERTES into
that of HAMLET.

Give me your pardon, sir: I’ve done you

wrong 3

But pardon ’t, as you are a gentleman.

This presence knows,

And you must needs have heard, how I am punish’d

With sore distraction. What I have done,

That might your nature, honour, and exception,

Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness.

Was't Hamlet wrong’d Laertes?) Never Hamlet:

If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away,

And, when he’s not himself, does wrong Laertes,

Then Hamlet does it not; Hamlet denies it.

Who does it then? His madness. If't be so,

Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d;

His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy.

Sir, in this audience,

Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil

Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,

That I have shot mine arrow o’er the house,

And hurt my brother.

Laer. IT am satisfied in nature,
Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most
To my revenge: but.in my terms of honour,

I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement,

King.

Ham.

240

250

 

King. “Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl is thine;
Here's to thy health.”

Your skill shall, like a star i’ the darkest night,
Stick fiery off indeed.
Laer. ‘You mock me, sir.
Ham. No, by this hand. .
King. Give them the foils, young Osrick.—Cousin
Hamlet,
You know the wager?

Ham. Very well, my lord;
Your grace hath laid the odds o’ the weaker side.
King. Ido not fear it: I have seen you both;
But since he’s better'd, we have therefore odds.
Laer. This is too heavy ; let me see another.

Ham. This likes me well. These foils have all a
length ? [They prepare to play.
Osr. Ay, my good lord.
King. Set me the stoops of wine upon that table.—
If Hamlet give the first or second hit,
Or quit in answer of the third exchange,
Let all the battlements their ordnance fire ;
The king shall drink to Hamlet's better breath:
And in the cup an union shall he throw, —
Richer than that which four successive kings
In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups;
And let the kettle to the trumpet speak,
The trumpet to the cannoneer without,
The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth,
“Now the king drinks to Hamlet!”—Come, begin ;—
And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.
Ham. Come on, sir.

270

Laer. Come, my lord. [They play.
Ham. One.

Laer. No,

Ham. Judgment.
Osr. A hit, a very palpable hit. “
Laer. Well :—again.

King. Stay; give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl +

thine ;
Here’s to thy health.—Give him the cup,
[Trumpets sound; and cannon shot

 

off within.

 

 

 
 

ScENE IL.]

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK.

629

 

 

Ham. I'll play this bout first : set it by awhile.
Come.—_[They play.] Another hit; what say you?
Laer. A touch, a touch, I do confess.
King. Our son shall win.
Qucen. He’s fat, and scant of breath.—
Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows:
The queen carouses to thy Posten, Hamlet.
Ham. Good madam !
King. 3 Gertrude, do not drink.
Qucen. I will, my lord: I pray you, pardon me. 299
King. [Aside.] It is the poison’d cup! it is too late.
Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam ; by-and-by,
Qucen. Come, let me wipe thy face.
Laer. My lord, I'll hit him now.
King. : cope T do not think it.
Laer, [Aside.]) And yet it is almost against my
conscience.
Ham. Come, for the third, Laertes. You but dally :
I pray fon pass with your best violence.
Iam afeard, you make a wanton of me.
Laer. Say you so? come on.
Osr. Nothing, neither way.
Lacr. Have at you now.
(LAERTES wounds HAMLET; then, in scuffling,
they change rapiers, and HAMLET wounds
LAERTES.

[They play.
309

King. Part them ! they are incens’d.

Ham. Nay, come again. [The QUEEN falls.

Osr. Look to the queen there.—Ho !

Hor. They bleed on both sides.—How is it, my lord?

Osr. How is’t, Laertes?

Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe,
Osrick ;

Iam justly kill’d with mine own treachery.

Ham. How does the queen ?

King. She swoonds to see them bleed.

Queen. No, no, the drink, the drink,—O my dear
Hamlet !

The drink, the drink : I am poison’d. [Dies.
Ham. O villainy !—Ho! let the door be lock’d:

Treachery ! seek it out. [LAERTES falls.
Laer. It is here, Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain;

No medicine in the world can do thee good ; 322,

In thee there is not half an hour of life ;

The treacherous instrument is in thy hand,

Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice

Hath turn’d itself on me: lo! here I lie,

Never to rise again. Thy mother’s poison’d.

Icannomore. The king, the king’s to blame.

Ham. The point—envenom’d too!

Then, venom, to thy work. [Stabs the KING.
All. Treason! treason ! : 331
King. O! yet defend me, friends, I am but hurt.
Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned

Dane,
Drink off this potion :—is thy union here?
Follow my mother.

Laer, He is justly serv’d ;
It is a poison temper’d by himself.—
Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet ;
Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee,
Nor thine on me!

Ham. Heaven make thee free of it!
Iam dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu !—
You that look pale and tremble at this chance,
That are but mutes or audience to this act,
Had I but time, (as this fell sergeant, death,
Is strict in his arrest,) O! I could tell you,—
But let it be.—Horatio, I am dead ; :
Thou liv’st: report me and my cause aright
To the unsatistied.

or. Never believe it:

Iam more an antique Roman than a Dane:
Here’s yet some liquor left.

Ham.

[Kine dies.

Dies.
I follow thee.
341

As thou rt a man,

 

Give me the cup: let go; by Heaven, I’l] have it.--
O good Horatio, what a wounded name,
Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me!
If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,
Absent thee from felicity awhile,
And inthis harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story. Wee afar off, and shot within.
hat warlike noise is this?
Osr. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from
Poland.
To the ambassadors of England gives
This warlike volley.
am. O! I die, Horatio ;
The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit:
I cannot live to hear the news from England ;
But I do prophesy the election lights
On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice;
So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less,
Which have solicited.—The rest is silence. [Dies.
Hor. Now cracks a noble heart.—Good night, sweet

prince ;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest !—
Why does the drum come hither ? [March within.

Fintcr FORTINBRAS, the Fengtish Ambassadors, and
others.

For. Where is this sight ?

360

Hor, What is it ye would see?
If aught of woe, or wonder, cease your search. 371
For. This quarry cries on havock.—O proud death !
What feast is toward in chine eternal coll.
That thou so many princes at a shot
So bloodily hast struck ?
1 Amb. The sight is dismal,
And our affairs from England come too late:
The ears are senseless that should give us hearing,
To tell him his commandment is fulfill’a,
That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
Where should we have our thanks?

Hor. Not from his mouth,
Had it the ability of life to thank you: 381
He never gave commandment for their death.

But since, so jump upon this bloody question,

You from the Polack wars, and you from England,
Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies
High on a stage be placed to the view;

And let me speak to the yet unknowing world,
How these things came about: so shall you hear
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts,

Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters,

Of deaths put on by cunning, and forc’d cause,
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook

Fall’n on the inventors’ heads: all this can I
Truly deliver.

390

For. Let us haste to hear it,
And call the noblest to the audience.
For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune:
I have some rights of memory in this kingdom,
Which now to claim my vantage doth invite me.
Hor. Of that I shall have also cause te speak,
And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more:
But let this same be presently perform’d, 401
Even while men’s minds are wild, lest more mischance,
On ats and errors, happen.
or. Let four captains

Bear Hamlet, like a soldier, to the stage ;
For he was likely, had he been put on,
To have prov’d most royally: and for his passage,
The soldiers’ music, and the rites of war,
Speak loudly for him.
Take up the bodies:—such a sight as this
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. _ 110
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.

[Exeunt, bearing off the bodies ; after which,

a peal of ordnance is shot off.

 

 

 
 

 

 

JULIUS CASAR.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

FLAVIUS and MARULLUS, Tribunes.
ARTEMIDORUS, a@ Sophist of Cnidos.

JULIUS Czsar.

Cee A ee ) Triumrirs after the death of
; BN TONIUB: Julius Cesar

M. AeMIL. Lepivus’ ) F

CICERO,

PUBLIUS, > Senators.

Portuius Lena, }

Marcus BRutTvs,

Cassius,

Casca,

TREBONIUS,

LIGARIUs, 3 z

Decrius BrUTUs, |

METELLUS CIMBER, }

CINNA,

 

a‘ Conspirators ayainst Julius
Cesar.

«l Soothsaycr.
Cinna, a loet. Another Poet.

Luciiius, TrTintus, Mrssata, Young Cato, and
VoLuMNIvS, Friends to Brutus and Cassius.
VaARRO, CLiTus, CLAUDIUS, STRATO, Lucius, Dar-

DANIUS, Servants to Brutus.
Pinbarus, Servant to Cassius.

CALPHURNIA, Wee to Cesar.
Portia, Wife to Brutus.

| Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, cc.

SCENE—During a great part of the Play, at RoME: afterwards at SaRDIS, and near PHILIPPI.

ACT TI.

SceNnE I.—Rome.
Enter FLAVIvUs, MARULLUS, and a rabble of Citizens.

   

Flavius.

ENCE! home, you idle creatures, get you
home.

Tsthisa holiday? What! know younot,

Being mechanical, you ought not walk,

Upon a labouring day, without the sign

Of your profession ?—Speak, what trade
art thou?

1 Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter.

Mar, Where is thy leather apron, and

thy rule?

What dost vie with thy best apparel
on ?—

You, sir, what trade are you?

2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine
workman, I am but, as you would say,
a cobbler. 2

Mar, But what trade art thou? An-

swer me directly.

2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a
safe conscience; which is, indeed, sir, a mender of
bad soles.

Mar. What trade, thou knave? thou naughty knave,

what trade?

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me:
yet, if you be out, sir, [can mend you.

Mar, What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou
saucy fellow? 21

2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you.

Flav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou?

2 Cit, Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl:
T meddle with no tradesman’s matters, nor women’s
matters, but with all. I am, indeed, sir, a surgeon
to old shoes ; when they are in great danger, I re-cover

A Street.

them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat’s-leather,
have gone upon my handiwork.
Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? 30
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?
2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get
myself into more work. But, indeed, sir, we make
holiday, to see Ceesar, and to rejoice in his triumph.
Mar. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings
he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless
things!
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome,
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft
Have you climb’d up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made an universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey’s blood ?
Be gone!
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague
That needs must light on this ingratitude.

40

 

; Flav. Go, go, good countrymen, and for this fault

 

 

 
 

 

Scene Ii.)

JULIUS CAESAR.

631

 

Assemble all the poor men of your sort: 60
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.
[Exeunt Citizens.
See, whe’r their basest metal be not mov’d;
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness.
Go you down that way towards the Capitol :
This way willI. Disrobe the images,
If you do find them deck’d with ceremonies.
Mar. May we do so?
You know, it is the feast of Lupercal. 70
Flav. It is no matter ; let no images
Be hung with Ceesar’s trophies. I’ll about,
And drive away the vulgar from the streets :
So do you too, where you perceive them thick.
These growing feathers pluck’d from Ceesar’s wing
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch ;
Who else would soar above the view of men.

And keep us all in servile fearfulness. ‘[Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Same. <A Public Place.

Enter, in procession, with music, CASAR; ANTONY,
for the course; CALPHURNIA, Portia, DEcivs,
Cickro, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a@ great
Crowd following, among them a Soothsayer.

Ces. Calphurnia !

Casca, Peace, ho! Ceesar speaks.
[Alusic ceases.
Ces, Calphurnia !

Cal. Here, my lord. ; .
Coes. Stand you directly in Antonius’ way,
When he doth run his course.—Antonius !
Ant. Ceesar, my lord. ;
Ces. Forget not, in your speed, Antonius,
To touch Calphurnia ; for our elders say,
The barren, touched in this holy chase,
Shake off their steril curse.
Ant. I shall remember :
When Cesar says, ‘‘ Do this,” it is perform’d. 10
Ces. Set on; and leave no ceremony out. [Jfusic.
Sooth. Ceesar!
Ces. Ha! Who calls? ;
Casca. Bid every noise be still :—peace yet again !
[Music ceases.
Ces. Who is it in the press that calls on me?
T hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Cry, Ceesar !—Speak : Ceesar is turn’d to hear.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
Ces. What man is that?
Bru. A soothsayer, bids you beware the ides of
: March. .
Set him before me; let me see his face. 20
Fellow, come from the throng: look upon
Ceesar.
What say’st thou to me now? Speak once
again.
Sooth. Beware the ides of March.
Ces. He is a dreamer ; let usleave him :—pass.
[Sennet. Exeunt all but BRUTUS and Cassius.
Cas. Will you go see the order of the course?
Bru. Not L
Cas. I pray you, do.
Bru. Iam not gamesome: I do lack some part
Of that quick vy that is in Antony.
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires ; 30
I'll leave you.
_ Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late:
Thave not from your eyes that gentleness,
And show of love, as I was wont to have:
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand
Over your friend that loves you. :
Bru. Cassius,
Be not deceiv’d : if I have veil’d my look,
Iturn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Wexed I am,
Of late, with passions of some difference, 40
Conceptions cnly proper to myself, 2
. Which give some soii, perhaps, to my behaviours ;

Ces.
Cas.

Ces.

 

But let not therefore my good friends be griev'd,
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one,)
Nor construe any further my neglect,
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,
Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your

passion ;

By means whereof, this breast of mine hath buried
Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. 5
Yell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ?

Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,
But by reflection, by some other things,

Cas. Tis just:
And it is very much lamented, Brutus,
That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,
That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome
(Except immortal Ceesar), speaking of Brutus, 60
And groaning underneath this ages yoke,
Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius,
That you would have me seek into myself ‘
For that which is not in me?

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepar’d to hear:
And, since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of. 70
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus:
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester ; if you know
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard,
And after scandal them; or if you know
That I profess myself in banqueting
To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.
[Flourish, and shout.
Bru. What means this shouting? I do fear, the

people
Choose Ceesar for their king.

Cas. Ay, do youfear it? 80
Then must I think you would not have it so.

Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well :—
But wherefore do you hold me here so long?
What is it that you would impart to me?

If it be aught toward the general good,

Set honour in one eye, and death i' the other,
And I will look on both indifferently :

For, let the gods so speed me, as I love

The name of honour more than I fear death.

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 90
As well as I do know your outward favour.
Well, honour is the subject of my story.—

I cannot tell what you and other men

Think of this life; but for my single self,

I had as lief not be, as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Ceesar; so were you:

We both have fed as well, and we can both
Endure the winter’s cold as well as he:

For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
Ceesar said to me, ‘“‘ Dar’st thou, Cassius, now
Leap in with me into this angry flood,

And swim to yonder point ?”—Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bad him follow: so, indeed, he did.

The torrent roar’d, and we did buffet it

With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,

And stemming it, with hearts of controversy ;
But ere we could arrive the point propos’d,
Ceesar cried, ‘‘ Help me, Cassius, or I sink.”

I, as Afneas, our great ancestor,

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder
The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Caesar. And this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body,
If Ceesar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And when the fit was on him, I did mark

100

110

120

 

 
 

 

632 JULIUS

CAESAR. [Act I,

 

How he did shake: ’tis true, this god did shake :
His coward lips did from their colour fly ;
And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose his lustre. I did hear him groan ;
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bad the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cried, ‘‘ Give me some drink, Titinius,”
Asasick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world, 130
And bear the palm alone. {Shout. Flourish.
Bru. Another general shout !
I do believe that these epelauses are
For some new honours that are heap’d on Ceesar.
Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world,
Like a colossus ; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates :
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus, and Ceesar: what should be in that Ceesar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name ;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Ceesar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Cesar feed,
That he is grown so great? Age, thou art sham’d!
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!
When went there by an age, since the great flood,
But it was fam’d with more than with one man ?
When could they say, till now, that talk’d of Rome,
That her wide walks encompass’d but one man?
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough,
When there is in it but one only man.
O! you and [ have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook’d
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily asa king. 160
Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous ;
What you would work me to, I have some aim ;
How I have thought of this, and of these times,
I shall recount hereafter: for this present,
I would not, so with love I might entreat you,
Be any further mov’d. What you have said,
I will consider ; what you have to say,
I will with patience hear, and find a time
Both meet to hear and answer such high things.
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: 170
Brutus had rather be a villager,
Than to repute himself a son of Rome
Under these hard conditions, as this time
Is like to lay upon us.
Cas. Iam glad, that my weak words
Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus.
Bru. The games are done, and Cesar is returning.
Cas. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve,
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day.

150-

180

Re-enter CmSaR and his Train.

Bru. I will do so.—But, look you, Cassius,
The angry spot doth glow on Ceesar’s brow,
And all the rest look like a chidden train.
Calphurnia’s cheek is pale ; and Cicero
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes,
As we have seen him in the Capitol,

Being cross’d in conference by some senators.

Cas. Casca will tell us what the matter is.

Ces. Antonius !

Ant, Ceesar.

Ces. Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look ;

He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

Ant. Fear him not, Ceesar, he’s not dangerous:
He is a noble Roman, and well given.

Cas. "Would he were fatter! But I fear him not:
Yet if my name were liable to fear,

I do not know the man I should avoid

190

So soon as that spare Cassius. Hereadsmuch;  20¢
He is a great observer, and he looks
Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays,
As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort,
As if he mock’d himself, and scorn’d his spirit
That could be moy’d to smile at anything.
Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves;
And therefore are they very dangerous.
I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd,
Than what I fear, for always I am Cesar.
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf,
And tell me truly what thou think’st of him.
[Exeunt C&sar and his Train. Casca
stays behind.
Casca. You pull’d me by the cloak: would youspeak
with me?

Bru. Ay, Casca; tell us what hath chanc’d to-day,
That Ceesar looks so sad.

Casca. Why, you were with him, were you not?

Bru. Ishould not then ask Casca what hath chanc’d.

Casca. Why, there was a crown offered him ; and,
being otfered him, he put it by with the back of his
hand, thus ; and then the people fell a-shouting. 221

Bru. What was the second noise for?

Casca. Why, for that too.

Cas. They shouted thrice: what was the last cry

for?

Casca. Why, for that too. '

Bru. Was the crown offer’d him thrice? ;

Casca. Ay, marry, was ’t, and he put it by thrice,
every time gentler than other ; and at every putting-
by, mine honest neighbours shouted.

Cas. Who offered him the crown? 230

Casca. Why, Antony.

Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca,

Casca. I can as well be hanged as tell the manner
of it: it was mere foolery ; I did not mark it. I saw
Mark Antony offer him a crown :—yet ’t was not a
crown neither, ’t was one of these coronets ;—and, as
I told you, he put it by once: but, for all that, to my
thinking, he would fain have had it. Thenhe offered
it to him again ; then he put it by again: but, to my
thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it.
And then he offered it the third time; he put it
the third time by : and still as he refused it, the rabble-
ment hooted, and clapped their chopped hands, and
threw up their sweaty night-caps, and uttered such a
deal of stinking breath, because Ceesar refused the
crown, that it had almost choked Ceesar; for he
swoonded, and fell down at it. And for mine own part,
I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips, and
receiving the bad air. . 249

Cas. But, soft, I pray you: what, did Ceesar swoond?

Casca. He fell down in the market-place, and
foamed at mouth, and was speechless. — ‘

Bru. ’T is very like: he hath the falling-sickness.

Cas. No, Cesar hath it not; but you, and I,
And honest Casca, we have the falling-sickness.

Casca. I know not what you mean by that; but, I
am sure, Ceesar fell down. If the tag-rag peor did
not clap him, and hiss him, according as he pleased
and displeased them, as they use to do the players in
the theatre, I am no true man. : 260

Bru. What said he, when he came unto himself?

Casca. Marry, before he fell down, when he per-
ceived the common herd was glad he refused the
crown, he plucked me ope his doubtlet, and offered
them his throat to cut.—An I had been a man of any
occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word,
T would I might go to hell among the rogues.—And $0
he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, I
he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their
worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or, four
wenches, where I stood, cried, “Alas; good soul !”—
and forgave him with all their hearts ; but there's no
heed to be taken of them : if Caesar had stabbed their
mothers, they would have done no less.

Bru. And after that, he came, thus sad, away?

Casca. AY.

210

 

Cas. Did Cicero say anything?

 

 

 
 

 

 

Soens ITT! JULIUS CESAR. 633
Casca. Ay, he spoke Greek. ' For who so firm that cannot be seduc’d ?
Cas. To what effect ? 279 ' Ceesar doth bear me hard; but he loves Brutus:
Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, Il ne’er look you i’ , If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius,

the face again: but those that understood him smiled ; He should not humour me. I will this night,

at one another, and shook their heads ; but, for mine | In several hands, in at his windows throw,

own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more | As if they came from several citizens, _

news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs | Writings, all tending to the great opinion

off Caesar’s images, are put to silence. Fare you | That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely

well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remem- | Cesar’s ambition shall be glanced at:

ber it. And, after this, let Ceesar seat him sure ; .
Cas. Will you sup with me to-night, Casca? | For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [Evit.

 

nt
i
ih

eat

 

 

 

 

CESAR REFUSING THE CROWN.

Casca. No, I am promised forth. |
Cas. Will you dine with me to-morrow ? 290 |
Casca. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and
your dinner worth the eating.
Cas. Good ; I will expect you. p
Casca. Doso. Farewell, both. (Exit.
Bru. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be!
He was quick metal when he went to school.
Cas. So is he now, in execution
Of any bold or noble enterprise,
However he puts on this tardy form.
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit,
Which gives men stomach to digest his words
With better appetite.
Bru, And so itis. For this time I will leave you:
To-morrow, if you please to speak with me,
I will come home to you; or, if you will,
Come home to me, and I will wait for you.
Cas. I will do so :—till then, think of the world.—
[Zxit BRUTUS.
Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see,
Thy honourable metal mney be wrought
From that it is dispos’d : therefore, ’t is meet
That noble minds keep ever with their likes ;

300

310

 

ScENE III.—The Same. A Street.

Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides,
Casca, with his sword drawn, and CICERO.
Cic. Good even, Casca. Brought you Cesar home?
Why are you breathless, and why stare you so?
Casca. a nue you mov’d, when all the sway of
eart!
Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero!
I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds
Have riv’d the knotty oaks; and I have seen
The ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam,
To be exalted with the threat’ning clouds:
But never till to-night, never till now,
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.
Either there is a civil strife in heaven,
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,
Incenses them to send destruction.
Cic. Why, saw you anything more wonderful ?
Casca. Acommon slave (you know him well by sight)
Held up his left hand, which did flame, and burn
Like twenty torches join’d; and yet his hand,
Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscorch’d.
Besides, (I have not since put up my sword,)

10

 

 
 

[Act I,

 

634 JULIUS CAESAR.
Against the Capitol I met a lion, 20 | Why old men, fools, and children, calculate ;
Who glar’d upon me, and went surly by, Why all these things change from their ordinance,

Without unnoying me: and there were drawn
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women,
Transformed with their fear, who swore they saw

 

Cue. ** Why are you breathless, and why stare you so?”

Men, all in fire, walk up and down the streets.
And yesterday the bird of night did sit,
Even at noon-day, upon the market-place,
Hooting, and shrieking. When these prodigies
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,
“These are their reasons,—they are natural ;” 30
¥or, I believe, they are portentous things
Unto the climate that they point upon.
Cic. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time:
But men may construe things after their fashion,
Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
Comes Ceesar to the Capitol to-morrow ?
Casca. He doth; for he did bid Antonius
Send word to you, he would be there to-morrow,
Cie. Good night then, Casca: this disturbed sky 39
Is not to walk in.
Casca.

Farewell, Cicero. [Exit CIcERO.

Enter Cassius.

Cas. Who’s there ?
Casca.
Cas. Casca, by your voice.
Casca, Your ear is good, Cassius, what night is this!
Cas. A very pleasing night to honest men.
Casca, Who ever knew the heavens menace so?
Cas. Those that have known the earth so full of
aults,
For my part, I have walk'd about the streets,
Submitting me unto the perilous night ;
And, thus unbraced, Casca, as you see,
Have bar'd my bosom to the thunder-stone:
And, when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open 50
The breast of heaven, I did present myself
Even in the aim and very flash of it.
Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt the
heavens?
It is the part of men to fear and tremble,
When the most mighty gods, by tokens, send
Such dreadful heralds to astonish us.
Cas. You are dull, Casca ; and those sparks of life,
That should be in a Roman, you do want,
Or else you use not. You look pale, and gaze,
«nd put on fear, and cast yourself in wonder, 60
To sce the strange impatience of the heavens ;
But if you would consider the true cause,
Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts,
Why. birds, and beasts, from quality and kind;

A Roman.

 

Their natures, and performed faculties,
‘To monstrous quality,—why, you shall find,
That heaven hath infus’d them with these spirits,
To make them instruments of fear and warning 70
Unto some monstrous state.
Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man
Most like this dreadful night ;
That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars
As doth the lion in the Capitol:—
A man no mightier than thyself, or me,
In personal action ; yet prodigious grown,
And fearful, as these strange eruptions are.
Casca. ’Tis Ceesar that you mean; is it not, Cassius?
Cas. Let it be who it is: for Romans now 80
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors;
But, woe the while! our fathers’ minds are dead,
And we are govern’d with our mothers’ spirits ;
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.
Casca. Indeed, they say the senators to-morrow
Mean to establish Ceesar as a king:
And he shall wear his crown by sea and land,
In every place, save here in Italy.
Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger then;
Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius:
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong;
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat:
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit ;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars,
Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
If I know this, know all the world besides,
That part of tyranny, that I do bear,
I can shake off at pleasure. [Thunder still.
Casca. SocanI: 100
So every bondman in his own hand bears
The power to cancel his captivity.
Cas. And why should Ceesar be a tyrant then?
Poor man! I know, he would not be a wolf,
But that he sees the Romans are but sheep;
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds.
Those that with haste will make a mighty fire,
Begin it with weak straws: what trash is Rome,
What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves
For the base matter to illuminate 110
So vile a thing as Cesar! But, O grief! :
Where hast thou led me? I, perhaps, speak this
Before a willing bondman: then I know
My answer must be made; but Jam arm’d,
And dangers are to me indifferent.
Casca. You speak to Casca; and to such a man
That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand:
Be factious for redress of all these griefs,
And I will set this foot of mine as far
As who goes farthest.
Cas. There’s a bargain made. 120
Now know you, Casca, I have mov’d already
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans,
To undergo with me an enterprise
Of honourable-dangerous consequence ;
And I do know, by this they stay forme
In Pompey’s porch : for now, this fearful night,
There is no stir or walking in the streets;
And the complexion of the element
In favour’s like the work we have in hand,
Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. 130
Casca. Stand close awhile, for here comes one,1D

haste. 4 k
Cas. ’T is Cinna; I do know him by his gait:
He is a friend.
Enter CINNA.

Cinna, where haste you so?
Cin. To find out you. Who’s that? Metellus
Cimber ?
Cas. No, it is Casca; one incorporate
To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna?
Cin. Tam glad on’t. What a fearful night is this!
There ’s two or three of us have seen strange sights.
Cas. Am I not stay’d for? Tell me.

 

 

 
 

ScENE III.j ‘JULIUS

CAESAR. 635:

 

 

Cin.
O Cassius! if you could
But win the noble Brutus to our party—
Cas. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper,
And look you lay it in the preetor’s chair,
Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this
{n at his window: set this up with wax
Upon old Brutus’ statue: all this done,
Repair to Pompey’s porch, where you shall find

Yes, you are.
1d

us,
Is Decius Brutus, and Trebonius, there?

Cin. All but Metellus Cimber, and he’s gone
To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie, 150
And so bestow these papers as you bad me. \

Cas. That done, repair to Pompey’s theatre.
[xit CINNA.

Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day,
See Brutus at his house: three parts of him
Is ours already ;:and the man entire,
Upon the next encounter, yields him ours.

Casca. O!. he sits high in all the people’s hearts:
And that which would appea” offence in us,
His countenance, like richest alehymy,
Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 160

Cas. Him, and his worth, and our great need of him.
You have right well conceited. Let us go,
For it is after midnight; and, ere day,

We will awake him, and be sure of him. [Excunt.

 

ACT

ScENE I.—The Same.
Enter BRUTUS.

This paper, thus seal’d up; and, I am sure,

   

Brutus.

HAT, Lucius ! ho !—

I cannot, by the progress of the stars,
Give guess how near to day.—Lucius, I

say !—
I wouid it were my fault to sleep so
soundly.—
When, Lucius, when! Awake, I say!
hat, Lucius!

Enter Lucius.

Lue. Call’d you, my lord?

Bru. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius:
When it is lighted, come and call me here.

Luc. I will, my lord.

Bru. It must be by his death: and, for my part,
I know no personal cause to spurn at him,
But for the general. He would be crown’d :—
How that might change his nature, there’s the ques-

tion.
It is the bright day that brings forth the adder;
And that craves wary walking. Crown him !—that!
And then, I grant, we put a sting in him,
That at his will he may do danger with.
The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins
Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Cesar,
Ihave not known when his affections sway'd
More than his reason. But ’t isa common proof,
That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,
Whereto the climber-upward turns his face ;
But when he once attains the upmost round,
He then unto the ladder turns his back,
Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees
ah which he did ascend. So Cesar may:
Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel
Will bear no colour for the thing he is,
Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented, 30
Would run to these and these extremities ;
And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg,
Which, hatch’d, would as his kind grow mischievous ;
And kill him in the sheli.

Re-enter Lucius.

Luc. The taper burneth in your closet, sir.
Searching the window for a flint, I found
. [Giving him a letter. |

[Exit.
10

 

’

II.
Brutus’s Orchard.

It did not lie there when I went to bed.
Bru. Get you to bed again; it is not day.
Is not to-morrow, boy, the first of March?
Luc. [know not, sir.
Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring me word.
Lue. I will, sir. Exit.
Bru. The exhalations, whizzing in the air,
Give so much light that I may read by them.
[Opens the letter, and reads.
“ Brutus, thou sleep’st : awake, and see thyself.
Shall Rome, &c. Speak, strike, redress!
Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake !”—
Such instigations have been often dropp’d

40

Where I have took them up. 50
“Shall Rome, &c.” Thus must I piece it out:
Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What

Rome?
My ancestors did from the streets of Rome
The Tarquin drive, when he was call’d a king.
“Speak, strike, redress!”—Am I entreated
Tospeak, and strike? ORome! Imake thee promise,
If the redress will follow, thou receiv’st
Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus!

Re-enter Luctus.

Luc. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days.
. [Knocking within.
Bru. Tis good. Goto the gate; somebody knocks.
: 3 [Exit Lucius,
Since Cassius first did whet me against Czesar, 61
T have not slept.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream:
The genius and the mortal instruments
Are then in council; and the state of a man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection.

Re-enter Luctus.

Luc. Sir, tis your brother Cassius at the door,
Who doth desire to see you.

70

Bru. > Is he alone?
Luc. No, sir, there are more with him.
Bru. Do you know them?

 

 
 

636

JULIUS CESAR.

[Act IL

 

 

Luc. No, sir; their hats are pluck’d about their ears,
And half their faces buried in their cloaks,
That by no means I may discover them
By any mark of favour. .

Bru. Let’em enter. [Hxit Lucius.
They are the faction. O Conspiracy ! :
Sham’st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,

 

Bru. *‘ Am I entreuted to speak, and strike?"

When evils are most free? O! then, by day
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 80
To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspi-

racy;

Hide it in smiles and affability :

For if thou path, thy native semblance on,
Not Erebus itself were dim enough

To hide thee from prevention.

Enter Cassius, Casca, Dectus, CINNA, METELLUS
CIMBER, and TREBONIUS.

Cas. I think we are too bold upon your rest :
Good morrow, Brutus; do we trouble you?

Bru. Lhave been up this hour; awake all night.
Know L[ these men that come along with you?

Cas. Yes, every man of them; and no man here 90
But honours you: and every one doth wish,
You had but that opinion of yourself,
Which every noble Roman bears of you.
This is Trebonius.

Bru. He is welcome hither.
Cas. This, Decius Brutus.
Bru He is welcome too.

Cas. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus
Cimber.

Bru. They are all welcome.
What watchful cares do interpose themselves
Betwixt your eyes and night?

Cas. Shall I entreat a word ? [They whisper.

Dec. Here lies the east: doth not the day break

here? 101

Casca. No.

Cin. O! pardon, sir, it doth; and yon grey lines,
That fret the clouds, are messengers of cn

Casca. You shall confess that you are both deceiv’d,
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises ;
Which is a great way growing on the south,
Weighing the youthful season of the year.
Some two months hence, up higher toward the north
He first presents his fire ; and the high east 110
Stands, as the Capitol, directly here.

Bru. Give me your hands all over, one by one.

Cas. And let us swear our resolution.

Bru. No, not an oath: if not the face of men,
The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse,—

 

If these be motives weak, break off betimes,
And every man hence to his idle bed ;
So let high-sighted tyranny range on,
Till each man drop by lottery. ut if these,
As Iam sure they do, bear fire enough 120
‘To kindle cowards, and to steel with valour
The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen,
What need we any spur but our own cause,
To prick us to redress? what other bond,
Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word,
And will not palter? and what other oath,
Than honesty to honesty engag d,
That this shall be, or we will fall for it?
Swear pee and cowards, and men cautelous,
Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls 130
That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear
Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain
The even virtue of our enterprise, -
Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits,
To think that, or our cause, or our performance,
Did need an oath; when every drop of blood,
That every Roman bears, and nobly bears,
Is guilty of a several bastardy,
If he do break the smallest particle
Of any promise that hath pass'd from him.

Cas. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him?
I think he will stand very strong with us.

Casca. Let us not leave him out.

in. No, by no means.

Met. O! let us have him: for his silver hairs
Will purchase us a good opinion,
And buy men’s voices to commend our deeds:
It shall be said, his judgment rul’d our hands;
Our youths, and wildness, shall no whit appear,
But all be buried in his gravity.

Bru. O! name him not; let us not break with him;
For he will never follow anything 151,
That other men begin.

Cas. Then leave him out.

Casca. Indeed, he is not fit.
Dec. Shall no man else be touch’d, but only Cesar?
Cas. Decius, well ea think it is not meet,
Mark Antony, so well belov'd of Ceesar,
Should outlive Cesar: we shalt find of him
A shrewd contriver; and, you know, his means,
If he improve them, may well stretch so far
As to annoy us all; which to prevent, 160
Let Antony and Ceesar fall together.
Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius,
To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs ;
Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards:
For Antony is but a limb of Cesar.
Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius.
We all stand up against the spirit of Ceesar ;
And in the spirit of men there is no blood:
O, that we then could come by Ceesar’s spirit,
And not dismember Ceesar! But, alas! 170
Ceesar must bleed for it. And, gentle friends,
Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully ;
Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds:
And let our hearts, as subtle masters do,
Stir up their servants to an act of rage,
And after seem to chide’em. This shall make
Our purpose necessary, and not envious ;
Which so appearing te the common eyes,
We shall be call’d purgers, not murderers. 180
And for Mark Antony, think not of him ;
For he can do no more than Ceesar’s arm,
When Cesar’s head is off.
Ce Yet I fear him:

‘as.
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Ceesar,—
Bru. Alas! good Cassius, do not think of him.
If he love Ceesar, all that he can do
Is to himself,—take thought, and die for Ceesar:
And that were much he should; for he is given
To sports, to wildness, and much company. |,
Treb. There is no fear in him; let him not die; 190
For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. ‘
[Clock strikes.
Bru. Peace! count the clock. :
Cas. The clock hath stricken three.

 

 
 

 

ScENE 1] JULIUS CA4SAR. 637

 

 

Treb. ’T is time to part. | He says, he does, being then most flattered.
‘as. . But it is doubtful yet, Let me work;
Whether Cesar will come forth to-day, or no: For I can give his humour the true bent, 210
For he is superstitious grown of late ; And I will bring him to the Capitol. :
Quite from the main opinion he held once Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him.
Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies, | Bru. By the eighth hour: is that the uttermost?
A
i
BRUTUS AND THE CONSPIRATORS.
It may be, these apparent prodigies, Cin. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then,
The Caaeeidonha terror of this night, Met. Caius Ligarius doth bear Ceesar hard,
And the persuasion of his augurers, 200 | Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey :
May hal him from the Capitol to-day. | I wonder, none of you have thought of him.
Dec. Never fear that: if he be so resolv’d, Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him:
Ican o’ersway him; for he loves to hear, He loves me well, and I have given him reasons ;
That unicorns may be betray’d with trees, Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. 2
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Cas, The morning comes upon us: we’ll leave you,
Lions with toils, and men with flatterers ; Brutus.—

But, when I tell him, he hates flatterers, And, friends, disperse yourselves; but all remember

 

 
 

 

638 JULIUS

CAESAR. (Acr II,

 

What you have said, and show yourselves true
Romans. ’
Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily ;
Let not our looks put on our purposes ;
But bear it as our Roman actors do,
With untir’d spirits and formal constancy :
And so, good morrow to you every one.
[Exreunt all but BRUTUS.
Boy ! Lucius !—Fast asleep? It is no matter ;
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber: 230
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Therefore, thou slecp’st so sound.

Enter PORTIA.
Por. Brutus, my lord !
Bru. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you
now ?
It is not for your health thus tocommit —__
Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning.

  

Bru.

Por. Nor for yours neither.
Brutus,

Stole from my bed: and yesternight, at supper,

You suddenly arose, and walk’d about,

Musing and sighing, with your arms across;

And when I ask'd you what the matter was,

You star’d upon me with ungentle looks.

Turg’d you further; then you scratch'd your head,

And too impatiently stamp’d with your foot:

Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not;

But, with an angry wafture of your hand,

Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did,

Fearing to strengthen that impatience,

Which seem’d too much enkindled ; and, withal,

Hoping it was but an effect of humour,

Which sometime hath his hour with every man.

It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep ;

And, could it work so much upon your shape,

As it hath much prevail'd on your condition,

I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,

Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
Bru, I am not well in health, and that is all.
Por. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health,

He would embrace the means to come by it.
Bru. Why, so I do.—Good Portia, go to bed.
Por. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical

To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours

Of the dank morning? What! is Brutus sick,

And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,

To dare the vile contagion of the night,

And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air

To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus:

You have some sick offence within your mind,

Which, by the right and virtue of my place,

I ought to know of: and unon my knees

You have ungently,

240

50

260

270

“Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now?”

Icharm you, by my once commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, your self, your half,
Why you are heavy, and what men to-night
Have had resort to you; for here have been
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.

Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia.

Por. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus,
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, 280
Is it excepted, I should know no secrets
; That appertain to you? Am I yourself
' But, as it were, in sort, or limitation ;

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
| And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the
| suburbs
| Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
| Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.
| Bru. You are my true and honourable wife ;
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
Th visit my sad heart.

or.

290

If this were true, then should I
know this secret.

I grant, Iam a woman; but, withal,:

a. woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:

I grant, lam a woman; but, withal,

A woman well-reputed,—Cato’s daughter,

‘Think you Iam no stronger than my sex,

Being so father’d, and so husbanded ?

‘Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose
them.

I have made strong proof of my constancy,

Giving myself a voluntary wound 300

Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with
patience,

And not my husband’s secrets ?

Bru. O ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife!
(Knocking within.

Hark, hark! one knocks. Portia, go in
awhile ;

And by-and-by thy bosom shall partake

The secrets of my heart.

All my engagements I will construe to

 

thee,
All the charactery of my sad brows.
Leave me with haste. [Exit Portia.

Enter Lucius and LigaRivs.
Lucius, who’s that knocks?
Luc. Here is a sick man, that would speak wie

you.
Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of.—
Boy, stand aside.—Caius Ligarius! how?
Lig. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue.
Bru. O, what a time have you chose out, brave

Caius,
To wear a kerchief! "Would you were not sick!
Lig. 1am not sick, if Brutus have in hand
| Any exploit worthy the name of honour.
| Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
Lig. By all the gods that Romans bow before,
I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome!
Brave son, deriv'd from honourable loins !
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjur’d up
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible ;
| Yea, get the, better of them. What’s to do?
| Bru. A pices of work that will make sick men
whole.
Lig. But ae not some whole that we must make
sick :
Bru. That must we also. What itis, my Caius,
I shall unfold to thee, as we are going
To whom it must be done.

320

 

330

Lig. | Set on your foot,
And with a heart new-fir’d I follow you,
To do I know not what; but it sufficeth,
That Brutus leads me on.

Bru. Follow me then. [Ezxcunt.

 

 

 
 

Scene IT.]

ScunE II.—The Same. A Room in Czsar’s Palace.

Thunder and lightning. Enter Cassar, in his
night-gown.
Ces. Nor heaven, nor earth, have been at peace
to-night :
Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out,
“Help, ho! They murder Ceesar !”—Who’s within ?

Enter a Servant.
Serv. My lord.
Ces. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice,
And bring me their opinions of success.
Serv. I will, my lord.

Enter CALPHURNIA.

Cal. bees eel oe you, Cesar? Think you to walk
ort
You shall not stir out of your house to-day.
Ces. Ceesar shall forth: the things that threaten’d

[Exit.

me
Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see
The face of Ceesar, they are vanished.

Cal. Ceesar, I never stood on ceremonies,
Yet now they fright me. There is one within,
Besides the things that we have heard and secn,
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.
A lioness hath whelped in the streets ;
And Ber have yawn’d, and yielded up their

ead;

Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons, and right form of war, 20
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol ;
The noise of battle hurtled in the air,
Horses do neigh, and dying men did groan,
And ghosts did shriek, and squeal about the streets.
O Cesar! these things are beyond all use,
And I do fear them.

Ces. What can be avoided,
Whose end is purpos’d by the mighty gods?
Yet Cesar shall go forth ; for these predictions
Are to the world in general, as to Ceesar.

Cal. When beggars die, there are no comets seen ; 30
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of

princes.

Ces. Cowards die many times before their deaths ;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear ;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come, when it will come.

Re-enter Servant.

What say the augurers?
Serv. They would not have you to stir forth to-day.
Plucking the entrails of an offering forth,
They could not find a heart within the beast. 40
Ces. The gods do this in shame of cowardice:
Ceesar should be a beast without a heart,
If he should stay at home to-day for fear.
No, Ceesar shall not: danger knows full well,
That Ceesar is more dangerous than he.
We are two lions litter’d in one day,
And I the elder and more terrible ;—
And Cesar shall go forth.
Cal. Alas! my lord,
Your wisdom is consum’d in confidence. s
Do not go forth to-day : call it my fear, 50

That keeps you in the house, and not your own.
We’llsend Mark Antony to the senate-house,

And he shall say, you are not well to-day:
Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this.

Ces. Mark Antony shall say, Iam not well;
And, for thy humour, I will stay at home.

Enter DECIUS.

Here’s Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so.

Dec, Ceesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Ceesar:
Icome to fetch you to the senate-house.

Ces. And you are come in very happy time, 60
To bear my greeting to the senators,

as

 

JULIUS

 

CAESAR. 639

And tell them that I will not come to-day:
Cannot, is false; and that I dare not, falser;
I will not come to-day,—tell them so, Decius.
Cal. Say, he is sick.
Ces. Shall Ceesar send a lie?
Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far,
To be afeard to tell grey-beards the truth?
Decius, go tell them, Ceesar will not come.
Dec. Most mighty Ceesar, let me know some cause,
Lest I be laugh’d at, when I tell them so. 70
Ces. The cause is in my will; I will not come:
That is enough to satisfy the senate;
But, for your private satisfaction,
Because [ love you, I will let you know,
Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home:
She dream ‘d to-night she saw my statua,
Which, like a fountain with a hundred spouts,
Did run pure blood; and many lusty Romans,
Came smiling, and did bathe their hands inj it.
And these does she apply for warnings and porten!s, 80
And evils imminent; and on her knee
Hath bege’d, that I will stay at home to-day.
Dec. This dream is all amiss interpreted :
It was a vision, fair and fortunate.
Your statue spouting blood in many pipes,
In which so many smiling Romans bath’d,
Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck
Reviving blood ; and that great men shall press
For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognisance.
This by Calphurnia’s dream is signified. 90
Ces. And this way have you well expounded it.
Dec. I have, when you have heard what I can

say:

And know it now. The senate have concluded
To give, this day, a crown to mighty Cesar:
If you shall send them word, you will not come,
Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock
A ee to be render'd, for some one to say,
“Break up the senate till another time,
When Cesar’s wife shall meet with better dreams.”
If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper, 100
“Lo! Ceesar is afraid?”
Pardon me, Cesar; for my dear, dear love
To your proceeding bids me tell you this,
And reason to my love is liable.

Ces. How foolish do your fears seem now, Cal-

phurnia!

I am ashamed I did yield to them.—
Give me my robe, for I will go:—

Enter Puswius, Brutus, LigARIuS. METELLUS,
Casca, TREBONIUS, and CINNA.
And look where Publius is come to fetch me.

Pub. Good morrow, Ceesar.

Ces. Welcome, Publius.—
What, Brutus, are you stirr’d so early too?— 110
Good morrow, Casca.—Caius Ligarius,

Ceesar was ne'er so much your enemy,
As that same ague which hath made you lean.—
What is’t o’clock?

Bru. Cesar, tis strucken eight.

Cees. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. ,

Enter ANTONY. aes

See! Antony, that revels long o’ nights,
Is notwithstanding up.—Good morrow, Antony.

int. So to most noble Ceesar.,

Ces. Bid them prepare within:
I am to blame to be thus waited for.—
Now, Cinna :—now, Metellus:—what, Trebonius! 120
I have an hour’s talk in store for you.
Remember that you call on me to-day:
Be near me, that I may remember you.

Treb. Ceesar, I will:—{aside] and so near will

I be,
That your best friends shall wish I had been further.
Ces. Good friends, go in, and taste some wine with

me;
And we, like friends, will straightway go together.
Bru. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O

_ Ceesar,
The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon! [Hzxeunt.

 
 

 

G10 JULIUS CAGSAR. [Act II.

 

ScENE III.—The Same. <A Street near the Capitol. | For he went sickly forth: and take good note,

Enter ARTEMIDORUS, reading a paper. wate a r ee press to him.
Art. “Cesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of ‘Lue. I te none, madam.

Cassius; come not near Casca; have an_eye_ to Por. Pr’ythee, listen well:
Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus | J heard a bustling rumour, like cottage ‘
Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast | And the wind brings it from the Capitol.

wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in Luc. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. 20
all these men, and it is bent against Cesar. If thou
be’st not immortal, look about you; security gives Enter the Soothsayer.
Bey i conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Por. ei hither, fellow: which way hast thou
hy lover, Ae een?
: : ARTEMIDORUS.” 10 Sooth. At mine own house, good lady.
Here will I stand till] Ceesar pass along, Por. What is’t o’clock? :
And as a suitor will I give him this. Sooth, About the ninth hour, lady,
My heart laments that virtue cannot live Por. Is Cesar yet gone to the Capitol ?
Out of the teeth of emulation. nan Sooth. Madam, not yet: I go to take my stand,
If thou read this, O Cesar! thou may’st live: : To see him pass on to the Capitol.
If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. [Exit. Por. Thou hast some suit to Ceesar, hast thou not?

Sooth. That I have, lady : if it will please Ceesar
To be so good to Ceesar as to hear me,

 

 

Scene IV.—The Same, Another Part of the same I shall beseech him to befriend himself. - 30
Street, before the House of BEUTUS. Por. . hy, ee st thou any harm’s intended
owards him ?
Enter Portia and Lucius. Sooth. None that I know will be, much that I fear
Por. I pr'ythee, boy, run to the senate-house : may chance.
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow:
Why dost thou stay? The throng that follows Cesar at the heels,
Lue. To know my errand, madam. Of senators, of preetors, common suitors,
Por. I would have had thee there, and here again, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death:
Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. — I’ll get me to a place more void, and there
O constancy, be strong upon my side! Speak to great Ceesar as he comes along. [Exit
Set a hugh mountain ‘tween my heart and tongue! Por. I must go in.—Ah me! how weak a thing
[have a man’s mind, but a woman's might. The heart of woman is! O Brutus!
How hard it is for women to keep counsel !— The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise !
Art thou here yet? Sure, the boy heard me :—Brutus hath a suit,
ue. Madam, what should I do? 10 | That Ceesar will not grant.—O! I grow faint.—

Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord ;
And so return to you, and nothing else? Say, Iam merry: come to me again,
Por. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, ; And bring me word what he doth say to thee.
[Exeunt severally.

 

ACT III.

ScrnE I.—The Same. The Capitol; the Senate sitting.
A crowd of People in the strect leading to the Capitol; among them ARTEMIDORUS and the Soothsayer.
Flourish. Enter C.asar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, METELLUS, TREBONIUS, CINNA,
rere ANTONY, Leripus, PorrLius, PUBLIUS, and others.

  
 

Cesar. Camsar enters the Capitol, the rest following.
HE ides of March are come. All the Senators rise.
6 Sooth. Ay, Ceesar; but not gone. : 7
Art. Hail, Cesar! Read this schedule. Pop. I wish, your enterprise to-day may thrive.
{ Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to o’er- Cas. What enterprise, Popilius?
f read, Pop. Fare you well.
a4 At your best leisure, this his humble suit. [Advances to CESAR.

Art. OCeesar! read mine first ; for mine’s Bru. What said Popilius Lena? : ;
a suit Cas. He wish’d, to-day our enterprise might thrive.
That touches Cesar nearer. Read it, great | I fear, our purpose is discovered.

Ceesar. Bru. Look, how he makes to Cesar: mark him.
q Ces. What touches us ourself shall be | _ Cas. Casca, be sudden, for we fear prevention.—
i last serv'd. Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known,
Art. Delay not, Ceesar ; read it instantly. 9 | Cassius or Ceesar never shall turn back,
Ces. What! is the fellow mad? For I will slay myself.
Pub. Sirrah, give place. Brau. Cassius, be constant:

Cas. What! urge you your petitions in the street ? Popilius Lena speaks not of our pueieses ;
Come to the Capitol. For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change.

 

 

 
 

ls ScENE I.]

JULIUS CHSAR.

641

 

Cas. Trebonius knows his time; for, look you,
Brutus,
He draws Mark Antony out of the way. :
[Exeunt ANTONY and TREBONIUS. CESAR
and the Senators take their seats.
Dec, Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him go.
And presently prefer his suit to Ceesar.

Bru. He is address’d : press near, and second him.
Cin. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. 30
Ces, Are we all ready? What is now amiss,

That Ceesar and his senate must redress ? |

ye

Art. “ Hail, Cesar! Read this schedule.”

Met. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant '

Ceesar,
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat
An humble heart :— {Kneeling.
Ces. I must prevent thee, Cimber.
These a and these lowly courtesies,
Might fire the blood of ordinary men,
d turn pre-ordinance, and first decree,
Into the law of children. Be not fond,
To think that Cesar bears such rebel blood, 40
That will be thaw'd from the true quality
With that which melteth fools ; I mean sweet words,
Low-crooked curtsies, and base apne! fawning.
Thy brother by decree is banished:
If thou dost bend, and pray, and fawn, for him,
Ispurn thee, like a cur, out of my way.
Know, Cesar doth not wrong ; nor without cause
Will he be satisfied. d
Met. Is there no voice more worthy than my own,
To sound more sweetly in great Ceesar’s ear, 50
For the repealing of my banish’d brother?
Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Ceesar ;
Desiring thee, that Publius Cimber may
Have an immediate freedom of repeal.
Ces. What, Brutus!
‘as. Pardon, Ceesar; Ceesar, pardon:
As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall,
To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber.
Ces. I could be well mov’d, if I were as you;
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me;
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
e skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,
They are all fire, and every one doth shine ;
ut there's but one in all doth hold his place :
So, in the world ;—’t is furnish’d well with men,
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive ;
Yet in the number, I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshak’d of motion : and, that I am he, 70
Let me a little show it, even in this,

 

 

   

That I was constant Cimber should be banish’d,
And constant do remain to keep him so.

Cin. O Ceesar,—
Ces. Hence! Wilt thou lift up Olympus?
Dec. Great Ceesar,—
Ces. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

Casca. Speak, hands, for me.

[Casca stabs C4SAR in the neck. C®sSaR catches
hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by
several other Conspirators, and last by
Marcus BrRurtvs.

Ces. Ettu, Brute ?—Then fall,Ceesar!
[Dies. The Senators and People
retire in confusion.
Cin. sa ee Freedom! Tyranny is
dead !—

Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the
streets.
Cas. Some to the common pulpits,
and cry out,
“Liberty, freedom, and enfranchise-
ti

ment!
Bru. People, and senators! be not
affrighted ;
Fly not; stand still:—ambition’s debt
is paid.

Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus.
ec. And Cassius too.

Bru. Where’s Publius ?

Cin. Here, quite confounded with
this mutiny.

Met. Stand fast together, lest some
friend of Cesar’s

Should chance—
Bru. Talk not of standing.—Publius,

good cheer:
There is no harm intended to your
person,
Nor to no Roman else, so tell them,
ius.

Cas. And leave us, Publius ; lest that the people,
Rushing on us, should do your age some mischief.

Bru. Do so :—and let no man abide this deed,
But we, the doers.

Re-enter TREBONIUS.

Cas. Where's Antony?
Tre. Fled to his house amaz'd.
Men, wives, and children, stare, cry out, and run,
As it were doomsday.

Bru. Fates, we will know your pleasures.--
That we shall die, we know; ’tis but the time,
And drawing days out, that men stand upon. 100

Cas. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life,
Cuts off so many years of fearing death.

Bru. Grant that, and then is death a benefit:
So are we Cesar’s friends, that have abridg’d
His time of fearing death.—Stoop, Romans, stoop,
And let us bathe our hands in Ceesar’s blood
Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords :
Then walk we forth, even to the market-place ;
And, waving our red weapons o’er our heads,
Let’s all ery, ‘‘ Peace, freedom, and liberty !” 110

Cas. Stoop then, and wash.—How many ages hence
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over,
In states unborn, and accents yet unknown !

Bru. How many times shall Cesar bleed in sport,
That now on Pompey’s basis lies along,
No worthier than the dust!

Cas. So oft as that shall be,
So often shall the knot of us be call’d
The men that gave their country liberty.

Dec. What! shall we forth?

Cas. Ay, every man away:
Brutus shall lead ; and we will grace his heels 120
With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.

Enter a Servant.
Bru. Soft! who comes here? <A friend of Antony’s.
Serv. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel;
Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down,
And, being prostrate, thus he bad me say:

 

Al

 
 

642 JULIUS

CAESAR. (Act TIL.

 

 

Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest ;
Ceesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving:
Say, [love Brutus, and I honour him; mitre
Say, I fear’d Caesar, honour’d him, and lov’d him.
If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony |

May sately come to him, and be resolv’d

How Cesar hath deserv'd to lie in death,

Mark Antony shall not love Cesar dead

So well as Brutus living ; but will follow

The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus,
Thorough the bazards of this untrod state,
With all true faith. So says my master Antony.

130

a)

THE SLAIN C.ESAR.

Bru. Thy mastcr is a wise and valiant Roman;
I never thought him worse.

Tell him, so please him come unto this place, 140
He shall be satisfied ; and, by my honour,
Depart untouch’d.

Serv. I'll fetch him presently. [Exit.

Bru. I know that we shall have him well to friend.
Cas. I wish we may: but yet have I a mind,

That fears him much; and my misgiving still

Falls shrewdly to the purpose.

Re-enter ANTONY.
Bru. But here comes Antony.—Welcome, Mark
Antony.

Ant. O mighty Cesar! dost thou lie so low?
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure /~Fare thee well.—
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,

Who else must be let blood, who else is rank :

If I myself, there is no hour so fit

As Cesar’s death’s hour ; nor no instrument

Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich
‘With the most noble blood of all this world.

I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,

Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,
Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years,

I shall not find myself so apt to die: 160
No place will please me so, no mean of death,
As here by Ceesar, and by you cut off,

The choice and master spirits of this age

Bru. O Antony! beg not your death of us.
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel,
As, by our hands, and this our present act,
You see we do, yet see you but our hands,

And this the bleeding business they have done:
Our hearts you sce not; they are pitiful ;

And pity to the general wrong of Rome

(As fire drives out fire, so pity pity)

Hath done this deed on Ceesar. For your part,
To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony:
Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts,

Of brothers’ temper, do receive you in

With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence.

Cas. Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s
In the disposing of new dignities.

150

170

 

Bru. Only be patient, till we have appeas’d
The multitude, beside themselves with fear,
And then we will deliver you the cause,

‘Why I, that did love Ceesar when I struck him,
Have thus proceeded.
Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom.
Let each man render me his bloody hand;
First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you;
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand;
Now, Decius Brutus, yours ; now yours, Metellus;
| Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours;
' Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius,
* Gentlemen all,—alas! what shall I

18¢

ne.

say? 190
My credit now stands on such slippery

groun
That one of two bad ways you must
conceit me,
~ Either a coward, or a flatterer.—
Lhat I did love thee, Cesar, O! ‘tis

If then thy spir't look upon us now,

Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than
thy death,

To see thy Antony making his peace,

Shaking the bloody fingers of thy

oes,

Most noble! in the presence of thy
corse?

Had I as many eyes as thou hast
wounds, 200

Weeping as fast as they stream forth
thy blood

It would become me better than to

close

In terms of friendship with thine
enemies.

Pardon me, Julius !—Here wast thou bay’d, brave hart;

Here didst thou fall; and here thy hunters stand,

Sign’d in thy spoil, and crimson’d in thy lethe.

O world! thou wast the forest to this hart;

And this, indeed, O world! the heart of thee.—

How like a deer, strucken by many princes,

Dost thou here lie!

Cas. Mark Antony,— 4

Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius:
The enemies of Ceesar shall say this ;

Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. /

Cas. I blame you not for praising Ceesar so:
But what compact mean you to have with us?
Will you be prick’d in number of our friends,

Or shall we on, and not depend on you? :

Ant. Therefore I took your hands; but was, indeed,
Sway'd from the pau by looking down on Ceesar.
Friends am I with you all, and love you all, 220
Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons,
Why and wherein Ceesar was dangerous.

Bru. Or else were this a savage spectacle.

Our reasons are so full of good regard,
That were you, Antony, the son of Cesar,
You should be satisfied.

Ant. That’s all I seek:
And am moreover suitor, that I may
Produce his body to the market-place ;
And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend,
Speak in the order of his funeral.

Bru. You shall, Mark Antony. 4

Cas. Brutus, a word with you.—
[Aside to Brutus.] You know not what you do; do

not. consent,
That Antony speak in his funeral. ‘
Know you how much the people may be mov'd
By that which he will utter?

Bru. By your pardon;
I will myself into the pulpit first,

And show the reason of our Ceesar’s death:

What Antony shall speak, I will protest

He speaks by leave and by permission;

And that we are contented, Ceesar shall

Have all true rites, and lawful ceremonies.

It shall advantage more than do us wrong.
Cas. I know not what may fall: I like it not.

210

230

240

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

SCENE II.] JULIUS

CAESAR. 643

 

Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you Cesar’s body.
You shall not in your funeral speech blame us,
But speak all Boe you can devise of Cesar ;
And say, you do’t by our permission :

Else shall you not have any hand at all
About his funeral. And you shall speak
In the same pulpit whereto [am going,
after my speech is ended.
Ant. Be it so;
I do desire no more.
Bru. Prepare the body then, and follow us.
Hxeunt all but ANTONY.

Ant. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,
That [am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.

Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood !

Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,

(Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, 260
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue),

A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;

Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife,

Shall cumber all the parts of Italy:

Blood and destruction shall be so in use,

And dreadful objects so familiar,

That mothers shall but smile, when they behold
Their infants quarter’d with the hands of war;

All pity chok’d with custom of fell deeds:

And Ceesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge, 270
With Até by his side, come hot from hell,

Shall in these confines, with a monarch’s voice,

Cry ‘‘Havoc!” and let slip the dogs of war,

That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

With carrion men, groaning for burial.

bo
Or
So

Enter a Servant.
You serve Octavius Cesar, do you not?
Serv. Ido, Mark Antony.
«int. Ceesar did write for him to come to Rome.
Serv. He did receive his letters, and is coming ;
And bid me say to you by word of mouth,-— 280
O Cesar! . [Seeing the body.
Ant. Thy heart is big, get thee apart and weep.
Passion, I see, is catching ; for mine eyes,
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine,
Began to water. Is thy master coming?
Serv. He lies to-night within seven leagues of Rome.
Ant. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath
chanc’d:
Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome,
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet ;
Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile; 290
Thou shalt not back, till I have borne this corse
Into the market-place: there shall I try,
In my oration, how the people take
The cruel issue of these bloody men ;
According to the which thou shalt discourse
To young Octavius of the state of things.
Lend me your hand. [Exeunt, with CsSAR’s body.

 

SceNE II.—The Same. The Forum.

Enter BRutTUs and Cassius, and a throng of
Citizens.
Cit. We will be satisfied : let us be satisfied.
Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience,
. friends.—
Cassius, go you into the other street,
And part the numbers.—
Those that will hear me speak, let them stay here ;
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ;
And public reasons shall be rendered
Of Cesar’s death.
1 Cit. I wiil hear Brutus speak.
2 Cit. I will hear Cassius; and compare their
reasons,
When severally we hear them rendered. 10
[Exit Casstus, with some of the Citizens.
BRUTUS goes into the pulpit.
3 Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended. Silence!

 

Bru. Be patient till the last.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my
cause, and be silent, that you may hear: believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour,
that you may believe: censure me in your wisdom,
and awake your senses, that you may the better judge.
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of
Ceesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Cassar was
no less than his. If then that friend demand, why
Brutus rose against Cesar, this is my answer :—Not
that I loved Ceesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
Had you rather Cesar were living, and die all slaves,
than that Ceesar were dead, to live allfreemen? As
Ceesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate,
I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him: but,
as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for
his love; joy for his fortune ; honour for his valour ;
and death for hisambition. Who is here so base, that
would be a bondman? If any, speak; for him have I
offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a
Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.
Who is here so vile, that will not love his country ?
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause for
a reply.

«lll. None, Brutus, none.

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no
more to Ceesar than you shall do to Brutus. The
question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol: his
glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his
offences enforced, for which he suffered death. 41

Enter ANTONY and others, with CasAR’s body.
Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony: who,
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the
benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth ;
as which of you shall not? With this I depart: that,
as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have
the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my
country to need my death.

All, Live, Brutus! live! live!
1 Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house.
2 Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors. 51
3 Cit. Let him be Ceesar.
+ Cit.
Shall be crown’d in Brutus.
1 Cit. We'll bring him to his house with shoutsand
clamours.
Bru. My countrymen,—
2 Cit. Peace! silence! Brutus speaks.
1 Cit. Peace, ho!
Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony.
Do grace to Cesar’s corse, and grace his speech
Tending to Ceesar’s glories, which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allow’d to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Exit.
1 Cit. Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.
3 Cit. Let him go up into the public chair;
We'll hear him.—Noble Antony, go up.
Ant. For Brutus’ sake, Iam beholding to you.
4 Cit. What does he say of Brutus?
3 Cit. He says, for Brutus’ sake,
He finds himself beholding to us all. 9
4 Cit. ’T were best he speak no harm of Brutus here.
1 Cit. This Cesar was a tyrant.
i Nay, that’s certain:

3 Cit.
We are bless'd that Rome is rid of him.
2 Cit. Peace! let us hear what Antony can say.
Ant. You gentle Romans,—
it. Peace, ho! let us hear him.
Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your
ears:
I come to bury Cesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Ceesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Ceesar was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cesar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honourable man,

Ceesar’s better parts

60

80

 

 
 

GLE JULIUS

CAESAR. fAcr IIL,

 

So are they all, all honourable men,)
Come I to speak in Ceesar’s funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Ceesar seem ambitious ?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stutf:
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see, that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented hima kingly crown, oa
Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition ?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause: —
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason !—Bear with me ;
My heart is in the coftin there with Ceesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me. ‘
1 Cit. Methinks, there is much reason in his sayings.
2 Cit. Tf thou consider rightly of the matter, 1
Cesar has had great wrong.
3 Cit. Has he, masters ?
I fear, there will a worse come in his place.
4 Cit. Mark'd ye his words?) He would not take the
crown:
Therefore, ‘tis certain, he was not ambitious. |
1 cvt, It it be found so, some will dear abide it.
2 Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with
weeping.
3 Cit. There ’s not a nobler man in Rome than
Antony.
4 Cit. Now mark him; he begins again to speak.
Ant. But yesterday the word of Ceesar might
Have stood against the world: now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! if I were dispos’d to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men.
I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here’s a Parent, with the seal of Ceesar ;
I found it in his closet, "tis his will.
Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)
And they would go and kiss dead Ceesar’s wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.
4 Cit. We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony. 140
All. oes the will! we will hear Cesar's
Will.
int. Have patience, gentle friends; I must not
read it:
It is not meet you know how Ceesar lov’d you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, being men, hearing the will of Ceesar,
It will enflame you, it will make you mad.
’T is good you know not that you are his heirs 3.
For if you should, O, what would come of it !
+ Cit. Read the will! we’ll hear it, Antony ;
You shall read us the will, Ceesar’s will.
Ant. Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?
Ihave o’ershot myself to tell you of it.
I fear, I wrong the honourable men,
Whose daggers have stabb’d Ceesar : I do fear it.
4 Cit. They were traitors :—honourable men !
All. The will! the testament ! ‘
2 Cit. They were villains, murderers, The will!
read the will! :
Ant. You will compel me then to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corse of Cesar,

90

120

130

And let me show you him that made the will.

Shall 1 descend? and will you give me leave?
aoe cove HH ;

it. Descend. e comes down from the pulpit,
3 Cit. You shall have leave. 2 ee
4 Cit. A ring: stand round.
1 Cit. Reet from the hearse; stand from the
ody.

2 Cit. Room for Antony ; most noble Antony.
Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.

«ill. Stand back ! room! bear back ! 170
«int. If you have tears, prepare to shed them
now.

You all do know this mantle! I remember
The first time ever Ceesar put it on:
*T was on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.
Look! in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:
See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d ;
And, as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cesar tollow’d it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd
If Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Ceesar’s angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cesar lov’d him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statua, 190
Which all the while ran blood, great Cesar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
_Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us.
O! now you weep; and, | perceive, you feel
The dint of Pe these are gracious drops.
Kind souls! what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Ceesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr‘d, as you sec, with traitors.
1 Cit. O piteous spectacle!
2 Cit. O noble Ceesar!
3 Cit. O woful day!
4 Cit. O traitors! villains !
1 Cit. O most bloody sight !
2Cit. Wewill be revenged : revenge! about,—seek,—
burn,—fire, —kill,—slay !—let not a traitor live.
Ant. Stay, countrymen.
1 Cit. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. :
2 Cit. We'll hear him, we’ll follow him, we'll die
with him. 210
Ant, Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir
you yy
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable:
What private griefs they have, alas! I know not,
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
Iam no orator, as Brutus is ;
But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend; and that they know or

180

well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men’s blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that which you yourselves do know,
Show you sweet Ceesar’s wounds, poor, poor dumb
mouths,

And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Ceesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

All, We'll mutiny.

230

1 Cit. We ’ll burn the house of Brutus.
3 Cit, Away then! come, seek the conspirators.
Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me

 

speak.
All. Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony.

 

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

JULIUS CAESAR.

 

Ant. wie. friends, you go to do you know not
what.
Wherein hath Cesar thus deserv’d your loves?
Alas! you know not:—I must tell you then.
You have forgot the will I told you of.
All. Most true ;—the will: let’s stay, and hear the
will. 240
Ant. Here is the will, and under Ceesar’s seal.
To every Roman citizen he gives,
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
2 Cit. Most noble Ceesar !—we ’ll revenge his death.
3 Cit. O royal Ceesar !
Ant. Hear me with patience.
All, Peace, ho!
Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
His private arbours, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber: he hath left them you, 250
And to your heirs for ever; common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Ceesar! when comes such another?
1 Cit. Never, never !—Come, away, away !
Well burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses.
Take up the body.
2 Cit. Go, fetch fire.
3 Cit. Pluck down benches.
4 Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. 260
[Exeunt Citizens, with the body.
» Ant. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,
Take thou what course thou wilt!

Enter a Servant.

‘ How now, fellow?
Serv. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.
Ant. Where is he?
Serv. He and Lepidus are at Ceesar’s house.
Ant. And thither will I straight to visit him.
He comes upon a wish: Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will give us anything.
Serv. [heard him say, Brutus and Cassius
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome.
Ant. Belike, they had some notice of the people,
How [had mov’d them. Bring me to Octavius.
[Excunt.

270

 

ScENE III.—The Same. A Strect.

Enter CINNA, the Poet.
Cin. I dreamt to-night, that I did feast with Ceesar,
And things unlucky charge my fantasy.
J have no will to wander forth of doors,
Yet something leads me forth.

Enter Citizens.
What is your name?
Whither are you going?
Where do you dwell?
Are you a married man, or a bachelor ?
Answer every man directly.

1 Cit. Ay, and brieny. 10

4 Cit. Ay, and wisely.

3 Cit. Ay, and truly ; you were best.

Cin. What is my name? Whither am I going?
Where do I dwell? Am I a marricd_man, or a
bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly, and
briefly, wisely, and truly: wisely I say, Iam a
bachelor.

2 Cit. That’s as much as to say, they are fools that
marry :—you’ll bear me a bang for that, Ifear. Pro-
ceed ; directly. :

Cin. Directly, Iam going to Ceesar’s funeral.

1 Cit. Asa triend, or an enemy?

Cin. As a friend.

2 Cit. That matter is answered directly.

4 Cit. For your dwelling,—briefly.

Cin. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol.

3 Cit. Your name, sir, truly.

Cin. Truly, my name is Cinna,

1 Cit. Tear him to pieces, he’s a conspirator.

Cin. Iam Cinna the poet ; I am Cinna the poet. 30

4 Cit. Tear him for his bad verses; tear him for his
bad verses.

Cin. Iam not Cinna the conspirator.

2 Cit. It is no matter; his name’s Cinna: pluck but
his name out of his heart, and turn him going.

3 Cit. Tear him, tear him! Come, brands, ho! fire-

1 Cit.
2 Cit.
3 Cit.
4 Cit.
2 Cit.

brands! To Brutus, to Cassius; burn all. Some to
Decius’ house, and some to Casca's; some to Ligarius’.
Away! go! [Exeundé.

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—The Same.

g Antony. :
HESE many then shall die; their names
are prick’d.

Oct. Your brother too must die: con-
sent you, Lepidus?

Lep. I do consent,—

Oct. Prick him down, Antony.

‘oe Lep. Upon condition Publius shall not

A live,

Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony.

Ant, Ae shall not live; look, with a spot I damn
im.

    

A Room in ANTONY’s House.
ANTONY, OcTAVIUs, and LeEpipus, seated at u table.

But, Lepidus, go you to Ceesar’s house ;
Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine
How to cut off some charge in legacies.

 

Lep. What, shall I find you here? 10 —

Oct. Or here, or at the Capitol. [Exit LEPIDUs.
Ant. This is 2 slight unmeritable man,
Meet to be sent on errands: is it fit,
The three-fold world divided, he should stand
One of the three to share it ?
Oct. So you thought him;
And took his voice who should be prick’d to die,
In our blagk sentence and proscription.

|

|
 

616 JULIUS CESAR. [Act Iv.

 

 

Ant. Octavius, I have seen more days than you:
And though we lay these honours on this man,
To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, 20
He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,
To groan and sweat under the business,
Kither led or driven, as we point the way;
And having brought our treasure where we will,
'Then take we down his load, and turn him off,
Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears,
And graze in commons.

Oct. You may do your will;
But he’s a tried and valiant soldier.

 

Ant. “ He sball not live; look, with a spot I damn him.

Ant. So is my horse, Octavius ; and for that
I do appoint him store of provender. 30
It is a creature that I teach to fight,
To wind, to stop, to run directly on,
His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit.
And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so;
He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth:
A barren-spirited fellow ; one that feeds
On abject orts, and imitations,
Which, out of use and stal’d by other men,
Begin his fashion: do not talk of him,
But asa property. And now, Octavius, 40
Listen great things :—Brutus and Cassius
Are eine powers: we must straight make head:
Therefore, let our alliance be combin'd,
Our best friends made, and our best meansstretch’d out;
And let us presently go sit in council,
How covert matters may be best disclos’d,
And open perils surest answered.
Oct. Let us do so: for we are at the stake,
And bay’d about with many enemies;
And some, that smile, have in their hearts, I fear, 50
Millions of mischiefs. [Exeunt.

ScENE IL—Before Brutus’s Tent, in the Camp near
Sardis.

Drum, Enter Brutus, Luciuius, Lucius, and
Soldicrs: TITINIUS and PINDARUS mect them.
Bru. Stand, ho!
Lucil. Give the word, ho! and stand.
Bru, What now, Lucilius? is Cassius near?
Lucil. He is at hand; and Pindarus is come
To do you salutation from his master.
Bru. He grects me well.—Your master, Pindarus,
In his own change, or by ill officers,
Hath given me some worthy cause to wish
Things lone, undone; but, if he be at hand,
I shall he satisfied.
i I do not doubt, 10

im.
But that my noble master will appear
Such as he is, full of regard and honour.

 

Bru. He is not doubted.—A word, Lucilius:
How he receiv'd- you, let me be resolv’d.

Lucil, With courtesy, and with respect enough;
But not with such familiar instances,
Nor with such free and friendly conference,
As he hath us’d of old.

Bru. Thou hast describ’d
A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius,
When love begins to sicken and decay, 20

It useth an enforced ceremony.

There are no tricks in plain and simple faith;

But hollow men, like horses hot at hand,

Make gallant show and promise of their
mettle ;

But when they should endure the bloody

spur,
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful
es,
Sink in the trial. Comes his army on?
Lucil. They mean this night in Sardis to
be quarter’d :
The greater part, the horse in general, 29
Are come with Cassius. [March within.
2, Hark ! he is arriv’d.—
March gently on to meet him.

Enter Cassius and Soldiers.
Cas. Stand, ho!
Bru. Stand, ho! Speak the word along.
1 Sold. Stand!
2 Sold. Stand!
3 Sold, Stand!
Cas. Most noble brother, you have done
me wrong.
Bru. Judge me, you gods! wrong I mine
enemics?
And, ifnotso, how should I wrong a brother?
Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours
hides wrongs; 40
And when you do them—
Bru. Cassius, be content,
Speak your griefs softly : I do know you well.
Before the eyes of both our armies here,
Which should perceive nothing but love from us,
Let us not wrangle: bid them move away ;
Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,
And I will give you audience.
Cas. Pindarus,
Bid our commanders lead their charges off
A little from this ground.
Bru. Lucilius, do you the like; andletnoman 50
Come to our tent, till we have done our conference.
Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. [Exeunt.

ScENE IJI.—Within the Tent of BRUTUS.

Enter BRuTUS and Cassius.
Cas. Te you have wrong’d me, doth appear in
this:
Vou have condemn’d and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.
Bru. You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case.
Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every ncie offence should bear his comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemn’d to have an itching palm ; 10
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers,
Cas. Tan itching palm? i
You know, that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement does therefore hide his head.
Cas. Chastisement!
Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remem-

er:
Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake?
What villain touch’d his body, that did stab, 20

 

 

 
 

ScENE III.] JULIUS

CAESAR. 637

 

 

And not for justice?) What! shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers, shall we now
Contaminate our tingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
Cas. Brutus, bay not me,
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself,
To hedge mein. Iam a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
Bru.
Cas. Lam.
Bru. Tsay, you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself :
Have mind upon your health ; tempt me no further.
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is ’t possible?
Bru.
Must IT

30

Go to; you are not, Cassius.

Hear me, for I will speak.

‘ive way and room to your rash choler?

Shall I be frighted, when a madman stares? 40
Cas. O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?
Bru. Allthis? ay, more: fret, till your proud heart

break ;

Go, show your slates how choleric you are,

| And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?

Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch

Under your testy humour? By the gods,

You shall digest the venom of your spleen,

Though it do split you; for from this day forth,

I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,

When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this ?

Bru. You say, you are a better soldier :

Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,

And it shall please me well. For mine own part,

I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me,
Brutus ;
I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say, better?
Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Cesar liv’d, he durst not thus have
movy’d me.
Bru. Hate: peace! you durst not so have tempted
him.
Cas. I durst not? 60

Bru, No.

Cas. What! durst not tempt him?

Bru, For your life you durst not.
Cas. Do not Poe too much upon my love;

I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ;

For I am arm’d so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,

Which I respect not. I did send to you |

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;— 70

For I can raise no money by vile means :

By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, ;

And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wrin:

From the hard hands of peasants their vile tras.

By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions, :

Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?

Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so?

When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,

To lock such rascal counters from his friends,

Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ;

Dash him to pieces!

Cas.
a You did.

80

I denied you not.

‘as. I did not : he was but a fool |
That oe my answer back.—Brutus hath riv’d my
éart :
A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.

Cas. You love me not. .
Bru. I do not like your faults.

 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 89

Bru. <A flatterer’s would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is aweary of the world:

Hated by one he loves; brav’d by his brother 3

Check’d like a bondman ; all his faults observ’d,

Set in a note-book, learn’d, and conn’d by rote,

To cast into my teeth. O! I could weep

My spirit from mine eyes.—There is my dagger,

And here my naked breast ; within, a heart

Dearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold:

If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth ;

I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:

Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, [ know, | ;

When ioe didst hate him worst, thou lov‘dst him

etter

Than ever thou lov’dst Cassius.

Bru, Sheathe your dagger :
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be huniour.
O Cassius! you are yoked with a lamb,

That carries anger, as the flint bears fire ;

Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,

And straight is cold again.

Cas. + Hath Cassius liv’d
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,

When grief, and blood ill-temper’d, vexeth him?
Bru, When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'’d too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru, And my heart too.

Cas. O Brutus!

Bru. What’s the matter?
Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour, which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful ?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 121
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

[Noise within.

Poet. (Within.] Let me go in to see the generals:
There is some grudge between ‘em; 'tis not meet
They be alone.

Lucil. Uk in.) You shall not come to them.

Poet. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me.

Enter Poet, followed by LUCILIUS, TITINIUS, and
Lucius.
Cas. How now? What’s the matter?
Poct, For shame, you generals! What do you
mean?
Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; 130
For I have seen more years, J am sure, than ye.
Cas. Ha, ha! how vilely doth this cynic rhyme!
Bru. Get you hence, sirrah : saucy fellow, hence!
Cas. Bear with him, Brutus ; ’tis his fashion.
Bru. I'll know his humour, when he knows his
ime:
What should the wars do with these jigging fools ?—
See De hence!
as.

100

110

Away, away! be gone.
[Exit Poet.
Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders
Prepare to lodge their companies to-night.
Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala with
140

you,

Immediately to us. [Exeunt LvcILius and TITINIUS.
Bru. Lucius, a bow] of wine. [Exit Lucius.
Cas. I did not think, you could have been so angry.
Bru. O Cassius ! Iam sick of many griefs.

Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use,

If you give piace to accidental evils.

Bru. No man bears sorrow better: Portia is dead.

Cas. Ha! Portia?

Bru. She is dead.

Cas. How ’seap’d I killing, when I cross’d you so?—
O insupportable and touching loss !— 150
Upon what sickness?

ru. Impatient of my absence;
And grief, that young Octavius with Mark Antony
Have made themselves so strong: for with her death

 

 
 

 

 

618 JULIUS CHSAR. [Act Iv,
That tidings came ;—with this she fell distract, Bru. Your reason?
And, her attendants absent, swallow'd fire. Cas his it is,

Cas. And died so?
Bru.
Cas.

Even so. ‘
O ye immortal gods!

Re-enter Lucivs, with wine and tapers.
Bru, Speak no more of her.—Give me u bowl of

wine :— i :
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [Drinks.

Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge.—
Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup;
I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love.
Bru. Come in, Titinius.

rary
p>
So

[Drinks.

  

RUA

Bru. “In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius.”

Re-enter TITINIus, with MESSALA.

Welcome, good Messala,—
Now sit we close about this taper here,
And call in question our necessities.

Cas. Portia, art thou gone ?

Bru, No more, I pray you.—
Messala, I have here received letters,

That young Octavius and Mark Antony
Come down upon us with a mighty power,
Bending their expedition toward Philippi.

Mes. Myselt have letters of the selfsame tenor. 170

Bru. With what addition?

Mes. That by proscription, and bills of outlawry,
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus,

Have put to death an hundred senators.

Bru. Therein our letters do not well agree:
Mine speak of seventy senators, that died
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one.

Cas. Cicero one?

Les. Cicero is dead,
And by that order of proscription.— .
Had you your letters trom your wife, my lord?

Bru. No, Messala.

Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?

Bru. Nothing, Messala.

Mes. That, methinks, is strange.

Bru. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours?

Mes. No, my lord.

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

Bru. Why, farewell, Portia.—We must die, Messala:
With meditating that she must die once, 190
Ihave the patience to endure it now.

Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure.

Cas. I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

Bru. Well, to our work alive.—What do you think
Of marching to Philippi presently ?

Cas. I do not think it good.

180

 

 

’T is better that the enemy seek us:
So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,
Doing himself offence ; whilst we, lying still, 200
Are tull of rest, defence, and nimbleness.

Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to

better. :

The people, ‘twixt Philippi and this ground,
Do stand but in a fore’d atfection ;
For they have grudg’d us contribution :
The enemy, marching along by them,
By them shall make a fuller number up,

[Z£zit Lucius. | Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encourag’d:

From which advantage shall we cut him
on,
If at Philippi we do face him there, 210
‘These people at our back.
Cas. Hear me, good brother.
Bru. Under your pardon.—You must
note beside,
That we have tried the utmost of our
friends,
Our legions are brim-full, our cause is
ripe:
The enemy increaseth every day ;
We, at the height, are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to
fortune ;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life 220
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it
serves,
Or lose our ventures.
Cas. Then, with your will, go on:
We'll along ourselves, and meet them at
Philippi.
Bru. The deep of night is crept upon
7 our talk,
And nature must obey necessity ;
Which we will niggard with a little rest.
There is no more to say?
Cas. No more. Good night:
Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence.
Bru. Lucius! [Re-enter Luctus.] My gown. [Ezit
Lucivs.|—Farewell, good Messala :—
Good night, ‘Titinius.—Noble, noble Cassius,
Good night, and good repose.
Cas. O my dear brother!
This was an ill beginning of the night.
Never come such division ’tween our souls!
Let it not, Brutus.
Bru. Everything is well.
Cas, Good night, my lord. .
Bru. Good night, good brother.
Tit., Mes. Good night, Lord Brutus.
Bru. Farewell, every one.
[Exeunt Cassius, TITENIUS, and MESSALA.

Re-enter Lucius, with the gown.

Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument? 240

Luc. Here in the tent. .

Bru. What! thou speak’st drowsily ?
Poor knave, I blame thee not; thou art o’er-watch'd.
Call Claudius, and some other of my men;
I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.

Luc. Varro, and Claudius !

Enter VARRO and CLAUDIUS.
Far. Calls my lord?
Bru. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent, and sleep:
1t may be, I shall raise you by-and-by -
On business to my brother Cassius.
Far, So please you, we will stand, and watch your
pleasure. ___ 230
Bru. I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs:
It nay be, I shall otherwise bethink me.
Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so ;
I put it in the pocket of my gown. - :
[VaRRo and CLaunIvs lie down.

 

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

JULIUS CESAR.

6419

 

 

Lue, I was sure, your lordship did not give it me.
Bru. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.
Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,
And touch thy instrument a strain or two?

That plays thee music ?—Gentle knave, good night ;

I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. 271
If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument:

I Il take it from thee; and, good boy, good night.—

 

 

Bru. “ Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
That mak’st my blood cold, and my hair to stare?”

Luc. Ay, my lord, an’t please you.
Bru. It does, my boy.
I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. 260

Lue. It is my duty, sir.

Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy might:
Iknow, young bloods look for a time of rest.

Luc. Thave slept, my lord, already.

Bru. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again;
I will not hold thee long: if I do live,
I will be good to thee. [Afusic, and a Song.
This is a sleepy tune :—O murderous slumber !
Lay’st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,

Let me see, let me see :—is not the leaf turn’d down,
Where I left reading? Here it is, I think.
[He sits down.

Enter the Ghost of CSar.

How ill this taper burns !—Ha! who comes here?
I think, it is the weakness of mine eyes

That shapes this monstrous apparition.

It comes upon me.—Art thou anything ?

Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,
That mak’st my blood cold, and my hair to stare ?
Speak to me, what thou art.

280

 

 
 

650 JULIUS

CAESAR. [Act V.

 

 

   
 

Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus.

Bru. Why com’st thou ?

Ghost. To tell thee, thou shalt see me at Philippi.

Bru. Well; then I shall see thee again?

Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. eet

Bru, Why, I will see thee at Philippi then.— |

Ghost vanishes.

Now TI have taken heart, thou vanishest :
Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee.—
Boy! Lucius !—Varro! Claudius! sirs, awake !—
Claudius!

Luc. The strings, my lord, are false.

Bru. He thinks he still is at his instrument.—
Lucius, awake!

Luc, My lord? ;

Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thouso criedst

290

| Luc. My lord, I do not know that I did ery.
| Bru, Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see any-
thing?
Luc, Nothing, my lord.
Bru. Sleep again, Lucius.—Sirrah, Claudius! 300
[Z'o Varro] Fellow thou! cwake !
Var. My lord?
Clau. My lord?
Bru, Why did as so cry out, sirs, in your sleep?
Var., Clau. Did we, my lord?
Bru. : AY: saw you anything?
Var. No, my lord, I saw nothing.
Clau. Nor I, my lord.
Bru. Go, and commend me to my brother Cassius:
Bid him set on his powers betimes before,
And we will follow.
7ar., Clau. It shall be done, my lord. [Ezcunt.

 

ACT VY.

ScENE I.—The Plains of Philippi.
Enter OcTAVIUS, ANTONY, and their Army.

out?
or Octavius.
Z _pOW, Antony, our hopes are answered:
¥

You said, the enemy would not come down,

But keep the hills and upper regions ;

It proves not so: their battles are at hand;

They mean to warn us at Philippi here,

Answering before we do demand of them.
Ant. Tut! Iam in their bosoms, and I

ow
Wherefore they do it: they could be content
To visit other places ; and come down
With fearful bravery, thinking by this face
( To fasten in our thoughts that they have

courage ; ll
But ‘tis not so.

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. Prepare you, generals :
The enemy comes on in gallant show ;
Their bloody sign of battle is hung out,
And something to be done immediately.
Ant. Octavius, lead your battle softly on,
Upon the left hand of the even field.
Oct. Upon the right hand I; keep thou the left.
«int. Why do you cross me in this exigent?
Oct. Ido not cross you; but I willdoso. [March.
Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army;
Luciuius, TITINIUS, MEssALa, and others.
Bru. They stand, and would have parley.
Cas, Stand fast, Titinius: we must out and talk.
Oct. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle?
Ant. No, Ceesar, we will answer on their charge.
Make forth ; the generals would have some words.
Oct, Stir not until the signal.
Bru. Words before blows : is it so, countrymen ?
Oct. Not that we love words better, as you do.
Bru. Good words are bettcr than bad strokes,
Octavius.

21

| Ant. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good
words: 30
Witness the hole you made in Ceesar’s heart,
Crying, ‘‘ Long live! hail, Caesar!”
Cas. Antony,
The posture of your blows are yet unknown;
But tor your words, they rob the Hybla bees,
And leave them honeyless,
Ant. Not stingless too.
Bru. O! yes, and soundless too ;
For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony,
And very wisely threat before you sting. _

Ant, Villains! you did not so, when your vile daggers
Hack’d one another in the sides of Cesar: 10
You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like

hounds,
And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Cesar’s feet ;
Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind,
Struck Ceesar on the neck. O you flatterers!

Cas. Flattcrers !—Now, Brutus, thank yourself:
This tongue had not offended so to-day,

If Cassius might have rul’d. 3

Oct. Come, come, the cause :if arguing make us

sweat,
The proof of it will turn to redder drops. 3

ook ; 50
I draw a sword against conspirators: ;

When think you that the sword goes up again ?—-
Never, till Ceesar’s three-and-thirty wounds

Be well aveng’d; or till another Csesar

Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors.

Bru. Ceesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands,
Unless thou bring’st them with thee.

ct. So I hope,
I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword. :

Bru, O! if thou wert the noblest of thy strain,
Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. 60

Cas. A peevishschool-boy, worthless of such honour,
Join’d with a masker and a reveller.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

SceNE IT] JULIUS CAHSAR. 651
Ant. Old Cassius still! The end of this day’s business, ere it come!
Oct. ; Come, Antony; away !— But it sufficeth, that the day will end,

Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. And then the end is known.—Come, ho! away!

If you dare fight to-day, come to the field ; [Exeunt.

If not, when you have stomachs.
[Ezeunt OcTAVIUS, ANTONY, and their Army.
Cas. Why now, blow, wind; swell, bilow; and
swim, bark!
The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.
Bru. Ho!
Lucilius, hark, a word with you.

Lucil. My lord? 70
(Brutus and Luci.ius talk apart.

Cas. Messala,—

Mes. What says my general?

Cas. Messala,

This is my birth-day ; as this very day

Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand,
Messala :

Be thou Bay UCR that against my
will,

As Pompey was, am I compell’d to set

Upon one battle all our liberties.

You know, that I held Kpicurus strong,

And his opinion: now, I change my

mind,

And partly credit things that do pre-
sage.

Coming from Sardis, on our former

ensign

Two mighty eagles fell; and there they
perch'd,

Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’
hands;

Who to Philippi here consorted us:

This morning are they fled away, and

gone,

And in their steads do ravens, crows,
and kites,

Fly o’er our heads, and downward look

on us,
As we were sickly prey : their shadows

seem
A canopy most fatal, under which
Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost.

Mes. Believe not so.
Cas. I but believe it partly,
For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv’d
To meet all perils very constantly.
Bru. Even so, Lucilius.

90

Cas. Now, most noble Brutus,
The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may,
Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age!
But since the affairs of men rest still incertain,
Let’s reason with the worst that may befall.
If we do lose this battle, then is this
The very last time we shall speak together :
What are you then determined to do?
Bru. Even by the rule of that Ente:
By which I did blame Cato for the deat:
hich he did give himself :—I know not how,
But I do find it cowardly and vile,
For fear of what might fall, so to prevent.
The time of life :—arming myself with patience,
To stay the providence of some high powers,
That govern us below.
Cas. Then, if we lose this battle,
You are contented to be Jed in triumph
Thorough the streets of Rome? 110
Bru. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,
That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;
He bears too great a mind: but this same day
Must end that work the ides of March begun ;
And, whether we shall meet again, I know not.
Therefore, our everlasting farewell take :—
For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius !
If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then, this parting was well made.
Cas, For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus!
If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed ;
If not, ’tis true, this parting was well made.
Bru. Why then, lead on.—O, that a man might know

120

 

The Field of Battle.
Enter BRUTUS and MESSALA.

ScENE II.—The Same.
Alarum.

Bru. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills
Unto the legions on the other side.
Let them set on at once ; for I perceive
But cold demeanour in Octavius’ wing,

Loud alarum,

IN
ue

Pin. (Above.] ‘‘ Titinius is enclosed round about
With horsemen, that make to Lim on the spur.”

  

And sudden push gives them the overthrow.
Ride, ride, Messala: let themallcome down. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE III.—The Same. Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter Cassius and TITINIUS.

Cas. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly!
Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy :
‘This ensign here of mine was turning back ;
I slew the coward, and did take it from him.

Tit. O Cassius! Brutus gave the word too early ;
Who, having some advantage on Octavius,
Took it too eagerly : his soldiers fell to spoil,
Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d.

Enter PINDARUS.

Pin. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;
Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord!
Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off.

Cas. This hill is far enough Look, look, Titinius ;
Are those my tents where I perceive the fire ?

Tit. They are, my lord.

Cas. Titinius, if thou lov’st me,
Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him,
Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops,
And here again ; that I may rest assur’d,
Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.

Tit. Iwill be here again, even with a thought.

Cas. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill:
My sight was ever thick ; regard Titinius,
And tell me what thou not’st about the field.—

[Exit PINDARUS,

This day I breathed first : time is come round,
And where I did begin, there shall I end;
My life is run his compass.—Sirrah, what news?

Pin. {Above.] Omy lord!

Cas. What news?

[Exit.
20

 

Pin. Titinius is enclosed round about

 

 
 

652 JULIUS

CAESAR, [Act V,

 

 

With horsemen, that make to him on the spur ;
Yet he spurs on :—now they are almost on him. 30
Now, Titinius !—now some light :—O ! he lights too:—
He's ta’en: [Shout.] and, hark ! they shout for joy.

Cas. Come down; behold no more.—
O, coward that I am, to live so long,
‘lo see my best friend ta’en before my face!

Re-entcr PINDARUS.
Come hither, sirrah.
In Parthia did I take thee prisoner ;
And then I swore thee, saving ot thy life,
That whatsoever I did bid thee do,
Thou shouldst' attempt it. Come now, keep thine
oath: 4U

Now be a freeman; and with this good sword,
That ran through Ceesar’s bowels, search this bosom.
Stand not to answer : here, take thou the hilts ;
And, when my face is cover'’d, as tis now,
Guide thou the sword.—Ceesar, thou art reveng’d,
Even with the sword that kill'd thee. Dies.

Pin. So, Iam free; yet would not so have been,
Durst I have done my will. O Cassius!
Far from this country Pindarus shall run,

Where never Roman shall take note of him. 50
[E£xit.
Re-enter Tivintus, with MESSALA.

Mes. It is but change, Titinius ; for Octavius
Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power,
As Cassius’ legions are by Antony.
Tit. These tidings will well comfort Cassius,
Mes. Where did you leave him?
Tit. All disconsolate,
With Pindarus, his bondman, on this hill.
Mes. Is not that he, that lies upon the ground ?
Tit. He lies not like the living. O my heart!
Mes. Is not that he?
Tit. No, this was he, Messala,
But Cassius is no more.—O setting sun!
As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night,
So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set :
The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone;
Clouds, dews, and dangers come ; our deeds are done.
Mistrust of my success hath done this deed.
Mes. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.
O hateful error, melancholy’s child !
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men
The things that are not? O error! soon conceiv’d,
Thou never com’st unto a happy birth, 70
But kill’st the mother that engender'd thee.
Tit. What, Pindarus! Where art thou, Pindarus?
Mes. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to ineet
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report
Into his ears: I may say, thrusting it;
For piercing steel, and darts envenomed,
Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus,
«As tidings of this sight.
Tit. Hie you, Messala,
And I will seek for Pindarus the while.
[Exit MESSALA.
Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius ?
Did I not meet thy friends? and did not they
Put_on my brows this wreath of victory,
And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their
shouts?
Alas! thou hast misconstrued everything.
But hold thee, take this garland on thy brow:
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I
Will do his bidding.—Brutus, come apace,
And see how I regarded Caius Cassius.—
By your leave, gods :—this is a Roman's part:
Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart. [Dies.

Alarum, Re-enter MESSALA, with Brutus, Young
CATO, STRATO, VOLUMNIUS, and LUCILIUS.

Bru. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? 91
Mes. Lo, yonder; and Titinius mourning it.
Bru. Vitinius’ face is upward.
Cato.
Bru. O Julius Cesar! thou art mighty yet:

Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords

ln our own proper entrails. [Low alaruns.

He is slain.

 

Cato. Brave Titinius!
Look, whe’r he have not crown’d dead Cassius !

Bru. Are yet two Romans living such as these ~~
The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!
1t is impossible that ever Rome 100
Should breed thy fellow.—Friends, I owe more tears
To this dead man than you shall see me pay.—
I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.—
Come, therefore, and to Thassos send his body:
His funerals shall not be in our camp,
Lest it discomfort us.—Lucilius, come ;—
And come, young Cato; let us to the field.—
Labeo, and Flavius, set our battles on :—
Tis three o'clock ; and, Romans, yet ere night
We shall try fortune in a second fight.

[Exeunt,

 

ScENE IV.—Another Part of the Field.

Alarum. Enter, fighting, Soldiers of both Armies;
then Brutus, Cato, LUCILIUS, and others,
Bru. Yet, countrymen, O! yet hold up your heads.

Cato. What bastard doth not? Who will go with
me?
I will proclaim my name about the field :—
Iam the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend ;
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho!
[Charges the enemy.
Bru. And Iam Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I;
Brutus, my country’s friend: know me for Brutus.
[£zit, charging the enemy. Catois
overpowered, and falls.
Lucil. O young and noble Cato! art thou down?
Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius,
And may’st be honour’d, being Cato’s son.
1 Sold. Yield, or thou diest.
Lucil, Only I yield to die:
There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight.
[Offering money.
Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death,
1 Sold. We must not.—A noble prisoner !
2Sold. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en.
1 Sold. I'll tell the news.— Here comes the general.—

Enter ANTONY.

Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord.

Ant. Where is he?

Lueil. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough. 20
I dare assure thee, that no enemy
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:
The gods defend him from so great a shame!
When you do find him, or alive, or dead,
He will be found like Brutus, like himself.

int. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you,
A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe ;
Give him all kindness : I had rather have
Such men my friends, than enemies. Go on,
And see whe’r Brutus be alive, or dead ; 30
And bring us word, unto Octavius’ tent,
How everything is chane’d. [Excunt.

ScENE V.—Another Part of the Field.

Enter Brutus, DaRDANIUS, CLITUS, STRATO, and
VOLUMNIUS. ;
Bru. Somes poor remains of friends, rest on this
rock.
Cli. Statilius show’d the torch-light ; but, my lord,
He came not back: he is or ta’en, or slain.
Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus: slaying is the word ;
It isa deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus.— _ .
es ispering.
Cli, What! I, my lord? No, not for all the world.
Bru. Peace then! no words.
i I'll rather kill myself.

li. e
Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius.— [Whispers him.

ar. Shall I do such a deed?
Cli. O Dardanius!

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

JULIUS CESAR.

633

 

 

Dar. O Clitus!
Cli. What ill request did Brutus make to thee?
Dar. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.
Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of grief,
That it runs over even at his eyes.
Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius: list a word.
Vol. What says my lord ?
Bru. hy, this, Volumnius:
The ghost of Cesar hath appear’d to me
Two several times by night: at Sardis

once ;
And, this last night, here in Philippi
fields.

I know my hour is come.
Vol. Not so, my lord.
Bru. Nay, Iam sure it is, Volumnius.

Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it

goes ; 22

Our enemies have beat us to the pit :

Low alarums.
It is more worthy to leap in ourselves,

Than tarry till they push us. Good
Volumnius,
Thou know’'st, that we two went to school

together ;
Even for that our love of old, I pray thee,
Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run
on it.
Vol. That’s not an office for a friend,
my lord. [Alarum still.
cli. Fly, fly, my lord! there is no
tarrying here. 30
Bru. Farewell to you;—and you ;—and
you, Volumnius.—
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep ;
Farewell to thee too, Strato.—Countrymen,
My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life
Itound no man, but he was true to me.
I shall have glory by this losing day,
More than Octavius and Mark Antony
By this vile conquest shall attain unto.
So, fare you well at once ; for Brutus’ tongue
Hath almost ended his life’s history. 40
Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would

rest,
That have but labour’d to attain this hour.
[dlarum. Cry within, ‘Fly, fly, fly!”
cli. Fly, my lord, fly!
Bru. Hence! I will follow.
[Exeunt CLITUS, DaRDANIUS, and
VOLUMNIUS.
I pr vibes Strato, stay thou by thy lord.
Thou art a fellow of a good respect ; :
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it:
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato?
Stra. Gave. me your hand first: fare you well, my
lord.
Bru. Farewell, good Strato.—Cesar, now be
ei 5

still :
I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.
[He runs on his sword, and dies.

 

Alarum: Retreat. Enter OCTAVIUS, ANTONY,
Messaxa, Luciuius, and their Army.

Oct. What man is that ? :
Mes. My master’s man.—Strato, where is thy master?
Stra. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala ;

 

Ant. “This was the noblest Roman of thei all.

The conquerors can but make a fire of him ;
For Brutus only overcame himself,
And no man else hath honour by his death.
Lucil.. So Brutus should be found,—I thank thee,

Brutus,

That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ ye true.

Oct. All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain them. 60
Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me?

Stra. Ay; if Messala will prefer me to you.

Oct. Do so, good Messala.

Mes. How died my master, Strato?

Stra, I held the sword, and he did run on it.

Mes. Octavius, then take him to follow thee,
That did the latest service to my master.

Ant. This was the noblest Roman of them all:
All the conspirators, save only he,
Did that they did in envy of great Ceesar ; 70
He only, in a general honest thought
And common good to all, made one of them.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mix’d in him that Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world, ‘‘ This was a man!”

Oct. According to his virtue let us use him,
With all respect, and rites of burial.
Within my tent his bones to-night shall lic,
Most like a soldier, order’d honourably.—
So, call the field to rest; and let’s away, 80
To part the glories of this happy day. [Excunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

VINCENTIO, the Duke. FROTH, a foolish Gentleman.
ANGELO, the Deputy. Clown. .

ESca.us, an ancient Lord. ABHORSON, an Executioner.
CLAUDIO, a young Gentleman. BARNARDINE, «@ dissolute Prisoner.
Lucio, a Fantastic. : :

Two other like Gentlemen. ISABELLA, Sister to Claudio.
Provost. MARIANA, ce os an ngelo.
THOMAS, . ULIET, beloved o, audio.

PETER, i Two Friars. FRANCISCA, a Nun.

A Justice. MISTRESS OVERDONE, uv Bawd.
VARRIUS. .™

ELBow, a simple Constable. Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants,

SCENE— VIENNA.

AGT 4,
ScENE IL—An Apartment in the DUKE’s Palace.
Enter DUKE, Escauus, Lords, and Attendants.

 

‘ Duke. Heaven doth with us, as we with torches do.
BSCALUS ! Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Fscal. My lord. Did not go forth of us, ’t were all alike
Duke. Of government the properties to | As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d,
unfold, But to fine issues ; nor Nature never lends
Would seem in mc to affect speech and
discourse ;

y ? = 4 Mi

Since I am put to know, that your own / SA HH ;
science 2 2. ( " 4 a

Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice

My strength can give you: then no more
remains,

But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

And let them work. The nature of our people,

Our city’s institutions, and the terms : 10

For common justice, you’re as pregnant in,

As art and practice hath enriched any

That we remember. There is our commission,

From which we would not have you warp.—Call
hither,

Isay, bid come before us Angelo.—[E zit an Attendant.

What figure of us think you he will bear?

For, you must know, we have with special soul

Elected him our absence to supply,

Lent him our terror, dress’d him with our love,

And given his deputation all the organs

Of our own power. What think you of it?

Escal. If any in Vienna be of worth

 

 

 

 

To undergo such ample grace and honour, Duke, “In our remove, be thou at full ourself.”
It is Lord Angelo.

Duke. Look, where he comes. The smallest scruple of her excellence,

‘ But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Enter ANGELO, Herseif the glory of a creditor,

Ang. Always obedient to your grace’s will, Both thanks and use. ButIdo bend my speech 4¢
I come to know your pleasure. To one that can my part in him advertise ;

Duke. Angelo, Hold, therefore, Angelo :—
There is a kind of character in thy life, In our remove, be thou at full ourself ;
That, to the observer, doth thy history Mortality and mercy in Vienna
Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus,
Are not thine own so proper, as to waste 30 | Though first in question, is thy secondary.

 

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Take thy commission.

 

 
 

ScENE II.] MEASURE

FOR MEASURE.

655

 

Ang. Now, good my lord,

Let there be some more test made of my metal,
Before so noble and so great a figure
Be stamp’d upon it.

Duke. No more evasion : 50
We have with a leaven’d and prepared choice
Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours.

Our haste from hence is of so quick condition,
That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion’d
Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,
As time and our concernings shall importune,
How it goes with us; and do look to know

What doth befall you here. So, fare you well:
To the hopetul execution do I leave you

Of your commissions.

Ang. Yet, give leave, my lord, 60
That we may bring you something on the way.

Duke. My haste may not admit it ;

Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

With any scruple: your scope is as mine own,

So to entorce, or qualify the laws

As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;

I'll privily away: I love the people,

But do not like to stage me to their eyes.

‘Though it do well, I do not relish well

Their loud applause, and Aves vehement, 70
Nor do J think the man of safe discretion,

That does affect it. Once more, fare you well.

Any. The heavens give safety to your purposes!

Escal. Lead forth, and bring you back in happi-

ness !

Duke. [thank you. Fare you well. [Exit.

Escal. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave
To have free speech with you; and it concerns me
To look into the bottom of my place:

A power I have, but of what strength and nature
Iam not yet instructed.

Ang. "Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,
And we may soon our satisfaction have
Touching that point.

Escal. I’ll wait upon your honour. [Ereunt.

ScENE II.—A Street.

Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.

Lucio. If the duke, with the other dukes, come not
to composition with the King of Hungary, why then,
all the dukes fall upon the king. ‘

1 Gent. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King
of Hungary's !

2 Gent. Amen.

Lucio.
pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Command-
ments, but scraped one out of the table.

2 Gent. ‘Thou shalt not steal?” 10

Lucio. Ay, that he razed.

1 Gent. Why, ’t was a commandment to command
the captain and all the rest from their functions:
they put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us all,
that, in the thanksgiving before meat, doth relish the
petition: well that prays for peace.

2 Gent. I never heard any soldier dislike it.

Lucio. I believe thee ; for, I think, thou never wast
where grace was said.

- 2 Gent. No? a dozen times at least. 20

1 Gent. What, in metre?

Lucio. In any proportion, or in any language.

1 Gent. I think, or in any religion.

Lucio. Ay; why not? Grace is grace, despite of all
controversy : as for example, thou thyselfarta wicked
villain, despite of all grace.

1 Gent. ell, there went but a pair of shears
between us. :

Lucio. I grant; as there may between the lists and
the velvet: thou art the list. 30

1 Gent. And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet:
thou art a three-pil’d piece, I warrant thee. I had as
lief be a list of an English kersey, as be pil’d, as thou
Ln pita, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly

ow

es

 

Thou concludest like the sanctimonious

 

Lucio. I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most
painful feeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own
confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst 1
live, forget to drink after thee.

1 Gent. I think, [have done myself wrong, have I not?

2 Gent. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art
tainted, or free. 42

Lucio. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation
comes !

1 Gent. I have purchased as many diseases under
her roof, as come to—

2 Gent. To what, I pray?

Lucio. Judge.

2 Gent. To three thousand dollars a year.

1 Gent. Ay, and more. 50

Lucio. A French crown more.

1 Gent. Thou art always figuring diseases in me;
put thou art full of error : Iam sound.

Lucio. Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but
so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are
hollow ; impiety has made a feast of thee.

Enter Bawd.

1 Gent. How now? Which of your hips has the
most profound sciatica ?

Bawd. Well, well; there’s one yonder arrested,
and carried to prison, was worth five thousand of
you all. 61

2 Gent. Who's that, I pray thee?

Bawd. Marry, sir, that’s Claudio; Signior Claudio.

1 Gent. Claudio to prison ! ‘tis not so.

Bawd. Nay, but I know, ’t isso: Isaw himarrested ;
saw him carried away; and, which is more, within
these three days his head to be chopped off.

Lucio. But, after all this fooling, [ would not have
itso. Art thou sure of this?

Bawd. I am too sure of it;
Madam Julietta with child.

Lucio. Believe me, this may be: he promised to
meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in
promise-keeping. ;

2 Gent. Besides, you know, it draws something near
to the speech we had to such a purpose,

1 Gent. But most of all, agreeing with the procla-
mation.

Lucio. Away: let’s go learn the truth of it.

(Exewnt Lucio and Gentlemen.

Bawd. Thus: what with the war, what with the
sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty,
Iam custom-shrunk, 82

and it is for getting
71

Enter Clown.
How now? what’s the news with you?

Clo. Yonder man is carried to prison.

Bawd: Well: what has he done?

Clo. A woman.

Bawd. But what’s his offence ?

Clo. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

Bawd. What, is there a maid with child by him?

Clo. No; but there’s a woman with maid by him.
You have not heard of the proclamation, have you?

Bawd. What proclamation, man? 92

Clo. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be
pluck’d down.

Bawd. And what shall become of those in the city ?

Clo. They shall stand for seed: they had gone down
too, but that a wise burgher put in for them.

Bawd. But shall all our houses of resort in the
suburbs be pull’d down?

Clo. To the ground, mistress. 100

Bawd. Why, here’s a change, indeed, in the com-
monwealth! what shall become of me?

Clo. Come; fear not you: good counsellors lack no
clients: though you change your place, you need not
change your trade ; I’ll be your tapster still. Courage!
there will be pity taken on you; you that have worn
your eyes almost out in the service, you will be con-
sidered.

Bawd. What’s to do here, Thomas Tapster? Le’
withdraw. F

Clo. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the
to prison: and there’s Madam Juliet. [

t’s
110
rovost.
xeunt.

 
 

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

{Act I.

 

 

Scenr III.—The Same.

Enter Provost, CLAUDIO, JULIET, and Officers.
Claud. Felli why dost thou show me thus to the
world?
Bear me to prison, where I am committed.
Prov. 1 do it not in evil disposition,
But from Lord Angelo by special charge.
Claud. Thus can the demi-god Authority
Make us pay down for our offence by weight.—
The words of Heaven ;—on whom it
will, it will; .
On whom it will not, so: yet still tis
just.

Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen.
Luci. Why, how now, Claudio?
whence comes this restraint?
Claud. From too much liberty, my
Lucio, liberty : 10

As surfeit is the father of much fast,
So every scope by the immoderate use
Turns to restraint. Our natures do

pursue, .
Like rats that ravin down their proper

ane,
A thirsty cas and when we drink, we
aie.

Lucio. If I could speak so wisely
under an arrest, I would send for certain
of my creditors. And yet, to say the
truth, I had as licf have the foppery of
freedom, as the morality of imprison-
ment.—What’s thy offence, Claudio?

Claud. What but to speak of would

offend again. 2

Lucio. What, is it murder?

Claud. No.

Lucio. Lechery?

Claud. Call it so.

Prov. Away, sir; you must go.

 

Acquaint her with the danger of my state;
Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends
‘To the strict deputy ; bid herself assay him:
I have great hope in that ; for in her youth
There is a prone and speechless dialect,
Such as moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art,
When she will play with reason and discourse, n°
And well she can peteade.

Lucio. I pray, she may: as well for the encourage-
ment of the like, which else would stand under

 

 

Claud. One word, good friend.—
Lucio, a word with you.
[Takes him aside.

Lucio. A hundred, if they ll do you any good.
Is lechery so look'd after?

Claud. Thus stands it with me: upon a true con-

tract,
I got possession of Julietta’s bed :
You know the lady ; she is fast my wife,
Save that we do the denunciation lack
Of outward order: this we came not to,
Only for propagation of a dower
Remaining in the coffer of her friends,
From whom we thought it meet to hide our love,
Till time had made them for us. But it chances,
The stealth of our most mutual entertainment
_ With character too gross is writ on Juliet.
~~ Lucio. With child, perhaps?

Claud. Unhappily, even so.

And the new deputy now for the duke, —
Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,
Or whether that the body public be

A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

He can command, lets it straight feel the spur ;
Whether the tyranny be in his place,

Or in his eminence that fills it up,

I stagger in,—but this new governor

Awakes me all the enrolled penalties,

Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by the wall
So long, that nineteen zodiacs have gone round,
And none of them been worn; and, for a name,
Now puts the drowsy and neglected act

Freshly on me: ’tis surely for a name.

Lucio, I warrant, it is: and thy head stands so tickle
on thy shoulders, that a milkmaid, if she be in love,
may sigh it off. Send after the duke, and appeal to him.

Claud. I have done so, but he’s not to be found, 61
I pes, Lucio, do me this kind service.

This day iny sister should the cloister enter,
And there receive her approbation :

40

50

Claud. “I pr'ythee, Lucio, do me this kind service.”

grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life,
who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a
game of tick-tack. [’ll to her.

Claud. I thank you, good friend Lucio.

Lucio. Within two hours,— .

Claud. Come, officer; away ! [Exeunt.

 

ScENE IV.—A Monastery.

Enter DUKE and Friar THOMAS.

Duke. No, holy father; throw away that thought:
Believe not that the dribbling dart of love
Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee
To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose
More grave and wrinkled, than the aims and ends
Of burning youth. :

Fri. May your grace speak of it?

Duke, My holy sir, none better knows than you
How I have ever lov’d the life remov’d,
And held in idle price to haunt assemblies,
Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery
I have deliver’d to Lord Angelo
(A man of stricture and firm abstinence)
My absolute power and place here in Vienna,
And he supposes me travell'd to Poland ;
For so Lhave strew'd it in the common ear,
And so it is receiv’d. Now, pious sir,
You will demand of me, why I do this?

Fri, Gladly, my lord. 3

Duke. We have strict statutes, and most biting laws,
(The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds)
Which for this fourteen years we have let sleep;
Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave,
That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,
Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,
Only to stick it in their children’s sight

keeps. 10

 

 

 
 

ScENE V.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

‘657

 

 

For terror, not to use, in time the rod

Becomes more mock’d than fear'd ; so our decrees,
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead,

And liberty plucks justice by the nose ;

The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart 30 |

Goes all decorum.

Fri. _ _, .It rested in your grace
To unloose this tied-up justice, when you pleas’d;
And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d,
Than in Lord Angelo.

Duke. “ And to behold bis sway,
I will, as ’t were a brother of your order,
Visit both prince and people.”

Duke. I do fear, too dreadful:

Sith ’t was my fault to give the people scope,

*T would be my tyranny to strike and gall them

For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done,

When evil deeds have their permissive pass,

And nob. is punishment. Therefore, indeed, my

ather,

Thave on ‘Angelo impos’d the office, 40

Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

And yet my nature never in the fight,

To doit slander. And to behold his sway,

I will, as ’t were a brother of your order,

Visit both prince and people: therefore, I pr’ythee,

Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

How I may formally in person bear me F

Like a true friar. More reasons for this action,

At our more leisure shall I render you ;

Only, this one :—Lord Angelo is precise ; 50

Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

That his blood flows, or that his appetite

Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,

If power change purpose, what our seemers be.
[Exeunt.

 

Scene V.—A Nunnery.

Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA,
Isab. And have you nuns no further privileges?
Fran. Are not these large enough?
Isab. Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more,
But rather wishing a more strict restraint
Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.
Lucio. [Within.] Ho! Peace be in this place !
Isab. Who’s that which calls?
Fran. It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella,
Turn you the key, and know his business of him:
You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn.
en you have vow'd, you must not speak with men,
But in the presence of the prioress: 11
Then, if you speak, you must not show your face,
Or, if you show aus face, you must not speak. .
e calls again: I pray you, answer him. [Exit.

 

 

Isab. Peace and prosperity: Who is’t that calls?

Enter Lucto.
Lucio. Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses
Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me,
As bring me to the sight of Isabella,
A novice of this place, and the fair sister
To her Hap y rother Claudio? 20
Isab. Why her unhappy brother? let me ask,
The rather, for I now must make you know
Iam that Isabella, and his sister.
Lucio, Gentle and fair, your brother kindly
greets you. 7
Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison.
Isab, Woe me! for what?
Lucio. per that, which, if myself might be his
juage,
He should receive his punishment in thanks:
He hath got his friend with child.
Jsab, Sir, make me not your story.
Lucio. It is true. 30
I would not, though ‘tis my familiar sin
With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest,
vengre far from heart, play with all virgins so:
_ [hold you as a thing ensky’d, and sainted
- By your renouncement, an immortal spirit,
And to be talk’d with in sincerity,
As with a saint.
Isab. You do blaspheme the good in mocking

me.
Lucio. Do not believeit. Fewness and truth, ’tis
ase

Se
Your brother and his lover have embrac’d: 40
As those that feed grow full; as blossoming time,
That from the seedness the bare fallow brings
To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb
Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.
‘sab. Some one with child by him?—My cousin
Juliet ?
Lucio. Is she your cousin ?
Isab. Adoptedly ;asschool-maids change theirnames
By vain, though apt, affection.
i She it is.

Lucio.
Isab. O! let him marry her.
Lucio. This is the point.
The duke is very strangely gone from hence,
Bore many Sonata, myself being one,
In hand, and hope of action ; but we do learn,
By those that know the very nerves of state,
His givings-out were of an infinite distance
From his true-meant design. Upon his place,
And with full line of his authority,
Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood
Is very snow-broth ; one who never feels
The wanton stings and motions of the sense,
But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge 60
With profits of the mind, study and fast.
He (to give fear to use and liberty,
Which have, for long, run by the hideous law,
‘As mice by lions) hath pick’d out an act,
Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life
Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it,
And follows close the rigour of the statute,
To make him an example. All hope is gone,
Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer
To soften Angelo; and that’s my pith of business 70
*Twixt you and your poor brother.
Isab. Doth he so seek his life?
Lucio. Has censur’d him
Already ; and, as I hear, the provost hath
A warrant for his execution. .
Isab. Alas! what poor ability ’s in me
To do him good?
Lucio. Assay the power you have.
Isab. My power, alas! I doubt,—
Lucio. Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,
And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, 80
Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,
All their petitions are as freely theirs
As they themselves would owe them.

 

et

 
 

 

658

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[Acr u. |

 

Isab. I’ll see what I can do.

Lucio.

Isab. I will about it straight,
No longer staying but to give the mother
Notice of my atfair. I humbly thank you:

But speedily.

Commend me to my brother; soon at night
I'll send him certain word of my success. .

Lnucio, I take my leave of you.

| Isab. Good sir, adieu. 90

Exeunt,

 

ACT II.
ScENE I.—A Hall in Angelo’s House.
Enter ANGELO, Escauus, a Justice, Provost, Officers, and other Attendants.

- Angelo.
4E must not make a scarecrow of the law,
Wid” Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,
; And let it keep one shape, till custom
make it
Their perch, and not their terror.

  

aes A Escal. Ay, but yet
SORINS Let us be keen, and rather cut a little,
~h “” Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas!

y this gentleman,
Whom I would save, had a most noble father.
Let but your honour know
(Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue),
That, in the working of your own affections, P
Had time coher’d with place, or place with wishing,
Or that the resolute acting of your blood
Could have attain’d the effect of your own purpose,
Whether you had not, sometime in your life,
Err’d in this point, which now you censure him,
And pull’d the law upon you.
Ang. ’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,
Amathes thing to fall. I not deny,
The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life,
May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two 20
Guiltier than him they try; what’s open made to
justice,
That justice seizes : what know the laws,
That thieves do pass on thieves? “Tis very pregnant,
The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it,
Because we see it ; but what we do not see,
We tread upon, and never think of it.
You may not so extenuate his offence
For I have had such faults ; but rather tell me,
When I, that censure him, do so offend,
Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,
And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.
FEscal. Be it as your wisdom will.
Ang. Where is the provost ?
Prov. Here, if it like your honour.
Ang. See that Claudio
Be executed by nine to-morrow morning.
Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar’d ;
For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage.
[Exit Provost.
Escal. Well, Heaven forgive him, and forgive usall!
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:
Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none,
And some condemned for a fault alone.

Enter ELBow and Officers, with FRoTH and Clown.

Elb. Come, bring them away. If these be good
people in a commonweal, that do nothing but use their
abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them
away. ,

Ang. How now, sir! What’s your name, and what’s
the matter?

Elb. If it please your honour, I am the poor duke’s
constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon

10

30

justice, sir; and do bring in here before your good
onour two notorious benefactors.

Ang. Benefactors! Well; what benefactors are
they? are they not malefactors?

4b. If it please your honour, I know not well what
they are; but precise villains they are, that 1 am sure
of, and void of all profanation in the world, that good
Christians ought to have.

Escal. This comes off well: here’s a wise officer.

Ang. Go to: what quality are they of? Elbow is
your name: why dost thou not speak, Elbow?

Clo. He cannot, sir: he’s out at elbow.

Ang. What are you, sir?

Elb. He, sir? a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that
serves a bad woman, whose house, sir. was, as they say,
pluck’d down in the suburbs; and now she professes
a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too.

Escal. How know you that?

Elb. My wife, sir, whom I detest before Heaven and
your honour, —

fscal. How! thy wife?

Eilb. Ay, sir; whom, I thank Heaven, is an honest
woman,— 71

Escal. Dost thou detest her therefore?

Elb. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as
she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s house, it is
pity of her life, for it is a naughty house.

fiscal. How dost thou know that, constable?

lb. Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a
woman cardinally given, might have been accused in
fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there.

Escal. By the woman’s means?

Elb. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means ; but as
she spit in his face, so she defied him.

Clo. Sir, if it please your honour, this is ‘not so.

Elb. Prove it before these varlets here, thou honour-
able man, prove it.

Escal. { ‘0 ANGELO.] Do you hear how he misplaces?

Clo. Sir, she came in great with child, and longing
(saving your honour’s reverence) for stew’d prunes.
Sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very
distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish
of some three-pence: your honours have seen such
dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good
dishes. 93

Escal. Go to, go to: no matter for the dish, sir. |

Clo. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in
the right; but to the point. As I say, this Mistress
Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-
bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes, and having
but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this
very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, a8
I say, paying for them very honestly ;—for, a8 you
know, Master Froth, I could not give you three-pence
again. ; 103

Froth. No, indeed.

Clo. Very well: you being then, if you be remem-

_ ber’d, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,—_.

 

 

 
 

Scene I]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

659

 

 

Froth. Ay, so I did, indeed. '

Clo. Why, very well: I telling you then, if you be
remember’d, that such a one, and such a one, were
past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept
wer good diet, as I told you,— 111

oth. All this is true.

Clo, Why, very well then,—

Escal, Come ; you are a tedious fool: to the purpose.
—What was done to Elbow’s wife, that he hath cause
i complain of? Come me to what was done to

er.

Clo. Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.

Escal. No, sir, nor I mean it not.

Clo. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s
leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth
here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year, whose
father died at Hallowmas.—Was’t not at Hallowmas,
Master Froth?

Froth. All-Hallownd eve.

_Clo. Why, very well: I hope here be truths. He,
sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir ;—’t was in
the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have a
delight to sit; have you not?

Froth. I have so, because it is an open room, and
good for winter. .

Clo. Why, very well then: I hope here be truths,

Ang. This will last out a night in Russia,

When nights are longest there. I’ll take my leave,
And leave you to the hearing of the cause,
Hoping you ll find good cause to whip them all.

scal. I think no Jess. Good morrow to your lord-
ship. [Exit ANGELO.] Now, sir, come on: what was
done to Elbow’s wife, once more?

Clo. Once, sir? there was nothing done to her once.

Elb. L beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did
to my wife. 142

Clo. I beseech your honour, ask me.

Escal. Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her?

Clo.. 1 beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s face.
—Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; ’tis for a
good purpose. Doth your honour mark his face?

Escal. Ay, sir, very well.

Clo. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well.

Escal. Well, I do so. 150

Clo. Doth your honour see any harm in his face?

Escal. Why, no.

Clo. I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the
worst thing about him. Good then; if his face be the
worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do
the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of
your honour. .

Escal. He’s in the right. Constable, what say you

0 it?

lb, First, an it like you, the house is a respected
house; next, this isa respected fellow, and his mistress
is a respected woman.

Clo. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected
person than any of us all.

Elb. Variet, thou liest: thou liest, wicked varlet.
The time is yet to come that she was ever respected
with man, woman, or child.

Clo, Sir, she was respected with him, before he
married with her.

Escal. Which is the wiser here? Justice, or
gay 2LIs this true ? 171

b._O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked
Hannibal! I i se with her, before I was married
to her?If ever I was respected with her, or she with
me, let not your worship think me the poor duke’s
Officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I'll have
mine action of battery on thee.

Escal. If he took you_a box o’ th’ ear, you might

have your action of slander too.
_ Hlb. Marry, I thank your pond. worship for it. What
is’t your worship’s pleasure
caitiff?
_ Escal. Truly, officer, because he hath some offences
in him, that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let
him continue in his courses, till thou know’st what
they are.

lb, Marry, I thank-your worship for it.—Thou
seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what’s come upon

shall do with this eet

 

thee: thou art to continue; now, thou varlet, thou
art to continue. 190

Escal. Where were you born, friend ?

Froth. Here in Vienna, sir.

£Escal. Are you of fourscore pounds a year ?

Froth. Yes, an’t please you, sir.

Escal. So.—What trade are you of, sir?

Clo. A tapster ; a poor widow's tapster.

£scal. Your mistress’ name ?

Clo. Mistress Overdone.

£scal. Hath she had any more than one husband?

Clo. Nine, sir; Overdone by the last.

Escal. Nine!—Come hither to me, Master Froth.
Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with
tapsters ; they will draw you, Master Froth, and you
will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no
more of you. .

Froth. I thank your worship. For mine own part,
I never come into any room in a taphouse, but J am
drawn in,

Escal. Well: no more of it, Master Froth: farewell.
[Exit Frotu.J]—Come you hither to me, master tap-
ster. What’s your name, master tapster? 211

Clo. Pompey.

Escal. What else?

Clo. Bum, sir. ' :

Escal. ’Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing
about you, so that, in the beastliest sense, you are
Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd,
Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster.
Are you not? come, tell me true: it shall be the better
for you. 220

Clo. Truly, sir, 1am a poor fellow that would live.

Escal. How would you live, Pompey? by being a
bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? is
it a lawful trade?

Clo. If the law would allow it, sir.

£scal. But the law will not allow it, Pompey ; nor
it shall not be allowed in Vienna.

Clo. Does your worship mean to geld and splay all
the youth of the city.

Escal. No, Pompey. 230

Clo. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to’t
then. If your worship will take order for the drabs
and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.

Escal. There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell
you: it is but heading and hanging.

Clo. If you head and hang all that offend that way
but for ten year together, you’ll be glad to give out
a commission for more heads. If this law hold in
‘Vienna ten year,.I’ll rent the fairest house in it after
three-pence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass,
say, Pompey told you so. 241

fiscal. Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital
of your prophecy, hark you :—I advise you, let me not
find you before me again upon any complaint what-
soever ; no, not for dwelling where you do: if I do,
Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a
shrewd Cesar to you. In plain dealing, Pompey, I
shall have you whipt. So, for this time, Pompey, tare
you well. :

Clo. I thank your worship for your good counsel;
[aside] but I shall follow it, as the flesh and fortune
shall better determine. net 252

hip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade ;
The valiant heart’s not whipt out of his trade. i
rt.

Escal. Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come
hither, master constable. How long have you been in
this place of constable ? .

Elv. Seven year and a half, sir.

‘Escal. I thought, by the readiness in the office, you
had continued in it some time. You say, seven years
together? : 261

lb. And a half, sir. :

Escal. Alas! it hath been great pains to you. They
do you wrong to et you so oft upon ’t. Are there not
men in your ward sufficient to serve it?

Elb. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters. As
they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them:
I do it for some piece of money, and go through with
all.

 

 
 

 

660 MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

fAct I.

 

Escal. Look you bring me in the names of some six
or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. 271

Elb. To your worship’s house, sir? M

Escal. To my house. Fare you well. [Exit ELBow.
What’s o’clock, think you?

Just. Eleven, sir. ;

as ee ao home to dinner with me.

Just. um ank you.

Escal. It eriehee me for the death of Claudio ;
But iy i) po remem

. Lor elo is severe.

meee: , = It is but needful: 280
Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so ;
Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.
But yet, poor Claudio !—There is no remedy.

Come, sir. [Exeunt.

 

ScEeNE II.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter Provost, and a Servant.

Serv. He's hearing of a cause: he will come straight.
I’ll tell him of you. ; :

Prov. Pray pea, do. [Exit Servant.] I'll know
His pleasure ; may be, he will relent. Alas!

He hath but as offended in a dream :
‘All sects, all ages smack of this vice, and he
To die for it !—

Enter ANGELO,

Ang. Now, what’s the matter, provost ?

Prov. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow ?

Ang. Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not order?
Why dost thou ask again ?

Prov. Lest I might be too rash.
Under your good correction, I have seen, 10
When, after execution, judgment hath
Repented o’er his doom. .

Ang. Go to; let that be mine:
Do you your office, or give up your place,

And you shall well be spar'd.

Prov. I crave your honour’s pardon.
What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet ?
She’s very near her hour,

Ang. Dispose of her
To some more fitter place, and that with speed.

Re-enter Servant.
Serv. Here is the sister of the man condemn ’‘d,
Desires access to you.
Hath he a sister?

Ang.

Prov. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, 20
And to be shorily of a sisterhood,
If not already.

aing. Well, let her be admitted. [Hxit Servant.
See you the fornicatress be remov’d:
Let her have needful, but not lavish, means;
There shall be order for’t.

Enter Lucio and ISABELLA.
Prov. God save your honour!
Ang. Stay a little while._[To IsaB.] You’re wel-
come: what’s your will?
Isab. Tam a woful suitor to your honour,
Please but your honour hear me.
Ang. Well; what’s your suit ?
Isab. There is a vice, that most I do abhor,
And most desire should meet the blow of justice, 30
For which I would not plead, but that I must ;
For which I must not plead, but that Iam
At war ’twixt will and will not.
Well; the matter?

Ang.
Isab. I have a brother is condemn’d to die:
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,
And not my brother.
Prov. [Aside.] Heaven give thee moving graces!
Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?
Why, every fault ’s condemn’d ere it be done.
Mine were the very cipher of a function,
To fine the faults, whose fine stands in record, 40
And let go by the actor.
Isab. O just, but severe law!
Thad a brother then.—Heaven keep your honour !

 

Lucio. [To Isau.] Give’t not o’er so: to him again,
entreat him ;
Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown;
You are too cold: if you should need a pin,
You could not with more tame a tongue desire it.
To him, I say!
Isab. Must he needs die?
are: 7 Maiden, no remedy.
Isab. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,
And neither Heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy, 50
Ang. I will not do’t.
Isab. But can you, if you would?
Ang. Look; what I will not, that I cannot do.
Isab. But might you do’t, and do the world no

wrong,
If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse
As mine is to him?
Ang. He’s sentenc’d: ’t is too late.
Lucio. [To IsaB.] You are too cold.
Isab. Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word,
May call it back again. Well, believe this,
No ceremony that to great ones ‘longs,
Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword, 60
The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe,
Become them with one half so good a grace
As mercy does.
If he had been as you, and you as he,
You would have slipp'd like him ; but he, like you,
Would not have been so stern.
ng Pray you, be gone.
Isab. I would to Heaven I had your potency,
And you were Isabel! should it then be thus?
No; I would tell what ’t were to be a judge,
And what a prisoner.
Lucio. [To IsaB.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein. 70
Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste your words.
Isab. ‘ Alas! alas!
Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once;
And He that might the vantage best have took,
Found out the remedy. How would‘you be,
If.He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as youare? O, think on that,
And mercy then will breathe within your lips
Like man new-made!
arte Be you content, fair maid,
It is the law, not I, condemns your brother:
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,
It should be thus with him : he must die to-morrow.
Isab. To-morrow? O, that’s sudden! Spare him,
spare him!
He’s not prepar’d for death. Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve Heaven
With less respect than we do minister :
To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink

you:
Who is it that hath died for this offence?
There’s many have committed it.
Lucio, {To IsaB.] Ay, well said.
Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it ae

slept:

Those many had not dar’d to do that evil,

If the first, that did the edict infringe,

Had answer’d for his deed : now,’t is awake,

Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet,

Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils,

Either new, or by remissness new-conceiv’d,

And so in progress to be hatch’d and born,

Are now to have no successive degrees,

But, ere they live, to end. :
Isab. Yet show some pity.
‘Ang. I show it most of all, when I show justice ; 100

For then I pity those I do not know,

Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall,

And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,

Lives not to act another. Be satisfied:

Your brother dies to-morrow : be content. 7
Zsab. So you must be the first that gives this seh-

ence,
And he that suffers. O! it is excellent
To havea pone strength, but it is tyrannous

To use it like a giant.

 

 

 
 

 

Scene II.)

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 661

 

Lucio. [To IsaB.] That’s well said.

Isab. Could great men thunder
As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,
For every pelting, petty ofticer

As make the angels weep; who, wit.

o

 

His glassy essence,—like an angry ape, 120
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven,
our spleens,

Would all themselves laugh mortal.

Isab. “To-morrow? O, that’s sudden! Spare bim, spare him!”

Would a his heaven for thunder ; nothing but thun-

er.—
Merciful Heaven!
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Splitt’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak,

an the soft myrtle; but man, proud man!
Drest in a little brief authority,

ost ignorant of what he’s most assur’d,

Lucio. [To IsaB.] O, to him, to him, wench! He
will relent:
He’s coming ; I perceive’t.
Prov. (Aside.] _Pray Heaven, she win him!
Jsab. £ cannot weigh our brother with our-
self:
Great men may jest with saints: ’t is wit in them,
But in the less foul vrofanation.

 

 

 
 

 

662

Lucio. Le IsaB.] Thou’rt in the right, girl: more
o’ tha

Isab, That in the captain's but.a choleric word, 130
Which in the soldier is flat. blasphemy. \
Lucio. [To IsaB.] Art avis’d o’ that? more on't.
«ing. Why do you put these sayings upon me?
Isab. Because authority, though it err like others,
Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,
That skins the vice o’ the top. Go to your bosom;
Knock there, and ask your heart, what it doth know
That’s like my brother's fault : if it confess
A natural guiltiness, such as is his,
Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue 140
Against my brother's life. i
Ang. [Aside.] She speaks, and’tis
Such sense, jah my sense breeds with it. Fare you
well, .
Isab. Gentle eh lord, turnback.
Ang. I will bethink me.—Come again to-morrow.
Isab. Hark, how I'll bribe you. Good my lord, turn
back.
Ang. How, bribe me?
Isab. Ay, with such gifts, that Heaven shall share
with you.
Lucio. [To IsaB.] You had marr’d all else.
Isab. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,
Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor
As fancy values them; but with true prayers,
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there
Ere sunrise : prayers from preserved souls,
From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate
To nothing temporal.

150

Ang. Well; come to me to-morrow.
Lucio. [To IsaB.] Go to; ’tis well: away!
Isab. Heaven keep your honour sate!
Ang. [Aside.]
For I am that way going to temptation,
‘Where prayers cross.

Amen:

Isab. At what hour to-morrow
Shall I attend your lordship?

Ang. At any time ‘fore noon. 160

fsab. ’Save your honour!

[Ezeunt Lucio, ISABELLA, and Provost.

Ang. From thee; even from thy virtue !—
What’s this? what’s this? Is this her fault, or mine?
pe tempter, or the tempted, who sins most?

a

Not she, nor doth she tempt; but it is I,

That, lying by the violet in the sun

Do, as the carrion does, not as the flower,

Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be,

That modesty may more betray our sense 170

Than spscet es lightness? Having waste ground

enough,

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,

And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!

What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?

Dost thou desire her foully for those things

That make her good? O, let her brother live!

Thieves for their robbery have authority,

When judges steal themselves. What! do I love her,

That I desire to hear her speak again,

And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on? 180

O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,

With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous

Is that temptation, that doth goad us on

‘To sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpet,

With all her double vigour, art and nature,

Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid

Subdues me quite.—Ever, till now,

When men were fond, I smil’d, and wonder’d poe i.
ait,

Scenxr III.—A Room in a Prison.

Enter DukE, disguised as a Friar, and Provost.
Duke. Hail to you, provost; so I think you are.
Prov. q am * provost. What’s your will, good
riar
Duke. Bound by my charity, and my bless’d order,
I come to visit the afflicted spirits

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

 

[Acr I.

Here in the prison: do me the common right
To let me see them, and to make me know
The nature of their crimes, that I may minister
‘To them accordingly. ~

Prov. I would do more than that, if more were

needful.
Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine, 10
Who, falling in the flames of her own youth,
Hath blister’d her report. She is with child,
And he that got it, sentenc’d—a young man
More fit to do another such offence,
Than die for this,
Enter JULIET.

Duke. When must he die?

Prov. As I do think, to-morrow.—
[Yo JULIET.] T have provided for you: stay awhile,
And you shall be conducted.

Duke. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?

Juliet. I do, and bear the shame most patiently. 20

Duke. I'll teach you how you shall arraign your

conscience,
And try your penitence, if it be sound,
Or hollowly put on. ,

Juliet. I'll gladly learn.

Duke. Love you the man that wrong’d you?

Juliet. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong’d him.

Duke. So then, it seems, your most offenceful act
Was mutually committed ?

Juliet. Mutually.

Duke. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his,

Juliet. I do confess it, and repent it, father.

Duke. 'T is meet so, daughter : but lest you do repent,
As that the sin hath brought you to this shame; 31
Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not Heaven,
Showing, we would not spare Heaven as we love it,
But as we stand in fear-

Juliet. I do repent me, as it is an evil,

And take the shame with joy.
Duke. There rest.
Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,
And I am going with instruction to him.
Grace go with you! Benedicite! (Exit.

Juliet. Must die to-morrow! O, injurious love, 40
That respites me a life, whose very comfort
Is still a dying horror!

Prov. [Exeunt.

?T is pity of him.

ScEeNE IV.—A Room in ANGELO’s House.

Enter ANGELO.

Ang. When I would pray and think, I think and pray
To several subjects: Heaven hath my empty words,
Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,
Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth
As if I did but orc hisname, __
And in my heart the strong and swellin,
Of my conception. The state, whereon
Is like a good thing, being oftenread,
Grown sear’d and tedious; yea, my gravity,
Wherein (let no man hear me) I take pride, 10
Could I, with boot, change for an idle plume,
Which the air beats for vain. O place! O form!
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls
To thy false seeming !— Blood, thou art blood:

Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn,
’T is not the devil’s crest.

evil
studied,

Enter a Servant.
How now! who’s there?

Serv. One Isabel, a sister,
Desires access to you. 2 :
Ang. Teach her the way. [Exit Servant,

O heavens!
Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,
Making both it unable for itself,

And dispossessing all my other parts

Of necessary fitness?

So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons;

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

663

 

Come all to help him, and so stop the air

Be which he should revive: and even so

The general, subject to a well-wish’d king,

Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness
Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love 30
Must needs appear offence.

Enter ISABELLA.
How now, fair maid?

Isab. Jam come to know your pleasure.
Ang. That you might know it, onl much better

please me,
Than to ene what ‘tis. Your brother cannot
live.
Isab. Even so.—Heaven keep your honour!

: [Retiring.

Ang. Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be,

As long as you, or I: yet he must die.

Isab. Under your sentence ?

Ang. Yea.

Isab. When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve, 40
Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted,

That his soul sicken not.

Ang. Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good
To pardon him, that hath from nature stolen
A man already made, as to remit
Their saucy sweetness, that do coin Heaven's image
In stamps that are forbid: ’t is all as easy
Falsely to take away a life true made,

As to put metal in restrained means,

To make a false one. 50
Isab. ’T is set down so in heaven, but not in earth.
Ang. Say you so? then, I shall pose you quickly.

Which had you rather, that the most just law

Now took your brother’s life, or, to redeem him,

Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness

As she that he hath stain’d?

Isab. Sir, believe this,

Thad rather give my body than my soul.

Ang. I talk not of your soul. Our compell’d sins
Stand more for number than for ae

Isab. ow say you?

Ang. Nay, I'll not warrant that; for I can speak 60
Against the thing I say. Answer to this :—

I, now the voice of the recorded law,

Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life:

Might there not be a charity in sin,

To save this brother’s life ?

Isab. Please you to do’t,

T'll take it asa pert to my soul:

It is no sin at all, but charity.

Ang. Pleas’d you to do’t, at peril of your soul,
Were equal poise of sin and charity.

Isab. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, 70
Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit,

If that be sin, I’ll make it my morn-prayer

To have it added to the faults of mine,

And nothing of your answer.

Ang. Nay, but hear me.
Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant,
Or seem so, craftily ; and that’s not good.

Zsab. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good,

But graciously to know I am no better.

Ang. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright,
When it doth tax itself : as these black masks 0
Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder
Than beauty could, display’d.—But mark me ;

To be received plain, I'll speak more gross :

Your brother is to die.

Isab. So.

Ang. And his offence is so, as it appears
Accountant to the law upon that pain.

Isab, True.

Ang. Admit no other way to save his life,

(As I subscribe not that, nor any other, 90

But in the loss of question) that you, his sister,

Finding yourself desir’d of such a person,

Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,

Could fetch your brother from the manacles

Of the all-building law, and that there were

No earthly mean to save him, but that either

You must lay down the treasures of your body

a

 

 

 

To this suppos’d, or else to let him suffer,
What would you do?
Isab. As much for my poor brother, as myself: -100
That is, were I under the terms of death,
The impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies,
And strip myself to death, as to a bed :
That longing have been sick for, ere I’d yield
My body up to shame. .

 

Ang. “ He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.”

ging. Then must your brother die.
Isab. And ’t were the cheaper way.
Better it were, a brother died at once,
Than that a sister, by redeeming him,
Should die for ever.
Ang. Were not you then as cruel as the sentence
That you have slander’d so? 111
Isab. Ignomy in ransom, and free pardon,
Are of two houses : lawful mercy
Is nothing kin to foul redemption.
Ang. Youseem’d of late to make the law a tyrant;
And rather prov’d the sliding of your brother
A merriment, than a vice.
Isab. O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,
To have what we would have, we speak not what we
mean.
I something do excuse the thing I hate, 120
For his advantage that I dearly love.
Ang. We are all frail.
Isab. Else let my brother die,
If not a fedary, but only he,
Owe and succeed thy weakness.
Ang. Nay, women are frail too.
Isao. AY as the glasses where they view them-
selves,
Which are as easy broke as they make forms.
Women !—Help Heaven! men their creation mar
In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail,
For we are soft as our complexions are, 130
And credulous to false prints.
I think it well;

ng.
And Baa this testimony of your own sex,
(Since, I suppose, we are made to be no stronger,
Than faults may shake our frames) let me be bold:
I do arrest your words. Be that you are,

 
 

664

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

fAcr IIL

 

 

That is, a woman ; if you be more, you re none;
If you be one (as you are well express’d
By all external warrants), show it now,
By putting on the destin’d livery.
Isab. I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord, 140
Let me entreat you speak the former language.
Ang. Plainly conceive, I love you.
Isab. My brother did love Juliet ; and you tell me,
That he shall die for ’t.
Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.
Isab. I know, your virtue hath a license in’t,
Which seems a little fouler than it is,
To pluck on others.
Ang. Believe me, on mine honour,
My words express my purpose. U
Taau. Ha! little honour to be much believ’d, —-150
And most pernicious purpose !—Seeming, seeming !—
I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look fort:
Sign me a present pardon for my brother,
Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world
Aloud what man thou art.
Ang. Who will believe thee, Isabel?
My unsoil’d name, the austereness of ny life,
My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state,
Will so your accusation overweigh,
That you shall stifle in your own report,
And smell of calumny, I have begun, 160
And now I give my sensual race the rein:

| Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite ;

Lay by all nicety, and prolixious blushes,
That banish what they sue for ; redeem thy brother
By yielding up thy body to my will,
Or else he must not only die the death,
But thy unkindness shall his death draw out
To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,
Or, by the affection that now guides me most,
I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,
Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

Exit,

Isab. To whom should I complain? Did I tell this,
Who would believe me? O pertlous mouths!
That bear in them one and the selfsame tongue,
Either of condemnation or approof,
Bidding the law make court'sy to their will,
Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite,
To follow as it draws. I’ll to my brother:
Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,
Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour,
That, had he twenty heads to tender down
On twenty bloody blocks, he ’d yield them up,
Before his sister should her body stoop
To such abhorr’d pollution.
Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:
More than our brother is our chastity. |
I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request,
' And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. [Erit,

170

” 180

 

 

 

ACT

Ifl.

ScENE I.—A Room in the Prison.

   

d Duke,
vu, then you hore of pardon from Lord
Angelo?

€
Claud. The miserable have no other
medicine,
But only hope.
I have me to live, and am prepar’d to
e.

1€.
Duke. Be absolute for death; either

death, or life,

Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason
thus with life :—

If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

That none but fools would keep; a
breath thou art,

Servile to all the skyey influences,

That do this habitation, where thou
keep’st, 10

Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art death’s fool;

For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun,

And yet yw aee toward him still. Thou art not
noble ;

For all the accommodations that thou bear’st :

Are nurs’d by baseness. Thou art by no means
valiant ;

For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

And that thou oft provok’st ; yet grossly fear’st

Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains 20

That issue out of dust. appy thou art not;

For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get,

And what thou hast, forgett’st. Thou art not certain;

For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,

Enter DUKE, as a Friar, CLAUDIO, and Provost.

After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,

Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey,

And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;
For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,

The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth, nor

age,
But, as it were, an after-dinner’s ee
Dreaming on both ; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms :
Of palsied eld : and when thou art old and rich,
Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this,
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths, yet death we fear, 40
That makes these odds all even.
Claud, I humbly thank you.
To sue to live, I find I seek to die,
And, seeking death, find life : let it come on.
Isab. [Without.] What, ho! Peace here; grace and
Sood company !
Prov. Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves &
welcome.
Duke. Dear sir, ere lon
Claud. Most holy sir,

Enter ISABELLA.
Isab. My business is a word or two with Claudio. |
Prov. And very welcome. Look, signior; here’s
your sister.
Duke. Provost, a word with you.
Prov. As many as you please. 50

I'll visit you again.
thank you.

 

 

 
 

 

Scene I.]

Duke. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may
be conceal’d. [Hxeunt DUKE and Provost.
Claud. Now, sister, what's the comfort ? ;
Isab. Why, as all comforts are; most good, most
good, indeed.
Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,
Intends you for his swift ambassador,
Where you shall be an everlasting leiger :
Therefore, your best appointment make with speed;
To-morrow you set on.
Claud. Is there no remedy ?
Isab. None, but such remedy, as to save a head
To cleave a heart in twain.
Claud. But is there any? 60
Isab. Yes, brother, you may live:
There is a devilish mercy in the judge,
If youll implore it, that will free your life,
But fetter you till death.
Claud. Perpetual durance?
Isab. Ay, just; perpetual durance: a restraint,
Though all the world’s vastidity you had,
To a determin’d scope.
Claud. But in what nature ?
Isab. In such a one as, you consenting to ’t,
Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,
And leave you naked.
Claud. Let me know the point. 70
Isab. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,
Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,
And six or seven winters more respect
Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension,
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies. :
Claud. Why give you me this shamc?
Think you I can a resolution fetch
From flowery tenderness? If I must die, 80
I will encounter darkness as a bride,
And hug it in mine arms.
Isab. There spake my brother: there my father’s
grave
Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:
Thou art too noble to conserve a life
In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,
Whose settled visage and deliberate word
Nips youth i’ the head, and follies doth emmew,
As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil ;

His filth within being cast, he would appear 90
A pond as deep as hell. \
laud. The princely Angelo?

Isab. O, ‘tis the cunning livery of hell,

The damned'st body to invest and cover d

In Panedy guards! Dost thou think, Claudio ?—

If I would yield him my virginity,

Thou mightst be freed.
Claud. O heavens! it cannot be.
Isab. Yes, he would give it thee, from this rank

offence,
So to offend him still. This night’s the time
That I should do what I abhor to name,
Or else thou diest to-morrow.
Claud. Thou shalt not do ’t. 100
Isab. O! were it but my life,
I’d throw it down for your deliverance
As frankly as a pin.
laud. Thanks, dear Isabel.
Isab. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.
Claud. Yes. Has he atfections in him,
That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,
When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin;
Or of the deadly seven it is the least.
Isab. Which is the least ?

Claud. If it were damnable, he, being so wise, 110
Why would he for the momentary trick
Be perdurably fin’d ?—O Isabel !
Isab. What says my brother? :
Claud. Death is a fearful thing.

Jsab. And shamed life a hateful.

Claud. Ay, but to die, and _go we know not where ;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become

MEASURE FOR MEASURE. /

 

665

A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit}
'Lo bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice ;
‘To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendant world ; or to be worse than worst
Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling !—’t is too horrible.

The weariest and most loathed worldly life,

120

N\ N

 

 

 

Isab. “I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,
No word to save thee.”

That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.

Isab. Alas! alas!

Claud. Sweet sister, let me live.
What sin you do to save a brother's lite,
Nature dispenses with the deed so far,

That it becomes a virtue.

Isab. O you beast!

O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?

Is't not a kind of incest, to take life

From thine own sister's shame? What should I
think ?

Heaven shield, my mother play’d my father fair ;

For such a warped slip of wilderness

Neer issu’d from his blood. Take my defiance:

Die; perish! Might but my bending down

Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.

I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,

No word to save thee.

Claud. Nay, hear me, Isabel.

Isab. O, fie, fie, fie!
Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:
"lis best that thou diest quickly.

Claud.

130

140

[Going.
O hear me, Isabeiia !

Re-enter Dur.

Duke. Vouchsafe a word, young sister; but one
word. 150
Isab,. What is your will?
Duke. Might you dispense with your leisure, I
would by-and-by have some speech with you: the

 
 

 

666

satisfaction I would require, is likewise your own
benetit.

Isab. I have no superfluous leisure: my stay must
be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you
awhile. 158

Duke. [Aside to CLAUDIO.] Son, I have overheard
what hath passed between you and your sister.
Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only
ne hath made an assay of her virtue, to practise
his judgment with the disposition of natures. She,
having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that

racious denial which he is most glad to receive:
f am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be
true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do not
satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible :
to-morrow you must die. Go; to your knees, and
make ready. 170

Claud. Det me ask my sister pardon. I am so out
of love with life, that I will sue to be rid of it.

Duke. Hold you there: farewell. [Exit CLAUDIO.

Re-enter Provost.
Provost, a word with you.

Prov. What's your will, father ?

Duke. That now you are come, you will be gone.
Leave me awhile with the maid: my mind promises
with my habit, no loss shall touch her by my company.

Prov. In good time. : rut,

Duke. The hand that hath made you fair hath
made you good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty
makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being
the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body
of it ever fair. The assault, that Angelo hath made
to yous fortune hath convey'd to my understanding ;
and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I
should wonderat Angelo. How will you do tocontent
this substitute, and to save your brother? 1

Jsab. Tam now going toresolve him. I had rather
my brother die by the law, than my son should be
unlawfully born. But O, how much is the good duke
deceived in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can
speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover
his government.

Duke. That shall not be much amiss; yet, as the
matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation:
he made trial of you only.—Therefore, fasten your ear
on my advisings: to the love I have in doing good
a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe,
that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged
lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the
any law, do no stain to your own gracious person,
and much please the absent duke, if, peradventure,
he shall ever return to have hearing of this business.

Isab. Let me hear you speak further. I have spirit
to do anything that appears not foul in the truth
of my spirit.

Duke. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister
of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at
sea? 211

Isab. I have heard of the lady, and good words
went with her name.

Duke. She should this Angelo have married; was
affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed :
between which time of the contract, and limit of the
solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea,
having in that perish’d vessel the dowry of his sister.
But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentle-
woman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother,
in his love toward her ever most kind and natural ;
with him the portion and sinew of her fortune, her
marriage-dowry ; with both, her combinate husband,
this well-seeming Angelo.

Isab. Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her?

Duke, Left her in her tears, and dried not one of
them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole,
pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: in few,
oestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet
wears for his sake, and he, a marble to her tears,
is washed with them, but relents not. 231

Isab. What a merit were it in death to take this

poor maid from the world! What corruption in this

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

 

[Act IIL.

life, that it will let this man live !—But how out of
this can she avail?

Duke, It is a rupture that you may easily heal; and
the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps
you from dishonour in doing it.

Isab. Show me how, good father. 239

Duke. This fore-named maid hath yet in her the
continuance of her first affection : his unjust unkind-
ness, that in all reason should have quenched her
love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made
it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo:
answer his requiring with a plausible obedience:
agree with his demands to the point; only refer your-
self to this advantage,—first, that your stay with him
may not be long, that the time may have all shadow
and silence in it, and the place answer to convenience,
This being granted in course,—and now follows all,—
we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your
appointment, go in your place; if the encounter
acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him
to her recompense; and here by this is your brother:
saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana.
advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The
maid will I frame, and make fit for his attempt. If
you think well to carry this, as you may, the double-
ness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof,
What think you of it?

Isab. The image of it gives me content already,
and, I trust, it will grow to a most prosperous per-
fection.

Duke. It lies much in your holding up. Haste you
speedily to Angelo: if for this night he entreat you
to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will
presently to Saint Luke’s; there, at the moated
grange, resides this dejected Mariana: at that place
call upon me, and despatch with Angelo, that it may
be quickly. 270

Isab. I thank you for this comfort.
good father.

Fare you well,
zceunt,

ScENE II.—The Street before the Prison.

Enter DuKE, asa Friar ; to him ELBow, Clown,

and Officers.

Elb. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you
will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts,
we shall have all the world drink brown and white
bastard. ;

Duke. O heavens! what stuff is here? 4

Clo. "IT was never merry world, since, of two
usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser
allow’d by order of law a furr’d gown to keep him
warm; and furr’d with fox and lamb-skins too, to
signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands
tor the facing. ll
- lb, Come your way, sir.—’Bless you, good father

riar. :

Duke. And you, good brother father. What offence
hath this man made you, sir? :

Elb. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir,
we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have foun
upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent
to the eee

Duke, Fie, sirrah: a bawd, a wicked bawd! 20
The evil that thou causest to be done, 7
That is thy means to live. Do thou but think
What ’t is to cram a maw, or clothe a back,

From such a filthy vice : say to thyself,

From their abominable and beastly touches

I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.

Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.

Clo. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir ; but yel
sir, I would prove—

Duke. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for.

sin,
Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer ;
Correction and instruction must both work,
Ere this rude beast will profit. Bi
Elb. He must before the deputy, sir; he has given
him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whore

 

 
 

Scene II.)

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

667

 

 

master: if he be a whoremonger, and comes before
him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.
Duke. That we were all, as some would seem to be,
From our faults, as faults from seeming, free ! 10
£ib. His neck will come to your waist,—a cord, sir.
Clo. I spy comfort: I cry, bail. Here’s a gentle-
man, and a friend of mine.

Enter Lucio.

Incio. How now, noble Pompey? What, at the
wheels of Caesar? Art thou led in triumph? What,
is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made
woman, to be had now, for putting the hand in the

ocket and extracting it clutch’d? What reply? Ha?

hat say’st thou to this tune, matter, and method?
Is t not drown’d i’ the last rain? Ha? What say’st
thou, trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is
the way? Is it sad, and few words, or how? The
trick of it? 53

Duke. Still thus, and thus: still worse !

Lucio. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress?
Procures she still? Ha?

Clo. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and
she is herself in the tub.

Lucio. Why, ’tis good; it is the right of it; it must
be so: ever your fresh whore, and your powder’d
bawd: an unshunn’d consequence; it must be so.
. Art going to prison, Pompey? 62

Clo. Yes, faith, sir.

Lucio. Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell.
ae Bays I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey, or

ow

Elb. For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

Lucio. Well, then imprison him. If imprisonment
be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right: bawd is he,
doubtless, andof antiquity too; bawd-born. Farewell,
ot Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey.

ou will turn good husband now, Pompey ; you will
keep the house. ie

Clo, Thope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

Lucio. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey ; it is not the
wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage :
if you take it not patiently, i your mettle is the
more. Adieu, trusty Pompey.— Bless you, friar.

Duke. And you.

Lucio. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey? Ha? 980
, lb. Come your ways, sir; come.

Clo. You will not bail me then, sir?

sl io. Then, Pompey, nor now. — What news
abroad, friar? What news?

lb. Come your ways, sir; come.

io. Go to kennel, Pompey ; go. [Exeunt ELBow,
Clown, and Officers.] What news, friar, of the duke?

Duke. I know none. Can youtellmeofany? |

Lucio. Some say, he is with the emperor of Russia ;
other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, tei

you? 1

Duke. I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish
him well. :

Lucio. It was a mad fantastical trick of him, to
steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was
never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his
absence : he puts transgression to ’t.

Duke. He does well in ’t.

Lucio. A little more lenity to Jechery would do no
harm in him : something too crabbed that way, friar.

Duke. It is too general a vice, and severity must
cure it. - 102

Lucio. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great
kindred: it is well allied; but it is impossible to
extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put
down. They say, this Angelo was not made by man
and woman, after this downright way of creation:
js it true, think you?

Duke. How should he be made, then? 109

Lucio. Some report, a sea-maid spawn’d him ; some,
that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it
is certain, that when he makes water, his urine is
congeal’d ice: that I know to be true; and he is a

Motion generative, that’s infallible.
| Duke. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. |
Lucio. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him,

 

for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of
a man? Would the duke, that is absent, have done
this? Ere he would have hang’d a man for the
getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for
the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the
sport : he knew the service, and that instructed him
to mercy. 123

 

Lucio. “A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.”

Duke. Inever heard the absent duke much detected
for women: he was not inclined that way.

Lucio. O, sir, you are deceived.

Duke. '! is not possible,

Lucio. Who? not the duke? yes, your beggar ov
fifty, and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish.
The duke had crotchets in him: he would be drunk
too; that let me inform you.

Duke. You do him wrong, surely.

Lucio. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow
was the duke; and, I believe, I know the cause of his
withdrawing.

Duke. What, I pr’ythee, might be the cause ?

Lucio. No,—pardon :—’tis a secret must be lock’d
within the teeth and the lips; but this I can let you
understand,—the greater file of the subject held the
duke to be wise. 140

Duke. Wise? why, no question but he was.

4 ny A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing
ellow.

Duke. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking:
the very stream of his life, and the business he hath
helmed, must, upon a warranted need, give him a
better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in
his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the
envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. There-
fore, you speak unskilfully ; or, if your knowledge be
more, it is much darken’d in your malice. 151

Lucio. Sir, I know him, and I love him.

Duke. Love talks with better knowledge, and know-
ledge with dearer love. :

Lucio. Come, sir, I know what I know.

Duke. I can hardly believe that, since you know
not what you speak. But, if ever the duke return
(as our prayers are he may), let me desire you to make
your answer before him: if it be honest you have
spoke, you have courage to maintain it. I am bound
to call upon you; and, I pray you, your name? 161

 

 
 

668

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

 

 

Lucio. Sir, myname is Lucio, well known tothe duke.

Duke. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to |

report you.
ucio. I fear you not.

Duke. O! you hope the duke will return no more,
or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But,
indeed, I can do you little harm: you’ll forswear this
again. |

Lucio. I'll be hang’d first: thou art deceived in me,
friar. Butnomore of this. Canst thou tell, if Claudio
die to-morrow, or no?

Duke. Why should he die, sir? . :

Lucio. Why? for filling a bottle with a tun-dish.
I would, the duke we talk of were return’d again: this
ungenitur’d agent will unpeople the province with
continency ; sparrows must not build in his house-
eaves, because they are lecherous. The duke yet
would have dark deeds darkly answer’d; he would
never bring them to light: would he were return'd!
Marry, this Claudio is condemn’d for untrussing.
Farewell, good friar; I pr’'ythee, pray for me. The
duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays.
He’s now past it; yet, and I say to thee, he would
mouth with a beggar, though she smelt brown bread
and garlic: say, that [said so, Farewell. | [Exit.

Duke. No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure scape : Pen calumny
The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong.
Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?

But who comes here ?

Enter Escatus, Provost, Baw, and Officers.

Escal. Go: away with her to prison !

Bawd. Good my lord, be good to me; your honour
is accounted a merciful man; good my lord.

Escal. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit
in the same kind? This would make mercy swear,
and play the tyrant.

Prov. A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may it
please your honour. 199

Bawd, My lord, this is one Lucio’s information
againstme. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child
by him in the duke’s time: he promised her marriage ;
his child is a year and a quarter old, come Philip and
Jacob; I have kept it myself, and see how he goes
about to abuse me!

Escal. That fellow is a fellow of much license :—let
him be called before us.—Away with her to prison!
Go to; no more words. [Excunt Bawd and Oficers.}
Provost, my brother Angelo will not be alter'’d;
Claudio must die to-morrow. Let him be furnished
with divines, and have all charitable preparation :
if my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so
with him. 213

Prov. So please you, this friar hath been with him,
and advised him for the entertainment of death.

£scal. Good even, good father.

Duke, Bliss and goodness on you.

Fiscal. Of whence are you?

Duke. Not of this country, though my chance is now
To usc it for my time: Iam a brother 220
Of gracious order, late come from the See,

In special business from his holiness.

190

[Acr um. |

| Escal. What news abroad i’ the world?

Duke, None, but that there is so great a fever on
- goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it:
novelty is only in request; and it is as dangerous to
be aged in any kind of course, as it is virtuous to be
constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth
enough alive to make societies secure, but security
enough to make fellowships accurs’d. Much upon
this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news
is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. I pray you,
sir, of what disposition was the duke?

Escal. One that, above all other strifes, contended
es, eee know himself.

uke. What pleasure was he given to?

Escal. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than
merry at anything which profess’d to make him
rejoice: a gentleman of all temperance. But leave
we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove
prosperous, and let me desire to know how you find
Claudio prepared. I am made to understand, that
you have lent him visitation. 243

Duke. He professes to have received no sinister
measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles
himself to the determination of justice ; yet had he
framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty,
many deceiving promises of life, which I, by my good
leisure, have discredited to him, and now is he
resolved to die. 250

Escal. You have paid the heavens your function,
and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have
labour'd for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore .
of my modesty; but my brother justice have I found
so severe, that he hath forced me to tell him, he is
indeed—Justice.

Duke. If his own life answer the straitness of his
proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he
chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.

Escal. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you
well. 261

Duke. Peace be with you!

[Exeunt EscaLus and Provost.
He who the sword of heaven will bear
Should be as holy as severe ;
Pattern in himself to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go;
More nor less to others paying,
Than by self-offences weighing. _
Shame to him, whose cruel striking
Kills for faults of his own liking!
Twice treble shame on Angelo,
To weed my vice, and let his grow!
O, what may man within him hide,
Though angel on the outward side!
How may likeness made in crimes,
Making practice on the times,
To draw with idle spiders’ strings.
Most pond'rous and substantial things !
Craft against vice I must apply.
With Angelo to-night shall he
His old betrothed, but despised :
So disguise shall, by the disguised,
Pay with falsehood false exacting,
: And perform an old contracting.

270

 

[Ezit.

 

 
 

 

 

ACT IV.

   
 
 

Sone.
AKE, O! take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
= But my kisses bring again,
bring again,
Seals of love, but seal’d in vain,
seal'd in vain.
Mari. Break off thysong, and haste thee
quick away:
Here comes a man of comfort, whose
advice 10
Hath often still’d my brawling discontent._[Exit Boy.

Enter DuKE, disguised as before.
Iecry you mercy, sir; and well could wish
You had not found me here so musical:
Let me excuse me, and believe me so,
My mirth it much displeas’d, but pleas’d my woe.
Duke, "Tis good: though music oft hath such a
charm,
To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
I pray you, tell me, hath anybody inquired for me
here to-day? much upon this time have I promis’d
here to meet. 20
Mari. You have not been inquired after: I have sat
here all day. ee hs
Duke. I do constantly believe you.—The time is come,
even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little:
may be, I will call upon you anon, for some advantage
to yourself. :
Mari. Iam always bound to you. [Excit.

Enter ISABELLA.

Duke. Very well met, and welcome.
What is the news from this good deputy? 3
Isab. He hath a garden circummur’d with brick, 30
Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d ;
And to that vineyard is a planched gate,
That makes his opening with this bigger key ;
This other doth command a little door,
Which from the vineyard to the garden leads; |
there have I made my promise upon the heavy middle
of the night to call upon him. .
Duke. But shall you on your knowledge find this

way?

Isab. I have ta’en a due and wary note upon’t:
With whispering and most guilty diligence, 40
Tn action all of precept, he did show me
The way twice o’er.

Duke. Are there no other tokens
Between you ’greed, concerning her observance?

Isab. No, none, but only a repair i’ the dark ;

And that I have possess’d him my most stay
Can be but brief: for I have made him know,
Ihave a servant comes with me along, |
That Sey upon me; whose persuasion is,
Icome about my brother.
.. Duke. *T is well borne up.
Thave not yet made known to Mariana 50
A word of this.—What, ho! within! come forth.

Re-enter MARIANA.
I pray you, be acquainted with this maid:
She comes to do you good,

 

Scene I.—A Room in Mariana’s House.
MARIANA discovered sitting; a Boy singing.

Isab. I do desire the like.
Duke, Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?
Mari. Good friar, I know you do, and have found it.
Duke. Take then this your companion by the hand,
Who hath a story ready for your ear.
I shall attend your leisure: but make haste ;
The vaporous night approaches.
Mari. Will ’t please you walk aside?
[Exeunt Mariana and ISABELLA.
Duke, O place and greatness! millions of false eyes 60
Are stuck upon thee. Volumes of report
Run with these false and most contrarious quests
Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit
Make thee the father of their idle dream, ,
And rack thee in their fancies!

Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA.
Welcome! How agreed? ,
Isab. She'll take the enterprise upon her, father,
If you advise it.
uke, It is not my consent,
But my entreaty too.
Isab. Little have you to say,
When you depart from him, but, soft and low,
““Remember now my brother.”
Mari. Fear me not. 70
Duke. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all.
He is your husband on a pre-contract:
To bring you thus together, ’tis no sin,
Sith that the justice of your title to him
Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go:
Our corn’s to reap, for yet our tithe’s to sow.
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in the Prison.

Enter Provost and Clown.
_ oe Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man’s
ea

Clo. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he
be a married man, he is his wife’s head, and I can
never cut off a woman’s head.

Prov. Come, sir: leave me your snatches, and yield
me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die
Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a
common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper:
if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem
you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full
time of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an
Tne. whipping, for you have been a notorious

awd.

Clo. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd, time out of
mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hang-
man. I would be glad to receive some instruction
from my fellow paren

Prov. What ho, Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson,
there? 20

Enter ABHORSON.

Abhor. Do you call, sir?

Prov. Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you to-
morrow in your execution. If you think it meet,
compound with him by the year, and let him abide
here with you; if not, use him for the present, and
dismiss him. He cannot plead bis estimation with
you: he hath been a bawd.

 

 
 

670

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[Act IV.

 

 

Abhor. A bawd, sir? Fie upon him! he will dis-
credit our mystery. “

Prov. Go to, sir; you weigh equally: a feather will
turn the scale. Exit.

Clo. Pray, sir, by your good favour (for, surely, sir,
a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging
look), do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery ?

abhor. Ay, sir; a mystery. :

Clo. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery ;
and your whores, sir, being members of my occu-
pation, using painting, do prove my occupation a
Inystery; but what mystery_there should be in
hanging, if I should be hang’d, I cannot imagine. 40

Abhor. Sir, it isa mystery.

Clo. Proof?

Abhor. Every true man’s apparel fits your thief.

Clo. If it be too little for your thief, your true man
thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief,
your thief thinks it little enough: so, every true man’s
apparel fits your thief.

Re-enter Provost.

Prov, Are you agreed?

Clo, Sir, I will serve him; for I do find, your hang-
man is a more penitent trade than your bawd: he dot.
oftener ask forgiveness, 51

Prov. You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe
to-morrow, four o'clock.

Abhor. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my
trade: follow.

Clo. I do desire to learn, sir; and, I hope, if you
have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall
find me yare; for, truly, sir, for your kindness I owe
you a good turn.

Prov. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio: 60

[Exeunt Clown and ABHORSON,
The one has my pity; not a jot the other,
Being a murderer, though he were my brother.

Enter CLAUDIO,
Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:
’T is now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow
Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine?
Claud. As fast lock’d up in sleep, as guiltless labour,
When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones:
He will not wake.
Prov. Who can do good on him?
Weill, go; prepare yourself. But hark, what noise?
[Knocking within,
Heaven give your spirits comfort! [Hxrit CLAUDIO.)
y-and-by.— 70
I hope it is some pardon, or reprieve,
For the most gentle Claudio,—

Enter DUKE, disguised as before.
= Welcome, father.
Duke. The best and wholesom’st spirits of the night
Envelop you, good provost! Who call’d here of late?
rov. None, since the curfew rung.
Duke. Not Isabel?
Prov. No.
Duke. They will, then, ere ’t be long.
Prov. What comfort is for Claudio?
Duke. There’s some in hope.
Prov. It is a bitter deputy.
Duke. Not so, not so: his life is parallel’d
Even with the stroke and line of his great justice. 80
He doth with holy abstinence subdue
That in himself, which he spurs on his power
To qualify in others: were he meal’d with that
Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous;
But this being so, he’sjust.—[Knocking within.] Now
are they come.— [Baxit Provost.
This is a gentle provost: seldom, when
The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. _ [Knocking.
How now? What noise? That spirit’s possessed
with haste,
That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.

Re-enter Provost.
Prov. There he must stay, until the officer 90
Arise to let him in; he is call’d up.

 

Duke. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,
But he must die to-morrow?

Prov. None, sir, none.

Duke, As near the dawning, provost, as it is,
You shall hear more ere morning.

Prov. . Happily
You something know;; yet, I believe, there comes
No countermand: no such example have we.
Besides, upon the very siege of justice,
Lord Angelo hath to the public ear
Profess’d the contrary.

Enter a Messenger.
This is his lordship’s man. 100

Duke. And here comes Claudio’s pardon.

Mess. My lord hath sent you this note; and by me
this further charge, that you swerve not from the
smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other
circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is
almost day. .

Prov. I shall obey him. [Exit Messenger.

Duke. [Aside.] This is his pardon, purchas'd by such
sin,

For which the pardoner himself is in;

Hence hath offence his quick celerity, 110
When it is borne in high authority.

When vice makes mercy, mercy ’s so extended,
That for the fault’s love is the offender friended.—
Now, sir, what news?

Prov. I told you: Lord Angelo, belike thinking me
remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted
putting-on ; methinks strangely, for he hath not used
it before. :

Duke. Pray you, let’s hear. 119

Prov. [Reads.] ‘‘Whatsoever you may hear to the
contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock;
and, in the afternoon, Barnardine. For my better
satisfaction, let me have Claudio’s head sent me by
five. Let this be duly performed; with a thought,
that more depends on it than we must yet deliver.
Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it
at your peril.”— What say you to this, sir?

Duke. What is that Barnardine, who is to be
executed in the afternoon?

Prov. A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and
bred ; one that is a prisoner nine years old. 131

Duke. How came it, that the absent duke had not
either deliver’d him to his liberty, or executed him? I
have heard, it was ever his manner to do so.

Prov. His friends still wrought reprieves for him:
and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of
Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.

Duke. It is now apparent?

Prov. Most manifest, and not denied by himself.

Duke. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison?
How seems he to be touch’d? 141

Prov. A man that apprehends death no more dread-
fully, but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and
fearless of what’s past, present, or to come: insensible
of mortality, and desperately mortal.

ke. He wants advice.

Prov. He will hear none. He hath evermore had
the liberty of the prison: give him leave to escape
hence, he would not: drunk many times a day, if not
many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked
him, as if to carry him to execution, and show’d him
a seeming warrant for it: it hath not moved him
at all. _ 183

Duke. More of him anon. There is written in your
brow, provost, honesty and constancy: if I read it
not truly, ‘my ancient skill beguiles me; but in the
boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard.
Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is
no greater forfeit to the law, than Angelo who hath
sentenced him. To make you understand this in a
manifested effect, I crave but four days’ respite, for,
the which you are to do me both a present and a
dangerous courtesy. 163

Prov. Pray, sir, in what?

Duke. In the delaying death.

Prov. Alack! how may I do it, having the hour
limited, and an express command, under penalty, to

 

 
 

 

Scene III.)

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

671

 

deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make
my case as Claudio’s, to cross this in the smallest. 169
ke. By the vow of mine order, I warrant you: if
my instructions may be your guide, let this Barnar-
dine be this morning executed, and his head borne to
Angelo.
Prov. Angelo hath seen them both, and will dis-
cover the favour.
Duke. O! death’s a
add to it. Shave the

Treat disguiser, and you may
ead, and tie the beard; and

 

 

Duke. “This is a thing that Angelo knows not, for he this very
day receives letters of strange tenor.”

say, it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared
before his death: you know, the course is common.
If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks
and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will
plead against it with my life. 18:

- Pardon me, good father: it is against my
oath,

Duke. Were you sworn to the duke, or to the
deputy ?

rov. To him, and to his substitutes. .
Duke. You will think you have made no offence, if
the duke avouch the justice of your dealing.
Prov. But what likelihood isin that? 190
_Duke. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet
since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integ-
uy nor my persuasion, can with ease attempt you, I
go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of '
you. Look you, sir; here is the hand and seal of the’
duke : you know the character, I doubt not, and the
signet is not strange to you.
ov. I know them both. 198
Duke. The contents of this is the return of the duke:
you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure, where you
shall find, within these two days he will behere. This
is a thing that Angelo knows not, for he this very day
receives letters of strange tenor; perchance, of the
duke’s death ; perchance, entering into some monas-
tery; but, by i ouee: nothing of what is writ. Look,
the unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not
yourself into amazement how these things should be:
all difficulties are but easy when they are known.
Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine’s
head: I will give him a present shrift, and advise
him for a better place. Yet you are amazed, but this.

 

shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is-almost
clear dawn. [Ezeunt.

ScENE ITI.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter Clown.

Clo. I am as well acquainted here, as I was in our
house of profession: one would think, it were Mistress
Overdone’s own house, for here be many of her old
customers. First, here’s young Master Rash; he’s in
for a commodity of brown pubes and old ginger, nine-
score and seventeen pounds, of which he made five
marks, ready money: marry, then, ginger was not
much in request, for the old women were all dead.
Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of
Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of

each-colour’d satin, which now peaches him a

eggar. Then have we here young Dizzy, and yuan
Master Deep-vow, and Master Copper-spur, an
Master Starve-lackey the rapier-an ee
and young Drop-heir that kill’d lusty Pudding, and
Master Forthright the tilter, and brave Master Shoe-
tie the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabb’d
Pots, and, I think, forty more; all great doers in our
trade, and are now for the Lord’s sake.

Enter ABHORSON.
Abhor. Sirrah, bring Barnadine hither. 20
Clo. Master Barnardine! you must rise and be
hang’d, Master Barnardine.
Abhor. What, ho, Barnardine!
Bar. [Within.] A pox o’ your throats! Who makes
that noise there? What are you?
Clo. Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be
so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.
ioe [Within.] Away, you rogue, away! I am
sleepy.
, Abhor. Tell him, he must awake, and that quickly
1

00.

Clo. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are
executed, and sleep afterwards,

Abhor. Go in to him, and fetch him out.

Clo. He is coming, sir, he is coming: I hear his
straw rustle.

Abhor. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah ?

Clo. Very ready, sir.

Enter BARNARDINE.
Bar, How now, Abhorson? what’s the news with
40

you?

Abhor. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into
your prayers ; for, look you, the warrant’s come.

Bar. You rogue, I have been drinking all night: I
ani not fitted for ’t.

Clo. O, the better, sir ; for he that drinks all night,
and is hang’d betimes in the morning, may sleep the
sounder all the next day.

Abhor. Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly
father. Do we jest now, think you? 49

Enter DUKE, disguised as before.

Duke. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how
hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you,
comfort you, and pray with you.

Bar. Friar, not I: I have been drinking hard all
night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or
they shall beat out my brains with billets. I will not
consent to die this day, that’s certain. <

Duke. O, sir, you must; and, therefore, I beseech

you,
Look forward on the journey you shall go.
Bar. I swear, I will not die to-day for any man’s
persuasion. 60
Duke. But hear you,—
Bar. Not a word: if you have anything to say to
me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to-day.
[Evit.
Enter Provost.
Duke. Unfit to live, or die. O gravel heart !—
After him, fellows: bring him to the block.
[Exeunt ABHORSON and Clown.

 

 
 

 

672

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[Act IV,

 

Prov. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?
Duke. A creature unprepar’d, unmeet for death ;
And, to transport him in the mind he is,
Were damnable.
Prov. Here in the prison, father,
There died this morning of a cruel fever 70
One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate,
A man of Claudio’s years ; his beard and head
Just of his colour. What if we do omit
This reprobate, till he were well inclin’d,
And satisfy the deputy with the visage
Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio? .
Duke. O, ’tis an accident that Heaven provides!
Teepe it presently : the hour draws on
Prefix’d by Angelo. See this be done,
And sent according to command, whiles I 80
Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.
Prov. This shall be done, good father, presently.
But Barnardine must die this afternoon ;
And how shall we continue Claudio,
To save me from the danger that might come,
If he were known alive?
Duke. Let this be done,—
Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and
Claudio:
Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting
To yonder generation, you shall fin

Your safety manifested. 90
Prov. lam your tree dependant.
Duke. Quick, despatch.

And send the head to Angelo.
Now will I write letters to Angelo,
(The provost, he shall bear them) whose contents
Shall witness to him,I am near at home,

And that, by great injunctions, Iam bound

To enter publicly : him I'll desire

To meet me at the consecrated fount,

A league below the city ; and from thence,

By cold gradation and well-balane'd form,

We shall proceed with Angelo.

[Exit Provost.

100

Re-enter Provost.

Prov. Here is the head ; I'll carry it myself.

Duke. Convenient is it. Make a swift return,
For I would commune with you of such things
That want no ear but yours.

Prov. I'll make all speed. [Exit.

Isab. [Within.] Peace, ho, be here!

ke. The tongue of Isabel.—She’s come to know,

If yet her brother's pardon be come hither ;
But I will keep her ignorant of her good,
To make her heavenly comforts of despair,
When it is least expected.

Enter ISABELLA.

Isab. Ho! by your leave.

Duke. Good morning to you, fair and gracious

daughter,

Isab. The better, given me by so holy a man.

Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon?

Duke. He hath releas’d him, Isabel, from the world.
His head is off, and sent to Angelo.

Isab. Nay, but it is not so.

Duke. It is no other: show your wisdom, daughter,
In your close patience.

Isab. O, I will to him, and pluck out hiseyes! 120

Duke. You shall not be admitted to his sight.

Isab. Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel!
Injurious world! Most damned Angelo!

Duke. This nor hurts him, nor profits you a jot:
Forbear it therefore; give your cause to Heaven.
Mark what I say, which you shall find
ry every syllable a faithful verity.

The duke comes home to-morrow ;—nay, dry your
eyes:

One of our covent, and his confessor,

Gives me this instance : already he hath carried 130

Notice to Escalus and Angelo,

Who do prepare to meet him at the gates,

There to give up their power. If you can, pace your

wisdom
In that good path that I would wish it go;

110

 

And you shall have your bosom on this wretch,
Grace of the duke, revenges to your heart,
And general honour.

Isab. : Iam directed by you.

Duke. This letter then to Friar Peter give ;
’T is that he sent me of the duke’s return :
Say, by this token, I desire his company 140
At Mariana’s house to-night. Her cause, and yours,
I'll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you
Before the duke ; and to the head of Angelo
Accuse him home, and home. For my poor self,
I am combined by a sacred vow,
And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter,
Command these fretting waters from your eyes
With a light heart: trust not my holy order,
If I pervert your course.—Who’s here?

Enter Lucto.

Lucio. Good even. Friar, where is the provost? 15
Duke. Not within, sir. i - ~
Lucio. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart, to
see thine eyes so red: thou must be patient. I am
fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not
for my head fill my belly.: one fruitful meal would
set me to’t. But, they say, the duke will be here to-
morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother:
if the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at
home, he had lived. [Exit ISABELLA.
Duke. Sir, the duke is marvellous little beholding
to cue reports ; but the best is, he lives not in them.
acio. Friar, thou knowest not the duke so well as

I do: he’s a better woodman than thou takest him

for.

Julie Well, youll answer this one day. Fare ye
well.

Lucio. Nay, tarry; I'll go along with thee. I can
tell thee pretty tales of the duke.

Duke. You have told me too many of him already,
sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough. 170

Lucio. I was once before him for getting a wench
with child.

Duke. Did you such a thing?

Lucio. Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear
it: they would else have married me to the rotten
medlar.

Duke. Sir, your company is fairer than honest.
Rest you well. 178

Lucio. By my troth, I’ll go with thee to the lane's
end. If bawdy talk offend you, we’ll have very little
of it. Nay, friar, Iam a kind of burr; I shall stick.

[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—A Room in ANGELO’s House.

Enter ANGELO and ESCALus.

ese. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouch’d
other.

Ang. In most uneven and distracted manner. His
actions show much like to madness: pray Heaven, his
wisdom be not tainted! and why meet him at the
gates, and re-deliver our authorities there?

Escal. I guess not. 7

Ang. And why should we proclaim it in an hour
before his entering, that if any crave redress of
injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the
street ? il

Escal. He shows his reason for that: to have a
despatch of complaints and to deliver us from devices
hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand
against us. 7 Zl

‘Ang. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim’d:
Betimes i’ the morn, I'll call you at your house.

Give notice to such men of sort and suit,
As are to meet him. .
' Escal. I shall, sir: fare you well. [Ezit.

Ang. Good night.— 2
This deed unshapes me quite, makes me obec
And dull to all proceedings. A deflower’d maid,
And by an eminent body, that enfore’d
The law against it !—But that her tender shame
Will not proclaim against her maiden loss,

 

 
 

Scene VI.] MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 673

 

How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no: Mari. Be rul‘d by him.
For my authority bears a credent bulk, Isab. Besides, he tells me, that, if peradventure
That no particular scandal once can touch, He speak against me on the adverse side,

But it confounds the breather. He should have liv’d, | I should not think it strange ; for tis a physic,

Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, 30 | That’s bitter to sweet end.

Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge,

By so receiving a dishonour’d life

With snort of such shame. “Would yet he had

iv’'d!

Alack ! when once our grace we have forgot,

Nothing goes right; we would, and we would net ‘i
cit.

ScENE V.—Fields without the Town.

Enter DUKE, in his own habit, and Friar PETER.
Duke. These letters at fit time deliver me.
[Giving letters.
The provost knows our purpose, and our plot.
The matter being afoot, keep your instruction,
And hold you ever to your special drift,
Though sometimes you do blench from this to that,
As cause doth minister. Go, call at Flavius’ house,
And tell him where I stay: give the like notice
To Valentius, Rowland, and to Crassus,
And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;
But send me Flavius first.

 

 

 

 

Fri. Pet. It shall be speeded well. 10
Enter V ARRIUS. [Boait.
Duke. I thank thee, Varrius ; thou hast made good Fri. Pet. “ Come, I have found you out a stand most fit.”
aste.
Come, we will walk : there’s other of our friends Mari. I would, Friar Peter—
Will greet us here anon, my gentle Varrius, [Hxeunt. Tsab. O, peace! the friar is come.
pcan tn Enter Friar PETER.
Fri. Pet. Come, I have found you out a stand most
Scene VI.—Street near the City Gate. f fit, : »
Where you may have such vantage on the duke,
Enter ISABELLA and MARIANA. He shall not pass you, Twice have the trumpets
Isab. To speak so indirectly I am loath: sounded :
I would say the truth ; but to accuse him so, The generous and gravest citizens
That is your part : yet I’m advis’d to do it, Have hent the gates, and very near upon
He says, to ’vailful purpose. The duke is ent’'ring : therefore hence, away. [Exeunt.

 

ACT V.

ScENE J.—A Public Place near the City Gate.

MARIANA (veiled), ISABELLA, and PETER, at a distance. Enter DUKE, VaRRIUS, Lords;
ANGELO, EscaLus, Lucio, Provost, Officers and Citizens, at several doors.

  

Duke. Duke. O! your desert speaks loud; and I should
Y very worthy cousin, fairly met :— wrong it,
Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to | To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, 10
see you. When it deserves with characters of brass
Ang. and Escal. Happy return be to | A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time
your royal grace! And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand,
Duke. Many and hearty thankings to | And let the subject see, to make them know
you both. That outward courtesies would fain proclaim

We have made inquiry of you; and we | Favours that keep within.—Come, Escalus ;
ear You must walk by us on our other hand,
Such goodness of your justice, that our | And good supporters are you.

soul 7
Cannot but yield you forth to public Friar PETER and ISABELLA come forward.
F . thanks, Fri Pet. Now is your time. Speak loud, and kneel
Forerunning more reel ; | before him.
Ang. ou make my bondsstill greater. | Jsab. Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard 20

 

 

 

43
 

 

674

Upon a wrong’d, I would fain have said, a maid!
O worthy prince! dishonour not your eye
By throwing it on any other object,
Till you have heard me in my true complaint,
And given me justice, justice, justice, justice !
Duke. Relate gous wrongs: in what? by whom?
Be brief.
Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice:
Reveal yourself to him.
Isab. O worthy duke!
You bid me seek redemption of the devil.
Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak 30
Must either pee me, not being believ’d,
Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here!
Ang. My lord! her wits, I fear me, are not firm :
She hath been a suitor to me for her brother,
Cut off by course of justice, —

Isab. By course of justice !
ae And she will speak most bitterly and strange.
Isab. Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak.

That Angelo’s forsworn, is it not strange ?
That Angelo’s a murderer, is ’t not strange?
That Angelo is an adulterous thief,
An hypocrite, a virgin-violator,
Is it not strange, and strange?
ke. ay, it is ten times strange.
Isab. It is not truer he is Angelo,
Than this is all as true as it is strange ;
Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth
To the end of reckoning.
Duke. Away with her.— Poor soul!
She poe this in the infirmity of sense.
Isab. O prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ’st
There is another comfort than this world,
That thou neglect me not, with that opinion 50
That I am touch’d with madness, Make not im-
possible
That which but seems unlike. ’Tis not aneporsibls,
But one, the wicked’st caitiff on the ground,
May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute,
As Angelo; even so may Angelo,
In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms,
Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal prince:
If he be less, he’s nothing ; but he’s more,
Had I more name for badness.
Duke. By mine honesty,
If she be mad, as I believe no other,
Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense,
Such a dependency of thing on thing,
As e’er I heard in madness.
Isab. O gracious duke!
Hlarp not on that ; nor do not banish reason
For inequality ; but let your reason serve
To make the truth appear, where it seems hid,
And hide the false, seems true.
Duke. Many that are not mad,
Have, sure, more lack of reason.—What would you

40

say
Tsab, I am the sister of one Claudio,
Condemn’d upon the act of fornication 70
To lose his head ; condemn’d by Angelo.
I, in probation of a sisterhood,
Was sent to by my brother ; one Lucio
As then the messenger—
Lucio. That’s I, an’t like your grace.
I came to her from Claudio, and desir’d her
To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo,
For her poor brother’s pardon.
Isab. That ’s he, indeed.
Duke. You were not bid to speak.
Lucio. 0, my good lord ;
Nor wish'd to hold my peace.
ve. I wish you now then:
Pray you, take note of it; and when you have 80
A business for yourself, pray Heaven, you then
Be perfect.
Lucio. | warrant your honour. F
Duke. The warrant’s for yourself: take heed to it.
Isab. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,—
Lucio. Right.
_ Duke. It may be right; but you are in the wrong
‘To speak before your time.—Proceed.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

 

[Acr v. |

Isab. I went

To this pernicious caitiff deputy.
Duke, That ’s somewhat madly spoken.
Isab. Pardon it:
The phrase is to the matter. 91
Duke. Mended again: the matter ;—proceed.
Isab. In briet,—to set the needless process by,
How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel'd,
How he refell’d me, and how I replied ;
For this was of much length) the vile conclusion
now begin with grief and shame to utter.
He would not, but by gift of my chaste body
To his concupiscible intemperate lust,
Release my brother; and, after much debatement, 100
My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour,
And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes,
His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant
For my poor brother's head.
uke. This is most likely!
Isab, O, that it were as like as it is true!
Duke. By Heaven, fond wretch! thou know’st not
what thou speak’st,
Or else thou art suborn’d against his honour,
In hateful practice. First, his integrity
Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason,
That with such vehemency he should pursue 110
Faults proper to himself: if he had so offended,
He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself,
And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on:
Confess the truth, and say by whose advice
Thou cam’st here to complain.
Tsab. And is this all?
Then, O! you blessed ministers above,
Keep me in patience; and, with ripen’d time,
Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
In countenance !—Heaven shield your grace from
woe,
As I, thus wrong’d, hence unbelieved go! 120
Duke. I know, you’d fain be gone.—An officer!
To prison with her.—Shall we thus permit
A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall
On him so near us? This needs must be a practice.
Who knew of your intent, and coming hither?
Isab. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.
Duke. A ghostly father, belike.—Who knows that
Lodowick ? :
Lucio. My lord, I know him: ’tis a meddling friar ;
I do not like the man: had he been lay, my lord,
For certain words he spake against your grace 130
In your retirement, I had swing’d him soundly.
uke. Words against me? This’ a good friar,
belike!
And to set on this wretched woman here
Against our substitute !—Let this friar be found. | ‘
cio. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar,
I saw them at the prison. A saucy friar,
A very scurvy fellow.
i. Pet. Blessed be your royal grace!
I have stood by, my lord, and I have hear
Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman
Most wrongfully accus’d your substitute, 140
Who is as tree from touch or soil with her,
As she from one ungot. .

Duke. We did believe no less.
Know you that Friar Lodowick, that she speaks of?
Fri. Pet. I know him for a man divine and holy;

Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler,

As he’s reported by this gentleman ;

And, on my trust, a man that never yet

Did, as he vouches, misreport your grace.
Lucio. My lord, most villainously : believe it. ,
Fri. Pet. Well; he in time may come to clear a

self,
But at this instant he is sick, my lord,
Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, i
Being come to knowledge that there was complaint
Intended ’gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither,
To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know
Is true, and false ; and what he with his oath,
And all probation, will make up full clear, ,
Whensoever he’s convented. First, for this woman,
To justify this worthy nobleman,

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE I.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE...

675

 

So vulgarly and personally accus'd, 160
Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,
Till she herself contess it.
ke. Good friar, let’s hear it.
[IsaBELLA is carried off guarded; and
MARIANA comes forward.
Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo ?—
O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools !—
Give us some seats. —Come, cousin Angelo ;
In this I’ be impartial: be
you judge
Of your own cause.—Is this.the
witness, friar ?
First, let her show her face, and
after speak,
Mari. Pardon, my lord, I will
not show my face,

Until my husband bid me.
Duke. What, are you
married ? 170

Mari. No, my lord.

Duke. Are you a maid?

Mari. No, my lord.

Duke. A widow then?

Mari. Neither, my lord.

Duke. Why, you
Are nothing then: neither

maid, widow, nor
wife.

Lucio. My lord, she may be
a punk ; for many of them are
neither maid, widow, nor wife?

Duke. Silence that fellow: 1

would, he had some
cause
To prattle for himself.
Lucio. Well, my lord.
Mari. My lord, I do confess
I ne’er was married ;
And, I confess, besides, I am
no maid: 18.
Ihave known my husband, yet
my husband knows
not
That ever he knew me.

Lucio. He was drunk then,
my lord: it can be no better.

oe For the benefit of silence, ’would thou wert
80 too!

Lucio. Well, my lord.

Duke. This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

Mari. Now I come to ’t, my lord.

She that accuses him of fornication,

In selfsame manner doth accuse my husband;
And charges him, my lord, with such a time,
When, I'll depose, I had him in mine arms,
With all the effect of love.

Ang. Charges she more than me?

Mari.

Duke. No? you say, your husband.

Mari. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo,

Who thinks, he knows, that he ne’er knew my body,
But knows, he thinks, that he knows Isabel’s. 200
' Ang. This is a strange abuse.—Let’s see thy face.
Mari. My husband bids me; now I will unmask.
[Unveiling.

190

Not that I know.

This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, .
Which once, thou swor’st, was worth the looking on :
This is the hand, which, with a vow'd contract,
Was fast belock’d in thine: this is the body
That took away the match from Isabel,
And did supply thee at thy garden-house
In her imagin’d person.
ke. Know you this woman?
Lucio, Carnally, she says.
Duke.
Lucio, Enough, my lord. ;
ie. My lord, I must confess, I know this woman ;
And five yearssince there was some speech of marriage
Betwixt myself and her, which was broke off,
artly, for that her promised proportions
Came short of composition ; but, in chief,

Sirrah, no more. 210

For that her reputation was disvalued
In levity: since which time of five years
I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,
Upon my faith and honour.
ari. Noble prince, 220
As there comes light from heaven, and words from
breath,
As there is sense in truth, and truth in virtue,
| Tam attiane’d this man’s wife, as strongly

 

Mari.
Let me in safety raise me from my knees,
Or else for ever be confixed here,

a marble monument.”

“As this fs true,

As words could make up vows: and, my good lord,
But Tuesday night last gone, in his garden-house,
He knew me as a wife. As this is true,
Let me in safety raise me from my knees,
Or else for ever be confixed here,
A marble monument.

Ang. I did but smile till now:
Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice ; 230
My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive,
These poor informal women are no more
But instruments of some more mightier member,
That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord,
To find this practice out.

Duke. Ay, with my heart ;
And punish them to your height of pleasure.—
Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman,
Compact with her that’s gone, think’st thou, thy

oaths,
Though they would swear down each particular saint,
Were testimonies against his worth and credit, 240
That’s seal’d in approbation ?—You, Lord Escalus,
Sit with my cousin: lend him your kind pains
To find out this abuse, whence ’t is deriv’d.—
There is another friar that set them on;
Let him be sent for.
Fri. Pet.’Would he were here, my lord; for he,
indeed,
Hath set the women on to this complaint.
Your provost knows the place where he abides,
And he may fetch him.

Duke. Go, do it instantly.— [Eait Provost.
And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, 251
‘Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth,

Do with your injuries as seems you best,
In any chastisement : I for a while will leave you;

 

 

 
 

676

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

. [Acr =|

 

 

But stir not you, till you have well determin’d
Upon these slanderers.

Escal. My lord, we'll do it thoroughly. [Hzit
DUKE.]--Signior Lucio, did not you say, you knew
that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person ?

Lucio. Cucullus non facit monachum: honest in
nothing, but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke
inost villainous speeches of the duke. | 262

Escal. We shall entreat you to abide here till he
come, and enforce them against him. We shall find
this friar a notable fellow.

Lucio. As any in Vienna, on my word.

Escal. Call that same Isabel here once again: I
would speak with her. [Hit an Attendant.| Pray
you, my lord, give me leave to question ; you shall see

ow I'll handle her. 270

Lucio. Not better than he, by her own report.

Escal. Say you?

Lucio. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her
privately, she would sooner confess: perchance,
publicly she'll be ashamed.

Escal. I will go darkly to work with her.

Lucio. That’s the way; for women are light at
midnight.

Re-enter Officers, with ISABELLA.

Escal. [To IsaB.] Come on, mistress.
gentlewoman denies all that you have said.

Lucio. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of ;
here, with the provost.

Escal. In very good time :—speak not you to him,
till we call upon you.

Lucio. Mum.

Here’s a
280

Enter DUKE, disguised as a Friar, and Provost.

Escal. Come, sir. Did you set these women on to
slander Lord Angelo? they have confess’d you did.

Duke. ’Tis false.

Escal. How ! know you where you are?

Duke. Respect to your great place! and let the devil
Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne.— 291
Where is the duke? ‘tis he should hear me speak.

Escal. The duke’s in us, and we will hear you

speak :
Look you speak justly. :

Duke. Boldly, at least.—But, O, poor souls !
Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox?
Good night to your redress. Is the duke gone?
Then is your cause gone too. The duke’s unjust,
Thus to retort your manifest appeal,

And put your trial in the villain’s mouth,
Which here you come tovaccuse.

Lucio. This is the rascal: this is he I spoke of.

Fiscal. Why, thou unreverend and unhallow’d friar!
Is ’t not enough, thou hast suborn’d these women
To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth,

And in the witness of his proper ear,

To call him villain?

And then to glance from him to the duke himself,

To tax him with injustice?—Take him hence; |

To the rack with him :—we ’ll touse you joint by joint,
But we will know his purpose.—What! unjust? 310

Duke. Be not so hot ; the duke
Dare no more stretch this finger of mine, than he
Dare rack his own : his subject am I not,

Nor here provincial. My business in this state
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,

Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble,
Till it o’er-run the stew : laws for all faults,

But faults so countenanc’d, that the strong statutes
Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop,

As much in mock as mark.

Escal. Slander to the state!

300

320
Away with him to

sep eet
Ang. hat can you vouch against him, Signior
Lucio?

Is this the man that you did tell us of 2

Lucio. ’Tis he, my lord.—Come hither, goodman
baldpate : do you know me?

Duke. IT remember you, sir, by the sound of your
oles I met you at the prison, in the absence of the

e.

 

Lucio, O! did you so? And do youremember what
you said of the duke? 330

Duke. Most notedly, sir.

Lucio. Do you so, sir? And was the duke a flesh-
monger, a fool, and a coward, as you then rcported
him to be?

Duke. You must, sir, change persons with me, ere
7 make that my report: you, indeed, spoke so of

im; and much more, much worse.

Lucio. O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck
thee by the nose, for thy speeches?

Duke. I protest, [love the duke as I love myself, 340

Ang. Hark, how the villain would close now, after
his treasonable abuses.

scal. Such a fellow is not to be talk’d withal:—
away with him to prison.—Where is the provost?—
puny with him to prison. Lay bolts enough upon
him, let him speak no more.—A way with those eiglots
too, and with the other confederate companion.

[The Provost lays hand on the Duxs.

Duke. Stay, sir; stay awhile.

Ang, What! resists he? Help him, Lucio. 349

Lucio. Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh! sir,
Why, you bald-pated, lying rascal! you must be
hooded, must you? show your knave’s visage, with
a pox to you! show your sheep-biting face, and be
hang’d an hour. Will 't not off?

[Pulls off the Friar’s hood, and discovers
the DUKE.

Duke. Thou art the first knave that e’er made a

e.—
First, provost, let me bail these gentle three.— .
[Zo Lucio.] Sneak not away, sir; for the friar and

you
Must have a word anon.—Lay hold on him.
Lucio. This may prove worse than hanging.
Duke. [To Esose) What you have spoke, T nani:
sit you down. 360
We'll Rotew place of him.—[To ANna.] Sir, by your
leave.
Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence,
That yet can do thee office? If thou hast,
Rely upon it till my tale be heard,
And hold no longer out.
Ang. O my dread lord!
I should be guiltier than my guiltiness,
To think I can be undiscernible,

When I perceive your grace, like power divine,
Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good prince,
No longer session hold upon my shame, 370

But let my trial be mine own confession:
Immediate sentence then, and sequent death,
Is all the grace I beg.
Duke. Come hither, Mariana.—
Say, wast thou e’er contracted to this woman?
A mi I was, my lord.
Duke. Go take her hence, and marry her instantly.—
Do you the oflice, friar; which consummate,
Return him here again.—Go with him, provost.
[Exeunt ANGELO, MaRtaNna, Friar PETER,
and Provost.

Escal. My lord, Iam more amaz’d at his dishonour,
Than at the strangeness of it.

Duke, Come hither, Isabel. 380
Your friar is now your prince: as I was then
Advertising and holy to your business,

Not changing heart with habit, I am still
Attorney’d at your service.

Isab. O, give me pardon,
That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d
Your unknown sovereignty !

Duke. You are pardon’d, Isabel:
And now, dear maid, be you as free to us.

Your brother’s death, I know, sits at your heart;
And you may marvel, why I obscur’d myself,
Labouring to save his life, and would not rather 390
Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power,

Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid!

It was the swift celerity of his death,

Which I did think with slower foot came on, |,
That brain'd my purpose: but, peace be with him!
That life is better life, past fearing death,

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

677

 

 

Than that, which lives to fear. Make it your comfort,
So happy is your brother.

Isai I do, my lord.

Re-enter ANGELO, MARIANA, Friar PETER, and
‘rovost.
Duke. For this new-married man, approaching here,

“An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!”

Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure,
Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure. 410
Then, Angelo, thy fault thus manifested,—

Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee van-

Lom
We do condemn thee to the very block

 

 

 

Due. “ Thou art the first knave that e’er made a duke.”

Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d 400 ;
Your well-defended honour, you must pardon
For Mariana’s sake. But, as he adjudg’d your brother, |
(Being criminal, in double violation i
f sacred chastity, and of promise-breach, |
Thereon dependent, for your brother's life) |
The very mercy of the law cries out
Most audible, even from his proper tongue, |

 

Where Claudio stoop’d to death, and with like haste.—
Away with him.

Mari. ; O my most gracious lord!
I hope you will not mock me with a husband.

Duke. It is your husband mock’d you with a husband.
Consenting to the safeguard of your honour,
I thought your marriage fit; else imputation,

For that he knew you, might reproach your lifo, 420

 

 
 

678

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

[Acr v. |

 

 

And choke your good to come. For his possessions,
Although by confiscation they are ours,
We do instate and widow you withal,
To buy you a better husband,
Mari. O my dear lord!
I crave no other, nor no better man. sh
ke. Never crave him: we are definitive. 5
Mari. Gentle my liege,— (Kneeling.
Duke. You do but lose your labour.
Away with him to death.—[7’0 Lucio.]
Now, sir, to you.
Mari. O my good lord!—Sweet
Isabel, take my part:
Lend me your knees, and all my ut

to come
I'll lend you, all my life to do you
service.
Duke. Against all sense you do im-
portune her:
Should she kneel down in mercy of
this fact,
Her brother’s ghost his paved bed
would break,
And take her hence in horror.
Mari. Isabel,
Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by

me:
Hold up your hands, say nothing, I'll
speak all.
They say, best men are moulded out
of faults,
And, for the most, become much
more the better
For being a little bad: so may my
usband. 440
O Isabel! will you not lend a knee?
Duke. He dies for Claudio’s death.
Isab. Most bounteous sir,
Kneeling.
Look, if it please for on this man condemn'd,
As if my brother iv'd. I partly think,
A due sincerity govern’d his deeds,
Till he did look on me: since it is so,
Let him not die. My brother had but justice,
In that he did the thing for which he died :
For Angelo,
His act did not o’ertake his bad intent ;
And must be buried but as an intent |
That perish’d by the way. Thoughts are no sub-

450

jects,
Intents but merely thoughts.
t Merely, my lord.

Mari.

Duke. Your suit ’s unprofitable: stand up, I say.—
I have bethought me of another fault.—
Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded
At an unusual hour?

Prov, It was commanded so,

Duke. Had you a special warrant for the deed?

Prov. No, my good lord: it was by private

message.

Duke. For which I do discharge you of your

Give up your keys.

office:
rv. Pardon me, noble lord :
T thought it was a fault, but knew it not,
Yet did repent me, after more advice ;
For testimony whereof, one in the prison,
That should by private order else have died,
I have reserv’d alive.
Duke. What’s he?
Prov. His name is Barnardine.
Duke. T would thou hadst done so by Claudio.—
Go fetch him hither: let me look upon him.
Exit Provost.
Escal. I am sorry, one so learned and so wise
As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d, 470
Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood,
And lack of temper’d judgment afterward.
Ang. Iam sorry that such sorrow I procure;
And so deep sticks it in my ene heart,
That I crave death more willingly than mercy:
’Y is my deserving, and I do entreat it.

 

 

; Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal

Re-enter Provost, BARNARDINE, CLAUDIO, mufied,
and JULIET.

Duke, Which is that Barnardine?

Prov. : This, my lord.

Duke, There was a friar told me of this man.—
Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul,
That apprehends no further than this world, 48)
And squar’st thy life according. Thou’rt condemned;

Duke, “ Dear Isabel,
I have a motion much imports your good.”

But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all,
‘And pray thee, take this mercy to provide
For better times to come.—Friar, advise him:
I leave ain i your hand.—What muttled fellow’s
that
Prov. This is another prisoner that I sav’d,
That should have died when Claudio lost his head,
As like almost to Claudio as himself.
[Unmufles CLAUDIO,
Duke. ie IsaB.] If he be like your brother, for his
sake
Is he pardon’d; and for your lovely sake 490
Give me your hand, and say you will be mine,
He is my brother too. But fitter time for that.
a this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe :
ethinks, I see a quick’ning in his eye.—
Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well:
Look that you love your wife; her worth, worth
yours,—
I find an apt remission in myself,
And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon.—
[Yo Lucto.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, u
coward,
One all of luxury, an ass, a madman: 500
Wherein have I so deserv'd of you,
That you extol me thus? ,
Lucio. ’Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according
to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may;
Le I pe rather it would please you, I might be
whipp’d.
Duke. Whipp'd first, sir, and hang’d after.—
Proclaim it, provost, round about the city,
If any woman’s wrong’d by this lewd fellow
(As have heard him swear himself there’s one 510
Whom he begot with child), let her appear,
And he shall marry her: the nuptial finish’d,
Let him be whipp’d and hang’d.
Lucio. I beseech your highness, do not marry me to
a whore! Your highness said even now, I made you
a duke: good my lord, do not recompense me in
making me a cuckold.
Duke. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her.

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

679

 

 

Remit thy other forfeits.—Take him to prison, 520
And see our pleasure herein executed.

Lucio. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to
death, whipping, and hanging.

Duke. Slandering a prince Roneiues it.—
She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.
Joy to you, Mariana !—love her, Angelo:
I have confess’d her, and I know her virtue.—.
Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness :
There ’s more behind that is more gratulate.

Thanks, provost, for thy care, and secrecy ; 530

We shall employ thee in a worthier place.—

Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home

The head of Pasar for Claudio's :

The offence pardons itself.—Dear Isabel,

Ihave a motion much imports your good ;

Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline,

What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.—

So, bring us to our palace; where we’ll show

What’s yet behind, that’s meet you al] should know,
[Exeunt,

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

DUKE OF VENICE.

BRABANTIO, a Senator.

Other Senators.

GRATIANO, Brother to Brabantio.

Lovovico, Kinsman to Brabantio.

RHEE: a noble Moor in the service of the Venetian
state.

Cassio, his Lieutenant.

Jaco, his Ancient.

RODERIGO, a Venetian Gentleman.

Montano, Governor of Cyprus.
Clown, Servant to Othello.

eee Daughter to Brabantio, and Wife to
ello.

Emi.ia, Wife to Iago.

Branca, Mistress to Cassio.

Sailor, Messengers, Herald, Offcers,

Gentlemen,
Musicians, and Attendants.

SCENE—For the First Act, in VENICE; during the rest of the Play, at a Sea-port in CyPRus.

 

ACT IT.

   

A Roderigo.
USH! never tell me; I take it much un-
indly,
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse,
As if the strings were thine, shouldst
know of this.

Tago. ’Sblood, but you will not hear me:
If ever I did dream of such a matter,
Abhor me.

Rod. Thou toldst me, thou didst hold

him in thy hate.

Iago. Despise me, if I do not.

reat ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-capp’d to him; and, by the faith of man, 10
I know my price: Iam worth no worse a place ;
But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them, with a bombast circumstance,
Horribly stuff’d with epithets of war;
And, in conclusion,
Nonsuits my mediators ; for, ‘‘ Certes,” says he,
“T have already chose my officer.”
And what was he?
Forsooth, a preak arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine, 20
A fellow almost damn’'d in a fair wife ;
That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster ; unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the tongued consuls can propose
As masterly as he: mere prattle, without practice,
Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election :
And I,—of whom his eyes had seen the proof
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds
Christen’d and heathen,—must be be-lee’d and calm’d
By debitor-and-creditor; this counter-caster, 31
He, in good time, must his lieutenant be,
And I (God bless the mark !) his Moorship’s ancient.
od. By Heaven, I rather would have been his
hangman.
Jago. But there’s no remedy: ’tis the curse of ser-

Three

vice,
Preferment goes by letter, and affection,

ScENE I.—Venice.
Enter RODERIGO and Tago.
' And not by old gradation, where each second

 

A Street.

Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself,
Whether I in any just term am affin’d
To love the Moor.
Rod. : I would not follow him then. 40
Iago. O, sir, content you: .
I follow him to serve my turn aber him:
We cannot all be masters, nor all masters
Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass,
For nought but provender; and when he’s old,
cashier’d :
Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are,
Who, trimm’d in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves,
And, throwing but shows of service on their lords, |
Do well thrive by them, and, when they have lin’d
their coats,
Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul;
And such a one do I profess myself.
For, sir,
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago:
In following him, I follow but myself ;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, 60
But seeming so, for ay peculiar end:
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In complement extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at : Iam not what Iam. |
Rod. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe,
If he can carry ’t thus!
Iago. Call up her father;
Rouse him: make after him, poison his delight, J
Proclaim him in the streets: incense her kinsmen, 70
And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, 5
Plague him with flies : though that his joy be joy,
Yet throw such chances of vexation on ’t,
As it may lose some colour.
Rod. Here is her father’s house : I'll call aloud.

 

 
 

 

  

ScENE IL]

Jago. Do; with like timorous accent, and dire yell
As when, by night and negligence, the fire sci
Is spied in populous cities.

fod. What, ho! Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho!

Jago. Awake! what, ho! Brabantio! thieves!

thieves! thieves!

Look to ro house, your daughter, and your bags .
Thieves! thieves!

Enter BRABANTIO, above, at a window.

Bra. What is the reason of this terrible summons
What is the matter there ? ;

Rod. Signior, is all your family within ?

Jago. Are your doors lock’d ?

7A. ._, .Why? wherefore ask you this?
Jago. ’Zounds, sir! you are robb’d; for shame, put
on your gown ;
Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul :
. Even now, now, very now, an old black ram
Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise ! 90
Awaxe the snorting citizens with the bell,
Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you.
Arise, I say.

Bra. What! have you lost your wits?

Rod. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice?

Bra. Not I: what are you?

Rod, My name is Roderigo.

Bra. The worser welcome :
I have charg’d thee not to haunt about my doors.
In honest plainness thou hast heard me say,
My daughter is not for thee ; and now, in madness,
Being full of supper and distempering draughts, 100
Upon malicious knavery dost thou come
To start my quiet.

Rod. Sir, sir, sir,—

Bra. But thou must needs be sure,
My spirit, and my place, have in them power
To make this bitter to thee.

Rod. Patience, good sir.

Bra. What tell’st thou me of robbing? this is

Venice ;
My house is not a grange.
‘od. Most grave Brabantio,

In simple and pute soul I come to you.

Iago. ’Zounds, sir! you are one of those that will
not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come
to do you service, and you think we are ruffians, you ll
have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse;
you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have
coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans.

Bra, What profane wretch art thou?

Iago. I am one, sir, that comes to téll you, your
daughter and the Moor are now making the beast
with two backs.

Bra. Thou art a villain.

Iago. ou are—a senator.

Bra, This thou shalt answer: I know thee, Roderigo.

Rod, Sir, I will answer anything. But I beseech

you,

If’t be your pleasure, and most wise consent,
(As partl , 1 find, it is,) that your fair daughter,
At this odd-even and dull watch o’ the night,
Transported with no worse nor better guard,
But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier,
To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor,—
If this be known to you, and your allowance,
We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs ;
But if you know not this, my manners tell me,
We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe
That, from the sense of all civility,
Ithus would play and trifle with your reverence:
Your daughter, if you have not given her leave,
Isay again, hath made a gross revolt ;
Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes,
In an extravagant and wheeling stranger,
Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself :
If she be in her chamber, or your house,
Let loose on me the justice of the state 140
For thus deluding you. :

Bra, Strike on the tinder, ho!
Give me a taper !—call up all my people !—
This accident is not unlike my dream ;

130

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

 

681

Belief of it ppprecees me already.—

Light, I say ! light !. [eae From above.
ago. Farewell; for I must leave you:

It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place,

To be produe’d (as, if I stay, I shall)

Against the Moor: for, I do know, the state

(However this may gall him with some check)

Cannot with safety cast him; for he’s embark’d 150

With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars

(Which even now stands in act), that, for their souls,

Another of his fathom they have none,

To lead their business: in which regard,

Though I do hate him as I do hell-pains,

Yet, for necessity of present life,

I must show out a flag and sign of love,

Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find

him,
Lead to the Sagittary the raided search;
And there willI be with him. So, farewell. [Evit.
Enter, below, BRABANTIO and Servants with torches.
Bra. It is too true an evil: gone she is; 161
And what’s to come of my despised time,
Is nought but bitterness.—Now, Roderigo,
Where didst thou see her?_O une y girl !—
With the Moor, say’st thou?— o would be a
father ?—
How didst thou know ’t was she?—O! she deceives me
Past br ail said she to you? Get more
apers !
Raise all my kindred !—Are they married, think you?
Rod. Truly, I think, they are.
Bra. O Heaven !—How got she out ?—0, treason of
» the blood !— 170
Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters’ minds
By what you see them act.—Is there not charms,
Boren the property of youth and maidhood
y be abus’d?’ Have you not read, Roderigo,
Of some such thing?
Rod. Yes, sir; I have, indeed.
Bra. call up my brother.—O, would you had had
er !—
Some one way, some another.—Do you know
Where we may apprehend her and the Moor?
Rod. I think, I can discover him, if you please
To get good guard, and go along with me. 180
Bra. Pray you, lead on. At every house I'll call;
I may command at most.—Get weapons, ho!
And raise some special officers of might.—
On, good Roderigo ;—I’l deserve your pains. [Excunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. Another Street.

Enter OTHELLO, [AGo, and Attendants, with torches.
Jago. Though in the trade of war I have slain men,

Yet do I hold it very stuff o’ the conscience,

To do no contriv’d murder: I lack iniquity

Sometimes, to do me service. Nine or ten times

I had thought to have yerk’d him here, under the ribs.
Oth. "Vis better as it is.
Iago. Nay, but he prated,

And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms

Against your honour, F

That, with the little godliness I have,

I did full hard forbear him. But, I pray you, sir, 10

Are you fast married? Be assur’d of this,

That the magnifico is much beloved ;

And hath, in his effect, a voice potential

As double as the duke’s: he will divorce you;

Or put upon you what restraint, or grievance,

The law (with all his might to enforce it on)

Will give him cable.
Oth. Let him do his spite:

My services, which I have done the signiory,

Shall out-tongue his complaints. ’Tis yet to know,

(Which, when I know that boasting isan honour, 20

I shall promulgate,) I fetch my life and being

From men of royal siege ; and my demerits

May speak, unbonneted, to as proud a fortune

As this that I have reach’d: for know, Iago,

 

 
 

 

682

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

‘ [Act I.

 

But that I love the gentle Desdemona,
I would not my unhoused free condition
Put into circumscription and confine

For the sea’s worth. But, look! what lights come

ond ?

Iago. Those are the raised father, and his friends:
You were best go in.

Oth.
My pa my title, and my perfect soul,
Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they?
Iago. By Janus, I think no.

Enter Cassio and certain Officers with torches.
Oth, The servants of the duke, and my lieutenant.

We +

\
&

Not I; I must be found: 30 |

Enter BRABANTIO, RODERIGO, and Officers, with
torches and weapons.

Oth, Holla! stand there!
Rod. Signior, it is the Moor.
Bra. Down with him, thief !
. [They draw on both sides,

Iago. You, Roderigo! come, sir, I am for you.
Oth. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will

_ Tust them,— ;

Good signior, you shall more command with years, 60

| Than with your weapons.

Bra, O thou foul thief! where hast thou stow’d my
daughter ?—

 

Oth. ‘ Good signior, you shall more command with years,

Than with your weapons,

The goodness of the night upon you, friends!
What is the news?

Cas. The duke does greet you, general ;
And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance,
Even on the instant.

Oth. What is the matter, think you?

Cas. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine.

It is a business of some heat: the galleys 40
Have sent a dozen sequent messengers

This very night at one another’s heels ;

And many of the consuls, rais’d and met,

Are at the duke’s already. You have been hotly call’d

or;
When, being not at your lodging to be found,
The senate hath sent about three several quests,
To search you out.
h. *T is well I am found by you.
I will but epee a word here in the house,

And go with you. [Exit.
Cas. Ancient, what makes he here?
Tago. ’Faith, he to-night hath boarded a lan

d-
carack : 50
If it prove lawful prize, he’s made for ever.

Cas. I do not understand.

tago.

Cas.

He’s married.
To who?

Re-enter OTHELLO.

Iago. Marry, to—Come, captain, will you go?
Oth. Have with you.
Cas. Here comes another troop to seek for you.
Jago, It is Brabantio.—General, be advis’d :

He comes to bad intent.

 

Damn’d as thou art, thou hast enchanted her ;
For I'll refer me to all things of sense,
If she in chains of magic were not bound,
Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy,
So opposite to marriage, that she shunn
The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,
Would e¥ ave, to incur a general mock,
Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom 70
Of such a thing as thou ; to fear, not to delight.
Judge me the world, if ’t is not gross in sense,
That thou hast practis’d on her with foul charms ;.
Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs, or minerals,
That weaken motion.—I ’ll have’t disputed on ;
*Tis probable, and palpable to thinking.
I therefore apprehend and do attach thee,
For an abuser of the world, a practiser
Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.—
Lay hold upon him! if he do resist, 80
Subdue him at his peril.
Oth, Hold your hands,
Both you of my inclining, and the rest: \
Were it my cue to fight, T should have known it
Without a prompter.—Where will you that I go
To answer this your charge?
Bra. To prison; till fit time
Of law, and course of direct session,

Call thee to answer.
Oth. What if I do obey?
How may the duke be therewith satisfied,
Whose messengers are here about my side,
Upon some present business of the state, 90
To bring me to him? basa
Of. ’T is true, most worthy signior:

 

 
 

 

Scene III.)

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

683

 

The duke’s in council, and your noble self,
Iam sure, is sent for.

Bra. _ , How! the duke in council!
In this time of the night !—Bring him away.
Mine’s not an idle cause: the duke himself,

Or any of my brothers of the state,

Cannot but feel this wrong as ’t were their own;
For if such actions may have passage free,
Bond-slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be.

te [Hxeunt.

SceNE III.—The Same. A Council Chamber.

The DuKE, and Senators, sitting at a table; Officers
ing.

Duke. There is no composition in these news,

That gives them credit.
Sen. Indeed, they are disproportion’d:
My letters say, a hundred and seven galleys.
ke, And mine, a hundred and forty.

2 Sen. And mine, two hundred:
But though they jump not on a just account,
(As in these cases, where the aim reports,
"Tis oft with difference,) yet do they all confirm
A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.

Duke. Nay, it is possible enough to judgment.
Ido not so secure me in the error,
But the main article I do approve
In fearful sense.

Sailor. [Within.] What, ho! what, ho! what, ho!

of. A messenger from the galleys.

Enter a Sailor.

Duke. Now, what’s the business?
Sail. The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes:
So was I bid report here to the state,
By Signior Angelo. 7
‘Duke. How say you by this change ?
1 Sen. This cannot be,
By no assay of reason: ’tisapageant, _
To keep us in false gaze. When we consider 20
The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk ;
And let ourselves again but understand,
That, as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes,
So may he with more facile question bear it,
For that it stands not in such warlike brace,
But altogether lacks the abilities
That Rhodes is dress’d in :—if we make thought of

this,
We must not think the Turk is so unskilful,
To leave that latest which concerns him first,
Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain, 30
To wake and wage a danger profitless.
Duke. Nay, in all confidence, he’s not for Rhodes.
1 Of. Here is more news.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious,
Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes,
Have there injointed them with an after fleet.

1Sen. Ay, so I thought.—How many, as you guess?

Mess. Of thirty sail; and now do they re-stem
Their backward course, bearing with frank appear-

ance
Their purposes toward Cyprus.—Signior Montano, 40
Your trusty and most valiant servitor,
With his free duty, recommends you thus,
And prays you to believe him.
Duke. ’T is certain then for Cyprus.—
Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town?
1 Sen. He’s now in Florence.
Duke. Write from us to him: post-post-haste
despatch. .
1Sen. Here comes Brabantio, and the valiant Moor.

Enter BRABANTIO, On ies Iago, RODERIGO, and
cers.

Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ

you
Against the general enemy Ottoman.— 50

 

[Zo BRABANTIO.] I did not see you; welcome, gentle
signior ;
We lack’d your counsel and your help to-night.

Bra. Sodid I yours. Good your grace, pardon me;
Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business,
Hath rais’d me from my bed; nor doth the general

care
Take hold on me, for my particular grief
Is of so flood-gate and oerbearing nature,
That it engluts and swallows other sorrows,
And it is still itself. (

Duke. Why, what’s the matter ?
Bra. My daughter! O, my daughter!
Sen. Dead?

Bra. Ay, tome;
She is abus’d, stol’n from me, and corrupted 1
By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks ;
For nature so preposterously to err,

Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense,
Sans witchcraft could not.

Duke. Whoe’er he be, that in this foul proceeding

Hath thus beguil’d your daughter of herself,

And you of her, the bloody book of law

You shall yourself read in the bitter letter,

After your own sense; yea, though our proper son 70
Stood in your action.

Bra. Humbly I thank your grace.
Here is the man, this Moor; whom now, it seems,
Your special mandate, for the state affairs,

Hath hither brought.

Duke and Sen. Weare very sorry for it.

Duke. [To OTHELLO.] What, in your own part, can

you say to this?

Bra. Nothing, but this is so.

Oth. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv’d good masters,

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,

It is most true; true, I have married her:

‘The very head and front of my offendin

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am Jin my speech,

And little bless’d with the soft phrase of peace ;

For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith,

‘Cill now, some nine moons wasted, they have us’d

Their dearest action in the tented field ;

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle;

And, theretore, little shall I grace my cause,

ln speaking for myself. yet, by your gracious
patience, 90

I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs, what
charms,

What conjuration, and what mighty magic,

(For such proceeding I am charg’d withal,)

I won his daughter.

Bra. A maiden never bold;

Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush’d at herself ; and she—in spite of nature,
Of years, of country, credit, everything—

To fall in love with what she fear’d to look on!

It is a judgment maim’d, and most imperfect,
That, will confess, perfection so could err

Against all rules of nature ; and must be driven
To find out practices of cunning hell,

Why this should be. I, therefore, vouch again,
That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood,
Or with some dram conjur'd to this etfect,

Be een upon her.

100

e. To vouch this, is no proof:
Without more wider and more overt test,
Than these thin habits, and poor likelihoods
Of modern seeming, do prefer against him.

1 Sen. But, Othello, speak:
Did you by indirect and forced courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections ;
Or came it by request, and such fair question
As soul to soul affordeth ?

Oth. I do beseech you,
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her speak of me before her father :
If you do find me foul in her report,
The trust, the office, I do hold of you,

110

 

 
 

 

 

681

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

[Act lL

 

Not only take away, but let your sentence 120
Even fall upon my life. :
Duke. : Fetch Desdemona hither.
Oth. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the
place.— [Hxeunt 1AGo and Attendants.
And, till she come, as truly as to Heaven
I do confess the vices of my blood,
So justly to your grave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady’s love,
And she in mine.
Duke. Say it, Othello.
Oth. Her father lov’d me; oft invited me ;
Still question’d me the story of my life,
From oot to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have pass’d. .
Iran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it:
Wherein { spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field ;
Of hair-breadth capes i’ the imminent-deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe, _
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
And portance in my trayeller’s history tS 140
Wherein of antres vast; and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch
heaven,
It was my hint to speak,—such was the process ;—
And of the Cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear,
Would Desdemona seriously incline:
But still the house-attairs would draw her hence ;
Which ever as she could with haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear 150
Devour up my discourse. Which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively : I did consent ;
And often did beguile her of her tears,
When I did speak of some distressful stroke,
That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: 160
She swore,—in faith, ‘twas strange, ‘twas passing
strange ;
°T was pitiful, ‘t was wondrous pitiful :
She wish'd she had not heard it ; yet she wish’d
That Heaven had made her such a man: she thank’d

me;
And bade me, if I had a friend that lov’d her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint Lapuke
She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d,
And I lov’d her, that she did pity them.
‘This only is the witchcraft I have us’d:
Here comes the lady ; let her witness it.

Enter DESDEMONA, IAGo, and Attendants.

Duke. 1 think, this tale would win my daughter too.
Good Brabantio,

Take up this mangled matter at the best:
Men do their broken weapons rather use,
Than their bare hands.

Bra. I pray you, hear her speak:
If she confess that she was half the wooer,
Destruction on my head, if my bad blame
Light on the man!—Come hither, gentle mistress :
Do you perceive in all this noble company,

Where most you owe obedience ?
Des. My noble father,

I do perecive here a divided duty:
To you I am bound for life and education ;
My life and education, both do learn me
How to respect you; you are the lord of cue :
Iam hitherto your daughter: but here’s my husband;
And so much duty as my mother show’d
To you, preferring you before her father,
So much I challenge that I may profess
Due tothe Moor, my lord.

ra. God be with you !—I have done.—
Please it your grace, on to the state affairs : 191

130

170

 

' For she is with me.

Thad rather to adopt a child than get it.—

Come hither, Moor:

Lhere do give thee that with all my heart,

Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart

I would keep from thee.—For your sake, jewel,

Iam glad at soul I have no other child ;

For thy escape would teach me tyranny,

To hang clogs on them.—I have done, my lord.
Duke. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sen-

tence, 200

Which, as a grise, orstep, may help these lovers

Into your favour.

‘When remedies are past, the griefs are ended

By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone

Is the next way to draw new mischiet on.

What cannot be preserv’d when fortune takes,

Patience her injury a mockery makes.

The robb’d, that smiles, steals something from the

thief:

He robs himself, that spends a bootless grief. 210
Bra. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile:

We lose it not, so long as we can smile.

He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears

But the free comfort which from thence he hears;

But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow,

That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow.

These sentences, to sugar, or to gall,

Being strong on both sides, are equivocal:

But words are words; I never yet did hear, 219

That the bruis’d heart was pierced through the ear.

I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state.
Duke. The Turk with a most mighty preparation

makes for Cyprus.—Othello, the fortitude of the place

is best known to you; and though we have there a

substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a

sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer

voice on you: you must, therefore, be content to
slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more
stubborn and boisterous expedition.

Oth. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, 230

Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war

My thrice-driven bed of down: I do agnise

A natural and prompt alacrity,

I find in hardness; and do undertake

These present wars against the Ottomites.

Most humbly, therefore, bending to your state,

I crave fit disposition for my wife;

Due reference of place, and exhibition ;

With such accommodation, and besort,

As levels with her breeding. 240
Duke. Why; at her father’s.
Bra.

Oth, Nor I.
Des. Nor I; I would not there reside,

To put my father in impatient thoughts,

By being in his eye. ost gracious duke,

To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear ;

And let me find a charter in your voice,

To assist my simpleness.

Duke, What would you, Desdemona?
Des. That I did love the Moor to live with him,

My downright violence and storm of fortunes

May trumpet to the world: my heart's subdued

Even to the very quality of my lord:

I saw Othello’s visage in his mind;

And to his honours, and his valiant parts,

Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate.

So that, dear lords, if I be left behind,

A moth of peace, and he go to the war,

The rites for why I love him are bereft me,

And Ia heavy interim shall support .

By his dear absence. Let me go with him. 260
Oth. Let her have your voice. ‘

Vouch with me, Heaven, I therefore beg it not,

To please the palate of my appetite;

Nor to comply with heat, the young affects,

In my defunct and proper satisfaction ;

But to be free and bounteous to her mind: cos

And Heaven defend your good souls, that you think

I will your serious and great business scant,

No, when light-wing’d toys

I’ll not have it so.

 
 

ScENE III.]

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

685

 

 

Of feather’d Cupid seel with wanton dulness
My speculative and oftic’d instrument,

That my disports corrupt and taint my business,
Let housewives make a skillet of my helm,

And all indign and base adversities

Make head against my estimation.

Duke. Be it as you shall privately determine,
Either for her stay, or going. The affair cries haste,
And speed must answer it.

1Sen. You must away to-night.

270

Oth. : With all my heart.
Duke. At nine i’ the morning here we’ll meet
again. 280

Othello, leave some officer behind,
And he shall our commission bring to you;
With such things else of quality and respect,
As doth import you.
Oth. 7 So please your grace, my ancient;
A man he is of honesty, and trust:
To his conveyance I assign my wife,
With what else ncedful your good grace shall think
To be sent after me.
Duke. Let it be so.—
Good night to every one.—[To BRABANTIO.] And, noble
signior,
If virtue no delighted beauty lack, 290
Your son-in-law is far more fair than black.
1 Sen. Adieu, brave Moor! use Desdemona well.
Bra, Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see:
She has deceiv’d her father, and may thee.
[Zxeunt DUKE, Senators, Officers, &c.
Oth. My life upon her faith !—Honest Jago,
My Desdemona must I leave to thee:
I pr’ythee, let thy wife attend on her;
And bring them after in the best advantage.
Come, Desdemona; I have but an hour
Of love, of worldly matters and direction, 300
To spend with thee: we must obey the time.
[Ezxeunt OTHELLO and DESDEMONA.
Rod. Iago!

Iago. What say’st thou, noble heart?

Rod. What will I do, think’st thou?

Iago. Why, go to bed, and sleep.

Rod. I will incontinently drown myself.

fago. Well, if thou dost, I shall never love thee after
it. hy, thou silly gentleman !

Rod. It is silliness to live, when to live isa torment;
and then have we a prescription to die, when death is
our physician. 311

Jago. O, villainous! I have looked upon the world
for four times seven years, and since I could dis-
tinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, Inever found
aman that knew how to love himself. Ere I would
say, I would drown myself for the love of a Guinea-
hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon.

Rod. What should Ido? I confess, it is my shame
to be so fond ; but it is not in my virtue to amend it.

Jago. Virtue? a fig! tis in ourselves that we are
thus, or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the
which our wills are gardeners: so that if we will
plant nettles, or sow lettuce ; set hyssop, and weed up
thyme ; supply it with one gender of herbs, or distract
it with many ; either to haveit steril with idleness, or
manured with industry ; why, the power and corri-
gible authority of this lies in our wills. Ifthe balance
of our lives not one scale of reason to poise
another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our
natures would conduct us to most preposterous con-
clusions: but we have reason to cool our raging
motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts ; whereof
I take this, that you call love, to be a sect, or scion.

Rod. It cannot be. 334

_tago. It is merely a lust of the blood, and a permis-
sion of the will. Come, be a man: drown t yself ?
drown cats, and blind puppies. I have professd me
thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving
with cables of perdurable toughness : I could never
better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse;
follow these wars ; defeat thy favour with an usurped
beard; I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be,
that Desdemona should long continue her love to the

oor,—put money in thy purse,—nor he his to her: it

 

was a violent commencement in her, and thou shalt
see an answerable sequestration ;—put but money in
thy purse.—These Moors are changeable in their wills;
—fill thy purse with money :—the food that to him
now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as
bitter as coloquintida. She must change for youth:
when she is sated with his body, she will find the
error of her choice.—She must have change, she must :
therefore, put money in thy purse.—If thou wilt needs
damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drown-
ing. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony

 

Jago, ‘These Moors are changeable in their wills ;—flll thy
purse with money.”

and a frail vow, betwixt an erring barbarian and a
super-subtle Venetian, be not too hard for my wits,
and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her; there-
fore, make money. A pox of drowning thyself! it is
clean out of the way: seek thou rather to be hanged
in compassing thy joy, than to be drowned and go
without her. 362

Rod. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on
the issue?

Iago. Thou art sure of me.—Go, make money.—I
have told thee often, and I re-tell thee again and again,
I hate the Moor: my cause is hearted ; thine hath no
less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge
against him: if thou canst cuckold him, thou dost
thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are man
events in the womb of time, which will be delivered.
Traverse; go: provide thy money. We will have
more of this to-morrow. Adieu. 373

Rod. Where shall we meet i’ the morning?

Iago. At my lodging.

Rod. I'll be with thee betimes.

Iago. Go to; farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo?

Rod. What say you?

Jago. No more of drowning, do you hear?

Rod. lam changed. I’ll sell all my land. 380
Iago. Go to; farewell! put money enough in your
purse. [Exit RoDERIGO.

‘Thus do I ever make my fool my purse ;

For I mine own gain’d knowledge should profane,
If I would time expend with such a snipe

But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor;
And it is thought abroad, that ’twixt my sheets
He has done my office : I know not if ’t be true ;
Yet I, for mere suspicion in that kind,

Will do as if for surety. He holds me well;
The better shall my purpose work on him.
Cassio’s a proper man: let me see now;

To get his place, and to plume up my will,

In double knavery,—How, how ?—Let’s see :—
After some time, to abuse Othello’s ear,

That he is too familiar with his wife:

390

 
 

686

QTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

[Act II.

 

 

He hath a person, and a smooth dispose,
To be suspected ; fram’d to make women false.
The Moor is of a free and open nature,

That thinks men honest, that but seem to be so, 400

And will as tenderly be led by the nose,

As asses are.—

I have ’t ;—it is engender’d :—hell and night

Must bring this monstrous birth to the world’s light.
(Lxit

 

 

 

ACT II.
ScEeNnE I.—A Sea-port Town in Cyprus.
Enter MONTANO and two Gentlemen.
That so anrese the Moor.—O ! let the heavens

= Montano.
7 HAT from the cape can you discern at

sea
1 Gent. Nothing at all: it is a high-
wrought flood :
I cannot, ’twixt the heaven and the main,

   

“Che a we Descry a sail.
ot wy Mon. Methinks, the wind hath spoke
* a aloud at land;

A fuller blast ne’er shook our battle-
ments ;

If it hath ruffian’d so upon the sea,
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,
Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?

2 Gent. A segregation of the Turkish ficet : 10
For do but stand upon the foaming shore,
‘The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds ;
The wind-shak’d surge, with high and monstrous

mane,
Seems to cast water on the burning bear,
And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole:
I never did like molestation view
On the enchafed flood.
‘on. If that the Turkish fleet

Be not enshelter’d and embay’d, they are drown’d;
It is impossible to bear it out.

Enter a third Gentleman.
3 Gent. News, lads! our wars are done. 20
The desperate tempest hath so bang’d the Turks,
That their designment halts: a noble ship of Venice
Hath seen a grievous wrack and suffcrance
On most part of their fleet.
Mon. How ! is this true?
3 Gent. The ship is here put in,
A Veronessa ; Michael Cassio,
Lieutenant to the warlike Moor, Othello,
Is come on shore: the Moor himself at sea,
And is in full commission here for Cyprus.
Mon. Tam glad on't; tis a worthy governor. 30
3 Gent. But this same Cassio, though he speak of

_ comfort,
Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly,
And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted
With foul and violent tempest.
on. etd ’Pray heavens he be;

For I have serv’d him, and the man commands
Like a full soldier. Let’s to the sea-side, ho!
As well to see the vessel that’s come in,
As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,
Even till we make the main, and the acrial blue,
An indistinct regard.

3 Gent. . Come, let’s do so;
For every minute is expectancy
Of more arrivance.

Enter Cassio.
Cas. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle,

40

A Platform.

Give him defence against the elements,
For I have lost him on a dangerous sea.
Mon. Is he well shipp’d? Oa ae
Cas. His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his pilot
Of very expert and approv’d allowance ;
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,
Stand in bold cure.
[Within.]

50
A sail, a sail, a sail!

Enter a Messenger.
Cas. What noise?
Mess. The town is empty ; on the brow o’ the sea
Stand ranks of people, and they cry, ‘‘ A sail!”
Cas. My hopes do shape him for the governor.
Guns heard.
2 Gent. They do discharge their shot of courtesy ;
Our friends, at least.
Cas. I pray you, sir, go forth,
And give us truth who ’tis that is arriv’d.
2 Gent. I shall. . . [Exit.
Mon. But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv'd? 60
Cas. Most fortunately : he hath achiev’d a maid
hat paren description and wild fame ;
me that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,
And, in the essential vesture of creation,
Does tire the ingener.

Re-enter second Gentleman.
How now! who has put in?

2 Gent. ’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.

Cas. He has had most favourable and happy speed:
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,
The gutter’d rocks, and congregated sands,

Traitors ensteep’d to enclog the guiltless keel, 70
As having sense of beauty, do omit
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by
The divine Desdemona.
What is she?

Mon.
Cas. She that Ispake of, our Frent captain’s captain,
Left in the conduct of the bold Iago;

Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts

A se’nnight’s speed.—Great Jove! Othello guard,
And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,
That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,
Make love's quick pants in Desdemona’s arms,
Give renew’d fire to our extincted spirits,

And bring all Cyprus comfort !—

80

Enter DESDEMONA, EmILtA, IAGO, RODERIGO, and
Attendants,
O, behold,

The riches of the ship is come on shore!

Ye men of Cyprus let her have your knees.—

Hail to thee, rhe and the grace of Heaven,
Before, behind thee, and on every hand,

Enwheel thee round!

 

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE I.] OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE. 637
Des. . I thank you, valiant Cassio. | Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,

What tidings can you tell me of my lor That I extend my manners: ’tis my breeding
Cas. He is not That gives me this bold show of courtesy. 100

ba: arriv’d: nor know I aught
But that he’s well, and will be shortly here.
Des. O! but I fear—How lost you company ?

(Kissing her.
dago. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips,

 

 

mera

(| men

—
SS

Cas. “ Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of Heaven,
Before, behind thee, and on every hand,

Enwheel thee round!”

Cas. The great contention of the sea and skies
Parted our fellowship. But, hark! a sail.
[Wein A sail, a sail! (Guns heard.
Gent. They give their greeting to the citadel :
This likewise is a friend.
‘as. See for the news !—
pee Gentleman.
Good ancient, you are welcome.—_[To Emizi4.] Wel-
come, mistress.— :

| As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,

You’d have enough.
Des. Alas! she has no speech,
Iago. In faith, too much ;
T find it still, when I have list to sleep:
Marry, before your ladyship, I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart,
| ‘And chides with thinking. ;
Emil.. You have little cause to say so.

 

 

 

 
 

 

688

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

(Act II.

 

Jago. Come on, come on; you are pictures out of
doors, 110
Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players a oe housewifery, and housewives in your
eds.
Des. O, fie upon thee, slanderer !
Jago. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:
You rise to play, and go to bed to work.
Emil. You shall not write my praise.
Tago. No, let me not.
Des. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou
shouldst praise me?
dete; O gentle lady, do not put me to’t;

or [am nothing, if not critical. 120
Des. Come on; assay.—There’s one gone to the
harbour?

Iago. Ay, madam.

Des. Yam not merry ; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.—

Come, how wouldst thou praise me?

Jago. 1 am about it; but, indeed, my invention _
Comes from my pate, as birdlime does from frize ;

It plucks out brains and all: but my Muse labours,

And thus she is deliver’d.

If she be fair and wise,—fairness, and wit, 130

The one’s for use, the other useth it.

Des. Well prais'd! How, if she be black and witty?

Jago. If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.

Des. Worse and worse.

Emil. How, if fair and foolish?

Iago. She never yet was foolish that was fair ;

For even her folly help'd her to an heir.

Des. These are old fond paradoxes, to make fools
laugh i’ the ale-house. What miserable praise hast
thou for her that’s foul and foolish ? 141

Iago. There’s none so foul, and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.

Des. O heavy ignorance! thou praisest the worst
best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a
deserving woman indeed? one, that, in the authority
of her merit, did justly put on the vouch of very
malice itself?

Iago. She that was ever fair, and never proud .
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud ;
Never lack’d gold, and yet went never gay
Fled from her wish, and yet said, ‘‘Now I may;”
She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay, and her ae easure fly ;
She that in wisdom never was so frail,

To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail ;

She that could think, and ne’er disclose her mind,

See suitors following, and not look behind :

She was a wight,—if ever such wights were,—
Des. To do what? 160
Jago. To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer.
Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion !—Do

not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband.—

How say you, Cassio? is he not a most profane and

liberal counsellor ?

Cas. He speaks home, madam : you may relish him
more in the soldier, than in the scholar. 167

Iago. [Aside.] He takes her by the palm: ay, well
said, whisper : with as little a web as this will I ensnare
as great a fly as Cassio. Ay,smile upon her, do; I will
gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true, ’tis
so, indeed, If such tricks as these strip you out of
ee lieutenantry, it had been better you had not

issed your three fingers so oft, which now again you
are most apt to play the sir in. Very good; well
kissed, an excellent SOUrteny ‘tis so, indeed. Yet
again your fingers to your lips? would, they_were
clyster-pipes for your sake !—[A trumpet heard.] The

Moor! I know his trumpet.

Cas. ’"T is truly so. 180

Des. Let's meet him, and receive him. .

Cas. Lo, where he comes!

150

Enter OTHELLO and Attendants.

[ Oth. O my fair warrior!
Des. My dear Othello!

 

Oth. It gives me wonder great as my content,

To sce you here before me. O my soul’s joy !

If after every tempest come such calms,

May the winds blow till they have waken’d death;
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas,
Olympus-high, and duck again as low

As hell’s from heaven! If it were now to die, 190
T were now to be most happy ; for, I fear,

My soul hath her content so absolute,

That not another comfort like to this

Succeeds in unknown fate.

Des. The heavens forbid,

But that our loves and comforts should increase,
Even as our days do grow!

Oth. Amen to that, sweet powers!

I cannot speak enough of this content ;

It stops me here; it is too much of joy:

And this, and this, the greatest discords be,
[Kissing her.

That e’er our hearts shall make !

Lago. [Aside.} O! you are well tun’d now; 200
But I'll set down the pegs that make this music,

As honest as I am.

Oth. Come, let us to the castle.—
News, friends: our wars are done, the Turks are

drown’'d.

How does my old acquaintance of this isle ?
Honey, you shall be well-desir’d in Cyprus ;
Ihave found great love amongst them. O my sweet,
I prattle out of fashion, and I dote
In mine own comforts.—I pr’ythee, good Iago,
Go to the bay, and disembark my coffers.
Bring thou the master to the citadel ; 210
He is a good one, and his worthiness
Does challenge much respect.—Come, Desdemona,
Once more well met at Cyprus.

[£xreunt OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, and Attendants.

Iago. Do thou meet me presently at the harbour.
—Come hither. If thou be’st valiant,—as they say,
base men being in love have then a nobility in their
natures more than is native to them,—list me. The
lieutenant to-night watches on the court of guard.—
First, I must tell thee this,—Desdemona is directly in
love with him. g 220

Rod. With him! why, ’t is not possible. ;

fago. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be in-
structed. Mark me with what violence she first loved
the Moor, but for bragging, and telling her fantastical
lies; and will she love himn still for prating? let not
thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed ; and
what delight shall she have to look on the devil?
When the blood is made dull with the act. of sport,
there should be, again to inflame it, and to give
satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favour, sympathy
in years, manners, and beauties ; all which the Moor
is defective in. Now, for want of these required
conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself
abused, begin to heave the Forge, disrelish and abhor
the Moor; very nature will instruct her in it, and
compel her to some second choice. Now, sir, this
granted (as it is a most pregnant and unforced posi-
tion), who stands so eminent in the degree of this
fortune, as Cassio does? a knave very voluble, no
further conscionable than in putting on the mere form
of civil and humane BeeDUns, for the better com-
passing of his salt and most hidden-loose affection?
why, none; why, none: a slipper and subtle knave;
a finder-out of occasions; that has an eye can stamp
and counterfeit advantages, though true i
never present itself: a devilish knave! Besides, the
knave is handsome, young, and hath all those re-
quisites in him, that folly and green minds look after;
a pestilent Sov iniens knave: and the woman hath
feund him already.

Rod. I cannot believe that in her: she is full of most
blessed condition. ; :

Jago. Blessed fig’s end ! the wine she drinks is made
of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never
have loved the Moor: bless'd pudding! Didst thou
not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? didst not
mark that

Rod. Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy.

 
 

 

ScENE IITI.]

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

689

 

Tago. Techery, by this hand! an index, and obscure
prologue to the history of lust and foulthoughts. They
inet so near with their lips, that their breaths embraced
together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo ! when these
mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes
the master and main exercise, the incorporate conclu-
sion. Pish!—But, sir, be you ruled by me: I have
brought you from Venice. Watch you to-night; for
the command, I’ll lay’t upon you: Cassio knows you
not :—-I'll not be far from you: do you find some
occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud,
or tainting his discipline ; or from what other course
you please, which the time shall more favourably
minister. 272

Rod. Well,

Jago. Sir, he is rash, and very sudden in choler,
and, haply, may strike at you: provoke him, that he
may ; for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus
to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true
taste again, but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall
you have a shorter journey to your desires, by the
means I shall then have to prefer them; and the
impediment most profitably removed, without the
which there were no expectation of our prosperity. 282

Rod. I will do this, if you can bring it to any oppor-
tunity.

Ta, s I warrant thee. Meet me by-and-by at the
citadel: I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell.

Rod. Adieu. [Eait.

Iago. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it ;
That she loves him, ’tis apt and of great credit:
The Moor—howbeit that I endure him not—

Is of a constant, joving noble nature ;

And, I dare think, he ‘ll prove to Desdemona

A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too;
Not out of absolute lust, (though, peradventure,
Istand accountant for as great a sin,)

But ery led to diet my revenge,

For that I do suspect the lusty Moor

Hath leap’d into my seat ; the thought whereof
Doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards;
And nothing can, or shall, content my soul, 300
Till Iam even’d with him, wife for wife ;

Or, failing so, yet that I put the Moor

At least into a jealousy so Sn

‘That judgment cannot cure. Which thing to do,—
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash ‘

For his quick hunting, stand the putting-on,—

T’ll have our Michael Cassio on the hip;

Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb ;—

For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too ;—

Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me,
For making him egregiously an ass, _ 3
And practising upon his peace and quiet,
Even to madness, “T'is here, but yet confus’d :
Knavery’s plain face is never seen, till us’d.

290

[Exit.

ScENE II.—A Street.

Enter a Herald, with a proclamation; people
following.

Her. It is Othello’s pleasure, our noble and valiant
general, that, upon certain tidings now arrived, im-
porting the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every
man put himself into triumph; some to dance, some to
make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his
addiction leads him; for, besides these beneficial news,
it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his
pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open ;
and there is full liberty of feasting, from this present

our of five, till the bell have told eleven. Heaven
bless the isle of Cyprus, and our noble general, Othello!

5 [Eacurt.

ScENE III.—A Hall in the Castle.

Enter OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, CASSIO, and
Attendants.

Cth, Good Michael, look you to the guard to-night:

 

Let’s teach ourselves that honourable stop,
Not to out-sport discretion.

Cas. Iago hath direction what to do;
But, notwithstanding, with my personal eye
Will I look to’t.

Oth, Iago is most honest.
Michael, good night: to-morrow, with your earliest,
Let me have speech with you.—[To DrspEMoNA.]

Come, my dear love:
The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue ;
That profit’s yet to come ’twixt me and you.— 10
Good night.
[Exeunt OTHELLO, DESDEMONA, and Altcendants.

Enter Taco.

Cas. Welcome, Iago: we must to the watch.

fago. Not this hour, lieutenant; ‘tis not yet ten
o'clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of
his Desdemona, who let us not therefore blame: he
hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she
is sport for Jove.

Cas. She's a most exquisite lady.

fago. And, I’ll warrant her, full of game.

Cas. Indeed, she is a most fresh and delicate oy
ture.

fago. What an eye she has! methinks it sounds a
parley to provocation.

Cas. An inviting eye, and yet methinks right
modest. ‘i
' oe And, when she speaks, is it not an alarum to

ove!

Cas. She is, indeed, perfection.

Iago. Well, happiness to their sheets! Come,
lieutenant, I have a stoop of wine, and here without
are a brace of Cyprus gallants, that would fain have a
measure to the.health of black Othello. 32

Cas. Not to-night, good Iago. I have very poor and
unhappy brains for drinking: I could- well wish
courtesy would invent some other custom of enter-
tainment.

Jago. O!} they are our friends; but one cup: Ill
drink for you.

Cas. I have drunk but one cup to-night, and that
was craftily qualified too, and, behold, what innova-
tion it makes here. Iam untortunate in the infirmity,
and dare not task my weakness with any more. 42

Iago. What, man! ’tis a night of revels: the gal-
lants desire it.

Cas. Where are they ?

Iago. Here at the door; I pray you, call them in.

Cas. Ill do’t; but it dislikes me. [Exit.

Iago. If I can fasten but one cup upon him,

With that which he hath drunk to-night already,

He’ll be as full of quarrel and offence 50
As my young mistress’ dog. Now, my sick fool,
Roderigo,

Whom love has turn’d almost the wrong side out,

To Desdemona hath to-night carous’d

Potations pottle-deep ; and he’s to watch.

Three lads of Cyprus—noble, swelling spirits,

That hold their honours in‘a wary distance,

The very elements of this warlike isle—

Have I to-night fluster’d with flowing cups,

And they watch too. Now, ’mongst this flock of
drunkards,

Am I to put our Cassio in some action 69

‘That may offend the isle.—But here they come.

If consequence do but approve my dream,

My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream.

Re-enter Cassio, with him MONTANO, and Gentlemen.

Cas. "Fore Heaven, they have given me a rouse
already. ; ;
Mon. Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I
am a soldier.
Iago. Some wine, ho!
[Sings.] And let me the canakin clink, clink ;
and let me the canakin clink: 70
A soldier’s aman;
O, man's life’s but a span;
Why then let a sojdier drink.
Some wine, boys! [TVine brought in.

 

 
 

690

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

{Act Ii.

 

 

 

Cas. ’Fore Heaven, an excellent song.

Iago. I learned it in England, where, indeed, they
are most potent in potting ; your Dane, your German,
and your swag-bellied Hollander, — drink, ho!—are
nothing to your English. 79

Cas. Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking ?

Iago. Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane
dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain;
he gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle
can be filled. ‘

Cas. To the health of our general!

 

|
i

HA
ll

i

Cas. “To the health of our gencral!”

 

Mon. J am for it, lieutenant; and I'll do you justice.
fago. O sweet England!
King Stephen was a worthy peer,
His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear, 90
With that he call’d the tailor—lown.
He was a wight of high renown,
And thou art but of low degree:
’Tis pride that pulls the country down,
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.

Some wine, ho!

ae Why, this is a more exquisite song than the
other.

Tago. Will you hear’t again? 99

Cas. No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place,
that does those things.—Well, Heaven’s above all;
and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls
must not be saved.

Tago. It is true, good licutenant.

Cas. For mine own part,—no offence to the general,
nor any man of quality,—I hope to be saved.

fago. And so do I too, lieutenant. 107

Cas. Ay; but, by your leave, not before me: the
lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's
have no more of this; Jet’s to our affairs.—God for-
give us our sins !—Gentlemen, let’s look to our busi-
ness. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk: this is
my ancient ;—this is my right hand, and this is m
left hand.—I am_not drunk now; I can stand well
enough, and speak well enough.

All. Excellent well.

Cas. Why, very well then; you must not think
then, that Iam drunk. cit.

Mon. To the platform, masters: come, let’s set the
watch. 120

Jago. You see this fellow, that is gone before:
He is a soldier, fit to stand by Ceesar
And give direction ; and do but sec his vice.
*T is to his virtue a just equinox,
The one as long as the other: ’t is pity of him.
I fear, the trust Othello puts him in,

   

 

On some odd time of his infirmity,
Will shake this island.
fon. vhs But is he often thus?

Zayo. Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep:
He'll watch the horologe a double set, 130
If drink rock not his cradle.

Mon. It were well,

The general were put in mind of it.
Perhaps, he sees it not ; or his good nature
Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio,
And looks not on his evils. Is not this true?

Enter RopERIGo.
Iago. [Aside to him.] How now,
Roderigo?
I pray you, after the lieutenant; go.
. [Exit RoDERIGo.
Mon. And ’tis great pity, that the
noble Moor
Should hazard such a place, as his
own second, :
With one of an ingraft infirmity :
It were an honest action to say 111
So to the Moor.
Jago. NotI, for this fair island:
I do love Cassio well, and would do
much
To cure him of this evil. But hark!
what noise?
[Cry within: “ Help! help!”

Re-enter Cassio, pursuing
RODERIGO.
Cas. You rogue! you rascal!
Mon. What’s the matter,
lieutenant?
Cas. A knave teach me my duty!
I'll beat the knave into a twiggen
bottle.
Rod. Beat me!

Cas. Dost thou prate, rogue?
[Striking RopERIGo.
Mon. Nay, good lieutenant ;

[Staying him.
I pray you, sir, hold your hand.
as. Let me go, sir, 149
Or I'll knock you o’er the mazzard.
‘on. Come, come ; you’re drunk.
Cas. Drunk! [They fight.
Iago. [Aside to RoDERIGO.] Away, I say! go out,
and cry—a mutiny. [Exit RoDERIGO.
Nay ! good lieutenant,—God’s will, gentlemen !—
Help, ho !—Lieutenant,—sir,— Montano,—sir ;—
Help, masters !—Here's a goodly watch, indeed! _
[Bell rings.
Who’s that which rings the bell? Diablo, ho!
The town will rise : God’s will! lieutenant, hold!
You will be sham’d for ever.

Enter OTHELLO and Attendants.

Oth. What is the matter here?

Mon. Pe still: I am hurt to the death.—He
ies!

Oth. Hold, for your lives! 169

Iago. Hold, ho! Lieutenant, — sir, — Montano, —
gentlemen !—
Have you forgot all sense of place and duty?
Hold! the general speaks to you: hold, for shame! _
Oth. Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this ?
Are we turn’d Turks, and to ourselves do that,
Which Heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?
For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl:
He that stirs next to carve for his own rage,
Holds his soul light ; he dies upon his motion.
Silence that dreadful bell! it frights the isle 170
From her propriety. What is the matter, masters ?—
Honest Iago, that look’st dead with grieving,
Speak, who began this? on thy love, I charge thee.
Iago. I do not know :—friends all but now, even

now,
In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom
Devesting them for bed ; and then, but now,

 

 

 
 

 

‘Scene IIL]

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

691

 

(As if some planet had unwitted men,)
Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast,
In opposite bloody. I cannot speak

Any beginning to this peevish odds;

And would in action glorious I had lost

180

Those legs, that brought me to a part of it!
al ow came it, Michael, you are thus forgot?
‘as.

Tipe you, pardon me; I cannot speak.
Oth. Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil ;
The gravity and stillness of your youth
The world hath noted, and your name is great
In mouths of wisest censure: what’s the matter,
That you unlace your reputation thus,
And spend your rich opinion, for the name
Of a night-brawler? give me answer to it.

Mon. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger:
Your officer, lago, can inform you—
While I spare speech, which something now offends

190

me,—

Of all that I do know ; nor know I aught
By me that’s said or done amiss this night,
Unless self-charity be sometime a vice,
And to defend ourselves it be a sin,
When violence assails us.

Oth. Now, by Heaven,
My blood begins my safer guides to rule;
And passion, having my best judgment collied,
Assays to lead the way. IfI once stir,
Or do but lift this arm, the best of you
Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know
How this foul rout began, who set it on;
And he that is approv'd in this offence,
Though he had twinn’d with me, both at a birth,
Shall lose me.—What! in a town of war, °
Yet wild, the people’s hearts brimful of fear,
To manage private and domestic quarrel,
In night, and on the court and guard of safety !
*T is monstrous.—Iago, who began it ?

Mon. If bertially affin’d, or leagu’d in office,
Thou dost deliver more or less than truth,
Thou art no soldier.

200

210

Jaye. Touch me not so near:

I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth,
Than it should do offence to Michael Cassio ;

Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth

Shall nothing wrong him.—Thus it is, general.
Montano and myself being in speech, 220
There comes a fellow, crying out for help,

And Cassio following him with determin'd sword
To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman

Steps in to Cassio, and entreats his pause:

Myself the crying fellow did pueaues

Lest by his clamour (as it so fell out)

The town might fall in fright : he, swift of foot,
Outran my purpose ; and I return’d, the rather
‘For that T heart the clink and fall of swords,

And Cassio high in oath, which till to-night
Ine’er might say before. When I came back
(For this was brief), I found them close together,
At blow and thrust, even as again they were
When you yourself did part them.

More of this matter can I not report :—

But men are men ; the best sometimes forget:
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him,

‘As men in rage strike those that wish them best,
‘Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received

From him that fled some strange indignity,

Wael patience could not pass.

230

240

A I know, Iago,
Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter,

Making it light to Cassio.—Cassio, I love thee ;
But never more be officer of mine.—

Re-enter DESDEMONA, attended.
Look, if my gentle love be not rais’d up !—
I'll make thee an example.
What’s the matter ?

Des.
Oth. All’s well now, sweeting; come away to
ed.—
Sir, for your hurts, myself will mae surgeon.—

ead him off.— ONTANO is led off.
Tago, look with care about the town, - 250

 

And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted.—

Come, Desdemona; ’tis the soldiers’ lite,

To have their balmy slumbers wak’d with strife.
[Exeunt all but Taco and Cassio.

Iago. What, are you hurt, lieutenant ?

Cas. Ay; past all surgery.

Jago. Marry, Heaven forbid!

Cas. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O! Ihave
lost my reputation, I have lost the immortal part of
myself, and what remains is bestial.—_My reputation
Iago, my reputation! 260

‘ago. As I am an honest man, I thought you had
received some bodily wound; there is more sense in
that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and
most false imposition ; oft got without merit, and lost
without deserving: you have lost no reputation at all,
unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man!
there are ways to recover the general again: you are
but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in
policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his
offenceless dog, to affright an imperious lion. Sue to
him again, and he’s yours. 271

Cas. I will rather sue to be despised, than to deceive
so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and
so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot?
and squabble ? swagger ? swear ? and discourse fustian
with one’s own shadow ?—O thou invisible spirit of
wine! if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call
thee devil. - :

lago. What was he that you followed with your
sword? What had he done to you? 280

Cas. I know not.

Iago. 1s’t possible? .

Cas. I remember a mass of things, but nothing dis-
tinctly ; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore.—O God!
that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to
steal away their brains! that we should, with joy,
pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves
into beasts!

Iago. Why, but you are now well enough: how
came you thus recovered? 290

Cas. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness, to give
place to the devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me
another, to make me frankly despise myself.

Iago. Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the
time, the place, and the condition of this country
stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen;
but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.

Cas. I will ask him for my piste again: he shall tell
me, I am a drunkard. Had I as many mouths as
Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be
now a sensible man, by-and-by a fool, and presently a
beast! O, strange!—Every inordinate cup is un-
blessed, and the ingredient is a devil. 3

Iago. Come, come; good wine is a good familiar
creature, if it be well used: exclaim no more against
it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love
you.

Cas. I have well approved it, sir.—I drunk!

Iago. You, or any man living, may be drunk at some
time, man. I’ll tell you what you shall do. Our

eneral’s wife is now the general :--I may say so in
this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up
himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement
of her parts and graces:—confess yourself freely to
her; importune her; she’ll help to put you in your

lace again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so
blesesd a disposition, that she holds it a vice in her

‘oodness, not to do more than she is requested. This
Broken joint, between you and her husband, entreat
her tosplinter ; and my fortunes against any lay worth
naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger
than it was before. 32:

Cas. You advise me well.

Jago. I protest, in the sincerity of love, and honest
kindness.

Cas. I think it freely ; and, betimes in the morning,
I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake
forme. Iam desperate of my fortunes, if they check
me here. . 7

Jago. You are in theright. Good night, lieutenant;
I must to the watch. 331

 

 
 

oS
Ss
ws

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

{Act III,

 

Cas. Good night, honest lago. [Fwit.
Jago. And what’s he then, that says I play the
villain ¢
When this advice is free, I give, and honest,
Probal to thinking, and, indeed, the course
To win the Moor again? For ’tis most easy,
The inclining Desdemona to subdue
In any honest suit: she’s fram’d as fruitful
As the free elements. And then for her
To win the Moor,—were ‘t to renounce his baptism, 340
All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, —
His soul is so enfetter’d to her love,
That she may make, unmake, do what she list,
Even as her appetite shall play the god
With his weak function. ow am I then a villain,
To counsel Cassio to this parallel course,
Directly to his good? Divinity of hell!
When devils will their blackest sins put on,
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,
As Ido now; for whiles this honest fool
Plies Desdemona to repair his fortunes,
And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor,
I'll pour this pestilence into his ear,
That she repeals him for her body’s lust ;
And, by how much she strives to do him good,
She shall undo her credit with the Moor.
So will I turn her virtue into pitch,
And out of her own goodness make the net
That shall enmesh them all.

330

358

 

Re-enter RODERIGO.

How now, Roderigo?

Rod. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound
that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is
almost spent : I have been to-night exceedingly well
cudgelled; and, I think, the issue will be, I shall have so
much experience for my pains; and so, with no money
at all, and a little more wit, return again to Venice.

Jago. How poor are they, that have not patience !
What wound did ever heal, but by degrees?
Thou know’st, we work by wit, and not by witchcraft;
And wit depends on dilatory time.
Does ’t not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee, 370
And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier’d Cassio.
Though other things grow fair against the sun,
Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe:
Content thyself awhile.—By the mass, ’tis morning;
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
Retire thee ; go where thou art billeted:
Away, I say ; thou shalt know more hereafter:
Nay, get thee gone. [Hxit RODERIGO.] Two things are

to be done,—
My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress;
I'll set her on; 380
Myself, the while, to draw the Moor apart,
And bring him jump when he may Cassio find
Soliciting his wife :— iy that’s the way:
n

Dull not device by coldness and delay. (Exit.

 

Cassio.
PO ASTERS, play here; I will content your
» pains:
Someihing that’s briet; and bid, ‘‘Good
morrow, general.” [Mausic.

Enter Clown.

Clo. Why, masters, have your instru-
ments been in Naples, that they speak 7 the
nose thus?

\, 1 Afus. How, sir, how?

Clo. Are these, I pray you, called wind-

instruments?

\S 1 Aqus. Ay, marry, are they, sir.

Clo. O! thereby hangs a tail.

1 Mus, Whereby hangs a tale, sir?

Clo. Marry, sir, by many a wind-instrument that I
know. But, masters, here’s money for you ; and the
general so likes your music, that he desires you, for
love’s sake, to make no more noise with it.

1 Mus. Well, sir, we will not.

Clo. If you have any music that may not be heard,
to’t again ; but, as they say, to hear music the general
does not greatly care.

1 Mus. We have none such, sir. 20
Clo. Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I'll
away. Go; vanish into air, away !

{Hxcunt Musicians.
s. Dost thou hear, mine honest friend
. No, Lhear not your honest friend; I hear you.

Cas. Pr'ythee, keep up thy quillets. There’s a poor

piece of yold for thee. If the gentlewoman that

 
   
 

 

10

o
s
wm

 

 

| ACT LL.
SceENE I.—Beforc the Castle.
Enter Cassio and some Musicians.

attends the general’s wife be stirring, tell her there’s
one Cassio entreats her a little favour of speech:
wilt thou do this?
Clo. She is stirring, sir: if she will stir hither, I
shall seem to notify unto her. 1
Cas. Do, good my friend. [Exit Clown.

Enter Tago.
In happy time, Iago.

Iago. You have not been a-bed, then?

Cas. Why, no; the day had broke
Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago,
To send in to your wife: my suit to her
Ts, that she will to virtuous Desdemona
Procure me some access.

Lago. I'll send her to you
And I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor
Out of the way, that your converse and business
ed be more free.

‘a3. I humbly thank you for’t. [Exit Laco.] I never

resently ;
" 40

new
A Florentine more kind and honest.

Enter EMILtIA.
Emil. Good morrow, good lieutenant: I am sorry
For your displeasure ; but all will sure be well.
The general and his wife are talking of it, .
And she speaks for you stoutly : the Moor replies,
That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus,
And great affinity, and that in wholesome wisdom 50
He might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves
you,

 

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.)

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE. 693

 

And needs no other suitor but his likings,
To take the saf’st occasion by the front,
To bring you in again.

Cas. | Yet, I beseech you, —
If you think fit, or that it may be done,—
Give me advantage of some brief discourse
With Desdemon alone.

Emil. Pray you, come in:

 

Clo. “And the general so likes your music, that he desires sou,
for love's sake, tu make no more uvise with it.”

I will bestow you where you shall have time
‘To speak your bosom freely.

Cas. Iam much bound to you. [Fxreunt.

ScENE II.—A Room in the Castle.

Enter OTHELLO, IAGO, and Gentlemen.
Oth. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot,
And by him do my duties to the senate :
That done, I will be walking on the works ;

Repair there to me.
‘ago. Well, my good lord ; I'll do’t.
Oth. This fortification, gentlemen,—shall we see ’t?
Gent. We'll wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt.

Scene JII.—The Garden of the Castle.

Enter DESDEMONA, Cassio, and EMILIA.

Des. Be thou assur’d, good Cassio, I will do
All my abilities in thy behalf.
Emil. Good madam, do: I warrant it grieves my
husband,
As if the cause were his.
Des. O! that’s an honest fellow.—Do not doubt,
. Cassio,
But I will have my lord and you again
As friendly as you were.
Cas. Bounteous madam,
Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio,
He's never anything but your true servant.
Des. I know’t: I thank you. You do love a

lord; °
You have known him long: and be you well assur'd,
He shall in strangeness stand no further off
Than in a politic distance.

 

Cas. Ay. but, lady,
That policy may either last so long,
Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet,
Or breed itself so out of circumstance,
That, 1 being absent, and my place supplied,
My general will forget my love and service.
Des. Vo not doubt that: before Emilia here,
I give thee warrant of thy place. Assure thee, 20
If I do vow a friendship, I’ll perform it
To the last article: my lord shall never rest;
I'll watch him tame, and talk him out of patience;
His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift:
I'll intermingle everything he does
With Cassio’s suit. Therefore, be merry, Cassio ;
For thy solicitor shall rather die,
Than give thy cause away.

Enter OTHELLO and Jaco, at a distance.
Emil. Madam, here comes my lord.
Cas. Madam, I'll take my leave. 30
Des. Why, stay, and hear me speak.
Cas. Madam, not now: Iam very ill at ease,

Unfit for mine own purposes.
Des. Well, do your discretion.
Tago. Ha! I like not that.
Oth. What dost thou say ?
Iago. Nothing, my lord: or if—I know not what.
Oth. Was not that Cassio, parted from my wife?
Iago. Cassio, my lord? Ne, sure, I cannot think it,

That he would steal away so guilty-like, 40

Seeing you coming.

Oth. I do believe ’t was he.
Des. How now, my lord?
I have been talking with a suitor here,
A man that languishes in your displeasure.
Oth. Who is’t you mean ?
Des. Why, your lieutenant Cassio. Good my lord,

If I have any grace, or power to move you,

His present reconciliation take ;

For, if he be not one that truly loves you,

That errs in ignorance, and not in cunning, 50

I have no judgment in an honest face.

I By gees call him back.

[Exit Cassio.

h Went he hence now?
Des. Ay, sooth ; so humbled,
That he hath left part of his grief with me,
To sutfer with him. Good love, call him back.
Oth. Not now, sweet Desdemon; some other time.
Des. But shall ’t be shortly?

Oth. The sooner, sweet, for you.
Des. Shall’t be to-night at supper?
Oth. No, not to-night.

Des. To-morrow dinner then?
Oth. I shall not dine at home;
I meet the captains at the citadel. : 60
Des. Why then, to-morrow night; or Tuesday morn;
On Tuesday noon, or night; on Wednesday morn:
I pr’ythee, name the time, but let it not
Exceed three days: in faith, he’s penitent ;
And yet his trespass, in our common reason,
(Save that, they say, the wars must make examples
Out of her best,) is not almost a fault
To incur a private check. When shall he come?
Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul,
What you could ask me that I should deny, 70
Or stand so mammering on. What! Michael Cassio,
That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time,
When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,
Hath ta’en your part; to have so much to do
To bring himin! Trust me, I could do much,—
Oth. Pr'ythee, no more: let him come when he

will;
I will deny thee nothing.
es. Why, this is not a boon;

’T is as I should entreat you wear your gloves,
Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm,
Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit 80
To your own person: nay, when I have a suit
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,
It shall be full of poise and difficult weight,
And fearful to be granted.

Oth. I will deny thee nothing:

 

 
 

 

694

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

[Act III.

 

Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this,

To leave me but a little to myself.

Des. Shall I deny you? no, Farewell, my lord.

Oth. Farewell, my Desdemona: I’ll come to thee
straight.

Des. Emilia, come.—Be as your fancies teach you ;

Whate'’er you be, Iam obedient. [Hxrit, with EMILIA.
Oth. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, 91

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,

Chaos is come again.
Iago. My noble lord,—
Oth, What dost thou say, Iago?
Iago. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady,

Know of your love?

Oth. He did, from first to last: why dost thou ask ?
Jago. But for a satisfaction of my thought ;

No further harm.

Oth. Why of thy thought, Iago? ;

Iago. I did not think, he had been acquainted with
her. p 100

Oth. O, yes; and went between us very oft.

Iago. Indeed? :

Oth. Indeed! ay, indeed :—discern’st thou aught in

2

that

Is he not honest?

Lago. Honest, my lord?

Oth. Honest! ay, honest.

Jago. My lord, for aught I know.

Oth. What dost thou think ?

Tago. Think, my lord?

Oth. Think, my lord!
By Heaven, he echoes me,
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown.—Thou dost mean something.
I heard thee say even now,—thou lik’dst not that, 110
When Cassio left my wife: what didst not like?
And, when I told thee, he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, ‘‘Indeed?”
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,
Show me a thought.

Tago. My lord, you know I love you.

th. I think, thou dost ;

And,—for I know thou art full of love and honesty,

And ‘wellh st thy words before thou giv’st them.

reath,— 120
Therefore, these stops of thine fright me the more :
For such things, in a false disloyal knave,

Are tricks of custom; but in a man that’s just,
They ’re close delations, working from the heart,
That passion cannot rule.
Tago. For Michael Cassio, —
I dare be sworn, I think that he is honest.
Oth. I think so too.
Iago. Men should be what they seem ;
Or, those that be not, would they might seem none!
Oth. Certain, men should be what they seem.
Jae. Why then, I think Cassio ’san honest man. 130
Oth. Nay, yet there ’s more in this.
I pray thee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,
As thou dost ruminate ; and give thy worst of thoughts
The worst of words.
dago. Good my lord, pardon me:
Though I am bound to every act of duty,
Iam not bound to that all slaves are free to.
Utter my fnougatss Why, say, they are vile and

‘alse,—

As where’s that palace, whereinto foul things
Sometimes intrude not? who has a breast so pure,
But some uncleanly apprehensions 1
Keep leets, and law-days, and in sessions sit

With meditations lawful?

Oth. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,
If thou but think’st him wrong'd, and mak’st his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.

Iago. I do beseech you,—
pee I, perchance, am vicious in my guess,

(As, I confess, it is my nature’s plague

To spy into abuses, and oft my Jealousy _

Shapes faults that are not,)—that your wisdom yet, _
From one that so imperfectly conceits, 150

 

Would take no notice; nor build yourself a trouble

Out of his scattering and unsure observance.

It were not for your quiet, nor your good,

Nor for my manhood, honesty, and wisdom,

To let you know my thoughts,
Oth. What dost thou mean?

\ Jago, Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls:

‘Who steals my purse, steals trash; ‘tis something,

' nothing
*T was mine, ’t is his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name, 160

Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.

Oth. By Heaven, I’ll know thy thoughts.

Jago. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand;
Nor a not, whilst ’tis in my custody.

al
Tago. O! beware, my lord, of jealousy ;
It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives in bliss,
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ;
But, O! what damned minutes tells he o’er, 170
Who dotes, yet doubts ; suspects, yet soundly loves!

Oth, O misery !

Jago. Poor, and content, is rich, and rich enough ;
But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter,
To him that ever fears he shall be poor.—
Good Heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend
From jealousy!

Oth. Why? why is this?
Think’st thou, I’d make a life of jealousy,
Yo follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions? No: to be once in doubt, 180
Is once to be resolv’d. Exchange me for a goat,
When I shall turn the business of my soul
To such exsuffiicate and blown surmises, *
Matching thy inference. ’T isnot to make me jealous,
To say—my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous:
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt ;
For she had eyes, and chose me. No, Iago;
I'll see, before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;
And, on the proof, there is no more but this,—
Away at once with love, or jealousy.

Iago. I am glad of it: for now I shall have reason
To show the love and duty that I bear you
With franker spirit: therefore, as I am bound,
Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. _
Look to your wife ; observe her well with Cassio ;
Wear your eye thus, not jealous, nor secure :

I would not have your free and noble nature,

Out of self-bounty, be abus’d ; look to ’t.

I know our oy disposition well:

In Venice they do let Heaven see the pranks

They dare not show their husbands; their best con-
science

Is, not to leave ’t undone, but keep ’t unknown.

Oth. Dost thou say so? ¥

Iago. She did deceive her father, marrying you;
And, when she seem’d to shake and fear your looks,
She lov’d them most.

Oth. And so she did.

Tago. Why, go to, then;
She that so young could give out such a seeming, 210
To seel her father’s eyes up, close as oak,—

He HOHE ‘twas witchcraft :—but 1 am much to
lame ;

I humbly do beseech you of your pardon,

For too much loving you.

190

200

Oth. I am bound to thee for ever.
Jaye: I see, this hath a little dash’d your spirits.
Oth. Not a jot, not a jot. P

Tago. Trust me, I fear it has.
I hope, you will consider what is spoke ‘
Comes from my love.—But, I do see you're mov’d:
Iam to pray you, not to strain my speech
To grosser issues, nor to larger reach,
Than to suspicion.

Oth. I will not.

220

 

 
 

Scene IIL] OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE. 695

 

 

Iago. Should you do so, my lord,
My speech should fall into such vile success
As my thoughts aim not at. Cassio’s my worthy
friend—
My lord, I see you’re mov’d.
. No, not much mov'd.—
I do not think but Desdemona’s honest.
dome Long live she so! and long live you to think so!
Oth. And yet, how nature erring from itself,—
Iugo. Ay, there’s the point :—as,—to be bold with
you, — ;
Not to affect many proposed matches, 230
Of her own clime, pores On and degree,
Whereto, we see, in all things nature tends:
Foh! one may smell, in such, a will most rank,
Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural.—
But pardon me; I do not in position
Distinctly speak of her, though I may fear,
Her will, recoiling to her better judgment,
May fall to match you with her country forms,
And, happily, repent.
Oth. Farewell, farewell.
If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; 240
Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago.
i Kd lord, I take my leave. [Going.
Oth. Why did I marry?—This honest creature,
doubtless,
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.
Tago. [Returning.] My lord, I would I might entreat
our honour -
To scan this thing no further ; leave it to time.
Although ’t is fit that Cassio have his place,
(For, sure, he fills it up with great ability,)
Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile,
You shall by that perceive him and his means: 250
Note, if your lady strain his entertainment
With awy strong or vehement importunity ;
Much will be seen in that. In the meantime,
Let me be thought too busy in my fears
(As worthy cause I have to fear I am),
And hold her free, I do beseech your honour.
Oth. Fear not my government.
Iago. I once more take my leave. (Exit.
Oth. This fellow’s of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, _ 260
Of human dealings ; if I do prove her haggard,
ee that her jesses were my dear heart-strings,
I’d whistle her off, and let her down the wind,
To ea at fortune. Haply, for Iam black,
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have; or, for I am declin’d
Into the vale of years ;—yet that ’s not much:
She ’s gone, I am abus’d ; and my relief
Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage!
That we can call these delicate creatures ours, 270
And not their appetites. I had rather be a toad,
And live upon ihe vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love
For others’ uses. Yet, ‘tis the plague of great ones;
Prerogativ’d are they less than the base ;
*T is destiny unshunnable, like death :
Even then this forked plague is fated to us,
When we do quicken. Look, where she comes.
If she be false, O! then Heaven mocks itself.
I'll not believe it.

Re-enter DESDEMONA and EMILIA.
Des. How now, my dear Othello? 280
Your dinner and the generous islanders,
By you invited, do attend your presence.
Oth. I am to blame.
Des. Why do you speak so faintly ?
Are you not well?
h. Ihave a pain upon my forehead here.
Des. Faith, that’s with watching; ’t will away

again:
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well:
Oth. Your napkin is too little ;
Let it alone. Come, I’ll go in with you.
Des. Iam very sorry that you are not well. 290
{#xeunt OTHELLO and DESDEMONA.

 

Emil. Iam glad I have found this napkin.
This was her first remembrance from the Moor:
ae wayward husband hath a hundred times

oo'd me to steal it ; but she so loves the token,
(For he conjur’d her she should ever keep it,)
That she reserves it evermore about her,
To kiss, and talk to. I’ll have the work ta’en out,
And give ’t Iago:
What he will do with it, Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing, but to please his fantasy. 350 |

Re-enter IaGo.

Iago. How now! what do you here alone?
Emil. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.

 

 

 

Emil. “ What will you do with't, that you have been su earnest
To have me filch it?”

Iago. A thing for me?—it is a common thing—
Emil. Ha?
Iago. To have a foolish wife.
Emil. O! is that all? What will you give me now
For that same handkerchief ?
Iago. What handkerchief?
Emil. What handkerchief !
Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona;
That which so often you did bid me steal. 310
Jago. Hast stol’n itfrom her? .
Emil. No, ’faith: she let it drop by negligence ;
And, to the advantage, I, being here, took ’t up.

Look, here it is.
Iago. A good wench ; give it me.
Emil. What will you do with’t, that you have been
so earnest
To have me filch it?
Iago. Why, what’s that to you?
[Snatching it.

Emil. If it be not for some purpose of import,
Give’t me again: poor lady ! she’ll run mad,

When she shall lack it.

Iago. Be not acknown on’t; Ihave use for it. 320
Go, leave me. (Exit Emi.
I will in Cassio’s lodging lose this napkin,

And let him find it: trifles, light as air,

Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong

As proofs of holy writ. This may do something.
The Moor already changes with my poison :

 

 
 

696

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

(Act TIL

 

 

Dangerous conccits are in their natures poisons,
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste ;

But, with a little act upon the blood,

Burn like the mines of sulphur.—I did say so:— — 330
Look, where he comes !

Re-enter OTHELLO.
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou ow’dst yesterday.

Oth. Ha! ha! false to me?

Iago. Why, how now, general? no more of that.

Oth. Avaunt! be gone! thou hast set me on the

rack.—
I swear, ’tis better to be much abus’d,
Than but to know’t a little.

Jago. How now, my lord?

Oth. What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust ?

I saw it not, thought it not, it harm’d not me: 340

I slept the next night well, fed well, was free and
merry ;

I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips:

He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stolen,

Let him not know’t, and he’s not robb’d at all.

fago. I am sorry to hear this.

Oth. Thad been happy, if the general camp,
Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body,

So I had nothing known. O now, for ever,
Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content !
Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars, 350
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove’s dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello’s occupation's gone !

fago. Is it possible ?—My lord,—

Oth. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore:
Be sure of it: give me the ocular proof ; 36.
Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul,

Thou hadst been better have been born a dog,
Than answer my wak’d wrath.

fago. Ts it come to this ?

Oth. Make me to see’t; or, at the least, so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge, nor loop,

To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!

Iago. My noble lord,—

Oth. If thou dost slander her, and torture me,
Never pray more ; abandon all remorse ; 370
On horror’s head horrors accumulate ;

Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amaz‘d:
For nothing canst thou to damnation add,
Greater than that.

Tago. O grace! O Heaven forgive me!
Are you a man? have you a soul, or sense ?—
God be wi’ you; take mine oftice.—O wretched fool,
That liv’st to make thine honesty a vice !—
O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world!
To be direct and honest is not safe.—
I thank you for this profit ; and, from hence, 380
I'll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence.

Oth. Nay, stay.—Thou shouldst be honest.

Iago. I should be wise; for honesty ’s a fool,
And loses that it works for.

Oth. By the world,

I think my wife be honest, and think she is not ;
I think that thou art just, and think thou art not.
I'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh
As Dian’s visage, is now begrim'd and black
As mine own face.—If there be cords, or knives,
Poison, or fire, or suffocating streams, 390
Ill not endure it.—Would I were satisfied !

Jago. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion.
Ido repent me that I put it to you.
You would be satisfied ?

Oth. Would! nay, I will.

Jago. And may ; but how? how satisfied, my lord?
Would eee the supervisor, grossly gape on,—
Behold her tupp’d?

 

Oth. Death and damnation! O!
Iago. It were a tedious Seat I think,
To bring them to that prospect. Damn them then,
If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster,
More than theirown! What then? how then?
What shall I say? Where’s satisfaction?

 

 

 

 

Oth. ‘Make me to see't; or, at the least, 30 prove it,
That the probation bears no hinge, nor loop,
To hang a doubt on: or woe upon thy life!”

It is impossible you should see this,

Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,

As saltas wolves in pride, and fools as gross

As ignorance made drunk: but yet, I say,

If imputation, and strong circumstances,

Which lead directly to the door of truth,

Will give you satisfaction, you might have it.
Oth. Give me a living reason she’s disloyal. 410
Iago. I do not like the office ;

But, sith Iam enter’d in this cause so far,

Prick’d to’t by foolish honesty and love,

I will goon. I lay with Cassio lately ;

And, being troubled with a raging tooth,

I could not sleep.

There are a kind of men so loose of soul,

That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs :

One of this kind is Cassio.

In sleep I heard him say,—“‘Sweet Desdemona; 420

Let us be wary, let us hide our loves!”

And then, sir, would he gripe, and wring my hand,

Cry,—“O sweet creature!” and then kiss me hard,

As if he pluck’d up kisses by the roots,

That grew upon my lips: then laid his leg

Over my thigh, and sigh’d, and kiss’d; and then .

Cried,—‘‘ Cursed fate, that gave thee to the Moor!
Oth. O monstrous! monstrous !

"hago. Nay, this was but his dream.

Oth. But this denoted a foregone conclusion :

’Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be buta dream. _ 130
Iago. And this may help to thicken other proofs,
That do demonstrate thinly. :

Oth. I'll tear her all to pieces,
Iago. Nay, but be wise: yet we see nothing done;
She may be honest yet. Tell me but this:
Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief,
Spotted with strawberries, in your wife’s hand?
Oth. Lgave her such a one: ’t was my first gift.
Iago. I know not that: but such a handkerchief

 

 
 

 

Scene IV.)

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

6u7

 

.

Tam sure it was your wife’s) did I to-day
ee Cassio wipe his beard with.
Oth. . If it be that,-
Iago. If it be that, or any that was hers,
It ppeale against her, with the other proofs.
Oth. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives!
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.
Now do I see ’t is true.—Look here, Iago;
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven:
Tis gone.—
Arise, black vengeance, from the hollow hell!
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
Yor 'tis of aspics’ tongues!
451

440

Jeg Yet be content.
Oth. O, blood, blood, blood !
Jago. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may
change.
Oth. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
'To the Propontic and the Hellespont:
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge 460
Swallow them up.—[Kneeling.] Now, by yond marble
heaven,
In the due reverence of a sacred vow
I here engage my words.
Iago. _ Donot rise yet.—[Kneeling.
Witness, you ever-burning lights above !
You elements that clip us round about!
Witness, that here Iago doth give up
The execution of his wit, hands, heart,
To wrong’d Othello’s service! Let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody business ever.
Oth. I greet thy love, 70
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,
And will upon the instant put thee to’t:
Within these three days let me hear thee say,
That Cassio’s not alive.
cake My friend is dead; ’t is done at your request:
But let her live.
Oth. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!
Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw,
To furnish me with some swift means of death
For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.
Iago. 1am your own for ever. 480
[Ezeunt.

Scene IV.—Before the Castle.

Enter DESDEMONA, EMILIA, and Clown.
if Des. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio
ies?

Clo, I dare not say he lies anywhere.

Des. Why, man?

_ Clo. He is a soldier ; and for one to say a soldier liés,
is stabbing.

Des. Goto. Where lodges he?

; fee To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where
ie.

Des. Can anything be made of this? 10

Clo. I know not where he lodges; and for me to
devise a lodging, and say, he lies here, or he lies
there, were to lie in mine own throat.

fe, Can you inquire him out, and be edified by
report

lo. I will catechise the world for him; that is,
make questions, and by them answer.

Des. Seek him; bid him come hither; tell him, I
have moved my lord in his behalf, and hope, all will
be well. : 20

Clo, To do this is within the compass of man’s wit ;
and therefore I will attempt the doing it. [Fait.

Des. Where should I lose that handkerchief,
Emilia?

Emil. I know not, madam.

Des. Believe me. I had rather have lost my purse
Full of cruzadoes;.and but my noble Moor

 

Is true of mind, and made of no such baseneg3
As jealous creatures are, it were enougu
Te put him to ill thinking.
Emil. Is he not jealous? 30
Des. Whothe! I think the sun, where he was born,
Drew all such humours from him,
Emil. Look, where he comes.
Des. I will not leave him now, till Cassio
Be call’d to him.—
Enter OTHELLO.

How is’t with you, my lord?
Oth. Well, my good lady.—[.Aside.] O, hardness to
dissemble !—
How do you, Desdemona?
es. Well, my good lord,
Oth. Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my

lady.
Des. It yet has felt no age, nor known no sorrow.
Oth. This argues fruitfulness, and liberal heart :
Hot, hot, and moist : this hand of yours requires
A sequester from liberty, fasting and prayer,
Much castigation, exercise devout ;
For here’s a young and sweating devil here,
That commonly rebels. “Tis a good hand,
«A frank one.
Des. You may, indeed, say so;
For 't was that hand that gave away my heart.
Oth. A liberal hand : the hearts.of old gave hands;
But our new heraldy is—hands, not hearts.
Des. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your
romise.
Oth. What promise, chuck? 50
Des. T have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you.
Oth. T have a salt and sorry rheum offends me.
Lend me thy handkerchief.
Des. Here, my lord.
Oth. That which I gave you.
Des. T have it not about me.
Oth. Not?
Des. No, indeed, my lord. é
Oth. That’sa fault. That handkerchief
Did an Egyptian to my mother give; 60
She was a charmer, and could almost read
The thoughts of people: she told her, while she kept it,
*T would make her amiable, and subdue my father
Entirely to her love; but if she lost it,
Or made a ee ot it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathed, and his spirits should hunt
After new fancies. She, dying, gave it me;
And bid me, when my fate would have me wived,
To give it her. I did so: and take heed on’t;
Make it a darling like your precious eye; 70
To lose’t or give ’t away, were such perdition,
As nothing else could match.
es. Is’t possible ?
Oth. ’T is true: there’s magic in the web of it.
A sibyl, that had number’d in the world

40

‘The sun to course two hundred compasses,
. In her prophetic fury sew’d the work ;

The worms were hallow’d that did breed the silk,
And it was dy’d in mummy, which the skilful
Conserv’d of maidens’ hearts.

Des. Indeed! is’t true?
Oth. Most veritable ; therefore look to’t well. 80
Des. Then would to Heaven that I had never seen 't.
Oth. Ha! wherefore ?
Des. Why do you speak so startingly and rash ?
Oth. Is’t lost? is’t gone? speak, is it out o' the way ?
Des. Heaven bless us!
Oth. Say you? ke
Des. It is not lost; but what an if it were?
Oth. How?
Des. I say, it is not lost.
Oth. Fetch ’t, let me see ’t. 90
* Des. Why, so 1 can, sir; but I will not now.
This is a trick, to put me from my suit:

I pray, let Cassio be receiv’d again.
Oth. Fetch me that handkerchief: my mind mis
gives.
Des. Come, come ;
You'll never meet a more sufficient man.

 

 
 

698 OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

 

 

Oth, The handkerchief !
Des. 5
Oth. The handkerchief ! ask |
Des. : A man that, all his time, |
Hath founded his good fortunes on your love; {
Shar’d dangers with you ;— 100

I pray, talk me of Cassio.

“

Bian.
This is some token from ar

Oth, The handkerchief !
Des.

Oth. Away!
Emil. Is not this man jealous?
Des. I ne’er saw this before.
Sure, there ’s some wonder in this handkerchief :
Iam most unhappy in the loss of it. ;
Emil. "T is not a year or two shows us a man:
They are all but stomachs, and we all. but food ;

In sooth, you are to blame. i
[Bxit. |

 

They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, 1
They belch us.—Look you! Cassio, and my husband,

Enter Iaco and Cassio.

Iago. There is‘no other way ; ’t is she must do’t:
And, lo, the happiness! go, and importune her,

  

aos

of

TF]

 

ey uit
PAT

O Cassio, whence came this?
newer friend.”

Des. How HOW good Cassio? what’s the news with
a

you
Cas. Madam, my former suit. I do beseech you,

| That by your virtuous means I may again

Exist, and be a member of his love,

Whom I, with all the office of my heart,

Entirely honour: I would not be delay’d.

It my, offence be of such mortal kind,

That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, 120

{Acr. TL

 

 
 

‘SCENE IV.] OTHELLO, THE

MOOR OF VENICE.

699

 

 

Nor purpos’d merit in futurity,
Can ransom me into his love again,
But to know so must be my benefit ;
So shall I clothe me in a fore’d content,
And shut myself up in some other course,
To fortune’s alms.
Des. ._,. Alas! thrice-gentle Cassio,
My advocation is not now in tune ;
My lord is not my lord ; nor should I know him,
Were he in favour, as in humour, alter’d.
So help me every spirit sanctified,
As I have spoken for you all my best,
And stood within the blank of his displeasure,
For mY free speech, You must awhile be patient :
What I can do, I will; and more I will,
Than for myself I dare : let that suffice you.
Iago. Is my lord angry ?
Emil. ‘ He went hence but now,
And, certainly, in strange unquietness.
Iago. Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon,
When it hath blown his ranks into the air,
And, like the devil, from his very arm 140
uff’d his own brother ;—and can he be angry?
Something of moment, then: I will go meet him.
There ’s matter in ’t, indeed, if he be angry.
Des. I pr’ythee, do so. [Exit lage | Somethitries
: sure, of state—
Either from Venice, or some unhatch’d practice,
Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him—
Hath puddled his clear spirit ; and, in such cases,
Men’s natures wrangle with inferior things,
Though great ones are their object. ’Tis even so;
For let our finger ache, and it indues 1
Our other healthful members ev'n to that sense
Of pain. Nay, we must think, men are not gods;
Nor of them look for such observance
As fits the bridal.—Beshrew me much, Emilia,
I was (unhandsome warrior as I am)
Arraigning his unkindness with my soul:
But now I find, I had suborn’d the witness,
And he’s indited falsely.
Emil. Pray Heaven it be state-matters, as you set

130

And no conception, nor no jealous toy,
Concerning you.

Des. Alas the day! I never gave him cause.

Emil. But jealous souls will not be answer’d so ;
They are not ever jealous for the cause,
But jealous for they are jealous: ’t is a monster
Begot upon itself, born on itself.

es, Heaven keep that monsterfrom Othello’smind!

 

Emil. Lady, Amen.

Des. I will go seek him.—Cassio, walk hereabout :
If I do find him fit, I’ll move your suit, 170
And seek to effect it to my uttermost.

Cas. I humbly thank your ladyship.

[Exeunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA.

Zinter BIANCA.

Bian. Save you, friend Cassio !
Cas. What make you from home?
How is it with you, my most fair Bianca ?

T faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house.
Bian. And I was going to your lodging, Cassio.
What! keep a week away? seven days and nights?

Eight score eight hours? and lovers’ absent hours,
More tedious than the dial eight score times?
O weary reckoning ! :
Cas. Pardon me, Bianca ; 180
I have this while with leaden thoughts been press’d ;
But I shall, in a more continuate time,
Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca,
Giving her DESDEMONA’s handkerchief.
Take me this work out. ;
Bian. O Cassio, whence came this?
This is some token from a newer friend.
To the felt absence now I feel a cause.
Is it come to this? Well, well.
Cas. ; Go to, woman!
Throw your vile guesses in the devil’s teeth,
From whence you have them. You are jealous now,
That this is from some mistress, some remembrance :
No, in good troth, Bianca.
tan. Why, whose is it ? 191
Cas. I know not neither : I found it in my chamber.
I like the work well: ere it be demanded
(As like enough it will), I’d have it copied:
Take it, and do ’t; and leave me for this time.
Bian. Leave you! wherefore?
Cas. I do attend here on the general,
And think it no addition, nor my wish,
To have him see me woman’d.

Bian.

Cas. Not that Ilove you not.

Bian. But that you do not love me.
I pray you, bring me on the way a little; 201
And say, it I shall see you soon at night.

Cas. ’T is but a little way, that I can bring you,
For I attend here; but I’ll see you soon.

Bian. ’Lis very good: I must be circumstance’d.

[Exeunt.

Why, I pray you?

 

 

UU iy
OW PAZ
Dif

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—Before the Castle.

Z A) Tago.
CaP te LLL you think so?
{ Oth. Think so, Iago?

  

Tago. What!
To kiss in private?

he An unauthoris’d kiss.

Iago. Or to be naked with her friend

it \ a-bed,

ee An hour, or more, not meaning any harm ?

a Oth. N ae posits Iago, and not mean
arm.

It is hypocrisy against the devil:
-They that mean virtuously, and yet do so,
The devil their virtue tempts, and they tempt Heaven.

Enter OTHELLO and IaGo.

Iago. If they do nothing, ’tis a venial slip:

But if I give my wife a handkerchief,— 10

Oth. What then? .

Iago. Why, then’tis hers, my lord; and, being hers,
She may, I think, bestow ’t on any man.

Oth. She is protectress of her honour too:

May she give that?

Iago. Her honour is an essence that’s not seen ;
They have it very oft, they have it not:

But, for the handkerchief,—

Oth. By Heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it.
Thou saidst,—O! it comes o'er my memory, 20
As doth the raven o’er the infectious house,

Boding to all,—he had my handkerchief.

 

 
 

700 OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

{Act IV.

 

 

Tago. Ay, what of that?
Oth. That’s not so good, now.
Iago. What, if I had said, I had seen him do you
wrong ?%
Or heard him say,—as knaves be such abroad,
Who, having, by their own importunate suit,
Or voluntary dotage of some mistress,
Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose
But they must blab.
th. Hath he said anything?
Jago. He hath, my lord; but, be you well assur’d, 30
No more than he'll unswear.
What hath he said ?

Oth.

Iago. Faith, that he did—I know not what he did.

Oth. What? what?

Iago. Lie—

Oth. With her? .
fago. With her, on her; what you will.
Oth. Lie with her! lie on her !—We say, lie on her,

when they belie her. Lie with her! that’s fulsome.—

Handkerchiet,—confessions,—handkerchief.—To con-

fess, and be hanged for his labour.—First, to be

hanged, and then to confess :—I tremble at it. Nature
would not invest herself in such shadowing passion,
without some instruction. It is not words, that
shakes me thus.—Pish!--Noses, ears, and lips.—Is

it possible ?—Confess !— Handkerchief !—O devil !— 43

[Falls in a trance.
Iago. Work on,

My medicine, work ! Thus credulous fools are caught ;

And many worthy and chaste dames, even thus,

All guiltless, meet reproach.—What, ho! my lord!

My lord, I say! Othello !—

Entcr Cassio.
How now, Cassio?
Cas. What's the matter ?
Iago. My lord is fall'’n into an epilepsy: 59
This is his second fit ; he had one yesterday.
Cas. Rub him about the temples.
Iago. No, forbear.
The lethargy must have his quiet course ;
If not, he foams at mouth ; and, by-and-by,
Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs :
Do you withdraw yourself a little while,
He will recover straight : when he is gone,
I would on great occasion speak with you.—
[vit Cassio.
How is it, general? have you hurt your head ?
Oth. Dost thou mock me ?
Lago. I mock you! no, by Heaven.
’Would you would bear your fortune likea man. 61
Oth. A horned man’s a monster, and a beast.
Jago. There's many a beast then in a populous city,
And many a civil monster.
Oth. Did he confess it ?
Iago. Good sir, be a man;
‘Think, every bearded fellow, that’s but yok’d,
May draw with you: there’s millions now alive,
That nightly lie in those unproper beds,
Which they dare swear peculiar: your case is better.
O! ‘tis the spite of hell, the fiend’s arch-mock, 70
To lip a wanton in a secure couch,
And to suppose her chaste. No, let me know ;
And, knowing what Iam, I know what she shall be,
Oth. O! thou art wise; ‘tis certain.
Jago. Stand you awhile apart ;
Confine yourself but in a patient list.
Whilst you were here, o’erwhelmed with your grief
(A passion most unsuiting such a man),
Cassio came hither: I shifted him away,
And laid good 'scuse upon your ecstacy ; 80
Bade him anon return, and here speak with me;
The which he promis’d. Do but encave yourself,
And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns,
That dwell in every region of his face ;
For I will make him tell the tale anew,
Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when
He hath, and is again to cope your wife:
I at but mark his gesture.—Marry, patience ;
Or I shall say, you are all in all in spleen,
And nothing of a man,

 

Oth. Dost thou hear, Iago? 90
I will be found most cunning in my patience;
But (dost thou hear?) most bloody.
Tago. hoe ; That’s not amiss;
But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw?
: OTHELLO withdraws, .
Now will I question Cassio of Bianca,
A housewife, that by selling her desires
Buys herself bread and clothes: it is a creature,
That dotes on Cassio, as 't is the strumpets’ plague,
To beguile many, and be beguil’d by one.
He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain
From the excess of laughter.—Here he comes.— _ 100

Re-enter Cassio.

As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad;
And his unbookish jealousy must construe
Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures, and light behaviour
Quite in the wrong.—How do you now, lieutenant?

Cas. The worser, that you give me the addition,
Whose want even kills me.

Iago. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on ’t.
[Speaking lower.] Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s

dower,

How quickly should you speed !

‘as. Alas, poor caitiff!
Oth. [Aside.] Look, how he laughs already ! 110
fago. I never knew woman love man so.

Cas. Alas, poor rogue! I think, i’ faith, she loves

me.

Oth. eel Now he denies it faintly, and laughs

it out.

Jago. Do you hear, Cassio?

Oth. [Aside.] Now he importunes him
To tell it o'er. Goto; well said, well said.

Tago. She gives it out, that you shall marry her:
Do you intend it?

Cas. Ha, ha, ha!

Oth. [Aside.] Do
triumph?

Cas. I marry her!—what! a customer? I pr'ythee,
bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so
unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha!

Oth. LAside.] So, so, so, so. They Jaugh that win.

Tago. bei the cry goes, that you shall marry

her.—

Cas. Pr'ythee, say true.

rig Iam a very villain else.

Oth. LAside.] Have you scored me? Well.

Cas, This is the monkey’s own giving out : she is
persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and
flattery, not out of my promise. 131

Oth. [Aside.] Iago beckons me: now he begins the
story. :

Cas. She was here even now; she haunts me in
every place. I was, the other day, talking on the sea-
bank with certain Venetians, and thither comes the
bauble; and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my

neck; .
Oth. [Asidc.] Crying, O dear Cassio! as it were: his
gesture imports it. 140

Cas. So hangs, and lolls, and weeps upon me; so
hales and pulls me: ha, ha, ha !— .

Oth. (Aside.] Now he tells, how she plucked him to
my chamber. O! I see that nose of yours, but not
that dog I shall throw it to.

Cas. Well, I must leave her company.

Tago. Before me! look, where she comes.

Cas. ’T is such another fitchew! marry, a perfumed
one.

you triumph, Roman! do Be

Enter BIANca.

What do you mean by this haunting of me? 150

Bian. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What
did you mean by that same handkerchief, you gave
me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must
take out the work !-—A likely piece of work, that you
should find it in your chamber, and know not wholeft
it there! This is some minx’s token, and I must take
out the work! There, give it your hobby-horse :
wheresoever you had it, I ‘ll take out no work on ’t.

Cas. How now, my sweet Bianca! how now, ae
now!

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE ITI.] OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE. 761
Oth. [Aside.] By Heaven, that should be my hand- Oth. Fire and brimstone!

kerchief ! Des. My lord?
Bian. An you’ll come to supper to-night, you may; Oth. Are you wise? 240

an you will not, come when you are next prepared

for. Lait.

Iago. After her, after her.

Cas. Faith, I must; she'll rail in the strect else.

Iago. Will you sup there?

Cas. ’Faith, I intend so.

Iago. Well, I may chance to see you, for I would
very fain speak with you. 171

Cas. Pr’ythee, come; will you?

Iago. Go to; say no more, [Exit Cassio.

Oth. [Advancing.] How shall I murder him, Iago?

Iago. Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice?

Oth. O, Iago!

Iago, And did you see the handkerchief?

Oth. Was that mine ?

Iago. Yours, by this hand: and to see how he prizes
the foolish woman, your wife! she gave it him, and he
hath given it his whore. 181

Oth. I would have him nine years a-killing.—A fine
woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman !

Iago. Nay, you must forget that.

Oth. Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned to-
night ; for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned
to stone ; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O! the
world hath not a sweeter creature: she might lie by
an emperor’s side, and command him tasks,

Iago. Nay, that’s not your way. 190

4 Oth. Hang her! Ido but say what she is.—So deli-
cate with her needle !—An admirable musician! O!
she will sing the savageness out of a bear.—Of so high
and plenteous wit and invention !—

Iago. She’s the worse for all this.

Oth. O! a thousand, a thousand times.
of so gentle a condition !

Iago. Ay, too gentle.

Oth. Nay, that’s certain:—but yet the pity of it,
Iago !—O, lago ! the pity of it, Iago! 200

Jago. If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her
patent to offend: for, if it touch not you, it comes near
nobody.

Oth. I will chop her into messes.—Cuckold me !

Iago. O! ’tis foul in her.

Oth. With mine officer!

Iago. That’s fouler.

Oth. Get me some poison, Iago; this night :—I ll not
expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unpro-
vide my mind again.—This might, Iago. 210

Jago. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed,
even the bed she hath contaminated.

* el Good, good: the justice of it pleases; very
good.

Tago. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker: you
shall hear more by midnight. [4 trumpet within.
Oth. Excellent good.—W hat trumpet is that same ?

Jago. Something from Venice, sure. *T is Lodovico,
Come from the duke; and, see, your wife is with him.

And then,

Enter Lopovico, DESDEMONA, and Attendants.

Lod. God save the worthy general!

Oth. With all my heart, sir.

Lod. The duke and senators of Venice greet you.

Giving him a packet.

Oth. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. 222
pens the packet, and reads.

Des. And what’s the news, good cousin Lodovico?

Tago. 1 am very glad to see you, signior :

Welcome to Cyprus. :
Lod. I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio?
Tago. Lives, sir.

Des, Cousin, there’s fall’n between him and my lord

An unkind breach, but you shall make all well.

Oth, Are you sure of that? 230

Des. My lord?

ee [Readiny.] ‘This fail you not to do, as you
will ”—

Lod. He did not call; he’s busy in the paper.
Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio ?

Des. A most unhappy one: I would do much
To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio.

 

Des. What! is hé angry?
Lod. May be, the letter mov’d him ;
For, as I think, they do command him home,

Deputing Cassio in his government.
Des. Trust me 1 am glad on’t.
Oth. Indeed?
Des. My lord?
Oth. Iam glad to see you mad. ‘
Des. How, sweet Othello ?
Oth. Devil! [Striking her.

Des. Ihave not deserv'd this.

Lod. My lord, this would not be belicv’d in Venice,
Though I should swear I saw it. *“Tis very much:
Make her amends, she weeps.

O devil, devil!

Oth.

Tf that the earth could teem with woman’s tears,
Fach drop she falls would prove a crocodile.—
Out of my sight!

Des. I will not stay to offend you. [Goiig.

Lod. Truly, an obedient lady.—

I do beseech your lordship, call her back.

Oth. Mistress !

Des. My lord?

Oth. What would you with her, sir?

Lod. Who, I, my lord?

Oth. Ay; you did wish, that I would make her turn:
Sir, she can turn, and turn, and yet go on,
And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep ; 260
And she’s obedient, as you say,—obedient, —

Very obedient.—Proceed you in your tears.—
Concerning this, sir,—O well-painted passion !—
I am commanded home.—Get you away ;
1'l1l send for you anon.—Sir, I obey the mandate,
And will return to Venice.—Hence ! avaunt !—
: {Exit DesDEMONA.
Cassio shall have my place. And,—sir, to-night,
I do entreat that we may sup together:
You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. — Goats and
monkeys ! Exit.

Lod. Is this the noble‘Moor whom our full senate
Call all-in-all sufficient ?—Is this the nature 2
Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue
The shot of accident, nor dart of chance,

Could neither graze, nor pierce?

Iago. He is much chang’d.

Lod. Are his wits safe? is he not light of brain?

Jago. He’s that he is: I may not breathe my

censure,
What he might be,—if, what he might, he is not,—
I would to Heaven, he were!
Lod. What! strike his wife!
Jago. Faith, that was not so well; yet ’would I

230

new,
That stroke would prove the worst.
Lod. Is it his use?
Or did the letters work upon his blood, 281
And new-create this fault ?
Tago. Alas, alas!
It is not honesty in me, to speak
What I haveseen andknown. You shall observe him,
And his own courses will denote him so,
That I may save my speech. Do but go after,
And mark how he continues.
Lod. Lam sorry, that I am deceiv’d in him.
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—A. Room in the Castle,

Enter OTHELLO and EMILIA.
Oth. You have seen nothing then ?
Emil. Nor ever heard; nor ever did suspect.
Oth. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together.
Emil. But then I saw no harm; and then I heard
Each syllable that breath made up between them.
Oth. What, did they never whisper ?

Emil. Never, my lord.
Oth. Nor send you out o’ the way?
Emil, Never.

 

 
 

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

. [Act IV,

 

 

702
Oth. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor
nothing ?
Emil. Never, my lord.
Oth. That’s strange. 10

Emil. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest,
Lay down my soul at stake: if you think other,
Remove your thought ; it doth abuse your bosom.
If any wretch have put this in your head,
Let Heaven requite it with the serpent’s curse !
For, if she be not honest, chaste, and true,
There's no man happy ; the purest of their wives
Is foul as slander.

Bid her come hither :—go.—
[Eat IEMILIA.

 

Lay not your blame on me; if you have lost him,
Why, [ have lost him too.

Oth. : Had it pleas’d Heaven
To try me with affliction ; had they rain’d
All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head ;
Steep’d me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience : but, alas! to make me
The fixed figure, for the time of scorn
To point his slow and moving finger at,—
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there, where I have garner’d up my heart,
Where either I must live, or bear no life,

‘The fountain from the which my current

 

 

 

runs,
Or else dries up ; to be discarded thence, 60
Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads
To knot and gender in!—turn thy com-
plexion there,

thou. young and rose-lipp’d
cherubin ;
Ay, there, look grim as hell!

Des. I hope, my noble lord esteems me

Patience,

honest.
Oth. O! ay; as summer flies are in the
shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou
wee

Who art so lovely fair, and smell’st sosweet,
That the sense aches at thee,—’would thou
hadst ne'er been born!

Des. Alas! what ignorant sin have I
committed ? 70
Oth. Was this fair paper, this most
goodly book,
Made to write whore upon? What com-
mitted ?
Committed !—O thou public commoner !
I should make very forges of my cheeks,
‘That would to cinders burn up modesty,
Did I but speak thy deeds.—What com-

 

Des. ‘‘Upon my knees, what doth your speech linport?”

She says enough ;—yet she’s a simple bawd,
That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, 20
A closet-lock-and-key of villainous secrets:
And yet she’ll kneel, and pray ; I have seen her do't.

Re-enter EMILIA, with DESDEMONA.
Des. My lord, what is your will ?
s Pray, chuck, come hither.
Des, What is your pleasure ?
Oth Let me sce your eyes:

S. What horrible fancy’s this?
Oth. [To ht aa Some of your function, mistress;
Leave procreants alone, and shut the door ;
Cough, or cry hem, if anybody come:
Your mystery, your mystery ;—nay, despatch.
Exit EMILIA.
Des. what doth your ee

Look in my face.
De

Upon my knees,
j import?
IT understand a fury in your words,
But not the words.
Oth. Why, what art thou?
Des. Your wife, my lord; your true and loyal wife.
Oth. Come, swear it, damn thyself;
Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themsclves
Should fear to seize thee: therefore, be double-

amn +
Swear thou art honest.
Des. Heaven doth truly know it.
Oth. Heaven truly knows, that thou art false as hell.
Des. To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I
false ? 40
Oth. Ah, Desdemon !—away, away, away !
Des. Alas, the heavy day !—Why cee weep?
Am I the motive of these tears, my lord?
If, haply, you my father do suspect
An instrument of this your calling back,

 

mitted ?
Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon

winks;
The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets,
Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth,
And will not hear it. What committed ?— 80
Iinpudent strumpet!

Des. a By Heaven, you do me wrong.
Oth. Are not you a strumpet ? or
Des. No, as I am a Christian.

If to preserve this vessel for my lord, ‘
From any other foul unlawtul touch,
Be not to be a strumpet, I am none.
Oth. What, not a whore?
Des. No, as I shall be saved.
Oth. Is it possible?
Des. O, Heaven forgive us!
Oth. I cry you mercy then:
I took you for that cunning whore of Venice,
That married with Othello.—You, mistress, 9
That have the oftice opposite to Saint Peter,
And keep the gate of hell!

Re-enter EMILIA.
You, you, ay, you:
We have done our course; there’s money for your
pains. .
I pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel. [Ecit.
Emil. Alas! what does this gentleman conceive ?—
How do you, madam? how do you, my good lady?
Des. Faith, half asleep. .
Emil, coed madam, what’s the matter with my
or
Des. With who?
Emil. Why, with my lord, madam. 100
Des. Who is thy lord?
Emil. He that is yours, sweet Jady.
Des. [have none: do not talk to me, Emilia:
I cannot weep; nor answer have I none,

' But what should go by water. Pr’ythee, to-night

 

 
 

SCENE II.]

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

703

 

Lay.on my bed my wedding sheets,—remember ;—
And call thy husband hither.
Emil. Here’s a change, indeed !
it.
Des. ’T is meet I should be us’d so, very meet.
How have I been behav'd, that he might stick
The small'st opinion on my least misuse?

Re-enter EMIia, with Taco.
Jago. What is your pleasure, madam? How is’t
with you? 110
Des. I ooo tell. Those, that do teach young
abes, .

Do it with gentle means and easy tasks:

He might have chid me so; for, in good faith,

fam a child to chiding.

Jago. What’s the matter, lady?

Emil. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhor'd her,
Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her,

As true hearts cannot bear.

Des. Am I that name, Iago?

Tago. What name, fair lady ?

Des. Such as she says my lord did say I was.

Emil. He call’d her whore: a beggar in his drink 120
Could not have laid such terms upon his callat.

Iago. Why did he so?

Des. Ido not know; Iam sure, I am none such.

Jago. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day!

Emil. Hath she forsook so iaeay noble matches,
Her father, and her country, and her friends,

To be call’d whore? would it not make one weep?
Des. It is my wretched fortune.

Iago. Beshrew him for’t!
How comes this trick upon him?

Des. Nay, Heaven doth know.
Emil. T will be hang’d, if some eternal villain, 130
Some busy and insinuating rogue,

Some cogging cozening slave, to get some office,

Have not devis’d this slander ; I’ll be hang’d else.
Jago. Fie! there is no such man: it is impossible.
Des. If any such there be, Heaven pardon him!
Emil. é halter pardon him, and hell gnaw his

ones !

Why should he call her whore? who keeps her com-

pany ?
What pleat abe time? what form? what likeli-
00

The Moor’s abus’d by some most villainous knave,
Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow.— 140
O Heaven! that such companions thou ‘dst unfold,
And put in every honest hand a whip,
To lash the rascals naked through the world,
Even from the east to the west !

Tago.

Emil. O, fie upon them!

Speak within door.
Some such squire he

was,
That turn'd your wit the seamy side without,
And made you to suspect me with the Moor.
Jago. You are a fool; go to.
es. O good Jago!
What shall Ido to win my lord again ?
Good friend, go to him; for, by this light of heaven,
I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel :— 151
If.e’er my will did trespass ’gainst his love,
Either in discourse of thought, or actual deed;
Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense,
el shied them in any other form ;
Or that I do not yet, and ever did,
And ever will,—though he do shake me off
To beggarly divorcement,—love him dearly,
Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much ;
And his unkindness may defeat my life, 160
But never taint my love. I cannot say whore:
It does abhor me, now I speak the word;
To do the act that might the addition earn,
Not the world’s mass of vanity could make me.
gion. I pray you, be content; ’tis but his humour:
The business of the state does him offence,
And he does chide with you.
es. If ’t were no other,—
Jago. *T is but so, I warrant.
(Trumpets.

 

Poe

 

Hark, how these instruments summon to supper !

The messengers of Venice stay the meat. 70

Go in, and weep not ; all things shall be well.
[Exveunt DESDEMONA and EMILIA.

Enter RODERIGO.
How now, Roderigo?

Rod. I do not find that thou deal’st justly with
me.

Jago, What in the contrary ?

Rod. Every day thou daff’st me with some device,
Iago; and rather, as it seems to me now, keep’st from
me all conveniency, than suppliest me with the least
advantage of hope. I will, indeed, no longer endure
it; nor am I yet persuaded, to gue up in peace what
already I have foolishly suffered. 181

Iago. Will you hear me, Roderigo?

Rod. "Faith, [have heard too much; for your words,
and performances, are no kin together.

Jago. You charge me most unjustly.

Rod. With nought but truth. Ihave wasted myself
out of my means. The jewels you have had from me,
to deliver to Desdemona, would half have corrupted a
votarist: you have told me, she hath received them,
and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden
respect and acquaintance ; but J find none.

fago. Well; go to; very well.

Rod. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man: nor
’*tis not very well: by this hand, I say, it is very
scurvy ; and begin to find myself fopped in it.

Iago. Very well. .

Rod. I tell you, ’t is not very well. I will make
myself known to Desdemona: if she will return me
my jewels, I will give over my suit, and repent m
unlawful solicitation ; if not, assure yourself, I will
seek satisfaction of you. 201

fago. You have said now.

Rod. Ay, and I have said nothing, but what I
protest intendment of doing.

Iago. Why, pow I see there’s mettle in thee; and
even, from this instant, do build on thee a better
opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand,
Roderigo: thou hast taken against me a most just
exception; but yet, I protest I have dealt most
directly in thy affair.

Rod. It hath not appeared.

fago. I grant, indeed, it hath not appeared, and

our suspicion is not without wit and judgment. But,
Roderigo, if thou hast that within thee indeed, which
I have greater reason to believe now than ever,—I
mean, purpose, courage, and valour,—this night show
it: if thou the next night following enjoyest not
Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery,
and devise engines for my life.

Rod. Well, what is it? is it within reason and
compass ? 221

Jago. Sir, there is especial commission come from
Venice, to depute Cassio in Othello’s place.

Rod. Is that true? why, then Othello and Desde-
mona return again to Venice.

Iago. O, no! he goes into Mauritania, and takes
away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode
be lingered here by some accident; wherein none can
be so determinate, as the removing of Cassio.

Rod. How do you mean, removing him ? 30

Tago. Why, by Tpting hin uncapable of Othello’s
place ; knocking out his brains.

Rod, And that you would have me do?

Jago. Ay; if you dare do yourself a profit, and a
right. He sups to-night with a harlotry, and thither
will I go to him: he knows not yet of his honourable
fortune. If you will watch his going thence (which I
will fashion to fall out between twelve and one), you
may take him at your pleasure: I will be near to
second your attempt, and he shall fall between us.
Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me;
I will show you such a necessity in his death, that
you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is
now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste:
about it.

Rod. I will hear further reason for this.

Jago. And you shall be satisfied. [Exeunt.

 

 
 

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE. ‘

[Act IV,

 

 

Scenr ilIl.—Another Room in the Castle.

Enter OTIELLO, Lopovico, DESDEMONA, EMILIA, and
attendants.

Lod. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no

further.

Oth. O! pardon me; ’t will do me good to walk.

Lod. Madam, good night; I humbly thank your

ladyship.

Des. Your honour is most welcome.

Oth. Will you walk, sir ?—
O !—Desdemona,—

Des. My lord?

Oth. Get you to bed on the instant; I will be
returned forthwith: dismiss your attendant there:
look it be done.

Des. I will, my lord. 10

[Exeunt OTHELLO, LODOVICO, and Attendants.

Emil. ee goes it now? he looks gentler than he4
did.

Des. He says, he will return incontinent ;

He hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bade me to dismiss you.

Fimil, Dismiss me!

Des, It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia,
Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu:

We must not now displease him.

Emil. I would you had never seen him.

Des. So would not I: my love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his checks, and frowns,—
Pr'ythee, unpin me,—have grace and favour in them.

Eimil. [have laid those sheets you bade me on the

ed, 22
Des. All’s one.—Good father! how foolish are our
minds !—
If I do die before thee, pr’ythee, shroud me
In one of those same sheets.

Emil. Come, come, you talk.

Des. My mother had a maid call'd Barbara:

She was in love; and he she lov'd prov'd mad,
And did forsake her: she had a song of—willow;
An old thing 't was, but it express’d her fortune,
And she died singing it: that song, to-night,

Will not go from my mind ; I have much to do,
But to go hang my head all at one side,

And sing it like poor Barbara. Pr'ythee, despatch.

Emil, Shall I go fetch your Blea Omats

No, unpin me here.—

30

Des.

This Lodovico is a proper man.
Emil. A very handsome man.
Des. He speaks well.

Emil, I know a lady in Venice would have walked
barefoot to Palestine, for a touch of his nether lip.
Des. [Singing.] The poor soul sat sighing by a
sycamore tree; 40
Sing all a green willow ;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee ;
Sing willow, willow, willow :
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her
moans ;
Sing willow, willow, willow ;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones ;
Lay by these.—
Sing willow, willow, willow,
Pr’ythee, hie thee : he'll come anon.—

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him, his scorn I anprove,—
Nay, that’s not next..-Hark! who is it that knocks?
dimil. It is the wind.
Des. bead wy love, false love; but what said he
hen
Sing willow, willow, willow :

If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men.

So, get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;

Doth that bode weeping?

Emil. ’T is neither here nor there,
Des. I have heard it said so,—O, these men, these
men !—

Dost thou in conscience think,—tell me, Emilia,— 60

That there be women do abuse their husbands

In such gross kind ?

Fmil. There be some such, no question.
c-Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

Emil, Why, would not you?

Des, No, by this heavenly light!

Emil. Nor I neither by this heavenly light : I might

do ’t as well i’ the dark.

Des. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world?

Emil. The world is a huge thing: ’tis a great price

For a small vice.

Des. In troth, I think thou wouldst not. ¢9

Emil. In troth, I think I should, and undo ’t when I
had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing fora
joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for gowns,
petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but,
for the whole world,—why, who would not make her
husband a cuckold, to make him a monarch? Ishould

venture purgatory for ’t.

Des. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong
| For the whole world.

Emil. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i’ the world;
and, having the world for your labour, ‘tis a wrong
in pene own world, and you might quickly make =
right.

Des. I do not think there is any such woman.

Emil, Yes, a dozen; and as many to the vantage,
As would store the world they played for.
But, I do think, it is their husbands’ faults,
If wives do fall. Say, that they slack their duties,
And pour our treasures into foreign laps ;
Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us; or, say, they strike us, $0
Or scant our former having in despite:
Why, we have galls; and, though we have some

grace, ?

Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know,
Their wives have sense like them: they see, and smell,
And have their palates, both for sweet and sour,
As husbands have. What is it that they do,
When they change us for others? Is it sport?
I think, it is. And doth affection breed it?
I think, it doth. Is’t frailty, that thus errs?
It is so too. And have not we affections,
Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have?
Then, let them use us well; else let them know,
The ills we do, their ills instruct us so.

Des. Good night, good night: Heaven me such uses

50

100

 

send,
Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend!
[Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

: GOAT NN

ne

ACT V.

   

Iago.
. ERE, stand behind this bulk; straight
= will he come:

Wear Ty good rapier bare, and put it

ome.

Quick, quick; fear nothing; I’ll be at
thy elbow.

It makes us, or it mars us; think on

And fix most firm thy resolution.

Rod. Be near at hand; I may mis-

carry in’t.
IP Tago. Here, at thy hand: be bold,
\ and take thy stand. [Retires.
\ Rod. I have no great devotion to the

And yet he has given me satisfying reasons.—

*T is but a man gone :—forth, my sword; he dies. 10
Iago. I have rubb’d this young quat almost to the

sense,

And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio,

Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other,

Every way makes my gain: live Roderigo,

He calls me to a restitution large

Of gold, and jewels, that I bobb’d from him,

As gifts to Desdemona;

It must not be: if Cassio do remain,

He hath a daily beauty in his life,

That makes me ugly ; and, besides, the Moor 20

May unfold me to him: there stand I in much peril.

No, he must die :—but, so I hear him coming.

Enter Cassio.
Rod, I know his gait; ’tis he.—Villain, thou diest.
Rushing out, and making a pass at CASSIO.
Cas. That thrust had been mine enemy indeed,
But that my coat is better than thou know’st:
I will make proof of thine.
[Draws, and wounds RODERIGO.
Rod. O, Iam slain!
[Iaco rushes from his post, cuts Cassio
behind in the leg, and exit.
Cas. I am maim’d for ever.—Help, ho! murder!
murder! [Falls.

Enter OTHELLO, at a distance.

Oth. The voice of Cassio :—Iago keeps his word.
Rod. O, villain that Iam!
Oth. It is even so.

Cas. O, help! ho! light! a surgeon! 30

Oth. ’T is he.—O brave Iago, honest, and just,
That hast such noble sense of thy friend’s wrong !
Thou teachest me,—Minion, your dear lies dead,
And your unblest fate hies :—strumpet, I come!
Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are

, blotted ;
Thy bed, lust-stain’d, shall with lust’s blood be sported:
UE.
.. Enter Lopovico and GRATIANO, at a distance.
Cas. What, ho! no watch? no passage? murder!

murder! .
Gra. "Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful.
Cas. O, help!
Lod. Hark! 40

 

Scene I.—A Street.
y Enter IaGo and RoDERIGO.

Rod. O wretched villain! E ;

Lod. Two or three groan.—It is a heavy night!
These may be counterfeits ; let’s think ’t unsafe
To come in to the cry without more zoe

Rod. Nobody come? then shall I bleed to death.

Lod. Hark!

Re-enter IAGO, with a light.
Gra. Here’s one comes in his shirt, with light and
weapons. aes : .
Iago. Who’s there? whose noise is this, that cries
on murder ?

Lod. We do not know. 3
Lago. Did not you hear acry?
Cas. Here, here! for Heaven’s sake, help mc!
fago. , hat’s the matter?
Gra. This is Othello’s ancient, as I take it. b1
Lod. The same, indeed; a very valiant fellow.
Iago. What are you here, that cry so grievously?
Cas. Iago? O! I am spoil’d, undone by villains:

Give me some help.

Iago. oan lieutenant! what villains have done
is?
Cas. I think that one of them is hereabout,

And cannot make away.

Tago. O treacherous villains !—

[To LoDovico and GRATIANO.] What are you there?

come in, and give some help.

Rod. O, help me here! 60
Cas. That’s one of them.
fago. O murderous slave! O villain !

; [Stabs RoDERIGO.
Rod. O damn'd Iago! O inhuman dog!
fago. Kill men i’ the dark !—Where be these bloody
thieves ?—

How silent is this town !—Ho! murder! murder!
What may you be? are you of good, or evil?

Lod. As you shall prove us, praise us.

fago. Signior Lodovico?

Lod. He, sir.

Tago. I cry you mercy. Here’s Cassio hurt by
villains.

Gra. Cassio? 70

fago. How is’t, brother?

Cas. My leg is cut in two.

Tago. Marry, Heaven forbid !—
Light, gentlemen ; I'll bind it with my shirt,

Enter BIANCA.
Bian. What is the matter, ho? who is’t that cried 2
Iago. Who is’t that cried ?
Bian. O my dear Cassio! my sweet Cassio!
O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio!
Jago. O notable strumpet !—Cassio, may you suspect
Who they should be, that have thus mangled you?
Cas. No. 80
Gra. I am sorry to find you thus: I have been to
seek you.
Iago. Lend me a garter :—so.—O, for a chair,
To bear him easily hence!
Bian. Alas! he faints.—O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio!
Iago. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash
To be a party in this injury.—
Patience awhile, good Cassio.—Come, come.
Lend me a light.—Know we this face, or no?

 

4

 
 

706

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

[Act Vv.

 

 

Alas! my friend, and my dear countryman, |
Roderigo? no:—yes, sure. O Heaven! Roderigo. 90
Gra. What, of Venice? i
Iago. Even he, sir; did you know him ? 5
ra. Know him? ay.
Iago. Signor Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon:
These bloody accidents must excuse my manners,
That so neglected you.
Gra, Iam glad tosee you. |
Jago. How do you, Cassio ?—O, a chair, a chair!
Gra. Roderigo! :
Tago. He, he, tis he.—[4 chair brought in.] O!
that’s well said ;—the chair.— em
Some good man bear him carefully from hence; _*
I’ll fetch the general's surgeon.—_[To B1anca.] For
you, mistress, : . 10
Save you your labour. —He that lies slain here, Cassio,
Was my dear friend. What malice was between you?
Cas. None in the world; nor do J know the man.
Iago. [To B1ANcA.] What, look you pale ?—O, bear
him out o’ the air. —
[Cassio and RODERIGO are borne of.
Stay you, good gentlemen.—Look you pale, mistress ?—
Do you perceive the ghastness of her eye }-
Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon.-—
Behold ee well; I pray you, look upon her:

Do you see, gentlemen ? nay, guiltiness will speak,
Though tongues were out of use. 110
Enter EMILIA.

Emil. "Las! what’s the matter? what ’s the matter,
husband?
Iago. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark
By Roderigo, and fellows that are ’scap'd.
He’s almost slain, and Roderigo dead.
mil. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Cassio!
Tago. This is the fruits of whoring.—Pr’ythee, I:milia,
Go know of Cassio where he supp’d to-night. —
What! do you shake at that?
Bian. He supp’d at my house ; but I therefore shake

not.
Iago. O, did he so? Icharge you, go with me. 120
Emil. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet !
Bian. Iam no strumpet; but of life as honest,
As you that thus abuse me.
Emil. As I? foh! fie upon thee !
Tago. Kind Pentlemien let ’s go see poor Cassio
ress’d.—
Come, mistress, you must tell ’s another tale.—
Emilia, run you to the citadel,
And tell my lord and lady what hath pape
Will you go on afore ?—[Aside.] This is the night,
That either makes me, or fordoes me quite. [Hxreunt.

ScENE II.—A Bedchamber.
DEspEMoNA in bed asleep. A light burning.
Linter OTHELLO.

Oth. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,—+

Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! —

It is the cause.—Yet I'll not shed her blood ;

Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow,

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Yet she must die, else she ‘ll betray more men.

Put out the light, and then put out the light:

If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,

I can again thy former light restore,

Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, 10

Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature,

I know not where is that Promethean heat

That can thy light relume. When I have pluck’d thy

rose,

I cannot give it vital growth again,

It needs must wither :—I'll smell it on the tree.—
[Kissing her.

O balmy breath, that dost almost persuade

Justice to break her sword !—One more, one more.—

Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee,

And love thee after.—One more, and this the last:

So sweet was ne’er so fatal. I must weep,

 

But they are cruel tears: this sorrow ’s heavenly ;
It strikes where it doth love.—She wakes.
Des. Who’s there? Othello?
Ay, Desdemona.

Des. Will you come to bed, my lord ?

Oth. Have you pray’d to-night, Desdemon?

Des. . Ay, my lord,

Oth. Tf you bethink yourself of any crime,
Unreconcil’d as yet to Heaven and grace, |
Solicit for it straight. |

Des. Alas, my lord! what may you mean by that? |

Oth. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by: 30
I would not kill thy unprepared spirit ;

No,—Heaven forfend !—I would not kill thy soul.

Des. Talk you of killing? |

Oth. Ay, Ido. |

Des. Then, Heaven |
Have mercy on me!

Oth. Amen, with all my heart!

Des. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me.

Oth. Hum! :

Des. And yet I fear you; for you are fatal then,
When youreyesrollso. WhyI dhould fear, [know not,
Since guiltiness I know not; but yet, I feel I fear.

Oth, Think on thy sins.

Des. They are loves I bear to you.

Oth. Ay, and for that thou diest. 4

Des. That death’s unnatural, that kills for loving.— |
Alas! why gnaw you so your nether lip?

Some bloody passion shakes ger rey frame:
These are portents ; but yet I hope, I hope,
They do not point on me.
th. Peace, and be still!
Des. I willso. What’s the matter?
Oth, ge handkerchief, which I so lov’d and gave
ee,
Thou gav’st to Cassio.
es. No, by my life and soul!
Send for the man, and ask him.
s Sweet soul, take heed,
Take heed of perjury: thou art on thy death-bed. 51

Des. Ay, but not yet to die.

Oth. Yes, presently:
Therefore, confess thee freely of thy sin;
For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove, nor choke, the strong conception,
That I do groan withal. Thou art to die.

Des. Then Lord have mercy on me!

Oth I say, Amen.

Des. And have you mercy too !—I never did
Offend you in my life ; never lov’d Cassio, j
But with such general warranty of Heaven 60
As I might love: I never gave him token.

Oth. By Heaven, I saw my handkerchief in’s hand.
O perjur’d woman! thou dost stone my heart,
And mak’st me call what I intend to do,
A murder, which I thought a sacrifice:
Isaw the handkerchief.

Des. He found it then;
I never gave it him.—Send for him hither;
Let him confess a truth.

Oth. He hath confess’d.

Des. What, my lord?

Oth. That he hath us’d thee.

Des.

Oth. Ay.

Des. He will not say so.

How? unlawfully? 70

| Oth. No; his mouth is stopp’d:
Honest Iago hath ta’en order for ’t.
Des. O, my fear interprets.—What, is he dead?
Oth. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge
Had stomach for them all.
Des. Alas! he is betray’d, and Iundone. |
Oth. Ong spear Yeep’st thou for him to my
‘ace
Des. O! banish me, my lord, but kill me not.
Oth. Down, strumpet ! .
. Kill me to-morrow ; let me live to-night.
. Nay, if you strive,—
. But half an hour! :
, : Being done, there is no pause,
. But while I say one prayer.

 

 
 

Scene Ii.J

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

107

 

 

Oth, It is too late. He smothers her.
Emil. (Within.] My lord, my in what, ho! my
lord, my lord!
Oth. What pease is this?—Not dead? not yet quite
ea

 

Still as the grave.—Shallshe come in? Were’t good ?~
I think she stirs again :—no.—What’s best to do?

If she come in, she’ll sure speak to my wife:

My wife! my wife! what wife?—I have no wife:

O, insupportable! O heavy hour!

 

Oth. * Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.”

I, that am cruel, am yet merciful ; :

I would not have thee linger in thy pain.— a
0, SO.
Emil. [Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord!
Oth. ho’s there ?
Emil. [Within.] O, good my lord! I would speak a

word with you.

Oth. Yes ;—’t is Emilia :—by-and-by.—She’s dead.—

‘Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio’s death ;

The noise was high.—Ha! no more moving?

Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse
Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe
Should yawn at alteration.

Emil. [Within.] I do beseech you, I may speak with

you.
O, good my lord!

Oth. I had forgot thee. O! come in, Emilia.—
Soft,—by-and-by :—let me the curtains draw.—
Where art thou? What’s the matter with thee now?

[Unlocks the door.

 

 
 

 

708 OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

[Acr V.

 

Enter EMILTA.
Emil. O, my good lord! yonder’s foul murder done.
Oth. What! now? 110
Emil, But now, my lord.
Oth. It is the very error of the moon ;
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont,
And makes men mad. :
Emil. Cassio, my lord, has kill’d a young Venetian,

Call'd Roderigo.
Roderigo kill’d!

Oth.
And Cassio kill’d! :
mil, No; Cassio is not kill'd.
Oth. Not Cassio kill’d? Then murder’s out of tune,
And sweet revenge grows harsh,
Des. O, falsely, falsely murder'd ! !
Emil. Alas! what cry is that?
Oth. That! what? 3 121
Emil. Out, and alas! that was my lady’s voice :—
Help! help, ho! help !—O lady, speak again!
Sweet Desdemona! O, sweet mistress, speak !
Des. A guiltless death I die.
Emil. O, who hath done this deed?
Des. Nobody ; I myself: farewell:
Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell!  [Dies.
Oth. Why, how should she be murder'd ?
Emil. Alas, who knows?
Oth. You heard her say herself, it was not I. 130
Emil. She said so: I must needs report the truth.
Oth. She’s like a liar gone to burning hell:
"T was J that kill’d her.
Emil. O! the more angel she,
And you the blacker devil!
Oth. She turn’d to folly, and she was a whore.
Emil. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil.
Oth. She was false as water.
Emil. Thou art rash as fire, to say
That she was false : O! she was heavenly true.
Oth. Cassio did tup her; ask thy husband else.
O! 3 were damn’d beneath all depth in hell, 140
But that I did proceed upon just grounds
To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all.
Fimil, My husband ?
Oth. Thy husband.
Emil. That she was false to wedlock ?
Oth. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true,
If Heaven would make me such another world
Of one entire and pertect chrysolite,
I'd not have sold her for it.

Emil. My husband?
Oth. Ay, ’t was he that told me first :
An honest man he is, and hates the slime 151
That sticks on filthy deeds.

Emil. oy, My husband?

Oth. What needs this iterance, woman? I say, thy

husband.
Emil. O mistress! villainy hath made mocks with

love.—
My husband say, that she was false?
Oth. He, woman;
I say, thy husband : dost understand the word ?
Te thy husband, honest, honest Iago.
mil. If he say so, may his pernicious soul
Rot half a grain a day ! he lies to the heart:
She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. 160
Oth. Ha!
Emil. Do thy worst:
This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven,
Than thou wast worthy her.
Oth. Peace! you were best.
Emil. Thee hast not half that power to do me
arm,
As [have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt!
As ignorant as dirt! thou hast done a deed,—
I care not for thy sword; I’ll make thee known,
Though I lost twenty lives.—Help! help, ho! help!
The Moor has kill’d my mistress! Murder ! HUBER

Enter MONTANO, GRATIANO, and Iago.
Mon, What is the matter ?—How now, general? 171
Emil. O! are you come, Iago? you have done well,
That men must lay their murders on your neck.

 

Gra, What is the matter?
Emil. Disprove this villain, if thou be’st a man:
He says, thou told’st him that his wife was false.
I know, thou didst not, thou ‘rt not such a villain,
Speak, for my heart is full.
Jago. I told him what I thought; and told no more
Than what he found himself was apt and true. 180
mil. But did you ever tell him, she was false?
Jago, I did.
Emil. You told a lie; an odious, damned lie;
Upon my soul, a lie; a wicked lie.—
She false with Cassio !—Did you say with Cassio?
fago. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your

tongue.
Emil, 1 will not charm my tongue; I am bound te
speak.
My mistress here lies murder’d in her bed.
All. O heavens forfend !
mil. And your reports have set the murder on. 190
Oth. Nay, stare not, masters: it is true, indeed.
Gra, ’T is a strange truth.
Mon. O monstrous act! ;
Emil, Villainy! villainy! villainy!
I think upon ’t,—I think,—I smell ’t :—O villainy!
I thought so then :—I’U kill myself for grief.—
O villainy, villainy !
dago. a ! are youmad? I charge you, get you

ome.
Emil. Good gentlemen, let me have leave tospeak:
’T is proper I obey him, but not now.—
Perchance, lago, I will ne’er go home. 200
Oth. O! 0! 0! [Falling on the bed.
Emil. Nay, Jay thee down, and roar;
For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent,
That e’er did lift up eye.
Oth. [Rising.] O! she was foul.—
I scarce did know you, uncle. There lies your niece,
Whose bret, indeed, these hands have newly
stopp‘d.
I know, this act shows horrible and grim.
Gra. Poor Desdemon! J am glad thy father’s dead.
Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief
Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now,
This sight would make him do a desperate turn, 210
‘Yea, curse his better angel from his side,
And fall to reprobance.
Oth. "Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows,
That she with Cassio hath the act of shame
A thousand times committed : Cassio confess'd it ;
And she did gratify his amorous works
With that recognisance and pledge of love
Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand;
It was a handkerchief, an antique token
My father gave my mother. 220
Boel O Heaven! O heavenly powers!
Tago. : Come, hold your peace.
Hmil. "T will cut, ’t will out :—I hold my peace, sir?

no;
No, I will speak as liberal as the north:
Let Heaven, and men, and devils, let them all,
All, all, ery shame against me, yet I’ll speak.
Jago. Be wise, and get you home.
Emil. Iwillnot. |
[laco offers to stab his ne
ie!

Gra.
Your sword upon a woman?
Emil. O thou dull Moor! that handkerchief thou
speak'st of,
I found by fortune, and did give my husband;
For often, with a solemn earnestness, 230

(More than, indeed, belong’d to such a trifle,)
He begg’d of me to steal it.
Lago. Villainous whore!
Emil, She give it Cassio! no, alas! I found it,
And I did give ’t my husband. ’
Jago. Filth,. thou liest!
Emil. By Heaven, I do not; I do not, gentlemen.—
O murderous coxcomb! what should such a fool
Do with so good a wife?
[Iago stabs EmILtA, then runs out.
Oth. ‘ Are there no stones in heaven,
But what serve for the thunder ?~Precious villain! -

 

 

 
 

ScEngz II.j

OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

709

 

Gra, The woman falls: sure, he hath kill’d his wife.
Emil. Ay, ay. O, lay me by my mistress’ side! 240
Gra. He's gone, but his wife’s kill'd.
Mon. ’Tis a notorious villain. Take you this
j weapon,

Which I have here recover’d from the Moor.

Come, guard the door without : let him not pass,

But kill him rather. I’ll after that same villain,

For ’t is a damned slave. (Exit.
Oth, ; Iam not valiant neither,

But every puny whipster gets my sword.

But why should honour outlive honesty ?

   
     

Let it go all. \
Ay =
i i
ja
wohl
Gra. ‘The woman falls: sure, he bath kill'd his wife.”
Emil. What did thy song bode, lady ?

Iwill play the swan, 250

Hark, canst thou hear me?
Willow, willow,

And die in music.—[Singing.]
willow, —
Moor, she was chaste ; she lov’d thee, cruel Moor:
So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true;
So speaking as I think, I die,—I die. [Dies.
h. I have another weapon in this chamber ;

It is asword of Spain, the ice-brook’s temper.
O! here it is.—Uncle, I must come forth.

Gra. If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear:
Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer.

Oth. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, 260
Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee.

Gra, What is the matter?

Oth. Behold! I have a weapon ;
A better never did itself sustain
Upon a soldier’s thigh: I have seen the day,
That with this little arm, and this good sword,
Ihave made my way through more impediments
Than twenty times your stop.—But, O vain boast !
Who can control his fate? ’t is not so now.—
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon’d:
Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.
Do you go back dismay’d? ’tis a lost fear ;
Man but a rush against Othello’s breast,
And he retires.—Where should Othello go ?#—
Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr’d wench!
Pale.as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt,
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven,
And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl!
Even like thy chastity. 7
0, cursed, cursed slave !—Whip me, ye devils,

270

280

 

Why he hath thus ensnar’d my soul and body ?

 

From the possession of this heavenly sight !

Blow me about in winds ! roast me in sulphur !

Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!

O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead! O! ’

Enter Lopovico, MonTano, Cassio, carried in @
chair, and Officers, with Taco, prisoner.
Lod. Where is this rash and most unfortunate
‘

man?

Oth, That’s he that was Othello ;—here I am.

Lod. Where is that viper? bring the villain forth.

Cth. I donk down towards his feet ;—but that’s a
able : |

 

 
 
  

 

 

  

f
SS AY
RNS IRAN

7 AY

NS

If that thou be’st a devil, I cannot kill thee.
[Wounds Taco.
Lod. Wrench his sword from him.
Jago: I bleed, sir; but not kill’d.
Oth. Tam not sorry neither: I’d have thee live ; 291
For, in my sense, ’tis happiness to die.
Lod. O thou Othello! that wert once so good,
Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave,
What shall be said to thee?
Oth. Why, anything:
An honourable murderer, if you will;
For nought did I in hate, but all in honour.
Lod. This wretch hath part confessed his villainy :
Did meu and he consent in Cassio’s death ?
Oth. A 300

y-
Cas. Dear general, I never gave you cause.
Oth. I do believe it, and I ask you pardon.

Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil,

Jago. Demand me nothing: what you know, you

know:
From this time forth I never will speak word.

Lod. What! not to pray? .

Gra. Torments will ope your lips,

Oth. Well, thou dost best.

Lod. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall’n,
Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter, 310
Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo ;

And here another: the one of them imports
The death of Cassio to be undertook
By Roderigo.

Oth. O villain!

Cas. Most heathenish, and most gross !

Lod. Now, here’s another discontented paper,

 

 
 

 

710 OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE.

 

Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems,
Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain ;
But that, belike, Iago in the interim
Came in and satisfied him.

th. O thou pernicious caitiff !—
How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief, 321
That was my wife's ?

‘as. I found it in my chamber :
And he himself confess’d, but even now,
That there he dropp’d it, for a special purpose,
Which wrought to his desire.

Oth. O fool! fool! fool!

Cas. There is, besides, in Roderigo’s letter,
How he upbraids Iago, that he made him
Brave me upon the watch ; whereon it came
That I was cast: and even but now he spake,
After long seeming dead,—Iago hurt him, 330
Tago set him on. i

od. You must forsake this room, and go with us:

Your power and your command is taken off,
And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave,—
If there be any cunning cruelty,
That can torment him much, and hold him long,
It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest,
Till that the nature of your fault be known
To the Venetian state.—Come, bring him away.

Oth. Soft you; a word or two, belore you go. 340
T have done the state some service, and they know
No more of that.—I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as Iam; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak

 

 

Of one that lov’d not wisely, but too well ;

Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex’d in the extreme; of one, whose hand,

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away,

Richer than all his tribe; of one, whose subdu’d

eyes,
Albeit unused to the melting mood, 351
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees
Their medicinable gum. Set you down this;
And say, besides, that in Aleppo once,
Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk
Beat a Venetian, and traduc’d the state,
I took by the throat the circumcised dog,
And smote him—thus. [Stabs himself.

Lod. O bloody period !
Gra. All that’s spoke is marr’d.
Oth, I kiss’d thee, ere I kill’d thee :—no way but
a this, [Falling upon DESDEMONA,
Killing myself to die upon a kiss. (Dies,
Cas. This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon;
For he was great of heart.
Lod. ee Taco.] O Spartan dog! 363
More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea!
Look on the tragic loading of this bed ;
This is thy work : the object poisons sight ;
Let it be hid.—Gratiano, keep the house,
And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor,
For they succeed on you.—To you, lord governor,
Remains the censure of this hellish villain ; 37
The time, the place, the torture :—O, enforce it!
Myself will straight aboard, and to the state
This heavy act with heavy heart relate. [Fzeunt.

[Act V,

  
 

      
 

g)

a
: “nee
\

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

ROM off a hill whose concave womb

i re-worded

A plaintful story from a sistering vale,

My spirits to attend this double voice
accorded,

And ace I laid to list the sad-tun’d
ale ;

Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,

Tearing of papers, breaking rings

_ a-twain, : :
Storming her world with sorrow’s wind
and rain,

 

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw 10
The carcass of a beauty spent and done:

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,

Nor youth all quit ; but, spite of Heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear’d age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season’d woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what content it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe 20
In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell’d eyes their pare iee ride,
As they did battery to the spheres intend ;
Sometime, diverted, their poor balls are tied
To the orbed earth ; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on; anon their gazes lend

To every place at once, and nowhere fix’d,

The mind and sight distractedly commix’d.

Her hair, nor loose, nor tied in formal plat,
Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride ; 30
For some, untuck’d, descended her sheav'd hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside ;

Some in her darenaer llet still bid bide,

And, true to bondage, would not break from thence,
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,

Which one’ by one she in a river threw,

Upon whose weeping margent she was set;

Like usury, applying wet to wet, 40
Or monarchs’ hands, that let not bounty fall

Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,
Which she perus’d, sigh’d, tore, and gave the flood ;
tack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone,
Bidding them find their eens res in mud ;
“ound yet more letters sadly penn’d in blood,
Vith sleided silk feat and affectedly
inswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy.

 

A LOVER’S COMPLAINT.

These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes, 50
And often kiss’d, and often ’gan to tear;

Cried, ‘‘ O false blood, thou register of lies,

What unapproved witness dost thou bear!

Ink would have seem’d more black and damned here.”
This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,

Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that*graz’d his cattle nigh,—
Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew

Of court, of city, and had let go by

The swiftest hours, observed as they flew,— 60
Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew ;
And, privileged by age, desires to know

In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,

And comely-distant sits he by her side;

When he again desires her, being sat,

Her grievance with his hearing to divide:

If that from him there may be aught applied,

Which may her suffering ecstacy assuage,

°T is promis’d in the charity of age. 70

“‘ Father,” she says, “though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,

Let it not tell your judgment I am old;

Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power:

I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied

Love to myself, and to no love beside.

“But woe is me! too early I attended

A youthful suit,—it was to gain my grace,—

Of one by nature’s outwards so commended, 80
That maidens’ eyes stuck over all his face.

Love lack’d a dwelling, and made him her place;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,

She was new lodg’d, and newly deified.

“His browny locks did hang in crooked curls,
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
hat’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find :
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind;
For on his visage was in little drawn, 90
What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

‘*Small show of man was yet upon his chin:

His phcenix down began but to appear,

Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,

Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seem’d to wear;
Yet show’d his visage by that cost most dear,

And nice affections wavering stood in doubt

If best were as it was, or best without.

“His qualities were beauteous as his form,

For maiden-tongu’d he was, and thereof free ;
Yet, if men mov’d him, was he such a storm .
As oft ’twixt May and April is to see,

When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.
His rudeness so, with his authoris’d youth,

Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

100

 

 
 

 

72 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT.

 

“Well could he ride, and often men would say,

‘That. horse his mettle from his rider takes:

Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,

What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop
he makes!’

And controversy hence a question takes, 110

Whether the horse by him became his deed,

Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.

“But quickly on this side the verdict went:
His real habitude gave life and grace

To appertainings and to ornament,
Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case:

All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
Came for additions, yet their purpos'‘d trim
Piec’d not his grace, but were all grac’d by him.

“So on the tip of his subduing tongue 120
All kind of arguments and question deep,

All replication prompt, and reason strong,

For his advantage still did wake and sleep:

To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,

He had the dialect and different skill,

Catching all passions in his craft of will:

“That he did in the general bosom reign

Of young, of old, and sexes both enchanted,

To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain

In personal duty, folowing where he haunted: 130
Consents be witch’d, ere he desire, have granted,
And dialogu’d for him what he would say,

Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills obey.

“Many there were that did his picture get,

To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind ;

Like fools that in the imagination set

The goodly objects which abroad they find

Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign’d;
And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them,
Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them.

““So many have, that never touch’d his hand, 141
Sweetly suppos’d them mistress of his heart.

My woful self, that did in freedom stand,

And was my own fee-simple (not in part),

What with his art in youth, and youth in art,

Threw my affections in his charmed power,

Reserv’d the stalk, and gave him all my flower.

“Yet did I not, as some my equals did,

Demand of him, nor, being desired, yielded ;

Finding myself in honour so forbid, 150
With safest distance I mine honour shielded.
Experience for me many bulwarks builded

Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil

Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

“But, ah! who ever shunn'd by precedent

The destin’d ill she must herself assay ?

Or fore’d examples, ‘gainst her own content,

To put the by-pass’d perils in her way?

Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay ;

For when we rage, advice is often seen 160
By blunting us to make our wits more keen.

“Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,

That we must curb it upon others’ proof ;

To be forbod the sweets that seem so good,
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
O appetite, from judgment stand aloof!

The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
Though Reason weep, and cry, ‘It is thy last.’

“For further I could say, ‘This man’s untrue,’

And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling ; 170
Heard where his plants in others’ orchards grew,
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling ;

Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling ;

Thought characters, and words, merely but art,

And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

 

“ And long upon these terms I held my city,

Till thus he ’gan besiege me: ‘Gentle maid,

Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,

And be not of my holy vows afraid:

That’s to ye sworn, to none was ever said; 180
For feasts of love I have been call’d unto,

Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo.

““* All my offences that abroad you sec,

Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;

Love made them not: with acture they may be,
Where neither party is nor truc nor kind:

They sought their shame that so their shame did find,
And so much less of shame in me remains,

By how much of me their reproach contains.

“* Among the many that mine eyes have seen, 190
Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd,
Or my affection put to the smallest teen,

Or any of 7a leisures ever charm’d:

Harm have | done to them, but ne’er was harm’d;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,

And reign’d, commanding in his monarchy.

“Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,
Of paled pearls, and rubies red as blood ;

Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood 2
In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood ;
Effects of terror and dear modesty,

Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

‘““* And, lo! behold these talents of their hair,

With twisted metal amorously impleach’d,

I have receiv’d from many a several fair

(Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d),

With the annexions of fair gems enrich’d,

And deep-brain’d sonnets, that did amplity

Each stone’s dear nature, worth, and quality. 210

“<The diamond, why, ’t was beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invis’d properties did tend ;

The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend;

The heaven-hued sapphire, and the opal blend
With objects manifold: each several stone,

With wit well blazon’d, smil'd, or made some moan.

**“<TLo! all these trophies of affections hot,

Of pensiv’d and subdued desires the tender,

Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard them not, 220
But yield them up where I myself must render ;
That is, to you, my origin and ender:

For these, of force, must your oblations be,

Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

“<O! then advance of yours that phraseless hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
Take all these similes to your own command, |
Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise ;
What me, your minister, for you obeys,

Works under you; and to your audit comes 230
Their distract parcels in combined sums.

““*Lo! this device was sent me from a nun,

Or sister sanctified, of holiest note;

Which late her noble suit in court did shun,
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote:
For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove,
To spend her living in eternal love.

“*But O, my sweet! what labour is’t to leave |

The thing we have not, mastering what not strives?
Paling the place which did no form receive; 2a
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves?

She that her fame so to herself contrives,

The scars of battle scapeth by the flight, _

And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

 

 
 

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

“*Q, pardon me, in that my boast is true!
The accident which brought me to ner eye,
Upon the moment did her force subdue,
And now she would the caged cloister fly ;
Religious love put out religion’s eye:

Not to be tempted, would she be immur’d,
And now, to tempt all, liberty procur’d.

“* How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell!
The broken bosoms that to me belong

Have emptied all their fountains in my well,
And mine I pour your ocean all among:

I strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong,
Must for your victory us all congest,

As compound love to physic your cold breast.

““My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,
Who, disciplin’d, ay, dicted in grace,

Believ'd her eyes, when they to assail begun,
All vows and consecrations giving place.

O most potential love! vow, bond, nor space,
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine,
for thou art all, and all things else are thine.

260

“<«When thou impressest, what are precepts worth

Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,

How coldly those impediments stand forth

Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! 270

Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst sense,
’gainst shame ;

And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,

The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.

““ Now, all these hearts that do on mine depend,
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine,
And supplicant their sighs to you extend,

To leave the battery that you make ‘gainst mine,
Lending soft audience to my sweet design,

And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath,
That shall prefer and undertake my troth.’ 280
“This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,

Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face;

Each cheek a river running from a fount

With brinish current downward flow’d apace.

O, how the channel to the stream gave grace!

Who glaz’d with crystal gate the glowing roses

That flame through water which their hue encloses.

 

713

‘*O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies

In the small orb of one particular tear!

But with the inundation of the eyes 290
What rocky heart to water will not wear?

What breast so cold that is not warmed here?

O cleft etfect ! cold modesty, hot wrath,

Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath!

“For, lo! his passion, but an art of craft,

Even there resolv’d my reason into tears ;

There my white stole of chastity I datl’d ;

Shook otf my sober guards, and civil fears:

Appear to him, as he to me appears,

Ail melting ; though our drops this difference bore,
His poison’d me, and mine did him restore. 30:

“In him a plenitude of subtle matter,

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,

Of burning blushes, or of weomne water,

Or swounding paleness ; and he takes and leaves,
In either’s aptness, as it best deceives

To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,

Or to turn white, and swound at tragic shows:

“That not a heart which in his level came
Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, 310
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame;

And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim:
oe the thing he sought he would exclaim ;
When he most burn'd in heart-wish’d luxury,

He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chastity.

“Thus merely with the garment of a Grace

The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d;

That the unexperient gave the tempter place,
Which, like a cherubin, above them hover'd. __-
Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’d? 320
Ah me! I fell; and yet do question make,

What I should do again for such a sake.

“O, that infected moisture of his eye!

O, that false fire, which in his cheek so glow’d!
O, that fore’d thunder from his heart did fly!
O, that sad breath his spungy lungs bestow'd!
O, all that borrow’d motion, seeming ow’d,
Would yet again betray the fore-betray’d,

And new pervert a reconciled maid!”

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

KING LEAR.

DRAMATIS PERSONA

Lear, King of Britain.
KING OF FRANCE.

DvuKE oF BURGUNDY.

DUKE OF CORNWALL.

DUKE OF ALBANY.

EARL OF KENT.

EARL OF GLOSTER.

EpeGar, Son to Gloster.
EpmunpD, Bastard Son to Gloster.
CuURAN, a Courtier.

OSWALD, Steward to Goneril.
Old Man, Tenant to Gloster.

Physician.

Fool.

An Officer, employed by Edmund.

Gentleman, Attendant on Cordelia,

A Herald.

Servants to Cornwall.

GONERIL, )

REGAN, 7; Daughters to Lear.

CORDELIA, f

Knights of Lear's Train, Officers, Messengers,
Soldiers, and Attendants.

SCENE—BRITAIN.

   

Kent.

THOUGHT, the king had more affected
the Duke of Albany, than Cornwall.
» Glo, It did always seem so to us: but

now, in the division of the kingdom,
it appears not which of the dukes he
values most; for equalities are so
weighed, that curiosity in neither can
make choice of either’s moiety.

Kent. Is not this your son, my lord? 9

Glo. His breeding, sir, hath been at
my charge: I have so often blushed to
acknowledge him, that now I am brazed
to it.

Kent. I cannot conceive you.

Glo, Sir, this young fellow’s mother
could; whereupon she_ grew round-
wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son for
her cradle, ere she had a husband for
her bed. Do you smell a fault?

Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it
being so proper. 21

Zo. But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some
year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my
account: though this knave came somewhat saucily
into the world, before he was sent for, yet was his
mother fair ; there was good sport at his making, and
the whoreson must be acknowledged.—Do you know
this noble gentleman, Edmund?

Edm. No, my lord.

Glo. My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as
my honourable friend. 31

Edm. My services to your lordship.

Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better.

Adm. Sir, I shall study deserving.

Glo. He hath been out nine years, and away he
shall again.—The king is coming. [Sennet within.

Enter LEAR, CORNWALL, ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN,
CORDELIA, and Attendants,

Lear, Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy,
Gloster.

 

ACT I.
ScENE I.—A Room of State in King LEaR’s Palace.
Enter KENT, GLOSTER, and EDMUND,

Glo. I shall, my liege.
Teeeint GLOSTER and EDMUND.
Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker pur-

ose.
Give me the map there.—Know, that we have divided,
In three, our kingdom; and ’t is our fast intent dl
To shake all cares and business from our age,
Conferring them on younger strengths, while we
Unbosten a peal toward death.—Our son of Corn-
wall,
And you, our no less loving son of Albany,
We have this hour a constant will to publish
Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife
May be pee now. The princes, France and
urgundy,
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, |
Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,
And here are to be answer’d.—Tell me, my daughters,
(Since now we will divest us, both of rule, 52
Interest of territory, cares of state,)
Which of you, shal] we say, doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend !
Where nature doth with merit challenge.—Goneril,
Our eldest-born, speak first. :
Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the
matter ; | .
Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty ;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; ,
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found ;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable ;
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
Cor. [Aside.] What shall Cordelia do? Love, and
be silent. S-.
Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to

IS, : 1,
With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d,,
With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,
We make thee lady : to thine and Albany’s issue
Be this perpetual.—What says our second daughter,
Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.
Rcg. Iam made of that self metal as my sister,

 

 
 

ScENE I.] KING

LEAR. 715

 

And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find, she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short,—that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys,
Which the most precious square of sense possesses,
And find, I am alone felicitate
In your dear highness’ love.
Cor. [Aside.] Then, poor Cordelia!
And yet not so; since, Iam sure, my love’s
More ponderous than my tongue.
Lear. To thee, and thine, hereditary ever,
Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom;
No less in space, yates and pleasure,
Than that conferr’d on neril.—Now, our joy,
Although our last, not least ; to whose young love
The vines of France, and milk of Burgundy,
Strive to be interess’d ; what can you say, to draw
A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.
Cor. Nothing, my lord. :
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing.
Lear. Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.
Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty
According to my bond ; nor more, nor less.
Lear. ae how, Cordelia! mend your speech u
ittle,
Lest you may mar your fortunes.

90

‘or. Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, lov’'d me: I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say,
They love you all?_ Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall
carry
Half my love with him, half my care, and duty:
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.
Lear. But goes thy heart with this?
Cor. Ay, my good lord.
Lear. So young, and so untender?
Cor. So young, my lord, and true. 1
Lear. Let it be so: thy truth then be thy dower;
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,
The mysteries of Hecate, and the night,
By all the’operation of the orbs,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be,
Here I disclaim all my paternal care,
ee and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me
Hold thee, from this, for ever.
Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom
Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev'd,
As thou my sometime daughter.
Kent.
Lear. Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
Llov’d her most, and thought to set my rest _
On her kind nursery.—Hence, and avoid my sight !—
So be my grave my peace, as here I give
Her father’s heart from her!—Call France.—Who
stirs ?—
Call Burgundy.—Cornwall, and Albany, . 130
With my two daughters’ dowers digest the third:
Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.
Ido invest you jointly with my power,
Pre-eminence, and all the large effects
That troop with majesty.—Ourself, by monthly course,
With reservation of an hundred Jeri stts
Wy you to be sustain’d, shall our abode .
ake with you by due turn. Only, we shall retain
The name, and all the additions to a king;
The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,
Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,
This coronet part between you.
ent. Royal Lear,
Whom I have ever honour’d as my king,
Lov'd as my father, as my master follow’d,
As my great patron thought on in my prayers,—

100

The barbarous
120

Good my liege,—

140

 

Lear. The bow is bent and drawn; make from the

shaft.
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade
The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly,
When Lear is mad.—What wouldst thou do, old

man?
Think’st thou, that duty shall have dread to speak, 150
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s
bound,
When majesty falls to folly. Reserve thy state ;
And, in thy best consideration, check
This hideous rashness : answer my life my judgment,
Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least ;
Nor are those empty-hearted, whose low sound
Reverbs no hollowness.
Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more.
Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn
To wage against thine enemies ; ne’er fear to lose it,
Thy safety being the motive.
ear. Out ofmy sight! 160
Kent. See better, Lear; and let me still remain
The true blank of thine eye.
Lear. Now, by Apollo,—

Kent. Now, by Apollo, king,
Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.
Lear, O, vassal! miscreant !

[Laying his hand upon his sword.

Alb., Corn. Dear sir, forbear,

Kent. Do;

Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow

Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift;

Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,
I'll tell thee, thou dost evil.

Lear. Hear me, recreant !
On thine allegiance, hear me!

Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow

(Which we durst never yet), and, with strain'’d pride,

‘To come betwixt our sentence and our power

(Which nor our nature nor our place can bear),

Our potency made good, take thy reward.

Five days we do allot thee for provision

To shield thee from disasters of the world;

And on the sixth to turn thy hated back

Upon our kingdom : if, on the tenth day following, 180

Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions,

The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter,

This shall not be reyok’d.

Kent. Fare thee well, king: since thus thou wilt

appear, :

Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.—

[Zo CoRDELIA.] The gods to their dear shelter take
thee, maid,

That justly think’st, and hast most rightly said !—

(To REGAN and GONERIL.] And your large speeches
may your deeds approve,

That good etfects may spring from words of love.—

Thus Kent, O princes! bids you all adieu; 1

He’ll shape his old course in a country new. [Ecit.

Flourish. Re-enter GLOSTER ; with FRANCE,
BurcGunpby, and Attendants.

Glo. Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

Lear. My Lord of Burgundy,

We first address toward you, who with this king
Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What, in the least,
Will you require in present dower with her,

Or cease your quest of love?

Bur. Most royal majesty,
I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d,
Nor will you tender less.

Lear. Right noble Burgundy,
When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; 200
But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands:

If aught within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d,

And nothing more, may fitly like your grace,
She’s there, and she is yours.

Bur. LT know no answer.

Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes,
Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,

Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath,
Take her, or leave her?

170

 

 
 

716 KING LEAR. Act L

 

 

Bur. Pardon me, royal sir ; Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time 220
Election makes not up on such conditions. 210 | Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that | So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence
made me, | Must be of such unnatural degree,

We

a

 

Lear. “ Peace, Kent!
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.”

That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection
Fall into taint: which to believe of her,

Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Could never plant in me.

T tell you all her wealth.—_[To FRANCE.] For you,
great king,

I would not from your love make such a stray,

To match you where I hate: therefore, beseech you
To avert your liking a more worthier way, | Cor. I yet beseech your majesty
Than on a wretch whom Nature is asham’d (If fay I want that glib and oily art,
Almost to acknowledge hers. | To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,
|
|
|

 

France. This is most strange, I'll do’t before I speak) that you make known
That she, who even but now was your best object, It is no vicious blot, murder, or foulness,
The argument of your praise, balm of your age, No unchaste action, or dishonour’d step,

 
 

ScENE IT.] KING

That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour;
But even for want of that for which I am richer,
A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue
That I am glad I have not, though not to have it
Hath lost me in your liking.

Lear. Better thou
Hadst ane pe born, than not to have pleas’d me

etter,

France. Is it but this? a tardiness in nature,
Which often leaves the history unspoke,
That it intends to do?—My Lord of Burgundy, ;
What say you to the lady? Love’s not love,
When it is mingled with regards, that stand
Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.

240

Bur. Royal king,
Give but that portion which vourselt propos’d,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,

Duchess of Burgundy.

Lear. Nothing: I have sworn; Iam firm.

Bur. Iam sorry, then, you have so lost a father, 250
That you must lose a husband.

Cor. Peace be with Burgundy !
Since that Teapens of fortune are his love,

I shall not be his wife.
France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being

Or ;
Most dhatee. forsaken ; and most lov’d, despis’d ;
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful, I take up what’s cast away.
Gods, gods! ‘tis strange, that from their cold’st neglect
My love should kindle to inflam’d respect.—
Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France: 261
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Shall buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me.—
Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Lear, Thou hast her, France: let her be thine ; for
we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see
That face of hers again :—therefore, be gone
Without our foe our love, our benison.—
Come, noble Burgundy. 270
[Flourish. HExeunt LEAR, BURGUNDY, CORN-
WALL, ALBANY, GLOSTER, and Attendants.

France. Bid farewell to your sisters.

Cor. The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes
Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;

And, like a sister, am most loath to call

Your faults as they are nam’d. Love well our father:
To your professed bosoms I commit him ;

But yet, alas! stood I within his grace,

I would prefer him to a better place.

So farewell to you both.

Reg. Prescribe not us our duty.

Gon. Let your study 280
Be, to content your lord, who hath regeiv’d you
At fortune’s alms: you have obedience scanted,

And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

Cor. ae shall unfold what plighted cunning

ides ;
Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
Well may you prosper !

France. Come, my fair Cordelia.
[Exeunt FRANCE and CORDELIA.

Gon. Sister, it is not little I have to say of what
most nearly appertains to us both. I think, our father
will hence to-night. .

Reg. That’s most certain, and with you; next month
with us. 291

Gon. You see how full of changes his age is; the

_observation we have made of it hath not been little:
he always loved our sister most ; and with what poor
judgment he hath now cast her off, appears too grossly.
ae *T is the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever
but slenderly known himself.

Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath been
but rash ; then must we look to receive from his age,
not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed con-
dition, but, therewithal, the unruly waywardness that
infirm and choleric years bring with them, 302

LEAR. 717

Reg. Such unconstant starts are we like to have
from him, as this of Kent’s banishment.

Gon. There is further compliment of leave-taking
between France and him. Pray you, let us hit
together: if our father carry authority with such
disposition as he bears, this last surrender of his
will but offend us.

Reg. We shall further think of it. 310

Gon. We must do something, and i’ the heat.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IJ.—A Hall in the Earl’ of GLosTER’s Castle.

Enter EDMUND, with a letter.

Edm. Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law
My services are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The curiosity of nations to deprive me,
For that Iam some twelve or fourteen moonshines
Lag of a brother?) Why bastard? wherefore base ?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as generous, and my shape as true,
As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us
With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base? 10
Whoin the lusty stealth of nature take
More composition and fierce quality,
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,
Got ‘tween asleep and wake ?—Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land:
Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund,
As to the legitimate. Fine word,—legitimate!
Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,
And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall to the legitimate :—I grow, I prosper ;—
Now, gods, stand up for bastards !

20

Enter GLOSTER.
Glo. Kent banish’d thus! And France in choler
parted! :

And the king gone to-night! subscrib’d his power !
Confin’d to exhibition! All this done
Upon the gad!—Edmund! How now! what news?

‘dm. So please your lordship, none.

[Putting up the letter.

‘ oo Why so earnestly seek you to put up that
etter

Edm. I know no news, my lord. 30
Glo. What paper were you reading ?

Edm. Nothing, my lord.

Glo. No? What needed then that terrible despatch

of it into Cas pocket? the quality of nothing hath not
such need to hide itself. et’s see; come; if it be
nothing, I shall not need spectacles.

Edm. I beseech you, sir, pardon me: it is a letter
from my brother, that I have not all o’er-read: and for
so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for your
o’erlooking. 40

Glo. Give me the letter, sir.

Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The
contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.

Glo. Let’s see, let’s see.

Edm. Lhope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote
this but as an essay or taste of my virtue.

Glo. [Reads.] “‘ This policy, and reverence of age,
makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps
our fortunes from us, till our oldness cannot relish
them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the
oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath

ower, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this

may speak more. If our father would sleep till I
waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for
ever, and live the beloved of your brother, EpGar.”—
Humph !—Conspiracy !—“‘ Sleep till I waked him,—you
should enjoy half his revenue.”—My son Edgar! ad
he a hand to write this? a heart and brain to breed it
in? When came this to you? Who brought it? 59

Edm. It was not brought me, my lord; there’s the
cunning of it: I found it thrown in at the casement of
my closet.

 

Glo. You know the character to be your brother’s?

 

 
 

718

KING LEAR.

[Act L

 

 

Edm, If the matter were good, my lord, I durst
swear it were his; but, in respect of that, I would fain
think it were not.

Glo. It is his.

Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but, I hope, his heart
is not in the contents.

Glo. Has he never before sounded
business ? i

Edm. Never, my lord: but I have often heard him
maintain it to be fit, that, sons at perfect age, and
fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the
son, and the son manage his revenue.

you in this
71

 

 

Edm, “Tt is bis hand, my lord; but, I hope, his heart is not in
the contents.”

Glo. O villain, villain!—His very opinion in the
letter !— Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested,
brutish villain! worse than brutish !—Go, sirrah, seek
him; I'll apprehend him.—Abominable villain !—
Where is he? 80

Edm. I donot well know, my lord. If it shall please
you to suspend your indignation against my brother,
till you can derive from him better testimony of his
intent, you shall run a certain course; where, if you
violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose,
it would make a great gap in your own honour, and
shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare
pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this
to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other
pretence of danger. 90

Glo. Think you so?

dm. Té your honour judge it meet, I will place you
where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auri-
cular assurance have your satisfaction; and that
without any further delay than this very evening.

Gio. He cannot be such a monster—

Edm, Nor is not, sure.

Glo. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves
him.—Heaven and earth!—Edmund, seek him out;
wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business
after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to
be in a due resolution.

Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently ; convey the
business as I shall find means, and acquaint you
withal.

Glo. These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend
no good to us: though the -wisdom of nature can
reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged
by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls
off, brothers divide: in citics, mutinies ; in countries,
discord ; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked

 

between son and father. This villain of mine comes
under the prediction; there’s son against father: the
king falls from bias of nature; there's father against
child. We have seen the best of our time: machina-
tions, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders,
follow us disquietly to our graves.—Find out this
villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing: do it
carefully.—And the noble and true-hearted Kent
banished! his offence, honesty !—’T is strange. [Hzit,

Edm. This is the excellent foppery of the world,
that, when we are sick in fortune (often the surfeit of
our own behaviour), we make guilty of our disasters
the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were
villains by necessity ; fools by heavenly compulsion;
knaves, thieves, and treachers, by_ spherical pre.-,
dominance ; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an
enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all
that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An
admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his
goatish disposition on the charge ofastar! My father
compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail;
and my nativity was under ursa major: so that it
follows, I am rough and lecherous.—Tut! I should
have been that Iam, had the maidenliest star in the
firmament twinkled on my bastardising.

Enter EDGAR.
Pat: he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy:
my cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom
o Bedlam.—O! these eclipses do portend these
divisions. Fa, sol, la, mi.

Edg. How now, brother Edmund!
contemplation are you in?

Edm. I _am_ thinking, brother, of a prediction
I read this other day, what should follow these
eclipses.

Edg. Do you busy yourself with that?

Edm. T promise you, the effects he writes of succeed
unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and
the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient
amities; divisions in state; menaces and maledic-
tions against king and nobles; needless diffidences,
banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial
breaches, and I know not what. 153

Edg. How long have you been a sectary astro-
nomica] ?

‘ ‘dm, Come, come; when saw you my father
ast ?

Edg. The night gone by.

Edm, Spake you with him?

dg. Ay, two hours together. 160

Edm. Parted you in good terms? Found you no
displeasure in him, by word, or countenance ?

‘dg. None at all.

Edm. Bethink yourself, wherein you may have
offended him: and at my entreaty forbear_his
presence, till some little time hath qualified the heat
of his displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in
him, that with the mischief of your person it would
searcely allay.

Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong. _ 170

Edm. That’s my fear. I pray you, have acontinent
forbearance, till the speed of his rage goes slower;
and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from
whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak.
Pray you, go: there’s my key.—If you do stir abroad,
go armed.

Edy. Armed, brother ?

Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best; I am no
honest man, if there be any good meaning towards
you: I have told you what I have seen and heard, but
faintly ; nothing like the image and horror of it. Pray
you, STE 182

Eadg. Shall I hear from you anon?

Edm, I do serve you in this business,—

[Exit ED@ar.
A_credulous father, and a brother noble,
Whose nature is so far from doing harms,
That he suspects none ; on whose foolish honesty
My practices ride easy !—I see the business.—
Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:
All with me’s meet, that I can fashion fit.

140
What serious

[Exit.

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING LEAR.

719

 

ScENE II.—A Room in the Duke of ALBANY'S
alace.

Enter GONERIL, and OSWALD, her Steward.

Gon. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding
of his fool?

Osw. Ay, madam.

Gon. By day and night he wrongs me: every hour
He flashes into one gross crime or other,
That sets us all at odds: 1’ll not endure it.
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us
On every trifle-—When he returns from hunting,
I will not speak with him; say, Iam sick:
If you come slack of former services, 10
You shall do well; the fault of it I’l] answer.

Osw. He’s coming, madam ; I hear him.

(Horns within.

Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question :
If he distaste it, let him to my sister,
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,
Not to be over-rul’d. Idle old man,
That still would manage those authorities
That he hath given away !—Now, by my life,
Old fools are babes again ; and must be us'd 20
With checks, as flatteries, when they are seen abus'd.
Remember what I have said.

Osw. Well, madam.
Gon. And let his knights have colder looks among

you;
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows
so:

I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,
That I may speak :—I’ll write straight to my sister,
To hold my course.—Prepare for dinner. [Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—A Hall in the Same.

Enter KENT, disguised.

Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow,
That can my speech diffuse, my good intent
May carry through itself to that full issue
For which I raz’d my likeness.—Now, banish’d Kent,
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,
(So may it come !) thy master, whom thou lov’st,
Shall find thee full of labours,

Horns within. Enter Lear, Knights, and
Attendants.

Lear, Let me not stay a jot for dinner: go, get it
ready. [Exit an Attendant.) How now! what art
thou? 10

Kent, A man, sir.

Lear. What dost thou profess? What wouldst
thou with us?

Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem; to
serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love
him that is honest; to converse with him that is
wise, and says little ; to fear judgment ; to fight when
I cannot choose ; and to eat no fish.

Lear. What art thou?

Kent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as
the king. 21

Lear. If thou be as poor for a subject, as he is for a
king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?

ent. Service.

- Lear. Whom wouldst thou serve?

Kent. You.

Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow ?

Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your counte-
hance, which I would fain call master,

Lear. What’s that? 30

Kent. Authority.

Lear. What services canst thou do?

Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a
curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message
bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am

jalified in; and the best of me is diligence.

Lear. How old art thou?

 

Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for sing-
ing; nor so old, to dote on her for anything: I have
years on my back forty-eight. 410

Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me: if I like
thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee
yet.—Dinner, ho! dinner !—Where's my knave? my
fool? Go you, and call my fool hither.

[Zxit an Attendant.

Enter OSWALD.
You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter

Osw. So please you,— [Ezit.

Lear, What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll
back. (Exit a Knight.)—Where’'s my fool, ho?—I
think the world’s asleep.

Re-enter Knight.
How now! where’s that mongrel?

Knight. He says, my lord, your dau

Lear. Why came not the slave bac
called him?

Knight. Sir, he answered me in the roundest
manner, he would not.

Lear. He would not!

Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is;
but, to my judgment, your highness is not entertained
with that ceremonious affection as you were wont:
there’s a great abatement of kindness appears, as
well in the general dependants, as in the duke himself
also, and your daughter. 62

Lear. Ha! sayest thou so?

Knight. I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be
mistaken ; for my duty cannot be silent, when I think
your highness wronged.

Lear. Thou but rememberest me of mine own con-
ception. I have perceived a most faint neglect of
late ; which Ihave rather blamed as mine own jealous
curiosity, than as a very pretence and purpose of
unkindness: I will look further into ’t.—But where’s
my fool? I have not seen him this two days. 72

Knight. Since my young lady’s going into France,
sir, the fool hath much pined away.

Lear. No more of that; I_have noted it well.—_Go
you, and tell my daughter I would speak with her.
[Exit an Attendant.|—Go you, call hither my fool.

[Ezit an Attendant.

Re-enter OSWALD.

50
hter is not well.
to me, when I

01 you sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am I,
sir?
Osw. My lady’s father. 80

Lear. My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you
whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!
eae Iam none of these, my lord; I beseech your
pardon.
Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?
[Striking him.
Osw. I'll not be struck, my lord.
Kent. Nor tripped neither, you base foot-ball player.
[Tripping up his heels.
Lear. I thank thee, fellow ; thou servest me, and
I'll love thee. 389
Kent. Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you dif-
ferences: away, away! If you will measure your
lubber’s length again, tarry; but away! Go to: have
you wisdom? so. [Pushes OSWALD out.
Lear. Now, my _ friendly knave, I thank thee:
there’s earnest of thy service. [Giving KENT money.
Enter Fool.
Fool. Let me hire him too :—here’s my coxcomb.
[Giving KENT his cap.
Lear. How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou?
Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb,
Kent. Why, fool? . 99
Fool. Why, for taking one’s part that’s out of
favour.—Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind
sits, thou ’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my cox-
comb. Why, this fellow has banished two on’s
daughters, and did the third a blessing against his
will: if thou follow him, thou must needs wear
my coxcomb.—How now, nuncle? *Would I had two
coxcombs, and two daughters !

 

 
 

720

KING LEAR.

[Act I

 

 

Lear. Why, my boy?

Fool. If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my
coxcombs myself. There's mine; beg another of thy
daughters, 111

Lear. Take heed, sirrah,—the whip.

Fool. Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be
whipped out, when the lady brach may stand by the
fire and stink.

Lear. A pestilent gall tome!

Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech.

Lear. Do.

Fool. Mark it, nuncle :—

Have more than thou showest, 120
Speak less than thou knowest,

Lend less than thou owest,

Ride more than thou goest,

Learn more than thou trowest,

Set less than thou throwest ;

Leave thy drink and thy whore,

And keep in-a-door,

And thou shalt have more

Than two tens to a score.

Kent. This is nothing, fool. 130

Fool. Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee'd lawyer;
you gave me nothing for 't.—Can you make no use of
nothing, nuncle?

Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of
nothing.

Fool. [To KENT.] Pr'ythee, tell him, so much the
rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.

Lear. A bitter fool!

Fool, Dost thou know the difference, my boy,
between a bitter fool and a sweet one? 140

Lear. No, lad ; teach me.

Fool. That lord, that counsell’d thee

To give away thy land,
Come place him here b:

Do thou for him stand:
The sweet and bitter fool

Will presently appear;
The one in motley here,

The other found out there.

Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy ? 150

Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away ;
that thou wast born with.

Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord.

Fool. No, ’faith; lords and great men will not let
me: if Thad a monopoly out, they would have part
on't; and ladies too: they will not let me have all fool
to myself; they ‘ll be snatching.—Nuncle, give me an
egy, and I'll give thee two crowns.

Lear. What two crowns shall they be? 159

Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle,
and eat up the meat, the two crowns of theegg. When
thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle, and gavest away
both parts, thou borest thine ass on thy back o’er the
dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown, when
thou eee thy golden one away. If I speak like
myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds
it so. [Singing.

Fools had ne'er less grace in a year ;
For wise men are grown foppish,
And know not how their wits to wear,

Their manners are so apish.

ie When were you wont to be so full of songs,
sirra,

Fool. Ihave used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest
thy daughters thy mothers: for when thou gavest
them the rod and putt’st down thine own breeches,

[Singing.
Then they for suddcn joy did weep,
And I for sorrow Suit
That such a king should play bo-peep,
And go the fools.among. 180

Pr’ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach
thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie.
ear. An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.
Fool. I marvel, what kin thou and thy daughters
are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true,
thou ‘lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes

me;

170

Iam whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be |

 

any kind o’ thing than a fool; and yet I would not be

thee, nuncle: thou hast juned thy wit 0’ both sides,

and left nothing i’ the middle. Here comes one’ the

parings. 191
Enter GONERIL.

Lear. ape new daughter? what makes that front-
et on! .
Methinks, you are too much of late i’ the frown.
Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow, when thou hadst
no need to care for her frowning ; now thou art an O
without a figure. I am better than thou art now: I
am a fool, thou art nothing.—Yes, forsooth, I will
hold my tongue; so your face [to GoNERIL] bids me,
though you say nothing.
Mum, mum: 200 ©
He that keeps nor crust nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some.
That’s a sheal'd peascod.
Fon. Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourly carp and quarrel ; breaking forth
In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir,
I had thought, by making this well known unto
you,
To have found a safe redress ; but now grow fearful,
By what yourself too late have spoke and done, 210
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance ; which if you should, the fault
Would not ’scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,
Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,
Might in their working do you that offence,
Which else were shame, that then necessity
Will call discreet proceeding.
Fool, For you know, nuncle,
The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,
That it had it head bit off by it young. 22
So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling.
Lear, Are you our daughter?
Gon. I would you would make use of your good
wisdom,
Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away
These dispositions, which of late transport you
From what you rightly are.
Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the
horse ?—Whoop, Jug! I love thee.

Lear. pees any here know me? This is not
ear:

Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his

eyes? 230

y
Either his notion weakens, his discernings
Are lethargied.—Ha! waking? ’tis not so.—
Who is it that can tell me who I am ?—

Fool. Lear’s shadow.

Lear. I would learn that; for by the marks of
sovereignty, knowledge, and reason, I should be false
persuaded I had daughters.

Fool. Which they will make an obedient father.

Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman ?

Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the savour 240
Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright : .

As you are old and reverend, should he wise. |
Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;
Men so disorderd, so debosh’d, and bold,

That this our court, infected with their manners,
Shows like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust
Make it more like a tavern, or a brothel,

Than a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth speak
For instant remedy : be then desir’d 250
By her, that else will take the thing she begs,

A little to disquantity your train ;

And the remainder, that shall still depend,

To be such men as may besort your age,

Which know themselves and you. :

Lear. Darkness and devils !—
Saddle my horses ; call my train together.—
Degenerate bastard ! Ill not trouble thee:

Yet have I left a daughter. " ‘

Gon, You strike my people; and your disorder’d

rabble
Make servants of their betters. 260

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

KING LEAR.

721

 

Enter ALBANY.

Lear. Woe, that too late repents,_[To ALBANY.]
O, sir, are you come?
Is it your will? Speak, sir.—Prepare my horses.
Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous, when thou show’st thee in a child,
Than the sea-monster !

Alb. Pray, sir, be patient.

Lear, [To GONERIL.] Detested kite! thou liest:
My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

That all particulars of duty know,
And in the most exact regard support
The or of their name.—O most small fault, 270
How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!
Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature
From the fix’d place, drew from my heart all love,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,

. [Striking his head.
And phy diese jotement out !—Go, on my people.

Alb. My lord, I am guiltless, as Iam ignorant
Of what hath mov’d you.

Lear. _ It may be so, my lord.—
Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!
Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend
To make this creature fruitful!

Into her womb convey sterility !

Dry up in her the organs of increase ,

And from her derogate body never spring

A babe to honour her! If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen; that it may live,
And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her!
Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth ;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks ;
Turn all her mother’s pains, and benefits,

To ee and contempt ; that she may feel
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is

To have a thankless child !—Away, away! [EHxit.

Alb. eek gods, that we adore, whereof comes

this? :

Gon. Never afflict yourself to know more of it ;

But let his disposition have that scope
As dotage gives it.

280

290

Re-enter LEAR.
Lear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap!

Within a fortnight ?
Alb. What’s the matter, sir?
Lear, 1’ll tell thee :—Life and death! [To GONERIL.]
I am ashamed, 300
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus;
That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,
Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs
upon thee!
The untented woundings of a father’s curse
Pierce every sense about thee !—Old fond eyes,
Beweep this cause again, I ’ll pluck ye out,
And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay.—Yea, is it come to this?
Let it be so :—yet have I left a daughter,
Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable :
When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails
She'll flay thy wolfish visage. Thou shalt find,
That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think
Thave cast off for ever.
[Exeunt LEAR, KENT, and Attendants.
Gon. Do you mark that?
Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril,
To the al love I bear you,—
Gon. Pray you, content.—What, Oswald, ho !—
[To the Fool.] You, sir, more knave than fool, after
our master.
Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear! tarry, and take
the fool with thee. 321
A fox, when one has caught her,
And such a daughter,
Should sure to the Beene
If my cap would buy a halter ; :
So the fool follows after. [Extt.
This man hath had good counsel.—A hundred.
: knights! 5
[is politic, and safe, to let him keep

310

Gon.

 

At pe hundred knights: yes, that on every
Tr 2
Each buz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, 330
He may enguard his dotage with their powers,
And hold our lives in mercy.—Oswald, I say !—
Alb. Well, you may fear too far.
Gon. Safer than trust too far.
Let me still take away the harms I fear,
Not fear still to be taken : I know his heart.
What he hath utter’d, I have writ my sister:
If she sustain him and his hundred knights,
When I have show’d the unfitness, —

Re-enter OSWALD.
How now, Oswald !
What, have you writ that letter to my sister?
Osw. Ay, Madam. 340
Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse:
Inform her full of my particular fear ; :
And thereto add such reasons of your own,
As may compact it more. Get you gone,
And hasten our return. [Hxit OSwaLD.] No, no, my
ord,
This milky gentleness and course of yours
Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon,
You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom,
Than prais’d for harmful mildness.
Alb. How far your eyes may pierce, I cannot tell:
Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well. 351
Gon. Nay, then—

lb. Well, well; the event. [Exeunt.

 

SceNE V.—Court before the Same,

Enter LEAR, KENT, and Fool.

Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these letters.
Acquaint my daughter no further with anything you
know, than comes from her demand out of the letter.
If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there before

‘ou.
Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered
your letter. ait,
fool. If a man’s brains were in his heels, were 't not
in danger of kibes?

Lear. Ay, boy. 10

Fool. Then, 1 pr’ythee, be merry ; thy wit shall not
go slip-shod.

Lear. Ha, ha, ha!

Fool. Shalt see, thy other daughter will use thee
kindly ; for though she’s as like this as a crab is like
an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.

Lear. What canst tell, boy?

Fool. She will taste as like this as a crab does to a
crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’ the
middle on’s face? 20

Lear. No.

Fool. Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose;
that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

Lear. J did her wrong :—

Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

Lear. No.

Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has
a house.

Lear. Why? . 29

Fool. Why, to put his head in; not to give it away-
to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

Lear. I will forget my nature.—So kind a father !—
Be my horses ready?

Fool. Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason
why the seven stars are no more than seven is a
pretty reason.

Lear. Because they are not eight ?

Fool. Yes, indeed. Thou wouldst make a good fool.

Lear, To take it again perforce !—Monster ingrati-
tude! 40
Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee
beaten for being old before thy time.

Lear. How’s that?

Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou
_hadst been-wise.

 

Al =

 
 

 

 

792 KING LEAR. [Act IL
Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Gent. Ready, my lord.
Keep me in temper : I would not be mad !— Lear. Come, boy. . 7 50
Fool. She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my
Enter Gentleman. departure,
How now! Are the horses ready? Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter,

[Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT II.

ScENE I.—A Court within the Castle of the Earl of GLOSTER.

Edmund.
AVE thee, Curan.

Cur. And you, sir. I have been with your
father, and given him notice, that the Duke
of Cornwall, and Regan his duchess, will be
here with him to-night.

idm. How comes that?

Cur. Nay, I know not. You have heard of
the news abroad? I mean, the whispered
ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing argu-
ments. 10

Edm. NotI: ay you, what are they?

Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars toward,
’twixt the Dukes of Cornwall and Albany?

Edm. Not a word.

Cur. You may do then, intime. Fare you well, sir.

 

[Evit.
Edm. The duke be here to-night? The better! best!
This weaves itself perforce into my business.
My father hath set guard to take my brother;
And I have one thing, of a queasy question,
Which I must act.—Briefness, and fortune, work !— 20
Brother, a word ;—descend :—brother, I say!

Enter EDGAR.
My father watches.—O sir! fly this place ;
Intelligence is given where you are hid:
You have now the good advantage of the night.—
Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall?
He’s coming hither ; now, i’ the night, i’ the haste,
And Regan with him: have you nothing said
pee his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany?
Advise yourself.

dg. I am sure on’t, not a word.

Edm. I hear my father coming.—Pardon me: 30
In cunning, I must draw my sword upon you:
Draw : seem to defend yourself. Now quit you well.

Yield :—come before my father.—Light, ho! here !—
Fly, brother.—Torches! torches !—So, farewell.—
[Zait EpGar.

Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion

a Vounds his arm.
Of my more fierce endeavour: I have seen drunkards
Do more than this in sport.—Father! father!
Stop, stop! No help?

Enter GLOSTER, and Servants with torches.

Glo. Now, Edmund, where’s the villain ?
Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword

out,
Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon 40
To stand auspicious mistress,—

Glo.

Edm. Look, sir, I bleed.

Gio. Where is the villain, Edmund?

Edm. Bled fue way, sir. When by uo means he
could—

But where is he?

Enter EDMUND and CURAN, meeting.

Glo. Pursue him, ho!—Go after. [Exit Servant.J—
By no means,—what ?

Edm. Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;
But that I told him, the revenging gods °
’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;
Spoke, with how manifold and strong a bond
The child was bound to the father ;—sir, in fine,
Seeing how loathty opposite I stood
To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion,

With his prepared sword he charges home
My unprovided body, lanc’d mine arm:
But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits,
Bold in the quarrel's right, rous’d to the encounter,
Or whether ghasted by the noise I made,
Full suddenly he fled.
G Let him fiy far:

lo.
Not in this land shall he remain uncaught ;
And found—despatch.—The noble duke my master,
My worthy arch and pe comes to-night : 60
By his authority I will proclaim it,
That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks,
Bringing the murderous coward to the stake;
He that conceals him, death.
Edm. When I dissuaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to do it, with curst speech
I threaten’d to discover him: he replied,
“Thou unpossessing bastard ! dost thou think,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposal
Of any trust, virtue, or worth, in thee a;
Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny,
(As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce
My very character,) I’d turn it all
To thy suggestion, pict. and damned practice:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potential spurs
To make thee seek it.” ae
Glo. Strong and fasten’d villain!
Would he deny his letter ?—I never got him. Sa
[Tucket within.
Hark! the duke’s trumpets. I know not why he
comes. 80
All ports I'll bar ; the villain shall not ’scape ;
The duke must grant me that : besides, his picture
I will send far and near, that all the kingdom
May have due note of him; and of my land,
Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means
To make thee capable.

Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, and Attendants.
Corn. How now, my noble friend! since I came

hither
(Which I can call but now), I have heard strange

news.
Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short, 89
Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord?

 

 

 
 

ScENE II] KING

LEAR. 723

 

Glo. Q, madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d!

Reg. What! did my father’s godson seek your life?
He whom my father nam'd? your Edgar?

Glo. QO, lady, lady! shame would have it hid.

Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous knights
That tend upon my father ?

Glo. I know not, madam, ’t is too bad, too bad.

Edm. Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

Reg. No marvel then, though he were ill affected :
’T is they have put him on the old man’s death, 100
To have the expense and waste of his revenues.

I have this present evening from my sister

Been well inform’d of them; and with gach cautions,
That if they come to sojourn at my house,

I'll not be there.

Corn. Nor I, assure thee, Regan.—
Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father
A child-like oftice.

Edm. "Ty was my duty, sir.

Glo. He did bewray his practice ; and receiv’d
This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

Corn. Is he pursued ?

Glo. Ay, my good lord. 110
Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more
Be fear’d of doing harm: make your own purpose,
How in my strength you please.—For you, Edmund,
Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend itself, you shall be ours:

Natures of such deep trust we shall much need ;
You we first seize on.

Edm.

Truly, however else.

I shall serve you, sir,

0. For him I thank your grace.
Corn. You know not why we came to visit you,—
Reg. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night.
Occasions, noble Gloster, of some poise, * 121
Wherein we must have use of your advice.
Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,
Of differences, which I best thought it fit
To answer trom our home: the several messengers
From hence attend despatch. Our good old friend,
Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow
Your needful counsel to our businesses,
Which crave the instant use.
Glo, I serve you, madam.
Your graces are right welcome. 1
(Ezeunt.

ScENE II.—Before GLOSTER’s Castle.

Enter Kent and OSWALD, severally.

Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this
house?

Kent. Ay.

Osw. Where may we set our horses ?

Kent. T the mire.

Osw. Pr’ythee, if thou lov’st me, tell me.

Kent. I love thee not.

Osw. Why, then I care not for thee.

Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would
make thee care for me. 10

Osw. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

Kent. Fellow, I know thee.

Osw. What dost thou know me for?

Kent. A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats;
a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hun-
dred pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-
liver’ , action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-
gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-
Inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in
way of good service, and art nothing but the
composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander,
and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom
I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.

Osw. Why. what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus
io Tail on one, that is neither known of thee, nor knows

ee!

Kent, What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny

1ou knowest me! Is it two days since I. tripped up

1y heels, and beat thee, before the king? Draw, you

rogue; for though it be night, yet the moon shines:
I'll make asop 0’ the moonshine of you. [Drawing
his sword.) Draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-
monger, draw. ‘

Osw. Away! Ihave nothing to do with thee.

Kent. Draw, you rascal: you come with letters
against the king, and take Vanity the puppet’s part,
against the royalty of her father. Draw, you rogue,
or I’llso carbonado your shanks :—draw, you rascal;
come your ways. 40

Osw. Help, ho! murder! help!

Kent. Strike, you slave: stand, rogue, stand; you
neat slave, strike. [Beating him.

 

ee “Strike, you slave: stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave,
strike.”

Osw. Help, ho! murder! murder!

Enter EDMUND.
Edm. How now! What’s the matter?
Kent. With you, goodman boy, if you please: come,
I'll flesh you, come on, young master.

Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, GLOSTER, and Servants.
Glo. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?
Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives:

He dies that strikes again. Whatisthe matter? 50
Reg. The messengers from our sister and the king.
Corn. What is your difference? speak.

Osw. Iam scarce in breath, my lord.

Kent. Nomarvel, you have so bestirred your valour.
You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a tailor
made thee.

Cons Thou art a strange fellow: a tailor make a
man?

Kent, Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter, or a painter,
could not have made him so ill, though they had been
but two hours o’ the trade. 61

Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

Osw. This spelen: ruffian, sir, whose life I have

spar’d,

At suit of his grey beard,—

Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!
—My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this
unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a
jakes with him.—Spare my grey beard, you wag-tail?

Corn. Peace, sirrah !

You beastly knave, know you no reverence? 70
Kent. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

Corn. Why art thou angry?

Kent. That such aslave as this should wear a sword,
Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,

 

Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain

 

 
 

724 KING

LEAR. [Act IT.

 

Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every

passion

That in the natures of their lords rebel ;

Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods ;

Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks

With every gale and vary of their masters,

Knowing nought, like dogs, but following. —

A plague upon your epileptic visage !

Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?

Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,

I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.
Corn. What! art thou mad, old fellow?
Glo. How fell you out? say that.

Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,

Than [ and such a knave. : Aas
Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his

fault? 90
Kent. His countenance likes me not. .
Corn. ™ oO more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor
ers.
Kent. Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

I hive seen better faces in my time,

Than stands on any shoulder that I see

Before me at this instant.

Corn. This is some fellow,

Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect.

A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb,

Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he ;

An honest mind and plain,—he must speak truth : 100

An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain. :

These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness

Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,

Than twenty silly ducking observants,

That stretch their duties nicely.

Kent. Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity,

Under the allowance of your great aspect,
hose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire 108

On flickering Phoebus’ front, —

Corn. What mean’st by this?

Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discom-
mend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he
that beguiled you in a plain accent, was a plain

knave; which, for my part, I will not be, though I

should win your displeasure to entreat me to’t.
Corn. What was the otfence you gave him?
Osw. I never gave him any :

It pleas’d the king, his master, very late,

To strike at me, upon his misconstruction ;

When he, compact, and flattering his displeasure,

Tripp’d me behind ; being down, inaulted rail'd, 120

And put upon him such a deal of man,

That worthied him, got praises of the king

For him attempting who was self-subdu’d ;

And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,

Drew on me here again.

ent, None of these rogues, and cowards,
But Ajax is their fool.
Corn. Fetch forth the stocks!

You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart,

We'll teach you.

Kent. Sir, Iam too old to learn.

Call not your stocks for me; I serve the king,

On whose employment I was sent to you:

You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

Against the grace and person of my master,

Stocking his messenger.

Corn. Fetch forth the stocks!

As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon.

Reg. ih noon! till night, my lord; and all night
00.
Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog,

‘You should not use me so.

Reg. Sir, being his knave, I will.
Corn. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour
Our sister speaks of.—Come, bring away the stocks.
Stocks brought out.
Glo. Let me beseech your grace not to do so.

His fault is much, and the good king his master

Will check him for’t : your purpos’d low correction

Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches,

For pilferings and most common trespasses,

Are punish’d with, The king must take it ill,

89

ee

130

 

That he, so slightly valued in his messenger,
Should have him thus restrain’d.
Corn. : __., .. I’llanswer that.
Reg. My sister may receive it much more worse,
To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted,
For following her affairs.—Put in his legs.— 150
[KENT is put in the stocks,
Come, my lord, away.
[Exeunt all but GLOSTER and KENT.
Glo. I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s
pleasure,
Whose disposition, all the world well knows,
Will not be rubb’d, nor stopp’d: 1’ll entreat for thee.
Kent. Pray, do not, sir. I have watch’d, and
travell’d hard ;
Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle.
A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels:
Give you good morrow!
Glo, The duke’s to blame in this : ’t will be ill taken.

vit.
Kent. Good king, that must approve the common

saw:

Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st

To the warm sun.

Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,

That by thy comfortable beams I may

Peruse this letter.—Nothing almost sees miracles,

But misery :—I know, ’t is from Cordelia ;

Who hath most fortunately been inform’d

Of my obscured course ; and shall find time

From this enormous state,—seeking to give

Losses their remedies.—All weary and o’er-watch’d,

Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold 171

This shameful lodging.

Fortune, good nisht; smile once more; turn thy
wheel! He sleeps.

ScenE III.—A Part of the Heath.

_  nter Epear.

Edg. T heard myself proclaim’d ;
And, by the happy hollow of a tree,
Escap’d the hunt. No port is free; no place,
That guard, and most unusual vigilance,
Does not attend my taking. While I may ’seape,
I will preserve myself ; and am bethought
To take the basest and most poorest shape,
That ever penury, in contempt of man,
Brought near to beast ; my face I ll grime with filth,
Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots, 10
And with presented nakedness outface
The winds and persecutions of the sky.
The country gives me proof and precedent
Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices,
Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms
Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary ;
And with this horrible object, from low farms,
Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,
Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,
Enforce their charity.—Poor Turlygood ! poor Tom! 20
That’s something yet :—Edgar I nothing am. [Ezit.

ScENE IV.—Before GLOSTER’s Castle. KENT in
the Stocks,

Enter LEAR, Fool, and Gentleman.
Lear. ’T is strange that they should so depart from

ome,
And not send back my messenger.

Gent. As I learn’d,
The night before there was no purpose in them
Of this remove.

Kent.

Lear, Ha! |
Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

Hail to thee, noble master !

ent. No, my lord.

Fool. Ha, ha! look; he wears cruel garters. Horses
are tied by the head, dogs and bears by the neck,
monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when 4

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

KING LEAR.

725

 

man’s over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden
_ nether-stocks. ll
Lear. What's he that hath so much thy place
mistook,
To set thee here?

Kent. It is both he and she,

Your son and daughter.
ar. No.

Kent. Yes.

Lear. No, I say.

Kent. I say, yea.

Lear. No, no; they would not.

Kent. Yes, they have. 20

Lear. By Jupiter, I swear, no.

Kent. By Juno, I swear, ay.

Lear. They durst not do’t;
They could not, would not do’t: ‘tis worse than

murder,
To do upon respect such violent outrage.
Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way
Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage,
Coming from us.

Kent. My lord, when at their home

I did commend your highness’ letters to them,

Ere I was risen from the place that show’d

My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, 30
Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth
From Goneril, his mistress, salutations ;

Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission,

Which presently they read: on whose contents

They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse ;
Commanded me to follow, and attend

The leisure of their answer ; gave me cold looks:
And meeting here the other messenger,

Whose welcome, I perceiv’d, had poison’d mine,
(Being the very fellow which of late :
Display’d so saucily against your highness,)

Having more man than wit about me, drew:

He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries.
Your son and daughter found this trespass worth
The shame which here it suffers.

Fool. Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild-geese fly

that way.
Fathers, that wear rags,
Do make their children blind;
But fathers, that bear bags, 50
Shall see their children kind.
Fortune, that arrant whore,
Neer turns the key to the poor.—
But, for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for
thy daughters, as thou canst tell in a year.
‘ar. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!
Hysterica passio ! down, thou climbing sorrow !
Thy element's below.—Where is this daughter ?
4dsent. With the earl, sir ; here, within.
Lear. Follow me not; stay here. [Evit.
Gent. Made you no more offence than what you
speak of? 61

Kent. None.

How chance the king comes with so small a number ?

Fool. An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that
question, thou hadst well deserved it.

Kent. or fool?

Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach
thee there's no labouring 7 the winter. All that
follow their noses are led by their eyes, but blind
men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can
smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold, when a
great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck
with following it; but the great one that goes up the
hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man
gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I
waquld have none but knaves follow it, since a fool
gives it. :

That sir, which serves and seeks for gain,
And follows but for form,

Will pack when it begins to rain, 80
And leave thee in the storm.

But I will tarry ; the fool will stay,
And let the wise man fly:

The knave turns fool that runs away ;
The fool no knave, perdy.

 

 

Kent. Where learn’d you this, fool?
Fool. Not i’ the stocks, fool.

Re-enter LEAR, with GLOSTER.
Lear. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they
are weary?
They have travell’d all the night? Mere fetches,
The images of revolt and flying off!
Fetch me a better answer.
Glo. My dear lord,
You know the fiery quality of the duke ;
How unremoyvable and fix’d he is
In his own course. .
Lear. Vengeance! plague! death ! confusion !
Fiery? what quality ? hy, Gloster, Gloster, _
I'd speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.
Glo. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.
Lear. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me,

man?
Glo. Ay, my good lord. ; 100
Lear. The king would speak with Cornwall; the
dear father
Would with his daughter speak, commands her
service:
Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood !—
Fiery? the fiery duke ?—Tell the hot duke, that—
No, but not yet ;—may be, he is not well:
Infirmity doth still neglect all office,
Whereto our health is bound ; we are not ourselves,
When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind
To suffer with the body. I’ll forbear;
And am fall’n out with my more headier will, 110
To take the indispos’d and sickly fit
For the sound man.— Death on my state! wherefore
(Looking on KENT,
Should he sit here? This act persuades me,
That this remotion of the duke and her
Is practice only. Give Tee servant forth.
Go, tell the duke and’s wife, I’d speak with them,
Now, presently : bid them come forth and hear me,
Or at their chamber-door I’]l beat the drum,
Till it cry—‘* Sleep to death.”
Glo. I would have all well betwixt you. [Ezit.
Lear. O me! my heart, my rising heart !—but,
down. 121
Fool. Cry_to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the
eels, when she put them i’ the paste alive ; she knapp’d
’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick, and cried, ‘‘ Down,
wantons, down!” ’T was her brother that, in pure
kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.

Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, GLOSTER, and Servants.
Lear. Good morrow to you both.
Corn. Hail to your grace!
[KenvT is set at liberty.
Reg. I am glad to see your highness.
Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason
I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad, 130
I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb,
Copulehing, an adult’ress.—_[7'0 KENY.] O! are you
ree?
Some other time for that.—Beloved Regan,
Thy sister’s naught : O Regan! she hath tied
Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here,—
[Points to his heart.
T can scarce speak to thee : thou ‘It not believe,
With how deprav'd a quality—O Regan !
Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope,
You ieee know how to value her desert,
Than she to scant her duty.
Lear. Say, how is that?
Rey. I cannot think my sister in the least
Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance,
She have restrain'd the riots of your followers,
*T is on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As clears her from all blame.
Lear. My curses on her!
Reg. O, sir! you are old;
Nature in you stands on the very verge
Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led
By some discretion, that discerns your state
Better than you yourself. Therefore, I pray you,

140

150

 

 
 

726 KING

LEAR.

(Acr IL.

 

 

That to our sister you do make return:
Say, you have wrong’d her, sir.
Lear. Ask her forgiveness?
Do you but mark how this becomes the house:
“Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;
Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg, Kneeling.
That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.”
Reg. Good sir, no more: these are unsightly tricks.
Return you to my sister.
Lear. (Rising. Never, Regan.
She hath abated me of half my train ;
Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue,
Most serpent-like, upon the very heart.— 161
All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall
On her ungrateful top! Strike her young bones,

You taking airs, withlameness! >
Corn. Fie, sir, fie! .
Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding

flames
Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,
You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,
Yo fall and blast her pride!
Reg. O the blest gods! so will you wish on me,
When the rash mood is on. 170
Lear. No, Regan; thou shalt never have my curse:
Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o’er to harshness: her eyes are fierce ; but thine
Do comfort, and not burn. ‘Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my coming in: thou better know’st
The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude ; 180
Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow’d,
Reg. ; Good sir, to the purpose.
Lear. Who put my man i’ the stocks?
[Tucket within.
Corn. What trumpet ’s that?
Reg. I know't, my sister’s: this approves her letter,
That she would soon be here.—
Enter OSWALD.
Is your lady come?
Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride
Dwells in the fickle grace ot her he follows,—
Out, varlet, from my sight!
Corn. What means your grace?
Lear. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, [have good

ope
Thou didst not know on’t.—Who comes here? O
heavens, 190
inter GONERIL.
If you do love old men, if your sweet sway
Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,
Make it your cause ; send down, and take my part !—
[To GONERIL, ‘5 Art not asham’d to look upon this
eard ?—
O Regan! wilt thou take her by the hand ?
Gon. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I
offended ?
All’s not offence that indiscretion finds,
And dotage terms so.
Lear. O sides! you are too tough:
Will you yet hold?—How came my man i’ the stocks?
Corn. I set him there, sir; but hisown disorders 200
Deserv’d much less advancement.
Lear. You! did you?
Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.
Tf, till the expiration of your month,
You will return and sojourn with my sister,
Dismissing half your train, come then to me:
I am now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment.
Lear, Return to her? and fifty men dismiss’d?
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the enmity o’ the air:
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,—
Necessity’s sharp pinch !--Return with her?
Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took
Our youngest-born, I could as well be brought

210

 

To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg
‘To keep base life afoot.—Return with her?
Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter
‘To this detested groom. [Pointing at OSwaLp,
Gon. At your choice, sir.
Lear. I pr’ythee, daughter, do not make me mad:
I will not trouble thee, my child ; farewell. 220
We'll no more meet, no more see one another;
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter ;
Or, rather, a disease that’s in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a bile,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee ;
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:
I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.
Mend, when thou canst ; be better, at thy leisure: 230
I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,
I, and my hundred knights.
Reg. Not altogether so:
I look’d not for you yet, nor am provide
For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;
For those that mingle reason with your passion,
Must be content to think you old, and so—
But she knows what she does.
Lear. Is this well spoken?
Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What! fifty followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger 240
Speak 'gainst so great a number? How, in one house,
Should many people, under two commands,
Hold amity? "Tis hard ; almost impossible.
Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive atten-
dance
From those that she calls servants, or from mine?
fteg. Why not, my lord? If then they chane’d to
slack you,
We could control them. If you will come to me
(For now I spy a danger), I entreat you
To bring but tive-and-twenty : to no more

Will I give place, or notice. 250
Lear. I gave you all--
Reg. And in good time you gave it.

Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries ;
But kept a reservation to be follow’d
With sucha number. What! must I come to you
With five-and-twenty? Regan, said you so?
Reg. And speak ’t again, my lord; no more with me.
Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-
favour’d!
When others are more wicked, not being the worst
Stands in some rank of praise.—[Zo GONERIL.] I'll
go with thee:

Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, 260
And thou art twice her love.
Gon. Hear me, my lord.

What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Have a command to tend you?

What need one?

Reg.

Lear. O! reason not the need; our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous:
Allow not nature more than nature needs,
Man's life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady;
If only to go warm were gorgeous,
Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true

need,— 271

You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both:
If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger.
QO! let not women’s weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man’s cheeks.—No, you unnatural hags,
T will have such revenges on you both, 280
That all the world shall-—I will do such things,—
What they are, yet I know not; but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think, I'll weep;
No, I’ll not weep :—
T have full cause of weeping ; but this heart

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING LEAR.

27

 

 

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep.—O fool, I shall go mad!
(Exeunt LEAR, GLOSTER, KENT, and Fool.
Corn, Let us withdraw, 't will be a storm.
[Storm heard at a distance.

 

Re-enter GLOSTER,

Corn, Follow’d the old man forth.—He is return’d.
Glo. The king is in high rage.

Corn. Whither is he going?

Lear. “O fool, 1 shall go mad!”

Reg. This youre is little: the old man and his

people
Cannot be well bestow’d. F 290
Gon. ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from

rest,
And must needs taste his folly. :
Reg. For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,
But not one follower.
Gon. So am I purpos’d,
Where is my Lord of Gloster?

Glo. He calls to horse ; but will I know not whither.
Corn, ’Tis best to give him way ; he leads himself.
Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. 30)
Glo. sek the night comes on, and the high
- winds

Do sorely ruffle ; for many miles about

There’s scarce a bush.
Reg. O, sir, to wilful men,

The injuries that they themselves procure

Must be their schoolmasters, Shut up your doors:

 

 
 

728

KING LEAR.

[Act IIL.

 

He is attended with a desperate train ; _
And what they may incense him to, being apt
To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild

night:
My Regan counsels well. Come out 0’ the storm. 310
[Ezeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A storm, with thunder and lightning.

  

Kent.
>sHO’S there, beside foul weather?
| Gent. One minded like the weather,
most ate
Kent. [know you. Where's the king?
Gent. Contending with the fretful
elements ;
Bids the wind blow the earth into the

: sea,

° Or swell the curled waters ’bove the
main,

That things might change or cease ; tears his white

air,
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury, and make nothing of : i
Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn 10
The to-and-fro conflicting wind and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion and the belly-pinched wolf
Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,
And bids what will take all.
Kent. But who is with him?
Gent. None but the fool, who labours to out-jest
His heart-struck injuries.
Kent. Sir, I do know you;
And dare, upon the warrant of my note,
Commend a dear thing to you. There is division,
Although as yet the face of it be cover’d
With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall;
Who have (as who have not, that their great stars
Thron’d and set high ?) servants, who seem no less,
Which are to France the ES al and speculations
Intelligent of our state ; what hath been seen,
Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes,
Or the hard rein which both of them have borne
Against the old kind king; or something deeper,
hereof, perchance, these are but furnishings ;---
(But, true it is, from France there comes a power
Into this scatter’d kingdom ; who already,
Wise in our negligence, have secret feet
In some of our best ports, and are at point
To show their open banner.—Now to you:
If on my credit you dare build so far
To make your speed to Dover, you shall find
Some that w‘ll thank you, making just report
Of how unnatural and bemaddins sorrow
The king hath cause to plain.
Iam a gentleman of blood and breeding,
And trom some knowledge and assurance offer
This office to you.)
Gent. I will talk further with you.
Kent. No, do not.
For confirmation that Iam much more
Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take
| What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia
| (As fear not but you shall), show her this ring,
; And she will tell you who your fellow is
| That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!
I will go seek the king.

30

40

 

ACT III.
ScENE I.—A Heath.

Enter KENT and a Gentleman, meeting.

Gent. Giveme yourhand. Have you no more tosay?
Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet;
That, when we have found the king, (in which your

pain :
That way, I’ll this,) he that first lights on him,
Holla the other. [Exeunt severally.

Scene II.—Another Part of the Heath. Storm
continues.

Enter LEAR and Fool.
Lear. ss winds, and crack your cheeks! rage!
ow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, al] germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man! 2
Fool, O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is
better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle,
in; ask thy daughters’ blessing: here’s a night pities
neither wise men nor fools. :
Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ;
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,
You owe me no subscription : then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure ; here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man. 2
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That will with two pernicious daughters join
Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! ’tis foul!
Fool. He that has a house to put’s head in, has a
good hears
The cod-piece that will house,
Before the head has any,
The head and he shall louse :—
So beggars marry many.
The man that makes his toe
What he his heart should make,
.Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake.
For there was never yet fair woman but she made
mouths in a glass.
Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience ;
I will say nothing.
Enter Kent.
Kent. Who’s there? 3 ae.
Fool. Marry, here’s grace, and w cod-piece ; that’s
a wise man, and a fool. 1
Kent. Alas, sir! are you here? things that love

 

50 |

night, .
Love not such nights as these ; the wrathful skies

 
 

Scene IV.] KING

LEAR. 2

 

 

Gallow the very wanderers of the dark,
And make them keep their caves, Since I was man,
Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never
Remember to have heard: man’s nature cannot carry
The affliction, nor the fear.
Lear. . Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads,’ 50
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within the undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp’d of justice : hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjur’d, and thou similar of virtue
That art incestuous : caitiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming
Hast practis’d on man’s lite: close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and cry
These dreadful summoners grace. I amaman
More sinn’d against than sinning.
_ _ Kent. Alack, bare-headed !
Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel ; 61
Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest:
Repose you there, while I to this hard house
(More harder than the stones whereof ’tis rais’d,
Which even but now, demanding after you,
Denied me to come in) return, and force
Their scanted courtesy.
Lear. : My wits begin to turn,—
Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?
Lam cold myself.—Where is this straw, my fellow?
The art of our necessities is strange, 70
That can make vile things precious.
hovel.
Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee.
Fool. [Sings.] He that has a little tiny wit,—
With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain,-
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.
Lear. True, my good boy.—Come, bring us to this
hovel. [Zxeunt LEAR and KENT.
Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtesan.—
T’ll speak a prophecy ere I go: 80
When oe are more in word than matter ;
When brewers mar their malt with water ;
When nobles are their tailor’s tutors ;
No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors ;
When every case in law is right ;
No squire in debt, nor no poor knight ;
When slanders do not live in tongues;
Nor cutpurses come not to throngs ;
When usurers tell their gold i’ the field ;
And bawds and whores do churches build ;
Then shall the realm of Albion
Come to great gonfusion :
Then comes the time, who lives to see’t,
That going shall be us’d with feet.
This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before
his time. : [xit.

Come, your

90

Scene III.—A Room in GLosTeEr’s Castle.

Enter GLOSTER and EDMUND.

Glo. Alack, alack! Edmund, I like not this un-
natural dealing. When I desired their leave that I
might pity him, they took from me the use of mine
own house, charged me, on pain of perpetual dis-
Pleasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him,
nor any way sustain him.

dm. Most savage and unnatural! 7

Glo. Go to: say you_nothing. There is division
between the dukes, and a worse matter than that.
T have received a letter this night ;—’tis dangerous to
be spoken ;—I have locked the letter in my closet.
These injuries the king now bears will be revenged
home; there is part of a power already footed: we
must incline to the king. I will look him, and privily
Telieve him: go you, and maintain talk with the duke,
‘that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask
for me, I am ill, and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no
less is threatened me, the king, my old master, must

be relieved. There is some strange thing toward,

Edmund; pray you, be careful. [Exit.
Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke 21

Instantly know ; and of that. letter too.

This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me

That which my father loses: no less than all:

The younger rises, when the old doth fall. [Exit.

Scene IV.—A Part of the Heath, with a Hovel.

Enter Lear, KENT, and Fool.
Kent. Here is the place, my lord; good my lord,
enter:
The tyranny of the open night’s too rough

For nature to endure. {Storm still.

Lear. Let me alone.

dent. Good my lord, enter here.

Lear. Wilt break my heart ?

Kent. I ’drather break mine own. Good my lord,
enter.

Lear, Thou think’st ’t is much, that this contentious
storm

Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee ;
But where the greater malady is fix’d,
The lesser is scarce felt. ‘Thou ‘dst shun a bear ;
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, 10
Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the
mind’s free,
The body’s delicate : the tempest in my mind
Doth from my senses take all feeling else,
Save what beats there : filial ingratitude.
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand,
For lifting food to ‘t +-But I will punish home :—
No, I will weep no more.—In such a night
To shut me out !—Pour on; J will endure.—
In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril !—
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,— 20
O! that way madness lies ; let me shun that;
No more of that.
Kent. Good my lord, enter here.
Lear. Pr’ythee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease:
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder
On things would hurt me more.—But I'll go in.
(To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You houseless

poverty,— :
Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I'll sleep.—
[Fool goes in.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, :
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O! I have ta’en
Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou may’st shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.

Eadg. (Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half!
Poor Tom! [The Fool runs out from the hovel.

Fool, Come not in here, nuncle; here’s a spirit.
Help me! help me!

Kent. Give me thy hand.—Who’s there?

fool. A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor

30

Tom.

Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the
straw ?

Come forth.

Enter EvGar, disguised as a madman.
Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me !—
Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds.—
Humph! go to thy bed, and warm thee.
Lear. Didst thou give all to thy daughters?
And art thou come to this? 50
‘dg. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the
foul fiend hath Jed through fire and through flame,
through ford and whirlpool, over bog and quagmire ;
that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters
in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge ; made him
proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over

 

four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a

 

 
730 KING

LEAR. {Act II

 

 

traitor.—Bless thy five wits! Tom's a-cold.—O! do
de, do de, do de.—Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-
blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity,
whom the foul fiend vexes.—There could I have him
now,—and there,—and there,—and there again, and

there. : [Storm continues.
Lear. What! have his daughters brought him to
this pass ?}— f
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them
a

Fool. Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had been
all shamed.
Lear. Now, all the plagues that in the pendulous
air
Hang fated o’er men’s faults, light on thy daughters
Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. 7
Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdued
nature
To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.—
Is it the fashion, that discarded fathers
Should have thus little merey on their flesh ?
Judicious punishment! ’t was this flesh begot
Those pelican daughters.
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill :—
Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!
Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and
madmen. 80
Edg. Take heed o’ the foulfiend. Obey thy parents;
keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with
man’s sworn spouse ; set not thy sweet heart on proud
array. Tom's a-cold.
Lear. What hast thou been? :
Edg. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind;
that curled my hair, wore gloves in my cap, served
the lust of my mistress’s heart, and did the act of
darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake
words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven:
one, that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to
do it. Wine loved I deeply; dice dearly; and in
woman, out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart,
light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in
stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in
prey. Let not the creaking of shoes, nor the rustling
of silks, betray thy poor heart to woman: keep thy
foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen
from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend.—still
through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, says
suum, mun, ha no nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy ;
sessa! let him trot by. [Storm still continues.
Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave, than to
answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the
skies.—Is man no more than this? Consider him well.
Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the
sheep no wool, the cat no _ perfume.—Ha! here’s
three on’s are sophisticated : thou art the thing itself:
unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor,
bare, forked animal as thou art.—Off, off, you lend-
ings.—Come ; unbutton here.— 111
[Tearing off his clothes.
Fool. Pry’thee, nuncle, be contented; ‘tisa naughty
night to swim in.—Now, a little fire in a wild field
were like an old lecher’s heart; a small spark, all the
rest on’s body cold. Look! here comes a walking fire.
Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he
begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he
gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes
the hare-lip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the
poor creature of earth. 120
Swithold footed thrice the wold ;
He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold
Bid her alight,
And her troth plight,
And, aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!

Kent. How fares your grace?

!
7

Enter GLOSTER, with a torch.
Lear. What's he?
Kent. Who’s there?. What is’t you seek?
Glo. What are you there? Your names? 129
idg. Poor Tom ; that eats the swimming frog, the
toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water ; that

in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eat
cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat, and th
eee drinks the green mantle of the standin
pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, an
stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath ha
three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse t
ride, and weapon to wear,—
But mice, and rats, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food for seven long year. 14
aoe my follower.—Peace, Smulkin! peace, tho
end!
Glo. What! hath your grace no better company?

 

Glo, “ What! hath your grace no better company?"

Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman ;
Modo he’s call'd, and Mahu.

Glo. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile,
That it doth hate what gets it.

Edg. Poor Tom’s a-cold.

Glo. Goin with me. My duty cannot suffer
To obey in all your daughters’ hard commands:
Though their injunction be to bar my doors,

And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you,

Yet have I ventur'd to come seek ye out,

And bring you where both fire and food is ready.
Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher.—

What is the cause of thunder ? 3
Kent. Good my lord, take his offer: go into th’

house.

Ill talk a word with this same learnet
heban.

What is your study? : P
Edg. How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.
Lear. Let me ask you one word in private. 16
Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord;

His wits begin to unsettle. .
Glo. — Canst thou blame him?

His daughters seek his death.—Ah, that good Kent!-

He said it would be thus, poor banish’'d man!—___.

Thou say’st, the king grows mad: I'll tell thee, frienc

Iam almost mad myself. I had a son, 5

Now outlaw’'d from my blood; he sought my life,

But lately, very late: [ lov’d him, friend,—

No father his son dearer: true to tell thee, VY

The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this

[Storm continue:

15

Lear.

 

I do beseech your grace,—

 

 
 

 

ScENE VI.]

KING LEAR. 731

 

Lear. O! cry you mercy, sir.—
Noble philosopher, your company.

Edg. Tom’s a-cold.

Glo. In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee

warm.

Lear. Come, let’s in all.

Kent. This way, my lord.

Lear. With him:
I will Foon still with my philosopher.

Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the

fellow.
Glo. Take him you on.
Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us. 180

Lear. Come, good Athenian.
Glo. No words, no words: hush.

Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
His word was still,—_Fie, foh, and fum,
I smell the blood of a British man.

ScENE V.—A Room in GLOSTER’s Castle.

Enter CORNWALL and EDMUND.

ioe I will have my revenge, ere I depart his
ouse.

Edm. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature
thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to
think of.

Corn. I now perceive, it was not altogether your
brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death;
but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reprovable
badness in himself.

Edm. How malicious is my fortune, that I must
repent to be just! This is the letter which he spoke
of, which approves him_an intelligent part to the
advantages ot France. O heavens! that this treason
were not, or not I the detector !

Corn. Go with me to the duchess. :

Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, you
have mighty business in hand.

Corn. True, or false, it hath made thee Earl of
Gloster. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be
ready for our apprehension. 20
_ Edm. [Aside.| If I find him comforting the king,
it will stuff his suspicion more fully.—I will persever
in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore
between that and my blood.

Corn. I will lay trust upon thee, and thou shalt find
a dearer father in my love. [Axeunt.

ScenE VI.—A Chamber in a Farm-house, adjoining
the Castle.

Enter GLostEeR, Lear, KENT, Fool, and EDGAR.

Glo, Here is better than the open air; take it thank-
fully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition
Ican : I will not be long from you.

Kent. All the power of his wits have given way to
his impatience.—The gods reward your kindness!

[Exit GLOSTER.

Edg. _Frateretto calls me, and tells me, Nero is an
angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and
beware the foul fiend.

Fool. Pr’ythee, nuncle, tell me, whether a madman
be a gentleman, or a yeoman ? 10

Lear. A king, a king!

Fool. No: he’s a yeoman, that has a gentleman to
his son; for he’s a mad yeoman, that sees his on a
gentleman before him.

Lear. To have a thousand with red-burning spits
Come ee in upon them :—

Edg. The foul fiend bites my back.

Fool. He’s mad, that trusts in the tameness of a
wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

Lear, It shall be done; I will arraign them

straight. _» _ 20
[To ae ome, sit thou here, most learned jus-
icer ;—

[Ezxeunt.

 

[To the Fool.] Thou, sapient sir, sit here.—Now, you
she-toxes !—
Edg. Look, where he stands and glares !—
Wantest thou eyes at trial, madam ?
Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me :—
Her boat hath a leak,
And she must not speak
Why she dares not come over to thee.
Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of
a THehtlngate. Hopdance cries in Tom’s belly for two
white herring. Croak not, black angel; 1 have no
food for thee. 32
Kent. How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d:
Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions ?
Lear. I'll see, their trial first.—Bring in the evi-
dence. —
[To Epear.] Thou robed man of justice, take thy

Fool.

place ;—
[To the Fool.] And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity,
Bench by his side :—
[Zo KENT.] You are of the commission, sit you too.

itdg. Let us deal justly. 40

Sleepest, or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?
Thy sheep be in the corn;
And for one blast of thy minikin mouth,
Thy sheep shall take no harm.
Pur! the cat is grey.

Lear, Arraign her first; ‘tis Goneril. I here take
my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked
the poor king her father.

fool. Come hither, mistress, Is yourname Goneril?

Lear. She cannot deny it. 50

Fool, Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

Lear. he here’s another, whose warp’d looks pro-

claim
What store her heart is made of.—Stop her there!
Arms, arms, sword, fire !—corruption in the place!
False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?

Fidg. Bless thy five wits!

Ji<ent. O pity !—Sir, where is the patience now,
That you so oft have boasted to retain?

Edg. [Aside.] My tears begin to take his part so

much,
They ‘ll mar my on ee 60
Lear. The little dogs and all,
Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.
Edg. Tom will throw his head at them.—Avaunt,
you curs!
Be thy mouth or black or white,
Tooth that poisons if it bite ;
Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel, grim,
Hound or spaniel, brach or lym;
Or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail :
Tom will make them weep and wail; 70
For, with Lorena thus my head,
Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.
Do, de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and
fairs, and market-towns.—Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.
Lear. Then let them anatomise Regan, see what
breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature,
that makes these hard hearts?—[7'o EpGar.] You, sir,
1 entertain you for one of my hundred ; only, I do not
like the fashion of your garments: you will say, they
are Persian ; but let them be changed. 80
Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here, and rest awhile.
Lear. Make no noise, make no noise ; draw the cur-
tains: so, so, so. We'll go to supper i’ the morning:
SO, SO, SO.

_ fool. And T’ll go to bed at noon.

Re-enter GLOSTER.
Glo. Come hither, friend: where is the king my
master?
Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are

gone.
Glo. Good friend, I pr’vthee, take him in thy arms;

I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him.
There is a litter ready ; lay him in’t, 90
And drive toward Dover, friend, where thou shalt

meet ;
Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master:

 

 
 

 

732 KING

LEAR. {Act II.

 

 

If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up;
And follow me, that will to some provision
Give thee quick conduct.

Kent. Oppressed nature sleeps :—
This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews,
Which, if convenience will not allow,

Stand in hard cure.—[To the Fool.) Come, help to bear
thy master ; 100
Thou must not stay behind.
Glo. Come, come, away.
[Exreunt KinT, GLOSTER, and the Fool,
bearing off the KING.

Edg. When we our betters see bearing our woes,
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the mind,

Leaving free things, and happy shows, behind ;

But then the mind much sutferance doth o’erskip,
When grief hath mates, and bearing-fellowship.

How light and portable my pain seems now,

When that which makes me bend, makes the king

110

 

Wi:
He childed, as I father’d !-Tom, away!
Mark the high noises, and thyself bewray,
When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee,
In thy just proof, repeals and reconciles thee,
What will hap more to-night, safe ‘scape the king!
- Lurk, lurk. Lferit.

SCENE VII.—A Room in GLosTER’s Castle.

Enter CORNWALL, REGAN, GONERIL, EDMUND, and
Servants.

Corn. Post speedily to my lord your husband ; show
him this letter:—the army.of France is landed.—
Seek out the traitor Gloster.

(fxccunt some of the Servants.
Reg. Hang him instantly.

Gon. Pluck out his eyes.

Corn. Leave him to my displeasure.—Edmund, keep
you our sister company: the revenges we are bound
to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your
beholding. Advise the duke, where you are going,
toa most festinate preparation: we are bound to the
like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt
us. Farewell, dear sister :—farewell, my Lord of
Gloster. 13

Enter OSWALD.
How now! Where's the king?
Osw. My Lord of Gloster hath convey’d him hence :
Some five or six and thirty of his knights,
Hot questrists after him, met him at gate;
Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants,
Are gone with him towards Dover, where they boast
To have well-armed friends.
Corn. Get horses for your mistress.
Gon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. 21
(Exvewnt GONERIL, EDMUND, and OSWALD.
Corn. Edmund, farewell.—Go, seek the traitor
Gloster,
Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.
[Exrcunt other Servants.
Though well we may not pass upon his life
Without the form of justice, yet our power
Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The
traitor ?
Re-enter Servants, with GLOSTER.

Req. Ingrateful fox! ‘tis he.

Corn. Bind fast his corky arms.

Glo. What mean your graces?—Good my friends,

consider 30
You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends,

Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him.

Req. Hard, hard,—O filthy traitor!

Glo. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.

Corn. To this chair bind him.—Villain, thou shalt

find— [REGAN plucks his beard.

Glo. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done
To pluck me by the beard.

Reg. So white, and such a traitor!

Glo. : . Naughty lady,
These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my chin,
Will quicken, and accuse thee. Iam your host:
‘With robbers’ hands my hospitable favours 4(
You should not ruffle thus. hat will you do?

Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late from

France ?
Reg. Be simple-answer’d, for we know the truth.
Corn, And what confederacy have you with the
traitors
Late footed in the kingdom?

 

Glo. “ By the kind gods, ’t is most ignobly done
To pluck me by the beard.”

Reg. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic
king? Speak.

Glo. I have a letter guessingly set down,
Which came from one that's of a neutral heart,
And not from one oppos’d.

Corn. Cunning.

Reg. And false.

Corn. Where hast thou sent the king?

To Dover.

0.
Eeg. Wherefore to Dover?) Wast thou not charg’d
at peril—
Corn. Wherefore to Dover? Let him answer that.
Glo. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the
course.
Reg. Wherefore to Dover? 4
Glo. Because I would not see thy cruel nails
Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister
In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.
The sea, with such a storm as his bare head
In hell-black night endur'd, would have buoy’d up, 6
And quench’d the stelled fires; — i
Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain.
If wolves had at thy gate howl'd that stern time,
Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the

50

key,
All cruels else subscrib'd :—but I shall see
The winged vengeance overtake such children.
Corn. ae ‘t shalt thou never.—Fellows, hold the
chair.—
Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot.
Glo. He, that will think to live till he be old,
Give me some help !—O cruel !—O ye gods! a

 

Reg. One side will mock another; the other too.

 

 
 

 

ScenE VIi.] KING

Corn. If you see vengeance,—
lServ. | Hold your hand, my lord.
Ihave serv’d you ever since I was a child ;
But better service have I never done you,
a now to bid you hold.
eg. How now, you dog!
1 Serv. If you did wear a beard upon aes chin,
I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean? 77
Corn. My villain! [Draws and runs at him.
1 Serv. Nay then, come on, and take the chance of
anger. (Draws. CORNWALL is wounded.
Reg. Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus!
1 Serv. O, Iam slain!—My lord, you have one eye left
To see some mischief on him.—O! [Dies.
Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it.—Out, vile jelly !
Where is thy lustre now?
Glo, All dark and comfortless.—Where’s my son
Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature,
To quit this horrid act.
Reg. ; Out, treacherous vil’ain !
Thou call’st on him that hates thee : it was he
That made the overture of thy treasons to us,
Who is too good to pity thee.

 

LEAR. 733

Glo.

Then Edgar was abus’d.—
Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him !

Reg. Go, thrust him out at gates, and let him smell
His way to Les Eee is’t, my lord? How look

you

Corn. I have receiv’d a hurt.—Follow me, lady.
Turn out that eyeless villain ;—throw this slave
Upon the dunghill.—Regan, I bleed apace:

Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.
[Exit CORNWALL, led by REGAN :—Servants
unbind GLOSTER, and. lead him out.

2 Serv. I’ll never care what wickedness I do,

If this man come to good.

3 Serv. Tf she live long,

And in the énd meet the old course of death,
Women will all turn monsters.

2 Serv. Let’s follow the old earl, and get the Bedlam
To lead him where he would: his roguish madness
Allowsitself to anything.

3 Serv. Go thou; I'll fetch some flax, and whites of

O my follies! 98

100

eggs,
To apply ie his bleeding face. Now, heaven help
im!

[Exeunt severally.

 

 

 

 

ACT IY.

ScENE I.—The Heath.
Enter EDGAR.

se Edgar.
: ET better thus, and known to be con-

emn’d,

Than still contemn’d and flatter'd. To

e worst,

The lowest and most dejected thing of
fortune,

Stands still in esperance, lives not in

    
 

= ear:
iThe lamentable change is from the
est 5
The worst returns to laughter. Welcome,

en,

Thou unsubstantial air, that I embrace :

The wretch, that thou hast blown unto the
worst,

Owes nothing to thy blasts.—But who comes

Enter GLosteER, led by an Old Man.
My father, poorly led ?—World, world, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,
Life would not yield to age.
Old Man. O my good lord! I have been your tenant,
and your father’s tenant, these fourscore years.
Glo. Away, get thee away ; good friend, be gone:
Thy comforts can do me no good at all;
Thee they may hurt.
Old Man. You cannot see your way.
Glo, Ihave no way, and therefore want no eyes:
Istumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen,
Our means secure us, and our mere defects 20
Prove our commodities.—Ah! dear son Edgar,
The food of thy abused father's wratin!
Might I but live to see thee in my touch,
‘d say I had eyes again!
Man. Who’s there?

10

How now!

 

Edg. [Aside.] O gods! Whois’t can say “I am at
the worst?”
Iam worse than e’er I was.

Old Man. *T is poor mad Tom.
Edg. {Aside.] And worse I may be yet: the worst
is not

So long as we can say, ‘‘ This is the worst.”
Old Man. Fellow, where goest? _.
Is it a beggar-man?

Glo.

Old Man. Madman and beggar too.

Glo. He has some reason, else he could not beg.

T the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw,

Which made me think a man a worm: my son

Came then into my mind; and yet my mind

Was then scarce friends with him: I have heard
more since.

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;

They kill us for their sport.

Edg. (Aside.) How should this be ?—
Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,
Angering itself and others.—Bless thee, master !

Glo. Is that the naked fellow ?

Old Man. Ay, my lord.

Glo. Get thee away. If, for my sake,

Thou wilt o’ertake us, hence a mile or twain,

I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love ;
And bring some covering for this naked soul,
Which I'll entreat to lead me.

Old Man. Alack, sir! he is mad.

Glo. ’T ie one times’ plague, when madmen lead the

in

40

Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure ;
Above the rest, be gone.
Old Mea, I'll bring him the best ’parel that I
ave,
Come on’t what will. [Exit.
Glo. Sirrah, naked fellow, 61

 

 
 

734

KING LEAR.

{Act IV,

 

 

Edg. er i ’s a-cold.—[-tside.] I cannot daub it
urther.
Glo. Come hither, fellow.
Edg. [Aside.] And yet I must.—Bless thy sweet
eyes, they bleed.

Glo. Know’'st thou the way to Dover?

dg. Both stile and gate, horse-way and foot-path.
Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits: bless
thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends
have been in poor Tom at once ; of lust, as Obidicut ;
Eobbididance, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing;
Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and
mowing; who since possesses chambermaids and

waiting-women. So, bless thee, master! 63
Glo. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s
plagues

Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched,
Makes thee the happier :—heavens, deal so still!
Let the superfluous and lust- dieted’ man,
That slaves your ordinance, that will not see
Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly ;
So distribution should undo excess,
And each man have enough.—Dost thou know Dover?
Edg. Ay, master.
Glo. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully in the confined deep:
pone me but to the very brim of it,
And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear
With something rich about me: from that place
I shall no leading need.
fidg. Give me thy arm:

Poor Tom shall lead thee. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Before the Duke of ALBANY’s Palace.

Enter GONERIL and EDMUND; OSWALD meeting

them.
Gon. Wiser my lord: I marvel, our mild hus-
uy

Not met us on the way.—Now, where’s your master ?
Osw. Madam, within; but never man so chang’d.
I told him of the army that was landed ;
He smil'd at it: I told him, you were coming;
His answer was, ‘The worse:” of Gloster’s treachery,
And of the loyal service of his son,
When I inform'd him, then he call’d me sot,
And told me, I had turn’d the wrong side out.
What most he should dislike, seems pleasant to him ;
What like, offensive.
Gon. (To EpDMUND.] Then shall you go no further.
It is the cowish terror of his spirit,
That dares not undertake: he’ll not feel wrongs
Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way
May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother ;
Hasten his musters, and conduct his powers:
I must change arms at home, and give the distaff
Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant
Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear,
If you dare venture in your own behalf, 20
A mistress’s command. Wear this; spare speech ;
[Gi iving a favour.
Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,
Would stretch thy spirits up into the air.—
Conceive, and fare thee well.
Edm. Yours in the ranks of death.
Gon. My most dear Gloster!
[Ecit EpMuND.
O, the difference of man and man!
To thee a woman’s services are due:
My fool usurps my body.
Osw. Madam, here comes my lou
xt

Enter ALBANY.

pil T have been worth the whistle.
Alb. O Goneril ! 30

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind

Blows in your face.—I fear your disposition :

That nature, which contemns its origin,

Cannot be border’d certain in itself ;

 

She that herself will sliver and disbranch
From her material sap, perforce must wither,
And come to deadly use.

Gon. No more: the text is foolish.

Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?
Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? 41
A father, and a gracious aged man,

Whose reverence the head-lugg’d bear would lick,
Most barbarous, most degenerate ! have you madded,

 

“This kiss, if it durst speak,
woula stretch thy spirits up into the aur,’

Could my good brother suffer you to do it ?

A man, a prince, by him so benefited!

If that the heavens do not their visible spirits
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come,

Humanity must pre prey on itself, 50
Like monsters of the deep.
Gon. Milk-liver’d man!

That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honour from thy suffering ; that not know’ st,
Fools do those villains pity, who are punish’d
Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy
drum ?

France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats ;
Whilst thou, a moral tool sitt’st still, and criest,
‘*Alack! why does he so?

Alb. See thyself, devil! 60

Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid, as in woman.
Gon. O vain fool!
abe Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for
shame,
Be-monster not ‘thy feature. Were it my fitness
To let these hands obey my blood,
They are apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones :—howe’er thou art a fiend,
A woman’s shape doth shield thee.
Gon. Marry, your manhood now !—

Enter a Messenger.

Alb, What news? 70
Mess. . my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s
ead

Slain by his servant, going to put out
The other eye of Gloster.

 
 

‘ ScENE V.]

 

Alb. Gloster’s eyes !
Mess. A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse,
Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword
To this great master ; who, thereat enrag’d,
Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him.dead :
But not without that harmful stroke, which since
Hath pluck’d him after.
Alb. This shows you are above,
You justicers, that these our nether crimes
So speedily can venge !—But, O poor Gloster!
Lost he his other eye ?
Mess. Both, both, my lord.—
Vhis letter, madam, craves a speedy answer ;
*T is from your sister. :
Gon. [Aside.] One way I like this well;
But being widow, and my Gloster with her,
May all the building in my fancy pluck
Upon my hateful life. Another way,
The news is not so tart.—I ll read, and answer. [Exrit.
Alb, Where was his son, when they did take his

eyes?
Mess. Come with my lady hither.
Alb. He is not here. 90
Mess. ‘No, my good lord ; I met him back again.
Alb. Knows he the wickedness?
Mess. a my good lord; ’t was he inform’d against
im,
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might have the freer course.
vin Gloster, I live
To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the king,
And to revenge.thine eyes.—Come hither, friend:
Tell me what more thou knowest. [Exeunt,

Scene III.—The French Camp near Dover.

Enter KENT and a Gentleman.

Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone
back, know you the reason ?

Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state,
which since his coming forth is thought of ; which
imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger,
that his personal return was most required, and
necessary. |

Kent. Who hath he left behind him general?

Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far.

Kent. Did your letters pierce the queen to any
demonstration of grief ? il

Gent. Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my

presence ;
And now and then an ample tear trill’d down
Her delicate cheek : it seem’d, she was a queen
Over her passion, who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o’er her.

Kent. O! then it mov’d her.

Gent. Not to a rage : patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once ; her smiles and tears
Were like a better way : those happy smilets, 20
That play’d on her ripe lip, seem’d not to know
What guest were in her eyes; which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp’d.—In brief,

Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d,

. If all could so become it.

Kent. Made she no verbal question ?
Gent. weit once, or twice, she heav’d the name of
“father”
Fantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart ;
Cried, “Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters !
Kent! father ! sisters! What? i the storm? i’ the
night ?
Let pity not be believed !”—There she shook 30
¢ holy water from her heavenly eyes,

| And clamour moisten’d: then away she started

To deal with grief alone.
Kent. It is the stars,
The stars above us, govern our conditions ;
Else one self mate and mate could not beget ;
an different issues, You spoke not with her since ?
ent. No.

 

KING LEAR.

 

735

Kent. Was this before the king return’d?
Gent. No, since.
Kent. Well, sir; the poor distress’d Lear's i’ the
town;
Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers 40
What we are come about, and by no means
Will yield to see his daughter.
Gent. Why, good sir?
Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own
unkindness,
That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her
To foreign casualties ; gave her dear rights
To his dog-hearted daughters: these things sting
His mind so venomously, that burning shame
Detains him from Cordelia.
ent. Alack, poor gentleman !
Kent. Of Albany’s and Cornwall's powers you heard

not
Gent. "Tis so, they are afoot. 50
dent. Well, sir, ll bring you to our master Lear,
And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause
Will in concealment wrap me up awhile :
When I am known aright, you shall not grieve
Lending me this acquaintance.

I pray you, go along with me. [Ezxeunt,

ScENE IV.—The Same.

Enter CoRDELIA, Physician, and Soldiers.

Cor. Alack! ’tishe: why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex’d sea: singing aloud ;
Crown’d with rank fumiter, and furrow-weeds,
With hoar-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In our sustaining corn.—A century send forth;
Search every acre in the high-grown field,
And bring him to our eye. [Kzit an Officer.|—What

can man’s wisdom

In the restoring his bereaved sense ?
He that helps him, take all my outward worth.

Phy. There is means, madam;
Our foster-nurse of nature is repose,
The which he lacks ; that to provoke in him,
Are many simples operative, whose power
Will close the eye of anguish.

Cor. All bless’d secrets,
All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth,
Spring with my tears! be aidant, and remediate,
In the good man’s distress !—Seek, seek for him;
Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life
That wants the means to lead it.

A Camp.

10

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. News, madam : 20
The British es are marching hitherward.

Cor. ’Tis known before ; our preparation stands
In expectation of them.—O dear father,
It is thy business that I go about;
Therefore great France
My mourning, and important tears, hath pitied.
No blown ambition doth our arms incite,
But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right. .
Soon may I hear and see him! [Exeunt.

ScENE V.—A Room in GLOSTER’s Castle.

Enter REGAN and OSWALD.
Reg. But are my brother’s powers set forth?
Sw, ‘ Ay, madam.
Reg. Himself in person there? :
i Madam, with much ado:
Your sister is the better soldier.
Reg, Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at
home?
Osw. No, madam.
Reg. What might import my sister’s letter to him?
Osw. I know not, lady.
Reg. ’Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter.

 

 
 

736

KING LEAR.

{Act TV.

 

 

It was great ignorance, Gloster’s eyes being out,
To let him live: where he arrives, he moves 10
All hearts against us. Edmund, 1 think, is gone,
In pity on his misery, to despatch
His nighted life ; moreover, to descry
The strength o’ the enemy. :
Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with my
letter.
Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow: stay with us;
The ways are dangerous.
Osw. I may not, madam ;
My lady charg’d my duty in this business. é
Reg. Why shouid she write to Edmund? Might
not you
Transport her purposes by word? Belike, 20
Something—I know not what.—I’ll love thee much,
Let me unseal the letter.
Osw. Madam, I had rather—
Reg. I know your lady does not love her husband ;
Lam sure of that : and, at her late being here,
She gave strange eyliads, and most speaking looks
To noble Edmund. I know, you are of her bosom.
Osw. I, madam ?
Reg. I speak in understanding ; you are, I know’t:
Therefore, I do advise you, take this note:
My lord is dead ; Edmund and I have talk’d; 30
And more convenient is he for my hand,
Than for your lady’s.—You may gather more.
If you do find him, pray you, give him this ;
And when your mistress hears thus much from you,
I pray, desire her call her wisdom to her:
So, fare you well.
If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,
Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.
Osw. "Would I could meet him, madam: I would
show
What party I do follow.
Reg. Fare thee well. 40
[Exeunt.

ScenE VI.—The Country near Dover.

Enter GLOSTER, and EpGar dressed like a peasant.
Glo. When shall I come to the top of that same hill?
Edg. Youdo climb up it now: look, how we labour.
Glo. Methinks, the ground is even.
Edg. Horrible steep :

Hark ! do you hear the sea?

lo. No, truly.

Edgy. Why, then your other senses grow imperfect

By your eyes’ anguish.
Glo. So may it be, indeed.

Methinks, thy voice is alter’d ; and thou speak’st

In better phrase, and matter, than thou didst.

Hdg. You’re much deceiv’d: in nothing am I
chang’d,

But in my garments.

Glo. Methinks, you’re better spoken.
dg. Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still.—
How fearful 1l

And dizzy ‘tis, to cast one’s eyes so low!

The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air,

Show scarce so gross as beetles: half way down

Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade!

Methinks, he seems no bigger than his head.

The fishermen, that walk upon the beach,

Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark,

Diminish’d to her cock ; her cock, a buoy

Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge, 20

That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,

Cannot be heard so high.—I’ll look no more;

Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

Tupale down headlong.
Glo. | Set me where you stand.
fidg. Give me your,hand ; you are now within a foot

Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon

Would I not leap upright.

On. Let go my hand.
Here, friend, ’s another purse ; in it, a jewel
Well worth a poor man’s taking: fairies, and gods,

 

Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; 30
Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.
dg. Now fare you well, good sir.
Glo. With all my heart.
Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his despair,
Is done to cure it.
Glo. O you mighty gods!
This world I do renounce, and in your sights
Shake patiently my great affliction off;
If I could bear it longer, and not fall
To quarrel with your great opposeless wills,
My snuff, and loathed part of nature, should

Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him !— 40
Now, fellow, fare thee well.
Ed Gone, sir: farewell.—

And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The treasury of life, when life itself
Yields to the theft: had he been where he thought,
By this had thought been past.— Alive, or dead?
Ho, you sir! friend !—Hear you, sir?—speak !—
Thus might he pass indeed,—yet he revives.—
What are you, sir?
Glo. Away, and let me die.
Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feather,
air,
So many fathom down precipitating, 50
‘Thou dst shiver'd like an egg: but thou dost breathe;
Hast heavy perenne ; bleed’st not; speak’st; art
sound.
Ten masts at each make not the altitude ~~
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell:
Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again.

Glo. But have I fallen, or no?

Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.
Look up a-height ; the shrill-gorg’d lark so far
Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

Gio. Alack! I have no eyes.— 60
Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit,

To end itself by death? "Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage,
And frustrate his proud will.

dg. Give me your arm:
Up:—so ;—how is’t?. Feel you your legs? You stand.

Glo. Too well, too well.

dg. This is above all strangeness.
Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was that
Which parted from you?

Glo. A poor unfortunate beggar.
Edg. AsI stood here below, methought, his eyes
Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, 70

Horns whelk’d and wav'd like the enridged sea:

It was some fiend ; therefore, thou happy father,
Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours
Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.

Glo. Ido remember now: henceforth I’ll bear
Affliction, till it do cry out itself
“Enough, enough,” and “die.” That thing you speak

or,
I took it for a man; often ‘t would say,
“‘The fiend, the fiend:”’ he led me to that place.
Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts.—But who
comes here? 80

Enter Lear, fantastically dressed with wild flowers.
The safer sense will ne’er accommodate
His master thus.

Lear. No, they cannot touch me for coining; Iam
the king himself.

Edg. O thou side-piercing sight ! :

Lear, Nature’s above art in that respect.—There’s
your press-money. That fellow handles his bow likea
crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard.—Look, look!
amouse. Peace, peace !—this piece of toasted cheese
will do’t.—There’s my gauntlet, I'll prove it on @
giant.—Bring up the brown-bills.—O, well flown,
bird !—i’ the clout, i’ the clout: hewgh !—Give the word.

Edg. Sweet marjoram. 93

Lear, Pass.

Glo. I know that voice.

Lear, Ha! Goneril!—with a white beard !—They
flatter’d me like a dog; and told me, I had white hairs

| in my beard, ere the black ones were there. Tosay

 
 

ScENE VI.] KING

LEAR. 737

 

“ay” and “no” toeverything I said !—‘‘ Ay” and “no”
teo was no good divinity. hen the rain came to wet
me once, and the wind to make me chatter ; when the
thunder would not peace at my bidding: there I found
’em, there I smelt ‘em out. Go to, they are not meno’
their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie,
Iam not ague-proof.

Glo. The trick of that voice I do well remember:
Is’t not the king?

Lear, Ay, every inch a king:

When I do stare, see, how the subject quakes.

I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause ?—
Adultery ?7—

Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:
The-wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly
Does lecher in my sight.

Let copulation thrive; for Gloster’s bastard son
Was kinder to his father, than my daughters
Got ’tween the lawful sheets.

To’t, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.—
Behold yond simpering dame,

Whose face between her forks presageth snow ;
That minces virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure’s name ;

The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to ’t
With a more riotous appetite.

Down irom the waist they are centaurs,

Though women all above:

But to the girdle do the gods inherit,

Beneath is all the fiend’s: there’s hell, there’s dark-
ness, there is the sulphurous pit, burning, scalding,
stench, consumption ;—fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give
me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my
imgpinatien : there ’s money ior thee. 131

Glo. O, let me kiss that hand !

Lear. Let me wipe it first ; it smells of mortality.

Glo. O ruin’d piece of nature! This great world
Shall so wear out to nought.—Dost thou know me?

Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost
thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid;
I’ll not love.—Read thou this challenge: mark but
the eae of it. 2

Glo. Were all thy letters suns, I could not see. 140

Edg. I would not take this from report ; it is,

And my heart breaks at it.

Lear. Read.

Glo. What! with the case of eyes?

Lear. O, ho! are you there with me? No eyes in
your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes
are in a heavy case, your purse in a light: yet you see
how this world goes.

Glo. I see it feelingly. 149

Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this
world goes, with no eyes. Look with thine ears : see
how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark,
in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which
is the justice, which is the thief?—Thou hast seen a
farmer’s dog bark at a beggar ?

Glo. Ay, sir. ‘

Lear. And the creature run from the cur? There
thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a
dog ’s obey’d in office.—

Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! 160
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own

back ;
Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the
cozener.
Through tatter’d clothes small vices do appear ;
Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,
And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks ;
Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw does pierce it.
None does offend, none, I say, none ; I’ll able’em :
Take that of me, my friend, who have the power
‘0 seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes ; 170
nd, like a scurvy politician, seem
To see the things thou dost not.—Now, now, now,

now,
Pull off my boots :—harder, harder ;—so.
Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix’d!
. Reason in madness !
Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.

110

120

 

I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloster:

‘Thou must be patient. We came crying hither:

Thou know’st, the first time that we smell the air,

We wawl, and cry. I will preach to thee: mark me.
Glo. Alack, alack the day! 181
Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are come

To this great stage of fools.—This a good block !—

It were a delicate stratagem, to shoe

A troop of horse with felt: I’ll put ’t in proof;

And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,

Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

Enter a Gentleman, with Attendants.

Gent. O! here he is: lay hand upon him.—Sir,
Your most dear daughter—

Lear. No rescue? What! a prisoner? Iam even
The natural fool of fortune.—Use me well ; 1
You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons ;
Iam cut to the brains.

Gent. You shall have anything.

Lear, No seconds? All myself?

Why, this would make a man a man of salt,
To use his eyes for garden water-pots,
Ay, and laying autumn’s dust.
ent. Good sir,—
Lear. I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom.
What!
I will be jovial ; come, come; I am a king,
My masters, know you that? 200

Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey you.

Lear. Then there’s life in it. Nay, an you get it,
you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa.

Hxit; Attendants follow.

Gent. A sight most pet in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a king !—Thou hast one daughter,
Who redeems nature from the general curse
Which twain have brought her to.

dg. Hail, gentle sir!

Gent. Sir, speed you: what’s your will?

fidg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward ?

Gent. Most sure, and vulgar: every one hears that,
Which can distinguish sound.

Edg. But, by your favour,
How near’s the other army ? "212

Gent. Near, and on speedy foot ; the main descry
Stands on the hourly thought.

Edg. thank you, sir: that’s all.

Gent. Though that the queen on special cause is

ere,

Her army is mov’d on.
Edg. I thank you, sir. [Exit Gentleman.
Glo. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:

Let not my worser spirit tempt me again

To die before you please!

Ns Well pray you, father.
Glo. Now, good sir, what are you? 220
Edg. A. most poor man, made tame to fortune’s

blows;
Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,
Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand,
I'll lead you to some biding.
lo. Hearty thanks:
The bounty and the benison of heaven
To boot, and boot!
Enter OSWALD.

Osw, A proglann d prize! Most happy!
That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh
To raise my fortunes.—Thou old unhappy traitor,
Briefly thyself remember :—the sword is out
That must destroy thee.

Glo. _ Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough to it. [EDGaR interposes.

Osw. _ Wherefore, bold peasant,
Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence; 232
Lest that the infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

Edg. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion.

Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest.
Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor
volk pass. An ch’ud ha’ been zwagger’d out of my

 

life, ’t would not ha’ been zo long as ’t is by a vortnight.

 

 
 

 

 

738 KING LEAR. [Act IV,
Nay, come not near the old man: keep out, che vor’ye, | And woes, by wrong imaginations, lose

or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the | The knowle ge of themselves. [Drum afar off.
harder. Ch’ill be plain with you. 242 Ei Give me your hand:

Osw. Out, dunghill!
Fdg. chin pick your teeth, zir.
vor your foins.
[They fake, and EpGAR knocks him down.
Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me.—Villain, take my
urse,
Tf ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body
And give the letters, which thou india At about me,
‘To Edmund Earl of Gloster: seek him out
Upon the English party ;—O, untimely death! [Dies.
dg. I know thee well: a serviceable villain; 251
As duteous to the vices of thy mistress,
As badness would desire.

Come; no matter

 

Edg. “Give me your hand,
I’) lead you to some biding.’

Glo. What! is he dead?

Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you.—

Let’s see these pockets: the letters, that he speaks of,
May be my friends.—He’s dead : I am only sorry

He had no other death’s-man.—Let us see :—

Leave, gentle wax ; and, manners, blame us not:

To know our enemies’ minds, we rip their hearts;
Their papers is more lawful.

[Reads.] ‘‘ Let our reciprocal vows be remembered.
You have many opportunities to cut him off; if your
will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered.
There is nothing done, if he return the conqueror ;
then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from
the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply
the place for your labour.

Your (wife, so I would say)
attectionate servant,

ue GONERIL.”
O undistinguish’d space of woman’s will! 271
A plot upon her virtuous husband's life;
And the exchange, my brother !—Here, in the sands,
Thee Ill rake up, the post unsanctified
Of murderous lechers; and, in the mature time,
With this ungracious pa er strike the sight
Of the death-practis’d duke. For him ’tis well,
That of thy death and business I can tell.

Glo. The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,
That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling 280
Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:

So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs;

dg.
Far of, methinks, I hear the beaten drum.
Come, father ; I ‘Il bestow you with a friend. [Hzeunt.

ScENE VII.--A Tent in the French Camp.

Enter CoRDELIA, KENT, Doctor, and Gentleman.

Cor. O thou good Kent! ‘how shall I live and work,
To match thy goodness? My life will be too short,
And every measure fail me.

Kent. To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’er- paid.
All my reports go with the modest truth;

Nor more, nor clipp’d, but so.

Cor. Be better suited:
These weeds are memories of those worser hours:
I pr’ythee, put them off.

Kent. Pardon me, dear madam;
Yet to be known shortens my made intent:

My boon I make it, that you knew me not, 10
Ti time and I think meet.
Cor. Then be’t so, m pore lord.—[To the Doctor.]
How does the
Doct. Madam, sleeps stil
Cor. O you kind gods,
Cure this great breach in his abused nature !
The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up
Of this child-changed father ! ss

Doct. Ol ease your majesty,
That we may wake the king? ee ath slept long.

Cor. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and Eee
I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?

Enter LEAR in a chair carried by Servants,
Doct. Ay, madam; in the heaviness of sleep,
We put fresh garments on him.
Kent. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;
I weube not of his temperance.
Very well. (Music.

Doct. eee you, draw near.—Louder the music
ere!
Cor. O my dear father! Restoration hang
Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss
Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters
Have in thy reverence made!
Kent. Kind and dear princess!
Cor. a a not been their father, these a

Had challengd pity of them. Was this a face
To be oppos’d against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke
Of quick cross Hehtning i to watch page perdu!)
With this thin helm? ine enemy’s dog,
Though he had bit me, should have aracd that night
Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues ‘forlorn,
In short and musty straw? <Alac , alack!
’T is wonder, that thy life and wits at once
Had not concluded all.—He wakes; speak to him.
Doct. Madam, do you; ’t is fittest.
Cor. How does my royal lord?) How fares your
majesty?
Lear. You do me wrong, to take me out 0’ the
grave.—
Thou art a soul in bliss; but Iam bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
“C scald like molten lead.
ot

40

Sir, do you know me?
You are a spirit, 1know. When did you diet
“er ‘Still, still, far wide.
Doct. He’s scarce awake: let him alone awhile. .
Lear. Where have I been? Where am I?—Fair
daylight ?—
Iam mightily see 'd.—I should even die with pity,
To see another thus.—I know not what to say.—
I will not swear, these are my hands :—let’s see;
I feel this a prick. ’Would I were assur’d
Of my condition!

 

 
 

 

ScENE VII.)

KING LEAR,

739

 

Cor. O! look upon me, sir, .
And hold your hands in benediction o’er me.—
No, sir, you must not kneel.

Lear. i
Iam a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more, nor less;
And, to deal plainly,

I fear, I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks, I should know you, and know this man;
Yet Iam doubtful, for I am mainly ignorant

What place is this; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments ; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at

me;
For, as Iam a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.
Cor. And so Iam, I am. 70
Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep
now:

ot:
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know, you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:
You have some cause, they have not.
Cor. No cause, no cause.
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. i :
Lear. Do not abuse me.
Doct. Be comforted, good madam: the great rage,
You see, is kill’d in him; and yet it is danger
To make him even o’er the time he has lost. 80
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more,
Till further settling.
Cor. Will’t please your highness walk ?
Lear. You must bear with me.
Pray Fou DON forget and forgive: I am old and
oolish,

In your own kindom, sir.

[Exeunt LEAR, CORDELIA, Doctor, and
Attendants.
Gent. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall
was so slain?

Pray, do not mock me
6

 

wrought,
| Or well, or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.

Kent. Most certain, sir.

Gent. Who is conductor of his people?

Kent. As 'tis said, the bastard son of Gloster.

Gent. They say, Edgar, his banished son, is with
the Earl of Kent in Germany. 91

 

Lear. “ For, as Iam a man, I think this lady
To be my child Cordelia.”

Kent. Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look
about ; the powers of the kingdom approach apace.

Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare
you well, sir. [Evit.

Kent. My point and period will be throughly

[Exit.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—The Camp of the British Forces, near Dover.
@ WEF 2 Enter, with drums and colours, EDMUND, REGAN, Officers, Soldicrs, and others.

Edmund.
NOW of tae Use if his last purpose

hold ;
Or whether, since, he is advis’d by aught

To change the course. He's full of
alteration, : !
And self-reproving :—bring his constant

pleasure.
[To an Officer, who goes out.
Reg. Our sister's man is certainly
miscarried.
Edm. ’T is to be doubted, madam.
Reg. Now, sweet lord,
You know the goodness I intend upon

 

you:
Tell me,—but truly,—but then speak the
truth,
ee not love my sister?
dm., In honour’d love.

Reg. But have you never found my brother's way 10
To the forfended place?

Edm. That thought abuses you.

 

Reg. Iam doubtful that you have been conjunct
And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.

Edm. No, by mine honour, madam.

Reg. I never shall endure her. Dear my lord,
Be not familiar with her.

Edm. Fear me not.—
She, and the duke her husband !

Enter ALBANY, GONERIL, and Soldiers.
Gon. [Aside.] I had rather lose the battle, than that
sister
Should loosen him and me.

Alb, Our very loving sister, well be-met.— 20
Sir, this I heard,—the king is come to his daughter,
With others, whom the rigour of our state
Fore’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest,

I never yet was valiant : for this business,
It toucheth us, as France invades our land,
Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,
Most just and heavy causes make oppose.
Edm. Sir, you speak nobly. 3
Reg. Why is this reason’d ?

 

 
 

740 KING

LEAR. [Act V.

 

 

Gon. Combine together ’gainst the enemy ;
For these domestic and particular broils
Are not the question here.

30

Alb, Let us then determine
With the ancient of war on our proceeding.

Edm. I shall attend you presently at your tent.

Reg. Sister, you'll go with us?

Gon. No. :

Rey. Tis most convenient; pray you, go with

us,
Gon. [Aside.] O, ho! I know the riddle.—I will go.

Enter EDGR, disguised.
Edg. If e’er your grace had speech with man so

poor,
Hear me one word.
Alb. Ill overtake you.—Speak.
[Exeunt EDMUND, REGAN, GONERIL, Officers,
Soldiers, and Attendants.
Edg. Before you zig the battle, ope this letter. 40
If you have victory, let the trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seem,
I can produce a champion, that will prove
What is avouched there. If you miscarry,
Your business of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune love you!
Alb. Stay till I have read the letter.
Edg. I was forbid it.
‘When time shall serve, Jet but the herald cry,
And I'll appear again.
Alb. Why, fare thee well: I will o’erlook uy apes
[Ezit EpGar.
Re-enter EDMUND.

Edm. The enemy ’s in view ; draw up your powers.
Here is the guess of their true strength and forces 52
By diligent discovery ; but your haste
Is now urg’d on you.

Alb. We will greet the time.

Edm.

[Exit.
I

To both these sisters have sworn my
love ;

Each jealous of the other, as the stung

Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?

Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd,

If both remain alive : to take the widow,

Exasperates, makes mad, her sister Goneril ;

And hardly shall I carry out my side,

Her husband being alive. Now then, we’ll use

His countenance for the battle ; which being done,

Let her who would be rid of him devise

His speedy taking-off. As for the mercy

Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,—

The battle done, and they within our power,

Shall never see his pardon; for my state

Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

60

[Exit.

ScENE II.—A Field between the two Camps.

Alarum within. Enter. with drum and colours,
LEAR, CORDELIA, and their Forces; and exeunt.

Enter EpGAR and GLOSTER.

Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree
For your good host; pray that the right may thrive.
If ever I return to you again,

1’ll bring you comfort.

Glo. Grace go with you, sir!

[£azit EpGar.

Alarum; afterwards a Retreat. Re-enter EDGAR.

Edg. Away, old man! give me thy hand: away!
King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en.
Give me thy hand; come on.

Glo. No further, sir; a man may rot even here.

Edg. What! in ill thoughts again? Men must

endure
Their going hence, even as their coming hither: 10
Ripeness is all, Come on.
lo. And that’s true too, [Hxeunt. |

ScENE III.—The British Camp near Dover.

Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours, EDMUND;
LEAR, and CORDELIA, as prisoners; Captain,
Officers, Soldiers, &c.

Edm. Some officers take them away: good guard,
Until their greater pleasures first be known,

That are to censure them.

Cor. We are not the first,
Who, with best meaning, have incurr'd the worst.
For thee, pOer ae king, am I cast down;

Myself could else out-frown false fortune’s frown.

Shall we not see these daughters, and these sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison;

We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage:

When thou dost ask me blessing, I'l] kneel down, 10

And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live,

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues

Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too,

Who loses, and who wins; who’s in, who’s out;

And take upon’s the mystery of things,

As if we were God's spies: and we’ll wear out,

In a wall’d prison, packs and sects of great ones,

That ebb and flow by the moon.

Edm. * Take them away.
Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, 20
The peas? oo throw incense. Have I caught

thee

He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,

And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;

The goujeers shall devour them, flesh and fell,

Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see ’em starve

‘st.
Come. (Exeunt LEAR and CORDELIA, guarded.
Edm. Come hither, captain; hark.
Take thou this note [giving a papcr]; go, follow
them to prison.
One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men
Are as the time is: to be tender-minded
Does not become a sword. ‘Thy great employment
Will not bear question ; either say, thou ‘It do’t,
Or thrive by other means.
‘ I'll do’t, my lord.

‘apt.
Edm. ehent it; and write happy, when thou hast
one.
Mark,—I say, instantly ; and carry it so,
As I have set it down.
Capt. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; __
If it be man’s work, I will do it. [ Exit.

Flourish. Enter ALBANY, GONERIL, REGAN, Officers,
and Attendants.
Alb. Sir, you have show’d to-day your valiant
strain, ; 40
And fortune led you well. You have the captives
Who were the eupcattes of this day’s strife:
We do require them of you, so to use them,
As we shall find their merits and our safety
May equally determine.
ui Sir, I thought it fit

To send the old and miserable king

To some retention, and appointed guard ;

Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,

To pluck the common bosom on his side,

And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes,

Which do command them. With him I sent the
queen;

My reason all the same; and they are ready

To-morrow, or at further space, to appear .

Where you shall hold your session. At this time

We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend;

And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd

By those that feel their sharpness,—

The question of Cordelia and her father

Benes a fitter place.

30

Sir, by your patience,
T hold you but a subject of this war,
Not as a brother.

60

 

Reg. That’s as we list to grace him:

 

 
 

Scene IIT.)

KING LEAR.

TAL

 

 

Methinks, our pleasure might have been demanded,
Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers,
Bore the commission of my place and person ;
The which immediacy may well stand up,
And call itself your brother.
Gon. Not so hot:
In his own grace he doth exalt himself,
More than in your addition.
Reg. ; In my rights,
By me invested, he compeers the best.
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you.
Reg. Jesters do oft prove prophets.
Gon. - Holla, holla! 71
That eye that told you so look’d but a-squint.
Reg. Lady, Iam not well; else I should answer
From a full-flowing stomach.—General,
Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony :
Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine,
Witness the world, that I create thee here
My lord and master.
: Gon. Mean you to enjoy him?
Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will.
Edm. Nor in thine, lord.
Alb. Half-blooded fellow, yes.
Reg. [To EDMUND.] Let the drum strike, and prove
my title thine. 81
Alb. Stay yet; hear reason,—Edmun4d, I arrest thee
On capital treason ; and, in thy arrest,

This gilded serpent [pointing to GONERIL].—For your |

claim, fair sister,
[ bar it in the interest of my wife ;
*T is she is sub-contracted to this lord,
And I, her husband, contradict your bans,
Tf you will marry, make your loves to me,
My lady is bespoke.
Gon. An interlude!
Alb. Thou art arm’d, Gloster:—let the trumpet
sound: 90
If none appear to prove upon thy person
Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,
There is my pledge [throwing down a glove); I'll
make it on thy heart,
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less
Than I have here proclaim’d thee.
Sick ! O, sick!

Reg. ¥
Gon. [Aside.] If not, I'll ne’er trust medicine.
Edm. There’s my exchange [throwing down a
glove]: what in the world he is
That names me traitor, villain-like he lies.
Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,
On him, on you,—who not ?—I will maintain
My truth and honour firmly.
Alb. A herald, ho!
Edm. A herald, ho! a herald!
Alb. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,
Alllevied in my name, have in my name
Took their discharge.

100

Reg. My sickness grows upon me.
Alb. She is not well; convey her to my tent.
[EZzit REGAN, led.

Enter a Herald.
Come hither, herald.—Let the trumpet sound,
And read out this. 108
Capt. Sound, trumpet! [A trumpet sounds.

Herald reads.

“Tf any man of quality, or degree, within the lists
of the army, will maintain upon Edmund, supposed
Earl of Gloster, that, he is a manifold traitor, let him
popest by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold
in :

is detence.”
Edm. Sound! lLtrumpet.
Her. Again! 2 trumpet.
3 trumpet.

Her, Again! ¢
i [Trumpet answers within.

Enter EpGar, armed, preceded by a trumpet,
, Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he appears
ope this call o’ the trumpet. ‘
er, What are you?
Your name? your quality? and why you answer 120
This present summons?

 

Edg. Know, m
By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn, an
Yet am I noble, as the adversary

Alb. Which is that adversary?
Hdg. What’s he, that speaks for Edmund Earl of
Gloster?

Edm. Himself: what say’st thou to him?

Edg. Draw thy sword,
That, if my speech offend a noble heart,
Thy arm may do thee justice; here is mine:
Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,
My oath, and my profession: I protest,
Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,

name is lost ;
canker-bit :

| Icome to cope.

130

 

 

Alb. “No tearing, lady ; I perceive you know It.”

Despite thy victor sword, and fire-new fortune,

Thy valour, and thy heart, thou art a traitor:

False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father ;
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince ;

And, from the extremest upward of thy head,

To the descent and dust below thy foot,

A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou, “No,”

This sword, this arm, and my best spirits, are bent
To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, 14
Thou liest. :

Edm. In wisdom, I should ask thy name;
But, since thy outside looks so fair and warlike,
And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,
What safe and nicely I might well delay
By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn.

Back do I toss these treasons to thy head;

With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart ;

Which, for they yet tee by, and scarcely bruise,

This sword of mine shall give them instant way.

Where they shall rest for ever.—Trumpets, speak. 150
[Alarums. They fight. EDMUND falls.

Alb. Save him! save him!

Gon. This is practice, Gloster:
By the law of arms, thou wast not bound to answer:
An unknown o peas ; thou art not vanquish’d,

But cozen'd and beguil'’d. ‘

Alb. : Shut your mouth, dame;
Or with this paner shall I stop it?—Hold. sir;

Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil :—
No tearing, lady ; I perceive, you know it.
yf [Gives the letter to EDMUND.

Gon. Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:
Who can arraign me for’t?

Alb. Most monstrous ! know’st thou this paper? 160

 

 

 
 

742 KING

LEAR. [Act V.

 

 

Gon. Ask me not what I know. [Exit.
Alb. Go after her: she’s desperate; govern her.
Exit an Officer.
Edm. be i you have charg’d me with, that have I
one,

And more, much more; the time will bring it out:

"Tis past, and soam J. But what art thou,

That hast this fortune on me? If thou art noble,

I do forgive thee.
Fidg. Let’s exchange charity.

Tam no less in blood than thou art, Edmund ;

If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me.

My name is Edgar, and thy father’s son. ~

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instruments to plague us:

The dark and vicious place where thee he got,

Cost him his eyes.
Edm. Thou hast spoken right, ’t is true.

The wheel is come full circle : I am here.
Alb. Methought, thy very gait did prophesy

A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee:

Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I

Did hate thee, or thy father. mee
Edg. Worthy prince, I know’t.
Alb, Where have you hid yourself? 180

How have you known the miseries of your father?
Edg. By nursing them, my lord.—List a brief

tale ;
And when ’tis told, O, that my heart would burst !—
'rhe bloody proclamation to escape,
That follow’d me so near, (O, our lives’ sweetness !
That we the pein of death would hourly die,
Rather than die at once !) taught me to shift
Into a madman’s rags, to assume a semblance
That very dogs disdain’d: and in this habit
Met I my father with his bleeding rings,
Their precious stones new lost ; became his guide,
Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair ;
Never (O fault !) reveal’d myself unto him,
Until some half-hour past, when I was arm’d;
Not sure, though hoping. of this good success,
I ask’d his biessing, and from first to last
Told him my pilgrimage : but his flaw'd heart,—
Alack! too weak the conflict to support !—
*Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,
Burst smilingly.

Edm. This speech of yours hath mov’d me,
And shall, perchance, do good ; but speak you on: 201
You look as you had something more to say.

Alb. If there be more, more woful, hold it in ;
For I am almost ready to dissolve,

Hearing of this.

Edg. This would have seem’d a period

To such as love not sorrow ; but another,
Yo amplify too-much, would make much more,
And top extremity.
Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man,
Who, having seen me in my worst estate,
Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then, finding
Who ‘t was that so endur’d, with his strong arms
He fasten’d on my neck, and bellow’d out
As he’d burst heaven ; threw him on my father ;
Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him,
That ever ear receiv’d ; which in recounting,
His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life
Began to crack: twice then the trumpets sounded,
And there I left him trane’d,
Alb, But who was this?
Edg. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise

170

190

210

Follow'd his enemy king, and did him service 221
Improper for a slave.
Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife.
Gent. Help, help! O, help!
Eadg. What kind of help?
Alb. Speak, man.

Edg. What means that bloody knife?

Gent. ’T is hot, it smokes ;
It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead.

Alb. Who dead? speak, man. ;

Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister
By her is poison’d ; she confesses it.

Edm. I was contracted to them both: all three
Now marry in an instant.

Edg. _ _ Here comes Kent. 230

Alb. Produce the bodies, be they alive or dead :—
This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,
Touches us not with pity. [Exit Gentleman.

Enter Kent.
O, is this he?
The time will not allow the compliment,
Which very manners urges.
ent. Iam come
To bid my king and master aye good night;
Is he not here? :
Alb. Great See of us forgot !—
Speak, deans where’s the king? and where’s Cor-

elia ?—

Seest thou this object, Kent?

[The bodies of GONERIL and REGAN are brought in.

Kent. Alack! why thus?

Edm. Yet Edmund was belov’d:
The one the other poison’d for my sake, 241
And after slew herself.

Alb, Even so.—Cover their faces.

Edm. I pant for life :—some good I mean to do,
Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send—

Be brief in it—to the castle ; for my writ

Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia.—

Nay, send in time.

Alb, Run, run! O, run!

Edg. To who, my lord ?—Who has the office ? send
Thy token of reprieve. 250

Edm. Well thought on: take my sword,

Give it the captain.
Alb. Haste thee, for thy life. [Wait Epear.
Edm. He hath commission from thy wife and me

To hang Cordelia in the prison, and

To lay the blame upon her own despair,

That she fordid herself.
lb. The gods defend her!—Bear him hence awhile.

[EDMUND is borne off.

Re-enter LEAR, with CORDELIA dead in his arms ;
DGAR, Officer, and others.
Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl!—O! you are men of
stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so
That heaven’s vault should crack.—She’s gone for
ever.— 260

I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

She’s dead as earth.—Lend me a looking-glass ;

If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

Why, then she lives.
Kent. Is this the promis’d end ?
Edg. Or image of that horror?
Alb. Fall, and cease?
Lear. This feather stirs; she lives ! if it be so,

It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows

That ever I have felt. :

2 O my good master! [Kneeling.

Lear, Pr’ythee, away. :

Ed. *T is noble Kent, your friend.

on you, murderers, traitors all!

I might have sav'd her; now, she’s gone for ever !—

Cordelia, Cordelia! stay alittle. Ha! 278

What is ‘t thou say’st ?—Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low,—an excellent thing in woman.—

[ kill’d the slave that was a-hanging thee.

Of. ’T is true, my lords, he did.
Lear. Did I not, fellow?

I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion

IT would have made them skip: I am old now,

And these same crosses spoil me.— Who are you?
Mine eyes are noto’ the best :—I’l] tell you straight. 280
Kent, If fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated,

One of them we behold.

Lear. This is a dull sight.—Are you not Kent?
Kent. The same;

Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?
Lear. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that;

He'll strike, and quickly too.—He’s dead and rotten.

ig.
Lear. A plague wu

 

Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man ;—

 

 
 

Scenz TL] KING LEAR. 713

 

 

Lear. I'll see that straight. 1
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay Enter’ an Officer.
Have follow’d your sad steps— Of. Edmund is dead, my lord.
Lear, ‘You are welcome hither, Alb~ That’s but a trifle here.—

 

Lear. “ Howl, howl, bow!, howl!—O! you are men of stones:
Had I[ your tongues and eyes, I'd use them so
That heaven's vault should crack.—She’s gone for ever.”

Kent. Nor no man else.—All’s cheerless, dark, and , You lords, and noble friends, know our intent,
2 What comfort to this great decay may come,

deadly : C

Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, Shall be applied : for us, we will resign,

And desperately are dead. During the life of this old majesty, 300
Lear, Ay, so I think. To him our absolute power.—_[To Ep@ar and KENT.]
Alb, He knows not what he says, and vain is it, ; You, to your rights,

That we present us to him. With boot, and such addition, as your honours

Very bootless, Have more than merited.— All friends shall taste

 

 

 
 

TAS

KING LEAR.

[Act v,

 

 

The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings.—O! see, see!
Lear. and my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no

ife !

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no
more,

Never, never, never, never, never !— .

Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.—

Do you see this? Look on her,—look,—her lips,—

Look there, look there !—

Edg. He
Hee Break, heart

Edg.
Kent. Vex not his ghost : O, let
him,

310

[Dies.
faints !—My lord, my lord !—

; I pr’ythee, break !
Look up, my lord.
him pass! he hates

That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.
Edg. He is gone, indeed.
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur‘d so long:
He but usurp’d his life. :
Alb. Bear them from hence.—Our present business
Is general woe.—[7o KENT and EpvGaR.] Friends of
my soul, you twain 320
Rule in this realm, and the gor’d state sustain.
Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go:
My master calls me ; I must not say, no.
dg. The weight of this sad time we must obey ;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we, that are young,
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
{Exeunt, with a dead march.

 

 

 
 

 

MACBETH.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

Duncan, King of Scotland.

MALCOLM,
DONALBAIN, \ His Sons.

oe | Generals of the King’s Army.

MACDUFF,

LENOX, \

an Noblemen of Scotland.

ANGUS, |

CATHNESS,

FLEANCE, Son to Banquo.

SiwaRD, Earl of Northumberland, General of the
English Forces.

Young SIwARD, his Son.

SEYTON, an Officer attending on Macbeth.

Boy, Son to Macduff.
An English Doctor.
A Scotch Doctor.

1 Soldier.

A Porter.

An Old Man.

LADY MacsBETH.

LaDy MAcDuFF.

Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth.
HECATE, and Three Witches.

Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers,
Attendants, and Messengers.

: The Ghost of Banquo, and other Anparitions.

SCENE--In the end of the Fourth Act, in ENGLAND; through the rest of the Play, in SCOTLAND.

ACT I.

   
  

2 1 Witch.
F <——" HEN shall we three meet

again, . ,
In thunder, lightning, or in

rain
2 Witch. When the hurlyburly’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.

3 Witch. That will be ere the set of

sun.
1 Witch. Where the place ?
2 Witch. pon the heath.
3 Witch. There to meet with Macbeth.
1 Witch. I come, Graymalkin!
All, Paddock calls.—Anon !—
Fair is foul, and foul is fair: _ 10
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
{izeunt.

 

ScENE II.—A Camp near Fores.

Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, MatcoLm,
DONALBAIN, LENOX, with Attendants, mecting a
bleeding Captain.

Dun. What bloody man is that? He can report,

As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt

The newest state.

 

 

Scene I.--An Open Place.
Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches.

Mal. This is the sergeant,
Who, like a good and hardy soldier, ae
’Gainst my captivity.— Hail, brave friend!
Say to the Hine the knowledge of the broil,
As thou didst leave it.

Cap. Doubtful it stood;

As two spent swimmers, that do cling Aopeuiies
And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald
(Worthy to be a rebel, for to that

The multiplying villainies of nature

Do swarm upon him) from the western isles

Of Kernes and Gallowglasses is eupatied :

And fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling,
Show’d like a rebel’s whore: but all’s too weak;
For brave Macbeth (well he deserves that name),
Disdaining fortune, with his brandish’d steel,
Which smok'd with bloody execution,

Like valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage,

Till he fac’d the slave ;

Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him,
Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chaps,
And fix’d his head upon our battlements.

Dun. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman!

Cap. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection
Shipwracking storms and direful thunders break,
So from that spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,
Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland. mark:

 

 
 

 

 

746 MACBETH. [Act I.
No sooner justice had, with valour arm’'d, 2 Witch. Show me, show me;

Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heels, 1 Witch. Here I have a pilot’s thumb,

But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, 31 | Wrack’d, as homeward he did: come. [Drum within.
With furbish’d arms, and new supplies of men, 3 Witch. A drum! adrum! 30

Began a fresh assault.

Dun. Dismay’d not this
Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?
Cap. Yes; °

As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion.
If I say sooth, I must report they were
ao gannons overcharg’d with double cracks ;

o they
Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe:

Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, 40
Or memorise another Golgatha,

I cannot tell--

But Iam faint, my gashes cry for help.

Dun. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds:

They smack of honour both.—Go, get him surgeons.
[Exit Captain, attended.
Enter Rosse.
Who comes here?

Mal. The worthy thane of Rosse.

Len. What a haste looks through his eyes !

So should he look that seems to speak things strange.

Rosse. God save the king!

Dun. Whence cam'st thou, worthy thane?

Rosse. From Fife, great king, 50
Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky
And fan our people cold.

Norway himself, with terrible numbers,

Assisted by that most disloyal traitor,

The thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict ;

Till that Bellona’s bridegroom, lapp’d in proof,
Confronted him with self-comparisons,

Point against point, rebellious arm 'gainst arm,
Curbing his lavish spirit: and, to conclude,

The victory fell on us ;—

Dun.

ftosse. That now
Sweno, the Norways’ king, craves composition ;

Nor would we deign him burial of his men
Till he disbursed at Saint Colme’s Inch
Ten thousand dollars to our general use.

Dun, No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive
Our bosom interest.—Go, pronounce his present death,
And with his former title greet Macbeth.

fosse. I'll see it done.

Dun, What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won.

[£xeunt.

Great happiness ! 60

 

Scene III.—A Heath.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
1 Witch. Where hast thou been, sister?
2 Witch, Killing swine,
3 Witch, Sister, where thou?
1 Witeh. A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And mounch'd, and mounch’d, andmounch'd: ‘Give
me,” quoth I: —
“ Aroint thee, witch !” the rump-fed ronyon cries,
Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' the Tiger:
But in a sieve I'll thither sail,
And like a rat without a tail;
I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. 10
2 Witch. I'll give thee a wind.
1 Witch. Th’ art kind.
3 Witch. And I another.
1 IVitch. I myself have all the other;
And the very ports they blow,
All the quarters that they know
T’ the shipman’s card.
I'll drain him dry as hay:
Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hangs upon his penthouse lid; 20
He shall live a man forbid.
Weary sev’n-nights, nine times nine,
Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine:
Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-tost.
Look what I have.

 

Macbeth doth come.

All, The weird sisters, hand in hand,
Posters of the sea and land,
Thus do go about, about:
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,
And thrice again, to make up nine.
Peace !—the charm ’s wound up.

Enter MacBETH and BANQUO.

Macb. So foul and fair a day I have not seen.

Ban. How far is’t call’d to Fores ?—What are these,
So wither’d and so wild in their attire, 40
That look not like th’ inhabitants o’ the earth,

And yet are on’t? Live you? or are you aught
That man may question? Youseem to understand me,
By each at once her choppy finger laying
Upon her skinny lips :—you should be women,
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so.
Macb. Speak, if you can :—what are you?
1 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of
Glamis !
2 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane of

Cawdor!
3 Witch. All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king
hereafter. 50
Ban. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear
Things that do sound so fair ?—I the name of truth,
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner
You greet with present grace, and great prediction
Of noble having, and of royal hope,
That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow, and which will not,
Speak then to me, who neither beg, nor fear,
our favours nor your hate.
1 Witch. Hail!
2 Witch. Hail!
3 Witch. Hail!
1 Witch. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater.
2 Witch. Not so happy, yet much happier.
3 Witch. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be

none:
So, all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! .

1 Witch. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. 70
By Sinel’s death, I know, I am thane of Glamis;

But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor lives,
A prosperous gentleman ; and to be king
Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from whence
You owe this strange intelligence? or why
Upon this blasted heath you stop our way
ith such prophetic greeting ?—Speak, I charge you.
: Witches vanish.

Ban. The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them.—Whither are they vanish’'d ? 80

Macb. Into the air; and what seem'd corporal,

melted
As breath into the wind.— Would they had stay’d!

Ban. Were such things here, as we do speak about,
Or have we eaten on the insane root,

That takes the reason prisoner ?

Macb. Your children shall be kings. .

Ban. You shall be king.

Macb, And thane of Cawdor too; went it not so? |

Ban. 7 me selfsame tune, and words. Who’s

ere
Enter Rosse and ANGUS.

Rosse. The king hath happily receiv’d, Macbeth,
The news of thy success ; and when he reads 90
Thy personal venture in the rebel’s fight,

His wonders and his praises do contend,

Which should be thine, or his. Silenc’d with that,
In viewing o'er the rest 0’ the selfsame day,

He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks,

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE III] MACBETH. TAT
Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Ban. What! can the devilspeak true? .
Strange images of death. As thick as hail, Macb. The thane of Cawdor lives: why do you
Came post with post ; and every one did bear dress me

Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, In borrow’d robes?

And pour’d them down before him. Ang. Who was the thane, lives yet;

 

8 Witch. “All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.”

Ang. ‘We are sent, 100 ; Ee ee heavy judgment bears that life 110

To give thee from our royal master thanks ;
Only to herald thee into his sight,
Not pay thee.

Rosse..And, for an earnest of a greater honour,
He bade me, from him, call thee thane of Cawdor:
In which addition, hail, most worthy thane,

For it is thine.

hich He eevee to lose. Whether he was com-
n
With those of Norway, or did line the rebel
With hidden help and vantage, or that with both
He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not;
But treasons capital, confess’d and prov'd,
Have overthrown him.

 

 
 

748

MACBETH.

[Act I.

 

 

Macb. Glamis, and thane of Cawdor:
The greatest is behind.—Thanks for your pains.—
Do you not hope your children shall be kings,
When those that gave the thane of Cawdor to me
Promis’d no less to them ?

Ban. That, trusted home,
Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,

Besides the thane of Cawdor. But ’tis strange:
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths ;
Win us with honest trifles, to betray ’s

In deepest consequence. —

Cousins, a word, I pray you.

Maceb. [Aside.] Two truths are told,
As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme.—I thank you, gentlemen.—-
{ Aside.) This supernatural solicitin,

Cannot be ill; cannot be good :—it ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am thane of Cawdor:
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature? Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings. f
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man, that function
Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is,
But what is not.
Ban. Look, how our pees ’3 rapt.
Macb. [Aside.] If chance will have me king, why,
chance may crown me,
Without my stir.

Ban. New honours come upon him,

Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould,
But with the aid of use. :

Macb. [Aside.} Come what come may,
Time and the hour runs through the roughest day.

Ban. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure.

Macb. Give me your favour: my dull brain was

wrought
With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains
Are register’d where every day I turn 151
The leaf to read them.—Let us toward the king.—
Think upon what hath chane’d; and at more time,
The interim having weigh‘d it, Jet us speak
Our free hearts each to other.

120

140

Ban. Very gladly.
Macb. Till then, enough.—Come, friends. [Excunt.

ScENE IV.—Fores. A Room in the Palace.
Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM, DONALBAIN,
LENOX, and Attendants.

Dun. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not
eee in commission yet return’d ?
‘al.

Flourish.

My liege,
They are not yet come back; but I have spoke
With one that saw him die: who did report,
That very frankly he confess’d his treasons,
Implor’d your highness’ pardon, and set forth
A deep repentance. Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving it: he died

As one that had been studied in his death,

To throw away the dearest thing he ow’'d, 10
As 't were a careless trifle.
Dun. There’s no art

To find the mind’s construction in the face :
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust—

Enter MacBeTu, BANQUO, Rosse, and ANGUS.
O worthiest cousin ! |

The sin of my ingratitude even now
Was heavy on me. ‘Thou art so far before,
That swiftest wing of recompense is slow
To overtake thee : ‘would thou hadst less deserv’d,
That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! only I have left to say, 20
More is thy due than more than all can pay.

 

Macb. The service and the loyalty I owe,
In doing it, pays itself. Your highness’ part
Is to receive our duties : and our duties
Are to your throne and state, children and servants: .
Which do but what they should, by doing everything
Safe toward your love and honour.

Dun, Welcome hither:
I have begun to plant thee, and will labour
To make thee full of growing.—Noble Banquo,
That hast no less deserv'd, nor must be known 30
No less to have done so, let me infold thee,
And hold thee to my heart.

an. There if I grow,
The harvest is your own.
un. My plenteous joys,

‘Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves
In drops of sorrow.—Sons, kinsmen, thanes,
And you whose places are the nearest, know,
We will establish our estate upon
Our eldest, Malcolm; whom we name hereafter
The Prince of Cumberland: which honour must
Not, unaccompanied, invest him only,
But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine
On all deservers.—From hence to Inverness,
And bind us further to you.

Macb. The rest is labour, which is not us’d for you:
I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful
The hearing of my wife with your approach ;
So, humbly take my leave.

40

Dun. , My worthy Cawdor!
Macb. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland !—That

_ isa step,
On which I must fall down, or else o’erleap,
For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires! 50
Let not light see my black and deep desires;
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. [Exit.
Dun. True, worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant
And in his commendations I am fed ;
It is a banquet tome. Let us after him,
Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome:
It is a peerless kinsman. (Flourish, Exeunt,

ScENE V.—Inverness. A Room in MacBETH’s Castle.

Enter Lady MACBETH, reading a letter.

Lady M. ‘‘ They met me in the day of success; and
I have learned by the perfectest report, they have
more in them than mortal knowledge. hen I
burned in desire to question them further, they made
themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I
stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from
the king, who all-hailed me, ‘Thane of Cawdor;’ by
which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me,
and referred me to the coming on of time, with ‘Hail,
king that shalt be!’ This have I thought good to
deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that
thou mightest not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being
ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it
to thy heart, and farewell.”
Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be
What thou art promis'’d.—Yet do I fear thy nature:
It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness,
To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great;
Art not without ambition, but without
The illness should attend it: what thou one

ighly,
That wouldst thou holily ; wouldst not ey false,
And yet Roulast wrongly win; thou’dst have, great
amis,
That which cries, ‘‘ Thus thou must do, if thou have

ch 1U5

And that which rather thou dost fear to do,

Than wishest should be undone. Hie thee hither,
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear,

And chastise with the valour of my tongue

All that impedes thee from the golden round,
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem

To have thee crown'd withal.—

 

 
 

ScENE VII.)

MACBETH.

749

 

 

Enter a Messenger.

3 What is your tidings? 30
Mess. The king comes here to-night.
Lady M. ; Thou ’rt mad to say it.
Is not thy master with him? who, were’t so,
Would have inform’'d for preparation.
Mess. So please you, it is true: our thane is coming;
One of my fellows had the speed of him,
Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more
Than would make up his message.
Lady M. Give him tending:
He brings great news. [Hxit Messenger.] The raven
himself is hoarse,
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full
Of direst cruelty ! make thick my blood,
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse;
That no com pinelions visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
Th’ effect and 1t! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature’s mischief! Come, thick night, 50
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry, ‘Hold, hold !”—
Enter MacBETH.
Great Glamis! worthy Cawdor!
(Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter !
Thy letters have transported me beyond
This ignorant present, and I feel now
The 1uture in the instant,

40

Macb. : My dearest love,

Duncan comes here to-night.

. Lady.M. And when goes he hence?
Macb. To-morrow, as he proposes.
Lady M. O! never 60

Shall sun that morrow see!

Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men

May read strange matters. To beguile the time,
Look like the time ; bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue: look like the ‘innocent

flower,
But be the serpent under’t. He that’s coming
Must be provided for; and you shall put
This night’s great business into my despatch ;
Which shall to all our nights and days to come
Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom.
Macb. We will speak further.
Lady M.
To alter favour ever is to fear.
Leave all the rest to me.

70
Only look up clear ;
[Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—The Same. Before the Castle.

Hautboys and torches. Enter DUNCAN, MALCOLM,
DONALBAIN, BANQUO, LENOX, MacpuFFr, ROssE,
ANGUS, and Attendants.

Dun. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our gentle senses.

an, This guest of summer,

The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,

By his lov’d mansionry, that the heaven’s breath

Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,

Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird

Hath made his pendent bed, and procreant cradle:

Where they most breed and haunt, I have observ’d,

The air is delicate.

Enter Lady MacBETH.

Dun. See, see! our honour’d hostess. —
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, 11
Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you,
How you shall bid God yield us for your pains,

And thank us for your trouble.

Lady M. | All our service,
In every point twice done, and then done double,
Were poor and single business, to contend
Against those honours deep and broad, wherewith
‘Your majesty loads our house : for those of old,
And the late dignities heap‘d up to them,

We rest your hermits.

Dun. Where’s the thane of Cawdor?
We cours’d him at the heels, and had a purpose , 21
To be his purveyor: but he rides well ;

And his great love, ee his spur, hath holp him
To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess,
We are your guest to-night.

Lady M. Your servants ever
Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt,
To make their audit at your highness’ pleasure,

Still to return yourown,

in, Give me your hand;
Conduct me to mine host: we love him highly,
And shall continue our graces towards him.

By your leave, hostess. [Exeunt.

ScENE VII.—The Same. A Room in the Castle.

Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over the
stage, a Sewer, and divers Servants with dishes
and service. Then enter MACBETH.

Macb. If it were done, when’tis done, then’t were
we

It were done quickly : if the assassination

Could trammel up the consequence, and catch

With his surcease success ; that but this blow

Might be the be-all and the end-all here,

But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,—

We'd jump the life to come.—But in these cases,

We still have judgment here ; that we but teach

Bloody instruetions, which, being taught, return

To plague th’ inventor: this even-handed justice

Commends th’ ingredients of our poison’d chalice

To our own lips. He’s here in double trust :

First, a8 Iam his kinsman and his subject,

Strong both against the deed ; then, as his host,

Who should against his murderer shut the door,

Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been

So clear in his great office, that his virtues

Will poe like angels, trumpet-tongued, against

The deep damnation of his taking off;

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven’s cherubin, hors’d

. Upgn the sightless couriers of the air,

ShaH blow the horrid deed in every eye,

. That tears shall drown the wind.—I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself,

And falls on the other— é

Enter Lady MACBETH.
How now! what news?

Lady M. He has almost supp’d. Why have you

left the chamber ?

Macb. Hath he ask’d for me?

Lady M. i Know you not, he has? 30

Macb. We will proceed no further in this business:
He hath honour’d me of late ; and I have bought
Golden opinions from all sorts of people,

Which would be worn now in their newest gloss,
Not cast aside so soon.

Lady M. Was the hope drunk,
Wherein you dress’d yourself? hath it slept since,
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale
At what it did so freely? From this time,

Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard

To be the same in thine own act and valour,

As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that
Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem,
Letting ‘I dare not’” wait upon ‘‘I would,”

10

20

40

 

lake the poor cat i’ the adage?

‘ach. Pr’ythee, peace,

 
 

 

 

750 MACBETH. [Act I.
I dare do all that may become a man ; Macb. Iam settled, and bend up
Who dares do more, is none. Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 80

Lady M. What beast was’t then,
That made you break this enterprise to me ?
When you durst do it, then you were a man;
And, to be more than what you were, you would 50
Be so much more the man. Nor time, nor place,
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know
How tender ’t is to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this,

Macb. If we shguld fail,—

Lady M. We fail!
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we 11 not fail. When Duncan is asleep
(Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey
Soundly invite him), his two chamberlains
Will I with wine and wassail so convince,
That memory, the warder of the brain,
Shall be a fume, and the receipt of reason
A limbeck only : when in swinish sleep
Their drenched natures lie, as in a death,
What cannot you and I perform upon
Th’ unguarded Duncan? what not put upon
His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt
Of our great quell?

Macb. Bring forth men-children only !
For thy undaunted mettle should compose
Nothing but males. Will it not be receiv’d,
‘When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two
Of his own chamber, and us’d their very daggers,
That they have done ‘t?

Lady M. Who dares receive it other,
As we shall make our griefs and clamour roar
Upon his death ?

60

70

Ss

 

=.

 

Lady M. “We fall!
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we'll not fail.”

 

Away, and mock the time with fairest show:
| False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
[Ezeunt.

 

ACT ITI.

SceNE I.—The Same.

Banquo.
OW goes the night, boy ?
\ Fle. The moon is down; I have not
heard the clock.

Ban. And she goes down at twelve.

Fle. I take 't, tis later, sir.

Ban. Hold, take my sword.—There’s
husbandry in heaven ;

Their candles are all out.—Take thee
that too.

A heavy summons lies like lead upon

me,
And yet I would not sleep: merciful

 

powers!
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that
ey . nature
val Gives way to in repose !—Give me my
sword.

Enter MAcBETH, and a Servant with a torch.
Who’s there? 10
Macb. A friend.
Ban. What, sir! not yet at rest? The king’s a-bed:
He hath been in unusual pleasure, and

Court within the Castle.

Enter Banquo, and FLEANCE, with a torch before him.

Sent forth great largess to. your offices.
This diamond he greets your wife withal,
By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up
In measureless content.
Macb. Being unprepar'd,
Our will became the servant to defect,
Which else should free have wrought.
Ban. All's well.
I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: 2
To you they have show’d some truth.
Macb. I think not of them:
Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, ‘
‘We would spend it in some words upon that business,
If you would grant the time. 7
an. At your kind’st leisure.
Macb. If you shall cleave to my consent, when ‘tis,
It shall make honour for you.
an, So I lose none
In seeking to augment it, but still keep
My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear,
I shall be counsell’d.
Macb. .. , Good repose, the while!
Ban. Thanks, sir: the like to you.
[Ezcunt BANQUO and FLEANCE.

 

 

 
 

ScENE IITI.]

MACBETH.

751

 

 

Macb. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.—
: . [Axit Servant.
Is this a dagger, which I see before me,
The nen toward my hand? Come, let me clutch
ee :—
Ihave, thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a talse creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
Isee thee yet, in form as palpable 40
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going ;
And such an instrument I was to use.—
Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.—There’s no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 50
The curtain’d sleep : witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate’s offerings ; and wither’d murder,
Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.—-Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.—Whiles I threat, he lives:
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath es 61
tea [4 bell rings.
1 go, and it is done: the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. [Exit.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter Lady MAcBrETH.
Lady M. That which hath made them drunk hath
made me bold: .
What hath pueueie them hath given me fire.—Hark!
—Peace!
It was the ow] that shriek’d, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it.
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg’d
their possets,
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live, or die.
Macb. [Within.] Who’s there?—what, ho!
Lady M. Alack! I am afraid they have awak’d,
And ‘tis not done :—the attempt and not the deed 10
Confounds us.—Hark !—I laid their daggers ready ;
He could not miss them.—Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done ’t.—My husband !

Einter MACBETH.
Macb. I have done the deed.—Didst thou not hear
a noise? ; -
Lady M. Theard the owl scream, and the crickets
cry.
Did not you speak?
Macb. When?

Now.
As I descended ?

Lady M. Donalbain.
Macb. This isa sorry sight. : 20
Lady M. A foolish thought to say a sorry sight.
Macb. There’s one did laugh in’s sleep, and one
cried, “‘ Murder !” ;
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard

them ;
But they did say their prayers, and address’d them
Again to sleep.

 

Lady M. There are two lodg’d together.
Macb. One cried, ‘‘ God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the
er,
As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say, ““Amen,”
When they did say, ‘‘ God bless us.”
Lady M Consider it not so deeply.

Macb. But wherefore could not I brovonuye

IT had most need of blessing, and ‘‘Amen”
Stuck in my throat.
Lady M. These deeds must not be thought
After these ways: so, it will make us mad.
Macb. Methought, I heard a voice cry, ‘‘ Sleep no
. more!
Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep ;
Sleep, that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast ;—
Lady M. What do you mean?
Maced. Still it cried, “‘Sleep no more!” to all the
house : 40
Glamis hath murder’d sleep, ana therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more!
Lady a Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy |
thane,
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brainsickly of things. Go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—.
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go, carry them, and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.

acb. I'll go no more:
Iam afraid to think what I have done ; 50
Look on ’t again I dare not.
Lady M. Infirm of purpose!

Give me the daggers. The sleeping, and the dead,
Are but as pictures ; ’t is the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
1ll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.
[Exit.—Knocking within.

Macb. Whence is that knocking ?—
How is ’t with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine

eyes.

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnardine, 61
Making the green one red.

Re-enter Lady MACBETH.

Lady M. My hands are of your colour; but Ishame
To wear a heart 80 white. [Knock.] I hear a knocking
At the south entry :—retire we to our chamber.

A little water clears us of this deed :
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.—[Knock.] Hark! more

knocking.
Get on your night-gown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers.—Be not lost 70

So poorly in your thoughts.
Macb. To know my deed, *t were best not know

myself, Knock.
Wake Duncan with thy knocking: I would thou
couldst ! Exeunt.

Scene III.—The Same.

Enter a Porter.

L 3 (Knocking within.

Porter. Here’s a knocking, indeed! If a man were
orter of hell-gate, he should have old turning the
key. [Knocking] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s
there, i’ the name of Belzebub?—Here’s a farmer, that
hanged himself on the expectation of plenty : come in
time; have napkins enough about you; here you'll
sweat for’t. [Knocking.] Knock, knock. Who's
there, ? the other devil’s name?—’Faith, here’s an

 

 
 

 

752

equivocator, that could swear in both the scales
against either scale; who committed treason enough
for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven:
O! come in, equivocator. [noc king.| Knock, knock,
knock. Who’s there?—’Faith, here’s an English
tailor come hither for stealing out of a French hose:
come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose.
[Knocking.] Knock, knock. Never at quiet! What
are you ?—But this place is too cold for hell. Ill devil-
porter it no further: I had thought to have let in
some of all professions, that go the primrose way to
the everlasting bonfire. [AKnocking.] Anon, anon: I
pray you, remember the porter. 21
[Opens the gate.

Enter MACDUFF and LENOX.

Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
That you do lie so late?

Port. Cae sir, we were carousing till the second

cock ;
And drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.

Macd. What three things does drink especially
provoke?

Port. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes: it provokes
the desire, but it takes away the performance. There-
fore, much drink may be said to be an equivocator
with lechery : it makes him, and it mars him; it sets
him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and
disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand
to: in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and,
giving him the lie, leaves him.

Macd. I believe, drink gave thee the lie last night.

Port. That it did, sir, i’ the very throat o’ me: but I
requited him for his lie; and, I think, being too stron:
tor him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet
made a shift to cast him. 41

Macd, Is thy master stirring?

Enter MACBETH.

Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes.
Len. Good morrow, noble sir!
Lach. Good morrow, both!
Macd. Is the king stirring, worthy thane?
Macb. Not yet.
Macd. He did command me to call timely on him:
I have almost slipp’d the hour.
‘acb. I'll bring you to him.
Macd. I know, this is a joyful trouble to you ;
But yet ’tis one.
Macb. The labour we delight in physics pain. 50
This is the door.
Macd. I'll make so bold to call,
For ’t is my limited service. [Ezit.
Len. Goes the king hence to-day ?
Macb. He does :—he did appoint so.
Len. The night has been unruly: where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down ; and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i’ the air ; strange screams of death,
And prophesying with accents terrible
Of dire combustion, and confus’d events,
New hatch’d to the woful time.
The obscure bird clamour'd the livelong night: 60
Some say, the earth was feverous, and did shake.
Macb. ’T was a rough night.
. Len. My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.
Re-enter MACDUFF.

Macd. O horror! horror! horror!
heart,

Cannot conceive, nor name thee!
Macb., Len. What’s the matter?
Macd. Confusion now hath made his master-piece !

Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope

The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence

The life o’ the building.

Macb. What is ’t you say? the life? 70
Len. Mean you his majesty ?
Macd. Approach the chamber, and destroy your

Tongue, nor

sig
With a new Gorgon.—Do not bid me speak :

MACBETH.

 

[Act If.

See, and then speak yourselves.—
[Ezxeunt MacBETH and LENox.
. Awake! awake !—
Ring the alarum-bell.—Murder, and treason !
Banquo, and Donalbain ! Malcolm! awake!
Shake off this downy sleep, death’s counterfeit,
And look on death itself !—-up, up, and see
The great doom’s image Meier ! Banquo!
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites, 80
To countenance this horror! Ring the bell.
Bell rings.
Enter Lady MacBEtTH. t e
Lady M. What’s the business,
That such a hideous ee ge calls to parley
The sleepers of the house? speak, speak!
Maced. O gentle lady,
*T is not for you to hear what I can speak:
The repetition, in a woman's ear,
Would murder as it fell.

Enter BANQUo.
O Banquo! Banquo!

Our royal master’s murder'd!

Lady M. Woe, alas!
What! in our house?

Ban, Too cruel, anywhere.
Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, 90
And say, it is not so.

Re-enter MACBETH and LENOX.

-Macb. Had I but died an hour before this chance,
I have liv’d a blessed time ; for, from this instant,
There ’s nothing serious in mortality ;

Allis but toys: renown, and grace, is dead ;
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.

Enter MALCOLM and DONALBAIN.
Don. What is amiss ?
Macb. You are, and do not know ’t:
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood

Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp’d. 100
Maca. Your royal father’s murder’d.
Mal. O! by whom?

Len. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t:
Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood ;
So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found
Upon their pillows:

They star’d, and were distracted ; no man’s life
Was to be trusted with them.

Macb. O! yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.
Macd. Wherefore did you so?

Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate and
furious, 110

Loyal and neutral, ina moment? Noman:

e expedition of my violent love

Outrun the pauser reason.—Here lay Duncan,

His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood ;

And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature

For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers,

Steep’d in the colours of their trade, their daggers |

Unmannerly breech'd with gore. Who could refrain,

That had a heart to love, and in that heart

Courage, to make’s love known?

Lady M. Help me hence, ho!
Macd. Look to the lade
Mal. ‘ Why do we hold our tongues,

That most may claim this argument for ours? 122
Don. What should be spoken

Here, where our fate, hid in an auger-hole,

May rush, and seize us? Let’s away : our tears

Are not yet brew'd.
Mal. Nor our strong sorrow

Upon the foot of motion.

Look to the lady :—

an.
[ead MacBern ts carried out.
And when we have our naked frailties hid,

That suffer in exposure, let us meet,

And question this most bloody piece of work, 130
To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us:

In the great hand of God I stand ; and, thence,

 

 
 

 

ScENE IV.]

MACBETH.

753

 

Against the undivulg’d pretence I fight
Of treasonous malice.
Macd. And so do I.
All. 2 So all.
Macd. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet?’ the hall together.
Uu. Well contented.
[Exeunt all but MALCOLM and DONALBAIN.
Mal. Whatwillyoudo? Let’s not consort with them:
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office
Which the false man does easy. I’ll to England.
Don. To Ireland, I: our separated fortune 140
Shall keep us both the safer; where we are,
There’s daggers in men’s smiles: the near’ in blood,
The nearer bloody.
Mal. This murderous shaft that’s shot
Hath not 7 lighted, and our safest way
Is to avoid the aim: therefore, to horse;
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,
But shift away. There’s warrant in that theft
Which steals itself, when there’s no mercy left.
[Ezeunt.

ScENE IV.—Without the Castle.

Enter RossE and an Old Man.

Old M. Threescore and ten I can remember well;
Within the volume of which time I have seen
Hours dreadful, and things strange, but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings.

Rosse. Ah! good father,
Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man’s act,
Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock ’t is day,
And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp.

Is ’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame,
That darkness does the face of earth entomb,
When living light should kiss it?
Old A. *Tis unnatural, 10

Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at, and kill’d.

 

Rosse. And Duncan’s horses (a thing most strange
and certain),

Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make
War with mankind.

Old M. *T is said, they eat each other.

Rosse. They did so; to th’amazement of mine eyes,
That look'd upon’t. Here comes the good Macdutf.—

Enter MACDUFF.
How goes the world, sir, now?
‘acd. Why, see you not? 21
Rosse. Is’t known, who did this more than bloody

deed ?
Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slain.
Rosse. Alas, the day!
What good could they pretend?
They were suborn’d.

Macd.
Malcolm, and Donalbain, the king’s two sons,
Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them
Suspicion of the deed.
Rosse. ’Gainst nature still :
'Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up
Thine own life’s means !—Then ’t is most like
The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. 30
Maced. He is already nam’d, and gone to Scone
To be invested.
Rosse. Where is Duncan’s bedy ?
Macd. Carried to Colme-kill,
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors,
And guardian of their bones.
Rosse. Will you to Scone?
Maced.‘ No, cousin: I'll to Fife.
Rosse. Well, I will thither.
Macd. beta may you see things well done there :—
adieu !—
Lest our old robes sit easier than our new !
Rosse. Farewell, father.
Old M. God's benison go with you; and sit:

those
That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!
[Exewnt.

 

ACT

Scene I.—Fores.

 
   

Banquo. ‘

MHOU hast it now, king, Cawdor. Glamis, all,
As the weird woman promis’d ; and, I fear,
. Thou play’dst most foully for’t; yet it was

said,
It should not stand in thy posterity ;
But that myself should be the root and
_ father
Of many sings If there come truth from
them,
(As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches
. shine.

Why, by the verities on thee made good,
y they not be my oracles as well,
An set me up in hope? But, hush; no more. 10

Sennet sounded. Enter MacBETH, as King; Lady
MacBeTu, as Queen; LENOX, RossE, Lords and
Attendants.

Macb. Here’s our chief guest.
Lady M. If he had been forgotten,

 

III.

A Room in the Palace.
Enter BANQUO.

It had been as a gap in our great feast,
And all-thing nnbecoming:
Macb. To-night we hold a solemn supper, sir,
And I'll request your presence.
Ban. Let your highness
Command upon me, to the which my duties
Are with a most indissoluble tie
For ever knit.
Macb. Ride you this afternoon?
Ban. _, Ay, my good lord.
Macb. Weshould have else desir’d your good advice
(Which still hath been both grave and prosperous) 21
In this day's council; but we’ll take to-morrow.
Is’t far you ride?
Ban. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time
*Twixt this and supper: go not my horse the better,
I must become a borrower of the night,
For a dark hour, or twain.

Macb. Fail not our feast.
Ban. My lord, I will not.
Macb. We hear, our bloody cousins are bestow’d

 

 
 

754.

MACBETH.

{Act II,

 

 

In England, and in Ireland; not confessing 30

Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers

With strange invention. But of that to-morrow,

When, therewithal, we shall have cause of state,

Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse: adieu,

Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?
Ban. Ay my good lord: our time does call upon’s.
Macb. I wish your horses swift, and sure of foot ;

And so I do commend you to their backs.

‘Farewell.— [Exit BANQUO.

Let every man be master of his time 40

Till seven at night, to make society

The sweeter welcome: we will keep ourself _

Till supper-time alone : while then, God be with you.

[Exeunt Lady MacBreTH, Lords, éc.

Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men

Our pleasure?

Atten, They are, my lord, without the palace gate.
Macb. Bring them before us. [Exit Attendant.]—
To be thus is nothing,

But to be safely thus.—Our fears in Banquo

Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature

Reigns that which would be fear’d: ’tis much ye

ares ;

And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,

He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour

To act in safety. There is none but he

Whose being I do fear: and under him

My genius is rebuk'd; as, it is said,

Mark Antony’s was by Ceesar. He chid the sisters,
When first they put the name of king upon me,
And bade them speak to him; then, prophet-like,
They hail'd him father to a line of kings.

Upon my head they plaec’d a fruitless crown, 60

And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,

Thence to be wrench d with an unlineal hand,

No son of mine succeeding. If't be so,

For Banquo’s issue have I fil’d my mind;

For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d ;

Put rancours in the vessel of my peace,

Only for them; and mine eternal jewel

Given to the common enemy of man,

‘To make them kings, the seed of Banquo kings!
Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, 70
And champion me to the utterance !— Who’s there ?—

Re-enter Attendant, with two Murderers.
Now, go to the door, and stay there till we call.
Exit Attendant.
Was it not yesterday we spoke together?
1 Mur. It was, so please your highness.
Macb. Well then, now
Have you consider’d of my speeches? Know,
That it was he, in the times past, which held you
So under fortune, which, you thought, had been
Our innocent self. This I made good to you
In our last conference ; pass’d in probation with you,
How you were borne in hand; how cross'd; the

instruments ; 80
Who WrOUBhe wath them; and all things else, that
mig.

To half a soul, and toa notion craz’d,
Say, ‘‘ Thus did Banquo.”
1 Mur. ‘You made it known to us.
Macb. I did so; and went further, which is now
Our point of second meeting. Do you find
Your patience so predominant in your nature,
That you can let this go? Are you so gospell’d,
To pray for this good man, and for his issue,
Whose heavy hand hath bow’d you to the grave,
And beggar'd yours for ever ?
1 Mur. We are men, my liege.
Mach. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; 91
As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are clept
All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file
Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
The housekeeper, the hunter. every one
According to the gift which bounteous nature
Hath in him clos’d; whereby he does receive
Particular addition, from the bill

That writes them all alike; and so of men. 100

 

Now, if you have a station in the file,
Not i’ the worst rank of manhood, say it;
And I will put that business in your bosoms,
Whose execution takes your enemy off,
Grapples you to the heart and love of us,
Wi.o wear our health but sickly in his life,
Which in his death were perfect.
ur, Iam one, my liege,

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have so incens’d, that I am reckless what
I do, to spite the world.

Mur. And I another, 110
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend it, or be rid on’t.

Macb. Both of you
Know, Banquo was your enemy.
2 Mur. True, my lord.

Macb. So is he mine; and in such bloody distance,
That every minute of his being thrusts
Against my near’st of life: and though I could
With bare-fac’d power sweep him from my sight,
And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not,
For certain friends that are both his and mine, 120
Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall
Who I myself struck down: and thence it is
That I to your assistance do make love,
Masking the business from the common eye,
For sundry weighty reasons.

2 Mur. si We shall, my lord,
Perform what you command us.
Mur. Though our lives—

Macb. Your spirits shine through you. Within this
hour, at most,
I will advise you where to plant yourselves,
Acquaint you with the perfect spy o’ the time,
The moment on’t; for’t must be done to-night, 130
And something from the palace; always thought,
That I require a clearness: and with him,
(To leave no rubs, nor botches, in the work,)
Fleance his son, that keeps him company,
Whose absence is no less material to me
Than is his father’s, must embrace the fate
Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart;
I'll come to you anon.
2 Mur. We are resolv’d, my lord.
Macb. I'll call upon you straight: abide within.—
(Zxreunt Murderers.
It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul's flight, 140
If it find heaven, must find it out to-night. [Exit.

SCENE II.—The Same. Another Room.

Enter Lady MacBetTH and a Servant.

Lady M. Is Banquo gone from court?
Serv. Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.

Lady M. Say to the king, I would attend his leisure
For a few words. :

Serv. Madam, I will. (Exit.

Lady M. Nought’s had, all’s spent,

Where our desire is got without content:
*T is safer to be that which we destroy,
Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.

Enter MACBETH.
How now, my lord? why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making, 9
Using those thoughts, which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard: what’s done is done.
Macb. We have scotch’d the snake, not kill’d it:
She’ll close, and be herself ; whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the Jame of things disjoint, both the worlds
suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams,
That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, 20
Than on the torture of the mind to lie :

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

MACBETH. . 755

 

 

In restless ecstacy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has donc his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further!
Lady M. Come on:
Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.

Macb. So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you.

Let your remembrance apply to Banquo:
Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue:
Unsafe the while, that we
Must lave our honours in these flattering streams,
And make our faces visards to our hearts,

- Disguising what they are.

Lad y M. You must leave this.

Macb. O! full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know’st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.

Lady M. But in them nature’s copy’s not eterne.

Macb. There’s comfort yet ; they are assailable:
Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown 40
His cloister’d flight; ere to black Hecate’s summons
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,

Hath rung night’s yawning peal,
‘There shall be done a deed of dreadful note.

Lady M. What’s to be done?

Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day,

And, with thy bloody and invisible hand,

Cancel, and tear to pieces, that great bond 50
Which keeps me pale !—Light thickens; and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood ;

Good things of day begin to droop and drowse,
Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.
Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still;
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.

So, pr'ythee, go with me. Exeunt.

ScENE IIJ.—The Same. A Park, with a Road leading
to the Palace.

Enter three Murderers.

1 Mur. But who did bid thee join with us?

3 Aho. Macbeth.

2 Mur. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers
Our offices, and what we have to do,
To the direction just.

1 Mur. Then stand with us.
The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day:
Now spurs the lated traveller apace,
To gain the timely inn; and near approaches
The subject of our watch.

3 Mur. Hark ! T hear horses.
ae [Within.] Give us a light there, ho!
ur.

‘hen it is he: the rest
That are within the note of expectation, 10
Already are i’ the court.

1 Mur. His horses go about.

3 Mur. Almost a mile; but he does usually,
So all men do, from hence to the palace gate
Make it their walk.

Enter BANQUO, and FLEANCE, with a torch.
2 Mur. A light, a light!
3 Mur.
1 Mur. Stand to’t.
Ban. It will be rain to-night.
1 Mur. Let it come down.
Assaults BANQUO.
Ban. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly !
Tkou may’st revenge—O slave!
[Dies. FLEANCE escapes.
3 Mur. Who did strike out the light? 4
Mur. as ’t not the way?
3 Mur. There’s but one down: the son is fled.
Mur. We have lost
Best half of our affair. . 22
1 Mur. Well, let’s away, and say how much is done.
[Exeunt.

’T is he.

 

ScENE IV.—A Room of State in the Palace.

A Banquet prepared. Enter MAcBETH, Lady Mac-
BETH, Ross, LENOX, Lords, and Attendants.
Macb. You know your own degrees, sit down: at
first and last,

The hearty welcome.
Lords. Thanks to your majesty.
Macb. Ourself will mingle with society,

And play the humble host.

Our hostess keeps her state; but, in best time,

We will require her welcome.

 

“ And near approaches

1 Mur.
The subject of our watch.”

Lady M. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends;
For my heart speaks, they are welcome.

Enter first Murderer, to the door.
Macb. See, they encounter thee with their hearts’

Both sides are even: here I’ll sit i’ the midst. 10
Be large in mirth ; anon, we'll drink a measure
‘The table round.—There ’s blood upon thy face.
Mur. ’Tis Banquo’s then.
Macb. ’T is better thee without, than he within.
Is he despatch'd?
Mur. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
Macb. Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats; yet he’s

good.
That did the like for Fleance : if thou didst it,
Thou art the nonpareil.

Mur.

Fleance is 'scap’d. 20

Macb. a omnes my fit again: I had else been

perfect;
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock,
As broad and general as the casing air:
But now, Iam cabin’d, cribb'd, confin’d, bound in
To saucy doubts and fears.—But Banquo’s safe?

Mur. Ay, my good lord, safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched gashes on his head;

The least a death to nature.

Macb. Thanks for that.—
There the grown serpent lies : the worm, that’s fled,
Hath nature that in time will venom breed, 30
No teeth for the present.— Get thee gone; to-morrow
We ll hear ourselves again. [Exit Murderer,

Lady M. My royal lord,

You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold,

That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making,

*T is given with welcome. To feed were best at home;
From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony ;
Meeting were bare without it.

Macb. : : Sweet remembrancer !—
Now, good digestion wait on appetite, .
And health on both !

Most royal sir,

 

7

 
 

 

 

756 a MACBETH. {Acr III.
Len. May it please your highness sit? eee won man dare, I dare: "
5 ‘0ac. ike t a i
The Ghost of BANQUO enters, and sits in MACBETH'S | ‘T pe and hinoceros, Sue ee ts 100
place, Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Macb. Here had we now our country’s honour | Shall never tremble: or, be alive again,
roof’d, 40 ; And dare me to the desert with thy sword ;

Were the grac’d person of our Banquo present ;
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness,
Than pity for mischance!
Rosse. His absence, sir, .
Lays blame upon his promise. Please it your high-
ness
‘ace us with your royal company ?
acb. The table’s full.

en.
Macb. Where?
Len. Here, my good lord. What is’t that moves
our highness?
Macb. Which of you have done this?
Lords. hat, my good lord?
Macb. Thou canst not say, I did it: never shake 50
Thy gory locks at me.
osse. Gentlemen, rise ; his highness is not well.
Lady M. Sit, worthy friends. My lord is often

To
L

Here is a place reserv’d, sir.

thus,
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat ;
The fit is momentary ; upon a thought
He will again be well. much you note him,
You shall offend him, and extend his passion ;
Feed, and regard him not.—Are you a man?
Macb. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that
Which might appal the devil.
Lady M. O proper stuff! 60
This is the very painting of your fear:
This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said,
Led you to Duncan. OQ! these flaws, and starts,
(Impostors to true fear,) would well become
A woman’s story at a winter's fire,
Authoris’d by her grandam. Shame itself!
Why do you make such faces?) When all’s done,
You look but on a stool.
Macb. Pr'ythee, see there! behold! look! lo! how
say you?—
Why, what care [? If thou canst nod, speak too.— 70
If charnel-houses, and our graves, must send
‘Those that we bury, back, our monuments
Shall be the maws of kites. (Ghost disappears.
Lad What! quite unmann’d in folly?
Macb. It I stand here, I saw him.
Lady M. Fie! for shame!
Macb. Blood hath been shed ere now, i’ th’ olden
time,
Ere human statute purg’d the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform’d
Too terrible for the ear: the time has been,
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end; but now, they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murder is.

Lady M. My worthy lord,
Your noble friends do lack you.
Macb. I do forget.—

Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends;

I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing

To those that know me. Come, love and health to all;
Then, I'll sit down.—Give me some wine: fill full :—
I drink to the general joy of the whole table,

And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss; 90
’W ould he were here! to all, and him, we thirst,
And all to all.

Lords. Our duties, and the pledge.

Re-enter Ghost.
Macb. Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth
hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold ;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes,
Which thou dost glare with.
Lady M. Think of this, good peers,
But as a thing of custom: ’t is no other ;
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.

 

If ene linhabit then, protest me

‘rhe baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!

Unreal mockery, hence! [Ghost disappears.|—Why,

so ;—being gone,

Iam aman again.—Pray you, sit still.
Lady M. You have displaced the mirth, broke the
‘ good meeting,

With most admir’d disorder.

‘acd. Can such things be, 110
And overcome us like a summer's cloud, :
Without our special wonder? You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe,

When now J think you can behold such sights,

And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,

When mine is blanch’d with fear.
Rosse. What sights, my lord?
Lady M. I pray you, speak not: he grows worse

and worse ;

Question enrages him. At once, good night :—

Stand not upon the order of your going,

But go at once.

Len. Good night, and better health 120
Attend his majesty !
Lady M. A kind good night to all!

[Exeunt Lords and Attendants.
Macb. Te all have blood, they say ; blood will have

ood:

Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak;

Augurs, and understood relations, have

By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth

The secret’st man of blood.—What is the night?
Lady M. Almost at odds with morning, which is

which.
Macb. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his

person
At our great bidding ?
Teas M. Did you send to him, sir?
Macb. LT hear it by the way; but I will send. 130
There’s not a one of them, but in his house
I keep a servant fee’d. J will to-morrow
(And betimes I will) to the weird sisters :
More shall they speak ; for now I am bent to know,’
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good,
All causes shall give way: I am in blood
Stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o’er.

Strange t ines I have in head, that will to hand,
Which must be acted, ere they may be scann’d. 140
ae M. You lack the season of all natures, sleep.

Macb. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-
abuse
Is the initiate fear, that wants hard use:

Weare yet but young in deed. [Exeunt.

ScENE V.—The Heath.

Thunder. Enter the three Witches, mecting HECATE.
1 Witch. Why, how now, Hecate? you look angerly.
Hec. Have I not reason, beldams as you are,

Saucy, and overbold? How did you dare

To trade and traffic with Macbeth,

In riddles, and affairs of death;

And I, the mistress of your charms,

The close contriver of all harms,

Was never call’d to bear my part,

Or show the glory of our art?

And, which is worse, all you have done 10

Hath been but for a wayward son,

Spiteful, and wrathful; who, as others do,

Loves tor his own ends, not for you.

But make amends now: get you gone,

And at the pit of Acheron

Meet me i’ the morning: thither he

Will come to know his destiny.

 

 
 

ScENE VI.]

MACBETH. 757

 

 

Your vessels, and your spells, provide,
Your charms, and everything beside.
Iam for the air; this night I'll spend
Unto a dismal and a fatal end :

20

 

His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear;
And you all know, security
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.
[Song, within: “ Come away, come away,” &e.,

- Macb. “ Avaunt! and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;

Thou hast no speculation in
Which thou dost glare with.’

Great business must be wrought ere noon.
Upon the corner of the moon

There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
Ill catch it ere it come to ground :

And that, distill’d by magic sleights,

Shall raise such artificial sprites;

As, by the strength of their illusion,

Shall draw him on to his confusion.

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear

30

those eyes,

Hark! I am call’d: my little spirit, see,
Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me. (Exit.
1 Witch. Come, let’s make haste: she’ll soon be
back again. [Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—Fores. A Room in the Palace. |

Enter LENOX and another Lord.
Len. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts,

 
 

 

 

738

Which can interpret further: only, I say, ;

Things have been strangely borne. The gracious
Duncan

Was pitied of Macbeth :—marry, he was dead :—

And the right-valiant Banquo walk’d too late;

Whom, you may say, if’t please you, Fleance kill’d,

For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late.

Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous

It was for Malcolm, and for Donalbain,

To kill their gracious father? damned fact! 10

How it did grieve Macbeth ! did he not straight,

In pious rage, the two delinquents tear,

That were the slaves of drink, and thralls of sleep?

‘Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too;

For ’t would have anger’d any heart alive

To hear the men deny it. So that, I say,

He has borne all things well: and I do think,

That, had he Duncan’s sons under his key,

(As, an’t piace Heaven, he shall not,) they should

n

What 't were to kill a father; so should Fleance. 20

But, peace ic from broad words, and ’cause he
fail’

His presence at the tyrant’s feast, I hear,

Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell

Where he bestows himself?

son of Duncan,

rc. The
From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth,

MACBETH.

[Act IV,

Lives in the English court ; and is receiv’d
Of the most pious Edward with such grace,
That the malevolence of fortune nothing
Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff
Is gone to pray the holy king, upon his aid
To wake Northumberland, and warlike Siward ;
That, by the help of these, (with Him above
To ratify the work,) we may again
Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights,
Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives,
Do faithful homage, and receive free honours,
All which we pine for now. And this report
Hath so exasperate the king, that he
Prepares for some attempt of war.
Len. Sent he to Macduff?
Lord. He did: and with an absolute “Sir, not I,” 40
The cloudy messenger turns me his back,
And hums, as who should say, ‘“‘ You’ll rue the

30

?

And that well might
Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance
His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel
Fly to the court of England, and untold
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing
May soon return to this our suffering country
nder a hand accurs'd !

time
That clogs me with this answer.’
Len.

 

Lord. I'll send my prayers with him.

[Ezeunt.

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—A Dark Cave.
Thunder.

fe; 1 Witch.
HRICE the brinded cat hath mew’d.
2 Witch. Thrice and once the hedge-pig

_ .whin’d.
3 Witch. Harpier cries :—’T is time, ’t is

time.
1 Witch. Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw. —
» Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Swelter’d venom, sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.
All. Double, double toil and trouble: 10
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
2 Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake ;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard's leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
All. Double, double toil and trouble :
Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble. ‘ 3
3 Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;
Witches’ mummy; maw, and gulf,
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark ;
Root of hemlock, digg’d i’ the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew,
Sliver’d in the moon's cclipse ;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe,
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:

 

30

In the middle, a boiling Cauldron.
Enter the three Witches.

Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.
All. Double, double toil and trouble:
Fire. burn; and, cauldron, bubble.
2 Witch. Cool it with a baboon’s blood;
Then the charm is firm and good.
Enter HECATE,
Hec. O, welldone! I commend your pains,
And every one shall share i’ the gains.
And now about the cauldron sing,
Like elves and fairies in a ring,
Enchanting all that you put in. sds
[Music and a Song, “Black spirits,” &e.
2 Witch. By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.—
Open, locks,
hoever knocks.
Enter MacBetTu.
Macb. How now, you secret, black, and midnight

ags!

What is’t you,do?

All. A deed without a name. :

Macb. I conjure you, by that which you profess, 50
Howe’er you come to know it, answer me:
Though you untie the winds, and let them fight
Against the churches ; though the yesty waves’
Confound and swallow navigation up;
Though bladed corn be lodg’d, and trees blown down;
Though castles topple on their warders’ heads ;
Though palaces, and pyramids, do slope ;
Their heads to their foundations ; though the treasure
Of nature’s germen tumble all together, 60

40°

[Knocking.

 

Even till destruction sicken, answer me
» Yo what Lask you.

 
 

MACBETH.

759

 

Scene IT]
1 Witch. Speak.
2 Witch. Demand.
3 Witch. : We'll answer.
1 Witch. Sey, if thou’dst rather hear it from our
mouths,
Or from our masters ?

Macb. Call ’em ; let me see ’em.
1 Witch. Pour in sow’s blood, that hath eaten
Her nine farrow ; grease, that’s sweaten
From the murderer's gibbet, throw
Into the flame.
All, Come, high, or low;
Thyself, and office, deftly show.

Thunder. First Apparition, an armed Head.
Macb. Tell me, thou unknown power,—
1 Witch. . He knows thy thought:
Hear his speech, but say thou nought. 0
1 App. Macbeth! Macbeth! acbeth !
Macduff ;
Beware the thane of Fife.—Dismiss me.—Enough.

Descends.
Macb. Whate’er thou art, for thy good caution,
thanks:

Thou hast harp’d my fear aright.—But one word
more :—
1 Witch. He will not be commanded. Here’s
another,
More potent than the first.

Thunder. Second Apparition, a bloody Child.

2 {pp Macbeth ! Macbeth! Macbeth !—

Macb, Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.

2 App. Be bloody, bold, andresolute: laugh to scorn
The power of man, for none of woman born 80
Shall harm Macbeth. (Descends.

Macb. Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee?
But yet L’ll make assurance double sure,

And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live;
That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies,
And sleep in spite of thunder. —

Thunder. Third Apparition, a Child crowned,
with a tree in his hand.
What is this,
That rises like the issue of a king; :
And wears upon his baby brow the round
ane fee of sovereignty ?

beware

Listen, but speak not to’t.

3 rae Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care 90

Who chafes, who frets, or- where conspirers are :

Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be, until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him. [Descends.
Macb. That will never be:

Who can impress the forest ; bid the tree

Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements!

good!
Rebellious head, rise never, till the wood
Of Birnam rise ; and our high-plac’d Macbeth
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time, and mortal custom.— Yet my heart
Throbs to know one thing: tell me (if your art
Can tell so much), shall Banquo’s issue ever
Reign in this kingdom ?

100

All, Seek to know no more.
Macb. I will be satisfied : deny me this,
And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.—
Why sinks that cauldron? and what noise is this?

[Hautboys.
1 Witch. Show!
2 Witch. Show!
3 Witch. Show! i, 7
| All, Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart.

A show of eight Kings, the last with a glass in his
® tana ; Banquo following.

Macb. Thouart too like the spirit of Banquo: down!
Thy crown does sear mine eye-balls :—and thy hair,
Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first :—
| A third is like the former :—filthy hags !

110

 

 

Why do you show me this?—A fourth? Start, eyes!
What ! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom ?:
Another yet ?—A seventh ?_I’ll see no more :—
And yet the eighth appears, who bears a Flass,
Which shows me many more ; and some I see,
That two-fold balls and treble scepters carry.
Horrible sight !—Now, I see, ’tis true ;
For the blood-bolter’d Banquo smiles upon me,
And points at them for his.—What:! is this so?

1 Witch. Ay, sir, all this is so :—but why
Stands Macbeth thus amazedly ?—
Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
And show the best of our delights.
I’ll charm the air to give a sound,
While you perform your antick round ;
That this great king may kindly say,
Our duties did his ee

Music. The Witches dance, and vanish.
Macb. bine ere are they? Gone ?—Let this pernicious
our

Stand aye accursed in the calendar !—
Come in, without there!

Enter LENOX.

Len. What’s your grace’s will?
Macb. Saw you the weird sisters ?
No, my lord.

Len.
Macb. Came they not by you?
No, indeed, my lord.

Len.
Macb. Infected be the air whereon they ride,
And damn’d all those that trust them !—I did hear
The galloping of horse: who was‘t came by ? 140
Len. Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you

word,
Macduff is fled to England.
Macb. Fled to England?
Len. Ay, my good lord.
Macb. Time, thou anticipat’st my dread exploits:
The flighty pus pase never is o’erteok,
Unless the deed go with it. From this moment,
The very firstlings of my heart shall
The firstlings of my hand. And even now,
To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and

150

120

130

done:
The castle of Macduff I will surprise ;
Seize pon. Fife; give to the edge o’ the sword
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I’ll do, before this purpose cool : .
But no more sights !—Where are these gentlemen ?
Come, bring me where they are. [£zeunt.

ScENE II.—Fife. A Room in MacpvuFr’s Castle.

Enter Lady Macvvurr, her Son, and RossE.
L. Math. wnat had he done, to make him fly the

an

Rosse. You must have patience, madam.

L. Macd. He had none:
His flight was madness: when our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors.

Rosse. You know not,
Whether it was his wisdom, or his fear.

L. tees oo to leave his wife, to leave his

abes,

His mansion, and his titles, in a place
From whence himself does fly? He loves us not:
He wants the natural touch ; for the poor wren,
The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
All is the fear, and nothing is the love ;
As little is the wisdom, where the flight.
So runs against all reason.

Rosse. My dearest coz,
I pray you, school yourself: but, for your husband,
He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows
The fitso’ the season, I dare not speak much further:
But cruel are the times, when we are traitors,
And do not know ourselves ; when we hold rumour
From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, 20

 

 
 

760

MACBETH.

[Act Iv.

 

 

But float upon a wild and violent sea,
Each way, and move.—I take my leave of you:
Shall not be long but I’)l be here again.
Things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward
To what they were before.—My pretty cousin,
Blessing upon you!
L. Macd. Father'd he is, and yet he’s fatherless.
Rosse. Tam so much a fool, should I stay longer,
It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort :
I take my leave at once. [Exit.
L. Maca. Sirrah, your father’s dead: 30
And what will you do now? How will you live?
Son. As birds do, mother.
L. Macd. What, with worms and flies?
Son. With what I get, Imean; and so do they.

 

Son. “Was my father a traitor, mother?”

L. Macd. Poor bird! thou’dst never fear the net,
nor lime,
The pit-fall, nor the gin.
Son. Why should I, mother? Poor birds they are
not set for.
a agen is not dead, for all your saying.
. Macd. Yes, he is dead: how wilt thou do for a
father? :
Son. Sas how will you do for a husband?
. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.
Son. Then you'll buy ’em to sell again. 41
L. Macd. Thou speak’st with all thy wit ;
And yet, i’ faith, with wit enough for thee.
Son. Was my father a traitor, mother?
ZL. Macd. Ay, that he was.
Son. What is a traitor?
L. Maca. Why, one that swears and lies.
Son. And be all traitors that do so?
L. Maca. Every one that does so is a traitor, and
must be hanged. 50
_Son. And must they all be hanged that swear and

ie?

LL. Macd. Every one.

Son. Who must hang them?

L. Macd. Why, the honest men.

Son. Then the liars and swearers are fools; for
there are liars and swearers enough to beat the
honest men, and hang up them.

L. Macd. Now God help thee, poor monkey!
how wilt thou do for a father?

Son. If he were seed yeu ‘d weep for him: if you
would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly
have a new father.

L. Macd. Poor prattler, how thou talk’st!

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known,

But
60

 

Though in your state of honour I am perfect.

I doubt, some ener does approach you nearly:

If you will take a homely man’s advice,

Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.

To fright you thus, methinks, I am too savage; 70

To do worse to you were fell cruelty,

Which is too nigh your person. Heaven eT ya r
zit,

I dare abide no longer.
L. Macd. Whither should I fly?
Ihave done no harm. But I remember now
I am in this earthly world, where, to do harm,
Is often laudable ; to do good, sometime,
Accounted dangerous folly : why then, alas!
Do I put up that womanly defence,
Tosay, I have done no harm? What are these faces?

Enter Murderers.
Mur, Where is your husband?
L. Macd. I hope, in no place so unsanctified,
Where such as thou may’st find him.
ur. : He’s a traitor.
Son. Thou liest, thou shag-hair’d villain !
Mur. What, youegg! [Stabbing him.
Young fry of treachery !
Son. He has kill’d me, mother; run away, re per
ies,

you. 5
[Exit Lady Macpvurr, ing “Murder!”
and pursued by the Murderers,

ScENE III.—England. A Room in the Kine’s Palace.

Enter MALCOLM and MacbDuFF.
Mal. te us seek out some desolate shade, and
there

‘Weep our sad bosoms empty.

Macd. Let us rather
Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men
Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom. ach new morn,
New widows howl, new orphans cry ; new sorrows
Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds
As if itfelt with Scotland, and yell’d out

Like syllable of dolour.

Mal. What I believe, I 11 wail ;
What know, believe ; and what I can redress,
As I shall find the time to friend, I will. 10
What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
Was once thought honest: you have lov’d him well;
He hath a touch’d you yet. Iam young; but some-

ing

You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom
To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb,
To appease an angry God.

Macd. I am not treacherous.

Mal. But Macbeth is.
A good and virtuous nature may recoil,
In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon:
That which you are my thoughts cannot transpose; 21
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell:
Though all things foul would wear the brows of

grace,
Yet grace must still look so.
‘acd. I have lost my hopes.
Mal, nee even there where I did find my
oubts.
Why in that rawness left. you wife and child,
(Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,)
Without leave-taking?--I pray you,
Let not my jealousies be your dishonours, |
But mine own safeties: you may be rightly just, 30
Whatever I shall think.
Macd. Bleed, bleed, poor country !
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure,
For goodness dare not check thee! wear thou thy
wrongs;
The title is affeer'd !—Fare thee well, lord:
I would not be the villain that thou think’st
For the whole space that’s in the tyrant’s grasp,
And the rich East to boot.
Mal. Be not offended:

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE III.] MACBETH. 761
I par not as in absolute fear of you. These evils thou repeat’st upon thyself

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke ; Have banish’d me from Scotland.—O my breast,

It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash 40 | Thy hope ends here!

Is added to her wounds: IJ think, withal, . Mal. . Macduff, this noble passion,
There would be hands uplifted in my right ; Child of integrity, hath from my soul

And here, from gracious England, have I offer Wip’d the black scruples, reconcil’d my thoughts

Of goodly thousands : but, for all this, To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth
When I shall tread upon the tyrant’s head, By many of these trains hath sought to win me

Or wear it on my sword, yet my BOGE country Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me

Shall have more vices than it had before, From over-credulous haste: but God above 120

More suffer, and more sundry ways than ever,
By him that shall succeed,
Macd. What should he be?
Mal. It is myself I mean ; in whom I know 50
All the particulars of vice so grafted,
That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth
Will seem as pure as snow ; and the poor state
Esteem him as a lamb, being compar’d
With my confineless harms.
Macd. Not in the legions
Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn’d
In evils, to top Macbeth.
Mal. I grant him bloody,
Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,
Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin
That has a name; but there’s no bottom, none, 60
In my voluptuousness: your wives, your daughters,
Your matrons, and your maids, could not fill up
The cistern of my lust; and my desire
All continent impediments would o’erbear,
That did oppose my will: better Macbeth,
Than such a one to reign. :
Macd. Boundless intemperance
In nature is a tyranny ; it hath been
The untimely empiying of the happy throne,
And fall of many kings. But fear not yet
To take upon you what is yours: you may 70
Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty, -
And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink.
We have willing dames enough ; there cannot be
That vulture in you, to devour so many
As will to greatness dedicate themselves,
Finding it so inclin’d. :
‘al. With this, there grows
In my most ill-compos'd affection such
A stanchless avarice, that, were I king,
Ishould cut off the nobles for their lands;
Desire his jewels, and this other’s house : 80
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more; that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth. 3 ‘
Macd. This avarice
Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root
Than summer-seeming lust; and it hath been
The sword of our slain kings: yet do not fear;
Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will,
Of your mere own. All these are portable,
With other graces weigh’d. : 3 90
Mal. But f have none: the king-becoming graces,
As justice, verity, temperance, stableness,
Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness,
Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude,
Thave no relish of them; but abound
In the division of each several crime,
Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
Macd. O Scotland, Scotland !
Mal. If such a one be fit to govern, speak :
Iam as I have spoken.
Macd. Fit to govern!
No, not to live.—O nation miserable,
With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter’d, .
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again,
Since that the truest issue of thy throne
y his own interdiction stands accurs'd,
And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father
Was a most sainted king: the queen, that bore thee,
Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet, 110
Died every day she liv’d. Fare thee well!

100

_ Hanging a go.

 

Deal between thee and me! for even now

I put myself to thy direction, and

Unspeak mine own detraction ; here abjure

The taints and blames I laid upon myself,

For strangers to my nature. Iam yet

Unknown to woman; never was forsworn ;

Scarcely have coveted what was mine own ;

At no time broke my faith : would not betray

The devil to his fellow; and delight

No less in truth, than life: my first false speaking 130

Was this upon myself. What Iam truly, i

Is thine, and my poor country’s, to command :

Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach,

Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men,

Already at a point, was setting forth.

Now, we’ll together, and the chance of goodness

Be like our warranted quarrel. Why are you silent?
Macd. Such welcome and unwelcome things at

S once,
’T is hard to reconcile.
Enter a Doctor.

Mal. Well; more anon.—Comes the king forth, I
pray you? 2 140
Doct. Ay, sir; there are a crew of wretchedeouls,

That stay his cure: their malady convinces

The great assay of art; but at his touch,

Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand,

Te presently amend.
Mal. I thank you, doctor. [Exit Doctor.
Macd. What’s the disease he means?

Mal. ’T is call'd the evil:

A most miraculous work in this good king,

Which often, since my here-remain in England,

Ihave seen him do. ow he solicits Heaven,

Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people, 150

All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,

The mere see of surgery, he cures ;

j den stamp about their necks,

Put on with holy prayers: and ’tis spoken,

To the succeeding royalty he leaves

The healing benediction. With this strange virtue,

He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy ;

And sundry blessings hang about his throne,

That speak him full of grace.

Enter Rosse. :
Macd. See, who comes here ?
Mal, My countryman; but yet I know him not. 160
Macd. My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither.
Mal. Iknowhim now. Good God, betimes remove
The means that makes us strangers!

Rosse. : Sir, Amen.
Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. Alas, poor country!

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be call’d our mother, but our grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile;
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rent the

air,
Are made, not mark’d; where violent sorrow seems
A modern ecstacy : the dead man’s knel.
Is there scarce ask’d for who; and good men’s lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying or ere they sicken.
Macd. O relation,
Too nice, and yet too true!
Mal. What is the newest grief?
Rosse. That of an hour’s age doth hiss the speaker ;
Each minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife?
Rosse. Why, well,

 

 
 

 

762

Macd. And all my children?

Rosse, Well too.

Macd, The tyrant has not batter’d at their peace?

Rosse. No; they were well at peace, when I did

leave them. 180

Macd. Be not aniggard of your speech: how goes it?

Rosse. When I came hither to transport the tidings,
Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out ;

Which was to my belief witness’d the rather,
For that I saw the tyrant’s power afoot.

Now is the time of help. our eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, make our women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

Mal. Be’t their comfort,

We are coming thither. Gracious England hath 190
Lent us good Siward, and ten thousand men;
An older, and a better soldier, none
That Christendom gives out.
Osse. *Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words,
That would be howld out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not latch them.

Macd. ° What concern they?
The general cause? or is it a fee-grief,

Due to some single breast ?

Rosse. No mind that’s honest
But in it shares some woe, though the main part
Pertains to you alone.

Macd. If it be mine,

Keep it not from me; quickly let me have it.
fosse. Let not your ears despise my tongue for ever,
Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound,
That ever yet they heard.
‘acd. Humph! I guess at it.

Rosse. Your castleissurpris’d; your wife, and babes,

Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,
‘Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,
eae the death of you.
al,

200

Merciful Heaven !—

MACBETH.

[Act V.

What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows:
Give sorrow words; the grief, that does not speak, 210
Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break,
Macd. My children too?
Rosse. Wife, children, servants, all
That could be found.

‘acd. And I must be from thence!
ae wife kill’d too?
osse T have said.
Mal Be comforted:

Let’s make us medicines of our great revenge,
To cure this deadly grief.
Macd. He has no children.—All my pretty ones?
Did you say, all?—O hell-kite !—All?
What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam,
At one fell swoop?
Mal. Dispute it like a man.
Maca. I shall do so;
But 1 must also feel it as a man:
I cannot but remember such things were,
That were most precious to me.—Did Heaven look on,
And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff !
They were all struck for thee. ' Naught that I am,
Not for their own demerits, but for mine,
Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now!
Mal. Be this the whetstone of yous sword: let grief
Convert to anger ; blunt not the heart, enrage it. 230
Macd. O! I could play the woman with mine eyes,
And braggart with my tongue.—But, gentle heavens,
Cut short all intermission ; front to front,
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland, and myself ;
Within my sword’s length set him ; if he ’scape,
Heaven forgive him too!
Mal. This tune goes manly.
Come, go we to the king : our power is ready;
Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you

220

 

may;
The night han that never finds the day. ([Exeunt,

 

ACT V.
A Room in the Castle.
Enter a Doctor of Physic and a waiting Gentlewoman.

SceNE I.—Dunsinane.

Doctor.

HAVE two nights watched with you, but

can perceive no truthin yourreport. When
was it she last walked?

Gent. Since his majesty went into the
field, I have seen her rise from her bed,
throw her night-gown upon her, unlock
her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write
upon it, read it, afterwards seal it, and
again return to bed; yet all this while in a
most fast sleep. 10

Doct. A great perturbation in nature, to
receive at once the benefit of sleep, and do
the effects of watching. In this slumbery
agitation, besides her walking and other
actual performances, what, at any time,
have you heard her say ?

Gent.‘That, sir, which I will not report after her.
Doct. You may, to me; and ’tis most meet you
should,

Gent. Neither to you, nor any onc; having no

witness to confirm my speech. 2

 

Enter Lady MACBETH, with a taper.

Lo you! here she comes. This is her very guise; and,
upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her: stand close.

Doct. How came she by that light ?

Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her
continually ; tis her command.

Doct. You see, her eyes are open.

Gent. Ay, but their sense’ are shut.

Doct. What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs
her hands. 30

Gent. It is an accustomed action. with her, to seem
thus washing her hands. I have known her continue
in this a quarter of an hour.

Lady M. Yet here’s a‘spot.

Doct. Hark! she speaks. I will set down what
comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more
strongly.

Lady M. Out, damned spot! out, I say !—One; two:
why, then ’t is time to do't.—Hell is murky !—Fie, my
lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard?—What need we fear

 

1; who knows: it. when none can call our power to

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

MACBETH.

763.

 

 

account ?—Yet who would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him ? 43

Doct. Do you mark that ?

Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife: where is
she now?—What, will these hands ne’er be clean?—No
more o' that, my lord, no more o’ that: you mar all
with this starting.

Doct. Go to, go to: you have known what you
should not. 50

Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure
of that : Heaven knows what she has known.

Lady M. Here’s the smell of the blood still: all the

erfumes3 of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.

h! oh! oh!

Doct. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely
charged. -

Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom,
for the dee, of the whole body.

Doct. ell, well, well. 60

Gent..’Pray God, it be, sir.

Doct. 'This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have
known those which have walked in their sleep, who
have died holily in their beds.

. Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your night-
coun : look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s

uried : he cannot come out on’s grave.

‘Doct. Even so? 68

Lady M. To bed, to bed: there’s knocking at the

ate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand.
; ae ’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to

ed.

(Exit.
Doct. Will she go now to bed?
Gent. Directly.
Doct. ae whisperings are abroad. Unnatural
eeds
Do breed unnatural troubles : infected minds
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine than the physician.—
God, God, forgive us all! Look after her ;
Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 80
And still keep eyes upon her.—So, good night :
My mind she has mated, and amaz'd my sight.
I think, but dare not speak.
Gent. Good night, good doctor. [Hxeunt.

 

SceNvg 1I.—The Country near Dunsinane.

Enter, with drum and colours, MENTETH, CATHNESS,
ANGUS, LENOX, and Soldiers.

Ment. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm,
His uncle Siward, andl the good Macduff.
Revenges burn in them ; for their dear causes
Would, to the bleeding and the grim alarm,
Excite the mortified man.
Ang. . Near Birnam wood,
Shall we well meet them: that way are they coming.
Cath. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother?
Len. For certain, sir, he is not. I havea file
Of all the gentry: there is Siward’s son,
And many unrough youths, that even now 10
Protest their first of manhood.
lent, What does the tyrant ?
Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies.
Some say he’s mad; others, that lesser hate him,
Do call it valiant fury : but, for certain,
He cannot buckle his distemper’d cause
Within the belt of rule.
Ang. Now does he feel
His secret murders sticking on his hands;
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach:
Those he commands move only in command,
Nothing in love: now does he feel his title 20
Hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe
Upon a dwarfish thief.
Ment. Who then shall blame
His pester’d senses to recoil and start,
When all that is within him does condemn
Itself, for being there ?
Cath. Well; march we on,
To give obedience where ’tis truly ow’d :

 

Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal ;
And with him pour we, in our country’s purge,
Each drop of us.
en. Or so much as it needs
To dew the sovereign flower, and drown the weeds. 30
Make we our march towards Birnam. .-
|Exeunt, marching.

 

ScENE IJI.—Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle.
Enter MAcBETH, Doctor, and Attendants.

Macb. Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all:
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane,
I cannot taint with fear. What’s the boy Malcolm?
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know
All mortal consequences have pronounc’d me thus:
“Fear not, Macbeth ; no man that’s born of woman
Shall e’er have power upon thee.”—Then fly, false

thanes,

And mingle with the English epicures:
The mind I sway by, and the heart I bear,
Shall never sag with doubt, nor shake with fear. 10

Enter a Servant.

The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac’d loon !
Where gott’st thou that goose look?
Serv. There is ten thousand— ;
Macb. Geese, villain?
Serv. Soldiers, sir.
Macb. Go, prick thy face, and over-red thy fear,
Thou lily-liver’'d boy. What soldiers, patch?
Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine
Are counsellors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face ?
Serv. The English force, so please you.
Macb. Take thy face herice. [Exit Servant.]—Sey-
ton !—I am sick at heart,
When I behold—Seyton, I say !—This push 20
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.
I have liv’d long enough: my way of life
Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,
Curses, not loud, but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Seyton !— 2
Enter SEYTON.
Sey. What is your gracious pleasure?
Macb. What news more?
Sey. Allis confirm’d, my lord, which was reported.
Macb. I'll fight, till from my bones my fiesh be
hack’d.
Give me my armour.

Sey.

Macb., I'll put it on.
Send out moe horses, skir the country round ;

Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armour.—
How does your patient, doctor?

Doct. Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,

That keep her from her rest.

Maceb. Cure her of that:
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

Raze out the written troubles of the brain,

And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff’d bosom of that perilous stuff,
Which weighs upon the heart?

*T is not needed yet.

oct. Thercin the patient
Must minister to himself.

Macb. Throw physic to the dogs; I’ll none of it.—
Come, put mine armour_on; give me my staff.—
Seyton, send out—Doctor, the thanes fly from me.—
Come, sir, despatch.—If thou couldst, doctor, cast 50
The water of my land, find her disease,

And purge it to a sound and pristine health,

I would elena thee to the very echo,

That should applaud again.—Pull ’t off, I say.—

What rhubarb, senna, or what purgative drug, :

Would econ these English hence?—Hear’st thou ef
them ? i

 

 
 

 

764

MACBETH.

‘{AcT V.

 

Doct. ay my good lord: your royal preparation |
Makes us hear something,
Macb. Bring it after me.—
I will not be afraid of death and bane, 59
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane, [Exit.
Doct. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and |

clear,
Profit again should hardly draw me here. [Exewnt.

 

ScENE IV.—Country near Dunsinane. A Wood in

view.
Enter, with drum and colours, MALCOLM, Old |
StwaRD and his Son, Macptrr, MENTETH,

CATHNESS, ANGUS, LENOX, RossE, and Soldiers,

marching.

Mal. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand,
That chambers will be safe.

Ment. We doubt it nothing.

Siw. What wood is this before us?

Ment. The wood of Birnam.

Mal. Let every soldier hew him down a bough,
And bear 't before him: thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, and make discovery
Err in report of us.

Sold. It shall be done.

Siw. We learn no other, but the confident tyrant
Keeps still in Dunsinane, and will endure
Our setting down before ’t.

al. ’Tis hig main hope; 10

For where there is advantage to be given, |
Both more and less have given him the revolt, |
And none serve with him but constrained things,
Whose hearts are absent too.

Macd. Let our just censures
Attend the true event, and put we on
Industrious soldiership.

Siw. The time approaches,
That will with due decision make us know
What we shall say we have, and what we owe.
Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate,
But certain issue strokes must arbitrate ;
Towards which advance the war. [Exeunt, marching.

 

ScENE V.—Dunsinane. Within the Castle.

Enter, with drum and colours, MACBETH, SEYTON,
and Soldiers.

Macb. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; |
The ery is still, ‘They come!” Our castle’s strength
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie, i
Till famine and the ague eat them up. |

 

Were they not fore’d with those that should-be ours,

We might have met them dareful, beard to beard,

And beat them backward home. What is that noise?

. [4 ery within, of Women.
Sey. It is the cry of women, my good lord.
Macb. I have almost forgot the taste of fears.

The time has been, my senses would have cool’d 10

To hear a night-shriek ; and my fell of hair

Would at a dismal treatise rouse,

and stir,

li with horrors:
Direness, familiar to my slaugh-
terous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.

Re-enter SEYTON.
Wherefore was that cry?
Sey. The queen, my lord, is dead.
Macb. She should have died
hereafter :

There would have been a time for
such a word.—
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and

to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day
2

to day, )
To the last syllable of recorded

time;
And all our yesterdays have
lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out,
brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a

poor Pee
That struts and frets his hour upon
the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Enter a Messenger.

Thou com’st to use thy tongue; thy story quickly.

Mess. Gracious my lord, 30
I should report that which I say I saw,
But know not how to do it.

Macb. Well, say, sir.

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I look’d toward Birnam, and anon, methought,
The wood began to move.

‘ach. Liar, and slave!

Mess. Let me endure your wrath, if 't be not so.
Within this three mile may you see it coming ;
I say, a moving grove.

Macb. If thou speak’st false,
Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive,
Till famine cling thee: if thy speech be sooth, 40
I care not if thou dost for me as much.—

-I pull in resolution ; and begin

To doubt the equivocation of the fiend,

That lies like truth : ‘‘ Fear not, till Birnam wood
Do come to Dunsinane ;"—and now a wood

Comes toward Dunsinane.—Arm, arm, and out !—

If this which he avouches does appear,

There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here.

I’gin to be aweary of the sun,

And wish the estate o’ the world were now undone.—
Ring the alarum-bell !—Blow, wind! come, wrack ! 51
At least we ‘ll die with harness on our back. [Haxeunt.

 

ScENE VI.—The Same. A Plain before the Castle.

Enter, with drum @nd colours, Maucotm, Old
SIWARD, Macpurr, dc., and their Army, with
boughs.

Mal. Now, near enough: your leavy screens throw

own,
; And show like those you are.—You, worthy uncle,

Shall, with my cousin, your right-noble son,
Lead our first battle: worthy Macduff, and we,

[Excit. :

As life were in’t. I have supp’d:

i

 

 
 

 

ScENE VIIL.j MACBETH. 765

 

Shall take upon’s what else remains to do, That was not born of woman? Such a one
According to our order. Am I to fear, or none.

iw. Fare you well.—
Do we but find the tyrant’s power to-night, Enter Young Stwarp.
Let us be beaten, if we cannot fight. Yo. Siw. What is thy name?

 

 

 

 

Macb. “ Of all men else I have avoided thee:
But get thee back, my soul is too much charg’d
With blood of thine already.”

Macd. Make all our trumpets speak; give themall ; Macb. Thou It be afraid to hear it.

reath, Yo. Siw. No; though thou call’st thyself a hotter
Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. 10 name
[Ezeunt. Alarums continued. Than any is in hell.
F Mach, __.My name’s Macbeth.
Yo. Siw. The devil himself could not pronounceatitle

ScenE VII.—The Same. Another Part of the Plain. | More hateful to mine ear,
‘acb. . No, nor more fearful. 9
Enter MACBETH. Yo. Siw. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant: with my sword
Macb. They have tied me toa stake: I cannot fly, I'll prove the lie thou speak’st.
But, bear-like, I must fight the course.—What’s he, [They fight, and Young Stwarp is slain.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

“166 MACBETH. (Act ¥.|

Macb. Thou wast born of woman :-— | I bear a charmed life ; which must not yield

But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, ‘
Brandish’d by man that’s of a woman born. (Exit.

Alarums. Enter MACDUFF.

Macd. That way the noise is.—Tyrant, show thy face:
If thou be'st slain, and with no stroke of mine, |
My wife and children’s ghosts will haunt me still.
I cannot strike at wretched Kernes, whose arms
Are hir’d to bear their staves: either thou, Macbeth,
Or else my sword, with an unbatter’d edge,
I sheathe again undeeded. There thoushouldst be; 20

 

Maced. ‘Hall, king! for so thou art. Behold, wheie stands
' The usury] er’s cursed head.”

By this great. clatter, one of greatest note
Seems bruited. Let me find him, fortune!
And more [ beg not. (Exit. Alarwm.

Enter MaLcotm and Old Stwarp.
Stw. ais way, my lord ;—the castle’s gently ren-
er'd:
The tyrant’s people on both sides do fight ;
The noble thanes do bravely in the war.

The day almost itself professes yours,
And little is to do.

Mal. We have met with foes
That strike beside us.
Siw. Enter, sir, the castle,

[Exeunt. Alarum.

Re-enter MACBETH.
Macb. Why should I play the Roman fool, and die
On mine own sword? whiles I see lives, the gashes 31
Do better upon them.

Re-enter MACDUFF.

Macd. Turn, hell-hound, turn!

Mach, Of all men else I have avoided thee:
But get thee back, my soul is too much charg’d
With blood of thine already,

Maced, I have no words;
My voice is in my sword: thou bloodier villain
Than terms can give thee out! (They fight.

Macb. Thou losest labour:
As easy may’st thou the intrenchant air
With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed:
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests ;

 

 

To one of woman born.

Macd. Despair thy charm ;
And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv’d,
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother’s womb
Untimely ripp’d.

Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so,
For it hath cow'd my better part of man:

And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d,

That palter with us in a double sense;

That keep the word of promise to our ear, 50
And break it to our hope.—I ll not fight with thee.

v

Macd. Then yield thee, coward, *.
And live to be the show and gaze o’ the time:
We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are,
Painted upon a pole, and underwrit,
‘“Here may you see the tyrant.” 7

Macb. I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,
And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born, 60
Yet I will try the last: before my body
I throw my warlike shield: lay on, Macduff; ie
And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘‘ Hold, enough!

[Exeunt, fighting.

Retreat. Flourish. Re-enter, with drum and colours,
MALcoLm, Old Siwarb, Rossk, Thanes, and .
Soldiers.’

Mal. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d.
Siw, Some must go off; and yet, by these I see,

So great a day as this is cheaply bought.

Mal, Macduff is missing, and your noble son.
Rosse. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt:

He only liv’d but till he was a man;

The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d, 70

In the unshrinking station where he fought,

But like a man he died.

Siw. Then he is dead?
Rosse. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of
sorrow

Must not be measur'd by his worth, for then

It hath no end.

Siw, Had he his hurts before?

 

 
 

 

Scene VII]

Rosse. Ay, on the front.
Siw. : Why then, God’s soldier be he!
Had I as many sons as I have hairs,
I would not wish them to a fairer death:
Zing SP his knell is knoll’d.
Mal. He’s worth more sorrow,
And that I’ll spend for him.
Siw. He’s worth no more ; 80
They say, he parted well, and paid his score :
And so, God be with him !—Herecomes newer comfort.

Re-enter MACDUFF, with MACBETH’s head.
Macd. Hail, king! for so thou art. Behold, where
stands
The usurper's cursed head: the time is free.
I see thee compass’d with thy kingdom’s pearl,
That speak my salutation in their minds;
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine,—
Hail, King of Scotland!

MACBETH.

767

All, Hail, King of Scot’and!

1 [Flourish.

Mal. We shall not spend a large expense of time,
Before we reckon with your several loves, 90
And make useven with you. Mythanes and kinsmen,
Henceforth be earls; the first that ever Scotland
In such an honour nam’d. What’s more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,—
As calling home our exil'd friends abroad,
That fled the snares of watchfui tvranny ;
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher, and this fiend-like queen,
Who, as ‘tis thought, by self and violent hands
‘Took off her life ;—this, and what needful else 100
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace
We will perform in measure, time, and place.
So thanks to all at once, and to each one,
Whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone.
(Flourish. Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

TIMON OF ATHENS.

DRAMATIS PERSON.

TIMON, a noble Athenian.
Luctrvs,
LucUuLLUs,
SEMPRONIUS,
VENTIDIUS, one of Timon's false Friends,
APEMANTUS, a churlish Philosopher.
ALCIBIADES, an Athenian Captain.
Fiavius, Steward to Timon.
FLAMINIUS,
LUcILIUvs,
SERVILIUS,
CaPHIs, PHILotus, Titus. Lucius, HORTENSIUS,
Servants to Timon’s Creditors.

Three flattering Lords.

\ Servants to Timon.

Servants of Varro, and Isidore, two of Timon’s
Creditors.

Cupid and Maskers.

Three Strangers.

Poet, Painter, Jeweller, and Merchant.

An Old Athenian.

A Page.

A Fool.

PHRYNIA,
TIMANDRA,

Lords, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Thieves, and
Attendants.

| Mistresses to Alcibiades,

SCENE— ATHENS; and the Woods adjoining.

 

ACT I.

ScENE I.—Athens.

A Hall in Trmon’s House.

Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller, Merchant, and others, at several doors.

Jam glad you are well.
Poet. I have not seen you long.
How goes the world?
Pain, It wears, sir, as it grows.
Poet. Ay, that’s well known;
But what particular rarity? what
strange
Which manifold _ record
“matches? See,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjur'd toattend. Iknow the merchant.
Pain. J know them both: th’ other's a
jeweller.
Mer. O! tis a worthy lord!
Jew. Nay, that’s most fix’d.
Mer. A most incomparable man; breath’d,
as it were, y 10
% Toan untirable and continuate goodness:
He passes.
Jew. Ihave a jewel here—
Alcr. O, pray, let’s see’t : for the Lord Timon, sir?
Jew. Tf he will touch the estimate: but, for that—
Poet. When we for recompense have prais‘d the

not

   
 

vile,
It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.
Ter. ’Tis a good form.
Jew. And rich: here is a water, look ye.
Pain. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedi-
cation : 20
To the great lord.
oet. A thing slipp’d idly from me,
Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes
From whence ’t is nourish'd : the fire i’ the flint
Shows not, till it be struck ; our gentle flame
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?

Pain. A picture, sir.--When comes your book forth? |

 

Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir.
Let’s see your piece.

Pain. "Tis a good piece.

Poct. So ’tis: this comes off well and excellent.

Pain. Indifferent.

Poet. Admirable! How this grace
Speaks his own standing! what a mental power
This eye shoots forth! how big imagination
Moves in this lip! to the dumbness of the gesture
One might interpret.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life.

Here is a touch; is’t good?
Poet. I’ll say of it,
It tutors nature : artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life. 40

Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage.
Pain. How this lord is follow'd!
Poet. The senators of Athens :—happy men!
Pain. Look, more!
Poct. You see this confluence, this great flood of
visitors.
T have, in this rough work, shap’d out a man,
Whom this beneath-world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment: my free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd_ malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold; 50
But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind.
Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet. I will unbolt to you.
You see how all conditions, how all minds,
(As well of glib and slippery creatures, as
Of grave and austere quality,) tender down
Their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune,
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance —_ 60
All sorts of hearts ; yea, from the glass-fac’d flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

TIMON OF ATHENS.

769

 

 

Than to abhor himself: even he drops down
The knee before him, and returns in peace
Most rich in Timon’s nod.
Pain. . Isaw them speak together.
Poet. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill
Feign’d Fortune to be thron’d: the base o’ the mount
Is rank’d with all deserts, all kinds of natures,
That labour on the bosom of this sphere
To propagate their states : amongst them all, 70
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix’d,

 

nN

am |

ASN

 

ye ia 5)

Poet. “ Artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.”

One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her ;
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.

Pain. *T is conceiv’d to scope.
This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks,
With one man beckon’d from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount.
To climb his happiness, would be well express’d
In our condition.

Poet. Nay, sir, but hear me on. 80
All those which were his fellows but of late
(Some better than his value), on the moment
Follow his strides, his lobbies filled with tendance,
Roun sacrificial whisperings in his ear,
Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him
Drink the free air.

ain. Ay, marry, what of these?
Poet. Wher Fortune, in her shift and change of
mood,

pnts down her late belov’d, all his dependants,

hich labour'd after him to the mountain’s top,
Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, 90
Not one accompanying his declining foot.

Pain. ’Tis common :
A thousand moral paintings I can show,
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s
More Peony than words. Yet you do well,
To show Lord Timon, that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound. Enter Timon, attended ; the
Servant of VENTIDIUS talking with him.
Tim. Imprison’d is he, say you?
Ven. Bere, Ay, my good lord: five talents is his
ebt,

His means most short, his creditors most strait:
Your honourable Jetter he desires

To those have shut him up; which failing
Periods his comfort.

Tim. Noble Ventidius! Well;
Iam not of that feather, to shake off
My friend when he must need me. I do know him
A gentleman that well deserves a help, 2
‘Which he shall have : I’ll pay the debt, and free him.

Ven. Serv. Your lordship ever binds him.

 

Tim. Commend me to him: I will send his ransom ;
And, being enfranchis’d, bid him come to me.—

*T is not enough to help the feeble up, 110
But to support him after.—Fare you well.
Ven. Serv. All happiness to your honour! [Ezit.

Enter an Old Athenian.
Old Ath. Lord Timon, hear me speak.
Tim. Freely, good father.
Old Ath. Thou hast a servant nam’d Lucilius,
Tim. [have so: what of him?
Old Ath. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee.
Tim. Attends he here, or no?—Lucilius !

Enter LUCILIUS.

Luc. Here, at your lordship’s service.
Old Ath. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy

creature,
BF night frequents my house. I am aman 120
That from my first have been inclin’d to thrift,

And my estate deserves an heir more rais’d

Than one which holds a trencher.
Tim. Well; what further?
Old Ath, One only daughter have I, no kin else,

On whom I may confer what I have got:

The maid is fair, 0’ the youngest for a bride,

And I have bred her at my‘dearest cost,

In qualities of the best. This man of thine

Attempts her love: 1 ethos noble lord,

Join with me to forbid him her resort;

Myself have spoke in vain.
Tim. The man is honest.
Old Ath. Therefore he will be, Timon:

His honesty rewards him in itself,

It must not bear my daughter.

130

im. Does she love him?
Old Ath. She is young, and apt:
Our own precedent passions do instruct us
What levity’sin youth. ~
Tim. [To LucILius.] Love you the maid?
Lue. jy my good lord ; and she accepts of it.
Old Ath, It in her marriage my consent be missing,
I call the gods to witness, I will choose 140
Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world,
And dispossess her all.
im. How shall she be endow’d,
If she be mated with an equal husband?
Old Ath. Three talents on the present ; in future, all.
Tim. This gentleman of mine hath serv’d me long:
To build his fortune, I will strain a little,
For ’tisa bond in men. Give him thy daughter;
What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise,
And make him weigh with her.
Old Ath. Most noble lord,
Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. 150
Tim. My hand to thee: mine honour on my promise.
Lue. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may
That state or fortune fall into my keeping,
Which is not ow'd to you!
[Exeunt Luciutus and Old Athenian.
Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your
lordship !
Tim. I thank you; you shall hear from me anon:
Go not away.—What have you there, my friend 2
Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech
Your lordship to accept.
Tim. Painting is welcome.
The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonour traftics with man’s nature,
He is but outside: these pencill’d figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work;
And you shall find J like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.
Pain. The gods preserve you!
Tim. Well fare you, gentleman: give me your

160

and ;
We must needs dine together.—Sir, your jewel
Hath suffer’d under praise.
Jew, * : What, my lord! dispraise ?
Tim. A mere satiety of commendations,
If [should pay you for 't as ’t is extoll'd, 170
It would unclew me quite.

 

 
770

TIMON OF ATHENS.

[Acr I.

 

 

Jew. My lord, ’tis rated
As those which sell would give: but you well know,
Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prized by their masters. Believe’t, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it.

Tim. Well mock’d.

Mer. No, my good lord; he speaks the common

tongue,

Which all men speak with him.

Tim. Look, who comes here. Will you be chid?

Enter APEMANTUS.
Jew. We will bear, with your lordship.
Mer. He ’ll spare none.
Tim. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus! 181
Apem. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good
morrow ;

When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves honest.

Tim. Why dost thoucallthem knaves? thouknow’st

them not.
Apem. Are they not Athenians?
Tim. Yes.

Apem. Then I repent not.

Jew. You know me, Apemantus ?

Apem. Thou know’st Ido ; Icall’d thee by thy name.

Tim. Thou art proud, Apemantus. 190

Apem. Of nothing so much as that I am not like

Timon.

Tim. Whither art going?

lpem. To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains.

Tim. That’s a deed thou ‘It die for.

Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.

Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus ?

Apem. The best, for the innocence.

Tim. Wrought he not well that painted it?

Apem. He wrought better that made the painter;
and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work. 200

Pain. You are a dog.

Apem. Thy mother’s of my generation: what’s she,
if bea cee

Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?

Apem. No; I eat not lords.

Tim. An thou shouldst, thou’dst anger ladies.

Apem. O! they eat lords; so they come by great
bellies.

Tim, That’s a lascivious apprehension. 209

re ge So thou apprehend'st it, take it forthy labour.

zm. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus?

Apem. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not
cost a man a doit.

Tim. What dost thou think ’t is worth?

Apem. Not worth my thinking.—How now, poet?

Poet. How now, philosopher ?

Apem. Thou liest.

Poet. Art not one?

Apem. Yes.

Poet. Then I lie not.

Apem. Art not a poet?

Poet. Yes.

Apem, Then thou liest: look in thy last work,
where thou hast feign’d him a worthy fellow.

Poct. That’s not feign’d ; he is so.

Apem. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee
for thy labour : he that loves to be flattered is worthy
o’ the flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord!

Tim. What wouldst do then, Apemantus?

Apem. Even as Apemantus does now, hate a lord
with my heart. 231

Tim. What, thyself?

Apem. Ay.

Tim. Wherefore ?

Apem. That [had no angry wit, to be a lord.—Art
not thou a merchant?

Mer. Ay, Apemantus.

ap Traftic confound thee, if the gods will not!

er. If traffic do it, the gods do it.

Apem. Traflic’s thy god, and thy god confound thee!

220

Trumpets sound. Enter a Servant.
Tim. What trumpet’s that? 241
Serv. ’Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse,
All of companionship.

 

Tim. Pray, entertain them; give them guide to
us.— : [Excunt some Attendants,
‘You must needs dine with me.—Go not you hence,
Till I have thank’d you ; and, when dinner’s done,
Show me this piece.—I am joyful of your sights,—

Enter ALCIBIADES, with his Company.

Most welcome, sir!

Apem. So, so; there !—
Aches contract and starve your supple joints !—
That there should be small love ’‘mongst these sweet

knaves, 5

And all this courtesy! The strain of man’s bred out
Into baboon and monkey.

Alcib. Sir, you have sav’d my longing, and I feed
Most hungerly on your sight.

Tim. Right welcome, sir:
Ere we depart, we'll share a bounteous time
In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in.

[Exeunt all but APEMANTUS.

Enter two Lords.

1 Lord. What time a day is ’t, Apemantus?

Apem. Time to be honest.

1 Lord, That time serves still.

Apem. The most accursed thou, that still omitt’st it.

2 Lord. Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast. 261

Apem, eri to see meat fill knaves, and wine heat

ools.

2 Lord. Fare thee well, fare thee well.

gpm. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice.

2 Lord. Why, Apemantus ?

Apem. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for Imean
to give thee none.

1 Lord. Hang thyself.

Apem. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding: make |
thy requests to thy friend. - 0
" 2 Lord, Away, unpeaceable dog! or I’ll spurn thee

ence.

Apem. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o’ the ass.

cit.
1 Lord. He’s opposite to humanity. Come, shall
we in,
And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? he outgoes
The very heart of kindness.
2 Lord. He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold,
Is but his steward : no meed, but he repays
Seven-fold above itself ; no gift to him,

But breeds the giver a return exceeding 280
All use of quittance.
1 Lord. The noblest mind he carries,

That ever govern’d man.
2 Lord. Long may he live infortunes! Shall we in?
1 Lord. I'll keep you company. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Same. A Room of State in Trmon’s
ouse.

Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet
served in; FLAvIuS and others attending: then
enter TIMON, ALCIBIADES, Lucius, LUCULLUS,
SEMPRONIUS, and other Athenian Senators, with
VENTIDIUS, and Attendants. Then comes, dro
ping after all, APEMANTUS, discontentedly, like

imself.
Ven. Most honour'd Timon,

It hath pee the gods to remember my father’s age,

And call him to long peace.

He is gone happy, and has left me rich:

Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound

To your free heart, I do return those talents,

Doubled, with thanks and service, from whose help

I deriv’d liberty.

Tim. _., 0! by no means,

Honest Ventidius : you mistake my love ;

I gave it freely ever; and there’s none 10

Can truly say, he gives, if he receives:

If our betters play at that game, we must not dare

To imitate them: faults that are rich are fair.

Ven. A noble spirit !

 

 
 

SCENE IL]

TIMON OF ATHENS.

W1

 

Tim. : Nay, my lords,

Ceremony was but devis'd at first,

To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,

Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’t is shown;

But where there is true friendship, there needs none.

Pray, sit: more welcome are ye to my fortunes,

Than my fortunes to me. They sit.
1 Lord. My lord, we always have confess’d it— 21
Apem. He, ho, confess’d it! hang’d it, have you

not
Tim. O, Apemantus !—you are welcome.
Apem. No, you shall not make me welcome:

I come to have thee thrust me out of doors.

Tim. Hie ! thou art a churl: ye’ve got a humour
ere

Does not become a man, ’tis much to blame,—

They say, my lords, Ira furor brevis est,

But yond man is ever angry.

Go, let him have a table by himself ;

For he does neither affect company,

Nor is he fit for it, indeed,

Apem. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon:

I come to observe; I give thee warning on’t.
Tim. I take no heed of thee ; thou art an Athenian ;

therefore, welcome. I myself would have no power ;

pr'ythee, let my meat make thee silent.
Apem. I scorn thy meat; ’t would choke me, for I
should

Ne'er flatter thee.—O you gods! what a number

Of men eat Timon, and he sees em not! °

It grieves me to see so many dip their meat

In one man’s blood ; and all the madness is,

He cheers them up too.

I wonder, men dare trust themselves with men:

Methinks, they should invite them without knives ;

30

 

Good for their meat, and safer for their lives.

There ’s much example for’t; the fellow, that

Sits next him now, parts bread with him, and pledges
The breath of him in a divided draught,

Is the readiest man to kill him: it has been proved. 50
If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals,
Lest. they should spy my wind-pipe’s dangerous notes:
Great men should drink with harness on their throats.

Tim., My lord, in heart; and let the health go round.

2 Lord. Let it flow this way, my good lord.

Apem. Flow this way! A brave fellow !—he keeps
his tides well. Those healths will make thee and thy
state look ill, Timon.

Here’s that, which is too weak to be a sinner,
Honest water, which ne'er left man i’ the mire:
This and my food are equals, there ’s no odds.
Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods.
7 Immortal gods, I crave no pelf ;
I pray for no man, but myself.
Grant I may never prove so fond,
To trust man on his oath or bond ;
Or a harlot for her weeping;
Or a dog that seems a-sleeping ;
Or a keeper with my freedom ;
Or my friends, if I should need’em. 70
Amen. So fall to’t:
Rich men sin, and I eat root.
[Eats and drinks.
Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus !

Tim. Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the field
now.

Alcib. My heart is ever at your service, my lord.

Tim. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies,
than a dinner of friends.

Alcib. So they were bleeding-new, my lord, there's
no meat like em : I could wish my best friend at such
a feast. 81

Apem. "Would all those flatterers were thine enemies
then, that then thou mightst kill’em, and bid me to
em.

1 Lord. Might we but have that happiness, my lord,
that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might
moe some part of our zeals, we should think our-
selves for ever perfect. 7

Tim. O! no doubt, my good friends, but the gods
themselves have provided that I shall have much help
| rom you: how had you been my friends else? why

60

 

 

have you that charitable title from thousands, did you
not chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of
you to myself, than you can with modesty speak in
your own behalf; and thus far I confirm you. O you
gods! think I, what need we have any friends, if we
should ne’er have need of ‘em? they were the most
needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use
for ’em ; and would most resemble sweet instruments
hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to them-
selves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer, that
I might come nearer to you. We are born to do
benefits ; and what better or properer can we call our
own, than the riches of our friends? O, what a
precious comfort ’tis, to have so many, like brothers,
commanding one another's fortunes! O joy, e’en
made away ere’t can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold
out water, methinks: to forget their faults, I drink to
you.

Apem, Thou weep’st to make them drink, Timon.

2 Lord. Joy had the like conception in our eyes, 111
And, at that instant, like a babe, sprung up.

Apem. Ho, ho! Ilaugh to think that babe a bastard.

3 Lord. I promise you, my lord, you mov’d me

much.
Apem. Much! [Tucket sounded.
Zum. What means that trump?

Enter a Servant.
How now?

Serv. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies
most desirous of admittance.

Tim. Ladies! What are their wills?

Serv. There comes with them a forerunner, my
lord, which bears that office to signify their pleasures.

Tim. I pray, let them be admitted. 122

Enter CUPID.

Cup. Hail to thee, worthy Timon; and to all
That of his bounties taste !—The five best senses
Acknowledge thee their patron ; and come freely
‘lo gratulate thy plenteous bosom.
Th’ ear, taste, touch, smell, pleas'd from thy table rise;
They only now come but to feast thine eyes.

Tim. They’re welcome all: Jet’em have kind ad-

mittance:

Music, make their welcome! [Hait CuPID.

1 es, oe see, my lord, how ample you’re

ov’d. 13

Music. Re-enter Cupip, with a masque of Ladies as
Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and
playing.

Apem. Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this
- way!

They dance! they are mad women.

Like madness is the glory of this life,

As this pomp shows to a little oil and root.

We make ourselves fools, to disport ourselves;

And spend our flatteries, to drink those men,

Upon whose age we void it up again

With poisonous spite and envy.

Who lives, that’s not depraved, or depraves?

Who dies, that bears not one spurn to their graves

Of their friends’ gift?

I should fear, those that dance before me now

Would one day stamp upon me: ’t has been done;

Men shut their doors against a setting sun.

140

The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of
Timon; and, to show their loves, each singles out
an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a
lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease.

Tim. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair

es,
Set a fair fashion on our entertainment,
Which was not half so beautiful and kind:
You have added worth unto’t, and lively lustre,
And entertain’d me with mine own device ;
I am to thank you for it.
1 Lady. My lord, you take us even at the best.
Apem. ’Faith, for the worst is filthy; and would not
hold taking, I doubt me.

150

 

 
 

772.

TIMON OF ATHENS.

(Act L

 

 

Tim. Ladies, there is an idle banquet
Attends you: please you to dispose yourselves.
All Lad. Most thankfully, my lord. ;
[Exeunt CupPip and Ladies.
Tim. Flavius!
Flav. My lord. .
Tim. The little casket bring me hither.
Flav. Yes, my lord. [Aside.] More jewels yet! 160
There is no crossing him in’s humour ;
Else I should tell him well, i’ faith, I should,
When all’s spent, he’d be cross’d then, an he could.
Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind, | . :
That man might ne’er be wretched for his mind. [E£azic.
1 Lord. Where be our men?
Serv. Here, my lord, in readiness.
2 Lord. Our horses!

Re-enter FLAVIUS, with the casket.

Tim. O my triends, I have one word to say to you.
Look you, my good lord, 1
I must entreat you, honour me so much.
As to advance this jewel; accept it, and wear it,
Kind my lord.

1 Lord. Iam so far already in your gifts.

All, So are we all.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. My lord, there are certain nobles of thesenate
Newly alighted, and come to visit you.

Tim. They are fairly welcome.

Flav. . I beseech your honour,
Vouchsafe me a word : it does concern you near.

Tim. Near? why, then another time I’ll hear thee.
I pr'ythee, let's be provided to show them entertain-

ment.
Flav. [Aside.] I scarce know how.

Enter another Servant.
2 Serv. May it please your honour, Lord Lucius,
Out of his free love, hath presented to you
Four milk-white horses, trapp’d in silver.
Tim. I shall accept them fairly: let the presents
Be worthily entertain’d.

Enter a third Servant.
How now, what news?

3 Serv. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentle-
man, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company to-
morrow to hunt with him; and has sent your
honour two brace of greyhounds.

Tim. Il] hunt with him; and let them be receiv'd,
Not without fair reward.

Flav. [Aside.] What will this come to?
He commands us to provide, and give great vifts,
And all out of an empty cotfer: Gi
Nor will he know his purse ; or yield me this,

To show him what a beggar his heart is,

Being of no power to make his wishes good.

His promises fly so beyond his state,

That what he speaks is all in debt, he owes

For every word : he is so kind, that he now
Pays interest for’t; his land’s put to their books.
Well, would I were gently put out of oftice,
Before I were forc'd out!

Happier is he that has no friend to feed

Than such as do even enemies exceed.

I bleed inwardly for my lord. [Ezit.

Tim. You do yourselves
Much wrong: you bate too much of your own merits.
Here, my lord, a trifle of our love.

2 Lord. With more than common thanks I will

receive it. 210

3 Lord. O! he’s the very soul of bounty.

Tim. And now I remember, my lord, you gave

200

 
 

ry SO
aN a oe
oS NAM

  
 

Good words the other day of a bay courser
I rode on: it is yours, because you lik’d it.
3 Lord. O! I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in

that.
Tim. You may take my word, my lord ; I know, no
man :
Can justly praise, but what he does affect :
I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own;
TI’) teil you true, I’ll call to you.

 

 

 

Apem. ‘So thou wilt not hear me now,
Thou sha!t not then.”

All Lords. O! none so welcome.
Tim. I take all and your several visitations

So kind to heart, ‘tis not enough to give:

Methinks, I could deal a hepems to my friends,

And ne’er be weary.— Alcibiades,

Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich:

It comes in charity to thee ; for all thy living

Is ‘mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast

Lie in a pitch’d field.

Alcib. Ay, defil’d land, my lord.

1 Lord. We are 80 virtuously bound—

Tim. And so am I to you.

2 Lord. So infinitely endear’d— 230

Tim. All to you.—Lights, more lights!

1 Lord. _ The best of happiness,
Honour and fortunes, keep with you, Lord Timon!

Tim. Ready for his friends.

[Exeunt ALCIBIADES, Lords, ée.-

Apem. . hat a coil’s here!
Serving of becks, and jutting-out of bums!

I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums

That are given for’em. Friendship’s full of dregs:
Methinks, false hearts should never have sound legs.
Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on court'sies.

Tim. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen,

I would be good to thee. i

Apem. No, I'll nothing; for if I should be brib’d too,
there would be none left to rail upon thee; and then
thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou giv’st so long,
Timon, I fear me, thou wilt give away thyself i
paper shortly: what need these feasts, pomps, and
vain-glories?

Tim. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, lam
sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell; and come
with better music. " [Ezit.

apem. So thou wilt not hear me now, 250
Thou shalt not then ; I'll lock thy heaven from thee.
O, that men’s ears should be ae
To counsel deaf, but not to flattery ! [Exit.

 

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Brees sat

 
 

 

    
  
     
 
    

    

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ACT II.
ScENE I.—The Same. A Room in a Senator’s House.
Enter a Senator, with papers in his hand.

Senator.

D late, five thousand: to Varro and
to Isidore

He owes nine thousand ; besides my
former sum,

Which makes it five-and-twenty.—
Still in motion

Of raging waste? It cannot hold;
it will not.

If I want gold, steal but a beggar's

   

og,
And give it Timon, why, the dog coins
gold;
If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty
more
Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon,
Ask nothing, give it him, it foals me, straight,
And able horses. No porter at his gate; 10
But rather one that smiles, and still invites
All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason
Can sound his state in safety. Caphis, ho!
Caphis, I say!
Enter CaPuHis.
Caph. Here, sir: what is your pleasure?
Sen. Get on your cloak, and haste you to Lord Timon;
Importune him for my moneys; be not ceas’d
With slight denial; nor then silenc’d, when—
“Commend me to your master ”—and the cap
Plays in the right hand, thus ;—but tell him,
My uses cry to me; I must serve my turn 20
Out of mine own ; his days and times are past,
‘And my reliances on his fracted dates
Have smit my credit: I love, and honour him;
But must not break my back to heal his finger:
Immediate are my needs; and my relief
Must not be toss’d and turn’d to me in words,
But find supply immediate. Get you gone:
Put on a most importunate aspect,
A visage of demand; for, I do fear, ‘
‘When every feather sticks in his own wing, 30
Lord Timon will be left a naked gull,
Which flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone.
Caph. I go, sir. 7
Sen. I go, sir? Take the bonds along with you,
And have the dates in compt. F
Cophe I will, sir.
en.

0.
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. <A Hall in Trmon’s House.

Enter Fiavius, with many bills in his hand.
Flav. No care, no stop! so senseless of expense,
That he will neither know how to maintain it,
Nor cease his flow of riot: takes no account
How things go from him. nor resumes no care
Of what is to continue. Never mind
‘Was to be so unwise, to be so kind.
What shall be done? He will nothear, tillfeel.
I must be round with him, now he comes from hunting.
Fie, fie, fie, fie!

Enter Capuis, and the Servants of ISIDORE and
VARRO.
Caph. Good even, Varro. What,
You come for money ?

 

Var. Serv. Is’t not your business too? 10
Caph. It is ;—and yours too, Isidore?
Isid. Serv. It is-so,
Caph. ’Would we were all discharg’d !

Tar. Serv. I fear it,

Caph. Here comes the lord.

Enter Timon, ALCIBIADES, and Lords, &c.

Tim. So soon as dinner’s done, we'll forth again,
My Alcibiades, —With me? what is your will?

   

I must be round with him, now he comes from Lunting.”

 

Flav.

Caph. My lord, here is a note of certain dues.

Tim. Dues! Whence are you?

Caph. Of Athens here, my lord.

Tim. Go to my steward.

Caph. Please it your lordship, he hath put me off
To the succession of new days this month: 20
My master is awak'd by great occasion,

To call upon his own; and humbly prays you,
That with your other noble parts you'll suit,
In giving him his right.

Tim. Mine honest friend,

I pr’ythee, but repair to me next morning.

Caph. Nay, good my lord,— |

Tim. Contain thyself, good friend.

Var. Serv. One Varro’s servant, my good lord,—

Isid. Serv. From Isidore ;
He humbly prays your speedy payment,—

Caph. If you did know, my lord, my master’s

wants,—
Var. Serv. "Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six
weeks, 30
And past,—
Isid Serv. Your steward puts me off, my lord;
And I am sent expressly to your lordship.
Tim. Give me breath.—
I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on;
I'll wait upon you instantly.—
[Exeunt ALCIBIADES and Lords.
To Fiavivs.] Come hither: pray you,
ow goes the world, that I am thus encounter’d

 

 
 

 

774 TIMON OF

ATHENS. [Act II,

 

With clamorous demands of broken bonds,
And the detention of long-since-dué debts,
Against my honour?

Flav. Please you, gentlemen,
The time is unagreeable to this business:
Your importunacy cease till after dinner,
That I may make his lordship understand
Wherefore you are not paid.

40

Tim. Do so, my friends.—
See them well entertained. f exit,
Flav. Pray, draw near. [Euit.

Enter APEMANTUS and Fool.

Caph. Stay, stay; here comes the fool with Ape-
mantus: let’s have some sport with’em.

Var. Serv. Hang him, he’ll abuse us.

Isid. Serv. A plague upon him, dog!

Var. Serv. How dost, fool?

Apem. Dost dialogue with thy shadow? 50

Var. Serv. I speak not to thee.

Apem. No; ’tis to thyself._[To the Fool.) Come
away.

Isid. Serv. [To Var. Serv.] There’s the fool hangs
on your back already.

Apem. No, thou stand’st single; thou ’rt not on him

et.

Caph. Where’s the fool now?

«lpem. He last asked the question.—Poor rogues,
and usurer’s men! bawds between gold and want! 60

ll Serv. What are we, Apemantus?

dpem, Asses.

ah Serv. Why?

lpem, That you ask me what you are, and do not
know yourselves.—Speak to’em, fool.

Fool. How do you, gentlemen ?

ll Serv. Gramercies, good fool.
mistress ?

Fool. She’s e’en setting on water to scald such
chickens as you are. ’Would, we could see you at
Corinth ! 7

Apem. Good! gramercy.

How does your

i Enter Page.

Fool. Look you. here comes my mistress’ page.

Page. [To the Fool.) Why, how now, captain? what
do you in this wise company ?—How dost thou, Ape-
mantus ?

Apem. ’Would [had arod in my mouth, that I might
answer thee profitably.

. Page. Pr’ythee, Apemantus, read me the super-
scription of these letters: I know not which is which.

Apem. Canst not read? 81

Page. No.

Apem. There will little learning die then, that day
thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon; this to
Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born a bastard, and
thou ‘It die a bawd.

Page. Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt
famish a dog’s death. Answer not; Iam gone. [Fzit.

Apem. Even so thou outrunn’st grace. Fool, I will
go with you to Lord Timon’s. 90

Fool. Will you leave me there?

Apem. If Timon stay at home.—You three serve
three usurers ?

All Serv. Ay: ’would they served us!

Apem. So would J,—as good a trick as ever hang-
man served thief.

Fool. Are you three usurers’ men?

All Serv. Ay, fool. 99

Fool. I think, no usurer but_has a fool to his ser-
vant: my mistress is one, and I am her fool. When
men come to borrow of your masters, they approach
sadly, and go away merry; but they enter my mis-
tress’ house merrily, and go away sadly. The reason
of this?

Var. Serv. I could render one.

Apem. Do it then, that we may account thee a
whoremaster, and a knave; which notwithstanding,
thou shalt be no less esteemed.

Var. Serv. What is a whoremaster, fool? 109

Fool. A fool in good clothes, and something like

 

thee. ’Tis a spirit: sometime it appears like a lord ;

sometime like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher,
with two stones more than’s artificial one. Heis very
often like a knight; and generally in all shapes, that
man goes up and down in, from fourscore to thirteen,
this spirit walks in.
r. Serv. Thou art not altogether a fool.
Fool. Nor thou altogether a wise man: as much
foolery as I have, so much wit thou lackest.
- Apem. That answer might have become Apemantus.
All Serv. Aside, aside: here comes Lord Timon. 121

Re-enter TIMON and FLAVIUS.
Apem. Come with me, fool, come.

 

Tim. “ You make me marvel: wherefore, ere this time,
Had jou nut fully laid wy state before me?”

Fool. I do not always follow lover, elder brother,
and woman; sometime, the philosopher.

Exeunt APEMANTUS and Fool.

Flav. Pray you, walk near: I'll speak with you

anon. Exeunt Servants.

Tim. You make me marvel: wherefore, ere this

time,
Had you not ay laid my state before me ;
That I might so have rated my expense,
As [had leave of means?

Flav. You would not hear me, 130
At many leisures I propos’d.
‘im. Goto:

Perchance, some single vantages you took,
When my indisposition Pub you back ;
And that unaptness made your minister,
Thus to excuse yourself.
Flav. O my good lord!
At many times I brought in my accounts, :
Laid them before you: you would throw them off,
And say, you found them in mine honesty.
When for some trifling present you have bid me ,
Return so much, I have shook my head, and wept; 140
Yea, ’gainst the authority of manners, pray’d you
To hold your hand more close: I did endure
Not seldom, nor so slight checks, when I have
Prompted you, in the ebb of your estate
‘And your great flow of debts. My loved lord, |
Though you hear now, (too late !) yet now’s a time,
The zreatest of your having lacks a half
To pay your present debts.
Tin, Let all my land be sold.
Flav, ’Tis all engag’d, some forfeited and gone;
And what remains will hardly stop the mout. 150
Of present dues : the future comes apace ;
What shall defend the interim? and at length
How goes our reckoning?
Tim. To Lacedeemon did my land extend.

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE II.] TIMON OF

Flav. O my good lord! the world is but a word;
Were it all yours to give it in a breath,
How quickly were it gone!

» Tim.

Flav. If you suspect my husbandry, or falsehood,
Call me before the exactest auditors,

And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me, 160
When-all our offices have been oppress’d

With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept
With drunken spilth of wine, when every room

Hath blaz’d with lights, and bray’d with minstrelsy,
Lhave retir’d me to a wasteful cock,

And set mine eyes at flow.

Tim. Pr’ythee no more.

Flav. Heavens, have I said, the bounty of this lord!
How many prodigal bits have slaves, and peasants,
This night englutted! Who is not Timon's?

What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord
170

You tell me true.

Timon’s?
Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon!
Ah! when the means are gone that buy this praise,
The breath is gone whereof this praise is made:
Feast-won, fast-lost ; one cloud of winter showers,
These flies are couch’d.

Tim. Come, sermon me no further:
No villainous bounty yet hath pass’d my heart;
Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given.

Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack,
To think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart;
If I would broach the vessels of my love,
And try the argument of hearts by borrowing,
Men, and men’s fortunes, could I frankly use,
As I can bid thee speak.
Flav. Assurance bless your thoughts!
Fim. And, in some sort, these wants of mine are
crown’'d,
That I account them blessings ; for by these
Shall I try friends. You shall perceive, how you
Mistake my fortunes ; Iam wealthy in my friends,—
Within there! Flaminius! Servilius!

Enter FLAMINIUS, SERVILIUS, and other Servants.
Servants. My lord? my lord? 189
Tim. I will despatch you severally.—You, to Lord

Lucius ;—to Lord Lucullus you; I hunted with his
honour to-day ;—you, to Sempronius. Commend me
to their loves ; and, Iam proud, say, that my occasions '

 

ATHENS. 175

have found time to use them toward a supply of
money : let the request be fifty talents.

Flam. As you have said, my lord.

Flav. (Aside.] Lord Lucius and Lucullus? humph!

Tim. [To another Servant.] Go you, sir, to the

senators,

(Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have
Deserv’d this hearing), bid ’em send o’ the instant 20
A thousand talents to me.

Flav. I have been bold,
(For that I knew it the most general way,)
To them to use your signet, and your name;
But they do shake their heads, and I am here
No richer in return.

Tim. Is’t true? can’t be?

Flav. They answer, in a joint and corporate voice,
That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot
Do what they would; are sorry—you are honourable, —
But yet ad could have wish’d—they know not—
Something hath been amiss—a noble nature 21
May catch a wrench—would all were well—'tis pity ;—
And so, intending other serious matters,

After distasteful looks, and these hard fractions,
With certain half-caps, and cold-moving nods,
They froze me into silence.

Tim. You gods, reward them !—
Pr’ythee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows
Have their ingratitude in them hereditary :

Their blood is cak’d, ’tis cold, it seldom flows;

*T is lack of kindly warmth, they are not kind;

And nature, as it grows again toward earth,

Is fashion’d for the journey, dull, and heavy.

Go to Ventidius.—’Pr'ythee, be not sad ;

Thou art true, and honest : ingenuously I speak ;

No blame belongs to thee.—Ventidius lately

Buried his father ; by whose death he’s stepp’d

Into a great estate: when he was poor,

eee and in scarcity of friends,

I clear’d him with five talents: greet him from me

Bid him suppose, some good necessity

Touches his friend, which craves to be remember’d

With those five talents: that had, give it these fellows

To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think,

That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink.
Flav. I would, I could not think it: that thought is

bounty’s foe ;
Being free itself, it thinks all others so.

220

3
229

[Exeunt.

 

       

eS an Te ECT =
Na
VON . \ ‘

My ‘
efa(Mmemrss

  

Ror Me

ACT
ScENE I.—The Same.

     
 

ei Servant. :
* HAVE told my lord of you; he is
. coming down to you. _
Flam. I thank you, sir.

Enter LUCULLUS.

Serv. Here’s my lord. .
Lucul. [Aside.] One of Lord Timon’s
men? a gift, I warrant. Why, this hits
right ; Idreamt of a silver basin and ewer
to-night. Flaminius, honest Flaminius,
you are very respectively welcome, sir.—
Fillmesome wine. [Exit Servant.J—And
how does that honourable, complete, free-
hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good
lord and master? 13 |

  

C VMK

   
  
 

y
Vi

IIl.

A Room in LucuLuus’s House.
FLAMINIUS waiting. Enter a Servant to him.

Flam. His health is well, sir.

Lucul. Tam right glad that his health is well, sir.
And what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty
Flaminius ?

Flam. ’Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir, which, -
in my lord’s behalf, I come to entreat your honour to
supply ; who, having great and instant occasion to use
fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him,
nothing doubting your present assistance therein. 22

Lucul. La, la, la, la,—nothing doubting, says he?
alas, good lord! a noble gentleman ’tis, if he would
not keep so good a house. Many a time and often I
have dined with him, and told him on ’t ;.and come
again to supper to him, of purpose to have him spend
less: and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no
warning by my coming. Every man has his fault,

 

 
 

 

776

TIMON OF ATHENS.

[Act IIL.

 

and honesty is his: I have told him on’t, but I could
ne’er get him from it. 31

Re-enter Servant, with wine.

Serv. Please your lordship, here is the wine. r

Lucul, Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise.
Here’s to thee.

Flam, Your lordship speaks your pleasure.

Lucul. I have observed thee always for a towardly

rompt spirit,_give thee thy due,—and one that

nows what belongs to reason; and canst use the
time well, if the time use thee well: good parts in
thee.—[To the Servant.] Get you gone, sirrah. [Ezit

 
      
      

mm
WA
Nu

:

Way |
sf

 

Flam. “'Paith, nothing but an empty box, sir, which, in my
lord's behalf, I come to entreat your honour to supply.”

Servant.J—Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy
lord’s a bountiful gentleman; but thou art wise, and
thou knowest well enough, although thou comest to
me, that this is no time to lend money, especially
upon bare friendship, without security. ere’s three
solidares for thee: good boy, wink at me, and say,
. thou saw’st me not. Fare thee well.

Flam. Is’t possible, the world should so much

differ,
And we alive that liv’d? Fly, damned baseness,
To him that worships thee!
Throwing the money away.

Lucul. Ha! now I see thou art a fool, and fit for th
master. [Ezit.

Flam. ay these add to the number that may scald

ee

Let molten coin be thy damnation,

Thou disease of a friend, and not himself!

Has friendship such a faint and milky heart,

It turns in less than two nights? O you gods!

I feel my master’s passion. This slave unto his
onour

Has my lord’s meat in him:

Why should it thrive, and turn to nutriment, 60

When he is turn’d to poison ?

O, may diseases only work upon ’t!

And, when he’s sick to death, let not that part of

nature,
Which my lord paid for, be of any power

To expel sickness, but prolong his hour! [Exit.

 

Scene II.—The Same. A Public Place.

Enter Lucius, with three Strangers.
Lue. Who? the Lord Timon? he is my very good
friend, and an honourable gentleman.
1 Stran. We know him for no less, though we are
but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing,
my lord, and which I hear from common rumours :

 

now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done and past,
and his estate shrinks from him.

Luce. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for
money. :

2 Stran. But believe you this, my lord, that, not
long ago, one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus,
to borrow so many talents; nay, urged extremely
for 't, and showed what necessity belonged to ’t, and
yet was denied.

Luc. How?

2 Stran. I tell you, denied, my lord.

Luc. What a strange case was that! now, before
the gods, I am ashamed on ’t. Denied that honour-
able man? there was very little honour shown in ’t.
For my own part, I must needs confess, I have re-
ceived some small kindnesses from him, as money,
plate, jewels, and such like trifles, nothing comparin;
to his; yet, had he mistook him, and sent to me,
should ne’er have denied his occasion so many talents,

Enter SERVILIUS.

Ser. See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord; I have
aes to see his honour.—[Yo Lucius.] My honoured
ord,—

Luc, Servilius! you are kindly met, sir. Fare thee
well: commend me to thy honourable-virtuous lord,
my very exquisite friend. 30

Ser. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent—

Luc. Ha! what has he sent? I am so much en-
deared to that lord; he’s ever sending: how shall I
oan him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent
now‘

Ser. He has only sent his present occasion, now, my
lord: requesting your lordship to supply his instant
use with so many talents.

Luc. I know, his lordship is but merry with me:
He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents.

Ser. But in the meantime he wants less, my lord.
If his occasion were not virtuous,

Ishould not urge it half so faithfully. _

Luc. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius ?

Ser. Upon my soul, ’t is true, sir.

Lue, at a wicked beast was I, to disfurnish my-
self against such a good time, when I might have
shown myself honourable! how unluckily it happened,
that I should purchase the day before for a little part,
and undo a great deal of honour !—Servilius, now,
before the gods, I am not able to do; the more beast,
I say.—I was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these
gentlemen can witness; but I would not, for the
wealth of Athens, I had done it now. Commend me
bountifully to his good lordship; and I hope, his
honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have
no power to be kind :—and tell him this from me, I
count it one of my greatest afflictions, say, that I
cannot pleasure such an honourable gentleman.
Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far, as to use
mine own words to him? 61

Ser. Yes, sir, I shall.

Luc, I'll look you out a good turn, Servilius.—

. [Exit SERVILIUS.
True, as you said, Timon is shrunk, indeed ; ;
And he that’s once denied will hardly speed. [Ezit.

1 Stran. Do you observe this, Hostilius?

2 Stran. Ay, too well. ;

1 Stran. Why, this is the world’s soul; and just of

the same piece
Is every flatterer’s sport. Who can call him his friend,
That dips in the same dish? for, in my knowing, 7
Timon has been this lord’s father,
And kept his credit with his purse,
Supported his estate ; nay, Timon’s money
Has paid his men their wages: he ne'er drinks,
But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip;
And yet (O, see the monstrousness of man,
When he looks out in an ungrateful shape !)
He does deny him, in respect of his,
What charitable men afford to beggars.

3 Stran. Religion groans at it.

1 Stran. For mine own part, 80
I never tasted Timon in my life,

Nor came any of his bounties over me,

 

 

 
 

Scene IV.)

TIMON OF ATHENS.

77

 

 

To mark me for his friend; yet, I protest,

For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue,

And honourable carriage,

Had his necessity made use of me,

I would have put my wealth into donation,

And the best half should have return’d to him,

So much I love his heart. But, I perceive,

Men must learn now with pity to dispense: 90
For policy sits above conscience. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same. A Room in SEMPRONIUS’S
House.

Enter SEMPRONIUS, and a Servant of TIMON’s.
Sem. Must he needs trouble me in’t?) Humph!
*bove all others?
He might have tried Lord Lucius, or Lucullus;
And now Ventidius is wealthy too,
Whom he redeem’d from prison: all these
Owe their estates unto him.
Serv. My lord,
They have all been touch’d, and found base metal ;
For they have all denied him.
Sem. How! have they denied him?
Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him?
And does he sendto me? Three? humph!
Itshows but little love or judgment in him:

10
Must I be his last refuge? His friends, like physi-:

cians,
Thrice give ae over! must I take the cure upon

me

He has much disgrac’d me in’t: Iam angry at him,

That niga have known my place. I see no sense

or ’t,

But his occasions might have woo’d me first ;

For, in my conscience, I was the first man

That e’er received gift from him:

And does he think so backwardly of me now,

That I’ll requite it last? No:

So it may prove an argument of laughter 20

To the rest, and I ’mongst lords be thought a fool.

Thad rather than the worth of thrice the sum,

He had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake ;

I had such a courage to do him good. But now

return, :
And with their faint reply this answer join:
Who bates mine honour, shall not know my coin 7
vit,

Serv. Excellent! Your lordship ’s a goodly villain.

The devil knew not what he did, when he made man

polite, he crossed himself by 't: and I cannot think,
ut, in the end, the villainies of man will set him clear.

How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! takes

virtuous copies to be wicked; like those that, under

hot ardent zeal, would set whole realms on fire. Of

such a nature is his politic love. 34

This was my lord’s best hope ; now all are fled,

Save only the gods, Now his friends are dead,

Doors, that were ne’er acquainted with their wards

Many a bounteous year, must be employ’d

Now to guard sure their master:

And this is all a liberal course allows ; 40

Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house; m

rit.

ScENE IV.—The Same. <A Hall in Trmon’s House.

Enter two Servants of VARRO, and the Servant of
Lucius, meeting TiTus, HoRTENSIUS, and other
Sernanes to Timon’s Creditors, waiting his coming
out.

1 Var. Serv. Well met; gdod morrow, Titus and

Hortensius.
Tit. The like to you, kind Varro. ;
Hor. Lucius!
What, do we meet together? :
Ine. Serv. Ay, and I think,

 

One business does command us all; for mine
Is money.

Tit. So is theirs and ours.

Enter PHILOTUS.
‘ And Sir Philotus too!
Phi. Good day at once.

Lue. Serv. Welcome, good brother.
we do you think the hour?

Luc. Serv

a. Labouring for nine.
Luc. Serv. So much?

Phi. Is not my lord seen yet?

Luc. Serv. Not yet.
Phi. I wonder on’t: he was wont to shine at seven.
Lue. Serv. Ay, but the days are wax’d shorter with

‘ him:
You must consider, that a prodigal course
- like the sun’s; but not, like his, recoverable.
ear,
*T is deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse ;
That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet

Find little.
Phi. I am of your fear for that.
Tit. I’ll show you how to observe a strange event.
Your lord sends now for money.
Hor. Most true, he does.
Tit. And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift,

For which I wait for money. 20
Hor. It is against my heart.
Luc. Serv. ark, how strange it shows.

Timon in this should pay more than he owes:
And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels,
And send for money for’em.
Hor. I’m weary of this charge, the gods can
witness:
I know, my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth,
And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth.
1 Var. Serv. Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns;
what’s yours ?
Luc. Serv. Five thousand mine.
1 Var. Serv. ’Tis much deep: and it should seem
by the sum, 30
Your master’s confidence was above mine;
Else, surely, his had equall'd.

Enter FLAMINIUS.

Tit. One of Lord Timon’s men.

Luce. Serv. Flaminius! Sir,a word. Pray, ismy lord
ready to come forth ?

Flam. No, indeed, he is not.

Tit. We attend his lordship: pray, signify so much.

Flam. I need not tell him that; he knows you are
too diligent. - [Exit.

Enter Fuavius in a cloak, muffled.
Lue. Serv. Ha! is not that his steward muffled so
He goes away ina cloud: cal] him, call him. 41
Tit. Do you hear, sir?
1 Var. Serv. By your leave, sir,—
Flav. What do you ask of me, my friend?
Tit. We wait for certain money here, sir.
Flav. Ay,
If money were as certain as your waiting,
*T were sure enough.
Why then preferr’d you not your sums and bills,
When your false masters ate of my lord’s meat?
Then they could smile, and fawn upon his debts, 50
And take down the interest into their gluttonous
maws.
You do yourselves but wrong, to stir me up;
Let me pass quietly :
Believe ’t, my lord and I have made an end;
I have no more to reckon, he to spend.
Lue. Serv. Ay, but this answer will not serve,
Flav. If ’t will not serve, ’t is not so base as you;
For you serve knaves. [Evxit.
1 Var. Serv. How! what does his cashier’d worship
mutter? 60
2 Var. Serv. No matter what: he’s poor, and that’s
revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he
that has no house to put his head in? such may rail
against great buildings.

 

 
 

778

TIMON OF ATHENS.

(Act TIL

 

 

Enter SERVILIUS.

Tit. O! here’s Servilius ; now we shall know some
answer, ;

Ser. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair
some other hour, I shouid derive much from it ; for,
take it on my soul, my lord leans wondrously to
discontent. is comfortable temper has forsook
him: he’s much out of health, and keeps his chamber.

Luc. Serv. Many do keep their chambers, are oe

sick :
And if it be so far beyond his health,
Methinks, he should the sooner pay his debts,
And make a clear way to the gods.
Ser. Good gods!
Tit. We cannot take this for answer, sir.
Flam. (Within.] Servilius, help!—my lord! my
lord!

Enter Timon, in a rage ; FLAMINIUS following.
Tim. What! are my doors oppos’d against my
passage ?
Have I been ever free, and must my house
Be my retentive enemy, my gaol? , 80
The place which I have feasted, does it now,
Like all mankind, show me an iron heart?
Lue. Serv. Put in now, Titus.
Tit. My lord, here is my bill.
Luc. Serv. Here’s mine,
Hor. And mine, my lord.
Both Var. Serv. And ours, my lord.
Phi. All our bills.
Tim. Knock me down with ‘em: cleave me to the
girdle.
Lue. Serv. Alas! my lord,— 90
Tim. Cut my heart in sums.
Tit. Mine, fifty talents.
Tim. Tell out my blood.
Luc. Serv. Five thousand crowns, my lord.
Tim, Five thousand drops pays that.—What yours ?
—and yours?
1 Var. Serv. My lord,—
2 Var. Serv. My lord,—
Tim. Tear me, take me; and the gods fall upon
you! (Exit.
Hor. ’Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their
caps at their money: these debts may well be called
desperate ones, for a madman owes’em, 101
[Exeunt.

Re-enter TIMON and FLavius.
Tim. They have e’en put my breath from me, the
slaves:
Creditors ?—devils!

Flav. My dear lord,—

Tim. What if it should be so?

Flav. My lord,—

Tim. J’ll have it so.—My steward!

Flav. Here, my lord.

Tim. So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again,
Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius ; all :

I’ll once more feast the rascals.

Flav. O my lord!
You only speak from your distracted soul:
There is not so much left to furnish out
A moderate table.

Tim. Be ’t not in thy care: go,

I charge thee; invite them all: let in the tide
Of knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide.
[Exeunt.

110

SceNE V.—The Same. The Senate-House.

The Senate sitting.
1 Sen. My lord, you have my voice to’t: the fault’s
bloody ;
°T is necessary he should die:
Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
2 Sen. Most true; the law shall bruise him.

Enter ALCIBIADES, attended.
Alcib. Honour, health, and compassion to thesenate!

 

1 Sen. Now, captain?
Alcib, 1am an humble suitor to your virtues;
For pity is the virtue of the law,
And none but tyrants use it cruelly.
It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy 10
Upon a friend of mine; who, in hot blood,
Hath stepp’d into the law, which is past depth
To those that without heed do plunge into 't.
He is a man, setting his fate aside,
Of comely virtues: *
Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice
(An honour in him, which buys out his fault) ;
But, with a noble fury, and fair spirit,
Seeing his reputation touch’d to death,
He did oppose his foe: 20
And with such sober and unnoted passion
He did behave his anger, ere ’t was spent,
As if he had but prov’d an argument.
1 Sen. You undergo too strict a paradox,
Striving to make an ugly deed look fair :
Your words have took such pains, as if they labour’d
To bring manslaughter into form, and set quarrelling
Upon the head of valour; which, indeed,
Is valour misbegot, and came into the world
When sects and factions were newly born. - 30
He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer
The worst that man can breathe ;
And make his wrongs his outsides,
To wear them like his raiment, carelessly ;
And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart,
To bring it into danger.
If wrongs be evils, and enforce us kill,
What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill!
Alcib. My lord,—
-1 Sen. You cannot make gross sins look clear:
To revenge is no valour, but to bear. 40
Alcib. My lords, then, under favour, pardon me,
If I speak like a captain.
Why do fond men expose themselves to battle,
And not endure all threats? sleep upon ’t,
And let the foes quietly cut their throats,
Without repugnancy? If there be
Such valour in the bearing, what make we
Abroad? why then, women are more valiant,
That stay at home, if bearing carry it ;
And the ass more captain than the lion; the felon 50
Loaden with irons wiser than the judge,
If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords!
As you are great, be pitifully good :
Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood ?
To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust ;
But in defence, by mercy ! *tis most just.
To be in anger, is impiety ;
But who is man that is not angry ?
Weigh but the crime with this.

2 Sen. You breathe in vain. :

Alcib. In vain? his service donc
At Lacedeemon, and Byzantium, 61
Were a sufficient briber for his life.

1 Sen. What’s that? .

Alcib. Why, I say, my lords, h’as done fair service,
And slain in fight many of your enemies.

How full of valour did he bear himself

In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds!
Sen. He has made too much plenty with ‘em;

He's a sworn rioter: he has a sin, that often j

Drowns him, and takes his valour prisoner : 70

If there were no foes, that were enough

To overcome him: in that beastly fury

He has been known to commit outrages

And cherish factions. ’T is inferr’d to us,

His days are foul, and his drink dangerous.

1 Sen. He dies. 3

Alcib. Hard fate! he might have died in war.
My lords, if not for any parts in him,— iy
Though his right arm might purchase his own time,
And be in debt to none,—yet, more to move you,
Take my deserts to his, and join ’em both:

And, for I know, your reverend ages love
Security, I’ll pawn my victories, all

My honour to you, upon his good returns.
If by this crime he owes the law his life,

 

 
 

SCENE V.] TIMON OF

ATHENS. 779

 

 

Why, let the war receive ’t in valiant gore; |

For law is strict, and war is nothing more.

1 Sen. We are for law: he dies; urge it no more,
On height of our displeasure. Friend, or brother,
He forfeits his own blood that spills another.

 

Tim.
Soft, take thy physic

Alcib. Must it be so? it must not be. My lords, 90 |
Ido beseech you, know me.

2 Sen. How!

Alcib. Call me to your remembrances.

3 Sen. What!

Alcib, I cannot think, but your age has forgot

me;
It could not else be I should prove so base,
To sue, and be denied such common grace.
My wounds ache at you.

1S

en. Do you dare our anger?

 

*T is in few words, but spacious in effect:
We banish thee for ever.

Alcib. Banish me?
Banish your dotage; banish usury,
That makes the senate ugly.

100

me
i Ho

TM LUO

“What. dost thou go?
first,—thou too,—and thou.”

1 Sen. If, after two days’ shine, Athens contain thee,
Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell
our spirit, .
He shall be executed presently. [Exeunt Senators.
Alcib. Now the gods keep you old enough; that you
may live
Only in bone, that none may look on you!
Iam worse than mad: I have kept back their foes,
While they have told their money, and let out
Their coin upon large interest ; I myself,

If,
Rich only in large hurts :—all those, for this? 110

 
 

780 TIMON OF

ATHENS. {Acr IIL.

 

 

Is this the balsam, that the usuring senate

Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment?

It comes not ill; I hate not to be banish’d:

It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury,

That I may strike at Athens. I’ll cheer up

My discontented troops, and lay for hearts.

’T is honour, with most lands to be at odds ;
Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. [Ezit.

 

ScENE VI.—A Banquet-hall in TiMon’s House.

Tables set out: Servants attending. Enter
divers Lords, at several doors,

1 Lord. The good time of day to you, sir.

2 Lord. I also wish it to you. I think, this honour-
able lord did but try us this other day. ed

1 Lord. Upon that were my thoughts tiring, when
we encountered. I hope, it is not so low with him, as
he made it seem in the trial of his several friends, |

2 Lord. It should not be, by the persuasion of his
new feasting.

1 Lord. TY should think so. He hath sent me an
earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did
urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond
them, and I must needs appear. 12

2 Lord. In like manner was I in debt to my impor-
tunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I
am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my
provision was out.

1 Lord. I am sick of that grief too, as I understand

how all things go.
What would he Haye

Music.

2 Lord. Every man here’s so.
borrowed of you?

1 Lord. A thousand pieces.

2 Lord. A thousand pieces!

1 Lord. What of you?

3 Lord. He sent to me, sir,—Here he comes.

Enter TIMON and Attendants.
Tim. With all my heart, gentlemen both :—and how

fare you?
1 Lord, Ever at the best, hearing well of your

lordship.
2 Lord. The swallow follows not summer more
willing than we your lordship. 30

Tim. [Aside.] Nor more willingly leaves winter;
such summer-birds are men. -[7’o them.] Gentlemen,
our dinner will not recompense this long stay: feast

your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so
oe on the trumpet’s sound; we shall to’t pre-
sently.

1 Lord. I hope, it remains not unkindly with your
lordship, that I returned you an empty messenger.

Tim. O, sir! let it not trouble you.

2 Lord. My noble lord,— 40

Tim. Ah! my good friend, what cheer?

[The banquet brought in.

2 Lord. My most honourable lord, Iam e’en sick of
shame, that, when your lordship this other day sent
to me, I was so unfortunate a beggar.

Tim. Think not on’t, sir.

2 Lord. If you had sent but two hours before,—

Tim. Let it not cumber your better remembrance.
—Come, bring in all together.

2 Lord. All covered dishes!

1 Lord. Royal cheer, I warrant you. 50

3 Lord. Doubt not that, if money, and the season,
can yield it.

1 Lord. How do you? What’s the news?

3 Lord. Alcibiades is banished : hear you of it?

1&2 Lord. Alcibiades banished!

 

3 Lord. ’T is 80, be sure of it.

1 Lord. How? how?

2 Lord. I pray you, upon what?

Tim. My worthy friends, will you draw ncar?

3 Lord. I'll tell you more anon. Here's a noble
feast toward. 61

2 Lord. This is the old man still.

3 Lord. Will’t hold? will’t hold?

2 Lord. It does; but time will—and so—

3 Lord. I do conceive.

Tim. Each man to his stool, with that spur as he
would to the lip of his mistress: your diet shall be in
all places alike. Make nota city feast of it, to let the
meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place: sit,
sit. The gods require our thanks. 70

You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with
thankfulness. For your own gifts make yourselves
ee but reserve still to give, lest your deities be

espised. Lend to each man enough, that one need
not lend to another: for, were your godheads to
borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make
the meat be beloved, more than the man that gives
it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of
villains: if there sit twelve women at the table, let a
dozen of them be—as they are.—The rest of your fees,
O gods !—the senators of Athens, together with the
common lag of people,—what is amiss in them, you
gods, make suitable for destruction. For these, my
present friends,--as they are to me nothing, ©o in
nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome.
Uncover, dogs, and lap.
[The dishes are uncovered and seem
to be full of warm water.

Some speak, What does his lordship mean ?

Some other. I know not.

Tim. May you a better feast never behold,

You knot of mouth-friends! smoke, and luke-warm
water, 90
Ts paler perfection. This is Timon’s last ;
Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries,
Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces
[Throwing water in their faces.
Your reeking villainy. Live loath’d, and long,
Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites,
Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears,
You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies,
Cap-and-knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks !
Of man, and beast, the infinite malady
Crust you quite o’er !—What, dost thou go? 100
Soft, take thy physic first,—thou too,—and thou :—
[Throws the dishes at them.
Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none.—
What, allin motion? Henceforth be no feast,
Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest.
Burn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be
Of Timon man and all humanity! [Exit.

Re-enter the Lords, with other Lords, and Senators.
1 Lord. How now, my lords?
2 Lord. Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s fury?
3 Lord. Push! did you see my cap?
4 Lord. I have lost my gown. 110
3 Lord. He ’s but a mad lord, and nought but humour
sways him. He gave me a jewel the other day, and
now re has beat it out of my hat :—did you see my
jewe
4 Lord. Did you see my cap?
2 Lord. Here ’tis.
4 Lord. Here lies my gown.
1 Lord. Let’s make no stay.
2 Lord. Lord Timon ’s mad.
3 Lord.
4 Lord. One day he gives us diamonds,
stones.

I feel ’t upon my bones.
next a

[Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—Without the Walls of Athens.
3} Enter Timon.

 
 
  
  
  
 
  
  
 

» Timon.
E'T me look ack upon thee. O thou
aul,

That girdlest in those wolves, dive
in the earth,

And fence not Athens!

turn incontinent!

Obedience fail in children!

and fools,

Pluck the grave wrinkled senate
trom the bench,

And minister in their steads! To
general filths

Convert o’ the instant, green vir-
ginity !

Do’t in your parents’ eyes! Bank-

rupts, hold fast;

Rather than render back, out with your knives,

And cut your trusters’ throats! Bound servants, steal!

eed robbers your pene masters are, ll

And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed ;

Thy mistress is o’the brothel! Son of sixteen,

Pluck ‘the lin’d crutch from ay old limping sire,

With it beat out his brains! Piety, and fear,

Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth,

Domestic awe, night-rest, and neighbourhood,

Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades,

Degrees, observances, customs, and laws,

Decline to your confounding contraries, 20

And yet confusion live! Plagues, incident to men,

Your potent and infectious fevers hea

On Athens, ripe forstroke! Thou cold sciatica,

Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt

As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty,

Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth,

That ’gainst the stream of virtue they may strive,

And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains,

Sow all the Athenian bosoms, and their crop

Be general leprosy! . Breath infect breath, 30

That their society, as their friendship, may

Be merely poison! Nothing I’ll bear from thee,

But nakedness, thou detestable town !

Take thou that too, with multiplying bans!

Timon will to the woods; where he shall find

The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind.

The gods confound (hear me, you good gods all)

The Athenians both within and out that wall!

And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow

To the whole race of mankind, high and low! 40

Amen. [Exit.

Matrons,

Slaves,

ScENnE II.—Athens. A Room in Timon’s House.

Enter Fiavivus, with two or three Servants.

1 Serv. Hear you, master steward! where’s our
master? .
Are we undone? cast off? nothing remaining?
Flav. Alack! my fellows, what should I say to you?
Let me be recorded by the righteous gods,
Iam as poor as you.
Serv. Such a house broke !
So noble a master fallen! All gone, and not
One friend to take his fortune by the arm,
And go along with him!

 

2 Serv. As we do turn our backs
From our companion thrown into his grave,
So his familiars to his buried fortunes |
Slink all away ; leave their false vows with him,
Like empty purses pick’d; and his poor selt,
A dedicated beggar to the air,
With his disease of all-shunn’d poverty,
Walks, like contempt, alone.—More of our fellows.

Enter other Servants.
Flav. All broken implements of a ruin’d house.
3 Serv. Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery,
That see I by our faces; we are fellows still,
Serving alike in sorrow. Leak’d is our bark ;
And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, 20
Hearing the surges threat : we must all part
Into the sea of air.
Flav. Good fellows all,
The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you.
Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake,
Let’s yet be fellows ; let’s shake our heads, and say,
As’t were a knell unto our master’s fortunes,
“We have seen better days.” Let each take some;
[Giving them money.
Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more:
Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. 4
They embrace, and part several ways.
O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! 30
Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt,
Since riches point to misery and contempt?
Who’d be so mock’d with glory? or so live
But in a dream of friendship ?
To have his pomp, and all what state compounds,
But only painted, like his varnish’d friends?
Poor honest lord! brought low by his own heart,
Undone by goodness. Strange, unusual blood,
When man’s worst sin is, he does too much good!
Who then dares to be half so kind again?
For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men.
My dearest lord,—bless’d, to be most accurs’d,
Rich, only to be wretched,—thy great fortunes
Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord!
He’s flung in rage from this ingratcful seat
Of monstrous friends ;
Nor has he with him to supply his life,
Or that which can command it.
I'll follow, and inquire him out:
I'll ever serve his mind with my best will; 50
Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still. . [Huzit.

ScENE III.—The Woods.

Enter TImMon.

Tim. O blessed-breeding sun! draw from the earth
Rotten humidity ; below thy sister’s orb
Infect the air! Twinn’d brothers of one womb,
Whose procreation, residence, and birth,
Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes;
The greater scorns the lesser: not nature
(To whom all sores lay siege) can bear great fortune,
But by contempt of nature.
Raise me this beggar, and deny ’t that lord;

| The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, 10

 

 
 

782 TIMON OF ATHENS.

{Act IV,

 

 

The beggar native honour.

It is the pasture lards the brother's sides,

The wn that makes him lean. Who dares, who
ares,

In purity of manhood stand upright,

And say ‘ This man’s a flatterer?” if one be,

So are they all; for every grise of fortune

Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate

Ducks to the golden fool. All is oblique;

There's nothing level in our cursed natures,

But direct villainy. Therefore, be abhorr’d 20

All feasts, societies, and throngs of men!

His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains:

ase

    

  

       
     

Tim. “Therefore, be abhorr'd
All feasts, socleties, and throngs of men!"

Destruction fang mankind !—Earth, yield me roots!

: . [Digging.
Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate
With thy most operant poison !—What is here?
Gold? yellow, pUrIng, precious gold? No, gods,
Iam no idle votarist. oots, you clear heavens!
Thus gk er of this will make black, white; foul,

‘air;

Wrong, right ; base, noble; old, young; coward,

Ha you code why thtsl WRat th
a! you gods, why this Vhat this, you gods?
Whe. this : = 30

Will lug your priests and servants from your sides,

Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads.

This yellow slave

Will knit and break religions ; bless the accurs’d ;

Make the hoar leprosy ador’d; place thieves,

And give them title, knee, and approbation,

With senators on the bench: this is it,

That makes the wappen‘d widow wed again;

She, whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores

Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices 40

To the April day again. Come, damned earth,

Thou common whore of mankind, that putt’st odds

Among the rout of nations, I will make thee

Do thy right nature.—[March afar off.] Ha! a drum?
—Thou’rt quick,

But yet I'll bury thee: thou It go, strong thief,

When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand :—

Nay, stay thou out for carnest. [Reserving some gold.

Enter ALCIBIADES, with drum and fife, in warlike
manner; and PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA.
Alcib. What art thou there? speak.

 

Tim. A Beat, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy
t eart,
For showing me again the eyes of man!

«llicib. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to

ee,

That art thyself a man?

Tim. [am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.

Alcib. I know thee well;
But in thy fortunes am unlearn’d and strange.

Tim. I know thee too; and more, than that I know

thee,
I not desire to know. Follow thy drum:
With man’s blood paint the ground, gules, gules:
Religious canons, civil laws are cruel;
Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine

Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, 61
For all her cherubin look.
Phry. Thy lips rot off!

Tim. 1 will not kiss thee ; then the rot returns
To thine own lips again.

Alcib. How came the noble Timon to this change?

Tim. As the moon does, by wanting light to give:
But then, renew I could not, like the moon ;

There were no suns to borrow of.

Alcib. Noble Timon, what friendship may I do thee?

Tim. None, but to maintain my opinion. 70

Alcib. What is it, Timon?

Tim. Promise me friendship, but perform none: if
thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou
art a man! if thou dost perform, confound thee, for
thou art a man!

Alcib. [have heard in some sort of thy miseries,

Tim. Thou saw’st them, when I had prosperity.

Alcib. Isee them now; then was a blessed time.

Tim. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots.

Timan. Is this the Athenian minion, whom the world

Voiced so regardfully ?
Art thou Timandra?
Yes. 81

Tim.
Timan.
Tim. Hee whore still! they love thee not that use
ee:
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours ; season the slaves
For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth
To the tub-fast and the diet.
Timan. Hang thee, monster!
Alcib. Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wits
Are drown’d and lost in his calamities.—
I have but little gold of late, brave Timon,
The want whereof doth daily make revolt 90
In my penurious band: I have heard and griev’d,
How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth,
Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states,
But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them,—
Tim. I pr’ythee, beat thy drum, and get thee gone.
Alcib. 1am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon.
Tim. How dost thou pity him, whom thou dost
trouble?
I had rather be alone.

Alctb. Why, fare thee well: 98
Here is some gold for thee. . .
Tim. Keep it, I cannot eat it.

Alcib. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap,—
Tim. Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens?
Alcib. Ay, Timon, and have cause.
Tim. The gods confound them all in thy conquest ;
And thee after, when thou hast conquered !
Alcib. Why me, Timon? ae Atnss
Tim. That, by killing of villains,
Thou wast born to conquer my country.
Put up thy gold: go on,—here’s gold,—go on ;
Be as a planetary plague, when Jove :
Will o’er some high-vic’d city hang his poison,
In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one.
Pity not honour’d age for his white beard; 110
He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron ;
It. is her habit only that is honest,
Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek
Make soft thy trenchant sword : for those milk-paps,
That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes,

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

TIMON OF ATHENS. 783

 

 

Are not within the leaf of pity writ,
But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the
abe,

Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy:
‘Think it a bastard, whom the oracle
Hath doubtfully pronounc’d thy throat shall cut, 120
And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects ;
Put armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes,
Whose Peres nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes,
Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding,
Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers:
Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,
Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone.

Alcib. Hast thou gold yet? I'll take the gold thou

giv’st me,

Not all thy counsel.

Tim. Dost thou, or dost thou not, heaven’s curse

upon thee! :

Phr. & Timan. Give us some gold, good Timon:

hast thou more?

Tim. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade,
And to make whores, a bawd. Hold up, you sluts,
Your aprons mountant: you are not oathable,—
Although, I know, you'll swear, terribly swear,

Into strong shudders, and to heavenly agues,

The immortal gods that hear you,—spare your oaths,
I'll trust to your conditions: be whores still] ;

And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you,

Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up;

Let your close fire predominate his smoke, 4 :
And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains, six
months,

Be quite contrary: and thatch your poor thin roofs
With burdens of the dead :—some that were hang’d,
No matter:—wear them, betray with them: whore

still ;
Paint: till a horse may mire upon your face:
A pox of wrinkles!
Phe. & Timan. Well, more gold.—What then ?—
Believe ’t, that we’ll do anything for gold.
Tim. Consumptions sow — :
In hollow bones of man! strike their sharp shins,
And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice,
That he may never more false title plead,
or sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen,
That scolds against the quality of flesh,
And not believes himself: down with the nose,
Down with it flat; take the bridge quite away
Of him, that, his particular to foresee,
Smells from the general weal: make curl’d-pate
ruffians bald ;
And let the unscarr’d braggarts of the war 160
Derive some pain from you. Plague all,
That your activity may defeat and quell
‘The source of all erection.—There’s more gold:
Do zon damn others, and let this damn you,
And ditches grave you all!
Phr. & Timan. More counsel with more money,
bounteous Timon. :
Tim. More whore, more mischief first; I have given
ou earnest.
Alcib. Strike up the drum towards Athens! Fare-
a thrive well, I'll visit thee again.

well, Timon:
"im. If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more.
Alcib. I never did thee harm.
Tim. Yes, thou spok’st well of me.
Alcib. Call’st thou that harm?
Tim. Men daily find it. .
Get thee away, and take thy beagles with thee.
Alcib. We but offend him.—Strike!
[Drum beats. Exeunt ALCIBIADES,
PHRYNIA, and TIMANDRA,
Tim. That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness,
Should yet be hungry !—_Common mother, thou,
(Digging.
‘Whose womb unmeasurable, and infinite breast,
Teems, and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle,
hereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff’d, 180
Engenders the black toad, and adder blue,
The gilded newt, and eyeless venom’d worm,
With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven

150

170

 

Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine ;
Yield him, who all thy human sons doth hate,
From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root !
Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb,

Let it no more bring out ingrateful man!

Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears;
Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face 190
Hath to the marbled mansion all above

Never presented !—O! a root,—dear thanks !—
pe up thy marrows, vines, and plough-torn leas ;
Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts,
And morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind,
That from it all consideration slips!

Enter APEMANTUS.

More man? Plague! plague!
Apem. I was directed hither: men report,

Thou dost affect my manners, and dost use them.
Tim. ’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog,
Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch thee! 201

Apem. This is in thee a nature but infected ;
A poor unmanly melancholy, sprung
From change ot fortune. Why this spade? this place?
This slave-like habit ? and these looks of care ?
Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft,
Hug their diseas’d perfumes, and have forgot
That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods,
By putting on the cunning of a carper.
Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive
By that which has undone thee: hinge thy knee,
And let his very breath, whom thou ’lt observe,
Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain,
And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus;
Thou gav’st thine ear, like tapsters that bid welcome,
To knayes, and all approachers : ’t is most just,
That thou turn rascal ; hadst thou wealth again,
Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness.
Tim. Were [ like thee, I’d throw away myself.
Apem. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like
thyself ; 220
A madman so long, now a fool. What! think’st
That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain,
Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these moss'd

210

trees,
That have outliv’d the eagle, page thy heels,
And skip when thou point’st out? Will the cold

brook,
Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste,
To cure thy o’er-night’s surfeit? Call the creatures,—
Whose naked natures live in all the spite
Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks.
To the conflicting elements expos’d,
Answer mere nature,—bid them flatter thee ;
O! thou shalt find—
Tim. A fool of thee. Depart.
Apem. I love thee better now than e’er I did.
Tim. I hate thee worse.
Why?

Thou flatter’st misery.
Buen I flatter not, but say thou arta caitiff.

7
A

o

m. Why dost thou seek me out?
em. ea To vex thee.
Tim. Always a villain’s office, or a fool’s.
Dost please thyself in’t?

y-

. : What! a knave too?

Apem. If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on

To castigate thy pride, ’t were well; but thou 240

Dost it inforcedly : thou’dst courtier be again,

Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery

Outlives incertain pomp, is crown’d before ;

The one is filling still, never complete ;

The other, at high wish: best state, contentless,

Hath a distracted and most wretched being,

Worse than the worst, content,

Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.
Tim. Not by his breath that is more miserable,

Thou art a slave, whom Fortune’s tender arm 250

With favour never clasp’d, but bred a dog.

Hadst thou, like us, from our first swath, proceeded

The sweet degrees that this brief world affords

To such as may the passive drudges of it

 

 
 

784 TIMON OF ATHENS.

[Act IV.

 

 

 

 

Freely command, thou wouldst have plung’d thyself

In general riot; melted down thy yout

In different beds of lust; and never learn’d

The icy precepts of respect, but follow’d

The sugar’d game before thee. But myself,

Who had the world as my confectionary ; 260

The mouths, the Mess ocr the eyes, and hearts of men

At duty, more than I could frame employment ;

That numberless upon me stuck, as leaves

Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush

Fell from their boughs, and left me open, bare

For every storm that blows ;—I, to bear this,

That never knew but better, is some burden:

Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time

Hath made Bee hard in’t. Why shouldst thou hate
men

They never flatter’d thee: what hast thou given? 270

If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag,

Must be thy subject; who, in spite, put stutf

To some she beggar, and compounded thee

Poor rogue hereditary. Hence! be gone !—

If thou hadst not been born the worst of men,

Thou hadst been a knave, and flatterer.

Apem. Art thou proud yet?

Tim. Ay, that I am not thee.

Apem. I, that I was no prodigal.

am. I, that Iam one now:
Were all the wealth I have, shut up in thee,
I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone.— 280
That the whole life of Athens were in this!
Thus would I eat it. [Eating a root.

Apem. Here ; I will mend thy feast.

[Offering him something.

Tim. First mend my company, take away thyself.

Apem. a I shall mend mine own, by the lack of

thine.

Tim. ’T is not well mended so, it is but botch’d;

If not, I would it were.

dApem. What wouldst thou have to Athens?

Tim. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt,
Tell them there I have gold: look, so I have.

Apem. Here is no use for gold.

Tim. The best and truest ;
For here it sleeps, and does no hired harm. 291

Apem. Where liest 0’ nights, Timon?

im. Under that’s above me.
Where feed'st thou o’ days, Apemantus ?

Apem. Where my stomach finds meat; or, rather,
where I eat it.

Ee ‘Would poison were obedient, and knew my
mind!

Apem. Where wouldst thou send it ?

Tim. To sauce thy dishes. 299

Apem. The middle of humanity thou never knewest,
but the extremity of both ends. When thou wast in
thy gilt, and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too
much curiosity ; in thy rags thou knowest none, but
art despised for the contrary.
thee ; eat it.

Tim. On what I hate I feed not.

Apem. Dost hate a medlar?

Tim. Ay, though it look like thee.

Apem. An thou hadst hated meddlers sooner, thou
shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man
didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved after
his means? 312

Tim. Who, without those means thou talkest of,
didst thou ever know beloved?

lpem. Myself.

Tim. T understand thee: thou hadst some means to
keep a dog.

Apem. What things in the world canst thounearest
compare to thy flatterers?

Tim. Women nearest ; but men, men are the things
themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world,
Apemantus, if it lay in thy power? 322

Apem. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men.

im. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the con-
fusion of men, and remain a beast with the beasts?

Apem, Ay, Timon.

7m, A beastly ambition, which the gods grant
thee to attain to. If thou wert the lion, the fox would

There’s a medlar for

 

beguile thee : if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat
thee: if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect
thee, when, peradventure, thou wert accused by the
ass: if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment
thee, and still thou livedst but as a breakfast to the
wolf: if thou wert the wolf, thy greedines3 would
afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for
thy dinner: wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath
would confound thee, and make thine own self the
conquest of thy fury : wert thou a bear, thou wouldst
be killed by the horse : wert thou a horse, thou wouldst
be seized by the leopard : wert thou a leopard, thou
wert german to the lion, and the spots of thy kindred
were jurors on thy life; all thy safety were remotion,
and thy defence,absence. What beast couldst thou be,
that were not subject to a beast ? and what a beast art
thou already, that seest not thy loss in transformation!

Apem. If thou couldst please me with speaking to
me, thou mightst have hit upon it here: the common-
wealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

Tim. How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art
out of the city? 350

.lpem. Yonder comes a poet, and a painter. The
plague of company light upon thee! will fear to
catch it, and give way. When I know not what else
to do, I'll see thee again.

Tim, When there is nothing living but thee, thou
shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog,
than Apemantus.

«lpem. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive.

im. "Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon.
Apem. A plague on thee, thou art too bad to curse.
Tim. All villains that do stand by thee are pure. 361
Apem. There is no leprosy but what thou speak'st.
Tim, If I name thee.—

I'll beat thee,—but I should infect my hands.
Apem. I would my tongue could rot them off!
Tim. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog!

Choler does kill me, that thou art alive ;

I swoon to see thee.

«lpem. ’Would thou wouldst burst !

Tim. Away, thou tedious rogue!
Iam sorry I shall lose a stone by thee. 370

Throws a stone at him.

Apem. Beast!

Tim. Slave !

afpem. Toad!

Tim. Rogue, rogue, rogue!

|[APEMANTUS retreats backward, as going.

Iam sick of this false world, and will love nought

But even the mere necessities upon ‘t.

Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave:

Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat

‘Thy grave-stone daily : make thine epitaph,

That death in me at others’ lives may laugh. 380

[Looking on the gold.] O thou sweet king-killer, and

dear divorce

*Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler

Of Hymen’s purest bed! thou valiant Mars!

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer,

Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

That lies on Dian’s lap! thou visible god,

That solder’st close impossibilities,

And mak’st them kiss! that speak’st with every

tongue,

To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts!

Think, thy slave man rebels; and by thy virtue 390

Set them into confounding odds, that beasts

May have the world in empire !

Apem. ’Would ’t were so;
But not till Iam dead !—I ll say, thou 'st gold:
sail wilt be throng’d to shortly.

im.

Apem.
Tim. Thy back, I pr'ythee. é
gee ‘ Live, and love thy misery !
tm. Long live so, and so die !—I am quit.—
: [Exit APEMANTUS.
More things like men?—Eat, Timon, and abhor them.

Enter Thieves.
1 Thief. Where should he have this gold?

Throng’d to?

It is

 

 
 

ScENE III]

TIMON OF ATHENS.

785

 

 

 

some fragment, some slender ort of his remainder.
The mere want of gold, and the falling-from of his
friends, drove him into this melancholy. 40.

2 Thief. It is noised he hath a mass of treasure.

3 Thicf. Let us make the assay upon him: if he
care not for ’t, he will supply us easily ; if he covetously
reserve it, how shall’s get it?

2 Thief. True; for he bears it not about him, ’tis

1 Thief. Is not this he?

All. Where?

2 Thief. "Tis his description.
3 Thief. He; I know him.

410

 

3 Thief. “ Let us make the assay upon him,”

All, Save thee, Timon.

Tim. Now, thieves?

All. Soldiers, not thieves.

Tim. Both too ; and women’s sons.

All. We are not thieves, but men that much do

want.
Tim. Your greatest want is, you want much of

: meat.
Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots ;
Within this mile break forth a hundred springs ;
The oaks bear mast, the briers scarlet hips; 420
The bounteous housewife, Nature, on each bush
Lays her full mess before you. Want! why want?
1 Thief. We cannot live on grass, on berries, water,
As beasts, and birds, and fishes.
Tim. nee the beasts themselves, the birds, and
shes ;
You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con,
That you are thieves prereset, that you work not
In holier shape ; for there is boundless theft
In limited professions. Rascal thieves,
Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ the grape,
Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, 431
And so ’scape hanging. Trust not the physician ;
His antidotes are poison, and he slays
- More than you rob. Take wealth and lives together ;
Do villainy, do, since you protest to do ’t,
Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery :
The sun’s a thief, and with his great attraction
Robs the vast sea ; the moon’s an arrant thief,
And her pale fire she snatches from the sun ;
The sea ’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves
The moon into salt tears ; the earth’s a thief,
That feeds and breeds by a composture stolen
From general excrement; each thing’s a thief;
The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power
Have uncheck’d theft. Love not yourselves; away!
Rob one another. There’s more gold: cut throats;
ll that you meet are thieves. To Athens, go:
reak open. shops nothing can you steal,
But thieves do lose it. Steal not less, for this
give you; 450
And gold confound you howsoe’er! Amen.

440

[Retires to his cave.

 

3 Thief. He has almost charmed me from my pro-
fession, by persuading me to it. :

1 Thief. "Tis in the malice of mankind, that he
thus advises us ; not to have us thrive in our mystery.

2 Thief. I'll believe him as an enemy, and give
over my trade, .

1 Thief. Let us first see peace in Athens; there is
no time so miserable, but a man may be true.

[Exeunt Thieves.
Enter FLAvivus.

Flav. O you gods!
Is yond despis’d and ruinous man my lord?
Full of decay and failing? O monument
And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow’d!
What an alteration of honour
Has desperate want made! . :
What vilder thing upon the earth, than friends,
Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends?
How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise,
When man was wish’d to love his enemies!
Grant, I may ever love, and rather woo
Those that would mischief me, than those that do!
He has caught me in his eye: I will present
My honest grief unto him ; and, as my lord,
Still serve him with my life.—My dearest master !

460

TIMON comes forward from his cave.

Tim. Away! what art thou?

Flav. Have you forgot me, sir?
Tim. Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men;
Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot

t

Flav. An honest poor servant of yours.
Tim. Then I know thee not:
I never had honest man about me; ay, all
I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains. 480
Fiav. The gods are witness,
Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief
For his undone lord, than mine eyes for you.
Tim. What! dost thou weep?—Come nearer: then,
I love thee,
Because thou art a woman, and disclaim’st
Flinty mankind; whose eyes do never give,
But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping:
Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with
weeping !
Flav. I beg of you to know me, good my Iord,
To accept my grief, and, whilst this poor wealth
lasts, 490
To entertain me as your steward still.
Tim. Had I a steward
So true, so just, and now so comfortable?
It almost turns my dangerous nature wild.
Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man
Was born of woman.—
Forgive my general and exceptless rashness,
You perpetual-sober gods! I do proclaim
One honest man,—mistake me not,— but one;
No more, I pray,—and he’s a steward.—-
How fain would I have hated all mankind,
And thou redeem’st thyself: but all, save thee,
I fell with curses.
Methinks, thou art more honest now than wise;
For, by oppressing and betraying me,
Thou mightst have sooner got another service:
For many so arrive at second masters,
Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true,
(Por I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure,)
Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, 510
If not a usuring kindness ; and as rich men deal gifts,
Expecting in return twenty for one?
lav. No, my most worthy master ; in whose breast
Doubt and suspect, alas! are plac’d too late.
You auould Have fear'd false times, when you did
east:
Suspect still comes where an estate is least.
That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love,
Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind,
Care of your food and living: and, believe it,
My most honour’d lord,
For any benefit that points to me,

500

520

 

 

5°
 

 

786 TIMON OF ATHENS. ~ [Act IV.

 

Either in hope, or present, I’d exchange Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted
For this one wish,—that you had power and wealth woods,
To requite me by making rich yourself. And may diseases lick up their false bloods !

Tim. Look thee, ’t is so.—Thou singly honest man, And so, farewell, and thrive.

 

 

Flav. ‘‘ The gods are witness,
Neer did poor steward wear a truer erief
For his undone lord, than mine eyes for you.”

 

Here, take :--the gods out of my misery | Flav. O! let me stay,
Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich, and happy; | And comfort you, my master.

But thus condition’d: thou shalt build from men ; Tim. If thou hat'st
Hate all, curse all; show charity to none, | Curses, stay not; fly, whilst thou art bless ‘d and
But let the famish’d flesh slide from the bone, 530 ree:

Ere thou relieve the beggar ; give to dogs |

eet
Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee.
What thou deniest to men ; let prisons swallow ’em, E:

‘ceunt severally.

sees
 

 

 

ACT V.

Scene I.—The Same.

» Painter.
q~ SI took note of the place, it cannot be
far where he abides.

Poet. What’s to be thought of him?
{* Does the rumour hold for true, that he
W is so full of gold?

Pain. Certain: Alcibiades reports it ;
Phrynia and Timandra had gold o
him: he likewise enriched poor strag-

  

gling soldiers with great quantity. "Tis

VSG \ said he gave unto his steward a mighty
i /(( sum. Il

ry 19) Poet. Then this breaking of his has

been but a try for his friends,

Pain. Nothing else; you shall see
him a palm in Athéns again, and
flourish with the highest. Therefore,
*tis not_amiss, we tender our loves to
him, in this supposed distress of his: it will show
honestly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes
with what they travel for, if it be a just and true
report that goes of his having. 21

oet. What have you now to present unto him ?

Pain. Nothing at this time but my visitation ; only
I will promise him an excellent piece.

Poet. I must serve him so too; tell him of an intent
that ’s coming toward him.

Pain. Good as the best. Promising is the very air
o’ the time: it opens the eyes of expectation: per-
formance is ever the duller for his act; and, but in
the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of
saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly
and fashionable : performance is a kind of will, or
testament, which argues a great sickness in his judg-
ment that makes it.

Enter TImMon, from his cave.

Tim. [Aside.] Excellent workman !
not paint a man so bad as is thyself.
Poet. I am thinking, what I shall say I have pro-
vided for him. It must be a personating of himself:
a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a
discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth
and opulency. : 41
Tim. [Aside.] Must thou needs stand for a villain in
thine own work? Wilt thou whip thine own faults in
other men? Do so; I have gold for thee.
Poet. Nay, let’s seek him:
Then do we sin against our own estate,
en we may profit meet, and come too late.
Pain. True:
When the day serves, before black-corner’d night,
Find what thou want’st by free and offer’d light. 50
ome,
Tim. [Aside.] I11 meet you at the turn. Whata
god’s gold,
That he is worshipp’d in a baser temple,
Than where swine feed!
Tis thou that rigg’st the bark, and plough’st the foam;
Settlest admired reverence in a slave:
To thee be eo: and thy saints for aye
Be crown’d with plagues, that thee alone obey !
it I meet them.
Poet. Hail, worthy Timon!
Pain. Our late noble master.
Tim. Have I once liv’d to see two honest men? 61

Thou canst

[Advancing.

 

Before Trmon’s Cave.

Enter Poct and Painter.

Poet. Sir,
Having often of your open bounty tasted,
Hearing you were retir’d, your friends fall’n off,
Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits !
Not all the whips of heaven are large enough—
What! to you, :
Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence
To their whole being! I am rapt, and cannot cover
The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude
With any size of words.

Tim. Let it go naked, men may see’t the better:
You, that are honest, by being what you are,

Make them best seen, and known,

Pain, He, and myself,
Have travell'd in the great shower of your gifts,
And sweetly felt it.

Tim. Ay, you are honest men.

Pain. We are hither come to offer you our service.

Tim. Most epee men! Why, how shall I requite

you :
Can you eat roots, and drink cold water? no.
Both, What we can do, we’ll do, to do you service.

Tim. You are honest men. You have heard that I

have gold; 81

I am sure you have: speak truth; you are honest
men.

Pain. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore
Came not my friend, nor I.

Tim. Good honest men !—Thou draw’st a counterfeit
Best in all Athens : thou art, indeed, the best ;

Thou counterfeit’st most lively.

Pain. So, so, my lord.

Tim, Even so, sir, as I say.—And, for thy fiction,
Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth,
That thou art even natural in thine art.— 9
But, for all this, my honest-natur'd friends,

I must needs say, you have a little fault:
Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you; neither wish I,
You take much pains to mend.

Both.

To make it known to us.

Beseech your honour,

Tim. You'll take it ill.
Both. Most thankfully, my lord.
Th Will you, indeed ?

im.
Both. Doubt it not, worthy lord.
Tim. There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave,

That mightily deceives you.
Both. Do we, my lord?

Tim. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble,

Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him, 01

Keep in your bosom; yet remain assur’d,

That he’s a made-up villain.

Pain. I know none such, my lord.
Poct. or I.
Tim. Look you, I love you well; Ill give you gold,

Rid me these villains from your companies:

Hang them, or stab them, drown them in a draught,

Confound them by some course, and come to me,

I'll give you gold enough.

Both. Name them, my lord; let’s know them. 110
Tim. You that way, and you this, but two in com-
pany :—

Each man apart, all single and alone,

Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. 3

[To the Painter.] If, where thou art, two villains

shall not be,

 

 
 

788 TIMON OF ATHENS.

[Act V.

 

 

 

Come not near him.—[ To the Poct.] If thou wouldst
not reside

But where one villain is, then him abandon.—

Hence! pack! there’s gold; ye came for gold, ye
slaves:

You have work for me, there’s payment: hence!

You are an alchymist, make gold of that.

Out, rascal dogs! 120

(Exit, beating and driving them out.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter Fiavius and two Senators.
Flav. It is in vain that you would speak with

'imon ;

For he is set so only to himself, :
That nothing but himself, which looks like man,
Is friendly with him.

1 Sen. Bring us to his cave :
It is our part, and promise to the Athenians,
To speak with Timon.

Sen. At all times alike

Menare not still the same. ’*T was time, and griefs,
That fram’d him thus: time, with his fairer hand,
Offering the fortunes of his former days,
‘The former man may make him. Bring us to him, 10
And chance it as it may.

Flav. Here is his cave.—
Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon!
Look out, and speak to friends. The Athenians,
By two of their most reverend senate, greet thee:
Speak to them, noble Timon.

Enter Timon.
Tim. Thou sun, that comfort’st, burn !—Speak, and
be hang’d:
For each true word, a blister; and each false
Be as a cauterising to the root o’ the tongue,
Consuming it with speaking!
Sen. Worthy Timon,—
Tim. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. 20
2 Sen. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon.
Tim. I thank them; and would send them back the

plague,

Could I but catch it for them.

1 Sen. O! forget
What we are sorry for ourselves in thee.
The senators, with one consent of love,
Entreat thee back to Athens; who have thought
On special dignities, which vacant lie
For thy best use and wearing.

Sen. They confess

Toward thee forgetfulness too general, gross;
Which now the public body,—which doth seldom 30
Play the recanter,—feeling in itself
A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal
Of its own fall, restraining aid to Timon;
And send forth us, to make their sorrowed render,
Together with a recompense more fruitful
Than their offence can weigh down by the dram;
Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth,
As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs,
And write in thee the figures of their love, :
Ever to read them thine.

Tim. You witch me in it; 40
Surprise me to the very brink of tears:
Lend me a fool’s heart, and a woman’s eyes,
And I’ll beweep these comforts, worthy senators.

1 Sen. Therefore, so please thee to return with us,
And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take
The poplin thou shalt be met with thanks,
Allow’d with absolute power, and thy good name
Live with authority :—so soon we shall drive back
Of Alcibiades the approaches wild ;
Who, like a boar too savage, doth root up 50
His country’s peace.

2 Sen. And shakes his threat’ning sword
Against the walls of Athens.

1 Sen. Therefore, Timon,—

Tim. Well, sir, I will; therefore, I will, sir, thus :—

 

If Alcibiades kill my countrymen,

Let Alcibiades know this of Timon,

That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens,

And take our goodly aged men by the beards,

Giving our holy virgins to the stain

Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain’d war,

Then, let him know,—and tell him, Timon speaks
60

it,—
In pity of our aged, and our youth,
I cannot choose but tell him, that I care not,
And let him take ’t at worst; for their knives care

not,

While you have throats to answer ; for myself,

There’s not a whittle in the unruly camp,

But I do prize it at my love, before

The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave you

To the protection of the prosperous gods,

As thieves to keepers.

Flav. Stay not: all’s in vain.
Tim. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; 70

It will be seen to-morrow. My long sickness

Of health, and living, now begins to mend,

And nothing brings me all things. Go; live still:

Be Alcibiades your plague, you his,

And last so long enough !

1 Sen. We speak in vain. -
Tim. But yet Ilove my country, and am not

One that rejoices in the common wrack,

As common bruit doth put it. a
1 Sen. That ’s well spoke.
Tim. Commend me to my loving countrymen,—

1 Sen. These words become your lips as they pass
through them. 80
2 Sen. And enter in our ears like great triumphers

In their applauding gates.
Tim. Commend me to them; .

And tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs,

Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses,

Their pangs of love, with other incident throes

That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain

In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do

em:

I'll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ wrath.
2 Sen. I like this well ; he will return again.
Tim. I havea tree which grows here in my close, 90
That mine own use invites me to cut down,
And shortly must I fell it ; tell my friends,
Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree,
From high to low throughout, that whoso please
To stop affliction, let him take his haste,
Come hither, ere my tree hath felt the axe,
And hang himself.—I pray you, do my greeting.
Flav. Trouble him no further ; thus you still shall
find him
Tim. Come not to me again ; but say to Athens,
Timon hath made his everlasting mansion I
Upon the beached verge of the salt flood ;
hom once a day with his embossed froth
The turbulent surge shall cover : thither come,
And let my grave-stone be your oracle.—
Lips, let sour words go by, and language end:
at is amiss, plague and infection mend! |
Graves only be men’s works, and death their gain!
Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath donc his rele :
zit.
1 Sen. His discontents are unremovably
Coupled to nature. 10
2 Sen. Our hope in him is dead. Let us return,
And strain what other means is left unto us
In our dear peril.
Sen. It requires swift foot. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Walls of Athens.

Enter two Senators and a Messenger.
1 Sen. Thou hast painfully discover'’d : are his files .
As full as thy report? ‘i
Mess. I have spoke the least ;
Besides, his expedition promises
Present approach.

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

TIMON OF ATHENS. 789

 

2 Sen. We stand much hazard, if they bring not
Timon.

Mess. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend,
Whom, though in general part we were oppos’d,
Yet our old love made a particular force,
And made us speak like friends :—this man was riding
From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave, 10
“With letters of entreaty, which imported
His fellowship 7’ the cause against your city,
In part for his sake mov’d.

finter the Senators from TIMon.

1 Sen. Here come our brothers.
3 Sen. No talk of Timon ; nothing of him expect.—

 

“wt ~
aS BRS ESE Se
eS een ER WE
old. “ What's on this tomb
I cannot read ; the character I'll take with wax.”

The enemy’s drum is heard, and fearful scouring
Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare:
Ours is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare. [Kxeunt.

Scene IV.—The Woods. T1Mon’s Cave, and a
Tomb-stone seen.

Enter a Soldier, seeking TIMON.

Sold. By all seen iia this should be the place.
Who’s here? speak, ho !—No answer ?—What is this?
Timon is dead, who hath outstretch’d his span :

Some beast made this; there does not live a man.
Dead, sure ; and this his grave.—What’s on this tomb
I cannot read ; the character I'll take with wax:

Our captain hath in every figure skill ;

An ag'd interpreter, though young in days.

Before proud Athens he’s set down by this,

Whose fall the mark of his ambition is, IE -
att.

ScENE V.—Before the Walls of Athens.

Trumpets sound. Enter ALCIBIADES and Forces.

Alcib. Sound to this coward and lascivious town
Our terrible approach. [A parley sounded.

Enter Senators on the walls.
Till now you have gone on, and fill’d the time
With all licentious measure, making your wills
The scope of justice : till now, myself, and such
As slept within the shadow of your power,
Have wander’d with our travers’d arms, and breath'd
Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush,
When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,

 

Cries of itself, ‘‘No more :” now breathless wrong 10
Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease ;
And pursy insolence shall break his wind
With fear, and horrid flight.
1 Sen. Noble, and young,
When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit,
Ere thou hadst power, or we had cause of fear,
We sent to thee; to give thy rages balm,
To wipe out our ingratitude with loves
Above their quantity.
2 Sen. So did we woo
Transformed Timon to our city’s love,
By humble message, and by promis’d means: 20
e were not all unkind, nor all deserve
The common stroke of war.
1 Sen, These walls of ours
Were not erected by their hands, from whom
You have receiv’d your grief; nor are they such,
That there great towers, trophies, and schools, should

a
For private faults in them.

2 Sen. Nor are they living,
Who were the motives that you first went out ;
Shame, that they wanted cunning in excess,
Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord,
Into our city with thy banners spread: 30
By decimation, and a tithed death,
(If thy revenges hunger for that food
Which nature loathes,) take thou the destin’d tenth;
And, by the hazard of the spotted die,
Let die the spotted.

1 Sen. All have not offended ;
For those that were, it is not square to take,
On those that are, revenge: crimes, like lands,
Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman,
Bring in thy ranks, but leave without thy rage:
Spare thy Athenian cradle, and those kin, 40
Which, in the bluster of thy wrath, must fall
With those that have offended. Like a shepherd,
Approach the fold, and cull the infected forth,
But kill not all together.

2 Sen. What thou wilt,
Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile,
Than hew to’t with thy sword.

Sen. : Set but thy foot
Against our ee gates, and they shall ope,
So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before,
To say, thou lt enter friendly.
Sen. Throw thy glove,

Or any token of thine honour else,
That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress,
And not as our confusion, all thy powers
Shall make their harbour in our town, till we
Have seal’d thy full desire.

Alcib. Then, there’s my glove:

Descend, and open your uncharged ports.
Those enemies of Timon’s, and mine own,
Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof,
Fall, and no more; and,—to atone your fears
With my more noble meaning,—not a man
Shall pass his quarter, or offend the stream 60
Of regular justice in your city’s bounds,
But shall be render’d to your public laws
At heaviest answer.
Both. ’T is most nobly spoken.
Alcib. Descend, and keep your words.
[The Senators descend, and open the gates.

Enter a Soldier.
Sold. My noble general, Timon is dead;
Entomb’d upon the very hem o’ the sea:
And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression
Interprets for my poor ignorance.
Alcib. [Reads.] ‘‘Here lies a wretched corse, of
wretched soul bereft : 70
Seek not my name: a plague consume you wicked
caitiffs left!
Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did

ate :
Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here
thy gait.”

 

 
 

 

 

790 TIMON OF ATHENS. — {Act V.

 

These well express in thee thy latter spirits : Is noble Timon ; of whose memory 80
Though thou abhorr’dst in us our human griefs, Hereafter more.—Bring me into your city,
Scorn’dst our brain’s flow, and those our droplet | And I will use the alive with my sword:

which Make war breed peace ; make peace stint war; make
From mpeand nature fall, yet rich conceit eac.
Taught thee to make vast Neptune me for aye Prescribe to other, as each other's leech.—
On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Let our drums strike. [Exeunt,

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

M. ANTONY,
OcTAVIUS C@ISAR,
M. Amin. LEPibus,
SExTusS PoMPEIUS.
DomiTius ENOBARBUS,
VENTIDIUS, )
ERos,
ScaRus,
DERCETAS,
DEMETRIUS,
PHILO,
MECAENAS,

AGRIPPA, |

eect Friends of Cesar.
THYREUS, )

GALLUs,

\ Triumvirs.

[ Friends of Antony.

MENAS, _

MENECRATES, ; Friends of Pompey.

VARRIUS,

Taurus, Licutenant-General to Cesar.

Canipius, Lieutenant-General to Antony.

SILIUS, an Officer under Ventidius.

EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to
Cesar.

ALEXAS, MARDIAN, SELEUCUS,
Attendants on Cleopatra.

A Soothsayer. A Clown.

and DIOMEDEs,

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt.
Octavia, Sister to Cesar, and Wife to Antony.
CHARMIAN and Iras, Attendants on Cleopatra.

Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.

SCENE —In several Parts of the Roman Empire.

 

ACT I.
ScENE I.—Alexandria. A Room in CLEOPATRAa’s Palace.
inter DEMETRIUS and PHILO.

     
   

RH Philo.

tern, AY, but this dotage of our general's

O’erflows the measure: those his
goodly eyes,

That o'er the files and musters of
the war

Have glow’'d iike plated Mars,
now bend, now turn, |

The office and devotion of their

SF view
“—* Upon a tawny front: his captain's
eart,
Which in the scuffles of great fe hath burst
The buckles on his breast, reneagues all temper,
And is become the bellows, and the fan,
To cool a gipsy’s lust. Look, where they come. 10

Flourish. Enter ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with their
Trains; Eunuchs fanning her.

Take but good note, and you shall see in him
The triple pillar of the world transform’d
Into a strumpet’s fool: behold and see.
Cleo, If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
Ant. There’s beggary in the love that can be
reckon’d.
Cleo. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov’d.
Ant. Then must thou needs find out new heaven,
new earth.

Enter an Attendant.

Att. News, my good lord, from Rome.
nt, Grates me:—the sum.
Cleo. Nay, hear them, Antony:
Fulvia, perchance, is angry ; or, who knows 20
If the scarce-bearded Cesar have not sent
His powerful mandate to you, “Do this, or this ;

 

Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that ;
Perform ’t, or else we damn thee.”
Ant. How, my love!
Cleo. Perchance,—nay, and most like,—
You must not stay here longer; your dismission
Is come from Ceesar ; therefore hear it, Antony.—

Where’s Fulvia’s process? Czesar’s, I would say? |

both

Call in the messengers.—As I am Egypt’s queen,
Thou blushest, Antony, and that higad of thine 30
Is Ceesar’s homager; else so thy cheek pays shame,
When shrill-tongu’d Fulvia scolds.—The messengers !

Ant. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch
Of the rang’d empire fall! Here is my space.
Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike
Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life
Is, to do thus; when such a mutual pair,

: [Embracing.

And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind,
On pain of punishment, the world to weet,

We stand up peerless. ,
Cleo. Excellent falsehood ! 40
Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?—
I'll seem the fool [am not; Antony
Will be himself.
Ant. But stirr’d by Cleopatra, —
Now, for the love of Love, and her soft hours,
Let’s not confound the time with conference harsh:
There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night?
Cleo. Hear the ambassadors.
Ant. : Fie, wrangling queen!
Whom everything becomes, to chide, to laugh,
To weep; whose every passion fully strives 50
To make itself, in thee, fair and admir’d.
No messenger ; but thine, and all alone,
To-night we’ll wander through the streets, and note

 

 

 
 

792

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA,

[Act L

 

 

The qualities of people. Come, my queen ;
Last night you did desire it.—Speak not to us. .
[Exeunt ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with
their Train.

Dem. Is Cesar with Antonius priz’d so slight ?

Phi. Sir, sometimes, when he is not Antony,

He comes too short of that great property
Which still should go with Antony.

Dem. Iam full sorry,
That he approves the common liar, who 60
Thus speaks of him at Rome; but Twill hope
Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy.

[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. Another Room.

Enter CHARMIAN, IRAS, ALEXAS, and a Soothsayer.
Char. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything

 

Char. ‘*Good sir, give me good fortune.’

Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where’s the
soothsayer that you praised so to the queen? O! that
I knew this husband, which, you say, must charge his
horns with garlands!

Alex. Soothsayer !

Sooth. Your will?

Char. Is this the man?—Is’t you, sir, that know

things ?

Sooth. In nature's infinite book of secrecy
A little I can read.

Alex. Show him your hand. 10

Enter ENOBARBUS.

Eno. Bring in the banquet quickly ; wine enough,
Cleopatra’s health to drink.

Char. Good sir, give me good fortune.

Sooth. I make not, but foresee.

Char. Pray then, foresee me one.

Sooth. You shall be yet far fairer than you are.

Char. He means, in flesh.

Tras. No, you shall paint when you are old.

Char. Wrinkles forbid!

Alex. Vex not his prescience ; be attentive. 20

Char. Hush!

Sooth. You shall be more beloving, than belov’d.

Char. I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

Alex. Nay, hear him.

Char. Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me
be married to three kings in a forenoon, and widow
them all: let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod
of Jewry may do homage: find me to marry me with
Octavius Ceesar, and companion me with my mistress.

Sooth. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.

Char. O excellent! I love long life better than figs.

Sooth. You have seen and prov'd a fairer former

fortune, 32
Than that which is to approach.

a

 

Char. Then, belike, my children shall have no
names: pr’ythee, how many bcys and wenches must
Ihave?

Sooth. If every of your wishes had a womb,

And fertile every wish, a million.

Char. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.

«lex. You think, none but your sheets are privy to
your wishes, 4

Char. Nay, come; tell Iras hers.

Alex. We’ll know all our fortunes.

Eno. Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall
be—drunk to bed.

eee There’s a palm presages chastity, if nothing
else.

Char. Even as the o’erflowing Nilus presageth
famine. . 49

Tras. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.

Char. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prog-
nostication, I cannot scratch mine ear.—Pr’ythee, tell
her but a worky-day fortune.

Sooth. Your fortunes are alike.

tras. But how? but how? give me particulars.

Sooth. I have said.

Jras. Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?

Char. Well, if you were but an inch of fortune
better than I, where would you choose it?

Tras. Not in my husband’s nose. 60

Char. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas,
—come, his fortune, his tortune.—O! let him marry a
woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I beseech thee;
and let her die too, and give him a worse; and let
worse follow worse, till the worst of all fellow him
laughing to his grave, fifty-fold_a cuckdld! Good
Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a
matter of more weight, good Isis, I beseech thee! 68

fras. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the
people ; for, as it is a heart-breaking to see a hand-
some man loose-wived, so it is a deadly sorrow to
behold a foul knave uncuckolded: therefore, dear
Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly !

Char. Amen.

lex, Lo, now! if it lay in their hands to make me
a cuckold, they would make themselves whores, but
they 'd do’t.

dino. Hush! here comes Antony.

Char. Not he; the queen.

Enter CLEOPATRA.
Cleo, Saw you my lord?
. Eno. No, lady. 80
Cleo. Was he not here?
Char. No, madam.
Cleo. He was dispos’d to mirth; but, on the sudden,
A Roman thought hath struck him.—Enobarbus,—
ino, Madam?
Cleo. Seek him, and bring him hither. Where’s
Alexas?
lex. Here, at your service.—My lord approaches.
Enter ANTONY, with a Messenger and Attendants.
Cleo. We will not look upon him: go withus._ .
[Excunt CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, ALEXAS, IRAS,
CHARMIAN, Soothsayer, and Attendants.
Mess. Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.
Ant. Against my brother Lucius?
Mess. Ay:
But soon that war had end, and the time's state |
Made friends of them, jointing their force ’gainst
Sar 3
Whose better issue in the war, from Italy,
Upon the first encounter, drave them. -
Ant, Well what worst?
Mess. The nature of bad news infects the teller.
Ant. When it concerns the fool, or coward.—On:
Things, that are past, are done with me.—’Tis thus:
Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,
I hear him as he flatter'd.
Mess. Labienus
(This is stiff news) hath with his Parthian force
Extended Asia; from Euphrates
His conquering banner shook, from Syria,
To Lydia, and to Ionia: whilst—

1€0

 

 
 

 

ScENE JIT.] ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 793
Ant. Antony, thou wouldst say,— Ant. No more light answers. Let our officers
Mess. O, my lord! : Have notice what we Gnu paee I shall break
Ant. Speak to me home, mince not the general | The cause of our expedience to the queen, 180

tongue ; ; And get her love to part. For not alone

Name Cleopatra as she is call'd in Rome; : The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,

Rail thou in Fulvia’s phrase; and taunt my faults Do strongly speak to us, but the letters too

With such full license, as both truth and malice 110 | Of many our contriving friends in Rome

Have power to utter. O! then we bring forth weeds, | Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius

When our quick winds lie still ; and our ills told us, Hath given the dare to Ceesar, and commands

Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile. The empire of the sea: our slippery people
Mess. At your noble pleasure. {Eait. | (Whose love is never link’d to the deserver,

Ant, From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there ! Till his deserts are past) begin to throw
1 Att. The man from Sicyon.—Is there such an one? | Pompey the Great, and all his dignities, 190

2 Att. He stays upon your will.

Ant. : Let him appear.—
These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,
Or lose myself in dotage.

Enter another Messenger.
What are you?
2 Mess. Fulvia thy wife is dead.
Ant, Where died a

nt.

2 Mess. In Sicyon:
Her length of sickness, with what else more serious
Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Giving a letter.

Ant. Forbear me.— [Exit Messenger.
There’s a great spirit gone. Thus did I desire it:
What our contempts do often hurl from us,

We wish it ours again; the present pleasure,

By revolution lowering, does become

The opposite of itself: she’s good, being gone;

The hand could pluck her back, that shov’d her on.

I must from this enchanting queen break off; 130
Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,

My idleness doth hatch.—How now! Enobarbus!

Re-enter ENOBARBUS.

Eno. What’s your pleasure, sir?

Ant. I must with haste from hence.

Eno. Why, then, we kill all our women. We see
how mortal an unkindness is to them: if they suffer
our departure, death ’s the word.

Ant. I must be gone. 138
_, Eno. Under a corpelling occasion, let. women die :
it were pity to cast them away for nothing; though,
between them and a great cause, they should be
esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least
noise of this, dies instantly: I have seen her die
twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think,
there is mettle in death, which commits some loving
act upon her, she hath such a celerity in dying.

Ant. She is cunning past man’s thought.

fino. Alack, sir! no; her passions are made of
nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot
call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are
greater storms and tempests than almanacs can re-
port: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she
makes a shower of rain as well as Jove. 153

Ant. "Would I had never seen her!

Eno. O, sir! you had then left unseen a wonderful
piece of work; which not to have been blessed withal,
would have discredited your travel.

Ant. Fulvia is dead.

Eno. Sir?

Ant. Fulvia is dead.

Eno. Fulvia?

Ant. Dead. 5

Eno. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice.
When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a
man from him, it shows to man the tailors of the
earth: comforting therein, that when old robes are
worn out, there are members to make new. If there
were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed
.@ cyt, and the case to be lamented: this grief is
crowned with consolation; your old smock brings
forth a new petticoat ; and, indeed, the tears live in
.an onion, that should water this sorrow. 172

Ant. The business she hath broached in the state
Cannot endure my absence.

Eno. And the business you have broached here
cannot be without you; especially that of Cleopatra’s,
which wholly depends on your abode.

160

 

Upon his son: who, high in name and power,
Higher than both in blood and life, stands up
For the main soldier ; whose quality, going on,
The sides o’ the world may danger. Much is breeding,
Which, like the courser’s hair, hath yet but life,
And not a serpent’s poison, Say, our pleasure,
To such whose place is under us, requires
Our quick remove from hence.
Eno. Ishall do it. [Hxeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same. Another Room.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS.
Cleo. Where is he?

Char, I did not see him since.

Cleo, See where he is, who’s with him, what he

does :—
I did not send you.—If you find him sad,
Say, Lam dancing; if in mirth, report g
That I am sudden sick: quick, and return.
é . [Exit ALEXAS.
Char. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
You do not hold the method to enforce
The like from him.
Cleo. What should I do, I do not?
Char. In each thing give him way, cross him in
nothing.
Cleo. Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.
Char. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear: 11
In time we hate that which we often fear.

Enter ANTONY.

But here comes Antony.

Cleo. I am sick and sullen.

Ant. Iam sorry to give breathing to my purpose.

Cleo. Help me away, dear Charmian ; T chal fall:
It cannot be thus long, the sides of nature
Will not sustain it.

Ant. Now, my dearest queen,—

Cleo. Pray you, stand further from me.

nt. hat’s the matter?
Cleo. I know, by that same eye, there’s some good.
news.

What says the married woman ?—You may go: 20
’W ould she had never given you leave to come!
Let her not say, ’tis I that keep you here:
I have no power upon you; hers you are.

Ant. The gods best know,—

Cleo. O! never was there queen
So mightily betray’d; yet at the first
I saw the treasons planted.

Ant. Cleopatra,—

Cleo. vee should I think, you can be mine, and

rue,

Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,
To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, 30
Which break themselves in swearing !

Ant. Most sweet queen,—

Cleo. Nay, pray you, seek no colour for your going,
But bid farewell, and go: when you sued staying,
Then was the time for words ; no going then :—
Eternity was in our lips and eyes ;
Bliss in our brows’ bent ; none our parts so poor,
But was a race of heaven: they are so still,
Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
Art turn’d the greatest liar.

Ant. How now, lady!

 

 
 

794 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

(Act I.

 

 

Cleo. I would I had thy inches; thou shauldst
k

now,
There were a heart in Egypt.
Ant. Hear me, queen.
The strong necessity of time commands
Our services awhile ; but my full heart
Remains in use with you. Our Italy
Shines o’er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius
Makes his approaches to the port of Rome:
Equality of two domestic powers
Breed scrupulous faction. The hated, grown to

strength,
Are newly grown to love: the condemn’d Pompey, _
Rich in his father’s honour, creeps apace 50

Into the hearts of such as have not thriv’d

Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten ;
And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge

By any desperate change. My more particular,

And that which most with you should safe my

going,
Is Fulvia’s death. :
Cleo. Though age from folly could not give me
freedom, ate
It does from childishness.—Can Fulvia die?
Ant. She’s dead, my queen.
Look here, and, at thy sovereign leisure, read 60
The garboils she awak’d; at the last, best,
See, when and where she died.
Cleo. O most false love
Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill
With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,
In Fulvia’s death, how mine receiv'd shall be.
Ant. Quarrel no more, but be prepar’d to know
The purposes I bear ; which are, or cease,
As you shall give the advice. By the fire
That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from hence,

Thy soldier, servant ; making peace, or war, 70
As thou affect’st. .
leo. Cut my lace, Charmian, come ;—

But let it be.—I am quickly ill, and well:
So Antony loves.
nt. My precious queen, forbear ;
And give true evidence to his love, which stands
An honourable trial.
Cleo. So Fulvia told me.
I pee. turn aside, and weep for her;
Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears
Belong to Egypt: good now, play one scene
Of excellent dissembling, and let it look
Like perfect honour.
Ant. You'll heat my blood : no more.
Cleo. You can do better yet, but thisis meetly. 81
Ant. Now, by my sword,—
Cleo. And target.—Still he mends;
But this is not the best. Look, pr’ythee, Char-

mian,
How this Herculean Roman does become
The carriage of his chafe.
Ant. Ill leave you, lady.
Cleo. Courteous lord, one word.
Sir, you and I must part,—but that’s not it:
Sir, you and I have lov’d,—but there ’s not it;
That you know well: something it is I would,—
O! my oblivion is a very Antony, 90
And I am all forgotten.
Ant, But that your royalty
Holds idleness your subject, 1 should take you
For idleness itself.
Cleo. *T is sweating labour
To bear such idleness so near the heart,
As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;
Since my becomings kill me, when they do not
Eye well to you: your honour calls you hence;
Therefore, be deaf to my unpitied folly,
And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
Sit laurel victory, and smooth success 100
Be strew’d before your feet!
Ant. Let us go. Come;
Our separation so abides, and flies,
That thou, residing here, go'st yet with me,
And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
Away! (Ezxeunt.

 

ScENEIV.—Rome. An Apartment in C4SAR’s
ouse,
Enter Octavius Csar, LEpIDus, and Attendants.
Ces. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
It is not Ceesar’s natural wise to hate
Our great competitor. From Alexandria
This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes
The lamps of night in revel ; is not more manlike
Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy
More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or
Weuchseid to think he had partners: you shall find
there
A man, who is the abstract of all faults
That all men follow.
Lep. I must not think, there are 10
Evils enow to darken all his goodness :
His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven,
More fiery by night’s blackness ; hereditary,
Rather than purchas’d; what he cannot change,
Than what he chooses.
Ces. You are too indulgent. Let us grant, it is not
Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy ;
To give a kingdom for a mirth; to sit
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave ;
To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet 20
With kan that smell of sweat: say, this becomes
1m,
(As his composure must be rare indeed,
Whom these things cannot blemish,) yet must Antony
No way excuse his soils, when we do bear
So great weight in his lightness. If he fill’d
His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
Full surfeits, and the dryness of his bones,
Call on him for’t ; but, to confound such time,
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud
As his own state, and ours,—’t is to be chid
As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge,
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,
And so rebel to judgment.

Enter a Messenger.

Lep. Here ’s more news.
Mess. hee. biddings have been done; and every

our,
Most noble Cesar, shalt thou have report

How ’tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea;

And it appears, he is belov’d of those

That only have fear’d Ceesar : to the ports

The discontents repair, and men’s reports

Give him much wrong’d.

Ces. I should have known no less.
It hath been taught us from the primal state, 41
That he, which is, was wish’d, until he were;

And the ebb’d man, ne’er lov’d, till ne’er worth love,
Comes dear’d by being lack’d. This common body,
Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,

Goes to, and back, lackeying the varying tide,

To rot itself with motion.

Mess. Cesar, I bring thee word,
Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,

Make the sea serve them ; which they ear and wound
With keels of every kind: many hot inroads 50
They make in Italy; the borders maritime
Lack blood to think on’t, and flush youth revolt:
No vessel can peep forth, but ’tis as soon
Taken as seen; for Pompey’s name strikes more,
Than could his war resisted.

es. Antony,
Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
Did famine follow ; whom thou fought’st against,
Though daintily brought up, with patience more 60
Than savages could suffer : thou didst drink
The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle, ‘
Which eerie would cough at: thy palate then did

eign

The roughest berry on the rudest hedge ;
Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,
The barks of trees thou browsed’st ; on the Alps,
It is reperted, thou didst eat strange flesh,

 

 

 
 

ScENE V.)

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

795

 

Which some did die to look on; and all this
(It wounds thine honour, that I speak it now)
‘Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek 70
So much as lank’d not.

Lep. ’T is pity of him.

Ces. Let his shames quickly
Drive him to Rome. ’T is time we twain
Did show ourselves i’ the field ; and, to that end
Assemble we immediate council : Pompey
Thrives in our idleness.

ep. . To-morrow, Cesar,
Ishall be furnish’d to inform you rightly
Both what by sea and land I can be able,
To front this present time.
Ces. Till which encounter, 80
It is my business too. Farewell.
Lep. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know
meantime
Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,
To let me be partaker.
Ces. | Doubt not, sir ;
I knew it for my bond. [Exeunt.

ScENE V.—Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAs, and MARDIAN.
Cleo. Charmian,—
Char. Madam ?
Cleo. Ha, ha !—
Give me to drink mandragora,
har, wy, madam?
Cleo. That I might sleep out this great gap of

time,

My Antony is away.
Char, You think of him too much,
Cleo. O, tis treason!

ar, Madam, I trust, not so.
Cleo, Thou, eunuch Mardian!
Mar. What’s your highness’ pleasure?
Cleo. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure

In aught an eunuch has. ’Tis well for thee, 10

That, being unseminar’d, thy freer thoughts |

May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?
Mar. Yes, gracious madam.

Cleo. Indeed ? 3
Mar. Not in deed, madam ; for I can do nothing,

But what indeed is honest to be done ;

Yet have I fierce affections, and think,

What Venus did with Mars.

Cleo. O Charmian!

Where think’st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he?

Or does he walk ? or is he on his horse? 20

O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!

Do bravely, horse, for wott’st thou whom thou mov’st?

The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm

And burgonet of men.—He’s speaking now, __

Or murmuring, ‘‘ Where’s my serpent of old Nile?”

For so he calls me. Now I feed myself

With most delicious poison.—Think on me,

That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black,

 

And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Cesar,
When thou wast here above the ground, I was

A morsel for a monarch ; and great Pompey
Would stand, and make his eyes grow in my brow:
There would he anchor his aspect, and die

With looking on his life.

Enter ALEXAS.
Alex, Sovereign of Egypt, hail!
Cleo. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
Yet, coming from him, that great medicine hath
With his tinct gilded thee.—
How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?
Alex. Last thing he did, dear queen,
He kiss’d—the last of many doubled kisses— 40
This orient pearl.—His speech sticks in my heart.
Cleo. Mine ear must pluck it thence.
Alex. “Good friend,” quoth he,
“Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends
This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
To mend the petty present, I will piece
Her opulent throne with kingdoms: all the east,
Say thou, shall call her mistress.” So he nodded,
And soberly did mount an arrogant steed,
Who neigh’d so high, that what I would have spoke
Was beastly dumb’d by him.
Cleo, What! was he sad, or merry?
Alex. Like to the time o’ the year between the
extremes 51
Of hot and cold: he was nor sad, nor merry.
Cleo. O well-divided disposition !—Note him,
Note nin good Charmian, ‘tis the man; but note
im:
He was not sad, for he would shine on those
That make their looks by his ; he was not merry,
Which seem’d to tell them, his remembrance lay
In Egypt with his joy; but between both:
O heavenly mingle !—Be’st thou sad, or merry,
The violence of either thee becomes ; 60
So does it no man else.—Mett’st thou my posts?
Alex. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.
why do you send so thick?
Cleo. ‘Who's born that day
When I forget to send to Antony,
Shall die a beggar.—Ink and paper, Charmian.—
Welcome, my good Alexas.— Did I, Charmian,
Ever love Ceesar so?
Char. O, that brave Cesar!
Cleo. Be chok’d with such another emphasis!
Say, the brave Antony.
Ghar. The valiant Cesar!
Cleo. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth, 70
If thou with Ceesar paragon again
My man of men.
Char. By your most gracious pardon,
I sing but after you.
leo. My salad days,
When I was green in judgment :—cold in blood,
To say as I said then !—But come, away;
Get me ink and paper:
He shall have every day a several greeting,

Or I’ll unpeople Egypt. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT II.
ScENE I.—Messina. A Room in PoMPEY’s House.

  
   

S29 Pompey. :
F the great gods be just, they shall assist
The deeds of justest men.
‘ene. Know, worthy Pompey,
That what they do delay, they not deny.
Pom. Whiles we are suitors to their throne,
_ decays
a The thing we sue for. |
NSS Mene. We, ignorant of ourselves,
oe Beg often our own harms, which the wise
) owers
Deny us for our good; so find we profit,
By losing of our prayers.
Pom. I shall do well:
The people love me, and the sea is mine;
My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope 10
Says, it will come to the full, Mark Antony
In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make
No wars without doors: Cesar gets money where
He loses hearts: Lepidus flatters both,
Of both is flatter’d ; but he neither loves,
Nor either cares for him.
Men. Ceesar and Lepidus
Are in the field: a mighty strength they carry.
Pom. Where have you this? ‘tis false.
Men. From Silvius, sir.
Pom. He dreams: I know, they are in Rome to-
gether,
Looking for Antony. But all the charms oflove, 20
Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan’'d lip!
Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!
Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,
Keep his brain fuming ; Epicurean cooks
Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite,
That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour,
Even till a Lethe’d dulness!

Enter VaRRIUS.

How now, Varrius?
Var. This is most certain that I shall deliver :
Mark Antony is every hour in Rome

    
  

A ae
Lo

Expected ; since he went from Egypt, ’tis 30
A space for further travel.
Pom. I could have given less matter

A better ear.—Menas, I did not think,
This amorous surfeiter would have donn’d his helm
For such a petty war: his soldiership
Is twice the other twain. But let us rear
The higher our opinion, that our stirrin
Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluc
The ne’er lust-wearied Antony.
en. I cannot hope,
Cesar and Antony shall well greet together:
His wife that’s dead did trespasses to Ceesar ; 40
His brother warr’d upon him, although, I think,
Not mov’d by Antony.
Pom. I know not, Menas,
How lesser enmities may give way to greater.
Were 't not that we stand up against them all, ;
°T were pregnant they should square between them-
selves ;
For they have entertained cause enough
To draw their swords: but how the fear of us
May cement their divisions, and bind up
The petty difference, we yet not know.
Be't as our gods will have’t!

 

It only stands 50:

Enter POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS,

Our lives upon, to use our strongest hands.
Come, Menas. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—Rome. A Room in the House of LEPIDus.

Enter ENOBARBUS and LEPIDUS.

Lep. Good Enobarbus, ’t is a worthy deed, .
And shall become you well, to entreat your captain
To soft and gentle speech. ‘

Eno. I shall entreat him
To answer like himself: if Ceesar move him,

Let Antony look over Ceesar's head,

And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,

Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard,

I would not shave’t to-day.

Lep. "Tis not a time
For private stomaching.

{no. Every time
Serves for the matter that is then born in’t. 10

Lep. But small to greater matters must give way.

Eno. Not if the small come first. 2 3

Lep. Your speech is passion:
But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes
The noble Antony.

Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS.

Fino. And yonder, Cesar.

Enter C&SAR, MECENAS, and AGRIPPA.
Ant. If we compose well here, to Parthia:
Hark ye, Ventidius.
Ces. I do not know,
Meceenas; ask Agrippa. i
Noble friends,

Lep.
That which combin’d us was most great, and let not
A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss,
May it be ae heard: when we debate 20
Our trivial difference loud, we do commit
Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners,
(The rather, for I earnestly beseech,)
Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
Nor curstness grow to the matter.

Ant. °T is spoken well.
Were we before our armies, and to fight,
I should do thus.

Ces. Welcome to Rome.

Ant. Thank you.

Ces. Sit. 30

Ant. Sit, sir.

Ces. Nay, then.

Ant. Ilearn, you take things ill, which are not so;
Or, being, concern you not.
es. I must be laugh’'d at,

If, or for nothing, or a little, I

Should say myself offended ; and with you

Chiefly i’ the world; more laugh’d at, that I should
Once name you derogately, when to sound your name
It not concern’d me.

Ant.
What was’t to you?
Ces. No more than my residing here at Rome
Micht be to youin Egypt: yet, if you there
Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt
be my question.
nt.

My being in Egypt, Ceesar,

How intend you, practis’d?

 

 
 

Scune IL]

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

797

 

Ces. You may be pleas’d to catch at mine intent
ay what did here befall me. Your wife, and brother,
ade wars upon me, and their contestation
Was theme for you, you were the word of war.
Ant, You do mistake your business; my brother
never
Did urge me in his act: I did enquire it; 50
And have my learning from some true reports,
That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather
Discredit my authority with yours,
And make the wars alike against my stomach,
Having alike your cause? Of this my letters
Before did satisfy you. If you’ll patch a quarrel,
As matter whole you have not to make it with,
It must not be with this.
Ces. ; You praise yourself
By laying defects of judgment tome; but -
You patch’d up your excuses.
Ant. Not so, not so; 60
I know you could not lack, I am certain on’t,
Very necessity of this thought, that I,
Your partner in the cause ’gainst which he fought,
Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars
Which fronted mine own peace. <As for my wife,
I would you had her spirit in such another:
The third o’ the world is yours, which with a snaffle
You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
Eno. Would we had all such wives, that the men
might go to wars with the women! 70
Ant. So much uncurbable, her garboils, Ceesar,
Made out of her impatience (which not wanted
Shrewdness of policy too), I grieving grant,
Did you too much disquiet: for that, you must
But say, I could not help it.
Ces. I wrote to you,
When rioting in Alexandria ; you
Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
Did gibe my missive out of audience. __
Ant. Sir,
He fell upon me, ere admitted: then __
Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want 80
Of what I was i’ the morning: but, next day,
I told him of myself, which was as much
As to have ask’d him pardon. Let this felow
Be nothing of our strife ;-if we contend,
Out of our question wipe him.
Ces. You have broken
The article of your oath, which you shall never
Have tongue to charge me with. °
ep. Soft, Ceesar.
Ant. No, Lepidus, let him speak:
The honour’s sacred which he talks on now,
Supposing that I lack’dit. But on, Ceesar; 90
The article of my oath,— : ,
Ces. To lend me arms and aid when I requir'd

them,
The which you both denied.
Ant. Neglected, rather;

And then, when poison’d hours had bound me up
From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,
Ill play the penitent to you; but mine honesty
Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power
Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,

To have me out of Egypt, made wars here ;

For which myself, the ignorant motive, do

So far ask pardon, as befits mine honour

To stoop in such a case.

‘100

ip. ’Tis noble spoken.
ec. If it might please you, to enforce no further
The griefs between ye: to forget them quite,
Were to remember that the present nee
Speaks to atone you.

_Worthily spoken, Meceenas.

hep.
_ Eno. Or, if you borrow one another's love for the.

instant, you may, when you hear no more words of
Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to
wrangle in, when you have nothing else to do. 110
Ant. Thou art a soldier only : speak no more.
Eno, That truth should be silent, I had almost forgot.
Ant. You wrong this presence ; therefore, speak no

more. 5
Eno. Go to then; your considerate stone.

 

 

Cees. I do not much dislike the matter, but
The manner of his speech ; for ’t cannot be,
We shall remain in tricndship, our conditions
So differing in their acts. Yet, if I knew
What hoch should hold us stanch, from edge to
edge

Si
O’ the world I would pursue it.
Agr. Give me leave, Ceesar,—
Ces. ppeak Agrippa. ; 121
Agr. Thou hast a sister by the mother’s side,
Admir’d Octavia: great Mark Antony
Is now a widower. ;
Ces. Say not so, Agrippa:
If Cleopatra heard you, your reproot
Were well deserv'd of rashness.
Ant. Iam not married, Ceesar: let me hear
Agrippa further speak. .
Agr. To hold you in perpetual amity,
To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts
With an unslipping knot, take Antony -
Octavia to his wife ; whose beauty claims
No worse a husband than the best of men,
Whose virtue and whose general graces speak :
That which none else can utter. y this marriage,
All little jealousies, which now seem great,
And all great fears, which now import their dangers,
Would then be mopning - truths would be tales,
Where now half tales be truths: her love to both
Would, each to other, and all loves to both,
Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke,
For ’t is a studied, not a present thought,
By duty ruminated.
Ant. Will Ceesar speak ?
Ces. Not till he hears how Antony is touch’d
With what is spoke already.
Ant. What power is in Agrippa,
If I would say, “Agrippa, be it so,”
To make this good?

130

140

es. The power of Ceesar, and

His power unto Octavia.

Ant. May I never
To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,
Dream of impediment !—Let me have thy hand:
Further this act of grace, and from this hour
The heart of brothers govern in our loves,
And sway our great designs !

Ces. There is my hand.
A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother
Did ever love so dearly : let her live
To join our kingdoms, and our hearts; and never
Fly off our loves again !

150

Lep. Happily. Amen!

Ant. I did not think to draw my sword ’gainst
Pompey ;

For he hath laid strange courtesies, and great,

Of late upon me: I must thank him only,

Lest my remembrance suffer ill report ;

At heel of that, defy him.

160

Lep. Time calls upon’s:
Of us must Pompey presently be sought,
Or else he seeks out us.

Ant. Where lies he?

Ces. About the Mount Misenum.

Ant, What is his strength by land?

Ces. Great and increasing ; but by sea
He is an absolute master.

Ant. So is the fame.
*Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it:
Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, despatch we 170
The business we have talk’d of.

Ces. With most gladness ;
And do invite you to my sister’s view,
Whither straight Ill lead you.
Let us, Lepidus,

ep. Noble Antony,
Not sickness should detain me.
[Flourish. HExeunt CHSAR, ANTONY, and
LEPIDUS.
Mec. Welcome from Egypt, sir.
Eno. Half the heart of Ceesar, worthy Meceenas !|—

Ant. ‘
Not lack your company.

My honourable friend, Agrippa !—

 

 
 

 

798

Agr. Good Enobarbus!

Mec. We have cause to be glad, that matters are so
well digested. You stay’d well by it in Egypt. 181

Eno, Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance,
and made the night light with drinking.

Mec. Eight wild-boars roasted whole at a breakfast,
and but twelve persons there; is this true?

#no. This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had
much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily
deserved noting. q

Mec. She’s a most triumphant lady, if report be
square to her. 190

no. When she first met Mark Antony, she pursed
up his heart, upon the river of Cydnus.

A There she appeared indeed, or my reporter
devised well for her.

Eno. I will tell you. 7
The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne,

Burn’d on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were

silver;
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and
made 200

The water, which they beat, to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar’d all description : she did lie
In her pavilion (cloth of gold of tissue),
O’er-picturing that Venus, where we see
The tancy outwork nature: on each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem
To Foy the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.
Agr. O, rare for Antony!
no. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
So many mermiaids, tended her i’ the eyes,
And made their bends adornings: at the helm
A seeming mermaid steers; the silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands,
That yarely frame the oftice. From the barge
A.strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. ‘The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthron'd i’ the market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.
Agr. Rare Egyptian!
Eno. Upon her landing Antony sent to her,
Invited her to supper: she replied,
It should be better he became her guest,
Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony,

210

220

Whom oc. the word of ‘‘No” woman heard
speak,

Being barber'd ten times o’er, goes to the feast ;

And for his ordinary pays his heart 230

For what his eyes cat only.

Agr. Royal wench!
She made great Ceesar lay his sword to bed ;
He plough’d her, and she cropp'd.

Eno, I saw her once
Hop forty paces through the public street ;

And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,

That she did make defect perfection,

And, breathless, power breathe forth.

» Mec. Now Antony must leave her utterly.
Eno. Never; he will not.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale

Her infinite variety. Other women cloy

The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry,

Where most she satisfies; for vilest things

Become themselves in her, that the holy priests

Bless her when she is riggish.

Mec. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle
The heart of Antony, Octavia is
A blessed lottery to him.

Agr. Let us go.—

Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest,

Whilst you abide here.
Lino. Humbly, sir, I thank you. 250
[EHxeunt.

240

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

 

(Act IL

ScENE III.—The Same. A Room in Casar’s House.

Enter CaisaR, ANTONY, OCTAVIA between them ;
Attendants,
Ant. The world, and my great office, will sometimes
Divide me from your bosom.
Octa. AII which time,
Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers
To them for you.
Ant. Good night, sir.—My Octavia,
Read not my blemishes in the world’s report:
I have not kept my square ; but that to come
Shall all be done by the rule. Good night, dear lady.—
Good night, sir.
Ces. Good night. [Exeunt C&saR and Octavia.
Enter a Soothsayer.
Ant. Now, sirrah: you do wish yourself in Egypt?
Sooth, "Would I had never come from thence, nor
you thither! 12
Ant, If Agen can, your reason?
Sooth. I see it in my motion, have it not in my
tongue: but yet hie you to Egypt again.
Ant. Say to me, whose fortunes shall rise higher,
Ceesar's or mine ?
Sooth. Ceesar’s.
Therefore, O Antony! stay not by his side:
‘thy demon (that’s thy spirit which keeps thee)is 20
Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable,
Where Ceesar's is not ; but near him thy angel
Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower'd: therefore,
Make space enough between you.
Aint, Speak this no more.
Sooth. To none but thee; nomore, but when to thee,
If thou dost play with him at any game,
Thou art sure to lose ; and, of that natural luck,
He beats thee ’gainst the odds: thy lustre thickens,
When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit
Is all afraid to govern thee near him, 30
But, he away, ’tis noble.
ant, Get thee gone:
Say to Ventidius, I would speak with him.—
[Exit Soothsayer.
He shall to Parthia.—Be it art, or hap,
He hath spoken true: the very dice obey him;
And in our sports my better cunning faints
Under his chance: if we draw lots, ie speeds;
His cocks do win the battle still of mine,
When it is all to nought; and his quails ever
Beat mine, inhoop'd, at.odds. I will to Egypt:
And though I make this marriage for my peace, 40
I’ the east my pleasure lies.
Enter VENTIDIUS.
O! come, Ventidius,
You must to Parthia: your commission ’s ready ;
Follow me, and receive ’t. [Haeunt.

 

ScENE IV.—The Same. A Street.
Enter LEPIDUS, MEC-ENAS, and AGRIPPA.
Lep. Trouble yourselves no further: pray you, hasten
Your generals after. __
Sir, Mark Antony

Agr.
Wil een but kiss Octavia, and we'll follow.

Lep. Till I shall see you in your soldier's dress,
Which will become you both, farewell.

Mec. We shall,

As I conceive the journey, be at the Mount
Before you, Lepidus.

Lep. Your way is shorter ;
My purposes do draw me much about:
You'll win two days upon me.

Mec., Agr.

Lep. Farewell.

Sir, good success! 9
[Exeunt.

ScENE V.—Alexandria, A Room in the Palace.
Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS.
Cleo. Give me some music; music, moody food
Of us that trade in love.

Attend. The music, ho!

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

799

 

Enter MARDIAN.
Cleo. Let, it alone ; let’s to billiards: come, Char-
Taian.

Char. My arm is sore; best play with Mardian.

Cleo. As well a woman with an eunuch play’d,

As with a woman.—Come, you'll play with me, sir?

Mar. As wellas I can, madam.

Cleo, And when good will is show’d, though ’t come

too short,
The actor may plead pardon. I’ll none now.—
Give me mine angle,—we’ll to the river: there, 10
My music playing far off, I will betray
Tawny-finn’d fishes; my bended hook shall pierce
Their slimy jaws ; and, as I draw them up,
I’ll think them every one an Antony,
And say, Ah, ha! you're caught.

Char. . ’T was merry, when
You wager’d on your angling ; when your diver
Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.

Cleo. That time—O times !—
Ilaugh'd him out of patience ; and that night
Llaugh’d him into patience: and next morn, 20
Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed;

Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst
I wore his sword Philippan.

Enter a Messenger.
O! from Italy 7—
Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,
That long time have been barren.
Mess. Madam, madam,—
Cleo. Antonius dead? if thou say so, villain,
Thou kill’st thy mistress: but well and free,
If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
My bluest veins to kiss ; a hand that kings
Have lipp’d, and trembled kissing. 30
Mes. First, madam, he is well.
Cleo. Why, there’s more gold.
But, sirrah, mark, we use
To say, the dead are well: bring it to that,
The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat.
Mess. Good madam, hear me.
Cleo. Well, go to, I will;
But there’s no goodness in thy face, if Antony
Be free, and healthful :—so tart a favour
To trumpet such good tidings! if not well, :
Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown’d with snakes,
Not like a formal man.
Mess. Will’t please you hear me? 41
Cleo. [havea mind to strike thee, ere thou speak’st :
Yet, if thou say, Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Cesar, or not captive to him,
I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
Rich pearls upon thee.

ess. - Madam, he’s well. :
Cleo. Well said.
Mess. And friends with Ceesar.
Cleo. Thou ’rt an honest man.

Mess. Ceesar and he are greater friends than ever.
Cleo. Make thee a fortune from me.
Mess. But yet, madam,—
Cleo, I do not like ‘‘ but yet,” it does allay 50
The good precedence; fie upon “‘ but yet!”
“But yet” is a gaoler to bring forth
Some monstrous malefactor. Pr’ythee, friend,
Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear, x
The good and bad together. He’s friends with

Ceesar ;
In state oe health, thou say’st; and, thou say’st,

ee.
Mess. Free, madam? no; I made no such report:

He’s bound unto Octavia.
Cleo. For what good turn?
Mess. For the best turn i’ the bed. ‘
Cleo. Iam pale, Charmian.
Mess. Madam, he’s married to Octavia. 60
Cleo. The most infectious pestilence upon thee !

[Strikes him down.

Mess. Good madam, patience.

 

Cleo. What say you ?—

[Strikes him again.
Hence, horrible villain! or I’ll spurn thine eyes
Like balls before me; Ill unhair thy head.

he hales him up and down.
Thou shalt be whipp’d with wire, and stew’d in brine,
Smarting in lingering pickle.
Mess. Gracious madam,

I, that do bring the news, made not the match.

Cleo, Say, ’tis not so, a province I will give thee,
And make thy fortunes proud: the blow thou hadst
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage; 70
And [ will boot thee with what gift beside
Thy modesty can beg.

Mess. He’s married, madam.

Cleo. Rogue! thou hast liv’d too long.

[Draws a knife.

Mess. Nay, then I ll run,—
What mean you, madam? I have made no faut *

Lxit.

Char. Good madam, keep yourself within yourself :
The man is innocent.

Cleo. Some innocents ’scape not the thunderbolt.—
Melt beypt into Nile! and kindly creatures
Turn all to serpents !—Call the slave again : ;
Though I am mad, I will not bite him.—Call. 80

Char. He is afeard to come.

I will not hurt him.—

Cleo.
[Exit CHARMIAN,
These hands do lack nobility, that they strike
A meaner than myself; since I myself
Have given myself the cause.

Re-enter CHARMIAN and Messenger.
Come hither, sir.
Though it be honest, it is never good
To bring bad news; give to a gracious message
An host of tongues ; but let ill tidings tell
Themselves, when they be felt.
Mess. I have done my duty.
Cleo. Is he married ?
I cannot hate thee worser than I do, 90
If thou again say, Yes.
Mess. He’s married, madam.
Cleo. The gods confound thee! dost thou hold there
still?
Mess. Should I lie, madam ?
Cleo. O! I would, thou didst ;
So half my Egypt were submerg’d, and made
A cistern for scal’d snakes. Go, get thee hence:
Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me
Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?
Mess. I crave your highness’ pardon.
Cleo. He is married?
Mess. Take no offence, that I would not offend
you:
To punish me for what you make me do, 100
Seems much unequal. e is married to Octavia.
Cleo. O! that his fault should make a knave of

thee,

That art not what thou’rt sure of !—Get thee hence:

The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome,

Are all too dear for me: lie they upon thy hand,

And be undone by ’em! [Exit Messenger.
Char. Good your highness, patience.
Cleo. In praising Antony, I have disprais’d Ceesar.
Char. Many times, madam.
Cleo.

Lead me from hence;

I faint. O Iras! Charmian !—’T is no matter.—

Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him

Report the feature of Octavia, her years,

Her inclination, let him not leave out

The colour of her hair: bring me word sui

2 [Exit ALEXAS.

Let him for ever go :—let him not—Charmian,

Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,

The other way’s a Mars.—[Yo MaRpIAN.] Bid you

. Alexas
Bring me word, how tall she is.—Pity me, Charmian,
But do not speak to me.—Lead me to my chamber.
[Hxeunt.

Iam paid for ’t now.
110

 

 
 

800 ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. [Act II.

 

 

ScenEe VI.—Near Misenum.

Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS, at one side,
with drum and trumpet; at another, Caisak,
LEPIDUs, ANTONY, ENOBARBUS, Mrcamnas, with
Soldiers marching.

Pom. Your hostages I have, so have you mine;

And we shall talk before we fight.
Ces. Most meet

That first we come to words; and therefore have we

Our written purposes before us sent;

Which if thou hast consider’d, let us know

If ’t will tie up thy discontented sword,

 

Fl E

Cleo.

“Lead me from hence;
I faint.”

And carry back to Sicily much tall youth,
That else must perish here.

om. To you all three,
The senators alone of this great world,
Chief factors for the gods,—I do not know
Wherefore my father should revengers want,
Having a son, and friends; since Julius Ceesar,
Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,
There saw you labouring for him, What was it,
That mov'd pale Cassius to conspire? And what
Made the all-honour'd, honest, Roman Brutus,
With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,
To drench the Capitol, but that they would
Have one man but a man? And that is it
Hath made me rig my navy ; at whose burden
The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant
To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome
re on my noble father.

Nees.

10

Take your time.

Ant. Thoucanst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails; |

We'll speak with thee at sea: at land, thou know’st
How much we do o’er-count thee.
At land, indeed,

Pom.
Thou dost o’er-count me of my father’s house :
But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
Remain in’t as thou may’st.

Lep. Be pleas’d to tell us,
(For this is from the present,) how you take
The offers we have sent you.

Ces. There’s the point.

Ant. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh
What it is worth embrac’d.

(es. And what may follow,
To try a larger fortune.
om. You have made me offer

Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must
Rid all the sea of pirates; then, to send
Measures of wheat to Rome : this *greed upon,
To part with unhack’'d edges, and bear back
Our targes undinted.

Ces., Ant., Lep. That’s our offer.

Pom. Know then, 40
I came before you here, a man prepar’d

 

20.

| have made this treaty.—You and I

 

To take this offer: but Mark Antony
Put me to some impatience.—Though I lose
The praise of it by telling, you must know,
When Cesar and your brother were at blows,
Your mother came to Sicily, and did find
Her welcome friendly.
Ant. Ihave heard it, Pompey ;
And am well studied for a liberal thanks
Which I do owe you.
Pom. Let me have your hand.
I did not think, sir, to have met you here. 50
«int. The beds i’ the east are soft ; and thanks to

you,
That call’d me, timelier than my purpose, hither,
For I have gain’d by ’t.
Ces. Since I saw you last,
There is a change upon you.
Well, I know not

om,
What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face ;
But in my bosom shall she never come,
To make my heart her vassal.
Lep. Well met here.
Pom. I hope so, Lepidus.—Thus we are agreed.
I crave, our composition may be written,
And seal’d between us.
Ces. That’s the next to do. 60 |
Pom. We'll feast each other ere we part; and let’s
Draw lots who shall begin.
Ant, That will I, Pompey.
Pom. No, Antony, take the lot:
But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. I have heard, that Julius Cesar
Grew fat with feasting there.

aint. You have heard much.
Pom. I have fair meanings, sir. :
Ant, And fair words to them,

Pom. Then, so much have I heard:
And I have heard, Apollodorus carried—
Eno. No more of that :—he did so.
Pom. What, I pray you?
Eno. A certain queen to Ceesar in a mattress. 71
Pom. I know thee now: how far’st thou, soldier?
Eno. Well;
And well am like to do; for, I perceive,

Four feasts are toward.
Pom. Let me shake thy hand:
I never hated thee. I have seen thee fight,
When I have envied thy behaviour.
Eno. Sir,
I never lov’d you much; but I have prais’d you,
When you have well deserv’d ten times as much
As Ihave said you did.
Pom. Enjoy thy plainness,
It nothing ill becomes thee.—
Aboard my galley I invite you all:
Will you lead, lords?
Ces., Ant., Lep. Show us the way, sir.
Pom. Come.
[Exeunt PoMPEY, C#SAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS,
Soldiers, and Attendants,
Men. [Aside.] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er
have known, sir.

80

fino. At sea, I think.

Men. We have, sir.

Eno. You have done well by water.

Men. And you by land.

Eno. I will praise any man that will praise me;
though it cannot be denied what I have done by land.

Men. Nor what I have done by water. 91

dino. Yes; something you can deny for your own
safety: you have been a great thief by sea.

Men. And you by land.

Eno. There I deny my Jand service. But give me
your hand, Menas: if our eyes had authority, here
they might take two thieves kissing. .

Men. All men’s faces are true, whatsoe’er their
hands are.

Eno. But there is never a fair woman has a true
face. 101
Men. No slander ; they steal hearts.

Eno. We came hither to fight with you.
Men. For my part, I am sorry it is turned to a

 

 
 

SCENE VII.] ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. 801

 

pee Pompey doth this day laugh away his
‘ortune.

Eno. If he do, sure, he cannot weep ’t back again.

Men. You have said, sir. We looked not for Mark
Antony here. Pray you, is he married to Cleopatra?

Eno. Ceesar’s sister is call'’d Octavia. 1

Men. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.

Eno. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.

Men. Pray ye, sir?

Eno. ’Tis true.

Men. Then is Cesar and he for ever knit together.

Eno. Tf I were bound to divine of this unity, I
would not prophesy so.

Men. I think, the policy of that purpose made more
in the marriage, than the love of the parties. 119

Eno. I think so too: but you shall find, the band
that seems to tie their friendship together will be
the very_strangler of their amity. Octavia is of a
holy, cold, and still conversation.

Men. Who would not have his wife so?

Eno. Not he, that himself is not so; which is Mark
Antony. He will to his Egyptian dish again: then
shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in Cesar;
and, as I said before, that which is the strength
of their amity, shall prove the immediate author
of their variance. Antony will use his affection
where it is : he married but his occasion here. 131

Men. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you
aboard? I have a health for you.

Eno. I shall take it, sir: we have used our throats

in Egypt.
. Men. Come ; let’s away. [Ecxeunt.

ScENE VII.—On board Pompey’s Galley, lying near
isenum.

Music. Enter two or three Servants, with a banquet.

1 Serv. Here they'll be, man. Some o’ their plants
are ill-rooted already; the least wind i’ the world
will blow them down.

2 Serv. Lepidus is high-coloured.

1 Serv. They have made him drink alms-drink.

2 Serv. As they pinch one another by the disposition,
he cries out, ‘‘No more;” reconciles them to his
entreaty, and himself to the drink.

1 Serv. But it raises the greater war between him
and his discretion. 10

2 Serv. Why, this it is to have a name in great
men’s fellowship: I had as lief _ have a reed that will
do me no service, as a partisan I could not heave.

1 Serv. To be called into a huge sphere, and not
to be seen to move in ’t, are the holes where eyes
should be, which pitifully disaster the cheeks.

+A sennet sounded. Enter C&SAR, ANTONY, POMPEY,
LEPIDUS, AGRIPPA, MECANAS, ENOBARBUS, MENAS,
with other Captains.

Ant, Tee do they, sir. They take the flow o’ the
e

By certain scales i’ the pyramid ; they know,
By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth
Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells,
The more it promises: as it ebbs, the seedsman
Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,
And shortly comes to harvest.
Lep. You have strange serpents there.
Ant. Ay, Lepidus.
Lep. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your
an by the operation of your sun: so is your croco-
e.

Ant. They are so. ‘
Pom. Sit,—and some wine !—A health to Lepidus!
Lep. I am not so well as I should be, but ’'U ne

out, 2
_ Eno. Not till you have slept: I fear me, youll be
in, till then. 7
Lep. Nay, certainly, I have heard, the Ptolemies’
yramises are very goodly things; without contra-
ction, I have heard that.

Men. [Aside.] Pompey, a word.

 

SI

 

Say in mine ear: what is’t?

Men. [Aside.] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee.

captain,
And hear me speak a word.

Pom. [Aside.] |
This wine for Lepidus.

Lep. What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

Ant. It is shaped, sir, like itself, and it is as broad
as it hath breadth; it is just so high as itis, and
moves with it own organs; it lives by that which
nourisheth it; and the elements once out of it, it
transmigrates. ;

Lep, What colour is it of?

Ant. Of it own colour too.

Lep. *Tis a strange serpent. 50

Ant. "Tis so: and the tears of it are wet.

Ces. Will this description satisfy him? :

Ant. With the health that Pompey gives him, else
he is a very epicure. ;

Pom. [To Menas, aside.] Go hang, sir, hang! Tell

me of that? away !
Do asI bid you.—Where’s this cup I call’d for? 4

Men. [Aside.] If for the sake of merit thou wilt

hear me,
Rise from thy stool.
Pom. [Aside.] I think, thou ’rt mad. The matter?
[Walks aside.
Men. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.
Pom. Thou hast serv’d me with much faith.
What’s else to say ?— 60
Be jolly, lords.
Ant

Pom. [Aside]

Forbear me till ao

4 These quick-sands, Lepidus,

Keep off them, for you sink.
Men. Wilt thou be lord of all the world?
Pom. What say’st thou?
Men. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That’s

twice.

Pom. How should that be?

Men. But entertain it,
And, though thou think me poor, J am the man
Will give thee all the world.

Pom. Hast thou drunk well?

Men. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.
Thou art, if thou dar’st be, the earthly Jove;
Whate’er the ocean pales, or sky inclips, 70
Is thine, if thou wilt ha ’t.

om. Show me which way.

Men. These three world-sharers, these competitors,
Are in thy vessel: let me cut the cable ;
And, when we are put off, fall to their throats:

All there is thine.
Pom. Ah! this thou shouldst have done,
And not have spoke on’t. In me, ‘tis villainy ;
In thee, ’t had been good service, Thou must know,
"Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour ;
Mine honour, it. Repent, that e’er thy tongue
Hath so betray’d thine act: being done unknown, 80
I should have found it afterwards well done,
But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.
Men. [Aside.] For this,
I'll never follow thy pall’d fortunes more.
Who seeks, and will not take, when once t is offer’d,
Shall never find it more.
Pom. This health to Lepidus,
Ant. Bear him ashore.—I'll pledge it for him,
Pompey.
Eno. Here's to thee, Menas.
Men.
Pom. Fill, till the cup be hid.
no. There’s a strong fellow, Menas. 20
Pointing to the Attendant who carries
off LEPIDUS.
Men. Why ?

Eno. ’A bears the third part of the world, man:
see’st not?

Men. The third part then is drunk: would it wereall,
That it might go on wheels!

Eno. Drink thou; increase the reels.

Men. Come.

Pom. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.

Ant, It ripens towards it.—Strike the vessels, ho!
Here is to Ceesar.

Enobarbus, welcome.

 

 
 

 

802 ANTONY AND

Ces. TI could well forbear it. 100
It’s monstrous labour, when I wash my brain,
And it grows fouler.

ant. Be a child o’ the time.

Ces. Possess it, I’ make answer; but I had rather

ast

From all, tour days, than drink so much in one.

dno. [To ANTONY.] Ha, my brave emperor !
Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals,
And celebrate our drink?

Pom. Let’s ha’t, good soldier.

nt. Come, let us all take hands,
Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense
In soft and delicate Lethe.

Eno. All take hands.— 110
Make battery to our ears with the loud music ;
'The while I’! place you: then, the boy shall sing ;
he holding every man shall bear, as loud
As his strong sides can volley.

[Music plays. ENOBARBUS places them hand
in hand, Saints

Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne :

In thy vats our cares be drown d;

With thy grapes our hairs be crowwd ;
Cup us, till the world go round ;

 

Cup us, till the world go round ! 120

CLEOPATRA. [Act IIT,

Ces. What would you more? Pompey, good night.
Good brother,
Let me request you off: our graver business
Frowns at this levity.—Gentle lords, let ’s part ;
You see, we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb
Is weaker than the wine ; and mine own tongue
Splits what it apes : the wild disguise hath almost
Antick’d us a . What needs more words? Good
night.—
Good Antony, your hand. ;
‘om. ‘ll try you on the shore.
aint. And shall, sir. Give’s woot hand. é

Pom. : O Antony!
You have my. father’s house,—But what? we are
friends. 130

Come down into the boat.
N00. Take heed you fall not.—
[Excunt POMPEY, CassaR, ANTONY, and
Attendants.
Menas, I 11 not on shore.
Men. No, to my cabin.—
These drums !—these trumpets, flutes! what !—
Let Neptune hear, we bid a loud farewell
To these great fellows: sound, and be hang'd!
sound out! ‘
[A flourish of trumpets, with drums.
Eno. Ho, says 'a !—There’s my cap.
iden. Ho!—Noble captain! come. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

ACT

ITT.

ScENE I.—A Plain in Syria.
Zinter VENTIDIUS, as it were in triumph, with Sirics, and other Romans, Officers, and Soldiers; the dead

      

 

‘* Refore our army.—Thy Pacorus, Orodes,
~ Pays this for Marcus Crassus.
sal, Noble Ventidius,
Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword
, ) is warm,
\,” The fugitive Parthians follow: spur through
) Media,
{! Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither
1 The routed fly: so thy grand captain Antony
Shall set thee on triumphant chariots, and

Put garlands on thy head.

Ven. O Silius, Silius! 11

I have done enough: a lower place, note well,
May make too great an act: for learn this, Silius,
Better to leave undone, than by our deed
Acquire too high a fame, when him we serve’s away.
Ceesar and Antony have ever won

More in their officer than person: Sossius,

One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,

For quick accumulation of renown,

Which he achiev’d by the minute, lost his favour.
Who does i’ the wars more than his captain can,
Becomes his captain’s captain ; and ambition,
The soldicr’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss,
Than gain which darkens him.

I could do more to do Antonius good,

20

 

ie body of Pacorvus borne before him.
oe ean Pentidius. But ’t would offend him ; and in his offence
= SOW, darting Parthia, art thou struck; | Should my performance perish.
\ and now Sil. Thou hast, Ventidius, that
\ Pleas’d fortune does of Marcus Crassus’ | Without the which a soldier, and his sword,
sy death Grants searce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?
2y Make me LS ene eb Bear the king’s son’s Fen. I'l humbly signify what in his name, 30
0.

That magical word of war, we have effected ;
How, with his banners and his well-paid ranks,
The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia
We have jaded out o’ the field.
il. : Where is he now?
Ven. ae purposeth to Athens ; whither, with what
aste
The weight we must convey with’s will permit,
We shall appear before him.—On, there ; pass along.
[Exeunt.

ScENE II._Rome. An Ante-chamber in CsaR’s
ouse.

Entcr AGRIPPA and ENOBARBUS, meeting.
Agr. What, are the brothers parted ? 5
Eno. They have despatch’d with Pompey: he is

gone;

The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps.

To part from Rome; Cesar is sad; and Lepidus,

Since Pompey’s feast, as Menas says, is troubled

With the green sickness.
Agr. *T is a noble Lepidus.
Eno. A very fine one. O, how he loves Cesar! ‘
Agr. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony:
Eno, Ceesar? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men.

 

 
 

Scene III.)

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA,

803

 

 

Agr. What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter. 10

Eno. Spake you of Cesar? How! the nonpareil!

Agr. O Antony! Othou Arabian bird !

Eno. Would you praise Ceesar, say,—Ceesar ;—go no
further,

Agr. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent

Eno.

3

praises.

But he loves Cesar best;—yet he loves

Antony.

Ho! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets,
cannot

Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number,—ho !

His love to Antony. But as for Ceesar,

Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.

Agr. Both he loves.
Eno. They are his shards, and he their beetle.
[Trumpets.] So, — 20

This is to horse.—Adieu, noble Agrippa.
Agr. Good fortune, worthy soldier ; and farewell.

Enter C@sar, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, and OCTAVIA.

Ant. No further, sir.
Ces. You take from me a great part of myself;
Use me well in’t.—Sister, prove such a wife
As my thoughts make thee, and as my furthest

ban

Shall pass on thy approof.—Most noble Antony,
Let not the piece of virtue, which is set
Betwixt us as the cement of our love,
To keep it builded, be the ram to batter 30
The fortress of it; for better might we
Have lov'd without this mean, if on both parts
This be not cherish’d.

ant.
In your distrust.

T have said.

Make me not offended

Ant. You shall not find,
Though you be therein curious, the least cause
For what you seem to fear. So, the gods keep

you,
And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!
We will here part.

Ces. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well:
The elements be kind to thee, and make 40
Thy spirits all of comfort ! fare thee well.

Octa. My noble brother !—

Ant. The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s spring,
And these the showers to bring it on.—Be cheerful.

Octa. Sir, look well to my husband’s house ; and—

Ces. ‘What,
Octavia?

Octa.___ I 1 tell youin your ear.

Ant. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can
Her heart inform her tongue; the swan’s down-

feather, :
That stands upon the swell at the full of tide,
And neither way inclines. . 50

Eno. [Aside to AGRIPPA.] Will Cesar weep?

gr. He has a cloud in’s face.
Eno. He were the worse for that, were he a horse;

So is he, being a man.
gr. Why, Enobarbus,
When Antony found Julius Ceesar dead,
He cried almost to roaring ; and he wept,
When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. 2
Eno. That year, indeed, he was troubled with a
rheum ;
What willingly he did confound, he wail'd,
Believe’t, till I wept too.
Ces. No, sweet Octavia,
You shall hear from me still: the time shall not 60
Out-go my thinking on you.
nt. Come, sir, come;
I'll wrestle with you in my strength of jove:
Look, here I have you; thus I let you go,
And give you to the gods.
Ces. Adieu; be happy !
ae Let all the number of the stars give light
To thy fair way! .
Ces. Farewell, farewell. [Jcisses OCTAVIA.
Ant. Farewell.
(Trumpets sound. Exeunt.

 

 

ScENE III.—Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAs, and ALEXAS.
Cleo. Where is the fellow?

lex. Half afeard to come.
Cleo. Go to, go to.—Come hither, sir.

Enter the Messenger.

Alex. Good majesty,
Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you,
But when you are well pleas’d.

 

   

EE FB

Cleo, “That's not so good. He cannot like her long.”

Cleo. That Herod’s head
I’ll have: but how, when Antony is gone,
Through whom I might command it?—-Come thou

near.
Mess. Most gracious majesty,—
leo. Didst thou behold

Octavia ?

Mess. Ay, dread queen.

Cleo. ere?

Mess. Madam, in Rome
I look’d her in the face ; and saw her led ~ 10
Between her brother and Mark Antony.

Cleo. Is she as tall as me ?

Mess. She is not, madam.

Cleo. gi eek her speak ? is she shrill-tongu’d, or

ow?
Mess. Madam, I heard her eagles she is low-voic’d.
Cleo. That’s not so good. e cannot like her long.
Char. Like her? O Isis! ’tis impossible.
Cleo. I think so, Charmian: dull of tongue, and

dwarfish !—

What majesty is in her gait?) Remember,

If e’er thou look’dst on majesty.
Mess. She creeps ;

Her motion and her station are as one: 20

She shows a body rather than a life;

A statue, than a breather.

Cleo. Is this certain?

Mess. Or I have no observance.

Char. Three in Egypt
Cannot make better note.

Cleo. He’s very knowing,
I do perceive ’t.—There’s nothing in her yet.— ,
The fellow has good judgment.

Char. Excellent.

Cleo, Guess at her years, I pr’ythee.

Mess. Madam,
She was a widow—

Cleo. Widow ?—Charmian, hark.

Mess. And I do think, she’s thirty.
Cleo. Bear’st thou her face in mind? is’t long, or
round? 30
Mess. Round, even to faultiness.
Cleo. For the most part, too, they are foolish that
are s0.—
Her hair, what colour?

 

 
 

804

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

[Act IIL

 

 

Mess. Brown, madam; and her forehead
As low as she would wish it.
Cleo. There’s gold for thee :
Thou must not take 0 former sharpness ill.
I will employ thee back again: I find thee
Most tit for business. Go, make thee ready ;
Our letters are prepar’d. [£xit Messenger.
Char. A proper man.
Cleo. Indeed, he is so: I repent me much,
That so IT harried him. Why, methinks, by him, 40
This creature’s no such thing.
Char. Nothing, madam.
Cleo. a man has seen some majesty, and should
know.
Char. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,
And serving you so long!
Cleo. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good
Charmian:
But ‘tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me
Where I will write, All may be well enough.
Char. I warrant you, madam. [Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—Athens. A Room in ANTONY’s House.

Enter ANTONY and OCTAVIA.

Ant. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that,—

That were excusable, that, and thousands more

Of semblable import, —but he hath wag'd

New wars 'gainst Pompey ; made his will, and read it
To public ear:

Spoke scantly of me: when perforce he could not
But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly

He vented them; most narrow measure lent me;
When the best hint was given him, he not took 't,

Or did it from his teeth.

Octa. O my good lord! 10

Believe not all; or, if you must believe,

Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,

If this division chance, ne’er stood between,

Praying for both parts:

The good gods will mock me presently,

When I shall pray, ‘'O, bless my lord and husband !”
Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud,

“‘Q, bless my brother!” Husband win, win brother,
Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway

*Twixt these extremes at all.

Ant, Gentle Octavia, 20
Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks
Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour,

I lose myself: better I were not yours,

Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested,
Yourself shall go between us: the meantime, lady,
I'll raise the preparation of a war

Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste:
So your desires are yours.

Octa. Thanks to my lord.

The Jove of power make me most weak, most weak,
Your reconciler! Wars twixt you twain would be,
As if the world should cleave, and that slain men 31
Should solder up the rift.

Ant. When it appears to you where this begins,
Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults
Can never be so equal, that your love
Can equally move with them. Provide your going;
Choose your own company, and command what cost
Your heart has mind to. [Exeunt.

ScENE. V._The Same. Another Room in the Same.

Enter ENoBARBUS and Eros, meeting.

Eno. How now, friend Eros?

Eros. There’s strange news come, sir.

Eno. What, man?

Eros. Cesar and Lepidus have made wars upon
Pompey.

Eno. This is old: what is the success?

Eros. Ceesar, having made use of him in the wars
*gainst Pompey,.presently denied him rivality, would

 

not let him partake in the glory of the action; and
not resting here, accuses him of letters he had for-
merly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes
him: so the poor third is up, till death enlarge his
confine. 13
fino. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no
more ;
And throw between them all the food thou hast,
They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony?
Eros. He’s walking in the garden—thus: and
spurns
The rush that lies before him ; cries, ‘‘ Fool, Lepidus!”
And threats the throat of that his officer,
‘That murder’d Pompey.
Fino. Our great navy’srigg’d. 20
Eros. For Italy, and Cesar. More, Domitius ;
My lord desires you presently : my news
I might have told hereafter.
Eno. *T will be naught;
But let it be.. Bring me to Antony.
ros. Come, sir. [Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—Rome. A Room in Czsar’s House.

Enter CESAR, AGRIPPA, and MECAENAS.

Ces. Contemning Rome, he has done all this: and
more ;
In Alexandria—here’s the manner of 't—
I’ the market-place, on a tribunal silver’d,
Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold
Were publicly enthron’d: at the feet sat
Ceesarion, whom they call my father’s son,
And all the unlawful issue, that their lust
Since then hath made between them. Unto her
He gave the stablishment of Egypt ; made her

Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, 10
Absolute queen.
= Mec. This in the public eye?

Ces. T the common show-place, where they exercise.
His sons he there proclaim’d the kings of kings:
Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia,

He gave to Alexander: to Ptolemy he assign’d
Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She

In the habiliments of the goddess Isis

That day appear’d ; and oft before gave audience,
As ’tis reported, so.

Mec. Let Rome be thus
Inform’'d. 20

Agr, Who, queasy with his insolence already,
Will their good thoughts call from him.

Ces. The people know it; and have now receiv’d
His accusations.

Agr. Whom does he accuse?

Ces. Cesar; and that, having in Sicily
Sextus Pempetis spoil’d, we had not rated him
His part o' the isle: then does he say, he lent me
Some shipping unrestor’d: lastly, he frets,
That Lepidus of the triumvirate
Should be depos'd; and, being, that we detain 30
All his revenue.

gr. Sir, this should be answer'd.

Ces. ’T is done already, and the messenger gone.
I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel;
That he his high authority abus’d,
And did ee his change: for what I have con-

quer'd,

I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia,
And other of his conquer’d kingdoms, I
Demand the like.

Mec. He'll never yield to that.

Ces. Nor must not then be yielded to in this,

Enter Octavia, with her Train.
Octa. Hail, Ceesar, and my lord! hail, most dear
Ceesar ! ; 40
Ces. That ever I should call thee castaway!
Octa. You have not call’d me so, nor have you cause.
Ces. Why bave you stol'n upon us thus? You come
not
Like Ceesar’s sister: the wife of Anton
Should have an army for an usher, an

 
 

ScENE VII.] ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. 805

 

The neighs of horse to tell of her approach,
Long ere she did appear ; the trees by the way
Should have borne men, and expectation fainted,
eoeene Or what it had not; nay, the dust
Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,
Rais’d by your populous enn But you are come
A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown,
Is often left unlov'd: we should have met you
By sea and land, supplying every stage

ith an augmented greeting.

Octa. Good my lord,
To come thus was I not constrain’d, but did it
On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,
Hearing that you prepar’d for war, acquainted
My grieved ear withal; whereon, I begg’d
His pardon for return,

Ces. Which soon he granted,
Being an obstruct tween his lust and him.

Octa. Do not say so, my lord.

Ces. IT have eyes upon him,
And his affairs come to me on the wind.
Where is he now?

Octa. My lord, in Athens.

Ces. No, my most wronged sister; Cleopatra
Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire
Up to a whore; who now are levying
The kings o’ the earth for war. He hath assembled
Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus, 70
Of en pp mocks Philadelphos, king
Of Pa: aeons the Thracian king, Adallas;
King Malchus of Arabia; King of Pont;
Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king
Of Comagene ; Polemon and Amintas,
The kings of Mede, and Lycaonia,
With a more larger list of sceptres.

Octa. Ah me, most wretched,
That have my heart parted betwixt two friends,
That do afflict each other!

C Welcome hither.

‘es.
Your letters did withhold our breaking forth,
Till we perceiv’d, both how you were wrong led,
And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart.
Be you not troubled with the time, which drives
O’er your content these strong necessities ;

But let determin’d things to destiny

Hold unbewail’d their way. Welcome to Rome;
Nothing more dear tome. You are abus’d
Beyond the mark of thought; and the high gods,
To do you justice, make their ministers

Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort;
au ever welcome to us.

50

80

90

ir. Welcome, lady.
ec. Welcome, dear madam.
Each heart in Rome does love and pity you:
Only the adulterous Antony, most large
In his abominations, turns you off,
And gives his potent regiment to a trull,
That noises it against us.
Octa. Is it.so, sir?
Ces. Most certain. Sister, welcome: pray you,
Be ever known to patience: my dear’st sister!
Exeunt.

Scene VIL—ANTONY’s Camp, near the Promontory
of Actium.

Enter CLEOPATRA and ENOBARBUS.
Cleo. I will be even with thee, doubt it not.
Eno. But why, why, why?
Cleo. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,
And say’st, it is not fit.
E Well, is it, is it?

Cleo. If not, denounc’d against us, why should not

we
Be there in person!
Eno. [Aside.) Well, I could reply :—
If we should serve with horse and mares together,
The horse were merely. lost; the mares would bear
A soldier, and his horse.
Cleo,
Paes

What is’t you say?

 

 

Eno. Your presence needs must puzzle Antony; 10
Take from his heart, take from his brain, from’s time,
What should not then be spar’d. He is already
Traduc’d for levity ; and ’tis said in Rome,

That Photinus, an eunuch, and your maids,
Manage this war.

Cleo. Sink Rome; and their tongues rot,
That speak against us! A charge we bear i’ the war,
And, as the president of my kingdom, will.
Appear there fora man. Speak not against it;

I will not stay behind.

Eno. Nay, I have done.

Here comes the emperor.

Enter ANTONY and CANIDIUS.

Ant, Is't not strange, Canidius,
That from Tarentum, and Brundusium, 21
He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,

And take in Toryne?—You have heard on’t, sweet?

Cleo. Celerity is never more admir'd,

Than by the negligent.
Ant, A good rebuke,
Which might have well becom’d the best of men,
To taunt at slackness.—Canidius, we
Will fight with him by sea.
y By sea!

Cleo. What else?

Can. Why will my lord do so?

Ant. For that he dares us to 't.

Eno. So hath my lord dar’d him to single fight. 30

Can. Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia,
Where Cesar fought with Pompey ; but these offers,
Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off;

And so should you.

Eno. Your ships are not well mann’d;
Your mariners are muliters, reapers, people
Ingross’d by swift impress: in Ceesar’s fleet
Are those, that often have ’gainst Pompey fought:
Their ships are yare; yours, heavy. No disgrace
Shall fall you for refusing him at sea,

Being prepar’d for land.

Ant. By sea, by sea.

Eno. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away
The absolute soldiership you have by land;
Distract your army, which doth most consist
Of war-mark’d footmen ; leave unexecuted
Your own renowned knowledge; quite forego
The way which promises assurance, and
Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard,
From firm security.

. Ill fight at sea.

Cleo. I have sixty sails, Ceesar none better.

Ant. Our overplus of shipping will we burn; 50
And with the rest, full-mann’d, from the head of

Actium
Beat the approaching Cesar,
We then can do’t at land.

Enter a Messenger.
Thy business?

Mess. The news is true, my lord; he is descried ;
Ceesar has taken Toryne.

Ant. Can he be there in person ? ’tis impossible ;
Strange, that his power should be.—Canidius,

Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,
And our twelve thousand horse :—we’ll to our ship.
Away, my Thetis!
Enter a Soldier.
How now, worthy soldier?

Sold. O noble emperor! do not fight by sea;
Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt
This sword, and these my wounds? Let the Egyptians
And the Phoenicians go a-ducking; we
Have used to conquer standing on the earth,

And fighting foot to foot.

Ant. Well, well._Away!

ee ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, and ENOBARBUS.

Sold. By Hercules, I think, I am i’ the right.

Can. Soldier, thou art; but his whole action grows
Not in the power on’t: so our leader’s led,
And we are women’s men.

Sold. You keep by land
The legions and the horse whole, do you not?

40

But if we fail,

60

70

 
 

 

 

 

‘In eye of Cvesar’s battle ; from which place

806 ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. [Act III.

 

Can. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justcius ;
Publicola, and Ceelius, are for sea ;

But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar's
Carries beyond belief.

Sold. While he was yet in Rome,
His power went out in such distractions, as
Beguil'd all spies.

van.

Sold. They say,

Can.

Who's his lieutenant, hear you?
one Taurus.
Well I know the man.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. The emperor calls Canidius.
Can. With news the time’s with labour; and throes
forth 80
Each minute some. [Excunt.

ScENE VIII.—A Plain near Actium.

Enter CESAR, TAURUS, Officers, and others.
Cws. Taurus!
Taur. My lord?
Ces. Strike not by land; keep whole:
Provoke not battle, till we have done at sea.
Do not exceed the prescript of this scroll:

Our fortune lies upon this jump. [Exzeunt.

Enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS.
Ant. Set we our squadrons on yond side o’ the hill,

We may the number of the ships behold,

And so proceed according!y. [Excunt.

Enter Caniptus, marching with his land Army one
way over the staye; and Taurts, the Lieutenant
of C&sar, the other way, After their going in, ts
heard the noise of a sea-fight.

Alarum. Re-enter ENOBARBUS.
Eno. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no
longer.
The Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, 10
With all their sixty, fly, and turn the rudder:
To see 't, mine eyes are blasted.

Enter ScARUS.

Scar. Gods, and goddesses,
All the whole synod of them!

Eno. What’s thy passion ?

Scar. The greater cantle of the world is lost
With very ignorance: we have kiss'd away
Kingdoms and provinces.

Fino. How appears the fight ?

Scar. On our side like the token'd pestilence,
Where death is sure. Yon cabndnet nag of Egypt,
Whom leprosy o’ertake! i’ the midst o’ the fight,—
When vantage like a pair of twins appear’d, 20
Both as the same, or rather ours the elder,—
The breese upon her, like a cow in June,
Hoists sails, and flies.

Eno. That I beheld:
Mine eyes did sicken at the sight,-and could not
Endure a further view.

Sear. She once being loof’d,
The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,
Claps on his a and like a doting mallard,
Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.
I never saw an action of such shame:
Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before
Did violate so itself.

Alack, alack!

Eno.
Enter CANIDIUS.

Can. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,
And sinks most lamentably. Had our general
Been what he knew himself, it had gone well:
O! he has given example for our flight,
Most grossly, by his own.

Eno. Ay, are you thereabouts?
Why then, good night, indeed.

30

 

Can, Towards Peloponnesus are they fled.

Scar. ’T is easy to’t; and there I will attend
What further comes.

Can. To Cesar will Irender
My legions, and my horse : six kings already
Show me the way of yielding.

Fino. y I'll yet follow
The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason
Sits in the wind against me. [Exeunt.

ScENE IX.—Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter ANTONY and Attendants.
Ant. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon ’t;
It is asham’d to bear me.—Friends, come hither:
I am so lated in the world, that I
Have lost my way for ever.—I have a ship
Laden with gold ; take that, divide it; fly,
aaa your peace with Cesar.

Ant. I have fled myself, and
cowards
To run, and show their shoulders.—Friends, be gone ;
I have myself resolv’d upon a course,
Which has no need of you; be gone: 10
My treasure ’s in the harbour, take it.—O!
I follow’d that I blush to look upon:
My very hairs do mutiny ; for the white
Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them
For fear and doting.—Friends, be gone: you shall
Have letters from me to some friends, that will
Sweep your way for you. Pray you, look not sad,
Nor make replies of loathness : take the hint
Which my despair proclaims ; let that be left
Which leaves itself: to the sea-side straightway: 20
I will possess you of that ship and treasure.
Leave me, I pray, a little; ‘pray you now :—
Nay, do so; for, indeed, I have lost command,
Therefore, I pray you. I’ll see you by-and-by.
[Sits down,

Enter Eros, and CLEOPATRA, led by CHARMIAN
an AS.

Eros. Nay, gentle madam, to him; comfort him.

Iras. Do, most dear queen.

Char. Do! Why, what else?

Cleo. Let me sit down. O Juno!

Ant. No, no, no, no, no.

Eros. See you here, sir? 30

Ant. O fie, fie, fie!

Char. Madam, —

Tras. Madam ; O good empress !—

Eros. Sir, sir,—

Ant. Yes, my lord, yes.—He, at Philippi, kept
His sword e’en like a dancer; while I struck
The lean and wrinkled Cassius ; and ‘t was I
That the mad Brutus ended: he alone
Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had
In the brave squares of war: yet now—No matter. 40

Cleo. Ah! stand by.

Eros. The queen, my lord, the queen.

Tras. Go to him, madam, speak to him:

He is unqualitied with very shame.

Cleo. Well then,—sustain me :—O!

Eros. Most noble sir, arise ; the queen approaches:
Her head’s declin’d, and death will seize her, but
Your comfort makes the rescue.

Ant. Ihave offended reputation ;

A most unnoble swerving.

Eros. Sir, the queen.

Ant. O! whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See,

Fly ! not we.
have instructed

50

.How I convey my shame out of thine eyes

By looking back on what I have left behind
*Stroy’d in dishonour.
Cleo. O my lord, my lord!
Forgive my fearful sails : I little thought
You would have follow’d.
Ant. Egypt, thou knew’st too well,
My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,
And thou shouldst tow me after: o’er my spirit
Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that

 

 
 

 

SCENE X.]

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

807

 

Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
Command me.
Cleo,
Ant. Now I must
To the young man send humble treaties, dodge

O, my pardon!

|

 

 

SCENE X.--C.4S4R’s Camp in Egypt.

Enter CZsar, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, and others.

Ces. Let him appear that’s come from Antony.—
Know you him?

 

 

 

Eros. “ Most noble sir, arise; the queen approaches.”

And palter in the shifts of lowness, who
With half the bulk o’ the world play‘d_as I pleas’d,
Making and marring fortunes. You did know,
How much you were ny conqueror ; and that
My sword, made weak by my affection, would
Obey it on all cause.
Cleo. Pardon, pardon!
Ant. Fall not a tear, I say: one of them rates
All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;
Eyen this repays me.—We sent our schoolmaster ;
Is he come back ?—Love, I am full of lead.—
Some wine, within there, and our viands !—Fortune
knows,
Wescorn her most when most she offers blows. [Zxeunt.

Dol. Cesar, ’t is his schoolmaster:
An argument that he is pluck’d, when hither
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing,

Which had superfluous kings for messengers,
Not many moons gone by.

Enter EUPHRONIUS. 4
Ces. Approach, and speak.
Euph. Such as Iam, I come from Antony:
I was of late as petty to his ends,
As is the morn-dew on the myrtle-leaf

; To his grand sea,

(es. Be’t so. Declare thine office. 10
Euph. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and

 

 

 
 

808

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

[Act III.

 

 

Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted,
He lessens his requests, and to thee sues
To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,
A private manin Athens. This for him.
Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness,
Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves
The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,
Now hazarded to thy grace.
Ces. For Antony,
Ihave no ears to his request. The queen 20
Of audience, nor desire, shall fail, so she
From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,
Or take his life there : this if she perform,
She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.
Euph. Fortune pursue thee !
Ces, Bring him through the bands.
[Exit EUPHRONIUS.
{To TuyReEvs.] To try thy eloquence, now ‘tis time;
despatch.
From Antony win Cleopatra: promise,
And in our name, what she requires ; add more,
From thine inv ention, offers. Women are not
In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure 30
The ne‘er-touch’d vestal. Try thy cunning, Thyreus ;
Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we
Will answer as a law.
Thyr. Cesar, I go.
Ces. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,
And what thou think’st his very action speaks
In every power that moves.
Thyr. Ceesar, Ishall. [Hxeunt.

ScENE XI.—Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter CLEOPATRA, Se. CHARMIAN, and
: JrRas.
What shall we do, Enobarbus?
Think, and die.

Cleo.
Eno.
Cico. Is Antony, or we, in fault for this?
Eno. Antony only, that would make his will
Lord of his reason. What though you fled
From that great face of war, w hose several ranges
Frighted each other, why should he follow?
The itch of his affection should not then
Have nick’d his captainship; at such a point,
When half to half the world oppos’d, he being
The mered question. "T was a shame no less 10
Than was his loss, to course your flying flags,
And leave his navy gazing.
Cleo. Pr'ythee, peace.
Enter ANTONY, with EUPHRONIUS.
aint. Is that his answer?
dtuph. Ay, my lord.
.int. The queen shall then have courtesy, so she
Will yield us up.
Buph. He says so.
ain Let her know't.
To ae boy Cesar send this grizzled head,
And he will till thy wishes to the brim
With principalities.
Cleo. That head, my lord?
Ant, Tohim again. Tell him, he wears the rose 20
Of youth upon him, from which the world should
note
Something particular : his coin, ships, legions,
May be a coward’s ; whose ministers would prevail
Under the service of a child, as soon
As i’ the command of Cesar: I dare him therefore
To lay his gay comparisons apart,
And answer me declin’d, sword against sword,
Ourselves alone. I'll write it: follow me.
[Ereunt ANTONY and EUPHRONIUS.
Eno. Leste .] Yes, like enough, high-battled Ceesar
wil
Unstate his popes: and be stag’d to the show, 30
Against a sworder !—I see, men’s judgments are
A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward
Do draw the inward He after them,
To suffer all alike. at he should dream,

 

Knowing all measures, the full Ceesar will
Answer his emptiness !—Ceesar, thou hast subdu’d
His judgment too,

Enter an Attendant.

Att. A messenger from Cesar.

Cleo. What, no more ceremony ?—See, my women !—
Against the blown rose may they stop their nose,
Bhat Jeneet 'd unto the buds.—Admit him, sir. 40

[Aside.] Mine honesty and I begin to square.
The | lapaley. well held to fools, does make
Our faith mere folly : yet he, that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fall’n lord,
Does conquer him that did his master conquer,
And earns a place i’ the story.

inter THYREUS.

Cleo. Ceesar’s will?
Thyr. Hear it apart.
Cleo, None but friends: say boldly.

Thyr. So, haply, are they friends to Antony.
Eno. He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has,
Or needs not us. If Cesar please, our master 50
Will leap to be his friend: for us, you know
Whose he is, we are, and that’s Cesar’s.
Thyr. So.—
Thus’ hen, thou most renown’d: Ceesar entreats,
Not to consider in what case thou stand’ st,
Further than he is Cesar.

Cleo. Go on: right royal.

Thyr. He knows, that you embrace not Antony
As you did love, but as you fear’d him.

co.

Thyr. The scars upon your honour therefore he
Does pity, as constrained blemishes,

Not as deserv'd.

Cleo. He is a god, and knows 60
What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded,
But conquer’d merely.

Eno. { Aside.) To be sure of that,

I will ask Antony.—Sir, sir, thou ’rt so leaky,
That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for
Thy dearest quit thee. [Exit.

Thy. Shall I say to Ceesar
What you require of him? for he partly begs
To be desir’d to give. It much would please him,
That of his fortunes you should make a statf
To lean upon; but it would warm his spirits,

To hear from me you had left Antony, 70
And put yourself under ae shroud,
The ages landlord
Cle What’s your name?
Phar My name is Thyreus.
Most kind messenger,
a to ‘great Ceesar this: in deputation
I kiss his conqu’ring hand: tell him, Iam prompt
To lay my crown at his feet, and there to kneel:
Tell him, from his all- obeying breath I hear
The doom of Egypt.

Thyr. *T is your noblest course.
Wisdom and fortune combating together,

If that the former dare but what it can, 80
No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay
My duty on your hand.

Cleo. Your Ceesar’s father oft,
When he hath mus'd of taking kingdoms in,
Bestow’d his lips on that unworthy place
As it rain’d kisses.

Re-enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS.
nt. Favours, by Jove that thunders !—
Ww! ne art thou, fellow?
Thyr. One, that but performs
The Hidding of the fullest man, and worthiest ,
To have command obey’d.
Eno. [Aside.] You will be w. Bapp'd
int. Approach, there.—Ay, you kite!—Now, “gods
and devils! :
Authority ae from me: of late, when I cried,

Like boys, unto a muss, kings would start forth,
And cry, ‘* Your will?” Have you no ears?

 

 
 

 

ScENE XI.] ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. 809

 

Enter Attendants.
Iam Any yet. Take hence this Jack, and whip
him,
Eno. [Aside.] ’Tis better playing with a lion’s
whelp,
Than with an old one dying.
Ant, Moon and stars!

Whip ‘him.—Were ’t twenty of the greatest tributaries
That do acknowledge Cvesar, should I find them

 

Thar.

“Give me grace to lay
My duty on your hand.”

So saucy with the hand of—she here (what’s her name,
Since she was Cleopatra ?)—Whip him, fellows,
Till, like a boy, you see him cringe his face, 100
And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence.
Thyr. Mark Antony,—
Ant. Tug him away : being whipp‘d,
Bring him again.—This Jack of Ceesar’s shall
Bear us an errand to him.—
[Exreunt Attendants with THYREUS.
You were half blasted ere I knew you: ha!
Have I my pillow left unpress’d in Rome,
Forborne the getting of a lawful race,
And by a gem of women, to be abus’d
By one that looks on feeders ?
leo. Good my lord,—
Ant. You have been a boggler ever :—
But when we in our viciousness grow hard,
(O misery on ’t !) the wise gods seel our eyes ;
In our own filth drop our clear judgments ; make us
Adore our errors; laugh at’s, while we strut
To our confusion.
Cleo. O! is’t come to this ?
Ant. I found you as a morsel cold upon
Dead Ceesar’s trencher: nay, you were a fragment
Of Cneius Pompey’s; besides what hotter hours,
Unregister’d in vulgar fame, you have
Luxuriously pick’d out : for, I am sure, 120
Though you can guess what temperance should be,
You know not what it is.
leo. Wherefore is this?
Ant, To let a fellow that will take rewards,
And say, “ God quit you!” be familiar with
My playfellow, your hand, this kingly seal,
And plighter of high hearts !—O, that I were
Upon the hill of Basan to outroar,
The horned herd ! for I have savage cause ;
And to proclaim it civilly, were like
A halter’d neck, which does the hangman thank 130
For being yare about him.—

Re-enter Attendants, with THYREUS.

: Is he whipp’d?
1 Att. Soundly, my: lord.

110

 

Ant. Cried he? and begg’d he pardon?
1 Att. He did ask favour.
Ant. If that thy father live, let him repent
Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry
To follow Ceesar in his triumph, since
Thou hast been whipp’d for following him: hence-

forth,
The white hand of a lady fever thee ;
Shake thou to look on ’t. Get thee back to Ceesar,
Tell him thy entertainment: look, thou say, 140
He makes me angry with him ; for he seems
Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am,
Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry ;
And at this time most easy ’tis to do’t,
When my good stars, that were my former guides,
Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires
Into the abysm of hell. If he mislike
My speech, and what is done, tell him, he has
Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom

He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture, 150
As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou:
Hence, with thy stripes! be gone! [Exit THYREvS.

Cleo. Have you done yet?

Ant, Alack! our terrene moon
Ts now eclips’d, and it portends alone
The fall of Antony.

Cleo, I must stay his time.

Ant. To flatter Ceesar, would you mingle eyes
With one that ties his points?

0. Not know me yet?
aint. Cold-hearted toward me?

Cleo, Ah, dear! if I be so.
From my cold heart let heaven engender hail,
And poison it in the source; and the first stone
Drop in my neck : as it determines, so
Dissolve my life! The next Ceesarion smite,
‘Till by degrees the memory of my womb,
Together with my brave Egyptians all,

By the discandying of this pelleted storm,
Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile
Have buried them for prey!

Ant. I am satisfied.
Cesar sits down in Alexandria, where
I will oppose his fate. Our force by land
Hath nobly held; our sever'’d navy too 170
Have knit again, and fleet, threat’ning most sealike.
Where hast thou been, my heart ?—Dost thou hear,

160

ady ?
If from the field I shall return once more
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood ;
I and my sword will earn our chronicle:
There’s hope in ’t yet.
Cleo. That’s my brave lord!
«int. I will be treble-sinew’d, hearted, breath’d,
And fight maliciously : for when mine hours
Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives
Of me for jests; but now, I'll set my teeth,
And send to darkness all that stop me.—Come,
Let’s have one other gaudy night.—Call to me
All my sad captains: fill our bowls; once more
Let’s mock the midnight bell.
Cleo. It is my birthday :
I had thought to have held it poor; but, since my lord
Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.
Ant. We will yet do well:
Cleo. Call all his noble captains to my lord.
Ant. ee so, we'll speak to them; and to-night I’ll
orce
The wine peep through their scars.—Come on, my
. 1

180

queen ;
There’s sap in’t yet. The next time I do fight,
I'll make death love me, for I will contend
Even with his pestilent scythe.
[Exeunt ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, and Attendants,
Eno. Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be
furious,
Is to be frighted out of fear; and, in that mood,
The dove will peck the estridge : and I see still,
A diminution in our captain's brain
Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason,
It eats the sword it fights with. I will see
Some way to leave him. [Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—C&sar's Camp at Alexandria.
Enter C&sark, reading a letter; AGRIPPA, MECJENAS, and others.

= Cesar.
E calls me boy, and chides, as he
i had power
To beat me out of Egypt;
messenger
{fe hath whipp’d with rods; dares
me to personal combat,
Cesar to Antony. Let the old
ruffian know,
[ have many other ways to die;
meantime,

my

 

Laugh at his challenge.
ee. Ceesar must think,
When one so great begins to rage, he’s hunted
Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now
Make boot of his distraction. Never anger
Made good guard for itself.
Ces. Let our best heads 10
Know, that to-morrow the last of many battles
We mean to fight. Within our files there are,
Of those that serv'd Mark Antony but late,
Enough to fetch himin. See it done;
wind feast the army: we have store to do’t,
And they have varn’d the waste. Poor Antony!
[Exveunt.

ScENE II.--Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, CHARMIAN,
IrAs, ALEXAS, and others.
a nt. He will not fight with me, Domitius.
no.
Ant. Why should he not?
Eno. ne thinks, being twenty times of better for-
une,
He is twenty men to one.
Ant. To-morrow, soldier,
By sea and land I'll fight: or I will live,
Or bathe my dying honour in the blood
Shall make it live again. Woo't thou fight well?
Eno. I'll strike, and ery, ‘‘ Take all.”
ant. Well said ; come on.—
Call forth my household servants: let's to-night
Be bounteous at our meal.

Enter Servants.
: Give me thy hand, 10
Thou hast been rightly honest ;—so hast thou ;—
Thou,—and thou,—and thou:—you have serv’d me

well,
.\nd kings have been your fellows.
Cleo, [Aside to ENO.] What means this?
Eno. [Aside to CLEO.] 'Tis one of those odd tricks,
which sorrow shoots
Out of the mind.
Ant. And thou art honest too.
I wish I could be made so many men,
And all of you clapp’d up together in
An Antony, that I might do you service,
So good as you have done.
Serv. The gods forbid!
Ant. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night; 20
Scant not my cups, and make as much of me,
As when mine empire was your fellow too,
And suffer'd my command.

 

Cleo. [Aside to ENoO.] What does he mean?

fino, [Aside to CLEO.] To muke his followers weep.

Ant, Tend me to-night;
May be, it is the period of your duty:
Haply, you shall not see me more; or if,

A mangled shadow: perchance, to-morrow
You'll serve another master. I look on you

As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,
I turn you not away; but, like a master

Married to your good service, stay till death.
Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,

And the gods yield you for’t!

Eno. What mean you, sir,
To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;
And I, an ass, am onion-ey’d: for shame,
Transform us not to women.

Ho, ho, ho!

Ant.
Now, the witch take me, if I meant it thus!
Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty

friends,

You take me in too dolorous a sense,
For I spake to you for your comfort; did desire you 40
To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts,
I hope well of to-morrow ; and will lead you
Where rather Ill expect victorious life,
Than death and honour. Let’s to supper, come,
And drown consideration. Exeunt,

 

ScENE ITI.—The Same. Before the Palace.
Enter two Soldiers, to their guard.
1 Sold. Brother, good night: to-morrow is the day.
2 Sold. It will determine one way: fare you well.
Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?
1 Sold. Nothing. What news ?
2 Sold. Belike, ‘tis buta rumour. Good night to you.
1 Sold. Well, sir, good night.
Enter two other Soldicrs.
2 Sold. Soldiers, have careful watch.
3 Sold. And you. Good night, good night.
(The first taco place themselves at their posts.
4 Sold. Here we: [they take their posts] and if to-
morrow
Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope
Our landmen will stand up.

3 Sold. *T is a brave army, 10
And full of purpose.
[ALfusic of hautboys under the stage.
4 Sold. Peace! what noise?
1 Sold. List, list!
2 Sold. Hark!
1 Sold. Music i’ the air.
3 Sold. Under the earth.
4 Sold. It signs well, does it not?
3 Sold.

1 Sold. Peace, I say!
What should this mean? f

2 Sold. "Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony lov’d,
Now leaves him.

1 Sold. Walk; let’s see if other watchmen
Do hear what we do. [They advance to another post.

2 Sold. How now, masters ?

Soldiers. [Speaking together.]
How now? 4o you hear this?

How now?

 

 

 
 

ScENE VI.]

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

811

 

 

1 Sold. Ay; is’t not stran,
3 Sold. Do you hear, masters 2? ae you hear? eet
1 Sold. Follow the noise so far as we have quarter ;
Let’s see how ’t will give oif. :
Soldiers. Content. ’Tis strange.
[Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Same. A Room in the Palace.

Enter ANTONY and CLEOPATRA; CHARMIAN, and
others, attending.

Ant. Eros! mine armour, Eros!

Cleo. _ Sleep a little.

Ant. No, my chuck.—Eros, come; mine armour,

Eros!
Enter Eros, with armour.

Come, good fellow, put mine iron on:—

Hy
Vi ga

I
Whi
|=

 

   

Ant. “ Ali, let be, let be! thou art
The armourer of my heart.”

If fortune be not ours to-day, it is
Because we brave her.—Come.
Nay, I'll help too.

Cleo.

What’s this for?

Ant, Ah, let be, let be! thou art
The armourer of my heart :—false, false ; this, this.

Cleo. Sooth, la! I’ help. Thus it must be.

Ant. Well, well;
We shall thrive now.—Seest thou, my good fellow?
Go, put on thy defences. . .

Briefly, sir. 10

Eros.
Cleo. Is not this buckled well?
nt. Rarely, rarely:

He that unbuckles this, till we do please
To doff ’t for our repose, shall hear a storm.—
Thou fumblest, Eros; and my queen’s a squire
More tight at this than thou. espatch.—O love!
That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew’st
The royal occupation ! thou shouldst see
A workman in ’t.

Enter an armed Soldier.
Good morrow to thee ; welcome:
Thou look’st like him that knows a warlike charge:
To business that we love we rise betime, 20
And go to’t with delight.
Sold. A thousand, sir,
Early though’t be, have on their riveted trim,
And at the port expect you.
[Shout.

Enter Captains and Soldiers.

ao The morn is fair.—Good morrow, general.
All. Good morrow, general.
Ant. ’T is well blown, lads.

This morning, like the spirit of a pouch
That means to be of note, begins betimes.—
So, 80; come, give me that: this way ; well said.

Trumpets flourish.

 

 

Fare thee well, dame: whate’er becomes of me,
This is a soldier's kiss. [Kisses her.) Rebukable, 30
And worthy shameful check it were, to stand
On more mechanic compliment: I'll leave thee
Now, like a man of steel. You, that will fight,
Follow me close; I'll bring you to’t.—Adieu.
[Exeunt ANTONY, ERos, Officers, and Soldiers.

Char. Please you, retire to your chamber.

Cleo. Lead me.
He goes forth gallantly. That he and Cesar might
Determine this great war in single fight!

Then Antony—but now—Well, on, [Ezxeunt.

ScENE V.—ANTONY’s Camp near Alexandria,

Trumpets sound. Enter ANToNy and Eros; @
Soldier meeting them.

ods make this a ey day to Antony!

Sold. The
y scars, had once

int. Would thou, and those t.
prevail’d
To make me fight at land!
Sold. Hadst thou done so,
The kings that have revolted, and the soldier
That has this morning left thee, would have still
Follow’d thy heels.

Ant. Who’s gone this morning ?
Sold. Who?
One ever near thee : call for Enobarbus,
He shall not hear thee ; or from Ceesar’s camp
Say, ‘1am none of thine.”
ant. What say’st thou?
Sold. Sir,
| He is with Ceesar.
Eros. Sir, his chests and treasure 10
He has not with him.
ant. Is he gone?
Sold. Most certain.

Ant. Go, Eros, send his treasure after ; do it:
Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him
(I will subscribe) gentle adieus and greetings :
Say, that I wish he never find more cause
To change a master.—O ! my fortunes have
Corrupted honest men.—Despatch.—Enobarbus !
[Exeuni.

ScenE VI.—Casar’s Camp before Alexandria.

Flourish. Enter Casar, with AGRIPPA, ENORARBUS,
and others.

Ces. Go forth, Agrippa. and begin the fight.
Our willis, Antony be took alive;
Make it so known.

Agr. Cesar, I shall.

Ces. The time of universal peace is near:
Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nook’d world
Shall bear the olive freely.

Enter a Messenger.
Antony

[Exit.

Mess.
Is come into the field.
Ces. Go, charge Agrippa
Plant those that have revolted in the van,
That Antony may seem to spend his fury 10
Upon himself. (Exeunt C@sarR and his Train.
Eno. Alexas did revolt, and went to Jewry,
On atfairs of Antony; there did persuade
Great Herod to incline himself to Ceesar,
And leave his master Antony : for this pains,
Ceesar hath hang’d him. Canidius, and the rest
That fell away, have entertainment, but
No honourable trust. I have done ill,
Of which I do accuse myself so sorely,
That I will joy no more.
Enter a Soldier of CSR's.
Sold. Enobarbus, Antony 20
Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with
His bounty overplus: the messenger
Came on my guard, and at thy tent is now
Unloading of his mules.

 

 
 

812 ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. [Act Iv,

 

 

Eno. I give it you.

Sold. Mock not, Enobarbus,
I tell you true: best you saf'd the bringer
Out of the host ; I must attend mine office,
Or would have done't myself. Your emperor
Continues still a Jove.

no. [am alone the villain of the earth,
And feel lamso most. O Antony!
Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid
My better service, When my turpitude
Thou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart:
If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean
Shall outstrike thought; but thought will do‘t, I feel.
I fight against thee ?—No: I will go seek
Some ditch, wherein to die: the foul’st best fits
My latter part of life. [Exit.

[Ezit.
30

ScENE VII.—Field of Battle between the Camps.

Alarum. Drums and trumpcts. Enter AGRIPPA
and others.
Agr. Retire, we have engag'd ourselves too far,

Cesar himself has work, and our oppression
[Excunt.

Exceeds what we expected.
dAlarum, Enter ANTONY, and SCARUS, wounded.
Scar. O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed !
Had we done so at first, we had driven them home
With clouts about their heads.
Ant. Thou bleed’st apace.
Sear, Thad a wound here that was like a T, |
But now ‘tis made an H. !
ant. They do retire.
Scar. We'll beat ‘em into bench-holes. I have yet
Room for six scotches more. 10
Enter Eros.
Eros. They are beaten, sir; and our advantage
serves
For a fair victory.
Scar. Let us score their backs,
And snatch ’em up, as we take hares, behind:
‘fT is sport to maul a runner.
Ant. I will reward thee
Once for thy sprightly comfort, and ten-fold
For thy good valour. Come thee on,
Scar. l’llhalt after. Excunt.

ScENE VIII.—Under the Walls of Alexandria.

Alarum. Enter ANTONY, marching; Scarus and
Lrorces.
«int. We have beat him to his camp. Run one !
before,

And let the queen know of our guests.—To-morrow,
Before the sun shall see us, we'll spill the blood
That has to-day escap’d. I thank you all;
For doughty-handed are you, and have fought
Not as you serv'd the cause, but as it had been
Each man’s like mine: you have shown all Heetors.
Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends,
Tell them your feats; whilst they with joyful tears
Wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss 10
The honour’d gashes whole.—Give me thy hand:

Enter CLEOPATRA, attended,
To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,
Make her thanks bless thee.—O thou day o’ the world!
Chain mine arm’'d neck ; leap thou, attire and all,
Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
Ride on the pants triumphing.

Cleo. Lord of lords!
O infinite virtue! com'st thou smiling from
The world’s great snare uncaught ?

Ant. My nightingale
We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though

grey
Do something mingle with our younger brown, a
a’ we 2
A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can

 

Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;
Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand :—
Kiss it, my warrior :—he hath tought to-day,
As if a god, in hate of mankind, had
Destroy’d in such a shape.

Cleo. I'll give thee, friend,
An armour all of gold ; it was a king’s.

Ant. He has deserv’d it, were it carbuncled
Like holy Phebus’ car.—Give me thy hand:
Through Alexandria make a jolly march; 30
Bear our hack’d targets like the men that owe them.
Had our great palace the capacity

 

 

“OQ Antony,

Eno.
Nobler than my revolt is infamous,
Forgive me in thine own particular.”

To camp this host, we all would sup together,

' And drink carouses to the next day’s fate,

Which promises royal peril.—Trumpeters,

With brazen din blast you the city’s ear:

Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,

That heaven and earth may strike their sounds to-

gether,
Applauding our approach. [Exeunt.

ScENE [X.—Casar’s Camp.

Sentinels on their Post.

1 Sold. If we be not reliev’d within this hour,
We must return to the court of guard. The night
Is shiny, and, they say, we shall embattle
By the second hour i’ the morn.

2 Sold.

A shrewd one to us,

Enter ENOBARBUS,

fino, O! bear me witness, night,—
3 Sold. What man is this ?
Sold. Stand close, and list him.
Eno. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,
When men revolted shall upon record
Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did
Before thy face repent !—
1 Sold.
3 Sold. Peace! 10
Hark further.
Eno. O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,
The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,
That life, a very rebel to my will,
May ee longer on me: throw my heart
Against the flint and hardness of my fault,
Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,
And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,
Nobler than my revolt is infamous,
Forgive me in thine own particular; 20
But let the world rank me in register
A master-leaver, and a fugitive.
O Antony! O Antony!

This last day was

Enobarbus !

[Dies.

 

 
 

SCENE XII] ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. 813

 

 

2 Sold. Let’s speak to him.

1 Sold. Let’s hear him; for the things he speaks
May concern Cesar.

Sold. Let’s do so. But he sleeps.

1 Sold. Swoons rather ; for so bad a prayer as his
Was never yet for sleep.

2 Sold. Go we to him.

3 Sold. Awake, sir, awake! speak to us. :

2 Sold. Hear you, sir?

1 Sold. The hand of death hath raught him. (Drums

afar of.) Hark! the drums 30

Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him
To the court of guard; he is of note: our hour
Is fully out.

3 Sold. Come on then;

He may recover yet. [Exeunt with the body.

ScENE X.—Between the two Camps.

Enter ANTONY and Scarvus, with Forces, marching.
Ant. Their preparation is to-day by sea:

We please them not by land.
Scar. For both, my lord.
Ant. I would, they ’d fight i’ the fire, or i’ the air;

We'd fight there too. But this it is: our foot

Upon the hills adjoining to the city

Shall stay with us: order for sea is given;

They have put forth the haven:

Where their appointment we may best discover,

And look on their endeavour. [exeunt.

Enter C&sar and his Forces, marching.

Ces. But being charg’d, we will be still by land, 10
Which, as I take’t, we shall; for his best force
Is forth to man his galleys. To the vales,
And hold our best advantage! [Exeunt.

Re-enter ANTONY and ScaRus.
Ant. Yet they are not join’d. Where yond pine does

stand,
I shall discover all: I'll bring thee word
Straight, how ’tis like to go. [Ecxit.
Scar. Swallows have built
In Cleopatra’s sails their nests: the auguries
Say, they know not,—they cannot tell ;—look grimly,
And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
Is valiant, and dejected ; and, by starts, 20
His fretted fortunes give him hope, and fear,
Of what he has, and has not.
[Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight.

Re-enter ANTONY.
Ané, All is lost !

This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me:

My fleet hath yielded to the foe; and yonder

They cast their caps up, and carouse together |

Like friends long lost.—Triple-turn’d whore! ‘tis thou

Hast sold me to this novice, and my heart

Makes only wars on thee.—Bid them all fly ;

For when I am reveng’d upon my charm,

Thave done all.—Bid them all fly; be gone. | 30
[Exit ScaRus.

Osun! thy uprise shall I see no more:

Fortune and Antony part here ; even here

Do we shake hands.—All come to this ?—The hearts

That spaniel’d me at heels, to whom I gave

Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets

On blossoming Ceesar ; and this pine is bark’d,

That overtopp’d them all. Betray’d Iam.

O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—

Whose ee beck’d forth my wars, and call’d them

ome,

Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,— 40

Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,

Beguil’d me to the very heart of loss.—

What, Eros! Eros!

Enter CLEOPATRA.
Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!
Cleo, Why is my lord enrag’d against his love?

 

Ant. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,
And blemish Ceesar’s triumph. Let him take thee,
And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians :
Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot:

Of all thy sex ; most monster-like, be shown

For poor’st diminutives, for doits; and let 50
Patient Octavia plough thy visage up ;
With her prepared nails. [Avit CLEOPATRA.] ’Tis

well thou rt gone,
If it be well to live; but better ’t were
Thou fell’st into my fury, for one death
Might have prevented many.—Eros, ho !—
The shirt of Nessus is upon me: teach me,
Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage:
Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o’ the moon ;
And with those hands, that grasp’d the heaviest club,
Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shalldie: 60
To the poune Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
Under this plot ; she dies for ’t.—Eros, ho! [Exit.

ScENE XJ.—Alexandria. A Room in the Palace.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN.

Cleo. Help me, my women! O! he is more mad
Than Telamon for his shield ; the boar of Thessaly
Was never so emboss’d.

Char. To the monument!

There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.
The soul and body rive not more in parting,
Than greatness going off. .

To the monument !—

leo.
Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself ;
Say, that the last I spoke was, Antony,
And word it, pr’ythee, piteously. Hence,
Mardian, and bring me how he takes my death.
To the monument!

10
[Exeunt.

SCENE XII.—The Same.

Enter ANToNY and Eros.
Ant. Eros, thou yet behold’st me?
Eros. Ay, noble lord.
Ant. Sometime, we see a cloud that's dragonish,
A vapour, sometime, like a bear, or lion,
A tower’d citadel, a pendant rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon ’t, that nod unto the world,
And mock our eyes with air: thou hast seen these

Another Room.

signs ;
They are black vesper’s pageants.
Eros. : Ay, my lord.
Ant. That which is now a horse, even with a
thought

The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
As water is in water.

Eros. It does, my lord.

Ant. My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is
Even such a body: here Iam Antony;
Yet cannot hold thigwisible shape, my knave.
I made these wars for Egypt : and the queen,—
Whose heart, I thought, I had, for she had mine,
Which, whilst it was mine, had annex’d unto ’t
A million moe, now lost,—-she, Eros, has
Pack’d cards with Ceesar, and false-play’d my glory
Unto an enemy’s triumph.— 20
Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us
Ourselves to end ourselves.

10

Enter MARDIAN.
O, thy vile lady!

She has robb’d me of my sword.

Mar. No, Antony;
My mistress lov’d thee, and her fortunes mingled
With thine entirely.

Ant. Hence, saucy eunuch : peace!
She hath betray’d me, and shall die the death.

Mar. Death of one person can be paid but once,
And that she has discharg’d. What thou wouldst do,
Is done unto thy hand : the last she spake

 

 
 

814 ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. [Acr Iv.

 

 

Was, Antony! most noble Antony ! 30
Then in the midst a teari ing groan did break

The name of Antony ; it was divided

Between her heart and lips. She render’d life,

Thy name so buried in her.
Dead then?
Dead.

Ant.

Dar.

int. Unarm, Eros: the long day’s task is done,
And we must sleep.—That thou depart'st hence safe,
Does pay thy labour richly; go. [Artt MARDIAN.

Off, pluck off :—
The seven-fold shield of Ajax cannot keep
The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides!
Heart, once be stronger than thy continent.
Crack thy frail case !—Apace, Eros, apace.—
No more a soldier :—bruised pieces, go ;
You have been nobly borne. [A#xit ERos.]—From me
awhile,

I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and
Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now
All length is torture: since the torch is out,
Lie down, and stray no tarther. Now all labour
Mars what it does ; yea, very force entangles
Itself with str ength ? seal then, and all is done.—
Eros !—I come, my queen.—Hros !—Stay for me: 50
Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,
And with our spritely port make the ghosts gaze :
Dido and her -Kneas shall want troops,
And all the haunt be ours.—Come, Eros! Eros!

Re-enter Eros.

Eros. What would iny lord?

Ant, Since Cleopatra diced,
T have liv'd in such dishonour, that the gods
Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword
Quarter'd the world, and o'er green Neptune’s back
With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack
The courage of a woman; less noble mind 60
Than she, which by her death our Cesar tells,

“Tam conqueror of myself.” Thou art sworn, Eros,
That when the exigent should come, (which now

Is come, indeed,) when I should see behind me

The inevitable prosecution of

Disgrace and horror, that on ny command

Thou then wouldst kill me: do t; the time is come.
Thou strik’st not me, ‘tis Cesar thou deteat’st.

Put colour in thy cheek.

Eos. The gods withhold me!
Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts, 70
Thee enemy, lost aim, and could not?

An Eros,

Ww ae thou be window’d in great Rome, and see
Thy master thus with pleach’d arms, bending down
His corrigible neck, his face subdued

To penctrative shame, whilst the whecl'd seat

Of fortunate Civsar, drawn before him, branded
His baseness that ensued ?

Eros. I would not see ’t.

Ant. Come then; for with a wound I must be cur’d.
Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
Most Vga tor thy country.

Ero O, sir! pardon me. 80

“tt ‘When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not

then
To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once,
Or thy precedent services are all
But accidents unpurpos’d. Draw, and come.

Eros. Turn from me then that noble countenance,
Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.

Ant, Lo thec! [Turning from him.

i ros. My sword is drawn,

nt. Then let it do at once
The thing why thou hast drawn it.
Eros. My dear master,
My captain, and my emperor, let me say,
Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.
Ant. Tis said, man; and farewell.
. eros. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?
' Ant. Now, Eros.
ihros. Why, there then: [falls on his sword]—thus

 

I do escape the sorrow :
Of Antony’s death. [Dies.

Ant. Thrice-nobler than myself !
Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what
I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros
Have, by their brave instruction, got upon me
‘A nobleness in record: but I will be
A bridegroom in my death, and run into’t
‘As toa lover's bed. Come then; and, Eros,
Thy master dies thy scholar: to ‘do thus

[Falling on his sword.

I learn’d of thee.—How ! not dead? not dead ?--
The guard !—ho !—O, despatch me!

100

 

 

Come then ; and, Lros,
Thy Mater dies thy scholar.”

Enter DERCETAS and Guard. {

1 Guard. What's the noise?
Ant. Ihave done my work ill, friends: O! make an

end
Of what I have begun.

2 Guard. The star is fallen.

1 re d. And time is at his period.

All Alas, and woe!

“int. Let him that loves me strike me dead. ane

Not I.

1 Guard.
2 Guard. Nor I.

3 Guard. Nor any one. [Execunt Guard.
Der. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.
This sword but shown to Cesar, with this tidings, 112

Shall enter me with him.

Enter DIOMEDES,
Dio. Where’s Antony ?
Der. There, Diomed, there.
Dio Lives he?
Wilt thou not answer, man? [Exit DERCETAS.
Ant. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword,
and give me
Sufficient strokes for death.
Dio. Most absolute lord,
My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.
Ant. When did she send thee?
Dio. Now, my lord.
Ant, Where is she?
Dio. Lock’d in her monument. She had a prophesy-
ing fear 120
Of what hath come to pass ; for when she saw
(Which never shall be found) you did suspect
She had dispos’d with Ceesar, and that your rage
Would not be purg’d, she sent, you word she was dead ;
But, fearing since how it might work, hath sent
Me to aca the truth; and I am come,

I dread, too late,

Ant. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I
pr’y thee.

Dio. What, ho! the emperor’s guard! The guard,
what, ho

Come; your lord Calls. 130

 

 
 

ScENE XIII.] ANTONY AND

Enter some of the Guard. |

Ant. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bi x
Tis the last sere that I shall command yin, eee

E
a

Bi ¢
t sl th

Cleo.
And welcome, welcome!

1 Guard. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live
to wear
All your true followers out.
Most heavy day!

All.
Ant. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp
ate

.To grace it with your sorrows : bid that, welcome
Which comes to punish us, and we punish it
Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up: |
LThave led you oft : carry me now, good friends,

And have my thanks for all. : 140
[Ezxeunt, bearing ANTONY

 

 

CLEOPATRA. 815

ScenrE XIII.—The Same. A Monument.

Entcr, above, CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, and IRAS.
Cleo. O Charmian ! I will never go from hence.

“O! come, come, come;
dle, where thou hast Ilv'd.”

Char. Be comforted, dear madam.
Cleo. No, I will not.

All strange and terrible events are welcome,
But comforts we despise : our size of sorrow,
Proportion'’d to our cause, must be as great
As that which makes it.

Entcr, below, DIOMEDES.
How now? is he dead?
Dio. His death’s upon him, but not dead,
Look out 0’ the other side your monument;
His guard have brought him thither.

 
 

 

816

Enter, below, ANTONY, borne by the Guard.

Cleo, Osun, 10
Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in !—darkling stand
The varying shore o' the world. O Antony,

Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian, help, Iras, help:
pe eres below ; let's draw him hither.

Ant,

Not Ceesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony,
But Antony's hath triumph’d on itself.

Cleo, So it should be, that none but Antony
Should conquer Antony; but woe ’tis so!

Ant. lam dying, Egypt, dying; only
I here importune death awhile, until 20
Of many thousand kisses the poor last
I lay upon thy lips.

Cleo. I dare not, dear,

(Dear my lord, pardon,) I dare not,

Lest I be taken: not the imperious show

Of the full-fortun’d Ceesar ever shall

Be brooch’d with me; if knife, drugs, serpents, have
Kdge, sting, or operation, I am sate:

Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes,

And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour
Demuring upon me.—But come, come, Antony,— 30
Help me, my women,—we must draw thee up.—
snes good friends.

Peace!

nt. O! quick, or Iam gone.
Cleo. i | sport, indeed !—How heavy weighs my
ord!

Our strength is all gone into heaviness,

‘That makes the weight. Had I great Juno’s powcr,

‘The strong-wing’d Mercury should fetch thee up,

And set thee by Jove’s side. Yet come a little,—

Wishers were ever fools.—O ! come, come, come:

[They draw ANTONY up.

And welcome, welcome ! die, where thou hast liv’d:

Quicken with kissing: had my lips that power, 40

Thus would I wear them out.
All. A heavy sight!

_ Ant. Tam dying, Egypt, dying.

Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.
Cleo, No, let me speak ; and let me rail so high,
That the false housewife Fortune break her wheel.

Provok'd by my offence.

Ant. One word, sweet queen.
Ot Ceesar seek your honour with your safety.—U!

Cleo. They do not go together.

aint. Gentle, hear me:
None about Ceesar trust, but Proculeius.

ANTONY .1ND CLEOPATRA.

[Act V.

 

 

Cleo. My resolution, and my hands, I’lltrust; 50
None about Cesar.

Ant. The miserable change now at my end
Lament nor sorrow at ; but please your thoughts,
In feeding them with those my former fortunes
Wherein [ liv'd, the greatest prince o’ the world,
The noblest ; and do now not basely die,
Not cowardly put off my helmet to
My countryman, a Roman by a Roman
Valiantly vanquish’d. Now, my spirit is going;
I can no more.

Cleo. Noblest of men, woo’t die? 60
Hast thou no care of me? shall I abide
In this dull world, which in thy absence is
No better than a sty ?—O! see, my women,

(ANTONY dies,

The crown o’ the earth doth melt.—My lord !—
O! wither’d is the garland of the war,
The soldier's pole is fall’n: young boys and girls
Are level now with men; the odds is gone,
And there is nothing left remarkable
Beneath the visiting moon.

Char. O, quietness, lady !

ras. She is dead too, our sovereign.

Char, Lady !—

Tras. Madam !—

Char. O madam, madam, madam !

tras. Royal Egypt!
Empress! 72

Char. Peace, peace, Iras!

Cleo. No more, but e’en a woman ; and commanded
By such poor passion as the maid that milks,
And does the meanest chares.—It were for me
To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods ;
To tell them, that this world did equal theirs,
Till they had stol’n our jewel. All’s but naught;
Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that’s mad: then is it sin,
To rush into the secret house ot death,
Ere death dare come to us?—How do you, women?
What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian?
My noble girls !—Ah, women, women! look,
Our lamp is spent, it’s out.—Good sirs, take heart:
We ll bury him; and then, what’s brave, what ’s noble,
Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion,
And make death proud to take us. Come, away:
This case of that huge spirit now is cold.
Ah, women, women! Come; we have no friend.
But resolution, and the briefest end.

[Exeunt; those above bearing off ANTONY’S body.

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—C.msar's Camp before Alexandria.
Enter CLESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MECENAS, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, and others.

  
   

PR Gg Cesar.

O to him, Dolabella, bid him yield ;
Being so frustrate, tell him, he mocks
The pauses that he makes.

Dol. Ceesar, I shall. [Zxit.
Entcr DERCETAS, with the sword of
ANTONY.

Ces. Wherefore is that? and what art
thou, that dar’st
Appear thus to us?
Der. Tam call’d Dercetas.
Mark Antony Iserv’d, who best. was worthy

RE
eC

 

pu
te

Best to be serv'd: whilst he stood up, andspoke, \

He was my master ; and I wore my life,
To spend upon his haters. If thou please
To take me to thee, as I was to him 10
Ill be to Ceesar ; a AgeD pleasest not,
I yield thee up my life.
oe ae What is’t thou say’st?
Der. Tsay, O Cesar, Antony is dead.
Cs. 'The breaking of so great a thing should make
A greater crack: the round world
Should have shook lions into civil streets,
And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony
Is not a single doom: in the name lay
A moiety of the world.

Der. He is dead, Ceesar,

 

 
 

Scenr II.) ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. 817

 

 

Not by a peace minister of justice, 20
Nor by a hired knife ; but that self hand,
Which writ his honour in the acts it did,
Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,
Splitted the heart. This is his sword:
I robb’d his wound of it: behold it stain’d
With his most noble blood.

Ces. Look you sad, friends?
The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings
To wash the eyes of kings.

Agr. ‘And strange it is,
That nature must compel us to lament
Our most persisted deeds.

Mec. His taints and honours 30
Wag’d equal with him.

Agr. A rarer spirit never
Did steer humanity ; but you, gods, will give us
Some faults to make us men. Ceesar is touch'd.

Zee. When such a spacious mirror’s set before him,

He needs must see himself.

Ces. O Antony!
Ihave follow'd thee to this :—but we do lance
Diseases in our bodies: I must perforce
Have shown to thee such a declining day,
Or look on thine: we could not stall together
In the whole world. But yet let me lament,
With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,
That thou, my brother, my competitor
In top of all design, my mate in empire,
Friend and companion in the front of war,
The arm of mine own body, and the heart
Where mine his thoughts did kindle, that our stars,
Unreconciliable, should divide
Our equalness to this.—Hear me, good friends,—

40

Enter a Messenger.
But I will tell you at some meeter season :
The business of this man looks out of him; 50
We'll hear him what he says.—Whence are you?

Mess. A poor Egyptian yet. The queen my mistress,

Confin’d in all she has, her monument,
Of thy intents desires instruction,
That she preparedly may frame herself
To the way she’s forc’d to.
(es, Bid her have good heart:
She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,
How honourable and how kindly we
Determine for her ; for Ceesar cannot live
To be ungentle.

Mess. So the gods preserve thee!

Ces. Come hither, Proculeius. Go, and say,
We purpose her no. shame: give her what comforts
The quality of her passion shall require,

Lest in her greatness by some mortal stroke

She do defeat us; for her life in Rome

Would be eternal in our triumph. Go,

And with your speediest bring us what she says,

And how you find of her.
Pro. Cesar, I shall. [Exit.
Ces. Gallus, go you along. [Exit GaLLus.]—Where’s

Dolabella,

To second Proculeius ?

Agr., Mee. Dolabella !

Ces. Let him alone, for I remember now
How he’s employ’d: he shall in time be ready.
Go with me to my tent : where you shall see
How hardly I was drawn into this war;
How calm and gentle I proceeded still
In all my writings. Go with me, and see
What I can show in this.

[Exit.
61

70

[Exeunt.

 

Scene II.—Alexandria. The Monument.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, and IRAs.
Cleo. My desolation does begin to make
A better life. Tis paltry to be Cesar:
Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave,
A minister of her will; and it is great
To do that thing that ends all other deeds,
Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change;

 

Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung,
The beggar’s nurse and Cwxsar's.

Enter PROCULEIUS, GALLUS, and Soldiers.

Pro. Cesar sends greeting to the Queen of Egypt;
And bids thee study on what fair demands 10
Thou mean’st to have him grant thee.

Cleo. What’s thy name?
Pro. My name is Proculeius.
Cleo. Antony

Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but

I do not greatly care to be deceiv'd,

That have no use for trusting. If your master

Would nave a queen his beggar, you must tell
im,

That majesty, to keep decorum, must

No less beg than a kingdom: if he please

To give me conguer’d Egypt for my son,

He gives me so much of mine own, as I

Will kneel to him with thanks.

20

Pro. Be of good cheer ;
You are fall’n into a princely hand, fear nothing.
Make your full reference freely to my lord,

Who is so full of grace, that it flows over

On all that need. Let me report to him

Your sweet dependancy, and you shall find

A conqueror, that will pray in aid for kindness,
Where he for grace is kneel’d to. .

Cleo. Pray you, tell him
Iam his fortune’s vassal, and I send him
The greatness he has got. I hourly learn 30
A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly
Look him i’ the face.

70. This I’ll report, dear lady.
Have comfort; for I know your plight is pitied
Of him that caus’d it.
Gal. You see how easily she may be surpris’d.
[PROcULEIUS, and two of the Guard, ascend the
inonument by a ladder, and come behind
CLEOPATRA. Some of the Guard unbar and
open the gates.
[To PRocULEIUS and the Guard.] Guard her till Cesar
come. Exit.

Tras. Royal queen!

Char. O Cleopatra ! thou art taken, queen !—

Cleo. Quick, quick, good hands. [Drawing a dagger.

Pro. Hold, worthy lady, hold!

[Seizes and disarms her.
Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this 49
Reliev’d, but not betray’d.

Cleo. What, of death too,
That rids our dogs of languish?
Pro. Cleopatra,

Do not abuse my master’s bounty, by

The undoing of yourself: let the world see
His nobleness well acted, which your death
Will never let come forth.

Cleo. Where art thou, death?
Come hither, come! come, come, and take a queen
Worth many babes and beggars!

Pro. O, temperance, lady !

Cleo. Sir, I will eat no meat, I’ll not drink, sir ;
If idle talk will once be necessary,

I'll not sleep neither. This mortal house Ill ruin,
Do Cesar what he can. Know, sir, that I

Will not wait pinion'’d at your master’s court,

Nor once be chastis’d with the sober eye

Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up,

And show me to the shouting varletry

Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt

Be gentle grave to me! rather on Nilus’ mu

Lay me stark nak’d, and let the water-flies

Blow me into abhorring! rather make

My country’s high pyramides my gibbet,

And hang me up in chains!

60

Pro. You do extend
These thoughts of horror further than you shall
Find cause in Ceesar.

Enter DoLABELLA.

Dol. Proculeius,
‘Whai thou hast done thy master Ceesar knows,

 

 

 
 

818 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

[Act V.

 

 

And he hath sent for thee: for the queen,
Ill take her to my guard.
So, Dolabella,

Pro.
It shall content me best: be gentle to her.
[To CLEOPATRA.] To Ceesar I will speak what you
shall please,
If you’ll employ me to him.
Cleo. Say, I would die. 70
[Exeunt PRocuLElus and Soldiers,

Dol. Most noble empress, you have heard of me?

Cleo. I cannot tell.

Dol. Assuredly, you know me.

Cleo. No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.
You laugh, when boys or women tell their dreams;
Is’t not your trick?

Dol. I understand not, madam.

Cleo. I dreamt, there was an emperor Antony:

O, such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!

Dol. Tf it might please ye,—

Cleo. His face was as the heavens, and therein stuck
A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted
The little O, the earth.

Dol. Most sovereign creature,— 81

Cleo. His legs bestrid the ocean ; his rear’d arm
Crested the world; his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;

But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,

He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,

There was no winter in’t; an autumn ’t was,

That grew the more by reaping: his delights

Were dolphin-like ; they show'd his back above

The element they livd in: in his livery 90
Walk’d crowns and crownets; realms and islands were
As plates dropp'd from his pocket.

Dol. Cleopatra,—

Cleo. Think you there was, or might be, such a man
As this I dreamt of?

Dol. Gentle madam, no.

Cleo. You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.

But, if there be, or ever were, one such,

It’s past the size of dreaming: nature wants stuff
To vie strange forms with fancy; yet, to imagine
An Antony, were nature's piece ‘gainst fancy,
Condemning shadows quite.

Dol. Hear me, good madam.
Your loss is as yourself, great; and you bear it 101
As answering to the weight: 'would I might never
O’ertake pursu'd success, but I do feel,
ar the rebound of yours, a grief that smites
My very heart at root.

Cleo. I thank you, sir.

Know you what Cesar means to do with me?

Dol. Iam loath to tell you what I would you knew.

Cleo. Nay, pray you, sir,—

Dol. Though he be honourable,—

Cleo. He'll lead me then in triumph ?

Dol. Madam, he will; I know 't.

[Within] Make way there !—Cesar!

Enter CSAR, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, MECENAS,
SELEucus, and Attendants.
Ces. Which is the Queen of Egypt? 111
Dol. It is the emperor, madam. [CLEOPATRA kneels.
Ces. Arise, you shall not kneel:
I pray you, rise; rise, Egypt.
Cleo. Sir, the gods
Will have it thus: my master and my lord
I must obey.
Ces. Take to you no hard thoughts:
The record of what injuries you did us,
Though written in our flesh, we shall remember
As things but done by chance.
Cleo. Sole sir o’ the world,
I cannot project mine own cause so well 120
To make it clear ; but do confess, I have
Been laden with like frailties, which before
Have often sham'd our sex.
Ces. Cleopatra, know,
We will extenuate rather than enforce:
If you apply yourself to our intents
(Which towards you are most gentle), you shall find

 

A benefit in this change; but if you seek
To lay on mea cruelty, by taking
Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself
Of my good purposes, and put your children 130
To that destruction which I'll guard them from,
If thereon you rely. I’U take my leave.
Cleo. And may through all the world: ’tis yours;
and we,
Your scutcheons, and your signs of conquest, shall
Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.
Ces. You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.
Cleo. This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels,
Iam possess’d of: ’tis exactly valued;
Not petty things admitted.— Where ’s Seleucus ?
Sel. Here, madam. 5
Cleo. This is my treasurer: let him speak, my lord,
Upon his peril, that I have reserv’d
To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.
Sel. Madam,
I had rather seal my lips, than, to my peril,

Speak that which is not.

Cleo. What have I kept back?

Sel. Enough to purchase what you have made

known.

Ces. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra ; I approve
Your wisdom in the deed.

Cleo. See, Cesar! O, behold,
How pomp is follow’d! mine will now be yours; 180
And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine.
The ingratitude of this Seleucus does
Even make me wild.—O slave, of no more trust
Than love that’s hir’d!—What! goest thou back?

thou shalt
Go back, I warrant thee ; but I'll catch thine eyes,
Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, dog!
O rarely base!

Ces. Good queen, let us entreat you.

Cleo, O Cesar! what a wounding shame is this,
That thou, vouchsafing here to visit me,
Doing the honour of thy lordliness 160
To one so meek, that mine own servant should 2
Parcel the sum of my disgraces by
Addition of hisenvy! Say, good Ceesar,
That I some lady trifles have reserv'd,
Immoment toys, things of such dignity
As we greet modern friends withal; and say,
Some nobler token I have kept apart
For Livia, and Octavia, to induce
Their mediation ; must I be unfolded
With one that I have bred? The gods! it smites me
Beneath the fall I have. [Yo SELEucus.] Pr’ythee, go

hence ; W1

Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits
Through the ashes of my chance.— Wert thou a man,
Thou wouldst have mercy on me.

Ces. Forbear, Seleucus. [Exit SELEUCUS.

Cleo. Be it known that we, the greatest, are mis-

thought
For things that others do; and, when we fall,
We answer others’ merits in our name,
Are therefore to be pitied.
Cleopatra,

es.
Not what you have reserv’d, nor what acknowledg’d,
Put we i’ the roll of conquest: still be it yours, 180
Bestow it at your pleasure ; and believe,
Ceesar’s no merchant, to make prize with you
Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer'd;
Make not your thoughts your prisons: no, dear queen;
For we intend so to dispose you, as
Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed, and sleep:
Our care and pity is so much upon you,
That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.

Cleo. My master, and my lord!

Not so. Adieu.

Ces.
[Flourish. Excunt CESAR and his Train.
Cleo. He words me, girls, he words me, that I should

no
Be noble to myself: but hark thee, Charmian.
i DE eners CHARMIAN.
Tras. Finish, good lady ; the bright day is done,
— we are for the dark. Tata
0. ie thee again: a

 
 

ScENE II.]

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

819

 

Ihave spoke already, and it is provided ;
Go, put it to the haste.
Madan, I will.

har.
Re-enter DOLABELLA.
Dol. Where is the queen?
Char. Behold, sir. [Ezit.
Cleo. Dolabella!
Dol. Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,
Which my love makes religion to obey,
I tell you this: Caesar through Syria
Intends his journey, and within three days 200
You with your children will he send before.
Make your best use of this; I have perform’d
¥our pleasure, and my promise.
Cleo. Dolabella,
I shall remain your debtor.
Dol. I your servant.
Adieu, good queen ; I must attend on Ceesar.
Cleo. Farewell, and thanks. [Hxit DoLABELLA.]
Now, Iras, what think’st thou?
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown
In Rome, as well as I: mechanic slaves
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view: in their thick breaths, 210
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And fore’d to drink their vapour.
Tras. The gods forbid!
Cleo. Nay, ’t is most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors ~
Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymers
Ballad us out o’ tune: the quick comedians
Extemporally will Slnbe s, and present
Our Alexandrian revels. Antony
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness
I’ the posture of a whore.
Tras. O, the good gods! 220
Cleo. Nay, that is certain.
Tras. I'll never see it; for, Iam sure, my nails
Are stronger than mine eyes.
Why, that’s the way

e0.
To fool their preparation, and to conquer
Their most absurd intents.

Re-enter CHARMIAN.
Now, Charmian ?—
Show me, my women, like a queen :—go fetch
My best attires ;—I am again for Cydnus,
To meet Mark Antony.—Sirrah, Iras, go.—
Now, noble Charmian, we’ll despatch indeed ;
And, when thou hast done this chare, I’ll give we

leave
To play till doomsday.—Bring our crown and all.
[Zxit Iras. A noise within.
Wherefore ’s this noise?

Enter one of the Guard.

Guard. Here is a rural fellow,

That will not be denied your highness’ presence :

He brings you figs.

Cleo. Let him come in. [Exit Guard.] What poor
an instrument

May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty.

My resolution’s plac’d, and I have nothing

Of woman in me: now from head to foot

Iam marble-constant; now the fleeting moon

No planet is of mine.

Re-enter Guard, with a Clown bringing in a basket.
Guard. This is the man 240
Cleo, Avoid, and leave him. [Exit Guard.

Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there,

That kills and pains not?

Clown. Truly Ihave him ; but I would not be the
party that should desire you to touch him, for his

iting is immortal: those that do die of it do seldom
or never recover.

Cleo. Remember’st thou any that have died on’t? 248

Clown. Very many, men and women too. I heard
of one of them no longer than yesterday: a very
honest woman, but something given to lie, as a woman
should not do but in the way of honesty : how she died
of the biting of it, what pain she felt.—Truly, she

 

makes a very good report o’ the worm; but he that
will believe all that they say, shall never be saved
by half that they do.
worm’s an odd worm.
Cleo. Get thee hence: farewell.
Clown. I wish you all joy of the worm.
[Sets down the a
6

But this is most fallible, the

Cleo. Farewell.

Clown. You must think this, look you, that the
worm will do his kind.

Cleo. Ay, ay; farewell.

Clown. Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but
in the keeping of wise people; for, indeed, there is no
goodness in the worm.

Cleo, Take thou no care: it shall be heeded.

Clown. Very oe Give it nothing, I pray you, for
it is not worth the feeding.

Cleo. Will it eat me? 270

Clown. You must not think I am so simple, but I
know the devil himself will not eat a woman: I know
that a woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress
her not. But, truly, these same whoreson devils do
the gods great harm in their women, for in every ten
that they make, the devils mar five.

Cleo. Well, get thee gone: farewell.

Clown. Yes, forsooth ; I wish you joy of the “eeu

cit,
Re-enter IRAs, with a rebe, crown, &c.

Cleo. Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me. Now, no more 280
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip.—
Yare, yare, good Iras ; quick.—Methinks, I hear
Antony call: I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Ceesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after-wrath. Husband, I come:
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life.—So,—have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips. 290
Farewell, kind Charmian :—Iras, long farewell.

_ , [Kisses them. IRas pus and dies.

Have I the aspicin my lips? Dost fall
If thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts, and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still?
If thus thou vanishest, thou tell’st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.

Char. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may

say,
The gods themselves do weep.
€0. This proves me base:
If she first meet the curled Antony, 00
He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss,
Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal
wretch,
. [To the asp, which she applies to her breast.
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie : poor venomous fool,
Be angry, and despatch. O! couldst thou speak,

That I might hear thee call great Ceesar ass
Unpolicied !

Char. O eastern star!

Cleo. Peace, peace!

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast,
That sucks the nurse asleep ?

Char. O, break! O, break!
Cleo. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle,—
O Antony !—Nay, I will take thee too. 31

[Applying another asp to her arm.
What should I stay— Falis on a bed and dies.

Char. In this vile world ?2—So, fare thee well.—

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel’d.—Downy windows, close;
And golden Phcebus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal? Your crown’s awry ;
I’ll mend it, and then play.

Enter the Guard, rushing in.

1 Guard. Where is the queen?
Ci ar. Speak softly ; wake her not.

 

 
 

820 ANTONY AND

CLEOPATRA. [Act V.

 

 

1 Guard. Ceesar hath sent—
Too slow a messenger.

Char,
[Applies the asp.
QO! come; apace; despatch : I partly feel thee. 21

 

ms
T= ft
WER
i

 

 

Char. “ Speak softly ; wake her not.”

1, Gulrte Approach, ho! All’s not well: Ceesar’s
eguil’d.
2 Guard. There’s Dolabella sent from Cesar: call

im.
1 Guard. What work is here ?—Charmian, is this
well done
Char. It is well done, and fitting for a princess
Descended of so many royal kings.
Ah, soldier! [Dies.
Re-enter DOLABELLA,

Dol. How goes it here?

 

2 Guard. All dead.

 

Dol. : Cesar, thy thoughts
Touch their effects in this: thyself art coming
To see perform’d the dreaded act, which thou . 330
So sought’st to hinder.
Within.] A way there! a way for Ceesar !

Re-enter CS8AR and all his Train.

Dol. O, sir! you are too sure an augurer :
That you did fear, is done.
Ces. Bravest at the last:
She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal,
Took her own way.—The manner of their deaths?
I do not see them bleed.
Dol. Who was last with them ?
1 Guard. A simple countryman that brought her
oes

gs:
This was his basket.
Ces. Poison'd then.
1 Guard.
This Charmian liv’d but now;
spake :
I found her trimming up the diadem.
On her dead mistress ; tremblingly she stood,
And on the sudden dropp'd.

ees.
If they had swallow’d poison, ’t would appear
By external swelling; but she looks like sleep,
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace.
Dol. Here, on her breast,
There is a vent of blood, and something blown:
The like is on her arm.
1 Guard. This is an aspic’s trail; and these fig-
leaves
Have slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves 350
Upon the caves of Nile.

O Cesar!
she stood, and

340

O noble weakness !—

‘es. Most probable,
That so she died ; for her physician tells me,
She hath pursu’d conclusions infinite
Of easy ways to die.—Take up her bed,

And bear her women from the monument.
She shall be buried by her Antony :

No grave upon the earth shall clip in it

A pairso famous. High events as these
Strike those that make them ; and their story is
No less in pity than his glory, which

Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall,
In solemn show, attend this funeral,

And then to Rome.—Come, Dolabella, see
High order in this great solemnity.

360

[Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

PERICLES.

DRAMATIS PERSON ZZ.

AnTiocnus, King of Antioch.
Pericues, Prince of Tyre.
pe ae \ Two Lords of Tyre.
SIMONIDES, King of Pentapolis.
CLEON, Governor of Tharsus.
LysImMAcHus, Governor of Mitylene.
CERIMON, a Lord of Ephesus.
THALIARD, a Lord of Antioch.
PHILEMON, Servant to Cerimon.
LEONINE, Servant to Dionyza.
Marshal.

; A Pander.

Boutt, his Servant.

The Daughter of Antiochus.

Dionyza, Wife to Cleon.

THaisa, Daughter to Simonides.

Marina, Daughter to Pericles and Thaisa.
LycHoribDAa, Nurse to Marina.

A Bawd,

DIANA,

GOWER, as Chorus.

Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors,
Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers.

SCENE—Dispersedly in various Countries.

ACT I.

   

"') sing a song that old was sung,
From ashes ancient Gower is come;
Assuming man’s infirmities,

To glad your ear, and please your eyes.
It hath been sung at festivals,

On ember-eves, and holy-ales ;

And lords and ladies in their lives
Have read it for restoratives:

The purchase is to make men glorious;
Et bonum quo antiquius, eo melius.

If you, born in these latter times,
When wit’s more ripe, accept my rhymes,
And that to hear an old man sing,
May to your wishes pleasure bring,

Tlife would wish, and that I might

Waste it for you, like tapei-light.—

This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great

Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat,

The fairest in all Syria,—

I tell you what my authors say:

This king unto him took a pheere,

Who died and left a female heir,

So buxom, blithe, and full of face,

As heaven had lent her all his grace ;

With whom the father liking took,

And her to incest did provoke.

Bad child, worse father! to entice his own

To evil, should be done by none.

But custom what they did begin

Was, with long use, account no sin.

The beauty of this sinful dame

Made many princes thither frame,

To seek her as a bedfellow,

In marriage-pleasures playfellow :

Which to prevent he made a law,

To keep her still, and men in awe,—

That whoso ask’d her for his wife,

His riddle told not, lost his life :

So, for her many a wight did die,

As yon grim looks do testify.

‘What now ensues, to the judgment of your eye
Igive, my cause who best can justify.

\

10

30

40
{Ezit.

 

Einter GOWER.
Before the Palace of Antioch.

ScENE I.—Antioch. A Room in the Palace.

Enter ANTIOCHUS, PERICLES, and Attendants.
Ant. Young Prince of Tyre, you have at large
receiv’d

The penser of the task you undertake.

Per. Thave, Antiochus, and, with a soul
Embolden’d with the glory of her praise,
Think death no hazard, in this enterprise.

Ant. Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride,
For the embracements even of Jove himself;
At whose conception (till Lucina reign’d)
Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence;
The senate-house of planets all did sit,
To knit in her their best perfections.

10

Music. Enter the Daughter of ANTIOCHUS.

Per, See, where she comes, apparell’d like thespring,
Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king
Of every virtue gives renown to men!
Her face, the book of praises, where is read
Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence
Sorrow were ever raz'd, and testy wrath
Could never be her mild companion.
You gods, that made me man, and sway in love,
That have inflam’d desire in my breast,
To taste the fruit of yon celestial tree,
Or die in the adventure, be my helps,
As Iam son and servant to your will,
To compass such a boundless happiness!

Ant, Prince Pericles,—

Per, That would be son to grert Antiochus.
Ant. Before thee stands this fair Hesperides,
With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch’d:
For death-like dragons here affright thee hard:
Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view 1]

Her countless glory, which desert must gain;

And which, without desert, because thine eye
Presumes to reach, all thy whole heap must die.

Yon sometime famous princes, like thyself,

Drawn by report, adventurous by desire,

Tell thee with speechless tongues, and semblance pale,

20

 
 

 

822

PERICLES.

[Act L

 

That, without covering, save yon field of stars,
They here stand martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars;
And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist,
For going on death’s net, whom none resist.
Per. Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught
My frail mortality to know itself,
And by those fearful objects to prepare
This body, like to them, to what I must:
For death remember'd should be like a mirror,
Who tells us, life’s but breath, to trust it, error.
I’ make my will then ; and, as sick men do,
Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe,
Gripe not at earthly joys, as erst they did:
So, I bequeath a happy peace to you,
And all good men, as every prince should do;
My riches to the earth from whence they came,
[To the Daughter of ANTIocHUS.] But my unspotted
fire of love to you.
Thus, ready for the way of life or death,
I wait the sharpest blow.
Ant. Scorning advice, read the conclusion then;
Which read and not expounded, ’t is decreed,
As these before thee, thou thyself shalt bleed.
Daugh. Of all, ’say’d yet, may'’st thou prove pros-
erous !
Of all, ’say’d yet, I wish thee happiness.
Per. Like a bold reat oa I assume the lists,
Nor ask advice of any other thought
But faithfulness, and courage. [Reads the riddle.

Iam no viper, yet I feed
On mother's flesh, which did me breed ;
LT sought a husband, in which labour
I found that kindness in a father.
e's father, son, and husband mild,
I mother, wife, and yet his child.
How they may be, and yet in two, 70
As you will live, resolve it you.

Sharp physic is the last : but, O you powers!
That give heaven countless eyes to view men’s acts.
Why cloud they not their sights perpetually,
If this be true, which makes me pale to read it ?
Fair glass of light, I lov'd you, and could still,
Were not this glorious casket stor’d with iJ]:
But I must tell you,—now, my thoughts revolt;
For he’s no man on whom perfections wait,
That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate. 80
You're a fair viol, and your sense the strings,
Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music,
Would draw heaven downandall the gods to hearken;
But being play'd upon before your time,
Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime.
Good sooth, I care not for you.
Ant. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life,
For that’s an article within our law,
As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expired :
Either expound now, or receive your sentence. 90
Per. Great king,
Few love to hear the sins they love to act;
’T would ’braid yourself too near for me to tell it.
Who has a book of all that monarchs do,
He’s more secure to keep it shut, than shown;
For vice repeated is like the wandering wind,
Blows dust in other’s eyes, to spread itself ;
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,
The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear
To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole

casts 100
Copp’d hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is
throng'd
By mei een and the poor worm doth die
or

Kings are earth’s gods; in vice their law’s their will ;

And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?

It is enough you know ; and it is fit,

What being more known grows worse, to smother it.

All love the womb that their first being bred,

Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.
Ant. [Aside.| Heaven, that I had thy head! he has

found the meaning ;
But I will gloze with him.— Young Prince of Tyre, 110
Though by the tenor of our strict edict,

 

Your exposition misinterpreting,

We might proceed to cancel of your days ;

Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree

As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise.

Forty days longer we do respite you;

If by which time our secret be undone,

This mercy shows, we’ll joy in such a son:

And until then your entertain shall be,

As doth befit our honour, and your worth. 120
Exeunt all but PERICLEs.

Per. How courtesy would seem to cover sin,

When what is done is like an hypocrite,

The which is good in nothing but in sight!

If it be true that I interpret false,

Then were it certain, you were not so bad,

As with foul incest to abuse your soul ;

Where now you’re both a father and a son,

By your untimely claspings with your child,

(Which pleasure fits a husband, not a father,)

And she an eater of her mother’s flesh, 130

By the defiling of her parent’s bed ;

And both like serpents are, who though they feed

On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed.

Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men

Blush not in actions blacker than the night,

Will shun no course to keep them from the light:

One sin, I know, another doth provoke ;

Murder’s as near to lust, as flame to smoke.

Poison and treason are the hands of sin,

Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame: 140
Then, lest my life be cropp’d to mee you clear,
By flight I'll shun the danger which I fear. (Exit.

Re-enter ANTIOCHUS.
int. He hath found the meaning, for which we

mean
To have his head.
He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy,
Nor tell the world, Antiochus doth sin
In such a loathed manner :
And therefore instantly this prinve must die ;
For by his fall my honour must keep high.
Who attends us there?

Enter THALIARD.
Thal. Doth your highness call? 150
Ant. Thaliard!
You ’re of our chamber, and our mind partakes
Her private actions to your secrecy ;
And for your faithfulness we will advance you.
Thaliard, behold, here’s poison, and here’s gold;
We hate the Prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him:
It fits thee not to ask the reason why,
Because we bid it. Say, is it done?
Thal. My lord, ’t is done.
Ant. Enough.— 160
Enter a Messenger.
Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste. __
é Nees My lord, Prince Pericles is fled. [Exit.
Ant. As thou
Wilt live, fly after: and, like an arrow, shot
From a well-experiene’d archer, hits the mark
His eye doth level at, so ne’er return,
Unless thou say, “‘ Prince Pericles is dead.”
Thal. My lord,
If I can get him within my pistol’s length,
Il make him sure enough: so, farewell to your
highness.
wnt. Thaliard, adieu.
Pericles be dead,
My heart can lend no succour to my head,

[Exit THALIARD.] — a
[Exit.

SceNneE II.—Tyre. A Room in the Palace.

Enter PERICLES.
Per. [To those without.] Let none disturb us.—Why
should this change of thoughts,
The sad ot eat dull-ey’d melancholy,
Be my so us'd a guest, as not an hour,
In the day’s glorious walk, or peaceful night

 

 
 

 

Scene IIL]

(The tomb hid aie grief should sleep), can breed me
quiet?
Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun

And danger, which I fear’d, is at Antioch,
Whose arm seems far too short to hit me here;
Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits,
Nor yet the other’s distance comfort me.
Then it is thus: the passions of the mind,
That have their first conception by mis-dread,
Have after-nourishment and life by care;
And what was first but fear what might be done,
Grows elder now, and cares it be not done.
And so with me :—the great Antiochus

’Gainst whom I am too little to contend,

ince he’s so great, can make his will his act)
Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence ,
Nor boots it me to say, I honour him, 20
If he suspect I may dishonour him :
And what may make him blush in being known,
He’ll stop the course by which it might be known,
With hostile forces he ‘ll o’erspread the land,
And with the ostent of war will look so huge,
Amazement shall drive courage from the state;
Our men be vanquish’d ere they do resist,
And subjects punish’d that ne’er thought offence :
Which care of them, not pity of myself,
(Who am no more but as the tops of trees, 30
Which ions ve roots they grow by, and defend

em,

Makes both my body pine, and soul to languish,
And punish that betore, that he would punish.

Enter HELICANUS and other Lords.
1 Lord. Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast!
2 Lord. And keep your mind, till you return to us,
Peaceful and comfortable! _
Hel. Peace, peace! and give experience tongue.
They do abuse the king that flatter him :
For flattery is the bellows blows up sin ;
The thing the which is flatter’d, but a spark, 40
To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing;
Whereas reproof, obedient and in order,
Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err:
When Signior Sooth here does proclaim a peace,
He flatters you, makes war upon your life.
Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please;
I cannot be much lower than my knees.
Per. Allleave us else ; but let your cares o’erlook
What shipping and what lading’s in our haven,
And then return to us. [Hxeunt Lords.]—Helicanus,
thou 50
Hast moved us: what seest thou in our looks?
Hel. An angry brow, dread lord.
Per. If there be such a dart in princes’ frowns,
How durst thy tongue move anger to our face?
Hel. How dare the plants look up to heaven, from
whence
They have their nourishment?
Per. Thou know’st I have power
To take thy life from thee.
Hel. [Kneeling.] I have ground the axe myself;
Do you but strike the blow.
Per, Rise, pr’ythee, rise ;
Sit down ; thou art no flatterer:
I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid, 60
That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid!
Fit counsellor, and servant for a prince,
Who by thy wisdom mak’st a prince thy servant,
What wouldst thou have me do?
Hel. | To bear with patience
Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself.
Per. Thou speak’st like a physician, Helicanus,
That minister’st a potion unto me,
That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself.
Attend me then: I went to Antioch,
Where, as thou know’st, against the face of death 70
Isought the purchase of a glorious beauty
From whence an issue I might propagate, _
Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects.
Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder ;
The rest (hark in thine ear) as black as incest :

PERICLES.

 

823

Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father

Seem’d nor to strike, but smooth; but thou know’st
is,

*T is time to fear, when tyrants seem to kiss,

Which fear so grew in me, I hither fled,

Under the covering of a careful night,

Who seem’d my good protector : and, being here,

Bethought me what was past, what might succeed.

I knew him tyrannous ; and tyrants’ fears

Decrease not, but grow faster than their years.

And should he doubt it (as no doubt he doth),

That I should open to the listening air,

How many worthy princes’ bloods were shed,

To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,—

To lop that doubt he'll fill this land with arms,

And make pretence of wrong that I have done him; 90

When all, for mine, if I may call ’t, offence,

Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence :

Which love to all, of which thyself art one,

Who now reprovedst me for it,—

80

Hel. Alas, sir!
Per. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my
cheeks,
Musings into my mind, a thousand doubts
How I might stop this tempest ere it came;
And finding little comfort to relieve them,
I thought it princely charity to grieve them.
Hel. Well, my lord, since you have given me leave
to speak, 100
Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear,
And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant,
Who either by public war, or private treason,
Will take away your life.
Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while,
Till that his rage and anger be forgot,
Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life.
Your rule direct to any ; if to me,
Bey serves not light more faithful than I’ll be.
er. I do not doubt thy faith ;
But should he wrong my liberties in my absence?
Hel. We’ll mingle our bloods together in the earth,
From whence we had our being and our birth.
Per. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tharsus
Intend my travel, where I'll hear from thee,
And by whose letters I’ll dispose myself.
The care I had, and have, of subjects’ good,
On thee I lay, whose wisdom’s strength can bear it.
I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath;
Who shuns not to break one, will sure crack both. 120
But in our orbs we ’ll live so round and safe,
That time of both this truth shall ne’er convince,
Thou show’dst a subject's shine, I a true prince.
[Ezeunt.

ScENE III.—Tyre. An Ante-chamber in the Palace.

Enter THALIARD.

That. So, this is Tyre, and this is the court. Here
must I kill King Pericles; and if I do not, I am sure
to be hanged at home: ’tis dangerous.—Well, I per-
ceive he was a wise fellow, and had good discretion,
that, being bid to ask what he would of the king,
desired he might know none of his secrets: now do I
see he had some reason for’t ; for if a king bid a man
be a Villain, he is bound by the indenture of his oath
to be one.—Hush ! here come the lords of Tyre.

Enter HELICANUS, ESCANES, and other Lords.

Hel. You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre, 10
Further to question me of your king's departure :
His seal’d commission, left in trust with me,
Doth speak sufficiently, he’s gone to travel.

Thal. [Aside.] How! the king gone?

Hel. It further yet you will be satisfied,
Why, as it were unlicens’d of your loves,
He would depart, I'll give some light unto you.
Being at Antioch—

Thal. [Aside.] | What from Antioch?

Hel. Royal Antiochus (on what cause I know not)
Took some displeasure at him: at least, he judg’d so;
And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’e, 21

 

 
 

82t

PERICLES.

{Act I.

 

 

To show his sorrow he'd correct himself ;

So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil,

With whom cach minute threatens lite or death.
Thal. |lside.] Well, I perceive

TI shall not be hang’d now, although I would;

But since he 's gone, the king it sure must please,

He 'scup'd the land, to perish at the sea.—

Til present myself.—[Z'o them.] Peace to the lords of

yre!
Hel. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome. 30
Thal. From him I come,
With message unto princely Pericles;
But since my landing I have understood,
Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels,
My message must return trom whence it came.
ffel, We have no reason to desire it,
Commended to our master, not to us:
Yet,:ere you shall depart, this we desire,
As friends to Antioch, we may teast in Tyre.
[Ezcunt.

Scene IV.—Tharsus. A Room in the Governor's
ouse.

Enter CLEON, Dionyza, and Attendants.
Cle. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here,
And by relating tales of others’ griefs,
See if 't will teach us to forget our own?
Dio. That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it;
For who digs hills because they do aspire,
‘Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher.
O my distressed lord! even such our griets ure ;
Here they ‘re but felt and seen with mischict ’s eyes,
But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise.
Cle. O Dionyza, 10
Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it,
Or can conceal his hunger, till he tamish ?
Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep
Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep,
Till lungs fetch breath that may proclaim them
louder ;
That if heaven slumber, while their creatures want,
They may awake their helps to comfort them.
I'll then discourse our woes, felt several years,
And, wanting breath to speak, help me with tears.
Dio. I'll do my best, sir.
Cle. This Tharsus, o'er which I have the government,
A city, on whom plenty held full hand,
For riches strew'd herself even in the street ;
Whose towers bore heads so high, they kiss’d the
clouds,
And strangers ne’er beheld, but wonder'd at ;
Whose men and dames so jetted, and adorn’d,
Like one another’s glass to trim them by :
Their tables were stor’d full to glad the sight,
And not so much to feed on as delight ;
All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great, 30
The name of help grew odious to repeat.
Dio. O! ’tis too true.
Cle. But see what heaven can do!
change,
These mouths, whom but of late, earth, sea, and air,
Werte all too little to content and please,
Although they gave their creatures in abundance,
-As houses are defil’d for want of use,
They are now starv'd for want of exercise :
Those palates, who, not yet two summers younger,
Must have inventions to delight the taste, 40
Would now be glad of bread, and beg for it:
Those mothers, who, to nousle up their babes,
Thought nought too curious, are ready now

By this our

a
om scone
PSE

  
 

 

(S ao (BES

  
  

To eat those little darlings whom they lov’d.

So sharp are hunger's teeth, that man and wife

Draw lots, who first shall die to lengthen life.

Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping ;

Here many sink, yet those which see thein fall,

Have scarce strength left to give them burial.

Is not this true? 50
Dio. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it.
Cle. O! let those cities that of plenty’s cup

And her prosperities so largely taste,

With their superfluous riots, hear these tears:

The misery ot Tharsus may be theirs.

Enter a Lord.
Lord. Where’s the lord governor ?
Cle. Here.
Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st, in haste,
For comfort is too far for us to expect.
Lord. We have descried, upon our neighbouring
shore, 60
A portly sail of ships make hitherward.
cle. 1 thought as much.
One sorrow never comes, but brings an heir
That may succeed as his inheritor ;
And soinours. Some neighbouring nation,
Taking advantage of our misery,
Hath stuff’d these hollow vessels with their power,
‘To beat us down, the which are down already ;
And make a conquest of unhappy me,
Whereas no glory ’s got to overcome. 70

Lord. That's the least fear; for, by the semblance
Of their white flags display’d, they bring us peace,
And come to us as favourers, not as foes.

Cle. Thou pa like him 's untutor’d to repeat:
Who makes the fairest show, means most deceit.
But bring they what they will, and what they can,
What need we fear?

The ground ’s the lowest, and we’re half way there.

Go, tell their general, we attend him here,

To know tor what he comes, and whence he comes, 80

And what he craves.
Lord. 1 go, my lord. [Exit.
Cle. Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist ;

If wars, we are unable to resist.

Enter PERICLES, with Attendants.
Per. Lord governor, for so we hear you are,
Let not our ships and number of our men
Be, like a beacon fir’d, to amaze your eyes.
We have heard your miseries as far as ‘Lyre,
And seen the desolation of your streets;
Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears, 80
But to relieve them of their heavy load :
And these our ships, you happily may think
Are like the Trojan horse, was stuff'd within
With bloody veins, expecting overthrow,
Are stor'd with corn to make your needy bread,
And vive them lite whom hunger starv’d hait aead.
All. The gods of Greece protect you!
And we will pray for you.
cer. Arise, I pray you, rise:
We do not Jook for reverence, but for love,
And harbourage for ourself, our ships, and men, 100
Cle. The which when any shall not gratify,
Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought,
Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves,
The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils!
Till when, (the which, I hope, shall ne’er be seen,)
Your grace is welcome to our town and us,
Per. Which welcome we'll accept; feast here
awhile,
Until our stars, that frown, lend us a smile. [Excunt.

 

WA om
4

 

 
 

 

 

   

Gower.
ERE have you seen a mighty king

His child, I wis, to incest bring;

A better prince and benign lord,

That will prove awful both in deed and

word.

Be quiet then, as men should be,

Till he has pass’d necessity.

I ll show you those in troubles reign,
Losing a mite, a mountain gain.

The good in conversation

(To whom I give my benison)
Ts still at Tharsus, where each man
Thinks all is writ he spoken can;
And, to remember what he does,
Build his statue to make him glorious:
But tidings to the contrary
Are brought your eyes; what need speak I?

10

Dumb-show.

Enter, at one door, PERICLES, talking with CLEON;
all the Train with them. Enter, at another door, a
Gentleman, with a letter to PERICLES: PERICLES
shows the letter to CLEON; then gives the Messenger
a reward, and knights him. Exeunt PERICLEs,
CLEON, €&c., severally.

Gow. Good Helicane, that stay’d at home,

Not to eat honey like a drone,

From others’ labours ; for though he strive

To killen bad, keep good alive;

And, to fulfil his prince’ desire,

Sends word of all that haps in Tyre:

How Thaliard came full bent with sin,

And hid intent, to murder him ;

And that in Tharsus was not best

Longer for him to make his rest.

He, doing so, put forth to seas,

Where when men been, there’s seldom ease ;

For now the wind begins to blow ;

Thunder above, and deeps below,

Make such unquiet, that the ship, f

Should house him safe, is wrack’d and split ;

And he, good prince, having all lost,

a waves from coast to coast is tost.

All perishen of man, of pelf,

Ne ought escapen but himself ;

Till fortune, tir’d with doing bad,

Threw him ashore, to give him glad:

And here he comes. What shall be next,

Pardon old Gower ; thus long’s the text.

30

40
[Exit.

ScEengE I.—Pentapolis. An Open Place by the Sea-side.

Enter PERICLES, wet.
Per. Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven!
Wind, rain, and thunder, remember, earthly man
Is but a substance that must yield to you;
And I, as fits my nature, do obey you.
Alas! the sea hath cast me on the rocks,
Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath,
Nothing to think on, but ensuing death:
Let it suffice the greatness of your powers,
To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes ;

ACT IT.
Enter GOWER,

; And having thrown him from your watery grave, 10
Here to have death in peace is all he ll crave.

Enter three Fishermen.

1 Fish. What, ho, Pilch!

2 Mish. Ho! come, and bring away the nets.

1 Fish. What, Patch-breech, I say!

3 Fish. What say you, master?

1 Fish. Look how thou stirrest now! come away,
or I'll fetch thee with a wannion.

3 Fish. "Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor

. men, that were cast away before us even now. 19

1 Fish. Alas, pour souls! it grieved my heart to
hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them,
when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves.

3 Fish. Nay, master, said not I as much, when I
saw the porpus, how he bounced and tumbled? they
say, they're half fish, half flesh: a plague on them!
they ne’er come, but I look to be washed. Master, I
marvel how the fishes live in the sea. 27

1 Fish. Why, as men do a-land: the great ones eat
up the little ones. Ican compare our rich misers to
nothing so fitly as to a whale; ’a plays and tumbles,
driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours
them all at a mouthful. Such whales have I heard
on o' the land, who never leave gaping, till they ’ve
swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells,
and all.

Per. [Aside.] A pretty moral.

3 Fish. But, master, if I had been the sexton, I
would have been that day in the belfry.

2 Fish. Why, man? 39

3 Fish. Because he should have swallowed me too;
and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept
such a jangling of the bells, that. he should never
have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church, and parish,
up again. But if the good King Simonides were of
my mind—-

Per. [Aside.] Simonides?

3 Fish. We would purge the land of these drones,
that rob the bee of her honey.

Per. [Aside.] How from the finny subject of the sea
These fishers tell the infirmities of men ; 50
And from their watery empire recollect
All that may men approve, or men detect !—

Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen.

2 Fish. Honest! good fellow, what's that? if it be a
day fits you, scratch out of the calendar, and nobody
look after it.

Per. Y’ may see, the sea hath cast me upon your

coast—

2 Fish. What a drunken knave was the sea, to cast
thee in our way!

Per. Aman whom both the waters and the wind, 60
Tn that vast tennis-court, hath made the ball
For them to play upon, entreats you pity him ;

He asks of you, that never us’d to beg.

1 Fish. No, friend, cannot you beg? here’s them in
our country of Greece, gets more with begging than
we can do with working.

2 Fish. Canst thou catch any fishes then ?

Pcr. I never practis’d it.

2 Fish. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here’s
nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish

: 71

 

for’t.
Per. What I have been, I have forgot to know;

 

 
 

826

PERICLES.

(Act II.

 

But what I am, want teaches me to think on:

A man throng’d up with cold; my veins are chill,
And have no more of life, than may suffice

To give my tongue that heat to ask your help ;
Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,

For that Iam a man, pray see me buried. 78

1 Fish. Die, quoth-a? Now, gods forbid it! I have
a gown here; come, put iton; keep thee warm.
Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou
shalt go home, and we 7] have flesh for holidays, fish
for fasting days, and moreo’er puddings and flap-
jacks; and thou shalt be welcome.

Per. I thank you, sir.

2 Fish. Hark you, my friend; you said you could
not beg.

Per. I did but crave.

2 Fish. But crave? Then I'll turn craver too, and
80 I shall scape whipping. 90

Per. Why, are all your beggars whipped then?

2 Fish. O! not all, my friend, not all: for if all
your beggars were whipped, I would wish no better
oftice than to be a beadle. But, master, I'll go draw
up the net. (Exeunt tivo of the Fishermen.

Per. [Aside.] How well this honest mirth becomes

their labour !

1 Fish. Hark you, sir; do you know where you are?

Per. Not well.

1 Fish. Why, I'll tell you: this is called Pentapolis,
and our king, the good Simonides. 100
Per. The good King Simonides, do you call him ?

1 Fish. Ay, sir; and he deserves to be so called, for
his peaceable reign, and good government.

Per. He is a heyy king, since he gains from his
subjects the name of good by his government. How
far is his court distant from this shore?

1 Fish. Marry, sir, half a day’s journey: and I'l
tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and to-morrow is
her birthday ; and there are princes and knights come
from all parts of the world, to joust and tourney for
her love. 111

Per. Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could
wish to make one there.

1 Fish. O, sir! things must be as they may; and
what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for his
wife’s soul.

Re-erter the two Fishermen, drawing up a net.

2 Fish. Help, master, help! here’s a fish hangs in
the net, like a poor man’s right in the law; ’t will
hardly come out. Ha! bots on’t; ‘tis come at last,
and ‘tis turned to a rusty armour. 120

Per. An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it.
Thanks, Fortune, yet, that after all thy crosses
Thou giv’st me somewhat to repair myself :

And though it was mine own, part of mine heritage,

Which my dead father did bequeath to me,

With this strict charge, (even as he left his life,)

“Keep it, my Pericles, it hath been a shield

"T wixt me and death” (and pointed to this brace) ;

“ For that it sav’d me, keep it; in like necessity,

The wai the gods protect thee from! may fea
thee.” 13

It kept where I kept, I so dearly lov’d it,
Till the rough seas, that spare not any man,
Took it in rage, though calm'd have given ’t again.
J thank thee for ’t: my shipwrack now’s no ill,
Since I have here my father’s gift in’s will.

1 Fish. What mean you, sir?

Per. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth,
For it was sometime target to a king ;
I know it by this mark. He lov’d me dearly,
And for his sake I wish the having of it ; 140
And that you'd guide me to your sovereign’s court,
Where with it I may appear a gentleman:
And if that ever my low fortunes better,
I'll pay your bounties ; till then, rest your debtor.

1 Fish. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady?

Per. I ll show the virtue I have borne in arms.

1 Fish. Why, do ye take it; and the gods give thee
good on ’t.

2 Fish. Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’t was we
that made up this garment through the rough seams

 

of the waters: there are certain condolements, certain
vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you’ll remember from
whence you had it. 153

Per. Believe it, I will.

By your furtherance I am cloth’d in steel ;
And spite of all the rapture of the sea,

This jewel holds his glding. on my arm:
Unto thy value will I mount myself

Upon a courser, whose delightful steps
Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread.—
Only, my friends, I yet am unprovided

Of a pair of bases.

‘2 Fish. We'll sure provide: thou shalt have my
best gown to make thee a pair, and I'll bring thee to
the court myself.

Per. Then honour be but equal to my wil
This day I'll rise, or else add ill to ill.

160

ll!
[Exeunt.

ScENE JJ.—The Same. A Public Way or Platform
leading to the Lists. A Pavilion near it, for the
reception of the KING, PRINCESS, Ladies, Lords, &c.

Enter StMONIDES, THAISA, Lords, and Attendants.

Sim. Are the knights ready to begin the triumph?
1 Lord. They are, my liege;
And stay your coming to present themselves.
Sim. Return them, weare ready; and our daughter,
In honour of whose birth these triumphs are,
Sits here, like beauty’s child, whom nature gat
For men to see, and seeing wonder at. [Exit a Lord.
Thai. It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express
My commendations great, whose merit’s less.
Sim. 'Tis fit it should be so; for princes are 10
A model, which heaven makes like to itself :
As jewels lose their glory if neglected,
So princes their renown, if not respected.
’T is now your honour, daughter, to explain
The labour of each knight in his device.
Thai. eoneh to preserve mine honour, I’ll per-
‘orm.

Enter a Knight: he pores over the stage, and his
Squire presents his shield to the PRINCESS.

Sim. Who is the first that doth prefer himself?
Thai. A knight of Sparta, my renowned father ;
And the device he bears upon his shield
Is a black Ethiop, reaching at the sun; 20
The word, Lux tua vita mihi.
Sim. He loves you well that holds his life of you.
[The second Knight passes over.
Who is the second that presents himself?
Thai. A prince of Macedon, my royal father ;
And the device he bears upon his shield
Is an arm’d knight, that’s conquer’d by a lady ;
The motto thus, in Spanish, Piu por dulzura que por
‘uerza. (The third Knight passes over.
Sim. And what’s the third?
Thai. The third of Antioch ;
And his device, a wreath of chivalry ;
The word, Me pompe poe apex. 30
(The fourth Knight passes over.
Sim. What is the fourth ?
Thai. A burning torch, that’s turned upside down;
The word, Quod me alit, me extingutt.
Sim. Walch shows that beauty hath his power and
will,
Which can as well inflame, as it can kill.
{The fifth Knight passes over.
Thai. The fifth, a hand environed with clouds,
Holding out gold that’s by the touchstone tried ;
The motto thus, Sic spectanda fides.
[The siath Knight passes over.
Sim. And what’s

The sixth and last, the which the knight himself 40
With such a graceful courtesy deliver'd ? ‘i
Thai. He seems to be a stranger ; but his present is
A wither’d branch, that’s only green at top;
The motto, Jn hac spe vivo.
Sim. A pretty moral:

 

 

 
 

 

 

Scene IV.] PERICLES. 827
From the dejected state wherein he is, (As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips,) 50
We drink this health to you.

He hopes ei you his fortunes yet may flourish.

1 Lord. i e had need mean better than his outward
show
Can any way speak in his just commend;
For by his rusty outside he appears 50

To have practis’d more the whipstock, than the lance.
2 Lord. He well may be a stranger, for he comes
To an honour’d triumph strangely furnished.
3 Lord. And on set purpose let his armour rust
Until this day, to scour it in the dust.
Sim. Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan
The outward habit by the inward man.
But stay, the knights are coming ; we’ll withdraw
Into the gallery. [Excunt.
[Great shouts, and all cry, ‘The mean knight!”

 

Scene III.—The Same. A Hall of State.—A Banquet
prepared.

Enter SIMONIDES, THAISA, Ladies, Lords, Knights,
and Attendants.
Sim. Knights,

To say you're welcome were superfluous.

To place upon the volume of your deeds,

As in a title-page, your worth in arms,

Were more than you expect, or more than’s fit,

Since every worth in show commends itself.

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast :

You are princes, and my guests.

Thai. But you, my knight and guest ;

To whom this wreath of victory I give,

And crown you king of this day’s happiness. 10
Per. ’Tis more by fortune, lady, than by merit.
Sim. Call it by what you will, the day is yours;

And here, I hope, is none that envies it.

én framing an artist art hath thus decreed,

To make some good, but others to exceed ;

And you i ae labour’d scholar. Come, queen 0’ the

: east,

(For, daughter, so you are,) here take your place:

Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace.
Knights. Weare honour’d much by good Simonides.
Sim. Your’ presence glads our days: honour we

love,
For who hates honour, hates the gods above.

Marshal. Sir, yonder is your place.

Per. Some other is more fit.

1 Knight. Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen,
That neither in our hearts, nor outward eyes,

Envy the great, nor do the low despise.

Per. You are right courteous knights.

Sim. Sit, sir; sit.
pane) By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts,

‘hese cates resist me, he not thought upon.

Thai. [Aside.] By Juno, that is queen of marriage.
All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury, 3
Wishing him my meat. Sure, he’s a gallant gentle-

man.

Sim. [Aside.] He’s but a country gentleman :

Has done no more than other knights have done,
Has broken a staff, or so; so let it pass.
Thai. [Aside.] To me he seems like diamond to

glass.
Per. [Aside.] Yon king’s to me like to my father's

icture,
Which tells me in that glory once he was;
Had pou sit, like stars, about his throne,
And he the sun for them to reverence.
None that beheld him, but like lesser lights 40
Did vail their crowns to his supremacy ;, a
Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the night.
The which hath fire in darkness, none in light:
Whereby I see that Time’s the king of men;
He’s both their parent, and he is their grave,
And gives them what he will, not what they crave.
Sim. What, are you merry, knights?
1 Knight. Who can be other in this royal presence?
Sim. Here, with a cup that’s stor’d unto the brim,

 

Knights. We thank your grace.
Sim. Yet pause awhile ;
Yon knight doth sit too melancholy,
As if the entertainment in our court
Had not a show might countervail his worth.
Note it not you, Thaisa ?
Thai. What is’t to me, my father ?
Sim. O! attend, my daughter:
Princes, in this, should live like gods above,
Who freely give to every one that comes 60
To honour them ; :
And princes, not doing so, are like to gnats
Which make a sound, but kill’d are wonder’d at.
Therefore, to make his entrance more sweet, ;
Here say, we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him.
Thai. Alas, a father ! it befits not me
Unto a stranger knight to be so bold:
He may my proffer take for an offence,
Since men take women’s gifts for impudence. ‘
Sim. How! 70
Do as I bid you, or you'll move me else.
Thai. [Aside.] Now, by the gods, he could not
please me better.
Sim. And Eee tell him, we desire to know
of him,
Of whence he is, his name, and parentage.
Thai. The king my father, sir, has drunk to you.
Per. [thank him.
Thai. Wishing it so much blood unto your life.
Per. I thank both him and you, and pledge him

freely.
Thai. And further he desires to know of you,
Of whence you are, your name, and parentage. 80
Per. A gentleman of ‘Tyre, (my name, Pericles,
My education been in arts and arms,)
Who, looking for adventures in the world,
Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men,
And after shipwrack driven upon this shore.
That. He thanks your grace ; names himself Pericles,
A gentleman of Tyre,
Who only by mistortune of the seas
Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore.
Sim. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune, 90
And will awake him from his melancholy.
Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles,
And waste the time which looks for other revels,
Even in your armours, as you are address‘d,
Will very well become a soldier’s dance.
I will not have excuse, with saying, this
Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads,
Since they love men in arms as well as beds.
; [The Knights dance.
So this was well ask’d, ’t was so well perforin’d.
Come, sir; here’s a lady that wants breathing too:
And I have heard, you knights of Tyre 101
Are excellent in making ladies trip,
And that their measures are as excellent.
Per. In those that practise them, they are, my lord.
Sim. O! that’s as much as you would be denied
Of your fair courtesy. [The Knights and Ladies
dance.]—Unclasp, unclasp;
Thanks, gentlemen, to all; all have done well,
[To PERICLEs.] But you the best.—Pages and lights,
to conduct
These knights unto their several lodgings !—Yours,
sir,
We have given order to be next our own. 110
Per. Iam at your grace’s pleasure.
Sim. Princes, it is too late to talk of love,
And that’s the mark I know you level at:
Therefore, each one betake him to his rest ;

To-morrow all for speeding do their best. [Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—Tyre. A Room in the Governor’s House.

Enter HELICANUS and ESCANES,

Hel. No, Escapes, know this of me,
Antiochus from incest liv’d not free:

 

 
 

 

828

PERICLES.

(Act II,

 

For which, the most high gods not minding longer
To withhold the vengeance that they had in store,
Due to his heinous capital onence, ft
Even in the height and pride of all his glory,
When he was seated in a chariot
Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him,
A fire from heaven came, and shrivell'd up
Their bodies, even to loathing ; for they so stunk, 19
That all those eyes ador'd them ere their fall,
Scorn now their hand should give them burial.

Esca. "Twas very strange.

Hel. And yet but just; for though
This king were great, his greatness was no guard
To bar heaven's shaft, but sin had his reward.

Esca. ’Vis very true.

Enter two or three Lords.

1 Lord. See, not a man, in private conference
Or council, has respect with him but he.
2 Lord. It shall no longer grieve without reproof.
3 Lord. And curs'‘d be he that will not second it. 20
1 Lord. Follow me then.—Lord Helicane, a word.
Hel. been me? and welcome.—Happy day, my
ords.
1 Lord. Know, that our griefs are risen to the top,
And now at length they overflow their banks.
Hel, Your griefs! for what? wrong not the prince
you love.
1 Lord. Wrong not yourself then, noble Helicane;
But it the prince do live, Jet us salute him,
Or know what ground’s made happy by his breath.
If in the world he live, we'll seek him out;
If in his grave he rest, we'll find him there ; 30
And be resolv’d, he lives to govern us,
Or dead, gives cause to mourn his funeral,
And leaves us to our free election.
2 Lord. Whose death's, indeed, the strongest in our
censure:
And knowing this kingdom is without a head,
.(Like goodly buildings left without a roof
Soon fall to ruin,) your noble self,
That best know how to rule, and how to reign,
We thus submit unto, our sovereign.
All, Live, noble Helicane ! 40
Hel. For honour’s cause forbear your suffrages :
If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear.
Take I your wish, I leap into the seas,
Where's hourly trouble for a minute's case.
A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you
To forbear the absence of your king;
If in which time expir’d he not return,
I shall with aged patience bear your yoke.
But if I cannot win you to this love,
Go search like nobles, like noble subjects,
And in your search spend your adventurous worth ;
Whom if you find, and win unto return,
You shall like diamonds sit about his crown.
1 Lord. To wisdom he’s a fool that will not yield:
And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us,
We with our travels will endeavour it.
Hel. Then you love us, we you, and we'll clasp

hands:
When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands.
[Excunt.

A Room in the Palace.

Enter SIMONIDES, reading a letter: the Knights
meet him. :

1 Knight. Good morrow to the good Simonides.
Sim. Hien, from my daughter this I let you
now,

That for this twelvemonth she’ll not undertake

A married life.

Her reason to herself is only known,

Which yet from her by no means can I get.
2 Knight. May we not get access to her, my lord?
Sim. ‘Faith, by no means; she hath so strictly

Tied her to her chamber, that ‘tis impossible.

One twelve moons more she’ll wear Diana’s livery ; 10

ScENE V.—Pentapolis.

 

This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow’d,
And on her virgin honour will not break it.
3 Knight. Loath to bid farewell, we take our

; leaves. [Ezeunt Knights.
Sim. So,
They're well despatch’d; now to my daughter's
letter.

She tells me here, she ll wed the stranger knight,

Or never more to view nor day nor light.

*T is well, mistress ; your choice agrees with mine ;

1 like that well :—nay, how absolute she’s in't,

Not minding whether 1 dislike or no! 20
Well, I commend her choice,

And will no longer have it be delay’d.

Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it.

Enter PERICLES.
Per. All fortune to the good Simonides !
Sim. To you as much, sir! Lam beholding to you
For your sweet music this last night: Ido
Protest, my ears were never better fed
With such delightful pleasing harmony.
Per. It is your grace’s pleasure to commend,
Not my desert.
Sim. Sir, you are music's master.
Per. The worst of all her scholars, my good lord.
Sim. Let me ask one thing.
What do you think of my daughter, sir?
Per. A most virtuous princess.
Sim. And she is fair too, is she not ?
Per. Asa fair day in summer; wondrous fair.
Sim. My daughter, sir, thinks very well of you;
Ay, so well, sir, that you must be her master,
And she will be your scholar: therefore, look to it.
Per. 1am unworthy for her schoolmaster.
Sim. She thinks not so; peruse this writing else.
Per. (Aside.] What’s here?
A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre?
’T is the king's subtilty, to have my life.—
O! seek not to entrap me, gracious lord,
A stranger and distressed gentleman,
That never aim’d so high to love your daughter,
But bent all oftices to honour her.
Sim. Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, and thou art
A villain.
Per. By the gods, I have not: 50
Never did thought of mine levy offence ;
Nor never did my actions yet commence
A deed might gain her love, or your displeasure.
Sim. Traitor, thou liest.
Ler
Sim. Ay, traitor.
Per. Even in his throat, unless it be the king,
That calls me traitor, I return the lie.
Sim. Ldside.] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his
courage.
Per. My actions are as noble as my thoughts,
That never relish’d of a base descent.
I came unto your court for honour’s cause, 60
And not to be a rebel to her state ;
And he that otherwise accounts of me,
This sword shall prove, he ’s honour’s enemy.
Sim. No?
Here comes my daughter, she can witness it.

Enter THAISA.
Per. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair,
Resolve your angry father, if my tongue
Did e’er solicit, or my hand subscribe
To any syllable that made love to you?
Thai. Why, sir, say if you had, 70
Who takes offence at that would make me glad?
Sim. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory }—
ed Tam glad on’t with all my heart.—
‘ll tame you; I'll bring you in subjection.
Will you, not having my consent,
Bestow your love and your affections
Upon a stranger ? [aside] who, for aught.I know,
May be (nor can I think the contrary)
As great in blood as I myself.—
Therefore, hear you, mistress ; either frame 80
Your will to mine ; and you, sir, hear you,

Traitor!

 

 
 

ScENE V.]

PERICLES.

829

 

Either be rul’d by me, or I will make you—

Man and wife.

Nay, come, your hands and lips must seal it too ;
And being join’d, I’1l thus your hopes destroy ;

Thai.
Per. Even as my life, or blood that fosters it.
Sim. What! are you both agreed?

Both. Yes, it’t please your majesty.

 

  

Dumb-show.

Enter PERICLES and SIMONIDES at one door, with

ScENE I.

Yes, if you love me, sir.

90

And for a further grief,—God give you joy !— Sim. It pleaseth me so well, that [will see you wed;
What, are you both pleas’d? Then, with what haste you can, get you to bed.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
Enter GOWER.
WE. Gower. Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood
& pow sleep yslaked hath the rout; Varies again ; the grizzly north
No din but snores the house about, Disgorges such ‘a tempest forth,
Made louder by the o’er-fed breast That, as a duck for life that dives,
J Of this most pompous marriage-feast. So up and down the poor ship drives. 50
The cat, with eyne of burning coal, The lady shrieks, and well-a-near
= Now couches ’fore the mouse’s hole ; Does fall in travail with her fear:
/ And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth, And what ensues in this fell storm
i NS All the blither for their drouth. ' Shall for itself itself perform.
, Hymen hath brought the bride to bed, I nill relate, action may
Where, by the loss of maidenhead, 10 | Conveniently the rest convey,
( A babe is moulded.—Be attent, Which might not what by me is told.
oe And time, that is so briefly spent, In your imagination hold
e With your fine fancies quaintly eche; This stage the ship, upon whose deck
What’s dumb in show, I’ll plain with speech, The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak. iz a
rit.

attendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and
ives PERICLES a letter: PERICLES shows it to
IMONIDES; the Lords kneel to PERICLES. Then
enter THAISA with child, and LYCHORIDA: SIMO-
NIDES shows his daughtcr the Iictter ; she rejoices:
she and PERICLES take leave of her father, and all

Enter PERICLES, on shipboard.
Per. Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these
surges,
Which weed both heaven and hell; and thou, that

 

depart.
Gow. By many a dern and painful perch
Of Pericles the careful search
By the four opposing coigns,
Which the world together joins,
Is made, with all due diligence,
That horse, and sail, and high expense,

20

as’
Upon the winds command, bind them in brass,
Having call’d them from the deep. O! still

Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench

Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes !—O! how, Lychorida,

How does my queen?—Thou storm, venomously
Wilt thou spit all thyself?—The seaman’s whistle
Is as a whisper in the ears of death,

Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre Unheard. Lychorida!—Lucina, 0! 10
(Fame answering the most strange inquire) Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle

To the court of King Simonides To those that cry by night, convey thy deity

Are letters brought, the tenor these :— Aboard our dancing boat ; make swift the pangs
Antiochus and his daughter dead ; Of my queen’s travails !—Now, Lychorida!

ap ce rn geueen Get one Enter LycnoribDa, with an Infant.

The crown of Tyre, but he will none: Lye. Here is a thing too young for such a place,
The mutiny he there hastes t’ oppress ; Who, if it had conceit, would die,asI_

Says to ’em, if King Pericles 30 | Am like todo. Take in your arms this piece

Come not home in twice six moons, Of your dead queen. .

He, obedient to their dooms, Per. ; How, how, Lychorida!

Will take the crown. The sum of this, Lyc. Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm.
Brought hither to Pentapolis, Here’s all that is left living of your queen, 20

Yravished the regions round,

And every one with claps can sound,
“Our heir-apparent is a king! :
Who dream’d, who thought of such a thing?”
Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre:
His queen, with child, makes her desire
(Which who shall cross?) along to go;
Omit we all their dole and woe:
Lychorida, her nurse, she takes,

And so to sea, Their vessel shakes

On Neptune’s billow ; half the flood

40

 

A little daughter: for the sake of it,
Be manly, and take comfort.
Per. O you gods!
Why do you make us love your goodly gifts,
And snatch them straight away? We here below
Recall not what we give, and therein may
‘Vie honour with you.
Lye. Patience, good sir,
Even for this charge.
er. Now, mild may be thy life!
Tor a more blust’rous birth had never babe:

 

 
 

 

 

830 PERICLES. [Acr IIT,
Guiee and gentle thy conditions! : Cer. Gentlemen,

‘or thou ‘rt the rudeliest welcome to this world, 30 | Why do you stir so early?
That e’er was prince’s child. Happy what follows! 1 Gent. Sir,

Thou hast as chiding a nativity,

As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make,
To herald thee from the womb: even at the first,
Thy loss is more than can thy portage quit,

With all thou canst find here.—Now the good gods
Throw their best eyes upon’t!

Enter two Sailors.

1 Sail. What courage, sir? God save you!

Per. Courage enough. I do not fear the flaw;

It has done to me the worst. Yet for the love 40
Of this poor infant, this fresh-new sea-farer,
I would it would be quiet.

1 Sail. Slack the bolins there.
thou? Blow, and split thyself. _ 4

2 Sail. But sea-room, an the brine and cloudy billow
kiss the moon, I care not.

1 Sail. Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea
works high, the wind is loud, and will not lie till the
ship be cleared of the dead.

Per. That’s your superstition. 50

1 Sail. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it hath been
still observed, and we are strong in custom. There-
fore briefly yield her, for she must overboard straight.

Per, As you think meet.—Most wretched queen!

Lyc. Here she lies, sir.

Per. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear ;
No light, no fire: the unfriendly elements
Forgot thee utterly ; nor have I time
‘To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight
Must cast thee, scarcely coftin’d, in the ooze; 60
Where, for a monument upon thy bones,

And aye-remaining lamps, the belching whale,
And humming water, must o’erhelm thy corse,
Lying with simple shells.—O Lychorida!
Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper,
My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander
Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe
Upon the pillow. Hie thee, whiles I say
A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman.
(£vit LYCHORIDA.

2 Sail. Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches,
caulk’d and bitumed ready. 71

Per. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this?

2 Sail. We are near Tharsus.

Per. Thither, gentle mariner,

Alter fay epunse from Tyre. When canst thou reach
1

Thou wilt not, wilt

2 Sail. By break of day, if the wind cease.
Per. O, make for Tharsus.—
There will I visit Cleon, for the babe
Cannot hold out to Tyrus: there I'll leave it
At careful nursing.—Go thy ways, good mariner: 40
I'll bring the body presently. [Exeunt.

Scene II.—Ephesus. A Room in CERIMON’s House.

Enter CERIMON, a Servant, and some Persons who
have been shipwracked.
Cer, Philemon, ho!

Enter PHILEMON.

Phil. Doth my lord call?

Cer. Get fire and meat for these poor men:
It has been a turbulent and stormy night.

Serv. st i been in many; but such a night as

is,

Till now I ne’er endur’d.

Cer. Your master will be dead ere you return:
There’s nothing can be minister'd to nature,
That can recover him.—[fo PHILEMON.] Give this to

the ’pothecary,

And tell me how it works. [Excunt all but CERIMON.

Entcr two Gentlemen.

1 Gent. Good morrow. 10
2 Gent. Good morrow to your lordship,

 

Our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea,
Shook, as the earth did quake;
The very principals did seem to rend,
And all to topple. Pure surprise and fear
Made me to quit the house.
2 Gent. That is the cause we trouble you so early ;
’T is not our husbandry.

Cer.
1 Gent. But I much
having
Rich tire about you, should at these early hours
Shake off the golden slumber of repose.
°T is most strange,
Nature should be so conversant with pain,
Being thereto not compell’d.
Cer. T held it ever,
Virtue and connie were endowments greater
Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs
May the two latter darken and expend;
But immortality attends the former, 30
Making a managod. ’Tis known, I ever
Have studied physic, through which secret art,
By turning o’er authorities, I have
(Together with my practice) made familiar
To me and to my aid the blest infusions
That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones ;
And I can speak of the disturbances
That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give
me
A more content in course of true delight,
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, 40
Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,
‘To please the fool and death.
2 Gent. eon honour has through Ephesus pour’d
ort:
Your charity, and hundreds call themselves
Your creatures, who by you have been restor’d:
And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but
even
Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon
Such strong renown as never shall decay.

O! you say well. 20
marvel that your lordship,

Enter two or three Servants, with a chest.
Serv. So; lift there.

Cer. What is that?

Serv. Sir, even now
Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest : 50
*T is of some wrack.

Cer Set it down; let’s look upon’t.

2 Gent. ’T is like a coftin, sir.
cr. Whate’er it be,
*T is wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight:
If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharg’d with gold,
’T is a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.
2 Gent. ’T is so, my lord.
Cer. How close ’t is caulk’d and bitum’d!
Did the sea cast it up?
Serv. I never saw so huge a billow, sir,
As toss’d it upon shore.
Cer. Come, wrench it open.
Soft !—it smells most sweetly in my sense.
2 Gent. A delicate odour.
Cer. As ever hit my nostril. So, up with it.
O you most potent gods! what’s here? a corse!
1 Gent. Most strange !
Cer. Shrouded in cloth of state; balm'’d and en-
treasur’d
With full bags of spices! A passport too:
Apollo, perfect me i’ the characters !
[Reads from a scroll,

Here I give to understand,

Cf eer this coffin drive a-land,)

I, King Pericles, have lost 70
This queen, worth all our mundane cost.
Who finds her, give her burying ;

She was the daughter of a king:

Besides this treasure for a fee,

The gods requite his charity !

 

 
 

 

 

Scene IV.] PERICLES. 831
If thou liv’st, Pericles, thou hast a heart Per. We cannot but obey
That even cracks for woe !—This chanc’d to-night. The powers above us. Could I rage and roar 10
2 Gent. Most likely, sir. As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end
Cer. Nay, certainly to-night ; Must be as ’tis. My gentle babe Marina (whom,
For look, how fresh she looks.—They were too rough, | For she was born at sea, I have nam’d so) here
That threw her in the sea. Make fire within: 80 | I charge your charity withal, and leave her
Fetch hither all the boxes in my closet. [Exita Servant. | The infant of your care, beseeching you
Death may usurp on nature many hours, To give her poy. training, that she may
And yet the fire of life kindle again Be manner’d as she is born. 2
he o’erpress’d spirits. I heard Cle Fear not, my lord, but think

Of an Hey eet that had nine hours lien dead,
Who was by good appliance recovered.

Re-enter Servant, with boxes, napkins, and fire.

Well said, well said ; the fire and the cloths.—
The rough and woful music that we have,
Cause it to sound, ’beseech you.
The vial once more ;—how thou stirr’st, thou block !—
The music there! I pray you, give her air. 91
Gentlemen,
This queen will live: nature awakes; a warmth
Breathes out of her: she hath not been entranc’d
Above five hours. See, how she ‘gins to blow
Into life’s flower again !

1 Gent.’ The heavens,
Through you, increase our wonder, and set up
Your fame for ever.

Cer. She is alive! behold,
Her eyelids, cases to those heavenly jewels
Which Pericles hath lost, 100
Begin to part their fringes of bright gold:
The diamonds of a most praised water
Do appear, to make the world twice rich. Live,
And make us weep to hear your fate, fair creature,
Rare as you seem to be! [Ske moves.

Thai. O dear Diana!
WhereamI? Where’s my lord? What world is this?

2 Gent. Is not this strange?

1 Gent. Most rare.

Cer. Hush, gentle neighbours!
Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her.
Get linen: now this matter must be look’d to, 111
For her relapse is mortal. Come, come;
And Atsculapius guide us !

[EZxeunt, carrying THAISA away.

 

ScENE JII.—Tharsus. A Room in CLron’s House.

Enter PERICLES, CLEON, DionyzA, LYCHORIDA,
with MARINA in her arms.

Per. Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be gone:
My twelve months are expir’d, and Tyrus stands
In a litigious peace. You, and your lady,
Take from my heart all thankfulness ; the gods
Make up the rest upon you!

Cle. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you

mortally,

Yet glance full wanderingly on us.

Dion. O your sweet queen!
That the strict fates had pleas’d you had brought her

hither,
To have bless’d mine eyes with her!

 

Your grace, that fed my country with your corn
(For which the people's prayers still fall upon you),

Must in your child

e thought on. If neglection 20

Should therein make me vile, the common body,

By you reliev’d, would force me to my duty ;
But if to that my nature need a spur,
The gods revenge it upon me and mine,
To the end of generation !

Per. I believe you;
Your honour and your goodness teach me to

t,

Without your vows. Till she be married, madam,

By bright Diana, whom we honour, all
Unscissar’d shall this hair of mine remain,
Though I show illin’t. SoI take my leave.
Good madam, make me blessed in your care
In bringing up my child.

Dion. I have one myself,
Who shall not be more dear to my respect,
Than yours, my lord.

30

Per, Madam, my thanks and prayers.
Cle. wee bring your grace even to the edge o’ the

snore ;

Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune, and

The gentlest winds of heaven.

Per. I will embrace
Your offer. Come, dear’st madam.—O ! no tears,

Lychorida, no tears :
Look to your little mistress, on whose grace
You may depend hereafter.—Come, my lord.

40

[Execunt.

Scene IV.—Ephesus. A Room in Cerrmon’s House.

Enter CERIMON and THAISA.

Cer. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels,

Lay with you in your coffer: which are

At yourcommand. Know you the character?

Thai. It is my lord's.
That I was shipp’d at sea, I well remember,
Even on my one time; but whether there
Delivered, by the holy gods,

I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles,

My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again,
A vestal livery will J take me to,
And never more have joy.

10

Cer. Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak,

Diana’s temple is not distant far,
Where you may abide till your date expire.
Moreover, if eS a niece of mine
Shall there attend you.

Thai. My recompense is thanks, that’s all

Yet my good will is great, though the gift small.

 

[Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

Gower.

Welcom’'d and settled to his own desire.

His woful queen we leave at Ephesus,

Unto Diana there a votaress.

Now to Marina bend your mind,

Whom our fast-growing scene must find

At Tharsus, and by Cleon train’d

In music, letters ; who hath gain’d

Of education all the grace,

Which makes her both the heart and
place ‘ 10

Of general wonder. But, alack!

That monster envy, oft the wrack

Of earned praise, Marina’s life

Seeks to take off by treason’s knife.

«nd in this kind hath our Cleon

One daughter, and a wench full grown,

 

ay Even ripe for marriage-rite : this maid
5 Hight Philoten; and it is said
For certain in our story, she
Would ever with Marina be: 20

Be ’t when she weav'd the sleided silk

With finvers long, small, white as milk;

Or when she would with sharp needle wound

The cambric, which she made more sound

By hurting it; or when to the lute

She sung, and made the night-bird mute,

That still records with moan ; or when

She would with rich and constant pen

Vail to her mistress Dian ; still

This Philoten contends in skill 30
With absolute Marina : so

With the dove of Paphos might the crow

Vie feathers white. Marina gets

All praises, which are paid as debts,

And not as given. This so darks

In Philoten all graceful marks,

That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare,

A prescnt murderer does prepare

For good Marina, that her daughter

Might stand pecrless by this slaughter. 40
The sooner her vile thoughts to stead,

Lychorida, our nurse, is dead:

And cursed Dionyza hath

The pregnant instrument. of wrath

Prest for this blow. The unborn event

I do commend to your content :

Only I carry winged time

Post on the lame teet of my rhyme;

Which never could I so convey,

Unless your thoughts went on my way.— 50
Dionyza doth appear,
With Leonine, a murderer, [Exit.

ScENE L—Tharsus. An Open Place near the Sea-

shore.

Enter Dionyza and LEONINE.
Dion. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do’t:
’T is but a blow, which never shall be known.
Thou canst not do a thing i’ the world so soon,
To yield thee so much profit. Let not ¢onscience,
Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom,
Inflame too nicely ; nor let pity, which

 

ACT IVY.

Finter GOWER.

Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be

A soldier to thy purpose.
Leon. I'll do’t; but yet she is a goodly creature.
Dion. The fitter, then, the gods should have her.

Here
She comes weeping for her only mistress’ death.
Thou art resolv’d?
Leon.

Enter Marina, with a basket of flowers.
Mar. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed,
To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues,
The pee violets, and marigolds,
Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave,
While summer-days do last. Ah me, poor maid!
Born in a tempest, When my mother died,
This world to me is like a lasting storm,
Whirring me from my friends. 20
Dion. How now, Marina! why do you keep alone?
How chance my daughter is not with you? De not
Consume your blood with sorrowing : you have
A nurse of me. Lord! how your favour’s chang’d
With this unprofitable woe! Come,
Give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it.
Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there,
«\nd it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come,
Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her.
Mar, No, I pray you; 30
I'll not bereave you of your servant.
Dion. Come, come;
T love the king your father, and yourself,
With more than foreign heart. We every day
Expect him here: when he shall come, and find
Our paragon to all reports thus blasted,
He will repent the breadth of his great voyage;
Blame both my lord and me, that we have ta‘en
No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you;
Walk, and be cheerful once again : reserve 40
That excellent complexion, which did steal
The eyes of young and old. Care not for me;
I can go home alone.
Alar. Well, I will go;
But yet Ihave no desire to it.
Dion. Come, come, I know 't is good for you.—
Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least.
Remember what I have said.
Leon. I warrant you, madam.
Dion. I’llleave you, my sweet lady, for a while.
Pray you, walk softly, do not heat your blood:
What! Imust have care of you.
Mar. My thanks, sweet madam.—

[Exit Dionyza.
Is the wind westerly that blows?
con. South-west. 51
Mar. When I was born, the wind was north.
Leon. Was ’t so?
Mar. My father, as nurse said, did never fear,
But cried ‘Good seamen!” to the sailors, galling
His kingly hands with haling of the ropes;
And, clasping to the mast, endur'd a sea
That almost burst the deck.
Leon. When was this?
Mar. When I was born:
Never were waves nor wind more violent; 60
And from the ladder-tackle washes off
A canvass-climber. ‘ Ha!” says one, “wilt out?”
And with a dropping industry they skip

Iam resolv’d.

 

 
 

ScENE IIL]

 

 

From stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and
The master calls, and trebles their confusion.
Leon, Come; say your prayers.
Mar, What mean you?
Leon, If you require a little space for prayer,
Igrant it. Pray; but be not tedious,
For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn 70
To do my work with haste.
Mar. Why will you kill me?
Leon. To satisfy my lady.
War. Why would she have me kill’d 2
Now, as I can remember, by my troth,
I never did her hurt in all my life.
I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn
To any living creature: believe me, la,
I never kill’d a mouse, nor hurt a fly:
I trod upon a worm against my will, 89
But I wept for it. How have I offended,
Wherein my death might yield her any profit,
Or my life imply her any danger?
Leon. My commission
Is not to reason of the deed, but do’t.
Mar: You will not do’t for all the world, I hope.
Youare well-favour'd, and your looks foreshow
You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately,
When you caught hurt in parting two that fought:
Good sooth, it show’d well in you: do so now: 90
Your lady seeks my life; come you between,
And save poor me, the weaker.
Leon, Iam sworn,
And will despatch. [Seizes her.
Enter Pirates.
1 Pir. Hold, villain! [LEONINE runs away.
2 Pir. A prize! a prize!
3 Pir, oe nett mates, half-part. Come, let’s have
her aboard suddenly. [Hxeunt Pirates with MARINA.

ScENE ITI.—Near the Same.
Enter LEONINE.
Leon, These roguing thieves serve the great pirate
2. :

S53
And they have seiz’d Marina. Let her go:
There’s no hope she’ll return. I’ll swear she’s dead,
And thrown into the sea.—But I’ll see further ;
Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her,
Not carry her aboard. If she remain,
Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain. [/it.

ScENE III.—Mitylene. A Room ina Brothel.

Enter Pander, Bawd, and BOULT.

Pand. Boult!

Boult. Sir?

and, Search the market narrowly; Mitylene is
full of gallants: we lost too much money this mart,
by being too wenchless.

Bawd. We were never so much out of creatures.
We have but poor three, and they can do no more than
they can do; and they with continual action are even
as good as rotten.

Pand. Therefore, let’s have fresh ones, whate’er
we pay ror them. If there be not a conscience to be
used in every trade, we shall never prosper. 12

Bawd. Thou say’st true: ‘tis not the bringing up of
poor bastards,—as I think, I have brought up some
eleven—

Boult. Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again.
But shall I search the market ?

Bawd.. What else, man? The stuff we have, a
strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully
sodden. 20

Pand. Thou say’st true ; they ’re too unwholesome,
o’ conscience. ‘The poor Transylvanian is dead, that
lay with the little baggage. : fo

Boult. Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him
roast-meat for worms, But I'll go search the market

ait.

PERICLES.

 

835

 

Pand. Three or four thousand chequins were as
pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over.

Bawd. Why to give over, I pray you? is it a shame
to get when we are old ? eee 29

and, O! our credit comes not in like the com-

modity; nor the commodity wages not with the
danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick up
some pretiy estate, ’t were not amiss to keep our door
hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with
the gods, will be strong with us for giving over.

Bawd. Come, other sorts offend as well as we.

Pand. As well as we? ay, and better too; we offend
worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it’s no
calling. But here comes Boult.

Re-enter BOULT, with the Pirates and MARINA.

Boult. lg MaRina.] Come your ways.— My masters,
yousay she’savirgin? #1

1 Pir. O, sir! we doubt it not. na

Boult. Master, I have gone through for this piece,
you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my
earnest. ie

Bawd. Boult, has she any qualities?

Boult. She has a good face, speaks well, and has
excellent good clothes: there’s no further necessity of
qualities can make her be refused.

Bawd. What’s her price, Boult ? 50
Boult. I cannot be baited one doit of a thousand
pieces.

Pand. Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have
our money pean Wife, take her in: instruct
er what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her
entertainment. [EHxeunt Pander and Pirates.

Bawd. Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour
of her hair, complexion, height, her age, with warrant
of her virginity, and cry, “He that will give most,
shall have her first.” Such a maidenhead were no
cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this
done as I command you. 62

Boult. Performance shall follow. [Exit.

Mar. Alack, that Leonine was so slack, so slow!
He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates
(Not enough barbarous) had not o’erboard thrown me
For to seek my mother!

Bawd. Why lament you, pretty one?

Mar. That I am pretty. ,

Bawd. Come, the gods have done their part in you.

Mar. I accuse them not. 71

Bawd. Youare light into my hands, where you are
like to live.

Mar. The more my fault,

To scape his hands where I was like to die.

Bawd. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure.

Mar. No.

Bawd. Yes, indeed, shall you, and taste gentlemen
of all fashions. You shall fare well: you shall have
the difference of all complexions. What! do youstop
your ears? 81

Mar. Are you a woman?

Bawd. What would you have me be, anI be nota
woman?

Mar. An honest woman, or not a woman.

Bawd. Marry, whip thee, gosling: I think I shall
have something to do with you. Come, you're a young
foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have
you.

Mar. The gods defend me ! 90

Bawd. It it please the gods to defend you by men,
then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men
must stir you up.—Boult’s returned.

Re-enter BOuLT.

Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market?

Boult, Ihave cried her almost to the number of her
hairs: I have drawn her picture with my voice.

Bawd. And, I pr’ythee, tell me, how dost thou find
the inclination ot the people, especially of the younger
sort? 99

Boult. Faith, they listened to me, as they would
have hearkened to their father’s testament. There
was a Spaniard’s mouth so watered, that he went to
bed to her very description.

 

 
 

834

PERICLES.

(Act IV.

 

 

Bawd, We shall have him here to-morrow with his
best rutf on.

Boult, To-night, to-night. But, mistress, do you
know the French knight that cowers i’ the hams?

Bawd. Who? Monsieur Veroles?

Boult. Ay: he offered to cut a caper at the amele,
mation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he
would see her to-morrow.

Bawd. Well, well; as for him, he brought his
disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know, he
will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the
sun.

Boult. Well, if we had of every nation a traveller,
we should lodge them with this sign. 117

Bawd. [To Marina.) Pray you, come hither awhile.
You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you
must seem to do that fearfully, which you commit
willingly ; to despise profit, where you have most
gain. To weep that you live as ye do, makes pity in
your lovers: seldom, “put that pity begets you a good
opinion, and that opinion a mere profit.

Mar. J understand you not.

Boult. O! take her home, mistress, take her home:
these blushes of hers must be quenched with some
present practice.

Bawd. Thou say’st true, i’ faith, so they must; for
your bride goes to that w ith shame, which is her way
to go with warrant. 131

Boult, "Faith, some do, and some do not.
tress, if I have bargained for the joint,—

Bawd. Thou may’st cut a morsel off the spit.

Boult. [may so?

Bawd. Who should deny it? Come, young one, I
like the manner of your garments well.

oe Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed

139

But, mis-

ae Boult, spend thou that in the town: report
what a sojourner we have; you'll lose nothing by
custom. When nature trained this piece, she meant

thee a good turn; therefore, say what a paragon she |

is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report.

Boult. J warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not
so awake the beds of eels, as my giving out her beauty
stir up the lewdly-inclined. I'll bring home some
to-night.

Bawd. Come your ways; follow me.

Mar, If tires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep,
Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. 151
Diana, aid my purpose!

Bawd. What have we to do with Diana? Pray you,
will you go with us?

 

Scene IV.—Tharsus. A Room in CLEon’s House.

Enter CLEON and DIONYZA.

Dion. Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone?
Cle. O Dionyza! such a piece of slaughter
The sun and moon ne'er look’d upon.
Dion. I think,
You'll turn a child again.
Cle. Were I chief lord of all this spacious world,
I'd give it to undo the deed. O lady,
Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess
To equal any single crown 0’ the earth,
I’ the justice of compare! O villain Leonine!
Whom thou hast poison’d too.
If thou hadst drunk to him, ’t had been a kindness
Becoming well thy fact : what canst thou say,
When noble Pericles shall demand his child?
Dion. That she isdead. Nurses are not the fates,
To foster it, nor ever to preserve.
She died at’ night; I’ll say so. Who ean cross it?
Unless you play the pious innocent,
And, for an honest attribute, cry out,
ss She died by foul play.”

10

O! goto. Well, well,
Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods 20
Do like this worst.

Dion. Be one of those, that think
The petty wrens of Tharsus will fly ‘hence,
And open this to Pericles. I do shame

[Exeunt. .

 

To think of what a noble strain you are,
And of how coward a spirit.

Cle. To such proceeding
Who ever but his approbation added,

Though not his prime consent, he did not flow
From honourable sources,

Dion. Be it so, then ;

Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead,
Nor none can know, *Leonine being gone.

She did distain my child, and stood between

Her and her fortunes : none would look on her,
But cast their gazes on Marina’s face ;

Whilst ours was blurted at, and held a malkin,
Not worth the time of day. It pierc’d me thorough;
And though you call my course unnatural,

You not your child well loving, yet I find,

It greets me as an enterprise of kindness,
Perform’'d to your sole daughter.

Cle. Heavens forgive it!

Dion. And as for Pericles,

What should he say?) We wept after her hearse,
And yet we mourn : her monument

Is almost finish’d, and her epitaphs

In glittering golden characters express

A general praise to her, and care in us

At whose expense ’t is done.

Cle. Thou art like the harpy,
Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel’s face,
Seize with thine eagle’s talons.

Dion. You are like one, that superstitiously
Doth swear to the gods, that winter kills the flies: 50
But yet, I know, you'll do as I advise. [Ezeunt.

Enter Gower, before the monument of MARINA
at Tharsus.
Gow. vas time we waste, and longest leagues make
short ;

Sail seas in cockles, have an wish but for’t ;
Making (to take your imagination)
From bourn to bourn, region to region.
By you being pardon’d, we commit no crime
To use one language, in each several clime,
Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you
To learn of me, who stand i’ the gaps to teach you,
The stages of our story. Pericles 60
Is now again thwarting the wayward seas,
Attended on by many a lord and knight,
To see his daughter, all his life’s delight.
Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late
Advanc'd in time to great and high estate,
Is left to govern. Bear you it in mind,
Old Helicanus goes along behind.
Well-sailing ships, and bounteous winds, have brought
This king to Tharsus, (think his pilot thought,
So with his steerage shall your thoughts grow on,) 70
To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone,
Like motes and shadows see them move awhile ;
Your ears unto your eyes I'll reconcile.

Dumb-show.

Enter PERICLES, with his Train, at one door; CLEON
and Dionyza at theother. CUEON shows PERICLES
the tomb of MARINA; whereat PERICLES makes
lamentation, puts on sackcloth, and ina mighty
passion departs.

Gow. See, how belief may suffer by foul show!
This borrow’d passion stands for true old woe;
And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d,
With sighs shot through, and biggest tears o’er-
show'r'd, ©
Leaves Tharsus, and again embarks. He swears
Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs ;
He puts on sackcloth, andtosea, He bears
A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears,
And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit
The epitaph is for Marina writ
By wicked Dionyza.
[Reads the aceite on MaRIiNa’s monument.

The fairest, sweet’ st, and best, lies here,
Who wither'd in her spring of year:

80

 
 

SCENE VI]

PERICLES.

835

 

 

She was of Tyrus the king’s daughter,

On whom foul death hath made this slaughter.

Marina was she cal’d; and at her birth,

Thetis, being proud, swallow’d some part o° the
90

earth:
Therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflow'd,
Hath Thetis’ birth-child on the heavens bestow d:
Wherefore she does (and swears she'll never stint)
Make raging battery upon shores of flint.

No visor does become black villainy

So well as soft and tender flattery.

Let Pericles believe his daughter ’s dead,

And bear his courses to be ordered

By Lady Fortune ; while our scene must play

His daughter's woe and heavy well-a-day, 100
In her unholy service. Patience then,

And think you now are all in Mitylen. [Exit.

ScenrE V.—Mitylene. A Street before the Brothel.

Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen.

1 Gent. Did you ever hear the like?

2 Gent. No, nor never shall do in such a place as
this, she being once gone.

1 Gent. But to have divinity preached there! did
you ever dream of such a thing?

2 Gent. No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy-
houses. Shall’s go hear the vestals sing ?

1 Gent. I'll do anything now that is virtuous; but I
am. out of the road of rutting for ever. [Exeunt.

Scenge VI.—The Same. A Room in the Brothel.

Enter Pander, Bawd, and Boutt.

Pand. Well; [had rather than twice the worth of
her, she had ne’er come here.

Bawd. Fie, fie upon her! she is able to freeze the
god Priapus, and undo a whole generation: we must
either get her ravished, or be rid of her.
should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kind-
ness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her
reasons, her master-reasons, her prayers, her knees,
that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he
should cheapen a kiss of her. : 0

Boult. ’Faith, I must ravish her, or she ’!] disfurnish
us of all our cavaliers, and make all our swearers
priests.

Pand. Now, the pox upon her green-sickness for
me!

Bawd. ’Faith, there’s no way to be rid ont, but by
the way tothe pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus,
disguised. -

oult. We should have both lord and lown, if the
peevish baggage would but give way to customers. 20

Enter LYSIMACHUS.

Lys. How now! How a dozen of virginities?

Bawd. Now, the gods to-bless your honour!

Boult. I am glad to see your honour in good health.

Lys. You may so; ’tis the better for you that your
resorters stand upon sound legs. How now, whole-
some iniquity ! have you that a man may deal withal,
and defy the surgeon ?

Bawd. We have here one, sir, if she would—but
there never came her like in Mitylene.

Lys. If she’d do the deed of darkness, thou wont
Say. ‘

Bawd. Your honour knows what ’tis to say, well
enough.
» ys. Well; call forth, call forth. _

Boult. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you
al see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had

ut—

Lys. What, pr’ythee?

Boult. O, sir! I can be modest. 39

Lys. That dignifies the renown of a bawd, no less
than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste.

When she ,

 

Enter MARINA.

Bawd. Here comes that which grows to the stalk ;—
never plucked yet, I can assure you,—Is she not a fair
creature?

Lys. ’Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at
sea. Well, there’s for you: leave us.

Bawd. I beseech your honour, give me leave, a word,
and I’ll have done presently.

Lys. I beseech you, do. :

Bawd. [To MaRina.] First, I would have you note,
this is an honourable man. 51

Mar. I desire to find him so, that I may worthily
note him.

Bawd. Next, he’s the ener of this country, and
aman whom I am bound to.

Mar. If he govern the country, you are bound to
him indeed ; but how honourable he is in that, I know

not.

Bad. Pray you, without any more virginal fenc-
ing, will you use him kindly? He will line your apron
with gold. . 5

Mar, What he will do graciously, I will thankfully
receive.

Lys. Have you done?

Bawd. My lord, she’s not paced yet ; you must take °
some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we
will leave his honour and her together.

Lys. Go thy ways. [Hxeunt Bawd, Pander, and
Bou t.J]—Now, pretty one, how long have you been at,
this trade ? 70

Mar. What trade, sir?

Lys. Why, I cannot name’t but I shall offend.

ar. I cannot be ottended with my trade. Please
you to name it.

Lys. How long have you been of this profession ?

ar, Her since I can remember.

Lys. Did you go to itso young? Were you a game-
ster at five, or at seven?

Mar. Earlier too, sir, if now I be one.

Lys. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to
be a creature of sale, 81

Mar. Do you know this house to be a place of such
resort, and will come into’t? I hear say, you are of
honourable parts, and are the governor of this place.

Lys. Why, hath your principal made known unto
you who I am?

Mar. Who is my principal?

Lys. Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seed
and roots of shame and iniquity. O! you have heard
something of my power, and so stand aloof for more
serious wooing. ut I protest to thee, pretty one, my
authority shall not see thee, or else, look friendly
upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place :
come, come. 94

Mar, If you were born to honour, show it now;
If put upon you, make the judgment good
That thought you worthy of it.

Lys. How’s this? how’s this?—Some more :—be sage.

ar. For me,

That am a maid, though most ungentle fortune
Hath plac’d me in this sty, where, since I came, 100
Diseases have been sold dearer than physic,—
O, that the gods
Would set me free from this unhallow’d place,
Though they did change me to the meanest bird
That flies i’ the purer air!

Lys. I did not think

Thou couldst oer spoke so well; ne’er dream’d thou
couldst.
Had I brought hither a corrupted mind,
Thy speech had alter’d it. Hold, here’s gold for thee:
Persever in that clear way thou goest,
And the gods strengthen thee!
ar. The gods preserve you!

Lys. For me, be you thoughten 111
That I came with no ill intent; for to me
The very doors and windows savour vilely.

Farewell. Thou art a piece of virtue, and

I doubt not but thy training hath been noble,
Hold, here’s more gold for thee.

A curse upon him, die he like a thief,

 
 

 

836

That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost
Hear from me, it shall be for thy good.

Re-enter BOULT.
Boult. I beseech your honour, one piece for me. 120

Lys. ae thou damned door-keeper! Your
house,
But for this virgin that doth prop it, would
Sink, and overwhelm you. Away! [Exit.

Boult. How’s this?) We must take another course
with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not
worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the
cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded
like a spaniel. Come your ways.

Mar. Whither would you have me? 129

Boult. I must have your maidenhead taken off, or
the common hangman shall execute it. Come your
way. We’ll have no more gentlemen driven away.
Come your ways, I say.

Re-enter Bawd.

Bawd. How now! what’s the matter?

Boult. Worse and worse, mistress: she has here
spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus.

Bawd. O, abominable ! 4

Boult. She makes our profession as it were to stink
afore the face of the gods.

Bawd. Marry, hang her up for ever! 140

Boult. The nobleman would have dealt with her
like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a
snow-ball; saying his prayers, too.

Bawd. Boult, take her away; use her at thy
pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make
the rest malleable.

Boult. An if she were a thornier piece of ground
than she is, she shall be ploughed.

Mar. Hark, hark, you gods! 149

Bawd. She conjures: away with her! ‘Would she
had never come within my doors !—Marry, hang you!
—She's born to undo us.,—Will you not go the way of
women-kind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity
with rosemary and bays! [£xit.

Boult. Come, mistress; come your way with me.

Mar. Whither wilt thou have me?

Boult. To take from you the jewel you hold so dear.

PERICLES.

{[ActT V.

Mar. Pr'ythee, tell me one thing first.

Boult. Come now, your one thing.

Mar. What canst thou wish thine enemy to be? 160

Boult, Why, I could wish him to be my master, or
rather, any mistress.

Mar. Neither of these are so bad as thou art,
Since they do better thee in their command.
Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st fiend
Of hell would not in reputation change:

Thou art the damned door-keeper to every
Coystril that comes inquiring for his Tib;

To the choleric fisting of every rogue

Thy ear is liable; thy food is such 170
As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.

Bouit, What would you have me do? go to the wars,
would you? where a man may serve seven years for
the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the
end to buy him a wooden one?

Mar. Do anything but this thou doest. Empty
Old receptacles, or common sewers, of filth ;

Serve by indenture to the common hangman:

Any of these ways are yet better than this;

For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak,
Would own a name too dear. That the gods 181
Would safely deliver me trom this place !

Here, here’s gold for thee.

If that thy master would gain by me,

Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance,
With other virtues, which I'll keep from boast ;
And I will undertake all these to teach.

I doubt not but this populous city will

Yield many scholars.

Boult. But can you teach all this you speak of? 190

Mar. Prove that I cannot, take me home again,
And prostitute me to the basest groom
That doth frequent your house.

Boult. Well, I will see what I can do for thee: if I
can place thee, I will.

Mar. But amongst honest women.

Boult. Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst
them. But since my master and mistress have bought
you, there’s no going but by their consent ; therefore,
{ will make them acquainted with your purpose, and
IT doubt not but I shall find them tractable erough.
Come ; I'll do for thee what I can: come your ways.

[Exeuni.

 

 

ACT

Vv.

Enter GowrER.

    
 

Into an honest house, our story says.
Ske sings like onc immortal, and she dances
“us As goddess-like to her admired lays.
Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her
or berry, .

That even her art sisters the natural roses;

Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry :

That pupils lacks she none of noble race,

And to her father turn our thoughts again,
Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost,
Whence, driven before the winds, he is arriv’d
Here where his daughter dwells : and on this coast

iy Gower.
WO, ARINA thus the brothel scapes, and chances
Q
needle composes .
Nature's own shape, of bud, bird, branch,
Who pour their bounty on her; and her gain 10
She gives the cursed bawad. Here we her place,
Suppose him now at anchor, The city striv’d
God Neptune's annual feast to keep: from whence

Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies,
| His banners sable, trimm’d with rich expense ;

And to him in his barge with fervour hies. 2¢
In your supposing once more put your sight

Of heavy Pericles; think this his bark :

Where, what is done in action, more, if might, ;
Shall be discover’d ; please you, sit and hark. [Exit.

ScENE J.—On board PrricueEs’ Ship, off Mitylene. A
Pavilion on deck, with a curtain before it; PERICLES
within it, reclining on acouch. A barge lying beside
the Tyrian vessel.

Enter two Sailors, one belonging to_the Tyrian
vessel, the other to the barge; to them HELICANUS.
Tyr. Sail. [To the Sailor of Mitylenc.] Where 1s

| ; j Lord Helicanus? he can resolve you.
_ O, here he is.—

 

 
 

ScENE I.] ‘PERICLES. 837

 

Sir, there's a barge put off from Mitylene,

And in it is Lysimachus, the governor,

Who craves to come aboard. What is your will?
Hel. That he have his. Call up some gentlemen.
Tyr. Sail. Ho, gentlemen ! my lord calls.

Enter two or three Gentlemen.
1 Gent. Doth your lordship call ?
Hel. Gentlemen, there is some of worth would
come aboard: I pray, greet'them fairly. . 10
[Gentlemen and Sailors descend, and
go on board the barge.

Enter, from thence, LYSIMACHUS and Lords ; the
Tyrian Gentlemen and the two Sailors.
Tyr. Sail. Sir,
This is the man that can in aught you would
Resolve you.
ye ail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you!
el, And you, sir, to outlive the age I am,
And die as I would do.
ys. _ You wish me well.
Being on shore, honouring of Neptune's triumphs,
Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us,
I made to it to know of whence you are.
Hel. First, what is your place ? 20
ae aan the governor of this place you lie before.
el. Sir
Our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king;
A man, who for this three months hath not spoken
To any one, nor taken sustenance,
But to prorogue his grief.
ae pon what ground is his distemperature?
el. "T would be too tedious to repeat ;
But the main grief springs from the loss
Of a beloved daughter and a wife. 30
iys May we not see him?
el. You may;
But bootless is your sight: he will not speak
To any.
Lys. _ Yet, let me obtain my wish.
Hel. Behold him. [PERICLES discovered.] This was
a goodly person,
Till the disaster that, one mortal night,
Drove him to this.
Lys. Sir king, all hail! the gods preserve you!
Hail, royal sir!
Hel. It is in vain; he will not speak to you! 40
1 Lord. Sir, we haye a maid in Mitylen, I durst

wager,
Would win some words of him.

Lys. ’T is well bethought.
She, questionless, with her sweet harmony,
And other choice attractions, would allure,
And make a battery through his deafen’d parts,
Which now are midway stopp’d:
She is all happy as the fair'st of all,
And with her fellow-maids is now upon
The leafy shelter that abuts against
The island's side. ; 50

ht Meare one of the attendant Lords. Exit Lord.

Hel. Sure, all effectless ; yet nothing we ’ll omit,

That bears recovery’s name. But, since your kindness
We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech you,
That for our gold we may provision have,
Wherein we are not destitute for want,
But weary for the staleness. ;

Lys. O, sir, a courtesy,
Which if we should deny, the most just gods
For every graff would send a caterpillar,
And so inflict our province.—Yet once more
Let me entreat to know at large the cause 60
Of your king's sorrow. r

i Sit, sir, I will recount it to you ;—

But see, I am prevented.

‘Re-enter Lord, with MARINA and a young Lady.
Lys. O!thereis |
The lady that I sent for.—Welcome, fair one !—
‘Is’t not a goodly presence ?
Hel, She’s a gallant lady.
Lys. She’s such a one, that were I well assur'd

 

Kes

 

She came of gentle kind, and noble stock,
I'd wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed.—
Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty
Expect even here, where is a kingly patient :
If that thy prosperous and artificial feat 70
Can draw him but to answer thee in aught,
Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay
As thy desires can wish.
Mar. Sir, I will use
My utmost skill in his recovery, provided
That none but land my companion maid
Be suffer’d to come near him.

S. Come, let us leave her,
And the gods make her prosperous !—[MaRINa sings.
Mark’d he your music?

Mar, No, nor look’d on us,
Lys. See, she will speak to him.
Mar. Hail, sir! my lord, lend ear. 80
Per. Hum! ha!
Mar. I am amaid,
My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes,
But have been gaz’d on like a comet : she speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endur’d a grief
Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh'd.
Though wayward fortune did malign my state,
My derivation was from ancestors
Who stood equivalent with mighty kings ;
But time hath rooted out my parentage, 90
And to the world and awkward casualties
Bound me in servitude.—[A side.] I will desist ;
But there is something glows upon my cheek,
And whispers in mine ear, ‘Go not till he speak.”
Per. My fortunes—parentage—good parentage—
To equal mine !—was it not thus? what say you?
Mar. I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage,
You would not do me violence.
Per. I do think so.—Pray you, turn your eyes upon

me.—
You are like something that—What countrywoman?
Here of these shores?

Mar. No, nor of any shores; 101
Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am
No other than I appear.

Per, [am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.
My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one
My dene het might have been: my queen's square

TOWS ;
Her stature to an inch ; as wand-like straight ;
As silver-voic’d ; her eyes as jewel-like,
And cas’d as richly ; in pace another Juno;
Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them
hungry, 110
The more she gives them speech.—Where do you live?

Mar. Where I am but a stranger : from the deck
You may discern the place.

Per. 7 Where were you bred?
And how achiev’d you these endowments, which
You make more rich to owe?

Mar. If I should tell my history, it would seem
Like lies, disdain'd in the reporting.

Per. Pr’ythee, speak :
Falseness cannot come from thee, for thou look’st
Modest as justice, and thou seem’st a palace
For the crown'd truth to dwellin. I'll believe thee,
And make my senses credit thy relation 1
To points that seem impossible ; for thou look’st
Like one I lov’d indeed. What were thy friends?
Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back
(Which was when I perceiv'd thee), that thou cam’st
From good descending?

Mar. So indeed I did.

Per. Report thy parentage. I think thou saidst
Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury,

And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine,
If both were open’d.

Mar. . Some such thing 130
I said, and said no more but what my thoughts
Did warrant me was likely.

er. ; Tell thy story ;
If thine consider’d prove the thousandth part
Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I
Have suffer’d like a girl: yet thou dost look

 
 

838

PERICLES.

[Act V.

 

 

Like Patience, gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling
Extremity out of act. What were thy friends?
How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind
. Virgin?
Recount, I do beseech thee.
Mar. My name is Marina.

Come, sit by me.
Per, O! Iam mock’d,
And thou by some incensed god sent hither
To make the world to laugh at me.
Mar.
Or here I’ll cease.
Nay, I'll be patient.

er,
Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me,
To call thyself Marina.

140

Patience, good sir,

ar. The name
Was given me by one that had some power;

My father, and a king.
er. 5 How! a king’s daughter?
And call’d Marina?

Mar. You said you would believe me;
But, not to be a troubler of your peace,

I will end here.

Per. But are you flesh and blood?
Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy ?—
Motion !—Well; speak on. Where were you born?
And wherefore call'd Marina?

. Call’d Marina,

150

far.
For I was born at sea.
Per. At sea! what mother?
Mar. My mother was the daughter of a king ;
Who died the minute I was born,
As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft
Deliver’d weeping.
Per. O! stop there a little.—
[Aside.] This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep
Did mock sad fools witha] ; this cannot be. 1
My daughter’s buried.— Well :—where were you bred?
I'll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,
And never interrupt you.
Mar. You scorn to believe me; ’t were best I did
_ give o’er.

Per. I will believe you by the sylleble
Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave :-—
How came you in these parts? where were you bred?

Mar. The king, my father, did in Tharsus leave me,
Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,

Did seek to murder me: and having woo’d

A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do't,

A crew of pirates came and rescu’d me;

Brought me to Mitylene. But, good sir,

Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? It
may be,

You think me an impostor: no, good faith ;

lam the daughter to King Pericles,

If good King Pericles be. -

Per. Ho, Helicanus!

Hel. Calls my lord?

Per. Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,
Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst,
What this maid is, or what is like to be,

That thus hath made me weep?

Hel. I know not; but
Here is the regent, sir, of Mitylene,

Speaks nobly of her.

Lys. She never would tell
Her parentage; being demanded that,

She would sit still and weep.

Per. O Helicanus! strike me, honour'd sir ;
Give me a gash, put me to present pain ;

Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me, 190
O’erbear the shores of my mortality,

And drown me with their sweetness. O! come hither,
Thou that begett’st him that did thee beget;

Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tharsus,

And found at sea again.—O Helicanus!

Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud

As thunder threatens us: this is Marina.—

What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that,

For truth can never be confirm’d enough,

Though doubts did ever sleep.

Mar,
What is your title?

180

First, sir, I pray, 200

 

Per. Iam Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now
My drown’d queen’s name (as in the rest you said
Thou hast been godlike perfect), thou’rt heir of king-

doms,
And another life to Pericles thy father.

Mar. Is it no more to be your daughter, than
To say, my mother’s name was Thaisa?

Thaisa was my mother, who did end
The minute I began.

Per. Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child.
Give me fresh garments! ‘Mine own, Helicanus; 211
She is not dead at Tharsus, as she should have been,
By savage Cleon : she shall tell thee all;

When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge,
She is thy very princess.—Who is this?
Hel, Sir, ’tis the governor of Mitylene,
Who, hearing of your melancholy state,
Did come to see you.

Per.

Give me my robes: I am wild in m
QO heavens, bless my girl! But har!
Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him
O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt,

How sure you are my daughter.—But what music?

Hel. My lord, I hear none.

Per. None?

The music of the spheres! List, my Marina.

Lys. It is not good to cross him: give him way.

Per. Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear?—

Lys. My lord, I hear. [Musie.

Per. Most heavenly music:

It nips me unto list’ning, and thick slumber 230
Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest. Sleeps.
Lys. A_ pillow for his head.
[The curtain before the pavilion of PERICLES
is closed.
So, leave him all.—Well, my companion-friends,
If this but answer to my just belief,
I'll well remember you.
[Exeunt LysIMAcHus, HELICANUS, MARINA,
and attendant Lady.

I embrace you.—
beholding.
! what music?—

ScENE II.—The Same.

PERICLES on the deck asleep; DiANA appearing to
him in a vision.
Dia. My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither,
And do upon mine altar sacrifice.
There, when my maiden priests are met together,
Before the people all,
Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife:
To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call,
And give them repetition to the life.
Or perform my bidding, or thou liv’st in woe:
Do it, and happy. by my silver bow!
Awake, and tell thy dream. (Disappears.
Per. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine, iL
I will obey thee !—Helicanus !

Enter LYSIMACHUS, HELICANUS, and MARINA.
Fel. Sir? .
Per. My purpose was for Tharsus, there to strike

The inhospitable Cleon ; but I am
For other service first : toward Ephesus
Turn our blown sails; cftsoons I'll tell thee why.—
Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore,
And give you gold for such provision
As our intents will need?
Lys. Sir, 20
With all my heart ; and when you come ashore,
IT have another suit.
Per. You shall prevail,
Were it to woo my daughter; for it seems
You have been noble towards her.

Ys. Sir, lend your arm.

Per, Come, my Marina. [Exeunt.

Enter GOWER, before the Temple of DIANA at Ephesus.

Gow. Now our sands are almost run ;
More a little, and then dumb.

 

 
 

ScENE III]

PERICLES.

839

 

 

This, my last boon, give me,

For such kindness must relieve me,

‘That you aptly will suppose 30
What pageantry, what feats, what shows,

What minstrelsy, and pretty din,

The regent made in Mitylen,

To greet the king. So he thriv’d,

That he is promis’d to be wiv’d

To fair Marina; but in no wise

Till he had done his sacrifice,

As Dian bade: whereto being bound,

The interim, pray you, all confound.

In feather’d brietness sails are fill’d, 40
And wishes fall out as they ’re will’d.

At Ephesus, the temple see,

Our king, and all his company.

That he can hither come so soon,

Is by your fancy’s thankful doom. (Exit.

Scene III.—The Temple of Diana at Ephesus;
Tualsa standing near the altar, as high priestess ;
a number of Virgins on each side; CERIMON and
other Inhabitants of Ephesus attending.

Enter PERICLES, with his Train ; LySIMACHUS,
HELICANUS, MARINA, and a Lady.

Per. Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command,
I here confess myself the King of Tyre ;
Who, frighted from my country, did wed,
At Pentapolis, the fair Thaisa.
At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth
A maid-child call’d Marina; who, O goddess!
Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tharsus
Was nurs’d with Cleon, whom at fourteen years
He sought to murder: but her better stars
Brought her to Mitylene; against whose shore 10
Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us,
Where, by her own most clear remembrance, she
Made known herself my daughter.
Thai. Voice and favour !—
You are, you are—O royal Pericles !— _ [Faints.
Per. What means the woman? she dies: help,
entlemen !
Cer. Noble sir,
If you have told Diana’s altar true,
This is your wife.
Per. Reverend appearer, no:
I threw her overboard with these very arms.
Cer. Upon this coast, I warrant you. ;
Per. ’T is most certain.
Cer. Look to the lady.—O! she’s but overjoy’d. 21
Early in blust’ring morn this lady was
Thrown on this shore. I op’d the coffin, ;
Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and plac’d her
Here in Diana’s temple.
Pe. May we see them ?
Cer. Great sir, they shall be brought you to my

house, ss

Whither Iinvite you. Look! Thaisa is
Recovered.

Thai. O,letmelook!
If he be none of mine, my sanctity
Will to my sense bend no licentious ear, 30
But curb it, spite of seeing. Like him you speak,
Like him you are. Did you not name a tempest,

A birth, and death? A

Per. The voice of dead Thaisa !

Thai. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead
And drown’d.

Per. Immortal Dian!

Thai. Now I know you better.—
When we with tears parted Pentapolis,
The king, my father, gave you such a ring. ;
[Shews a ring.
Per. This, this: no more, you gods! your present

kindness

 

Makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well, 40
That on the touching of her lips I may
Melt, and no more be seen. O! come, be buried
A second time within these arms.
ar. My heart
Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom.
Knecls to THAISA.
Per, Look, who kneels here. Flesh of thy flesh,
aisa ;
Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina,
For she was yielded there.
That. Bless'd, and mine own!
Hel. Hail, madam, and my queen!
‘hat. I know you not.
Per. You have heard me say, when I did fly from

yre,

T left behind an ancient substitute: 50
Can you remember what I call’d the man?
I have nam’d him oft.

Thai. *T was Helicanus then.

Per. Still confirmation!
Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he.
Now do I long to hear how you were found,
How possibly preserv’d, and whom to thank,
Besides the gods, for this great miracle.

Thai. Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man,
Through whom the gods have shown their power;

that can

From first to last resolve you.

Per. Reverend sir, 60
The gods can have no mortal officer
More like a god than you. Will you deliver
How this dead queen re-lives? __

Cer. I will, my lord:
*Beseech you, first go with me to my house,
Where shall be shown you all was found with her;
How she came placed here in the temple ;
No needful thing omitted.

Per. Pure Dian ! bless thee for thy vision; I
Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa,
This prince, the fair-betrothed of your daughter, 70
Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now,
This ornament,

| Makes me look dismal, will I clip to form ;

And what this fourteen years no razor touch’d,
To oe thy marriage-day, I'll beautify.
Thai. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir,
Mytether ’s dead.
er, Heavens, make a star of him! Yet there, my
queen,
We'll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves
Will in that kingdom spend our following days: 80
Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign.
Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay,
To hear the rest untold.—Sir, lead’s the way.
[Exeunt,

Enter GOWER.
Gow. In Antiochus, and his daughter, you have

ear
Of monstrous lust the due and just reward:
In Pericles, his queen, and daughter, seen,
Although assail’d with fortune fierce and keen,
Virtue preserv’d from fell destruction’s blast,
Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last.
In Helicanus may you well descry
A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty.
In reverend Cerimon there well appears
The worth that learned charity aye wears.
For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame
Had spread their cursed deed, and honour’d nams
Of Pericles, to rage the city turn ;
That him and his they in his palace burn.
The gods for murder seemed so content
To punish them,—although not done, but meant.
So on your patience evermore attending,
New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending.
Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

DRAMATIS PERSON.
ULYSSES, )

PrRIAM, King of Troy.
HECTOR, ‘\
TROILUS, |

Paris, rv His Sons.
DEIPHOBUS. {
HELENtS, /
oe. | Trojan Commanders.

Caucuas, a Trojan Priest, taking part withthe Greeks.
Panpakvus, Unele to Cressida.

MARGARELON, a Bastard Son of Priam,
AGAMEMNON, the Grecian General.

MENELAUS, his Brother.

ACHILLES, ?

NESTOR,

DIOMEDES, f

PATROCLUS,

THERSITES, a deformed and scurrilous Grecian.

ALEXANDER, Servant to Cressida.

Servant to Troilus; Servant to Paris; Servant to
Diomedes.,

Grecian Commanders.

HELEN, Wife to Menelaus.

ANDROMACHE, Wife to Hector.

CassaNnDRA, Daughter to Priam, a Prophetess.
CreEssipa, Daughter to Calchas.

Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants.

SCENE—TRoy, and the Grecian Camp.

 

Their warlike fraughtage: now on Dardan plains

"AJAX, j Grecian Commanders.
eo |
Sf PROLOGUE.
Svat ¢/ . ,
era)’. N Troy there lies the scene. From isles of
9 Greece

   
 
 

ie The princes orgulous, their high blood

oi chaf’d,

e Have to the port of Athens sent their |
ships,

4re~ Fraught with the ministers and instru-

ments

Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore
Their crownets regal, from the Athenian {|

bay
Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow
is made, '
i To ransack Troy,
immures
The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen,
With wanton Paris sleeps ;—and that’s the quarrel. 10 |
To Tenedos they come,
And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge

I
within whose strong |

| Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits
| On one and other side, Trojan and Greek,

The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch

Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city,
Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Trojan,

And Antenorides, with massy staples!

And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts,

Sperr up the sons of Troy. 20

Sets all on hazard.—And hither am I come

| A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence

Of author's pen, or actor’s voice, but suited
In like conditions as our argument,—
To tell you, fair beholders, that our play

| Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils,
' Beginning in the middle; starting thence away

‘To what may be digested ina play.
Like, or find fault ; do as your pleasures are:
Now good, or bad, ’t is but the chance of war.

36

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT I.

ScrENE J.—Troy.

Before Prram’s Palace.

Enter TRoitus armed, and PANDARUS.

Troilus.
ALL here my varlet, I'll unarm again: |
Why should I war without the walls

of Tos

That find such cruel battle here
within?

Each Trojan that is master of his

‘i heart,
Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath
none,

Pan. Will this gear ne’er be mended ?

Tro. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their

strength, *
Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant ;
But [I am weaker than a woman’s tear,
Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance,
Less valiant than the virgin in the night,
And skilless as unpractis’d infancy.

Pan. Well, I have told you enough of this: for my
part, I’ll not meddle nor make no further. He that
will have a cake out of the wheat, must needs tarry
the grinding.

Tro. Have I not tarried? =

Pan. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the
bolting.

Tro. Have I not tarried? 29

Pan. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the
leavening.

Tro. Still have I tarried.

Pan. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the
word hereafter, the kneading, the making of the cake,
the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you
must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn
your lips.

 

10

 

Tro. Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be,

Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do.

At Priam’s royal table do I sit;

And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts,—
So, traitor !—when she comes !—When is she thence ?

Pan. Well,she looked yesternight fairer than ever I
saw her look, or any woman else.

Tro. I was about to tell thee :—when my heart,
As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain,
Lest Hector or ny father should perceive me,

I have (as when the sun doth light a storm)
Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile ;

But sorrow, that is couch’d in seeming gladness,
Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness.

Pan. An her hair were not somewhat darker than
Helen’s, (well, go to,) there were no more comparison
between the women ;—but, for my part, she is my kins-
woman: I would not, as they term it, praue her ;—
but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday,
as I did: I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's
wit, but-—

Tro. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus,— 50
When I do tell thee, there my aon lie drown’'d,
Reply not in how many fathoms deep
They lie indrench’d. tell thee, Iam mad
In Cressid’s love: thou answer’st, she is fair ;

Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart ;
Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice;
Handlest in thy discourse, O! that her hand,

In whose comparison all whites are ink,

40

 

Writing their own reproach ; to whose soft seizure

The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense 60
Hard as the palm of ploughman : this thou tell’st me,
As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her ;

But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, |

Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me
The knife that made it.

Pan. I speak no more than truth.

Tro. Thou dost not speak so much.

_ Pan. ‘Faith, I'll not meddle in’t. Let her be asshe
is: if she be fair, tis the better for her; and she be
not, she has the mends in her own hands. 70

Tro. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus? |

Pan. J have had my labour for my travail; ill-
thought on of her, and ill-thought on of you: gone
between, and between, but small thanks for my

abour,

Tro. wee art thou angry, Pandarus? what, with

me

Pan. Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not
so fair as Helen: an_she were not kin to me, she
would be as fair on Friday, as Helen is on Sunday.
But what care I? I care not, an she were a black-a-
moor; ’tis all one to me. 81

Tro. Say I, she is not fair?

Pan. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a
fool to stay behind her father: let her to the Greeks,
and so I'll tell her the next time I see her. For my
part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter.

Tro. Pandarus,—

Pan, Not IL

Tro. Sweet Pandarus,—

Pan, Pray you, speak no more to me! I will leave
all as I found it, and there an end. St

Exit PANDARUS. An alarum.

Tro. Peace, you ungracious clamours! peace, rude

- sounds !
Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair,
When with your blood you daily paint her thus.
I cannot fight upon this argument ;
It is too starv’d a subject for my sword.
But Pandarus—O gods, how do you plague me!
I cannot come to Cressid, but by Pandar;
And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo,
As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit.
Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love,
What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we?
Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl :
Between our Ilium and where she resides,
Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood ;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar
Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark.

100

Alarum. Enter ASNEAS.

Ene, ae em Prince Troilus? wherefore not
afield ?
Tro. Because not there: this woman’s answer
sorts,
For womanish it is to be from thence. 110
What news, Atneas, from the field to-day?
Aine. That Paris is returned home, and hurt,
Tro. By whom, Aineas?
Aine. Troilus, by Menelaus.
Tro. Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn ;
Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn. [Alarum,
Aine. Hark, what good sport is out of town to-day!

 

 
 

 

842

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

(Acr L

 

Tro. Better at home, if ‘’would I might” were
“may.”

But to the sport abroad :—are you bound thither?
“Ene, In all swift haste.
Tro. Come, go we then together.

Exeunt.

Scene IL.—The Same. A Street.

Enter CRESSIDA and ALEXANDER,

Cres. Who were those went by?
Alex. Queen Hecuba, and Helen.
Cres. And whither go they?

Alex. ve to the eastern tower,
Whose height commands as subject all the vale,

To see the battle. Hector, whose patience

Is, as a Virtue, fix’d, to-day was mov’d:

He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer ;
And, like as there were husbandry in war,
Before the sun rose, he was harness’d light,
And to the field goes he ; where every flower
Did, as a prophet, weep what it foresaw

In Hector’s wrath.

Cres. What was his cause of anger ?

Alex. Thenoise goes, this: there isamong the Greeks
A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector ;

They call him Ajax.

Cres. Good ; and what of him?

Alex. They say he isa very man per se,
And stands alone.

Cres. So do all men; unless they are drunk, sick,
or have no legs. 18

Alcx. This man, lady, hath robbed many beasts of
their particular additions : he is as valiant as the lion,
churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant ; amaninto
whom nature hath so crowded humours, that his
valour is crushed into folly, his folly sauced with
discretion: there is no man hath a virtue that he hath
not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries
some stain of it. Heis melancholy without cause,
and merry against the hair: he hath the joints of
everything; but everything so out of joint, that he
isa gouty Briareus, many hands and no use; or pur-
blinded Argus, all eyes and no sight. 30

Cres. But how should this man, that makes me
smile, make Hector angry?

Alex. They say, he yesterday coped Hector in the
battle, and struck him down; the disdain and shame
a hath ever since kept Hector fasting and
waking.

10

Enter PANDARUS,

Cres. Who comes here?

Alex. Madam, your uncle Pandarus,

Cres. Hector’s a gallant man.

Alex. As may be in the world, lady.

Pan. What’s that? what’s that?

Cres. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus.

Pan. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you
talk of%—Good morrow, Alexander.—How do you,
cousin? When were you at Ilium?

Cres. This morning, uncle.

Pan. What were you talking of, when I came?
Was Hector armed, and gone, ere ye came to Ilium?
Helen was not up, was she?

Cres. Hector was gone; but Helen was notup. 40

Pan. E’en so: Hector was stirring early.

Cres. That were we talking of, and of his anger.

Pan. Was he angry ?

Cres. So he says here.

Pan. True, he was so; I know the cause too: he'll
lay about him to-day, I can tell them that : and there’s
Troilus will not come far behind him; let them take
heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too.

Cres. What, is he angry too?

Pan. Who? Troilus? Troilus is the better man of
the two. 61

Cres. O Jupiter! there’s no comparison.

Pan. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do
yon know a man if you see him?

Cres. Ay; if I ever saw him before, and knew him.

40

 

 

Pan. Well, I say, Troilus is Troilus.
Cres. Then you say as I say ; for I am sure he is not
Hector.
an.

: No, nor Hector is not Troilus, in some degrees.
res.

*T is just to each of them; he is himself. 70

Pan. Himself? Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were.
Cres. So he is.

Pan. Condition, I had gone bare-foot to India.
Cres. He is not Hector.

an. Himself? no, he’s not himself.—’W ould’a were
himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend,
orend. Well, Troilus, well,—I would, my heart were
in her body!—No, Hector is not a better man than
Troilus.

Cres. Excuse me. 80

Pan. He is elder.

Cres. Pardon me, pardon me.

Pan. The other’s not come to’t; you shall tell me
another tale, when the other’s come to’t. Hector
shall not have his wit this year.

Cres. He shall not need it, if he have his own.

Pan. Nor his qualities,

Cres. No matter.

Pan. Nor his beauty.

Cres, ’T would not become him; his own’s better. 90

Pan. You have no judgment, niece. Helen herself
swore the other day, that Troilus, for a brown favour

| (for so ‘tis, I must confess)—not brown neither—

Cres. No, but brown.

Pan, ’Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown,

Cres. To say the truth, true and not true.

Pan. She prais'd his complexion above Paris.

Cres. Why, Paris hath colour enough.

Pan. So he has. 99

Cres. Then Troilus should have too much: if she
praised him above, his complexion is higher than his:

e having colour enough, and the other higher, is too
flaming a Pualee for a good complexion. I had as lief
Helen’s golden tongue had commended Troilus for a
copper nose.

an. I swear to you, I think Helen loves him better

than Paris.

Cres. Then she’s a merry Greek, indeed. 108

Pan. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him
the other day into the compassed window ;—and, you
know, he has not past three or four hairs on his chin,—

Cres. Indeed, a tapster’s arithmetic may soon bring
his particulars therein to a total.

Pan. Why, he is very young: and yet will he,
within three pound, lift as much as his brother Hector.

Cres. Is he so young a man, and so old a lifter?

Pan. But, to prove to you that Helen loves him :—
she came, and puts me her white hand to his cloven

. chin,--

 

Cres, Juno have mercy !—How came it cloven? 120

Pan. Why, you know, ’tis dimpled. I think his
smiling becomes him better than any man in all
Phrygia.

Cres. O! he smiles valiantly.

Pan. Does he not?

Cres. O! yes, an ’t were a cloud in autumn.

Pan. Why, go to then.—But to prove to you that
Helen loves Troilus, —

Cres. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you'll as
it so.

Pan. Troilus? why, he esteems her no more than [
esteem an addle egg.

Cres. If you love an addle egg as well as you love
an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ the shell.

Pan. I cannot choose but laugh, to think how she
tickled his chin :—indeed, she has a marvellous white
hand, I must needs confess, —

Cres, Without the rack. ;

Pan. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on
his chin. 140

Cres. Alas, poor chin! many a wart is richer.

Pan. But there was such laughing: Queen Hecuba
laughed, that her eyes ran o'er.

Cres. With millstones.

Pan. And Cassandra laughed.

Cres. But there was more temperate fire under the
pot of her eyes :—did her eyes run o'er too?

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

843

 

Pan. And Hector laughed.

Cres, At what was all this laughing?

Pan. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on
Troilus’ chin. 151

Cres. An’t had been a green hair, I should have
laughed too.

Pan. They laughed not so much at the hair, as at
his pretty answer.

Cres. What was his answer ?

Pan. Quoth she, ‘‘ Here’s but two-and-fifty hairs on
your chin, and one of them is white.”
Cres. This is her question. 15

Pan. That’s true; make no question of that.“ Two-
and-fifty hairs,” quoth he, ‘‘and one white: that white
hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.”—
“Jupiter!” quoth she, ‘“‘ which of these hairs is Paris,
my husband?”—‘ The forked one,” quoth he; “pluck ’t
out, and give it him.’”’ But there was such laughing,
and Helen so blushed, and Paris so chafed, and all the
rest so laughed, that it passed.

Cres. So let it now, for it has been a great while
going by. .

Pan, Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday,
think on’t. 171

Cres. So I do. ;

Pan, I'll be sworn, ’tis true: he will weep you, an
*t were a man born in April. |

Cres. And I’ll spring up in his tears, an ’t were a
nettle against May. [4 retreat sounded.

Pan. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall
we stand up here, and see them, as they pass toward
Tlium? good niece, do; sweet niece Cressida.

Cres. At your pleasure. ~ 180

Pan. Here, here; here's an excellent place: here
we may see most bravely. I’ll tell you them all by
their names, as they pass by, but mark Troilus above
the rest.

Cres. Speak not so loud.

AQNEAS passes over the stage.

Pan. That’s Atneas. Isnotthat a brave man? he’s
one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you: but mark
Troilus ; you shall see anon.

Cres. Who’s that? 189

ANTENOR passes over.

Pan. That’s Antenor; he has a shrewd wit, I can
tell you; and he’s a man good enough: he’s one o' the
soundest judgments in Troy, whosoever, and a proper
man of person.—When comes Troilus ?—I ll show you
Troilus anon: if he see me, you shall see him nod
at me.

Cres. Will he give you the nod?

Pan. You shall see.

Cres. If he do, the rich shall have more. 198

HECTOR passes over.

Pan. That's Hector, that, that, look you, that,
there’s a fellow!—Go thy way, Hector.—There’s a
brave man, niece.—O brave Hector !—Look how he
looks ; there's a countenance. Is’t not a brave man?

Cres. O! a brave man.

Pan. Is'a not? It does a man’s heart good. Look
you what hacks are on his helmet! look you yonder,
do you see? look you there. There’s no Jesting:
there’s laying on; take ’t off who will, as they say:
there be hacks!

Cres. Be those with swords ? 209

PARIS passes over.

Pan. Swords? anything, he cares not; an the
devil come to him, it’s all one: by God’s lid, it does
one’s heart good. Yonder comes Paris ; yonder comes
Paris : look ye yonder, niece: is’t not a gallant. man
too, is't not?—Why, this is brave now.—Who said he
came hurt home to-day? he’s not hurt: why, this will
do Helen’s heart good now. Ha! ’would I could see
Troilus now.—You shall see Troilus anon.

Cres. Who's that?

HELENUS passes over.
Pan, That’s Helenus,—I marvel, where Troilus is.—

 

That’s Helenus.--I think he went not forth to-day.—
That’s Helenus. 221
Cres. Can Helenus fight, uncle?
Pan. Helenus? no;--yes, he’ll fight indifferent
well.—I marvel, where Troilus is. -Hark ! do you not

hear the people cry, Troilus ?—Helenus is a priest.
Cres. What sneaking fellow comes yonder?
TROILUS passes over.
Pan. Where? yonder? that’s Deiphobus.—'Tis

Troilus! there’s a man, niece !—Hem !—Brave Troilus,
the prince of chivalry!
Cres. Peace! for shame; peace! 230
Pan. Mark him; note him,—O brave Troilus !—look
well upon him, niece: look you, how his sword is

 

Pan. “Mark him ; note Lim.—O brave Troilus !—look well upon
him, niece.”

bloodied, and his helm more hack’d than Hector’s;
and how he looks, and how he goes!—O admirable
youth! he ne’er saw three-and-twenty. Go thy way,
Troilus, go thy way: had I a sister were a grace, or
a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O
admirable man! Paris?—Paris is dirt to him; and, I
warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye to boot.

Soldiers pass over the stage.

Cres. Here come more. 240

Pan. Asses, fools, dolts, chaff and bran, chaff and
bran: porridge after meat. I could live and die i’ the
eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look, ne’er look: the eagles
are gone; crows and daws, crows and daws. I had
rather be such a man as Troilus, than Agamemnon
and all Greece.

Cres. There is among the Greeks Achilles, a better
man than Troilus. ,

Pan. Achilles? a drayman, a porter, a very camel.

Cres. Well, well. 250

Pan. Well, wellt—Why, have you any discretion ?
have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is
not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood,
pene: gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and so
forth, the spice and salt that season a man?

Cres. Ay, aminced man: and then to be baked with
no date in the pie,— for then the man’s date’s out.

Pan. You are such-a woman! one knows not a”
what ward you lie. 259

Cres. Upon my back, to defend my belly ; upon my
wit, to defend my wiles ; upon my secrecy, to defend
mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty ; and
you, to defend all these: and at all these wards | lie,
at a thousand watches.

Pan. Say one of your watches.

Cres. Nay, I’ll watch you for that; and that’s one
of the chiefest of them too: if I cannot ward what I
would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I

 

 

 
 

844

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

[Act f.

 

 

took the blow, unless it swell past hiding, and then
it’s past watching. 270
Pan. You are such another!

Enter TroriLus’ Boy.
Boy. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you.
Pan. Where?
Boy. At your own house, there he unarms him.
Pan. Good boy, tell him I come. [Exit Boy.
I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece.
Cres. Adieu, uncle.
Pan. I'll be with you, niece, by-and-by.
Cres. To bring, uncle?
Pan. Ay, a token from Troilus. 280
Cres. By the same token, you are a bawd.—
[FEvit PANDARUS.
Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice,
He offers in another’s enterprise ;
But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see,
Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be.
Yet hold I off Women are angels, wooing: |
Things won are done, joy’s soul lies in the doing:
That she belov’d knows nought, that knows not this,—
Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is:
That she was never yet, that ever knew 290
Love got so sweet as when desire did sue.
Theretore, this maxim out of love I teach,—
Achievement is command ; ungain’d, beseech:
Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear,
Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. [Evit.

ScENE III.—The Grecian Camp. Before
AGAMEMNON’S Tent.

Sennet. Enter AGAMEMNON, NESTOR, ULYSSES,
MENELAUS, and others.

Agam. Princes, :
What grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks?
The ample proposition, that hope makes
In all designs begun on earth below,
Fails in the promis’d largeness : checks and disasters
Grow in the veins of actions highest rear'd ;
As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap,
Infect the sound pine, and divert his grain
Tortive and errant from his course of growth.
Nor, princes, is it matter new to us,
That we come short of our suppose so far,
That, after seven years’ siege, yet Troy walls stand ;
Sith every action that hath gone before,
Whereof we have record, trial did draw
Bias and thwart, not answering the aim,
And that unbodied figure of the thought
That gave ’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes,
Do you with cheeks ahash'd behold our works,
And think them shames, which are, indeed, nought

20

10

else

But the protractive trials of great Jove,
To find persistive constancy in men?
The fineness of which metal] is not found
In fortune’s love; for then, the bold and coward,
The wise and fool, the artist and unread,
The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin:
But, in the wind and tempest of her frown,
Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan,
Puffing at all, winnows the light away ;
And what hath mass, or matter, by itself
Lies rich in virtue, and unmingled.

Nest. With due observance of thy godlike seat,
Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply
Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance
Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth,
How many shallow bauble boats dare sail
pen her patient breast, making their way

ith those of nobler bulk ?
But let the ruftian Boreas once enrage
The gentle Thetis, and, anon, behold
The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut,
Bounding between the two moist elements, f1
Like Perscus’ horse: where ’s then the saucy boat,
Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now

30

 

Co-rivall'd greatness? either to harbour fled,

Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so

Doth valour’s show, and valour’s worth, divide

In storms of fortune : for, in her ray and brightness,

The herd hath more annoyance by the breese

Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind

Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, 50

And flies fled under shade, why then, the thing of
courage,

As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympathise,

And with an accent tun’d in selfsame key,

Retorts to chiding fortune.

Ulyss. Agamemnon,

Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greecc,

Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit,

In whom the tempers and the minds of all

Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks.

Besides the applause and approbation

The which,—[to AGAMEMNON] most mighty for thy
place and sway, — i

{To Nestor] And thou most reverend for thy
stretch'd-out life,-—

I give to both your speeches, which were such,

As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece

Should hold up high in brass; and such again,

As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver,

Should with a bond of air (strong as the axletre.

On which heaven rides) knit all the Greekish ears

To his experienc’d tongue,—yei let it please both,—

Thou great,—and wise,—to hear Ulysses speak.

Agam. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t of less

expect 70

That matter needless, of importless burden,

Divide thy lips, than we are confident,

When rank Thersites opes his mastiff jaws,

We shall hear music, wit, and oracle.

Ulyss. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down,
And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master,
But for these instances. ,

The specialty of rule hath been neglected :

a\nd, look, how many Grecian tents do stand
Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions.
When that the general is not like the hive,

To whom the foragers shall all repair,

What honey is expected? Degree being visarded,
The unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask,

The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre,
Observe degree, priority, and place,
Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,
Office, and custom, in all line of order:

And therefore is the glorious planet, Sol,

In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d
Amidst the other; whose med’cinable eye
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil,

And posts, like the commandment of a king,

Sans check, to good and bad: but when the planets,
In evil mixture, to disorder wander,

What plagues, and what portents, what mutiny,
What raging of the sea, shaking of earth,
Commotion in the winds, frights, changes, horrors,
Divert and crack, rend and deracinate

The unity and married calm of states _ 100
Quite from their fixture ! O! when degree is shak’d,
Which is the ladder to all high designs,

The enterprise is sick. How could communities,
Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities,
Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,

The primogenitive and due of birth,

Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels,

But by degree, stand in authentic place?

Take but degree away, untune that string,

And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets 110
In mere oppugnancy : the bounded waters

Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores,
And make a sop of all this solid globe:

Strength should be lord of imbecility,

And the rude son should strike his father dead:
Force should be right ; or, rather, right and wrong
(Between whose endless jar justice resides)
Should lose their names, and so should justice too.
Then everything includes itself in power,

Power into will, will into appetite ;

80

120

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

845

 

And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon,
This chaos, when degree is suffocate,
Tollows the choking.
And this neglection of degree it is,
That by a pace goes backward, in a purpose
It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d
By him one step below ; he, by the next ;
That next, by him beneath: so, every step,
Exampled by the first pace that is sick
Of his superior, grows to an envious fever
Of pale and bloodless emulation:
And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot,
Not her own sinews. ‘To end a tale cf length,
Troy in our weakness lives, not in her strength.
Nest. Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d.
The fever whereof all our power is sick.
Agam. The nature of this sickness found, Ulysses,
What is the remedy? 141
Ulyss. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns
The sinew and the forehand of our host,
Having his ear full of his airy fame,
Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent
Lies mocking our designs. With him, Patroclus,
Upon a lazy bed, the livelong day
Breaks scurril jests ;
And with ridiculous and awkward action
(Which, slanderer, he imitation calls)
He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,
Thy topless deputation he puts on;
And, like a strutting player, whose conceit
Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich
To hear the wooden dialogue and sound
*T wixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage,—
Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming
He acts thy greatness in: and when he speaks,
*T is like a chime a-mending ; with terms unsquar'd,
Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd,
Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff, 161
The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling,
From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause;
Cries —** Excellent!—’t is Agamemnon just.—
Now play me Nestor ;—hem, and stroke thy beard,
As he, being dress’d to some oration.”
That 's done ;—as near as the extremest ends
Of parallels,—as like as Vulcan and his wife:
Yet good Achilles still cries, “‘ Excellent !
*T is Nestor right! Now play him me, Patroclus,
Arming to answer in a night alarm.”
And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age
Must be the scene of mirth ; to cough, and spit,
And with a palsy, fumbling on his gorget,
Shake in and out the rivet :—and at this sport,
Sir Valour dies; cries, ‘‘ O !—enough, Patroclus;
Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all
In pleasure of my spleen.” And in this fashion,
All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,
Severals and generals of grace exact,
Achievements, plots, orders, preventions,
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce,
Success, or loss, what is, or is not, serves
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.
Nest. And in the imitation of these twain
(Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns
With an imperial voice) many are infect.
Ajax is grown self-will’d ; and bears his head
In such a rein, in full as proud a place
As broad Achilles ; keeps his tent like him;
Makes factious feasts ; rails on our state of war,
Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites
(A slave whose gall coin slanders like a mint)
To match us in comparisons with dirt :
To weaken and discredit our exposure,
How rank soever rounded in with danger. ¢
Ulyss. They tax our policy, and call it cowardice ;
Count wisdom as no member of the war ;
Forestall prescience, and esteem no act
But that of hand: the still and mental parts,— 200
That do contrive how many hands shall strike,
When fitness calls them on, and know, by measure

150

170

180

190

 

 

Of their observant toil, the enemies’ weight,—
Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity.

They call this bed-work, mappery, closet-war:

So that the ram, that batters down the wall,

For the great swing and rudeness of his poise,
‘hey place before his hand that made the engine,
Or those that with the fineness of their souls

By reason guide his execution, 216
Nest. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse
Makes many Thetis’ sons. (4 tucket.

Agam. What trumpet? look, Menelaus.

Men. From Troy.

Enter JENEAS.
ape What would you ’fore our tent?
t#nc. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you?
lgam. Even this.
Ene. May one, that is a herald and a prince,
Do a fair message to his kingly ears?
dAgam. With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm
’Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice 220
Call Agamemnon head and general.
ine, Fair leave, and large security. How may
A planer to those most. imperial looks
Know them from eyes of other mortals ?
Agam. How!
» AY;
Lask, that I might waken reverence,
And bid the cheek be ready with a blush,
Modest as morning when she coldly eyes
The youthful Pheebus.
Which is that god in office, guiding men ? 230
Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?
Agam..This Trojan scorns us, or the men of Troy
‘Are ceremonious courtiers.
Ene. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d,
As bending angels: that’s their fame in peace ;
But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls,
Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Douce

accord,
Nothing so full of heart. But peace. Aineas,
Peace, Trojan! lay thy finger on thy lips.
The worthiness of praise distains his worth,
If that the prais'd himself bring the praise forth ;
But what the repining enemy commends,
That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure,
transcends.

Agam. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Avneas?

zine. Ay, Greek, that is my name.

aAgam. What’s your affair, I pray you?

ine. Sir, pardon: tis for Agamemnon’s ears.

«lgam. He hears nought privately that comes from

Troy.

“Aine. Nor [from Troy came not to whisper him:
I bring a trumpet to awake his ear; 2.
To set his sense on the attentive bend,

And then to speak.

aAgam. Speak frankly as the wind.

It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour :
That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake,
He tells thee so himself.

«Tone, Trumpet, blow loud,
Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents ;
And every Greek of mettle, let him know,

What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud.
[Trumpet sounds.

We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy

A nee call’d Hector (Priam is his father,) 260

Who in this dull and long-continued truce

Is rusty grown: he bade me take a trumpet,

And to this purpose speak.—Kings, princes, lords!

If there be one among the fair'st of Greece,

That holds his honour higher than his ease ;

That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril;

That knows his valour, and knows not his fear ;

That loves his mistress more than in confession

(With truant vows to her own lips he loves),

And dare avow her beauty and her worth 270 |

In other arms than hers,—to him this challenge.

240

250

Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks,
Shall make it good, or do his best to do it,
He hath a Jady, wiser, fairer, truer,

 

 
 

846

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

{Act L.

 

 

Than ever Greek did compass in his arms ;
And will to-morrow with his trumpet call,
Midway between your tents and walls of Troy,
To rouse a Grecian that is true in love:
If any come, Hector shall honour him ;
If none, he ’ll say in Troy, when he retires, 280
The Grecian dames are sun-burnt, and not worth
The splinter of a lance. Even so much.

Agam. This shall be told our lovers, Lord Atneas ;
If none of them have soul in such a kind, _
We left them all at home: but we are soldiers ;
And may that soldier a mere recreant prove,
That means not, hath not, or is not in love!
If then one is, or hath, or means to be,

That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he.
Nest. Teil him of Nestor, one that was a man
When Hector’s grandsire suck’d : he is old now ;

But if there be not in our Grecian host
One noble man, that hath one spark of fire
To answer for his love, tell him from me,
Ill hide my silver beard in a gold beaver,
And in my vantbrace pur this wither’d brawn ;
And, meeting him, will tell him, that my lady
Was fairer than his grandam, and as chaste
As may be in the world. His youth in flood,
I'll pawn this truth with my three drops of blood. 300
“ne. Now heavens forbid such scarcity of youth!
Ulyss. Amen.
Agam. Fair Lord Afneas, let me touch your hand;
To our pavilion shall I lead you first.
Achilles shall have word of this intent;
So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent;
Yourself shall feast with us before you go,
And find the welcome of a noble foe.
[Exeunt all but ULYSSES and NESTOR.
Ulyss. Nestor,—
Nest. What says Ulysses? ; 310
Ulyss. I have a young conception in my brain ;
Be you my time to bring it to some shape.
Nest. What is ’t?
Ulyss. This ’tis: :
Blunt wedges rive hard knots: the seeded pride,
That hath to this maturity blown up
In rank Achilles, must or now be cropp'd,
Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil,
To overbulk us all.
x Well, and how?

Nest.
Ulyss. This challenge that the gallant Hector sends,
However it is spread in general name, 321
Relates in purpose only to Achilles.
Nest. The purpose is perspicuous even as substance,
Whose grossness little characters sum up:
And, in the publication, make no strain,
But that Auhilles, were his brain as barren
As banks of Libya, (though, Apolloknows,
°T is dry enough,) will, with great speed of judgment.
Ay, with celerity, tind Hector’s purpose
Pointing on him. 330
U lyss. And wake him to the answer, think you?
Nest. Yes, tis most meet: who may you else
oppose,

290

| That can from Hector bring his honour off,

If not Achilles? Though ’t be a sportful combat.
Yet in the trial much opinion dwells ;

For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute
With their fin’st oe : and trust to me, Ulysses,
Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d

In this wild action ; for the success,

Although particular, shall give a scantling

Of good or bad unto the general ;

And in such indexes (although small pricks

To their subsequent volumes) there is seen

The baby figure of the giant mass

Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d,

He, that meets Hector, issues from our choice:
And choice, being mutual act of all our souls,
Makes merit her election, and doth boil,

As ’t were from forth us all, a man distill’d

Out of our virtues ; who miscarrying,

What heart receives from hence the conquering part,
To steel a strong opinion to themselves?
Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments,
In no less working, than are swords and bows
Directive by the limbs.

Ulyss. Give pardon to my speech :—
Therefore 't is meet, Achilles meet not Hector.
Let us like merchants show our foulest wares,
And think, perchance, they ’ll sell ; if not,

The lustre of the better yet to show

Shall show the better. o not consent,
'That ever Hector and Achilles meet ;

For both our honour and our shame, in this,
Are dogs'd with two strange followers.

Nest. ro ene not with my old eyes: what are

they

Ulyss. What glory our Achilles shares from Hector,
Were he not proud, we all should wear with him:
But he already is too insolent ;

And we were better parch in Afric sun,

Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes,

Should he ’scape Hector fair: if he were foil'd,

Why, then we did our main opinion crush

In taint of our best man. No; make a lottery,

And by device let blockish Ajax draw

The sort to fight with Hector : among ourselves,

Give him allowance as the worthier man,

For that will physic the great Myrmidon,

Who broils in loud applause ; and make him fall

His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends.

If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off,

We'll dress him up in voices: if he fail,

Yet go we under our opinion still,

That we have better men. But, hit or miss,

Our project's life this shape of sense assumes, —

Ajax see plucks down Achilles’ plumes,
Nest. Ulysses,

Now I begin to relish thy advice ;

And I will give a taste of it forthwith

To Agamemnon: go we to him straight.

Two curs shall tame each other : pride alone 390

Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’t were their bone.

(Ezeunt.

340

360

370

380

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT

   
   
 

1 Ajax.
e HERSITES! y
x Ther, Agamemnon—how if he had biles ?

“i full, all over, generally?
( Ajax. Thersites!
her. And those biles did run?—Say so,
98 —did not the general run then? were not
> that a botchy core?

Ajax. Dog!

Ther, Then would come some matter
from him: I see none now. 10

Ajax. Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou
not hear? Feel then. [Strikes him.

Ther. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mon-
grel beef-witted lord!

Ajax. Speak then, thou vinnewedst leaven, speak :
I will beat thee into handsomeness.

Ther. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness:
but, I think, thy horse will sooner con an oration,
than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst
strike, canst thou? a red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks!

Ajax. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. 21

Ther. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strik’st
me thus?

Ajax. The proclamation !

Ther. Thou art proclaimed a fool, I think.

Ajax. Do not, porpentine, do not: my fingers itch.

Ther. I would, thou didst itch from head to foot,
and I had the scratching of thee ; I would make thee
the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art
forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as
another. 31

Ajax, I say, the proclamation !

Ther. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on
Achilles ; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness,
as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty, ay, that thou
barkest at him.

Ajax. Mistress Thersites !

Ther. Thou shouldst strike him.

Ajax. Cobloaf! .

Ther. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist,
as a sailor breaks a biscuit. 41

Ajax. You whoreson cur! [Beating him.

Ther. Do, do.

Ajax. Thou stool for a witch !

Ther. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! thou
hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an
assinego may tutor thee: thou scurvy-valiant ass!
thou art here but to thrash Trojans; and thou art
bought and sold among those of any wit, like a bar-
barian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at
thy heel, and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing
of no bowels, thou! 52

Ajax. Youdog!

Ther, Youscurvy lord!

Ajax. You cur!

her. Mars his idiot; do, rudeness ;
0.

Beating him.
o, camel; do,

Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS.
Achil. ee, how now, Ajax? wherefore do you
is?

How now, Thersites? what’s the matter, man?
Ther. You see him there, do you? 60

 

Achil. Ay; what’s the matter?
Ther. Nay, look upon him.

Il.
ScENE I.—Another Part of the Grecian Camp.
s Enter AsAx and THERSITES.

Achil. Sol do: what’s the matter?

Ther. Nay, but regard him well.

alchil. Well! why, so I do.

Ther. But yet you look not well upon him; for,
whosoever you take him to be, he is Ajax.

Achil. I know that, fool.

Ther. Ay, but that fool knows not himself.

Ajax. Therefore I beat thee. 70

  

 

Ther. © Ay, do, do; thou sodden-w itted lord!"

Ther. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters !
his evasions have ears thus long. JI have bobbed his
brain more than he has beat_my bones: I will buy
nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not
worth the ninth part ofasparrow. Thislord, Achilles,
Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly, and his guts in
his head, I'll tell you what I say of him.

Achil. What?

Ther. I say, this Ajax—

[Ayax offers to strike him, ACHILLES
interposes.

Achil. Nay, good Ajax. 80

Ther. Has not so much wit—

Achil. Nay, I must hold you.

Ther, As will stop the eye of Helen's needle, for
whom he comes to fight.

Achil. Peace, fool!

Ther. I would have peace and quietness, but the
fool will not: he there; that he, look you there.

aljax. O thou damned cur! I shall—

Achil, Will you set your wit to a fool's?

Ther, No, I warrant you; for a fool's will shame it.

Patr. Good words, Thersites, 91

Achil. What’s the quarrel ?

Ajax. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenor of
the proclamation, and he rails upon me.

Ther. I serve thee not.

Aer Well, go to, go to.

Ther. Lserve here voluntary. :

Achil. Your last service was sufferance, ’t was not

 

 
 

 

848

voluntary ; no man is beaten voluntary: Ajax was
here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. 100

Ther. E’en so;—a great deal of your wit too lies in
your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have
a great catch, if he knock out either of your brains: ’a
were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel.

aAchil, What, with me too, Thersites?

Ther. There's Ulysses, and old Nestor,—whose wit
Was mouldy ere vour grandsires had nails on their
toes,—yoke you like draught-oxen, and make you
plough mp the wars.

aAchil, What? what? 110

Ther. Yes, good sooth: to, Achilles! to, Ajax! to!

A jac. I shall cut out your tongue.

Ther. "Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as
thou, afterwards.

Patr. No more words, Thersites, peace !

Ther. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach
bids me, shall I?

Achil, There’s for you, Patroclus.

Ther. I will see you hanged, like clotpoles, ere I
come any more to your tents: I will keep where there
is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. [A’xit.

Patr. A good riddance. 122 |

Achil. arry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all

our host :—
That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,
Will, with a trumpet, ’twixt our tents and Troy,
To-morrow morning call some knight to arms,
That hath a stomach; and such a one, that dare
Maintain—I know not what: ’tis trash. Farewell.

Ajax. Farewell. Who shall answer him?

Achil. I know not: it is put to lottery ; otherwise,
He knew his man. 131

Ajax. O! meaning you.—I will go learn more of it.

[Exeunt.

ScreNnE II.—Troy. A Room in PrIAm’s Palace.

Enter PrtaM, HECTOR, TROILUS, PARIS, and
HELENUS.

Pri. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent,
Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks:
“Deliver Helen, and all damage else—

As honour, loss of time, travail, expense,

Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum d
In hot digestion of this cormorant war—

Shall be struck off.’—Hector, what say you to’t?

fect. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I,
As far as toucheth my particular, yet,

Dread Priam, 10
There is no lady of more softer bowels,

More spungy to suck in the sense of fear,

More ready to cry out—* Who knows what follows?”
‘Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety,
Surety secure ; but modest doubt is call’d

The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches

To the bottom of the worst. Let Helen go:

Since the first sword was drawn about this question,
Every tithe soul, ‘mongst many thousand dismes,
Hath been as dear as Helen; I mean, of ours:

If we have lost so many tenths of ours,

To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us,

Had it our name, the value of one ten;

What merit’s in that reason, which denies

The yielding of her up?

Tro. Fie, fie! my brother!

Weigh you the worth and honour of a king,

So great as our dread father, in a scale

Of common ounces? will you with counters sum

The past-proportion of his infinite?

And buckle in a waist most fathomless

With spans and inches so diminutive

As fears and reasons? fie, for godly shame!
Hel. No marvel, though you bite so sharp at

reasons,

You are so empty of them. Should not our father

Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons,

Because your speech hath none, that tells him so?

Tro. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother

priest ;

30

 

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

{Act II.

You fur your gloves with reason.
reasons :
You know, an enemy intends you harm ;
You know, a sword employ’d 1s perilous,
And reason flies the object of all harm.
Who marvels then, when Helenus beholds
A Grecian and his sword, if he do set
The very wings of reason to his heels,
And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove,
Or like a star disorb’'d?_Nay, if we talk of reason,
Let’s shut our gates, and sleep: manhood and honour
Should have hare-hearts, would they but fat their
thoughts
With this cramm’d reason: reason and respect
Make livers pale, and lustihood deject. 50
Hect. Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost
The holding.
Tro. What is aught but as ’t is valued?
Hect. But value dwells not in particular will ;
It holds his estimate and dignity
As well wherein ‘tis precious of itself,
As in the prizer. “Tis mad idolatry,
To make the service greater than the god;
And the will dotes, that is inclinable
To what infectiously itself affects,
Without some imuge of the affected merit.
Tro. I take to-day a wife, and my election
Is led on in the conduct of my will:
My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,
Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores
Of will and judgment. How may I avoid,
Although my will distaste what it elected,
The wife I chose? there can be no evasion
To blench from this, and to stand firm by honour.
We turn not back the silks upon the merchant,
When we have soil'd them ; nor the remainder viand
We do not throw in unrespective sink, 71
Because we now are full. It was thought meet,
Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks:
Your breath of full consent bellied his sails ;
The seas and winds (old wranglers) took a truce,
And did him service: he touch’d the ports desir’d ;
And, for an old aunt, whom the Greeks held captive,
He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and fresh-
ness
Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning.
Why keep we her? the Grecians keep our aunt.
Is she worth keeping? why, she is a pearl,
Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships,
And turned crown’d kings to merchants.
If you'll avouch ’t was wisdom Paris went
(As you must needs, for you all cried—* Go, go”),
If you ll confess he brought home noble prize
(As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands,
And cried—‘‘ Inestimable!”), why do you now
The issue of your proper wisdoms rate,
And do a deed that Fortune never did,
Beggar the estimation which you priz’d
Richer than sea and land? O theft most base,
That we have stol'n what we do fear to keep!
But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol'n,
That in their country did them that disgrace,
We fear to warrant in our native place!
Cas. [Within.] on, Trojans, cry ! ;
Pyt. Vhat noise? what shriek is this?
Tro. ’T is our mad sister, I do know her voice.
Cas, [IVithin.] Cry, Trojans!
Hect. It is Cassandra,

Here are your

40

60

80

90

100

Itnter CASSANDRA, raving.

Cas. Cry, Trojans, cry! lend me ten thousand eyes.
And I will fill them with prophetic tears.

fect. Peace, sister, peace !

Cas. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled old,
Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry,
Add to my clamours! let us pay betimes
A moiety of that mass of moan to come.
Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears!
Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand ;

Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. 110
Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen, and a woe! :
Cry, cry ! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. [Exié.

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

819

 

 

Hect. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high
_ Strains
Of divination in our sister work
Some touches of remorse? or is your blood
So madly hot, that no discourse of reason,
Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause,
Can qualify the same?
Tro. Why, brother Hector,
We may not think the justness of each act
Such and no other than event doth form it;
Nor once deject the courage of our minds,
Because Cassandra ’s mad: her brain-sick raptures
Cannot distaste the goodness of a suateel,
Which hath our several honours all engag’d
To make it gracious. For my pea part,
Iam no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons;
And Jove forbid, there should be done amongst us
Such things as might offend the weakest spleen
To fight for, and maintain.
Par. Else might the world convince of levity
As well my undertakings as your counsels ;
But, I attest the gods, your full consent
Gave wings to my propension, and cut off
All fears attending on so dire a project:
For what, alas! can these my single arms?
What propugnation is in one man’s valour,
To stand the push and enmity of those
This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,
Were I alone to pass the difficulties,
And had as ample power as I have will,
Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done,
Nor faint in the pursuit.

120

130

140

Pri. Paris, you speak
Like one besotted on your sweet delights:
You have the honey still, but these the gall;
So to be valiant is no praise at all.
Par. Sir, I propose not merely to myself
The pleasures such a beauty brings with it;
But Pwoula have the soil of her fair rape
Wip’d off in honourable keeping her.
What treason were it to the ransack’d queen,
Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me,
Now to deliver her possession MB
On terms of base compulsion? Can it be,
That so degenerate a strain as this
Should once set footing in your generous bosoms?
There’s not the meanest spirit on our party,
Without a heart to dare, or sword to draw,
When Helen is defended ; nor none so noble,
Whose life were ill bestow’d, or death unfam’d,
Where Helen is the subject: then, I say,
Well may we fight for her, whom, we know well,
The world’s large spaces cannot parallel. .
Hect. Paris, and Troilus, you have both said well;
And on the cause and question now in hand
Have gloz’d,—but superficially ; not much
Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought
Unfit to hear moral philosophy.
The reasons you allege do more conduce
To the hot passion of distemper’d blood,
Than to make up a free determination 170
*T wixt right and wrong; for pleasure, and revenge,
Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice
Of any true decision. Nature craves,
All dues be render’d to their owners: now,
What nearer debt in all humanity
Than wife is to the husband? If this law
Of nature be corrupted through affection,
And that great minds, of partial indulgence
To their benumbed wills, resist the same,
There is a law in each well-order'd nation,
To curb those raging appetites that are
Most disobedient and refractory.
If Helen then be wife to Sparta’s king,
As it is known she is, these moral laws
Of nature, and of nation, speak aloud
To have her back return’d: thus to persist
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, ear
But Ties it much more heavy. Hector’s opinion
Is this, in way of truth: yet, ne’ertheless,
My spritely brethren, I propend to you
In resolution to keep Helen still;

150

160

180

190

 

For ‘tis a cause that hath no mean dependance
Upon our joint and several dignities.
ro. Why, there you touch’d the life of our design :
Were it not glory that we more affected
Than the performance of our heaving spleens,
I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood
Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector,
She is a theme of honour and renown,
A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds,
Whose present courage may beat down our foes,
And fame, in time to come, canonise us:
For, I presume, brave Hector would not lose
So rich advantage of a promis’d glory,
As smiles upon the forehead of this action,
For the wide world’s revenue.
ect. Iam yours,
You valiant offspring of great Priamus.—
I have a roisting challenge sent amongst
The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks,
Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits.
I was advertis’d, their great general slept,
Whilst emulation in the army crept :
This, I presume, will wake him.

200

210

[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The een Camp. Before ACHILLES’
Tent.

Enter THERSITES.

Ther. How now, Thersites? what! lost in the laby-
rinth of thy fury? Shall the elephant Ajax carry it
thus? he beats me, and I rail at him: O worthy satis-
faction! ’would, it were otherwise, that I could beat
him, whilst he railed at me. "Sfoot, Ill learn to con-
jure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my
spiteful execrations. Then, there’s Achilles, —a rare
enginer. If Troy be not taken till these two under-
mine it, the walls will stand till they fall of them-
selves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus!
forget that thou art Jove the king of gods, and,
Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus,
if ye take not that little, little, less-than-little wit from
them that they have; which short-armed ignorance
itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not in
circumvention deliver a fly from a spider, without
drawing the massy irons and cutting the web. After
this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or rather,
the Neapolitan bone-ache; for that, methinks, is the
curse dependant on those that war for a placket. I
have said my prayers, and devil Envy, say Amen.
What, ho! my Lord Achilles! 22

Enter PATROCLUS.

Patr. Who's there? Thersites? Good Thersites,
come in and rail.

Ther. If I could have remembered a gilt counter-
feit, thou_wouldst not have slipped out of my contem-

lation; but it is no matter: thyself upon thyself!
The common curse of mankind, tolly and ignorance,
be thine in great revenue! heaven less thee from a
tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy
blood be thy direction till thy death! then, if she, that
lays thee out, says thou art a fair corse, I’ll be sworn
and sworn upon t, she never shrouded any but lazars,
Amen. Where’s Achilles?

Patr, What! art thou devout? wast thou in prayer?

Ther. Ay; the heavens hear me!

Enter ACHILLES,

Achil. Who’s there?

Patr. Thersites, my lord.

Achil. Where, where ?—Art thou come?) Why, my
cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thy-
self in to my table so many meals? Come, what’s
Agamemnon?

Ther. Thy. commander, Achilles,
Patroclus, what’s Achilles?

Patr. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray
thee, what’s thyself ?

Ther, Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patro-
clus, what art thou? :

42
Then tell me,

 

 
 

 

850

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA,

 

Patr. Thou may’st tell, that knowest.

Achil, O! tell, tell. 50

Ther. I ll decline the whole question. Agamemnon
commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Pa-
troclus’ knower; and Patroclus is a fool.

Patr. You rascal!

Ther. Peace, fool! I have not done. :

Achil. He is a privilezed man.—Proceed, Thersites.

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool;
Thersites is a fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a
tool.

Achil. Derive this, come. 60

Ther. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command
Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of
Agamemnon ; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool ;
and Patroclus is a fool positive.

Patr. Why am Ta fool?

Ther. Make that demand to the Creator. It suffices
me thou art. Look you, who comes here? 67

Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR, DIOMEDES,
and AJAX.

Achil. Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody.—Come in
with me, Thersites. 2 _ [Bvit.

Ther. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and
such knavery! all the argument is, a cuckold and a
whore ; a good quarrel, to draw emulous factions, and
bleed to death upon. Now, the dry serpigo on the
subject, and war and lechery confound all! [Eexit.

Agam, Where is Achilles?

Patr, Within his tent ; but ill-dispos’d, my Jord.

Agam, Let it be known to him that we are here.
He shent our messen-sers; and we lay by
Our appertainments, v ing of him:

Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think 80
We dare not move the question of our place,
Or know not what we are.
Patr. TI shall say so to him. [£ zit.
Ulyss. We saw him at the opening of his tent:
He is not sick.

Ajax. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart : you may
eall it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but,
by my head, ’tis pride: but why? why? let him show
us a cause.-—.\ word, my lord.

5 [Taking AGAMEMNON aside.

Nest. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him?

Ulyss. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.

      

Nest. Who? Thersites? OL
Ulyss. He. :
Nest. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost

his argument. :

Ulyss. No, you see, he is his argument that has his
argument, Achilles.

yest. All the better; their fraction is more our wish

than their faction: but it was a strong counsel, a fool
‘could disunite.

Ulyss. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may
easily untie. Here comes Patroclus. ll

Nest, No Achilles with him?

Re-enter PATROCLUS.

Ulyss. The elephant hath joints, but none for cour-
tesy : his lezs are I=gs for necessity, not for flexure.

Patr. Achilles bids me say, he is much sorry,
If anything more than your sport and pleasure
Tid move your greatness, and this noble state,
To call upon him; he hopes, it is no other
But, for your health and your digestion sake,
An after-dinner’s breath.

Agan. Hear you, Patroclus.
We are too well acquainted with these answers;
But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn,
Cannot outfly our apprehensions.

Much attribute he hath, and much the reason
Why we ascribe it to him ; yet all his virtues,
Not virtuously on his own part beheld,

To in our eyes begin to lose their gloss ;

Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish,

Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him,

We come to speak with him ; and you shall not sin,
If you do say, we think him over-proud, 121
And under-honest ; in self-assumption greater

110

 

Than in the note of judgment; and worthier than
himself
Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on,
Disguise the holy strength of their command,
And underwrite in an observing kind
His humorous predominance ; yea, watch
His pettish lunes, his ebbs, his flows, as if
The passage and whole carriage of this action
Rode on his tide. Go, tell him this; and add,
That, if he overhold his price so much,
We'll none of him; but let him, like an engine
Not portable, lie under this report :—
Bring action hither, this cannot go to war;
A stirring dwarf we do allowance give
Before a sleeping giant :—tell him so.
Patr. I shall; and bring his answer presently.
ait.
-A4gam. In second voice we ll not be satisfied ;
We come to speak with him.—Ulysses, enter you.
[Exit ULYSSEs.
Ajax. What is he more than another ? 140
gam. No more than what he thinks he is.
Ajax. Ishesomuch? Do you not think, he thinks
himself a better man than I ain?
lgam, No question.
ljax. Will you subscribe his thought, and say he is?
«lgam. No, noble Ajax; youn are as strong, as
valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and
altogether more tractable.
Ajax. Why should a man be proud? How doth
pride grow? I know not what pride is. 150
Agam. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your
virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself:
pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own
chronicle; and whatever praises itselt but in the
deed, devours the deed in the praise.
Ajax, Ido hate a proud man, as I hate the engen-
dering of toads.
Nest. [.lside.] Yet he loves himself: ist not strange?

Re-enter ULYSSES.

Ulyss. Achilles will not to the field to-morrow.

Agam., What's his excuse?

Ulyss. He doth rely on none:
But carries on the stream of his dispose 161
Without observance or respect of any,

In wil! peculiar and in self-admission.

«lgam. Why, will he not, upon our fair request,
Untent his poses and share the air with us?

Ulyss. T tgs small as nothing, for request’s sake
ony, :

He makes important, Possess'd he is with greatne3s:
And speaks not to himself, but with a pride

That quarrels at self-breath : imagin’d worth
Holds in his blood such swoln and hot discourse,
That, ’twixt his mental and his active parts,
Kingdom 'd Achilles in commotion rages,

And batters ’gainst itself: what should I say?

He is so plaguy proud, that the death-tokens of it
Cry—' No recovery.”

Agam. Let Ajax go to him.—
Dear lord, go you and grect him in his tent:

*Tis said, he holds you well; and will be led,
At your request, a little from himself.

Ulyss. O Agamemnon! let it not be so.

We'll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes
When they go from Achilles: shall the proud lord,
That bates his arrogance with his own seam,
And never suffers matter of the world

Inter his thoughts,—save such as do revolve
And ruminate himself,—shall he be worshipp’d
Of that we hold an idol more than he?

No, this thrice-worthy and right valiant lord
Must not so stale his palm, nobly acquir’d;
Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit,

As amply tilled as Achilles is,

By going to Achilles:

That were to inlard his fat-already pride;

And add more coals to Cancer, when he burns
With entertaining great Hyperion.

This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid,

And say in thunder—“ Achilles, go to him.”

170

180

190

 
 

ScENE III.)

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

851

 

 

Nest. Easuied O! this is well; he rubs the vein of

im.
Dio. [Aside.] And how his silence drinks up this
applause !
Ajax. If I go to him, with my armed fist
I'll pash him o’er the face. 200
Agam. O, no! you shall not go.
Ajax. An’a be proud with me, I'll pheese his pride.
Let me go to him.
Ulyss. Not tor the worth that hangs upon our
quarrel.
ee A paltry, insolent fellow !
est. [Aside.] How he describes himself !
Ajax. Can he not be sociable?
Ulyss. { Aside.) The raven chides blackness.
Ajaz. 111 let his humours blood.
Ager [Aside.] He will be the physician, that should
be the patient. 211
Ajax. An all men were o’ my mind,—
Ulyss. [Aside.] Wit would be out of fashion.
Ajax. ’A should not bear it so, ’a should eat swords
first : shall pride carry it?
Nest. [Aside.} An ’t would, you'd carry half.
Ulyss. [Aside.] "A. would have ten shares.
Ajax. I will knead him ; I will make him supple.
est. (Aside.] He’s not yet thorough warm : force
him with praises, Pour in, pour in; his ambition is
ry. 221
Ulyss. [To_ AGAMEMNON.] My lord, you feed too
much on this dislike.
Nest. Our noble general, do not do so.
Dio. You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
Ulyss. Why, ’tis this naming of him does him

harm.
Here is a man—But ’tis before his face ;
I will be silent.
Nest. Wherefore should you so?
He is not emulous, as Achilles is.
Ulyss. Know the whole world, he is as valiant.

Ajax. A whoreson dog, that shall palter thus with
us! 230

Would, he were a Trojan !
Nest. What a vice were it in Ajax now,—
Ulyss. If he were proud,—
Dio. Or covetous of praise,—
Ulyss. Ay, or surly borne,—
to. Or strange, or self-affected !
Ulyss. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet
composure ;
Praise him that got thee, she that gave thee suck :
Fain’d be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature
'Thrice-fam’d, beyond all erudition :
But he that disciplin’d thine arms to fight,
Let Mars divide eternity in twain,
And give him half: and, for thy vigour,
Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield
To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom,
Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines
Thy spacious and dilated parts : here’s Nestor;
Instructed by the antiquary times,
He must, he is, he cannot but be wise ;
But pardon, father Nestor, were your days
As green as Ajax’, and your brain so temper’d,
You should not have the eminence of him,

But be as Ajax.

sian. Shall I call you father?
est, Ay, my good son. .

Dio. Be rul’d by him, Lord Ajax.
Ulyss. There is no tarrying here: the hart Achilles

Keeps thicket. Please it our great general

‘To call together all his state of war ;

Fresh kings are come to Troy: to-morrow,

We must with all our main of power stand fast :

And here’s a lord,—come knights from east to west,

| And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best.

| Agam. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep: 260

| Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw

| deep. [Hxeunt.

240

230

 

 

 

 

 

ACT

  

MR oo
5) ee ar Pandarus.
: 74 RIEND! you! pray you, a word. Do not
i you follow the young Lord Paris?

Serv. Ay, sir, when he goes before me.
Pan. You depend upon him, I mean.
Serv. Sir, Ido depend upon the lord.

Tl
i Pan. Youdepend upon a noble gentle-

 ~6nman: I must needs praise him.
Serv. The lord be praised !
Pan. You know me, do you not?
Serv. ’Faith, sir, superficially. 10
Pan. Friend, know me better. Iam

the Lord Pandarus.

Serv. I hope, I shall know your honour
better.

Pan. 1 do desire it.

Serv. You are in the state of grace.

Pan. Grace! not so, friend; honour
and lordship are my titles.—[Music
within.] What musicisthis? |_|

Serv. I do but partly know, sir: it is
music in parts. 21
Pan. Know you the musicians?

III.
Scene I.--Troy. A Room in Pr1Am’s Palace.
Enter PANDARUS and a Servant.

Wholly, sir.

Who play they to?

To the hearers, sir.

At whose pleasure, friend ?

At mine, sir, and theirs that love music,
Command, I mean, friend.

Who shall I command, sir? 29
Friend, we understand not one another: I[
At whose

Serv.

Pan.

Serv.

Pan.

Serv.

Pan.

Serv.

Pan.
am too courtly, and thou art too cunning.
request do these men play ?

Serv. That’s to ’t, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the
request of Paris, my lord, who is there in person; with
him the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty,
love’s invisible soul.

Pan. Who, my cousin Cressida?

Serv. No, sir, Helen: could you not find out that by
her attributes? 39

Pan. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen
the Lady Cressida. JI come to speak with Paris from
the Prince Troilus: I will make a complimental assault
upon him, for my business seethes,

4 ae Sodden business: there’s a steward phrase,
indeed.

 

 

 
 

852

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

{Act III.

 

 

Enter Paris and HELEN, attended.

Pan. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair
company ! fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide
them ! especially to you, fair queen! fair thoughts be
your fair pillow !

Helen. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. 50

Pan. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen.—
Fair prince, here is good broken music. .

Par. You have broke it, cousin; and, by my life,

you shall make it whole again: you shall piece it out
With a piece of your performance.—Nell, he is full of

harmony.

Pan. Truly, lady, no.

Helen, O, sir!—

Pan. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. 59

Par. Well said, my lord! Well, you say so in fits.

Pan. Ihave business to my lord, dear queen.—_My
Jord, will you vouchsafe me a word?

Helen. Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we ‘ll hear
you sing, certainly.

 

  

Helen, “ Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we'll hear you sing,
certainly ”

Pan. Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant with me.
But, marry, thus, my lord.—My dear lord, and most
esteemed friend, your brother Troilus,—

Helen. My Lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,—

Pan. Go to, sweet queen, go to :—commends himself
most affectionately to you. 70

Helen. You shall not bob us out of our melody: if
you do, our melancholy upon your head!

Pan. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that’s a sweet
queen,—i' faith, —

Helen. And to make a sweet lady sad is « sour
offence.

Pan. Nay, that shall not serve your turn ; that shall
it not, in truth, la! Nay, I care not for such words ;
no, no.—And, my lord, he desires you, that if the king
call for him at supper, you will make hisexcuse. 80

Helen. My Lord Pandarus,—

Pan, What says my sweet queen,—my very very
sweet queen ?

ee What exploit’s in hand? where sups he to-
night?

Helen. Nay, but, my lord,—

Pan. What says my sweet queen? ay cousin will
fall out with you.—You must not know where he sups.

Par. I'll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.

Pan. No, no; no such matter, you are wide. Come.
your disposer is sick. 91

Par. Well, I'll make excuse.

Pan. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say
Cressida? no, your poor disposer’s sick.

Par, Ispy. ,

Pan. You spy! what do you spy ?—Come, give me
an instrument,—Now, sweet queen.

 

Helen. Why, this is kindly done.

Pan. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you
have, sweet queen. 100

Helen. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my
Lord Paris.

Pan. He! no, she’ll none of him; they two are
twain.
a Falling in, after falling out, may make them
three.

_Pan. Come, come, I'll hear no more of this. I’ll
sing you a song now.

Helen. Ay, ay, pr’ythee now. By my troth, sweet
lord, thou hast a fine forehead. 110

Pan. Ay, you may, you may.

Helen. Let thy song be love: this love will undo us
all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

Pan. Love! ay, that it shall, i’ faith.

Par. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.

Pan. In good troth, it begins so. [Sings.

Love. love, nothing but love, still more!
For, oh! love's bow
Shoots buck and doe:
The shaft confounds,
Not that it wounds,
But tickles still the sore.

These lovers cry—Oh! oh! they die!
Yet that which scems the wound to kill,
Doth turn oh! oh! toha! ha! he!
So dying love lives still:
Oh! oh! awhile, but ha! ha! ha!
Oh! oh! groans out for ha! hatha!

Heigh-ho! 129
Helen. In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose.
Par. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that

breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts,

ae hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is
ove.

Pan. Is this the generation of love? hot blood, hot
thoughts, and hot deeds?) Why, they are vipers: is
ae a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s afield
to-day ?

Par. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all
the gallantry of Troy: I would fain have armed to-
day, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance
my brother Troilus went not? :

Helen. He hangs the lip at something :—you know
all, Lord Pandarus.

Pan. Not I, honey-sweet queen.—I long to hear

120

how they sped to-day. — You'll remember your
brother's excuse ?
Par. To a hair.
Pan. Farewell, sweet queen.
Helen. Commend me to your niece. 150
Pan. I will, sweet queen. [Exit.

[4 retreat sounded.

Par. They ’recome from field : Jet us to Priam’s hall,
To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you
To help unarm our Hector: his stubborn buckles,
With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d,
Shall more obey than to the edge of steel,
Or force of Greekish sinews: you shall do more
Than all the island kings,—disarm great Hector.

Helen. pe will make us proud to be his servant,

aris :

Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty, 160
Gives us more palm in beauty than we have,
Yea, overshines ourself.

Par. Sweet, above thought Ilove thee. [Hxeunt.

ScenE II.—The Same. PanpDArvus’ Orchard.

Enter PANDARUS and a Servant,anecting.
Pan. How_now? where’s thy master? at. my
cousin Cressida's ? :
Serv. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him
thither.
Entcr TROILUS.
Pan. O! here he comes.—How now, how now?

 

 
 

 

Scene II]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

853

 

Tro. Sirrah, walk off. [Exit Servant.
Pan. Have you seen my cousin?
Tro. No, Pandarus: I stalk about her door,
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks
Staying for waftage. O! be thou my Charon; 10
And give me swift transportance to those fields,
Where I may wallow in the lily-beds
Propos’d for the deserver. O gentle Pandarus!
From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings,
And fly with me to Cressid.
Pan. Walk here i’ the orchard. I'll bring her
straight. fexit.
Tro. Tam giddy: expectation whirls me round.
The imaginary relish is so sweet

 

aaa z "Mi ——

ie

wi
if
a

 

Pan. “Come, draw this curtain, and let's see your picture.”

That it enchants my sense. What will it be, 20
When that the watery palate tastes indeed

Love’s thrice-reputed nectar? death, I fear me;
Swounding destruction ; or some joy too fine,

Too subtle-potent, and too sharp in sweetness,

For the capacity of my ruder powers.

I fear it much; and I do fear besides,

That I shall lose distinction in my joys ;

As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps

The enemy flying. 29

Re-enter PANDARUS.

Pan. She’s making her ready; she ll come straight:
you_must be witty now. She does so blush, and
tetches her wind so short, as if she were frayed with
a sprite: I’ll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain:
she fetches her breath so short as a new-ta’en Spa oe.

Cate

Tro. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom :

My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse,

And all my powers do their bestowing lose,

Like vassalage at unawares encountering

The eye of majesty. 39

Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA.

Pan. Come, come, what need you blush? shame’s
a baby.—Here she is now: swear the oaths now to
her, that you have sworn to me.— What! are you gone
again ? you must be watched ere you be, made tame,
must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an
you draw backward, we ’ll eae you i’ the fills.—Why
do you not speak to her?—Come, draw this curtain,
and let’s see your Sr the day, how loath
you are to offend daylight! an ’t were dark, you’d
close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress.
How now! a kiss in fee-farm ! build there, carpenter ;
the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out,
ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the
ducks i’ the river: go to, go to.

 

 

Tro. You have bereft me of all words, lady.

Pan. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but
she’ll bereave you of the deeds too, if she call your
activity in question. What! billing again? Here ’s—
“In witness whereof the parties interchangeably ”—
Come in, come in: I'll go get a fire. [Exit.

Cres. Will you walk in, my lord ? 60

Tro. O Cressida! how often have I wished me thus!
; ce Wished, my lord?—The gods grant.—O my
ord !

Tro. What should they grant? what makes this
pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my
sweet lady in the fountain of our love?

Cres. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes.

Tro. Fears make devils of cherubins; they never
see truly.

Cres. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer
footing than blind reason, stumbling without fear : to
tear the worst oft cures the worse. 72

Tro. O! let my lady apprehend no fear: in all
Cupds pageant there is presented no monster.

tres, Nor nothing monstrous neither?

Tro. Nothing, but our undertakings; when we vow
to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers;
thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposi-
tion enough, than for us to undergo any difficulty
imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady,-—
that the will is infinite, and the execution confined ;
that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.

Cres. They say, all lovers swear more performance
than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that
they never perform; vowing more than the perfection
of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.
They that have the voice of lions, and the act of hares,
are they not monsters ? 88

Tro. Are there such? such are not we. Praise us
as we are tasted; allow us as we prove; our head
shall go bare, till merit. crown it. No perfection in
reversion shall have a praise in present: we will not
name desert, before his birth, and, being born, his
addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith:
Troilus shall be such to Cressid, as what envy can say
worst, shall be a mock for his truth; and what truth
can speak truest, not truer than Troilus,

Cres. Will you walk in, my lord ?

Re-enter PANDARUS.
Pan. What! blushing still? have you not done
1

talking yer
‘ Cres. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate
oO you.

Pan. I thank you for that: if my lord get a boy of
you, you'll give him me. Be true to ae ae if he
flinch, chide me for it.

Tro. You know now your hostages; your uncle’s
word, and my firm faith.

Pan. Nay, Ill give my word for her too. Our
kindred, though they be long ere they are wooed,
they are constant, being won: they are burs, I can

tell you; they ’ll stick where they are thrown. 111
Cres. ees comes to me now, and brings me
eart.—

Prince Troilus, I have lov’d you night and day,
For many weary months.
Tro. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win?
Cres. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord,
With the first glance that ever—Pardon me :—
If I confess much, you will play the tyrant.
I love you now; but not, till now, so much
But I might master it.—In faith, I lie: 120
My Ghani were like unbridled children, grown
Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools!
Why have I blabb’d? who shall be true to us,
When we are so unsecret to ourselves 2—
But, though I lov’d you well, I woo'd you not;
And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man,
Or that we women had men’s privilege
Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue:
For, in this rapture, I shall surely speak
The thing I shall repent. See, see! your silence, 130
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws
My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth.

 

 
 

 

854

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

[Act III.

 

Tro. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence.
Pan. Pretty, i faith.
Cres. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me ;
°T was not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss:
lam sett e-O) heavens! what have I done?—
For this time will I take my leave, my lord.
Tro. Your leave, sweet Cressid? ;
Pan. Leave! an you take leave till to-morrow
morning,— 141
Cres. Pray you, content you.
Tro. What offends you, lady?
Cres. Sir, mine own company.
Tro. You cannot shun yourself,
Cres. Let me go and try. ;
I have a kind of self resides with you;
But an unkind self, that itself will leave,
To be another's fool.—Where is my wit?
I would be gone.—I speak I know not what.
Tro. Well know they what they speak, that speak
so wisely. 150
Cres. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than

love,
And fell so roundly to alarge confession, |
To angle for your thoughts: but you are wise,

Or else you love not, for to be wise, and love,
Exceeds man's might ; that dwells with gods above.
Tro. O! that I thought it could be in a woman,

(As, if it can, I will be nomi in you,)

To feed for aye her lamp and Names of love ;
To keep her constancy in plight and youth,
Outliving beauty’s outward, with a mind 160
That doth renew swifter than blood decays :

Or, that persuasion could but thus convince me,
That my integrity and truth to you A
Might be attronted with the match and weight
Of such a winnow'd pee, in love;

How were [I then uplifted ! but, alas!

I am as true as truth’'s simplicity,

And simpler than the infancy of truth.

Cres. In that I'll war with you.

Tro. O virtuous fight!
When right with right wars who shall be most right.
True swains in love shall, in the world tocome, 171
Approve their truths by Troilus: when their rhymes,
Full of protest, of oath, and big compare, :
Want similes, truth tir’d with iteration, —

As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,
As sun to day, as turtle to her mate,

As iron to adamant, as earth to the centre,
Yet, after all comparisons of truth,

As truth’s authentic author to be cited,

As true as Troilus shall crown up the verse,
And sanctify the numbers.

Cres. Prophet may you be!

If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,

When time is old and hath forgot itsel:,

When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy,

And blind oblivion swallow'd cities up,

And mighty states characterless are grated

To dusty nothing; yet let memory,

From false to false, among false maids in love,

Upbraid fy falsehood! when they have said, as
alse

As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, 1S0

As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer’s calf,

Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son ;

Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,

As false as Cressid.

Pan. Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it: I'll
be the witness.—Here I hold your hand; here, my
cousin's. If ever you prove false one to another, since
I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all
pitiful goers-between be called to the world’s end after
my namie, call them all Pandars ; let all constant men
be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers
between Pandars! say, Amen. 202

Tro. Amen.

Cres. Amen.

Pan. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a
chamber with a bed; which bed, because it shall
not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death:
away !

180

 

And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here
Bed, chamber, Pandar to provide this gear! 210
[Exeunt.

ScENE IIJ.—The Grecian Camp.

Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, NESTOR,
AJAX, MENELAUS, and CALCHAS.
Cal. Now, princes, for the service I have done you,
The advantage of the time prompts me aloud
To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind,
That, through the sight I bear in things to come,
I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession,
Incurr’d a traitor’s name ; expos'd myself,
From certain and possess’d conveniences,
To doubtful fortunes, sequestering from me all
That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition,
Made tame and most familiar to my nature; 10
And here, to do you service, am become
As new into the world, strange, unacquainted :
I do beseech you, as in way of taste,
To give me now a little benefit,
Out of those many register’d in promise,
Which, you say, live to come in my behalf.
Agam. What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? make
demand.
Cal. You have a Trojan prisoner, call’d Antenor,
Yesterday took: Troy holds him very dear.
Oft have you (often have you thanks therefore) 20
Desir’d my Cressid in right great exchange,
Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor,
I know, is such a wrest in their affairs,
That their negotiations all must slack,
Wanting his manage; and they will almost
Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam,
In change of him: let him be sent, ereat princes,
And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence
Shall quite strike off all service I have done,

In most accepted pain.

Agam, Let Diomedes bear him, 30
And bring us Cressid hither: Calchas shall have
What he requests of us.—Good Diomed,
Furnish yon fairly for this interchange : .
Withal, bring word, if Hector will to-morrow
Be answer’d in his challenge: Ajax is ready.

Dio. This shall I undertake ; and ’tis a burden
Which I am proud to bear.

[Zzeunt DIOMEDES and CaLcHas.

Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS, before their Tent.
Ulyss. Achilles stands i’ the entrance of his tent:
Please it our general to pass strangely by him,
As if he were Tore Gt; and, princes all, 40
Lay negligent and loose regard upon him:
I will come last. "I'is like, he'll question me,
Why such unplausive eyes are bent on him:
If so, I have derision medicinable,
To use between your strangeness and his pride,
Which nis own will shall have desire to drink.
It may do good: pride hath no other glass
To show itself, but pride; for supple knees
Feed arrogance, and are the proud man’s fees.
Agam. e’ll execute your purpose, and puton 50
A form of strangeness as we pass along :—
So do each lord ; and either greet him not,
Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more
Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way.
Achil, What! comes the general to speak with me?
You know my mind: I'll fight no more ’gainst Troy.
Agam. aes says Achilles? would he aught with
us!
Nest. Would you, my lord, aught with the general?
Achil. No.
Nest. Nothing, my lord. 60
Agam. The better.
[Hxeunt AGAMEMNON and NESTOR.
Achil. Good day, good day.
Men. How do you? how do you? [Exit.
Achil. What! does the cuckold scorn me?
Ajax. How now, Patroclus?
Achil. Good morrow, Ajax.

 

 
 

 

ScENeE III]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

 

Ajax. Hat
Achil. Good morrow.
Ajax. Ay, and good next aay too. [Ezit.
Achil. What mean these fellows?) Know they not
Achilles? 70
Patr, They pass by strangely : they were us’d to bend,
To send their smiles before them to Achilles ;
To come as humbly as they us’d to creep
To holy altars.
Achil. | What! am I poor of late?
*Tis certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune,
Mus} fall out with men too: what the declin’d is,
He shall as soon read in the eyes of others,
As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies,
Show not their mealy wings but to the summer,
And not a man, for being simply man, 80
Hath any honour; but honour for those honours
That are without him, as place, riches, and favour,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit:
Which, when they fall, as being slippery standers,
The love that lean’d on them as slippery too,
Doth one pluck down another, and together
Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me:
Fortune ard I are friends: I do enjoy
At empl point all that I did possess,
Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out 90
Something not worth in me such rich beholding
As they have often given. Here is Ulysses:
I’ll interrupt his reading.—

How now, Ulysses?
Olyss. Now, great Thetis’ son!
Achil. What are you reading ?

Ulyss. A strange fellow here
Writes me: That man, how dearly ever parted,
How much in having, or without, or in,

Cannot make boast to have that which he hath,
Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection ;
As when his virtues shining upon others

Heat them, and they retort that heat again

To the first giver.

Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses.
The beauty that is borne here in the face
The bearer knows not; but commends itself
To others’ eyes: nor doth the eye itself,

That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,

Not going from itself; but eye to eye oppos’d

Salutes each other with each other's form:

For speculation turns not to itself

Till it hath trayell’d, and is married there 110

Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.
Ulyss. I do not strain at the position,

It is familiar, but at the author's drift ;
ho in his circumstance expressly proves,

That no man is the lord of anything,

(Though in and of him there be much consisting,

Till he communicate his parts to others:

Nor doth he of himself know them for aught

Till he behold them form’d in the applause

Where they ’re extended; who, like an arch, rever-

berates 7 120

The voice again ; or, like a gate of steel

Fronting the sun, receives and renders back

His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this;

And apprehended here immediately

The unknown Ajax.

Heavens, what a man is there! a very horse ;

That has he knows not what. Nature, what things

_ there are,

Most abject in regard; and dear in use!

What things, again, most dear in the esteem,

And poor in worth! Now shall we see to-morrow--

An act that very chance doth throw upon him— 131
axrenown'd. O heavens, what some men do,
hile some men leave to do!

How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall,

Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes!

How one man eats into another’s pride,

While pride is feasting in his wantonness!

To see these Grecian lords !—why, even already

They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder,

As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast,

And great Troy shrinking.

100

140

 

Achil. I do believe it ; for they pass’d by me,
As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me
Good word nor look. What! are ae deeds forgot?

Ulyss. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion ;
A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes : ;
Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’d
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon :
As done : perseverance, dear my lord, 150
Keeps honour bright : to have done, is to hang.
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way ;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast : keep then the path ;
For emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue: if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost ;
Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in fi-st rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, _
O’er-run and tramp ed on: then what they do in present,
Though less than yours in past, must o’er-tup yours ;
For time is like a fashionable host,
That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
And with his arms outstretch’d, as he would fly,
Grasps-in the comer: welcome ever smiles, |
And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was ; 170
For beauty, wit, ;
High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all
To envious and calumniating time.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,
That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds,
Though they are made and moulded of things past,
And give to dust, that is a little gilt,
More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. :
The present eye praises the present object :
Then marvel not, thou great and complete man,
That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax ;
Since things in motion sooner catch the eye,
Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee,
And still it might, and yet it may again,
If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive,
And case thy reputation in thy tent ;
Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late,
Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves,
And drave great Mars to faction. ,

160

180

Achil. “ Of this my privacy
I have strong reasons. 3
Ulyss. But ’gainst your privacy 191

The reasons are more potent and heroical.
‘T is known, Achilles, that you are in love
With one of Priam’s daughters.
Achil. Ha! known? :
Ulyss. Is that a wonder ? :
The providence that’s in a watchful state,
Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold,
Fintis bottom in the uncomprehensive deeps,
Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods,
Does thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. 201
There is a mystery (with whom relation
Durst never meddie) in the soul of state,
Which hath an operation more divine,
Than breath, or pen, can give expressure to.
All the commerce that you have had with Troy,
AS pontecthy is ours, as yours, my lord;
And better would it fit Achilles much
To throw down Hector, than Polyxena;
But it must grieve young Pyrrhus, now at home, 210
When fame shall in our islands sound her trump,
And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing,—
‘‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win,
But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.”
Farewell, my lord : I as your lover speak ;
The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break.
(Exit.
Patr. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov’d you.
A woman impudent and mannish grown
Is not more loath’d, than an effeminate man

In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this: 220

 

 
 

856 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

{Act III.

 

They think, my little stomach to the war,

And your great love to me, restrains you thus. :
Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid
Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold,
And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane,

Be shook to air.

Achil, Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus,
I'll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him
To invite the Trojan lords, after the combat, ,
To see us here unarm’d. [ have a woman’s longing,
An appetite that Iam sick withal,
‘vo see great Hector in his weeds of peace; 240

 

Ther. “Let Patroclus make his demands to mo, you sha'l see the pageant of Ajax.”

Achil. Shall Ajax fight with Hector?

| To talk with him, and to behold his visage,

Patr, Ay;and, perhaps, receivemuchhonourbyhim. | Even to my full of view.—A labour sav'd!

Achil, I see, my reputation is at stake ;
My fame is shrewdly gor’d.

Patr. O! then beware:

Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves:
23

Omission to do what is necessary

Seals a commission to a blank of danger ;
And danger, like an ague, subtly taints
Even then when we sit idly in the sun.

Enter THERSITES,
The». A wonder!
Achil. What?
Ther, Ajax goes up and down the field, asking for

himself.

Achil. How so?
Ther. He must fight singly to-morrow with Hector ;

 

 
 

 

ScENE III] TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 857

 

and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cud it will go one way or other; howsoever, he shall pay
ling, that he raves in saying nothing. for me ere he has me.

alchil. How can that be? Patr. Your answer, sir.

Ther, Why, he stalks up and down like a peacock ; Ther, Fare you well, with all my heart.
a stride, and a stand: ruminates like an hostess that Achil. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he? 300
hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her
reckoning: bites his lip with a politic regard, as who
should say, there were wit in his head, an ’t would
out: and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as
fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking.
The man’s undone for ever; for if Hector break not
his neck i’ the combat, he’) break ’t himself in vain-
glory. He knows not me: I said, ‘‘Good morrow,

gel-
250

y
WA

Ajax ;” and he replies, ‘Thanks, Agamemnon.” A RS

What think you of this man, that takes me for the
general? He’s arp we a very land-fish, languagceless,
amonster, A plague of opinion! aman may wear it
on both sides, like a leather jerkin.

Achil. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Ther-
sites. 268

Ther. Who, I? why, he’ll answer nobody; he pro-
fesses not answering: speaking is for beggars; he
wears his tongue in his arms. I will put on his
presence: let Patroclus make his demands to me,
you shall see the pageant of Ajax.

Achil. To hiin, Patroclus: tell him, I humbly desire
the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector
to come unarmed to my tent; and to procure safe-con-
duct for his person of the magnanimous, and most illus-
trious, six-or-seven-times-honoured captain-general of
the Grecian army, Agamemnon, et csetera. Do this.

 

 

Patr. Jove bless great Ajax ! 280 Tuer. ‘‘1 had rather be a tick in a sheep, than such a valiant

Ther. Humph! ignorance.”

Patr. I come from the worthy Achilles,—

Ther, Ha? : : Ther. No, but he’s out o’ tune thus. What music

Patr. Who most humbly desires you to invite | will be in him when Hector has knocked out his
Hector to his tent,— brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none, unless the

Ther. Humph! fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on.

Patr. And to procure safe-conduct from Agamem- chil, Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight.
non. Ther, Let me bear another to his horse, for that’s

Ther. Agamemnon ? the more capable creature.

Paty. Ay, my lord. 290 Achil. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd:

Ther. Ha? And I myself see not the bottom of it. 309

Patr. What say you to ’t? ; [Ezeunt ACHILLES and PaTRocLus.

Ther. God be wi’ you, with all my heart. Ther, "Would the fountain of your mind were clear

Patr. Your answer, sir. | again, that I might water an ass at it. I had rather

Ther. If to-morrow be a fair day, by eleven o'clock » be a tick in a sheep, than such a valiant ignorance.

| Exit.

 

ACT TV.

ScENE I.—Troy. <A Street.

Enter, at one side, AUNEAS, and Servant, with a torch ; at the other, PaRIs,
AY b DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, DIOMEDES, and others, with torches.

| Ane, Health to you, valiant sir, 10

 
  
   
  

4 Paris.
= EE ho! who is that there?

During all question of the Agee truce;
C Dei. It is the Lord Aineas. d,

But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance,
As heart can think, or courage execute.

Ene. Is the prince there in person ?— a
Dio, The one and other Diomed embraces.

|
|
Had I so good occasion to lie long, | ¢
I Asyou, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly | Our bloods are now in calm, and, so long, health:

Y} Asi business But_when contention and occasion meet,

vei. Should rob my bed-mate of my company. | By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life,
A he Dio. That's my mind too.—Good mor- | With all my force, pursuit, and policy.

Ne Ene. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that will fly
With his face backward.—In humane gentleness, 20
Welcome to Troy: now, by Anchises’ life,
Welcome, indeed. By Venus’ hand I swear,

No man alive can love, in such a sort,
The thing he means to kill, more excellently.
Dio. We sympathise.— Jove, let Acneas live,

ieee row, Lord Aineas. b
ex {Kt rhe, Par. A valiant Greek, A’neas; take his
Sa ‘ hand:
“Witness the process of your speech,
wherein
You told how Diomed, a whole week by days,
Did haunt you in the field.

 

 
 

858 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

[Act Iv.

 

If to my sword his fate be not the glory,
A thousand complete courses of the sun!
But, in mine emulous honour, let him die,
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow !
Eine. We know each other well.
Dio. We do; and long to know each other worse.
Par. This is the most despiteful pus greeting,
The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of.—
What business, lord, so early? |
Ene. I was sent for to the king; but why, I know
not.
Par. His purpose meets you: ’t was to bring this

e
To Calchas’ house ; and there to render him,
For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid.
Let’s have your company ; or, if you please,
Haste there before us. I constantly do think, 40
(Or, rather, call my thought a certain knowledge,)
My brother Troilus lodges there to-night:
Rouse him, and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore: I fear,
We shall be much unwelcome.
Ene. That I assure you:
Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece,
Than Cressid borne from Troy.
ar. There is no help;
The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you.
ine. Good morrow, all. Exit.
Par, And tell me, noble Diomed; ’faith, tell me
true, él
Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship,—
Who, in your thoughts, merits fair Helen most,
Myself, or Menelaus? ‘
Di Both alike:

0.

He merits well to have her, that doth seek her,
Not making any scruple of her soilure,
With such a hell of pain, and world of charge:
And you as well to keep her, that defend her,
Not palating the taste of her dishonour,
With such a costly loss of wealth and friends: 60
He, like a puling cuckold, would drink up
The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece;
You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins
Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors:
Both merits pois’d, each weighs nor less nor more;
But he as he, the heavier for a whore.

Par. You are too bitter to your country woman.

Dio. She's bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris :—
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple 70
Of her contaminated carrion weight
A Trojan hath been slain. Since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath,
As for her Greeks and Trojans suffer'd death.

Par. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do,
Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy;
But we in silence hold this virtue well,—
Well not commend what we intend to sell.

Here lies our way. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. <A Court before the House of
PANDARUS.

Enter TROILUS and CRESSIDA.
Tro. Dear, trouble not yourself: the morn is cold.
Cres. Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle

down;
He shall unbolt the gates,
TO. Trouble him not;
To bed, to bed: sleep kill those pretty eyes,
And give as soft attachment to thy senses,
As infants’ empty of all thought!

Cres. Good morrow then.
Tro. Pr'ythee now, to bed.
Cres. Are you aweary of me?

Tro. O Cressida! but that the busy day,
Wak'd by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald crows,
And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, 10

I would not from thee.
Cres. Night hath been too brief.

 

 

Tro. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights
she stays,
As tediously as hell; but flies the grasps of love,
With wings more momentary-swift than thought,
oo will catch cold, and curse me,
res.

You men will never tarry.
O foolish Cressid !—I might have still held off,
And then you would have tarried. Hark! there's

one up.
Pan. [Within.] What! are all the doors open here?
Tro. It is your uncle.
Cres. A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking:
I shall have such a life.—

Enter PANDARUS.

Pan. How now, how now? how go maidenheads ?—
Here, you maid! where’s my cousin Cressid ?

Cres. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
You bring me to do,—and then you flout me too.

Pan. To do what? to do what ?—let her say what:
—what have I brought you to do?

Cres, Come, come ; beshrew your heart! you Tl ne’er

be good,
Nor suffer others. 30

Pan. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! a poor capocchia!
—hast not slept to-night? would he not, a naughty
man, let it sleep? a bugbear take him! [ Knocking.

Cres. Did not I tell you?—’would he were knock'd

o’ the head !—
Who’s that at door? good uncle, go and see.—
My lord, come you again into my chamber:
You smile, and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.

Tro. Ha, ha! :

Cres. Come, you are deceiv’d; I think of no such

thing.— [Knocking.

How earnestly they knock!—Pray you, comein: 40
I would not for half Troy have you seen here.

[Exeunt TROILUS and CRESSIDA.

Pan. [Going to the door.) Who’s there ? what’s the
matter? will you beat down the door? How now?
what's the matter?

Enter AANEAS.

Aine. Good morrow, lord, good morrow.

Pan. Who’s there? my Lord Atneas! By my troth,
I knew you not: what news with you so early ?

«Ene. Is not Prince Troilus here?

Pan. Here! what should he do here?

Hine. Come, he is here, my lord ; do not deny him:
It doth import him much to speak with me. 51

Pan. Is he here, say you? ’tis more than I know,
Ill be sworn :—for my own part, Icamein late. What
should he do here?

Aine. Who!—nay, then:—come, come, you'l do
him wrong ere you are ’ware. You'll be so true to
him, to be false to him. Do not you know of him; but
yet go fetch him hither: go.

Pr’ythee, tarry,—

Re-enter TROILUS.

Tro. How now? what’s the matter?

ine. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you,
My matter issorash. There is at hand 61
Paris your brother, and Deiphobus,
The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor
Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith,
Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour,
We must give up to Diomedes’ hand
The Lady Cressida.

Tro. Is it concluded so?

ine. By Priam, and the general state of Troy:
They are at hand, and ready to effect it.

Tro. How my achievements mock me! 70
I will go meet them :—and, my Lord Afneas,
We met by chance; you did not find me here.

ine. Good, good, my lord ; the secrets of nature
Have not more gift in taciturnity.

: [Exeunt TRoILus and AGNEAS.

Pan. Is’t possible? no sooner got but lost? The
devil take Antenor! the young prince will go mad.
A sae upon Antenor! I would, they had broke’s
nec

 

 
 

Scenr IL] TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 859

 

 

Re-enter CRESSIDA. ms eee met De pene, wench; thou -must be
i gone: thou art changed for Antenor. Th st t
Cres. How powt what is the matter? Who was | thy father, and be eae from roils twill | he his
Pan. Abt ah! death ; ’t will be his bane ; he cannot bear it.
. : : 80 Cres. O you immortal gods !—I will not go.

 

Cres, Why sigh you so profoundly? where's my’; Pan. Thou must.
lord? gone? Cres. I will not, uncle: I have forgot my father ;

Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the matter? I know no touch of consanguinity ;

Pan. "Would I were as deep under the earth as Iam | No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me, 100
above! . : As the sweet Troilus.—O you gods divine!

Cres. O the gods !—what’s the matter? Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood,

Pan. Pr’ythee, get thee in. "Would thou_hadst If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death,
ne’er been’ born! I knew, thou wouldst be his | Do to this body what extremes you can,
death.—O poor gentleman!—A plague upon An- But the strong base and building of my love
tenor. Is as the very centre of the earth,

Cres. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees 90 | Drawing all things to it.—I’ll go in, and weep,—

I beseech you, what’s the matter? | Pan. Do, do.

 
 

 

860

Cres. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised
cheeks;
Crack my clear voice with sobs, and break my heart
With sounding Troilus. I will not gofrom Troy. 111
[Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same. Before PanDARvUs’ House.

Enter Paris, TROILUS, ASNEAS, DEIPHOBUS,
ANTENOR, and DIOMEDES.
Par. It is great morning, and the hour prefix’d
Of her delivery to this valiant Greek

 

Pan. “’ Would I were as deep under the earth as I am abuve.”

Comes fast upon.—Good my brother Troilus,
Tell you the lady what she is to do,
, And haste her to the purpose.
i ‘Walk into her house ;
I'll bring her to the Grecian presently ;
And to his hand when I deliver her,
Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus

A ies there offering to it his own heart. [Evrit.
‘ar. I know what ’tis to love; 10
And ’would, as I shall pity, I could help !—

Please you, walk in, my lords. [Exeunt.

Scene I[V.—The Same. A Room in PANDARUS’ House.

Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA.

Pan. Be moderate, be moderate.

Cres. Why tell you me of moderation ?
The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste,
And violenteth in a sense as strong
As that which causeth it: how can I moderate it ?
If I could temporise with my affection,
Or brew it to a weak and colder palate,
The like allayment could I give my grief:
My love admits no qualifying dross ;
No more my grief, in such a precious loss. 10

Enter TROILus.

Pan. Here, here, here he comes.—Ah, sweet ducks!

Cres. O Troilus! Troilus! [Embracing him.

Pan. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me
embrace too: O heart,—as the goodly saying is, —

—O heart, heavy heart.
Why sigh'st thou without breaking ?

where he answers again,

Because thou canst not ease thy smart,
By fricndship nor by speaking.

There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

 

[Act IV.

nothing, for we may live to have need of such averse:
we sce it, we see it.—How now, lambs? 22

Tro. Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a purity,
That the bless’d gods—as angry with my fancy,

More bright in zeal than the devotion which
Cold lips blow to their deities—take thee from me.

Cres, Have the gods envy? ‘

Pan. Ay, ay, ay, ay: ’tis too plain a case.

Cres, And is it true, that I must go from Troy?

Tro. A hateful truth.

Cres. What! and from Troilus too?

Tro. From Troy, and Troilus.

Tes. Is it possible? 31

Tro. And suddenly ; where injury of chance
Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by
All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips
Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents
Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows
Even in the birth of our own labouring breath.

We two, that with so many thousand sighs

Did buy each other, must Pee sell ourselves

With the rude brevity and discharge of one. 40
Injurious time now, with a robber's haste,

Crams his rich thievery up, he knows not how:

As many farewells as be stars in heaven,

With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them,
He fumbles up into a loose adieu;

And scants us with a single famish’d kiss,

Distasting with the salt of broken tears.

ine, [Within.] My lord, is the lady ready ?

Tro. Hark! you are call’d: some say, the Genius s
Cries ‘‘Come!” to him that instantly must die. 5
Bid them have patience ; she shall come anon.

Pan. Where are my tears? rain, to lay this wind, or

my heart will be blown up by the root! (Exit.
Cres. I must then to the Grecians ?
Tro. No remedy.

Cres. A woful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks!
When shall we sce again?
Tro. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart,—
Cres. I true! how now? what wicked deem is this?
Tro. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly,
For it is parting from us:
I speak not, ‘‘ be thou true,” as fearing thee ;
For I will throw my glove to Death himself,

 

Pan. “ What a pair of spectacles is here!"

That there’s no maculation in thy heart ;
But, “ be thou true,” say I, to fashion in
My sequent protestation; be thou true,
And I will see thee.
Cres. 0! you shall be expos’d, my lord, to dangers
As infinite as imminent! but I'll be true. ;
Tro. And I'll grow friend with danger. Wear this
sleeve.

 

 
 

[eee vid

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 861

 

 

Cres. And you this glove. When shall I see you? 70
Tro. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels,
To give thee nightly visitation.
But yet, be true.
Cres. O heavens !—be true, again?
Tro. Hear why I speak it, love:
The Grecian youths are full of quality ;
Their loving well compos’d with gift of nature,
Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise:
How novelties may move, and parts with person,
Alas, a kind of godly jealousy

(Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin) 80
Makes me afraid.
Cres. O heavens! you love me not.

Tro. Die Ia villain then!
In this I do not call your faith in question,
So mainly as my merit: I cannot sing,
Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk,
Nor play at subtle games ; fair virtues all,
To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant:
But I can tell, that in each grace of these
There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil
That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted. 90
Cres. Do you think I will?
Tro. No.
But something may be done that we will not:
And sometimes we are devils to ourselves,
When we will tempt the frailty of our powers,
Presuming on their changeful potency.
Aine. (Within.] Nay, good my lord,—
Tro. Come, kiss; and let us part.
Par, (Within.] Brother Troilus!
Tro. Good brother, come you hither ;
And bring Afneas and the Grecian with you.
Cres, My lord, will you be true? 100
Tro. Who, I? alas, it is my vice, my fault:
Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion,
I with great truth catch mere simplicity ;
Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns,
With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare.
Fear not my truth ; the moral of my wit
Is—plain, and true,—there's all the reach of it.

Enter ANEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS, and
DIOMEDES.
Welcome, Sir Diomed. Here is the lady,
Which for Antenor we deliver you:
At the port, lord, I'll give her to thy hand, 110
And by the way possess thee what she is.
Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek,
If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword,
Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe,
As Priam is in Ilion. -
Dio. . Fair Lady Cressid,
So please you, save the thanks this prince expects:
The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek,
Pleads your fair usage ; and to Diomed.
You shall be mistress, and command him wholly.
Tro. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously, 120
To shame the seal of my petition to thee,
In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece,
She is as far high-soaring o'er thy praises,
As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant.
I charge thee, use her well, even for my charge ;
For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not,
Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard,
T’ll cut thy throat. , .
Dio. O! be not mov’d, Prince Troilus.
Let me be privileg’d by my place and message,
To be aspeaker free: when I am hence, 130
I'll answer to my lust; and know you, lord,
I'll nothing do on charge. To her own worth
She shall be priz’d; but that you say—be’t so,
I'll speak it in my spirit and honour,—no. |
Tro. Come, to the port.—I'll tell thee, Diomed,
This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.—
Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk,
To our own selves bend we our needful talk.
[Exeunt TROILUS, CRESSIDA, and DIOMEDES.
[Trumpet sounded.
Par. Hark! Hector’s trumpet. ; i
Aine. How have we spent this morning !

 

The prince must think me tardy and remiss, 140
That swore to ride before him to the field.
Par. a Troilus’ fault. Come, come, to field with
im.
Dei. Let us make ready straight.
Ene. Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alacrity,
Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels.
The glory of our Troy doth this day lie

On his fair worth, and single chivalry. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE V.—The Grecian Camp. Lists set out.

Enter AJAX, armed; AGAMEMN®N, ACHILLES, Pa-
TROCLUS, MENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, and
others.

Agam. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair,
Anticipating time with starting courage.

Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy,

Thou dreadful Ajax ; that the appalled air

May pierce the head of the great combatant,

And hale him hither.

Ajax. Thou, trumpet, there’s my purse.
Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe:
Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek
Outswell the colic of putf’d Aquilon. 9
Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood;
Thou blow’st for Hector. (Zrumpet sounds.

Ulyss. No trumpet answers, '

Achil. "Tis but early days.

Agam. Is not yond Diomed with Calchas’ daughter?

Ulyss. ’Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait;

He rises on the toe: that spirit of his

In aspiration lifts him from the earth.

Enter DIOMEDES, with CRESSIDA.
a gam. Is this the Lady Cressid ?

20. ‘ven she.
Agam. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet

ady.
Nest. Our general doth salute you with a kiss.
Ulyss. Yet is the kindness but particular ; 20

’T were better she were kiss’d in general.

Nest. And very courtly counsel: I'll begin,—

So much for Nestor.

Achil. T’lltake that winter from your lips, fair lady:

Achiiles bids you welcome.

Men. Lhad good argument for kissing once.
Patr. But that’s no argument for kissing now:

For thus popp’d Paris in his hardiment,

And parted thus you and your argument.

Ulyss. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns!
For which we lose our heads, to gild his horns. 31
Patr. The first was Menelaus’ kiss ;—this, mine:

Patroclus kisses you.

Men. O! this is trim.

Patr. Paris, and I, kiss evermore for him.

Men. I'll have my kiss, sir.—Lady, by your leave.
Cres. In kissing do you render or receive ?

Patr. Both take and give.

Cres. 2 I'll make my match to live,

The kiss you take is better than you give;

Therefore no kiss, 39
Men. I'll give you boot ; I'll give you three for one.
Cres. You’re an odd man: give even, or give none.
Men. An odd man, lady? every man is odd.

Cres. No, Paris is not; for, you know, ’tis true,

That you are odd, and he is even with you.

Men. You fillip me o’ the head.

Cres. No, Ill be sworn.

Ulyss. It were no match, your nail against his
orn.—

May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?

'res. You may.
Ulyss. I do desire it.
Cres. Why, beg then.
Ulyss. Why then, for Venus’ sake, give me a kiss,

When Helen is a maid again, and his.

Cres. [am your debtor; claim it when ’tis due.

Ulyss. Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you.

Dio. Lady, a word :—I’}l bring you to your father.
DIOMEDEs leads out CRESSIDA.

 

 
 

862

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

{Act IV.

 

 

Nest. A woman of quick sense. :

Ulyss. Fie, fie upon her!
There ’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip,
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.

QO! these encounterers, so glib of tongue,

That give a coasting welcome ere it comes,

And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every Weta reader, set them down

For sluttish spoils of opportunity,

And daughters of the game.

All, The Trojans’ trumpet.

aAgam.

Enter HEcTOR, armed ; AONEAS, TROILUS, and other
Trojans, with Attendants.
ine. Alt all you state of Greece! what shall be
one
To him that victory commands? Or do you purpose,
A victor shall be known? will you, the knights
Shall to the edge of all extremity
Pursue each other, or shall be divided
By any voice or order of the field? 70
Hector bade ask.
Agam. Which way would Hector have it?
igne. He cares not: he ’ll obey conditions.
Achil, Tis done like Hector; but securely done,
A little proudly, and great deal disprising
The knight oppos’d.
If not Achilles, sir,

eine,
What is your name?
Achil. If not Achilles, nothing.
aEine. cheretere Achilles; but, whate’er,
his :—
In the extremity of great and little,
Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector ;
The one almost as infinite as all,
The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well,
And that which looks like pride is courtesy.
This Ajax is half made of Hector's blood:
In love whereof half Hector stays at home;
Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek
This blended knight, half Trojan, and half Greek.
alchil. A maiden battle then?—O! I perceive you.

Re-enter DIOMEDES.

Agam. Here is Sir Diomed.—Go, gentle knight,
Stand by our Ajax: as you and Lord A‘ueas
Consent upon the order of their tight,

So be it; either to the uttermost,

Or else a breath: the combatants being kin,

Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.
AsAx and HecTorR enter the lists.

Ulyss. They are oppos'd already.

Agam. : What, Trojan is that same that looks so

heavy ?

Ulyss. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight;
Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word,
Speaking in deeds, and deedless in his tongue ;

Not soon provok’d, nor, being provok’d, soon calm’d:

His heart and hand both open, and both free ; 100

For what he has, he gives; what thinks, he shows ;

Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty,

Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath.

Manly as Hector, but more dangerous ;

For Hector, in his blaze ot wrath, subscribes

To tender objects; but he, in heat of action,

Is more vindicative than jealous love.

They call him Troilus ; and on him erect

A second hope, as fairly built as Hector.

Thus says Auncas; one that knows the youth,

Even to his inches, and with private soul

Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me.
{Alarum. Hector and AJAX fight.

Agam. They are in action.
est. Now, Ajax, hold thine own!

Tro. Hector, thou sleep’st: awake thee !

Agam. His blows are well dispos'd :—there, Ajax !

Dio, You must no more. Trumpets cease.

Ane, Princes, enough, so please you.

Ajax. Jam not warm yet: let us fight again.

Dio, As Hector pleases.

60

[Trumpet within.

Yonder comes the troop.

know

80

90

110

 

 

Feet. Why, then will I no more.-.
Thou art, great lord, my father’s sistcr’s son, 120
A cousin-german to great Priam's seed ;
The obligation of our blood forbids
A gory emulation ’twixt us twain.
Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so,
That thou couldst say—‘ This hand is Grecian all,
And this is Trojan; the sinews of this le;
All Greek, and this all Troy ; my mother's blood
Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister
Bounds-in my father’s ;” by Jove multipotent,
Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member
Wherein my sword had not impressure made 131
Of ourrank feud. But the just gods gainsay,
‘That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother,
My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword
Be drain‘d! Let me embrace thee, Ajax.—
By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms;
Hector would have them fall upon him thus:
Cousin, all honour to thee !

Ajax. I thank thee, Hector:
Thou art too gentle, and too free a man.
I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence
A great addition earned in thy death.

Hect. Not Neoptolemus so mirable
(On whose bright crest Fame with her loudest Oyez
Cries, ‘This is he !”) could promise to himself
A thought of added honour torn from Hector.

Enc. There is expectance here from both the sides,
What further you will do.

Hect. We'll answer it;
The issue is embracement.—A jax, farewell.

Ajax. If I might in entreaties find success,

10

As seld I have the chance, I would desire 150
My tamous cousin to our Grecian tents, ‘
Dio. ’Tis Agamemnon’s wish ; and great Achilles

Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector.
Hect. Atneas, call my brother Troilus to me:

And signity this loving interview

To the expecters of our Trojan part;

Desire them home.—Give me thy hand, my cousin ;

I will go eat with thee, and see your knights,

Ajar. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here.
Hect. The worthiest of them tell me name by name;

But for Achilles, mine own searching eyes

Shall tind him by his large and portly size.

Agam. Worthy of arms! as welcome as to one

That would be rid of such an enemy ;

But that’s no welcome: understand more clear,

What's past, and what’s to come, is strew’d with

husks

And formless ruin of oblivion ;

but in this extant moment, faith and troth,

Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing,

Bids thee, with most divine integrity,

From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome.
fect. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon.
Agam. [To TRoiLus.] My well-fam’d lord of ‘Troy,

no less to you.
Men. Let me confirm my princely brother's grect-

170

ing:
You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.
Hect. Who must we answer?
Eine. The noble Menelaus.
Hect. O! you, my lord? by Mars his gauntlet.
thanks.
Mock not, that I affect the untraded oath:
Your quondam wite swears still by Venus’ glove ;
She’s well, but bade me not commend her to you. 180
Men. Name her not now, sir; she’s adeadly theme.
Hect. O! pardon; I offend.
Nest. Ihave, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft,
Labouring for destiny, make cruel way
Through ae of Greekish youth: and I have seen
ee,
As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed,
And seen thee scorning forfeits and subduements,
When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i’ th’ air,
Not letting it decline on the declin’d ;
That I have said unto my standers-by, 190
“Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!”
And I have seen thee pause, and take thy breath,

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

 

When that a ring of Greeks have hemm’d thee in,
Like an Olympian wrestling: this have I seen;
But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel,

I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire ;

And once fought with him: he was a soldier good ;

But, by, reat Mars, the captain of us all,

Never like thee. Let an old man embrace thee;

And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents.

Ene. ’T is the old Nestor.

Hect, Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle,
That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with time.—
Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee.

Vest. I would, my arms could match thee in con-

tention,

As they contend with thee in courtesy.

Hect, | would they could.

Nest. Ha!

By this white beard, I'd fight with thee to-morrow.
ell, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time— 210
Ulyss. I wonder now how yonder city stands,

When we have here her base and pillar by us.

Hect. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well.

Ah, sir, there ’s many a Greek and Trojan dead,

Since first I saw yourself and Diomed

In lion, on your Greekish embassy.

Ulyss. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue:

My prophecy is but half his journey yet ;

For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,

Yond towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,

Must kiss their own feet.

Hect. I must not believe you : 221
There they stand vet; and modestly I think,

The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost

A drop of Grecian blood : the end crowns all;

And that old common arbitrator, Time,

Will one day end it.

Ulyss. So to him we leave it.

Most gentle, and most valiant Hector, welcome.

After the general, I beseech you next

To feast with me, and see me at my tent.

Achil. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou !—
Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee: 231
Ihave with exact view perus'd thee, Hector,

And quoted joint by joint.

Is this Achilles?

Hect,

Achil. Tam Achilles.

ect. Stand fair, I pray thee: let me look on thee.

Achil. Behold thy fill.

Hect. Nay, I have done already.

Achil. Thou art too brief : I will the second time,
As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb.

ficct. O! like a book of sport thou It read me o'er;
But there’s more in me than thou understand’st. 240
Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye?

Achil. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his

200

body
Shall I destroy him, whether there, or there, or there?

 

 

That I may give the local wound a name,
And make distinct the very breach, whereout

Hector’s great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens !
Hect. It would discredit the bless’d gods, proud
man,

To answer such a question. Stand again:
Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly,
As to prenominate in nice conjecture,
Where thou wilt hit me dead?
lchil. I tell thee, yea.
Hect. Wert thou the oracle to tell me so,
I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well,
For I'll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there ;
But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,
I'll kill thee everywhere, yea, o'er and o’er.—
You, wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag:
His insolence draws folly from ay lips ;
But I" endeavour deeds to match these words,
Or may I never—

250

A jar. Do not chafe thee, cousin ;— 260

And you, Achilles, let these threats alone,

Till accident, or purpose, bring you to’t:

You may have every day enough of Hector,

It you have stomach. The general state, I fear,
Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him.

Hect. I pray you, let us see you in the field;
We have had pelting wars, since you refus'd
The Grecians’ cause.

Achil, Dost thou entreat me, Hector?
To-morrow do I meet thee, fell as death ;

To-night, all friends.

Hect. Thy hand upon that match. 270

Agam. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent;
There in the full convive we: afterwards,

As Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall
Concur together, severally entreat him.—
Beat loud the tabourines, let the trumpets blow,
‘That this great soldier may his welcome know.
[Eveunt all but TRoILUS and ULYSSES.
Tro. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you,
In what place of the field doth Calchas keep ?

Ulyss. At Menelaus’ tent, most princely Troilus :
There Diomed doth feast with him to-night ; 280
Who neither looks on heaven, nor on carth,

But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view
On the fair Cressid.

Tro. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much,
After we part from Agamemnon’s tent,

To bring me thither?

Ulyss. You shall command me, sir.
As gentle tell me, of what honour was
This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there,

That wails her absence?

Tro. O, sir! to such as boasting show their scars, 290

A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord?

She was belov’d, she lov’d; she is, and doth:

But, still, sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth.
[Ezeunt.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—The Grecian Camp. Before ACHILLEs’ Tent.

Achilles.
~’LL heat his blood with Greekish wine
to-night,
Which with my scimitar I'll cool to-
morrow.—
Patroclus, let us feast him to the height.
fatr, Here comes Thersites,

Entcr THERSITES.

Achil. Hownow, thou core of envy?
Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the

news?

Ther. Why, thou picture of what thou
seemest, and idol of idiot-worshippers,
here 's a letter for thee.

Achil, From whence, fragment?

Ther, Why, thou full dish of fool,
from Troy. 11

oP Patr. Who keeps the tent now?

Ther. The surgeon's box, or the patient’s wound.

Fatr. Well said, Adversity ! and what need these
tricks?

Ther. Pr’ythee, be silent, ber I profit not by thy
talk: thou art thought to be Achilles’ male varlet.

Patr. Male varlet, you rogue! what’s that ? 18

Ther. Why, his masculine whore. Now the rotten
diseases of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures,
eatarrhs, loads o'gravel i’ the back, lethargies, cold

alsies, raw cyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs,
hlaaders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’
the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-
simple of the tetter, take and take again such prepos-
terous discoveries !

Patr. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what
meanest thou to curse thus ?

Ther, Do I curse thee?

Patr. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson
indistinguishable cur, no. 31

Ther. No? why art thou then exasperate, thou idle
immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet
flap tor a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse,
thou! Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such
water-flies, diminutives of nature!

Patr. Out, gall!

Ther, Finch-egg!

aAchil. My sweet Patroclus, Iam thwarted quite
From my great P urpose in to-morrow’s battle. 40
Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba ;

A token from her daughter, my fair love;

Both taxing me, and gaging me to keep

An oath that [have sworn. I will not break it:

Fall, Greeks ; fail, fame; honour, or go, or stay;

My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey.—

Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent ;

This night in banqueting must all be spent.—

Away, Patroclus. 49
[Exreunt ACHILLES and PATROCLUS.

Ther. With too much blood, and too little brain,
these two may run mad; but if with too much brain
and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen.
Here’s Agamemnon,—an honest fellow ener and
one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain
as ear-wax: and the goodly transformation of Jupiter
there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue, and
oblique memorial of cuckolds; a thrifty shoeing-horn

 

 

Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS.

in a chain, hanging at his brother’s leg,—to what
form, but that he is, should wit larded with malice,
and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass
were nothing: he is both ass and ox; to an ox were
nothing: he is both ox andass. To bea dog, a mule,
a cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or
a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be
Menelaus,—I would conspire against destiny. Ask
me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites, for
I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not
Menelaus.—Hey-day ! spirits and tires !

Enter Hector, TROILUS, AJAX, AGAMEMNON,
ULysseEs, NESTOR, MENELAUS, and DIOMEDEs,
with lights.

«lgam. We go wrong; we go wrong.

«ljax. No, yonder ‘tis; there, where we see the
lights. 70

Flect, I trouble you.

Ajax. No, not a whit.

Clyss. Here comes himself to guide you.

Enter ACHILLES.
Achil, Welcome, brave Hector: welcome, princes

all.
Agam, So now, fair prince of Troy, I bid good
ight.

Ajax commands the guard to tend on you.
Hect. Thanks, and good night, to the Greeks’
general.
Men. Good night, my lord.
FHect. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus.
Ther. Sweet draught: sweet, quoth ’a! sweet sink,
sweet sewer.
aAchil, Good night, and welcome, both at once to
those 80
That go, or tarry.
Agam, Good night.
Exeunt AGAMEMNON and MENELAUS.
Achil, Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed,
Keep Hector company an hour or two.
Dio. 1 cannot, lord; I have important business,
The tide whereof is now.—Good night, great Hector.
Hect. Give me your hand.
Ulyss. [Aside to TRroiLus.] Follow his torch, he
goes to Calchas’ tent.
I'll keep you company.
Tro, Sweet sir, you honour me.

Lect. And so, good night.
[Zvit DIOMEDES ; ULyssEs and TROILUS
following.
Achil. Come, come ; enter my tent. 91
[Exeunt ACHILLES, HECTOR, AJAX, and
NESTOR.

Ther. That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a
most unjust knave : I will nomore trust him when he
leers, than I will a serpent when he hisses. _ He will
spend his mouth, and promise, like Brabbler the
hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell
it: it is prodigious, there will come some change:
the sun_borrows of the moon, when Diomed keeps
his word. I will rather leave to see Hector, than not
to dog him: they say, he keeps a Trojan drab, and
uses the traitor Calchas' tent. 1’ll after.—Nothing
but lechery ! all incontinent varlets ! [Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

SCENE II.) TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. 865
ScENE II.—The Same. Before CaLcuHas’ Tent. Dio. But will you then ?
Cres. In faith, I will, la: never trust me else.
Enter DIOMEDES, Dio. Give me some token for the surety of it.
Dio. What, are you up here, ho? speak. Cres. I'll fetch you one. [Exit.

Cal. (Within.] Who calls ?

Dio. Diomed.—Calchas, I think.—Where’s your
daughter?

Cal. [Within.] She comes to you.

Enter TROILUS and ULyssEs, at a distance; after
them, THERSITES.
Ulyss. Stand where the torch may not discover us.
Enter CRESSIDA.
Tro. Cressid comes forth to him.

Dio. How now, my charge?
Cres. Now, my swect guardian.—Hark! a word
with you. [TF hispers.

Tro. Yea, so familiar!

Ulyss. She will sing any man at first sight.

Ther. And any man may sing her, if he can take
her cliff; she's noted. at

Dio. Will you remember ?

Cres. Remember? yes.

Dio. Nay, but do then ;
And let your mind be coupled with your words.

Tro. What should she remember ?

Ulyss. List!

Cres. eet honey Greek, tempt me no more to
olly.

Ther. Roguery!

Dio. Nay, then,— 20

Cres. I’ll tell you what,— :
Dio. Pho! pho! come, tell a pin: you are forsworn.
Cres. Tn, faith, Icannot. What would you have me
0?
Ther. A Juggling trick,—to be eo open.
Dio. What did you swear you would bestow on me ?
Cres. I pr'ythee, do not hold me to mine oath;
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.
Dio. Good night.
Hold, patience! .
How now, Trojan?
es. Diomed,—
Dio. No, no; good night: I'll be your fool no more.
Tro. Thy better must.
Cres. Hark! one word in your ear.
Tro. O plague and madness ! 31
Ulyss. You are mov’d, prince: let us depart, I pray

ou,
Lest. vat teblensund should enlarge itself
To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous ;
The time right deadly : I beseech you, go.
Tro. Behold, I pray you!
Ulyss. Nay, good my lord, go off:
You flow to great distraction ; come, my lord.
Tro. I pr'ythee, stay.
Ulyss.
Tro. I pray you, stay.

You have not patience ; come.
By hell, and all hell’s tor-

ments,
I will not speak a word. :
ae is And so, good night. 40
res. Nay, but you part in anger.
'r0. - oe Doth that grieve thee?
O wither’d truth !

Ulyss. Why, how now, lord?

Tro. By Jove,
I will be patient.

Cres. Guardian !—why, Greek!

Dio. Pho, pho! adieu, you palter. ‘
Cres. In faith, I do not : come hither once again.
Ulyss. You shake, my lord, at something : will you

‘02

You will Erealt out.

Tro. She strokes his cheek !

Ulyss. Come, come.

Tro. Nay, stay ; by Jove, I will not speak a word :
There is between my will and all offences
A guard of patience :—stay a little while. . 50

her. How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump

and potato-finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery,
fry!

 

Ulyss. You have sworn patience.

Tro. Fear me not, sweet lord ;
I will not be myself, nor have cognition
Of what I feel: I am all patience. 60

Re-enter CRESSIDA.
Ther. Now the pledge! now, now, now!
Cres. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
Tro. O beauty! where is thy faith?
Ulyss. a lord,—
Tro. I will be patient ; outwardly I will.
Cres. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.—
He lov’d me—O false wench !—Give ’t me again,
Dio. Whose was 't?
Cres. It is no matter, now I have ’t again:
I will not meet with you to-morrow night.
I pr’ythee, Diomed, visit me no more.
Ther. Now she sharpens.—Well said, whetstone !
Dio. I shall have it.
Cres. What, this?
ce O, all dak -Crprattine wae fies !
res. O, all you gods !—O pretty, pretty pledge !
Thy master now lies thinking in his bed
Of thee, and me; and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee.—Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
Dio. [had your heart before ; this follows it.
Tro. I did swear patience. 80
Cres. You shall not have it, Diomed ; ‘faith, you
shall not.
I’ll give you something else.
Dio. I will have this. Whose was it?

Cres. ’T is no matter.
Dio. Come, tell me whose it was.
Cres, ’T ie one’s that lov’d me better than you
will.
But, now you have it, take it.
zo. . ‘ Whose was it?
Cres. By all Diana’s waiting-women, yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
Dio. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it. 90
Tro. Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on thy horn,
It should be challeng’d.
Cres. Well, well, ‘tis done, ’tis past ;—and yet it is

not:
I will not keep my word.
io. _Why then, farewell ;

Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.

Cres. You shall not go.—One cannot speak a word,
But it straight starts you.

Dio. I do not like this fooling.

Ther. Nor I, by Pluto: but that that likes not me,
Pleases me best.

Dio. What! shall I come? the hour?
Ay, come :—O Jove !—

Dio. : Farewell tillthen. 101
Cres. Good night: I pr’ythee, come.—
. [Zxit DIOMEDES,
Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee,
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads, must err. O! then conclude,
Minds, sway’d by eyes, are full of turpitude. ([Ezit.
Ther. A proof of strength she could not publish

Cres.
Do come :—I shall be plagu’d.

more,
Unless she said, ‘‘ My mind is now turn’d whore.” 110
Ulyss. All’s done, my lord.
Tro. It is.
Ulyss. Why stay we then?
Tro. To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did co-act,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth 2
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,

 

 
 

866 TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

[Act V.

 

 

An esperance so obstinately strong,

That doth invert the attest of eyes and ears,

As if those organs had deceptious functions,

Created only to calumniate. 120
Was Cressid here? .

Ulyss. T cannot conjure, Trojan.

Tro. She was not, sure.

Ulyss. Most sure she was.

Tro. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.

Ulyss. Nor mine, my lord: Cressid was here but

now.

Tro. Let it not be believ’d for womanhood !

Think we had mothers: do not give advantage
To stubborn critics,—apt, without a theme,
For depravation,—to square the general sex
By Cressid’s rule: rather think this not Cressid. :
Ulyss. What hath she done, prince, that can soil
our mothers? 30

Tro. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.

Ther. Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes?

Tro. This she? no; this is Diomed’s Cressida.

If beauty have a soul, this is not she:

If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimony,

If sanctimony be the gods’ delight,

If there be rule in unity itself,

This is not she. O madness of discourse,

That cause sets up with and against thyself!

Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt 140
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid !

Within my soul there doth conduce a fight

Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth;

And yet the spacious breadth of this division

Admits no orifice for a point, as subtle

As Ariachne’s broken woof, to enter.

Instance, O instance ! strong as Pluto’s gates;
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven: 150
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself ;

The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d ;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,

The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,

The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy reliques
Of her o’er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.

Ulyss. May worthy Troilus be half attach’d
With that which here his passion doth express?

Tro. Ay, Greek ; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart 160
Inflam’d with Venus: never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix’d a soul.

Hark, Greek :—as much as I do Cressid love,

So much by weight hate I her Diomed ;

That sleeve is mine that he 1] bear in his helm:
Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill,

My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout,
Which shipinen do the hurricano call,

Constring’d in mass by the oie eee sun,

Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear 170
In his descent, than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.

Ther. He'll tickle it for his concupy.

Tro. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false !
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,

And they ’l) seem glorious.
lyss. O! contain yourself;
Your passion draws ears hither.

Enter AANEAS.

Ene. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.
Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy:

Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home. 180
Tro. Heve with you, prince.—My courteous lord,
adieu.—

Farewell, revolted fair !—and, Diomed,
Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head!

Ulyss. I'll bring you to the gates.

Tro. Accept distracted thanks.

[Exeunt TRoILus, AUNEAS, and ULYss«s.

Ther, [Coming oe) ’Would, I could meet that
rogue Diomed. 1 would croak like a raven; I would
bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me anythin
for the intelligence of this whore: the parrot will no’

 

do more for an almond, than he for a commodious
drab. Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery:
nothing else holds fashion. A burning devil take
them! Exit.

 

Scene III.—Troy. Before PRIAM’s Palace.

Enter HECTOR and ANDROMACHE.
And. When was my lord so much _ ungently
temper’d,
To stop his ears against admonishment?
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
Hect. You train me to offend you; get you gone:
By the everlasting gods, I'll go.
And. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous totheday.
Hect. No more, I say.

Enter CASSANDRA.
Cas. Where is my brother Hector?
ind. Here, sister; arm’d, and bloody in intent.
Consort with me in loud and dear petition :
Pursue we him on knees; for I have dream’d 10
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
Hath nothing been but shapes and fornis of slaughter.
Cas. O! ’tis true. i
Hect. Ho! bid my trumpet sound!
Cas. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet
brother.
Ficct. Be gone, I say: the gods have heard ine swear.
Cas. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows:
They are polluted offerings, more abhorr’d
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
«lnd. O! be persuaded: do not count it holy
To hurt thy being just: it is as lawful,

For we would give as much to violent thefts,
And rob in the behalf of charity.
Cas. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
But vows to every purpose must not hold.
Unarm, sweet Hector.
Aiect. Hold you still, I say ;
Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate:
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
Holds honour far more precious-dear than lite.—

Enter TROILUS.
How now, young man? mean’st thou to fight to-day?
And. Cassandra, call my father to ) PereUAGe:
[Zarit CASSANDRA.
Hect. No, ’faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness,
youth ;
I am to-day i’ the vein of chivalry.
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war,
Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,
I'll stand to-day for thee, and me, and Troy.
Tro. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you,
Which better fits a lion than a man.
Hect. i boon vice is that, good Troilus? chide me
or it.
Tro. When many times the captive Grecian falls, 40
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise, and live.
Hect. O!’tis fair play.
TO. Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector.
Hect. How now? how now?
Tro. For the love of all the gods,
Let’s leave the hermit pity with our mothers,
And when we have our armours buckled on
The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords:
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth.
Hect. Fie, savage, fie!
Tro. Hector, then ’tis wars.
Hect. Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day. 50
Tro. Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
Beckoning with flery truncheon my retire ;
Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
Their eyes o’ergalled with recourse of tears;
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way,
But by my ruin.

 

 
 

ScENE V.]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

867

 

 

Re-enter CASSANDRA, with PRIAM.

Cas, Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast:
He is thy crutch ; now, if thou lose thy stay,
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,

Fall all together.

Pri. Come, Hector, come;
Thy wife hath dream’d; thy mother hath
Cassandra doth foresee ; and I myself
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt,

To tell thee that this day is ominous:
Therefore, come back,

Hect. Aineas is afield ;
And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks,
Even in the faith of valour, to appear
This morning to them.

£° back :
ad visions ;

Pri. Ay, but thou shalt not go. 70
Hect. Imust not break my faith.
You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,
Let me not shame respect, but give me leave
To take that course by your consent and voice,
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.

Cas. O Priam! yield not to him.

And, Do not, dear father.

Hect. Andromache, I am offended with you:

Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
: : [Exit ANDROMACHE.

Tro. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
Makes all these bodements.

Cas. O farewell, dear Hector !
Look, how thou diest! look, how thy eye turns pale!
Look, how thy wounds do bleed at many vents! 82
Hark, how Troy roars! how Hecuba cries out !

How poor Andromache shrills her dolour forth!
Behold, distraction, frenzy, and amazement,
Like witless anticks, one another meet,
And all cry—Hector! Hector ’s dead! O Hector!
Tro. Away! away?
Cas. Farewell.—Yet, soft!—Hector, I take my

leave:
Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. [Ezit.
Hect. You are amaz’d, my liege, at her exclaim. 91
Go in, and cheer the town: we'll forth, and fight,
Do deeds worth praise, and tell you them at night-
Pri. Farewell: the gods with safety stand about
thee! [Exeunt severally PRIAM and
Hector. Alarums. _
Tro. They are at it; hark !—Proud Diomed, believe,
I come to lose my arm, or win my sleeve. (Going.

. Enter PANDARUS.
Pan. Do you hear, my lord? do you hear?
Tro. What now? :
Pan, Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl.
Tro, Let me read. _ 10
Pan. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick
so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl; and
-what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you
one o’ these days: and I have a rheum in mine eyes
too; and such an ache in my bones, that, unless a man
were cursed, I cannot tell what to think on ’t.—What
says she there? |
ro. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the
heart; [Tearing the letter.
The effect doth operate another rat
Go, wind to wind, there turn and change together.—
My love with words and errors still she feeds, 111
But edifies another with her deeds. [EHxeunt severally.

 

ScENE IV.—Between Troy and the Grecian Camp.

Alarums: Excursions. Enter THERSITES.

Ther. Now they are clapper-clawing one another:
I'll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet,
Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish youn
knave’s sleeve of Troy there, in his helm: I woul
fain see them meet; that that same young Trojan ass,
that loves the whore there, might send that Greekish
whoremasterly villain, with the sleeve, back to the
dissembling luxurious drab of a sleeveless errand.

 

 

 

O’ the other side, the policy of those crafty swearing
rascals,—that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor,
and that same dog-fox, Ulysses,—is not proved worth
a blackberry :—they set me up, in policy, that mongrel
cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles;
and now is the cur A jax prouder than the cur Achilles,
and will not arm to-day: whereupon the Grecians
begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into
an ill opinion. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’ other.

Enter DIOMEDES, TROILUS following.

Tro. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx,
I would swim after.

 

 

 

Ther. ‘No, 00 ;—I aim a rascul; a scurvy railing knave; a very
filthy rogue.”

Dio. Thou dost miscall retjre :
I do not fly, but advantageous care 20
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
Have at thee!
Ther. Hold thy whore, Grecian!—now for thy
whore, Trojan !—now the sleeve! now the sleeve!
[Zxeunt TROILUS and DIOMEDES, fighting.

Enter HECTOR.

Hect. What art thou, Greek? art thou for Hector’s
match ?

Art thou of blood and honour? ::
Ther. No, no;—I am a rascal; a scurvy railing
knave; a very filthy rogue. 28
Hect, Ido believe thee :—live. [Exit.
Ther. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but
a plague break thy neck, for frighting me! What’s
become of the wenching rogues? I think, they have
swallowed one another: I would laugh at that
miracle; yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek
them. [Exit.

 

ScENE V.—The Same.

Enter DIOMEDES and a Servant.

Dio. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse ;
Present the fair steed to my Lady Cressid.
Fellow, commend my service to her beauty:
Tell her, I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan,
And am her knight by proof. ;

Serv. I go, my lord.
Enter AGAMEMNON.

ee Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamus
Hath beat down Menon: bastard Margarelon
Hath Doreus prisoner,

[Exit.

 

 
 

868 .

_TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

{Act V.

 

And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,

Upon the pashed corses of the kings 10
Epistrophus and Cedius: Polixenes is slain:
Amphimachus, and Thoas, deadly hurt:

Patroclus ta’en, or slain ; and Palamedes

Sore hurt and bruis’d: the dreadful Sagittary

Appals ournumbers. Haste we, Diomed,

To reinforcement, or we perish all.

Enter NESTOR. 1
Nest. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles ;

And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame.—
There is a thousand Hectors in the field:
Now, here he fights on Galathe his horse, 20
And there lacks work ; anon, he’s there afoot,
And there they fly, or die, like scaled sculls
Before the belching whale ; then is he qentey,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,
Fall down before him, like the mower’s swath :
Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves, and takes ;
Dexterity so obeying appetite,
That what he will, he does; and does so much,
That proof is call’d impossibility.

Enter ULYSSES.

Ulyss. O, courage, courage, princes! great Achilles
Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance: 31
Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood,
Together with his mangled Myrmidons,

That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to

him,
Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend,
And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d, and at it,
Roaring for Troilus; who hath done to-day
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself,
‘With such a careless force, and forceless care, 40
As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,
Bade him win all.

Enter AJAX.

Ajax. Troilus! thou coward Troilus! [Evit.
I Ay, there, there.

Dio.
Nest. So, so, we draw together.

Enter ACHILLES.
Achil. Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face ;
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry.
Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector.
[Excuit.

ScENE VI.—Another Part of the Field.

Enter AJAx.
Ajax. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head!

Enter DIOMEDEs.
Dio. Troilus, say! where's Troilus?
Ajax. What wouldst thou?
Dio. I would correct him.
Ajax, Were I the general, thou shouldst have my

office
Ere that correction.—Troilus, I say! what, Troilus!

Enter TRoILus.
Tro. O traitor Diomed!—turn thy false face, thou
traitor,
And pay thy life thou ow’st me for my horse!
Dio. Had art thou there ?
Ajax. I'll fight with him alone; stand, Diomed.
Dio. He is my yn ; I will not look upon.
Tro. Come both, you cogging Greeks, have at you
both. Exeunt, fighting.
Enter HECTOR.
Hect. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest
‘brother !
Enter ACHILLES.

Achil. ney do I see thee. Ha!—Have at thee,

ector.
Hicct. Pause, if thou wilt.

 

Achil, I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan.
Be happy that my arms are out of use:
My rest and negligence befriend thee now,
But thou anon shalt hear of me again ;
Till when, go seek thy fortune. [Exit.

Fect. Fare thee well.—

I would have been much more a fresher man, 20
Had I expected thee.—How now, my brother?

Re-enter TROILUS.

Tro. Ajax hath ta’en Atneas: shall it be?
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,
He shall not carry him : I’ll be taken too,

Or bring him off.—Fate, hear me what I say!

I reck not though thou end my life to-day. [Ezit.

Enter one in sumptuous armour.
Hect. Stand, stand, thou Greek : thou art a goodly

mark.—

No? wilt thou not ?_I like thy armour well ;

I'll frush it, and unlock the rivets all,

But I'll be master of it.— Wilt thou not, beast, abide?

Why then, fly on, I’ll hunt thee for thy hide. 31
[Ezeunt.

ScENE VII.—The Same.

Enter ACHILLES, with Myrmidons.

Achil. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;
Mark what I say.—Attend me where I wheel:
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath;
And when I have the bloody Hector found,
Empale him with your weapons round about ;
In fellest manner execute your arms.
Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.—

It is decreed— Hector the great must die. [Exeunt.

ScENE VIII.—The Same.

Enter MENELAUS and Paris, fighting : then,
THERSITES.

Ther. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at
it. Now, bull! now, dog! ‘Loo, Paris, "loo! now, my
double-henned sparrow! ‘loo, Paris, ‘loo! The bull
has the game :—’ware horns, ho!

[Exeunt Paris and MENELAUS.

Enter MARGARELON.
Mar. Turn, slave, and fight.
Ther, What art thou?
Mar. A bastard son of Priam’s. i
Ther. Tam a bastard too. I love bastards; lam a
bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind,
bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One
bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one
bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to
us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts
suament Farewell, bastard.

ar. The devil take thee, coward! [Exeunt.

ScENE [X.—Another Part of the Field.

Enter HEcToR.
Hect. Most putrefied core, so fair without,
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.
Now is my day’s work done; I'll take good breath:
Rest, sword ; thou hast thy fill of blood and death !
[Puts off his helmet, and lays his sword aside.

Enter ACHILLES and Myrmidons.

Achil. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set
How ugly night comes breathing at his heels:
Even with the vail and darking of the sun,
To close the day up, Hector’s life is done.

Hect. Iam unarm’d : forego this vantage, Greek.

Achil. Strike, fellows, strike! this is the man I seek.

[Hector falls.

 

 
 

SCENE XT.]

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.

869

 

 

So, Ilion, fall thou next! now, Troy, sink down! 1
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons ; and ery you all amain,
Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.
[A retreat sounded.
Hark! a retreat upon our Grecian part.
Myr, The Trojan trumpets sound: the like, my lord.
Achil. oe eon wing of night o’erspreads the
earth,
And, stickler-like, the armies separates.
My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed,
Pleas’d with this dainty bit, thus goes to bed.— 20
Ah, [Sheathes his sword.
Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail ;

Along the field I will the Trojan trail. [Exeunt.

ScENE X.—The Same.

Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR,
DIOMEDES, and others, marching. Shouts within.
Agam. Hark! hark! what shout is that?
Nest. : Peace, drums!
[Within.] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain!

Achilles!

Dio. The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles.
Ajax. If it be so, yet bragless let it be:

Great Hector was a man as good as he.
Agam. March patiently along.—Let one be sent

To pray Achilles see us at our tent.—

If in his death the gods have us befriended,

Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.

[Exeunt, marching.

 

SceENE XI.—Another Part of the Field.

Enter AANEAS and Trojan Forces.

Aine. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home: here starve we out the night.

Enter TROILUS.

Tro. Hector is slain.
All, Hector?—The gods forbid!

Tro. He’s dead ; and at the murderer’s horse’s tail,
In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field.—
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed !
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy !
Isay, at once let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on!

ine. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. 10

 

Tro. You understand me not, that tell me so.
I do not speak of flight, of fear, of death ;
But dare all imminence that gods and men
Address their dangersin. Hector is gone!
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d
Go in to Troy, and say there—Hector’s dead:
There is a word will Priam turn to stone,
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, 20
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march, away:
Hector is dead ; there is no more to say.
Stay yet.—You vile abominable tents, ‘
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare, r
I'll through and through you!—And thou, great-siz’d
coward,
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates:
I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thoughts.—
Strike a free march to Troy !—with comfort go: 30
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
[Eaeunt ALNEAS and Trojan Forces.

As TROILUS is going out, enter, from the other side,
PANDARUS.
Pan. But hear you, hear you!
Tro. Hence, broker-lackey ! ignomy and shame
Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name! [£zit.
Pan. A goodly medicine for mine aching bones !—O
world! world! world! thus is the poor agent despised.
O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are youset a-work,
and how ill requited ! why should our endeavour be so
desired, and the performance so loathed? what verse
for it? what instance for it ?—Let me see.— 40

Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing,

Till he hath lost his honey, and his sting ;

And being once subdued in armed tail,

Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.—
Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted
cloths,

As many as be here of pander’s hall,

Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall ;

Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Yhough not for me, yet for your aching bones. 50
Brethren, and sisters, of the hold-door trade,

Some two months hence my will shall here be made:
It should be now, but that my fear is this,—

Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.

Till then Ill sweat, and seek about for eases;

And at that time bequeath you my diseases, [Evit.

 

 
 

 

CORIOLANUS.

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

Catus Marcius, afterwards Catus MaRrcivus

cs CORIOLANUS, a noble Roman.
ITus LARTIUS, \ . . A

Comintus, Generals againshthe Volscians.

SENEN IUD AGRIPPA, Friend to Coriolanus.
ICINIUS VELUTUS =

JuNiUs BRUTUS, i i Tribunes of the People.

Young Manrcivus, Son to Coriolanus.

A Roman Herald.

TULLUS AUFIDIUS, General of the Volscians.

Lieutenant to Aufidius.

Conspirators with Aufidius.
A Citizen of Antium.
Two Volscian Guards.

VoLuMniA, Mother to Coriolanus.
ViIRGILIA, Wife to Coriolanus.
VALERIA, Friend to Virgilia,
Gentlewoman, attending on Virgilia.

Roman and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Acdiles,
Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens, Messengers, Servants
to Aufidius, and other Attendants.

SCENE—Partly in RoME; and partly in the Territories of the Volscians and Antiates.

ACT I.

ScENE JI.—Rome.

A Street.

Enter a company of mutinous Citizens, with staves, clubs, and other weapons.

   
   

1 Citizen.
EFORE we proceed any further, hear
mie speak.
(ll. Speak, speak.
1 Cit. You are all resolved rather
- to die than to famish ?
All. Resolved, resolved.
1 Cit. First, you know, Caius Mar-
cius is chief enemy to the people.
All, We know't, we know ''t.
} 1 Cit. Let us kill him, and we’i] have corn
at our own price. Is’t a verdict? ll
All. No more talking on’t; let it be done. Away,
away!
2 Cit. One word, good citizens.
1 Cit. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians
Feu What authority surfeits on would relieve us.
f they would yield us but the superfluity, while it
were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us
humanely ; but they think, we are too dear: the lean-
ness that afflicts us, the object of our misery, is as an
inventory to particularise their abundance; our suf-
ferance is a gain to them.—Let us revenge this with
our pikes, ere we become rakes: for the gods know,
1 speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for
revenge. :
2 Cit. Would you proceed especially against Caius
Marcius?
All, Against him first: he’s a very dog to the com-
monalty.
2 Cit. Consider you what services he has done for
his country? : 31
1 Cit. Very well; and could be content to give him ;

 

pred Sepeae for ‘t, but that he pays himself with being
proud,

2 Cit. Nay, but speak not maliciously.

1 Cit. Isay unto you, what he hath done famously,
he did it to that end: though soft-conscienced men can
be content to say it was for his country, he did it to
please his mother, and to be partly proud; which he
is, even to the altitude of his virtue. 40

2 Cit. What he cannot help in his nature, you ac-
count a vice in him. You must in no way say he is
covetous.

1 Cit. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusa-
tions: he hath faults, with surplus, to tire in repeti-
tion. [Shouts within.] What shouts are these? The
other side o’ the city is risen: why stay we prating
here? to the Capitol!

All. Come, come.

1 Cit. Soft ! who comes here?

Enter MENENIUS AGRIPPA.

2 Cit. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath
always loved the people.

1 Cit. He’s one honest enough : ‘would, all the rest
were so!

Men. What work’s, my countrymen, in hand?

Where go you
With bats and clubs?
you.

1 Cit. Our business is not unknown to the senate:
they have had inkling, this fortnight, what we intend
to do, which now we'll show ’em in deeds. They say,
ee suitors have strong breaths: they shall know, we

ave strong arms tov. . 61

50

The matter? Speak, I pray

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

CORIOLANUS.

871

 

 

Men, Why, masters, my good friends, mine honest
. neighbours,
Will you undo yourselves ?
1 Cit. We cannot, sir; we are undone already.
Men. I tell you, friends, most charitable care
Have the patricians of you. For your wants,
Your suffering in this dearth, you may as well
Strike at the heaven with your staves, as lift them
Against the Roman state, whose course will on
The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs
Of more strong link asunder than can ever
Appear in your impediment. For the dearth,
The gods, not the patricians, make it; and
Your knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack!

ls

jg

You are transported by calamity
Thither where more attends you; and you slander
The helms o’ the state, who care for you like fathers,
When you curse them as enemies. 78
1 Cit. Care for us !—True, indeed !—They ne’er cared
for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and their store-houses
crammed with grain ; make edicts for usury, to sup-
a usurers repeat daily any wholesome act esta-
lished against the rich, and provide more piercing
statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If
the wars eat us not up, they will; and there’s all the
love they bear us.
Men. Either you must. .
Confess yourselves wondrous malicious,
Or be accus’d of folly. I shall tell you .
A pretty tale: it may be, you have heard it ;
But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture
To-stale ’t a little more. 7
1 Cit. Well, I'll hear it, sir: yet you must not think
to fob off our disgrace with a tale; but, an ’t please
you, deliver. 7
Men. There was a time, when all the body’s mem-

90

ers
Rebell’d against the belly ; thus accus’d it :—
That only like a gulf it did remain ly
I the midst o’ the body, idle and unactive,
Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing _ 100
Like labour with the rest; where the other instru-
ments

Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel,
And, mutually participate, did minister
Unto the appetite and affection common
Of the whole body. The belly answered,—

1 Cit. Well, sir, what answer made the belly?

Men. Sir, I shall tell you.—With a kind of smile,
Which ne’er came from the lungs, but even thus,
(For, look you, I may make the belly smile,

 

 

As well as speak,) it tauntingly replied 110

To the discontented members, the mutinous parts

That envied his receipt ; even so most fitly

As you malign our senators, for that

They, are not such as you.
1 Cit. Your belly’s answer? What!

The kingly-crowned head, the vigilant eye,

The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier,

Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter,

70 | With other muniments and petty helps

In this our fabric, if that they—

Men. What then ?— c
’Fore me, this fellow speaks!—What then? what
then 20
1 Cit. Should by the cormorant belly be

restrain’d,
Who is the sink o’ the body,—
Men. Well, what then?
1 Cit. The former agents, if they did

complain,
What could the belly answer?
Men. I will tell you;
If you'll tee a small (of what you have
ittle
Patience awhile, you'll hear the belly’s
answer.

1 Cit. Ye’re long about it.

Men. Note me this, good friend ;
Your most grave belly was deliberate,
Not rash like his accusers, and thus an-

swer'd :—
“True is Pa my incorporate friends,” aut
e, 13

“That I receive the general food at first,
Which you do live upon; and fit it is,
Because I am the store-house, and the shop
Of the whole body: but, if you do remember,
I send it through the rivers of your blood,
Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the

brain ;
And, through the cranks and offices of

man,
The strongest nerves, and small inferior
veins,
From me receive that natural competency
Whereby they live. And though that.all at once, 140
You, my good friends,’—this says the belly, mark
me,—
1 Cit. Ay, sir; well, well.
Men. “Though all at once cannot
See what I do deliver out to each,
Yet I can make my audit up, that all
From me do back receive the flour of all,
And leave me but the bran.” What say you to’t?
1 Cit. It was an answer. How apply you this?
Men. The senators of Rome are this good belly,
And you the mutinous members: for examine
Their counsels and their cares; digest things rightly,
Touching the weal o’ the common; you shall find, 151
No public benefit which you receive,
But it proceeds, or comes, from them to you,
And no way from yourselves.—What do you think,
You, the great toe of this assembly?
1 Cit. I the great toe? Why the great toe?
Men. For that, being one o’ the lowest, basest,
poorest,
Of this most wise rebellion, thou go’st foremost:
Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run,
Lead'st first to win some vantage.—
But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs:
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle;
The one side must have bale.—Hail, noble Marcius!

Enter Catus Marcius.
Mar. Thanks.—What’s the matter, you dissentious
rogues,
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?
Cit. .. We have ever your good word.
Mar. os a will give good words to thee, will
atter
Beneath abhorring.—What would you have, you curs,

160

 

 
 

872 CORIOLANUS.

[Act L

 

 

 

That like nor peace, nor war? the one affrights you,

The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,

Wherc he should find you lions, finds you hares; 171

Where foxes, geese : you are no surer, no,

Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,

Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is

To make him worthy whose offence subdues him,

And curse that justice did it.—Who deserves great-

ness,

Deserves your hate; and your affections are

A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that

Which would increase his evil. He that depends

Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead, 180

And hews a oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust

ye

With every minute you do change a mind,

And call him noble that was now your hate,

Him vile that was your garland. hat’s the matter,

That in these several places of the city

You cry against the noble senate, who,

Under the gods, keep youinawe, whichelse |

Would feed cn one another?—What’s their seeking ?
Men. For corn at their own rates: whereof, they

say,
The city is well stor’d.
ar. Hang’em! They say! 190
They'll sit by the fire, and presume to know
What’s done i’ the Capitol ; who’s like to rise,
Who thrives, and who declines; side factions, and
give out
Conjectural marriages; making parties strong,
And feebling such as stand not in their liking,
Below their ee shoes. They say, there’s grain
enough!
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth,
And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry
With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high
As I could pick my lance. 2
Men. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded ;
For though abundantly they lack discretion,
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,
What says the other troop? ;
Mar. They are dissolved. Hang ’em!
They said, they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth pro-

verbs:
That hunger broke stone walls; that dogs must eat;
That meat was made for mouths; that the gods sent

not
Corn for the rich men only.—With these shreds
They vented anete complainings; which being an-
swer'd,
And a petition granted them, a strange one, 210
(To break the heart of gencrosity,
And make bold power look pale,) they threw their

As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon,
Shouting their emulation.
Men. What is granted them?
Mar. Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms,
Of their own choice: one’s Junius Brutus,
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not—’Sdeath !
The rabble should have first unroof'd the city,
Ere so prevail’d with me; it will in time
‘Win upon power, and throw forth greater themes 220
For insurrection’s arguing.
Men. This is strange.
Mar. Go; get you home, you fragments!

Enter a Messenger, hastily.
Mess. Where’s Caius Marcius?
Mar. Here. What is the matter?
Mess. The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.
Mar. I am glad on’t; then we shall ha’ means to

vent
Our musty superfluity.—See, our best elders.

Enter CoMINIvs, TiTUS LARTIUS, and other Senators ;
JUNIUS Brutus and SICINIUS VELUTUS.
1 Sen. Marcius, ’t is true that you have lately told us;
The Volsces are in arms.
Mar. They have a leader,
Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to’t.

 

I sin in envying his nobility ; 230
And were I Senne but what I am,
I would wish me only he,
Com. You have fought together.
Mar. Were half to‘half the world by the ears, and
e

Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make
Only my wars with him: he is a lion
That I am proud to hunt.
1 Sen. Then, worthy Marcius,
Attend upon Cominius to these wars.
Com. It is your former promise.
Mar. Sir, it is;
And I am constant.—Titus Lartius, thou
Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus’ face. 240
What! art thou stiff? stand’st out?
Tit. No, Caius Marcius;
I'll lean upon one crutch, and fight with the other,
Ere stay behind this business.
Men. O, true-bred !
1 Sen. Your company to the Capitol; where, I know,
Our greatest friends attend us.
Tit. [To CoMINIus.] Lead you on:
To Marcivs.] Follow Cominius; we must follow you;
ight worthy you priority.

Com. Noble Marcius!

1 Sen. [To the Citizens.] Hence! To your homes!
be gone. °

Mar. Nay, let them follow:

The Volsces have much corn ; take these rats thither,
To gnaw their garners.— Worshipful mutiners, 250
Your valour puts well forth; pray, follow.
[Exreunt Senators, COMINIUS, MArctIvs, TiTvs,
and MENENIus. Citizens steal away.
Sic. Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius?
Bru. He has no equal.
Sic. When we were chosen tribunes for the people,—
Bru. Mark’'d you his lip and eyes?
Sic. Nay, but his taunts.
Bru. Being mov’d, he will not spare to gird the

Sic. Bemock the modest moon,

Bru. The present wars devour him! he is grown
Too proud to be so valiant.

Sic. Such a nature,

Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow 260
Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder,
His insolence can brook to be commanded
Under Cominius.

Bru. Fame, at the which he aims,
In whom already he's well grac’d, cannot
Better be held, nor more attain’d, than by
A place below the first; for what miscarries
Shall be the general’s fault, though he perform
To the utmost of a man; and giddy censure
Will then cry out of Marcius, ‘“O, if he
Had borne the business !”

Sic, : Besides, if things go well,
Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall 271
Ot his demerits rob Cominius.

Bru. Come:

Half all Cominius’ honours are to Marcius,

Though Marcius earn’d them not; and all his faults
To Marcius shall be honours, though, indeed,

In aught he merit not.

Ste. Let's hence and hear.

How the despatch is made; and in what fashion,

More than his singularity, he goes

pon his present action.
TU.

Let’s along. [Execunt.

 

ScENE II.—Corioli. The Senate-house.

Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS and Senators.
1 Sen. So, your opinion is, Aufidius,
That they of Rome are enter’d in our counsels,
And know how we proceed.
Auf. Is it not yours?
What ever have been thought on in this state,
That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome

 
 

ScENE III.]

CORIOLANUS.

873

 

 

Had circumvention? "Tis not four days gone,

Since I heard thence; these are the words: I think,

I have the letter here; yes, here it is :—

|Reads.] ‘* They have press'd a power, but it is not
known

Whether for east, or west. The dearth is great; 10

The people mutinous; and it is ramour'd,

Cominius, Marcius your old enemy

(Who is of Rome worse hated than of you),

And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman,

These three lead on this preparation

Whither ’tis bent: most likely, ‘tis for you.

Consider of it.”

1 Sen. Our army’s in the field:
We never yet made doubt but Rome was ready
To answer us.

Auf. Nor did you think it folly,
To keep your great pretences veil’d till when 20
They needs must show themselves; which in the

hatching,
It seem’d, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery
We shall be shorten’d in our aim; which was,
To take in many towns, ere, almost, Kome
Should know we were afoot.
2 Sen. Noble Aufidius,
Take your commission ; hie you to your bands;
Let us alone to guard Corioli:
If they set down before’s, for the remove
Bring up your army; but, I think, youw’ll find
They ’ve not prepar’d for us.
Auf. O! doubt not that; 30
I speak from certainties. Nay, more;
Some parcels of their power are forth already,
And only hitherward. I leave your honours.
If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet,
*T is sworn between us, we shall ever strike
Till one can do no more.
All. The gods assist you!
Auf. And keep your honours safe!
1 Sen. Farewell.
Farewell.
[Ezeunt.

2 Sen.
All, Farewell.

ScENE IIJ._Rome. An Apartment in Marcivus’
House.

Enter VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA. They sit down on
two low stools, and sew.

Vol. I pray you, daughter, sing; or express yourself
in amore comfortable sort. If my son were my hus-
band, Ishould freelier rejoice in that absence wherein
he won honour, than in the embracements of his bed,
where he would show most love. When yet he was
but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb;
when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way ;
when, for a day of kings’ entreaties, a mother should
not sell him an hour from her beholding; I,—con-
sidering how honour would become such a person;
that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the
wall, if renown made it not stir,—was pleased to let
him seek danger where he was like to find fame. To
acruel war I sent him; from whence he returned, his
brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, Isprang
not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child,
than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.

Vir. But had he died in the business, madam? how
then? 19

Vol. Then his good report should have been my son:
Itherein would have found issue. Hear me profess
sincerely :—had I a dozen sons,—each in my love alike,
and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius,—
Ihad rather had eleven die nobly for their country,
than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Enter a Gentlewoman.
Gent. Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.
Vir. "Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.
Vol. Indeed, you shall not.
Methinks, I hear hither your husband’s drum,
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair; | _ 30
As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:

 

Methinks, I see him stamp thus, and call thus,—
‘Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear,
Though you were born in Rome.” His bloody brow
With his mail’d hand then wiping, forth he goes,
Like to a harvest-man, that’s task’d to mow

Or all, or lose his hire.

Vir. His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!

Vol. Away, you fool! it more becomes a man,
Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba, 40
When she did suckle Hector, look’d not lovelier
Than. Hector’s forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords, contemning.—'‘I'cll Valeria,
Weare fit to bid her welcome. [Hxit Gentlewoman.

Vir. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius !

Vol. He’ll beat Autidius’ head below his knee,

And tread upon his neck.

Re-enter Gentlewoman, with VALERIA and an Usher.

Val. My ladies both, good day to you.

Fol. Sweet madam,

Vir. 1am glad to see your ladyship. 50

Val. How do you both? you are manifest house-
keepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in
good taith._How does your little son?

Vir. I thank your ladyship; well, good madam.

Vol. He had rather see the swords, and heara drum,
than look upon his schoolmaster.

Val. O'my word, the father’s son; I 11 swear, tis
avery pretty boy. O’my troth, looked upon him o’
Wednesday half an hour together: he has such a con-
firmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded
butterfly ; and when he caught it, he let it go again;
and after it again ; and over and over he comes, and
up again, catched it again: or whether his fall enraged
him, or how ’t was, he did so set his teeth, and tear it;
O! I warrant, how he mammocked it!

Fol. One of his father’s moods.

Val. Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.

Vir. A crack, madam.

Fal. Come, lay aside your stitchery ; I must have
you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon. 70

Vir. No, good madam ; I will not out of doors.

Val. Not out of doors !

Vol. She shall, she shall.

Vir. Indeed, no, by your patience: Ill not over the
threshold, till my lord return from the wars.

Vol. Fie! you confine yourself most unreasonably.
Come ; you must go visit the good lady that lies in,

Vir. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her
with my prayers; but I cannot go thither.

Vol. Why, I pray you? 80

Vir. ’T is not to save labour, nor that I want love.

Val. You would be another Penelope; yet, they say,
all the yarn she spun in Ulysses’ absence did but fill
Ithaca full of moths. Come; I would, your cambric
were sensible as your finger, that you might leave
pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.

Vir. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will
not forth.

fal. In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you
excellent news of your husband. 90

Vir. O, good madam, there can be none yet.

Val. Verily, I do not jest with you: there came
news from him last night.

Vir. Indeed, madam ?

Fal. In earnest, it’s true; I heard a senator speak
it. Thus it is:—the Volsces have an army forth,
against whom Cominius the general is gone, with one
part of our Roman power; your lord, and Titus
Lartius, are set down before their city Corioli; they
nothing doubt prevailing, and to make it brief wars.
This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us.

Vir. Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you
in everything hereafter. 103

Fol. Let her alone, lady: as she is now, she will
but disease our better mirth.

Fal. In troth, J think she would.—Fare you well
then.—Come, good sweet lady.—Pr’ythee, Virgilia,
turn thy solemness out o’ door, and go along with us.

Vir. No, at a word, madam; indeed, I must not. I
wish you much mirth. 110

Val. Well then, farewell. [Ezeunt.

 

 
 

874

CORIOLANUS.

{Act I.

 

ScEeNnE 1V.—Before Corioli.

Enter, with drum and colours, Marcius, TITus
Lartius, Oficers, and Soldiers. To them a Mes-
sengyer.

Mar. Yonder comes news :—a wager, they have

met.
Lart. My horse to yours, no.
Mar.
Lart.
Mar. Say, has our general met the enemy?
Mess. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet.
Lart. So, the good horse is mine.
Mar. I'll buy him of you.
Lart, No, [ll nor sell nor give him: lend you him

’T is done.
Agreed.

will,

For half a hundred years.—Summon the town.

Mar. How far off lie these armies?

Mess. Within this mile and half.

Mar. Thenshall we hear their ‘larum, and they ours.
Now, Mars, I pr'ythee, make us quick in work, 10
That we with smoking swords may march from hence,
Yo help our fielded friends !—Come, blow thy blast.

A paricy sounded. Enter, on the walls, two
Senators, and others.

Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls?

1 Sen. No, nor a man that fears you less than he,
That bar than alittle. (Drumsafar off.] Hark, our

rums
Are bringing forth our youth: we’ll break our walls,
Rather than they shall pound us up. Our gates,
Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn’d with rushes;
They ‘ll open of themselves. Lilarum afar off.) Hark
you, far off;

There is Aufidius : list, what work he makes 20
Amongst your cloven army.

Mar. O! they are at it.

Lart. Their noise be our instruction.—Ladders, ho!

The Volsccs enter, and pass over the stage.
Mar. They fear us not, but issue forth their city.
Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight
With hearts more proof than shields.—Advance,
brave Titus :
They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,
Which makes me sweat with wrath.—Come on, my
fellows:
He that retires, I’ll take him for a Volsce,
And he shall feel mine edge.

Alarum, and excunt Romans and Volsces, fighting.
The Romans are beaten back to their trenches.
Re-enter MARCIUS.

Mar. All the contagion of the south light on you, 30
You shames of Rome! you herd of—Biles and plagues
Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr’d
Further than seen, and one infect another
Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese,

That bear the shapes of men, how have you run

From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!

All hurt behind ; backs red, and faces pale

With flight and agued fear! Mend, and charge home,

Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe,

And make my wars on you; look to’t: come on; 40

If you'll stand fast, we'll beat them to their wives,

As they us to our trenches followed.

Another alarum. The Volsces and Romans re-enter,
and the fight is renewed. The Volsces retire into
Corioli, and MARCIUS follows them to the gates.

So, now the gates are ope :—now prove good seconds.

*T is for the followers fortune widens them,

Not for the fliers : mark me, and do the like.

[He enters the gates, and is shut in.

1 Sol. Fool-hardiness ! not I.

Sol. Nor
3 Sol. See, they have shut him in.
[Alarum continues.
All, To the pot, I warrant him.

Enter Titus LARTIUS,
Lart. What is become of Marcius?

 

All, Slain, sir, doubtless.
1 Sol. Following the fliers at the very heels,
With them he enters ; who, upon the sudden, 50
Clapp’d-to their gates: he is himself alone,
To answer all the city.
Lart. O noble fellow!
Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword,
And, when it bows, stands up. ‘Thou art left, Marcius:
A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,
Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier
Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible
Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks, and
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds,
Thou mad’st thine enemies shake, asif the world 60
Were feverous and did tremble.

Re-enter MaRcIvsS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy.
1 Sol. Look, sir!
Lart. O, *tis Marcius!
Let’s fetch him off, or make remain alike.
[They fight, and ail enter the city.

ScENE V.—Within Corioli. A Street.

Enter certain Romans, with spoils.
1 Rom. This will I carry to Rome.
2 Rom. And I this.
3 Rom. A murrain on't! I took this for silver.
[dlarum continues still afar off.

Enter Marctus and Titus Lartivs, with a trumpet.
Mar. See here these movers, that do prize their
hours
Ata crack’d drachm! Cushions, leaden spoons,
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would
Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up.—Down with

them !—
And hark, what noise the general makes !—To him!
There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius, 10

Piercing our Romans: then, valiant ‘Titus, take
Convenient numbers to make good the city,
Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste
To help Cominius.

Lart. Worthy sir, thou bleed’st ;

Thy exercise hath been too violent
For a second course of fight.

Mar. Sir, praise me not;

My work hath yet not warm’d me. Fare you well.
The blood I drop is rather physical

Than dangerous tome. To Aufidius thus

I will appear, and fight.

Lart. Now the fair goddess, Fortune,
Fall deep in love with thee ; and her great charms 21
Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman,
Prosperity be thy page!

Mar. Thy friend no less
Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell.

Lart. Thou worthiest Marcius!— [Hit MaARcIus.
Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place ;

Call thither all the officers of the town,

Where they shall know our mind. Away! [Ezeunt.

ScENE VI.—Near the Camp of ComINIvs.

Enter ComMinius and Forces, as in retreat.
Com. Breathe you, my friends: well fought ; we are
come 9
Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands,
Nor cowardly in retire : believe me, sirs,
We shall be charg’d again. Whiles wt have struck,
By interims and conveying gusts we have heard
The charges of our friends.—Ye Roman gods,
Lead their successes as we wish our own,
That both our powers, with smiling fronts encoun-

tering,
May give you thankful sacrifice !—

 
 

ScENE IX.]

CORIOLANUS.

875

 

 

Enter a Messenger.
i hy news ?
Mess. The citizens of Corioli have issued, 10
And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle:
Isaw our party to their trenches driven,

And then I came away.
Com. Though thou speak’st truth,
mia Ea speak’st not well. ow long is’t
since

Mess. Above an hour, my lord.

Com. ’T is not a mile; briefly we heard their drums:
How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,
And bring thy news so late?

Mess. | Spies of the Volsces
Held me in chase, that I was fore’d to wheel
Three or four miles about ; else had I, sir, 20
Half an hour since brought my report.

Hinter Marctius.

Com. Who’s yonder,
That does appear as he were flay’d? O gods!
He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have
Before-time seen him thus.

Mar. Come I too late?

Com. a shepherd knows not thunder from a

abor,

More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue
From every meaner man.

Mar. Come I too late ?

Com. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others,
But mantled in your own. ,

Mar. O! let me clip you
In arms as sound as when I woo’d ; in heart 30
As merry as when our nuptial day was done,
And tapers burn’d to bedward.

‘om.

How is’t with Titus Lartius?
Mar. As with a man busied about decrees:

Condemning some to death, and some to exile;

Ransoming him, or pitving, threat’ning the other;

Holding Corioli in the name of Rome,

Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,

To let him slip at will.

Flower of warriors,

Com. Where is that slave,
Which told me they had beat you to your trenches ? 40
Where is he? Call him hither.

Mar. Let him alone;
He did inform the truth: but for our gentlemen,
The common file, (a plague !—tribunes for them !)
The mouse ne’er shunn’d the cat, as they did budge
From rascals worse than they.

Com. But how prevail’d you?

Mar. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think:
Where is the enemy? are you lords o’ the field ?
If not, why cease you till you are so?

Com. Marcius, we have at disadvantage fought,
And did retire to win our purpose.

Mar. How lies their battle? know you on which

side
They have plac’d their men of trust ?
5 As I guess, Marcius,
Their bands i’ the vaward are the Antiates,
Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius,

Their very heart of hope. .

‘ar. I do beseech you,
By all the battles wherein we have fought,
ay the blood we have shed together, by the vows

e have made to endure friends, that you directly
Set me against Aufidius, and his Antiates ;
And that you not delay the present, but, 60
Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts,
We prove this very hour.

Com. Though I could wish
You were conducted to a gentle bath,
And balms applied to you, yet dare I never
Deny your asking. Take your choice of those
That best can aid your action.

ar. Those are they

That most are willing.—If any such be here, |
(As it were sin to doubt,) that love this painting
Wherein you see me smear’d; if any fear
Lesser his person than an ill report ; 70

 

If any think, brave death outweighs bad life,
And that his country’s dearer than himself;
Let him, alone, or so many so minded,
Wave thus, to express his disposition,

And follow Marcius.

[They ail shout, and wave their swords ; take
him up in their arms, and cast up their
caps.

Ome, alone! Make you a sword of me?
If these shows be not outward, which of you
But is four Volsces?. None of you but is
Able to bear against the great Aufidius
A shield as hard as his. A certain number, 80
Though thanks to all, must I select from all: the rest
Shall bear the business in some other fight,
As cause will be obey’d. Please you to march;
And four shall quickly draw out my command,
Which men are best inclin’d.

Com. March on, my fellows:
Make good this ostentation, and you sha.

Divide in all with us. [Exeunt.

“Scrnz VIL—The Gates of Corioli.

TiTus LARTIUS, having seta guard upon Corioli, going
with a_ drum and trumpet toward COMINIUS and
Caius MARCIUS, enters with a Lieutenant, a party
of Soldiers, and a Scout.

Lart. ee Me the ports be guarded: keep your
uties,
As I have set them down. If Idosend, despatch
Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve
For a short holding: if we lose the field,
‘We cannot keep the town.
Lieu. Fear not our care, sir.
Lart, Hence, and shut your gates upon us.—
Our guider, come; to the Roman camp conduct us.
[Exeunt.

ScENE VIII.—A Field of Battle between the Roman
and the Volscian Camps.

Alarum. Enter MARrcius and AUFIDIUS.

Mar. I'll fight with none but thee; for I do hate thee
Worse than a promise-breaker.

Auf. We hate alike:
Not Afric owns a serpent, I abhor
More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot.

Mar. Let the first budger die the other's slave,
And the gods doom him after!

If I fly, Marcius,

uf.
Halloo me like a hare.
Mar. Within these three hours, Tullus,
Alone I fought in your Corioli walls,
And made what work I pleas’d; ‘tis not my blood,
Wherein thou seest me mask’d: for thy revenge 10
Wrench up thy power to the highest.
Auf. Wert thou the Hector,
That was the whip of your bragg’d progeny,
Thou shouldst not scape me here.—
[They fight, and certain Volsces come to the
aid of AUFIDIUS.
Officious, and not valiant,—you have sham’d me
In your condemned seconds.
[Exeunt fighting, all driven by Marcivs.

ScENE IX.—The Roman Camp.

Alarum, <A retreat sounded. Flourish. Enter, at
one side, COMINIUS and Romans; at the other side,
Marcius, with his arm in a scarf, and other
Romans.

Com. If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,
Thou ‘lt not believe thy deeds: but Ill report it,
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles ;
Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug,

I’ the end admire; where ladies shall be frighted,

And, gladly quak’d, hear more; where the dull

tribunes,

 

 
 

 

876 CORIOLANUS. [Act I.

 

That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours, The grave of vous deserving: Rome must know 20
Shall say, against their hearts,— The value of her own: ’t were a concealment

‘‘ We thank the gods, our Rome hath such a soldier!"— | Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,

Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast, 10 | To hide your doings ; and to silence that,

Having fully din’d before. | Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch’d,

 

: le
eG 2

WO

 

 

THE FIGHT BETWEEN MARCIUS AND AUFIDIUS.

Enter Titus LarRrivus, with his Power, from the

Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you, .

pursuit. i (In sign of what you are, not to reward
; What you have done,) before our army hear me.
Lart. O general, Mar. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
Here is the steed, we the caparison : To hear themselves remember'd.
Hadst thou beheld— Com. Should they not,
Mar. Pray now, no more: my mother, Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude, 30

Who has a charter to extol her blood,
When she does praise me, grieves me. I have done
As you have done; that’s what I can; induc’d
As you have been ; that’s for my-country :
He that has but effected his good will
Hath overta'en mine act.
Com, You shall not be

And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses
(Whereof we have ta’en good, and good store), of all’
The treasure, in this field achiev'd and city,

We render you the tenth; to be ta’en forth,

Before the common distribution,

At your only choice.

» Mar. I thank you, general;
 

 

SCENE X.]

CORIOLANUS.

877

 

But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it;
And stand upon my common part with those
That have beheld the doing. 40
[4 long flourish. They ail cry, ‘‘Marcrius!
Marcius!” cast up their caps and lances:
CoMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare.
Mar. May these same instruments, which you pro-
‘ane,
Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
T the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-fac’d soothing!
When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk,
Let him be made a coverture for the wars !
No more, Isay. For that J have not wash’d
My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch,
Which, without note, here's many else have done,
You shout me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical ;
As if Lloved my little should be dieted
In praises sauc’d with lies.
‘om. Too modest are you,
More cruel to your good report, than grateful
To us that give you truly. By your patience,
If ’gainst yourself you be incens’d, we'll put you
(Like one that means his proper harm) in manacles,
Then reason safely with you.—Therefore, be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war’s garland: in token of the which 60
ay noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
ith all his trim belonging ; and, trom this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,
With all the applause and clamour of the host,
Caius MaRcIus CORIOLANUS.—
Bear the addition nobly ever!
All, Caius Marcius Coriolanus!
Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.
Cor. I will go wash;
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush, or no: howbeit, I thank you.—
I mean to stride your steed ; and, at all times,
To undercrest your good addition
To the fairness of my power.
Com. So, to our tent ;
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success.—You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioli back : send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.
Lart. I shall, my lord.
Cor. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refus’d most princely gifts, am bound to beg 80

Of my lord general. :
Com. Take it: tis yours.—What is ’t?
Cor. I sometime lay, here in Corioli,

At a poor man’s house; he us’d me kindly:

He cried to me; I saw him prisoner ;

But then Aufidius was within my view,

And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity. I request you

To give my poor host freedom.

0 O, well begg’d!

m.
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as isthe wind. Deliver him, Titus.
Lart. Marcius, his name?
Cor. By Jupiter, forgot!— 90
Iam weary; yea, my memory is tir’d.—
Have we no wine here?

70

Com. Go we to our tent.
The blood upon your visage dries; tis time

It should be look’d to. Come. [Ezeunt.

 

Scene X.—The Camp of the Volsces.

A Flourish. Cornets. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS,
bloody, with two or three Soldiers.
Auf. The town is ta’en! a
1 Sold. ’T will be deliver’d back on good condition.
Auf. Condition !—
I would I were a Roman; for I cannot,
Being a Volsce, be that I am.—Condition !
What good condition can a treaty find :
I’ the part that is at mercy ?—Five times, Marcius,
IT have fought with thee: so often hast thou beat me,

 

Auf. “I would I werea Roman ; for I cannot.

Being a Volsce, be that I am.’

And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter
As often as we eat.—By the elements,
If e’er again I meet him beard to beard,
He is mine, or I am his. Mine emulation
Hath not that honour in ’t, it had; for where
I thought to crush him in an equal force,
True sword to sword, I’ll potch at him some way,
Or wrath, or craft, may get him.
1 Sold. He’s the devil.
Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour’s
poison'd,
With only eee by him; for him
Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep, nor sanctuary,
Being naked, sick ; nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst
My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it
At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there,
Against the hospitable canon, would I
ash my fierce hand inhisheart. Go you tothe city:
Learn, how ’tis held, and what they are, that must
Be hostages for Rome.
1 Sold. Will not you go?
Auf. [am attended at the cypress grove: I pray you,

(Tis south the city mills,) bring me word thither’ 31
How the world goes, that to the pace of it
I may spur on my journey.

Sold. I shall, sir. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

LAL
WALLA

ERTCRer ED

ACT ITI.

i ScENE I.—Rome.
Enter MENENIUS, SICINIUS, and BRUTUS.

   

5 Menenius.
7H{E augurer tells me, we shall have news
to-night.
Bru. Good, or bad?
Men. Not according to the prayer of the
people, for they love not Marcius. 5
Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their
friends.

Sic. The lamb.

Men. Ay, to devour him; as the hungry
plebeians would the noble Marcius. IL

Bru, He’sa lamb, indeed, that baes like
a bear.

Men. He’s a bear, indced, that lives like a lamb.
You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall
ask you.

Both Trib. Well, sir.

Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that
you two have not in abundance? :

Bru. He's poor in no one fault, but stored a
all.

Sic. Especially in pride. . ;

Bru. And topping all others in boasting.

Men. This is strange now. Do you two know how
you are censured here in the city, I mean of us 0’ the
right-hand file? Do you?

Both Trib, Why, how are we censured? _

Men. Because you talk of pride now,—will you not
be angry ?

Both Trib. Well, well, sir; well. ,_ 80
Men, Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little
thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of

patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be
angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take
it. as a pleasure to you, in being so. You blame
Marcius for being proud?

Bru. We do it not alone, sir.

Men. I know, you can do very little alone; for
your helps are many, or else your actions would
grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-
like for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O!
that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of
your necks, and make but an interior survey of your
good selves! O, that you could!

Bru. What then, sir?

Men. Why, then you should discover a brace of
unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, (alias,
fools,) as any in Rome.

Sic. Menenius, you are known well enough too. 49

Men. Iam known to be a humorous patrician, and
one that loves a cup of hot wine, with not a drop of
allaying Tiber in ’t; said to be something imperfect,
in favouring the first complaint; hasty, and tinder-
like, upon too trivial motion; one that converses
More with the buttock of the night, than with the
forehead of the morning. What I think, I utter,
and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two
such weals-men as you are (I cannot call you Lycur-

Men. Pray you, who does the wolf love? |

 

A Public Place.

guses), if the drink you give me touch my palate
adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I can’t say,
your worships have delivered the matter well, when
{ find the ass in compound with the major part of
your syllables ; and though I must be content to bear
with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet
they lie deadly that tell you have good faces. If you
see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it, that
Iam known well enough too? What harm can your
bisson conspectuilies glean out of this character, if
I be known well enough too?

Bru. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. 70

Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any-
thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and
legs: you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in
hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-
seller, and then rejourn the controversy of three-
pence to a second day of audience.—When you are
hearing a matter between party and party, if you
chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces
like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all
patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss
the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your
hearing: all the peace you make in their cause is,
calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of
strange ones.

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be
a pertecter giber tor the table, than a necessary
bencher in the Capitol. 87

Men. Our very priests must become mockers, if
they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you
are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not
worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards
deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a
botcher's cushion, or to be entombed in an ass’s pack-
saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud;
who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your pre-
decessors since Deucalion, though, peradventure,
some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen.
Good den to your worships: more of your conversa-
tion would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of
the beastly plebeians; I will be bold to take my
leave of you. 101

[BRUTUS and SICINIUS retire to the back of the
scene.

Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALER1A, &c.
How now, my as fair as noble ladies, (and the moon,
were she earthly, no nobler,) whither do you follow
your eyes so fast? ‘

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius ap-
proaches; for the love of Juno, let’s go.

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most pros-
perous approbation.

Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee.—Ho!
Marcius coming home? 4 111

Two Ladies. Nay, ’tis true.

Vol. Look, here’s a letter from him: the state hath

 

 
 

 

ScENE I.]

CORIOLANUS.

879

 

another, his wife another; and, I think, there’s one
at home for you.

Men. I will make my very house reel to-night.—A
letter for me! 117

Vir. Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you ; I saw it.

Men. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of
seven years’ health; in which time I will make a lip
at the physician: the most sovereign prescription in
Galen is but empirictic, and, to this preservative, of
no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not
wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir. O! no, no, no.

Vol. O! he is wounded; I thank the gods for ’t.

Men. So do J too, if it be not too much.
—Brings ’a victory in his pocket?—The
wounds become him.

Vol. On’s brows, Mencnius: he comes
the third time home with the oaken
garland. :

Men.
soundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought
together, but Aufidius got off.

Men. And ’t was time for him too, I’ll
warrant him that: an he had stay’d by
him, I would not have been so fidiused
for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold |
that’s in them. Is the senate possessed {
of this? 142 §

Vol. Good ladies, let’s go.—Yes, yes,
yes: the senate has letters from the
general, wherein he gives my son the
whole name of the war. He hath in this
action outdone his former deeds doubly. }

Val. In troth, there’s wondrous things
spoke of him.

Men. Wondrous: ay, I warrant you,
and not without his true purchasing. 151

Vir. The gods grant them true!

Vol. True! pow, wow.

Men. True! I’ll be sworn they are
true.—Where is he wounded?—[To the
Tribunes, who come forward.) God save

our good worships! Marcius is coming
fame: he has more cause to be proud.—Where is
wounded?

Vol. TY the shoulder, and i’ the left arm: there will
be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall
stand for his place. He received in the repulse of
Tarquin seven hurts i’ the body.

Men. One i’ the neck, and two?’ the thigh,—there’s
nine that I know.

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five
wounds upon him.

132
Has he disciplined Aufidius

he:
159

Men. ow it’s twenty-seven : ey ash was an
enemy’s grave. [4 shout and flouris. aT Hark! the
trumpets. 170

Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before him
he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears :
Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie;
Which, being advanc’d, declines, and then men die.

A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter CoMINIus and
Titus Lartius; between them, CORIOLANUS,
crowned with an oaken garland; with Captains,
Soldiers, and a Herald.

Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did

ig! {
Within Corioli gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius ; these
In honour follows Coriolanus :— :
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! ['lourish.

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! 180
Cor. No more of this; it does offend my heart:
Pray now, no more.
Ee. Look, sir, your mother!
‘or.
You have, I know, petition’d all the gods
For my prosperity. [Kneels.

ol. Nay, my good soldier, up ;
My gene Marcius, worthy Caius, an
By deed-achieving honour newly nam’d,—

What is it?—Coriolanus must I call thee ?—
But, O! thy wife—
Cor. My gracious silence, hail!
| Wouldst thou have laugh’d, had I come coftin’d home,
| That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah! my dear, 190
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons,
Men. j 3 Now the gods crown thee!
Cor. And live you yet?-[To VALERIA.] O my sweet
lady, pardon.
Vol. I know not where to turn :—O ! welcome home ;
And welcome, general ;—and you are welcome all.
Men. A hundred thousand welcomes: [ could weep,

 

THE RETURN OF CORIOLANUS TO ROME,

And I could laugh; Iam light, and heavy. Welcome!

A curse begin at very root of his heart,

That is not glad to see thee!—You are three,

That Rome should dote on ; yet, by the faith of men,

We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will
201

not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors!
We call a nettle but a nettle, and
The faults of fools but folly.
Com.
Cor, Menenius, ever, ever.
Her, Give way there, and ae on!
Cor. [To his Wife and Mother.) Your hand,—and

Ever right.

yours:
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited ;
From whom I have received not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.

Ihave liv’d

Vol.
To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy : only
There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.

210

Know, good mother,
my way,

On, to the Capitol!

[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as

- before. The Tribunes remain.

Bru. All fongues speak of him, and the bleared

sights

Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her pabr ory
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram "bout her reechy neck,
Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, win-

dows,
Are smother'd up, leads fill’d, and ridges hors’d

Cor. —
I had rather be their servant in
at sway with them in theirs.
‘om.

 

 

 
 

880

CORIOLANUS.

‘hcp Th |

 

 

 

 

With variable complexions, all agrecing

In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station : our veil’d dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in :
Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil
Of Pheebus’ burning kisses: such a pother

As if that whatsoever god, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,

And gave him graceful posture.

230

Ste. On the sudden,
I warrant him consul.
Bru, Then our office may,

During his power, go sleep. x
Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours
From where he should begin, and end; but wiJl 241
Lose those he hath won.
Bru. In that there’s comfort.
Sic. Doubt not the commoners, for whom we stand,
But they, upon their ancient malice, will
Forget, with the least cause, these his new honours ;
Which that he’ll give them, make I as little question
As he is proud to do ’t.
Bru. I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i’ the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility ;
Nor, showing (as the manner is) his wounds
To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sic. ’T is right.
Bru. It was his word. O! he would miss it, rather
Than carry it, but by the suit o’ the gentry 251

To him, and the desire of the nobles.
Sic. I wish no better
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.
Bru. "Tis most like, he will.
Sic. It shall be to him then, as our good wills,
A sure destruction.
Bru. So it must fall out
To him, or our authorities. For an end,
We must suggest the people, in what hatred
He still hath held them ; that to’s power he would
Have made them mules, silene’d their pleaders, and
Dispropertied their freedoms ; holding them, 261
In human action and capacity,
Of no more soul, nor fitness for the world,
Than camels in their war; who have their provand
Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
Sic. This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall reach the people, (which time shall not want,
If he be put upon 't: and that’s as easy
As to set dogs on sheep,) will be his fire 270
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.

Enter a Messenger.

Bru. What's the matter?
Mess. You are sent for to the Capitol. ’T is thought,
That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen
The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind
To hear him speak: matrons flung gloves,
Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers,
Upon him as he pass’d ; the nobles bended,
As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made
A shower and thunder, with their caps and shouts:
I never saw the like.

ru. Let’s to the Capitol ; 281
And carry with us cars and eyes for the time,
But hearts for the event.
Sic. Have with you. [Ezeunt.
ScENE II.—The Same. The Capitol.
Enter Two Officers, to lay cushions.
1 Of. Come, come; they are almost here. How

many stand for consulships?

 

2 Of. Three, they say; but ’tis thought of every
one Coriolanus will carry it.

1 Og. That's a brave fellow; but he’s vengeance
proud, and loves not the common people.

2 Of. Faith, there have been many great men that
have flattered the people, who ne’er loved them; and
there be many that they have loved, they know not
wherefore: so that, if they love they know not why,
they hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for
Coriolanus neither to care whether they love or hate
him, manifests the true knowledge he has in their
disposition ; and, out of his noble carelessness, lets
them plainly see ’t.

Of. If he did not care whether he had their
love or no, he waved indifferently ‘twixt doing them
neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate with
greater devotion than they can render it him, and
leaves nothing undone that may fully discover him
their opposite. Now, toseem to affect the malice and
displeasure of the people, is as bad as that which he
dislikes, to flatter them for their love. 23

2 Of. He hath deserved worthily of his country;
and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those
who, having been supple and courteous to the people,
bonneted, without any further deed to have them at
all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so
planted his honours in their eyes, and his actions in
their hearts, that for their tongues to be silent, and
not confess so much, were a kind of ingrateful injury ;
to report otherwise were a malice, that, giving itsel
the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every
ear that heard it.

1 Of. Nomore of him: he isa worthy man. Make
way, they are coming.

Asennet. Enter, with Lictors before them, COMINIUS
the Consul, MENENIUS, CORIOLANUS, many other
Senators, SICINIUS and Brutus. The Senators
take their places ; the Tribunes take theirs also by
themselves.

Men. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and
To send for Titus Lartius, it remains,

As the main point of this our after-meeting,

To gratify his noble service, that 40

Hath thus stood forhis country. Therefore, please you,

Most reverend and grave elders, to desire

The present consul, and last general

In our well-found successes, to report

A little of that worthy work perform’d

By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom

We met here, both to thank, and to remember

With honours like himself.

1 Sen. Speak, good Cominius:
Leave nothing out for length, and make us think,
Rather our state’s defective for requital,

Than we to stretch it out. Masters o’ the people,

We do request your kindest ears; and, after,

Your loving motion toward the common body,

To yield what passes here.

Sic. We are convented
Upon a pleasing treaty ; and have hearts
Inclinable to honour and advance
The theme of our assembly.

Which the rather

Bru.
We shall be bless’d to do, if he remember
A kinder value of the people than
He hath hereto priz'd them at.
Men. That’s off, that’s off:
I would you rather had been silent. Please you
To hear Cominius speak ? .
TU. Most willingly ;
But yet my caution was more pertinent
Than the rebuke you give it.
Men. He loves your people:
But tie him not to be their bedfellow.—
Worthy Cominius, speak.—Nay, keep your place.
« _ [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away.
1 Sen. Sit, Coriolanus: never shame to hear
What you have nobly done.
‘or’. Your honours’ pardon:
I had rather have my wounds to heal again,
Than hear say how I got them.

 

 
ScENE III]

CORIOLANUS.

881

 

Bru. . Sir, I hope, 70
My words dis-bench’d you not.
Cor, No, sir: yet oft,

When blows have made me stay, I fled from words.
You sooth’d not, therefore hurt not. But, your people,
Ilove them as they weigh.
en. Pray now, sit down.
Cor. Thad rather have one scratch my head i’ the
sun,

When the alarum were struck, than idly sit
To hear my nothings monster’d. [Exit.

Men. hen Masters o’ the people,
Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter,
(That’s thousand to one good one,) when you now

see,
He had rather venture all his limbs for honour, 80
Than one of his ears to hear it ?--Proceed, Cominius.

Com. I shall lack voice : the deeds of Coriolanus

Should not be utter'd feebly.—It is held,

That valour is the chiefest virtue, and

Most dignifies the haver: if it be,

The man I speak of cannot in the world |
Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years, F |
When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought
Beyond the mark of others ; our then dictator,

Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight, 90
When with his Amazonian chin he drove

The bristled lips before him. He bestrid

An o’er-press’d Roman, and i’ the consul’s view

Slew three opposers : Tarquin’s self he met,

And struck him on his knee: in that day's feats,
When he might act the woman in the scene,

He prov’d best man i’ the field, and for his meed
Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age
Man-enter’d thus, he waxed like a sea;

And, in the brunt of seventeen battles since, 100
He lurch’d all swords of the garland. For this last,
Before and in Corioli, let me say,

I cannot speak him home: he stopp’d the fliers,
And by his rare example made the coward

Turn terror into sport. As weeds before

A vessel under sail, so men obey’d,

And fell below his stem: his sword, death’s stamp,
Where it did mark, it took ; from face to foot

He was a thing of blood, whose every motion

Was tim’d with dying cries. Alone he enter'd
The mortal gate of the city, which he painted
With shunless destiny ; aidless came off,

And with a sudden reinforcement struck
Coriolilike a planet. Now all’s his;

When by-and-by the din of war ’gan pierce
His ready sense: then straight his doubled spirit
Pesauackend what in flesh was fatigate,

And to the battle came he; where he did

Run reeking o’er the lives of men, as if

°T were a perpetual spoil; and, till we call’d

Both field and city ours, he never stood

To ease his breast with panting.

Men. Worthy man!

1 Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the honours
Which we devise him.

Com. Our spoils he kick’d at;
And look’d upon things precious, as they were
The common muck o’ the world: he covets less
Than misery itself wouJd give, rewards
His deeds with doing them, and is content
To spend the time, to end it.

He's right noble

Men.
Let him be call’d for.
1 Sen.
Of. He doth appear.

Re-enter CORIOLANUS.

Men. The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas’d
To make thee consul.

 

110

120

Call Coriolanus. 130

‘or. I do owe them still

My life and services.

It then remains,

the people.

: I do beseech you,
Let me o’erleap that custom ; for I cannot

Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them,

en.
That you do speak to
Cor.

 

For my wounds’ sake, to give their suffrage: please

you,
That I may pass this doing.

Sic. Sir, the people
Must have their voices: neither will they bate
One jot of ceremony.

Men. Put them not to’t:
Pray you, go fit you to the custom, and
Take to you, as your predecessors have,

Your honour with your form.

Cor. It is a part
That I shall blush in acting, and might well
Be taken from the people.

Bru. Mark you that?

Cor. To brag unto them,—Thus I did, and thus ;—
Show them the unaching scars which I should hide,
As if Lhad receiv’d them for the hire
Of their breath only !

Men.

140

Do not stand upon ’t.— 150

' We recommend to you, tribunes of the people,
' Our piper to them ;—and to our noble consul

Wish we all joy and honour.
Sen. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!
[Flourish. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS.
Bru. You see how he intends to use the people. —
Sic. May they perceive his intent! He will require
them,
As if he did contemn what he requested
Should be in them to give.
Bru. Come; we’ll inform them
Of our proceedings here: on the market-place
I know they do attend us. 160
[Execunt.

SCENE III.—The Same. The Forum.

Fintcr several Citizens.

1 Cit. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought
not to deny him.

2 Cit. We may, sir, if we will.

3 Cit. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is
a power that we have no power to do: for if he show
us his wounds, and tell us his deeds, we are to put
our tongues into those wounds, and speak for them ;
so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell
him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is
monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful
were to make a monster of the multitude; of the
which we being members, should bring ourselves to
be monstrous members.

1 Cit. And to make us no better thought of, a little
help will serve : for once we stood up about the ccrn,
he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed
multitude. 17

3 Cit. We have been called so of many ; not that our
heads are some brown, some black, some auburn,
some bald, but that our wits are so diversely coloured :
and truly, I think, if all our wits were to issue out of
one skull, they would fly east, west, north, south ; and
their consent of one direct way should be at once to
all the points o' the compass.

2 Cit. Think you so? hich way do you judge my
wit would fly?

3 Cit. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another
man’s will: ‘tis strongly wedged up in a block-head ;
but if it were at liberty, ’t would, sure, southward.

2 Cit. Why that way 2 30

3 Cit. To lose itself in a fog; where, being three
parts melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would
return, for conscience sake, to help to get thee a wife.

2 Cit. You are never without your tricks:—you
may, you may.

3 Cit. Are you all resolved to give your voices?
But that’s no matter; the greater part carries it. I
say, if he would incline to the people, there was never
a worthier man. 39

Enter CORIOLANUS and MENENIUB.

Here he comes, and in the gown of humility: mark
his behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but
to come by him where he stands, by ones, by twos,

 

 

 
 

882

CORIOLANUS.

[Act IIL.

 

 

and by threes. He’s to make his requests by par-
ticulars ; wherein every one of us has asingle honour,
in giving him our own voices with our own tongues:
therefore, follow me, and I'll direct you how you shall
go by him.

_4il. Content, content. [Exeunt.

Men. O sir, you are not right: have you not known
The worthiest men have done't?

Cor What must IT Bayt

I pray, sir,—Plague upon ’t! I cannot bring

My tongue to sucha pace.—Look, sir:—my y wounds ;—
I got them in my country’s service, when

Some certain of your brethren roar’d, and ran
From the noise of our own drums.

Men. Ome, the gods!
You must not speak of that: you must desire them
To think upon you.

Cor Think upon me? Hang’em!

I would they would forget me, like the virtues
Which our divines lose by ’em.

Men, You'll mar all:

I'll leave you. Pray you, speak to them, I pray you,
In wholesome manner. [Exit.

Enter two Citizens.

Cor. Bid them wash their faces, 61
And keep their teeth clean.—So, here comes a brace.
You know the cause, sir, of my standing here.

1 Cit. We do, sir: tell us what hath brought you
to’t.

Cor. Mine own desert.

2 Cit. Your own desert ?

Cor. Ay, not mine own desire.

1 Cit. How! not your own desire ?

Cor. No, sir: 't was never my desire yet, to trouble
the poor with begging. 71

1 Cit. You must think, if we give you anything, we
hope to gain by you.

Cor, Well then, I pray, UE ee o' the consulship?

1 Cit. The price is, to ask it kindly.

Cor. Kindly! Sir, 1 aor let me ha’t: [have wounds
to show you, which shall be yours in private.—Your
good voice, sir; what say you?

2 Cit. You shall ha‘t, worthy sir.

Cor. A match, sir. “There is in all two worthy
voices bege’d.—I have your alms: adieu. 81

1 Cit. But this is something odd.

2 Cit. An ‘t were to give again,-—but ‘tis no matter.

[Eceunt the two Citizens.

Enter two other Citizens.

Cor. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune
of your voices that I may be consul, I have here the
customary gown.

3 Cit. You have deserved nobly of your country, and
you have not deserved nobly.

Cor. Your enigma? 89

3 Cit. You have been a scourge to her enemies, you
have been a rod to her friends ; you have not, indeed,
loved the common people.

Cor. You should account me the more virtuous,
that I have not been common in my love. I will, sir,
flatter my sworn brother the people, to earna dearer
estimation of them: ‘tis a condition they account
gentle; and since the wisdom of their choice is rather
to have my hat than my heart, I will practise the in-
sinuating nod, and be off to them most counterfeitly :
that is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some
Hy pular man, and give it bountifully to the desirers.

herefore, beseech you, I may be consul. 102

4 Cit. We hope to find you our friend, and therefore
give you our voices heartily.

3 Cit. You have received many wounds for your
country.

Cor. I will not seal your knowledge with showing
them. I will make much of your voices, and so
trouble you no further.

Both Cit. The gods give you joy, sir, a 4

Hxecu

Cor, Most sweet voices !—
Better it is to die, better to starve,
‘Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.

 

Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here,

To beg of Hob and Dick, that do appear,

Their needless vouches ? Custom calls me to ’t:—
What custom wills, in all things should we do’t,
The dust on antique time would lie unswept,

And mountainous error be too highly heap’d

For truth to o’er-peer.—Rather than fool it so,

Let the high office and the honour go

To one that would do thus.—I am falt through:
The one part suffer’d, the other will I do.

Enter three other Citizens,
Here come more voices.—
Your voices: for your voices I have fought ;
Watch'd for your voices; for your voices bear
Of wounds two dozen odd ; battles thrice six
I have seen and heard of ; ‘for your voices have
Done many things, some less, some more.
voices:
Indeed, I would be consul. 130
5 Cit. He has done nobly, and cannot go without
any honest man’s voice.
6 Cit. Therefore, let him be consul. The gods give
him joy, and make him good friend to the people!
All. Amen, amen.—
God save thee, noble consul! [ene Citizens.
Cor. Worthy voices!

120

Your

Re-enter MENENIUS, with BRUTUS and SICINIUS.
Men. You have stood your limitation; and the
tribunes
Endue you with the people’s voice : remains
That, in the official marks invested, you
Anon do meet the senate.
Cor. Is this done?
Sic. The custom of request you have discharg" d:
The people do admit you ; and are summon’‘d
To meet anon, upon your ‘approbation.
Cor. Where? at the senate-house?
Sic. There, Coriolanus.
Cor. May I change these garments?
Sic. You may, sir
Cor. That I i straight do;
again,
Repair to the senate-house.
Men, I'll keep you company.— Will you along?
Bru. We stay here for the people.

140

and, knowing myself

Sic. Fare you well.
[Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS.
He has it now; and by his looks, methinks, 151

"lis warm at his heart.
With a proud heart he wore

Bru.
His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people?

Re-enter Citizens.
Sic. How Hew my masters? have you chose this
man
1 Cit. He has our voices, sir.
Bru, We pray the gods he may deserve your loves.
2 Cit. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice,
He mock’d us when he begg’d our voices.
3 Cit. Certainly,
He flouted us downright.
1 Cit. No, ’tis his kind of speech ; he did not ne
us.
2 Cit. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says,
He us'd us scornfully : he should have show’'d us
His marks of merit, wounds receiv’d for his country.
a Why, so he did, Iam sure.
No, no; no man saw ’em.
3 Cit. He said, he had wounds, which he could show
in rivate ;
And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn,
“T would be consul,” says he: ‘‘aged custom,
But by your voices, will not so permit me ; s
Your voices therefore. ” ‘When we granted that,
Here was,—‘‘I thank you for your voices, —thank

you, — 170
Your most sweet voices :—now you have left your

voices,
Ihave no further with you.”—Was not this mockery ?
Sic. Why, either, were you ignorant to see’t,

 

 
 

 

 

Scene III.] CORIOLANUS. 883
Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness ‘ And his old hate unto you: besides, forget not
To yield your voices? With what contempt he wore the humble weed; 220

TU. Could you not have told him,
As you were lesson’d,—when he had no power,
But was a petty servant to the state,
He was your enemy : ever spake against
Your liberties, and the charters that you bear
I’ the body of the weal; and now, arriving
A place of ae and sway o’ the state,
If he should still malignantly remain
Fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might
Be curses to yourselves? You should have said,
That, as his worthy deeds did claim no less
Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature
‘Would think upon you for your voices, and
Translate his malice towards you into love,
Standing your friendly lord.

Sic. : Thus to have said,
As you were fore-advis’d, had touch’d his spirit,
And tried his inclination ; from him pluck’
Either his gracious promise, which you might,
As cause had call’d you up, have hdd him to;
Or else it would have gall’d his surly nature,
Which easily endures not article
Tying him to aught; so, putting him to rage,
You should have ta’en the advantage of his choler,
And pass’d him unelected.

Bru. Did you perceive,
He did solicit you in free contempt,
When he did need your loves; and do you think, 200
That his contempt shall not be bruising to you,
When he hath power tocrush? Why, had your bodies
No heart among you? or had you tongues to cry
es the rectorship of judgment?

ic.

180

190

" 7 Have you,
Ere now, denied the asker? and, now again,

Of him that did not ask, but mock, bestow

Your sued-for tongues ?

3 Cit. He’s not confirm’d ; we may deny him yet.

2 Cit. And will deny him:

I'll have five hundred voices of that sound. 210

1 Cit. I twice five hundred, and their friends to

piece ’em.

Bru. Get you hence instantly ; and tell those friends,
They have chose a consul that will from them take
Their liberties ; make them of no more voice
Than foes that are as often beat for barking
As therefore kept to do so.

Sic. Let them assemble ;
And, on a safer judgment, allrevoke
Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride,

 

 

‘How in his suit he scorn’d you: but your loves,
Thinking upon his services, took from you
The apprehension of his present portance,
Which most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion
After the inveterate hate he bears you.
Bru. Lay.
A fault on us, your tribunes, that we labour'd
(No impediment between) but that you must
Cast your election on him.
Sic. Say, you chose him
More after our commandment, than as guided
By your own true affections; and that your minds, 230
Pre-occupied with what you rather must do
Than what you should, made you against the grain
To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us.
Bru. Ay, spareusnot. Say, we read lectures to you,
How youngly he began to serve his country,
How lone continued, and what stock he Spates of,
The noble house o’ the Marcians; from whence came
That Ancus Marcius, Numa’s daughter’s son,
Who, after great Hostilius, here was king ;
Of the same house Publius and Quintus were,
That our best water brought by conduits hither ;
[And Censorinus that was so surnam’d,]
And nobly named so, twice being censor,
Was his great ancestor.
Sic. One thus descended,
That hath beside well in his person wrought
To be set high in place, we did commend
To your remembrances : but you have found,
Scaling his present bearing with his past,
That he’s your fixed enemy, and revoke
oer sudden approbation.
ru.

240

Say, you ne’er had done’t,
(Harp on that still,) but by our putting on ; 251
And presently, when you have drawn your number,
Repair to the Capitol.

All. We will so: almost all
Repent in their election. [Exeunt Citizens.

ru. Let them go on:

This mutiny were better put in hazard,
Than stay, past doubt, for greater.
If, as his nature is, he fall in rage
With their refusal, both observe and answer
The vantage of his anger.

Sic. To the Capitol:
Come, we’ll be there before the stream o’ the people;
And this shall seem, as partly ’tis, their own, 261
Which we have goaded onward.

[Exeunt. |

 

 
 

 

 

ACT III. <

ScEeNE I.—The Same. A Street.

Coriolanus.
ULLUS Autidius then had made new head?
Lart. He had, my lord; and that it was,
which caus'd
Our swifter composition.
Cor. So then, the Volsces stand but as at

   

first ;
Ready, when time shall prompt them, to
9 make road
x Upon us again.

Com. They are worn, lord consul, so,
That we shall hardly in our ages see
Their banners wave again.

Cor. Saw you Aufidius?

_Lart. On safe-guard he came to me; and did curse
Against the Volsces, for they had so vildly 10
Yielded the town: he is retir'd to Antium,

Cor. Spoke he of me?
He did, my lord.
How ? what?

Lart.

Cor.

Lart. How often he had met you, sword to sword ;
That of all things upon the earth he hated
Your person most ; that he would pawn his fortunes
‘To hopeless restitution, so he might
Be call'd your vanquisher.

Cor.

Lart. At Antium.

Cor. I wish I had a cause to seek him there,
To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home.

Enter Stcixius and BRuTus.
Behold! these are the tribunes of the people,
The tongues o’ the common mouth. I dodespise them;
For they do prank them in authority,
Against all noble sufferance.

Sie,

Cor. Ha! what is that?
Bru. It will be dangerous to go on: no further.
Cor. What makes this change?

At Antium lives he?

20

Pass no further.

Men. The matter?

Com. Hath he not pass’d the noble, and the
common?

Bru, Cominius, no.

Cor. ; Have [had children’s voices?
1 Sen. Tribunes, give way: he shall to the market-
place. 30

 

|

Cornets. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIvs, ComINIUs, Titus LaRTIvs, Senators, and
Patricians.

Bru. The people are incens’d against him.

ic. Stop,
Or all will fall in broil.
Cor. Are these your herd ?—
Must these have voices, that can yield them now,

And straight disclaim their tongues ?—What are your

offices ?

You being their mouths, why rule you not their
teeth?

Have you not set them on?

Men. Be calm, be calm.

Cor. It is a purpos’d thing, and grows by plot,
To curb the will of the nobility :
Suffer ’t, and live with such as cannot rule,
Nor ever will be rul’d.

Bru. Call ’t not a plot:
The people cry, you mock’d them ; and, of late,
When corn was given them gratis, you repin’d;
Scandal'd the suppliants for the people, call'd them
Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.

Cor. Why, this was known before.

Bru. Not to them all.

Cor. Have you inform’d them sithence?

Bru. How! Iinform them!
Com. You are like to do such business.
Not unlike,

40

Bru.
Each is to better yours.
Cor. Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds,
Let me deserve so ill as you, and make me 50
Your fellow tribune.
Sie, You show too much of that
For which the people stir. If you will pass
To where you are bound, you must inquire your way,
Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit ;
Or never be so noble as a consul,
Nor yoke with him for tribune.
Men. Let’s be calm.
Com. The people are abus'd.—Set on.—This palter-
in:

gs

Becomes not Rome; nor has Coriolanus
Deserv'd this so aishonour’d rub, laid falsely
I the plain way of his merit.

Cor. Tell me of corn!
This was my speech, and I will speak’t again—

fie Not now, not now.

en.

60

Not in this heat, sir, now.

 

 
 

Scene I.]

CORIOLANUS,

885

 

 

Cor. Now, as I live, I will.—My nobler friends,
I crave their pardons :—
For the mutable, rank-scented many, let them
Regard me as I do not flatter, and a
Therein behold themselves. I say again,
In soothing them we nourish ’gainst our senate
The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition,
Which we ourselves have plough'd for, sow'd and
scatter’d, 70
By mingling them with us, the honour’d number; .
Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that
Which they have given to beggars.
en. Well, no more.
1 Sen. No more words, we beseech you:
Cor. : How! no more?
As for my country I have shed my blood,
Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs
Coin words till they decay, against those meazels,
Which we disdain should tetter us, yet sought
The very way to catch them. :
Bru. You speak o’ the people,
As if you were a god to punish, not 80
A man of their infirmity.
i ’T were well,

i eae What, what? his choler?
‘or. Choler!

Were I as patient as the midnight sleep,
By, Jove, ’t would be my mind.

Sie.
We let the people know’t.
Men.

Sic. It is a mind,
That shall remain a poison where it is,
Not poison any further.
Cor. Shall remain !—
Hear you this Triton of the minnows? mark you
Hic absolute “shall?”
Com.
Cor.
O good, but most unwise patricians! why,
You grave, but reckless senators, have you thus
Given Hydra here to choose an officer,
That with his peremptory ‘‘shall,” being but
The horn and noise 0’ the monster's, wants not spirit
To say, he'll turn your current in a ditch,
And make your channel his? If he have power,
Then vail your ignorance: if none, awake
Your dangerous lenity. If you are learned,
Be not as common fools: if you are not,
Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians,
If they be senators: and they are no less, 101
When, both your voices blended, the greatest taste
Most palates theirs. They choose their magistrate ;
And such a one as he. who puts his ‘‘shall,”
His popular *‘shall,” against a graver bench
Than ever frown'd in Greece, y Jove himself,
It makes the consuls base; and my soul aches,
To know, when two authorities are up,
Neither supreme, how soon confusion
May enter ‘twixt the gap of both, and take
The one by the other.
Com. Well,—on to the market-place.
Cor, Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth
The corn o' the store-house gratis, as 't was us’d
Sometime in Greece,—
Men.
Cor. Though there

power,
say, they nourish’d disobedience, fed
The ruin of the state.

’T was from the canon.
“Shall i ‘i

110

Well, well; no more of that.
the people had more absolute

Bru. Why, shall the people give
One that speaks thus, their voice?

‘or. I'll give my reasons,
More worthier than their voices. They know, the corn
Was not our recompense, resting well assur'd 120
They ne’er did service for’t. Being press’d to the war,
Even when the navel of the state was touch’d, :
They would not thread the gates: this kind of service
Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ the war,

Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show’d
Most valour, spoke not for them. The accusation
Which they have often made against the senate,
All cause unborn, could never he the native

Of our so frank donation. Well, what then?

 

How shall this bosom multiplied digest
The senate’s courtesy? Let deeds express .
What’s like to be their words :—‘‘ We did request it ;
Weare the greater poll, and in true fear
They gave us our demands.”—Thus we debase
The nature of our seats, and make the rabble
Call our cares, fears; which will in time break ope
The locks o’ the senate, and bring in the crows
To peck the eagles.—
en, Come, enough.
ae Enough, with over-measure.
or.

130

No, take more:
What may be sworn by, both divine and human, 110
Seal what I end withal !—This double worship,—
Where one part does disdain with cause, the other
Insult without all reason; where gentry, title, wisdom,
Cannot conclude, but by the yea and no

Of general ignorance,—it must omit

Real necessities, and give way the while

To unstable slightness : purpose so barr’d, it follows,
Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore, beseech

you,—

You that will be less fearful than discreet,

‘That love the fundamental part of state 150

More than you doubt the change of ’t, that prefer

A noble life before a long, and wish

To jump a body with a dangerous physic

That’s sure of death without it,—at once pluck out

The multitudinous tongue : let them not lick

The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonour

Mangles true judgment, and bereaves the state

Of that integrity which should become it,

Not having the power to do the good it would,

For the ill which doth control 't.

ru. H’as said enough.
Sic. H’as spoken like a traitor, and shall answer 161

As traitors do. x
Cor. Thou wretch! despite o’°erwhelm thee !— .. -

What should the people do with these bald tribunes ?,

On whom depending, their obedience fails ot

To the greater bench. In a rebellion, ’

When what’s not meet, but what must be, was law, -

Then were they chosen : in a better hour,

Let what is meet be said, it must be meet,

And throw their power i’ the dust. 170
Bru. Manifest treason !
Sic. This a consul? no.
Bru. The Addiles, ho!—Let him be apprehended.

Enter an 4dile,
Sic. Go, call the people; [Hxit Adiic] in whose
name myself
Attach thee as a traitorous innovator,
A foe to the public weal. Obey, I charge thee,
And follow to thine answer.

Cor. Hence, old goat!
Sen. We'll surety him.
Com. Aged sir, hands off.

Cor. Hence, rotten thing, or I shall shake thy bones
Out of thy garments.
Sic. Help, ye citizens!

Re-enter the 4idile, with others, and a rabble of
Citizens.
Men. On both sides more respect. 180
Sic. Here’s he that would take from you all your
power.
Bru. Seize him, Addiles.
Cit. Down with him! down with him!
[Several speak.
2 Sen. Weapons! weapons! weapons!
[They all bustle about CORIOLANUS.
Tribunes, patricians, citizens !—what, ho!—
Sicinius, Brutus, Coriolanus, citizens !
Cit. Peace, peace, peace! stay, hold, peace !
Men. What is about to be?—I am out of breath ;
Confusion’s near: I cannot speak.—You, tribunes,
To the people,—Coriolanus, patience :—
ab good Sicinius.

190

ae, Hear me, people; peace!
Cit. Let's hear our tribune :—peace! Speak, speak,
speak.

 

 
 

886

CORIOLANUS.

{Act IIL.

 

 

 

Sic. You are at point to lose your liberties:
Marcius would have all from you; Marcius,
Whom late you have nam’d for consul. :
Men. Fie, fie, fie!
This is the way to kindle, not to quench.
1 Sen. ‘To unbuild the city, and to lay all flat.
Sic. What is the city, but the people ?
Cit. True,
The people are the city.

Bru. By the consent of all, we were establish’d 200
The people’ 3 magistrates.
Cit. You so remain.

Men. And so-are like to do.
Com. That is the way to lay the city flat;

 

**No; I'll die bere.
There's some among you have heheld me fighting:
Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.”

Cor.

To bring the roof to the foundation,
And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges,
In heaps and. piles of ruin.
Sic. This deserves death.
Bru. Or let us stand to our authority,
Or let us lose it.—We do here pronounce, |
Upon the part o’ the p' peor in whose power
We were elected theirs, Marcius is worthy 210
Of present death.

Sic. Therefore lay hold of him;
Bear ‘him to the rock Tarpeian, and from thence
Into destruction cast him.

AWidiles, seize him.

Bru

Cit, "Yield, Marcius, yield.

Men. Hear me one word;

Bescech you, tribunes, hear me but a word.
wkd. Peace, peace !
Men. Be that you seem, pay your country’s friend,
h

Sir, those cold ways,

And Her rey proceed to what you would

ae vie ently redress.
Thats seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous 220
Where inet ec is violent.—Lay hands upon
And esse his to the rock.
Cor. No; I'll die here.
[Drawing his sword.
There’s some among you have beheld me fighting :
Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.
Men. Down with that sword !—Tribunes, withdraw
awhile.
Bru, Lay hands upon him.
Men. Help Marcius, help,
You that be noble; help him, young and old!

 

' Or Jove for his power to thunder.

Cit. Down with him! down with him!
[In this mutiny, the Tribunes, the Ediles,
and the People, are beat in.
Men. Go, get you to your house : be gone, away !
ll will be naught else.

Sen. Get you gone.
Com. i Stand fast ;
We have as many friends as enemies, 251
Men. Shall it be put to that ?
1 Sen. The gods forbid!
I pr’ythee, noble friend, home to thy house ;

ae us to cure this cause.
For ’t is a sore upon us
ou cannot tent yourself : be gone, beseech you.

Com. Come, sir, along with us.

Cor. I would they were bar-

barians, as they are,
Though in Rome litter ’d, not
. Romans, as they are riot,
Though calv'd 7 the. porch o’ the
Capitol, —

Men. Be gone;

Put not your worthy rage into
your tongue ; 240
One time will owe another.

Cor. On fair ground
I could beat forty of them.

Men. 1 could myself take up a
brace of the best of them; yea, the
two tribunes.

Com. But now ’t is odds beyond

arithmetic;

And manhood is call’d foolery,
when it stands

Against a falling fabric.— Will you

S

hence,
Before the tag return? whose rage
oth rend
Like interr ee waters, and o a

bea
wie Laney are us’d to bear.
Pray you, be gone.
Tl te whether my old wit be in
request
With those” that have but little:
this must be patch’d
With cloth of any colour.
Com. Nay, come away.
[Ereunt CoRIOoLANUS, CoMINIus, and others.
1 Pat. This man has marr “d his fortune.
Men. His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
His heart’s his
mouth:
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;
And, being angry, does forget that ever 260
He heard the name of death. [4 noise within.
Here’s goodly work !
2 Pat. I would they were a-bed !
Men. I would they were in Tiber!—What, the
vengeance,
Could he not speak ’em fair?

Re-enter BRUTUS and SICINIUS, with the rabble.
Sic. Where is this viper,
That “would depopulate the city, and
Be every man himself?
Men You worthy tribunes,—
Sic. "He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock
With rigorous hands: he hath resisted law,
And therefore law shall scorn him further trial
Than the severity of the public power,
Which he so sets at noug:
Cit. He shall well know,
The noble tribunes are the people's mouths,
And we their hands.
Cit.
Men.
Sic. Peace!
Men. Do not cry havoc, where you should but

‘

Heshall,sureon’t,
Sir, sir,—

unt
With modest warrant.

 
 

ScENeE II.]

CORIOLANUS.

887

 

 

Sic. Sir, how comes ’t, that you
Have holp to make this rescue ?
en. Hear me speak.—
As I do know the consul’s worthiness,
So can I name his faults.—

ic. Consul !—what consul?
Men. The consul Coriolanus.

ru. He a consul! 280
Cit. No, no, no, no, no.

Men. If, by the tribunes’ leave, and yours, good

people,
I may be heard, I would crave a word or two,
The which shall turn you to no further harm
Than so much loss of time.

Sic. Speak briefly then ;
For we are peremptory to despatch
This viperous traitor. To eject him hence,

Were but one danger; and to keep him here,
* Our certain death: therefore, it is decreed
He dies to-night.

Men. Now the good gods forbid,
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Towards her deserved children is enroll’d
In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam
Should now eat up her own!

Sic. He’s a disease, that must be cut away.

Men. O! he’s a limb, that has but a disease ;
Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.

What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death ?
Killing our enemies? The blood he hath lost,
(Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath, 300
By many an ounce,) he dropp’d it for his country :
And what is left, to lose it by his country,

Were to us all, that do ’t, and suffer it,

A brand to th’ end o’ the world.

Sic. This is clean kam.

Bru. Merely awry. When he did love his country,
It honour’d him,

Men. The service of the foot,

Being once gangren’d, is not then respected
For what before it was—

Bru, We'll hear no more.—

Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence,

Lest his infection, being of catching nature,

Spread further.

. Men. One word more, one word.

This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find

The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will, too late,

Tie leaden pounds to his heels. {Proceed by pro-

290

cess ;
Lest parties (as he is belov’d) break out,
one. sack great Rome with Romans.
ru.
Sic. What do ye talk ?
Have we not had a taste of his obedience?
Our Addiles smote? ourselves resisted ?—Come !—
Men. Consider this:—he has been bred i’ the
wars 320
Since he could draw a sword, and is ill school’d
In bolted language ; meal and bran together
He throws without distinction. Give me leave,
I'll go to him, and undertake to bring him
Where he shall answer, by a lawful form,
In peace, to his utmost peril.
1 Sen. Noble tribunes,
It is the humane way : the other course
Will prove too bloody, and the end of it
Upknown to the beginning.
Yic

If it were so,—

4 Noble Menenius,
Be you then as the people’s ofticer.—
Masters, lay down your weapons.

330

Bru. Go not home.
Sic. Meet on the market-place.—We'll attend you
there:
Where, if you bring not Marcius, we ll proceed
In our first way. :
Men. I'll bring him to you.—
[To the Senators.] Let me desire your company. He
must come,
Or what is worst will follow. ;
Sen. Pray you, let’s to him.
[Exeunt.

 

 

ScENE II.—A Room in CorrioLanus’ House.

Enter Cor1oLanus and Patricians.

Cor. Let them pull all about mine ears; present me
Death on the wheel, or at wild horses’ heels ;
Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,
That the precipitation might down stretch
Below the beam of sight: yet will I still
Be thus to them.

1 Pat. You do the nobler.

Cor. I muse, my mother
Does not approve me further, who was wont
To call them woollen vassals ; things created
To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads 10
In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder,
When one but of my ordinance stood up
To speak of peace or war.

Enter VOLUMNIA.
I talk of you:
Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me
False to my nature? Rather say, I play
The man lam.

Vol. O, sir, sir, sir!

I would have had you put your power well on,
Before you had worn it out.

Cor. Let go.

Vol. You might have been enough the man youare,
With striving less to be so: lesser had been 20
The thwartings of your dispositions, if
You had not show’d them how you were dispos’d,
Ere they lack’d power to cross you.

Cor.
Vol, Ay, and burn too.

’ Enter MENENIUS and Senators.
Men. Come, come; you have been too rough, some-
thing too rough:
You must return, and inend it.
1 Sen. There’s no remedy ;
Unless, by not so deing, our good city
Cleave in the midst, and perish.

Let them hang.

A Pray, be counsell'd.
I have a heart as little apt as yours,

But yet a brain that leads my use of anger 30
To better vantage.
Men Well said, noble woman !

Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that
The violent fit o’ the time craves it as physic
For the whole state, I would put mine armour on,
Which I can scarcely bear.
Cor. What must I do?
Men. Return to the tribunes.
Cor. Well, what then? what then?
Men. Repent what you have spoke.
Cor. For them?—I cannot do it to the gods;
Must I then do ’t to them ?
Vol. | You are too absolute ;
Though therein you can never be too noble ;
But when extremities speak—I have heard you say,
Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,
I’ the war do grow together: grant that, and tell me,
In peace, what each of them by the other lose,
That they combine not there ?
Cor. Tush, tush !
Men. | A good demand.
Vol. If it be honour, in your wars, to seem
The same you are not, (which, for your best ends,
You adopt your alleys! how is it less, or worse,
That it shall hold companionship in peace

With honour, as in war, since that to both 50
It stands in like request ?
Cor. Why force you this?

Vol. Because that now it lies you on to speak
To the people; not by your own instruction,
Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you,
But with such words that are but roted in
Your tongue, though but bastards, and syllables
Of no allowance, to your bosom’s truth.
Now, this no more dishonours you at all,
Than to take in a town with gentle words,
Which else would put you to your fortune, and 60

 

 
 

 

888 CORIOLANUS.

[Act III.

 

The hazard of much blood.—
I would dissemble with my nature, where
My fortunes and my friends at stake requir’d
I should do so in hunour: I am in this,
Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles ;
And you will rather show our general louts
How you can frown, than spend a tawn upon ’em,
For the inheritance of their loves, and sateguard
Of what that want might ruin.
Men. Noble lady !—
Come, go with us: speak fair; you may salve so, 70
Not what is dangerous present, but the loss
Of what is past.

Fol, I pr'ythee now, my son,
Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand; |
And thus far having stretch'd it, (here be with them,)
Thy knee bussing the stones, (for in such business
Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant
More learned than the ears,) waving thy head,
Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart,
Now humble as the ripest mulberry
That will not hold the handling: orsay tothem, 80
Thou art their soldier, and, being bred in broils,
Hast not the soft way, which, thou dost confess,
Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim,
In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame
Thyselt, forsooth, hereatter theirs, so far
As thou hast power, and person.

Men. This but done,
Iven as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;
For they have pardons, being ask’d, as free
As words to little purpose.

ol. Pr’ythee now,
Go, and be rul’d; although, I know, thou hadst rather
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf, 91
Than flatter him in a bower. Here is Cominius.

Enter CoMINIvs,
Com. Ihave been i’ the market-place; and, sir, ‘tis
fit
You make strong party, or defend yourself
By calmness, or by absence: all’s in anger.
Men. Only fair speech.

Com. I think, ‘t will serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.
ol He must, and will.—

Pr'ythee now, say you will, and go abont it.

Cor. Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce ?
Must I with my base tongue give to my noble heart
A lie, that it must bear? Well, I will do 't:

Yet were there but this single plot to lose,

This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it,
And throw ‘t against the wind.—To the market-place!
You have put me now to such a part, which never

I shall discharge to the life.

Com. Come, come, we'll prompt. you.

Vol. I pr’ythee now, sweet son: as thou hast suid,
My praises made thee first a soldier, so,

To have my praise for this, perform a part
Thou hast not done before.

Cor. Well, I must do 't. 110
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be.turn'd,
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice
That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves
Tent in my cheeks ; and school-boys’ tears take up
The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue
Make motion through my lips; and my arm’d knees,
Who bow’'d but in my stirrup, bend like his
That hath recciv’d an alms !--I will not do 't; 120
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,

And by my body’s action teach my mind
A most inherent bascness.
Vol. At thy choice then:
To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour,
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let
Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear
Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death
With as big heart as thou. Do as thon list.
Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst it from me,
But owe thy pride thyself.

 

Cor. ; Pray, be content: 130
Mother, I am going to the market-place ;
Chide me no more. I1’ll mountebank their loves,
Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloy’d
Of all the trades in Rome, Look, I am going,
Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul,
Or never trust to what my tongue can do
Tr ye way of flattery further.

0.

: Do your will. [Ezit.
Com. oar ! the tribunes do attend you: arm your.
selt
To answer mildly ; for they are prepar'd
With accusations, as I hear, more strong 140

Than are upon you yet.
Cor. The word is, mildly.—Pray you, let us go:
Let them accuse me by invention, I
‘Will answer in mine honour.
Men. : Ay, but mildly.
Cor. Well, mildly be it then ; mildly. [Exeunt,

ScENE III.—The Same. The Forum.

Enter SIcINIuS and BRUTUS.
Bru. Tn this point charge him home, that he affects
Tyrannical power: it he evade us there,
Enforce him with his envy to the people;
And that the spoil, got on the Antiates,
Was ne’er distributed.—

Enter an A¢dile.
What, will he come?
eked. He’scoming. .
Bru. How accompanied?
«Hd. With old Menenius, and those senators
That always favour'd him.
ic. Have you a catalogue
Of all the voices that we have procur’d,
Set. down by the poll?
cEd. Ihave; ‘tis ready. 10
Sic. Have you collected them by tribes?
aid. T have.
Sie. Assemble presently the people hither :
And when they hear me say, * It shall be so
I’ the right and strength o’ the commons,” be it either
For death, for fine, or banishment, then let them,
If I say fine, cry *‘ fine;” if death, cry ‘‘ death ;”
Insisting on the old prerogative
And power i’ the truth o’ the cause.
Ed. I shall inform them.
Bru, And when such time they have begun to cry,
Let them not cease, but with a din confus’d 20
Enforce the present execution
Of what we chance to sentence.
wid, Very well.
Sic. Make them be strong, and ready for this hint,
When we shall hap to give ‘t them.
Bru. Go; about it.—[Frit Adile.
Put him to choler straight. He hath been us’d
Ever to conquer, and to have his worth :
Of contradiction: being once chaf’d, he cannot
Be rein'd again to temperance ; then he speaks
What’s in his heart; and that is there, which looks
With us to break his neck. 30

Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, CoOMINIUS, Senators,
and Patricians.

Sic. Well, here he comes.

Men. Calmly, I do beseech you.

Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece
Will bear vee knave by the volume.—The honour'd

gods

Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of justice
Supplied with worthy men! plant love among us!
Throng our large temples with the shows of peace,
And not our streets with war!

1 Sen.

Men, A noble wish.
Re-enter Aldile, with Citizens.

Sic. Draw near, ye people. 39

Amen, amen.

 

 
 

 

 

Scene IIL] CORIOLANUS. 889
Ed. List toyourtribunes. Audience: peace! Isay. |; But with a grain a day; I would not buy
Cor. First, hear me speak. Their mercy at the price of one fair word, 90
Both Tri. Well, say.—Peace, ho! | Nor check my courage for what they can give,
Cor. Shall I be charg’d no further than this present? | To have’t with saying, Good morrow.

Must all determine here? Sic. For that he has

Sic, : I do demand,

If you submit you to the people’s voices,

Allow their officers, and are content

Yo suffer lawful censure for such faults

As shall be prov’d upon you?
Cor. Iam content.
Men. Lo, citizens! he says, he is content:

The warlike service he has done, consider; think

Upon the wounds his body bears, which show 50
Like graves i’ the holy churchyard.

Cor. Scratches with briers;
Scars to move laughter only.

Men. Consider further,

That when he speaks not like a citizen,
You find him like a soldier. Do not take
His rougher accents for malicious sounds,
But, as I say, such as become a soldier,
Rather than envy you.

Well, well; no more.

fom.

Cor. What is the matter,
That, being pass’d for consul with full voice,
Iam so dishonour’d, that the very hour
You take it off again?

Sic. Answer to us.

Cor. Say then: ’tis true, I ought so.

Sic. We charge you, that you have contriv’d to take
From Rome all season'd office, and to wind
Yourself into a power tyrannical;
For which you are a traitor to the people.

Cor. How! traitor!

Men. Nay, temperately ; your promise.

Cor. The fires i’ the lowest hell fold in the people !
Call me their traitor !—Thou injurious tribune,
Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths, 70
In thy hands clutch’d as many millions, in
Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say,
Thou liest, unto thee, with a voice as free
As I do pray the gods.

60

Sic. Mark you this, people?
Cit. To the rock! to the rock with him!
Sic. Peace!
We need not put new matter to his charge :
What you have seen him do, and heard him speak,
Beating your officers, cursing yourselves,
Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying
Thos wliose great power must try him; even this, 80
So criminal, and in such capital kind,
Deserves the extremest death.

But since he hath

Bru.

Serv’d well for Rome,—_.
Cor. What do you prate of service?
Bru. I talk of that, that know it.

Cor. fou?
Men. Is this the promise that you made your mother?

Com. Know, I pray you,—

Cor. I'll know no further.

 

Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,
Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger

(As much as in him lies) from time to time
Envied against the people, seeking means
To pluck away their power; as now at last
Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence
Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers
That do distribute it: in the name o’ the people,
And in the power of us, the tribunes, we,
Even from this instant, banish him our city,
In peril of precipitation
From off the rock Tarpeian, never more
To enter our Rome gates. t the people’s name,
I say, it shall be so.
Cit. It shall be so, it shall be so; let him away :
He’s banish'd, and it shall be so.
Com. Hear me, my masters, and my common
triends ;—
Sic. He’s sentene’d: no more hearing.
Com. Let me speak:
Ihave been consul, and can show for Rome
Her enemies’ marks upon me. I do love 110
My country’s good, with a respect more tender,
More holy and profound, than mine own life,
My dear wite’s estimate, her womb’s increase,
And treasure of my loins; then if I would
Speak that—
Sic. We know your drift: speak what?
Bru, There’s no more to be said, but he is banish’d,
As enemy to the people and his country :

It shall be so.
It shall be so, it shall be so.

100

Cit.
Cor. You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek 0’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize 120
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air, I banish you;
And here remain with your uncertainty !
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! Have the power still
‘To banish your defenders ; till, at length,
Your ignorance (which finds not, till it feels),
Making not reservation of yourselves
(Still your own foes), deliver you,
As most abated captives, to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising,
For you, the city, thus I turn my back:
There is a world elsewhere.
[Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS,
Senators, and Patricians,
id. The people’s enemy is gone, is gone!
Cit. Our enemy is banish’d! he is gone! Hoo! hoo!
[They all shout, and throw up their caps.
Sic. Go, see him out at gates; and follow him,
As he hath follow’d you, with all despite ;
Give him deserv’d vexation. Let a guard
Attend us through the city. 140
Cit, Come, come; let us see him out at gates:
come.—

130

| The gods preserve our noble tribunes !—Come.

[Exeunt.

 

 
 

 

LEI
an

Les

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—The Same.

Before a Gate of the City.

Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, and several young Patricians.

Coriolanus.
OME, leave your tears: a brief fare-
well.—The beast
With many heads butts me away.—
Nay, mother,
Where is your ancient courage?
you were us’d
To say, extremities was the trier of
spirits ;
That common chances common
men could bear;
That, when the sea was calm, all boats alike
Show’'d mastership in floating; fortune’s blows,
When moststruck home, being gentle wounded, craves
A noble cunning: you were us'd to load me
With precepts, that would make invincible 10
The heart that conn’d them.
Vir. O heavens! O heavens!
What, what, what!

vy Nay, I pr’
lence stri

I shall be lov’d when I am lack’d. Nay, mother,

Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say,

If you had been the wife of Hercules,

Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav’d

Your husband so much sweat.—Cominius,

Droop not; adieu.—Farewell, my wife! my mother !20

Tl do well yct.—Thou old and true Menenius,

Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s,

And venomous to thine eyes.—My sometime general,

I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld

Heart-hardening spectacles ; tell these sad women,

‘Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes,

As ‘tis to laugh at ’em.—My mother, you wot well,

My hazards still have been your solace ; and

Believe ’t not lightly, (though I go alone,

Like toa lonely dragon, that his fen 30

Makes fear’d, and talk'd of more than seen,) your son

Will or exceed the common, or be caught

ee cautelous baits and practice.

 

or. thee, woman,—
Vol. Now, the red pesti e all trades in
Rome,

And occupations perish !
Cor,

ol. My first son,
Whither wilt thou go?. Take good Cominius
With thee awhile: determine on some course,
More than a wild exposure to each chance
That starts i’ the way before thee.

x O the gods!

Com. I'll follow thee a month; devise with thee
Where thou shalt rest, that thou may’st hear of us,
And we of thee: so, if the time thrust forth
A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send
O'er the vast world to seek a single man,

And lose advantage, which doth ever cool
rT ne absence of the needer.
‘or.

40

Fare ye well:

Thou hast years upon thee; and thou-art too full
Of the war’s surfeits, to go rove with one

That's yet unbruis'd: bring me but out at gate.—
Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and
My friends of noble touch, when I am forth,

Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come.
While I remain above the ground, you shall
Hear from me still; and never of me aught

But what is like me formerly.

Men. That’s worthily
As any ear can hear.—Come;; let’s not weep.—
If I could shake off but one seven years
From these old arms and legs, by the good gods,
I'd with thee every foot.

Cor.

Come.

50

Give me thy hand.—
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. A Street near the Gate.

Enter SIcINIus, BRUTUS, and an Adile.
Sic. Bid them all home: he’s gone, and we 1l no
further.—
The nobility are vex’d, whom we sce have sided
In his behalf. §
Bru. Now we have shown our power,
Let us seem humbler after it is done,
Than when it was a-doing.
Sic. Bid them bome:
Say, their great enemy is gone, and they
Stand in their ancient strength. 2
Bru, Dismiss them home. [Exit 4dile.

Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and MENENIUS.
Here comes his mother.
Sic,
Bru.
Sic. They say, she’s mad.
Bru. They have ta’en note of us: keep on your way,
Vol. O! you’re well met. The hoarded plague 0
the gods ll

Requite your love!
Ten. Peace, peace! be not so loud.
Vol. If that I could for weeping, you should hear,—
Nay, and you shall hear some.—[7'o Brutvs.] Will
you be gone?
Tir. [To Stcrntus.] You shall stay too. I would I
had the power
To say so to my husband.

Nic,

Vol.
Was not aman my father? Hadst thou foxship
To banish him that struck more blows for Rome

Than thou hast spoken words?
Sie. O blessed heavens! 20

Let ’s not meet her.
Why?

Are you mankind ? Z
pals is that a shame?—Note but this
0.

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE V.]

Vol. More noble blows, than ever thou wise words ;
And for Rome’s good.—I 'll tell thee what:—yet go :—
Nay, but thou shalt stay too.—I would my son
Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him,

His good sword in his hand.
Sic. What then?

Vir.
He'd make an end of thy posterity.
Vol. Bastards, and all.—
Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome!
Men. Come, come: peace!
Sic. I would he had continu’d to his country, 30
As he began ; and not unknit himself
The noble knot he made.
Bru, I would he had.
Vol. I would he had!
rabble :
Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth,
As I can of those mysteries which heaven
Will not have earth to know.
Bru. Pray, let us go.
Vol. Now, pray, sir, get you gone:
You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this :—
As far as doth the Capitol exceed 40
The meanest house in Rome, so far my son,—
This lady’s husband here, this, do you see ?—
Whom you have banish’d, does exceed you all.
Bru. ell, well; we'll leave you.
Sie. _Why stay we to be baited
With one that wants her wits?
Vol. Take my prayers with you.—
[Execunt Tribunes.
I would the gods had nothing else to do,
But to confirm my curses. Could I meet ’em
But once a day, it would unclog my heart
Of what lies heavy to’t.

What then!

’T was you incens'd the

Men. You have told them home,
And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with
me? 50
Vol. Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself,
And so shall starve with feeding.—Come, let’s go.
Leave this faint puling, and lament as I do,
In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.
Men. Fie, fie, fie! [Ezeunt.

ScENE ITI.—A Highway between Romeand Antium.

Enter a Roman and a Volsce, meeting.

Rom. I know ag well, sir, and you know me.
Your name, I think, is Adrian.

Vols, It is so, sir: truly, I have forgot. you. .

Rom. Iam a Roman; and my services are, as you
are, against ’em. Know you me yet?

Vols. Nicanor? No.

Rom. The same, sir.

Vols. You had more beard, when I last saw you;
but your favour is well appeared by your tongue.
What.’s the news in Rome? I have a note from the
Volscian state, to find you out there: you have well
saved me a day's journey. 12

Rom. There hath been in Rome strange insurrec-
Meus : the people against the senators, patricians, and
nobles.

Vols. Hath been! Is it ended then? Our state
thinks not so; they are in a most warlike prepara-
tion, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their
division. 19

Rom. The main blaze of it is past, but a small
thing would make it flame again. For the nobles
receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy
Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness to take all
power from the people, and to pluck from them their
tribunes for ever. This lies g" wines I can tell you,
ahd is almost mature for the violent breaking out.

Vols. Coriolanus banished !

Rom. Banished, sir.

Vols. You will be welcome with this intelligence,
Nicanor. 30

fom, The day serves well for them now. I have
heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt a man’s wife is
When she’s fallen out with her husband. Your noble

 

CORIOLANUS, 89L

Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his
freak opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of
is country.

Vols. He cannot choose. Iam most fortunate, thus
accidentally to encounter you: you have ended my
business, and I will merrily accompany you home. 39

Rom. I shall, between this and supper, tell you
most ‘strange things from Rome, all tending to the
good of their adversaries, Have you an army ready,
say you? :

Vols. A most royal one: the centurions and their
charges distinctly billeted, already in the entertain-
ment, and to be on foot at an hour’s warning.

Rom. I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am
the man, I think, that shall set them in present action.
So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your ca

pany.
Vols. You take my part from me, sir: I have the
most cause to be glad of yours.

Rom. Well, let us go together, [Excunt.

ScENE IV.—Antium. Before AUFIDIUs’s House.

Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguised and
mufied.

Cor. A goodly city is this Antium.—City,
°T is I that made thy widows: many an heir
Of these fair edifices fore my wars
Have I heard groan, and drop: then, know me not,
Lest that thy wives with spits, and boys with stones,
In puny battle slay me.

Enter a Citizen.
Save you, sir.

cit. And you.
Cor. Direct me, if it be your will,
Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium?
Cit. He is, and feasts the nobles of the state 9
At his house this night.
Cor. Which is his house, beseech you?
Cit. This, here before you.
Cor. Thank you, sir. Farewell.
r [Exit Citizen.
O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,
Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart,
‘Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise,
Are still together, who twin, as ’t were, in love
Unseparable, shall within this hour,
On dissension of a doit, break out
To bitterest enmity : so, fellest foes,
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their

sleep
To take the one the other, by some chance, 20
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends,
And interjoin their issues. So with me:—
My birth-place hate J, and my love’s upon
This enemy town.—I’ll enter: if he slay me,
He does fair justice; if he give me way,

I'll do his country service. [Exit.

 

SCENE V.—The Same. A Hall in AuFrprus’s House.

Music within. Enter a Servant.

1 Sery. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I
think our fellows are asleep. 7 [Hecit.
Enter a second Servant.

2 Serv. Where's Cotus? my master calls for him.—
Cotus! Exit.
Enter CoRIOLANYS,

Cor. A goodly house: the feast smells well; but I
Appear not like a guest.

Re-enter the first Servant.
1 Serv. What would you have, friend? Whence are
you? Here's no place for you: pray, go to the door.
Cor, I have deserv'd no better entertainment,
In being Coriolanus. 10

 

 
 

 

892

CORIOLANUS.

[Act IV.

 

Re-enter second Servant.

2 Ser. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his
eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such com-
panions? Pray, get you out.

Cor, Away!

2 Serv. Away? Get you away.

Cor. Now thou art troublesome. '

2 Serv. Are youso brave? I’llhave you talked with
anon.

Enter a third Servant.

3 Serv. What fellow’s this?

1 Serv. A strange one as ever I looked on: I cannot
get him out o’ the house: pr’ythee, call my master lo
him. on

3 Scrv. What have you to do here, fellow? Pra,
you avoid the house.

Cor. Let me but stand ; I will not hurt your hearth.

3 Serv. What are you?

Cor. A gentleman.

3 Serv. A marvellous poor one.

Cor. True, so I am.

3 Serv: Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some
other station: here's no place for you. Pray you,
avoid: come. 32

Cor. Follow your function ; go, and batten on cold
bits. [Pushes him away.

3 Serv. What, will you not? Pr’ythee, tell my
master what a strange guest he has here.

The first meets him.

2 Serv. And Ishall. [£xit.
3 Serv. Where dwell’st thou?

Cor. Under the canopy.

3 Serv. Under the canopy? 40

Cor. Ay.

3 Scrv. Where's that?

Cor. I the city of kites and crows.

3 Serv. T the city of kites and crows!—What an ass
it is!—Then thou dwellest with daws too?

Cor. No; I serve not thy master.

3 Serv. How, sir! Do you meddle with my master?

Cor. Ay; ‘tis an honester service than to meddle
with thy mistress.
Thou prat’st, and prat’st: serve with thy trencher.

Hence! [Beats him away.

Enter AvFivivus and the second Servant.

Auf. Where is this fellow? 51

2 Serv. Here, sir. I'd have beaten him like a dog,
but for disturbing the lords within.

Auf. Whence com’st thou? what wouldst thou?
thy name? Why speak’st not? speak, man: what’s
thy name?

Cor, (Unmuffling.| If, Tullus, not yet thou know’st
me, and, seeing me, dost not think me for the man I
am, necessity commands me name myself.

Auf. What is thy name? Servants retire.

Cor, A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears, 61
And harsh in sound to thine.

Auf. Say, what’s thy name?
Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face
Bears a command in 't: though thy tackle’s torn,
Thou show’st a noble vessel. What’s thy name?

Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown. Know’st thou me

yet?
Auf. I know thee not.—Thy name?
Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done
To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces,
Great hurt and mischief! thereto witness may 70
My surname, Coriolanus, The painful service,
The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless country, are requited
But with that surname; a good memory,
And witness of the malice and displeasure
Which thou should’st bear me. Only that name re-
mains:
The cruclty and envy of the people,
Permitted by our dastard nobles, who
Have all forsook me, hath devour’d the rest ;
And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be 80
Whoop’d out of Rome. Now, this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth: not out of hope—
Mistake me not—to save my life; for if

 

T had fear’d death, of all the men i’ the world

I would have ’voided thee ; but in mere spite,

To be full quit of those my banishers,

Stand I before thee here. Then, if thou hast

A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge

Thine own particular wrongs, and stop those maims

Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee
straight, 90

And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it,

 

That my revengeful services may prove
As benefits to thee ; for I will fight
Against my canker’d country with the spleen
Of all the under fiends. But if so be
Thou dar’st not this, and that to prove more fortunes
Thou rt tir’d, then, in a word, I also am
Longer to live most weary, and present
My throat to thee, and to thy ancient malice;
Which not to cut would show thee but a fool,
Since I have ever follow’d thee with hate,
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast,
And cannot live but to thy shame, unless
It be to do thee service,

Auf. O Marcius, Marcius!
Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my

eart

A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter
Should from yond cloud speak divine things,
And say ‘‘’T is true,” I’d not believe them more
Than thee, all noble Marcius.—Let me twine
Mine arms about that body, where against 110
My grained ash an hundred times hath broke,
And scarr'd the moon with splinters! Here I clip
The anvil of my sword, and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did
Contend against thy valour. Know thou first,
I lov’d the maid I married: never man
Sigh’d truer breath; but that I see thee here,
Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart,
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw 20
Bestride my threshold, Why, thou Mars, I tell thee,
We have a power on foot; and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,
Or lose mine arm for't. Thou hast beat me out
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me:
We have been down together in my sleep,
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,

100

| And wak’d half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius,

Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that 130
Thou art thence banish’d, we would muster all

From twelve to seventy: and, pouring war

Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,

Like a bold flood o’er-bear. O! come; go in,

And take our friendly senators by the hands,

 

 
 

Scene VIL}

CORIOLANUS.

893

 

Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,
Who am prepar’d against your territories,
Though not for Rome itself.

Cor. You bless me, gods!

Auf. Therefore, most absolute sir, if thou wilt have
The leading of thine own revenges, take 140
The one half of my commission; and set down—

As best thou art experienc’d, since thou know’st

Thy country’s strength and weakness—thine own
ways;

Whether to knock against the gates of Rome,

Or rudely visit them in parts remote,

To fright them, ere destroy. But come in:

Let me commend thee first to those, that shall

Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes!

And more a friend than e’er an enemy; 149

Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand: most wel-
come! [Hxeunt CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS,

1 Serv. [idounern .] Here's a strange alteration !

2 Serv. By my hand, I had thought to have strucken
him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me, his
clothes made a false report of him.

1 Serv, What an arm he has! He turned me about
with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a

top.

2 Serv. Nay, I knew by his face that there was
something in him: he had, sir, a kind of face, me-
thought,—I cannot tell how to term it. 160

1 Serv, He had so; looking as it were,—'would I
were hanged, but I thought there was more in him
than I could think. :

2 Serv. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the
rarest man i’ the world. ;

1 Serv. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he,
you wot one.

2 Serv. Who? my master?

1 Serv. Nay, it’s no matter for that.

2 Serv. Worth six on him. 170

1 Serv. Nay, not so neither ; but I take him to be the
greater soldier.

2 Serv. ’Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to sa:
pet: for the defence of a town, our general is excel-
lent.

1 Serv. Ay, and for an assault too.

Re-enter third Servant.

3 Serv. O slaves, I can tell you news; news, you
rascals.

1&2 Serv. What, what, what? let’s partake,

. 3 Serv. I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I
had as lieve be a condemned man. 181

1 & 2 Serv. Wherefore? wherefore?

3 Serv. Why, here’s he that was wont to thwack
our general,—Caius Marcius.

1 Serv. Why do you say thwack our general?

3 Serv. I do not say, thwack our general; but he
was always good enough for him.

2 Serv. Come, we are fellows, and friends: he was
ae too hard for him; I have heard him say so ae
self.

1 Serv. He was too hard for him directly, to say the
truth on’t: before Corioli he scotched him and notched
him like a carbonado. : R

2 Serv. An he had been cannibally given, he might
have broiled and eaten him too.

1 Serv. But, more of thy news? ca 7

3 Serv. Why, he is so made on here within, as if he
‘were son and heir to Mars: set at upper end o’ the
table; no question asked him by any of the senators,
but they stand bald before him. Our general himself
makes a mistress of him; sanctifies himself with’s
hand, and turns up the white o’ the eye to his dis-
course. But the bottom of the news is, our general is
cut i’ the middle, and but one half of what he was
yesterday, for the other has half, by the entreaty and

rant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl
the porter of Rome gates by the ears. He will mow
down all before him, and leave his passage polled.

2 Serv. And he’s as like to do’t, as any man I can
imagine. 7 ,

3 Serv. Do’t! he will do’t: for, look you, sir, he
has as many friends as enemies; which friends, sir,

 

(as it were) durst not (look you, sir) show_themselves
(as we term it) his friends, whilst he’s in directitude.

1 Serv. Directitude! what’s that?

3 Serv. But when they shall see, sir, his crest up
again, and the man in blood, they will out of their
burrows, like conies after rain, and revel all with him.

1 Serv, But when goes this forward? 219

3 Serv. To-morrow ; to-day; presently. You shalt
have the drum struck up this afternoon: ‘tis, as it
were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere
they wipe their lips.

2 Serv. Why, then we shall have a stirring world
again. This peace is nothing, but to rust iron, increase
tailors, and breed ballad-makers,

1 Serv. Let me have war, say I: it exceeds peace as
far as day does night; it’s spritely, waking, audible,
and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy ;
mulled, deat, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more
bastard children than war’s a destroyer of men. 231

2 Serv. "Lis so: and as war, in some sort, may be
said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied but peace
is a great maker of cuckolds.

1 Serv. Ay, and it makes men hate one another.

3 Serv. Reason: because they then less need one
another. ‘The wars, for my money. I hope to see
Romans as cheap as Volscians,—They are rising, they
are rising.

All. In, in, in, in! 240
[Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—Rome. A Public Place.

Enter SIcINIUS and BRUTUS.
Sic. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him;

His remedies are tame?’ the present peace
And quietness o’ the people, which before
Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends
Blush that the world goes well; who rather had,
Though they themselves did suffer by ’t, behold
Dissentious numbers pestering streets, than see
Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going
About their functions friendly.

Enter MENENIUS.

Bru. We stood to’t in good time.

Sic. ’T is he, ’t is he. ! he is grown most kind 11
Of late.—Hail, sir!

Men. Hail to you both!

Sic. Your Coriolanus is not much miss’d
But. with his friends: the commonwealth doth stand,
And so would do, were he more angry at it.

Men. All's well; and might have been much better,

Is this Menenius?

if
He could have temporis’d.
ic. Where is he, hear you?
Men. Nay, I hear nothing: his mother and his wife
Hear nothing from him.

Enter three or four Citizens.
Cit. The gods preserve you both!
Sic, Good e’en, our neighbours.
Bru. Good e’en to you all, good e’en to youall. 21
1 Cit. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our
knees,

Are bound to pray for you both.
Sic. Live, and thrive!
Bru. Farewell, kind neighbours. We wish’d Corio-

anus

Had lov’d you as we did,
Cit. Now the gods keep you!
Both Tri. Farewell, farewell. [Exeunt Citizens.
Sic. This is a happier and more comely time,

Than when these fellows ran about the streets,

Crying confusion.
Bru. Caius Marcius was

A worthy officer i’ the war; but insolent,

O’ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking,

Self-loving,—

Sic. And affecting one sole throne,
Without assistance.
Men. I think not so.

 

 
 

 

SOL

Sic. We should by this, to all our lamentation,
If he had gone forth consul, found :t so.

Bru. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome
Sits safe and still without him.

Enter an Atdile.

Ed. Worthy tribunes,
There is a slave, whom we have put in prison,
Reports, the Volsces with two several powers
Are enter’d in the Roman territories, 40
And with the deepest malice of the war
Destroy what lies before ’em.

Men. ’Tis Aufidius,

Who, hearing of our Marcius’ banishment,

Thrusts forth his horns again into the world;

Which were inshell’d when Marcius stood for Rome,
And durst not once peep out.

Sic. Come, what talk you of Marcius?

Bru. Go see this rumourer whipp’d.—It cannot be
The Volsces dare break with us.

Men. Cannot be!
We have record that very well it can; 50
And three examples of the like have been
Within my age. But reason with the fellow,
Before you punish him, where he heard this;
Lest you shall chance to whip your information,
And beat the messenger who bids beware
Of what is to be dreaded.

Sic. Tell not me:
I know, this cannot be.

Bru. Not possible.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. The nobles in great earnestness are going
All to the senate-house : some news is come,

That turns their countenances.

Sic. ’T is this slave. 60
Go whip him ‘fore the people's eyes :—his raising !
Nothing but his report!

Mess. Yes, worthy sir,

The slave's report is seconded ; and more,
More fearful, is deliver'd.
ic. What more fearful?

Mess. It is spoke freely out of many mouths,
How probable [ do not know, that Marcius,

Join’d with Aufidius, leads a power ‘gainst Rome,
And vows revenge as spacious as between
The young’st and oldest thing.

ic. This is most likely!

Bru, Rais’d only, that the weaker sort may wish 70
Good Marcius home again.

Sic.

Men. This is unlikely:
He and Aufidius can no more atone,
Than violentest contraricty.

‘

The very trick ont.

Enter another Messenger.
Mess. You are sent for to the senate:
A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius,
Associated with Aufidius, rages
Upon our territories; and have already
O‘erborne their way, consum’d with fire, and took
What lay before them.

Enter CoMINIvs.
Com. O! you have made good work.
Men, What news? what news?
Com. You have holp to ravish your own daughters,

an
To melt the city leads upon your pates;
To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses ;—
Men. What's the news? what’s the news?
Com. Your temples burned in their cement; and
Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin’d
Into an auger’s bore.
Men. Pray now, your news ?-—
You have mare fair work, I fear me.—Pray, your
news t—
Te Hapets should be join’d with Volscians,—
‘om.
He is their god: he leads them like a thing
Made by some other deity than nature,
That shapes man better; and they follow him

If! 90

CORIOLANUS.

 

[Act IV,

Against us brats, with no less confidence
Than boys pursuing summer butterflies,
Or butchers killing flies.

Men. You have made good work,
You, and your apron-men ; you that stood so much
Upon the voice of occupation and
The breath of gariic-eaters !

Com. He will shake
Your Rome about your ears.
Men. As Hercules 100

Did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair
work. -
Bru. But is this true, sir?
and you'll look pale

Com. he
Before you find it other. All the regions
Do smilingly revolt ; and, who resist,

Are mock’d for valiant ignorance,
And perish constant fools. Who is ’t can blame him?
Your enemies, and his, find something in him.
Men. We are all undone, unless
The noble man have mercy.
Con. Who shall ask it?
The tribunes cannot do ’t for shame ; the people
Deserve such pity of him, as the wolf
Does of the shepherds: for his best friends, if they
Should say, ‘‘Be good to Rome,” they charg’d him
even

As those should do that had deserv’d his hate,

And therein show'd like enemies,

Men. Tis true.

If he were pothing to my house the brand ~

That should consume it, 1 have not the face

To say, “‘ Beseech you, cease.’—You have made fair
hands,

You and your crafts; you have crafted fair.

Com. You have brought
A trembling upon Rome, such as was never 120
So incapable of help. 7

Tri. _ Say not, we brought it.

Men. How! Was it we? We lov’d him; but, like

beasts,
And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters,
Who did hoot him out 0’ the city.
But, I fear,

110

Com.
They ‘ll roar him in again. Tullus Autidius,
The second name of men, obeys his points
As if he were his officer. Desperation
Ts all the policy, strength, and defence,
That Rome can make against them.

Enter a troop of Citizens.

Men. Here come the clusters.—
And is Aufidius with him ?—You are they
That made the air unwholesome, when you cast
Your stinking, greasy caps, in hooting at
Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming;
And not a hair upon a soldier’s hea
Which will not prove a whip: as many coxcombs
As you threw caps up, will he tumble down,
And pay you for your voices. Tis no matter
If he could burn us all into one coal,
We have deserv’d it.

Cit. ’Faith, we hear fearful news.

1 Cit. For mine own part,
When I said, banish him, I said, ’t was pity. 141
2 Cit. And so did I. 4

3 Cit. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did
very many of us. That we did, we did for the best;
and though we willingly consented to his banishment,
yet it was against our will.

Com. Ye ’re goodly things, you voices!

Men. You have made
Good work, you and your cry !—Shall’s to the Capitol?

Com. O! ay; what else?

[Hxeunt ComINntius and MENENIUS.

Sic. Go, masters, get you home; be not dismay'd:
These are a side that would be glad to have 1
This true, which they so seem to fear. Go home,
And show no sign of fear.

. 1 Cit. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let’s
home, I ever said, we were i’ the wrong, when we
banished him.

 

 
 

ScENE VII.]

CORIOLANUS.

 

2 Cit. So did we all.

Bru. I do not like this news.
Sic. Nor I.

Bru. Let’s to the Capitol. Would, half my wealth
Would buy this for a lic!
161

Sic.
[Exeunt.

But come, let’s home.
[Exeunt Citizens.

Pray, let us go.

 

ScENE VII.—A Camp, at a small distance from Rome.

Enter AUFIDIUS and his Lieutenant.

Auf. Do they still fly to the Roman ?

Lieu. Ido not know what witchcraft’s in him ; but
Your soldiers use him as the grace ‘fore meat,
Their talk at table, and their thanks at end;

And you are darken’d in this action, sir,
Even by your own.

Auf. . I cannot help it now,
Unless, by using means, I lame the foot
Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier,
Even to my person, than I thought he would
When first I did embrace him; yet his nature
In that’s no chanseliig and I must excuse
What cannot be amended.

Lieu. Yet I wish, sir,

(I mean, for your particular,) you had not
Join’d in commission with him; but either
Had borne the action of yourself, or else
To him had left it solely.

Auf. I understand thee well; and be thou sure,
When he shall come to his account, he knows not
What I can mee against him. Although it seems,
And so he thinks, and is no less apparent
To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly,
And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,

10

Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon
As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone
That which shall break his neck, or hazard mine,
| Whene’er we come to our account.
| Lieu. Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry
| Rome? |

Auf. All places yield to him ere he sits down;
And the nobility of Rome are his:
The senators and patricians love him too:
The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people
Will be as rash in the repeal, as hasty
To expe] him thence. I think, he’ll be to Rome,
As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it
By sovereignty of nature. First he was
A noble servant to them, but he could not
Carry his honours even: whether ’t was pride,
Which out of daily fortune ever taints
The happy man; whether defect of judgment,
To fail in the disposing of those chances
Which he was lord of ; or whether nature,
Not to be other than one thing, not moving
From the casque to the cushion, but commanding

eace

Even with the same austerity and garb
As he controll’d the war; but one of these
(As he hath spices of them all, not all,
For I dare so far free him) made him fear’d,
So hated, and so banish’d: but he has a merit,
To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues
Lie in the interpretation of the time ;
And power, unto itself most commendable,
Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair
To extol what it hath done.
One fire drives out one fire ; one nail, one nail;
Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.
Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,
| Thou art poor'st of all; then, shortly art thou mine.
[Hxeunt.

30

40

 

   

    

2

I hs

i ' ba

 

   
   
 

ACT VY.

ScENE I.—Rome.

A Public Place.

Enter MENENIUS, CoMINIUS, SICINIUS, BRUTUS, and others.

Menenius.
O, I'll not go: you hear what he hath said,
hich was sometime his general; who
lov’d him
In a most dear particular. He call’d me
ather:
But what o’ that? Go, you that banish’d

e him ;
A mile before his tent fall down, and knee

 

The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd
To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.
| Com. He would not seem to know me.
| Men. . Do you hear?
| _ Com. Yet one time he did call me by my name.

| Turg’d our old acquaintance, and the drops 10
| That we have bled together. Coriolanus

He would not answer to, forbad all names ;

He was a kind of nothing, titleless,

 

 
 

896

CORIOLANUS.

 

[Act V.

 

Till he had forg’d himself a name o’ the fire
Of burning Rome.

Men. Why, so; you have made good work:
A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome,
To make coals cheap: a noble memory!

Com. I minded him, how royal 't was to pardon
When it was less expected: he replied,
Tt was a bare petition of a state 20
To one whom they had punish’d.

Men. Very well: could he say less?

Com. I offer'd to awaken his regard
For’s private friends : his answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisome, musty chaff. He said, ’t was folly,
For,one poor grain or two to leave unburnt,
And still to nose the offence.

Men. For one poor grain or two?
Iam one of those ; his mother, wife, his child,
And this brave fellow too, we are the grains: 30
You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt
Above the moon. We must be burnt for you.

Sic. Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid
In this so never-needed help, yet do not
Upbraid’s with our distress, But, sure, if you
Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue,
More than the instant army we can make,
Might stop our countryman.

No; I'll not meddle.

Men,
Sic. Pray you, go to him.
Men. What should I do?

Bru. Only make trial what your love can do £0
For Rome, towards Marcius.
Men. Well; and say that Marcius

Return me, as Cominius is return’d,
Unheard ; what then ?—

But as a discontented friend, gricf-shot
With his unkindness? say 't be so?

Sic. Yet your good will
Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure
As you intended well.

Men. Ill undertake it:

I think, he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip,

And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.

He was not taken well; he had not din’d: 50
The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then

We pout upon the morning, are unapt

To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d
These pipes and these conveyances of our blood
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls

Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore, I'll watch

him
Till he be dicted to my request,
And then I'll set upon him.

Bru. You know the very road into his kindness,
And cannot lose your way.

Men. ; Good faith, I’ll prove him.
Speed how it will, I shall ere long have knowledge 61
Of my success. [Exit.

Com. He Tl never hear him.

Sic. Not?

Com. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye
Red as ’t would burn Rome, and his injury
The gaoler to his pity. I kneel’d before him;
°’T was very faintly he said, “ Rise ;” dismiss’d me
Thus, with his speechless hand : what he would do,
He sent in writing after me,—what he would not;
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions:

So that all hope is vain, 70
Unless his noble mother, and his wife,

Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him

For mercy to his country. Therefore, let’s hence,
And with our fair entreaties haste them on. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Volscian Camp before Rome. The

Guards at their stations,

Enter to them MENENIUS.
1G. Stay! Whence are you?
2G. Stand, and
Men, eee guard like men: ’tis well; but,

eave,

‘0 back.
y your

 

I am an officer of state, and come
To epeale with Coriolanus,
1G. From whence?

Men. From Rome,
1G. You ae not pass; you must return: our
genera!

Will no more hear from thence. :

2G. You’ll see your Rome embrac’d with fire,

before

You ll speak with Coriolanus.

Men. Good my friends,
If you have heard your general talk of Rome,
And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks, 10
My name hath touch’d your ears: it is Menenius.

1G. Be it so; go back : the virtue of your name
Is not here passable.

Men. I tell thee, fellow,
Thy general is my lover: I have been
The book of his good acts, whence men have read
His fame unparallel’d, haply amplified ;
For I have ever verified my friends
(Of whom he’s chief) with all the size that verity
Would without lapsing suffer: nay, sometimes,
Like to a bow] upon a subtle ground,
I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise
Have almost stamp’d the leasing. Therefore, fellow,
I must have leave to pass.

1G. ’Faith, sir, if you had told_as many lies in his
behalf, as you have uttered words in your own, you
should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous
to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back.

Men. Pr’ythee, fellow, remember my name is
Menenius, always factionary on the party of your
general. 30

2 G. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say
you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must
say, you cannot pass. Therefore, go back.

Men. Has he dined, canst thou tell? for I would
not speak with him till after dinner.

1G. You are a Roman, are you?

Men. I am, as thy general is. 37

1G. Then you should hate Rome, as he does, Can
you, when you have pushed out your gates the very
defender of them, and, in a violent popular ignorance,
given your enemy your shield, think to front his
revenges with the easy groans of old women, the
virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied
intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to
be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your
city is ready to flame in, with such weak breath as
this? No, you are deceived; therefore, back to
Rome, and prepare for your execution. You are
condemned, our general has sworn you out of reprieve
and pardon. 50

Men. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he
would use me with estimation.

2G. Come, my captain knows you not.

Men. I mean, thy general.

1G. My general cares not for you. Back, I say:

0, lest I let forth your half-pint of blood ;—back,—
that’s the utmost of your having :—back.

Men. Nay, but, fellow, fellow,—

Enter CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS.

Cor. What’s the matter? 59

Men. Now, you companion, I’ll say an errand for
you: you a know now that Iam in estimation;
you shall perceive that a Jack-guardant cannot office
me from my son Coriolanus: guess, but by my enter-
tainment with him, if thou stand’st not i’ the state of
hanging, or of some death more long in spectatorship,
and crueller in suffering: behold now presently, and
swoond for what’s to come upon thee.—The glorious

. gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular pros-

nerity, and love thee no worse than thy old father

enenius does! O my son! my son! thou art pre-
paring fire for us; look thee, here ’s water to quench
it. Iwas hardly moved to come to thee; but being
assured, none but myself could move thee, I have
been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure
thee to pardon Rome, and thy petitionary country-
men, The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the

 

 
 

 

Scene IIL]

dregs of it upon this varlet here; this, who, like a
block, hath denied my access to thee.
Cor. Away!
Men. How! away! e 80
Cor. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs
Are servanted to others : though I owe
My revenge properly, my remission lies
In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar,
Ingrate forgetfulness shall poiso), rather
Than pity note how much,—Therefore, be gone:
Mine ears against your suits are stronger than
Your gates against my force. Yet, for I lov’d thee,
Take this along; I writ itfor thy sake, [Gives a paper.
And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius,
J will not hear thee speak.—This man, Aufidius, 91
Was my belov’d in Rome; yet thou behold’st—
Auf. You keep a constant temper.
_ LExeunt CorIoLANus and AUFIDIUS.
1G. Now, sir, is your name Menenius?
2G. Tis a spell, you see, of much power. You
know the way home again.
1G. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping
your greatness back ? 98
G. What cause, do you think, I have to swoond ?
Men. I neither care for the world, nor your general:
for such things as you, I can scarce think there’s any,
you are so slight. He that hath a will to die by him-
self, fears it not from another. Let your general do
his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and_your
misery increase with your age. I say to you, as I was
said to, Aver! (Exit.
1G. A noble fellow, I warrant him.
2G. The worthy fellow is our general: he is the
rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Tent of CORIOLANUS.

Enter CoRIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others.

Cor. We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow
Set down our host.—My partner in this action,
You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly
J have borne this business.

Auf. Only their ends
You have respected ; stopp’d your ears against
The general suit of Rome; never admitted
A private whisper, no, not with such friends
That thought them sure of you.

This last old man,

Cor.
Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to Rome,
Lov’d me above the measure of a father ;
Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge
Was to send him; for whose old love I have ;
(Though I show’d sourly to him) once more offer’d
'The first conditions, which they did refuse,
And cannot now accept, to grace him only.
That thought he could do more. A very little
Thave viehied to: fresh embassies, and suits,
Nor from the state, nor private friends, hereafter
Will I lend ear to.—[Shout within.] Ha! what shout

is this?

Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow 20
In the same time tis made? I will not.—

habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA,

Enter, in mournin
‘ARCIUS, VALERIA, and <Attend-

leading Young
ants,
My wife comes foremost; then the honour'd mould
AV herein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand
The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection !
All bond and privilege of nature, break !
Let it be virtuous to be obstinate.— ;
What is that curt’sy worth? or those doves’ eyes,
Which can make gods forsworn ?—I melt, an
Of stronger earth than others.—My mother bows,
As if Olympus to a molehill shoul
In supplication nod ; and my young boy
. Hath an aspect of intercession, which
_ Great nature cries, “‘ Deny not.”—Let the Volsces
Plough Rome, and harrow Italy ; I'll never |
Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand,

CORIOLANUS.

am not:

 

897

As if a man were author of himself,
And knew no other kin.

Vir. My lord and husband !

_ Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.

Vir. The sorrow that delivers us thus chang’d,
Makes you think so.

Cor. Like a dull actor now, 40
Lhave ott my part,andIamout, *

Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh,,

Forgive my tyranny; but donot say ~

For that, ‘“‘ Forgive our Romans.”—O! a kiss

Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!

Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss

I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip

Hath virgin’d it e’er since.—You gods ! I prate,

And the most noble mother of the world

Leave insaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ the earth; [Kneels.
Of thy deep duty more impression show 51
Than that of common sons,

Vol. O, stand up bless’d !
Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint,
I kneel before thee, and unproper].

Show duty, as mistaken all this while
Between the child and parent. [
What is this?

Cor.
Your knees to me? to your corrected son ?
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
Fillip the stars ; then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun, 60
Murd’ring impossibility, to make
What cannot be, slight work. '
“ol. 3 Thou art my warrior ;
LT holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady ?
Cor. The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle,
That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria!
Vol. This is a poor epitome of yours,
Which, by the interpretation of full time,
May show like all yourself.
Cor. The god of soldiers, 70
With the consent of supreme Jove, inform
Thy thoughts with nobleness ; that thou may’st prove
To shame unvulnerable, and stick ? the wars
Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,
And saving those that eye thee !
Vol. Your knee, sirrah.
Cor. That’s my brave boy!
Vol. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,
Are suitors to you.
Cor. I beseech you, peace ;
Or, if you’d ask, remember this before :
The things I have forsworn to grant may never 80
Be held by your denials. Do not bid me
Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate
Again with Rome’s mechanics: tell me not
herein I seem unnatural: desire not
To allay my rages and revenges with
Your colder reasons.
Vol. O! no more, no more!
You have said, you will not grant us anything :
For we have nothing else to ask but that
Which you deny already : yet we will ask;
That, if you fail in our request, the blame
May hang upon your hardness. Therefore, hear us.
Cor. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark ; for we ’ll
Hear nought from Rome in private.—Your request ?
Vol. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment
And state of bodies would bewray what life
We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself,
How more unfortunate than all living women
Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which
should
Make our eyes flow with joy, heart’ dance with
comforts,
Constrains them weep, and shake with fear and
sorrow ; 100
Making the mother, wife, and child, to see
The son, the husband, and the father, tearing
His country’s bowels out. And to poor we
Thine enmity ’s most capital: thou barr’st us
Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort

Kneels,

 

 
 

898 CORIOLANUS. {act V.

 

 

That all but we enjoy; for how can we, Rather to show a noble grace to both parts,

Alas ! how can we for our country pray, Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner
Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, March to assault thy country than to tread
Whereto we are bound? Alack! or we must lose (rust to ’t, thou shalt not) on thy mother’s womb,

The country, our dear nurse; or else thy person, 110! That brought thee to this world.

 

UT
Ui

Hh
ii
mn

A
i
i

fu
TH ||

| i ca Teg

en

 

 

Vol “Why dost not speak?
Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs?”

Our comfort in the country. We must find ir, A and mine,

An evident calamity, though we had That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name
Our wish, which side should win ; for either thou Living to time.

Must, as a foreign recreant, be led Boy. ’A shall not tread on me:

With manacles through our streets, or else I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight.
Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin, Cor. Not of a woman's tenderness to be,

And bear the palm, for having bravely shed Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. __ 130
Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, I have sat too long. [Rising.
I purpose not to wait on fortune, till Vol. Nay, go not from us thus.

hese wars determine : if I cannot persuade thee 120 | If it were so, that our request did tend

 
 

 

Scene IV.)

 

‘CORIOLANUS. 899
To save the Romans, thereby to destroy In Italy, and her confederate arms,
The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us, | Could not have made this peace. [Exeunt.

As poisonous of your honour: no; our suit
Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces
May say, “This mercy we have show’d;” the Romans,
“This we receiv’d ;” and each in either side
Give the all-hail to thee, and cry, “Be bless’d
For making up this peace!” Thou know’st, great
son, 140
The end of war’s uncertain : but this certain,
That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name,
Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses;
Whose chronicle thus writ,—‘* The man was noble,
But with his last attempt he wip’'d it out,
Destroy’d his country, and his name remains
To the ensuing age abhorr’d.” Speak to ine, son!
Thou hast attected the fine strains of honour,
To imitate the graces of the gods;
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ the air,
And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak ?
Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs !—Daughter, speak you:
He cares not for your weeping.—Speak thou, boy:
“Perhaps thy childishness will move him more
Than can our reasons.—There is no man in the world
More bound to ’s mother; yet here he lets me prate,
Like one i’ the stocks.—Thou hast never in thy life 160
Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy ;
When she, (poor hen !) fond of no second brood,
Has cluck’d thee to the wars, and safely home,
Loaden with honour. Say, my request’s unjust,
And spurn me back; but, if it be not so,
Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee,
That thou restrain’st from me the duty which
To a mother’s part belongs.—He turns away:
Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees.
To his surname Coriolanus ‘longs more pride,
Than pity to our prayers. Down: anend;
This is the last :—so we will home to Rome,
And die among.our neighbours.—Nay, behold ’s,
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have,
But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship,
Does reason our petition with more strength
Than thou hast to deny ’t.—Come, let us go.
This fellow had a Volscian to his mother ;
His wife is in Corioli, and his child
Like him by chance.—Yet give us our despatch:
I am hush’‘d until our city be a-fire,
And then I'll speak a little.
[He holds VoLuMNiIa by the hands, silent.
Cor. O mother, mother!
What have you done? Behold! the heavens do ope,
The gods look down, and this unnatural scene
They laugh at. O my mother! mother! O!
You have won a happy victory to Rome;
But, for your son,—believe it, O! believe it,—
Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d,
If not most mortal to him. But let it come.—
Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, l
J’'ll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius,
Were you in my stead, would you have heard
A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius?
Auf. I was mov’d withal,

150

170

180

190

Cor. I dare be sworn, you were: |

And, sir, it is no little thing to make i
Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir,
What peace youll make, advise me. For my part,
I'll not to Rome, I’ll back with you; and pray you,
Stand to me in this cause.—O mother! wite!
Auf. | Aside.] Iam glad thou hast set thy mercy and
’ thy honour 200
At difference in thee: out of that I’ll work
Myself a former fortune.
[The Ladies make signs to CORIOLANUS.
Cor. [To VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, &c.] Ay, by-and-by ;
But we will drink together; and you shall bear
A better witness back than words, which we,
On like conditions, will have counter-seal’d.
Come, enter with us. Ladies, yon deserve
To have a temple built you: all the swords

 

ScENE IV.—Rome. A Public Place.

Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS.

Men. See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond corner-
stone?

Sic. Why, what of that?

Men. If it be possible for you to displace it with your
little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome,
especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I
say, there is no hope in’t. Our throats are sentenced,
and stay upon execution.

Sic. Is ’t possible, that so short a time can alter the
condition of a man? ; 10

Men. There is differency between a grub and a
butterfly ; yet your butterfly wasagrub. This Marcius
is grown from man to dragon: he has wings; he’s
more than a creeping thing.

Sic. He loved his mother dearly.

Men. So did he me; and he no more remembers his
mother now, than an eight-year-old horse. The tart-
ness of his face sours ripe grapes. When he walks, he
moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks betore
his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his
eye; talks like a knell, and his hum isa battery. He
sits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What
he bids be done, is finished with his bidding. He
wants nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to
throne in.

Sic. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

Men. I paint him in the character. Mark what
mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no
more mercy in him, than there is milk in a male tiger ;
that shall our ro city find: and all this is ‘long of you.

Sic. The gods be good unto us! 31

Men. No, in such a case the gods will not be good
unto us. When we banished him, we respected not
them; and, he returning to break our necks, they
respect not us.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your house.

The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune,
And hale him up and down; all swearing, if
The Roman ladies ae comfort home,

They ’ll give him death by inches.

Enter another Messenger.
Sic. What’s the news?
Mess. Good news, good news!—The ladies have
prevail'd, 41
The Volscians are dislodg’d, and Marcius gone.
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.
i Friend,

Sic.
Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain?
Mess. As certain as I know the sun is fire.
Where have you lurk’d, that you make doubt of it?
Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,
As the recomforted through the gates, Why, hark you!
[Trumpets and hautboys sounded, and drums
beaten, all together. Shouting also within.
The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, 50
Tabors, and cymbals, and the shoutin;
Make the sun dance. Hark you!
Men. This is good news.
J will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,
A city full; of tribunes, such as you,
A sea and land full. You have pray’d well to-day:
This morning for ten thousand of your throats
I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!
. [Shouting and music.
Sic. First, the gods bless you for their tidings;

Romans,
[Shouting again,

next,
Accept my thankfulness.
Mess. ir, we have all 60
Great. cause to give great thanks,

 

 
 

 

900 CORIOLANUS. [Act V.

 

Sic. Gan They are near the city ? Scene V.—Antium. A Public Place.
— almost at potnt to-enter. We will meet them, Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS, with Attendants,
And help the joy. [Going. Auf. Go tell the lords of the city, I am here:

Mt
MT

a

 

THB RETURN OF VOLUMNIA.

Enter the Ladies, accompanied by Senators, Patri- Deliver them this-:paper: heying read it,

cians, and People. ‘hey pass over the stage. Bid them repair to the market-place; where I,
Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears,
1 Sen. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse
Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, The city ports by this hath enter’d, and |
And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before | Intends to appear before the people, hoping
them: To purge himself with words, espatch.
Unshout the noise that banish’d Marcius ; [Excunt Attendants.
Repeal him with the welcome of his mother ; : ‘i
Cry,—Welcome, ladies, welcome !— Enter three or four Conspirators of AUFIDIUS
All, Welcome, ladies, welcome ! Jaction,

 

 

70
[4 flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt. | Most welcome!

 
 

ScENE. V.] CORIOLANUS. 901

 

1 Con. How is it with our general? He water’d his new plants with dews of flattery,
Auf. Seducing so my friends ; and, to this end,
He bow’d his nature, never known before

But to be rough, unswayable, and free.

As with a man by hi I at sa =
h 1 y his own alms empoison’d,
And with his charity slain. e

 

ao

He BANA

aM
= i i
ye

|

 

All, “ Welcome, ladies, welcome!”

2 Con. Most noble sir, | 3 Con. Sir, his stoutness, .
If you do hold the same intent, wherein When he did stand for consul, which he lost
You wish'd us parties, we’ll deliver you By lack of stooping,—
Of your great danger. Auf. That I would have spoke of.
Auf. Sir, I cannot tell: Being banish’d for ’t, he came unto my hearth ;
We must proceed, as we do find the people. Presented to my knife his throat: I took him ;
3 Con. The people will remain uncertain, whilst Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way
‘Twixt you there’s difference ; but the fall of either In all his own desires ; nay, let him choose
Makes the survivor heir of all. Out of my files, his projects to accomplish,
Auf. I know it; My best and freshest men ; serv’d his designments
And my pretext to strike at him admits 20 | In mine own person ; holp to reap the fame,
A good construction. I rais’d him, and I papa Which he did end all his; and took some pride
Mine honour for his truth: who being so

eighten’d, To do myself this wrong: till, at the last,

 

 

ho
 

902

CORIOLANUS.

{Acr V.

 

 

 

Iseem'd his follower, not partner; and.
He wag’d me with his countenance, as if 40
IT had been mercenary.
Con. So he did, my Jord:
The army marvell'd at it ; and, in the last,
When he had carried Rome, and that we look’d
For no less spoil than glory,— ‘
Auf. There wasit;
For which my sinews shall be stretch’d upon him.
At afew drops of women’s rheum, which are
As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour
Of our great action: therefore shall he die,
And I’ renew me in his fall. But,hark! |
(Drums and trumpets sound, with great
shouts of the People.

1 Con. Your native town you enter’d like a post, 50
And had no welcomes home; but he returns,
Splitting the air with noise.

Con. And patient fools,
Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear
With giving him glory.

Con. Therefore, at your vantage,
Ere he express himself, or move the people
With what he would say, let him feel your sword,
Which we will second. When he lies along,

After your way his tale pronounc’d shall bury
His reasons with his body.

Auf. Say no more:

Here come the lords. 60

Enter the Lords of the City.

Lords. You are most welcome home.

Auf. have not deserv’d it.
But, worthy lords, have you with heed perus’d
What I have written to you?

Lords, We have.

1 Lord. And grieve to hear’t.
What faults he made before the last, I think,
Might have found easy fines; but there to end,
Where he was to begin, and give away
The benefit of our levies, answering us
With our own charge, making a treaty where
There was a yielding,—this admits no excuse.

Auf. He approaches: you shall hear him. 70

Enter CortoLanus, with drums and colours; a
crowd of Citizens with him.
Cor. Hail, lords! I am return’d your soldier;
No more infected with my country’s love
Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting
Inder your great command. You are to know,
That prosperously I have attempted, and
With bloody passage led your wars even to
The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought
1ome
Do more than counterpoise, a full third part,
The charges of the action. We have made peace,
With no less honour to the Antiates,
Than shame to the Romans; and we here deliver,
Subscribed br the consuls and patricians,
Together with the seal o’ the senate, what
We have compounded on.
Auf. Read it not, noble lords ;
But tell the traitor in the highest degree
He hath abus’d your powers.
Cor, Traitor !—How now !—
Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius.
Cor. é Marcius!
Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius. Dost thou think
I’l] grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name
Coriolanus in Corioli?—,
You lords and heads of the state, perfidiously
He has betray'd your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,
(I say, your city,) to his wife and mother ;
Breaking his oath and resolution, like

 

A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel o’ the war, but at his nurse’s tears
He whin’d and roar’d away your ue
That pages blush’d at him, and men of heart
Look’d wondering each at other.
‘or. Hear’st thou, Mars?
Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.
Cor. Ha! 101

Auf. No more.
Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart
Too eee for what contains it. Boy! Oslave!—
Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever
I was fore’dtoscold. Yourjudgments, my grave lords,
Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion
(Who wears my stripes impress'd upon him, that
Must bear my beating to his grave) shall join
To thrust the lie unto him.
1 Lord. Peace, both, and hear me speak.
Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, 111
Stain all your edges on me.—Boy! False hound!
If you have writ your annals true, ’t is there,
That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I
Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli :
Alone I did it.—Boy!
Why, noble lords,

Auf.

Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune,
Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart,
’Fore your own eyes and ears?

‘on. _ Let him die for 't.

All People. Tearhim to pieces: do it presently. He
killed my son ;—my daughter; he killed my cousin
Marcus ;—he killed my father.— 122

2 Lord. Peace, ho !—no outrage :—peace !

The man is noble, and his fame folds in
This orb o’ the earth. His last offences to us
Shall have judicious hearing.—Stand, Aufidius,
And trouble not the peace.

O! that I had him,

Yor.
With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe,
To use my lawful sword!
Auf, Insolent villain !
All Con. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kil him!
[AUFIDIUS and the Conspirators draw, and kill
CoRIOLANUS, who falls: AUFIDIUS stands

on his body.
Lords. Hold, hold, hold, hold!
«lfuf. My noble masters, hear me speak.
1 Lord. O Tullus !—

2 Lord. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will

weep. 132

3 Lord. Tread not upon him.—Masters all, be quiet. —
Put up your swords.

Auf. My lords, when you shall know (as in this rage,
Provok'd by him, you cannot) the great danger
Which this man’s life did owe you, you'll rejoice
That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours
To call me to your senate, I’ll deliver
Myself your loyal servant, or endure
Your heaviest censure.

1 Lord. Bear from hence his body,
And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded
As the most noble corse that ever herald
Did follow to his urn.

2 Lord. _« His own impatience
Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame.

Let’s make the best of it.

0

Auf. : My rage is gone,
And I am struck with sorrow.—Take him up :—
Help, three 0’ the chiefest soldiers ; I'll be one.—
Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully ;
Trail your steel pikes.—Though in this city he
Hath widow’d and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour bewail the injury,
Yet he shall have a noble memory.—
Assist. [Exeunt, bearing the body of CORIOLANUS.

A dead march sounded.

150

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

THE WINTER’S TALE.

DRAMATIS

LEonTES, King of Sicilia.
MAMILLIUS, young Prince of Sicilia.
CAMILLO,
ANTIGONUS,
CLEOMENES,
DION,
POLIXENES, King of Bohemia.

FLORIZEL, Prince of Bohemia.

ARCHIDAMUS, @ Lord of Bohemia.

A Mariner.

A Gaoler. |

Lords of Sicilia.

An Old Shepherd, reputed Father of Perdita.
Clown, his Son.

PERSON.

AUTOLYCUS, @ Rogue.
Time, the Chorus.

HERMIONE, Queen to Leontes.

Prrpira, Daughter to Leontes and Hermione.
PauLina, Wife to Antigonus.

EmILtia, a Lady attending the Queen.

tee i Shepherdesses.

Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, Officers, and
Servants, Shepherds and Shepherdesses,
Guards, &c.

SCENE—Sometimes in SicrL1a, sometimes in BOHEMIA.

 

ACT I.
ScENE I.—Sicilia. An Ante-chamber in LEonTEs’ Palace.

Archidamus.
F you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bo-
hemia, on the like occasion whereon my
services are now on foot, you shall see, as
I have said, great difference betwixt our
Bohemia and your Sicilia.

Cam. I think, this coming summer, the
King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the
visitation which he justly owes him.

Arch. Wherein our entertainment shall
shame us, we will be justified in our loves:
for, indeed,— 11

Cam. ’Beseech you,—

Arch. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my know-
ledge: we cannot with such magnificence—in so rare
—I know not what to say.—We will give you sleepy
drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insut-
ficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little
accuse us.

Cam. You pay a great deal too dear for what’s
given freely. r 20

Arch, Believe me, I speak as my understanding in-
structs me, and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.

Cam.. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to
Bohemia. They were trained together in their
childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then
such an affection, which cannot choose but branch
now. Since their more mature dignities, and royal
necessities, made separation of their society, their
encounters, though not personal, have been royally
attorney’d, with interchange of gifts, letters, loving
embassies, that they have seemed to be together,
though absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and em-
braced, as it were, from the ends of opposed winds.
The heavens continue their loves ! :

Arch, I think, there is not in the world either
malice, or matter, to alter it. You have an un-
speakable comfort of your young Prince Mamillius:
it is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever
came into my note. 39

 

 

Cam. I very well agree with you in the Hes of
him. It is a gallant child; one that, indeed. physics

Enter CAMILLO and ARCHIDAMUS.

the subject, makes old hearts fresh: they that went
on crutches ere he was born, desire yet their life to
see him a man.

Arch, Would they else be content to die?

Cam. Yes; if there were no other excuse why they
should desire to live.

Arch. If the king had no son, they would desire to
live on crutches till he had one. Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—The Same. A Room of State in the
Palace.

Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS,
CAMILLO, and Attendants,

Pol. Nine changes of the watery star have been
The shepherd's note, since we have left our throne
Without a burden: time as long again
Would be fill’'d ei my brother, with our thanks;
And yet we should for perpetuity
Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher,
Yet standing in rich place, I multiply
With one “ We thank you” many thousands more
That go before it.

Leon. Stay your thanks awhile,
And pay them when you part.
Pol. : Sir, that’s to-morrow.
Iam question’d by my fears, of what may chance, 11
Or breed upon our absence; that may blow
No sneaping winds at home, to make us say,
“This is put forth too truly!” Besides, I have stay’d
To tire your royalty.

Leon. We are tougher, brother,

Than you can put us to’t.
Pol. No longer stay.
Leon. One seven-night longer.
Pol Very sooth, to-morrow.

‘Leon. We a part the time between’s then; and in
a :
I’ll_no gainsaying.
Pol. Press me not, beseech you, so.

 

 
 

90L

THE WINTER'S TALE. \

{Act I.

 

 

There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ the world,
So soon as yours, could win me: so it should now, 21
Were there necessity in your request, although
’T were needful I denied it. My affairs
Do even drag me homeward ; which to hinder,
Were in your love a whip to me, my stay
To you a charge, and trouble : to save both,
Farewell, our brother.
Leon, Tongue-tied, our queen? speak you.
Her, I SN thought, sir, to have held my peace,
unti
You had drawn oaths from him, not to stay. You, sir,
Charge him too coldly : tell him, you are sure 30
Allin Bohemia’s well: this satisfaction _
The by-gone mg proclaim'’d. Say this to him,
He’s beat from his best ward.
Leon. Well said, Hermione.
Her. To tell he longs to see his son were strong:
But let him say so then, and let him go;
But let him swear so, and he shall not stay
We'll thwack him hence with distaffs.—
{To PoLIXENES.] Yet of your royal presence I'll ad-
venture :
The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia
You take my lord, I’ll give him ny commission,
To let him there a month behind the gest
Prefix’d for’s parting : yet, good deed, Leontes,
I love thee not a jar o’ the clock behind
bi lady she her lord.— You'll stay ?
‘0.

40

s No, madam.
aa Nay, but you will?

ol.
Her. Verily!

You put me off with limber vows; but I,

Though soy oud seek to unsphere the stars with
oaths,

Should yet say, “Sir, no going.” Verily,

You shall not go: a lady's ‘ verily” is

As potent as a Jord’s. Will you go yet?

Force me to keep you as a prisoner,

Not like a guest ; so you shall pay your fees,

When you ceUATE; and save your thanks.
you

My prisoner, or my guest? by your dread ‘‘ verily,”

Ong of them you shall be.

0

I may not, verily.

50
How say

. Your guest then, madam:
To be your prisoner should import offending ;

Which is for me less easy to commit,

Than you to punish.

Her, Not your gaoler then,

But your kind hostess. Come, I'll question you 60
Of my lord’s tricks, and yours, when you were boys;
You were pretty lordings then.

Pol. We were, fair queen,
Two lads, that thought there was no more behind,
But such a day to-morrow as to-day,

And to be boy eternal.
Her, Was not my lord the verier wag o’ the two?
Pol. We were as twinn’d lambs, that did frisk i’ the

sup,
And bleat the one at the other: what we chang’d,
Was innocenee for innocence ; we knew not
The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d
That any did. Had we pursu’d that life,
And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear’d
With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven
Boldly, ‘not guilty ;” the imposition clear’d,
ae itary ours.

70

er. By this we gather,
You have tripp’d since.

Pol. | O! my most sacred lady,
Temptations have since then been born to’s; for
In those unfledg’d days was my wife a girl:
Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes
Of my young playfellow.
Her, - Grace to boot!

Of this make no conclusion, lest you say,

Your queen and I are devils; yet, go on:

The offences we have made you do, we’ll answer ;
If you first sinn’d with us, and that with us

You did continue fault, and that you slipp’d not
With any but with us.

80

Leon. Is he won yet?
Her. He'll stay, my lord.
econ. At my request he would not.
Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st
To better purpose.
Her. Never?
Leon. Never, but once.
Her. What? have I twice said well? when was’t
betore? ; - 90
I pr’ythee, tell me. Cram ’s with praise, and make’s
As fat as tame things: one good deed, dying tongue-

less,
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wages: you may ride’s
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs, ere
With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal :—
ay last good deed was to entreat his stay:

hat was my first? it has an elder sister,
Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace!
But once before I spoke to the purpose: when? 100
Nay, let me have’t; I long.

Leon. Why, that was when
Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death,
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand,

And clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter,
“JT am yours for ever.”

Her. ’T is Grace, indeed.—

Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice:
The one for ever earn’d a royal husband,
The other for some while a friend.

Giving her hand to POLIXENES.

Leon. [tote] : Too hot, too hot!
To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

I have tremor cordis on me :—my heart dances, 110
But not for joy, not joy.—This entertainment

May a free face put on, derive a ks

From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,

And well become the agent: 't may, I grant;

But to be paddling palms, and pinching fingers,
As now they are; and making practis’d smiles,
As in a looking-glass ;--and then to sigh, as ’t were
The mort o’ the deer; O! that is entertainment
My bosom likes not, nor my brows.—Mamillius,
Art thou my boy?

am. Ay, my good lord.
Leon. I’ fecks? 120
Why, that’s my bawcock. What! hast smutch’d thy
: nose ?—

They say, it’s a copy out of mine. Come, captain,
We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain :
And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf,

Are all call’d neat.—Still virginalling

Upon his palm ?—Hew now, you wanton calf!

Art thou my calf?

Mam. Yes, if you will, my lord.
Leon. Thou want’st a rough pash, and the shoots
that I have,

To be full like me :—yet, they say, we are

Almost as like as eggs ; women say so,

That will say anything: but were they false

As o’er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters; false

As dice are to be wish’d, by one that fixes

No bourn ’twixt his and mine; yet were it true

To say this boy were like me.—Come, sir page,

Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain!

Most dear'st ! my collop !—Can thy dam ?—may ’t be?—

Affection ! thy intention stabs the centre: é

Thou dost make possible things not so held,

Communicat’st with dreams ;—(how can this be?)—140

With what’s unreal thou co-active art,

And fellow’st nothing. Then, ’tis very credent,

Thou may’st co-join with something ; and thou dost,—

And that beyond commission ; and I find it, :

And that to the infection of my brains,

And hardening of my brows. ots.
Pol. What means Sicilia?
Her. He something seems unsettled.

‘ol. . How, my lord!

What cheer? how is't with you, best brother?

i You look,

130

er.
As if you held a brow of much distraction:

 

| Are you mov’d, my lor : a oe

 

 

 
 

ScENE I1.]

THE WINTER’S TALE.

905

 

 

Leon. . No, in good earnest.— 150
How sometimes nature will betray its folly,

Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime

To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines

Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil
Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d,

In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled,

Lest it should bite its master, and so prove,

As ornaments oft do, too dangerous,

How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,

This squash, this gentleman.—Mine honest friend, 160
Will you take eggs for money ?

 

i

 

Leon. “ How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,
This squash, this gentleman.”

Mam. No, my lord, I’ll fight.
Leon. You will? why, happy man be’s dole!—My
brother,
Are you so fond of your young prince, as we
Do seem to be of ours?
Pol. If at home, sir,
He's all my exerc.se, my mirth, my matter:
Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy ;
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all.
He makes a July’s day short as December;
And with his varying childness cures in me
Thoughts that would thick my blood.
Leon. So stands this squire
Offic’d with me. We too will walk, my lord,
And leave you to your graver steps.—Hermione,
How thou lov’st us, show in our brother’s welcome :
Let what is dear in Sicily, be cheap. ©
Next to thyself, and my young rover, he’s
Apparent to my heart.
Ffer. If you would seek us,
We are yours i’ the garden: shall’s attend you there?
Leon. To your own bents dispose you: you'll be
found,
Be you beneath the sky.—[Aside.] I am angling now,
Though you perceive me not how I give line. 181
Go to, go to!
How she holds up the neb, the bill to him;
And arms her with the boldness of a wife
To her allowing husband !
[Exeunt POLIXENES, HERMIONE, and Attendants.
Gone already ;
Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d

170

one !—
Go play, boy, play ;—thy mother piays, and I
Play too, but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue
Will hiss me to my grave : contempt and clamour
Will be my knell.—Go play, boy, play.—There have
been, 190
Or Iam much deceiv’d, cuckolds ere now ;
And many a man there is, (even at this prsen
Now, while IL epee this) holds his wife by the arm,
That little thinks she has been sluic’d in ’s absence,
And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by

 

Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there’s comfort in ’t,
Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open’d,
As mine, against their will. Should all despair

That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind
Would hang themselves. Physic for ’t there is none:
It is a bawdy planet, that will strike 2
Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it,
From east, west, north, and south; be it concluded,
No barricado for a belly: know ’t;

It will let in and out the enemy,

With bag and baggage. Many a thousand on’s
Have the disease, and feel ’t not.—How now, boy?

Mam. Iam like you, they say.

Leon, hy, that’s some comfort. —
What! Camillo there?

Cam. Ay, my good lord. 210

Leon. Go play, Mamillius; thou ‘rt an honest man.—

[f£xit MAMILLIUS,
Camillo, this great sir will yet Suey longer.

Cam. You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

When you cast out, it still came home.
eon, Didst note it ?

Cam. He would not stay at your petitions; made
His business more material.

Leon. Didst perceive it ?—
They 're here with mealready ; whispering, rounding,
‘* Sicilia is a—so-forth.” Tis far gone,

When I shall gust it last—_How came ’t, Camillo,

That he did stay?
Cam. At the good queen's entreaty. 220
Leon. Atthe queen’s, be’t: good should be pertinent;
But so it is, itis not. Was this taken ¢
By any understanding pate but thine?
For thy conceit is soaking ; will draw in
More than the common blocks :—not noted, is ’t,
But of the finer natures? by some severals,
Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes,
Perchance, are to this business purblind : say.
Cam. Business, my lord? I think, most understand
Bohemia stays here longer.
Leon, Ha?
Cam. .
Leon. Ay, but why?
Cam. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties
Of our most gracious mistress.
Leon. Satisfy ?
The entreaties of your mistress ?—satisfy 7—
Let that suffice. [ have trusted thee, Camillo,
With all the nearest things to my heart, as well
My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou
Hast cleans’d my bosom : I from thee departed
Thy penitent reform’d; but we have been
Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv’d
In that which seems so.
Cam. Be it forbid, my lord!
Leon. To bide upon ’t,—thou art not honest; or,
If thou inclin’st that way, thou art a coward,
Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining
From course requir’d ; or else thou must be counted
A servant grafted in my serious trust,
And therein negligent; or else a fool,
That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn,
And tak’st it all for jest.
Cam. _ My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful °
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Amongst the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were wilful-negligent,
It was ny folly ; if industriously
I play’d the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To doa thing, where I the issue doubted,
Whereof the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, ’t was a fear
hich oft infects the wisest. These, my lord,
Are such allow’d infirmities, that honesty
Is never free of: but, beseech your grace,
Be plainer with me: let me know my trespass
By its own visage; if I then deny it,
’T is none of mine.

Stays here longer.
1

240

250

 

 
 

 

906

THE WINTER’S TALE.

[Act L

 

 

Leon. Ha’ not you seen, Camillo,
(But that’s past doubt ; you have: or your eye-glass
Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn) or heard,
(For, to a vision so apparent, rumour 270
Cannot be mute) or thought, (for cogitation
Resides not in that man that does not think)
My wite is slippery? If thou wilt confess,
(Or else be impudently negative,
To have nor eyes, nor thought) then say
My wife’s a hobbyhorse, deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to
Before her troth-plight : say ’t, and justify ’t.
Cam. I would not be a stander-by, to hear
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without
My present vengeance taken. ‘Shrew my heart,
You never spoke what did become you less
Than this; which to reiterate, were sin
As deep as that, though true.
Leon. Is whispering nothing ?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses ?
Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh ? (a note infallible
Of breaking honesty) horsing foot on foot ?
Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?
Hours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes 290
Blind with the pin and web, but theirs, theirs only,
That would unseen be wicked ? is this nothing ?
Why, then the world, and all that is in ’t, is nothing ;
The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing ;
My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,
1f this be nothing.

280

‘am. Good my lord, be cur'd
Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes;
For ’tis most dangerous.

Leon. Say, it be; tis true.
Cam. No, no, my lord. :
Leon. It is; you lie, you lie:

I say, thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee; 300
Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave,
Or else a hovering temporiser ; that
Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,
Inclining to them both: were my wife's liver
Infected as her life, she would not live
The running of one glass.
Cam. Who does infect her?
Leon. Why, he that wears her like her medal,
hanging
About his neck, Tohemias who—if I
Had servants true about me, that bare eyes
To see alike mine honour as their profits, 310
Their own particular thrifts, they would do that
Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou,
His cup-bearer,—whom I from meaner form
Have bench'd, and rear’d to worship; who may’st see
Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven,
How Lam galled,—might’st bespice a cup,
To give mine enemy a lasting wink ;
Which draught to me were cordial.
Cam. Sir, my lord,
I could do this, and that with no rash potion,
But with a lingering dram, that should not work 320
Maliciously, like poison ; but I cannot
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
So sovereignly being honourable.
I have lov’d thee, —
Leon. Make that thy question, and go rot!
Dost think, Iam so muddy, so unsettled,
To appoint myself in this vexation? sully
The purity and whiteness of my sheets, —
Which to preserve is sleep ; which, being spotted,
Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps, —
Give scandal to the blood o’ the prince, my son,
(Who, I do think, is mine, and love as mine)
Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this?
Could man so blench ?
Cam. I must believe you, sir:
Ido; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t ;
Provided, that when he’s remov’d, your highness
Will take again your queen, as yours at first,
Even for your son's sake; and thereby for sealing
The injury of tongues, in courts and kingdoms
Known and allied to yours.

330

 

Leon. Thou dost advise me,
Even so as I mine own course have set down.
I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.
Cam. My lord,
Go then; and with a countenance as clear
As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia,
And with your queen. I am his cup-bearer;
If from me he have wholesome beverage,
Account me not your servant.

Leon. This is all:
Do’t, and thou hast the one half of my heart;
Do’t not, thou splitt’st thine own.

Cam. I'll do’t, my lord.

Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast ee me,

exit.

340

Cam. O miserable lady !—But, for me,
What case stand lin? I must be the poisoner
Of Food Polixenes ; and my ground to do’t
Is the obedience to a master ; one,

Who, in rebellion with himself, will have

All that are his, so too.—To do this deed,
Promotion follows. If I could find example
Of thousands that had struck anointed kings,
And flourish’d after, I’d not do’t; but since
Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one,
Let villainy itself forswear’t. I must

Forsake the court: to do’t, or no, is certain

To mea break-neck. Happy star, reign now!
Here comes Bohemia,

Enter POLIXENES.
Pol. This is strange. Methinks,
My favour here begins to warp. Not speak ?—
Good day, Camillo.
Cam. Hail, most royal sir!
Pol. What is the news i’ the court ?
Cam. None rare, my lord.
Pol. The king hath on him such a countenance,
As he had lost some province, and a region
Lov’d as he loves himself: evennowImethim 370
With customary compliment, when he,
Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and falling
A lip of much contempt, speeds from me, and
ae leaves me to consider what is breeding,
That changes thus his manners.
Cam. I dare not know, my lord.
Pol. How! dare not? do not!
dare not
Be intelligent tome? "Tis thereabouts;
For, to yourself, what you do know, you must,
And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo, 380
Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror,
Which shows me mine chang'd too; for I must be
A party in this alteration, finding
Myself thus alter’d with ’t.
Cam. There is a sickness
Which puts some of us in distemper ; but
I cannot name the disease, and it is caught
Of pou, that yet are well.

Do you know, and

‘ol. How caught of me?
Make me not sighted like the basilisk: —
I have look’d on thousands, who have sped the better
By my regard, but kill’d none so. Camillo,— 390
As you are certainly a gentleman ; thereto
Clerk-like experiene’d, which no less adorns
Our gentry than our parents’ noble names,
In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you,
If you know aught which does behove my knowledge
Thereof to be inform’d, imprison ’t not
In ignorant concealment.

Cam. I may not answer.

Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well?
I must be answer’d.—Dost thou hear, Camillo,
I conjure thee, by all the parts of man 400
Which honour does acknowledge,—whereof the least
Is not this suit of mine,—that thou declare
What incidency thou dost guess of harm
Is creeping toward me ; how far off, how near;
Which way to be prevented, if to be:
If not, how best to bear it.

Cam. Sir, I will tell you;
Since I am charg’d in honour, and by him

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

THE WINTER’S TALE.

907

 

That I think honourable.
; counsel,

Which must be even as swiftly follow’d, as

I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

ory ‘ lost,” and so good night.
‘ol.

Therefore, mark my

410

. On, good Camillo.
Cam. I am appointed him to murder you.
Pol. By whom, Camillo?
Cam. By the king.
Pol. . For what ?
Cam. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,
As he had seen’t, or been an instrument
To vice you to’t,—that you have touch’d his queen
Forbiddenly.
Pol. O, then my best blood turn
To an infected jelly, and my name
Be yok’d with his that did betray the Best!
Turn then my freshest reputation to
A savour that may strike the dullest nostril
Where I arrive ; and my approach be shunn'd,
Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infection
That e’er was heard, or read !
Cam. Swear his thought over
By each particular star in heaven, and
By all their influences, you may as well
Forbid the sea for to obey the moon,
As, or by oath, remove, or counsel, shake,
The fabric of his folly, whose foundation
Is pil’d upon his faith, and will continue
/— semaine of his body.
‘ol,

430

How should this grow?
Cam. I know not; but, Iam sure, ‘tis safer to
Avoid what’s grown, than question how ’tis born.

If therefore you dare trust my honesty,
That lies enclosed in this trunk, which you
Shall bear along impawn’d, away to-night!
Your followers I will whisper to the business ;
And will, by twos and threes, at several posterns,
Clear them o’ the city. For myself, I’ll put
My fortunes to your service, which are here
By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain ;
For, by the honour of my parents, I
Have utter'd truth, which if you seek to prove,
I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer
Than one condemn’d by the king’s own mouth, thereon
His execution sworn.
Pol. I do believe thee:
I saw his heart in’s face. Give me thy hand:
Be pilot to me, and thy places shall
Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and
My people did expect my hence departure 450
Two days ago.—This jealousy
Is for a precious creature : as she’s rare,

440

 

Must it be great ; and, as his person’s mighty,
Must it be violent; and, as he does conceive
He is dishonour’d by a man which ever
Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must

 

Pul. “Give me thy hand:
Be pilot to me, and thy places shall
Still neighbour mine.”

In that be made more bitter. Fear o’ershades me:
Good expedition be my friend, and comfort
The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing
Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come, Camillo: 60
I will respect thee as a father, if
Thou bear’st my life off hence. Let us avoid.

Cam, It is in mine authority to command
The keys of all the posterns. Please your highness
To take the urgent hour. Come, sir: away !|Exeunt.

 

 

 
 
 
 

Me

hte BAS
OO oe

 

 

ACT TI.

   

: Hermione.
AKE the boy to you: he so troubles me,
’Tis past enduring.
1 Lady. Come, my gracious lord :
Shall I be your playfellow ?
Mam. No, I’ll none of you.
1 Lady. Why, my sweet lord?
Mam. You'll kiss me hard, and speak
to me as if
I were a baby still.—I love you better.
2 Lady. And why so, my lord?

 

ScENE I.—The Same.
Enter HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS, and Ladies.

Mam. Not for because
Your brows are blacker ; yet black brows, they say,
Become some women best, so that there be not

Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, 10
Or a half-moon made with a pen.
2 Lady. Who taught ye this?

Mam. I learn’d it out of women’s faces.—Pray now,
What colour are your eyebrows?

1 Lady. Blue, my lord.

Mam. Nay, that’s a mock: I haveseena lady’s nose
That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.

 

 
 

 

908

2 Lady. ‘ Hark ye.
The queen, your mother, rounds apace : we shall
Present our services to a fine new prince, i
One of these days; and then you’d wanton with us,
If we would have you.

She is spread of late

1 Lady.
Into a goodly bulk : good time encounter her! 20
Her, What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir ;
now

Iam for you again: pray you, sit by us,
And tell’s a tale.
Mam. Merry, or sad, shall’t be?
Her. As merry as you will. 2
Mam. A sad tale’s best for winter.
J have one of sprites and goblins. :
er. Let ’s have that, good sir.
Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best 5
‘To tright me with your sprites: you ‘re powerful at it.
Mam. There was a man,—
Fer. Nay, come, sit down ; then on.
Mam. Dwelt by a churchyard.—I will tell it softly ;
Yond crickets shall not hear it.
Her. Come on then, 30
And give 't me in mine ear.
Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, Lords, and others.
Leon. Was he met there? his train? Camillo with
im ?
1 Lord. Behind the tuft of pines [met them: never
Saw I men scour so on their way. I ey'’d them
Even to their ships.
Leon. How blest am I
In may Uk censure, in my true opinion !—
Alack ! for lesser knowledge !—how accurs'd,
In being so blest !—There may be in the cup
A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart,
And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge 40
Is not infected ; but if one present
The abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known
How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,
With violent hefts.—I have drunk, and seen the spider.
Camillo was his help in this, his pander.—
There is a plot against my life, my crown:
All’s true that is mistrusted ;—that false villain,
Whom I employ’d, was pre-employ’d by him.
He has discover'd my design, and I -
Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick
For them to play at will.—How came the posterns
So easily open ?
1 Lord. By his great authority ;
Which often hath no less prevail’d than so,
On your command.
Leon, I know ’t too well.—
Give me the boy. [Zo HERMIONE.] I am glad, you
did not nurse him:
Though he does bear some signs of me, yct you
Have too much blood in him.
Her. What is this? sport ?
Leon. Bear the boy hence ; he shall not come about
her.

Away with him; and let her sport herself

With that she’s big with, for 'tis Polixenes 60
Has made thee swell thus.
Her But I'd say he had not,

And, I'll be sworn, you would believe my saying,

Howe’er you lean to the nayward. ;
Leon. You, my lords,

Look on her, mark her well; be but about

To say, ‘“‘she is a goodly lady,” and

The justice of your hearts will thereto add,

‘“-'T ig pity she’s not honest, honourable :”

Praise her but for this her without-door form

(Which, on my faith, deserves high speech), and

straight

The shrug, the hum, or ha; these petty brands 70

That calumny doth use :—O, I am out !—

That mercy does, for calumny will sear

Virtue itself :—these shrugs, these hums, and ha’s,
hen you have said, “she’s goodly,” come between,

Ere you can say, “she’s honest.” But be ’t known,

From him that has most cause to grieve it should be,

She's an adult’ress,

THE WINTER’S TALE.

 

[Act IL:

Fler. Should a villain say so,
The most replenish’d villain in the world,
He were as much more villain: you, my lord,
Do but mistake.
Leon. You have mistook, my lady, 89
Polixenes for Leontes, O thou thing,
Which I'll not call a creature of thy place,
Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,
Should a like language use to all degrees,
And mannerly distinguishment leave out
Betwixt the prince and beggar !—I have said
She’s an adult’ress ; I have said with whom:
More, she’s a traitor ; and Camillo is
A federary with her, and one that knows
What she should shame to know herself, 90
But with her most vile principal, that she’s
A bed-swerver, even as bad as those
That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy
To.this their late escape.
Her, No, by my life,
Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you,
When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that
You thus have publish'd me? Gentle my lord,
You scarce can right me throughly then, to say
You did mistake.
Leon. No; if I mistake
In those foundations which I build upon, 100
The centre is not big enough to bear
A school-boy 's top.—Away with her to prison!
He, who shall speak for her, is afar off guilty,
But that he speaks.
Fler. There’s some ill planet reigns:
I must be patient, till the heavens look
With an aspect more favourable.—Good my lords,
Iam not prone to weeping, as our sex
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew,
Perchance, shall dry your pities; but I have
That honourable grief lodg’d here, which burns 110
Worse than tears drown. ’Beseech you all, my lords,
With thoughts so qualified as your charities
Shall best instruct you, measure me ;—and so
The king's will be perform’d.
Leon. ' Shall I be heard ?
Her. Who is 't, that goes with me?'Beseech your
highness,
My women may be with me; for, you see,
My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools ;
There is no cause: when you sha now, your mis-
tress
Has deserv’d prison, then abound in tears,
As I come out: this action, I now go on, 120
Is for my better grace.—-Adieu, my lord:
I never wish’d to see you sorry ; now,
I trust, I shall.—My women, come; you have leave.
Leon. Go, do our bidding: hence!
[Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies.
1 Lord. ’Besecch your highness, call the queen again.
Ant. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice
Prove violence ; in the which three great ones suffer,
Yourself, your queen, your son.
1 Lord. For her, my lord,
I dare my life lay down, and will do’t, sir,
Please you to accept it, that the queen is spotless 130

I’ the eyes of heaven, and to you: I mean,
In this which you accuse her.
Ant. If it prove

She’s otherwise, I 11 keep my stables where
I lodge my wife ; Ill go in couples with her ;
Than when I feel, and see her, no further trust her ;
For every inch of woman in the a
Ay, every dram of woman's flesh, is false,
If she be.
. Hold your peaces!
1 Lord. Good my lord,—
Ant. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves.
You are abus’d, and by some putter-on, 140
That will be damn’‘d for ’t ; "would I knew the villain,
I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw'd,—
I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven.
The second, and the third, nine, and some five;
If this prove true, they ’l] pay for ’t ; by mine honour,
I'll geld them all: fourteen they shall not see,

 

 
 

 

ScEeNneE II] THE WINTER'S TALE. 909
To bring false generations : they are co-heirs; Than what I know, yet shall the oracle
And J had rather glib myself, than they Give rest to the minds of others; such as he, 190

Should not produce fair issue.
on. Cease! no more.

You smell this business with a sense as cold 150
As is a dead man’s nose ; but I do see’t, and feel’t,
As you feel doing thus, and see withal
The instruments that feel.

Ant, If it be so,
We need no grave to bury honesty:
There ’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten
Of the whole dungy earth.

 

P|
vy
Wl)

z Ht
iP
a

Her. “ Adieu, my lord:
I never wish'd to see you sorry ; now,
I trust, I shall.”

Leon. What! lack I credit?

1 Lord. Thad rather you did lack, than I, my lord,
Upon this ground ; and more it would content me
To have her honour true, than your suspicion ;

Be blam’d for ’t how you might.

Leon. Why, what need we
Commune with you of this, but rather follow 161
Our forcible instigation? Our prerogative
Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness
Imparts this; which, if you (or stupified,

Or seeming so in skill) cannot, or will not,
Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves.

We need no more of your advice: the matter,
The loss, the gain, the ordering on’t, is all
Properly ours.

Ant. And I wish, my liege, .
You had only in your silent judgment tried it,
Without more overture.

on. How could that be?

Either thou art most ignorant by age, |
Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight,
Added to their familiarity 5
(Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture,
They lack’d sight only, nought for approbation,
But only seeing, all other circumstances :
Made up to the deed), doth push on this proceeding:
Yet, for a greater confirmation,
(For in an act of this importance ‘t were | 180
Most piteous to be wild) I have despatch’d in post,
To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple,
Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know
Of stuff’d sufficiency. Now, from the oracle
They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had,
Shall stop, or spur me. Have I done well?

1 Lord. Well done, my lord.

Leon. Though I am satisfied, and need no more

170

 

 

Whose ignorant credulity will not
Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good,
From our free person she should be confin’d,
Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence
Be left her to perform. Come, follow us:
We are to speak in public; for this business
Will raise us all.
Ant, [Aside.] To laughter, as I take it,

If the good truth were known. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Same. The outer Room of a Prison.

Enter PAULINA and Attendants.
Paul. The keeper of the prison, call to him:
Let him have knowledge who I am.—Good lady !
[Exit an Attendant.
No court in Europe is too good for thee;
What dost thou then in prison ?—

Re-enter Attendant, with the Gaoler.

Now, good sir,
You know me, do you not?

Gaoler. For a worthy lady,
And one whom much I honour.
Paul Pray you then,

Conduct me to the queen.
Gaoler. I may not, madam: to the contrary
T have express commandment,
Paul. Here’s ado,
To lock up honesty and honour from 10:
The access of gentle visitors !—Is ’t lawful,
Pray you, to see her women? any of them?
Emilia?
Gaoler. So please you, madam,
To put apart these your attendants, I
Shall bring Emilia forth.
Paul. I pray now, call her.—
Withdraw yourselves, [Exeunt Attendants.

Gaoler. And, madam,
I must be present at your conference.
Paul. ell, be ’t so, pr’ythee.

’ [Exit Gaoler.
Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain, 20
As passes colouring.

Re-enter Gaoler, with EMILIA.
Dear gentlewoman,
How fares our gracious lady
Emil. As well as one so great, and so forlorn,
May hold together. On her frights, and griefs,
(Which never tender lady hath borne greater)
She is, something before her time, deliver'd.
Paul. A boy?
Emil. A daughter ; and a goodly babe,
poste, and like to live: the queen receives
Much comfort in ’t, says, ‘* My poor prisoner,
I am innocent as you.’
Paul. I dare be sworn :— 30
These ee ta unsafe lunes i’ the king, beshrew
them!
He must be told on ’t, and he shall : the office
Becomes a woman best ; I’ll take ’t upon me.
If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister,
And never to my red-look’d anger be
The trumpet any more.—Pray you, Emilia,
Commend my best obedience to the queen:
If she dares trust me with her little babe,
I 11 show ’t the king, and undertake to be
Her advocate to the loud’st. We do not know 40
How he may soften at the sight o’ the child:
The silence often of pure innocence
Persuades, when speaking fails.
‘mil. Most worthy madam,
Your honour, and your goodness, is so evident,
That your free undertaking cannot miss
A thriving issue: there is no lady living
So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship
To visit the next room, I'll presently
Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer, *

 

 
 

910

THE WINTER’S TALE.

[Act IL

 

 

Who, but to-day, hammer'd of this design, 50
But durst not tempt a minister of honour,
Lest she should be denied.
Paul. Tell her, Emilia,
Ill use that tongue I have: if wit flow from ’t,
As boldness from my bosom, let’t not be doubted
I shall do good.
Emil.
I'll to the queen.—Please you,
nearer.
Gaolcr. Madam, if ’t please the queen to send the

Now, be you blest for it ! 3
come something

abe,
IT know not what I shall incur to pass it,
Having no warrant.
Paul. You need not fear it, sir:
The child was prisoner to the womb, and is, 60
By law and process of great nature, thence
Freed and enfranchis’d; not a party to
The anger of the king, nor guilty of,
If any be, the trespass of the queen.
Gaoler. I do believe it. :
Paul. Do not you fear: upon mine honour, IT
Will stand betwixt you and danger. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same. A Room in the Palace.
Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, Lords, and other
Attendants.
Leon. Nor night nor day, no rest.
ness ‘i
To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If
The cause were not in being,—part o’ the cause,
She, the adult’ress; for the harlot king
Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank
And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she
Ican hook to me:—say, that she were gone,
Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest
Might come to me again.—Who's there?

It is but weak-

1 Atten. My lord.
Leon. How does the boy ?
1 Atten. He took good rest to-night ;

’T is hop‘d, his sickness is discharg’d.

Leon. To see his nobleness !
Conceiving the dishonour of his mother, 12
He straight declin’d, droop’d, took it deeply,

Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself,

Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,

And downright languish’d.—Leave me solely :—go,

See how he fares. [Kxit Attendant.]—Fie, fie! no
thought of him:

The very thought of my revenges that way

Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty,

And in his parties, his alliance ;—let him be, 20

Until atime may serve: for present vengeance,

Take iton her. Camillo and Polixenes

Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow:

They should not laugh, if I could reach them; nor

Shall she, within my power.

Enter PAULINA, with a Child.
1 Lord. You must not enter.
Paul, Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me.
Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas,
Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul,
More free than he is jealous.

Ant. That’s enough.
1 Atten. Madam, he hath not slept to-night; com-
manded 30
None should come at him,

Paul. Not so hot, good sir:
I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you,—
That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh
At each his needless heavings,—such as you
Nourish the cause of his awaking: I
Do come with words as med’cinal as true,
Honest as either, to purge him of that humour,
That presses him from sleep.

Leon, What noise there, hot?

Paul, No noise, my lord; but needful conference,

About some gossips for your highness.

 

Leon. How ?}— 40

Away with that audacious lady. Antigonus,
I charg’d thee, that she should not come about me:
I knew she would. ‘
Ant. . I told her so, my lord,
On your displeasure’s peril, and on mine,
She should not visit you.

Leon. What! canst not rule her?

Paul. From all dishonesty he can: in this,

(Unless he take the course that you have done,
Commit me for committing honour) trust it,
He shall not rule me.

Ant. Lo you now! you hear.

When she will take the rein, I let her run; 50
But she’ll not stumble.

Paul. Good my liege, I come,—
And, I beseech you, hear me, who professes
Myself your loyal servant, your physician,

Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dares
Less appear so in comforting your evils,
Than such as most seem yours,—I say, I come
From your good queen.
Leon, Good queen!
Paul. Good queen, my lord, good queen: I say,
good queen ;
And would by combat make her good, so were I
A man, the worst about you.

Leon. Force her hence. 60

Paul. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes
First hand me. On mine own accord I'll off,

But first I’1] do my errand.—The good queen,
For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter:
Here ‘tis; commends it to your blessing.

[Laying down the Child.

Leon, Out!

A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ door:
A most intelligencing bawd!
Paul. Not so:
Iam as ignorant in that, as you
In so entitling me, and no less honest
Than you are mad: which is enough, I'll warrant, 70
As this world goes, to pass for honest.

Leon. Traitors!
Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.—
[Yo ANTIGONUS.] Thou, dotard, thou art woman-tir'd,

unroosted
By thy dame Partlet here.—Take up the bastard :
Take 't up, I say; give’t to thy crone.
Paul.
Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou
Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness
Which he has put upon’t!
Leon. He dreads his wife.
Paul. So I would you did: then ’t were past all
doubt
You’d call your children yours.

Leon. A nest of traitors ! 80

Ant. [am none, by this good light.

Paul. Nor I; nor any,
But one that’s here, and that’s himself; for he
The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s,

His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to slander,
Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s, and will not
(For, as the case now stands, it is a curse

He cannot be compell’d to’t) once remove

The root of his opinion, which is rotten

As ever oak, or stone, was sound.

Leon. A callat,

Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband,
And now baits me !—This brat is none of mine:

It is the issue of Polixenes.

Hence with it; and, together with the dam,

Commit them to the fire.

Paul. It is yours;

And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge,
So like you, ’t is the worse.—Behold, my lords,
Although the print be little, the whole matter

And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip,

The trick of’s frown, his forehead; nay, the valley,
The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek ; his smiles;
The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger.— 101
And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it

For ever

 

 
 

 

ScENE ITI.)

THE WINTER'S TALE.

911

 

So like to him that got it, if thou hast

The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours
No yellow in’t; lest she suspect, as he does,

Her children not her husband's.

Leon, I'll have thee burn'd.
Paul.

It is an heretic that makes the fire,
Not she which burns in’t. Ill not call you tyrant;

I care not:

 

i ne
svete
H lb
a i Nr

Hes

Tester TTT Tarra

iii

 

Paul. “Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes

First hand me.

On mine own accord

I'll off,

But first I’ll do my errand.”

Leon. A gross hag !-—
And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang’d,
That wilt not stay her tongue. |
Ant. Hang all the husbands |
That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself
Hardly one subject.
Leon. Once more, take her hence.
Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural lord
Can do no more.

110

But this most cruel usage of your queen

(Not able to produce more accusation

Than your own weak-hing’d fancy) something savours
Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you,

Yea, scandalous to the world.

Leon. ; On your allegiance,
Out of the chamber with her! Werelatyrant, 120
Where were her life? she durst not call me so,

If she did know me one. Away with her!

 

 
 

912

THE WINTER’S TALE.

 

 

Paul. I pray you, do not push me ; I’ll be gone.
Look to your babe, my lord ; ‘tis yours: Jove send her
A better guiding spirit !—What needs these hands?—
You, that are thus so tender o’er his follies,

Will never do him good, not one of you.

So, so:—farewell; we are gone. [Exit.
Leon. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.—
hy chal away with 't!—even thou, that hast 130

A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence,

And see it instantly consum’d with fire: 4
Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight.
Within this hour bring me word ’t is done |

(And by good testimony), or I'll seize thy life,

With what thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse.
And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;

The bastard brains with these my proper hands
Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire,

For thou sett’st on thy wife.

Ant. I did not, sir:
These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,

Can clear me in ’t.

140

1 Lord. We can: my royal liege,
He is not guilty of her coming hither.
Leon. You are liars all.

1 Lord. ae eel your highness, give us better
credit.
We have always truly serv’d you, and beseech
So to esteem of us; and on our knees we beg
(As recompense of our dear services,
Past, and to come), that you do change this
Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must.
Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel.
Leon. 1am a feather for each wind that blows.—
Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel
And call me father? Better burn it now,
‘'’han curse it then. But, be it; let it live :—
It shall not neither.—[Z'o ANTIGONUS.] You, sir, come
you hither ;
You, that have been so tenderly officious
With Lady Margery, your midwife, there,
To save this bastard’s life,—for ’tis a bastard,

purpose ;
150

So sure as this beard’s grey,—what will you adven- i

ture 160
To save this brat’s life?
Ant. Anything, my lord,
That my ability may undergo,
And nobleness impose : at least, thus much :

[Act TTL |
| I'l pawn the little blood which I have left,
To save the innocent: anything possible.
Leon. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword,
Thou wilt perform my bidding.
Ant. I will, my lord.
Leon. Mark, and perform it, seest thou? for the fail
Of any point in ’t shall not only be
Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongued wife, 170
Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,
As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry
This female bastard hence ; and that thou bear it
'To some remote and desert place, quite out
Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it,
Without more mercy, to its own protection,
And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune
It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,
On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture,
That thou commend it strangely to some place,
‘Where chance may nurse, or end it. Take it up.
Ant. Iswear to do this, though a present death
Had been more merciful.—Come on, poor babe :
Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens,
To be thy nurses! Wolves, and bears, they say,
Casting their savageness aside, have done
Like offices of pie be prosperous
In more than this deed doth require !—And blessing
Against this cruelty fight on thy side,

180

Poor thing, condemn’d toloss! [Hit with the Child.
Leon. o;I'llnot rear 190
Another's issue.
1 Atten. Please your highness, posts

From those you sent to the oracle are come

An hour since : Cleomenes and Dion,

Being well arriv’d from Delphos, are both landed,
Hasting to the court.

1 Lord. So please you, sir, their speed
Hath been beyond account.
Leon. Twenty-three days

They have been absent: "tis good speed, foretells,
The great Apollo suddenly will have

The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords:
Summon a session, that we may arraign

Our most disloyal lady ; for, as she hath

Been publicly accus’d, so shall she have

A just and oer trial. While she lives,

My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me,

} And think upon my bidding. [Exeunt.

200

 

 

 

 

 

ACT III.

ScENE I.—The Same.

: Cleomenes.

HE climate ’s delicate, the air most sweet,
Fertile the isle, the ee much surpassing
The common praise it bears.

Dion. I shall report,
For most it caught me, the celestial habits
(Methinks, I so should term them), and the

reverence :

' Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice !

How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly

It was i' the offering!
But, of all, the burst

?

Cleo.

 

And the ear-deafening voice o’ the oracle,

Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surpris'd my sense,
‘That I was nothing.

Enter CLEOMENES and DION.

A Street in some Town.

| Dion. If the event o’ the journey
Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be ’t so !—
| As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy,
| The time is worth the use on ’t.
Great Apollo

Cleo.
Turn all to the best! These proclamations,
So forcing faults upon Hermione,
I little like.

Dion. The violent carriage of it
Will clear, or end, the business: when the oracle
(Thus by Apollo's great divine seal’d up)

 

Shall the contents discover, something rare 20

Even then will rush to knowledge.—Go, fresh
horses;— |

And gracious be the issue ! [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

Scene II.)

THE WINTER’S TALE.

913

 

ScENE II.—The Same. A Court of Justice.

Enter LEONTES, Lords, and Officers.

Leon. This sessions (to our great grief we pronounce)
Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried,
The daughter of a king, our wife, and one
Of us too much belov’d.—Let us be clear’d
Of being tyrannous, since we so openly
Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,
Even to the guilt, or the purgation.—
Produce the prisoner,

Off. It_is his highness’ pleasure, that the queen
Appear in person here in court.—Silence !

Finter HERMIONE, guarded ; PAULINA and Ladies
attending.

Leon. Read the indictment.

Og. ‘‘ Hermione, queen to the worthy Leontes, Kin
of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high
treason, in committing eceley wate Polixenes, King
of Bohemia, and conspiring with Camillo to take away
the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal
husband: the pretence whereof being by circum-
stances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to
the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel
ond a them, for their better safety, to fly away by
night.”

er. Since what I am to say, ust be but that
Which contradicts my accusation, and
The testimony on my part no other
But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me
To say, ‘Not guilty :” mine integrity,
Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,
Be so receiv’d. But thus :—if powers divine
Behold our human actions (as they do),
I doubt not then, but innocence shall make 30
False accusation blush, and tyranny
Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,
(Who least will seem to do so) my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As Iam now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, though devis’d
And play’d to take spectators. For behold me,
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter,
The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing 40
To prate and talk for life and honour ‘fore
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,
*T is a derivative from me to mine,
And only that I stand for. I appeal
To your own conscience, sir, betore Polixenes
Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrentI |
Have strain’d, to appear thus: if one jot beyond 50
The bound of honour, or, in act or will,
That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin
Cry “ Fie!” upon my grave!
“ Leon. I ne’er heard yet,
That any of these bolder vices wanted __
Less impudence to gainsay what they did,
Than to perform it first.
er. : That’s true enough ;
Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

Leon. You will not own it.

Her. More than mistress of
Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not
At allacknowledge. For Polixenes
(With whom I am accus’d), I do confess,

I lov’d him, as in honour he requir’d,

With such a kind of love as might become

A lady like me; with a love, even such,

So and no other, as yourself commanded: |

Which not to have done, I think, had been in me
Both disobedience and ingratitude

To you, and toward your friend, whose love had

 

spoke,
Even ainoe it could speak from an infant, freely 70
That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, |
Iknow not how it tastes, though it be dish’d

 

For me to try how: all I know of it
Is, that Camillo was an honest man;
And why he left your court, the gods themselves,
Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.

Leon. You knew of his departure, as you know
What you have underta’en to do in ’s absence.

Her. Sir,
You speak a language that I understand not: 80
My life stands in the level of your dreams,
Which I’ lay down.

Leon. Your actions are my dreams:
You had a bastard by Polixenes,
And I but dream’d it.—As you were past all shame,
(Those of your fact are so) so past all truth,
Which to deny concerns more than avails ; for as
Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,
No father owning it (which is, indeed,
More criminal in thee than it), so thou
Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage 90
Look for no less than death.

er. Sir, spare your threats:

The bug, which you would fright me with, I seek.
To me can life be no commodity :
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
I do give lost ; for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went. My second joy,
And first-fruits of my body, from his presence
I am barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort,
Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast,
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth, 100
Haled out to murder: myself on every post
Proclaim’d a strumpet: with immodest hatred,
The childbed privilege denied, which ‘longs
To women of all fashion: lastly, hurried
Here to this place, i’ the open air, before
Ihave got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
That I should fear to die? Therefore, proceed.
But yet hear this ; mistake me not ;—no life, —
I prize it not a straw; but for mine honour
(Which I would free), if I shall be condemn’d
Upon surmises, all proofs eta else
But what your jealousies awake, I tell you,
*T is rigour, and not law.—Your honours all,
I do refer me to the oracle:
Apole be my judge.

110

ord. : This your request
Is altogether just. Therefore, bring forth,
And in Apollo's name, his oracle.
Exeunt several Officers.
Her. The Emperor of Russia was my father:
O! that he were alive, and here beholding 120
His daughter's trial; that he did but see
The flatness of my misery, yet with eyes
Of pity, not revenge!

Re-enter Officers, with CLEOMENES and DION.

Off. You here shall swear upon this sword of

justice,
That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have
Been both at Delphos; and from thence have brought
This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d
Of great Apollo’s priest ; and that, since then,
You have not dar’d to break the holy seal,
Nor read the secrets in’t.

Cleo., Dion. All this we swear. 130

Leon. Break up the seals, and read.

Off. [Reads.] ‘‘ Hermioneis chaste, Polixenes blame-
less, Camillo a true subject, Leontes a jealous tyrant,
his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall
live without an heir, if that which is lost be not
found!”

Lords. Now, blessed be the great Apollo!

Her. : Praised !

Leon. Hast thou read truth ?

Ba Ay, my lord; even so
As it is here set down.

Leon. There is no truth at all i’ the oracle. 140

The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.

Enter a Servant, hastily.
Serv. My lord the king, the king!

 

 
 

 

914 THE

WINTER’S TALE.

[Act ITI,

 

Leon. What is the business?
Serv. O sir! I shall be hated to report it:
The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear
Of the queen’s speed, is gone.
Leon.
Serv. Is dead.
Leon, Apollo’s angry, and the heavens themselves
Do strike at my injustice. (HERMIONE faints.) How
now there!
Paul. This news is mortal to the queen.—Look

How! gone?

own,
And see what death is doing.

 

          
  

; \ 2 < is m IW ~~
Pra Termin; | AR
MOON 7 IN i.

To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny,

Together working with thy jealousies,—

Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle

For girls of nine,—O ! think, what they have done,

And then run mad, indeed ; stark mad! for all

Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.

That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’t was nothing;

That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,

And damnable ingrateful: nor was’t much,

Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour,

To have him kill a king; poor trespasses, I

More monstrous standing by! whereof I reckon

The casting forth to crows thy baby
daughter,

To be or none, or little, though a devil

Would have shed water out of fire, ere
done ’t:

Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death

Of-the young prince, whose honourable

sppuah ts

(Thoughts higl for one so tender) cleft

the heart

That could conceive a gross and foolish

180

sire

Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is
not, no,

Laid to thy answer : but the laste O

lords!
When I have said, cry ‘‘ woe!”—the
queen, the queen,
The sweet’st, dear’st creature’s dead;
and vengeance for’t
Not dropp’d down yet.
1 Lord. The higher powers
forbid !
Paul. Isay, she’s dead; I’llswear’t:
if word, nor oath,
Prevail not, go and see. If you can

 

 

Leon. ** Apollo’s angry, and the heavens themselves

Do strike at my injustice.”

Leon. Take her hence:
Her heart is but o’ercharg’d ; she will recover.— 150
I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion :—
*Beseech you, tenderly apply to her
Some remedies for life.—
[Exeunt PAULINA and Ladies, with HERMIONE.
Apollo, pardon
ay great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle !—
I'll reconcile me to Polixenes,
New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo,
Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy ;
For, being epee by my jealousies
To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose
Camillo for the minister to poison 160
My friend Polixenes: which had been done,
But that the good mind of Camillo tardied
My swift command; though I with death and with
Reward did threaten and encourage him,
Not doing it, and being done: he, most humane,
And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest.
Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here,
Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard
Of all incertainties himself commended,
No richer than his honour :—how he glisters 170
Thorough my rust! and how his piety
Does my deeds make the blacker!
Re-enter PAULINA.
Paul. Woe the while!
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,
Break too!

1 Lord. What fit is this, good lady ?

Paul, What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?
What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling,
In leads, or oils? what old, or newer torture
Must I receive, whose every word deserves

CRASS ring
WS Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye,
\\ Heat outwardly, or breath within, Ill
serve you
AsI would do the gods.—But, O thou
tyrant!

Do not repent these things, for they
are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore, betake thee 210
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter,

In storm eae could not move the gods
To look that way thou wert.
Leon. Go on, go on;

Thou canst not speak too much: I have deserv’d
All tongues to talk their bitterest.

1 Lord. Say no more:
Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault
I’ the boldness of your speech.

Paul. Iam sorry for’t:
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them,
Idorepent. Alas! I have show’d too much 21
The rashness of a woman. He is touch’d
To the noble heart.—What’s gone, and what’s past

help,
Should be past grief: do not receive affliction
At my petition; I beseech you rather,
Let me be punish’d, that have minded you
Of what pa should forget. Now, good my liege,
Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman:
The love I bore your queen,--lo, fool again !—
I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;
I'll not remember you of my own lord,
Who is lost too. Take your patience to you,

And I'll say nothing.
Thou didst speak but well,

230

Leon.
When most the truth, which I receive much better,
Than to be pitied of thee. Pr’ythee, bring me
To the dead bodies of my queen, and son.

One grave shall be for both : upon them shall

The causes of their death appear, unto

Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit

The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there 240

 

 

 
 

ScENE IIT.]

THE WINTER'S TALE.

915

 

 

Shall be my recreation : so long as nature
Will bear up with this exercise, so long
I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me

To these sorrows. [Exeunt.

 

Scene III.—Bohemia. A Desert Country near the Sea.

Enter ANTIGONUS, with the Babe; and a Mariner.
Ant. Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch’d

upon
The deserts of Bohemia?

Mar. as Ay, my lord; and fear
We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly,
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry,
And frown upon’s.

Ant. Their sacred wills be done !—Go, get aboard ;
Look to thy bark; I’ll not be long, before
I call upon thee.

Mar. Make your best haste, and go not 10
Too far i’ the land: ’tis like to be loud weather ;
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures
Of prey that keep upon’t.

Ant. Go thou away:
I'll follow instantly.

ar. Tam glad at heart
To be so rid o’ the business, [Evit.
Ant. Come, poor babe :—
I have heard (but not believ’d), the spirits o’ the dead
May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother
epprard to me last night, for ne’er was dream
So like a ee To me comes a creature,
Sometimes her head on one side, some another; 20
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,
So fill’d, and so becoming: in pure white robes,
Like very sanctity, she did approach
My cabin where I lay, thrice bow’d before me,
And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her :—‘“‘ Good Antigonus,
Since fate, aes thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, 30
Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost for ever, Perdita,
I pr’ythee, call’t: for this ungentle business,
Put on thee by my lord; thou ne’er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more :”—and so, with shrieks,
She melted into air. Affrighted much,
I did in time collect myself, and thought
This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys;
Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,
I will be squar’d by this. I do believe,
Hermione hath suffer’d death ; and that
arene would, this being indeed the issue
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Hither for life or death, upon the earth
Of its right father.—Blossom, speed thee well!
[Laying down the Babe.
There lie; and there thy character: there these,
[Laying down a bundle,
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,
And still rest thine.—The storm begins.—Poor wretch !
That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d 50
To loss, and what may follow.—Weep I cannot,
But my heart bleeds, and most accurs’d am I,
To be by oath enjoin’d to this.—Farewell!
The day frowns more and more: thou art like to have
A lullaby too rough. I never saw
The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour !—
11 may I get aboard !—This is the chase;
Iam gone for ever. [Ezit, pursued by a bear.

Enter an Old Shepherd.

Shep. I would there were no age between ten and
three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the
rest.; for there is nothing in the between but getting
wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing,
fighting. —Hark you now!— Would any but these
boiled-brains of nineteen, and two-and-twenty, hunt

 

this weather? They have scared away two of my
best sheep; which, I fear, the wolf will sooner find
than the master: if anywhere I have them, ’tis by
the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an’t be thy
will !—What have we here? [Taking up the Babe.]
Mercy on’s, a barn; a very pretty barn! <A boy, ora
child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very poe one.
Sure some scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can
read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has
been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-
door-work: they were warmer that got this, than the
poor thing is here. I’ll take it up for pity; yet I'll

 

Shep. “ Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things dying, I
with things new-born.”

tarry till my son come: he hollaed but even now.—
Whoa, ho hoa!
Clo, [Without.] Hilloa, loa! 79
Shep. What! art so near? If thou It see a thing to
talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither.

Enter Clown.
What ail’st thou, man?

Clo. I have seen two such sights, by sea, and by
land—but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the
sky: betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust
a bodkin’s point.

Shep. Why, boy, how is it? 87

Clo, I would oe did but see how it chafes, how it
rages, how it takes up the shore! but that’s not to the
point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls!
sometimes to see’em, and not to see ’em ; now the shi
boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon swal-
lowed with yest and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into
a hogshead. And then for the land-service :—to see
how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone ; how he cried.
to me for help, and said, his name was Antigonus, a
nobleman.—But to make an end of the ship :—to see
how the sea flap-dragoned it ;—but, first, how the poor
souls roared, and the sea mocked them ;—and how the

 

 
 

916

THE WINTER'S TALE.

[Act IV.

 

 

 

oor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him,

oth roaring louder than the sea or weather. 101

Shep. Name of mercy ! when was this, boy?

Clo. Now, now; I have not winked since I saw
these sights: the men are not yet cold under water,
nor the bear half-dined on the gentleman: he’s at it
now.

Shep. ’Would I had been by, to have helped the old
man!

Clo. I would you'had been by the ship's side, to
have helped her: there your charity would have
lacked footing. 111

Shep. Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look
thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with
things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s a sight
for thee: look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s
child! Look thee here: take up, take up, boy; open’t.
So, let’s see. It was told me, I should be rich by the
fairies: this is some changeling.—Open’t: whats
within, boy ? 119

 

Clo, You're a made old man: if the sins of your
youn ere forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold!
all gold!

Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and ’t will prove so:
up with’t, keep it close ; home, home, the next way.
We are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires nothing
but secrecy.—Let my sheep go.—Come, good boy, the
next way home.

Clo. Go you the next way with your findings: I 11
go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and
how much he hath eaten: they are never curst, but
when they are hungry. If there be any of him left,
I'll bury it. 132

Shep. That’s a good deed. If thou may’st discern
by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to
the sight of him.

Clo. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him?’
the ground.

Shep. ’T is alucky day, boy, and we ll do good deeds
on ’t. Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

Time.
. THAT please some, try all; both joy, and

terror,

Of good and bad; that make, and unfold
error :—

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

. To use my wings. Impute it not a crime

To me, or my swift passage, that I slide

O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth
untried

Of that wide gap; since it is in my power

To o’erthrow law, and in one-self-born hour

To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me

pass

The same I am, ere ancient’st order was, 10

Or what is now receiv’d: I witness to

The times that brought them in; so shall I do

To the freshest things now reigning, and make stale

The glistering of this present, as my tale

Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,

I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing,

As you had slept between. Leontes leaving,—

The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving,

That he shuts up himself ;—imagine me,

Gentle spectators, that I now may be

In fair Bohemia; and remember well,

I mention’d a son o’ the king's, which Florizel

I now name to you; and with speed so pace

To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace

Equal with wondering: what of her ensues,

I jist not prophesy ; but let Time’s news

Be known, when ’tis brought forth :—a shepherd’s
daughter,

And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is the argument of Time. Of this allow,

 

20

If ever you have spent time worse ere now: 30
Tf never, yet that Time himself doth say, 3
He wishes earnestly you never may. [Ezit.

 

ScENE I.—Bohemia. A Room in the Palace of
POLIXENES.

Enter POLIXENES and CAMILLO.
Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importu-

 

ACT IV.

Entcr TIME, as Chorus.

nate: tis a sickness denying thee anything, a death
to grant this.

Cam. It is fifteen years, since I saw my country:
though I have, for the most part, been aired abroad,
I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent
king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling
sorrows I might be some allay, or I o’erween to think
so,—which is another spur to my departure. 9

Pol. As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the
rest of thy services, by leaving me now. The needI
have of thee, thine own goodness hath made: better
not to have had thee, than thus to want thee. Thou,
having made me businesses, which none without thee
can sufticiently manage, must either stay to execute
them thyself, or take away with thee the very ser-
vices thou hast done; which if I have not enough
considered (as too much J cannot), to be more thank-
ful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein,
the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country,
Sicilia, pr’ythee speak no more, whose very naming
punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent,
as thou call’st him, and reconciled king, my brother;
whose loss of his most precious queen and children
are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me,
when saw’st thou the Prince Florizel, my son?
Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being
gracious, than they are in losing them when they have
approved their virtues. 29

Cam. Sir, it is three days, since I saw the prince:
What his happier affairs may be, are tome unknown;
but I have, missingly, noted, he is of late much re-
tired from court, and is less frequent to his princely
exercises than formerly he hath appeared. ;

Pol. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with
some care; so far, that I have eyes under my service,
which look upon hisremovedness: from whom I hdve
this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a
most homely shepherd; a man, they say. that from
very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his
neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate. 41

Cam. T have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a
daughter of most rare note: the report of her is
extended more that can be thought to begin from
such a cottage.

Pol. That's likewise part of my intelligence, but, I

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

THE WINTER’S TALE.

917

 

 

 

fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou
shalt accompany us to the place, where we will, not
appearing what we are, have some question with the
shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not
uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither.
Pr'ythee, be my present partner in this business, and
lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. 53

Cam. I willingly obey your command,
Pol. My best Camillo !—We must disguise ourselves.
[Exceunt.

A Road near the Shepherd’s
ottage.

Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.
When daffodils begin to peer,—
With, heigh ! the doxy over the dale,—
Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year ;
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.

ScENE II.—The Same.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,—

With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing !—
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge ;

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,—
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts, ll
While we lie tumbling in the hay.

Ihave served Prince Florizel, and, in my time, wore
three-pile ; but now I am out of service:

But shall Igo mourn for that, my dear 2
The pale moon shines by night ;

And when I wander here and there,
I-then do most go right.

If tinkers may have leave to live,

And bear the sow-skin budget, 20
Then my account I well may give,

And in the stocks avouch tt.

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to
lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who
being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise
a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and
drab, I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is
the silly cheat. Gallows, and knock, are too powerful
on the highway: beating, and hanging, are terrors to
me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of
it.—A prize! a prize! 31
Enter Clown.

Clo. Let me see :—every leven wether tods ; every
tod yields—pound and odd shilling: fifteen hundred
shorn,—what comes the wool to? 4

Aut. [Aside.] If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.

Clo. I cannot do’t without counters,—Let me see;
what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast?
“Three pound of sugar; five pound of currants ;
rice,’"—what will this sister of mine do with rice?
But my father hath made her mistress of the feast,
and she lays it on. She-hath made me four-and-
twenty nosegays for the shearers ; three-man song-
men all, and very good ones, but they are most of
them means and bases: but one Puritan amongst
them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must
have saffron, to colour the warden pies; mace,—
dates,_none; that’s out of my note: “nutmegs,
seven: a race or two of ginger;” but that I may
beg :—‘“‘four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins

,o' the sun.” 50

Aut. O,thateverI was born!

[Grovelling on the ground.

Clo. I’ the name of me,—

Aut. O, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags,
and then, death, death!

Clo. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags
to lay on thee, rather than have these off.

Aut. O, sir! the loathsomeness of them offend me
more than the stripes I have received, which are
mighty ones, and millions.

Clo. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come
to a great matter. 61

Aut. Iam robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and
apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things
put upon me.

Clo. What, by a horseman, or a footman?

Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman.

 

 

 

 

Aut, ‘0, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags, and then,
death, death!”

Clo. Indeed, he should be a footman, by the gar-
ments he hath left with thee: if this be a horseman’s
coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy
hand, I’ll help thee: come, lend me thy hand. 70

: [Helping him up.

Aut. O! good sir, tenderly, O!

Clo. Alas, poor soul!

Aut. O, good sir; softly, good sir. I fear, sir, my
shoulder-blade is out.

Clo. How now? canst stand?

Aut. Softly, dear sir: [picks his pocket] good sir,
softly. You ha’ done me a charitable office.

Clo. Dost lack any money? I have a, little money
for thee. . 79

Aut. No, good, sweet sir: no, I beseech you, sir. I
have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile
hence, unto whom I _ was going: I shall there have
money, or anything I want. Offer me no money, I
pray you! that kills my heart.

ie What manner of fellow was he that robbed

ou

Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about
with trol-my-dames: I knew him once a servant of
the prince. I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his
virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of
the court. 91

Clo. His vices, you would say: there’s no virtue
whipped out of the court : they cherish it, to make it
stay there, and yet it will no more but abide.

Aut. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well:
he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a process-
server, a bailiff; then he compassed a motion of the
Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a
mile where my land and living lies; and, having
flown over many knavish professions, he settled only
in rogue: some call him Autolycus. 101

Clo. Out upon him! _Prig, for my life, prig: he
haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.

=)

 

 
 

 

918

ut. Very true, sir; he, sir, he: that’s the rogue,
that put me into this apparel.

Clo, Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: if
you had but looked big, and spit at him, he’d have
run.

«tut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I
am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I
warrant him. 111

Clo. How do you now?

Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was: I can
stand, and walk. I will even take my leave of you,
and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.

Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way ?

Aut. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. .

Clo. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for
our sheep-shearing. 119

Aut, Prosper you, sweet sir! [Exit Clown.]—Your

urse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll

e with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make
not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers
prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in
the book of virtue!

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
and merrily hent the stile-a:

A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a. [Exit.

ScENE III.—The Same. A Lawn before a Shepherd’s
Cottage.

Enter FLORIZEL and PERDITA,

Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Do give a life : no shepherdess, but Flora
Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing
Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen on’t.

er, Sir, my gracious lord,

To chide at your extremes it not becomes me:
O! pardon, that I name them.—Your high self,
The gracious mark o’ the land, you have obscur’d
With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like prank'd up. But that our feasts 10
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attired, swoon, I think,
To show myself a glass,

Flo. I bless the time,
When my good falcon made her flight across
Thy father's ground.
Per, Now, Jove afford you cause!

To me the difference forges dread ; your greatness
Hath not been us’d to fear. Even now I tremble

Yo think, your father, by some accident,

Should pass this way, as you did. O,the Fates! 20
How would he look, to see his work, so noble,

eneae bound up? What would he say?) Or how
Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold

The sternness of his presence ?

Flo. Apprehend
Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,
Humbling their deities to love, have taken
The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter
Became a bull, and bellow’d ; the green Neptune
A ram, and bleated; and the fire-rob’d god,
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, 30
AsIseem now. Their transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,

Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires
Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts
Burn hotter than my faith.

O! but, sir,

Per.
Your resolution cannot hold, when ’tis
Oppos’d, as it must be, by the power of the king.
One of these two must. be necessities,
Which then will speak,—that you must change this
purpose,
Or I my Life.
Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, 40
With these fore’d thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not

THE WINTER’S TALE.

 

* (Act IV.

The mirth o’ the feast : or I'll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father’s ; for I cannot be
Mine own, nor anything to any, if
I be not thine: to this Iam most constant,
Though destiny say, no. Be merry, gentle;
Strangle such thoughts as these with anything
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming:
Lift up your countenance, as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have sworn shall come.
5 aes O Lady Fortune,
Stand you auspicious!
Flo. See, your guests approach:
Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let’s be red with mirth,

Enter Shepherd, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO, dis-
guised ; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others.
Shep. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv’d, upon
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook ;
Both dame and servant; welcom’d all, serv’d all;
Would sing her song, and dance her turn; now

here,
At upper end o’ the table, now 7’ the middle ;
On his shoulder, and his; her face o’ fire
With labour, and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip. You are retir’d,
As if you were a feasted one, and not
The hostess of the meeting: ’pray you, bid
These unknown friends to us welcome ; for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come; quench your blushes, and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o’ the feast: come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.

Per. [To POLIXENES.] Sir, welcome. 70
It is my father's will, I should take on me
The hostess-ship o’ the day. [Zo CAMILLO.] You’re

welcome, sir.— :
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.—Reverend sirs,
For you there’s rosemary, and rue ; these keep
Seeming and savour all the winter long:
Grace, and remembrance, be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing!

Pol. Shepherdess
(A fair one are you), well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter,

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient,—
Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth 80
Of trembling winter,—the fairest flowers o’ the season
Are our carnations, and streak’d gillyvors,

Which some call nature’s bastards: of that kind
Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not
To get slips of them.
Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them ?
Per. For I have heard it said,
There is an art which, in their piedness, shares
With great creating nature.
Pol. Say, there be;
Yet nature is made better by no mean,
But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art, 90
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock,
And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of noble race: this is an art

hich does mend nature,—change it rather; but
The art itself is nature. Suits

0 it is,

Per. 5
Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,
And do not call them bastards.
I'll not put

Per.
The dibble in earth to set one slip of them: 100
No more than, were I painted, I would wish
This youth should say, ’t were well, and only therefore
Desire to breed by me.—Here’s flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun,
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.

 

 
 

ScEnNE III.)

THE WINTER’S TALE.

919

 

 

Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
110

And only live by gazing.
er. Out, alas!
You’d be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.—Now,
fair’st friend, :

I would, I had some flowers o’ the spring,

Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,

That wear upon your virgin branches yet

Your maidenheads Bro in :—O Proserpina!

For the flowers now, that, fr

From Dis’s waggon! daffodils,

‘That come before the swallow dares, and take

 

that might

ighted, thou lett’st fall

The winds of March with beauty ; violets dim, 120
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes,
Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,

That die unmarried ere they can behold

Flo. “Thou dearest Perdita,
With these fore’d thoughts, I pr’ythee, darken not
The mirth o' the feast.”

my | Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack,
To make pe garlands of, and my sweet friend, *
To strew him o’er and o’er.

What, like a corse?

Flo.
Per, No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on, 180
Not like a corse; or if,—not to be buried,

 

 
 

=

920

THE WINTER'S TALE.

[Act IV.

 

 

But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers.
Methinks, I play as I have seen them do
In Whitsun-pastorals: sure, this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.
What you do

Flo.

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you 140
A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that ; move still, still so,

And own no other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

Per. O Doricles!

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,
And the true blood, which peeps fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepher
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the false way.

Flo. I think, you have
As little skill to fear, as I have purpose
To put you to’t.—But, come; our dance, I pray.
Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Per. I'll swear for ’em.

Pol, This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever
Ran on the green-sward : nothing she does, or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself ;

Too noble for this place.

Cam. He tells her something,
That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is 160
The queen of curds and cream,

Clo. Come on, strike up.

Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic,

To mend her kissing with!
Mop.
Clo. Not a word, a word: we stand upon our
manners.—
Come, strike up. (Music.
Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.
Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this,
Which dances with your daughter?
Shep. They call him Doricles, and boasts himself
To have a worthy feeding; but I have it
Upon his own report, and I believe it: 170
He looks like sooth. He says, he loves my daughter:
I think so too; for never gaz’'d the moon
Upon the water, as he’ll stand, and read,
As ’t were, my daughter's eyes ; and, to be plain,
I think, there is not half a kiss to choose,
Who loves another best.
Pol. She dances featly.
Shep. So she does anything, though I report it,
That should be silent. If young Doricles
Do light upon her, she shall bring him that
Which he not dreams of.

Enter a Servant.

Scrv. O master! if you did but hear the pedlar at the
door, you would never dance again after a tabor and
pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings
several tunes faster than you'll tell money ; he utters
them as he had eaten ballads, and all men’s ears grew
to his tunes.

Clo. He could never come better: he shall come in.
I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful
matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing
indeed, and sung lamentably. 19

Serv. He hath songs, for man, or woman, of all sizes :
no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He
has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without
bawdry, which is strange ; with such delicate burdens
of “dildos” and ‘‘fadings,” ‘‘jump her and voumnp
her;” and where some stretch-mouth'd rascal would,
as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul gap into
the matter, he makes the maid to answer, ‘‘ Whoop,
do me no harm, good man;” puts him off, slights him
with ‘‘ Whoop, do me no harm, good man.” 200

Pol. This is a brave fellow.

150

Now, in good time!

180

 

Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable-con-
ceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?

Serv. He hath ribands of all the colours i’ the rain-
bow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia
can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the
gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he
sings them over, as they were gods or goddesses. You
would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants
to sad sleeve-hand, and the work about the square
on’t. 211
_Clo. Pr’ythee, bring him in, and let him approach
singing.

_ Per. Forewarn him, that he use no scurrilous words
in ’s tunes. [Exit Servant.

Clo. You have of these pedlars, that have more in
them than you’d think, sister.

Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think,

Enter AUTOLYcUus, singing.
Lawn, as white as driven snow ;
Cyprus, black as eer was crow ;
Gloves, as sweet as damask roses ;
Masks for faces, and for noses ;
Bugle-bracelet, necklace-amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber ;
Golden es. and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears ;
Pins and poking-sticks of steel ;
What maids lack from head to heel:
Come, buy of me, come ; come buy, come buy ;
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: 2
Come, buy.

Clo, If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst
take no money of me; but being enthrall’d as I am, it
will also be the bondage of certain ribands and gloves.

Mop. I was promised them against the feast, but
they come not too late now.

Dor, He hath promised you more than that, or
there be liars.

Mop. He hath paid you all he promised you: may
be, he has paid you more, which will shame you to
give him again.

Clo. Is there no manners left among maids? will
they wear their plackets, where they should bear their
faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going
to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but
you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? "Tis
well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues,
and not a word more.

Mop. I have done. Come, you promised me a
tawdry lace, and a pair of sweet gloves.

Clo, Have I not told thee, how I was cozened by the
way, and lost all my money?

Aut. And, indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad ;
theretore it behoves men to be wary. :

- Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing
ere.

«fut. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many
parcels of charge,

Clo. What hast here? ballads? aan

Mop. ’Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print,
o life, for then we are sure they are true. 261

Aut. Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a
usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money,
bags at a burden; and how she longed to eat adders
heads, and toads carbonadoed,

Mop. Is it true, think you?

Aut. Very true; and but a month old.

Dor. Bless me from marrying a usurer! ,

Aut. Here’s the midwife's name to't, one Mistress
Taleporter, and five or six honest wives’ that were
present. Why should I carry lies abroad? 271

Mop. ’Pray you now, buy it.

Clo. Come on, lay it by: and let’s first see more
ballads; we’ll buy the other things anon.

Aut. Here’s another ballad, of a fish, that appeared
upon the coast, on Wednesday the forescore of April,
forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this
ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was
thought she was a woman, and was turned into a
cold tish, for she would not exchange flesh with one
that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.

220

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE III.] THE WINTER'S TALE. 921
Dor. Is it true too, think you? 282 | The pedlar’s silken treasury, and have pour'd it
Aut, Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more | To her acceptance; you have let him go,
than my pack will hold. And nothing marted with him. If your lass
Clo. Lay it by too: another. Interpretation should abuse, and call this —
Aut. This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one. | Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited
Mop. Let’s have some merry ones. For a reply, at least, if you make a care
Aut, Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to | Of happy holding her. ‘
the tune of ‘‘Two maids wooing a man.” There’s Filo, Old sir, 1 know 360

scarce a maid westward but she sings it: ’tis in
request, I can tell you. 29

Mop. We can both sing it: if thou’lt bear a part,
thou shalt hear ; ‘tis in three parts.

Dor. We had the tune on’t a month ago.

Aut. I can bear my part; you must know, ‘tis my
occupation : have at it with you.

Sonc.
Get you hence, for I must go,
Where it fits not you to know.
Whither 2
O! whither 2
W hither 2
It becomes thy oath full well,
Thou to me thy secrets tell.
Me too: let me go thither.
Mop. Or thou go'st to the grange, or mill.
Dor. If to either, thou dost ill.
Aut, Neither.
Dor. What, neither 2
Aut, Neither.
Dor. Thou hast sworn my love to be.
Mop. Thou hast sworn it more to me:
Then, whither go'st 2 say, whither 2

Clo. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves.
‘My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll
not trouble them: come, bring away thy pack after
me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. edlar, let’s
have the first choice.—Follow me, girls.

Aut. [Aside.] And you shall pay well for ’em.

Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the new'st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a ?
Come to the pedlar ;
Money ’s a medler,
That doth utter all men’s ware-a. 327

[Exeunt Clown, AUTOLYCcUS, Dorcas, and MopPsa.

Re-enter Servant.

Serv. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds,
three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made
themselves all men of hair: they call themselves
Saltiers; and they have a dance, which the wenches
say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not
in’t; but they themselves are o’ the mind, (if it be not
too rough for some, that know little but bowling) it
will please plentifully.

Shep. Away! we'll none on’t: here has been too
much homely foolery already.—I know, sir, we weary
you.

Pol. You weary those that refresh us.
see these four threes of herdsmen.

Serv. One three of them, by their own report, sir,
hath danced before the king ; and not the worst of the
three, but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squire.

he Leave your prating. Since these good men
are pleased, let them come in: but quickly now.

Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir. [Eait.

Re-enter Servant, with twelve Rustics habited like
Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.
Pol. O father! you'll know more of that hereafter.—
Is it not too far gone ?—’T is time to part them.—
He’s simple, and tells much. How now, fair shep-

erd?
Your heart is full of something, that does take 350
Your mind from feasting.. Sooth, when I was young,
And handed love as you do, I was wont
To load my she with knacks : I would have ransack’d.

Aut.

op.
Dor.
Mop.

Dor.

300

310

320

Pray, let’s
340

 

She prizes not such trifles as these are.
The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d
Up in my heart, which I have given already,
But not deliver’d._O! hear me breathe my life
Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem,
Hath sometime lov’d: I take thy hand; this hand,
As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it,
Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow
That’s bolted by the northern blasts twice o’er.

Pol. What follows this ?— 370
How prettily the young swain seems to wash
The hand, was fair before !—I have put you out.—
But, to your protestation : let me hear
What you profess.

Flo. Do, and be witness to ’t.

Pol. And this my neighbour too?
Flo. And he, and more
Than he, and men; the earth, the heavens, and all;
That, were I crown’d the most imperial monarch,
Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth ‘
That ever made eye swerve, had force, and knowledge
More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them,
Without her love: for her, employ them all, 38:
Commend them, and condemn them to her service,
Or to their own perdition.

Pol. Fairly offer’d.

Cam. This shows a sound affection.

Shep. But, my daughter,
Say you the like to him?

Per. T cannot speak
So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:
By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out
The purity of his.
Shep. Take hands; a bargain :—
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t:
I give my daughter to him, and will make 390
Her portion equal his.
Flo. O! that must be
T the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,
Ishall have more than you can dream of yet ;
Enough then for your wonder. But, come on;
Contract us ’fore these witnesses.
Shep. Come, your hand;
And, daughter, yours.
Pol. Soft, swain, awhile, ’beseech you.
Have you a father?
Filo. Ihave; but what of him?
Pol. Knows he of this?
Flo. He neither does, or shall.
Pol. Methinks, a father
Ts at the nuptial of his son a guest 400
That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more,
Is not your father grown incapable
Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid
With age, and altering rheums? can he speak? hear?
Know man from man? dispute his own estate?
Lies he not bed-rid? and again, does nothing,
But what he did being childish?
Filo. No, good sir:
He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed,
Than most have of his age.
Pol. By my white beard,
You offer him, if this be so, a wrong
Something unfilial. Reason, my son
Should choose himself_a wife ; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair posterity) should hold some counsel
In such a business.
Flo. T yield all this;
But for some other reasons, my grave sir,
Which ’t is not fit you know, I not acquaint
My tether of this business.
ol.

Let him know’t,
filo. He shall not,

 

 
 

[act IV.

 

 

922 THE WINTER'S TALE,
c Pr’ythee, let him. Let nature crush the sides o’ the earth together,
ine mY No, he must not. | And mar the seeds within Lift af thy looks —

Shep. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve
At knowing of thy choice.
Flo. Come, come, he must not.—
Mark our contract. :
Pol. Mark your divorce, young sir, 422
[Discovering himself.
Whom son I dare not call: thou art too base
To be acknowledg’d. Thoua sceptre’s heir, _
That thus affects a sheep-hook !—Thou old traitor,
I am sorry, that by hanging thee I can but :
Shorten thy life one week. —And thou, fresh piece
Of excellent witchcraft, who, of force, must know
The royal fool thou cop'st with, —
ep. O, my heart!
Pol. I'll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers, and

made
More homely than thy state.—For thee, fond boy,
If I may ever know, thou dost but sigh,
That thou no more shalt see this knack (as never
I mean thou shalt), we'll bar thee from succession 5
Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin
Far than Deucalion off :—mark thou my words;
Follow us to the court.—Thou, churl, for this time,
Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
From the dead blow of it.—And you, enchantment,—
Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too, 410
That makes himself, but for our honour therein,
Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee,
As thou art tender to’t.
Per. Even here undone!
I was not much afeard; for once, or twice,
I was about to speak, and tell him plainly,
The selfsame sun that shines upon his court,
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but 450
Looks on alike.—[To FLORIZEL.] Will't please you,
sir, be gone?
I told you what would come of this. ’Bescech you,
Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,
Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch further,
But milk my ewes, and weep.
Cam.
Speak, ere thou diest.
'p. I cannot speak, nor think,
Nor dare i know that which I know.—[To FLORIZEL.]
sir!
You have undone a man of fourscore-three,
That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea,
To die upon the bed my father died, 460
To lie close by his honest bones: but now
Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me
Where no priest shovels in dust._[To PERpDiTA.] O
cursed wretch!
That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adven-

[Exit.

Why, how now, father?

To mingle faith with him.—Undone! undone!
If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd
To die when I desire. (Exit.
Flo. Why look you so upon me ?
Iam but sorry, not afear’d; delay’d,
But nothing alter’d. What I was, lam:
More straining on, for plucking back; not following
My leash unwillingly.
Cam. Gracious my lord, 471
You know your father’s temper: at this time
He will allow no speech (which, I do guess,
‘You do not purpose to him), and as hardly
Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear:
Then, till the fury of his highness settle,
Come not before him

Flo.
I think, Camillo?
Cam. Even he, my lord.
Per. How often have I told you ’t would be thus!
How often said, my dignity would last
But till ’t were known!

I not purpose it.

lo. It cannot fail, but by
The violation of my faith; and then,

 

From my succession wipe me, father; [
Am heir to my affection.

Cam. Be advis’d.

Fio. Tam; and by my fancy: if my reason
Will thereto be obedient, I have reason ;
If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness,
Do bid it welcome.

Cam. This is desperate, sir. 490

Flo. So call it; but it does fulfil my vow,
I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may
Be thereat glean’d, for all the sun sees, or
The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath
To this my fair belov’d. Therefore, I pray you,
«1s you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend,
When he shall miss me (as, in faith, I mean not
To see him any more), cast your good counsels 500
Upon his passion: let myself and fortune
Tug for the time tocome. This you may know,
And so deliver.—I am put to sea
With her, whom here I cannot hold on shore;
And, most opportune to our need, I have
A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d
For this design. What course I mean to hold,
Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor
Concern me the reporting.

Cam. O my lord!

I would your spirit were easier for advice, 510
Or stronger for your need.

Flo. Hark, Perdita.—[Takes her aside.
[To CaMILLO.] I'll hear you by-and-by.

Cam. He’s irremovable
Resolv'd for flight. Now were I happy, i
His going I could frame to serve my turn,

Save him from danger, do him love and honour,
Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia,
nd that unhappy king, my master, whom
Iso much thirst to see.

Flo. Now, good Camillo,
Tam so fraught with curious business, that
I leave out ceremony. tGoing,

Cam. Sir, I think, 5
You have heard of my poor services, i’ the love
That I have borne your father?

Flo. Very nobly
Have you deserv’d: it is my father’s music,

To speak your deeds; not little of his care,
To have them recompens’d, as thought on.

Cam. Well, my lord,
If you may please to think I love the king,

And thorough him, what’s nearest to him, which is
Your gracious self, embrace but my direction

(If your more ponderous and settled project

May suffer alteration), on mine honour 530
I'll point you where you shall have such receiving
As shall become your highness; where you may
Enjoy your mistress (from the whom, I see,

There’s no disjunction to be made, but by,

.As heavens forefend, your ruin); marry her;

And (with my best endeavours in your absence)
Your discontenting father strive to qualify,

And bring him up to liking.

Flo. How, Camiio,

May this, almost a miracle, be done,
That I may call thee something more than man, 540
And, after that, trust to thee.

Cam. Have you thought on
A ee whereto you’ll go?

‘lo. Not any yet;
But as the unthought-on accident is guilty
To what we wildly do, so we profess
Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies
Of every wind that blows.

Cam. x Then list to me:

This follows :—if you will not change your purpose,
But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia,

And there present yourself, and your fair princess
(For so, I see, she must be), fore Leontes :

She shall be habited, as it becomes

 

 
 

ScEnE III.]

THE WINTER'S TALE.

923

 

The partner of your bed. Methinks, I see

Leontes, opening his free arms, and weeping

His welcomes forth ; asks thee, the son, torgiveness,
As ’t were i’ the father’s person ; kisses the hands
Of your fresh princess ; o’er and o’er divides him

’T wixt his unkindness and his kindness: the one

He chides to hell, and bids the other grow

Faster than thought, or time.

Flo. ss Worthy Camillo,
What colour for my visitation shall I 560
Hold up before him?

Cam. Sent by the king, your father,

To greet him, and to give him comforts. Sir,

The manner of your bearing towards him, with
What you, as from your father, shall deliver,

Things known betwixt us three, I’ll write you down:
The which shall point you forth at every sitting
What you must say ; that he shall not perceive,

But that you have your father’s bosom there,

And speak his very heart.

Flo. ‘ I am bound to you.

There is some sap in this.

Cam. ; A course more promising
Than a wild dedication of yourselves 571
To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores ; most certain,
To miseries enough: no hope to help you,

But, as you shake off one, to take another ;

Nothing so certain as your anchors, who

Do their best office, if they can but stay you

Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know,
Prosperity ’s the very bond of love,

Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together,
Affliction alters.

Per. One of these is true: 580
I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

But not take in the mind.

Cam. Yea, say you so?

There shall not, at your father’s house, these seven
years,
Be born another such.
Flo. My good Camillo,
She is as forward of her breeding, as
She is i’ the rear our birth.

Cam. I cannot say, tis pity
She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress
To most that teach.

er. Your pardon, sir ; for this
I’ll blush you thanks.

Flo. My prettiest Perdita !—
But, O, the thorns we stand upon !—Camillo,
Preserver of my father, now of me,

The medicine of our house, how shall we do?
We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son,
Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

Cam. My lord,

Fear none of this. I think, you know, my fortunes

Do all lie there : it shall be so my care

To have you royally appointed, as if _ :

The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, _

That you may know you shall not want, one word. 599
They talk aside.

Enter AUTOLYCUS.

Aut. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust,
his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have
sold all my trumpery: not a counterfeit stone, not
a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad,
knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep
my pack from fasting : they throng who should buy
first; asif my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought
a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw
whose purse was best in picture, and what I saw, to
my OOH use I remembered. My clown (who wants
but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love
with the wenches’ song, that he would not stir his

ettitoes, till he had both tune and words; which so
drew the rest of the herd to me, that all their other
senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a
placket, it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a
codpiece of a purse : I would have filed keys off, that
hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s
song, and admiring the nothing of it; so that, in this

590

 

time of lethargy, I picked and cut most of their
festival purses; and had not the old man come in
with a whoobub against his daughter and the king’s
son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not
left a purse alive in the whole army.
[CAMILLO, FLORIZEL, and PERDITA come
forward.

Cam. Nay, but my letters, by this means being there
So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.

Flo. And those that you’ll procure from King

Leontes—
Cam. Shall satisfy your father.
Per. _ Happy be you!
All that you speak shows fair.

Cam. [Seeing AU'TOLYCUS.] Who have we here ?—
Well make an instrument of this : omit 630
Nothing, may give us aid.

Aut. If they have overheard me now, — why,
hanging.

Cam. How now, good fellow? Why shakest thou so?
Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to thee.

ut. Lam a poor fellow, sir.

Cam. Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal
that from thee: yet, for the outside of thy poverty,
we must make an exchange; therefore, discase thee
instantly (thou must think, there’s a necessity in’t)
and change garments with this gentleman. Though
the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold
thee, there’s some boot. 643

Aut. [am a poor fellow, sir.—[Aside.] I know ye
well enough.

Cam. Nay, pr'ythee, despatch: the gentleman is
half flayed already.

Aut. Are you in earnest, sir?-[Aside.] I smell the
trick of it.

Flo. Despatch, I pr’ythee. 650

Aut, Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with
conscience take it.

Cam. Unbuckle, unbuckle.—

[FLORIZEL and AUTOLYCUS exchange garments,
Fortunate mistress, (let my prophecy
Come home to you!) ine must retire yourself
Into some covert : take your sweet-heart’s hat,
And pluck it o’er your brows; muffle your face ;
Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken
The truth of your own seeming, that you may
(For I do fear eyes over you) to shipboard
Get undescried.

660

Per. . Isee, the play so lies,
That I must bear a part.

Cam.
Have you done there?

No remedy.—

lo. Should I now meet my father
He would not call me son.
‘am. Nay, you shall have no hat.—
Come, lady, come.—Farewell, my friend.
Aut. Adieu, sir.
Flo. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!
Pray you, a word. [They converse apart.
Cam. What I do next shall be to tell the king
Of this escape, and whither they are bound ;
Wherein, my hope is, I shall so prevail,
To force him after: in whose company
I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight
I have a woman’s longing.
Flo. Fortune speed us !—
Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.
Cam. The swifter speed, the better.
Exeunt FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and CAMILLO.
Aut. I understand the business; I hear it. To
have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand,
is necessary for a cut-purse: a good nose is requisite
also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see,
this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive.
What an exchange had this been without boot!
what a boot is here with this exchange! Sure, the
gods do this year connive at us, and we may do
anything extempore. The prince himself is about a
iece of iniquity ; stealing away from his father, with
is clog at his heels. If I thought it were a piece of
honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t:
T hold it the more knavery to conceal it, and therein

670

 

 

 
 

 

92k

THE WINTER'S TALE.

[Act IV,

 

am I constant to my profession. Aside, aside :—here

is more matter for a hot brain. Every lane’s end,

every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful

Iman work. 692
Enter Clown and Shepherd.

Clo. See, sec, what a man you are now! There is
no other way, but to tell the king she’s a changeling,
and none of your flesh and blood.

Shep. Nay, but hear me.

Clo. Nay, but hear me.

Shep. Go to, then. 698

Clo. She being none of your flesh and blood, your
flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so
your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him.
Show those things you found about her; those secret
things, all but what she has with her. This being
done, let the law go whistle: I warrant you.

Shep. I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and
his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest
man neither to his father, nor to me, to go about to
make me the king's brother-in-law. 708

Clo. Indeed, brother-in-law was the furthest off you
could have been to him; and then your blood had
been the dearer, by I know how much an ounce.

Aut. LAside.] Very wisely, puppies! :

Shep. Well, let_us to the king: there is that in this
fardel will make him scratch his beard.

wlut. [iside.]| I know not what impediment this
complaint may be to the flight of my master.

Clo. ‘Pray heartily he be at palace.

Aut, (Astde.| Though I am not naturally honest, I
am so sometimes by chance :—let me pocket up my
pedlar’s excrement. [Zakes off his false beard.]
How now, rustics? whither are you bound ? 721

Shep. To the palace, an it like your worship.

Aut, Your affairs there? what? with whom? the
condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling,
your names, your ages, of what having, breeding,
and anything that is fitting to be known? discover.

Clo, We are but plain fellows, sir.

aut. A lie: you are rough and hairy. Let me have
no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen, and they
often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them for it
with stamped coin, not stabbing steel : therefore, they
do not give us the lie. 732

Clo. Your worship had like to have given us one, if
you had not taken yourself with the manner.

Shep. Are you a courtier, an’t like you, sir?

Aut, Whether it like me, or no, I am a courtier.
Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings?
hath not my gait in it the measure of the court?
receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect
I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think’'st thou,
for that I insinuate, or toze from thee thy business, I
am_ therefore no courtier? I am courtier, cap-a-pe ;
and one that will either push on, or pluck back thy
business there: whereupon I command thee to open
thy affair.

Shep. My business, sir, is to the king.

«fut, What advocate hast thou to him?

Shep. I know not, an’t like you.

Clo. Advocate’s the court-word for a
say, you have none.

Shep. None, sir: I have no pheasant, cock, nor hen.

fut. How bless’d are we that are not simple men!
Yet nature might have made me as these are,
Therefore I'l] not disdain.

Clo. This cannot be but a great courtier.

Shep. His garments are rich, but he wears them
not handsomely.

Clo. He seems to be the more noble in being fantas-
tical: a great man, I'll warrant; I know by the picking
on’'s teeth. 76

Aut. The fardel there? what’s i’ the fardel? Where-
fore that box?

Shep. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and
box, which none must know but the king; and which
he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the
speech of him.

Aut, Age, thou hast lost thy labour,

Shep. Why, sir?

pheasant:
750

768.

 

Aut. The king is not at the palace: he is gone
aboard a new ship to purge melancholy, and air
himself: for, if thou be’st capable of things serious,
thou must know, the king is full of grief.

Shep. So ‘tis said, sir; about his son, that should
have married a shepherd's daughter.

Aut. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him
fly: the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall
feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster,

Clo. Think you so, sir? 778

Aut. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make
heavy, and vengeance bitter; but those that are
germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall
all come under the hangman: which, though it be
great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling
rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter
come into grace! Some say, he shall be stoned; but
that death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne
into a sheep-cote! all deaths are too few, the sharpest
too easy.

Clo. Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hea
ant like you, sir? 796

fut. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then,
‘nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s
nest; then stand, till he be three quarters and a dram
dead ; then recovered again with aqua-vite, or some
other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the
hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set
against a brick-wall, the sun looking with a south-
ward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with
flies blown to death. But what talk we of_ these
traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at,
their offences being: so capital? Tell me, (for you
seem to be honest plain men) what a have to the
king? being something gently considered, Ill bring
you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his
presence, whisper him in your behalfs; an, if it be in
man, besides the king, to effect your suits, here is
man shall do it. 807

Clo. He seems to be of great authority : close with
him, give him gold; and though authority be a stub-
born bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold.
Show the inside of your purse to the outside of his
hand, and no more ado. Remember, stoned, and
flayed alive!

Shep. An’t please you, sir, to undertake the busi-
ness for us, here is that gold I have: I'll make it as
much more, and leave this young man in pawn, till
I bring it you.

Aut. After I have done what I promised?

Shep. Ay, sir. :

aut. Well, give me the moiety.—Are you a party in
this business ? 821

Clo. In some sort, sir: but though my case be &
pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.

Aut. O! that’s the case of the shepherd's son.—
Hang him, he'll be made an example. 2

Clo. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king,
and show our strange sights: he must know, ’tis
none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone
else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man
does, when the business is performed; and remain,
as he says, your pawn, till it be brought you. 1

Aut. I will trust you. Walk before toward the
sea-side : go on the right hand; I will but look upon
the hedge, and follow you.

Clo. We are blessed in this man, as I may say;
even blessed.

Soe Let’s before, as he bids us. He was pro-
vided to do us good. [Hxreunt Shepherd and Clown.

Aut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see, Fortune
would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth,
Iam courted now with a double occasion—gold, and
a means to do the prince my master good; which,
who knows how that may turn back to my advance-
ment? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones,
aboard him: if he think it fit to shore them again, and

that the complaint they have to the king concerns |

him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far
ofticious ; for lam proof against that title, and what
shame else belongs to’t. To him will I present them:
there may be matter in it. [Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—Sicilia. A Room in the Palace of LEONTES.
Enter LEONTES, CLEOMENES, DIoN, PAULINA, and others.

fP00_ 0D), Cleomenes.

‘(77 IR, you have done enough, and have per-
a pb _ , form’d

ec ‘. A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you

  
      
       
  

R make,

A) ic Which you have not redeem’d; indeed,

ONS aid down

eV? yx More penitence than done trespass. At
k he last,

Do, as the heavens have done, forget your

evil;
With them, forgive yourself.
Leon. Whilst I remember
Her, and her virtues, I cannot forget
My blemishes in them, and so still think of
The wrong I did myself; which was so much,
That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and
Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er
man 11
Bred his hopes out of.
‘aul. True, too true, my lord:
If one by one you wedded all the world,
Or from the all that are took something good,
To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd
Would be unparallel’d.
I think so. Kill’d!

Leon.

She I kill’d! I did so; but thou strik’st me
Sorely, to say I did: it is as bitter
Upon thy tongue, as in my thought.
Say so but seldom.

Cleo. Not at all, good lady: 20
You might have spoken a thousand things that would
Have done the time more benefit, and grac’d
Your kindness better.

Now, good now,

Paul. You are one of those,
Would have him wed again.

Dion, If you would not so,
You pity not the state, nor the remembrance
Of his most sovereign name, consider little,
What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue,
May drop upon his kingdom, ang devour
Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy
Than to rejoice the former queen is well? 30
What holier than for royalty’s repair,
For present comfort, and for future good,—
To bless the bed of majesty again
With a sweet fellow to ’t?

‘aul. There is none worthy,
Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods
Wil have fulfill’'d their secret purposes ;

For has not the divine Apollo said,
Is’t not the tenor of his oracle, .
That King Leontes shall not have an heir,
Till his lost child be found? which, that it shall, 40
Is all as monstrous to our human reason,
As my Antigonus to break his grave, -
And come again to me; who, on my life,
Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel,
My lord should to the heavens be contrary,
Oppose against their wills.—Care not for issue ;
The crown will find an heir: great Alexander
Left his to the worthiest, so his successor
Was like to be the best. :

Good Paulina,—

Leon. I
Who hast the memory of Hermione, 50

 

I know, in honour,—O, that everI .

Had squar’d me to thy counsel !—then, even now,
I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes,
Have taken treasure from her lips,—

Paul. And left them
More rich, for what they yielded.
Leon. Thou speak’st truth.

No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse,
And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit
Again possess her corse, and on this stage
(Where we offenders now) appear, soul-vex’d,
And begin, ‘‘ Why to me?”

Paul.
She had just cause.

Leon. She had; and would incense me
To murder her I married.

I should so:

Paul.
Were I the alos that walk’d, I’d bid you mark
Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in’t
You chose her: then I’d shriek, that even your ears
Should rift to hear me, and the words that follow’d
Should be, ‘‘ Remember mine.”
Leon. Stars, stars!
And all eyes else dead coals.—Fear thou no wife;
I'll have no wife, Paulina.
Paul. Will you swear
Never to marry, but by my free leave? 70
Leon. Never, Paulina: so be bless’d my spirit !
Paul, Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.
Cleo, You tempt him overmuch.
Paul.
As like Hermione as is her picture,
Affront his eye.
Cleo. Good madam,—
Paul, I have done.
Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir,
No remedy, but you will,—give me the office
To choose you a queen. She shall not be so young
As was your former; but she shall be such
As, walk’d your first queen's ghost, it should take joy
To see her in your arms. 81
Leon. My true Paulina,
We shall not marry, till thou bidd'st us.
aul. That.
Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath:
Never till then.

Had she such power, 60

Unless another,

Enter a Gentleman.

Gent. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,
Son of Polixenes, with his princess (she
The fairest I have yet beheld), desires access
To your high presence.

Leon. What with him? he comes not
Like to his father’s greatness; his approach,
So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us 90
*T is not a visitation fram’d, but fore’d
By need and accident. What train?

Gent. But few,
And those but mean.
Leon. His princess, say you, with him?

Gent. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think,
That e’er the sun shone bright on.
aul, : O Hermione!
As every present time doth boast itself
Above a better, gone, so must thy grave

 

 
 

 

 

926 THE WINTER'S TALE. {Act V.
Give way to what's seen now. Sir, you yourself But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety

Have said and writ so, but your writing now Here, where we are.

Is colder than that theme,—‘‘She had not been, 100 Leon. : The blessed gods

Nor was not to be equall’d ;"—thus your verse Purge all infection from our air, whilst you

Flow'd with her beauty once: ’tis shrewdly ebb’d, Do climate here! You have a holy father, 170

To say you have seen a better.
Gent. Pardon, madam:
The one I have almost forgot (your pardon);
The other, when she has obtain’d your eye,
Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,
Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal
Of all professors else, make proselytes
Of whom she but bid follow.
Paul. How! not women?
Gent. Women will love her, that she isa woman 110
More worth than any man; men, that she is
The rarest of all women.
Leon. 5 Go, Cleomenes ;
Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends,
Bring them to our embracement.—Still ’t is strange,
[£xcunt CLEOMENES, Lords, and Gentleman.
He thus should steal upon us.
aul. Had our prince
(Jewel of children) seen this hour, he had pair’d
Well with this lord: there was not full of month
Between their births.
Leon. Prythee, no more: cease! thou know'st,
He dies to me again, when talk’d of: sure, 120
When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches
Will bring me to consider that which may
Unfurnish me of reason.—They are come,—

Re-enter CLEOMENES, with FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and
others.

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;

For she did print your royal father off,

Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one,

Your fathers image is so hit in you,

His very air, that I should call you brother,

As I did him; and speak of something, wildly

By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome!

And your fair princess, goddess!—O, alas!

1 lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and earth

Might thus have stood, begetting wonder as

You, gracious couple, do. And then I lost

(All mine own folly) the society,

Amity too, of your brave father; whom,

Though bearing misery, I desire my life

Once more to look on him

Flo. By his command
Have I here touch’d Sicilia; and from him
Give you all greetings, that a king, at friend, 140
Can send his brother: and, but infirmity
(Which waits upon worn times) hath something seiz’d
His wish'd ability, he had himself
The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his
Measur’d to look upon you, whom he loves
(He bade me say so) more than all the sceptres
And those that bear them living.

Leon. O my brother!
Good gentleman, the wrongs I have done thee stir
Afresh within me; and these thy offices,

So rarely kind, are as interpreters

Of my behind-hand slackness.—Welcome hither,
As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too
Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage

(At least ungentle) of the dreadful Neptune,

To greet a man not worth her pains, much less
The adventure of her person ?

130

150

Filo. Good my lord,
She came from Libya.

Leon. Where the warlike Smalus,
That noble, honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov'd?

Flo. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose

daughter

His tears proclaim’d his, paring with her: thence 160
(A prosperous south-wind friendly) we have cross’d,
To execute the charge my father gave me,
For visiting your highness. My best train
I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d,
Who for Bohemia bend, to signify
Not only my success in Libya, sir,

 

A graceful gentleman, against whose person,

So sacred as it is, I have done sin;

For which the heavens, taking angry note,
Have left me issueless; and your father’s bless’d
(As he from heaven merits it) with you,

rah
ij
a

 

   

=

 

i

\

   

 

Leon.

«*O, alas!

TI lost a couple, that ’twixt heaven and carth
Might thus have stood, begetting wonder as
You, gracious couple, do.”

Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,
Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on,
Such goodly things as you!
Enter a Lord.
Lord. Most noble sir,
That which I shall report will bear no credit,
Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, 180
Bohemia greets you from himself by me ;
Desires you to attach his son, who has
(His dignity and duty both cast off) r
Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with
A shepherd’s daughter.
Leon. Where’s Bohemia? speak.
Lord. Here in your city ; I now came from him:
I speak amazedly, and it becomes
My marvel, and my message. To your court
Whiles he was hastening (in the chase, it seems,
Of this fair couple), meets he on the way
The father of this seeming lady, and
Her brother, having both their country quitted
With this young prince.
flo. Camillo has betray’d me,
Whose honour, .and whose honesty, till now
Endur'd all weathers,
Lord. Lay ’t so to his charge :
He’s with the king your father.
Who? Camillo?

con.

Lord. Camillo, sir: I spake with him, who now
‘Has these poor men in question. Never saw I
Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth,
Forswear themselves as often as they speak: 200
Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them
With divers deaths in death.

    
    

 

 
 

 

ScEene II]

THE WINTER’S TALE.

927

 

Per. 7 O my poor father !—
The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have
Our contract celebrated.

Leon, You are married?

Flo. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;
The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first :
The odds for high and low’s alike.

My lord,

Leon,

Is this the daughter of a king?
flo, he is,
When once she is my, wife.

Leon. That once, I see, by your good father’s speed,
Will come on very slowly. am sorry, 211
Most sorry, you have broken from his liking,

Where you were tied in duty ; and as sorry,
Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,
That you might well enjoy her.

Filo. . Dear, look up:
Though Fortune, visible an enemy,
Should chase us with my father, power no jot
Hath she to change our loves.—Beseech you, sir,
Remember since you ow’d no more to time
Than I do now; with thought of such affections,
Step forth mine advocate : at your request,

My father will grant precious things as trifles.
Leon. Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mis-

tress,
Which he counts but a trifle.
Paul. Sir, my liege,
Your eye hath too much youth in ’t: not a month

220

Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes .

Than what you look on now.
Leon. I thought of her,
Even in these looks I made,—[ To FLORIZEL.] But your
petition

Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father:

Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires,

Iam friend to them and you; upon which errand

I now go toward him. Therefore, follow me,

And mark what way I make: come, good my lord.
[Exeunt.

230

ScENE II.—The Same. Before the Palace.

Finter AUTOLYCUS and a Gentleman.

Aut. "Beseech you, sir, were you present at this
relation ?

1 Gent. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard
the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found
it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were
all commanded out of the chamber; only this, me-

thought, [heard the shepherd say, he found the child.

Aut. I would most gladly know the issue of it. 8

1 Gent. I make a broken delivery of the business ;
but the changes I pomeed in the king and Camillo,
were very notes of admiration : they seemed almost,
with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their
eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language
in their very gesture; they looked, as they had heard
of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. A notable
pee of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest

eholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not
say, if the importance were joy or sorrow, but in the
extremity of the one it must needs be,

Enter another Gentleman.

Here comes a gentleman, that, haply, knows more.
The news, Rogero? _ aal

2 Gent. Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is ful-
filled; the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of
wonder is broken out within this hour, that ballad-
makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the
Lady Paulina’s steward : he can deliver you more,

Enter a third Gentleman.
How goes it now, sir? this news, which is called true,
is so like an old tale, that the verity of it is in strong
suspicion. Has the king found his heir? 29
3 Gent. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by
circumstance : that which you hear you'll swear you
see, there is such unity in the proofs, The mantle

 

 

of Queen Hermione ;—her jewel about the neck of
it;—the letters of Antigonus found with it, which
they know to be his character ;—the majesty of the
creature, in resemblance of the mother ;—the affection
of nobleness, which nature shows above her breeding,
and many other evidences, proclaim her with all
certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the
meeting of the two kings ? 40

2 Gent. No.

3 Gent. Then you have lost a sight, which was to be
seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have
beheld one joy crown another; so, and in such
manner, that, it seemed, sorrow wept to take leave of
them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting
up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance
of such distraction, that they were to be known by
garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready .to
leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as
if that joy were now become a loss, cries, “‘O, thy
mother, thy mother!” then asks Bohemia forgive-
ness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again
worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he
thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a
weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I
never heard of such another encounter, which lames
report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.

Gent. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that
carried hence the child ? 0

3 Gent. Like an old tale still, which will have matter
to rehearse, though credit be asleep, and not an
ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this
avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his
innocence (which seems much) to justify him, but
a handkerchief, and rings of his, that Paulina knows.

1 Gent. What became of his bark, and his followers?

3 Gent. Wracked, the same instant of their master’s
death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all
the instruments, which aided to expose the child, were
even then lost, when it wasfound. But, O! the noble
combat, that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in
Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of
her husband, another elevated that the oracle was
fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the earth, and
so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her
. co heart, that she might no more be in danger
of losing.

1 Gent. The dignity_of this act was worth the
audience of kings and princes, for by such was it
acted. 81

3 Gent. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that
which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though
not the fish), was, when at the relation of the queen’s
death, with the manner how she came to’t (bravely
confessed and lamented by the king), how attentive-
ness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of
dolour to another, she did, with an alas! I would fain
say, bleed tears, for, 1am sure, my heart wept blood.
Who was most marble there, changed colour; some
swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have
seen it, the woe had been universal. 92

1 Gent. Are they returned to the court?

3 Gent. No; the princess hearing of her mother’s
statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece
many years in doing, and now newly performed by
that rare Italian master, Julio Romano; who, had he
himself eternity and could put breath into his work,
would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is
her ape: hesonear to Hermione hath done Hermione,
that, they say, one would speak to her, and stand in
hope of answer: thither, with all greediness of affec-
tion, are they gone; and there they intend to sup. 103

2 Gent. I thought, she had some great matter there
in hand, for she hath privately, twice or thrice a day.
ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed
house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece
the rejoicing? '

1 Gent. Who would be thence, that has the benefit,
of access? every wink of an eye, some new grace will
be born: our absence makes us unthrifty to our know-
ledge. Let’s ae [Exeunt Gentlemen.

Aut. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in
me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought

 

 
 

928

THE WINTER'S TALE.

[Act V.

 

 

the old man and his son aboard the prince ; told him
T heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what;
but he at that time, over-fond of the shepherd's
daughter (so he then took her to be), who began to
be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity
of weather continuing, this mystery remained undis-
covered, But ‘tis all one to me; for had I been the
finder-out of this secret, it would not have relished
among my other discredits.—Here come those I have
done good to against my will, and already appearing
in the blossoms of their fortune.

 

Aut. *T humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I
have committed to your worship.”

Enter Shepherd and Clown.

Shep. Come, boy: I am _ past more children; but
thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. 127

Clo. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight
with me this other day, because I was no gentleman
born: see you these clothes? say, you see them not,
and think me still no gentleman born: you were best
say, these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the
US. do, and try whether I am not now a gentleman

orn.

alut. I know, you are now, sir, a gentleman born.

Clo. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

Shep. And so have I, boy. 137

Clo. So you have ;—but I was a gentleman born
before my father, for the king's son took me by the
hand, and called me, brother ; and then the two kings
called my father, brother; and then the prince, my
brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father,
father; and so we wept: and there was the first
gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.

Shep. We may live, son, to shed many more.

Clo. Ay; or else ’t were hard luck, being in so pre-
posterous estate as we are.

Aut. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the
faults I have committed to your worship, and to give
me your good report to the prince my master. 150

Shep. ’Pr’ythee, son, do; for we must be gentle,
now we are gentlemen.

Clo. Thou wilt amend thy life?

aut. Ay, an it ike your good worship.

Clo. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince,
thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.

Shep. You may say it, but not swear it.

Clo. Not swear it, now lamagentleman? Let boors
and franklins say it, I ll swear it.

 

Shep. How if it be false, son? 160

Clo. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may
swear it in the behalf of his friend :—and I'll swear
to the prince, thau art a tall fellow of thy hands, and
that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know, thou art no
tall fellow of thy hands, and that thou wilt be drunk:
but I'll swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tali
fellow of thy hands.

Aut. I will prove so, sir, to my power. 168

Clo. Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if Ido
not wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not
being a tall fellow, trust me not.—Hark! the kings
and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the
queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good
masters. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same. A Chapel in Paunina’s
: House.

Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, FLORIZEL, PERDITA,
CAMILLO, PAULINA, Lords, and Attendants.

Leon. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort
That I have had of thee!

Paul, What, sovereign sir,

I did not well, I meant well. All my services

You have paid home; but that you have vouchsaf’d

With your crown'd brother, and these your contracted

Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,

It is a surplus of your grace, which never

My life may last to answer.

Leon. O Paulina!

We honour you with trouble. But we came

To see the statue of our queen: your gallery 10

Have we pass’d through, not without much content

In many singularities, but we saw not

That which my daughter came to look upon,

The statue of her mother.

Paul. As she liv’d peerless,

So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

Excels whatever yet you look’d upon,

Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it

Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare

To see the life as lively mock’d, as ever

Still sleep mock’d death: behold! and say, ’tis well. 20
PAULINA undraws a curtain, and discovers

HERMIONE as a statue.

T like your silence: it the more shows off

Your wonder ; but yet speak :—first you, my liege.

Comes it not something near?

Leon. Her natural posture !—

Chide me, dear stone, that I may say, indeed,

Thou art Hermione; or, rather, thou art she

In thy not chiding, for she was as tender

As infancy, and grace.—But yet, Paulina,

Hermione was not so much wrinkled ; nothing

So aged, as this seems.

Pol. O! not by much.

Paul. So much the more our carver’s excellence; 30
Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her
As she liv’d now.

Leon. As now she might have done,

So much to my good comfort, as it is

Now piercing to my soul. O! thusshe stood,

Even with such life of majesty (warm life,

As now it coldly stands), when first I woo'd her.

Iam asham’d: does not the stone rebuke me,

For being more stone than it?—O royal piece!
There’s magic in thy majesty, which has

My evils conjur’d to remembrance, and 40
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,
Standing like stone with thee.

Per. And give me leave,
And do not say ’tis superstition, that ;

I kneel, and then implore her blessing.—Lady,
Dear queen, that ended when I but began,
Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

Paul. O, patience !
The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s
Not dry.

Cam. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,
Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, 50

 

 
 

 

ScENgE III.]

THE WINTER’S TALE. 929

So many summers dry: scarce any joy
Did ever so long live; no sorrow,
But kill’d itself much sooner.

Dear my brother,

Pol,
Let him that was the cause of this have power

i

v

 

Leon. Let be, let be! 61
Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already—
What was he that did make it ? See, my lord, ‘
Would you not deem it breath’d, and that those veins
Did verily bear blood ?

Paul, “’Tis time; descend; be stone no more: approach ;
Strike all that look upon with marvel.”

To take off so much grief from you, as he

Will piece up in himself.

Indeed, my lord,

Paul.
If I had thought, the sight of my poor image | ;
Would thus have wrought you (for the stone is mine),

I d not have show’d it.

Leon. Do not draw the curtain.

Paul. No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy

May think anon it moves.

Pol. Masterly done:
The very life seems warm upon her lip.

Leon. The fixure of her eye has motion in ’t,
As we are mock’d with art.

Paul. I'll draw the curtain.
My lord’s almost so far transported, that
He’ll think anon it lives.

Leon. ; O sweet Paulina! 70
Make me to think so twenty years together:

 
930

THE WINTER’S TALE.

[Act V.

 

 

No settled senses of the world can match
The pleasure of that madness. Let’t alone.

Paul. Iamsorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but
I could afflict you further. ;

con. Do, Paulina;

For this affliction has a taste as sweet
As any cordial comfort.—Still, methinks,
There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel
Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,
For I will kiss her.

Paul, Good my lord, forbear. 80
The ruddiness upon her lip is wet:
You'll mar it, if you kiss it; stain your own,
With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?

Leon. No, not these twenty years.

Per. So long could I
Stand by, a looker-on,

Paul. Either forbear,

uit presently the chapel, or resolve you |

‘or more amazement. If you can behold it,

I'll make the statue move indeed, descend
And take you by the hand ; but then you’ll think,
(Which I proves! against) I am assisted

By wicked powers.

Leon, What you can make her do,
Iam content to look on: what to speak,

Iam content to hear; for tis as easy
To make her speak, as move.

Paul. It is requir'd, _
You do awake your faith. Then, all stand still;
Or those that think it is unlawful business
I am about, let them depart.

eon.
No foot shall stir.

Paul, Music, awake her, strike !—[Music.
*T is time ; descend ; be stone no more: approach ;
Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come; 100
Il fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him
Dear life redeems you.—You perceive, she stirs.

[HERMIONE descends from the pedestal.

Start not : her actions shall be holy, as
You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her,
Until you see her die again, for then
You kill her double. ay, present your hand:
When she was young you woo’d her; now, in age,
Is she become the suitor !

Leon, [Embracing her.] 0! she’s warm.
If this be magic, let it be an art
Lawful as eating. ,

Pol. She embraces him.

Proceed: °

110

 

Cam. She hangs about his neck.
If she pertain to life, let her speak too.
Pol. Ay; and make it manifest where she has

iv'd,

Or, how stol’n from the dead.

Paul. That she is living,
Were it but told you, should be hooted at
Like an old tale; but it appears she lives,
Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.—
Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel,
And pray your mother’s blessing.—Turn, eee lady ;
Our Perdita is found. [PERDITA kneels to HERMIONE.

Her. ou gods, look down, 121
And from your sacred vials pour your graces
pen may aughter’s head !—-Tell me, mine own,
here hast thou been preserv’d? where liv’d? how

found
Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear, that I,
Knowing by Paulina that the oracle
Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d
Myself to see the issue.
‘aul. : There’s time enough for that,

Lest they desire, upon this push, to trouble
Your joys with like relation.—Go together, 130
You precious winners all: your exultation
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,
Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there
My mate, that’s never to be found again,
Lament till Lam lost.

Leon. O, peace, Paulina!
Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,
As I by thine a wife: this is a match,
And made between ’s by vows. Thou hast found

mine;

But how, is to be question’d ; for I saw her,
As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many 140
A prayer upon her grave: I'll not seek far
(For him, I partly know his mind), to find thee
An honourable husband.—Come, Camillo,
And take her by the hand: whose worth, and honesty,
Is richly noted, and here justified
By us, a pair of kings.—Let’s from this place.—
What !—Look upon my brother :—both your pardons,
That e’er I put between your holy looks
My ill suspicion.—This’ your son-in-law,
And son unto the king, whom heavens directing 150:
Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,
Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely
Each one demand, and answer to his part
Perform’d in this wide gap of time, since first
We were dissever’d : hastily lead away, [Ezxeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CYMBELINE.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

CYMBELINE, King of Britain.
CLOTEN, Son to the Queen by a former Husband.
LronatTus Postuumus, Husband to Imogen.
ARIUS, @ banished Lord, disguised under the
name of Mongen,, Einaphicks 3 é
GuIDERIUS | ons to Cymbeline, disguised under
. the names of Polydore and Cadwal,
ARVIRAGUS, supposed Sons to Belarius.
PHILARIO, Friend to Posthumus, L alia
Tacuimo, Friend to Philario, ° s*¢0tans.
French Gentleman, Friend to Philario.
Caius Lucius, General of the Roman Forces.
A Roman Captain.
Two British Captains.

PISANIO, Servant to Posthumus.
CORNELIUS, a Physician.

Two Gentlemen.
Two Gaolers.

QUEEN, Wife to Cymbeline.
IMoGEN, Daughter to Cymbeline by a former Queen.
HELEN, Woman to Imogen.

Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, Appa-

ritions, a Soothsayer, a Dutch Gentleman, a
Spanish Gentleman, Musicians, Officers, Cap-
oe. Soldiers, Messengers, and other Atten-
ants.

SCENE—Sometimes in BRITAIN, sometimes in ITALY.

 

ACT I.
ScENnE I.—Britain. The Garden of CYMBELINE’s Palace,
Enter two Gentlemen.

   

- 1 Gentleman.
OU do not meet a man but frowns: our
bloods
No more obey the heavens, than our
courtiers
Still seem as does the king.
2 Gent. But what’s the matter?
1 Gent. His daughter, and the heir
of ’s kingdom, whom
‘ He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son, (a
widow,
That late he married,) hath referr’d herself
Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s

wedded ;
Her husband banish’d ; she imprison’d: all
Is outward sorrow, though, I think, the king
Be touch’d at very heart. .
2 Gent. None but the king?
1 Gent. He that hath lost her, too; so is ue

 
   
 

ueen,
That most desir'd the match: but not a courtier,
Although whey wear their faces to the bent
Of the king’s looks, hath a heart that is not
Glad at the thing they scowl at.

2 Gent. And why so?

1 Gent. He that hath miss’d the princess is a thing
Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her
(I mean, that married her,—alack, good man !—
And therefore banish’d) is a creature such
As, to seek through the regions of the earth
For one his like, there would be something failing
In him that should compare. I do not think,
So fair an outward, and such stuff within,
Endows a man but he. ‘

2 Gent. You speak him far.

1 Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself;
Crush him together, rather than unfold
His measure duly. .

Gent. What’s his name, and birth?
1 Gent. I cannot delve him to the root. His father

 

Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour
Against the Romans with Cassibelan, 30
But had his titles by Tenantius, whom
He serv'd with glory and admir'd success;
So gain’d the sur-addition, Leonatus :
And had, besides this gentleman in question,
Two other sons, who, in the wars o’ the time,
Died with theirswordsin hand; for which their father
(Then old and fond of issue) took such sorrow,
That he quit being ; and his gentle lady,
Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas’d
As he was born. The king, he takes the babe 40
To his protection ; calls him Posthumus Leonatus;
Breeds him, and makes him of his bedchamber ;
Puts to him all the learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of ; which he took,
As we do air, fast as ’t was minister’d,
And in ’s spring became a harvest; liv’d in court
(Which rare it is to do) most prais’d, most lov’d ;
A sample to the youngest, to the more mature
A glass that feated them ; and to the graver
A child that guided dotards: to his mistress, 50
For whom he now is banish’d,—her own price
Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue;
By her election may be truly read
What kind of man he is.
Gent. I honour him

Even out of your PenOr ts But, ’pray you, tell me,
Is she sole child to the king? :

1 Gent. nae His only child.
He had two sons: (if this be worth your hearing,
Mark it:) the eldest of them at three years old,
I’ the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery
Were stolen; and to this hour no guess in knowledge
Which way they went.

ent. How long is this ago? 61

1 Gent. Some twenty years.

2 Gent. That a king’s children should be so convey’d,
So slack guarded, and the search so slow,
That could not trace them!

 

 
 

932 CYMBELINE. [Act f,

 

 

 

 

1 Gent. Howsoe’er ‘tis strange, Enter CYMBELINE and Lords.
Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at, :
Yet is it true, sir. Post. _ Alack, the king !
2 Gent. I do well believe you. Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my
1 Gent. We must forbear. Here comes the gentle- | sight!
man, If after this command thou fraught the court
The queen, and princess. [Exeunt. | With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away!
| Thou ‘rt poison to my blood.
| Post. The gods protect you,
ScEeNE II.—The Same | And bless the good remainders of the court! ;
: i \ Iam gone. (Exit.
Enter the QUEEN, PostHuUMUs, and IMOGEN. | Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death 60
Queen. No, be assur’d, you shall not find me, | More sharp than this is.
ughter, Cym. O disloyal thing,
After the slander of most stepmothers, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st
Evil-ey’d unto you: ae are my prisoner, but A year’s age on me.
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys

That lock up your restraint. Foryou, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the offended | king,
I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him; and 't were good,
You lean‘d unto his sentence, with what patience
— e isdom may inform you.
Please your highness,
I will eee hence to-day.
Ducen. You know the peril :—

I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying 12
The pangs of barr’d affections ; though the king
Hath charg’d you should not speak together. [Lyxit.

imo. Dissembling courtesy! How fine this

tyrant

Can tickle where she wounds !—My dearest hus-

I something fear my father’s wrath; but nothing
(Always reserv’d my holy duty) what

His rage candoonme. You must be gone;

And I shall here abide the hourly shot 20
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,

But that there is this jewel in the world,

That I may see again.

Post. My queen! my mistress!
O lady! weep no more, lest I give cause &
To be suspected of more tenderness
Than doth become aman. _ I will remain Cym. “If after this command thou fraught the court

 

The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth. ‘wileh-thycunworth ness, sched. dlests"
ia residence in Rome, at one Philario’s;
Who to my father was a friend, to me Imo. I beseech you, sir,
Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, 30 | Harm not yourself with your vexation:
And with mine eyes I’l] drink the words you send, I am senseless of your wrath ; a touch more rare
Though ink be made of gall. Subdues all pangs, all fears.
Ccym Past grace? obedience?
Re-enter QUEEN. ine Past hope, and in despair; that way, past

Queen. Be brief, I pray you: grac
‘If the king come, I shall incur I know not Cym, T i “might st have had the sole son of my
How much of his displeasure. [Aside.] Yet I’ll move ance

him : Imo. O feast ‘4, that I might not! I chose an eagle,
To walk this way. Inever do him wrong, And did avoid a "puttock. 70
But he does buy my injuries to be friends, Cym. Thou took’st a beggar; wouldst have made
Bays 0 dear for my offences. [Exit. my throne
Should we be taking leave | A seat for baseness,
AS joe a term as yet we have to live, Imo. No; I rather added
The loathness to Beper would grow. Adieu! A lustre to it.
Imo. Nay, stay a little. Cym. O thou vile one!
Were you but riding forth to air yourself, 40 Imo. ir,
Such parting were too Bevis Look here, love: It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus:
This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart; You bred him as my playfellow ; and he is
But keep it till you woo another wife, A man worth any woman; overbuys me
When Imogen is dead. Almost the sum he pays.

Post. How ! how! another ?— Cym. What! art thou mad?
You gentle gods, give me but this I have, Imo. Almost, sir: heaven restore me !—’Would I
And sear up my embracements from a next were
With bonds of death !_[Putting on the ring.] Remain, | A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus

remain thou here Our neighbour shepherd’s son !
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, Cym. Thou foolish thing !—
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles 50 Fre-enter QUEEN.
I still win of you: for my sake, wear this: [To the Gees They were again together : you have
It is a manacle of love ; I’ll place it 81
Upon this fairest prisoner. Not. aise: our ney Away with her,

[Putting a bracelet on her.arm. | And pen her up.

Imo. 6, th the gods! Queen. ’Beseech your patience.—Peace!

When shall we see again? Dear lady daughter, peace !—Sweet sovereign,

 

 

 
 

 

 

SCENE V.] CYMBELINE. 933
Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some com- Clo. Nay come let’s go together. 40
2 Lord, Well, my lord. [Exeunt.

0.
Out of your best advice.
m. Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day ; and, being aged,
Die of this folly ! [Exeunt CYMBELINE and Lords.

Enter PISANIO.

Queen. Fie !—you must give way.
Here is your servant.—How now, sir? What news?
Pis. My lord your son drew on my master.
Ha! 90

Queen.
No harm, I trust, is done?
Pis. There might have been,
But that my master rather play’d than fought,
And had no help of anger: they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.
ween. I am very glad on’t.
‘mo. Yous son’s my father’s friend; he takes his
part.—
To draw upon an exile !—O brave sir!
I would they were in Afric both together,
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick
The goer-back.—Why came you from your master ?
Pis. On hiscommand. He would not suffer me 100
To bring him to the haven ; left these notes
Of what commands I should be subject to,
When’t pleas’d you to employ me.
Queen. This hath been
Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour,

He will remain so.
Pis. I humbly thank your highness.
gicen, Pray, walk awhile.
‘mo. About some half-hour hence,
Pray you, speak with me. You shall, at least,
Go see my lord aboard : for this time, leaveme.
[Hxeunt.

ScENE ITI.—A Public Place.

Enter CLOTEN and two Lords.

1 Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt ; the
violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice.
Where air comes out, air comesin; there’s none
abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

Clo. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have
IThurt him

2 Lord. [Aside.] No, faith; not so much as his
patience. "

1 Lord. Hurt him? his body ’s a passable carcass, if
he be not hurt: it is a thoroughfare for steel, if it be
not hurt. 11

2 Lord. [Aside.] His steel was in debt; it went o’
the backside the town.

Clo. The villain would not stand me. i

2 Lord. [Aside.] No; but he fled forward still,
toward your face.

1 Lord. Stand you! You have land enough of your
own; but he added to your having, gave you some
ground. 4

2 Lord. [Aside.] As many inches as you have
oceans.— Puppies ! 21

Clo. I would they had not come between us.

2 Lord. {Aside.] So would I, till you had measured
how long a fool you were upon the ground.

Clo. And that she should love this fellow, and
refuse me!

2 Lord. [Aside.] If it be a sin to make a true elec-
tion, she is damned.

1 Lord. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and
her brain go not together: she’s a good sign, but I
have seen small reflection of her wit. 1

2 Lord. [Aside.] She shines not upon fools, lest the
reflection should hurt her.

Clo. Come, I'llto my chamber. ’Would there had
been some hurt done! ;

2 Lord. [Aside.] I wish not so; unless it had been
the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt.

Clo. You'll go with us? :

1 Lord. I’llattend your lordship.

 

 

 

ScENE IV.—A Room in CyMBELINE’s Palace.

Enter IMOGEN and PISANIO.
Imo. I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ the
haven,

And Pear eta every sail: if he should write,
And I not have it, ’t were a paper lost,
As offer’d mercy is. What was the last
That he spake to thee? ‘

Pis. It was, his queen, his queen!

Imo. Then wav’d his handkerchief ?

is. And kiss’d it, madam.

Imo. Senseless linen, happier therein than I!—
And that was all?

Pis. No, madam; for so long
As he could make me with this eye or ear
Distinguish him from others, he did keep 10
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,
How swift his ship.

Imo. Thou shouldst have made him
As little as a crow, or less, ere left

To after-eye him.
i Madam, so I did.

ws.
Imo. I would have broke mine eye-strings, crack’d
them, but
To look upon him, till the diminution
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle;
Nay, follow’d him, till he had melted from 20
The smallness of a gnat to air; and then
Have turn’d mine eye, and wept.—But, good Pisanio,
When shall we hear from him?

Pis.
With his next vantage.
Imo. JI did not take my leave of him, but had
Most eae things to say: ere I could tell him,
How I would think on him, at certain hours,
Such thoughts, and such ; or I could make him swear
The shes of Italy should not betray
Mine interest and his honour; or have charg’d him, 30
At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,
To encounter me with orisons, for then
I am in heaven for him; or ere 1 could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,
And, like the eae breathing of the north,
Shakes all our buds from growing.

Enter a Lady.
The queen, madam,

Be assur’d, madam,

Lady.
Desires your highness’ company.
Imo. Those things I bid you do, get them des-
patch’d.—
I will attend the queen.
Pis. Madam, I shall. 40
[Exeunt.

ScENE V.—Rome. An Apartment in PHILARIO’S
House.

Enter PHILARIO, IAcHIMO, a Frenchman, wu Dutch-
man, and a Spaniard.

Iach. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain: he
was then of a crescent note; expected to prove so
worthy, as since he hath been allowed the name of;
but I could then have looked on him without the help
of admiration, though the catalogue of his endow-
ments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse
him by items.

Phi. You speak of him when he was less furnished,
than now he is, with that which makes him both
without and within. 10

French. I have seen him in France: we had very
wieny there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as

e. .

 

 
 

934

CYMBELINE.

[Act IL.

 

Iach. This matter of marrying his king's daughter
(wherein he must be weighed rather by her value,
than his own) words him, I doubt not, a great deal
from the matter.

French. And then his banishment— 18

Tach. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep
this lamentable divorce, under her colours, are won-
derfully to extend him; be it but to fortify her judg-
ment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for
taking a beggar without less quality. But how comes
it, he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaint-
ance?

Phi. His father and I were soldiers together; to
whom I have been often bound for no less than my
life.—Here comes the Briton. Let him be so enter-
tained amongst you, as suits with gentlemen of your
knowing, to a stranger of his quality. 30

Enter POSTHUMUS.
I beseech you all, be better known to this gentleman,
whom I commend to you, as a noble friend of mine:
how worthy he is, I will leave to appear hereafter,
rather than story him in his own hearing.

French. Sir, we have known together in Orleans.

Post. Since when I have been debtor to you for
courtesies, which I will be ever to pay, and yet pay still.

French. Sir, you o’er-rate my poor kindness. I was
glad I did atone my countryman and you: it had been
pity youshould have been put together with so mortal
a purpose, as then each bore, upon importance of so
slight and trivial a nature.

Post. By your pardon, sir, I was then a young tra-
veller ; rather shunned to go even with what I heard,
than in my every action to be guided by others’ expe-
riences : but, upon my mended judgment, (if I offend
not to say it is mended,) my quarrel was not alto-
gether slight.

French, ’Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of

swords; and by such two, that would, by all likeli-
pom have confounded one the other, or have ca
oth. 2

Tach. Can we, with manners, ask what was the
ditference?

French. Safely, I think. ’T was a contention in
public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the
report. It was much like an argument that fell out
last night, where each of us fell in praise of our
country mistresses; this gentleman at that time
vouching (and upon warrant of bloody affirmation)
his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant,
qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest o:
our ladies in France. 63

Iach. That lady is not now living; or this gentle-
man’s opinion, by this, worn out.

Post. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind.

7 apee You must not so far prefer her ‘fore ours of
taly.

Post. Being so far provoked as I was in France, I
would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her
adorer, not her friend. 71

fach, <As fair, and as good, (a kind of hand-in-hand
comparison,) had been something too fair, and too
good, for any lady in Britany. If she went before
others I have seen, as that diamond of yours out-
lustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe
she excelled many; but I have not seen the most
precious diamond that is, nor you the lady.

Post. I praised her as I rated her; so do I my stone.

fach, What do you esteem it at ? 80

Post. More than the world enjoys.

Tach. Hither your unparagoned mistress is dead, or
she’s outprized by a trifle.

Post. You are mistaken: the one may bé sold, or
given; or if there were wealth enough for the pur-
chase, or merit for the gift: the other is not a thing
for sale, and only the gift of the gods.

tach. Which the gods have given you?

Post. Which, by their graces, I will keep. 89

Tach. You may wear her in title yours; but, you
know, strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds.
Your ring may be stolen too: so, your brace of un-
prizable estimations; the one is but frail, and the

 

other casual; a cunning thief, or a that way accom-
plished courtier, would hazard the winning both of
first and last.

Post. Your Italy contains none so accomplished a
courtier to convince the honour of my mistress ; if, in
the holding or loss of that, you term her frail. I do
nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwith-
standing I fear not my ring. 101

Phi. Let us leave here, gentlemen.

Post. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I
ns him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar
at first.-

Tach. With five timesso much conversation, I should
get ground of your fair mistress : make her go back,

even to the yielding, had I admittance, and oppor-

tunity to friend. e
Post. No, no. : 110
Tach. J dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my

estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o’ervalues
it something, but I make my wager rather against
your confidence than her reputation: and, to bar your
offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady
in the world.

Post. You are a great deal abused in too bold a per-
suasion ; and I doubt not you sustain what you’re
worthy of by your attempt.

Tach, What's that?

Post, A repulse; though your attempt, as you call
it, deserve more,—a punishment too.

Phi. Gentlemen, enough of this ; it came in too sud-
denly ; let it die as it was born, and, I pray you, be
better acquainted.

Tach. ’Would I had put my estate, and my neigh-
bour’s, on the approbation of what I have spoke.

Post. What lady would you choose to assail ? 128

Tach. Yours ; whom in constancy you think stands
so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your
ring, that, commend me to the court where your lady
is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a
second conference, and I will bring from thence that
honour of hers, which you imagine so reserved.

Post. I will wage against your gold, gold to it: my
ring I hold dear as my finger ; ’tis part of it.

Jach, You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If
you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you cannot
preserve it from tainting. But Isee, you have some
religion in you, that you fear.

Post. This is but a custom in your tongue: you bear
a graver purpose, I hope.

‘ach. Iam the master of my speeches; and would
undergo whet’s spoken, I swear.

Post. Will you?—I shall but lend my diamond till
yourreturn. Let there be covenants drawn between’s.
My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your
unworthy thinking: I dare you to thismatch. Here’s
my ae

Phi, T will have it no lay. 150

Iach, By the gods, it is one.—If I bring you no suf-
ficient testimony, that I have enjoyed the dearest
bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats
are yours; so is your diamond too: if I come off, and
leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she
your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours ;—

rovided, I have your commendation for my more

ree entertainment. 158

Post. Iembrace these conditions; let us have articles
betwixt us.—Only, thus far you shall answer: if you
make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to
understand you have prevailed, Iam no further your
enemy ; she is not worth our debate: if she remain
unseduced, (you not making it appear otherwise,) for

our ill opinion, and the assault you have made to

er chastity, you shall answer me with your sword.

Tach. Your hand: a covenant. We will have these
things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away
for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold, and
starve. I will fetch my gold, and have our two wagers
recorded. 171

Post. Agreed. [Hxeunt PostHuMus and IACHIMO.

French. Will this hold, think you?

Phi. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray, let us
follow ’em. [Exeunt,

 

 
 

ScENE VII.)

CYMBELINE.

935

 

 

 

SCENE VI.—Britain. A Room in CYMBELINE's Palace.

Enter QUEEN, Ladies, and CORNELIUS.
Queen. Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, gather
those flowers :
Make haste. Who has the note of them ?
Lady. I, madam.
Queen. Despatch.— [Exeunt Ladies.
Now, master doctor, have you brought those drugs?
Cor. Pleaseth your highness, ay: here they are,
madam ; [Presenting a small box.
But I beseech your grace, without offence,
(My conscience bids me ask,) wherefore you have

 

Queen, “ Now, master doctor, have'you brought those drugs?”

Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds,
Which are the movers of a languishing death ;
But, though slow, deadly?

Queen. I wonder, doctor, 10
Thou ask’st me such a question : have I not been
Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how
To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so,

That our great king himself doth woo me oft _ -

For my confections? Having thus far proceeded,
(Unless thou think’st me devilish,) is ’t not meet

That I did amplify my judgment in

Other conclusions? I will try the forces

Of these thy compounds on such creatures as

We count not worth the hanging (but none human),
To try the vigour of them, and apply 21
Allayments to their act; and by them gather

Their several virtues, and effects.

‘or. Your highness
Shall from this practice but make hard your heart:
Besides, the seeing these effects will be
Both noisome and infectious.

O! content thee.—

Queen.
Enter PISANIO.

[aeaee. Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him

ill I first work: he’sfor his master, |

And enemy to my son.—How now, Pisanio!—

Doctor, your service for this time is ended ; 30

Take your own way.

Cor. [ Aside. I do suspect you, madam ;

But you shall do no harm.
een. [To PISANIO.] |
‘or. basis] I do not like her.

as

Strange lingering poisons: I do know her spirit,

And will not trust one of her malice with

A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has

Will stupify and dull the sense awhile;

Which first, perchance, she ’!] prove on cats and dogs,

Then afterward up higher: but there is

No danger in what show of death it makes, 40

More than the locking up the spirits a time,

To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d

Hark thee, a word.—
She doth think she

 

With a most false effect; and I the truer,
So to be false with her.

Queen.

Until I send for thee. .
Cor. I humbly take my leave. [Hzit.
Queen. Weeps she still, say'st thou? Dost thou

think, in time

She will not quench, and let instructions enter

Where folly now possesses? Do thou work:

When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son,

I'll tell thee, on the instant, thou art then

As great as is thy master: greater; for

His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name

Is at last gasp: return he cannot, nor

Continue where he is: to shift his being

Is to exchange one misery with another ;

And every day that comes, comes to decay

A day’s workin him. What shalt thou expect,

To be depender on a thing that leans ;

Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends,

So much as but to prop him?

[The QUEEN drops the box: PISaNnio takes it up.
Thou tak'st a 60

Thou know'’st not what ; but take it for thy labour:

It is a thing I made, which hath the king

Five times redeem’d from death: I do not know

What is more cordial :—nay, I pr’ythee, take it ;

It is an earnest of a further good

That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how

The case stands with her: do 't as from thyself.

Think what a chance thou changest on ; but think

Thou hast thy mistress still ; to boot, my son,

Who shall take notice of thee. I’ll move the king 70

To any shape of thy preferment, such

As thou’lt desire ; and then myself, I chiefly,

That set thee on to this desert, am bound

To load thy merit richly. Call my women:

Think on my words. [#xit Pisanio.]—A sly and con-

stant knave,

Not to be shak’d; the agent for his master,

And the remembrancer of her, to hold

The hand-fast to her lord.—I have given him that,

Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her

Of leigers for her sweet; and which she after, 80

Except she bend her humour, shall be assur’d

To taste of too.—

Re-enter PISANIO and Ladies.

So, so ;—well done, well done.
The violets, cowslips, and the primroses,
Bear to my closet.—Fare thee well, Pisanio ;
Think on my words. [Exeunt QUEEN and Ladies.

Pis. And shall do;

But when to my good lord T pee untrue,
I'll choke myself: there’s all I 11 do for you.

No further service, doctor,

[Exit.

ScENE VII.—Another Room in the Same.

Emter IMOGEN.

Imo. A father cruel, and a step-dame false ;
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,
That hath her husband banish’d :—O, that husband!
My supreme crown of eet ! and those repeated
Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stolen,
As my two brothers, happy ! but most miserable
Is the desire that’s glorious: blessed be those,
How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort.—Who may this be? Fie!

Enter PISANIO and TACHIMO.

Pis. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome, 10
Comes from my lord with letters.
Tach. Change you, madam ?

The worthy Leonatus is in safety,

And greets your highness dearly. [Presents a letter.
mo. Thanks, good sir:

You are kindly welcome.

Jach, [Aside.] All of her that is out of door, most

rich!
If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare,

 

 
 

 

936

She is alone the Arabian bird, and I

Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend !

Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight ; 20
Rather, directly fly.

Imo. Uende| ‘“He is one of the noblest note, to
whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect
upon him accordingly, as you value your trust—

LEONATUS.”
So far I read aloud ;
But even the very middle of my heart
Is warm’d by the rest, and takes it thankfully.—
You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I
Have words to bid you; and shall find it so 30
In all that I can do.

Tach, Thanks, fairest lady.—

What! are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop.

Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt

The fiery orbs above, and the twinn’d stones

Upon the number'd beach, and can we not

Partition make with spectacles so precious

*Twixt fair and foul? at

Imo. What makes your admiration ?

Iach. It cannot be?’ the eye; for apes and monkeys,
*T wixt two such shes, would chatter this way, and 40
Contemn with mows the other: nor i’ the Judgment;
For idiots, in this case of favour, would
Be wisely definite: nor i’ the appetite ;

Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d,
Should make desire vomit emptiness,
Not so allur’d to feed.

Imo, What is the matter, trow ? ;

tach. The cloyed will,
(That satiate yet unsatisfied desire,

That tub both fill’d and running,) ravening first
The lamb, longs after for the garbage.

Imo. What, dear sir,
Thus raps you? Are you well?

Tach. Thanks, madam, well.—
ie PISANIO.] ’Beseech you, sir, 2

esire my man’s abode where I did leave him;
He’s strange and peevish.

Pis. I was going, sir,

To give him welcome. [Fait.

Imo. Continues well my lord his health, "beseech

you?

Tach. Well, madam.

Imo. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope, he is.

Tach. Exceeding pleasant ; none a stranger there
So merry and so gamesome: he is call’d 60
The Briton reveller.

Imo. When he was here,

He did incline to sadness ; and oft-times
Not knowing why.
Tach. I never saw him sad,
There is a Frenchman his companion, one
An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces
The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton
(Your lord, I mean) laughs from’s free lungs, cries, ‘‘O!
Can my sides hold, to think that man,—who knows
By history, report, or his own proof,

hat woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be,—will his free hours languish for
Assured bondage?”

Imo. Will my lord say so?

Tach. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with

laughter.
It is a recreation to be by,
And hear him mock the Frenchman: but, heavens

know, a
Some men are much to blame.
Imo. Not he, I hope. .
Zach. Not hes but yet heaven’s bounty towards him
mig
Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, ’t is much;
In you,—which I account his beyond all talents,— 80
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.
Imo, What do you pity, sir?
Tach. Two creatures, heartily.

CYMBELINE.

 

(Act I.

Imo. Am I one, sir?
You look on me. What wreck discern you in me,
Deserves your pity ?

Tach. Lamentable! What!

To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I’the dungeon by a snuff?

Imo. I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. hy do you pity me?

Iach. That others do, 90
I was about to say, enjoy your—But
It is an office of the gods to venge it,

Not mine to speak on’t,

‘mo. You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me: ’pray you,
(Since doubting things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,

The remedy then born,) discover to me
What both you spur and stop.

Tach. Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, 100
Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul
To the oath of loyalty ; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,

Fixing it only here; should I (damn’d then)
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs
That mount the Capitol ; join gripes with hands
Made hard with hourly falsehood (falsehood as
With labour); then by-peeping in an eye
Base and inlustrous as the smoky light
That’s fed with stinking tallow: it were fit, 110
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt.

My lord, I fear,

And himself. NotI,
Inclin’d to this intelligence, pronounce
The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces
That, from my mutest conscience, to my tongue,
Charms this report out.
Imo. Let me hear no more.
dach. O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my
eart
With pity, that doth make me sick. <A lady
So fair, and fasten’d to an empery,
Would make the great’st king double, to be partner’d
With tomboys, hir'd with that self exhibition
Which your own coffers yield! with diseas’d ventures,
That per with all infirmities for gold
Which rottenness can lend nature ! such boil’d stuff,
As well might poison poison! Be reveng’d:
Or she that bore you was no queen, and you
Recoil from your great stock.
Imo. Reveng’d!
How should I be reveng’d? If this be true,
(As I have such a heart, that both mine ears 130
Must not in haste abuse,) if it be true,
How should I be reveng’d?
Tach. Should he make me
Live like Diana’s priest, betwixt cold sheets,
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,
In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.
I dedicate ee to your sweet pleasure,
More noble than that runagate to your bed;
And will continue fast to your affection,
Still close, as sure,
Imo. What, ho, Pisanio !
Tach, Let me my service tender on your lips. 140
Imo, Away !—I do condemn mine ears, that have
So long attended thee.—If thou wert honourable,
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek’st, as base, as strange.
Thou wrong’st a gentleman, who is as far :
From thy report, as thou from honour; and
Solicit’st here a lady, that disdains
Thee and the devil alike.—What, ho, Pisanio !—
The king my father shall be made acquainted
Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit,
A saucy stranger, in his court, to mart
As in a Romish stew, and to expound
His beastly mind to us, he hath a court

mo.
Has forgot Britain.
Tach.

 

 
 

 

SceNnE VIL]

CYMBELINE. 937

 

He little cares for, and a daughter who

He not respects

at all.—What, ho, Pisanio !—

tach. O happy Leonatus ! I may say:

The credit, t

at thy lady hath of thee,

Deserves thy trust ; and thy most perfect goodness
Her assur’d credit.—Blessed live you long!
A lady to the worthiest sir, that ever 160

   

Imo. *‘ Away !—I do condemn mine ears, tbat Lave

oe i Uh |

So long attended thee.”

Country call’d his; and you his mistress, only

For the most wo

rthiest fit. Give me your pardon.

I have spoke this, to know if fone affiance

Were deeply rooted; and sha

1 make your lord

That which he is, new o’er: and he is one
The truest-manner’d; such a holy witch,
That he enchants societies into him ;
Half all men’s hearts are his.

You make amends.

Imo.
Iach. He sits ‘mongst men like a descended god:

He hath a kind of honour sets him off,

  
  

Tu

t
to curtail his oat:

 

|

More than a mortal spermine Be not angry,
Most mighty princess, that I have adventur’d
To try your taking of a false report ; which hath
Honour’d with confirmation your great judgment
In the election of a sir so rare,
Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him
Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you,
Unlike all others, chafless. Pray, your pardon.

Imo. All’s well, sir. Take my power i’ the court for

yours. .

Iach. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot 180

To entreat your gace but In a small request,
And yet of moment too, for it concerns
Your lord; myself, and other noble friends,

Are partners in the business.

Imo. Pray, what is’t?

Jach. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord
(The best feather of our wing), have mingled sums
To buy a present for the emperor ;

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done

In France: ’tis plate of rare device, and jewels

Of rich and exquisite form ; their values great; 190
And I am something curious, being strange,

To have them in safe stowage. May it please you

To take them in protection ?

Imo. Willingly ;

And pawn mine honour for their safety : since
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them
In my bedchamber.

Lach. They are in a trunk,
Attended by my men; I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night :

I must aboard to-morrow.

Imo. O! no, no.

Tach. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word, 200
By lengthening my return. From Gallia
I cross’d the seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your grace,

Imo. I thank you for your pains:

But not away to-morrow!

‘ach, O! Imust, madam:
Therefore, I shall beseech you, if you please
To greet your lord with writing, do’t to-night:
I have outstood my time, which is material
To the tender of our present.

Imo. . I will write.

Send your trunk to me: it shall safe be kept,

170 ‘ And truly yielded you. Youare very welcome. 210

[Exeunt.

 

 

 

ACT IT.

Cloten.

<—— AS there ever man had such
[SR NQ“SN Juck! when I kissed the

  

jack, upon an up-cast to be

hit away! I hada hundred pound on't:
and then a whoreson jackanapes must
take me up for swearing; as if I bor-
rowed mine oaths of him, and might
not spend them at ay pleasure.
1 Lord. What got
have broke his pate with your bowl. 10
2 Lord. [Aside.] If his wit had been
like him that broke it, it would have

e by that? You

n all out.

Clo. When a gentleman is disposed
o swear, it is not for any standers-by

hs: ha?

 

ScENE I.—Court before CYMBELINE'S Palace.
Enter CLOYEN and two Lords.

2 Lord. No, my lord; [aside] nor crop the ears of them.

Clo. Whoreson dog!—I give him satisfaction?
*Would he had been one of my rank!

2 Lord. [Aside.] To have smelt like a fool. 20

Clo. I am not vexed more at anything in the earth.
-—A pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble as I am.
They dare not fight with me, because of the queen
my mother. Every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of
fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that
nobody can match.

2 Lord. [Aside.] You are cock and capon too; and
you crow, cock, with your comb on.

Clo. Sayest thou ?

2 Lord. It is not fit your lordship should undertake
every companion that you give offence to. 31

Clo. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit
offence to my inferiors,

 

 
 

 

938

2 Lord. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

Clo. Why, so I say.

1 Lord. Did you hear of a stranger, that’s come to
court to-night ?

Clo. A stranger, and I not know on’t!

2 Lord. [Aside.] He’s a strange fellow himself, and
knows it not. 40

1 Lord. There’s an Italian come; and, ’tis thought,
one of Leonatus’ friends.

Clo. Leonatus! a banished rascal; and _ he’s
another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this
stranger?

1 Lord. One of your lordship's pages.

Clo. Is it fit | went to look upon him? Is there no
derogation in’t?

1 Lord. You cannot derogate, my lord.

Clo. Not easily, I think. 50

2 Lord, ([Aside.) You are a fool granted; therefore
your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

Clo. Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have
lost to-day at bowls, I’ win to-night of him. Come,

go.
2 Lord. I'll attend your lordship.—
[Ereunt CLOTEN and first Lord.
That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass! a woman, that
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess!
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st,
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d;
A mother hourly coining plots ; a wooer
More hateful than the foul expulsion is
Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act.
Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour ; keep unshak'd
That temple, thy fair mind ; that thou may’st stand,
To enjoy thy banish’d lord, and this great land! text
exit,

ScENE II.—A Bedchamber; in one part of it a Trunk.

IMOGEN reading in her bed; a Lady attending.
Imo. Who s there? my woman Helen?
Lady. Please you, madam.
Imo. What hour is it?
Lady. Almost midnight, madam.
Imo. I have read three hours then: mine cyes are
weak ;
Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed.
Take not away the taper, leave it burning;
And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock,
I pr’ythee, call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly.

‘ [Exit Lady.
To your protection I commend me, gods !
From fairies, and the tempters of the night,

Guard me, beseech ye! 10

[Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk.
Tach. The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour'd
sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus

Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d

The chastity he wounded,—Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! fresh lily,

And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss ; one kiss !—Rubies unparagon’d,

How dearly they do’t!--’T is her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o’ the taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, 20
To see the enclosed lights, now CRO DIEM.

Under these windows, white and azure, lac’d

With blue of heaven's own tinct.—But my design !

To note the chamber, I will write all down :—

Such and such pictures ;—there the window ;—such
The adornment of her bed ;—the arras, figures,

Why, such, and such ;—and the contents o’ the story.—
Ah! but some natural notes about her body,
Above ten thousand meaner movables
Would testify, to enrich mine inventory.

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,

30

CYMBELINE.

 

 

[Act IL

Thus in a chapel lying !—Come off, come off ;—
[Taking off her bracelet.

As slippery, as the Gordian knot was hard !—
’T is mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To the madding of her lord.—On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
T the bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make; this secret 40
Will force him think I have pick’d the lock, and ta’en
The treasure of her honour. No more.—To what end?
Why should I write this down, that’s riveted,
Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late
The tale of Tereus ; here the leaf’s turn’d down,
Where Philomel gave up.—I have enough :
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. 50
[Clock strikes.
One, two, three,—time, time!

[Goes into thetrunk. The scene closes.

ScENE III.—An Ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN’'s
Apartment.

Enter CLOTEN and Lords.

1 Lord. Your lordship is the most patient man in
loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace.

Clo. It would make any man cold to lose.

1 Lord. But not every man patient after the noble
temper of your lordship. You are most hot and
furious, when you win.

Clo. Winning will put any man into courage. If I
could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold
enough. It’s almost morning, is’t not?

1 Lord. Day, my lord. 10

Clo. I would this music would come. Iam advised
to give her music o’ mornings; they say, it will
penetrate. :
Enter Musicians.

Come on; tune. If you can penetrate her with your
fingering, s0; we'll try with tongue too: if none will
do, let her remain; but I’ll never give o’er. First, a
very excellent good-conceited thing ; after, a wonder-
ful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it,—and
then let her consider.
Sone.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phebus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies ;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes ;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider
your music the better: if it do not, it is a vice in her
ears, which horse-hairs, and calves’-guts, nor the voice
of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. 32
[Excunt Musicians.

20

2 Lord. Here comes the king.

Clo. I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the
reason I was up so early: he cannot choose but take
this service I have done, fatherly.

Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN.
Good morrow to your majesty, and to my gracious
mother.
Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern
daughter?
Will she not forth? 40
Clo. I have assailed her with musics, but she vouch-
safes no notice.
Cym. The exile of her minion is too new ;
She hath not yet forgot him: some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then she’s yours.

 

 
 

 

 

Scene TIL]

CYMBELINE. 939

 

Queen. You are most bound to the king,

Who lets go by no vantages that may

Prefer you to

is daughter. Frame yourself

To orderly solicits, and be friended
With aptness of the season : make denials

 

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now ;

But that’s no fault of his: we must receive him
According to the honour of his sender ; 60
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,

50 | We must extend our notice.—Our dear son,

JACHIMO STEALING THE BRACELET.

Increase your services: soseem, asif

You were inspir’d to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Clo.

Senseless? not so.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome :

The one is Caius Lucius.
Cym.

 

A worthy fellow,

When you have given good mene to your mistress.

Attend the queen and us; we shall have need

To employ you towards this Roman.— Come, our
queen. ‘ [Excunt all but CLOTEN,

Clo. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still, and dream.—By your leave, ho !—
[Knocks.

I know her women are about her. What

Tf I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold

Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes

Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up 71

 

 
 

940

CYMBELINE,

[Act TI.

 

 

Their deer to the stand o’ the stealer: and’tis gold

Which makes the true man kill’d, and saves the
thiet ;

Nay, sometine, hangs both thief and true man,

Can it not do, and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me; for
I yet not understand the case myself.

By your leave. [Knocks.
Enter a Lady.
Laan Who's there that knocks?
A gentleman.
No more?

vee
oi Oves, and a gentlewoman’s son.
Lady. That's more 80
Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,
Can justly boast of. What’ 8 your lurdship’s pleasure?
Clo. Your lady’s person: is she ready ?
Lady. Ay,
To keep her chamber.
Clo. There’s gold for you;
report.
Lady. How! my good name? or to report of you
wit t ‘shall think is good ?— The princess !— rie,

sell me your good

Enter IMOGEN.

Clo. apoE. morrow, fairest :
Imo. el morrow, sir.
pains
For purchasing but trouble: the thanks I give, 90
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.
Clo, Still, I swear, I love you.
Imo. If you but said so,’t were as deep with me:
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
Clo. This is no answer.
Imo. out that you shall not say I yield, being
silent,
I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: ‘faith,
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness. One of your great BOWIE
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
Clo. To leave you in your madness, ’t were my ee
I will not.
Imo. Fools are not mad folks.
Clo. Do you call me fool?
Imo. As Tam mad, I do:
If you'll be patient, I'l] no more be mad ;
That cures us both. Iam much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady’s manners,
ad being so verbal: and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce
By the very truth of it, | care not for you;
‘And am so near the lack of charity,
(To accuse myself,) I hate you; w. ich I had rather
You felt, than make’t my oast.
Clo. You sin against
Direatorice: which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
(One bred of alms, and foster’d with cold dishes,
With scraps o' the court,) it is no contract, none:
And though it be allow’d in meaner parties,
(Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their souls
(On whom there is no more dependency 120
But brats and beggary) in self-figur'd knot,
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o’ the crown, and must not soil
The peo note of it witha base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth,
A pantler, not so eminent.
Imo. Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if 't were made
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl’d
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
Hoy pene preferr’d so well.

sister, your sweet

You lay out too much

130

The south-fog rot him !

 

Imo. He never can meet more mischance, than

come
To be but nam’d of thee. His meanest garment,
That ever hath but een d his poe’ is dearer
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men.—How now, Pisanio!

Enter PISANIO.

Clo. His garment? Now, the devil—

Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.—

Clo. His garment?

Imo. Iam sprighted with a fool; 141
Frighted, and anger’d worse.—Go, bid my woman
Search for a jewel, that too casually
Hath left mine arm: it was thy master’s; ’shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king’s in Europe. I do think,

Isaw't this morning: confident I am,
Last night ’t was on mine arm; I kiss’d it:
I hope, it be not gone to tell my lord
ABE I kiss aught but he.
°T will not be lost. 150

Tae, I hope so: go, and search. [Exit PISANIO.

Clo. You have abus'd me :—
er meanest garment?

Ay ; Isaid so, sir.
“ie will make ’t an action, call witness to’t.
to. I will inform your father.

Your mother too:
oie et ‘my good lady, and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,

To the worst of discontent. (Exit.

Clo. I’ll be reveng’d.—

His meanest garment ?—Well. [Exit.

ScENE IV.—Rome. An Apartment in PHILARIO’S
House.

Enter PosTHUMUS and PHILARIO.

Post. Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure
To win the king, as I am bold her honour
Will remain hers.

Phi. What means do you make to him?

Post. Not any ; but abide the change of time;
Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish
That warmer days would come. In these sear'd

hopes,
I barely gratify your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.
gine Your very ee and your company,
erpaye all I can By th is, your king
ree heard of great ‘Augustus : Caius Lucius
Will do’s commission throu ughly 5 and, I think,
He'll | pret the tribute, send the arrear
Or look upon our Romans, whose remem
Js yet fresh in their grief.

Post. I do believe,
(Statist though I am none, nor like to be,)
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear
The legions, now in Gallia, sooner landed

rance

_In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings

Of any penny ae Our countrymen 20
Are men more order’d, than when Julius Cesar
Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at: their discipline

(Now mingled with their courages) will make known
To their approvers, they are people such

That mend upon the world.

Enter Iacnimo.

Phi. See! Iachimo!

Post. The swiftest harts have posted you by land,
And winds of all the corners kiss'd your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.

Phi. Welcome, sir.

Post. I hope, the briefness of your answer made 30
ae speediness of your return.

= Your lady

TeX one of the fairest that I have look'd upon.

Post. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

CYMBELINE.

941

\

 

 

Look through a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.
Tach. Here are letters for you.
Post. Their tenor good, I trust.
Tach. : ’T is very like.
Phi. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court,
When you were there?
Tach. He was expected then,
But not approach’d.
Post. All is well yet.—
Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is ’t not 40
Too dull for your good wearing ?
If I have lost it,

Iach.
I should have lost the worth of it in gold.
I'll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy
A second night of such sweet shortness, which
-Was mine in Britain ; for the ring is won.
Post. The stone’s too hard to come by.
ach. : Not a whit,
Your lady being so easy.
‘ost. Make not, sir,
Your loss your sport : I hope, you know that we
Must not continue friends.
Tach. Good sir, we must,
If you ror covenant. Had I not brought 50
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question further ; but I now
Profess myself the -winner of her honour,
age with your ring ; and not the wronger
Of her, or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.
Post. If you can make ’t apparent
That you have tasted her in bed, my hand,
And ring, is yours: if not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour, gains, or loses,
Your sword, or mine; or masterless leaves both 60
To who shall find them.
Tach. Sir, my circumstances,
Being so near the truth as I will make them,
Must first induce i to believe : whose strength
I will confirm with oath ; which, I doubt not,
You'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find
You need it not.
Post. Proceed.
Lach. First, her bedchamber,
(Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess,
Had that was well worth watching,) it was hang’d
With tapestry of silk and silver; the story
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, 70
And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for
The press of boats, or pride: a piece of work
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship, and value; which I wonder'’d
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on ’t was—
Post. This is true ;
And this you might have heard of here, by me,
Or by some other. '
Tach. More particulars
Must justify my knowledge.
- Post. : So they must,
Or do your honour injury. :
Tach. The chimney | 80
Is south the chamber; and the chimney-piece,
Chaste Dian, bathing: never saw I figures
So likely to report themselves; the cutter
Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her,
Motion and breath left out. ;
Post. This is a thing
Which you might from relation likewise reap,
Being, as it is, much spoke of.
Tack, The roof o’ the chamber
With golden cherubins is fretted : her andirons
(I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely 90
Depending on their brands. cd,
Post. This is her honour !—
Let it be granted you have seen all this (and praise
Be given to your remembrance), the description
Of what is in her chamber nothing saves
The wager you have laid.

Tach. Then, if you can,

 

Be pale : I beg but leave to air this jewel ; see !—
[Pulling out the bracelet.
And now ’tis up again: it must be married
Tout your diamond; I'll keep them.
‘ost.
Once more let me behold it. Is it that
Which I left with her?

Tach. Sir, (I thank her,) that:
She stripp’d it from her arm ; I see her yet;
Her pretty action did outsell her gift,

And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me,
And said, she priz’d it once.

Jove !—

100

Post. May be, she pluck’d it off,
To send it me.
Tach. She writes so to you, doth she?

Post. O! no, no, no; ’tis true. Here, take this too;
[Giving the ring.
It is a basilisk unto mine eye,
Kills me to look on ’t.—Let there be no honour,
Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love, ‘
Where there’s another man: the vows of women 110
Of no more bondage be to where they are made,
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing.—
O, above measure false !
Phi. Have patience, sir,
And take your ring again; ‘tis not yet won:
It may be probable she lost it ; or,
Who knows, if one of her women, being corrupted,
Hath stol’n it from her? ’
‘ost. Very true;
And so, I hope, he came by ’t.—Back my ring.—
Render to me some corporal sign about her,
More evident than this ; for this was stolen.
Tach. nu Jupiter, I had it from her arm.
Post. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears.
’T is true ;—nay, keep the ring,—’tis true, I am sure
She would not lose it: her attendants are
All sworn, and honourable :—they indue’d to steai it!
And by a stranger !—No, he hath enjoy’d her:
The cognisance of her incontinency
Is this ae pele bought the name of whore thus
early.—
There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell
Divide themselves between you!

120

Sir, be patient. 130
enough to be believ’d
well cf—

Phi.
This is not stron:
Of one persuade
‘ost. Never talk on’t;
She hath been colted by him.
Tach. If you seek
For further satisfying, under her breast
(Worthy the pressing) lies a mole, right proud
Of that most delicate lodging: by my life,
I kiss’d it, and it gave me present hunger
To feed again, though full, You do remember
This stain upon her?
ost. Ay, and it doth confirm
Another stain, as big as hell can hold,
Were there no more but it.
Jach. Will you bear more?
Post. Spare your arithmetic: never count the turns;
Once, and a million!
Tach. I'll be sworn,—
Post. No swearing.
If you will swear you have not done ’t, you lie;
And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny
Thou’st made me cuckold.
‘Tach. I will deny nothing.
Post. O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal!
I will go there, and do’t; i’ the court; before
Her father.—I ll do something—

140

- [Exit.
hi. . Quite besides

The government of patience !~You have won: 150

Let’s follow him, and pervert the present wrath

He hath against himself.
tach. With all my heart. [Ezeunt.

 

Another Room in the Same.

Enter PosTtuHumus.
Post. Is there no way for men to be, but women

ScENE V.—The Same.

 

 
 

 

942

CYMBELINE.

[Acr ITI.

 

Must be half-workers? We are all bastards ;

And that most venerable man, which I

Did call my father, was I know not where

When I was stamp’d ; some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit : yet my mother seem’d

The Dian of that time; so doth my wife

The nonpareil of this.—O, vengeance, vengeance!

Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d,

And pray’d me oft forbearance ; did it with 10
A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t

Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought her
As chaste as unsunn’d snow :—O, all the devils !—
This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,—was’t not ?—

Or less,—at first ; perchance he spoke not, but,

Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one,

Cried ‘‘O!” and mounted; found no opposition

But what he look'd for should oppose, and she

mes
fl

  

mies oe |
ee ae

oe alll
=) (ond ‘ ' of co 11
oN AL \ ' :

  
  

Should from encounter guard. Could I find out

The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion 20
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm

It is the woman’s part: be it lying, note it

The woman’s; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers ;
Lust and rank thoughts, bers, hers } Tevenges, hers;
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,

Nice longing, slanders, mutability,

All faults that may be nam’d, nay, that hell knows,
Why, hers, in part or all: but rather, all;

For even to vice

They are not constant, but are changing still 30
One vice but of a minute old, for one

Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
Detest them, curse them.—Yet ’tis greater skill

In a true hate, to pray they have their will:

The very devils cannot plague them better. [Exit.

        
      
   
 

;

    
 

iN

ACT IIT.

ScENE I.—Britain. A Room of State in CYMBELINE’s Palace.
Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and Lords, at one door; and at another, Caius Lucius and

membrance yet
Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and
tongues
Be theme and hearing ever) was in this
Britain,
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,
(Famous in Ceesar's praises, no whit less
Than in his feats deserving it,) for him,
And his succession, granted Rome a

oe bl
£3 gy Cymbeline.
ao" say, eae would Augustus Ceesar
ek . with us
\ Luc. When Julius Cesar (whose re-

  
 

y

tribute,
Yearly three thousand pounds; which
by thee lately
Is left untender’d.
Queen. And, to kill the marvel,
Shall be so ever.
Clo There be many Ceesars, 11

Ere such another Julius. Britain is
A world by itself ; and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own noses.

et That opportunity,
Which then they had to take froin’s, to resume
We have again.—Remember, sir, my liege,
The kings your ancestors, together with
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands
As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscalable, and roaring waters ; 20
With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats,
But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of con-

quest

Cesar made here ; but made not here his brag
Of ‘came, and saw, and overcame:” with shame
(The first that ever touch’d him) he was carried
From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping,
(Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack’d
As easily ’gainst our rocks: for joy whereof, +
The fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point 30
(O giglot fortune !) to master Ceesar’s sword,
Made Lud'’s town with rejoicing fires bright,
And Britons strut with courage.

 

Attendants.

Clo. Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid. Our
kingdom is stronger than it was at that time ; and, as
I said, there is no more such Cesars: other of them
may have crooked noses; but, to owe such straight
arms, none.

ey Son, let your mother end. 39

Clo. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard
as Cassibelan: I do not say, 1am one; but I have a
hand.—Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? If
Ceesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or
put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute
for light ; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.

Cym. You must know,
Till the injurious Romans did extort
This tribute from us, we were free ; Ceesar’s ambition,
(Which swell’d so much, that it did almost stretch
‘The sides o’ the world,) against all colour, here 50
Did put the yoke upon’s; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon
Ourselves to be. We do say then to Cesar,
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius, which
Ordain'd our laws; whose use the sword of Ceesar
Hath too much mangled ; whose repair and franchise
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry. ulmutius made

our laws,

Who was the first of Britain which did put
His brows within a golden crown, and call'd 60
Himself a king.

Lue, Iam sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Ceesar
(Ceesar, that hath more kings his servants, than
Thyself domestic officers) thine enemy.
Receive it from me, then :—war, and confusion,
In Ceesar’s name pronounce I 'gainst thee: look
For fury not to be resisted.—Thus defied,
I thank thee for myself.

Cym. ; Thou art welcome, Caius.
Thy Cesar knighted me ; my youth I spent
Much under him; of him I gather’d honour; 70
Which he to seek of me again, perforce,

Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for
Their liberties, are now in arms; a precedent,

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.]

Which not to read would show the Britons cold:
So Ceesar shall not find them.

Luc. Let proof speak.

Clo. Hismajesty bids you welcome. Make pastime
with us a day or two, or longer: if you seek us after-
wards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-
water girdle: if you beat us out of it, itis yours. If

ou fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the

etter for you ; and there’s an end. 82

Luc. So, sir.

Cym. I know your master’s pleasure, and he mine:
All the remain is, welcome. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—Another Room in the Same,

Enter PISANIO, reading a letter.
Pis. How! of adultery? Wherefore write you not

What monster’s her accuser ?—Leonatus !
O master! what a strange infection
Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian
(As poisonous tongued as handed) hath prevail’d
On thy too ready hearing ? Disloyal? No:
She’s punish’d for her truth ; and undergoes,
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults
As would take in some virtue.—O my master!
Thy mind to her is now as low, as were 10
Thy fortunes.—How ! that I should murder her?
Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I
Have made to thy command ?—I, her?—her blood ?
If it be so to do good service, never
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,
That I should seem to lack humanity,
So much as this fact comes to?—‘‘ Do’t. The letter
That I have sent her, by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity.”—O damn’d paper!
Black as the ink that’s on thee. Senseless bauble, 20
Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st
So virgin-like without? Lo! here she comes.
Tam.ignorant in what I am commanded.

Finter IMOGEN.

Imo. How now, Pisanio?

Pis. Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

Imo. Who? thy lord? that is my lord: Leonatus.
QO! learn’d indeed were that astronomer,
That knew the stars as I his characters;
He’d lay the future open.—You good gods,
Let what is here contain’d relish of love, 30
Of my lord’s health, of his content,—yet not,
That we two are asunder,—let that grieve him:
Some griefs are medicinable ; that is one of them,
For it doth physic love :—of his content,
All but in that !—Good wax, thy leave.—Bless’d be
You bees, that make these locks of counsel! Lovers,
And men in dangerous bonds, pray not alike:
Tenet forfeiters you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables.—Good news, gods ! 39
[ecaged “‘Justice, and your father’s wrath, should

e take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to
me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even
renew me with youreyes. Take notice, that Iam in
Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love will
out of this advise you, follow. So, he wishes you all
happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your,
increasing in love Lreonatus PosTHUMUS.”
O, for a horse with wings !—Hear’st thou, Pisanio?
He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me
How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs 50
May plod itin a week, why may notI
Glide thither in a day ?—Then, true Pisanio,
(Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st,—
O, let me bate !—but not like me ;—yet long’st,—
But in a fainter kind :—O! not like me, i
For mine’s beyond beyond) say, and speak thick,
(Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing,
To the smothering of the sense,) how far it is
To this same blessed Milford : and, by the way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as 60
To inherit such a haven: but, first of all,
How we may steal from hence ; and, for the gap

CYMBELINE.

 

943

That we shall make in time, from our hence-going
And our return, to excuse :—but first, how get hence.
Why should excuse be born or ere begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr’ythee, speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
*T wixt hour and hour?
Pis. One score ’twixt sun and sun,
Madam,’s enough for you, and too much too.
Imo. Why, one that rode to’s execution, man, __ 70
Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding
wagers,
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
That run i’ the clock’s behalf.—But this is foolery.—
Go, bid my woman feign a sickness; say
She’ll home to her father; and provide me, presently,
A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit
A franklin’s housewife.
Pris. Madam, you’re best consider.
Imo. I see before me, man ;—nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them,
That I cannot look through. Away, I pr’ythee: 80
Do asI bid thee. There’s no more to say ;
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt.

 

ScENE III.—Wales. A Pou sanens Country, with a
‘ave.

Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS,

Bel, A goodly day not to keep house, with such
Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys: this gate
Instructs you how to adore the heavens, and bows you
To a morning’s holy office: the gates of monarchs
Are arch’d so high, that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good morrow to the sun.—Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do,

Gut. Hail, heaven!

Arv, Hail, heaven!
Bel. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yon hill:
Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider,
When you above perceive me like a crow, 12

That it is place which lessens and sets off:

And you may then revolve what tales I have told you

Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:

This service is not service, so being done,

But being so allow’d: to apprehend thus,

Draws us a profit from all things we see ;

And often, to our comfort, shall we find

The sharded beetle in a safer hold 20

Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O! this life

Is nobler, than attending for a check ;

Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe;

Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk :

Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine,

Yet keeps his book uncross’d. No life to ours.

Gui. Out of your proof you speak: we, poor un-

fledg’d,

Have never winked from view o’ the nest; nor know
no

What air’s from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best ; sweeter to you, 30
That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age : but unto us it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed ;
A prison for a debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.
Arv. What should we speak of,
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing:
Weare beastly ; subtle as the fox, for prey ; 40
Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat;
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird,
And sing our bondage freely.
Bel. How you speak!
Did you but know the city’s usuries,
And felt them knowingly: the art o’ the court,

 

 

 
 

 

944

As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so a aere tye that
The fear’s as bad as falling: the toil o’ the war,

A pain that only seems to seek out danger ‘50
I’ the name or fame and honour; which dies i’ the
searc

And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph,

As record of fair act ; nay, many times,

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,

Must court’sy at the censure.—O boys! this story

The world may read in me: my body’s mark’d

With Roman swords, and my report was once

First with the best of note: Cymbeline lov’d me;

And when a soldier was the theme, my name

Was not far off: then was | as a tree, _ 60

Whose boughs did bend with fruit ; but, in one night,

A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,

And left me bare to weather.
Gut. Uncertain favour!
Bel. My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft)

But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d

Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline,

I was confederate with the Romans: so,

Follow’d my banishment; and this twenty years

This rock, and these demesnes, have been my world,

Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid 71

More pious debts to heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time.—But, up to the mountains !

This is not hunters’ language.—He that strikes

The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast ;

To him the other two shall minister ;

And we will fear no poison, which attends

In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.

[Ezeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS.

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!

These oe know little they are sons to the king; 80

Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.

They think they are mine: and, though train’d up

thus meanly

I’ the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

The roofs of palaces ; and nature prompts them,

In simple and low things, to prince it much

Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,—

The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom

The king his father call’d Guiderius,—Jove !

When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell

The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out

Into my story: say,—‘t Thus mine enemy fell;

And thus I set my foot on’s neck,”—even then

The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture

That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,

(Once Arviragus,) in as like a figure,

Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more

His own conceiving. Hark! the game is rous’d.—

O Cymbeline ! heaven, and my conscience, knows,

Thou didst unjustly banish me ; whereon

At three, and two years old, I stole these babes,

Thinking to bar thee of succession, as

Thou reft’st me of my lands. Euriphile,

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their

mother,

And every day do honour to her grave:

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d,

They take for natural father.—The game is up. [#zit.

90

ScENE IV.—Near Milford-Haven.

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN.
Imo. Thou told’st me, when we came from horse,

the place

Was near at hand.—Ne’er long’d my mother so

To sec me first, as I have now.—-Pisanio! man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,

That amalees thes stare thus? Wherefore breaks that
sigh

From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,

Would be interpreted a thing pened

Beyond self-explication : put thyself

CYMBELINE.

 

{Acr IIL

Into a haviour of Jess fear, ere wildness

Vanquish my staider senses, What’s the matter? 10

Why tender'’st thou that paper to me, with

A look untender? If it be summer news,

Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need'st

But keep that countenance still.—My husband’s hand!

That drug-damn’'d Italy hath out-craftied him,

And he’s at some hard point.—Speak, man: thy

tongue E

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.
Pis. Please you, read;

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

The most disdain’d of fortune. 20

 

**Plense you, read;
wretched man, a thing
The most disdain’d of fortune.”

Pis.
And you shall find me,

Imo. [Reads.] ‘“‘ Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played
the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie
bleeding in me. speak not out of weak surmises,
but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain
as I expect my revenge. That part, thou, Pisanio,
must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the
breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her
life ; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven:
she hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou
fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou
art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me
disloyal.” 2

Pis. What shall I need to

aper
Hath cut her throat already.—No; ‘tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters.—What cheer, madam?

Imo. False to his bed! What isit to be false? 41
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

To weep ’twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge
nature,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? that’s false to’s bed, is it?

Pis. Alas, good lady!

Imo. I false? Thy conscience witness, Iachimo:
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency ;

Thou then look’dst like a villain; now, methinks,
Thy favour’s good enough.—Some jay of Italy,

32
draw my sword? the

50

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

CYMBELINE.

945

 

 

Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion ;
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,
I must be ripp’d :—to pieces with me !—O!
Men's vows are women’s traitors. All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband! shall be thought
Put on for villainy ; not born where’t grows,
But worn, a bait for ladies.
is. Good madam, hear me.
Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Avneas,
Were in his time thought false ; and Sinon’s weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear ; took pity 5
From most true wretchedness : so thou, Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all pore men:
Goodly, and gallant, shall be talse, and perjur'd,
From thy great fail.—-Come, fellow, be thou honest:
Do thou thy master’s bidding. When thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience: look!
I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief: 70
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.
Thou may’st be valiant in a better cause,
But now thou seem’st a coward.
Pis. Hence, vile instrument!
Thou shalt not damn my hand.
Imo. Why, I must die;
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine,
That a. my weak hand. Come, here’s my
eart =
Something's afore ’t :—soft, soft ! we’ll no defence ; 80
Obedient as the scabbard.— What is here?
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,
All turn’d to heresy? Away, away,
Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers : though those that are betray’d
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.
And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up
My disobedience 'gainst the king my father, 90
And make me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself,
To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her
That now thou tir’st on, how thy memory
Will then be pang’d by me.—Pr’ythee, despatch :
The lamb entreats the butcher: where’s thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,
When I desire it too. :
Pis. O gracious lady! —
Since I receiv’d command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.
Do’t, and to bed then.

mo.
Pis. I'll wake mine eye-balls blind first.
Imo. Wherefore then
Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d
So many miles with a pretence? this place?
Mine action, and thine own? our horses’ labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court,
For my being absent ; whereunto I never
Purpose return? Why hast thou gone so far,
To be unbent, when thou hast ta’en thy stand, 110
The elected deer before thee? ache
Pis. But to win time,
To lose so bad employment; in the which
I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,

Hear me with patience.

Imo. Talk thy tongue weary; speak:
I have heard I am astrumpet; and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent, to bottom that. But speak.

100

Then, madam,

Pis.
I thought you would not back again.
tae - . Most like,
Bringing me here to kill me. :
Pi Not so, neither:

Ss
But if I were as wise as honest, then 120

 

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be,
But that my master is abus’d:
Some villain, ay, and singular in his art,
Hath done you both this cursed injury.

Imo. Some Roman courtesan ?

is. : No, on my life.

I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it; for ’t is commanded
I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court,
And that will well confirm it.

Imo. Why, good fellow,
What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am 1
Dead to my husband?

Pis. If you ’ll back to the court,—

Imo. No court, no father; nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.

Pis. If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.

Imo. i Where then?
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? TV the world’s volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in ’t;

In a great pool, aswan’s nest. Pr’ythee, think
There’s livers out of Britain.

Pis. | Iam most glad
You think of other place. The ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To-morrow : now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That which, to appear itself, must not yet be,
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty, and full of view: yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That, though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo. ; O, for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,

I would adventure.

150

Pis. Well then, here’s the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience; fear, and niceness,
(The handmaids of all women, or more truly,
Woman it pretty self,) into a waggish courage ;
Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and
As quarrellous as the weasel : nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!

Alack, no remedy !) to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan ; and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.
Imo. Nay, be brief:
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already.

Pis. First, make yourself but like one.
Forethinking this, I have already fit 170
(T is in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them: would you, in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you're happy, (which you ’l] make him know,
If that his head have ear in music,) doubtless
With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable,
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad,
You have me, rich; and I will never fail 180
ev HEe nor supplyment.

‘mo. Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away:
There’s more to be consider’d, but we ’ll even
All that good time will give us. This attempt
I’m soldier to, and will abide it with
A prince's courage. Away, I pr’ythee.

is. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,
Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the queen: 1
What’s in’tis precious; if you are sick at sea,

160

 

 
 

9416

OCYMBELINE.

[Act ITI.

 

 

Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood.—May the gods

Direct you to the best !
I thank thee. [Exeunt.

Imo. Amen.

ScENE V.—A Room in CYMBELINE'’s Palace.

Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, Lucius, Lords,
and Attendants.

Cym. Thus far; and so farewell.
Lue. Thanks, royal sir.
My emperor hath wrote ; I must from hence;
And am right sorry that Tmust report ye
My master’s enemy.
Cym. Our subjects, sir,
Will not endure his yoke ; and for ourself
To show less noren lant ‘than they, must needs
Appear unkinglik
Lue. So, sir, I desire of you
A conduct over land to Milford-Haven.—
Madam, all joy befall your grace, and you!
Cym. "My lords, you are appointed for that office ; 10
The due of honour in no point omit.
So, farewell, noble Lucius.
Lue. Your hand, my lord.
Clo. “Receive it friendly ; but from this time forth
I vee it as your enemy.
Sir, the event
Is we to name the winner. Fare you well.
Cym. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness ! !
[Ezxeunt Lucius and Lords.
Queen. He goes hence frowning ; but it honours us,
That we have given him cause.
Clo. *T is all the better:
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.
Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor
How it goes here. It fits us therefore, ripely,
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness :
The powers that he already hath in Gallia
‘Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
His bias for Britain.
Que ’T is not leet business,
But Tanck be look’d to speedily, and strongly.
Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d 30
Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’
The duty of the day. She looks us like
A thing more made of malice, than of duty :
We have noted it.—Call her before us, for
We have been too slight in sufferance.
[Exit an Attendant.
Queen. Royal sir,
Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
*T is time must do. *Beseech your majesty,
¥orbear sharp speeches to her: she’s a la y
So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes, 40
And strokes death to her.

Re-enter Attendant.

Cym. Where is she, sir? How
Gar her contempt be answer’d ?
ten. Please you, sir,
Her chambers are all lock’d; and there's no answer
That will be given to the loud’st of noise we make.
Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her,
She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close ;
Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity,
She should that duty leave unpaid to you,
Which daily she was bound to proffer: this
She wish’d me to make known, but our great court 50
Made me to blame in memory.
Her doors lock’d?

Cym.
Not! seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
Prove false ! [xit.
Queen. Son, I say, follow the king.

 

Clo. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
I have not seen these two days.
Queen. Go, look after.—[Exit CLOTEN.
Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus !—
He hath a drug of mine: I pray, his absence
Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes
Itisa hae most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? Haply, te hath seiz’d her ; 60
Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown
To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is
To death, or to dishonour ; and my end
Can make good use of either : aie’ being down,
I have the placing of the British crown.

Re-enter CLOTEN.

How now, my son?
Clo. ’T is certain, she is fled.
Go in, and cheer the king: he rages; none
Dare come about him.
Queen. [Aside.] All the better: may
This ae forestall him of the coming day! [Ezit.
Clo. [ love, and hate her, for she’s fair and royal, 70
And that she has all courtly parts, more exquisite
Than lady, ladies, woman: from every one
The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
Outsells them all.’ I love her therefore. But,
Disdaining me, and throwing favours on
The low Posthumus, slanders so her judgment,
That what’s else rare is chok’d; and, in that point,
I will conclude to hate her ; nay, indeed,
(o be reveng’d upon her: for, when fools
Shall—
Enter PISANIO.

Who is here? What! are you packing, sirrah?
Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain, 81
Where is thy lady? In a word, or else
Thou art straightway with the fiends.
Pis. O, good my lord!
Clo. Where is thy lady? or, by J upiter,
I will not ask again. Close villain,
I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
From whoége so many weights of baseness cannot
A dram of worth be drawn.
Pis. Alas, my lord!
How can she be with him? When was she miss’d? 90
He is in Rome.
Clo. Where is she, sir? Come nearer;
No further halting : satisfy me home,
What is become of her?
Pis. O, my all-worthy lord!
Clo All-worthy villain!
Hiecoter where thy mistress is, at once,
‘At the next word :—no more of wor thy lord !—
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
eS condemnation and thy death.
Then, sir,
This paper is the Histony of my knowledge

Tous! ing her flight. Le resets a letter.
Let’s see’t.—I will pursue her
ven ‘to Augustus’ throne.
Pis. (Aside. Or this, or perish. 101

She’s far enough ; and what he learns by this,
May prove his travel, not her danger.

0. Hum!
Pis. [Aside.] Il write to my lord she’s dead. O
Imogen,

Safe may’st thon wander, safe return again!

Clo, Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pis. Sir, as I think. 107

Clo. It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. —Sirrah, if
thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service,
undergo those employments, wherein I should have
cause to use thee, with a serious industry,—that is.
what villainy soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it
directly and_trul. ly. »—I would think thee an honest
man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy
relief, nor my voice for thy preferment.

Pis. Well, my good lord.

Clo. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and
constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that

 

 
 

Scene VI.J

CYMBELINE.

947

 

 

beggar Posthumus, thou canst not in the course of

gratitude but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt
thou serve me? 121
Pis. Sir, I will.
Clo. Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast
any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession ?

Pis. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit
he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

Clo, The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit
hither: let it be ae first service ; go. 128

Pis. I shall, my lord. [Ezit.

Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Haven !—I forgot to ask
him one thing; I’ll remember ’t anon.—Even there,
thou villain, Posthumus, will I kill thee.--I would
these garments were come. She said upon a time,
(the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart,) that
she held the very garment of Posthumus in more
eee than my noble and natural person, together
with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit
upon my back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in
her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will
then be a torment to her contempt. He onthe ground,
my speech of insultment ended on his dead body,—-and
when my lust hath dined, (which, as I say, to vex her,
I will execute in the clothes that she so praised,) to
the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again.
She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in
my revenge.

Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes.

Be those the garments?
Pis. eee my noble lord.
Clo. How long is’t since she went to Milford-

Haven? 150
Pis. She can scarce be there yet.

Clo. Bring this apparel to my chamber ; that is the
second thing that I have commanded thee: the third
is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design.
Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender
itself to thee.—My revenge is now at Milford: "would
I had wings to follow it.—Come, and be true. Exit.

Pis. Thou bidd’st me to my loss: for, true to thee,
Were to prove false, which I will never be
To him that is most true.—To Milford go, 160
And find not her whom thou pursu’st. Flow, flow,
You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed
Be cross’d with slowness: labour be his meed! [Hvvit.

ScENE VI.—Before the Cave of BELARIUS.
Enter IMOGEN, in boy’s clothes.

Imo. I see, a man’s life is a tedious one:
I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed: I should be sick,
But that my resolution helps me.—Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee,
Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think,
Foundations fly the wretched ; such, I mean, ,
Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told

me, .
I could not miss my way: will peor folks lie,

That have afflictions on them, knowing ’t is 10
A punishment, or trial? Yes; no wonder,

When rich ones scarce tell true: to lapse in fulness
Is sorer, than to lie for need ; and falsehood

Is worse in kings, than beggars.—My dear lord!

Thou art one o’ the false ones. Now I think on thee,
My hunger ’s gone; but even before, I was

At point to sink for food.—But what is this?

Here is a path to’t: ‘tis some savage hold: _

I were best not call; I dare not call; yet famine,

Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant. 20
Plenty, and peace, breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother.—Ho! Who’s here?

If anything that’s civil, speak ; if savage,

Take, or lend.—Ho !—No answer? then, I’ll enter.
Best draw my sword ; and if mine enemy ;
But fear the sword like me, he ’ll scarcely look on ’t.
Such a foe, good heavens! [Enters the cave.

 

Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS,

Bel. You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman,
an
Are master ofthe feast : Cadwal, and I,

Will play the cook and servant; ’tisour match: 30
The sweat of industry would dry, and die,

  

Imo. “Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy
But fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look on’t.”

Se 15 PIL LU

But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs
Will make what ’s homely, savoury: weariness
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard.—Now, peace be here,
Poor house, that keep’st thyself!
Gui. Iam throughly weary.
Arv. [am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.
Gui. There is cold meat i’ the cave: we'll browse

on that,
Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d.

Bel, (Looking into the oe Stay: come not in.
But that it eats our victuals, I should think 40
Here were a fairy.

Gui, What’s the matter, sir?

Bel. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,

An earthly paragon !—Behold divineness
No elder than a boy!

Re-enter IMOGEN.
Imo. Good masters, harm me not:
Before I enter’d here, I call'd; and thought
To have bege'd, or bought what I have took. Good
roth,

t
I have aul pousniy nor would not, though I had

oun
Gold strew'd i’ the floor. Here’s money for my meat:
I would have left it on the board, so soon 50
As I had made my meal, and parted
With prayers for the provider.

Gui. Money, youth?

Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt !
As ’tis no better reckon’d, but of those
Who worship dirty gods.

Imo. ' Isee, you're angry.
Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should
Have died, had I not made it.

Bel. Whither bound?
Imo. To Milford-Haven.
Bel. What’s your name?

 

 
 

 

 

948 CYMBELINE. [Act IIL.
Imo. Fidele, sir. [have a kinsman, who |; He isa man: I'll love him as my brother ; 7
Is bound for Italy : he embark’d at Milford; 60 | And such a welcome as I’d give to him

To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,
Tam fall'n in this offence.

Bel, Pr’ythee, fair youth,

 

After long absence, such is yours.—Most welcome!
Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends. .
Imo. ’Mongst friends !

IMOGEN IN THE CAVE.

Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds
by, this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd!
“"T is almost night: you shall have better cheer
Ere you depart; and thanks, to stay and eat it.—
Boys, bid him welcome.

Gut Were you a woman, youth,
I should woo hard, but be your groom.—In honesty,
I bid for you, as I do buy.

alr, I'll make 't my comfort,

| [Aside.] Ms brothers! ’Would it had been so, that
they

Had been my father’s sons : then had my prize
| Been less; and so more equal ballasting
To thee, Posthumus.
Bel. He wrings at some distress.
- Gui. ’Would I could free ’t !
ATV, Or 1; whate’er it be,
| What pain it cost, what danger. Gods!

 

 
 

 

 

 

ScENE VII.] CYMBELINE. 919
Bel. Hark, boys. [Whispering. ScENE VII.—Rome. A. Public Place.
Imo. Great men, 30 ¥
That had a court no bigger than this cave, Enter two Senators and Tribunes.
That did attend themselves, and had the virtue 1 Sen. This is the tenor of the emperor’s writ:
Which their own conscience seal’d them, (laying | That since the common men are now in action
by | ’Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians,
That nothing gift of differing multitudes,) And that the legions now in Gallia are
Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, | Full weak to undertake our wars against
gods! The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite
I’d change my sex to be companion with them, The gentry to this business. He creates
Since Leonatus’ false. Lucius proconsul: and to you, the tribunes,
Bel. It shall be so. For this immediate levy, he commends
Boys, we'll go dress our hunt.—Fair youth, come | His absolute commission. Long live Cesar! 10
: in: Tri. Is Lucius general of the forces?
Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp’d, 2 Sen. Ay.
We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story, 90 Tri. Remaining now in Gallia?
So far as thou wilt speak it. 1 Sen. With those legions
ut. 3 Pray, draw near. Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy
Arv. The night to the owl, and morn to the lark, less | Must be suppliant: the words of your commission
welcome. Will tie you to the numbers, and the time
Imo, Thanks, sir. Of their despatch.
Arv. I pray, draw near. [Exeunt. Tri. We will discharge our duty. [Ezxeunt.

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—The Forest, near the Cave.

&
: Cloten.

“3 AM near to the place where they
*¥ should meet, if Pisanio have
5 mapped it truly. How fit his gar-

ments serve me! Why should his mis-
tress, who was made by him that made
the tailor, not be fit too? the rather
(saving reverence of the word) for ’tis
said, a woman’s fitness comes by fits.
Therein I must play the workman. I
dare speak it to myself, (for it is not
vain-glory for a man and his glass to
confer in his own chamber,) I mean, the
lines of my body are as well drawn as his ;
no less young, more strong, not beneath him in for-
tunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above
him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and
more remarkable in single oppositions: yet this im-
perseverant thing loves him in my despite. What
mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is
growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be
off, thy mistress enforced, thy garments cut to pieces
before thy face; and all this done, spurn her home to
her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my
so rough usage, but my mother, having pe of his
testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My
horse is tied up safe : out, sword, and to a sore purpose !
Fortune, put them into my hand! This is the very
description of their meeting-place; and the fellow
dares not deceive me. [Ezit.

     
 

 

ScENE II.— Before the Cave.

Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS,
ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN.
Bel. [To IMoGEN.] You are not well: remain here in
the cave;
We'll come to you after hunting.
Arv. [To IMOGEN.]
Are we not brothers?

Brother, stay here:

 

Enter CLOTEN.

Imo. So man and man should be;
But clay and clay differs in dignity,
Whose dust is both alike. Iam very sick.

 

Clo. “‘ This is the very description of their meeting-place.”

Gui. Go you to hunting; I'll abide with him.

Imo. So sick I am not,—yet I am not well;
But not so citizen a wanton, as
To seem to die, ere sick. So please you, leave me;
Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom 10
Is breach of all. Iam ill; but your being by me
Cannot amend me: society is no comfort

 

 
 

950

CYMBELINE.

[Act Iv.

 

 

To one not sociable. Iam not very sick,

Since I can reason of it: pray you, trust me here ;

I'll rob none but myself ; and let me die,

Stealing so poorly.

Gui. T love thee; I have spoke it;

How much the quantity, the weight as much,

As I do love my father.

Bel. What! how? how?
Arv. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me

In my good brother's fault: I know not why 20

I love this youth ; and I have heard you say,

Love's reason's without reason: the bier at door,

And a demand who is ’t shall die, I’d say,

Me father, not this youth.

Aside.) O noble strain!

O worthiness 1, nature! breed of greatness!

Cowards father cowards, and base things sire base:

Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.

I’m not their father ; yet who this should be,

Doth miracle itself, lov’d before me.—

*T is the ninth hour o’ the morn.
Arv. Brother, farewell. 30
dines I wish ye sport.

You health.—So please you, sir.
oe [Aside.] These are kind creatures. Gods, what
lies I have heard!

Our courtiers say, all’s savage but at court:

Experience, O! thou disprov’st report.

The imperious seas breed monsters ; for the dish,

Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish.

Tam sick still; heart-sick.—Pisanio,

I’ll now taste of thy drug. [Swallows some.
Gut. I could not stir him:

He said, he was gentle, but unfortunate;

Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. 40
Arv. Thus did he answer me; yet said, hereafter

I might know more.

Be To the field, to the field !—
We'll leave you for this time ; go in; and rest.

aArv. We’ll not be long away.
Pray, be not sick,

Well, or ill,

Bel.
For you must be our housewife.

mo.
Iam bound to you.
Bel. And shalt be ever. eae IMOGEN.
This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had
Good ancestors.
Arv. How angel-like he sings!
Gui. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots
In characters ;

And sauc’d our broths, as Juno had been sick, 50
And he her dieter.
Arv. Nobly he yokes

A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh

Was that it was, for not being such a smile;

The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly

From so divine a temple, to commix

With winds that sailors rail at.
Gui. I do note,

That grief and patience, rooted in him both,

Mingle their spurs together.
Ary. Grow, patience!

And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine

His perishing root with the i increasing vine! 60
Bel, It ble ee morning. Come away !—Who's

ere

Enter CLOTEN.

Clo. I cannot find those runagates: that villain
Hath mock’d me.—I am faint.
Bel. Those runagates !
Means he not us? I partly know him; ’tis
Cloten, the son 0’ the queen. I fear some ambush.
I saw him not these many years, and yet
I know 't is he.—We are held as outlaws :—hence !
Gui, He is but one. You and my brother scarch
What companies are near; pray you, away ;
Let me alone with him.
[Excunt BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS.
Clo. Soft! What are you 70
That fly me thus? some villain mountainecrs ?
I have heard of such.—What slave art thou?

 

Gui. A thing
More slavish did I ne’er than answering
A slave without a knock.

Clo. Thou art a robber,
A law-breaker, a villain, Yield thee, thief.

Gui. To who? tothee? What art thou? Have not I
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?
ae ee I grant, are bigger; for I wear not
ahr de seer in my mouth. Say, what thou art,

a I should yield to thee?

Thou villain base, 80
Know! st me not by my clothes?
o, nor thy tailor, rascal,

Who i is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.

Clo. Thou precious varlet,
ai tailor made them not.

Hence then, and thank

The ia that gave them thee. Thou art some fool;
I am loath to beat thee.

Clo. Thou injurious thief,
nee, but my name, and tremble.

Gu What’s thy name?

Clo. Cloten, thou villain.

Gui. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,
I cannot tremble at it: were it toad, or adder, spider,
*T would move me sooner.

Clo. To thy further fear, 91
Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know
I’m son to the queen.

Gui. Iam sorry for’t ; not seeming
So worthy as thy birth.

Clo. Art not afeard?

Gui. Those that I rever ence, those I fear, the wise:
At fools I laugh, not fear them.

Clo. Die the death.

When I have slain thee with my proper hand,

I'll follow those thut even now fled hence,

And on the gates of Lud’s town set your heads.
Yield, rustic mountaineer. [Exeunt, fighting.

Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS.

Bel. No companies abroad? 101
Arv. Bone in the world, You did mistake him,

Bel. I cane tell: long is it since I saw him,
But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour
Which then he wore: the snatches in his voice,
And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute,
’T was very Cloten.
Arv In this place we left them:
Iw ah my brother make good time with him,
You say he is so fell.
Bel. Being scarce made up,
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension 110
Of roaring terrors ; tor the ettect of judgment
Ts oft the cause of fear. But see, thy brother.

Re-enter GUIDERIUS, with CLOTEN’s head.

Gui. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse,
There was no money in’t. Not Hercules
Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none;
Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne
My head, as I do his.

Bel. What hast thou done?

Gui. Iam perfect, what: cut off one Cloten’s head,
Son to the queen, after his own report;
Who call’d me traitor, mountaincer ; and swore, 120
With his own single hand he'd take us in,
Displace oS een where (thank the gods !) they

And set (Hem on Lud’s town.
Bel. We are all undone.
Gui. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose,
But, that he swore to take, our lives? The law
Protects not us: then, w hy should we be tender,
To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us ;
Play judge, and executioner, all himself,
For we do fear the law? What company
Discover you abroad?
Bel. No single soul 130
Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

CYMBELINE. 951

 

 

He must have some attendants.
Was nothing but mutation; ay, and that

From one bad thing to worse; not frenzy, not
Absolute madness, could so far have rav’d,

To bring him here alone. foun, perhaps,

It. mney be heard at court, that such as we

Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time

May make some stronger head: the which he hearing,
(As it is like him,) might break out, and swear 140
He’d fetch us in; yet is ’t not probable

To come alone, either he so undertaking,

Or they so sutfering: then on cand ground we

fear,
If we do fear this body hath a tail
More perilous than the head.
Arv. Let ordinance
Come as the gods foresay it: howsoe’er,
my, brother hath done well.
el. . Thad no mind
To hunt this day: the boy Fidele’s sickness
Did make my way long forth.
Gui. : With his own sword,
Which he did wave against my throat, I have
ta’en 150
His head from him: I'll throw 't into the creek
Behind our rock; and let it to the sea,
And tell the fishes, he’s the queen's son, Cloten:
That’s all I reck. [Exit.
Bel, I fear, ’t will be reveng’d.
’Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done’t; though
valour
Becomes thee well enough.
Arv. *Would I had done’t,
So the revenge alone pursu’d me!—Polydore,
I love thee brotherly, but envy much
Thou hast robb’d me of this deed: I would, revenges,
That possible strength might meet, would seek us
through, 160
And put us to our answer.
Well, ’tis done.

Bel.
We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger
Where there’s no profit. I pr’ythee, to our rock:
You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
To dinner presently.
Poor sick Fidele!

Arv.
Ill willingly to him: to gan his colour,
I’d let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praise myself for charity. [Exit.
Bel. O thou goddess,
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st 170
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. Tis wonder,
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught,
Civility not seen from other, valour
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if ithad been sow’d! Yet still it’s strange,
What Cloten's being here to us portends,
Or what his death will bring us.

Re-enter GUIDERIUS.
Gui. Where’s my brother?
I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream,
In embassy to his mother : his body's hostage .
For his return. [Solemn music.
Bel. My ingenious instrument !
Hark, Polydore, it sounds; but what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!
Gui. Is he at home?
Bel. He went hence even now.
Gui. What does he mean? since death of my dear’st
mother : 190
It did not speak before. All solemn things
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys,
Is Cadwal mad?

180

 

Though his humour . Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, bearing IMOGEN as dead in his

arms.

Bel. Look ! here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms,
Of what we blame him for.

Arv. The bird is dead,

That we have made so much on. I had rather
Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turn’d my leaping-time into a crutch,
Than have seen this.

200

   

Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.”

 

Gui. O sweetest, fairest lily !
My brother wears thee not the one half so well,
As when thou grew’st thyself.

Bel. O melancholy!
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom ? find
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare
Might easiliest harbour in?—Thou blessed thing!
Jove knpiwe von man thou might’st have made;

ut I,

Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy.—
How found you him?

Arv. Stark, as you see:
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, 210
Not as death's dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek
Reposing on a cushion.

Gui. Where?

Arv. O’ the floor ;
His arms thus leagu’d: I thought he slept, and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness

Answer’d my steps too loud.
i Why, he aye sleeps;

Gui.
If he be gone, he’ll make his grave a bed:
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.

Arv. With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lack 220
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would,
With charitable bill, (O bill, sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument !) bring thee all this ;

 
 

952

CYMBELINE.

[Act IV.

 

 

Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse.

Gui. Pr’ythee, have done;
And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is so serious. Let us bury him,

And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.—To the grave. y

Av. Say, where shall’s lay him?

Gut. By good Euriphile, our mother.

A

230

Ary. Be’t so:

And let us, Polydore, though now our voices

Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the
ground,

As once our mother ; use like note, and words,

Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Gui. Cadwal,

I cannot sing : I’ll weep, and word it with thee ;
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse 241
‘Than priests and fanes that lie.

Arv. We'll speak it then.

Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less; for

Cloten
Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys;
And, though he came our enemy, remember,
He was paid for that: though mean and mighty,
rotting
Together, have one dust, yet reverence
(That angel of the world) doth make distinction
Of place ‘tween high and low. Our foe was
princely,
And tener you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince.

Gut. Pray you, fetch him hither.
Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax, 252
When neither are alive.

re. If you'll go fetch him,
We'll say our song the whilst.—Brother, begin.
Exit BELARIUS.

ead to the east;

Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his
My father hath a reason for’t.
Arv. ’T is true.
Gut. Come on then, and remove him,
Are, So.—Begin.
SonG.
Fear no more the heat 0’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages ;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and tawen thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
als chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Gui.
260

Arv. Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ;
Care no more to clothe, and cat ;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
-1ll follow this, and come to dust.

Gui.
Arr.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-tone ;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash ;
Arv. Thou hast finish’'d joy and moan:
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

270

Gui. No exorciser harm thee!

alrv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Gut. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

alrv, Nothing ill come near thee!

Both. Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!

Re-enter BELARIUS, with the body of CLOTEN.
Gui. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him

280

down.
Bel. Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight,

more :

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night,
Are strewings fitt’st for graves.—Upon their faces.—
You were as flowers, now wither’d; even so

These herblets shall, which we upon you strew.—
Come on, away ; apart upon our knees.

 

The ground, that gave them first, has them again:
Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain. 290
[Exeunt BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.
Imo. [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven ; which
is the way ?—
I thank you.—By yond bush ?—Pray, how far thither?
’?Ods pittikins !—can it be six miles yet ?—
Ihave gone all night.—’Faith, I'll lie down and sleep.
But, soft ! no bedfellow.—O gods and goddesses !
[Seeing the body of CLOTEN.

   

 

O, my Jord, my lord!

   

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;
This bloody man, the care on ’t.—I hope, I dream ;
For so I thought I was a cave-keeper,

And cook to honest creatures ; but ’tis not so:

’T was but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, 300
Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes
Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good

faith,
I tremble still with fear: but if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren’'s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it!
The dream’s here still: even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt.
A headless man !—The garment of Posthumus!
I know the shape of his leg; this is his hand ;
His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh ; 310
The brawns of Hercules: but his Jovial face—
Murder in heaven * How ?—’T is gone.—Pisanio,
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,
Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten,
Hast here cut off my lord.—To write and read
Be henceforth treacherous !—Damn’d Pisanio
Hath with his forged letters,—damn’d Pisanio—
From this most bravest vessel of the world
Struck the main-top !—O Posthumus! alas, 320
Where is thy head? where’s that? Ah me! where's

hat?

Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart,

And left this head on.—How should this be? Pisanio?

*T is he, and Cloten : malice and lucre in them

Have laid this woe here. O! ’tis pregnant, pregnant.

The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious

And cordial to me, have I not found it

Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home:

This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten’s : O !—

Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,

That we the horrider may seem to those

Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord !
[Falls on the body.

Enter Lucius, a Captain and other Officers,
and a Soothsayer.

Cap. To them the legions garrison’d in Gallia,
After your will, have cross’d the sea; attending
You here at Milford-Haven, with your ships:
They are in readiness.

330

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

CYMBELINE. 953

 

Lue. But what from Rome?
Cap. The senate hath stirr’d up the confiners,
And gentlemen of Italy : most willing spirits,
That promise noble service, and they come
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,
Sienna’s brother.
Lue. : When expect you them?
Cap, With the next benefit o’ the wind.
Luc. This forwardness
Makes our hopes fair.
munbers
Be muster’d; bid the captains looks to’t.—Now, sir,
What have you dream’d of late of this war's purpose?
Sooth. Last night the very gods show’d me a vision,
(I fast, and pray’d, for their intelligence,) thus :—
Isaw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d
From the spungy south to this part of the west,
There vanish'd in the sunbeams: which portends 350
Unless my sins abuse my divination)
uccess to the Roman host.
Lue. Dream often so,
And never false.—Soft, ho! what trunk is here,
Without his top? The ruin speaks, that sometime
It was a worthy building.—How! a page !—
Or dead, or seeping on him? But dead, rather;
For nature doth abhor to make his bed
With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.—
Let ’s see the boy’s face.

340

Command, our present

Cap. He's alive, my lord.
Luc. He’ll then instruct us of this body.—Young
one, 360
Inform us of thy fortunes ; for, it seems
They crave to be demanded. Who is this,
Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he,
That, otherwise than noble nature did,
Hath alter’d that ae picture? What’s thy interest
In this sad wrack? How came it?) Who is it?
What art thou?

Imo. Iam nothing: or if not,
Nothing to be were better. This was my master,
A very valiant Briton and a good,

That here by mountaineers lies slain.—-Alas!
There is no more such masters : I may wander
From east to occident, cry out for service,

Try many, all good, serve truly, never

Find such another master.

Lue. ’Lack, good youth!
Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining, than
‘Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.

Imo. Richard du Champ. [Ldside.] If I do lie, and

do
No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope
They'll pardon it.—Say you, sir?

Luc. Thy name?

Imo. Fidele, sir.

Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very same.
Thy name well fits thy faith ; thy faith thy name.
Wilt take thy chance with me?_ I will not say,
Thou shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure,

No less belov’d. The Roman emperor's letters,
Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner,
Than thine own worth, prefer thee. Go with me.

Imo. Vl follow, sir. But first, an’t please the

390

370

380

gods,
I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep
As these poor pickaxes can dig: and when F
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his

grave,

And on it said a century of prayers, :
Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep, and sigh;
And, leaving so his service, follow you,
So please you entertain me.

Lue. Ay, good youth ;
And rather father thee, than master thee.—
My friends, ‘
The boy hath taught us manly duties: let us
Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can,
And make him with our pikes and partisans
A grave : come, arm him.—Boy, he is preferr’d
By thee to us, and he shall be interr’d, |
As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes:
Some falls are means the happier to arise. [Hxeunt.

400

 

 

 

ScENE ITI.—A Room in CYMBELINE’s Palace.

Enter CYMBELINE, Lords, PISANIO, and Attendants.

Cym, Again; and bring me word how ‘tis with her.
[Hait an Attendant.

A fever with the absence of her son;

A madness, of which her life’s in danger.—Heavens,

How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen,

The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen

Upon a desperate bed, and in a time

When fearful wars point at me; her son gone,

So needful for this present: it strikes me, past

The hope of comfort.—But for thee, fellow,

Who needs must know of her departure, and 10

Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee

By a sharp torture.
Pis. Sir, my life is yours,

I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress,

I nothing know where she remains, why gone,

Nor when she purposes return. ‘Beseech your
highness,
Hold me your loyal servant.
1 Lord. Good my liege,

The day that she was missing he was here:

I dare be bound he’s true, and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,
There wants no diligence in seeking him,

And will, no doubt, be found.

Cym. The time is troublesome.
[To Pisan1o.] We'll slip you for a season; but our
jealousy
Does yet depend.
1 Lord. So please your majesty,

The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast, with a supply
Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.

Cym. Now for the counsel of my son and queen!
Iam amaz’d with matter.

1 Lord. Good my liege,

Your preparation can affront no less

Than what you hear of : come more, for more you’re
ready. 30

The want is, but to put those powers in motion,

That long to move.

Cym. I thank you.
And meet the time, as it seeks us.
What can from Italy annoy us, but
We grieve at chances here.— Away !

[Zxcunt all but PIsANnio.

Pis. J heard no letter from my master, since
I wrote him Imogen was slain: ’tis strange:

Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise

To yield me often tidings; neither know I

What is betid to Cloten; but remain 40

Perplex’d in all: the heavens still must work.

Wherein I am false, lam honest ; not true, to be true.

These present wars shall find I love my country,

Even to the note o’ the king, or I'll fall in them.

All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d ;

Fortune brings in some boats, that are not ies
rit,

Let’s withdraw,
We fear not

 

ScENE IV.—Before the Cave.

Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.
Gui. The noise is round about us.
Bel. Let us from it.
Arv. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it
From action and adventure?
Gui. Nay, what hope
Have we in hiding us? this way, the Romans
Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us
For barbarous and unnatural revolts
During their use, and slay us after.
Bel. Sons,
We ll higher to the mountains; there secure us.
To the king's party there’s no going : newness
Of Cloten’s death (we being not known, not muster’d
Among the bands) may drive us to a render ll
Where we have liv’d ; and so extort from’s that
Which we have done, whose answer would be death
Drawn on with torture.

 

 
 

 

954

CYMBELINE.

{Acr V.

 

Gui. This is, sir, a doubt,

In such a time nothing becoming you,
Nor satisfying us. | :

Are. It is not likely, :

That when they hear the Roman horses neigh,
Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes
And ears so cloy'd importantly as now,

That they will waste their time upon our note, 20
Tu know from whence we are.

Bel. O, [am known
Of many in the army: many years, ‘
Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him
From my remembrance. And, besides, the king
Hath not deserv’d my service, nor your loves,

Who find in my exile the want of breeding,
The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless
To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d,
But to be still hot summer's tanlings, and
The shrinking slaves of winter.

Gut. Than be so, 30
Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army:
Land my brother are not known; yourself,
So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown,
Cannot be question’d.

 

Arr, By this sun that shines,
I'll thither : what thing is it, that I never
Did see man die? scarce ever look’d on blood,
But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison ?
Never bestrid a horse, save one that ha
A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel,
Nor iron, on his heel? I am asham’d 40
To look upon the holy sun, to have
The benefit of his bless’d beams, remaining
So long a poor unknown.

Gui. | By heavens, I'll go.
If fe will bless me, sir, and give me leave,
I'll take the better care; but if you will not,
The hazard therefore due fall on me by
The hands of Romans,

rv. So say I. Amen.

Bel. No reason I, since of your lives you set
So slight a valuation, should reserve
My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys.
If in your country wars you chance to die, 51
That is my bed too, lads, and there I’ll lie:
Lead, lead.—[Aside.] The time seems long; their

blood thinks scorn,

Till it fly out, and show them princes born. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—A Field between the British and Roman Camps.
Enter PostHuUMUS, with a bloody handkerchief.

= Posthumus.
HA, bloody cloth I'll keep thee; for I
s

wi

Thou shouldst be colour’d thus, You
married ones,

If each of you should take this course,
how many

Must murder wives much better than
themselves,

For wrying but a little !—O Pisanio!

Every good servant does not all com-
mands:

No bond, but to do just ones.—Gods! if you

Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I

never

 
   
 

Had liv’d to put on this : so had you saved
ia -The noble Imogen to repent, and struck 10
iS Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance.

But, alack!
You enaich some hence for little faults ; that’s
ove,
To have them fall no more: you some permit
To second ills with ills, each elder worse,
And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift.
But Imogen is your own: do your best wills,
And make me bless’d to obey !—I am brought hither
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom: ’t is enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress.
I’ give no wound to thee. Therefore,
heavens,

Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself
As docs a Briton oo : so [I'll fight
Against the part 1 come with ; so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen! even for whom my life
Is, every breath, a death ; and thus, unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril

Peace! 20
good

 

Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o’ the Leonati in me!
To shame the guise 0’ the world, I will begin
The fashion, less without, and more within. (Exit.

ScENE II.—The Same.

Enter, at one side, Lucius, IACHIMO, and the Roman
Army: at the other side, the British Army;
LeonatTus Postuumus following, like a poor
soldier. They march over and go out. <Alarwms.
Then enter at in skirmish, IACHIMO and
PostHuMUS: he vanquisheth and disarmeth
Tacuimo, and then leaves him.

Tach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom
Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady,
The princess of this country, and the air on’t
Revengingly enfeebles me. Or could this carl,
A very drudge of nature's, have subdu’d me
In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.
If that thy gentry, Britain, go before
This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds
Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods. [Evit.
The battle continues; the Britons fly ; CYMBELINE /s
taken: then enter, to his rescue, BELARIUS, GUIDE-
RIus, and ARVIRAGUS.

Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the
round, li

The Jane is guarded: nothing routs us, but

The villainy of our fears.
Gui., Arv. Stand, stand, and fight!

 
 

 

Scene IV.)

CYMBELINE.

 

Re-enter PosTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they
rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt. Uhen re-enter
Lucius, [acuimo, and IMocGEN.

Tuc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself ;

For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such

As war were hood-wink’d.

Tach. | °T is their fresh supplies.
Luc, It is a day turn’d strangely : or betimes
Let ’s re-enforce, or fly. [Exeunt.

ScENE ITI.— Another Part of the Field.

Enter PostHUMUS and w British Lord.
Lord. Caim’st thou from where they made the stand?

Post. I did ;
Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
Lord. did.

Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought. The king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a strait lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do ’t, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling 10
Merely through fear ; that the strait pass was damm’d
With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen’d shame.
Lord. Where was this lane?
Post. tes by the battle, ditch’d, and wall'd with

url 5
Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,—
An honest one, I warrant; who deserv’d
So long a breeding, as his white beard came to,
In doing this for’s country ;—athwart the lane,
He, with two striplings, (lads more like to run
The country base, than to commit such slaughter; 20
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas’d, or shame,)
Made good the passage ; cried to those that fled,
“‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men:
To darkness fleet, souls that fly backwards. Stand!
Or we are Romans, and will al you that
Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save,
But to lok back in frown: stand, stand !”--These
three,
Three thousand confident, in act as many,
(For three performers are the file, when all 30
The rest do nothing,) with this word, ‘Stand, stand!”
Accommodated by the place, more charming
With their own nobleness (which could have turn’d
A distaff to a lance), gilded pale looks,
Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some, turn’d
coward
But by example, (O, a sin in war,
Damn’d in the first beginners!) ’gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o’ the hunters. Then began
A stop i’ the chaser, a retire ; anon, 40
A rout, confusion thick : forthwith they fly,
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,
The strides they victors made. And now our cowards
(Like fragments in hard voyages) became
The life o’ the need: having found the back-door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!
Some slain before; some dying; some, their fric.:ds,
O’erborne i’ the former wave: ten, chas’d by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:

Those that would die or ere resist, are grown 50
The mortal bugs o’ the field.
Lord. This was strange chance:

A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys!

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear, :
Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon ’t,
And vent it fora mockery? Here is one:
“Two boys, an old man twice a boy,alane, |
Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.

rd. Nay, be not angry, sir.
Post me sa *Lack ! to what end?

 

Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend ; 60
For if he’ll do, as he is made to do,
I know, he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.

Lord. Farewell; you’re angry. [Evit.

Post. Still going ?_This is a lord. O noble misery!
To be i’ the field, and ask, what news, of me!
To-day, how many would have given their honours
To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do ’t,
And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,
Could not find death, where I did hear him groan;
Nor feel him where he struck : being an ugly monster,
*T is strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, 71
Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we
That draw his knives i’ the war.— Well, I will find him;
For, being now a favourer to the Briton,
No more a Briton, I have resum’d again
The part |camein. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be
Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death: 80
On either side I come to spend my breath ;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains, and Soldiers.
1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken.
’T is thought, the old man and his sons were angels.
2 Cap. ‘There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave the affront with them.
1 Cap. So ’tis reported ;
But none of ’em can be found.—Stand! who is there?
Post. A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds 90
Had answer’d him.
2 Cap. Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck’d them here.
service
As if he were of note.

Enter CYMBELINE, attended ; BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS,
ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman Captives. The
Captains present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who
ere him over to a Gaoler; after which, all go
out.

He brags his
Bring him to the king.

 

ScenE IV.—A Prison.

Enter PostHuMus and two Gaolers.
1 Gaol. You shall not now be stol’n ; you have locks
upon you:

So, graze as you find pasture.
aol. Ay, or a stomach.
[Excunt Gaolers.

Post. Most welcome, bondage, for thou art a way,

I think, to liberty. Yet am I better

Than one that’s sick o’ the gout; since he had rather

Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur’

By the sure physician, death, who is the key

To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'’d

More than my shanks and wrists: you good gods,

give me

The penitent instrument, to pick that bolt ; 10

Then, free for ever! Is’t enough, I am sorry?

So children temporal fathers do appease ;

Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent?

I cannot do it better than in gyves,

Desir'd, more than constrain’d : to satisfy,

If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take

No stricter render of me, than my all.

I know, you are more clement than vile men,

Who of their broken debtors take a third,

A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again 20

On their abatement: that’s not my desire.

For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though

*T is not so dear, yet ’tis a life ; you coin’d it:

*Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp ;

Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake:

You rather mine, being yours; and so, great powers,

If you will take this audit, take this life,
 

956

CYMBELINE.

[Act V.

 

 

And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!

I'll speak to thee in silence.

Solemn music. Entcr, as inanapparition, SICILIUS
Leonatus, father to PosrHumus, an old man,
attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an
ancient matron, his wife, and mother to POSTHU-
Mus, with music before them. Then, after other
music, follow the two young LEONATI, brothers to
PostHuMus, with wounds as they died in the wars.
They circle POSTHUMUS round, as he lies sleeping.

Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, show 30
Thy spite on mortal flies:

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,

That thy adulteries
Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
Whose face I never saw ?

I died, whilst in the womb he stay’d
Attending nature's law.

Whose father then (as men report,

Thou orphans’ father art) 40

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him
From this earth-vexing smart.

Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes;

That from me was Posthumus ript,

Came crying 'mongst his foes,
A thing of pity!

Great nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair,

That he deserv'd the praise o' the world, 50
As great Sicilius’ heir.

When once he was mature for man,

In Britain where was he,

That could stand up his parallel,
Or fruitful object be

In eye of Imogen, that best.
Could deem his dignity?

With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,
To be exil'd, and thrown

From Leonati’ seat, and cast 60
From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen ?

Why did you suffer Iachimo,
Shght thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain
With needless jealousy ;

And to become the geck and scorn
O’ the other's villainy ?

For this from stiller seats we came,

Our parents, and us twain, 70

That striking in our country's cause
Fell bravely, and were slain;

Our fealty, and Tenantius’ right,

With honour to maintain.

Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform’d :

Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,

Why hast thou thus adjourn’d

The graces for his merits due,

Being all to dolours turn'd ? 80

Thy crystal window ope; look out:

No longer exercise

Upon a valiant race thy harsh
And potent injuries.

Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.

Peep through thy marble mansion ; help!
Or we poor ghosts will cry

To the shining synod of the rest,

Against thy deity. 90

Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly.

JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting
uponan eagle: he throws athundcrbolt; the Ghosts
fall on their knees.

Jup. No more, you petty spirits of region low,

Moth.

Sici.

1 Bro.

Moth.

Sict.

2 Bro.

1 Bro.

Sici,

Moth.

Sict.

2 Bro.

 

Offend our hearing : hush !~How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
aioe batters all rebelling coasts ?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence; and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest ;
No care of yours it is, you know ; ’tis ours.
Whom best I love, I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift :
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married.—Rise, and fade !—
He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine ; 110
And so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.—
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [dscends.
Sict. He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop’d, as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our bless‘d fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas’d.
All. Thanks, Jupiter!
Sici. The marble pavement closes; he is enter’d 120
His radiant roof.—Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.
: [Lhe Ghosts vanish.
Post. [Waking.] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire,
and begot
A father to me; and thou hast created
A mother, and two brothers. But (O scorn !)
Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born:
And so Iam awake.—Poor wretches, that depend
On greatness’ favour, dream as I have done;
Wake, and find nothing.—But, alas, I swerve:
Many dream not to find, neither deserve, 130
And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance, and know not why.
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare
one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise. 137
[Reads.] ‘‘Whenas a lion’s whelp shall, to himself
unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by
a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar
shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many
years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock,
and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his
miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace
and plenty.” 4
’T is still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue, and brain not; either both, or nothing:
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which 150
I'll keep, if but for sympathy. -

Re-enter Gaoler.
Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Post. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
Gaol, Hanging is the word, sir: if you be ready for
that, you are well cooked.
Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators,
the dish pays the shot. 157
Gaol. A eer reckoning for you, sir; but the com-
fort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear
no more tavern-bills, which are often the sadness of
arting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint
or want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink,
sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you
are paid too much; purse and brain both empty: the
brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too
light, being drawn of heaviness. Of this contradiction
ou shall now be quit.—O, the charity of a penny cord!
it sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true
debitor-and-creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to

100

 

 
 

SCENE V.]

CYMBELINE.

957

 

 

come, the discharge.—Your neck, sir, is pen, book,
and counters; so the acquittance follows. 171

Post. Iam merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Gaol. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-
ache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a
hangman to help him to bed, I think, he would change
places with his officer; for, look you, sir, you know
not which way you shall go.

Post. Yes, indeed do I, fellow. 178

Gaol. Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have
not seen him so iidoine you must either be directed
by some that take upon them to know, or take upon
yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or
jump the after-inquiry on your own peril: and how
you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll
never return to tell one.

Post. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to
direct them the way Lam going, but such as wink, and
will not use them. 188

Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a man
should have the best use of eyes to see the way of
blindness! I am sure, hanging ’s the way of winking.

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. Knock off his manacles: bring your prisoner
to the king.
Post. Thou bring’st good news.
made free.
Gaol, I'll be hanged then.
Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; a

I am called to be

bolts for the dead.
[Exeunt PostHuMUS and Messenger.
Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and
beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet,
on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to
live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of
them too, that die against their wills: so should I, if I
were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one
mind good: O, there were desolation of gaolers, and
gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my
- wish hath a preferment in’t. [EZxeunt.

 

ScENE V.—CYMBELINE’s Tent.

Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVI-
RAGUS, PISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants.
Cym. enna by my side, you whom the gods have

made

Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart,

That the poor soldier, that so richly fought,

Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast

Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found:

He shall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him so.

Bel. I never saw

Such noble fury in so poor a thing;

Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought

But beggary and poor looks.

Cc No tidings of him? 10

‘ym.
Pis. ase hath been search’d among the dead and
iving,
But no trace of him.
Cym. To my grief, lam
The heir of his reward; which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,
By whom, I grant, she lives. “Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are :—report it.
Bel. Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen.
Further to boast, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.
Cym. Bow your knees.
Arise, my knights o’ the battle: I create you 20
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

FEintcr CORNELIUS and Ladies.
There ’s business in these faces.—Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o’ the court of Britain.

 

Cor. Hail, great king!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The queen is dead. .
q Who worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I consider,
By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death
Will seize the doctor too.—How ended she? 30

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she contess’d,

I will report, so please you: these her women
Can trip me, if Lerr, who with wet cheeks
Were present when she finish’d.

Cym. Pr’ythee, say.

Cor. First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only
Affected greatness got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, was wife to your placc ;
Abhorr’d your person. :

Cym. She alone knew this; 40
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor, Your daughter whom she bore in hand to love

With such integrity, she did confess,
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
‘Ta’en off by poison.

cym. O most delicate fiend !
Who is ’t can read a woman ?—Is there more?

Cor. More, sir, and worse. She did confess, she had
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took, ~~ 40
Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring
By inches waste you: in which time she purpos’d,

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O’ercome you with her show ; and in time
(When she had fitted you with her crat't) to work
Her son into the adoption of the crown:

But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-desperate ; open’d, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes ; repented

The evils she hatch’d were not effected : so, 60
Despairing, died,
cym Heard you all this, her women?

Lady. We did, so please your highness.
Cym. Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful ;
Mine ears, that heard her flattery ; nor my heart,
That thought her like her seeming; it had been
vicious,
To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may’st say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Enter Luctus, Iacnimo, the Soothsayer, and other
Roman Prisoners, guarded ; PostHuMuS behind ;
and IMOGEN.

Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute: that 70

The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss

Of many a bold one ; whose kinsmen have made suit,

That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:

So, think of your estate.

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day
Was yours by accident ; had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cool,

threaten’d

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives

May be call’d ransom, let it come: sufficeth,

A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer :

Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much

For my peculiar care. This one thing only

I will entreat : my boy, a Briton born,

Let him be ransom’d: never master had

A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,

So tender over his occasions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like. Let his virtue join

With my request, which, I’ll make bold, your high-

90

have

ness

Cannot Cre he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have serv’'d a Roman. Save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym. I have surely seen him:

 
 

958

CYMBELINE.

{Act V.

 

 

His favour is familiar to me.—Boy,

Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace,

And art mine own.—I know not why, nor wherefore,
To say, live, boy: ne'er thank thy master ; live,

And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,

Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it;

Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, 100
The noblest ta’en. .
Imo. I humbly thank your highness,

Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,
And yet I know thou wilt.
mo. No, no; alack!
There’s other work in hand.—I see a thing
bitter to me as death.—Your life, good master,
Must shuttle for itself.
Lue. The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me: brierly die their joys,
‘That place them on the truth of girls and boys.—
Why stands he so perplex’d?
Cym. What wouldst thou, boy?
I love thee more and more; think more and more 110
What's best to ask. Know’st him thou look st on?
speak ;
Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me,
Than I to your highness ; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.
Cym. Whercfore ey’st him so?
fmo. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.
cym. Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention, What’s thy name?
Imo. Fidele, sir.
Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely. 120
(CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart.
Bel. Is not this boy reviv’d from death?
Are, One sand another
Not more resembles : that sweet rosy lad,
Who died, and was Fidele.— What think you?
Gui. The same dead thing alive.
Bel. Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not:
forbear ;
Creatures may be alike: were’t he, Iam sure
He would have spoke to us.
Gui. But we saw him dead.
Bel. Be silent ; let’s see further.
Pis. [Aside.] It is my mistress!
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good, or bad.
(CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward.
Cym. Come, stand thou by our side: 130
Make ty demene aloud.—[To IACHIMO.] Sir, step you
orth ;
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely ;
Or, by our greatness, and the grace of it,
Which is our honour, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood.—On, speak to him.
Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.
Post. [Aside.} What’s that to him?
Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say,
How came it yours?
ach. Thou ‘It torture me to leave unspoken that 140
Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.
Cym. How! me?
Iach. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that
Which torments me to conceal. By villainy
I got this ring : *t was Leonatus’ jewel ;
Whom thou didst banish; and (which more may
grieve thee,
As it doth me) a nobler sir ne'er liv’d
’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my

lord ?

Cym. All that belongs to this.

Tach. That paragon, thy daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember,—Give me leave; J faint. 150

Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy

strength:
I had rather thou shonldst live while nature will,
Than dic ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.

 

Tach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour !) it was in Rome, (accurs’d
The mansion where !) 't was at a feast (O, would
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least
Those which I heav’d to head !) the good Posthumus
(What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were, and was the best of all 160
Amongst the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly,
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy
For beauty, that made barren the swell'’d boast
Of him that best could speak : for feature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva,
Postures beyond brief nature ; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities that man
Loves woman tor ; besides that hook of wiving,
lairness, which strikes the eye.

Cym. I stand on fire.
Coie to the matter.

dach. All too soon I shall, 170
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly.—This Posthumus
(Most like a noble lord in love, and one
That had a royal lover) took his hint;
And, not dispraising whom we prais’d, (therein
He was as caJm as Virtue,) he pagar
His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being

made,

And then a mind put in’t, either our brags
Were crack’d of kitchen-trulls, or his description
Prov’d us unspeaking sots.

Cym. Nay, nay, to the purpose.

Jach, Your daughter's chastity—there it begins. 180
He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams,

And she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch,

Made eeruple ot his praise; and wager’d with
im,

Pieces of gold ’gainst this, which then he wore

Upon his honour'd finger, to attain

In suit the place of ’s bed, and win this rin,

By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,

No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;

And would so, had it been a carbuncle 190

Of Pheebus’ wheel ; and might so safely, had it

Been all the worth of ’s car. Away to Britain

Post Lin this design. Well may you, sir,

Remember me at court, where [ was taught

Of your chaste daughter the wide difference

*Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’d

Ot hope, not longing, mine Italian brain

*Gan in your duller Britain operate

Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent ;

And, to be brief, nd practice so prevail'd, 200

That I return’d with simular proof, enough

‘To make the noble Leonatus mad,

e wounding his belief in her renown

With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes

Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,

(O cunning, how I got it !) nay, some marks

Of secret on her person, that he could not

But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,

I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon,—

Methinks, I see him now,—

Post. (Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost, 216
Italian fiend !—Ah me! most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, anything |
That’s due to all the villains past, in being,

To come !—O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious: it is I

That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend,
By being worse than they. Iam Posthumus,
That kill’d thy daughter :—villain-like, I lie;
That caus'd a lesser villain than myself, 220
A sacrilegious thief, to do’t :—the temple

Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.

ae and throw stones, cast mire upon me; set
The dogs o’ the street to bay me: every villain
Be call’'d Posthumus Leonatus; and

Be villainy less than ’t was! O Imogen!

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

imo, Peace, my lord! hear, hear!

 

 
 

 

ScENE V,] CYMBELINE. 959
Post. Shall’s have a play of this?) Thou scornful | I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence: pr'ythee, valiant youth, 290

page,

There lie thy part. [Striking her: she falls.

Pis. O gentlemen! help 230
Mine, and your mistress.—O, my Lord Posthumus!
You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now.—Help, help !—
Mine honour'd lady !

Cym, Does the world go round?

Post. How come these staggers on me?

Pis. ’ Wake, my mistress!

Cym. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.

Pis. How fares my mistress?

Imo. O! get thee from my sight;
Thou gav’st me poison : dangerous fellow, hence!
Breathe not where princes are.

Cym. The tune of Imogen!

Pis, Lady, 240
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
That box I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing: I had it from the queen.

"ym. New matter still?

Imo. It poison’d me.

Cor. 7 O gods!
I left out one thing which the queen confess’d,
Which must approve thee honest: ‘If Pisanio
Have,” said she, ‘‘ given his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for a cordial, she is serv’d

As I would serve a rat.” .
Ccym. What’s this, Cornelius ?
Cor. The queen, sir, very oft importun’d me
To temper poisons for her; still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge, only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs
Of no esteem : I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta’en, would cease
The present power of life; but, in short time,
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions.—Have you ta’en of it?
Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead.
My boys, 260

250

Bel.

There was our error.
Gui. This is, sure, Fidele.
Imo, Why did you throw your wedded lady from

you
Think that you are upon a rock ; and now
Throw me again. . Embracing him.
Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die! ;
Cym. How now, my flesh, my child!
What! mak’st thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me? .
Imo. [Kneeling.] Your blessing, sir.
Bel. [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS.] Though
you did love this youth, I blame ye not;
You had a motive for’t.
Cym. My tears, that fall,
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, 270

Thy mother’s dead.
‘mo. I am sorry for’t, my lord.
Cym. O! she was naught; and long of her it was,
That we meet here so strangely : but her son
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.

ts. My lord,

Now fear is from me, Ill speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me

ith his sword drawn; foam’d at the mouth, and

swore, .

If I discover’d not which way she was gone,
It was my instant death. By accident,
Thad a feigned letter of my master’s _
Then in my pocket, which directed him |
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford ;
Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments,
Which he inforced from me, away he posts,
With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady’s honour: what became of him,
I further know not.

280

Let me end the story:

Ut.
Islew him there.
Marry, the gods forfend!

Cym.

 

Deny ’t again.

Gui. T have spoke it, and I did it.

Cym. He was a prince.

Gui, A most uncivil one. The wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like ; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head;

And am right glad, he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.

Cym. I am sorry for thee:

By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must
Endure our law. Thou ’rt dead.
That headless man

Imo.

I thought had been my lord.

tym. Bind the offender, 301
And take him from our presence.

el. Stay, sir king.
This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself ; and hath
More of thee merited, than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar tor.—_|To the Guard.) Let his arms

alone ;
They were not born for bondage.
cym. Why, old soldier,
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
By tasting of our wrath? How of descent
As good as we?
Arv. In that he spake too far. 310
Cym. And thou shalt die for’t.
Bel. We will die all three:
But I will prove that two on’s are as good
As I have given out him.—My sons, I must
For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,
Though, haply, well for you.
Arv, Your danger’s ours.
Gui. And our good his.
Bel. ‘ Have at it then.—By leave ;
Thou hadst, great king, a subject, who was call'd

Belarius.
Cym. What of him? he is
A banish’d traitor.
Bel. He it is that hath
Assum’d this age: indeed, a banish’d man; 320
I know not how a traitor.
Cym. Take him hence.
The whole world shall not save him.
Bel Not too hot:

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons ;
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As Thave receiv'd it.

Cym. Nursing of my sons?

Bel. Iam too blunt, and saucy ; here’s my knee:
Ere J arise I will prefer my sons;

Then, spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen, that call me father,
And think they are my sons, are none of mine:
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,

And blood of your begetting.

Cym. How! my issue?

Bel. So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d :
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason ; that I suffer’d
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes
(For such and so they are) these twenty years
Have I train’d up; those arts they have, as I
Could put into them: my breeding was, sir, as
Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment: I mov’d her to’t;

Having receiv’d the punishment before,

For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,

The more of you ’t was felt, the more it shap’d
Unto my end of stealing them, But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must Jose

Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.—
The benediction of these covering heavens

Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.

340

350

 
 

960

CYMBELINE.

[Act V.

 

 

Cyn. Thou weep’st, and speak’st.
The service, that you three have done, is more
Unlike than this thou tell’st.. lost my children:

If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier sons. :

Bet. Be pleas’d awhile.
This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,

Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius ;
This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, 0
Your younger princely son: he, sir, was lapp’d

Ina most curious mantle, wrought by the hand

Of his queen mother, which, for more probation,

I can with ease produce.

Cym. Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star:

It was a mark of wonder.

Bel. This is he,

Who hath upon him still that natural stamp.
It was wise nature’s end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.

O! what, am I

ym,

A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother

Rejoic'd deliverance more.—Bless’d pray you be,

That, after this strange starting from your orbs,

You may reign in them now.—O Imogen!

Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

Imo. No, my lord;
Ihave got two worlds by 't.—O my gentle brothers!
Have we thus met? O! never say hereafter,

But I am truest speaker: you call'd me brother,

When I was but your sister ; I you brothers,

When ye were so indeed.
Ccym.

Arv. Ay, my good lord.

Gut.

Continued so, until we thought he died.
Cor. By the queen’s dram she swallow’d. :
Cym. O rare instinct !

When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridg-

ment

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which

Distinction should be rich in.—Where, how liv'd

you?

And when came you to serve our Roman captive?

How parted with your brothers ? how first met them?

Why fled you from the court, and whither? These,

And your three motives to the battle, with

I know not how much more, should be demanded, 390

And all the other by-dependencies,

From chance to chance; but nor the time, nor place,

Will serve our long inter’gatories. See,

Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye

On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting

Each object with a joy: the counterchange

Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,

And smoke the temple with our sacrifices,——

[fo BeLartivs.] Thou art my brother: so we'll hold

thee ever. £00

Imo. You are my father too; and did relieve me,
To see this gracious season.

Cym. All o’erjoy’d,

Save these in bonds: let them be joytul too,

For they shall taste our comfort.

370

Did you e’er meet?

And at first meeting lov’d ;
381

mo. My good master,
I will yet do you service.

Lue. Happy be you!

Cym. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well becom’'d this place, and grac’d
The thankings of a king.

Post. Iam, sir,

The soldier that did company these three

In poor besceming : 't was a fitment for

The purpose I then follow’d.—That I was he,

Speak, Iachimo: I had you down, and might
ave made you finish.

Tach. [Kneeling.] I am down again;
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, *beseech you,
Which I so often owe; but your ring first,

410

 

And here the bracelet of the truest princess,
That ever swore her faith,

Post. Kneel not to me:
The power that I have on you, is to spare you;
The malice towards you, to forgive you. Live,
And deal with others better.

Ccym. Nobly doom’d.

We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law :
Pardon ’s the word to all.

Arv. You holp us, sir,
As you did mean indeed to be our brother ;
Joy’d are we, that you are.

Post. pe servant, princes. — Good my lord of

ome,
Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought,
Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,
Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows
Of mine own kindred: when I wak’d, I found
This label on my bosom ; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection of it: let him show
His skill in the construction.

Luc.
Sooth. Here, my good lord. [Coming forward.
Lue, Read, and declare the meaning.
Sooth. [Reads.] ‘‘ Whenas a lion’s whelp shall, to
himself unknown, without seeking find, and be em-
braced by a piece of tender air; and when from a
stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being
dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the
old stock, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end
his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in
peace and plenty.” 443
Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp;
The fit and apt construction of thy name,
Being Leo-natus, doth import so much.
[To CYMBELINE.] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous
daughter,
Which we call mollis aer ; and mollis aer
We term it mulier: which mulicr, I divine,
Is this most constant wife; who, even now,
Answering the letter of the oracle,
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about
With this most tender air.

Cc

420

430°

Philarmonus!

450

‘ym. This hath some seeming.
Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
Personates thee ; and thy lopp'd branches point

Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stolen,

For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d,

To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue

Promises Britain peace and plenty.

cym. ; ‘ Well,

My peace we will begin. —And, Caius Lucius,
Although the victor, we submit to Caesar,

And to the Roman empire; promising

To pay our wonted tribute, from the which

We were dissuaded by our wicked queen ;

Whom heavens, in justice, (both on her and hers,)
Have laid most heavy hand.

Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune

The harmony of this peace. The vision,

Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke

Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant 470
Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle,

From south to west on wing soaring aloft,

Lessen’d herself, and in the beams 0’ the sun

So vanish’d: which foreshow’'d our princely eagle,
The imperial Ceesar, should again unite

His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,

Which shines here in the west.

Cym. Laud we the gods;
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace
To all our subjects. Set we forward. Let
A Roman and a British ensign wave
Friendly together; so through Lud’s town march:
And in the temple of great Jupiter
Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts, —

Set on there.—Never was a war did cease,
Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace.
Exeunt.

460

480

 

 
 

 

 

THE TEMPEST.

 

DRAMATIS PERSON.

ALONSO, King of Naples.
SEBASTIAN, his Brother.
PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan.
ANTONIO, his Brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.
FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples,
Genzate, an honest old Counsellor.
DRIAN,
FRANCISCO, } Lords.
CALIBAN, @ savage and deformed Slave.
TRINCULO, a Jester.
STEPHANO, a drunken Butler.

Master of a Ship, Boatswain, Mariners.
MiranpA, Daughter to Prospero.

ARIEL, an airy Spirit,
IRIs,
CERES,
JUNO,
Nymphs,
Reapers,

Spirits.

' Other Spirits attending on Prospero.

SCENE—The Sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island.

ACT I.
ScENE J.—On a Ship at Sea. A tempestuous noise of Thunder and Lightning heard.
Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain, severally.

   
   

Bs Master.
HOATSWAIN!
Boats. Here, master: what cheer?
Mast. Good, speak to the mariners:
fall to’t yarely, or we run ourselves
aground : bestir, bestir. [Excit.

Enter Mariners,

i Boats, Heigh, my hearts! cheerly,
cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare. Take in
the topsail; tend to the master’s whistle.
-—Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room
enough ! _ 10

Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND,
GONZALO, and others.

Alon. Good boatswain, have care.
master? Play the men.
Boats. I pray now, keep below.
Ant. Where is the master, boson ?
Boats. Do you not hear him? you mar our labour.
Keep your cabins ;_you do assist the storm.
Gon. Nay, good, be patient.
Boats. When the sea is. Hence! What care these
roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence!
trouble us not, 20
Gon. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.
Boats. None that I more love than myself. You
are a counsellor: if you can command these elements
to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will
not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you
cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make
pes ready in your cabin for the mischance of the
our, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts !—Out of our
way, I say. 4 [Bxit.
Gon. I have great comfort from this fellow: me-
thinks, he hath no drowning mark upon him; his
complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good fate,
to his hanging! make the rope of his destiny our
cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be
not born to be hanged, our case is miserable. [Exeunt.

Where’s the

 

Re-enter Boatswain.

Boats. Down with the topmast: yare : lower, lower.
Bring her to try with main-course. [4 er within.) A
plague upon this howling! they are louder than the
weather, or our office.—

Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO.
Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o’er,
and drown? Have you a mind to sink ?

Seb. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blas-
phemous, incharitable dog !

Boats. Work you, then.

Ant. Hang, cur, hang! you whoreson, insolent
noise-maker, we are less afraid to be drowned than
thou art.

Gon, I'll warrant him for drowning, though the
ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky
as an unstanched wench. 50

Boats. Lay her a-hold, a-hold!. Set her two courses:
off to sea again ; lay her off.

Enter Mariners, wet.

‘Mar. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!

. A : [Exeunt.
Boats. What, must our mouths be cold ?
Gon. The king and prince at prayers! let’s assist

them,
For our case is as theirs.
‘eb. T am out of patience.
Ant. We are merely cheated of our lives by

drunkards.—
This wide-chopp’d rascal,—’would, thou might’st lie
‘owning,
The washing of ten tides!
‘on. He ll be hang’d yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it, 60

And gape at wid’st to glut him.
[4 confused noise within.] Mercy on us!—We split,
we split!—Farewell, my wife and children !—Fare-

well, brother !—We split, we split, we split !—
Ant. Let’s all sink wi’ the king, Exit:
Seb. Let’s take leave of hii, Exit,

 

 
 

THE TEMPEST.

(Act L

 

{

| 962
|

| Gon. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea
|

for an acre of barren ground; long heath, brown
furze, anything. ‘lhe wills above be donc! but I
would fain die u dry death, 70

[EZxit.

 

Scene II.—The Island: before the Cell of PROSPERO.

Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA.
Mira. If by your art, my dearest father, you have

Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffer’d
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had no doubt some noble creatures in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O! the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow’d, and
The fraughting souls within her.
Pro. Be collected :
No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart,
There’s no harm done.
Mira.
Pro.
Ihave done nothing but in care of thee,
(Of thee, my dear one! thee, my daughter !) who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am; nor that I am more better

O, woe the day!
No harm.

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 20
And thy no greater father.
. Mira. More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.
Pro. | ’T is time
Ishould inform thee further. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me.—So:
i Lays down his mantle,
Lie there, my art.—Wipe thou thine eyes; have
comfort,
The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order’d, that there is no soul—
No, not so much perdition as an hair, 30
Betid to any creature in the vessel

 

 

Boats. “‘ What care these roarers for the name of king?"

 

Which poe heard’st cry, which thousaw’st sink. Sit

For thou must now know further.
Jira. You have often
Begun to tell me what Iam; but stopp’d,
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding, ‘‘Stay, not yet.”
Pro. The hour’s now come,
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obcy, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?
Ido not think thou canst, for then
thou wast not 40
Out three years old.
Mira. Certainly, sir, I can.
Pro. By what? by any other
house, or person ?
Of anything the image tell me,
that

a
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
Mira. Tis tar off;
And rather like a dream, than an
assurance
That my remembrance warrants,
I not
Four or five women once, that |
tended mec?
Pro. Thou hadst, and more,
Miranda. But howis it,
That this lives in thy mind?
What scest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm
of time? 50
If thou remembcr’st aught, ere
thou caim’st here,
How thou cam’st here,

may’st.
Aira.

thou

But that I do not.

Pro. Twelve year since, Mi-

randa, twelve yearsince,

Thy father ee the Duke of Milan,
an

A prince of power.
tra. Sir, are not
you my father?
Pro. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said—thou wast my daughter; and thy tather ‘
Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir
A princess ;—no worse issued.
ira. O, the heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from thence? 60
Or blessed was ’t, we did?
Pro. Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heay'd thence;
But blessedly holp hither.
i O! my heart bleeds

ra.

To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to,
Whichisfrommy remembrance. Please you, further.
Pro. My brother, and thy uncle, call'd Antonio,—

I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should
Beso perfidious !—he whom, next thyself,
Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put
The manage of my state; as, at that time, 70
Through all the signiories it was the first,
And Prospero the prime duke ; being so reputed
In dignity and, for the liberal arts,
‘Without a parallel: those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother,
And to my state grew stranger, being transported,
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle—
Dost thou attend me?

ira. Sir, most heedfully.

Pro. Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who to advance, and who 80
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d them,
Or else new torm’d them: having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state
To what tune pleas’d his ear; that now he was
The ivy, which had hid my princely trunk,

And suck’d my verdure out on’t.—Thou attend’st not.

Mira. O good sir! I do.

 

 
 

 

ScENE IL]

Pro. I pray thee, mark me.
I thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness, and the bettering of my mind
With that, which, but by being so retir'’d,
penis all popular rate, in my false brother
Awak'd an evil nature: and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood, in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had, indeed, no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact, -like one,
Who having, unto truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie,—he did believe’
He was indeed the duke; out 0’ the substitution,
And ex -cuting the outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative: hence his ambition growing,—
Dost thou hear?

ira. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

Pro. To have noscreen between this part he play’d,
And him he play’d it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties 110
He thinks me now incapable ; confederates
(So dry he was for sway) wi’ the King of Naples,
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and ben
The dukedom, yet unbow’d, (alas, poor Milan !)
To most ignoble stooping.

Mira. O the heavens!

Pro. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.

Mira, I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.

90

100

Pro. Now the condition.
This King of Naples, being an enem 121
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit ;
Which was, that he in lieu o’ the premises,

Of homage, and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine

Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours, on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight

Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open

The gates of Milan; and, i’ the dead of darkness,
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me, and thy crying self.
. Mira. Alack, for pity!
I, not rememb'ring how I cried out then,
Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint,

That wrings mine eyes to ’t.

Pro. Hear a little further,
And then I’ll bring thee to the present business
Which now ’s upon us; without the which this story

Were most impertinent.
Wherefore did they not

ira.
That hour destroy us?

"0. Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set 141
A mark so bloody on the business ; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepar’d
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d, -
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it, there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar’d to us: to sigh

130

To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 150
Did _us but loving wrong.

Mira. Alack! what trouble
Was I then to you!

Pro. O, a cherubin . ;
Thou wast, that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,

Infused with a fortitude from heaven,

When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt,
Under my burden groan’d ; which rais’d in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up

Against what should ensue.

irda. How came we ashore?

 

THE TEMPEST.

 

963

Pro. By Providence divine.
Some food we had, and sone fresh water, that
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, .
Out of his charity, (who being then appointed
Master of this design) did give us; with

160

 

Ari. “ All hail, great master; great sir, hail!”

Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much : so, of his gentleness,
Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish'd me,
From my own library, with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.

Mira. "Would I might
But ever see that man!

70. Now I arise.—

Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.
Here in this island we arriv'd; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princess’ can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.

Mira, Heavens thank you fort! And now, I pray

you, sir, .

For still ‘tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm ?

170

Pro. Know thus far forth.—
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore ; and by my prescience
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
Tf now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions.
Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’tis a good dulness,
And give it way :—I know thou canst not choose.—

MIRANDA Sleeps

Come away, servant, come! Iam ready now.
Approach, my Ariel: come!

186

Enter ARIEL.

Ari. All hail, great master; grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure ; be ’t to fly, 190
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl’d clouds : to thy strong bidding task
Ariel, and all his quality.

 
 

 

964 THE TEMPEST.

{Act I.

 

Pro. Hast thou, spirit,
Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?

Ari. To every article.
I boarded the king's ship ; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flam’d amazement: sometimes, I’d divide,
And burn in many places ; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 200
Then meet, and join. Jove’s lightnings, the pre-

cursors
O' the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not: the fire, and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble,
Yes, his dread trident shake. .
My brave spirit !

Pro.
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
Ari. Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation. All, but mariners, 210
Plung’d in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel,
Then all a-fire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring (then like reeds, not hair),
Was the first man that leap’d; cried, ‘‘ Hell isempty,
And all the devils are here.” a
Pro. Why, that’s my spirit !
But was not this nigh shore ?
rt. Close by, my master.
Pro. But are they, Ariel, safe? y
Ari. Not a hair perish’d ;
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before; and, as thou bad’st me,
In troops I have dispers'd them ’bout the isle. 220
The king’s son have I landed by himself,
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs,
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.
Pro. Of the king’s ship
The mariners, say, how thou hast dispos'd,
And all the rest 0’ the fleet ?
Art. Safely in harbour
Is the king's ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call'dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex’d Bermoothes ; there she’s hid:
The mariners all under hatches stow’d; 2
Whom, with a charm join’d to their suffer’d labour,
IT have left asleep: and for the rest o’ the fleet
Which I dispers’d, they all have met again,
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,
Bound sadly home for Naples,
Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wrack’d,
And his great person perish.
Pro. Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform’d ; but there ’s more work.
What is the time o’ the day?
Ari. Past the mid season.
- Pro. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and
now
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
Ari. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me
pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d,
Which is not yet perform’d me.
How now? moody ?

TO.
What is ’t thou canst demand?
Ari. My liberty.
Pro. Before the time be out? no more!
Art, I pr’ythee,
Remember, I have done thee worthy service ;
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, serv’d
Without or grudge, orgrumblings. Thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.
Pro. Dost thou forget 250
From what a torment I did free thee ?

rt. 0.
Pro. Thou dost; and think’st it much, to tread
the ooze
Of the salt deep,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north,
To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth,
When it is bak’d with frost.

 

Ari. r I do not, sir.

Pro, Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who, with age and envy,
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?

Art, No, sir.

Pro. Thou hast. Where was she born? speak ;

tell me. 260

Ari. Sir, in Argier.

Pro. O! was she so? I must,
Once in a month, recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forgett’st. This damn’d witch, Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier,
Thou know'st, was banish’d : for one thing she did,
They would not take her life. Is not this true?

Ari. Ay, sir.

Pro. This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with

child,
And here was left by the sailors: thou, my slave 270
As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant:
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands,
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers, G
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine ; within which rift
Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died,
And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island
(Save for the son which she did litter here,
A freckled whelp, hag-born) not honour’d with
A human shape.
Ari. Yes ; Caliban, her son.
Pro. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban,
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st
What torment I did find thee in: thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears. It was a torment
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax 290
Could not again undo: it was mine art,
When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.
Ari. I thank thee, master.
Pro. If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak,
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till
Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters.
Ari. Pardon, master :
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spriting gently.
Do so, and after two days

Pro.
I will discharge thee.
Ari That’s my noble master !

ri.
‘What shall I do? say what? what shall I do? 300
Pro. Go, make thyself like a nymph o’ the sea: be
subject
To no sight but thine and mine; invisible
To every eye-ball else. Go, take this shape,
And hither come in ’t: go, hence, with diligence.
[Eait ARIEL.
Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;
Awake!
Mira. The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
70. Shake it off. Come on:
We'll visit Caliban, my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
ira. Tis a villain, sir, 310
I do not love to look on.
TO. But, as ’tis,
We cannot miss him : he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices
That profit us.—What ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! speak.
Cal. [Within.] There’s wood enough within.
Pro. Come forth, I say, there’s other business for:

thee:
Come, thou tortoise! when!

' Re-enter ARIEL, like a water-nymph.
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,

Hark in thine ear,

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

THE TEMPEST. 965 :

 

 

Ari, 4 My lord, it shall be done.  [Exit.
Pro. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! 321

Enter CALIBAN,

Cal. As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen,
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye,
And blister you all o’er!

Pro. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have

: _ cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall forth, at vast of night, that they may work
All exercise on thee: thou shalt be pinch’d
As thick as honey-comb, each pinch more stinging 330
Than bees that made them.

Cal. . I must eat my dinner.
This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou tak’st from me. When thou camest first,
Thou strok’dst me, and mad’st much of me; wouldst

give me

Water with berries in’t; and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee,
And show'd thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile.
Cursed be I that did so!—All the charms 340
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For [ am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king ; and here yousty me,
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o’ the island.

Pro. Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us'd

thee

Filth as thou art, with human care ; and lodg’d thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.

Cal. Oho! O ho!—’would it had been done! 350
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else
This isle with Calibans.

Pro. Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other : -when thou didst not, savage, .
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes
With words that made them known; but thy vile

race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in’t which good
natures 360

Could not abide to be with: therefore wast thou
Deservedly confin’d into this rock,
Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison.

Cal. You taught me language : and my profit on’t
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language !

Pro. Hag-seed, hence !
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou 'rt best,
To answer other business. Shrugg’st thou, malice ?
If thou neglect’st, or dost unwilling]
What I command, I’]l rack thee with old cramps ; 370
Fill all thy bones with aches ; make thee roar,
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.

Cal. No, ’pray thee !—
ee I must obey : his art is of such power,

t would control my dam’s god, Setebos,

And make a vassal of him.

Pro. So, slave; hence! [Exit CALIBAN.
Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, plane and singing ;
FERDINAND following him.

ARIEL’S SONG.

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:
Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d,—

The wild waves whist,—
Foot it featly here and there ; 380
And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.

ark! hark!

 

Burden. Bowgh, wowgh.
The watch-dogs bark:
Burden. Bowgh, wowgh.
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.

Fer. we should this music be? i’ the air, or the
earth ?—
It sounds no more ;—and sure, it waits upon 390
Some god o’ the island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father’s wreck,
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury, and my passion,
With its sweet air: thence I have followd it,
Or it hath drawn me rather: but ’t is gone.—
No, it begins again. i
ARIEL sings. |
Full fathom five thy father lies ;
Of his bones are coral made ;
Those are pearls that were his eyes: 400
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly one is knell:
[Burden. Ding-dong.
Hark ! now I hear them,—ding-dong, beil..

Fer. The ditty does remember my drown’d father.—
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes.—I hear it now above me.

Pro. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, 410
And say, what thou seest yond.

Mira. What ist? a spirit ?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,
It carries a brave form :—but ’tis a spirit.

Pro. No, wench: it eats and sleeps, and hath such

senses
As we have, such. This gallant, which thou seest,
Was in the wrack ; and but he’s something stain'd
With ene, that’s beauty’s canker, thou might’st call
im

A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows,
And strays about to find them.

Mira. I might call him
A thing divine, for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.

Pro. [Aside.] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it.—Spirit, fine spirit! I'll free

thee
Within two days for this.
Fer, Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend !—Vouchsafe, my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island,
And that you will some good instructions give,
How I may bear me here; my prime request,
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid, or no?
Mira. « No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
Fer. My language! heavens!— 430
Iam the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where ’tis spoken.
How! the best?

Pro.

What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?

Fer. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me,
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples;
Who with mine eyes, ne’er since at ebb, beheld
The king, my father, wrack’d.

Mira. Alack, for mercy!

Fer. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of

Milan,
And his brave son, being twain.

Pro. The Duke of Milan,
And his more braver daughter could control thee, 441
If now’t were fit to do’t.—[Aside.] At the first sight
They have chang'd eyes :—delicate Ariel,

I'll set thee free for this!—[To him.] A word, good

sir;
I fear, you have done yourself some wrong: a word,
Mira. Why speaks my father so ungently? This

 

 
 

966 THE TEMPEST. {Act I.

 

Is the third man that c’cr [ saw; the first The name thou ow’st not ; and hast put thyself
That c’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father Upon this island as a spy, to win it
To be inclin’d my way! From me, the lord on’t.

Fer. O! if a virgin, fer, No, as lam a man.

 

“Most. sure, the goddess

Fer,
On whom these alrs attend!

And your affection not gone forth, I'll make you 450 Mira. There’s nothing ill can dwell insucha vero 4

The Qucen of Naples. If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Pro. Soft, sir: one word more.— Good things will strive to dwell with’t.
[Aside.] They are both in cither’s powers: but this Pro. [To Ferb.] Follow me.—
switt business Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor.—Come.

I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Il manacle thy neck and fect together ;
Make the prize light. [Yo him.] One word more: | Sca-water shalt thou drink, thy food shall be

I charge thee, The fresh-brook muscles, wither’d roots, and husks
That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp ‘Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow,

 

 
 

 

 

Scene II] THE TEMPEST. 967
fer. : ‘ 3 Are then most humble: I have no ambition
I will resist such entertainment, till To see a goodlier man,
Mine enemy has more power. Pro. [To FERD.] Come on; obey:
i (He draws, and is charmed from moving. | Thy nerves are in their intancy again,
Mira. ; O, dear father! And have no vigour in them.
Make not too rash a trial of him, for 470 Fer. So they are:
He’s gentle, and not fearful. My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
Pro. What! Isay: My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, 490

My foot my tutor ?—Put thy sword up, traitor ;
ho mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy
conscience
Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward,
For I can here disarin thee with this stick,
And make thy weapon drop.
Mira. *’Beseech you, father!
Pro. Hence! hang not on my garments.
Mira. . Sir, have pity.
I'll be his surety.

Pro. Silence ! one word more
Shall make me chide thee, it not hate thee.
An advocate for an impostor? hush!

Thou ee there is no more such shapes as
e,
Having s¢en but him and Caliban: foolish wench !
To the most of men this is a Caliban,
And they to him are angels.
ira. :

What!
480

My affections

 

   
 
 

bY Gonzalo.
JESEECH you, sir, be merry: you have
cause
(So have we all) of joy, for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint
of woe 7
, 18 conn every day, some sailor's
s wife,
* The master of some merchant, and
the merchant,
Have just our theme of woe; but for
the miracle, :
I mean our preservation, few in
millions ;
Can speak like us: then wisely, good
sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.
Alon. Pr'ythee, peace.
Seb. He receives comfort like cold porridge.
Ant. The visitor will not give himo’erso.
Seb. Look ; he’s winding up the watch of his wit:
by-and-by it will strike.
Gon. Sir,—
Seb. One :—tell. i ,
Gon. When every grief is entertain’d, that’s offer’d,
Comes to the entertainer—
Seb. A dollar.
Gon. Dolour comes to him, indeed : you have spoken
truer than you purposed. oe 20
Seb. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you
should.
Gon. Therefore, my lord.— |. .
Ant. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
Alon. I pry’thee, spare.
Gon. Well, [have done. But yet—
Seb. He will be talking.

10

 

The wrack of all my friends, nor this man’s threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day
Behold this maid : all corners else o’ the earth
Let liberty make use of ; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
Pro. It works.—Come on.—
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel!—[Zo FERD.] Follow

me.—
[To ARIEL.] Hark, what thou else shalt do me.

Mira. : Be of comfort.
My father’s of a better nature, sir,
‘han he appears by speech : this is unwonted, 500
Which now came from him.

TO. Thou shalt be as free
As mountain winds; but then exactly do
All points of my command.
. To the syllable.

Ari.
| Pro, Come, follow.—Speak not for him.

 

[Exeunt.

ACT II. ‘

‘ ScENE I.—Another Part of the Island.
Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others.

Ant, Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager,
first begins to crow ?

Seb. The old cock. 30

Ant. The cockrel.

Seb. Done. The wager?

Ant. A laughter.

Seb. A match!

Adr. Though this island seem to be desert,—

Seb. Ha, ha, ha! So, you’re paid,

Adr. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—

Seb. Yet—

Adr, Yet—

Ant. He could not miss it. 40

Adr. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate
temperance.

Ant, Temperance was a delicate wench.

Seb. Ay,andasubtle, as he most learnedly delivered.

Adr. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.

Seb. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.

Ant. Or as ’t were perfumed by a fen.

Gon. Here is everything advantageous to life.

Ant. True; save means to live.

Seb. Of that there’s none, or little. 50

Gon. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how
green!

Ant. The ground, indeed, is tawny.

Seb. With an eye of green in’t.

Ant. He misses not much,

Seb. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.

Gon. But the rarity of it is, which is indeed almost
beyond credit—

Seb. As many vouch’d rarities are. 59

Gon. That our garments, being, as they were,
drenched in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their
freshness, and glosses ; being rather new-dyed, than
stain’d with salt water.
 

 

968

THE TEMPEST.

[Act IL |

 

Ant. If but one of his pockets could speak ; would it
not say, he lies ? .

Seb. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.

Gon. Methinks, our garments are now as fresh as
when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage
of the king's fair daughter Claribel to the King .
Tunis.

Seb. "Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well
in our return.

Acdr. Tunis was never graced before with such a
paragon to their queen.

Gon. Not since Widow Dido's time. R

Ant. Widow? a pox o’ that! How came that widow
in? Widow Dido!

Seb. What if he had said, Widower Aineas too?
Good Lord, how you take it !

Adr. Widow Dido, said you? you make me study of
that: she was of Carthage; not of Tunis. 81

Gon. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.

Adr, Carthage ?

Gon. LT assure you, Carthage. :

Ant. His word is more than the miraculous harp.

Seb. He hath rais'd the wall, and houses too.

Ant, What impossible matter will he make easy
next ?

Seb. I think he will carry this island home in his
pocket, and give it his son for an apple.

Ant. And sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring
forth more islands.

Gon. Ay?

Ant. Why, in good time.

Gon. Sir, we were talking, that our garments seem
now as fresh, as when we were at Tunis at the mar-
riage of your daughter, who is now queen.

Ant, And the rarest that e’er came there.

Seb. Bate, I beseech you, Widow Dido,

Ant. O! Widow Dido; ay, Widow Dido. 100

Gon. Is not, sir, my détiblet as fresh as the first day
I wore it? I mean, in a sort.

Ant. That sort was well fish'd for.

Gon. When I wore it.at your daughter’s marriage ?

Alon. You cram these words into mine ears, against
The stomach of my sense. ’Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too,

Who is so far from Italy remov’d,

Ine’er again shall see her. O thou, mine heir
Of Naples and of Milan! what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee ?

Fran. Sir, he may live.
I saw him beat the surges under him,

And ride upon their backs : he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted

The surge most swoln that met him: his bold head
*Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’d
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke

To the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d,
As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt, 120
He came alive to land.

Alon. No, no; he’s gone.

Seb, Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss
That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
But rather lose her to an African ;

Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye,
Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t.

Alon. Pr'’ythee, peace.

Seb. You were kneel'd to, and importun’d otherwise
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh’d, between lothness and obedience, at
Which end o’ the beam she’d bow. We have lost

your son, 130
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them, of this business’ making,
Than we bring men to comfort them:
The fault ’s your own.

Alon. So is the dearest of the loss.

Gon. My Lord Sebastian,
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,

And time to speak it in; you rub the sore,
wae you should bring the plaster.

110

eb. Very well.
Ant. And most chirurgeonly.

 

Gon. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 140

When you are cloudy.
Seb. Foul weather?

Ant, Very foul.

Gon. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord, —

Ant. He’d sow ’t with nettle-seed.

Seb. Or docks, or mallows,

Gon. And were the king on ’t, what would I do?

Seb. Scape being drunk, for want of wine.

Gon. I the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things, for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate ;
Letters should not be known ; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none ; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil :

No occupation, all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure ;
No sovereignty :--

Seb. Yet he would be king on ’t.

Ant. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets
the beginning.

Gon. All things in common nature should produce,
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, 160
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would J not have; but nature should bring forth,

Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.

Seb. No marrying ’mong his subjects?

«int. None, man; all idle; whores, and knaves,

Gon. I would with such perfection govern, sir,

To excel the golden age.

150

; Save his majesty !
Ant. Long live Gonzalo!
Gon. And, do you mark me, sir ?—
Alon. Pr’ythee; no more: thou dost talk mone to

me. 71

Gon. I do well believe your highness ; and did it to

minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such

sensible and nimble lungs, that they always use to
laugh at nothing.

Ant. ’"T was you we laugh’d at.

Gon. Who, in this kind of merry fooling, am nothing
to ‘a so you may continue, and laugh at nothing
still.

«int. What a blow was there given! 180

Seb. An it had not fallen flat-long.

Gon. You are gentlemen of brave mettle: you
would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would
continue in it five weeks without changing.

Enter ARIEL, invisible; solemn music playing.

Seb. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.

Ant. Nay, good my lord, be not angry.

Gon. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my
discretion so weakly. ill you laugh me asleep, for I
am very heavy ?

Ant. Go sleep, and hear us. 190

[All sleep but ALON., SEB., and ANT.

Alon. What! all so soon asleep? I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find,
They are inclin’d to do so.

Seb. Please you, sir,

Do not omit the heavy offer of it :

It seldom visits sorrow ; when it doth,

It is a comforter.

Ant. We two, my lord,

Will guard your person while you take your rest,

And watch your safety.

lon. Thank you. Wondrous heavy.—
[ALonso sleeps. Exit ARIEL.

Seb. What a strange drowsiness possesses them !

Ant, It is the quality o’ the climate.

Seb. Why 200
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
Myself dispos’d to sleep.

Ant, Nor I: my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent ;

They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,

Worthy Sebastian—O! what might—no more :—

And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face,

What thou shouldst be. The occasion speaks thee, and

 

 
 

ScEnE I]

THE TEMPEST.

969

 

 

My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
What! art thou waking?

eb.
Ant. Do you not hear me speak?
Seb. I do; and, surely,

It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st 211

Out of thy sleep. hat is it thou didst say?

This is a strange repose, to be asleep

With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,

And yet so fast asleep.

Ant. Noble Sebastian,
Thou let’st thy fortune sleep, die rather; wink'st
Whiles thou art waking.

Seb. ose Thou dost snore distinctly :
There ’s meaning in thy snores.

Ant. [am more serious than my custom: you
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do,
Trebles thee o'er.

220

Seb. Well: I am standing water.
Ant. I'll teach you how to flow.
Do so: to ebb

eb.
srere UT sloth instructs me.
nt. !
If tie but knew, how you the purpose cherish,
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often do so near the bottom run
By their own fear, or sloth.
Seb. Pr’ythee, say on.
The setting of thine eye, and cheek, proclaim
A matter from thee, and a birth, indeed,
Which throes thee much to yield.

230

Ant. Thus, sir.
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,
(Who shall be of as little memory,

When he is earth’d) hath here almost persuaded
(For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only

Professes to persuade) the king, his son’s alive,
*T is as impossible that he’s undrown’d,

As he that sleeps here, swims.

Seb. I have no hope
That he ’s undrown’d.
Ant. O! out of that no hope,

What great hope have you! no hope, that way, is 240

Another way so high a hope, that even

Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,

But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me,

Tt Ferdinand is drown'd?
eb.

Ant.
Who’s the next heir of Naples?

He’s gone.
Then, tell me,

Seb. Claribel.

Ant. She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post,

(The man i’ the moon’s too slow) till new-born chins
Be rough and razorable; she, from whom _ 250
We all were sea-swallow'd, though some cast again ;
And by that destiny to perform an act,

Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come,

In yours and my discharge. :

Seb. What stuff is this !—How say you?
°T is true, my brother’s daughter ’s Queen of Tunis ;
So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions
There is some space. 4

nt. A space whose every cubit
Seems to cry out, ‘How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,
And let Sebastian wake!”—Say, this were death 260
That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps ; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily,
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?

Seb. Methinks, I do.

Ant. And how does your content
Tender your own good fortune?

Seb. I remember, 270
You did supplant your brother Prospero.

 

Ant. True:
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much feater than before. My brother’s servants
Were then my fellows, now they are my men.
Seb. But, for your conscience —
Ant. Ay, sir; where lies that? if it were a kibe,
’T would put me to my slipper; but I feel not
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,
That stand 'twixt me and Milan, candied be they,
And melt, ere they molest! Here lies your brother,—

 

Ant. “ Draw together;
And when I rear my hand, do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.”

No better than the earth he lies upon, 281
If he were that which now he's like, that’s dead, —
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course: for all the rest,
They ’l] take puceretion as a cat laps milk;
They ’ll tell the clock to any business that
We say befits the hour,

Seb. Thy case, dear friend, 290
Shall be my precedent: as thou got’st Milan,
I'll come b AES. Draw thy sword : one stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou pay'st,
And I the king shall love thee.

Ant. Draw together ;
And when I rear my hand. do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.

Seb. O! but one word.

[They converse apart.

Music. Re-enter ARIEL, invisible.
Ari. My master through his art foresees the danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me fort’
(For else his project dies) to keep them living.
[Sings in GONZALO’S ear.
While you here do snoring lie, 300
Open-ey’d Conspirac
His time doth take.
Tf of life you keep a care,
hake off slumber, and beware:
Awake! Awake!

 

 
 

970

THE TEMPEST.

[Act IL

 

 

Ant. Then let us both be sudden.
Gon. Now, good angels,

Preserve the king. (They wake.
Alon, Why, how now, ho! awake! Why are you

drawn?

Wherefore this ghastly looking?

Gon. What’s the matter ?
Seb. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, 310

Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing

Like bulls, or rather lions: did it not wake you?

It struck mine ear most terribly. .
Alon. I heard nothing.
Ant. O! ’t was a din to fright a monster's ear,

To make an earthquake : sure, it was the roar

Of a whole herd of lions.

Alon. Heard you this, Gonzalo?
Gon. Upon mine hononr, sir, I heard a humming,
And that a strange one too, which did awake me.
I shak’d you, sir, and cry’d; as mine eyes open’d,
lsaw their weapons drawn.—There was a noise,
That's verity: ’tis best we stand upon our guard,
Or that we quit this place. Let’s draw our weapons.
Alon. Lead off this ground, and let ’s make further

search

For my poor son.
Gon. Heavens keep him from these beasts,

For he is, sure, i’ the island. ;

Alon. Lead away. ([Ezxeunt.

Ari. Prospero, my lord, shall know what I have

[Exit.

320

one:
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son.

Screne II.—Another Part of the Island.

Enter CALIBAN, with a burden of wood.
A noise of Thunder heard.
Cal. All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make

him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse; but they'll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire,
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em ; but
For every trifle are they set upon me:
Sometime like apes, that moe and chatter at me,
And after, bite me; then like hedge-hogs, which 10
Lie tumbling in my bare-foot way, and mount
Their pricks at my foot-fall : sometime am I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues
Jo hiss me into madness.—Lo, now ! lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me,
For bringing wood in slowly : I'll fall flat -
Perchance, he will not mind me. 17

Enter TRINCULO.

Trin. Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any
weather at all, and another storm brewing ; I hear it
sing i’ the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge
one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his
liquor. If it should thunder, as it did before, 1 know
not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot
choose but fall by pailfuls.—What have we here? a
man ora fish? Dead oralive? <A fish: hesmells like
a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of,
not of the newest, Poor-John. A strange fish! Were
I in England now (as once I was), and had but this
fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a
piece of silver: there would this monster make a man:
any strange beast there makes a man. When they
will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they
will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d likea
man! and his fins like arms! Warm; o’ my troth!
I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer; this
is no fish, but an islander, that. hath lately suffered by
athunder-bolt. [Zhwnder.] Alas! the storm is come
again: ny best way is to creep under his gaberdinc ;
there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints
a man with strange bedfellows. I will here shroud,
till the dregs of the storm be past. 41

 

Enter STEPHANO, singing ; a botilein his hand.

Ste. I shall no morc to sea, to sea,
Here shall I die a-shore.—

This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral.
Well, here’s my comfort. [Drinks.

The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,

Lov'd Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us car’d for Kate ;
For she had a tongue with a tang, 50
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang:

She lov'd not the savour of tar, nor of pitch,

Yet a tailor might scratch her where-e’er she did itch ;
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang.

This is a scurvy tune too; but here’s my comfort.
[Drinks.

Cal. Do not torment me: O!

Ste. What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do
you put tricks upon us with savages, and men of Indc?

a! I have not scap’d drowning, to be afeard now of
your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man
as ever went on four legs cannot make him give
ground: and it shall be said so again, while Stephano
breathes at nostrils. 6

Cal. The spirit torments me: O!

Ste. This is some monster of the isle, with four legs,
who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil
should he learn our language? I will give him some
relief, if it be but for that: if I can recover him, and
keep him tame, and get to Nayles with him, he’s a
present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-
leather. 71

Cal. Do not torment me, pr’ythee: I’ll bring my
wood home faster. i

Ste. He's in his fit now, and does not talk after the
wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never
drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit.
If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not
take too much for him: he shall pay for him that hath
him, and that soundly. "9

Cal. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt
anon, I know it by thy trembling : now Prosper works
upon thee.

Ste. Come on your ways: open your mouth; here is
that which will give language to you, cat. Open your
mouth: this will shake your shaking, I can tell you,
and that soundly: you cannot tell who’s your friend ;
open your chaps again. 87

Trin. I should know that voice. It should be—but
he is drowned, and these are devils. O! defend me !—

Ste. Four legs, and two voic-s! a most delicate
monster. His forward voice, now, is to speak well
of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul
speeches, and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle
will recover him, I will help hisague. Come,—Amen!
I will pour some in thy other mouth.

Trin. Stephano!

Ste. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! mercy!
This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I
have no long spoon. 99

Trin. Stephano !—if thou beest Stephano, touch me,
and speak to me, for lam Trinculo :—be not afcard,—
thy good friend Trinculo.

Ste. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I'll pull
thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these
are they. ‘Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How
cam’st thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he
vent Trinculos ?

Trin. I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke,
—But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope now,
thou art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I
hid me under the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for
fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano?
O Stephano! two Neapolitans scap'd. :

Ste. Pr'ythee, do not turn me about: my stomach is
not constant. 7

Cal. These be fine things, an if they be not sprites.
That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor :

I will kneel to him.
Ste. How didst thouscape? Howcam’st thou hither?

 

 
 

ScENE II.)

THE TEMPEST.

971

 

 

swear by this bottle, how thoucam’st hither. I escaped
upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved over-
board, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a
tree, with mine own hands, since I was cast a-shore.

Cal. I'll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true
subject, for the liquor is not earthly,

Ste, Here: swear then how thou escap’dst.

Trin. Swam a-shore, man, like a duck. I can swim
like a duck, I'll be sworn.

Ste. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim
like a duck, thou art made like a goose. 130

Trin. O Stephano! hast any more of this?

Ste. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by
the sea-side, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-
calf? how does thine ague ?

Cal. Hast thou not dropped from heaven?

Ste. Out o’ the moon, Ido assure thee: I was the man
in the moon, when time was.

Cal. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee:
My mistress show’d me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush.

te. Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will
furnish it anon with new contents: swear.

Trin. By_this good light, this is a very shallow
monster :—I afeard of him !—a very weak monster.—
'The man i’ the moon !—a most poor credulous monster.
—Well drawn, monster, in good sooth.

Cal. Jl show thee every fertile inch o’ the island,
And I will kiss thy foot. pr’ythee, be my god.

Trin. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken
monster; when his god’s asleep, he'll rob his bottle.

Cal. 111 kiss thy foot: I'll swear myself thy subject.

Ste. Come on, then; down, and swear. 151

Trin. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-
headed monster. A most scurvy monster: 1 could
find in my heart to beat him,—

Ste. Come, kiss.

Trin. —but that the poor monster’s in drink. An
abominable monster !

Cal. I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee

berries ;
I'll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.
A pieess upon the tyrant that I serve!
T’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,
Thou wondrous man.

Trin. A most ridiculous monster, tomake a wonder
of a poor drunkard !

.Cal. I pr’ythee, let me bring thee where crabs grow ;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts;
Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset : I’ll bring thee
To clustering filberts, and sometimes I'll get thee 169
Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?

160

 

Ste. I pr'ythee now, lead the way, without any more
talking.—Trinculo, the king and all our company else
being drowned, we will inherit here.—Here; bear

my bottle.—¥ellow ‘lrinculo, we'll fill him by-and-by
again.
Cal. (Sings drunkenly.]
Irarewell, master ; farewell, farewell.

 

Ste. ‘Come, swear to tlint; kiss the book: I will furnish it anon
with new coutents : swear.”

Trin, A howling monster, a drunken monster.

Cal. No more dans I'll make for fish ;
Nor fetch in firing
At requiring,
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish;
"Ban, ’Ban, Ca—Caliban
Has a new master—get a new man.
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom! hey

day, freedom!
te. O brave monster! lead the way.

180

(Exeunt.

 

ACT III.

   

Ferdinand. ;

HERE be some sports are painful, and
their labour .

Delight in them sets off: some kinds of
baseness

Are nobly undergone; and most poor
matters

Point to rich ends. This my mean task

Would be as heavy to me, as odious ; but

The mistress which I serve quickens
what’s dead, ;

And makes my labours pleasures ; O, she is

Scene I.—Before PRosPERo’s Cell.
Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log.

Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed ;

And he’s compos'd of harshness. I must remove

Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up,

Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress

Weeps when she sees me work; and says, such base-
ness

Had never like executor. I forget:

But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours ;

Most busiest when I do it.

Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance.
Mira. Alas, now, pray you,

10

 
 

 

972

THE TEMPEST.

[Act IIL.

 

Work not so hard: I would, the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile.
Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,
’T will weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray now, rest yourself:
He’s safe for these three hours. r
Fer. O most dear mistress !
The sun will set, before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
Mira. If you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while. Pray, give me that:
I'll carry it to the pile.

 

i “Tf you'll sit down,
I'll bear your logs the while. Pray, give me that:
I'll carry it to the pile.”

Afira.

Fer. No, precious creature :
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
Mira. It would become me
As well as it does you; and I should do it
With much more ease, for my good will is to it, 30
And yours it is against.
Pro. Poor worm! thou art infected :
This visitation shows it.
Mira. You look wearily.
Fer, No, noble mistress; ‘tis fresh morning with

me,
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,
What is your name?

Mira. Miranda—O my father!
I have broke your hest to say so.

rer, Admir’d Miranda!

Indeed the top of admiration ; worth
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady
Ihave eye’d with best regard; and manyatime 40
The harmony of their tongues hath into Londage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I lik’d several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd,
And put it to the foil: but you, O you!
So perfect, and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best.

Mira, I do not know
One of my sex; no woman's face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor havelI seen 50
More that I may call men, than thou, good friend,

 

And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skill-less of ; but, by my modesty
(The jewel in my dower), I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you;
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts
I therein do forget.
Fer, Iam, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;
(I would, not so!) and would no more endure
This wooden slavery, than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth.—Hear my soul speak
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service ; there resides,
To make me slave to it: and for your sake,
Am I this patient log-man.
Mira. Do you love me?
Fer. O heaven! O earth! bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event,
If I speak true; if hollowly, invert 70
What best is boded me, to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world,
Do loye, prize, honour you.
Mira. I am a fool,
To weep at what I am glad of.
Pro. Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace
On that which breeds between them!
Fer. Wherefore weep you?
Mira. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take,
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling ;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself,
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
Iam your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I'll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I’l] be your servant,
Whether you will or no.

er. My mistress, dearest,
And I thus humble ever.
tira. My husband then ?
Fer. Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.
Mira. And mine, with my heart in’t: and now fare-
well, 90
Till half an hour hence.
Fer. A thousand thousand!
[Hxeunt FERD. and MIRA.
Pro. So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book ;
For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform
Much business appertaining. (Exit.

ScENE II.—Another Part of the Island.

Enter CALIBAN with a bottle; STEPHANO and
TRINCULO following.

Ste. Tell not me:—when the butt is out, we will
drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up,
and board ‘em.—Servant-monster, drink to me.

Trin. Servant-monster? the folly of this island!
They say, there’s but five upon this isle: we are three
of them; if the other two be brained like us, the state
totters.

Ste. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy
eyes are almost set in thy head. 9

Trin. Where should they be set else? he were a
brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail.

Ste. My man-monster hath drowned his tongue in
sack : for my part, the sea cannot drown me: Iswam,
ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues,
off and on, by this light.—Thou shalt be my lieutenant,
monster, or my standard.

Trin. Your lieutenant, if you list ; he’sno standard.

Ste. We'll not run, monsieur monster.

Trin. Nor go neither; but you'll lie, like dogs, ang

2

yet say nothing neither.

 

 

 
 

 

 

ScENE III.] THE TEMPEST. 973
Ste. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest | He has brave utensils (for so he calls them),

a good moon-calt. : Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal :
,Cal. How does thy horiour? Let me lick thy shoe. And that most deeply to consider is

I'll not serve him, he is not valiant. The beauty of his daughter; he himself 100

Trin. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in
case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish
thou, was there ever man a coward, that hath drunk
so much sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous
lie, being but half a fish, and half a monster ?

; “a. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my
lor

Trin. Lord, quoth he !—that a monster should be
such a natural!

Cal. Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I pr’ythee.

_, Ste. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head:
if you prove a mutineer, the next tree!_The poor
monster’s my subject, and he shall not suffer
indignity.

Cal. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleas’dto
hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? 40

Ste. Marry will I; kneel and repeat it, I will stand,
and so shall Trinculo,

Enter ARIEL, invisible.
Cal. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant;
a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of
the island.
Ari. Thou liest. .
Cal. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou;
I would, my valiant master would destroy thee:
I do not lie.
Ste. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his
tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.
Trin. Why, I said nothing. 51
Ste. Mum then, and no more.—[To CAL.] Proceed.
Cal. I say, by sorcery he got this isle ;
From me he got it: if thy greatness will,
Revenge it on him—for, I know, thou dar’st ;
But this thing dare not.
Ste. That’s most certain.
Cal. 'Thou shalt be lord of it, and I’ll serve thee.
Ste. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou
bring me to the party ? . 60
Cal. Yea, yea, my lord: I Il yield him thee asleep,
Where thou may’st knock a nail into his head.
Ari. Thou liest; thou canst not.
Cal. Whatapied ninny’s this! Thouscurvy patch!
I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows,
And take his bottle from him : when that’s gone,
He shall drink nought but brine; for I'l] not show

im
Where the quick freshes are. :

Ste. Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt
the monster one word further, and, by this hand, I'll
turn my mercy out of doors, and make a stock-fish oy
thee. 2
Trin. Why, what did I? I did nothing. Ill go
further off. .

Ste. Didst thou not say, he lied ?

Ari. Thou liest. :

Ste. Do I so? take thou that. [Strikes him.] As you
like this, give me the lie another time. .

Trin. I did not give the lie.—Out o’ your wits, and
hearing too?—A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and
drinking do.—A murrain on your monster, and the
devil take your fingers ! 82

Cal. Ha, ha, ha!

Ste. Now, forward with your tale. Pr’ythee, stand
further off. : ‘

Cal. Beat him enough : after a little time,

I'll beat him too.

Ste. Stand further.—Come, proceed.

Cal. Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him |
T’ the afternoon to sleep: there thou may’st brain

him,
Having first seiz’d his books; or with a lo; 90
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember,
First to possess his books ; for without them
He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not. :
One spirit to command : they all do hate him
Asyrootedly as L Burn but his books ;

 

Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,
But only Sycorax my dam, and she;
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax,
As great’st does least.

Ste. As it so brave a lass?

Cal. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant,
And bring thee forth brave brood.

Ste. Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and
I will be king and queen; (save our graces!) and
Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys.—Dost thou like
the plot, Trinculo? 110

Trin, Excellent.

Ste. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee;
but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy

head.
Cal. Within this half hour will he be asleep ;
Wilt thou destroy him then?
Ste. Ay, on mine honour.
Ari. This will I tell my master.
Cal. Thou mak’st me merry : I am full of pleasure.
Let us be jocund : will you troll the catch
‘You taught me but while-ere ? 120
Ste. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any
reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [Sings.

Flout "em, and scout ’em; and scout ’em, and flout
‘em ;
Thought is free.
Cal. That’s not the tune.
(ARIEL plays the tune on a tabor and pipe.
Ste. What is this same?
Trin. This is the tune of our catch, played by the
picture of Nobody.
Ste. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy like-
ness : if thou beest a devil, take ’t as thou list. 130
Trin. O, forgive me my sins!
Ste. He that dies, pays all debts: I defy thee.—
Mercy upon us.
Cal. Art thou afeard ?
Ste. No, monster, not I.
Cal. Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt
not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears ; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep,
‘Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds, methought, would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I wak’d
I cry’d to dream again.
Ste. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where
I shall have my music for nothing.
Cal. When Prospero is destroyed.
ae That shall be by-and-by: I remember the
story.
Trin. The sound is going away : let’s follow it, and
after do our work. 51
Ste. Lead, monster ; we ‘ll follow.—I would, I could
see this taborer : he lays it on.

Trin, Wilt come? I'll follow, Stephano. [Exewnt.

ScENE III.—Another Part of the Island.

Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO,
ADRIAN, FRANCISCO, and others.

Gon. By ’r lakin, I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache : here’s a maze trod, indeed,
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your

patience,

I needs must rest me.

Alon. Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach’d with weariness,
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer : he is drown’d, -

 

 
 

| 9Tt THE TEMPEST. (Acr TIL.

 

Whom thus we stray to find, and the sea mocks Solemn and strange music; and PROSPERO above,
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 10 invisible. Enter several strange shapes bringing
aint. [Aside to Ses.) Iam right glad that he’s so in @ banquet: they dance about it with gentle
out of hope. ' actions of salutation; and, inviting the KING,

It

Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose déc., to cat, they depart.

 

 

 

ARIEL APPEARING AS A HARPY.

That you resolv’d to effect. Alon. What harmony is this? my good friends, hark!
Seb, [Aside to ANT.] The next advantage Gon. Marvellous sweet music!

Will we take throughly. Alon. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were
Ant. [Aside toSes.} Let it be to-night; these? : 20

For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they Seb, A living drollery. Now I will believe

Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance, That there are unicorns; that in Arabia

As when they are fresh. There is one tree, the phcenix’ throne ; one phoenix

 

Seb. [Aside to AN’T.] I say, to-night: no more. At this hour reigning there.

 

 
 

ScENE III.)

THE TEMPEST.

975

 

 

Ant. I'll believe both ;
And what does else want credit, come to me.

And Ill be sworn ’tis true : travellers ne’er did lie,
Though fools at home condemn them.

Gon. If in Naples

I should report this now, would they believe me?

If I should say, I saw such islanders

(For, certes, these are people of the island), 30
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind, than o.

Our human generation you shall find

Many, nay, almost any.

Pro. [Aside.) Honest lord,

Thou hast said well; for some of you there present
Are worse than devils.

Alon. I cannot too much muse,
Such phapes such gesture, and such sound, expressing
(Although they want the use of tongue) a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse. i

Pro. [Aside]. Praise in departing.

Fran, They vanish’d strangely.

Seb. No matter, since
They have left their viands behind, for we have

stomachs.— 41
Will’t please you taste of what is here?
Alon. , ot T.
Gon. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were

Oys,
Who would believe that there were mountaineers
Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at

them
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men,
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we

nd,
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.

Alon. I will stand to, and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel 50
The best is past.—Brother, my lord the duke,

Stand to, and do as we.

Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL like a harpy,
claps his wings upon the table, and, with a quaint
device, the banquet vanishes.

Ari. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny

(That hath to instrument this lower world,

And what is in’t) the never-surfeited sea

Hath caus’d to belch up you, and, on this island

Where man doth not inhabit ; you ’mongst men

Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;

And even with such like valour men hang and drown

Their peer selves.

[Seeing ALON., SEB., &c., draw their swords.
You fools! I and my fellows 60

Are ministers of fate : the elements,

Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well

Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs

Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish

 

One dowle that’s in my plume: ae fellow-ministers
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,

Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,
And will not be uplifted. But, remember,

(For that’s my business to you) that you three

From Milan did supplant good Prospero; 0
Expos’d unto the sea (which hath requit it)

Him, and his innocent child: for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have

Incens’d the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, \
They have bereft ; and do pronounce by me:
Lingering perdition (worse than any death

Can be at once) shall step by step attend

You, and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from
(Which here, in this most desolate isle, clse falls 80
Upon your heads), is nothing, but heart's sorrow,
And a clear life ensuing.

He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the
Shapes again, and dance with mocks and mows,
and carry out the table.

Pro. [Aside.] Bravely the figure of this harpy hast
u

0
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring.
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated,
In what thou hadst to say : so, with good life
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their ce) kinds have done. My high charms
work,
And these, mine enemies, are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my power; 90
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand (whom they suppose is drown’d),
And his and my lov'd darling. [Hait PROSPERO.
Gon. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand -

you
In this strange stare?

on. O, it is monstrous ! monstrous !
Methought, the billows spoke, and told me of it; -
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounce’d
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i’ thee ooze is bedded ; and
I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded,
And with him there lie mudded. [Exit.
But one fiend at a time,

100

Seb.
11 fight their legions o’er.
Ant, I'll be thy second.
[Exeunt SEB. and ANT.
Gon. All vores of them are desperate: their great
guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after,
Now ’gins to bite the spirits.—I do beseech you,
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly,
And hinder them from what this ecstacy
May now provoke them to.
dr, Follow, I pray you. [Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT IV.
ScENE I.—Before PROSPERO'S Cell.
Enter PROSPERO, FERDINAND, and MIRANDA.

Prospero. :

FT have too austerely punish’d you,

Is Your compensation makes amends; for I
" Have given you here a thread of mine own

    

life,

i Or that for which I live ; whom once again
I tender to thy hand. All thy vexations

-~ Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore

Heaven, “

Lratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand!
Do not smile at me that I boast her off,

For thou shalt find she will outstrip alt

praise
And make it halt behind her. |
Fer. I do believe it,
Against an oracle. 2 aa,
Pro. Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition
Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter: but
If thou dost break her virgin-knot before
All sanctimonious ceremonies may,
With full and holy rite, be minister’d,
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow, but barren hate,
Sour-ey’d disdain, and discord, shall bestrew 20
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly,
That you shall hate it both: therefore, take heed,
As Hymen’s lamps shall light you.
Fer, As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue, and long life,
With such love as ‘tis now,—the murkiest den,
The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion
Our worser Gentus can, shall never melt
Mine honour into lust, to take away
The edge of that day’s celebration,
When [ shall think, or Phcebus’ steeds are founder’d,
Or night kept chain’d below.
Fairly spoke. 31

Pro..
Sit then, and talk with her; she is thine own.—
What, Ariel, my industrious servant Ariel!

Enter ARIEL.
Ari. What would my potent master? here I am.
Pro. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service
Did worthily perform, and I must use you
In such another trick. Go, bring the rabble,
O’er whom I give thee power, here, to this place:
Incite them to quick motion ; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 40
Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,
And they expect it from me.
Ari. Presently ?
Pro. Ay, with a twink.
Ari. Before you can say, “come,” and “ go,”
And breathe twice, and cry, ‘‘so so;”
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mop and mow.
Do you love me, master? no?
Pro. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach,
Till thou dost hear me call.
ri. [Exit.
Pro. Look, thou be true. Do not give dalliance 51
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw
To the firc i’ the blood. Be more abstemious,
Or else good night your vow.

Well, I conceive.

 

Fer. | I warrant you, sir;
The white-cold virgin snow upon my heart
Abates the ardour of my liver.
Pro. Well.—
Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,
Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly.—
No tongue, all eyes; be silent. [Soft music,

Enter Iris.

Tris. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 60
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease ;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns ; and thy broom-

oves,

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn ; thy pole-clipt vineyard ;
And thy sea-marge, steril, and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air; the queen o'the sky, 70
Whose watery arch and messenger am I,
Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain:
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Enter CERES.

Cer. Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter ;
Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers;
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 80
My bosky acres, and my unshrubb’d down,
Rich scarf to my proud earth ; why hath thy queen
Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass'd green ?

Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate,
And some donation freely to estate
On the bless’d lovers. -

Cer. Tell me, heavenly bow,
If Venus, or her son, as thou dost know,
Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,
Her and her blind boy’s scandal'd company
I have forsworn.

Tris. Of her society
Be not afraid: I met her deity
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son
Dene diaen with her. Here thought they to have

one
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,
Whose vows are, that no bed-rite shall be paid
Till Hymen’s torch be lighted ; but in vain:
Mars’s hot minion is return’d again ;
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,
Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows,
And be a boy right out.
er, Highest queen of state, 101

Great Juno comes: I know her by her gait.

Enter JUNO.

Jun. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me,
To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be,
And honour’d in their issue.

 
 

Scene I.)

THE TEMPEST.

977

 

 

Sona.

Jun. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!
Juno sings her blessings on you.

Earth's increase, foison plenty,
Barns and garners never empty;

ines with clustring bunches growing ;
Piants with goodly burden bowing ;
Spring come to you, at the farthest,
In the very end of harvest!
Scarcity and want shall shun you ;
Ceres’ blessing so is on you.

Fer. This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits?

TO. Spirits, which by mine art
I have from their confines call’d, to enact 121
My peeacat fancies.
rer,

Cer. 110

Let me live here ever:
So rare a wonder’d father, and a wife,
Makes this place Paradise.
[JUNO and CERES whisper, and send
IRIs on employment.
Pro. Sweet, now, silence!
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously ;
There’s something else to do. Hush, and be
mute,
Or else our spell is marr’d.
fris. You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the wan-
dering brooks,
With cour = g’d crowns, and ever-harmless
oks,
Leave your crisp channels, and on this green
land 130

Answer your summons: Juno does command.
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love: be not too late.

Enter certain Nymphs.

You sun-burnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry.
Make holiday : your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.

Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join
with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards
the end whereof PROSPERO starts suddenly, and

eaks ; after which, to a strange, hollow, and con-
Fused noise, they heavily vanish.
Pro. [Aside.] I had forgot that foul conspiracy

Of the beast Caliban, and his confederates, 140

Against my life ; the minute of their plot i

Is almost come.—[ 70 the Spirits.] Well done.—Avoid ;

—no more. 5
Fer. This is strange : your father’s in some passion

That works him strongly.

Mira. Never till this day,

Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d.
Pro. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort,

As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such st

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.—Sir, Iam vex’d:

Bear with my weakness ; my old brain is troubled:

Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. 160

If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell,

And there repose : a turn or two Ill walk,

To still my beating mind.
Fer., Mira. We wish your peace. [Exeunt.
Pro. Come with a thought !—I thank thee.—Ariel,

come!

150

 

 

: Enter ARIEL.
Ari. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy plea-

sure ?
Pro. Spirit,
We must prepare to meet with Caliban.
Ari. Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,
I thought to have told thee of it ; but I fear’d,
Lest I might anger thee.
Pro. Say again, where didst thou leave these
varlets? 170
I told you, sir, they were red-hot with
drinking :
So full of valour, that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces; beat the ground

Ari.

THE DANCE OF THE REAPERS.

For kissing of their feet, yet always bending
Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor,
At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears,
Advance’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses,
As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears,
That, calf-like, they my lowing follow’d, through
Tooth’d ore sharp furzes, pricking goss, and
orns,

Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them
I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
O’erstunk their feet.

Pro. This was well done, my bird.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still:
The trumpery in my house, go, bring it hither,
For stale to catch these thieves.

Ari. I go, I go. [Exit.

Pro. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature
Nurture can never stick ; on whom my pains,
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost ; 190

And as with age his body Dee grows,
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,
Even to roaring.

Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c.
Come, hang them on this line.

PROSPERO and ARIEL remain invisible. Enter
CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO, all wet.
Cal. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole
may not
Hear a foot fall; we now are near his cell.

Ste. Monster, your fairy, which, you say, is a harm-
less talry, has done little better than played the Jack
with us.

Trin. Monster, I dosmell all horse-piss, at which my
nose is in great indignation.

Ste. So is mine. 0 you hear, monster? If I should
take a displeasure against you, look you,—

 
 

978

THE TEMPEST.

[Act IV.

 

 

Trin. Thou wert but a lost monster.
Cal. Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize Ill bring thee to
Shall hood ane this mischance: therefore, speak
softly ;
All’s hush’d as midnight yet.
Trin. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,—

Trin. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like
your grace. 240

Ste. I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment
for’t: wit shall not go unrewarded, while I am
king of this country. ‘Steal by line and level,” is
a excellent pass of pate; there’s another garment
or’t.

 

CALIBAN, STEPHANO, AND TRINCULO HUNTED BY HOUNDS.

Ste. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in
that, monster, but an infinite loss, 210

Trin. That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this
is your harmless fairy, monster.

Ste. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o'er ears
for my labour.

Cal. Pr’ythee, my king, be quiet. Seest thou here,
This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter:

Do that good mischief, which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.

Ste. Give my thy hand. I do begin to have bloody
thoughts. 221

Trin. O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy
Stephano! look, what a wardrobe here is for thee!

Cal, Let it alone, thou fool: it is but trash.

Trin. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a
Hrippely :—O King Stephano!

e. Put off that gown, Trinculo: by this hand, I’ll
have that gown.

Trin. Thy grace shall have it.

Cal. The dropsy drown this fool! what do you mean,
To dote thus on such luggage ? Let’s alone, 231
And do the murder first: if he awake,

From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches ;
Make us strange stuff.

Ste. Be you quiet, monster.—Mistress line, is not
this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line:
now, gern, you are like to lose your hair, and prove
a bald jerkin.

 

Trin. Monster, come, put some lime upon your
fingers, and away with the rest.
Cal. I will have none on’t: we shall lose our

time,

And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes
With foreheads villainous low. 250

Ste. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this
away, where my hogshead of wine is, or Ill turn you
out of my kingdom. Go to; carry this,

Trin. And this.

Ste. Ay, and this,

A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in
shape of hounds, and hunt them about: PROSPERO
and ARIEL setting them on.

Pro. Hey, Mountain, hey!

Ari. Silver, there it goes, Silver!

Pro. Fury, Fury ! there, Tyrant, there ! hark, hark!
[CaL., STE., and TRIN. are driven out.

Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints

With dry convulsions ; shorten up their sinews

With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make

them,

Than pard or cat o’ mountain.
Ari. Hark! they roar.
Pro. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour

Lie at my mere all mine enemies:

Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou

Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little

Follow, and do me service. Exeunt.

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—Before the Cell of PROSPERO.
Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes; and ARIEL.

 
  
   

» Prospero.
f OW does my project gather to a head :
My charms crack not, my spirits obey,

and time
Goes upright with his carriage. How’s
the day?
Ari. On the sixth hour ; at which time,
my lord,
You said our work should cease,
Pro, I did say so,
When first Irais’d the tempest. Say, my

spirit,
How fares the king and’s followers?
Ari, Confin’d together
In the same fashion as you gave in
charge ;
Just as you left them : all prisoners, sir,
In the line-grove which weather-fends
your cell; 10
They eannet budge till your release. The
king,
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted,
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brimful of sorrow and dismay ; but chiefly
Him that you term’d, sir, the good old lord, Gonzalo:
His tears run down his beard, like winter's drops
From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works

them,
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender. = ss
Pro. Dost thou think so, spirit?
Ari. Mine would, sir, were 1 human. X
Pro. And mine shall.
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 21
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply
Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art ?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the
quick, a
Yet, with my nobler reason, ’gainst my fury
DoItake part. The rareractionis | .
In virtue than in vengeance : they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend |
Not a frown further. Go, release them, Ariel. 30
My charms I'll break, their senses I'll restore,
And they shall be themselves. 5 f
Ari. I'll fetch them, sir. [Hzit.
Pro. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and
TOves ;
And ye, that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him,
When he comes back ; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make, _
hereof the ewe not bites ; and you, whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms ; that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aic , 40
(Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimm’d
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous winds,
And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak
With his own bolt: the strong-bas’d promontory
Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck’d up
The pine and cedar : graves, at my command,
Have waked their sleepers, op’d, and let them forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic

 

I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d

Some heavenly music (which even now I do),

To work mine end upon their senses, that.

This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And, deeper than did ever plummet sound,

I’ll drown my book. [Solemn music.

Re-enter ARIEL: after him, ALONSO, with a frantic
gesture, attended by GONZALO; SEBASTIAN and
ANTONIO in like manner, attended by ADRIAN
and Francisco: they all enter the circle which
PROSPERO had made, and there stand charmed;
which PROSPERO observing, speaks.

A solemn air, and the best comforter

To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains.

Now useless, boil’d within thy skull!

For you are spell-stopp’d.—

Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,

Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,

Fall fellowly drops.—The charm dissolves apace ;

And as the morning steals upon the night,

Melting the darkness, so their rising senses

Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle

Their clearer reason.—O good Gonzalo!

My true preserver, and a loyal sir

To him thou follow’st, I will pay thy graces 70

Home, both in word and deed.—Most cruelly

Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter :

Thy brother was a furtherer in the act ;—

Thou ’rt pend for’t now, Sebastian. — Flesh and
ood,

You brother mine, that entertain’d ambition,

Expell’d remorse and nature ; who, with Sebastian

(Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong),

Would here have kill’d your king ; I do forgive thee

Unnatural though thou art.—Their understanding

Begins to swell, and the approaching tide

Will shortly fill the reasonable shores,

That now he full and muddy. Not one of them,

That yet looks on me, or would know me.—Ariel,

Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell ; [Hxit ARIEL.

I will discase me, and myself present,

As I was sometime Milan.—Quickly, spirit ;

Thou shalt ere long be free.

There stand, 60

ARIEL re-enters, singing, and helps to attire
ROSPERO.

Art. Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie ;
There I couch when owls do cry. 90
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Pro. wey, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss

eet
But yet thou shalt have freedom :—so, so, so.—
To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art:
There shalt thou find the mariners aslee
Under the hatches; the master, and the Bonini,
Being awake, enforce them to this place, 100
And PRESeUtys I pr’ythee.
Ari. I drink the air before me, and return
Or e’er your pulse twice beat. [Zxit ARIEL.

 

 
 

980

THE TEMPEST.

{Act V.

 

 

Gon. All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement
Inhabits here : some heavenly power guide us
Out of this fearful country !
Behold, sir king,

Pro.
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero.
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body ;
And to thee, and thy company, I bid
A hearty welcome.

110

 

Pro. “ For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body.”

Alon. Wher thou beest he, or no,
Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,
As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
Beats as of flesh and blood ; and, since I saw thee,
The affliction of my mind amends, with which,
I fear, a madness held me. This must crave
(An if this be at all) a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign ; and do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs. — But how should
Prospero
Be living, and be here?
Pro. First, noble friend,
Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot

Be measur’d, or confin'd.

Gon. Whether this be,
Or be not, I'll not swear.

Pro. You do yet taste
Some subtleties o’ the isle, that will not let you
Believe things certain.—Welcome, my friends all.—
[Aside to SEB. and ANT.] But you, my brace of lords,

were I so minded,

There could pluck his highness’ frown upon you,
And justify you traitors; at this time
I will tell no tales.

Seb. [Aside.] .

Pro. No.—
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 130
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault; all of them; and require
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,
Thou must restore.

Alon. If thou beest Prospero,

Give us particulars of thy preservation :
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wrack’d upon this shore ; whereI have lost
(How sharp the point of this remembrance is!)
ay. dear son Ferdinand.

TO. Iam woe for’t, sir.

Alon. Irreparable is the loss, and patience
Says it is past her cure.

I rather think,

TO.
You have not sought her help; of whose soft grace,
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid,
And rest myself content.
Alon, You the like loss?
Pro. As great to me, as late ; and, supportable

120

The devil speaks in him.

140

 

To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you, for I
Have lost my daughter,

Alon. A daughter?
O heavens! that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen there! that they were, I wish 150
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed
Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter?

Pro. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords
At this encounter do so much admire,
That they devour their reason, and scarce think
Their eyes do oftices of truth, their words
Are natural breath : but, howsoe’er you have
Been justled from your senses, know for certain,
That Iam Prospero, and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely
Upon this shore, where you were wrack’d, was

landed, 161

To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this ;
For ‘tis a chronicle of day by day,
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;
This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants,
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again,
I will requite you with as good a thing ;
At least, bring forth a wonder, to content ye 170
As much as me my dukedom.

The entrance of the cell opens, and discovers FER-
DINAND and MIRANDA playing at chess.
Mira. Sweet lord, you play me false.
Fer. No, my dearest love, '
I wouid not for the world.
Mira. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should

wrangle,
And I would call it fair play.

allon. If this prove
A vision of the island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.

eb. A most high miracle !

Fer. see the seas threaten, they are merciful:
IT have curs'd them without cause.

[FERD. kneels to ALON.

Alon. Now, all the blessin
Of a glad father compass thee about ! 1
Arise, and say how thou cam’st here.

Mira. O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!

How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in ’t! ;
Pro. ’T is new to thee.
Alon, What is this maid, with whom thou wast
at play?
Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours:
Is she the ae ess that hath sever'd us,
And brought us thus together?

Fer. Sir, she is mortal ;

But, by immortal Providence, she’s mine:
I chose her, when I could not ask my father 199
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before; of whom I have
Receiv’d a second life ; and second father
This lady makes him to me.
Alon, Lam hers.
But O! how oddly will it sound, that I
Must ask my child forgiveness.

Pro. There, sir, stop:
Let us not burden our remembrances with
A heaviness that’s gone.

Gon. [have inly wept, 200
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown,

For it is you that have chalk'd forth the way,
Which brought us hither!

Alon. Isay, Amen, Gonzalo.

Gon. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue
Should become kings of Naples? O! rejoice
Beyond a common joy, and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars. In one voyage

 

 
 

 

ScENE I.]

Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis ;
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife, 210
Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom,
In a poor isle; and all of us, ourselves,
When no man was his own.
Alon. [To FERD. and Mir.] Give me your hands:
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
That doth not wish you joy!
Gon. Be it so: Amen.
Re-enter ARIEL, with the Master and Boatswain
amazedly following.
O look, sir! look, sir! here is more of us.
1 prophesied, if a gallows were on land,
This fellow could not drown.—Now, blasphemy,
That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore?
Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? 220
Boats. The best news is, that we have safely found
Our king, and company: the next, our ship,
Which but three glasses since we gave out split,
Is tight, and yare, and bravely rigg’d, as when
We first put out to sea.
Ari, [Aside to PRo,] Sir, all this service
Have I done since I went.
Pro. [Aside to ARI.] My tricksy spirit !
Alon. These are not natural events; they strengthen
From strange to stranger.—Say, how came you hither?
Boats. If I did think, sir, I were well awake,
I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, 230
And (how, we know not) all clapp’d under hatches,
Where, but even now, with strange and several noises
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,
We were awak'd; straightway, at liberty :
Where we, in all her trim, freshly behel
Our royal, good, and gallant ship ; our master
Capering to eye her: on a trice, so please you,
Even ina dream, were we divided from them,
And were brought moping hither.
Ari. (eis to PRo.
Pro.

Was’t well done?
Aside to ARI.] Bravely, my diligence! Thou

shalt be free. 241

Alon. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod;
And there is in this business more than nature
Was ever conduct of : some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
Pro. Sir, my liege,
Do not infest your mind with beating on .
The strangeness of this business: at pick’d leisure,
Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you
(Which to you shall seem probable) of every
These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful, 250
And think of each thing well.—[Aside to ARI.] Come
hither, spirit :
Set Caliban and his companions free ;
Untie the spell. [Hzxit ARIEL.] How fares my
gracious sir?

There are yet missing of your company
Some few odd lads, that you remember not.

Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and
TRINCULO, in their stolen apparel.

Ste. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man
take care for himself, for all is but fortune.—Coragio !
bully-monster, coragio! ; :

Trin. If these be true spies which I wear in my
head, here’s a goodly sight. 260

THE TEMPEST.

 

981

Cal. O Setebos! these be brave spirits, indeed.
How fine my master is! I am afraid
He will chastise me.

Seb. Ha, ha!

What things are these, my Lord Antonio? :
Will money buy them ?

Ant. | Very like: one of them
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.

Pro. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,
Then say, if they be true.—This misshapen knave,
His mother was a witch; and one so strong
That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, 270
And deal in her command, without her power.

These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil
(For he’s a bastard one) had plotted with them
To take my life: two of these fellows you

Must know, and own; this thing of darkness I
Acknowledge mine.

Cal. I shall be pinch’d to death.

Alon. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?

Seb. He is drunk now: where had he wine?

Alon. And Trinculois reeling ripe : where should they
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em? 280
How cam’st thou in this pickle?

Trin. I have been in such a pickle, since Isaw you
last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I
shall not fear fly-blowing.

Seb. Why, how now, Stephano?

Ste. O! touch me not: I am not Stephano, but a
cramp.

Pra. You’d be king of the isle, sirrah ?

Ste. I should have been a sore one then.

Alon. [Pointing to Cau.] This is a strange thing as

eer I look’d on, 290

Pro, He is as disproportion’d in his manners
As in his shape.—Go, sirrah, to my cell;

Take with you your companions: as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.

Cal. Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter,
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god,

And worship this dull fool!

Pro. Go to; away!

Alon. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you

found it.

Seb. Orstole it, rather. [Exeunt Cau., STE.,and TRIN.

Pro. Sir, linvite your highness, and your train, 301
To my weer cell, where you shall take your rest
For this one night ; which, part of it, I’ll waste
With such discourse, as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go ane away ; the story of my life,

And the particular accidents gone by,

Since I came to this isle: and in the morn,
I'll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial

Of these our dear-belov’d solemnised ;—
And thence retire me to my Milan, where
Every third thought shall be my grave.

Alon. Tlong
To hear the story of your life, which must
Take the ear strangely.

Pro. I'll deliver all;

And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales,

And sail so expeditious, that shall catch

Your royal fleet far off.—My Ariel,—chick,—

That is thy charge; then to the elements!

Be free, and fare thou well !—Please you, draw near.
[Execunt.

310

EPILOGUE.
Spoken by PROSPERO.

Now my charms are all o’erthrown,
And what strength I have ’s mine own ;
Which is most faint : now, ’tis true,

I must be here confin’d by you,

Or sent to Naples. Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got,

And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell

In this bare island, by your spell;

But release me from my bands,

With the help of your good hands. 10

 

Gentle breath of yours my sails

Must fill, or else my project fails,

Which was to please. Now I want

Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be reliev’d by prayer,

Which pierces so, that it assaults

Mercy itself, and frees all faults.

As you from crimes would pardon’d be,

Let your indulgence set me free. 20

 

 
 

 

KING HENRY VIII.

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

Kine HENRY THE EIGHTH.
CARDINAL WOLSEY.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS.

Capucius, Ambassador from Charles V.
CRANMER, Archbishop of Canterbury.
DUKE oF NORFOLK,

DUKE OF SUFFOLK.

DUKE oF BUCKINGHAM.

EARL OF SURREY.

Lord Chamberlain.

Lord Chancellor.

GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester.
BIsHOP OF LINCOLN.

LorD ABERGAVENNY.

Lorp Sanbs.

Sir HENRY GUILDFORD.

Sir THOMAS LOVELL.

SIR ANTHONY DENNY.

Str NICHOLAS VAUX.

Secretaries to Wolsey.

CROMWELL, Servant to Wolsey.

GRIFFITH, Gentleman-Usher to Queen Katharine.
Three other Gentlemen.

Garter King-at-Arms.

Docror Butts, Physician to the King.

Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham.

BRANDON, and a Sergeant-at-Arms,

Door-keeper of the Council-chamber.

Porter, and his Man,

Page to Gardiner. A Crier.

QUEEN KATHARINE, Wife to King Henry.
ANNE BULLEN, her Maid of Honour.

An Old Lady, Friend to Anne Bullen.
PATIENCE, Woman to Queen Katharine.

Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb-shows;
Women attending upon the Queen; Spirits,
which appear to her; Scribes, Officers, Guards,

! and other Attendants.

SCENE—Chiefly in LONDON and WESTMINSTER; once, at KIMBOLTON.

 
 

Fe PROLOGUE.
AID t
RN COME no more tomake you laugh: things | A noise of targets, or to see a fellow
Tis now, In along motley coat, guarded with yellow,

  
    

That bear a weighty and a serious brow,
Sad, high, and working, full of state and

woe,
Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,
We now present. Those that can pity,

here
May, if they think it well, let fall a tear ;
The subject will deserve it. Such as give
Their money out of hope they may believe,
May here find truth too. Those that come
to see
Only a show or two, and so agree ag
The play may pass, if they be still and willing,
Ill undertake, may see away their shilling
Richly in two short hours. Only they
That come to hear a merry, bawdy play,

10

Will be deceiv'd ; for, gentle hearers, know,
To rank our chosen truth with such a show
As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting
Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring,
To make that only true we now intend,
Will leave us never an understanding triend.
Therefore, for goodness’ sake, and as you are known
The first and happiest hearers of the town,
Be sad, as we would make ye: think, ye see
The very persons of our noble story,
As they were living; think, you see them great,
And follow’d with the general throng, and sweat
Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see
How soon this mightiness meets misery :
And if you can be merry then, I'll say,

; A man may weep upon his wedding-day.

20

30

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

ACT I.

ScENE I.—London.

Buckingham.
OOD morrow, and well met. How have
, you done,
Since last we saw in France?

Nor. I thank your grace,
Healthful ; and ever since a fresh admirer
Of what I saw there.

Buck. An untimely ague
Stay’d me _a prisoner in my chamber,

   
   
   

when
Those suns of glory, those two lights of

men,
Met in the vale of Andren.
’Twixt Guynes and Arde:

Nor.
I was then present, saw them salute on horseback ;
Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung

In their embracement, as they grew together; 10
Which had ee what four thron’d ones could have
weigh’
Such a compounded one?
Buck. _ __All the whole time
I was my chamber’s prisoner.

Nor. Then you lost
The view of earthly glory: men might say,
Till this time pomp was single, but now married
To one above itself. Each following day
Became the next day’s master, till the last
Made former wonders its. To-day the French
All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,
Shone down the English ; and to-morrow they 20
Made Britain, India: every man that stood
Show’d like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were
As cherubins, all gilt: the madams too,
Not us’d to toil, did almost swear to bear
The pride upon them, that their very labour
Was to them as a painting. Now this masque
Was cried incomparable ; and the ensuing night
Made it a fool, and beggar. The two kings,
Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,
As presence did present them; him in eye 30
Still him in praise ; and, being present both,
"T was said, they saw but one, and no discerner
Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns
(For so they phrase them) by their heralds challeng’d
The noble spirits to arms, they did perform
Beyond thought’s compass; that former fabulous
story,
Being now seen

ossible enough, got credit,
That Bevis was

eliev'd.
Buck. QO! you go far.
Nor. AsI belong to worship, and affect
In honour honesty, the tract of everything 40
Would by a good discourser lose some life,
Which action’s self was tongue to. All was royal:
To the disposing of it nought rebell’d; |
Order gave each thing view, the office did
Distinctly his full function. : :
Buck. Who did guide,
I mean, who set the body and the limbs
Of this great sport together, as you guess?
Nor. One, certes, that promises no element
In such a business. ;
Buck. I Day you, who, my lord?
‘Nor. All this was order’d by the good discretion 50
Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

 

An Ante-chamber in the Palace.

Enter the Duke of NoRFOLK, at one door; at the other, the Duke of BUCKINGHAM,
and the Lord ABERGAVENNY.

Buck. The devil speed him! no man’s pie is freed.
From his ambitious finger. What had he
To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder,
That such a keech can with his very bulk
Take up the rays o’ the beneficial sun,
And keep it from the earth.
Nor. Surely, sir,
There’s in him stuff that puts him to these ends;
For, being not propp’d by ancestry, whose grace
Chalks successors their way, nor call’d upon 60
For high feats done to the crown; neither allied
To eminent assistants ; but, spider-like,
Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,
The force of his own merit makes his way ;
A gift that Heaven gives for him, which ian
A place next to the king,
Icannot tell .

Aber.
What Heaven hath given him : let some graver eye
Pierce into that ; but I can see his pride
Peep through each part of him: whence has he that?
If not from hell, the devil is a niggard, 70
Or has given all before, and he begins
A new hell in himself.
Buck, Why the devil,
Upon this French going-out, took he upon him,
ithout the privity o’ the ee t appoint
Who should attend on him? He makes up the file
Of all the gentry ; for the most part such
To whom as great a charge as little honour
He meant to lay upon: and his own letter,
The honourable board of council out,
Must fetch him in he papers.
Aber, ; I do know 80
Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have
By this so sicken’d their estates, that never
They shall abound as formerly.
Buck, O, many
Have broke their backs with laying manors on them
For this great journey. What did this vanity,
But minister communication of
A most poor issue?
I think,

Nor. Grieving]
The peace between the French and us not values
Every man,

The cost that did conclude it.
Buck. TY.
After the hideous storm that follow’d, was 90
A thing inspir’d; and, not consulting, broke
Into a general prophecy,—that this tempest,

Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded
The sudden breach on’t.
Which is budded out;

Nor.
For France hath flaw’d the league, and hath attach’d
Our merchants’ goods at Bourdeaux.

Aber. Is it therefore
The ambassador is silenc’d?
or. Marry, is ’t.

Aber. A proper title of a peace, and purchas’d
At a superfluous rate.

Buck. Why, all this business
Our reverend cardinal carried.

or. Like it your grace,

The state takes notice of the private difference 101
Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you,
(And take it from a heart that wishes towards you
Honour and plenteous safety,) that you read

 
 

 

984 KING HENRY VIII. {Act I.

 

The cardinal's malice and his potency If with the sap of reason you would quench,
Together :; to consider further, that Or but allay, the fire of passion. __
What his high hatred would effect wants not Buck. . Sir,
A minister in his power. You know his nature, I am thankful to you, and Ill go along
That he’s revengeful; and, I know, his sword By your prescription ; but this top-proud fellow,
Hath a sharp edge: it’s long, and ’t may be said, 110 | Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but
It reaches far; and where ’t will not extend, From sincere motions, by intelligence,
Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel, And proofs as clear as founts in July, when
You'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock, | We see each grain of gravel, Ido know
That I advise your shunning. To be corrupt and treasonous.
: Nor. Say not, treasonous.
Enter Cardinal WouseEy, (the purse borne before Buck. To the king I’ll say ’t, and make my vouch as

him,) certain of the Guard, and two Secretaries strong
with papers. The Cardinal in his passage fixeth | As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox,
his eye on BUCKINGHAM, and BUCKINGHAM ov | Or wolf, or both (for he is equal ravenous,

him, both full of disdain. As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief, 160
Wol. The Duke of Buckingham’s surveyor? ha! As able to perform ’t, his mind and place
Where’s his examination? Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally),

Only to show his pomp as well in France

--—— ' As here at home, suggests the king, sur master,
- : To this last costly treaty, the interview,

That swallow’d so much treasure, and like a

Nor. . ’Faith, and so it did.
Buck. Pray, give me favour, sir. This
cunning cardinal
The articles 0’ the combination drew
As himself pleas’d ; and they were ratified, 170
As he cried, ‘‘ Thus let be,” to as much end,
As give a crutch to the dead. But our count-
cardinal
Has done this, and ’t is well; for worthy Wolsey,
Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,
Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy
To the old dam, treason,) Charles the emperor,
Under pretence to see the queen, his aunt,
(For ’t was, indeed, his colour, but he came
To whisper Wolsey,) here makes visitation :
His fears were, that the interview betwixt 180
England and France might, through theiramity,
Breed him some prejudice ; for from this league

  

1 Sec:

rT. Here, so please you. :
Hol. Is he in person ready ? | Peep’d harms that menac’d him. _ He privily
1 Seer. Ay, please your grace. | Deals with our cardinal, and, as I trow,—
Wol. Well, we shall then know more; and Buck- | Which I do well; for, Iam sure, the emperor

ingham Paid ere he promis’d, whereby his suit was granted,
Shall lessen this big look. Ere it was ask'd: but when the way was made,
[EFxzeunt WOLSEY and Train. | And pav’d with fold, the emperor thus desir’d :—
Buck. This butcher’s cur is venom-mouth’d, and I That he would please to alter the king’s course,
Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore, best 121 | And break the foresaid peace. Let the king
Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book know
Outworths a noble’s blood. (As soon he shall by me), that thus the cardinal
Nor. What! are you chaf'd? Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases,
Ask God for temperance; that’s the appliance only, And for his own advantage.
Which your disease requires. Nor. Iam sorry
Buck. I read in’s looks To hear this of him; and could wish he were
Matter against me ; and his eye revil’d Something mistaken in ’t.
Me, as his abject object : at this instant Buck. No, not a syllable:

He bores me with some trick. He’s gone to the | Ido pecabanes him in that very shape,
ing: He shall appear in proof.
Ill follow, and outstare him.

Nor. Stay, my lord, Enter BRANDON ; a Sergeant-at-Arms before him,
And let your reason with your choler question 130 and two or three of the Guard.
What ’tis oy goabout. To climb steep hills Bran. Your office, sergeant: execute it.
Requires slow pace at first : anger is like erg. Sir,
A full-hot horse, who being allow’d his way, My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl
Self-mettle tires him. Not aman in England Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I 200
Can advise me like you: be to yourself Arrest thee of high treason, in the name
As you would to your friend. Of our most sovereign king.

Buck. I'll to the king; Buck, Lo you, my lord,
And from a mouth of honour quite cry down The net has fall’n upon me: I shall perish
This Ipswich fellow’s insolence, or proclaim Under device and practice.
There’s difference in no persons. Bran. I am sorry

Nor. Be advis’d ; To see you ta’en from liberty, to look on
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot 140 | The business, present. *T’is his highness’ pleasure,
That it do singe yourself. We may outrun You shall to the Tower.
By violent swiftness that which we run at, Buck. It will help me nothing,
And lose by over-running. Know you not, To plead mine innocence ; for that die is on me, :
The fire that mounts tae Daien till ‘t run o’er, Which makes my whitest part black. The will of
In seeming to augment it, wastes it? Be advis’d: Heaven .
I say again, there is no English soul Be done in this and all things.—I obey.— 210

More stronger to direct you than yourself, O! my Lord Aberga'ny, fare you well.

 

 

 
 

ScENE II.)

KING HENRY VIIL.

985

 

Bran. Nay, he must bear you company. —[To
ABERGAVENNY.] The king
Is pleas’d you shall to the Tower, till you know
How he determines further.
As the duke said,

Aber.
The will of Heaven be done, and the king’s pleasure
By me obey’d.
ran, Here is a warrant from
The king to attach Lord Montacute ; and the bodies
Of the duke’s confessor, John de Ja Car,
One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor,—
Buck, So, so;
These are the limbs o’ the plot. No more, I hope. 220
Bran. A monk o' the Chartreux.
Buck. O! Nicholas Hopkins?
Bran. He.
Buck. My surveyor is false: the o’er-great cardinal
Hath show’d him gold. My life is spann’d already:
I am the shadow of poor Buckingham,
Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,
By darkening my clear sun.—My lord, farewell.
[Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Council-chamber.

Cornets. Enter King HENRY, Cardinal WOLSEY,
the Lords of the Council, Sir Tuomas LOvVELL,
Officers, and Attendants. The KING enters leaning
on the Cardinal’s shoulder.

K. Hen. My life itself, and the best heart of it,
Thanks you for this great care. I stood i’ the level
Of a full-charg’d confederacy, and give thanks
To you that chok’d it.—Let be call’d before us
That gentleman of Buckingham’s: in person
I’) hear him his confessions justify,

And point by point the treasons of his master

He shall again relate.

A noise within, crying “Room forthe Queen!” Enter
the QUEEN, ushered by the Dukes of NORFOLK and
SUFFOLK: she kneels. The KiNG riseth from his
state, takes her up, kisses, and placeth her by him.

. Kath. Nay, we must longer kneel: Iam a suitor.
. Hen. Arise, and take place by us.—Half your
suit 10

Never name to us; you have half our power:

The other moiety, ere you ask, is given ;

Repeat your will, and take it.
0. Kath. Thank your majesty.

That you would love yourself, and in that love

Not unconsider'd leave your honour, nor

The dignity of your office, is the point

Of my petition.

K. Ne. Lady mine, proceed.
Q. Kath. 1am solicited, not byafew, _
And those of true condition, that your subjects :
Are in great grievance. There have been commis-
sions 20

Sent down among them, which hath flaw’d the heart

Of all their loyalties : wherein, although,

My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches

Most bitterly on you, as putter-on

Of these exactions, yet the king our master,

Whose honour Heaven shield from soil! even he

escapes not ;

Language unmannerly; yea, such which breaks

The side of loyalty, and almost appears

In loud rebellion.

Nor. Not almost appears,

1t doth appear ; for upon these taxations, 30

The clothiers all, not able to maintain

The many to them ‘longing, have put off

The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,

Unfit for other life, compell’d by hunger

And lack of other means, in desperate manner

Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar,

And danger serves among them. ;
K. Hen. . Taxation! —

Wherein? and what taxation ?—My lord cardinal,

You that are blam’d for it alike with us,

Know you of this taxation?

 

 

 

Wol. ; Please you, sir, 40
I know but of a single part, in aught
Pertains to the state; and front but in that file
Where others tell steps with me.
). Kath. No, my lord,
You know no more than others ; but you frame
Things, that are knownalike, which arenot wholesome
To those which would not know them, and yet must
Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,
Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are
Most pestilent to the hearing; and to bear them,
The back is sacrifice to the oad. They say,
They are devis’d by you, or else you suffer
Too hard an exclamation.
A. Hen.
The nature of it?
Is this exaction?
Q. Kath. I am much too venturous
In tempting of your patience ; but am bolden’d |
Unider your promis’d pardon. The subjects’ grief
Comes through commissions, which compel from each
The sixth part of his substance, to be levied
Without delay ; and the pretence for this
Is nam'd, your wars in France. This makes bold
mouths: 60
Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze
Allegiance in them: their curses now
Live where their prayers did; and it’s come to pass,
This tractable obedience is a slave
To each incensed will. I would, your highness
Would give it quick consideration, for
There is no primer business. .
K. Hen. By my life,
This is against our pleasure.
Wol

Still exaction !
In what kind, let’s know,

5 And for me,
I have no further reve in this, than by
A single voice, and that not pass’d me but 70
By learned approbation of the judges. If Iam
Traduc’d by ignorant tongues, which neither know
My faculties, nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing, let me say,
°T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake
That virtue must go through. We must not stint
Our necessary actions, in the fear
To cope malicious censurers ; which ever,
As ravenous fishes, do a vessel] follow
That is new-trimm’d, but benefit no further 80
Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,
By sick interpreters (once weak ones) is
Not ours, or not allow’d ; what worst, as oft,
Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up
For our best act. If we shall stand still,
In fear our motion will be mock’d or carp’d at,
We should take root here, where we sit, or sit
State-statues only.
. Hen. Things done well,

And with a care, exempt themselves from fear ;
Things done without example, in their issue 20
Are to be fear’d. Have you a precedent
Of this commission? I believe, not any.
We must not rend our subjects from our laws,
And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?
A trembling contribution! Why, we take
From every tree, lop, bark, and part o’ the timber;
And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack’d,
The air will drink the sap. To every county,
Where this is question’d, send our letters, with
Free pardon to each man that has denied
The force of this commission. Pray, look to’t;
I put it to your care.

Wol. [To the Secretary.) A word with you.
Let there be letters writ to every shire,
Of the king’s grace and pardon. The griev’d commons
Hardly conceive of me; let it be nois’d,
That through our intercession this revokement
And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you
Further in the proceeding. [Exit Secretary.

100

Enter Surveyor.
Q. Kath, I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham
Is run in your displeasure.
110

. Hen. It grieves many :

 

 
 

 

986 KING HENRY VIII. [Act I.

 

The gentleman is learn’d, and a most rare speaker, (This was his gentleman in trust) of him

To nature none more bound; his training such Things to strike honour sad.—Bid him recount
That he may furnish and instruct great teachers, The tore-recited practices ; whereof

And never seek tor aid out of himself. Yet see, We cannot feel too little, hear too much.

 

Q. Kath. “ Nay, we must longer kneel: I am a suitor.”

When these so noble benefits shall prove Wol. Stand forth; and with bold spirit relate what
Not well dispos’d, the mind growing once corrupt, you,

They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly Most like a careful subject, have collected 130
Than ever they were fair. This man so complete, Out of the Duke of Buckingham.

Who was enroll’d ’mongst wonders, and when we, Jk. Hen. . Speak freely.
Almost with ravish'd list’ning, could not find 120 Surv, First, it was usual with him, every day

His hour of speech a minute, he, my lady, It would infect his speech, that if the king

Hath into monstrous habits put the graces Should without issue die, he'll carry it so

That once were his, and is become as black To make the sceptre his. These very words
As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear I’ve heard him utter to his son-in-law,

 

 
 

ScenkE III]

 

Lord Aberga’ny, to whom by oath he menac’d
Revenge upon the cardinal.

Wol. ___ Please your highness, note
This dangerous conception in this point.
Not friended by his wish, to your high person 140
His will is most malignant; and it stretches
Beyond you, to your friends.

. Kath. My learn’d lord cardinal,

Deliver all with charity.

A. Hen. Speak on.
How grounded he his title to the crown,
Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him
At any time speak aught ?

Surv. He was brought to this
By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins.

dik. Hen. What was that Hopkins?

Surv. Sir, a Chartreux friar,
His confessor : who fed him every minute
With words of sovereignty.

. Hen, How know’st thou this?

Surv. Not long before your highness sped to I'rance,
The duke being at the Rose, within the parish 155
Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand
What was the speech among the Londoners
Concerning the French journey? I replied,
Men fear’d the French would prove perfidious,
To the king’s danger. Presently the duke
Said, ’t was the fear, indeed ; and that he doubted,
’T would prove the verity of certain words
Spoke by a holy monk: “‘that oft,” says he, 160
**Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit
John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour
To hear from him a matter of some moment:
Whom after, under the confession’s seal,
He solemnly had sworn, that, what he spoke,
My chaplain to no creature living, but
To me, should utter, with demure confidence
This pausingly ensu’d, —Neither the king, nor his

heirs,

(Tell you the duke) shall prosper : bid him strive
To gain the love of the commonalty : the duke 170
Sha. 1 govern England.”

Q. Kath. If I know you well,
You were the duke’s surveyor, and lost your office
On the complaint o’ the tenants: take good heed,
You charge not in your spleen a noble person,
And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed ;
Yes, heartily beseech you.

kk. Hen.
Go forward.

Surv. On my soul, I ll speak but truth.
I told my lord the duke, by the devil's illusions
The monk might be deceiv’d; and that

dangerous for him

To ruminate on this so far, until 2 7 180
It forg’d him some design, which, being believ’d,
It was much like to do. He answer’d, “ Tush !
It can do meno damage :” adding further,
That had the king in his last sickness fail d,
The cardinal’s and Sir Thomas Lovell’s heads

Let him on.—

twas

Should have gone off. ;
AK. Hen. Ha! what, sorank? Ahha!
There’s mischief in this man.—Canst thou say
further?
Surv. I can, my liege.
K. Hen. Proceed. , 7
Surv. Being at Greenwich,

After your highness had reprov’d the duke
About Sir William Blomer,-—
K. Hen. I remember 190
Of such a time: being my sworn servant,
The duke retain’d him his.—But on: what hence?
Surv. “If,” quoth he, “I for this had been com-
mitted, ‘
As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play’d
The part my father meant toact upon
The usurper Richard ; who, being at Salisbury, ;
Made suit to come in his presence; which if
granted, :
As he made semblance of his duty, would
Have put his knife into him.”

K. Hen. A giant traitor!

 

KING HENRY VII. £87
Wol. Now, madam, may his highness live in
freedom, 200

And this man out of prison ?

Q. Kath. God mend all!
4. Hen. There’s something more would out of
thee: what say'st?
Surv. eee “the duke his father,” with ‘the
nite,” :
He stretch’d him, and, with one hand on his dagger,
Another spread on his breast, mounting his eyes,
He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenor
Was,—were he evil us’d, he would outgo
His father, by as much as a performance
Does an irresolute purpose.
. Hen. There’s his period,

To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach’d; 210
Call him to present trial: if he may
Find mercy in the law, ‘tis his ; if none,
Let him not seek’t of us. By day and night!
He’s traitor to the height. {Exeunt.

ScENE IIJ.—A Room in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain and Lord SANDS.
Cham. Is’t possible, the spells of France should
ntoineee
Men into such strange mysteries?
Sands. New customs,
Though they be never so ridiculous,
Nay, let ’’em be unmanly, yet are follow’d.
Cham. As far as I see, all the good our English
Have got by the late voyage is but merely
A fit or two o’ the face; but they are shrewd ones,
For when they hold ’em, you would swear directly,
Their very noses had been counsellors
To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. 10
Sands. They have all new legs, and lame ones: one
would take it,
That never saw ’em pace before, the spavin
And springhalt reign’d among ’em.
Cham. Death ! my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,
That, sure, they ’ve worn out Christendom.

Enter Sir THomas LOVELL.
: How now?
What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?
ov. ’Faith, my lord,
I hear of none, but the new proclamation
That’s clapp’d upon the court-gate.
Cham, What is’t for?
Lov. The reformation of our travell’d gallants,
That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. 20
Cham. Iam glad ’tis there: now, I would pray our
monsieurs
To think an English courtier may be wise,
And never see the Louvre.
Lov. They must either
(For so run the conditions) leave those remnants
Of fool, and feather, that they got in France,
With all their honourable points of ignorance
Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks ;
Abusing better men than they can be,
Out of a foreign wisdom ; renouncing clean
The faith they have in tennis and tall stockings, 30
Short blister’d breeches, and those types of travel,
And understand again like honest men ;
Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,
They may, cum privilegio, wear away
The lag end of their lewdness, and be laugh’d at.
Sands. ’Tis time to give ’em physic, their diseases
Are grown so catching.
Cham. What a loss our ladies
Will have of these trim vanities!
Ov. Ay, marry,
There will be woe indeed, lords: the a whoresons
Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies ; 40
A French song, and a fiddle, has no fellow.
Sands. ane devil fiddle em! I am glad they're
going,

 

 
 

 

988 KING

HENRY VIII.

[Acr I.

 

 

 

For, sure, there ’s no converting of ’em: now,
An honest country lord, as Iam, beaten |
A long time out of play, may bring his plain-song,
And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r lady,
Held current music too.

Cham. Well said, Lord Sands:
Your colt’s tooth is not cast yet.

Sands. No, my lord ;
Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Cham.
Whither were you a-going?

ov.

Sir Thomas,

To the cardinal’s. 50

Your lordship is a guest too.
Cham. O! tis true:

This night he makes a supper, and a great one,

To many lords and ladies; there will be

The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you. r
Lov. That churchman bears a bounteous mind

indeed,

A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us:

His dews fall every where.

Cham, No doubt, he’s noble;
He had a black mouth that said other of him.

Sands. He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him,
Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: 60
Men of his way should be most liberal ;

They are set here for examples.

Cham. True, they are so;
But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;
Your lordship shall along.—Come, good Sir Thomas,
We shall be late else; which I would not be,

For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford,
This night to be comptrollers.

Sands. I am your lordship’s.

Lxeunt.

ScEeNE IV.—The Presence-chamber in York Place.

Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Car-
dinal, a longer table for the_quests ; then enter
ANNE BULLEN, and divers Lords, Ladies, and
Gentlewomen, as guests, at one door; at another
door, enter Sir HENRY GUILDFORD.

Guild. Ladies, a general welcome from his grace

Salutes ye all: this night he dedicates

To fair content, and you. None here, he hopes,

In all this noble bevy, has brought with her

One care abroad : he would have all as merry

As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome

Can make good people.

Enter Lord Chamberlain, Lord SANDS, and Sir
THOMAS LOVELL.
: O, my lord! you are tardy ;

The very thought of this fair company
Clapp'd wings to me.

Cham. __ You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.

Sands. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal 10
But half my lay-thoughts in him, some of these
Should find a running banquet ere they rested,
I think would better please ’em : by my life,
They are a sweet society of fair ones.

Lov. O! that your lordship were but now confessor
To one or two of these.

‘ands. I would, I were ;

They should find easy penance.

Lov. Faith, how easy?

Sands. As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Cham. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir

arry,
Place you that side, I’ll take the charge of this: 20
His grace is entering.—Nay, you must not freeze;
Two women plac’d together makes cold weather :—
My Lord Sands, you are one will keep them waking;
Pray, sit between these ladies.
Sands. By my faith,
And thane your lordship.—By your leave, sweet
ladies :
[Seats himself between ANNE BULLEN and
another Lady.

 

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
I had it from my father.
lune. Was he mad, sir?
Sands. ‘ O! very mad, exceeding mad; in love
00;
But he would bite none: just as I do now,
He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses her.
Cham. Well said, my lord.—
So, now you are fairly seated.-Gentlemen, 31
The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies
Pass away frowning.
Sands,
Let me alone.

Hautboys. Enter Cardinal WoLuseEy, attended, and
takes his state.
Wol. You are welcome, my fair guests: that noble

For my little cure,

aay,
Or gentleman, that is not freely merry,
Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome;
And to you all good health. [Drinks.

Sands. Your grace is noble:
Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,

And save me so much talking.

Wol. My Lord Sands, 410
Iam beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.-—
Ladies, you are not merry :—gentlemen,

Whose tault is this?

Sands. The red wine first must rise
In their fair cheeks, my lord; then, we shall have ’em
Talk us to silence.

Anne.

My Lord Sands.

Sands. Yes, if I make my play.

Here’s to your lordship ; and pledge it, madam,
For 'tis to such a thing,—

Anne, You cannot show me.

Sands. I told your grace, they would talk anon.

rum and trumpets within; chambers

You are a merry gamester,

discharged.
Wol. What's that?
Cham. Look out there, some of you.
[Exit a Servant.
Wol. What warlike voice,

And to what end is this?+-Nay, ladies, fear not; 51
By all the laws of war you are privileg’d.

Re-enter Servant.
Cham. How now? what is’t?
Serv, A noble troop of strangers ;
For so whey. seem: they’ve left their barge, an
anded ;
And hither make, as great ambassadors
From foreign princes.
Wol. Good lord chamberlain,
Go, give them welcome ; you can speak the French
tongue:
And, pray, receive ’em nobly, and conduct ’em
Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty
Shall shine at full upon them.—Some attend him.— 60
Exit Chamberlain, attended. All arise, and
tables removed.
You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend
it.

A youd digestion to you all; and, once more,
I shower a welcome on ye.—Welcome all.

Hautboys. Enter the K1nG, and others, as Masquers,
habited like shepherds, ushered by the Lord Cham-
berlain. They pass directly before the Cardinal,
and gracefully salute him.

A noble company ! what are their pleasures?

Cham. Because they speak no English, thus they
pray

To tell your oe :—that, having heard by fame

Of this so noble and so fair assembly

This night to meet here, they could do no less,

Out of the great respect they bear to beauty,

But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,

Crave leave to view these ladies, and entreat 71

An hour of revels with ‘em.
Wolk. Say, lord chamberlain

 

 
 

ScENE IV.] KING HENRY VII. 989

 

 

 

They i yee my poor house grace; for which I | If I but knew him, with my love and duty 80
J would surrender it.
A tivtliennat Phantice; and pray ‘em take their pleasures. Cham. I will, my lord.
[Ladies chosen for the dance. The KiNG [Goes to the Masquers, and returns.
takes ANNE BULLEN. Wol, What say they?

 

KING HENRY DANCING WITH ANNE BULLEN.

K. Hen. The fairest hand Iever touch’d. O beauty! Cham. Such a one, they all confess.
Till now I never knew thee. [Music. Dance, | There is, indeed; which they would ‘have your grace

Wol. My lord! Find out, and he will take it.

Cham. Your grace? Wol. Let me see then.—

Wol. Pray, tell them thus much from me: [Comes from his state.
There should be one amongst them, by his person, Hu all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I’ll make
More worthy this place than myself ; to whom, y royal choice.

 

 
 

$90

KING HENRY VIII.

(Act IT.

 

You hold a fair assembly ; you do well, lord
You are a churchman, or, I°ll tell you, cardinal,
Ishould judge now unhappily.

Wol Iam glad,
Your grace is grown so pleasant. d
A. Hen. My lord chamberlain,

Pr'ythee, come hither. What fair lady’s that?
daughter,
The Viscount Rochford, one of her highness’ women.

heart,
I were unmannerly to take you out,
And not to kiss you.—A health, gentlemen !
Let it go round.

K. Hen. [Unmasking.] Ye have found him, cardinal.

Cham. An't please your grace, Sir Thomas Bullen’s

4K. Hen. By Heaven, she is a dainty one.—Sweet-

Wol. . Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready

I the privy chamber?

Ov. Yes, my lord.
Wol.

I fear, with dancing is a little heated.
AL, Hen. I fear, too much.
Wrol. There’s fresher air, my lord,

101

Your grace,

In the next chamber.

dx. Hen. Lead in your ladies, every one.—Sweet
partner,

I must not yet forsake you.—Let’s be merry,

Good my lord cardinal : I have half a dozen healths

‘To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure

To lead ’em once again ; and then let’s dream

Who's best in favour.—Let the music knock it.

[Ezcunt, with trumpets.

 

 

 

 

 

1 Gentleman.
“HITHER away so fast?
2 Gent. O!—God
save you,
E’en to the hall, to hear what shall

 

   
 

become
Of the great Duke of Buckingham.
1 Gent. I'll save you
That labour, sir. All’s now done, but
the ceremony
Of bringing back the prisoner.
2 Gent. Were you there?
1 Gent. Yes, indeed, was I.
\ 2 Gent. Pray, speak what has
Fy happen’d.
1 Gent. You may guess quickly what.
2 Gent. Is he found guilty ?
1 Gent. Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon it.
2 Gent. Iam sorry for ’t.
1 Gent. So are a number more.
2 Gent. But, pray, how pass’d it?
1 Gent. I'll tell youin a little. The great duke
Came to the bar; where to his accusations
He pleaded still not guilty, and alleg’d
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.
The king's attorney, on the contrary,
Urg’d on the examinations, proofs, confessions
Of divers witnesses, which the duke desir'd
To have brought, vivd voce, to his face:
At which appeared against him, his surveyor;
Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor ; and John Car, 20
Confessor to him; with that devil-monk,
Hopkins, that made this mischief.

2 Gent. That was he
That fed him with his prophecies?
1 Gent The same.

All these accus'd him strongly; which he fain
Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not:
And so his pa upon this evidence,
Have found him guilty of high treason. Much
He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all
Was either pitied in him, or forgotten.
2 Gent. After all this, how did he bearhimself? 30
1 Gent. When he was brought again to the bar, to hear
His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr’d.
With such an agony, he sweat ean
And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty:

 

 

ACT II.
ScENE I.—A Street.
Enter two Gentlemen, mecting.

But he fell to himself again, and sweetly
In all the rest show’d a most noble patience.
2 Gent. I do not think, he fears death.
1 Gent. . Sure, he does not;
He was never so womanish ; the cause
He may a little grieve at.

2 Gent. Certainly,
The cardinal is the end of this.
1 Gent. ’T is likely, 40

By all conjectures: first, Kildare’s attainder,
Then deputy of Ireland ; who remov'd,

Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,
Lest he should help his father.

2 Gent. That trick of state
Was a deep envious one. :
1 Gent. At his return,

No doubt, he will requite it. This is noted,
And generally ; whoever the king favours,
The cardinal instantly will find employment,
And far enough from court too.

2 Gent. All the commons
Hate him perniciously, and, o’ my conscience, 50
Wish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much
They love and dote on; call him bounteous Bucking-

ham,
The mirror of all courtesy—
1 Gent. : Stay there, sir,
And see the noble ruin’d man you speak of,

Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment ; tipstaves
before him; the axe with the edge towards him;
halberds_on each side; accompanicd with Sir
THOMAS LOVELL, Sir NICHOLAS VAUX, Sir WILLIAM
SANDs, and common people.

2 Gent. Let’s stand close, and behold him.
Buck. All good people,

You that thus far have come to pity me,

Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.

Ihave this day receiv’d a traitor’s judgment, _

And by that name must die: yet, Heaven bear witness,

And if I have a conscience, let it sink me, 60

Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful.

The law I bear no malice for my death,

It has done upon the premises but justice ; .

But those that sought it I could wish more Christians:

Be what they will, I heartily forgive them.

| Yet let them look they glory not in mischief,

 

 
ScENE I]

KING HENRY VIII.

991

 

 

Nor build their evils on the graves of great men;

For then my guiltless blood must cry against them.

For further life in this world I ne'er hope,

Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies

More than I dare make faults. You few that lov’d me,

And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,

His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave

Is only bitter to him, only dying,

Go with me, like good angels, to my end;

And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,

Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,

And lift my soul to heaven.—Lead on, o’ God’s name.
Lov. I do beseech your grace for charity,

70

‘f IN\W15

i Wis

Buck. “Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you,

Ag 1 would be forgiven.

If ever any malice in your heart 80

Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.
Buck. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you,

As I would be cee I forgive all.

There cannot be those numberless offences

*Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with: no black

envy ;

Shall make my grave. Commend me to his grace;
And, if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him,
You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers
Yet are the king’s; and, till my soul forsake,
Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live 90
Longer than I have time to tell his years!
Ever belov’d, and loving, may his rule be!
‘And when old time shall lead him to his end,
Goodness and he fill up one monument!

Lov. To the water side I must conduct your grace ;
Then, give vy charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,
Who undertakes you to your end.

Vauz. Prepare there
The duke is coming: see the barge be ready,
And fit it with such furniture, as suits
The greatness of his person.

Buck. 100

Nay, Sir Nicholas,
Let it alone: my state now will but mock me.
When I came hither, I was lord high constable,
And Duke of Buckingham ; now, poor Edward Bohun:
Yet Iam richer than my base accusers, bs
That never knew what truth meant. I now seal it;
And with that blood will make them one day groan

for ’t.
My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, |
Who first rais’d head against usurping Richard,
Flying for succour to his servant anister,

Being distress’d, was by that wretch betray’d, 110

 

 

And without trial fell: God’s peace be with him!

Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying

My father’s loss, like a most royal prince,

Restor’d me to my honours, and, out of ruins,

Made my name once more noble. Now, his son,

Henry the Kighth, life, honour, name, and all

That made me happy, at one stroke has taken

For ever from the world. I had my trial,

And, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me

A little happier than my wretched father: 120

Yet thus far we are one in fortunes,—both

Fell by our servants, by those men we lov’d most:

A most unnatural and faithless service!

Heaven has an end in all; yet, you
that hear me,

This from a dying man receive as
certain:

Where you are liberal of your loves
and counsels,

Be sure you be not loose; for those
you make friends,

And give your hearts to, when they
once perceive

The least rub in your fortunes, fall
away

Like water from ye, never found
again 130

But where they mean to sink ye.
All good people,

Pray for me! I must now forsake
ye: the last hour

Of my long weary life is come upon
me.

Farewell:
And when you would say something
that is sad,
Speak how I fell.—I have done; and
God forgive me!
[Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and

Train.
1 Gent. O! this is full of pity.—
Sir, it calls,
I fear, too many curses on their

eads
That were the authors.
2 Gent.
be guiltless,
"T is full of woe; yet I can give you inkling
Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,
Greater than this.

If the duke
140

1 Gent. Good angels keep it from us!
What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?
2 Gent. This secret is so weighty, ’t will require

A strong faith to conceal it.

1 Gent. Let me have it:
I do not talk much.
2 Gent. I am confident:

You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear
A buzzing of a separation
Between the king and Katharine?
1 Gent. Yes, but it held not ;
For when the king once heard it, out of anger 150
He sent command to the lord mayor straight
To stop the rumour, and allay those tongues
That durst disperse it.
2 Gent. But that slander, sir,
Is found a truth now; for it grows again
Fresher than e’er it was; and held for certain,
The king will venture at it. Either the cardinal,
Or some about him near, have, out of malice
To the good queen, possess’d him with a scruple,
That will undo her: to confirm this too,
Cardinal Campeius is arriv’d, and lately,
As all think, for this business.

-1 Gent. i ’T is the cardinal;
And merely to revenge him on the emperor,
For not bestowing on him, at his asking,
The archbishoprick of Toledo, this is purpos’d.

2 Gent. I think, you have hit the mark: but is it not

cruel,
That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal
Will have his will, and she must fall.

160

 

 
 

992 KING HENRY VIII.

[Act II.

 

 

1 Gent. ‘Tis woful,
We are too open here to argue this ;
Let’s think in private more. [Exewnt.

ScENE IIJ.—An Ante-chamber in the Palace.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain, reading a letter.

Cham. “My lord,—The horses your lordship sent
for, with all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden,
and furnished. They were young, and handsome, and
of the best breed in the north. When they were ready
to set out for London, a man of my lord cardinal’s, by
commission and main power, took them from me;
with this reason,—his master would be served before
a subject, if not before the king; which stopped our
mouths, sir.” :

I fear, he will, indeed. Well, let him have them: 10
He will have all, I think.

Enter the Dukes of NORFOLK and SUFFOLK.

Nor. Well met, my lord chamberlain.
Cham. Good day to both your graces.
Suf. How is the king employ’d?

Cham. I left him private,
Full of sad thoughts and troubles.
Nor. What’s the cause?

Cham. It seems, the marriage with his brother's
wire
Has crept too near his conscience.
Suf. No; his conscience
Has crept too near another lady.
Nor. "T is so.
This is the cardinal’s doing, the king-cardinal :
That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune, 20
Turns what he list. The king will know him one

day.
Suf. Piae God, he do: he’ll never know himself
else.
Nor. How holily he works in all his business,
And with what zeal! for now he has crack'd the
leagu
Between us and the emperor, the queen’s great
nephew,
He dives into the king’s soul ; and there scatters
Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience,
Fears, and despairs, and all these for his marriage:
And out of all these to restore the king,
He counsels a divorce ; a loss of her, 30
That like a jewel has hung twenty years
About his neck, yet never lost her lustre ;
Of her, that loves him with that excellence
That angels love good men with; even of her,
That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,
Will bless the ae and is not this course pious?
Cham. Heaven keep me from such counsel! ’T is
most true,
These news are everywhere; every tongue speaks
them,
And every true heart weeps for't. All, that dare
Look into these affairs, see this main end,—
The French king’s sister. Heaven will one day open
The king's eyes, that so long have slept upon

This bold bad man.
Suf. And free us from his slavery.
Nor. We had need pray,

And heartily, for our deliverance,

Or this imperious man will work us all

From princes into pages. All men’s honours

Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd

Into what pitch he please.

uf. _ For me, my lords,

I love him not, nor fear him; there’s my creed. 50

As Iam made without him, so I'll stand,

If the king Vee : his curses and his blessings

Touch me alike, they 're breath I not believe in.

I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him

To him that made him proud, the Pope.

Nor. | Let's in;

And with some other business put the king

 

From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon

im.—
My lord, you’ll bear us company ?

Cham. Excuse me ;
The king hath sent me otherwhere : besides,
You’ll find a most unfit time to disturb him. 60
Health to your lordships. ‘
Nor. Thanks, my good lord chamberlain.

Exit Lord Chamberlain,

NORFOLK opens a folding-door. The KING is dis-
covered sitting, and reading pensively.

Suf. How sad he looks: sure, he is much afflicted.

kK. Hen. Who is there? ha!

Nor. ’Pray God, he be not angry.

K. Hen. Who’s there, Isay? How dare you thrust

yourselves
Into my private meditations?
Who am I? ha!

Nor. A gracious king, that pardons all offences,
Malice ne’er meant: our breach of duty this way
Is business of estate ; in which we come ;
To know your royal pleasure.

. Hen. Ye are too bold. 70
Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business :
Is this an hour for temporal affairs? ha !—

Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS.
Who'sthere? my good lord cardinal ?—O! my Wolsey,
The quiet of my wounded conscience ;

Thou art acure fit fora king.—[To CamMprtlus.] You're
welcome,
Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom:
Use us, and it.—[7o0 WoLsEy.] My good lord, have
great care
1 be not found a talker.
Wol. Sir, you cannot.
I would, your grace would give us but an hour
Of private conference.
AK. Hen. [To NORFOLK and SUFFOLK.] We i

usy: go.
Yor. [side to SUFFOLK.] This priest has no pride.
in him!
Suf. [Aside to NORFOLK.] Not to speak of;
I would not be so sick though for his place:
But this cannot continue.
Nor. [(.iside to SUFFOLK.] If it do,
T'll venture one have-at-him.
Suf. (Aside to NORFOLK.) _ I another.
Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK.
Wol. Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom
Above all princes, in committing freely
Your scruple to the voice of Christendom.
Who can be angry now? what envy reach you?
The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her,
Must now confess, if they have any goodness, 90
The trial just and noble. Al] the clerks,
I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms,
Have their free voices : Rome, the nurse of judgment.
Invited by your noble self, hath sent
One genera] tongue unto us, this Food man,
This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius,
Whom once more I present unto your highness.
kK. Hen. And once more in mine arms I bid him
welcome,
And thank the holy conclave for their loves:
They Hee sent me such aman I would have wish'd
‘or.
Cam. Your grace must needs deserve all strangers’
loves,
You are so noble. To your highness’ hand
I tender my commission, by whose virtue
(The court of Rome COTTA Ing you, my lord
Cardinal of York, are join’d with me, their servant,
In the unpartial judging of this business.
K. Hen, Two equal men. The queen shall be ac-
quainted
Forthwith for what you come.—Where ’s Gardiner ?
Wol. I know, your majesty has always lov’d her
So dear in heart, not to deny her that 110
A woman of less place might ask by law,
Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her.

 

 
ScEnE III.)

KING HENRY VIII.

993

 

 

4d. Hen. Ay, and the best she shall have; and my
‘avour
To him that does best: God forbid else. Cardinal,
Pr'ythee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary:
1 find him a fit fellow. [Exit WOLSEY.

Re-enter WOLSEY, with GARDINER.
Wol. Give me your hand; much joy and favour to

you:
You are the king's now.
Gard. But to be commanded
For ever by your grace, whose hand has rais’d me.
K. Hen, Come hither, Gardiner. 1
[They converse apart.
Cam. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace
In this man’s place before him?
Wol. Yes, he was.
Cam. Was he not held a learned man?
Wol. Yes, surely.
Cam. Believe me, there’s an ill opinion spread then
Even of yourself, lord cardinal.
Wol. How! of me?
Cam. They will not stick to say, you envied him,
And, fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous,
Kept him a foreign man still; which so griev’d him,
That he ran mad, and die
Wol. Heaven’s peace be with him!
That is Christian care enough: for living murmurers
There ’s places of rebuke. He was a fool, 131
For he would needs be virtuous : that good fellow,
If I command him, follows my appointment:
I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother,
We live not to be grip’d by meaner persons.
K. Hen. Deliver this with modesty to the queen.
[Exit GARDINER.
The most convenient place that I can think of,
For such receipt of learning, is Blackfriars :
There ye shall meet about this weighty business.—
My Wolsey, see it furnish’d :—O my lord! 140
Would it not grieve an able man, to leave
So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience,—
O! ’tis a tender place, and I must leave her. [Zxewnt.

ScENE IJI.—An Ante-chamber in the QUEEN’S
Apartments.

Enter ANNE BULLEN and an Old Lady.
Anne. Not for that neither :—here’s the pang that
pinches: |
His highness having liv’d so long with her, and she
So good a lady, that no tongue could ever
Pronounce dishonour of her,—by my life,
She never knew harm-doing,—O! now, after
So many courses of the sun enthron’d, ;
Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which
To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than
-T is sweet at first to acquire,—after this process,
To give her the avaunt! it is a pity
Would move a monster.

Old L. Hearts of most hard temper
Melt and lament for her.
Anne. O, God’s will! much better,

She ne’er had known pomp: though it be temporal,
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce |.

It from the bearer, ’t is a sufferance, panging

As soul and body’s severing.

Old L. Alas, poor lady!
She’s a stranger now again.
Anne. So much the more

Must pity drop upon her. Verily,
I swear, ’tis better to be lowly born,
‘And range with humble livers in content, 20
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
And wear a golden sorrow.
Old L. Our content
Is our best having.
nne. , By my troth and maidenhead,
I would not be a queen.
Old L. Beshrew me, I would,
And venture maidenhead for’t; and so would you,

 

For all this spice of your hypocrisy.
You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,
Have too a woman’s heart; which ever yet
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty :
Which, to say sooth, are blessings, and which gifts 30
(Saving your mincing) the capacity
Of your soft cheveril conscience would rective,
If you might please to stretch it.
Anne. Nay, good troth,—
Old L. Yes, troth, and troth.—You would not be a
queen ?
Anne, No, not for all the riches under heaven.
Old L. "Tis strange: a three-pence bow’d would
hire me,
Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you,
What think you of a duchess? have you limbs
To bear that load of title ?
Anne, No, in truth.
Old L, Then you are weakly made.
little:
I would not be a young count in your way,
For more than blushing comes to. If your back
Cannot vouchsafe this burden, ’t is too weak
Ever to get a boy.
Anne. How you do talk!
I swear again, I would not be a queen
For all the world.
Old L. In faith, for little England
You’d venture an emballing : I myself
Would for Carnarvonshire, although there ‘long’d
No more to the crown but that. Lo! who comes here?

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.
Cham. Good morrow, ladies. What were it worth
to know 50
The secret of your conference?
Anne. My good lord,
Not your demand: it values not your asking.
Our mistress’ sorrows we were preying
Cham. It was a gentle business, and becoming
The action of good women: there is hope
All will be well.

Pluck off a
40

Anne. Now, I pray God, Amen!
Cham. You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly
blessings

Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note’s
Ta’en of your many virtues, the king’s majesty 60
Commends his good opinion of you to you, and
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
Than Marchioness of Pembroke ; to which title
A thousand pound a year, annual support,
Out of his grace he adds.
Anne. I do not know,
What kind of my obedience I should tender :
More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers
Are not words duly hallow’d, nor my wishes
More worth than empty vanities: yet prayers, and
wishes,
Are allI can return. ’Beseech your Forde, 70
Vouchsafe to speak my thanks, and my obedience,
As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness,
Whose health and royalty I pray for.
Cham. Lady,
I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit,
The king Ba of you.—[Aside.] I have perus’d her
well:
Beauty and honour in her are so mingled,
That they have caught the king; and who knows yet,
But from this lady may proceed a fem.
To lighten all this isle?-{To her.) I'll to the king,
And say, I spoke with you.
Anne. My honour’d lord. 80
a [Exit Lord Chamberlain.
Old L. Why, this it is ; see, see!
I have been begging sixteen years in court,
(Am yet a courtier beggarly,) nor could
Come pat betwixt too early and too late,
For any suit of pe 3 and you, O fate!
A very fresh-fish here, (fie, fie, fie upon
This compell’d fortune !) have your mouth fill’d up,
Before you open it.
 

 

994

KING HENRY VIII.

Act II.

 

Anne. This is strange to me.

Old L. How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.
There was a lady once, (tis an old story,)

That would not be a queen, that would she not,
For all the mud in Egypt :—have you heard it?

Anne. Come, you are pleasant.

Old L. With your theme, I could
O’ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke !
A thousand pounds a year, for pure respect!

No other obligation. y my life,

That promises more thousands: honour's train
Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time,

I know, your back will bear a duchess.—Say,
Are you not stronger than you were?

Anne. Good lady, 100

Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,
And leave me out on’t. "Would J had no being,
If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,

To think what follows.
The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful
In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver

What here you ’ve heard, to her. d
Ol What do you think me?
[Exeunt.

90

Scene IV.—A Hall in Blackfriars.

Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers’
with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes,
in the habit of doctors ; after them, the Archbishop
of CANTERBURY alone; after him, the Bishops of
LInNcoLN, E_y, ROCHESTER, and SAINT ASAPH;
next them, with some small distance, follows a
Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal,
and a cardinal’s hat; then two Priests, bearing
each a silver cross; then a Gentleman-Usher bare-
headed, accompanied with a Sergcant-at-Arms,
bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen bear-
ing two great silver pillars; after them, side by
side, the two Cardinals WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS;
two Noblemen with the sword and mace. Then
enter the KING and QUEEN and their Trains. The
Kine takes place under the cloth of state; the two
Cardinals sit under him as judges. The QUEEN
takes place at some distance from the Kine. The
Bishops place themselves on cach side the court, in
manner of a consistory ; below them, the Scribes.
The Lords sit next the Bishops. The rest of the
Attendants stund in convenient order about the
stage.

Wol. Whilst our commission from Rome is read,

Let silence be commanded.

What’s the need?

. Hen.
It hath already publicly been read,
And on all sides the authority allow’d ;
You may then spare that time.
Wol. Be ’t so.—Proceed.
Berit: Say, Henry King of England, come into the
court.
Crier, Henry King of England, &c.
KK. Hen. Here.
_ Scribe. Say, Katharine Queen of England, come
into the court. 11
Crier. Katharine Queen of England, &c.

[The QUEEN makes no answer, rises out of
her chair, goes about the court, comes to
the KInG, and kneels at his feet; then
speaks.

Q. Kath, Sir, I desire you, do me right and justice,
And to bestow your pity on me; for
Iam a most poor woman, and a stranger,
Born out of spe dominions ; having here
No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas! sir,
In what have I offended you? what cause
Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure, 20
That thus you should proceed to put me off,
And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,
Ihave been to you a true and humble wife,
At all times to your will conformable :
Even in fear to kindle your dislike,

 

Yea, subject to your countenance ; glad, or SO!TY,
As I saw it inclin’d. When was the hour

Lever contradicted your desire, send
Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends
Have I not strove to love, although I knew 30
He were mine enemy? What friend of mine,

That had to him deriv’d your anger, did I

Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice “

He was from thence discharg'd. Sir, cal] to mind
That I have been your wife, in this obedience,
Tverd of twenty years, and have been blest

ith many children by you: if, in the course

And process of this time, you can report,

And prove it too, against mine honour aught,

My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty, 40

Against your sacred person, in God's name,

Turn me away; and let the foul’st contempt

Shut door upon me, and so give me up :

To the sharpest kind of justice. Please you, sir,

The king, your father, was reputed for

A prince most prudent, of anexcellent __

‘And unmatch’d wit and judgment: Ferdinand,

My father, King of Spain, was reckon’d one

The wisest prince, that there had reign’d by many

A year before: it is not to be question’d

That they had gather’d a wise council to them

Of every realm, that did debate this business,

Who deem’d our marriage lawful. Wherefore I
humbly :

Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may

Be by my friends in Spain advis’d, whose counsel

I will iuaplare : if not, i’ the name of God,

Your pleasure be fulfill’d!

Wot, You have here, lady,
(And of your choice) these reverend fathers ; men
Of singular integrity and learning,

Yea, the elect of the land, who are assembled 60
To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless,
That longer you desire the court, as well

For your own quiet, as to rectify

What is unsettled in the king. ‘

Cam. i" His grace
Hath spoken well, and justly: therefore, madam,
It’s fit this royal session do proceed,

And that, without delay, their arguments
Be now produc’d and heard.
. Kath, Lord cardinal,
To you I speak.

Wol. Your pleasure, madam?

Q. Kath. Sir,

I am about to weep; but, thinking that 7
We are a queen, (or long have dream’d so,) certain,
The daughter of a king, my drops of tears

I'll turn to sparks of fire.

Wol. Be patient yet.

Q. Kath. I will, when you are humble; nay, before,
Or God will punish me. I do believe, :
Induc’d by potent circumstances, that
‘You are mine enemy ; and make my challenge
You shall not be my judge; for it is you
Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me, |
Which God's dew quench.—Therefore, I say again, 80
I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul,

Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more,
I hold my most malicious foe, and think not
At all a friend to truth,
ol. . I do profess,
You speak not like yourself ; who ever yet
Have stood to charity, and display’d the effects
Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom
O’ertopping woman’s power. Madam, you do me
wrong: .
LT have no spleen against you; nor injustice
For you, or any: how far I have proceeded, 90
Or how far further shall, is warranted
By a commission from the consistory,
Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me,
That I have blown this coal: I do deny it.
The king is present: if it be known to him,
That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,
And worthily, my falsehood ; yea, as much
As you have done my truth.’ if he know

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY VIII.

995

 

That I am free of your report, he knows,
Iam not of your wrong. Therefore in him
It lies to cure me; and the cure is, to
Remove these thoughts from you: the which before
His highness shall speak in, I do beseech
You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking,
And to say so no more.
Q. Kath. My lord, my lord,
Iam a simple woman, much too weak
To oppose your cunning. You are meek, and humble-
mouth’d ;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,
With meekness and humility ; but your heart
Is cramm’'d with sxroeency, spleen, and pride.
You have, by fortune and his highness’ favours,
Gone slightly o’er low steps, and now are mounted
Where powers are your retainers, and your words,
Domestics to you, serve your will, as’t please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,
You tender more your person’s honour, than
Your high profession spiritual; that again
I do refuse you for my judge, and here,
Before you all, appeal unto the Pope,
To bring my whole cause ’fore his holiness,
And to be judg’d by him.
[She curtsies to the Kine, and offers to depart.
Cam. The queen is obstinate,
Stubborn to justice, ce to accuse it, and
Disdainful to be tried by it: tis not well.
She’s going away. ;
K. Hen. Call her again. .
Crier. Katharine, Queen of England, come into the
court.
Grigith. Madam, you are call’d back,
Q. Kath, What need you note it? pray you, keep
your way:
When you are call’d, return.—Now the Lord help!
They vex me past my patience.—Pray you, pass on:
I will not tarry ; no, nor ever more, 131
Upon this business, my appearance make
In any of their courts.
[Exeunt QUEEN and her Attendants.
K. Hen. Go thy ways, Kate:
That man i’ the world who shall report he has
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted,
For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone,
(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,
Thy meekness saint-like, wite-like government,
Obeying in commanding, and thy parts
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,)
The queen of earthly queens.—She’s noble born ;
‘And like her true nobility, she has
Carried herself towards me. ; 7
Wol. Most gracious sir,
In humblest manner I require your highness,
That it shall please you to declare, in hearing
Of all these ears, (for where I am robb’d and bound,
There must I be unloos’d, although not there
At once and fully satistied,) whether ever I
Did broach this business to your highness, or
Laid any scruple in your way, which might
Induce you to the question on’t? or ever
Have to you, but with thanks to God for such |
‘A royal lady, spake one the least word, that might
Be to the prejudice of her present state,
Or touch of her good person ? .
K. Hen. My lord cardinal,
I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour,
I free you from’t. You are not to be taught
That you have many enemies, that know not
Why they are so, but, like to village curs,
Bark when their fellows do: by some of these
The queen is put in anger, You are excus’d:
But will you be more justified ? you ever
Have wish'd the sleeping of this business; never
Desir’d it to be stirr’d ; but oft have hinder’d, oft,
The passages made toward it.—On my honour,
I speak my good lord cardinal to this point, ,
‘And thus far clear him. Now, what mov’d me to’t:
I will be bold with time, and your attention :— .
Then, mark the inducement. Thus it came ;—give
heed to’t.

100

110

120

140

150

160

 

My conscience first receiv’d a tenderness, 170
Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter’d

By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador,
Who had been hither sent on the debating

A marriage ‘twixt the Duke of Orleans and :

Our daughter Mary. I the progress of this business,
Ere a determinate resolution, he

(I mean, the bishop) did 1equire a respite,
Wherein he might the king his lord advertise
Whether our daughter were legitimate,
Respecting this our marriage with the dowager,
Sometimes our brother’s wife. This respite shook

180

 

Q. Kath.
They vex me past my patience.”

“ Now the Lord help!

The bosom of my conscience, enter’d me,

Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble
The region of my breast ; which fore’d such way,
That many maz’d considerings did throng,

And press’d in with this caution. First, methought,
I stood not in the smile of Heaven, who had
Commanded nature, that my lady’s womb,

If it conceiv'd a male child by me, should

Do no more offices of life to’t, than

The grave does to the dead ; for her male issue
Or died where they were made, or shortly after
This world had air’'d them. Hence I took a thought,
This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom,
Well worthy the best heir o’ the world, should not
Be gladded in’t by me. Then follows, that

I weigh’d the danger which my realms stood in
By this my issue’s fail; and that gave to me
Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in

The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer
Toward this remedy, whereupon we are

Now present here together ; that’s to say,

I meant to rectify my conscience,—whic

I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,—

By all the reverend fathers of the land,,

And doctors learn’d. First, I began in private
With you, my Lord of Lincoln ; you remember
How under my arene I did reek,

When I first mov’d you.

Lin.
4K. Hen. T have spoke

say
aloe far you satisfied me. —
in, ; : o please your highness
The question did at first so stagger me,— = :
Bearing a state of mighty moment in’t,
And consequence of dread,—that I committed
The daring’st counsel which I had, to doubt,
And did entreat your highness to this course,
Which you are running here,
K. Hen. I then mov’d you,
My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave
To make this present summons.— Unsolicited
Ileft no reverend person in this court;
But by particular consent proceeded,

190

200

Very well, my liege.
long: be pleas’d poumelt Be
10

220

 

 
 

 

996

KING HENRY VIII.

[Act IIL |

 

Under your hands and seals: therefore, go on;
For no dislike i’ the world against the person
Or the good queen, but the sharp thorny points
Of my alleged reasons drive this forward.
Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life,
And kingly dignity, we are contented
To wear our mortal state to come with her,
Katharine our queen, before the primest creature
That’s paragon’d o' the world.

Cam. ‘ So please your highness,
The queen being absent, tis a needful fitness 231

That we adjourn this court till further day :
Meanwhile must be an earnest motion
Made to the queen, to call back her appeal
She intends unto his holiness. .

Kk. Hen, [Aside.] I may perceive,
These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor
This dilatory sloth, and tricks of Rome.
My learn’d and well-beloved servant, Cranmer!
Pr’ythee, return : with thy approach, I know,
My comfort come3 along.—Break up the court:

210
| Tsay, set on,

{Exeunt, in manner as they entered.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT
ScENE I.—The Palace at Bridewell.

   

Pe Queen Katharine.

»'AKE thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad
, with troubles ;

Sing, and disperse them, if thou canst.
Leave working.

Sone.
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain-tops that freeze,
3 Bow themselves, when he did sing:
V5 To his music, plants, and flowers
Ever sprung ; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art:
Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asicep, or, hearing, die.

Enter a Gentleman.
. Kath. How now?
rent. An’t please your grace, the two great
cardinals
Wait in the presence.
Q. Kath. Would they speak with me?
Gent. They will’d me say so, madam.
Q. Kath. Pray their graces
To come near. [Exit Gentleman.] What can be their
business
With me, a poor weak woman, fall’n from favour? 20
I do not like their coming, now I think on’t.
They should be good men, their affairs as righteous ;
But all hoods make not monks,

Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS.

Wol, Peace to your highness!
Q. Kath. Your graces find me here part of a house-

10

wife ;

I would be all, against the worst may happen.

What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?
Hol. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw

Into your private chamber, we shall give you

The full cause of our coming.
Q. Kath. Speak it here.

There ’s nothing I have done yet, o’ my conscience, 30

Deserves a corner: ‘would all other women

Could speak this with as free a soul as I do!

My lords, I care not, (so much I am happy

Above a number,) if my actions

Were tricd by every tongue, every eye saw them,

ILI. .
A Room in the QUEEN’s Apartment.

The QUEEN, and her Women, at work.

| Envy and base opinion set against them,

I know my life so even. If your business

Seek me out, and that Tam wife in,

Out with it boldly : truth loves open dealing.
Wol. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina

serenissima,— 41
Q. Kath. O, good my lord, no Latin:

I am not such a truant since my coming,

As not to know the language I have liv’d in:

A strange tongue makes my cause more strange,

suspicious ;
Pray, speak in English. Here are some will thank

you,
If you speak truth, for their poor mistress’ sake :
Believe me, she has had much wrong. _ Lord cardinal,
The willing’st sin I ever yet committed
a be absolv’d in English.
Tol. Noble lady,

Iam sorry, my integrity should breed
(And service to his majesty and you)
So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant.
We come not by the way of accusation,
To taint that honour every good tongue blesses,
Nor to betray you any way to sorrow ;
You have too much, good lady ; but to know
How you stand minded in the weighty difference
Between the king and you, and to deliver,
Like free and honest men, our just opinions, 60
And comforts to your cause.

Cam. Most honour’d madam,
My Lord of York,—out of his noble nature,
Zeal and obedience he still bore your grace,
Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure
Both of his truth and him (which was too far),—
Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace,
His service and his counsel. .

Q. Kath. (Aside.] To betray me.—
My lords, I thank you both for your good wills,
Ye speak like honest men; (pray God, ye prove

so!) :

But how to make you suddenly an answer, 70
In such a point of weight, so near mine honour,
(More near my life, I fear,) with my weak wit,
And to such men of gravity and learning,
In truth, I know not. I was set at work .
Among my maids; full little, God knows, looking
Either for such men, or such business.
For her sake that I have been, for I feel
The last fit of my greatness, good your graces,
Let me have time and counsel for my cause.
Alas! 1am a woman, friendless, hopeless.

50

 

80

 

 
 

 

Scene I.] KING HENRY VIII. 997 |

 

 

 

Wol. Madam, you wrong the king’s love with these Cam. I would, your grace |
fears: y : Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.
Youn hopes and friends are infinite. a . Kath. How, sir?
. Kath. . England Cam. Put your main cause into the king’s protection ;
But little for my profit. Can you think, lords, He’s loving, and most gracious: ’t will fe Pet. pene
|
|
|
|
|
|
i
|
Q. Kath. “ Your graces find me here part of a housewife ;
J would be all, against the worst may happen.”
That any Englishman dare give me counsel? Both for your honour better, and your cause;
Or be a known friend, ’gainst his highness’ pleasure, For if the trial of the law o’ertake you,
(Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,) You ll part away disgrac’d.
And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, Wol. He tells you rightly.
They that must weigh out my afflictions, Q. Kath. Ye tell me what ye wish for both,—my ruin.
They that my trust must grow to, live not here: Is this your Christian counsel? out upon ye!
They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, 90 | Heaven is above all yet: there sits a Judge 100
In mine own country, lords. That no king can corrupt. ,

 
 

 

998

KING HENRY VIil.

{Act IT.

 

Can. Your rage mistakes us.
Q. Kath. The more shame for ye! holy men I
thought ye,
Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues ;
But cardinal sins, and hollow hearts, I fear ye.
Mend Shem, for shame, my lords. Is this your com-
ort?
The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady ?
A woman lost among ye, laugh’d at, scorn’d?
I will not wish ye half my miseries,
I have more charity ; but say, I warn’d ye:
Take, heed, for Heaven’s sake, take heed, lest at once
The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. lll
Wol. Madam, this is a mere distraction ;
You turn the good we offer into envy.
Q. Kath. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye,
And all such false professors! Would ye have me
(If ye have any justice, any pity, a
If ye be anything but churchmen’s habits)
Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?
Alas! has banish’d me his bed already ;
His love, too long ago: I am old, my lords,
And all the fellowship I hold now with him
Is only my obedience. What can happen .
To me, above this wretchedness? all your studies
Make me a curse like this.
Cam. Your fears are worse.
Q. Kath. Have I liv’'d thus long—(let me speak
myself,
Since virtue finds no friends)—a wife, a true one?
A woman (I dare say, without vain-glory)
Never yet branded with suspicion ?
Have I with all my full affections
Still met the king? lov’d him next Heaven? obey’d
him? 130
Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?
Almost forgot my prayers to content him?
And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords.
Bring me a constant woman to her husband,
One that ne'er dream’d a joy beyond his pleasure,
And to that woman, when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honour,—a great patience.
Wol. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.
Q. Kath. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,
To give up willingly that noble title 140
Your master wed me to: nothing but death
Shall e’er divorce my dignities.
Wol. ’Pray, hear me.
. ath, ’Would J had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!
Ye have angels’ faces, but Heaven knows your hearts.
What will become of me now, wretched lady ?
I am the most unhappy woman living.—
[To her Women.] Alas! poor wenches, where are now
your fortunes?
Shipwrack’d ones a be eae where no pity,
No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me,
Almost no grave allow’d me.—Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field and flourish’d,
I hang my head, and perish.
0.

120

150

. If your grace

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,

You’d feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady,

Upon what cause, wrong you? alas! our places,

The way of our profession is against it :

We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow them.

For goodness’ sake, consider what you do;

How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly 16

Grow from the king's acquaintance by this carriage.

The hearts of princes kiss obedience,

So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits,

They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.

I know, you have a gentle, noble temper,

A soul as even as a calm: pray, think us

Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.
Cam. Madam, you’ll find it so. You wrong your

virtues

With these weak women’s fears: a noble spirit,

As yours was put into you, ever casts

Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves

you;
Beware, you lose it not: for us, if you please

 

To trust us in your business, we are ready
To use our utinost studies in your service.
Q. Kath. Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray,
forgive me,
If I have us'd myself unmannerly.
You know, Iam a woman, lacking wit
To make a seemly answer to such persons.
Pray, do my service to his majesty :
He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers, 180
While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers ;
Bestow your counsels on me; she now begs,
That little thought, when she set footing here,
She should have bought her dignities so dear.
[Exeunt.

ScENE IJ.—Ante-chamber to the K1ne’s Apartment.

Enter the Duke of NORFOLK, the Duke of SUFFOLK,
the Earl of SURREY, and the Lord Chamberlain.
Nor. If you will now unite in your complaints,

And force them with a constancy, the cardinal
Cannot stand under them: if you omit
The offer of this time, I cannot promise,
But that you shall sustain more new disgraces,
With these you bear already.
Sur. Iam joyful
To meet the least occasion, that may give me
Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,
To be reveng’d on him.
Suf. Which of the peers
Have uncontemn’d gone by him, or at least 10
Strangely neglected? when did he regard
The stamp of nobleness in any person,
Out of himself?
Cham. My lords, you speak your pleasures.
What he deserves of you and me, I know;
What we can do to him, (though now the time
Gives way to us,) I much fear. If you cannot
Bar his access to the king, never attempt
Anything on him, for he hath a witchcraft
Over the king in his tongue.
Nor. O! fear him not;
His spell in that is out: the king hath found 20
Matter against him, that for ever mars
The honey of his language. No, he’s settled,
Not to come off, in his displeasure.
ur. Sir,
I should be glad to hear such news as this
Once every hour.
or. Believe it, this is true.
In the divorce, his contrary proceedings
Are all unfolded ; wherein he appears,
As I would wish mine enemy.
Sur. How came
His practices to light?
Suf. Most strangely.
Sur. O! how? how?
Suf. The cardinal’s letter to the Pope miscarried, 30
And came to the eye o’ the king ; wherein was read,
How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness
To stay the judgment. o’ the divorce ; for if
It did take place, ‘‘I do,” quoth he, ‘ perceive,
My king is tangled in affection to
A creature of the queen’s, Lady Anne Bullen.”
Sur. Has the king this?
Suf. Believe it.
ur. Will this work?
Cham. The king in this perceives him, how he
coasts,
And hedges, his own way. But in this point
All his tricks founder, and he brings his vee 40
After his patient’s death : the king already
Hath married the fair lady.
Sur. Would he had!
Suf. May you be happy in your wish, my lord ;
For, I profess, you have it. ;
Ur. : Now all my joy
Trace the conjunction !
Suf. My Amen to’t!

uf.
Nor. All men’s
Suf. There’s order given for her coronation:

 

 
 

ScENE IL.]

KING HENRY VIII.

999

 

 

Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left

To some ears unrecounted.—But, my lords,

She is a gallant creature, and complete

In mind and feature : I persuade me, from her 50
Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall

In it be memoris’d.
Sur. But, will the king ,
Digest this letter of the cardinal’s?
The Lord forbid !
Nor. Marry, Amen!
Suf. No, no:
There be moe wasps that buz about his nose,
Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius
Is stol’n away to Rome; hath ta’en no leave;
Has left the cause o’ the king unhandled, and
Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal,
To second all his plot. I do assure you, 60
The king cried, ha! at this.

Cham.

And let him cry, ha! louder!
Nor.

When returns Cranmer ?
Suf. He is return’d, in his opinions ; which

Have satisfied the king for his divorce,

Together with all famous colleges

Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe,

His second marriage shall be publish’d, and

Her coronation. atharine no more

Shall be call’d queen, but princess dowager, 70

And widow to Prince Arthur.

Now, God incense him,

But, my lord,

Nor. This same Cranmer’s
A worthy fellow, and hath ta’en much pain
In the king’s business.

Suf. He has; and we shall see him
For it an archbishop.

Nor. So I hear.

Suf. ’T is so.
The cardinal—

Enter WOLSEY and CROMWELL.
Nor. Observe, observe; he’s moody.
Wol. The packet, Cromwell,
Gave ’t you the king?

om. To his own hand, in his bedchamber.
Wol. Look’d he o’ th’ inside of the paper?
Cr

‘om.
He did unseal them, and the first he view’d,
He did it with a serious mind ; a heed 80
Was in his countenance. You he bade

Attend him here this morning.

Presently

Wol. Is he ready
To come abroad ? ; ,
Crom. I think, by this he is.
Wol. Leave me awhile.— [Exit CROMWELL.
It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon,
The French king’s sister : he shall marry her.—
Anne Bullen? No; I’ll no Anne Bullens for him:
There’s more in’t than fair ee i
No, we’ll no Bullens.—Speedily I wish
To hear from Rome.—The Marchioness of Pem-
a oan eer 90
or. He's discontented.
Suf. May be, he hears the king
Does whet his anger to him.

ur.

Lord, for thy justice! roe
Wol. The late queen’s gentlewoman, a knight’s

daughter,

To be her mistress’ mistress! the queens queen !—

This candle burns not clear: ‘tis I must snuff it ;

Then, out it goes.— What though I know her virtuous,

And well deserving? yet I know her for

A spleeny Lutheran ; and not wholesome to

Our cause, that she should lie i’ the bosom of

Our hard-rul’d tang: Again, there is sprung up

An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer ; one

Hath crawl'd into the favour of the king,

And is his oracle.

Sharp enough,

100

Nor. He is vex’d at something.
Suf. I would, ’t were something that would fret the

string,
The master-cord of his heart !

 

Enter the King, reading a schedule ; and LOVELL.

Suf. The king, the king.

K. Hen. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated
To his own portion ! and what expense by the hour
Seems to flow from him! How, i’ the name of thrift,
Does he rake this together ?—_Now, my lords, 0
Saw you the cardinal ?

Nor, 4 My lord, we have
Stood here observing him. Some strange commotion
Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;

Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground

Then lays his finger on his temple ; straight,

Springs out into fast gait; then, stops again

Strikes his breast hard ; and anon, he casts

His eye against the moon. In most strange postures
‘We have seen him set himself.

A. Hen. It may well be:
There is a mutiny in his mind. This morning
Papers of state he sent me to peruse,

As I requir’d; and wot you what I found
There, on my conscience, put unwittingly ?
Forsooth an inventory, thus importing, —

The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,
Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household, which
I find at such proud rate, that it outspeaks
Possession of a subject.

Nor. It’s Heaven’s will:
Some spirit put this paper in the packet,

To bless your eye withal.

AK. Hen. If we did think
His contemplation were above the earth,

And fix’d on spiritual object, he should still
Dwell in his musings: but, Iam afraid,
His thinkings are below the moon, not worth
His serious emma
[He takes his seat, and whispers LOVELL,
who goes to WOLSEY.
Wol. Heaven forgive me!
Ever God bless your highness!

A. Hen. Good my lord,

You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory
Of your best graces in your mind, the which

You were now running o’er: you have scarce time
To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span, 140
To keep your earthly audit. Sure, in that

I deem you an ill husband, and am glad

oe you therein my companion.

120

130

ol. Sir,
For holy offices I have a time ; a time
To think upon the part of business, which
I bear i’ the state ; and nature does require
Her times of preservation, which, perforce,
I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,
Must give my tendance to.

A. Hen. You have said well.
Wol. And ever may your highness yoke together,
As I will lend you cause, my doing well 151

With my well-saying !

K. Hen. "T is well said again ;

And ’tis a kind of good deed, to say well: t
And yet words are no deeds. My father lov’d you;
He said he did, and with his deed did crown
His word upon you: since I had my office,
Ihave kept you next my heart ; have not alone
Employ’d you where high profits might come home,
But par’d my present havings, to bestow
My bounties upon you.

Vol. [Aside.] What should this mean? 160

Sur. [Aside.] The Lord increase this business !

K. Hen. Have I not made you
The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me,
If what I now pronounce you have found true;
And, if you may confess it, say _withal,

If you are bound to us, or no. What say you?

Wol. My sovereign, I confess, your royal graces,
Shower’d on me daily, have been more than could
My studied purposes requite ; which went
Beyond all man’s endeavours: my endeavours
Have ever come too short of my desires,

Yet fil’d with my abilities. Mine own ends
Have been mine so, that evermore they pointed

170

 

 
1000

KING HENRY VIII.

— 7
[Act IIL

 

 

To the good of your most sacred person, and
The profit of the state. For your great graces
Heap’d upon me, poor undeserver, I

Can nothing render but allegiant thanks,

My prayers to Heaven for you, my loyalty,
Which ever has, and ever shall be growing,
Till death, that winter, kill it.

A. Hen. Fairly answer'd :
A loyal and obedient subject is 180
Therein illustrated, The honour of it
Does pay the act of it, as, i’ the contrary,

The foulness is the punishment. I presume,
That, as my hand has open’d bounty to you,

 

|
{
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K. Hen.

“Read o'er this:
And, after, this; and then tu breakfast, with
What appetite you have.”

My heart dropp’d love, my power rain’d honour,
more
On you than any; so your hand, and heart,
Your brain, and every function of your power,
Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,
As ’t were in love’s particular, be more
To me, your friend, than any.
Wol. I do profess, 190
That for your highness’ good I ever labour’d
More than mine own: that am, have, and will be—
(Though all the world should crack their duty to you,
And throw it from their soul ; though perils did
Abound, as thick as thought could make them, and
Appear in forms more horrid) yet my duty,
As doth a rock against the chiding flood,
Should the approach of this wild river break,
And stand unshaken yours.
K. Hen. ’T is nobly spoken.
Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,
For you have seen him open ’t.—Read o’er this:
[Giving him papers.
And, after, this; and then to breakfast, with
What appetite you have.

(Exit Kine, frowning upon Cardinal WOLSEY :
the Nobles throng after him, smiling, and
whispering.

Wol. What should this mean ?
What sudden anger’s this? how have I reap'd it ?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him,
Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;
I fear, the story of his anger.—’T is so:
This paren has undone me !—’T is the account 210
Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together
For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the Popedom,
And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence!
Fit for a fool to fall by. What cross devil
Made me put this main secrct in the packet
I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this?
No new device to beat this from his brains?
I know ’t will stir him strongly : yet l know

 

A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune

Will bring me off again. What’s this?—‘“‘To the
Pope!” 220

The letter, as I live, with all the business

I writ to his holiness. Nay then, farewell!

I have touch’d the highest point of all my greatness ;

And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening,

And no man see me more,

Re-enter the Dukes of NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, the
Liarl of SURREY, and the Lord Chamberlain.
Nor. Hear the king’s pleasure, cardinal; who com-
mands you
To render up the great seal presently
Into our hands, and to confine yourself 230
To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester’s,
Till your hear further from his highness.

Wol. Stay:
Where’s your commission, lords? words cannot carry
Authority so weighty.

Suf. Who dare cross them,
Bearing the king’s will from his mouth expressly ?

Vol. Till I find more than will, or words, to do it,
(I mean your malice,) know, officious lords,

I dare, and must deny it. Now IJ feel

Of what coarse metal ye are moulded,—envy.

How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, 240
As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton

Ye appear in everything may bring my ruin!

Follow yodr envious courses, men of malice ;

You have Christian warrant for them, and, no doubt,
In time will find their fit rewards. That seal,

You ask with such a violence, the king

(Mine, and your master) with his own hand gave me;
Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,
During my life; and, to confirm his goodness,

Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who’lltakeit? 250

Sur. The king that gave it.

Wol. It must be himself then.

Sur. Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

Wol. Proud lord, thou liest :
Within these forty hours Surrey durst better
Have burnt that tongue than said so.

Sur. Thy ambition,
Thou scarlet sin, robb’d this bewailing land
Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law :

The heads of all thy brother cardinals

(With thee, and all thy best parts bound together)
Weigh’d not a hair of his. Plague of your policy!
You sent me deputy for Ireland, 260
Far from his succour, from the king, from all .
That might have mercy on the fault thou gav’st him ;
Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,
Absolv'’d him with an axe.

Wol. This, and all else
This talking lord can lay ee my credit,

I answer, is most false. The duke by law

Found his deserts: how innocent I was

From any private malice in his end,

His noble jury and foul cause can witness.

If I lov’d many words, lords, I should tell you, 270
You have as little honesty as honour,

That in the way of loyalty and truth

Toward the king, my ever royal master,

Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be,

And all that love his follies.

Sur. By my soul,

‘Your Hone os priest, protects you: thou shouldst
ee)

My sword i’ the life-blood of thee else.—My lords,
Can ye endure to hear this arrogance ?
And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely,
To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, 280
Farewell nobility ; let his grace go forward,
a a us with his cap, like larks.
ol.

Is poison to thy stomach.

ner. Yes, that goodness
Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one,
Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion ;

All goodness

 

 
 

ScENE II.]

KING HENRY VIII.

1001

 

 

The goodness of your intercepted packets,
You writ to the Pope, against the king ; your good-
ness,
Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious,—
My Lord of Norfolk,—as you are truly noble,
As you respect the common good, the state
Of our despis’d nobility, our issues
(Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen),
Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles
Collected from his life :—I’ll startle you
Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench
Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal.
Wol. How much, methinks, I could despise this
man,
But that Iam bound in charity against it.
Nor. Those articles, my lord, are in the king’s hand;
But, thus much, they are foul ones.

290

Wol. deat So much fairer
And spotless shall mine innocence arise, 3
When the king knows my truth.

Sur, This cannot save you:
I thank my memory, I yet remember
Some of these articles ; and out they shall.

Now, if you can blush, and ery guilty, cardinal,
You'll show a little honesty.
ol. Speak on, sir ;
I dare your worst objections: if I blush,
It is to see a nobleman want manners.
Sur. I had rather want those, than my head. Have
at you.
First, that without the king’s assent or knowledge 310
You wrought to be a legate ; by which power
You maim’d the jurisdiction of all bishops.

Nor. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else
To foreign princes, Ego et Rex meus
Was still inscrib’d ; in which you brought the king
To be your servant.

uf. Then, that without the knowledge
Either of king or council, when you went
Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold
To carry into Flanders the great seal.

Sur. Item, you sent a large commission
To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,

Without the king’s will or the state’s allowance,
A league between his highness and Ferrara.

Suf. That, out of mere ambition, you have caus’d
Your holy hat to be stamp’d on the king's coin.

Sur. Then, that you have sent innumerable sub-

stance,

(By what means got, I leave to your own conscience,)
To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways
You have for dignities ; to the mere undoing
Of all the kingdom. Many more there are ;
Which, since they are of you, and odious,
I will not taint my mouth with.

Cham. O my lord!
Press not a falling man too far; ‘tis virtue:
His faults lie open to the laws; let them, .
Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him
So little of his great self.

Sur. I forgive him.

Suf. Lord cardinal, the sk further pleasure is,—
Because all those things, you have done of late
By your power legatine within this kingdom,
Fall into the compass of a preemunire,—

That therefore such a writ be sued against you;
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be

Out of the king’s protection.—This is my charge.

Nor. And so we’ll leave you to your meditations,
How to live better. For your stubborn answer,
About the giving back the great seal to us,

The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank

320

330

340

you. .
So, fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.
[Exeunt all but WOLSEY.
Wol. So, farewell to the little good you bear me. 330
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hop , to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ;

 

And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root,

And then he falls, as Ido. I have ventur'd,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory, 360
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me, and now has left me
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched

Is that poor man, that hangs on princes’ favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have; 370
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again, —

Enter CROMWELL, and stands amazed.
Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What! amaz'd
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder,
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
Iam fall’n indeed.
Crom.
Wol.
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now ; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur’d
8

How does your grace?
Why, well:

me, 3
I humbly thank his grace, and from these shoulders,
These ruin’d pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy,—too much honour.
O! ‘tis a burden, Cromwell, ’tis a burden,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right
use of it.
Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel)
To endure more miseries, and greater far, f
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare otter.
What news abroad ?

390

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.
Wol God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord chancellor in your place.
Wol. That ’s somewhat sudden ;
But he’salearned man. May he continue
Long in his highness’ favour, and do justice
For truth’s sake, and his conscience ; that his bones,
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em!
What more?
Crom. That Cranmer is return’d with welcome,
Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. ‘1
Wol. That’s news indeed!
Crom. : Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view’d in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull’d me down.
O Cromwell! '
The king has gone beyond me: all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever.
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, 410
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
Iam ees fall’n man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master. Seek the king;
(That sun, I pray, may never set !) I have told him
‘What and how true thou art: he will advance thee.
Some little memory of me will stir him,
(I know his noble nature,) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

420

‘rom. O my lord!
Must I then leave you? must I needs forego

 

 
 

1002

KING HENRY VIII.

(Acr IV,

 

 

So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.—
The king shall have my service; but my prayers,
For ever and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries ; but thou hast fore’d me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 430
Let’s dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell:
And,—when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss’d it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition :
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by ’t ?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues: be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s,
Thy God's, and truth’s: then, if thou fall'’st, O

Cromwell,

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr.
And—Pry’thee, lead me in :
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; ‘tis the king’s: my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
Iserv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

410

Serve the king ;
450

 

Crom. Good sir, have patience.

 

Wol. “O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I sery'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.”

Wol. ' SoThave. Farewell

The hopes of court : my hopes in heaven do dwell.
[Exeunt.

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—A Street in Westminster.
Enter two Gentlemen, meeting.

1 Gentleman.
OU’RE well met once again.
2 Gent. So are you.
1 Gent. You come to take your stand
here, and behold
The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?
2 Gent. 'Tis all my business. At our last

   

j encounter,
“cy! The Duke of UD sIne baat came from his
rial.
1 Gent. ’Tis very true: but that time offer'd
sorrow ;
This, general joy.
2 Gent. *T is well: the citizens,

I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds,
As, let’em have their rights, they are ever forward
In celebration of this day with shows, 10
Pageants, and sights of honour.

1 Gent. Never greater ;
Nor, Ill assure you, better taken, sir.

2 Gent. May I be bold to ask what that contains,
That paper in your hand?

1 Gent. Yes; ‘tis the list
Of those that, claim their offices this day,
Re custom of the coronation.
The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims

 

To be high-steward ; next, the Duke of Norfolk,
He to be earl marshal. You may read the rest.
2 Gent. I thank you, sir: had I not known those
customs, f 20
Ishould have been beholding to your paper. |
But, I beseech you, what’s become of Katharine,
The princess dowager? how goes her business ?
1 Gent. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop
Of Canterbury, accompanied with other
Learned and reverend fathers of his order,
Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off
From Ampthill, where the princess lay ; to which
She was often cited by them, but appear’d not:
And, to be short, for not-appearance, and 30
The king’s late scruple, by the main assent
Of all these learned men she was divore’d,
And the late marriage made of none effect:
Since which she was remov'd to Kimbolton,
Where she remains now, sick.
2 Gent. Alas, good lady !—[Trumpets.
The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.
[Hautboys.

THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION.
A lively flourish of trumpets.
1. Two Judges.

 

 
 

ScENE I.]

KING HENRY VIII.

1003

 

2. ore Chancellor, with purse and mace before
Lum,

3. Choristers, singing. [Music.

4. Mayor of London, bearing the mace.

gilt copper crown,

his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him,
the Earl of SuRREY, bearing the rod of silver
with the dove, crowned with an earl’s coronet.
Collars of SS.

6. Duke of SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his
coronet on his head, bearing a lony
white wand, as high-steward. With
him, the Duke of NORFOLK, with the
rod of marshalship, a coronet on his
head. Collars of SS.

. 4d canopy born by four of the Cinque-
ports; under it, the QUEEN in her
robe; in her hair richly adorned with
pearl, crowned. On each side of her,
the Bishops of LONDON and WInN-
CHESTER,

8 The old Duchess of NORFOLK, in a@
coronal of gold, wrought with flowers,
bearing the QUEEN’s train.

9. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with
plain circlets of gold without flowers.

a

2 Gent. A royal train, believe me.—These I

know ;—
Who’s that, that bears the sceptre?
1 Gent. arquess Dorset:
And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod.
2 Gent. A bold brave gentleman. That
should be 40
The Duke of Suffolk.
1 Gent. *T is the same; high-steward.
2 Gent. And that my Lord of Norfolk?
1 Gent. Yes.
2 Gent. Heaven bless thee!
[Looking on the QUEEN.
Thou hast the sweetest tace I ever look’d on.—
Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel ;
Our king has all the Indies in his arms,
And more, and richer, when he strains that lady:
IT cannot blame his conscience.
1 Gent. They, that bear
The cloth of honour over her, are four barons,
Of the Cinque-ports.
2 Gent, Those men are happy; and so are all, are
near her. . 50
I take it, she that carries up the train
Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.
1 Gent. It is; and all the rest are countesses.
2 Gent. Their coronets say so. These are stars,
dndlspmcuines 0
nd sometimes falling ones.
1 Gent. e No more of that. |
[Exit Procession, with a great flourish of
trumpets.

Enter a third Gentleman.
God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling?

3 Gent. Among the crowd i’ the abbey; where a

finger
Could not be wedg’d in more: I am stifled
With the mere rankness of their joy.

2 Gent. You saw the ceremony ?

3 Gent. That I did.

1 Gent. How was it?

3 Gent. Well worth the seeing.

2 Gent. Good sir, speak it to us. :

3 Gent. As wellasIam able. The rich stream
Of lords, and ladies, having brought the queen
To a prepar’d place in the choir, fell off
A distance from her; while her grace sat down
To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,

In arich chair of state, opposing freely

The beauty of her person to the people.
Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman
That ever lay by man: which when the people

60

70

 

5. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold; on | That had not half a week to go, like rams

 

Had the full view of, such a noise arose
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks,

’ Lo Then, ; Doublets, I think, flew up; and had their faces
Garter in his coat of arms, and on his head a , Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy

I never saw before. Great-bellied women, i
In the old time of war, would shake the press,
And make them reel before them. No man living
Could say, ‘‘ This is my wife,’ there; all were woven
So strangely in one piece.

2 Gent. But, what follow’d ?

 

 

THE QUEEN IN THE CORONATION PROCESSION.

3 Gent. At length her grace rose, and with modest
aces

Came to the altar ; where she kneel’d, and saint-like
Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray’d devoutly.
Then rose again, and bow’d her to the people:
When by the Archbishop of Canterbury
She had all the royal makings of a queen ;
As holy oil, Edward Confessor’s crown,
The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems
Laid nobly on her: which perform’d, the choir,
With all the choicest music of the kingdom,
Together sung Te Deum. So she parted,
And with the same full state pac’d back again
To York Place, where the feast is held.

1 Gent. Ir,

You must no more call it York Place, that is past ;
For, since the cardinal fell, that title ’s lost: 100
*T is now the king’s, and call’d Whitehall.

3 Gent.

But ’tis so lately alter’d, that the old name
Is fresh about me.

2 Gent. What two reverend bishops
Were those that went on each side of the queen ?

3 Gent. Stokesly and Gardiner; the one, of Win-

chester,
Newly preferr’d from the king’s secretary ;
The other, London.

2 Gent. He of Winchester
Is held no great good lover of the archbishop’s,
The virtuous Cranmer.

3 Gent. All the land knows that: 109
However, yet there’s no great breach ; when it comes,
Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

2 Gent. Who may that be, I pray you?

3 Gent. Thomas Cromwell ;
A man in much esteem with the king, and truly
A worthy friend.—The king
Has made him master of the jewel-house,

And one, already, of the privy-council.

2 Gent. He will deserve more.

I know it;

 

 

 
 

 

1004

KING HENRY VIII.

{Act IV.

 

3 Gent. Yes, without all doubt.
Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which
Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests:
Something I can command. <As I walk thither,
Tu ey ye more.

‘oth.

120
You may command us, sir. [Hxrcunt.

ScENE IT.—Kimbolton.

Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between
GRIFFITH and PATIENCE.

Grif. How does your grace?

Kath, O Griffith ! sick to death:
My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,
Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair:—
So,—now, methinks, I feel a little ease.

Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou ledd’st me,
That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,
‘Was dead?

Grif. Yes, madam; but, I think, your grace,
Out of the pain you sutfer'd, gave no ear to ‘t.

Kath. Pr'ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:
If well, he stepp’d before me, happily, 10
For my example.

Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam:
For after the stout Earl Northumberland
Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,

As aman sorely tainted, to his answer,
He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill,
He could not sit his mule.

Kath. Alas, poor man!

Grif, At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester ;
Lodg'd in the abbey, where the reverend abbot,

With all his covent, honourably receiv’d him: .

To whom he gave these words,—‘‘ O father abbot, 20
An old man, broken with the storms of state,

Is come to lay his weary bones among ye ;

Give him a little earth for charity !”

So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness

Pursu'd him still ; and three nights after this,

About the hour of eight, which he himself

Foretold should be his last, full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,

He gave his honours to the world again,

His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. 30

Kath. So may he rest: his faults lie gently on him!
Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
And yet with charity.—He was a man
Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
Himself with princes; one, that by suggestion
Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play ;

His own opinion was his law: i’ the presence
He would say untruths, and be ever double,
Both in his words and meaning. He was never,
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful :

His promises were, as he then was, mighty ;
But his performance, as he is now, nothing.

Of his own body he wasill, and gave

The clergy ill example.

Grif. Noble madam,

Men’s evil manners live in brass ; their virtues
We write in water. May it please your highness
To hear me speak his good now?

Kath. Yes, good Griffith ;
I were malicious else.
Grif. This cardinal,

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashion’d to much honour from his cradle. 50

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading :

Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not ;

But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer:

And though he were unsatisfied in getting,

(Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam,

He was most princely. Ever witness for him

Those twins of learning, that he rais’d in you,

Ipswich, and Oxford! one of which fell with him,
nwilling to outlive the good that did it ;

The other, though unfinish’d, yet so famous,

So excellent in art, and still so rising,

 

That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.

His overthrow heap’d happiness upon him ;

For then, and not till then, he felt himself,

And found the blessedness of being little:

And, to add greater honours to his age

Than man could give him, he died fearing God.
Kath. After my death I wish no other herald,

No other speaker of my living actions, 70

To keep mine honour trom corruption,

But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,

With thy religious truth and modesty,

Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him !—

Patience, be near me still, and set me lower:

I have not long to trouble thee.—Good Griftith,

Cause the musieians play me that sad note

Inam'd ay knell, whilst I sit meditating

On that celestial harmony I go to. 80

Sad and solemn music.

Grif. She is asleep. Good wench, let’s sit down

quiet,
For fear we wake her :—softly, gentle Patience.

 

Grif. “She is asleep.
For fear we wake her.”

The Vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after
another, six Personages, clad in white robes, wear-
ing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden
visards on their faces; branches of bays, or palm,
in their hands. They first congee unto her, then
dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold
a spare gorlend over her head; at which the other
Sour make reverent curtsies: then, the two that held
the garland deliver the same to the other next two,
who observe the same order in their changes, and
holding the garland over her head. Which done,
they deliver the same garland to the last two, who
likewise observe the same order: at which, (as it
were by inspiration,) she makes in her sleep signs
of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven.
And so in their dancing they vanish, carrying the
garland with them. The music continues.

Kath. Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all
gone,

And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

Good wench, let’s sit down quiet,

Grif. Madam, we are here.

Kath. It is not you I call for.
Saw ye none enter, since I slept?

Grif. None, madam.

Kath. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop
Invite me to a banquet ; whose bright faces
Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?
They promis’d me eternal happiness,
And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
Iam not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly.
Grif. Iam most joyful, madam, such good dreams
Possess your fancy.

 

 
 

 

Scene II.]

KING HENRY VIII.

1005

 

Kath. Bid the music leave,
They are harsh and heavy to me. [Wusic ceases.
Pat. ; Do you note,
How much her grace is alter’d on the sudden?
How long her face is drawn ? how pale she looks,
And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!
Grif. She is going, wench. Pray, pray.
Pat. Heaven comfort her!

Enter a Messenger.
Mess. An’t like your grace, —

Kath. You are a saucy fellow:
Deserve we no more reverence ?
Grif. You are to blame, 101

Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,
To use so rude behaviour: go to; kneel.

Mess. I humbly do entreat your highness’ pardon ;
My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying
A gentleman, sent from the king to see you.

kath. Admit him entrance, Griffith : but this fellow
Let me ne’er see again.

|Exeuwnt GRIFFITH and Messenger.

Re-enter GRIFFITH, with CAPUCIUS.

If my sight fail not,
You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,

My royal nephew, and your name Capucius. 110
Cap. Madam, the same, your servant.
Kath. O my lord!

The times, and titles, now are alter’d strangely
‘With me, since first you knew me. But, I pray you,
What is your pleasure with me?

Cap. Noble lady,
First, mine own service to your grace ; the next,
The king’s request that I would visit you;
Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me
Sends you his princely commendations,
And heartily entreats you take good comfort.

Kath. O! my good lord, that comfort comes woo

ate;
*T is like a pardon after execution.
That gentle physic, given in time, had cur’d me;
But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers.
How does his highness?
Cap. Madan, in good health.
Kath. So may he ever do; and ever flourish,
When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name
Banish’d the kingdom.—Patience, is that letter,
I caus’d you write, yet sent away?

 

Pat. No, madam.
[Giving it to KATHARINE,
Kath, Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver
This to my lord the king.
Cap. : Most willing, madam. 130
Kath. In which I have commended to his goodness
The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter :—
The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!
Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding,—
She is young, and of a noble modest nature;
I hope, she will deserve well,—and a little
To love her for her mother’s sake, that lov’d him,
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women, that so long 140
Have follow’d both my fortunes faithfully :
Of which there is not one, I dare avow
(And now I should not lie), but will deserve,
For virtue, and true beauty of the soul,
For honesty, and decent carriage,
A right good husband, let him be a noble;
And, sure, those men are happy that shall have them.
The last is, for my men :—they are the poorest,
But poverty could never draw them from me ;— :
That they may have their wages duly paid them, 150
And something over to remember me by: .
If Heaven had pleas’d to have given me longer life,
And able means, we had not parted thus.
These are the whole contents :—and, good my lord,
By that you love the dearest in this world,
As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, _
Stand these poor people’s friend, and urge the king
To do me this last right. ,
Cap. By Heaven, I will,
Or let me lose the fashion of a man!
Kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me 160
In all humility unto his highness:
Say, his long trouble now is passing .
Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless’d him,
For so I will.—Mine eyes grow dim.—Farewell,
My lord.—Griffith, farewell.—Nay, Patience,
You must not leave me yet: I must to bed ;
Call in more women.—When I am dead, good wench,
Let me be us’d with honour: strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, 170
Then lay me forth : although unqueen’d, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more.— [Exeunt, leading KATHARINE,

 

 

 

 

ACT V.
ScENE I.—A Gallery in the Palace.

Enter GARDINER, Bishop of WINCHESTER, a Page with a torch before him, met by
Sir THoMas LovELL.

   

oe Gardiner.
T'S one o'clock, boy, is’t not?
‘oy. It hath struck.
Gar. These should be hours for necessities,
Not for delights; times to repair our nature
With comforting repose, and not for us |
To waste these times.—Good hour of night,
Sir Thomas :
Whither so late? :
Lov. Came you from the king, my lord?
Gar. I did, Sir Thomas; and left him at
primero
With the Duke of Suffolk.

Lov. I must to him too,
Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave.

Gar. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What’s the

matter? . 10

It seems you are in haste: an if there be
No great offence belongs to’t, give your friend
Some touch of your late business, Affairs that walk
(As, they say, spirits do) at midnight, have
In them a wilder nature, than the business
That seeks despatch by day.

Lov. My lord, I love you,
And durst commend a secret to your ear
Much weightier than thiswork. The queen’sin labour,

 

 
 

 

1006

KING HENRY VIII.

[Act V.

 

They say, in great extremity ; and fear’d,
She'll with the labour end. F
Gar. The fruit she goes with
I pray for heartily, that it may find 21
Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,
I wish it grubb‘d up now.
Methinks, I could

Lov.
Cry the Amen; and yet my conscience says
She’s a good creature, and, sweet lady, does
Deserve our better wishes. i
Gar. But, sir, sir,—
Hear me, Sir Thomas: you are a gentleman
Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious ;
And, let me tell you, it will ne’er be well,
’T will not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take’t of me, 30
Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,
Sleep in their graves.

Lov. Now, sir, you speak of two
The most remark’d i’the kingdom. As for Cromwell,—
Beside that of the jewel-house, is made master |
O’ the rolls, and the king's secretary ; further, sir,
Stands in the gap and trade of more preferments,
With which the time will load him. ‘The archbishop
Is the king's hand and tongue ; and who dare speak
One syllable against him ? 3

Gar. Yes, ire Sir Thomas,
There are that dare; andI myself have ventur'd = 40
To speak my mind of him: and, indeed, this day,

Sir, (I may tellit you,) I think, I have |
Incens‘d the lords o’ the council, that he is
(For so I know he is, they know he is)
A most arch heretic, a pestilence
That does infect the land: with which they moved
Have broken with the king; who hath so far
Given ear to our complaint, (of his great grace
And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs
Our reasons laid before him,) hath commanded, 50
To-morrow morning to the council-board
He be convented. He’sarank weed, Sir Thomas,
And we must root him out. From your affairs
I hinder you too long: good night, Sir Thomas.
Lov. Many good nights, my lord. Irest your servant.
[Ereunt GARDINER and Page.

is LOVELL is going out, enter the ISING and the
Duke of SUFFOLK.
4K. Hen. Charles, I will play no more to-night :
My mind's not on’t; you are too hard for me.
Suf. Sir, I did never win of you before,
A. Hen. But little, Charles ;
Nor shall not when my fancy ’s on my play. 60
Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?
Lov. I could not personally deliver to her
What you commanded me, but by her woman
I sent your message; who return’d her thanks
In the greatest humbleness, and desir’d your highness
Most heartily to pray for her.
Y. Een. What say’st thou? ha!
To pray for her? what.! is she crying out?
Lov. So said her woman; and that her sufferance
made ;
Almost each pang a death.
val Alas, good lady!

. Hen.
Suf. God safely quit her of her burden, and 70
With gentle travail, to the gladding of
Your highness with an heir!
K. Hen. *T is midnight, Charles :
Pr’ythee, to bed ; and in thy prayers remember
The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone;
For I must think of that, which company
Would not be friendly to.
Suf. I wish your highness
A quiet night, and my good mistress will
Remember in my prayers.
A. Hen. ‘ood night.—
Exit SUFFOLK.

Enter Sir ANTIIONY DENNY.
Well, sir, what follows?
Den. Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop, 80
As you commanded me.
. Hen.

Charles,

Ha! Canterbury ?

 

Den. Ay, my good lord.

i. He "is true: where is he, Denny?

enw
Den. He attends your highness’ pleasure.
dk. Hen. Binge him to us. [/cit DENNY.
Lov. [-Aside.] This is about that which the bishop

spake :
Iam happily come hither,
Re-enter DENNY, with CRANMER.

eet Avoid the gallery.
[LoveLy seenis to stay.

Ha !--I have said.—Be gone.
Wha [Exeunt LovELL and DENNY.

Cran. I am fearful.—Wherefore frowns he thus?
°T is his aspect of terror: all’s not well.

A. Hen. How now, my lord? You do desire to know
Wherefore I sent for you.
ran. It is my duty 91
To attend your highness’ pleasure.

AK. Hen. ’Pray you, arise,

My good and stavions Lord of Canterbury.

Come, you and I must walk a turn together;

I have news to tell you.
hand.

Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak,

And am ae sorry to repeat what follows:

Ihave, and most unwillingly, of late

Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord,

Grievous complaints of you; which, being consider'd,

Have moy’d us and our council, that you shall 101

This morning come before us: where, I know,

You cannot with such freedom purge yourself,

But that, till further trial in those charges

Which will require your answer, you must take

Your patience to you, and be well contented

To make your house our Tower: you a brother of us,

It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness

Would come against you.

Cran. I humbly thank your highness,
And am right glad to catch this good occasion 110
Most throughly to be winnow'd, where my chaff
And corn shall fiy asunder ; for, I know,
There’s none stands under more calumnious tongues,
Than I myself, poor man.

.. Hen. Stand up, good Canterbury :

Thy truth, and thy integrity, is rooted
In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand, stand up:
Pr’ythee, let’s walk. Now, by my holidame,
What manner of man are you? My lord, I look’d
You would have given me your petition, that
I should have ta’en some pains to bring together 120
Yourself and your accusers ; and to have heard you,
Without indurance, further.

Cran. Most dread liege,
The good I stand on, is my truth and honesty :
If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies,
Will triumph o’er my person, which I weigh not,
Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing
What can be said against me.

Come, come, give me your

AK. Hen. Know you not
How your state stands i’ the world, with the whole
world ?
Your enemies are many, and not small; their
practices

Must bear the same proportion : and not ever 120
The justice and the truth o’ the question carries
The due o’ the verdict with it. At what ease
Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt
To swear against you? such things have been done.
You are potently oppos’d, and with a malice
Of as great size. Ween you of better luck,
I mean in perjur’d witness, than your master,
Whose minister you are, whiles here he liv'd
Upon this naughty earth? Go to, goto:
You take a precipice for no leap of danger, 140
And woo your own destruction.

Cran. God, and your majesty,
Protect mine innocence, or I fall into
The trap is laid for me!

A. Hen. Be of good cheer;
They shall no more prevail than we give way to.
Keep comfort to you; and this morning, see

 

 

 
 

SCENE Il]

KING HENRY VIII.

1007

 

You do appear before them. If they shall chance,
In charging you with matters, to commit you,
e best persuasions to the contrary
Fail not to use, and with what vehemency
he occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties
Will render you no remedy, this ring
‘Deliver them, and your appeal to us
There make before them.—Look, the good man weeps:
He’s honest, on mine honour. God's blest mother!
I swear, he is true-hearted ; and a soul
None better in my kingdom.—Get you gone,
And do as I have bid you. [Hzit CRaNMER.]—He has
A strangled
His language in his tears.

Entcr an Old Lady.

Gent. [Within.] Come back : what mean you?
Old L. I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring
Will make my boldness manners.—Now, good angels

150

Fly o’er thy royal head, and shade thy person 161
Under their blessed wings !
K. Hen. Now, by thy looks

I guess thy message. Is the queen deliver’d?
Say, ay; and of a boy.

Old L. Ay, ay, my liege;
And of a lovely boy : the God of heaven
Both now and ever bless her !—’t is a girl,
Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen
Desires your visitation, and to be | :
Acquainted with this stranger : ‘tis as like you,
As cherry is to cherry.

Lovell!

A. Hen.
Re-enter LOVELL.

Lov. Sir. 170
A. Hen. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the

queen. et [Exit.
Old L. An hundred marks! By this light, I'll ha’
more.
An ordinary groom is for such payment:
J will have more, or scold it out of him.
Said I for this, the girl was like to him?
I will have more, or else unsay ’t; and now,

While it is hot, Ill put it to the issue. [Exeunt.

ScENE II.—The Lobby before the Council-chamber.

Enter CRANMER; Servants, Door-keeper, &£c.,
attending.
Cran. I hope, I am not too late ; and yet the gentle-
man,
That was sent to me from the council, pray’ me _
To make ;ereal haste. All fast? what means this?
oa!

Who waits there?—Sure, you know me?
D. Keep. Yes, my lord;
But yet 1 cannot help you.
Cran. Why? , .
D. Keep. Your grace must wait, till you be call’d
Tr.

Enter Doctor BUTTS.

Cran. So. | ;

Butts. This is a piece of malice. Iam glad,
I came this way so happily : the king
Shall understand it presently. ;

Cran. (Aside.] | ’T is Butts,
The king’s physician. As he pass’d along, 10
How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me. 2
*Pray Heaven, he sound not my disgrace ! For certain,
This is of purpose laid by some that hate me, :
(God turn their hearts! I never seutit their malice,)
To quench mine honour: they would shame to make

[Exit.

me

it else at door, a fellow-counsellor, ;
Won boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures
Must be fulfill’d, and I attend with patience.

Enter the Kine and Butts, at a window above.

s. I’llshow your grace the strangest sight,—-
aga S = What's that, Butts?

 

Butts. I think, your highness saw this many a day.
Hen, Body o’ me, where is it?

Butts. There, my lord :
The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury ; 22
Who holds his state at door, ’mongst pursuivants,
Pages, and footboys.

K. Hen. Ha! ’Tis he, indeed.

Is this the honour they do one another?

*T is well, there’s one above them yet. Ihad thought,
They had parted so much honesty among them

(At least good manners), as not thus to suffer

A man of his place, and se near our favour,

To dance attendance on their lordship’s pleasures, 30
And at the door too, like a post with packets.

By holy Mary, Butts, there’s knavery :

Let’em alone, and draw the curtain close ;

We shall hear more anon. [Exeunt.

ora We \

\ hil

   

|

   

Gas i ail ee

D. Keep. ‘Your grace may enter now.”

The Council-chamber.

Enter the Lord Chancellor, the Duke of SUFFOLK,
Earl of SurReEyY, Lord Chamberlain, GARDINER,
and CROMWELL. The Chancellor places himself at
the upper end of the table on the left hand; a seat
being left void above him, as for the Archbishop of
CANTERBURY. The rest seat themselves in order
on each side. CROMWELL at the lower end, as
secretary.

Chan. Speak to the business, master secretary :

Why are we met in council ?

Crom. Please your honours,

The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury.
Gar. Has he had knowledge of 1 ?

Crom. es.
Nor. Who waits there ?
D. Keep, Without, my noble lords?
Gar. Yes.
Dz. Keep. My lord archbishop ;
And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. 40
Chan. Let him come in.
D, Keep. Your grace may enter now.
[CRANMER approaches the council-table.
Chan. My good lord archbishop, I am very sorry
To sit here at this present, and behold
That chair stand empty: but we all are men,
In our own natures frail, and capable
Of our flesh ; few are angels: out of which frailty,
And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us,
Have misdemean’d yourself, and not a little,
Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling
The whole realm, by your teaching, and your
chaplains, 50
(For so we are inform’d,) with new opinions,
Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,
And, not reform’d, may prove pernicious.
Gar. Which reformation must be sudden too,
My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses
Pace them not in their hands to make them gentle,
But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur

them,
Till they obey the manage. If we suffer,

 

 
 

1008

KING HENRY VIII.

[Act V.

 

 

Out of our easiness and childish pity
‘To one man’s honour, this contagious sickness, 60
Farewell all physic : and what follows then ?
Commotions, uproars, with a general taint
Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,
The upper Germany, can dearly witness,
Yet freshly pitied in our memories.
Cran. My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress
Both of my life and office, I have labour'd,
And with no little study, that my teaching,
And the strong course of my authority,
Might go one way, and safely, and the end 70
Was ever to do well: nor is there living
(I speak it with a single heart, my lords) |
A man, that more detests, more stirs. against,
Both in his private conscience and _his place,
Defacers of a public peace, than I do.
*Pray Heaven, the king may never find a heart
With less allegiance in it! Men, that make
Envy and crooked malice nourishment, :
Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships,
That in this case of justice, my accusers,
Be what they will, may stand forth face to face,
And freely urge against me.
Suf. Nay, my lord,
That cannot be: you are a counsellor,
And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.
Gar. My lord, because we have business of more
moment,
We will be short with you.
pleasure,
And our consent, for better trial of you,
From hence you be committed to the Tower ;
Where, being but a private man again,
You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, 90
More than, I fear, you are provided for.
Cran. Ah! my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;
You are always my good friend: if your will pass,
I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,
You are so merciful. J see your end:
’T is my undoing. Love and meekness, lord,
Become a churchman better than ambition ;
Win straying souls with modesty again,
Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,
Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, 100
I make as little doubt, as you do conscience,
In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,
But reverence to your calling makes me modest.
Gar. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary;
That’s the plain truth : your painted gloss discovers,
To men that understand you, words and weakness.
Crom. My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,
By your good favour, too sharp: men so noble,
However faulty, yet should find respect

’Tis his highness’

For what they have been: ‘tis a cruelty, 110
To load a falling man.
Gar. Good master secretary,

I cry your honour mercy : you may, worst
Of all this table, say so.
Crom, Why, my lord?
Gar. Do not I know you for a favourer
Of this new sect ? ye are not sound.

Crom. Not sound?
Gar. Not sound, I say.
Crom. Would you were half so honest ;

Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears,
Gar. I shall remember this bold language.

Crom. Do.
Remember your bold life too.

Chan. This is too much ;
Forbear, for shame, my lords.

Gar. Ihave done.

Crom. And I.

Chan. Then thus for you, my lord:—it stands

agreed, 121

I take it, by all voices, that forthwith
You be convey’d to the Tower a prisoner,
There to remain, till the king’s further pleasure
Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords?
(ll, We are. :
Cran, Is there no other way of mercy,
But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?

 

Gar. What other
Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome,
J.et some o’ the guard be ready there.

Ent L.
nter Guard For me?

Cran.
Must I go like a traitor thither?

Gar. Receive him, 130
And see him safe i’ the Tower.
Cran. Stay, good my lords;

Thave a little yet to say.—Look there, my lords:
By virtue of that ring I take my cause |

Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it

To a most noble judge, the king my master.

Chan. This is the king’s ring.

Sur. *T is no counterfeit,

Suf. Tis the right ring, by Heaven! I told ye all,
When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,

*T would fall upon ourselves. .

Nor. Do you think, my lords,
The king will suffer but the little finger 140
Of this man to be vex'd?

Chan. *T is now too certain:
How much more is his life in value with him?
’Would I were fairly out on 't!

Crom. _ My mind gave me,
In seeking tales and informations
Against this man, whose honesty the devil
And his disciples only envy at,
Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now haveat ye!

Enter the KING, frowning on them; he takes his seat.

Gar. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to

Heaven

In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince ;

Not only good and wise, but most religious: 150

One that in all obedience makes the church

The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen

That holy duty, out of dear respect,

His royal self in judgment comes to hear

The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

A. Hen. You were ever good at sudden commenda-

tions,

Bishop of Winchester ; but know, I come not

To hear such flattery now, and in my presence:

They are too thin and bare to hide offences.

To me you cannot reach. You play the spaniel, 160

And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;

But, whatsoe’er thou tak’st me for, I’m sure,

Thou hast a cruel nature, and a bloody. —

[Zo CRANMER.] Good man, sit down. Now let me
see the proudest

He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:

By all that’s holy, he had better starve,

Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

Sur. May it please your grace,—

K. Hen. No, sir, it does not please me.
Thad thought, I had had men of some understanding
And wisdom of my council; but I find none. 170
Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,

This good man (few of ie deserve that title),

This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy

At chamber-door? and one as great as you are ?
Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission
Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye

Power, as he was a counsellor to try him,

Not asa groom. There’s some of ye, I see,

More out of malice than integrity,

Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean ; 180
Which ye shall never have while I live.

Chan. Thus far,
My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace
To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos’d
Concerning his imprisonment, was rather
(If there be faith in men) meant for his trial,

And fair purgation to the world, than malice,
I’m sure, in me.

AK. Hen. Well, well, my lords, respect him:

Take him, and use him well; he’s worthy of it.

I will say thus much for him: if a prince

May be beholding to a subject, I 190
Am, for his love and service, so to him.

 

 
 

ScENE IV.]

KING HENRY VIII.

1009

 

Make me no more ado, but all embrace him :
Be on for shame, my lords !—My Lord of Canter-
jury,
Ihave a suit which you must not deny me;
That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,
You must be godfather, and answer for her.
Cran. The greatest monarch now alive may glory
In such an honour: how may I deserve it,
That am a poor and humble subject to you?
k&. Hen. Come, come, my lord, you’d spare your
spoons. You shall have 200
Two noble partners with you; the old Duchess of
Norfolk,
And Lady Marquess Dorset: will these please you ?
Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,
Embrace, and love this man.
With a true heart,

Gar.
And brother-love, I do it.
Cran, And let Heaven
Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.
K. Hen. Good man! those joyful tears show thy
true heart.
The common voice, I see, is verified
Of thee, which says thus, ‘‘ Do my Lord of Canterbury
A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.”— 210
Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long
To have this young one made a Christian.
As I have made ye one, lords, one remain ;

So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Palace Yard.

Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his
Man.

Port. You ll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do
you take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves,
leave your gaping.

ee Good master porter, I belong to the larder.

ort. Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, you
rogue !—Is this a place to roar in?-Fetch me a dozen
crab-tree staves, and uae ones: these are but
switches to them.—I ll scratch your heads: you must
be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and
cakes here, you rude rascals ? 10

Man. Pray, sir, be patient: ’t is as much impossible,
Unless we sweep them from the door with cannons,
To scatter them, as ’tis to make them sleep
On May-day morning; which will never be.

We may as well push against Paul's, as stir them,

Port. How got they in, and be hang’d?

Man. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in?

As much as one sound cudgel of four foot
(You see the poor remainder) could distribute,
I made no spare, sir.

Port. You did nothing, sir. 20

Man. Iam not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
To mow them down before me; but if I spared any,
That had a head to hit, either young or old,

He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
Let me ne’er hope to see a chine again ;
And that I would not for a cow, God save her.
Within.] Do you hear, master porter?
ort. I shall be with you presently, good master
puppy.—Keep the door close, sirrah.

Man. What would you have me do? 30

Port. What should you do, but knock ’em down by
the dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have
we some strange Indian with the ‘great tool come to
court, the women so bewege us? Bless me, what a fry
of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience,
this one christening will beget a thousand: here will
be father, godfather, and all together. | a

‘Man. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There isa
fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier
by his face, for, o’ my conscience, twenty of the dog-
days now reign in’s nose: all that stand about him are
under the line, they need no other penance. That fire-
drake did I hit three times on the head, and three
times was his nose discharged against me: he stands
there, like a mortar-piece, to blow us. -There was a

 

haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that railed
upon me till her pink’d porringer fell off her head, for
kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss’d the
meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out:
Clubs! when I might see from far some forty trun-
cheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope 0’
the Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on;
I made good my place; at length they came to the
broomstaff to me: I defied ’em still; when sudden]
a file of boys behind ’em, loose shot, delivered suc
a shower of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine
honour in, and let ’em win the work. The devil was
amongst ’em, I think, surely. 58

Port. These are the youths that thunder at a play-
house, and fight for bitten apples; that no audience,
put the Tribulation of Tower Hill, or the Limbs of
Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure.
Ihave some of ’em in Limbo Patrum, and there they
are like to dance these three days, besides the running
banquet of two beadles, that is to come.

Enter the Lord Chamberlain.

Cham. Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still too, from ele they are coming,
As if we kept a fair here ! here are these porters,
These lazy knaves?—Ye have made a tine hand,

fellows:
There is a trim rabble let in. Are all these 70
Your faithful friends 0’ the suburbs? We shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christening.

Port. An’t please your honour,

We are but men; and what so many may do,
Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:
An army cannot rule ’em.
Cham. As I live,
‘If the king blame me for’t, I'll lay ye all
By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect. You are lazy knaves;
And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when 80
Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound ;
They ’re come already from the christening.
Go, break among the press, and find a way out
To let the troop pass fairly, or I’ll find
A Marshalsea, shall hold you play these two months.

Port. Make way there for the princess.

Man. You great fellow,
Stand close up, or I’ll make your head ache.

Port. You i the camlet, get up o’ the rail ;

I'll pick you o’er the pales else, [Exeunt.

 

ScENE IV.—The Palace.

Enter Trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen,
Lord Mayor, Garter, CRANMER, Duke of NORFOLK,
with his marshal’s staff, Duke of SUFFOLK, two
Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the
christening-gifts ; then, four Noblemen bearing a
canopy, under which the Duchess oF NORFOLK, god-
mother, bearing the child richly habited ina mantle,
&c. Train borne by a Lady: then follows the
Marchioness of Dorset, the other godmother, and
Ladies. The troop pass once about the stage, and
Garter speaks.

Gart. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send
prosperous life, Jong, and ever happy, to the high and
mighty princess of England, Elizabeth!

Flourish. Enter KinG and Train.
Cran. [Kneeling.] And to your royal grace, and the
good queen, : .
My noble partners, and myself, thus pray:
All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,
Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,
May hourly fall upon ye!

. Hen. Thank you, good lord archbishop;
What is her name?
Cran. Elizabeth. _
A. Hen. Stand up, lord.—

[The Kine kisses the Child.

 

 

 
 

1010 KING HENRY VIII. [Act V.

 

 

 

 

With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee! 10 | (But few now living can behold that goodness)
Into whose hand I give thy life. A pattern to all princes living with her,
Cran. Amen. | And all that shall succeed : Saba was never
K. Hen. My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal. More covetous of wisdom, and fair virtue,

Ty

ie
Ta

 

 

K. Hen. “ With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!

Into whose hand I give thy life.”

Than this pure soul shall be : all princely graces,
That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,

With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall still be doubled on her : truth shall nurse her ;

I thank ye heartily : so shall this lady,
When she has so much English.

Cran, Let me speak, sir,
For Heaven now bids me; and the words I utter

Let none think flattery, for they ’ll find them truth. Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her :

This royal infant,— Heaven still move about her !— She shall be lov’d, and fear’d: her own shall bless her;
Though in her cradle, yet now promises Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, ial
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, And hong hele heads with sorrow : good grows with
Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be 20 er.

 

 
 

Scene IV.) KING HENRY VIII. 1011

 

In her days, every man shall eat in safety | K. Hen. 1 Thou speakest wonders.
Under his own vine what he plants; and sing Cran. She shall be, to the happiness of England,
The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. An aged princess ; many days shall see her,

God shall be truly known; and those about her And yet no day without a deed to crown it.

From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, *Would I had known no more! but she must die—
And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. She must, the saints must have her--yet a virgin; 60
Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when A most unspotted lily shall she pass

The bird of wonder dies, the maiden pheenix, 40 | To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.
Her ashes new create another heir, KK. Hen. O lord archbishop !

As great in admiration as herself : Thou hast made me now a man: never, before

So shall she leave her blessedness to one, This happy child, did I get anything.

(When Heaven shall call her from this cloud of dark- | This oracle of comfort has so pleas’d me,

 

ness, That, when I am in heaven, I shall desire
Who, from the sacred ashes of her honour, To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.—
Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, I thank ye all.—To you, my good lord mayor,
And so stand fix’d. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, | And your good brethren, 1am much beholding: 70
That were the servants to this chosen infant, I have receiv’d much honour by your presence,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow tohim : And ye shall find me thankful.—Lead the way,
Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, 50 lords :
His honour and the greatness of his name Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank
Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish, ye; 5 :
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches She will be sick else. This day, no man think
To all the plains about him. Our children’s children , Has business at his house, for all shall stay :
Shall see this, and bless Heaven. | This little one shall make it holiday. [Exeunt.
EPILOGUE.
°T 1s ten to one, this play can never please. | All the expected good we’re like to hear
All that are here. Some come to take their ease, For this play, at this time, is only in
And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear, | The merciful construction of good women 3 10

We have frighted with our trumpets; so, ‘tis clear, | For such a one we show’d them. If they smile,
They'll say, ‘tis naught: others, to hear the city | And say, ’t will do, I know, within a while

Abus’d extremely, and to cry,—‘‘That’s witty!” | All the best men are ours; for ’tis ill hap,
\

Which we have not done neither: that, I fear, If they hold, when their ladies bid them clap.

 

 

 
 

 

 

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

.

+t DRAMATIS PERSONA,

THESEUS, Duke of Athens. Gentlemen.
PirirHous, an Athenian General. GERROLD, a Schoolmaster.
SEES an Athenian Captain. = A
ALAMON, 5 1 A IPPOLYTA, an 4mazon, Bride to Theseus.
ARCITE,  § Nephews to Creon, ssing of Thebes. EMILIA, her Sister.
VALERIUS, a Theban Nobleman, Three Queens.
Siz Knights. Gaoler's Daughter.
Herald. Waiting-women to Emilia.
Gaoler.
Wooer to the Gaoler’s Daughter. Countrymen, Messengers, aman personating Hymen,
poe ‘ Bay. Executioner, Guard, and Attendants.
rother 1 . fountry wenches, and women personating
Friends 5 0 the Gaoler. Nymphs.
SCHENE—ATHENS and the Neighbourhood, except in part of the First Act, where it is THEBES and the
Neighbourhood.

 

PROLOGUE.
Flourish.
Dy plays and maidenheads are near akin; And the first sound this child hear be a hiss,
]

   

Much follow'd both, for both much money How will it shake the bones of that good man,

gi'en, And make him cry from under ground, *‘O, fan
If they stand sound and well: and a good From me the witless chaff of such a writer

play, ; That blasts my bays, and my fam’d works makes
++ Whose modest scenes blush on his marriage- lighter 20
ay, Than Robin Hood!” This is the fear we bring;
And shake to lose his honour, is like her For, to say truth, it were an endless thing,
That after holy tie and first night’s stir, And too ambitious, to aspire to him,
/ Yet still is modesty, and still retains Weak as we are, and almost breathless swim
NS More of the maid to sight than husband's pains, In this deep water. Do but you hold out
We pray our play may be so; for I’m sure | +Your helping hands, and we shall tack about,
It has a noble breeder and a pure, 10 | And something do to save us: you shall hear
A learned, and a poet never went Scenes, though below his art, may yet appear
More famous yet ‘twixt Po and silver Trent: Worth two hours’ travel. To his bones sweet sleep!
Chaucer, of all admir'd, the story gives; Content to you !—If this play do not keep 7
There constant to eternity it lives. A little dull time from us, we perceive
If we let fall the nobleness of this, Our losses fall so thick, we must needs leave.

[Flourish,

Notr.—The editor of this text bas marked with an obelus (+) any noteworthy departnre from the reading of the original text
(Qo. 1634). This does not, except in a few important cases, refer to changes of punctuation, as old editions are of very small authority
in such a matter. Metrical rearrangements have not been indicated.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

ACT I.

t Scene I.—Athens.

Before a Temple.

Enter Hymen with a torch burning ; a Boy, in a white robe, before, singing and strewing flowers; after
AHymen, a Nymph, encompassed in her tresses, pearing a wheaten garland ; then THESEUS, between two

other Nymphs with wheaten chaplets on t
tPrriITHOUsS, and another holding a garland over her head, her tresses likewise hanging; after
her, EMILIA, holding up her train; ARTESIUS and Attendants.

   

fe a Sone. [Music.

OSES, their sharp spines being gone,

Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue.

Maiden pinks, of odour faint,

Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true.

Primrose, first-born child of Ver,
Merry spring-time’s harbinger
With her bells dim. ;
Oxlips in their cradles growing, 10
Marigolds on deathbeds blowiny,
Larks’-heels trim.

tAll dear Nature's children sweet,
Lie ‘fore bride and bridegroom's fect,
Blessing their sense!  [Strewing flowers.
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
tBe absent hence!

The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
tThe boding raven, nor chough hoar 20
Nor chatt'ring pie, .
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!

Enter three Queens, in black, with veils stained, and
wearing imperial crowns. The first Queen falls
dcewn at the foot of THESEUS; the second falls down
at the foot of HippoLyta ; the third before EMILIA.

1 Queen. For pity’s sake and true gentility’s,
Hear, and respect me!
2 Queen. For your mother’s sake,
_And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair
ones,
Hear, and respect me!
3 Queen. Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath
mark’d
The honour of your bed, and for the sake 30
Of clear virginity, be advocate
For us and our distresses! This good deed
Shall raze you out o’ the book of trespasses
All you are set down there.
Thes. Sad lady, rise.
Hip. Stand up.
Emi. No knees to me:
What woman I may stead that is distress’d
Does bind me to her.
Thes. What’s your request? deliver you for all.
1 Queen. We are three queens, whose sovereigns
fell before
+The wrath of cruel Creon ; who endure 40
The beaks of ravens, talents of the kites,
And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes:
He will not suffer us to burn their bones,
To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence
Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye
Of holy Pheebus, but infects the winds

 

eir heads; then HIPPOLYTA, the bride, led by

With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, duke!

Thou purger of the earth, draw thy fear’d-sword
That does ee turns to the world; give us the bones
Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them ; a0

And, of thy boundless goodness, take some note
That for our crowned heads we have no roof
Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s,
And vault to everything!
Thes. Pray you, kneel not:
I was transported with your speech, and sutfer’d
Your knees to wrong themselves. I’ve heard the
fortunes
Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting
As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em.
King Capaneus was your lord: the day
That he should marry you, at such a season 60
As now it is with me, I met your groom
By Mars’s altar; you were that time fair,
Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses,
Nor in more bounty spread her; your wheaten
wreath i
Was then nor thrash’d nor blasted ; Fortune at you
Dimpled her cheek with smiles; Hercules our kins-
man—
Then weaker than your eyes—laid by his club ;
tHe tumbled down upon his Nemean hide,
And swore his sinews thaw’d. O, grief and time,
Fearful consumers, you will all devour !
1 Queen. O, I hope some god,
Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood,
Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth
Our undertaker !
Thes. O, no knees, none, widow !
Unto the helmeted Bellona use them,
And pray for me, your soldier.—
Troubled I am. [Turns away.
2 Queen. Honour’d Hippolyta,
Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain
The scythe-tusk’d boar; that, with thy arm as
strong
As it is white, wast near to make the male 80
To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord—
Born to uphold creation in that honour
First Nature styl’d it in—shrunk thee into
The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing
Thy force and thy affection ; soldieress,
That equally canst poise sternness with pity;
t+tWho now, I know, hast much more power on him
Than e’er he had on thee ; who ow’st his strength
And his love too, who is a servant for
tThe tenor of thy speech ; dear glass of ladies, 90
Bid him that we, whom flaming War doth scorch,
Under the shadow of his sword may cool us;
Require him he advance it o’er our heads ;
Speak ’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman
As any of us three ; weep ere you fail;
Lend us a knee;
But touch the ground for us no longer time
Than a dove’s motion when the head’s pluck’d off;
Tell him, if he 7 the blood-siz'd field lay swoln,
Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon. 100
What, you would do!

 

 

 
 

 

1014 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. (Act L

ITip. Poor lady, say no more:
I had as lief trace this good action with you
As that whereto I’m going, and nev’r yet
Went I so willing, way. My lord is taken
Heart-dcep with your distress: let him consider ;
I'll speak anon.

3 Queen. [Zo EMILIA.] O, my petition was
Set down in ice, which, by hot gricf uncandied,
Melts into drops ; so sorrow, wanting torm,
Is press’d with deeper matter.

Limi. Pray, stand up:
Your grief is written in your cheek.
3 Queen. O, woe! 110

You cannot read it there; there through my tears,
tLike wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream,
You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack !
He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth
Must know the centre too; he that will fish
For my least minnow, let him lead his line
To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me!
Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits,
Makes me a fool. .
Emi. Pray you, say nothing; pray you:
Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in 't, 120
Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were
The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy
you
T’ instruct me ’gainst a capital grief indeed ;—
Such heart-pierc’d demonstration !—but, alas,
Being a natural sister of our sex,
Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me,
That it shall make a counter-reflect 'gainst
My brother's heart, and warm it to some pity,
Though it were made of stone: pray have good
comfort.
Thes. Forward to th’ temple! leave not out a jot
O’ the sacred ceremony.
1 Queen. O, this celebration 131
tWill longer last, and be more costly, than
Your suppliants’ war! Remember that your fame
Knolls in th’ ear o’ the world: what you do quickly
Is not done rashly; your first thought is more
Than others’ labour’d meditance; your premedi-
tating
More than their actions; but—O Jove!—your actions,
tSoon as they move, as asprayes do the fish,
Subdue before they touch: think, dear duke, think
What beds our slain kings have !

2 Queen. What griefs our beds, 110
That our dear lords have none!
3 Queen. None fit for the dead!

tThose that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance,
Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves
Been death’s most horrid agents, humane grace
Affords them dust and shadow.
1 Queen. But our lords
Lie blistering ‘fore the visitating sun,
And were good kings when living.
Thes. It is true ;
And I will give you comfort,
To give your dead lords graves: the which to do
Must make some work with Creon.
1 Queen. And that work 150
Presents itself to the doing:
Now ’t will take form; the heats are gone to-morrow ;
Then bootless toil must recompense itself
With its own sweat; now he is secure,
Not dreams we stand before your puissance,
Wrinching our holy begging in our eyes,
To make petition clear.
2 Queen. Now you may take him
Drunk with his victory.
3 Queen. And his army full
Of bread and sloth.
Thes. Artesius, that best know’'st
tHow to draw out fit to this enterprise
The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number
To carry such a business ; forth and levy
Our worthiest instruments ; whilst we despatch
This grand act of our life, this daring deed
Of fate in wedlock.
1 Queen. Dowagers, take hands;

 

Let us be widows to our woes; delay
Commends us to a famishing hope.
all Queens. Farewell!
2 Queen. ee come unseasonably ; but when could
rie
Cull forth, as unpang’d judgment can, fitt’st time
For best solicitation? .

Thes. Why, good ladies, 170

This is a service, whereto 1 am going,
tGreater than any war; it more imports me
Than all the actions that I have foregone,

Or futurely can cope. .

1 Queen, The more proclaiming

Our suit shall be neglected : when her arms,

Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall

By warranting moonlight corslet thee, O, when

Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall

Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think

Of rotten kings or blubber'd queens? what care 180

For whet hon feel’st not, what thou feel’st being
able

To make Mars spurn hisdrum? O, if thou couch

But one night with her, every hour in’t will

Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and

Thou shalt remember nothing more than what

That banquet bids thee to!

Hip. Though much unlike (Kneeling.
You should be so transported, as much sorry
I should be such a suitor; yet I think,

Did I not by th’ abstaining of my joy.
Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit 190
That craves a present medicine, I should pluck
All ladies’ scandal on me: therefore, sir,
As I shall here make trial of my prayers,
Either presuming them to have some force,
Or sentencing for aye their vigour dumb,
Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang
Your shield afore your heart, about that neck
Which is my fee, and which I freely lend
To do these poor Ge service.
lll Queens. [To EMILI1A.] O, help now!
Our cause cries for your knee.

Emi. If you grant not (Kneeling.
My sister her petition, in that force, 20
With that celerity and nature, which
She makes it in, from henceforth Ill not dare
To ask you anything, nor be so hardy
Ever to take a husband.

Thes. Pray, stand up:

I am entreating of myself to do

That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous,
Lead on the bride: get you and pray the gods
For success and return; omit not anything

In the pretended celebration.— Queens, 210
tFollow your soldier._[To ARTESIUs.] As before,
hence you,

tAnd at the banks of Aulis meet us with
The forces you can raise, where we shall find
The moiety of a number, for a business
More bigger look’d.—Since that our theme is haste,
Istamp this kiss upon thy currant lip;
[Kisses HIPPOLYTA.
Sweet, keep it as my token.—Set you forward;
For I will see you gone.— [E£avit ARTESIUS.
Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous,
Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on't.
Pir. _ Sir, 220
I'll follow you at heels: the feast’s solemnity '
Shall want till your return.

Thes. Cousin, I charge you
Budge not from Athens; we shall be returning
Ere you can end this feast, of which, I pray you,
Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all.

1 Queen. Thus dost thou still make good
The tongue o’ the world.

2 Queen. And earn'st a deity
Equal with Mars. :
3 Queen, If not above him; for

Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend
To godlike honours; they themselves, some say, 230
Groan under such a mastery.

Thes. As we are men,

 

 
 

ScENE III.J

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1013

 

 

 

Thus should we do; being sensually subdu’d,
We lose our humane title. Good cheer, ladies!
Now turn we towards your comforts.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

 

ScENE II.—tThebes. The Court of the Palace.

Enter PALAMON and ARCITE.
Arc. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood,
And our prime cousin, yet unharden’d in
The crimes of nature ; let us leave the city
Thebes, and the temptings in’t, before we further
Sully our gloss of youth:
And here to keep in abstinence we shame
As in incontinence ; for not to swim
I th’ aid o’ the current, were almost to sink,
At least to frustrate striving; and to follow
The common stream, ’t would bring us to an eddy 10
Where we should turn or drown; if labour through,
Our gain but life and weakness,
Pal. Your advice
Is cried up with example: what strange ruins,
Since first we went to school, may we perceive
Walking in Thebes! scars and bare weeds,
The gain o’ the martialist, who did propound
To his bold ends honour and golden ingots,
Which, though he won, he had not ; and now flurted
By ReHEe, AF whom he fought! Who, then, shall
offer
To Mars’s so-scorn’d altar? I do bleed 20
When such I meet, and wish great Juno would
Resume her ancient fit of jealousy,
To get the soldier work, that peace might purge
For her repletion, and retain anew
Her charitable heart, now hard, and harsher
Than strife or war could be.
Are. Are you not out?
Meet you no ruin but the soldier in
The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin
As if you met decays of many kinds:
Perceive you none that do arouse your pity, | 30
But th’ unconsider’d soldier?
Pal. Yes; I pity
Decays where’er I find them; but such most
That, sweating in an honourable toil,
Are paid with ice to cool ’em.
Are. Tis not this
I did begin to speak of ; this is virtue
Of no respect in Thebes: I spake of Thebes,
How dangerous, if we will keep our honours,
It is for our residing ; where every evil
Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s
A certain evil; where not to be even jump
As they are here, were to be strangers, and
tSuch things to be, mere monsters.
Pal. *T is in our power—
Unless we fear that apes can tutor’s—to
Be masters of our manners: what need I
Affect another’s gait, which is not catching
Where there is faith ? or to be fond upon
Another's way of speech, when by mine own
I may be reasonably conceiv’d, sav’d too,
Speaking it truly? why am I bound ;
By any generous bond to follow him, 50
Follows his tailor, haply so lone until
The follow’d make pursuit? or let me know
Why mine own barber is unblest, with him
My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissar’d just
To such a favourite’s glass? what canon is there
That does command my rapier from my hip,
To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tip-toe
Before the street be foul? Kither 1am
The fore-horse in the team, or I am none |
That draw i’ the sequent trace. These poor ea
sores
Need not a plaintain; that which rips my bosom,
Almost to th’ heart, ‘s—
re. Our uncle Creon.
Pal. He,
A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes
Makes heaven unfear’d, and villainy assur’d

 

tBeyond its power there’s nothing ; almost puts
Faith in a fever, and deifies alone
tVoluble chance; who only attributes
The faculties of other instruments
To his own nerves and act; commands men service,
tAnd what they win in’t, boot and glory ; one 70
That fears not todo harm : good, dares not; let
The blood of mine that’s sibbe to him be suck’d
From me with leeches ; let them break and fall
Off me with that corruption !
Are. Clear-spirited cousin,
Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share
Of his loud infamy ; for our milk
Will relish of the pasture, and we must
Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen
In blood, unless in quality.
Pal. Nothing truer:
I think the echoes of his shames have deaf’d 80
The ears of heavenly justice: widows’ cries
Descend again into their throats, and have not
Due audience of the gods.—Valerius!

Enter VALERIUS.

Val. The king calls for you; yet be leaden-footed,
Till his great rage be off him: Phcebus when
He broke his whipstock, and exclaim’d against
The horses of the sun, but whisper’d, to
The loudness of his fury.

‘al. Small winds shake him!
But what’s the matter?
Val. Theseus—who where he threats appals—hath
sent 90
Deadly defiance to him, and pronounces
Ruin to Thebes ; who is at hand to seal
The promise of his wrath.

Are. Let him approach:
But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not
A jot of terror to us: yet what man
Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours—
When that his action’s dregg'd with mind assur’d
’T is bad he goes about ?

Pal. Leave that unreason’d ;
Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon:
Yet, to be neutral to him were dishonour,
Rebellious to oppose ; therefore we must
With him stand to the mercy of our fate,

Who hath bounded our last minute.

Are. So we must.—
Is’t said this war's afoot? or it shall be,

On fail of some condition ?

100

Val. ’T is in motion;
Th’ intelligence of state came in the instant
With the defier.

Pal. Let’s to the king ; who, were he
A quarter carrier of that honour which
His enemy come in, the blood we venture
Should be as for our health; which were not spent,
Rather laid out for purchase: but, alas!
Our hands advanc’d before our hearts, what will
The fall o’ the stroke do damage?

Are. Let th’ event,
That never-erring arbitrator, tell us
When we know all ourselves; and let us follow
The becking of our chance. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—fBefore the Gates of Athens.

Enter PrriTtHOUS, HIPPOLYTA, and EMILIA.,

Pir. No further!

Hip. Sir, farewell : repeat my wishes
To our great lord, of whose success I dare not
Make any timorous question; yet I wish him
Excess and overflow of power, an’t might be,

tTo dare ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him ;
Store never hurts good governors.

Pm Though I know
His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they
Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid,
Those best affections that the heavens infuse

 

 
 

 

(Acr I.

 

1016 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
In their best-temper'd pieces, keep enthron’d 10 That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be
In your dear heart! tMore than in sex dividual.
Ami. Thanks, sir. Remember me Hip. You're out of breath ;

To our all-royal brother ; for whose speed
The great Bellona I’ll solicit ; and
Without gifts understood, I'll otter to her
What I shall be advis'd she likes. Our hearts
Hip. : _ In’s bosom.
We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep
Or tell of babes broach’d on the lance, or women 20
That have sod their infants in—and after eat them—
You stay to see of us such spinsters, we
Should hold you here for ever.
As I pursue this war! which shall be then .
Beyond further requiring. 3 . [Exit.
Emi. How his longing
Follows his friend! since his depart, his sports,
His careless execution, where nor gain
Made him regard, or loss consider ; but 30
Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal
To these so ditfering twins. Have you observ’d him
ip. 3
And I did love him for't. They two have cabin'd
tIn many as dangerous as poor a corner,
Torrents, whose roaring tyranny and power
I’ the least of these was dreadful ; and they have 39
Yet tate hath brought them off. Their knot of love
Tied, weav'd, entangled, with so true, so long,
May be out-worn, never undone. I think
Theseus cannot be umpire to himself,
Each side like justice, which he loves best.
Emi. Doubtless
To say itis not you. I was acquainted
Once with a time, when I enjoy’d a playfellow; 50
Who made too proud the bed, took leave o’ the
moon—
+Was each eleven.
tHip. ’T was Flavina.
Theirs has more ground, is more maturely season’d,
More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs
Their intertangled roots of love ; but I,
And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent, 60
That know not what nor why, yet do effect
Rare issues by their operance, our souls

Since, in our terrene state, petitions are not

Are in his army, in his tent.

When our friends don their helms, or put to sea,
The brine they wept at killing ’em: then, if

Pir. Peace be to you,

Though craving seriousness and skill, pass’d slightly
tPlaying one business in his hand, another

Since our great lord departed?

; With much labour;

tPeril and want contending; they have skiff’d
Fought out together, where death's self was lodg'd;
And with a finger of so deep a cunning,

Cleaving his conscience into twain, and doing
There is a best, and reason has no manners

‘You were at wars when she the grave enrich'd,
Which then look’d pale at parting—when our count
Wer alte of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love:

The one of th’ other may be said to water

Lov’d for we did, and like the elements

Did so to one another: what she lik’d

Was then of me approv’d; what not, condemn’d,
No more arraignment; the flower that I would
pluck

And put between my breasts, O—then but beginning
To swell about the blossom—she would long

Till she had such another, and commit it

To the like innocent cradle, where, phcenix-like, 70
They died in perfume ; on my head no toy

But was her pattern; her affections—pretty,
tThough happily her careless wear—I follow’d

For my most serious decking ; had mine ear
tStol’n some new air, or at adventure humm’d one
From musical coinage, mL it was a note

Whereon her spirits would sojourn,—rather dwell

on,—

And sing it in her slumbers : this rehearsal—
tWhich, every innocent wots well, comes in

Like old importment’s bastard—has this end, 80

 

And this high-speeded pace is but to say,
That you shall never, like the maid Flavina,
Love any that’s call’d man,
Emi. I’m sure J shall not.
Hip. Now, alack, weak sister,
I must no more believe thee in this point—
Though in’t I know thou dost believe thyself—
Than [{ will trust a sickly appetite,
That loathes even as it longs. But, sure, my sister, 90
If I were ripe for your persuasion, you
Have said enough to shake me from the arm
Of the all-noble ‘Theseus ; for whose fortunes
I will now in and kneel, with great assurance
That we, more than his Pirithous, possess
The high throne in his heart.
Ami. Tam not
Against your faith; yet I continue mine.
[Cornets. Hzeunt.

ScENE IV.—tA Field before Thebes.

A battle struck within; then u_ retreat; flourish.
tThen enter THESEUS (victor), Herald, and Aticn-
dants. The three Queens meet THESEUS, and fall
on their faces before him.
1 Queen. To thee no star be dark!

2 Queen. Both heaven and earth
Friend thee for ever!
3 Queen. All the good that. may

Be wish’d upon thy head, I cry Amen to’t!

Thes. Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted

heavens
View us their mortal herd, behold who err,
and in their time chastise. Go, and find out
The bones of your dead lords, and honour them
With treble ceremony : rather than a gap
+Should be in their dear rites, we would supply ’t.
But those we will depute which shall invest
You in your dignities, and even each thing
Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu,
And heaven's good eyes look on you!
[Exeunt Queens.

tPALAMON and ARCITE borne in on hearses.
What are those?

Herald. Men of great quality, as may be judg’d
By their appointment: some of Thebes have told’s
They're sisters’ children, nephews to the king.

Thes. By th’ helm of Mars, Isaw them in the war—

tLike to a pair of lions smear’d with prey—
Make lanes in troops aghast : I fix'd my note
Constantly on them; tor they were a mark 26
tWorth a god’s view. What was’t that prisoner told

me
When I inquir’d their names?

+Herald. We ’lieve, they ’re called
Arcite and Palamon.
Thes. Tis right; those, those.

They are not dead ?

Herald. Nor in astate of life: had they been taken
When their last hurts were given, ’t was possible
They might have been recover'd ; yet they breathe,
And have the name of men.

Thes. Then like men use ’em:
The very lees of such, millions of rates
Exceed the wine of others : all our surgeons 30
Convent in their behoof ; our richest balms,

Rather than niggard, waste: their lives concern us
Much more than Thebes is worth: rather than have

Freed of this plight, and in their morning state,

Sound and at liberty, I would ‘em dead ;

But, forty thousand fold, we had rather have ‘em

Prisoners to us than death. Bear ‘em speedily

From our kind air,—to them unkind,—-and minister

What man to man may do; for our sake, more :
{Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests, 40
{Love's provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task,

 

 
 

ScENE IV]

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1017

 

 

Desire of Dery a fever, madness,
tHath set a mark—which nature could not reach to
Without some imposition,—sickness in will,
Or wrestling strength in reason. For our love, -
And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best
Their best skill tender !—Lead into the city ;
Where, having bound things scatter’d, we will post
tTo Athens ‘fore our army.

[Flourish. Exeunt; Attendants carrying

PALAMON and ARCITE.

 

ScENE V.—tAnother Part of the Same, more remote
from Thebes.
Enter the Queens with the hearses of their Knights,
ina funeral solemnity, &c.
SONG.
Urns and odours bring away !
apours, sighs, darken the day!

Our dole more deadly looks than dying ;
Balms, and gums, and heavy cheers,
Sacred vials fill'd with tears,

And clamours through the wild air flying !

Come, all sad and solemn shows,
That are quick-ey'd pleasure's foes !
We convent naught else but woes :
We convent, dc. 10

13 Queen. This funeral path brings to your house-
hold’s grave:
Joy seize on you again! Peace sleep with him!
2 Queen. And this to yours, |
1 Queen. Yours this way. Heavens lend
A thousand differing ways to one sure end.
3 Queen. This world’s a city full of straying

streets,
And death’s the market-place, where each one meets.
{Excunt severally.

 

 

 

ScENE I.—tAthens.

  
  
 

Gaoler.

MAY depart with little, while I live;
something I may cast to you, not much.
~ Alas! the prison I keep, though it be
for great ones, yet they seldom come:
before one salmon, you shall take a
number of minnows. I am given out
to be better lined than it can appear
to me report is a true speaker: I would
tI were really that I am delivered to be.
Marry, what I have—be it what it will—
I will assure upon my daughter at the
day of my death. 12

Wrooer. Sir, J demand no more than
your own offer; and I will estate your
daughter in what I have promised.

Gaoler. Well, we will talk more of
this when the solemnity is past. But
have you a full promise of her? when
that shall be seen, I tender my consent.
Woocr. J have, sir. Here she comes. 20

Enter Gaoler’s Daughter.
Gaoler. Your friend and I have chanced to name
* you here, upon the old business ; but no more of that

now: so soon as the court-hurry is over, we will have
an end of it: i’ the meantime, look tenderly to the
two prisoners ; I can tell you they are princes.

Daugh. These strewings are for their chamber.
"Tis pity they are in prison, and ‘t were pity they
should he out. I do think they have patience to
make any adversity ashamed: the prison itself is
proud of ’em; and they have all the world in their
chamber. e 31

Gaoler. They are famed to bea pair of absolute men,

Daugh. By my troth, I think fame but stammers
"em; they stand a greise above the reach of report.

Gaoler. I heard them reported in the battle to be

e only doers.
ae Nay, most likely; for they are noble suf-
ferers. I marvel how they would have looked, had
they been victors, that with such a constant nobility

 

ACT IT.

A Garden, with a Castle in the background.
Enter Gaoler and Wooer.

enforce a freedom out of bondage, making misery
their mirth, and affliction a toy to jest at. 41

Gaoler. Do they so?

Daugh. It seems to me they have no more sense
of their captivity than I of ruling Athens: they eat
well, look merrily, discourse of many things, but
nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet
sometime a divided sigh, martyred as ‘t were i’ the
deliverance, will break from one of them; when the
other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke, that I
could wish myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least a
sigher to be comforted. bl

Wooer. I never saw ’em.

Gaoler. The duke himself came privately in the
night, and so did they: what the reason of it is, I
know not.

Enter PALAMON and ARCITE, above.
Look, yonder they are! that’s Arcite looks out.
Daugh, No, sir, no; that’s Palamon: Arcite is the
lower of the twain; you may perceive a part of him.
Gaoler. Go to! leave your pointing: they would
not make us their object: out of their sight! 60
Daugh. It is a holiday tolook on them. Lord, the
difference of men! [Exeunt.

ScENE IT.—tThe Same.

tEnter PALAMON and ARCITE, above.

Pal. How do you, noble cousin?

Are. How do you, sir?

Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery,
And bear the chance of war yet. We are prisoners
I fear for ever, cousin.

Are. I believe it;

And to that destiny have patiently
Laid up my hour to come.

Pail. O, cousin Arcite,
Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country ?
Where are our friends and kindreds?) Never more
Must we behold those comforts; never see

 

 
 

|
i
|

 

1018 THE TWO

NOBLE KINSMEN.

{Act II.

 

The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, 10
Hung with the paintcd favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst ‘em,
And, as an east wind, leave ‘em all behind us
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Outstripp’d the people’s praises, won the garlands,
Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. O, never
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses
Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now,—
+Better the red-ey'd god of war ne’er wore,— Pag
+Ravish'd our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us;
These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning,
To blast whole armies, more!
aire. No, Palamon,
Those hopes are prisoners with us: here we are,
and here the graces of our youths must wither,
Like a too-timely spring : here age must find us,
And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried ;
The sweet embraces of a loving wife,
Loaden with kisses, arin’d with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks ; no issue know us,
No figures of ourselves shall we eer see,
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach ‘em
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say
“*Remember what your fathers were, and conqucr!”
The fair-ey'd maids shall weep our banishments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune,
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has donc
To youth and nature: this is all our world ; 40
We shall know nothing here but one another ;
Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes ;
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it;
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.
Pal. ’Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds,
That shook the aged forest with their echoes,
No more now must we holla; no more shake
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, 50
Struck with our well-steel’d darts: all valiant uses—
The food and nourishment of noble minds-~—
In us two here shall perish ; we shall die—
Which is the curse of honour—lastly,
Children of grief and ignorance.
Are. Yet, cousin,
Even from the bottom of these miseries,
From all that fortune can inflict upon us,
I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,
If the gods please, to hold here a brave patience,
And the enjoying of our griefs together.
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish
If I think this our prison!
Pal. Certainly
*Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes
Were twinn'd together: 't is most true, two souls
Put in two noble bodies, let em sutfer
The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
Will never sink ; they must not, say they could:
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.
«ire. Shall we make worthy uses of this place,
That all men hate so much?

30

 

Pal. How, gentle cousin? 70
re. Let’s think this prison holy sanctuary,
To keep us from corruption of worse men :
We're young, and yet desire the ways of honour;
That, liberty and common conversation,
Che poison of pure spirits, might, like women,
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing
Can be, but our imaginations
May make it ours? and here being thus together,
We are an endless mine to one another;
We're one another's wife, ever begetting 8
New births of love; we're father, friends, acquaint-
ance;
We are, in one another, families ;
Jam your heir, and you are mine; this place
Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor
Dare take this from us: here, with a little patience,
We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us;

 

.

The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas
Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty,
A wite might part us lawfully, or business 5
Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men 4
Crave our acquaintance ; P might sicken, cousin,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.
Pal. You’ve made me—
I thank you, cousin Arcite—almost vanton
With my captivity : what a misery
It is to live abroad, and everywhere !
*T is like a beast, methinks: I find the court here,
I’m sure, amore content; and all those pleasures 100
That woo the wills of men to vanity
I see through now; and am sufficient
‘To tell the world ‘tis but a gaudy shadow,
That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him.
What had we been, old in the court of Creon,
Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance
The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite,
Had not the loving gods found this place for us,
We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept,
And had their epitaphs, the people's curses.
Shall I say more ?
re.
Pal.
Is there record of any two that lov’d
Better than we do, Arcite ?
Are. Sure, there cannot.
Pal. I do not think it possible our friendship
Should ever leave us.

90

110

I'd hear you still.
Ye shall.

Are. Till our deaths it cannot ;
And after death our spirits shall be led
‘To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir.

Enter EM1ia and her Woman below.
tHmi. This garden has a world of pleasures in't.
What flower is this?
Wo. ‘Tis call'd Narcissus, madam.
Emi. That was a fair boy certain, but a fool 120
To love himself: were there not maids enough?
ire. Pray, forward.
Pal. Yes.
Emi. Or were they all hard-hearted ¢
}lo, They could not be to one so fair.
Emi. Thou wouldst not.
To, I think I should not, madam.
bmi. That’s a good wench!
But take heed to your kindness though !
Wo. Why, madam?
imi. Men are mad things.
alre. Will ye go forward, cousin?
f&mi. Canst not thou work such flowers in silk,
wench?
Fo. 4
Emi. Ill have a gown full of ’em; and of these ;
This is a pretty colour: will ’t not do
Rarely upon a skirt, wench ?
IVo. Dainty, madam.
(re. Cousin, cousin! how do you, sir?
Palamon !
Pal. Never till now I was in prison, Arcite.
Are. Why, what’s the matter, man ?
Behold, and wonder!

130
why,

al.

By heaven, she is a goddess !
alre.
Pal.

She is a goddess, Arcite !
me,

Methinks, a rose is best.
IFo. Why, gentle madam?
Emi, It is the very emblem of a maid:

For when the west wind courts her gently,

How modestly she blows, and paints the sun

With her chaste blushes! when the north comes mete

Do reverence ;

Of all flowers,

her,
Rude and impatient, then, like chastity,
She locks her beauties in her bud again,
And leaves him to base briers.
Wo. Yet, good madam,

 

 
 

ScENE ITJ

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1019

 

 

 

Sometimes her modesty will blow so far
She falls for it: a mai
If she have any honour, would be loath
To take example by her.
Emi. Thou art wanton.
Arc. She’s wondrous fair!
Pa She’s all the beauty extant!
Emi. The sun grows high; let’s walk in. Keep
these flowers ;
‘We'll see how near art can come near their colours.
I’m wondrous merry-hearted ; I could laugh now. 151
ae I could lie down, I'm sure.
And take one with you?
"0. “That’s as we bargain, madam.
Te Well, agree then.
: [Ereunt EMILiA and Woman.
Pal. What think you of this beauty ?
Are. Tis a rare one.
Job Is’t but a rare one?
Yes, a matchless beauty.
Bue Might not a man well lose himself, and love
her
Arc. I cannot tell what you have done; I have,
Beshrew mine eyes for’t! Now I feel my shackles.
Pal. You love her, then?

Are. Who would not ?

Pal. And desire her?
(rc. Before my liberty. 5
Pal. I saw her first.

are. That's nothing.

Pal. But it shall be.
Are. I saw her too.

Pal. Yes ; but you must not love her.

Arc. I will not, as you ‘do, to worship her,
As she is heavenly and a blessed goddess ;
I love her as a woman, to enjoy her:

So both may love.

Pal. You shall not love at all.

Arc. Not love at all! who shall deny me?

Pal. I, that first saw her; I, that took possession
First with mine eye of all those beauties in her
Reveal’d to mankind. If thou lovest her, 170
Or entertain’st a hope to blast my wishes,

Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow
False as thy title to her: friendship, blood,
And all the ties between us, I disclaim,

If thou once think upon her!

Are. Yes, I love her;

And if the lives of all my name lay on it,
I must do so; I love her with my soul.
If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon !
I say again, I love; and, in loving her, maintain
Iam as worthy and as free a lover,
And have as just a title to her beauty,
As any Palamon, or any living
That is a man’s son.
Pal. Have I call’d thee friend ?
Arc. Yes, and have found me so. Why are you
mov’d thus ?
Let me deal coldly with you : am not I
+Part of your blood, part of your soul? you’ve told

me
ag rats = Palamon, and you were Arcite.
a.

Are. Am ‘not I liable to those affections,

Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall
suffer ? 190

Pal. Ye may be. 4

Arc. Why, then, would you deal so cunningly,

So strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman,

To love alone? Speak truly ; do you think me

Unworthy of her sight ? .
Pal. No; but unjust

If thou pursue that sight.

Are. Because another

First sees the enemy, shall I stand still,

And let mine honour down, and never charge?
Pal. Yes, if he be but one.
Are. But say that one

ware rather combat me?

‘Let that one say so, 200

dna use thy freedom: else, if thou pursu’st her,

 

Be as that cursed man that hates his country,
A branded villain !

Are. You are mad.

Pal. I must be,
Till thou art worthy, Arcite ; it concerns me ;
And, in this madness, if I hazard thee
‘And take thy life, I deal but tr uly.

Are, Fie, sir!
You play the child extremely : I will love her,
I must, I ought to do so, and I dare;
And all this justly.

Pal. O, that now, that now
Thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune,
To be one hour at liberty, and Pp 211
Our good swords in our hands! I’d quickly teach

ee
What ‘t were to filch affection from another!
Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse:
Put but thy head out of this window morc,
And, as I have a soul, I’l] nail thy life tu 't!
Arc. Thou dar’st not, fool; thou canst not; thou
art feeble:
Put my head out! I’ll throw my body out,
And leap the garden, when I see her next,
And pitch between her arms, to anger thee. 220
Pal. No more! the keeper ’s coming: I shall live
To knock thy brains out with my shackles.
Are. Do!
Enter Gaoler.
oe By your leave, gentlemen.
Now, honest keeper?
Geol ae Arcite, you must presently to the

du
The cause I aw not yet.
Are. I’m ready, keeper.
Gaoler. Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave
you
Of your fair cousin’s company.
_ And me too,
Even when you please, of life.
[Exeunt Gaoler and ARCITE.
Why is he sent tor?
It may be, he shall marry her; he’s goodly,
And like enough the duke hath taken notice 230
Both of his blood and body. But his falsehood!
Why should a friend be treacherous? if that
Get him a wife so noble and so fair,
Let honest men ne’er love again. Once more
I would but see this fair one.— Blessed garden,
And fruit and flowers more blessed, that still blossom
As her bright eyes shine on ye! Would I were,
For all the fortune of my life hereafter,
Yon little tree, yon blooming apricock !
How I would spread, and fling my wanton arms 240
In at her window! I would bring her fruit
Fit for the gods to feed on; youth and pleasure,
Still as she tasted, should be doubled on her;
And if she be not heavenly, I would make her
So near the gods in nature, they should fear her;
And then I’m sure she would love me.

Re-enter Gaoler.
How now, keeper!

S Arcite?

Gao. Banish’d. Prince Pirithous
Obtain’ ‘a ‘his liberty ; but never more,
Upon his oath and life, must he set foot
Upon this kingdom.

Pal. (Aside. He’s a blessed man! 250
He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms
The bold young men that, when he bids ’em charge,
Fall on like fire: Arcite shall have a fortune,
If he dare make himself a worthy lover,
Yet in the field to strike a battle for her :
And if he lose her then, he’s a cold coward :
How bravely may he bear himself to win her,
If he be noble Arcite, thousand ways!
Were I at liberty, I would do things
Of such a virtuous greatness, that this lady, 260
This blushing virgin, should take manhood tovher,
And seek to ravish me.

 
 

 

 

 

1020 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. [Act II.
Faoler. My lord, for you 3 Coun. Arcas will be there. F
Thave this charge too— 2 Coun. And Sennois,
Pal. To discharge my life ? And Rycas ; and three better lads ne’er danc’d
uaoler. No; but from this place to remove your | tUnder green tree; and ye know what wenches, ha!
ordship : But will the dainty domine, the schoolmaster, 41
The windows are too open, Keep touch, do you think? for he does all, ye know.

Pal. f Devils take ’em
That are so envious to me! Pr'ythee, kill me.
Gaoler, And hang for’t afterward ?

Pal. By this good light,
Had I a sword, I’d kill thee.
Gaoler. Why, my lord?
Pal. Thou bring’st such pelting scurvy news
continually,
Thou art not worthy life. I will not go. 270
Gaoler. Indeed, you must, my lord.

Pal. May I see the garden?
Gaoler. No.

Pal. Then I’m resolvy'd I will not go.

Gaoler. I must

Constrain you, then; and, for you’re dangerous,
Ill clap more irons on you.
Pal. Do, good keeper:
I'll shake ’em so, ye shall not sleep;
I'll make ye a new morris. Must I go?
Gaoler. There is no remedy.
Pal. [ Aside.) Farewell, kind window ;
May rude wind never hurt thee !—O my lady,
If ever.thou hast felt what sorrow was, 280
Dream how I sutfer!—Come, now bury me. [Zxcunt.

 

Scene III.—tThe Country near Athens.

Enter ARCITE,
Are, Banish'd the kingdom? ’tis a benefit,

A mercy, I must thank ‘em for; but banish’d

The free enjoying of that face I die for,

O, ‘t was a studied punishment, a death

Beyond imagination! such a vengeance,

That, were I old and wicked, all my sins

Could never pluck upon me. Palamon,

Thou hast the start now; thou shalt stay, and see
Her bright eyes break each morning ‘gainst thy

window,

And let in life into thee; thou shalt feed 10
Upon the sweetness of a noble beauty,

That nature ne'er exceeded, nor ne'er shall—
Good gods, what happiness has Palamon !
Twenty to one, he ‘ll come to speak to her;
And, if she be as gentle as she's fair,

I know she's his; he has a tongne will tame
Tempests, and make the wild rocks wanton.

what can come,

The worst is death ; I will not leave the kingdom :

I know mine own is but a heap of ruins,

And no redress there: if I go, he has her. 20
tl am resolv'd: another shape shall make me,

Or end my fortunes; either way, I’m happy:

I'll see her, and be near her, or no more.

Enter four Country-people, and one with a garland
efore them,
1 Coun. My masters, I'll be there, that’s certain.
2 Coun. And ['ll be there.
3 Coun. And I.
4 Coun, Why, then, have with ye, boys! ’tis but a
chiding:
Let the plough play to-day; I'll tickle’t out
Of the jades’ tails to-morrow.
1 Coun. Iam sure
To have my wife as jealous as a turkey: 30
But that’s all one: [’ll go through, let her mumble.
2 Coun. Clap her aboard to-morrow night, and
stoa her,
And all's made up again.
3 Coun. Ay, do but put
A feskue in her fist, and you shall see her
Take a new lesson out, and be a good wench.
Do we all hold against the Maying?
4 Conn, Hold!

What should ail us?

Come

 

3 Coun. He’ll eat a hornbook, ere he fail: goto!
The matter is too far driven between
Him and the tanner’s daughter, to let slip now;
And she must see the duke, and she must dance too.

4 Coun, Shall we be lusty ?

2 Coun. All the boys in Athens
Blow wind i’ the breech on us: and here I'll be,
And there I'll be, for our town, and here again,
And there again: ha, boys, heigh for the weavers! 50

1 Coun, This must be done i’ the woods.

4 Coun. O, pardon me!

42 Coun. By any means; our thing of learning
says so;
Where he himself will edify the duke
Most parlously in our behalfs: he’s excellent i’ the
woods ;
Bring him to the plains, his learning makes no cry.

3 Coun, We'll see the sports ; then every man to’s

tackle!

And, sweet companions,
means,

Before the ladies see us, and do sweetly,

And God knows what may come on‘t.

+ Coun. Content: the sports
Once ended, we'll perform. Away, boys, and hold!

Arc. By your leaves, honest friends; pray you,

whither go you? 61

4 Coun. Whither! why, what a question’s that!

Yes, ‘tis a question

let's rehearse by any

Are.

To me that know not.
3 Coun. To the aaa my friend.
2 Coun. Where were you bred, you know it not?

aire. Not far, sir.
Are there such games to-day ?
1 Coun. Yes, marry, are there;

And such as you never saw: the duke himself
Will be in person there.

Are, What pastimes are they?
2 Coun, Wrestling and running.—’Tis a pretty
fellow.

3 Coun, Thou wilt not go along?

re. Not yet, sir.

4 Coun. Well, sir,
Take your own time.—Come, boys.

1 Coun.

My mind misgives me
This fellow has a vengeance trick o' the hip; 7
Mark how his body ’s made for't.
2 Coun. I'll be hang’d though,
If he dare venture ; hang him, plum-porridge !
He wrestle? he roast eggs! Come, let’s be gone,
lads. (Exeunt Countrymen.
Are. This is an offer'd opportunity
tI durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled,
The best men call'd it excellent ; and run
Swifter than wind upon a field of corn,
Curling the wealthy ears, nev’r flew. I'll venture,
And in some poor disguise be there: who knows 80
Whether my brows may not be girt with garlands,
And papain. prefer me toa place F
Where I may ever dwell in sight of her? [Exit.

ScENE IV.—tAthens.

Enter Gaoler’s Daughter.

Daugh, Why should I love this gentleman? ’t is odds
He never will affect me: Iam base,
My father the mean keeper of his prison,
And he a prince: to marry him is hopeless,
To be his whore is witless. Out upon’t!
What pushes are we wenches driven to,
When fifteen once has found us! First, I saw him;
I, seeing, thought he was a goodly man:
He has as much to please a woman in him—
If he please to bestow it so—as ever 10

A Room in the Prison.

 

 
 

 

ScENE VI.]

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1021

 

These eyes yet look’d on: next I pitied him ;

And so would any young wench, o’ my conscience,
That ever dream’d, or vow’d her maidenhead

To a young handsome man: then I lov’d him,
Extremely lov’d him, infinitely lov’d him;

And yet he had a cousin, fair as he too;

But in my heart was Palamon, and there,

Lord, what a coil he keeps! ‘Io hear him

Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is!

And yet his songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken 20
Was never gentleman: when I come in

To bring him water in a morning, first

He bows his noble body, then salutes me thus,
“Fair, gentle maid, good morrow: may thy goodness
Get thee a happy husband!” Once he kiss'‘d me;
Ilov’d my lips the better ten days after:

Would he would do so every day! He grieves much,
And me as much to see his misery :

What should I do, to make him know I love him ?
For I would fain enjoy him: say I ventur’d

‘Loset him free? what says the law, then? Thusmuch
For law, or kindred! I will do it ;

And this night or to-morrow he shall love me. (Exit.

 

ScENE V.—tAn Open Place in Athens.

a short flourish of cornets, and shouts within.
Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PIRITHOUS, EMILIA ;
ARCITE, as a Countryman, wearing a garland ;
and Country-people.

Thes. You have done worthily ; I have not seen,

Since Hercules, a man of tougher sinews :

Whate’er you are, you run the best, and wrestle,

That these times can allow.

Are. I’m proud to please you.
Thes. What country bred you?
Are. This ; but far off, prince.
Thes. Are you a gentleman ?
re. My father said so;
And to those gentle uses gave me life.
Thes. Are you his heir?
His youngest, sir.
Thes. Your father,

Sure, is a happy sire, then. What proves you?

Arc. A little of all noble qualities : _ 10

I could have kept a hawk, and well have holla’d

To a deep cry ot dogs; I dare not praise

My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me

Would say it was my best piece; last and greatest,

I would be thought a soldier.

Thes. You are perfect.

Pir. Upon my soul, a proper man!
Limi.

Pir. How do you like him, lady ? . .
Hip. Tadmire him:

I have not seen so young a man so noble—

If he say true,—of his sort.
Emi. Believe,

His mother was a wondrous handsome woman; 20

His face methinks goes that way. ;

I. But his body

Hip.
daha fery mind illustrate a brave father.

Pir. Mark how his virtue, like a hidden sun,
Breaks through his baser garments !

tp. He’s well got, sure.
Lhes. What made you seek this place, sir?

Are. Noble Theseus,
To purchase name, and do my ablest service
To such a well-found wonder as thy worth;

For only in thy court, of all the world,
Dwells fair-ey'd Honour.

Pir. All his words are worthy.

Thes. Sir, we are much indebted to your travel, 30
Nor shall you lose your wish.—Pirithous,

Dispose of this fair gentleman.

Pir. Thanks, Theseus.—
Whate’er you are, you’re mine; and I shall give you
To a most noble service,—to this lady,

This bright young virgin: pray, observe her goodness:
You’ve honour’d her fair birthday with your virtues,
And, as your due, youre hers ; kiss her fair hand, sir.

He is so.

 

Are. Sir, you’re a noble giver._[Zo EMILtA.]
Dearest beauty,
Thus let me seal my vow’d faith [Kisses her hand]:
when your servant—
Your most unworthy creature—but offends you, 40
Command him die, he shall.
imi. That were too cruel.
tIf you deserve well, sir, I shall soon see it:
You’re mine ; and somewhat better than your rank
I’ll use you.

Pir. I'll see you furnish’d : and because you say
You are a horseman, I must needs entreat you
This afternoon to ride; but ‘tis a rough one.

Arc. I like him better, prince ; I shall not, then,
Freeze in my saddle.

Thes. Sweet, you must be ready,—
And you, Emilia,—and you, triend,—and all,—
‘To-morrow, by the sun, to do observance 50
To flowery May, in Dian’s wood.—Wait well, sir,
Upon your mistress.—Emily, I hope
He shall not go afoot.

Emi. That were a shame, sir,
While I have horses.—Take your choice ; and what
You want at any time, let me but know it:

If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you
You’!l find a loving mistress.

Are. If I do not,
Let me find that my father ever hated,—
Disgrace and blows.

Thes. Go, lead the way ; you've won it;
It shall be so: you shall receive all dues 60
Fit for the honour you have won; ’t were wrong else. —
Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a servant,

That, if I were a woman, would be master:
But you are wise.

Emi. I hope too wise for that, sir.

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ScENE VI.—tAthens. Before the Prison.

Enter Gaoler’s Daughter.
Daugh. Let all the dukes and all the devils roar,
He is at liberty : I’ve ventur’d for him;
And out I’ve brought him to a little wood
A mile hence: I have sent him, where a cedar,
Higher than all the rest, spreads like a plane,
Fast by a brook; and there he shall keep close,
Till I provide him files and food ; for yet
His iron bracelets are not off. O Love,
Whata stout-hearted child thou art! My father
Durst better have endur’d cold iron than done it. 10
I love him beyond love and beyond reason,
Or wit, or safety ; I have made him know it:
I care not: Lam desperate; if the law
Find me, and then condemn me for’t, some wenches,
Some honest-hearted maids, will sing my dirge,
And tell to memory my death was noble,
Dying almost a martyr. That way he takes,
I purpose is my way too: sure he cannot
Be so unmanly as to leave me here:
Tf he do, maids will not so easily 20
Trust men again: and yet he has not thank’d me
For what I’ve done ; no, not so much as kiss’d ine;
And that, methinks, is not so well; nor scarcely
Could I persuade him to become a freeman,
He made such scruples of the wrong he did
To me and to my father. Yet, I hope,
When he considers more, this love of mine
‘Will take more root within him: let him do
What he will with me, so he use me kindly ;
For use me so he shall, or I'll proclaim him, 30
And to his face, no man. I'll presently
Provide him necessaries, and pack my clothes up;
tAnd where there is a patch of ground I'll venture,
So he be with me: by him, like a shadow,
I'll ever dwell. Within this hour the whoobub
Will be all o'er the prison: Iam then
Kissing the man they look for. Farewell, father !
Get many more such prisoners and such daughters,
And shortly you may keep yourseif. Now to him!
Exit.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
      

Se Arcite,
HE duke has lost Hippolyta ; each took
° A several land. This is a solemn rite
® ‘They owe bloom’d May, and the Athenians
pay it
To th’ heart of ceremony. O queen Emilia,
Fresher than May, sweeter
Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or

all
Th’ enamell’d knacks o° the mead or
garden! yea,
We challenge too the bank of any nymph,
That makes the stream seem flowers ;
thou, O jewel
+O’ the wood, o’ the world, hast likewise bless’d a
place 10
tWith thy sole presence! In thy rumination
That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between,
And chop on some cold thought! thrice-blessed
chance,
To drop on such a mistress, expectation
Most guiltless on't. Tell me, O Lady Fortune,—
Next after kmily my sovereign,—how far
I may be poe She takes strong note of me,
Hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn,
The prim’st of all the year, presents me with
A brace of horses ; two such steeds might well 20
Be by a pair of kings back’d, in a field
That their crowns’ titles tried. Alas, alas,
Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner ! thou
So little dream’st upon my fortune, that
Thou think’st thyself the happier thing, to be
So near Kmilia ; me thou deem'st at Thebes,
And thercin wretched, although free: but if
Thou knew’st my mistress breath’d on me, and that
I ear’d her language, liv’d in her eye, O coz,
What passion would enclose thee!

Enter PALAMON out of a bush, with his shackles:
he bends his fist at ARCITE.
Pal. Traitor kinsman! 20
Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs
Of prisonment were off me, and this hand
But owner of asword. By all oaths in one,
I, and the justice of my love, would make thee
A confess'd traitor! © thou most perfidious
tThat ever gently look’d! the void'st of honour
That e’er bore gentle token ! falsest cousin
That ever blood made kin! call'st thou her thine?
I'll prove it in my shackles, with these hands
Void of appointment, that thou liest, and art 40
A very thief in love, a chaffy lord,
Nor worth the name of villain! Had I a sword,
And these house-clogs away,—
Are. Dear cousin Palamon,—
Pal. Cozener Arcite, give me language such
As thou hast show’d me feat !
Are. Not finding in
The circuit of my breast any gross stuff
To form me like your blazon, holds me to
This gentleness of answer: ‘tis your passion
That thus mistakes; the which, to you being enemy,
Cannot to me be kind. Honour and honesty 50
I cherish and depend on, howsoe’er
You skip them in me; and with them, fair coz,
I'l] maintain my proceedings. Pray, be pleas’d

 

 

ACT III.
Scene I.—tA Forest near Athens.
Cornets in sundry places; noises and hollaing, as of people a-Maying. Iinter ARCITE.

To show in generous terms your griefs, since that
Your question’s with your equal, who professes
To clear his own way with the mind and sword
Of a true gentleman.

Pal. That thou durst, Arcite!

Arc. My coz, my coz, you have been well advertis'd
How much I dare: you’ve seen me use my sword
Against th’ advice of fear. Sure, of another 60
You would not hear me doubted, but your silence
Should break out, though i’ the sanctuary.

Pal. Sir,

I’ve seen you move in such a place, which well

Might justify your manhood ; you were call'd

A good ene and a bold: but the whole week’s not
air,

Ifany day it rain. Their valiant temper

Men lose when they incline:to treachery ;

And then they fight like compell’d bears, would fly

Were they not tied.

Are. Kinsman, you might as well
Speak this, and act it in your glass, as to 70
His ear which now disdains you.

Pal. Come up to me:
Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword,
Though it be rusty, and the charity
Of one meal lend me; come before me then,

A good sword in thy hand, and do but say

‘That Emily is thine, I will forgive

The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life,

If then thou carry 't; and brave souls in shades,

That have died manly, which will seek of me

Some news from earth, they shall get none er
i 8

this,
That thou art brave and noble.
Are. Be content,
Again betake you to your hawthorn-house:
With counsel of the night, I will be here
With wholesome viands ; these impediments
Will I file off ; you shall have garments, and
Perfumes to kill the smell o’ the prison ; after,
When you shall stretch yourself, and say but,
“ Arcite,
Iam in plight,” there shall be at your choice
Both sword and armour.
Pal. O you heavens, dares any
So noble bear a guilty business? none
But only Arcite ; therefore none but Arcite
In this kind is so bold.
Are. Sweet Palamon,—
Pal. Ido embrace you and your offer: for
Your offer do’t I only, sir; your person,
Without hypocrisy, I may not wish
More than my sword’s edge on ’t.
[Vind horns of cornets.
Are. You hear the horns:
+Enter your musite, lest this match between’s
Be cross'd ere met. Give me your hand ; farewell:
T’ll bring you every needful thing : I pray you,
Take comfort, and be strong. :
Pal. Pray, hold your promise,
And do the deed with a bent brow: most certain 101
You love me not: be rough with me, and pour
This oil out of your language. By this air,
I could for each word give a cutl; my stomach
Not reconcil’d by reason.
Are, Plainly spoken !

 

 
 

ScENE III.]

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1023

 

 

Yet pardon me hard language: when I spur

My horse, I chide him not; content and anger

In me have but one face. (Wind horns.
Hark, sir! they call

The scatter'd to the banquet: you must guess

Thave an office there.

Pal. Sir, your attendance 110
Cannot please heaven ; and I know your oftice
Unjustly is achiev'd.

tAre. I’ve a good title,
Iam persuad?d: this question, sick between’'s,
ae bleeding must be cur'd. I am a suitor
That to your sword you will bequeath this plea,
and talk of it no more.

Pal. , But this one word:
You ’re going now to gaze upon my mistress ;
For, note you, mine she is,—

Are. Nay, then,—

Pal. Nay, pray you,—
You talk of feeding me to breed me strength ;
You're going now to look upon a sun 120
That strengthens what it looks on; there you have
A vantage o’er me: but enjoy it till
Imay enforce my remedy. Farewell.

[Exeunt severally.

ScENE II.—tAnother Part of the Forest.

Enter Gaoler’s Daughter.
tDaugh. He has mistook the brake I meant; is
gone
After his fancy. “Tis now well-nigh morning ;
No matter: would it were perpetual night,
And darkness lord o' the world !—Hark! 't is a wolf:
In me hath grief slain fear, and, but for one thing,
I care for nothing, and that’s Palamon:
I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so
He had this file. What if I holla’d for him?
I cannot holla: if I whoop’d, what then ?
If he not answer’'d, I should call a wolf, 10
And do him but that service. I have heard
Strange howls this live-long night: why may’t not be
They have made prey of him? he has no weapons ;
He cannot run; the jingling of his gyves
Might call fell things to listen, who have in them
A sense to know a man unarm’d, and can
Smell where resistance is. Ill set it down
He’s torn to pieces ; they howl'’d many together,
t+And then they fed on him: so much for that!
Be bold to ring the bell; how stand I, then? 20
All’s char’d when he is gone. No, no, J lie;
My father’s to be hanged for his escape ;
Myself to beg, if I priz’d life so much
As to deny my act; but that I would not,
Should I try death by dozens.—I am mop’d:
+Food took I none these two days,—
Sipp’d some water ; I’ve not clos’d mine eyes,
+Save when my lips scour’d off their brine. Alas,
Dissolve, my life! let not my sense unsettle,
Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself! 30
O state of nature, fail together in me,
Since thy ae props are warp’d!—So, which way
now
The best way is the next way to a grave:
Each errant step beside is torment. Lo

The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech-

ow
Calls in the dawn! all offices are done,
Save what I fail in: but the point is this,

An end, and that is all. [Evit.

 

ScENE III.—tThe same Part of the Forest as in
Scene I.
Enter ARCITE, with meat, wine, files, &c.
Arc. I should be near the place.—Hoa, Cousin
Palamon!
Enter PALAMON.
Pal. Arcite?

 

Arc, The same: I’ve brought you food and files.
Come forth, and fear not ; here’s no Theseus.

Pal. Nor none so honest, Arcite.

Are, That’s no matter:
We'll argue that hereafter. Come, take courage;
You shall not die thus beastly: here, sir, drink ;

I know you’re faint; then I’ll talk further with

you.
Pal. Arcite, thou mightst now poison me.

Are. TI might;

But I must fear you first. Sit down; and, good,
now

No more of these vain parleys : Jet us not, 10

Having our ancient reputation with us,
Make talk for fools and cowards. To your health!
t[Drinks.
Pal. Do

are. "Pray, sit down, then; and let me entreat

 

you,
By all the honesty and honour in you,
No mention of this woman ! ’t will disturb us ;
We shall have time enough.

i

Pal. Well, sir, I'll pledge you. [Drinks. |

rc. Drink a good hearty draught; it breeds good |
blood, man.

Do not you feel it thaw you?
Pal. Stay; I’ll tell you
After a draught or two more.
Are. Spare it not ;
The duke has more, coz.

Eat now.
Pal. Yes. [Eats.
ATC, I'm glad
You have so good a stomach.
Pal Iam gladder 21

‘al,
I have so good meat to 't.
Are. é Ist not mad lodging
Here in the wild woods, cousin?
‘al. Yes, for them
That have wild consciences.
Are, How tastes your victuals ?
Your hunger needs no sauce, I see.
Pal. Not much:
But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin.
What is this?
Are, Venison.
Pal. *T is a lusty meat.
Give me more wine: here, Arcite, to the wenches
We’ve known in our days! The lord-steward’s
daughter ;
Do you remember her?
Are After you, coz. 30
Pal. She lov’d a black-hair’d man.
Are. She did so: well, sir?
Pal. AndThave heard some call him:Arcite; and—
Are. Out with it, faith!
Pail. She met him in an arbour:
What did she there, coz? play o’ the virginals ?
Arc. Something she did, sir.
Pal. Made her groan a month for t;
Or two, or three, or ten.
Are. The marshal’s sister
Had her share too, as I remember, cousin,
Else there be tales abroad : you’ll pledge her?
Pal. . Yes.
Arc. A pretty brown wench ‘tis: there was a time

When youn men went a-hunting, and a wood, 40
And a broad beech ; and thereby hangs a tale.—
Heigh-ho!

Pal. For Emily, upon my life! Fool,
Away with this strain’d mirth! I say again,
That sigh was breath’d for Emily : base cousin,
Dar’st thou break first?

Are. You’re wide.

Pail. By heaven and earth,
There’s nothing in thee honest.

re. Then I'll leave you:
You are a beast now.
Pal. As thou mak’st me, traitor.
Arc. There’s all things needful,—files, and shirts,
and perfumes:
I'll come aeele some two hours hence, and bring
That that shall quiet all.

 

 
 

[Acr TIL.

 

 

1024 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
—
Pal. A sword and armour? 50 2 Coun. And little Luce with the white legs, and
wirc, Fear me not. You are now too foul: fare- bouncing Barbar,

well:
Get otf your trinkets ; you shall want nought.

Pal. Sirrah, —
.tre. I'll hear no more. Levit,
Pat, It he keep touch, he dies for 't.

[Bcit.

 

ScENE IV.—tAnother Part of the Forest.

Enter Gaoler’s Daughter.
Dawugh. I’m very cold; and all the stars are out

00,

The little stars, and all that look like aglets :

The sun has seen my folly. _Palamon!

Alas, no! he’s in heaven.—Where am I now?
Yonder’s the sea, and there's a ship; how’t tumbles!
And there’s a rock lies watching under water;

Now, now, it beats upon it; now, now, now,
There's a leak sprung, a sound one ; how they cry!
+Spoom her before the wind, you'll lose all else ;
+Up with a course or two, and tack about, boys: 10
Good night, good night; ye’re gone.—I’m very

hungry:

Would I could find a fine frog! he would tell me
News from all parts o’'the world; then would I make
A careck of a cockle-shell, and sail

By east and north-east to the King of Pigmies,

For he tells fortunes rarely. Now, my father,
Twenty to one, is truss’d up in a trice

‘To-morrow morning: I’ll say never a word. [Sings.

For I'll cut my green coat a foot above my knee;
And I'll clip my yellow locks an inch below
mine @e: 20
Fey, nonny, nonny, nonny.
He s buy me a white cut, forth for to ride,
And I'll go seck him through the world that is so
wide:
Hey, nonny, nonny, nonny.
O for a prick now, like a nightingale, 3
To put my breast against! I shall sleep like i top

a

else. Exit.

SceNE V.—Another Part of the Forest.

Enter GERROLD, four Countrymen as_ Morris-
tdancers, another as the Bavian, five Wenches,
and a Taborer.
Ger, Fie, fie!
What tediosity and disensanity
Is here among ye! Have my rudiments
Been labour'd so long with ye, milk'd unto ye,
And, by a figure, even the very plum-broth
And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye,
And do you still cry “ Where,” and ‘“ How,” and
“ Wherefore?”
+You most coarse freeze capacities, ye jane judgments,
Have I said ‘** Thus let be,” and * There let. be,”
And “ Then let be,” and no man understand me? 10
Proh Deum, medius fidius, ye are all dunces!
For why here stand I; here the duke comes; there
are you,
Close in the thicket; the duke appears; I meet him,
And unto him I utter learned things
And many figures; he hears, and nods, and hums,
And then cries ‘‘ Rare!” and I go forward; at length
I fling my cap up; mark there! then do you,
As once did Mcleager and the boar,
Break comely out before him, like true lovers,
Cast yourselves in a body decently, 20
And sweetly, by a figure, trace and turn, boys.
1 Coun. And sweetly we will do it, Master Gerrold.
2 Coun. Draw up the company. Where's the
taborer ?
3 Coun. Why, Timothy !
Tab. Here, my mad boys; have at ye!
Ger, But Isay where’s their women?
4 Coun. Here’s Friz and Maudlin.

 

vs a
1 Coun. And freckled Nell, that never fail’d her
master. 5 f 7
Ger. Where be your ribands, maids? swim with
your bodies,
And carry it sweetly and deliverly 5,
And now and then a favour and a frisk. 30
Nell, Let us alone, sir.
Ger. Where's the rest 0’ the music?
3 Coun. Dispers’d as you commanded.
Ger. Couple, then,
And see what’s wanting. Where’s the Bavian?
My friend, carry your tail without offence
Or scandal to the ladies ; and be sure
You tumble with audacity and manhood ;
And when you bark, do it with judgment.
Bav. Yes, sir.
Ger. Quo usque tandem ? here’s a woman wanting.
4 Coun, We may go whistle; all the fat’s i’ the fire.
Ger. We have, 40
As learned authors utter, wash'd a tile ;
We have been futuus, and labour’d vainly.
2 Coun. This is that scornful piece, that scurvy
hilding,
That gave her promise faithfully she would
Be here, Cicely the sempster’s @aughter :
The next gloves that I give her shall be dog-skin ;
Nay, an she fail me once—You ean tell, Arcas,
She swore, by wine and bread, she would not break.
Ger, An ecl and woman,
A learned poet says, unless by the tail
And with thy teeth thou hold, will either fail.
In manners this was false position.
1 Coun. A fire ill take her! does she flinch now?
3 Coun. hat
Shall we determine, sir?
Ger. Nothing ;
Our business is become a nullity,
Yea, and a woful and a piteous nullity.
4 Coun. Now, when the credit of our town lay on it,
Now tc be frampal, now to piss o’ the nettle!
Go thy ways ; I'll remember thee, I'll fit thee! 60

Enter Gaolcr’s Daughter, and sings.
tThe George, holla! came from the south,
From the coast of Barbary-a ;
alnd there he met with brave gallants of war,
By one, by two, by three-a.

Well haild, well hail’d, you jolly gallants!
And whither now are you bound-a 2?
O, let me have your company
tTill I come to the Sound-a!

There was three fools fell out about an howlet:
The one said it was an oul ; 70
The other he said nay ;

The third he said it was a hawk,
And her bells were cut away.

3 Coun. There ’s a dainty mad woman, master,
Come i’ the nick ; as mad as a March hare:
If we can get her dance, we 're made again;
I warrant her she'll do the rarest gambols.
1 Coun. A mad woman! we are made, boys.
Ger, And are you mad, good woman?

Daugh. I'd be sorry else.
Give me your hand.

Ger Why?

Daugh. I can tell your fortune:

You area fool. Tellten. I’ve pos'd him. Buzz! 81
Friend, you must eat no white bread; if you do,
Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we dance, ho?
I know you; you're a tinker ; sirrah tinker,
Stop no more holes but what you should.

Ger, Dit boni!
A tinker, damsel!

Daugh. Or a conjurer:
Raise me a devil now, and let him play
Qui passa o' the bells and bones.

Ger. Go, take her,

 

 
 

ScENE VI]

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 1025

 

 

And fluently persuade her to a peace ;
Et opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis— 90
Strike up, and lead her in.
Coun.
Daugh. I'll lead.
3 Coun. Do, do. [Horns winded within.
Ger, Persuasively and cunningly ; away, boys!
I hear the horns: give me some meditation,
And mark your cue, _ [Kzeunt all except GERROLD.
Pallas inspire me!

Enter THESEUS, PiRITHOUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA,
‘ ARCITE, and Train.
Thes. This way the stag took.
Ger. Stay and edify.
Thes. What have we here?
Pir. Some country sport, upon my life, sir. 100
tThes. Well, sir, go forward ; we will edify.—
Ladies, sit down: we'll stay it.
Ger. Thou dpumaty duke, all hail! All hail, sweet
adies !
Thes. This is a cold beginning.
Ger. If you but favour, our country pastime made is.
Weare a few of those collected here,
That ruder tongues distinguish villager ;
And, to say verity and not to fable,
We are a merry rout, or else a rable,
Or company, or, by a figure, choris, 110
That ’fore thy digaity will dance a morris,
And I, that am the rectifier of all,
By title pedagogus, that let fall
The birch upon the breeches of the small ones,
And humble with a ferula the tall ones,
Do here present this machine, or this frame :
And, dainty duke, whose doughty dismal fame
From Dis to Deedalus, from post to pillar,
Is blown abroad, help me, thy poor well-willer,
And, with thy twinkling eyes, look right and straight
Upon this mighty morr—of mickle weight— 121
Is—now comes in, which being glu’d together
Makes morris, and the cause that we came hether,
The body of our sport, of no small study.
I first appear, though rude and raw and muddy,
To speak, before thy noble grace, this tenner ;
At whose great feet I offer up my penner:
The next, the Lord of May and Lady bright,
The Chambermaid and Servingman, by night
That seek out silent hanging: then mine Host 130
And his fat spouse, that welcomes to their cost
The galled traveller, and with a beck’nin
Informs the tapster to inflame the reck’ning :
Then the beast-eating Clown, and next the Fool,
The Bavian, with long tail and eke long tool;
Cum multis aliis that make a dance:
Say ““Ay,” and all shall presently advance.
Thes. Ay, ay, by any means, dear domine.
Pir. Produce.
tGer. Intrate, filii ; come forth, and foot it. 140

Re-enter the School, the Bavian, five Wenches, and
the Taborer, with the Gaoler's Daughter, and
others. They dance a morris.

Ladies, if we have been merry,
t+And have pleas’d ye with a derry,
And a derry, and a down,
Say the schoolmaster ’s no clown.
Duke, if we have pleas’d thee too,
And have done as good boys should do,
Give us but a tree or twain
For a Maypole, and again,
Ere another year run out,
We ’1l make thee laugh, and all this rout. 150
Thes. Take twenty, domine.—How does my sweet-
heart? .
Hip. Never so pleas’d, sir.
Emi. ’T was an excellent dance; and for a preface,
I never heard a better.

Come, lass, let’s trip it.

Thes. Schoolmaster, I thank you.—
One see ’em all rewarded. .
Pir. And here’s something t[Gives money.

To paint your pole withal. :
Thes. Now to our sports again.

 

Ger. May the stag thou hunt’st stand long,
And thy dogs be swift and strong !
May they kill him without lets,
And the ladies eat his dowsets! 160
[Exeunt Tukskus, PiRITHOUS, HIPPOLYTA,

Emitia, ArciITE, and Train. Horns
winded as they go out.

Come, we’re all made. Dii Deceque onunes !

Ye have dane’d rarely, wenches, [Exeunt.

 

tScENE VI.—The same Part of the Forest as in
Scene III.

Enter PALAMON from the bush.

Pal, About this hour my cousin gave his faith
To visit me again, and with him bring
Two swords and two good armours: if he fail,
He’s neither man nor soldier. When he left me,
I did not think a week could have restor’d
My lost strength to me, I was grown so low ;
And crest-fal’n with my wants: I thank thee, Arcite,
Thou ‘rt yet a fair foe; andI feel myself,
With this refreshing, able once again
To outdure danger. To delay itlonger | 10
Would make the world think, when it comes to

hearing,

That I lay fatting like a swine, to fight,
And not a soldier: therefore, this blest morning
Shall be the last ; and that sword he refuses,
If it but hold, I kill him with; ’tis justice:
So, love and fortune for me!

Enter ARCITE with armours and swords.

O, good morrow.

Arc, Good morrow, noble kinsman.

Pal. I have put you

To too much pains, sir.
Are. That too much, fair cousin,

Is but a debt to honour and my duty.
Pal. Would you were so in all, sir! I could wie

ye
As kind a kinsman as you force me find
A beneficial foe, that my embraces
Might thank ye, not my blows.
Are. I shall think either,
‘Well done, a noble recompense.
Pal. Then I shall quit you.
Arc. Defy me in these fair terms, and you show
More than a mistress to me : no more anger,
As you love anything that’s honourable :
We were not bred to talk, man; when we’re arm’d,
And both upon our guards, then let our fury,
Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us; 30
And then to whom the birthright of this beauty
Truly pertains—without upbraidings, scorns,
Despisings of our persons, and such poutings,
Fitter for girls and school-boys—will be seen,
And quick: y; yours or mine. Wilt please you arm,
sir
Or, if you feel yourself not fitting yet,
And furnish’d with your old strength, Ill stay,
cousin,
And every day discourse you into health,
As Iam spar’d: your person I am friends with;
And I could wish I had not said I lov’d her,
Though I had died; but, loving such a lady,
And justifying my love, I must not fly from ‘t.
Pal. Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy,
That no man but thy cousin’s fit to kill thee:
I’m well and lusty ; choose your arms.
Are. Choose you, sir,
Pal. Wilt thou exceed in all, or dost thou do it
To make me spare thee?
Are. 4 If you think so, cousin, '
You are deceiv’d ; for, as Iam a soldier, "
I will not spare you.
Pat. That’s well said.
Are, Youll find it.
Pal. Then, as J am an honest man, and love 50
With all the justice of affection,
I'll pay thee soundly. This I’ll take,

 

 
 

 

1026

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

[Act III.

 

Are, That’s mine, then.

I'll arm you first.
[Proceeds to put on PALAMON’S armour.

Pal. Do. Pray thee, tell me, cousin,
Where gott’st thou this good armour?

lre. ’T is the duke’s ;
And, to say true, I stole ’t. DoI pinch you?

Pal. No.

irc. Is ’t not too heavy ?
I have worn a lighter ;

I'll buckle ’t close.

at,
But I shall make it serve.

dre.
Pal. By any means.
are. You care not for a grand-guard ?
Pal. No, no; we’ll use no horses: I perceive
You'd fain be at that fight.

Are, I am indifferent. 60
Pal. Faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust the
buckle
Through far enough.
alre, I warrant you.

Fail. My casque now.
re, Will you fight bare-arm’d?

Pal. We shall be the nimbler.

«irc. But use your gauntlets though: those are 0’

the least ;

Pr’ythee, take mine, good cousin.

Pal. Thank you, Arcite.
How do I look? am I fall’n much away?

Arc. Faith, very little; Love has us'd you kindly.

Pal. I'll warrant thee I'll strike home.

Are. Do, and spare not.
I'll give you cause, sweet cousin.

Pal Now to you, sir.

Methinks this armour’s very like that, Arcite, 70
Thou wor’st that day the three kings fell, but
lighter.

«lrc. That was a very good one; and that day,
I well remember, you outdid me, cousin;
I never saw such valour: when you charg’d
Upon the left wing of the enemy,
Ispurr’d hard to come'up, and under me
Thad a right good horse.
You had indeed;

Pal.
A bright bay, I remember.

alre. Yes. But all
Was vainly labour’d in me; you outwent me,
Nor could my wishes reach you: ycta little 80
I did by imitation.
Pal. More by virtue;
You're modest, cousin.
Are. When I saw you charge first,

Methought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder
Break from the troop.
Pal. But still before that flew
The lightning of your valour, Stay a little:
Is not this piece too straight ?
Are, No, no; ’tis well.
Pal. Iwould have nothing hurt thee but my sword ;
A bruise would be dishonour.

Are.
Pal. Stand off, then.
Are. Take my sword ; I hold it better.
Pal. I thank ye. No, keep it; your life lies on it:
Here ’s one, if it but hold, I ask no more 91
For allmy hopes. My cause and honour guard me!
arc, And me my love!
[They bow several ways ; then advance
and stand.
Is there aught eise to say ?
Pal. This only, and no more. ‘Thou art mine
aunt’s son,
And that blood we desire to shed is mutual ;
In me thine, and in thee mine: my sword
Is in my hand, and, if thou killest me,
The gods and I forgive thee: if there be
A place prepar’d for those that sleep in honour,
I wish his weary soul that falls may win it. 00
Fight bravely, cousin: give me thy noble hand.
(rc. Here, Palamon: this hand shall never more
Come near thee with such friendship.
Pal. i commend thee.

Now I'm perfect.

 

irc. If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward ;
For none but such dare die in these just trials.
Once more, farewell, my cousin. ‘
Pal. Farewell, Arcite.
[They fight. Horns winded within:
they stand.
Arc. Lo, cousin, lo! our folly has undone us.
Pal. Why?
Arc, This is the duke, a-hunting as I told you;
If we be found, we're wretched ; O, retire, 11
tFor honour’s sake and safety, presently
Into your bush again, sir; we shall find
Too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin,
If you be seen, you perish instantly
For breaking prison ; and I, if you reveal me,
For my contempt: then all the world will scorn us,
And say we had a noble difference,
But base disposers of it.
Pal. No, no, cousin ;
I will no more be hidden, nor put off
This great adventure to a second trial : 120
I know your cunning and I know your cause:
He that faints now, shametake him! Put thyself
Upon thy present guard,—
Are. You are not mad?
Pal. Or I will make th’ advantage of this hour
Mine own; and what to come shall threaten me,
I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak cousin,
Llove Emilia; and in that I’ bury
Thee, and all crosses else.
Are. Then, come what can come,
Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well
Die, as discourse or sleep: only this tears me, 130
The law will have the honour of our ends.
Have at thy life!
Pal. Look to thine own well, Arcite.
[They fight. Horns winded within,

inter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EMILIA, PIRITHOUS,
and Train.
Thes. What ignorant and mad malicious traitors
Are you, that, ’gainst the tenor of my laws,
Are making battle, thus like knights appointed,
Without my leave, and ofticers of arms?

By Castor, both shall die.
Pal. Hold thy word, Theseus:
We're certainly both traitors, both despisers
Of thee and of thy goodness : Iam Palamon,
That cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison; 140
Think well what that deserves: and this is Arcite;
A bolder traitor never trod thy ground,
A falser ne'er seem'd friend: this is the man
Was begg’d and banish’d : this is he contemns thee
And what thou dar’st do; and in this disguise,
tAgainst thy own edict, follows thy sister,
That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia ;
Whose servant—if there be a right in seeing,
And first bequeathing of the soul to—justly
Iam; and, which is more, dares think her his, 150
This treachery, like a most trusty lover,
I call'd him now to answer : if thou be’st,
As thou are spoken, great and virtuous,
The true decider of all injuries,
Say ‘Fight again!” and thou shalt see me, Theseus,
Do such a justice thou thyself wilt envy:
Then take my lite ; I’ll woo thee to’t.
ir. O heaven,
What more than man is this!
Thes. I’ve sworn.
Are. We seck not
Thy breath of mercy, Theseus: ’tis to me
A thing as soon to die as thee to say it, 160
And nomoremov’d. Where this man calls me traitor,
Let me say thus much: if in love be treason,
In service of so excellent a beauty,
As I love most, and in that faith will perish,
As I have brought my life here to confirm it,
As [have sery'd her truest, worthiest,
As I dare kill this cousin that denies it,
So let me be most traitor, and ye please me.
For scorning thy edict, duke, ask that lady
Why she is tair, and why her eyes command me 170

 

 
 

SCENE VI.]

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 1027

 

Stay here to love her; and, if she say ‘‘ traitor,”
Iam a villain fit to lie unburied.
Pal. Thou shalt have pity of us both, O Theseus,
If unto neither thou show mercy ; stop,
As thou art just, thy noble ear against us ;
As thou are valiant: for thy cousin’s soul,
Whose twelve strong labours crown his memory,
Let's die together, at one instant, duke;
Only a little let him fall before me,
That I may tell my soul he shall not have her. 180
Thes. I grant your wish; for, to say true, your
cousin
Has ten times more offended, for I gave him
More mercy than you found, sir, your offences
Being no more than his.—None here speak for’em;
For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever.
ie Alas, the pity !_Now or never, sister,
Speak, not to be denied: that face of yours
Will bear the curses else of after ages
For these lost cousins.
Emi. In my face, dear sister,
I find no anger to’em, nor no ruin; 190
The misadventure of their own eyes kill ’em:
Yet that I will be woman and have pity,
My knees shall grow to the ground but I’ll get
mercy.
Help me, dear sister: in a deed so virtuous
The powers of all women will be with us.—
Most royal brother,— [They kneel.
tp. Sir, by our tie of marriage,—
Emi. By your own spotless honour,—
Hip. By that faith,
That fair hand, and that honest heart you gave me,—
Emi. By that you would have pity in another,
By your own virtues infinite,—
Tp. By valour,
By all the chaste nights I have ever pleas'd you,—
Thes. These are strange conjurings.
Pir. Nay, then, I’ll in too :—[Kneels.
By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers,
By all you love most, wars, and this sweet lady,—
Emi. By that you would have trembled to deny
A blushing maid,—
ip. By your own eyes, by strength,
In eich you swore I went beyond all women,
Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus,—
Pir. To crown all this, by your most noble soul,
Which cannot want due mercy, I beg first. 21
Hip. Next, hear my prayers. :
mt. Last, let me entreat, sir.
Pir. For mercy.
Hip. Mercy.

200

Emi. Mercy on these princes.
Thes. Ye make my faith reel: say I felt ;
Compassion to ’em both, how would you place it?
Emi. Upon their lives; but with their banish-
ments. : :
Thes. You’rea right woman, sister ; you have pity,
But want the understanding where to use it.
If you desire their lives, inventa way |.
Safer than banishment : can these two live,
And have the agony of love about ’em,
And not kill one another? every day
They ’d fight about you; hourly bring your honour
In public question with their swords. Be wise, then,
And here forget ’em; it concerns your credit
And my oath cauelly ; I’ve said they die:
Better they fall by the law than one another.
Bow not my honour.
Emi. O my noble brother,
That oath was rashly made, and in your anger;
Your reason will not hold it: ifsuch vows |
Stand for express will, all the world must perish. 230
Beside, I have another oath ’gainst yours,
Of more authority, I’m sure more love ;
Not made in passion neither, but good heed.
Thes, What is it, sister? :
Pir. Urge it home, brave lady.
Emi. That you would ne’er deny me anything
Fit for my modest suit and your free granting :
T tie you to your word now;; if ye fall in’t,
¢Think how you maim your honour,—

220

 

For now I’m set a-begging, sir, I’m deaf
To all but your compassion,—how their lives
tMight breed the ruin of my name, opinion !
Shall anything that loves me perish for me?
That were a cruel wisdom: do men proyne
The straight young boughs that blush with thousand
lossoms,
Because they may be rotten? O Duke Theseus,
The goodly mothers that have groan’d for these,
And all the longing maids that ever lov’d,
If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty,
And in their funeral songs for these two cousins
Despise my cruelty, and cry woe-worth me,
Till Lam nothing but the scorn of women.
For heaven’s sake save their lives, and banish'em.
Thes. On what conditions?
Emi, Swear ’em never more
To make me their contention or to know me,
To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be,
Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers
To one another,
Pal. I'll be cut to pieces
Before I take this oath: forget I love her?
O all ye gods, despise me, then. Thy banishment
I not mislike, so we may fairly carry 260
Our swords and cause along; else, never trifle,
But take our lives, duke: [must love, and will;
And for that love must and dare kill this cousin,
On any piece the earth has,
Will you, Arcite,

He’s a villain, then.

240

250

Thes.
Take these conditions?
Pal.

Pir. These are men! 2
Arc. No, never, duke; ’tis worse to me than
begging,
To take my life so basely. Though I think
I never shall enjoy her, yet I’ll preserve
The honour of affection, and die for her, 270
Make death a devil.

Thes. What may be done? for now I feel com-

passion.

Pir. Let it not fall again, sir.

Thes. Say, Emilia,
If one of them were dead, as one must, are you
Content to take the other to your husband?
They cannot both enjoy you: they are princes
As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble
As ever fame yet spoke of : look upon’em,
And, if you can love, end this difference ;

I give consent.—Are you content too, princes?

qigl | with all our souls.

Thes.
Must die, then.
ee t any death thou canst invent, duke.
Pal. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour,
And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes.
Are. If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me,
And soldiers sing my epitaph.
Thes. Make choice, then.
Emi. I cannot, sir; they ’re both too excellent:
For me, a hair shall never fall of these men.
Hip. What will become of’em? ;
Thes. Thus I ordain it;
And, by mine honour, once again it stands, 291
Or both shall die.—You shall both to your country ;
And each, within this month, accompanied
With three fair knights, appear again in this place,
In which I’ll plant a pyramid; and whether,
Before us that are here, can force his cousin
By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar,
He shall enjoy her; th’ other lose his head,
And all his friends ; nor shall he grudge to fall,
Nor think he dies with interest in this lady.
we ae content ye?

280

He that she refuses

300

‘al, Yes.—Here, cousin Arcite,
I’m friends again till that hour.
Are. I embrace ye.
Thes. Are you content, sister?
‘mt. Yes ; I must, sir;
Else both miscarry.

 

 

 
 

1028

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

{Act Iv.

 

 

Thes. Come, shake hands again, then ;
And take heed, as you’re gentlemen, this quarrel
Sleep till the hour prefix’d, and hold your course.

Pal. We dare not fail thee, Theseus,

Thes. Come, I’ give ye
Now usage like to princes and to friends.
When ye return, who wins, I'll settle here ;
Who loses, yet I’ll weep upon his bier. 310
[Exewnt,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENeE I.—tAthens.

Gaoler. . .
EAR you no more? was nothing said of

me
Concerning the escape of Palamon ?
Good sir, remember.

1 Friend. Nothing that I heard ;
For I came home before the business
Was fully ended: yet I might perceive,
Ere I departed, a great likelihood
Of both their pardons; for Hippolyta
And fair-ey'd Emily upon their knees
Begg’d — pie handsome pity, that

the duke

Methought stood staggering whether
he should follow _10

His rash oath, or the sweet compassion

Of those two ladies; and to second
them,

That truly noble Prince Pirithous,

Half his own heart, set in too, that I hope

All shall be well: neither heard I one question

Of your name or his scape.

Gaoler.

 

Pray heaven, it hold so!

Enter second Friend.

2 Friend. Be of good comfort, man: I bring you
news,
Good news.
Gaoler. They ’re welcome.
2 Friend. Palamon has clear’d you,
And got your pardon, and discover'd how
And by whose means he escap’d, which was you
daughter’s, 20
Whose pardon is procur’d too ; and the prisoner—
Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness—
Has given a sum of money to her marriage,
A large one, I'll assure you.
Gaoler.
And ever bring good news.
1 Friend. How was it ended?
2 Friend. why. as it should be; they that never

Ye’re a good man,

begg
But they prevail’d, had their suits fairly granted:
The prisoners have their lives.
1 Fricnd. I knew ’t would be so.
2 Fricnd. But there be new conditions, which
youll hear of 29
At better time.

Gaoler. I hope they ’re good.
2 Friend. They ’re honourable:

How good they’ll prove, I know not.
1 Friend, ’T will be known.
Enter Wooer.

Wooer. Alas, sir, where’s your daughter ?

Gaoler. Why do you ask?
Wooer. O, sir, when did you see her?
2 Friend, How he looks!

 

A Room in the Prison.
Enter Gaoler and first Friend.

Gaoler. This morning.

Wooer. Was she well? was she in health, sir? |
When did she sleep?
1 Friend. These are strange questions.

Gaoler. I do not think she was very well; for, now
You make me mind her, but this very day
I ask’d her questions, and she answer’d me
So far from what she was, so childishly,
So sillily, as if she were a fool, 40
An innocent; and I was very angry.
But what of her, sir?
Woocr. Nothing but my pity:
But you must know it, and as good by me
As by another that less loves her.

Gaoler. Well, sir?

1 Friend. Not right ?

2 Friend, Not well?

Wooer. No, sir; not well:
*T is too true, she is mad.

1 Friend. It cannot be.

Wooer. Believe, you'll find it so.
Gaoler. T half suspected
tWhat you have told me ; the gods comfort her!
Either this was her love to Palamon,
Or fear of my miscarrying on his scape, 50
Or both.
Wooer. ’T is likely.
Gaoler, But why all this haste, sir?
Wooer. Ill tellyou query As I late was angling
In the great lake that lies behind the palace,
From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges,
As patiently I was attending sport,
I heard a voice, a shrill one; and attentive
I gave my ear; when I might well perceive
*T was one that Sune and, by the smallness of it,
A boy or woman. then left my angle
To his own skill, came near, but yet perceiv’d not 60
Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds
Had so encompass’d it: I laid me down,
And listen’d to the words she sung ; for then,
Through a small glade cut by the fishermen,
I saw it was your daughter.
Gaoler. Pray, go on, sir.
Wooer. She sung much, but no sense; only I heard

her
Repeat this often, ‘‘ Palamon is gone,
Is gone to the wood to gather mulberries ;
I'll find him out to-morrow.”
1 Friend. Pretty soul !
Hout “His shackles will betray him, he’ll ye

faken ;
And what shallI do then? I’ll bring a bevy,

A hundred black-ey’d maids that love as I do,
With chaplets on their heads of daffodillies,
With cherry lips, and cheeks of damask roses,
And all we'll dance an antic fore the duke,

And beg his pardon.” Then she talk’d of you, sir;
That you must lose your head to-morrow morning,

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

Scene II.] THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. 1029
And she must gather flowers to bury you, As twenty to despatch ; he’ll tickle ’t up
And see the house made handsome. Then she sung | In two hours, if his hand be in.
Nothing but ‘‘ Willow, willow, willow ;” and between Gaoler. She’s lost,
Ever was, ‘‘Palamon, fair Palamon,” 81 | Past all cure. 140

And ‘‘Palamon was a tall young man.” The place
Was knee-deep where she sat ; her careless tresses
tA wreath of bulrush rounded ; about her stuck
Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours;
That methought she appear’d like the fair nymph
That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris
Newly dropt down from heaven. Rings she made
Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke
The prettiest posies,—‘ Thus our true love’s tied,” 90
“This you may loose, not me,” and many a one;
And then she wept, and sung again, and sigh’d,
And with the same breath smil'd, and kiss’d her

and.
2 Friend. Alas, what pity ’tis!
Wooer. I made in to her:
She saw me, and straight sought the flood; I sav’d

er,
And set her safe to land : when presently

She slipt away, and to the city made,

With such a cry, and swiftness, that, believe me,
She left me far behind her. Three or four

I saw from far off cross her, one of ’em 100
I knew to be your brother ; where she stay’d,

And fell, scarce to be got away: I left them with her,
And hither came to tell you. Here they are.

Enter Gaoler’s Brother, Daughter, and others.
Daugh. [Sings.]
May you never more enjoy the light, &c,
Is not this a fine song?
Broth, O, a very fine one!
Daugh. I can sing twenty more.
Broth. I think you can.
Daugh. Yes, truly, can I; I can sing ‘‘ The Broom,”
And “Bonny Robin.” Are not you a tailor?
Broth. Yes.
Daugh. Where’s my wedding-gown ?

Broth. Il] bring’t to-morrow.
Daugh. Do, very rarely ; I must be abroad else,
To call the maids and pay the minstrels ; 111

For I must lose my maidenhead by cock-light ;
°T will never thrive else.
O fair, O sweet, &c.

Broth. You must even take it patiently.
Gaoler. _, Tis true.
Daugh. Good even, good men. Pray, did you ever

[Sings.

ear
Of one young Palamon ?
Gaoler. Yes, wench, we know him.
Daugh. Is’t not a fine young gentleman ?

Gaoler. Tis love!
Broth. By no mean cross her; she is then dis-
temper’d
+Far worse than now she shows.
1 Friend. Yes, he’s a fine man.

Daugh. O,ishe so? You have a sister?
1 Friend. Yes. 121
Daugh. But she shall never have him, tell her so,
For a trick that I know: y’ had best look to her,
For, if she see him once, she’s gone; she’s done,
And undone in an hour. All the young maids
Of our town are in Jove with him: but I laugh at’em,
And let’em all alone; is’t not a wise course ?
1 Friend. Yes. .
Daugh. There is at least two hundred now with
child by him,— .
There must be four ; yet I keep close for all this, 130
Close as a cockle ; and all these must be boys,—
He has the trick on ’t; and at ten years old
They must be all gelt for musicians,
And sing the wars of Theseus.
2 Friend. This is strange.
Daugh. As ever you heard : but say nothing.
1 Friend. 0.
Daugh. They come from all parts of the dukedom

o him ; :
I'll warrant ye, he had not so few last night

 

Broth. Heaven forbid, man!
Daugh. Come hither ; you ’re a wise man. ;
1 Friend. Does she know him?
2 Friend. No; would she did! r
Daugh. You’re master of a ship?
Gaoler. Yes.
Daugh. Where’s your compass ?
Gaoler. Here.
Daugh. Set it to the north;
And now direct your course to the wood, where
Palamon 2
Lies longing for me; for the tackling
Let me alone: come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly !
All, Owgh, owgh, owgh! ’tis up, the wind is fair:
Top the bowling ; out with the main-sail :
Where’s your whistle, master?

Broth. Let’s get her in. 150
Gaoler. Up to the top, boy ! re

Broth. Where’s the pilot?

1 Friend. Here.
Daugh. What kenn’st thou?

2 Friend. A fair wood.

Danugh. Bear for it, master;

+Tack about ! [Sings.

When Cynthia with her borrow'd light, &c.
[Exeunt.

ScENE I].—tAthens, A Room in the Palace.

Enter EMILia with two Pictures.
Emi. Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must

open
And bleed to death for my sake else: I’ll choose,
And end their strife : two such young handsome men
Shall never fall for me; their weeping mothers,
Following the dead-cold ashes of their sons,

Shall never curse my cruelty. Good heaven,

What a sweet face has Arcite! If wise Nature,
With all her best endowments, all those beauties
She sows into the births of noble bodies,

Were here a mortal woman, and had in her 10
The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless

She would run mad for this man: what an eye,—

Of what a fiery sparkle and quick sweetness, :
Has this young prince! here Love himself sits

emis {—

Just such another, wanton Ganymede
tSet Jove a-fire with, and enforc'd the god |

Snatch up the goodly boy and set him by him,

A shining constellation: what a brow,

Of what a spacious majesty, he carries,

Arch’d like the great-ey’d Juno’s, but far sweeter, 20
Smoother than Pelops’ shoulder! Fame and Honour,
Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory
Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings, and sing
To all the under-world, the loves and fights

Of gods, and such men near ’em. Palamon

Is but his foil; to him, a mere dull shadow:

He’s swarth and meagre, of an eye as heavy

As if he had lost his mother; a still temper,

No stirring in him, no alacrity ;

Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile ;— 30
Yet these that we count errors, may become him:
Narcissus was a sad boy, but a heavenly.

O, who can find the bent of woman's fancy ?

I am a fool, my reason is lost in me;

I have no choice, and I have lied so lewdly

That women ought to beat me. On my knees

I ask thy pardon, Palamon ; thou art alone,

And only beautiful ; and these the eyes,

These the bright lamps of beauty, that command
And threaten Love; and what young maid dare

cross ‘em ? 40

What a bold gravity, and yet inviting,

Has this brown manly face! O Love, this only
From this hour is complexion. Lie there, Arcite;

 

 

 
 

1030

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

[Act Iv.

 

 

Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gipsy,

And this the noble body. I am sotted,

Utterly lost ; my virgin’s faith has fled me,

For, if my brother but even now had ask’d me
Whether I Jov'd, I had run mad for Arcite ;

Now if my sister, more for Palamon.—

Stand both together.—Now, come, ask me, brotber;—
Alas, I know not !--Ask me now, sweet sister ;— 1
I may go look !—What a mere child is faney,

That, having two fair gauds of equal sweetness,
Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both!

+Enter a Gentleman.

Gent. From the noble duke your brother,
Madam, I bring you news: the knights are come.
Emi. To end the quarrel?
Gent. Yes.
Fimi. Would I might end first!
What sins have I committed, chaste Diana,
That my unspotted youth must now be soil’d
With blood of princes, and met chastity 60
Be made the altar where the lives of lovers—
Two greater and two better never yet
Made mothers joy—must be the sacrifice
To my unhappy beauty ?

Attendants.

Thes. Bring ’em in
uickly by any means; I long to see ’em.—
Your two contending lovers are return'd,
And with chem their fair knights: now, my fair
sister,
You must love one of them.
Emi. I had rather both,
So neither for my sake should fall untimely.
Thes. Who saw ’em ?
Pir. Ia while.
Gent. And I. 70

Enter Messenger.

From whence come you, sir?
Mess, From the knights.
Thes. Pray, speak,
You that have seen them, what they are.
Mess. I will, sir,
And truly what I think. Six braver spirits
Than as they ’ve brought—if we judge by th’ out-
side—
I never saw nor read of. He that stands
In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming
Should be a stout man, by his face a prince,—
His very looks so say him; his complexion
Nearer a brown than black; stern, and yet noble,
Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud, of dangers;
tThe circles of his eyes show fire within him, 81
And as a heated lion so he looks ;
His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining
Like ravens’ wings; his shoulders broad and strong ;
Arm’d long and round; and on his thigh a sword
Hung by a curious baldrick, when he frowns
To seal his will with ; better, o’ my conscience,
Was never soldier's friend.
Thes. Thou’st well describ’d him.
Pir. Yet a great deal short,
Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon. 90
Thes, Pray, speak him, friend.
Pir, | I guess he is a prince too,
And, if it may be, greater; for his show
Has all the ornament of honour in’t :
He’s somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of,
But of a face far sweeter; his complexion
Is, as a ripe grape, ruddy ; he has felt,
‘Without doubt, what he fights for, and so apter
To make this cause his own; in’s face appears
All the fair hopes of what he undertakes ;
And when he’s angry, then a settled valour 1
Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body,
And guides his arm to brave things; fear he cannot,
He shows no such soft temper ; his head’s yellow,

Enter THESEvS, HIpPoLyTa, PIRITHOUS, and

Thes.

00

 

tHard-hair'd, and curl’d, thick-twin’d, like ivy-tods,
Not to undo with thunder ; in his face
The livery of the warlike maid appears, .
Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blest him ;
And in his rolling eyes sits Victory,
tAs if she ever meant to court his valour;
His nose stands high, a character of honour, 110
His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies.
Fimi. Must these men die too? :
Pir. When he speaks, his tongue
Sounds like a trumpet; all his lineaments
Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean ;
He wears a well-steel’d axe, the staff of gold ;
His age some five-and-twenty.
Mess. There’s another,
A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming
As great as any; fairer promises
In such a body yet I never look’d on.
Pir. O, he that’s freckle-fac’d ?
Mess. The same, my lord : 120
Are they not sweet ones?
Pir. Yes, they ’re well.
Mess. Methinks,
Being so few and well-dispos’d, they show
Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-hair’d,
Not wanton-white, but such a manly colour
Next to an aborne; tough and nimble-set,
Which shows an active soul ; his arms are brawny,
Lin’d with strong sinews ; to the shoulder-piece
Gently they swell, like women new-conceiv’d,
Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting
Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted, still, 130
But, when he stirs, a tiger; he’s gray-ey’d,
Which yields compassion where he conquers ; sharp
To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em,
He’s swift to make’em his; he does no wrongs,
Nor takes none; he’s round-fac’d, and when he
smiles
He shows a lover, when he frowns, a soldier;
About his head he wears the winner’s oak,
And in it stuck the favour of his lady ;
His age some six-and-thirty ; in his hand
He bears a charging-staff, emboss’d with silver. 140
Thes. Are they all thus?
Pir. They ’re all the sons of honour.
Thes. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see ‘em.—
Lady, you shall see men fight now.
Ht I wish it,

But not the cause, my lord: they would show
Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms:
’T is pity Love should be so tyrannous.—
O my soft-hearted sister, what think you?
Weep not, till they weep blood, wench : it must be.
Thes. You’ve steel’d’em with your beauty,—
Honour'd friend, 9
To you I give the field; pray, order it 150
Fitting the persons that must use it.
ir. Yes, sir.
Thes. Come, Ill go visit ’em: I cannot stay—
Their fame has fir’d me so—till they appear.
Good friend, be royal.
Pir. There shall want no bravery.
Emi. Poor wench, go weep ; for whosoever wins,
Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—_tAthens. A Room in the Prison.

Enter Gaoler, Toocr, and Doctor.
Doctor. Her distraction is more at some time of

the moon than at other some, is it not? A
Gaoler. She is continually in a harmless distemper ;
sleeps little; altogether without appetite, save often
drinking; dreaming of another world and a better ;
and what broken piece of matter soe’er she’s about,
the name Palamon lards it; that she farces every
business withal, fits it to every question.— Look,
where she comes ; you shall perceive her behaviour.

Entcr Gaoler's Daughter.
Daugh, Ihave forgot it quite; the burden on’t was

 

siadilahieninbeieicmmiscackast

 

 
 

 

ScENE III.]

Down-a, down-a ; and penned by no worse man than
Geraldo, Emilia’s schoolmaster: he’s as fantastical,
too, as ever he may go upon’s legs; for in the next
world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be
out of love with Atneas.

Doctor. What stuff’s here! poor soul !

Gaoler. Even thus all day long. 17

Daugh. Now for this charm that I told you of.
You must bring a piece of silver on the tip of your
tongue, or no ferry: then, if it be your chance to
come where the blessed _spirits—as there’s a sight
now!—we maids that have our livers perished,
cracked to pieces with love, we shall come there,
and do nothing all day long but pick flowers with
Proserpine ; then will I make Palamon a nosegay ;
then let him—mark me—then—

Doctor. How prettily she’s amiss! note her a little
further. 28

Daugh. Faith, I'll tell you; sometime we go to
barley-break, we of the blessed. Alas, ’tis a sore
life they have i’ th’ other place, such burning, frying,
boiling, hissing, howling, chattering, cursing! O,
they have shrewd measure! Take heed: if one be
mad, or hang, or drown themselves, thither they
go; Jupiter bless us! and there shall we be put in
a caldron of lead and usurers’ grease, amongst a
whole million of cut-purses, and there boil like a
gammon of bacon that will never be enough.

Doctor..How her brain coins ! 39

Daugh. Lords and courtiers that have got maids
with child, they are in this place; they shall stand
in fire up to the navel, and in ice up to the heart,
and there th’ offending part burns, and the deceiving
part freezes; in troth, a very grievous punishment,
as one would think, for such a trifle: believe me,
one would marry a leprous witch to be rid on’t, I’
assure you.

Doctor. How she continues this fancy! ’Tis not
an engraffed madness, but a most thick and profound
melancholy. 50

Daugh. To hear there a proud lady and a proud
city-wife how] together! I were a beast, an I’d call

tit good sport : one cries, “O, this smoke!” th’ other,
“This fire!” one cries, ‘O, that ever I did it behind
the arras!” and then howls; th’ other curses a suing
fellow and her garden-house. [Sings.

Iwill be true, my stars, my fate, &c. [Exit.

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

 

1031

Gaoler. What think you of her, sir? .
Doctor. I think she has a perturbed mind, which I
cannot minister to. 60

Gaoler, Alas, what then?

Doctor. Understand you she ever effected any man
ere she beheld Palamon?

Gaoler. I was once, sir, in great hope she had fixed
her liking on this gentleman, my friend.

Wooer. I did think so too; and would account I
had a great pen’worth on't, to give half my state,
that both she and I at this present stood unfeignedly
on the same terms. 69

Doctor. That intemperate surfeit of her eye hath
distempered the other senses: they may return and
settle again to execute their preordained faculties;
but they arenow ina most extravagant vagary. This
you must do: confine her to a place where the light
may rather seem to steal in than be permitted.
Take upon you, young sir, her friend, the name
of Palamon; say you come to eat with her, and to
commune of love; this will catch her attention, for
this her mind beats upon; other objects, that are
inserted tween her mind and eye, become the pranks
and friskins of her madness: sing to her such green
songs of love as she says Palamon hath sung in
prison; come to her, stuck in as sweet flowers as
the season is mistress of, and thereto make an
addition of some other compounded odours, which
are grateful to the sense; all this shall become
Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is
sweet, and every good thing: desire to eat with

ther, carve her, drink to her, and still among inter-
mingle your petition of grace and acceptance into
her favour: learn what maids have been her com-
panions and play-feres; and let them repair to her
with Palamon in their mouths, and appear with
tokens, as if they suggested for him. It is a false-
hood she is in, which is with falsehoods to be
combated. This may bring her to eat, to sleep,
and reduce what’s now out of square in her into
their former law and regiment: I have seen it
approved, how many times I know not; but to
make the number more I have great hope in this.
I will, between the passages of this project, come
in with my appliance. Let us put it in execution ;
and hasten the success, which, doubt not, will bring
forth comfort.

[Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—tAthens.

Three Altars prepared, and inscribed severally to Mars, VENUS, and DIana.

A flourish. Entcr THESEUS, PiriITHOUS, HIPPOLYTA, and Attendants.

   
  

sd Theseus.
“OW let ’em enter, and before the

gods
Tender their holy prayers: let the

emples

Burn bright with sacred fires, and
the altars

In hallow’d clouds commend their
swelling incense

To those above us: let no due be

: wanting: 7

They have a noble work in hand, will honour

The very powers that love ’em.

Pir. Sir, they enter. |

A flourish of cornets. Enter PALAMON, ARCITE, and
their Knights.
Thes. You valiant and strong-hearted enemies,
You royal germane foes, that this day come
To blow that nearness out that flames between ye, 10
Lay by your anger for an hour, and dove-like
Before the holy altars of your helpers,
The all-fear’d gods, bow down your stubborn bodies:
Your ire is more than mortal; so your help be !
And, as the gods regard ye, fight with justice:
I'll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye
I part my wishes.
ir. Honour crown the worthiest !
[Exeunt THESEUS and his Train.

 

 

 
 

 

1032

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

(Act V.

 

Pal. The glass is running now that cannot finish
Till one of us expire: think you but thus,
That, were there aught in me which strove to show
Mine enemy in this business, were ’t one eye 21
Against another, arm oppress’d by arm,
I would destroy th’ offender ; coz, I would,
Though parcel of myself: then from this gather
How I should tender you.
Are. Iam in labour
To push your name, your ancient love, our kindred,
Out of my memory ; and i’ the selfsame place
To seat something I would confound : so hoist we
The sails, that must these vessels port even where
The heavenly lymiter pleases.
Pal, You speak well. 30
Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin :
This I shall never do again.
Are. One farewell!
Pal. Why, let it be so: farewell, coz!
Are. Farewell, sir!
[They embrace.—Exeunt PALAMON and his
Knights. .
Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices,
True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you
Expels the seeds of fear, and th’ ppprehension
Which still is farther off it, go with me
Before the god of our profession: there
Require of him the hearts of lions, and
The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too, 40
Yea, the speed also,—to go on, I mean,
Else wish we to be snails : you know my prize
Must be dragg’d out of blood ; force and great feat
Must put my garland on, where she sticks
The queen of flowers; our intercession, then,
Must be to him that makes the camp a cestron
Brimm’d with the blood of men ; give me your aid,
And bend your spirits towards him.
[They advance to the altar of Mars, and
fall on their faces; then kneel.
Thou mighty one, that with chy power has turn’d
tGreen Neptune into purple ; whose approach
Comets prewarn; whose havoc in vast field
meme’ skulls proclaim; whose breath blows
own
The teeming Ceres’ foyzon; who dost pluck
+With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds
The mason’d turrets; that both mak’st and break’st
The stony girths of cities ; me thy pupil,
‘Young’st follower of thy drum, instruct this day
With military skill, that to thy laud
I may advance my streamer, and by thee
Be styl’d the lord o’ the day ;—give me, great Mars, 60
Some token of thy pleasure.

Here they fall on their faces as formerly,
and there is heard clanging of armour,
with a short thunder, as the burst of
a battle, whereupon they all rise and
bow to the altar.

O great corrector of enormous times,

Shaker of o’er-rank states, thou grand decider

Of dusty and old titles, that heal’st with blood

The earth when it is sick, and cur’st the world

O’ the pluresie of people ; I do take

Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name

To my design march boldly.—Let us go. [Exeunt.

Re-enter PALAMON and his Knights.
Pal. Our stars must glister with new fire, or be
To-day extinct ; our argument is love,
Which if the goddess of it grant, she gives
Victory too: then blend your spirits with mine,
You, whose free nobleness do make my cause
Your personal hazard : to the goddess Venus
Commend we our proceeding, and implore
Her power unto our party.
[They advance to the altar of VENUS, and
fall on their faces; then kneel.
Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power
To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage,
And weep unto a girl; that hast the might
Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars’s drum, 80
And turn th’ alarm to whispers ; that canst make

 

 

A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him
Before Apollo; that may’st force the king

To be his subject’s vassal, and induce |

Stale gravity to dance; the poul’d bach’lor—
Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires,
Have skipt thy flame—at seventy thou canst catch,
And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat,
Abuse young lays of love: what godlike power
Hast thou not power upon? to Phoebus thou
Add’st flames, otter than his; the heavenly fires
Did scorch his mortal son, thine him: the huntress
All moist and cold, some say, began to throw

Her bow away, and sigh: take to thy grace

Me, thy vow’d soldier, who do bear thy yoke

As ’t were a wreath of roses, yet is heavier

Than lead itself, stings more than nettles : I

Have never been foul-mouth’d against thy law ;
Ne’er reveal’d secret, for I knew none,—would not,
Had I kenn'd all that were; I never practis’d 100
Upon man’s wife, nor would the libels read

Of liberal wits ; I never at great feasts

Sought to betray a beauty, but have blush’d

At simpering sirs that did; I have been harsh

To large confessors, and have hotly ask’d them,

If they had mothers? I had one, a woman,

And women ’t were they wrong’d: I knew a man
Of eighty winters,—this I told them,—who

A lass of fourteen brided ; twas thy power

To put life into dust; the aged cramp 110
Had screw’d his square foot round,

The gout had knit his fingers into knots,

Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes

Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life
In him seem’d torture ; this anatomy
tHad by his young fair fere a boy, and I

Believ'd it was his, for she swore it was,

And who would not believe her? Brief, Iam

To those that pret and have done, no companion ;
To those that boast, and have not, a defier ; 120
To those that would, and cannot, a rejoicer:

Yea, him I do not love, that tells close offices

The foulest way, nor names concealments in

The boldest language; such a one I am,

And vow that lover never yet made sigh

Truer than I. O, then, most soft sweet goddess,
Give me the victory of this question, which

Is true love’s merit, and bless me with a sign

Of thy great pleasure.

Here music is heard, and doves are seen to
flutter: they fall again upon their faces,
then on their knees.

O thou that from eleven to ninety reign’st 130

In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world,

And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks

For this fair token ; which being laid unto

Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance

My body to this business.—Let us rise,

And bow before the goddess : time comes on.
[They bow, then exeunt.

Still music of records. Enter Emiuia in white, her
thair about her shoulders, and wearing a wheaten
wreath ; one in white holding up her train, her
hair stuck with flowers ; one before her carrying a
silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet
todours, which being set upon the altar of DIANA,
ther Maids standing aioe ane sets fire to it; then
they curtsy and knee?
Emi, O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen,
Abandoner of revels, mute, contemplative,
Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure
As wind-fann’d snow, who to thy female knights 140
Allow’st no more blood than will make a blush,
Which is their order’s robe; I here, thy priest,
Am humbled ’fore thine altar : O, vouchsafe,
With that thy rare green eye—which never yet
Beheld thing maculate—look on thy virgin ;
And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear—
Which nev’r heard scurril term, into whose port
Nevy’r entered wanton sound—to my petition,
Season’d with holy fear. This is my last
Of vestal office ; I’m bride-habited, 150

 

 
 

ScEnE II.]

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1033

 

 

But maiden-hearted : a husband I have ’pointed,
But do not know him; out of two I should

Choose one, and prey for his success ; but I
tAm guiltless of election : of mine eyes

Were I to lose one,—they are equal precious,—

I could doom neither ; that which perish’d should
Go to’t unsentenc’d : therefore, most modest queen,
He, of the two pretenders, that best loves me

And has the truest title in ’t, let him

Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant 160
The file an quate I hold I may

Continue in thy band.

Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and
in the place ascends a rose-tree, having
one rose upon it.

See what our general of ebbs and flows

Out from the bowels of her holy altar

With sacred act advances ; but one rose!

If well inspir’d, this battle shall confound

Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flower,
Must woe alone, unpluck’d.

[Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments,
and the rose falls from the tree, which
vanishes under the altar.

The flower is fall’n, the tree descends.—O mistress,
Thou here dischargest me; I shall be gather’d, 170
I think so; but I know not thine own will:

Unclasp thy mystery.—I hope she’s pleas’d ;

Her signs were gracious. [They curtsy, and excunt.

ScENE IJ.—Athens. A Room in the Prison.

Enter Doctor, Gaoler, and Wooer in the habit of
PALAMON.

Doctor. Has this advice I told you done any good

upon her?

Wooer. O, very much; the maids that kept her

company
Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon;
Within this half-hour she came smiling to me,
And ask’d me what I’d eat, and when I'’d kiss her:
I told her presently, and kiss’d her twice.
Doctor. "I was well done: twenty times had been
far better ;
For there the cure lies mainly.

Wooer. Then she told me
She’d watch with me to-night, for well she knew
What hour my fit would take me.

Doctor. Let her do so; 10
And when your fit comes, fit her home, and pre-

sently.

Wooer. She would have me sing.

Doctor. You did so?

Wooer. No.

Doctor. ’T was very ill done, then ;
You should observe her every way.

Wooer. as,

Lhave no voice, sir, to confirm her that way !

Doctor. That’s all one, if ye make a noise:

If she entreat again, do anything ;
Lie with her, if she ask you.

Gaoler. Hoa, there, doctor!

Doctor. Yes, in the way of cure.

Gaoler. But first, by your leave,
I’ the way of honesty.

Doctor. That’s but a niceness ; 20

Ne’er cast your child away for honesty :

Cure her first this way ; then, if she’ll be honest,
She has the path before her.
Gaoler. ; ‘

Doctor. Pray, bring her in,
And let’s see how she is.

Gaoler. I will, and tell her
Her Palamon stays for her : but, doctor,
Methinks you are i’ the wrong still.

Doctor. Go, go;
You fathers are fine fools: her honesty !

An we should give her physic till we find that—

Wooer. Why, do you think she is not honest, sir ? 30

Doctor. How old is she?

Thank ye, doctor.

[Exit.

 

Wooer. She’s eighteen.

Doctor. She may be;
But that’s all one, ’t is nothing to our purpose :
Whate’er her father says, if you perceive
Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of,
Videlicet, the way of fiesh—you have me?

t+Wooer. Yes, very well, sir.
Doctor. : Please her appetite,
And do it home ; it cures her, ‘pso facto,
The melancholy humour that infects her.
Wooer. Iam of your mind, doctor.
ene You'll finditso. She comes: pray, humour
er. 40

Re-enter Gaoler, with Daughter and Maid.
Gaoler. Come; your love Palamon stays for you,

child,
And has done this long hour, to visit you.
Daugh. I thank him for his gentle patience ;
He’s a kind gentleman, and I’m much bound to him.
Did you ne’er see the horse he gave me?

Gaoler. Yes.
Daugh. How do you like him?

Gaoler. He’s a very fair one.
Daugh. You never saw him dance?

Gaoler. oO.

Daugh. Ihave often:

He dances very finely, very comely ;

And, fora Jig. come cut and long tail to him ;

He turns ye like a top.
Gaoler. That’s fine indeed. 50
Daugh. He'll dance the morris twenty mile an

our,
And that will founder the best hobby-horse,
If I have any skill, in all the parish ;
+And gallops to the tune of ‘‘ Light o’ Love :”
What think you of this horse?
Gaoler. Having thesé virtues,
I think he might be brought to play at tennis.
Daugh. Alas, that’s none
Gaoler, Can he write and read too?
Daugh. A very fair hand; and casts himself th’
accounts
Of all his hay and provende: ; that hostler
Must rise betime that cozens him. You know 60
The chestnut mare the duke has?
Gaoler. Very well.
Daugh. She's horribly in love with him, poor

east 5
But he is like his master, coy and scornful.

Gaoler. What dowry has she?

Daugh. Some two hundréd bottles,
And twenty strike of oats; but he ll ne’er have her:
He lisps in’s nelghing. able to entice
A miller’s mare; he ’ll be the death of her.

Doctor. What stuff she utters !

Gaoler. Make curtsy ; here your love comes.

W ooer. Pretty soul,
How do ye? That’s a fine maid; there’s acurtsy! 70
Daugh. Yours to command, i’ the way of honesty.
How far is ’t now to th’ end o’ the world, my masters?

Doctor. Why, a day's journey, wench.

Daugh. ‘Will you go with me?

Wooer. What shall we do there, wench ?

Daugh. Why, play at stool-ball :
What is there else to do?

Wooer. Iam content,

If we shall keep our wedding there.

Daugh. "Tis true;

For there, I will assure you, we shall find
Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture
To marry us, for here they ’re nice and foolish ;
Besides, my father must be hang’d to-morrow, 80
And that would be a blot i’ the business,
Are not you Palamon?
Wooer. Do not you know me?
Daugh. Yes; but you care not for me: I have
nothing
But this poor petticoat and two coarse smocks,

Wooer. That’s all one; I will have you.

Daugh. ill you surely?

Wooer: Yes, by this fair hand, will I.

 

 
 

[Acr V.

 

 

 

1034 THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.
Daugh. We'll to bed, then. This trial is as ’t were i’ the night, and you
Wooer. Even when you will. [Kisses her. The only star to shine.
Daugh. O, sir, you’d fain be nibbling. Emi.

Wuoer. Why do you rub my kiss off?

Daugh. ’T is a sweet one,
And will perfume me finely ’gainst the wedding.
Is not this your cousin Arcite ?

Doctor. Yes, sweetheart; 90
And Iam glad my cousin Palamon
Has made so fair a choice.

Daugh. Do you think he ’ll have me?
Doctor. Yes, without doubt.
Daugh. Do you think so too?

Gaoler. Yes.
Daugh. We shall have many children.—Lord, how
y’ are grown !
My Palamon I hope will grow, too, finely,
Now he’s at liberty : alas, poor chicken, ;
He was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging;
But I’ll kiss him up again.

Enter Messenger.
Mess. an tate do you here? you'll lose the noblest
sight

That e’er was seen.

Gaoler. Are they i the field ?

Mess. They are:
You bear a charge there too.

Gaoler. I'll away straight.— 101
I must even leave you here.

Doctor. : Nay, we'll go with you;

+I will not lose the sight.
Gaoler. How did you like her?

Doctor. I'll warrant you, within these three or
four days
I'll make her right again.—You must not from her,
But still preserve her in this way.

VWWooer. . I will.

Doctor, Let’s get her in.

Wooer. Come, sweet, we’ll go to dinner;

And then we'll play at cards.

Daugh. And shall we kiss too?

Wooer. A hundred times.

Daugh. And twenty?

Wooer. Ay, and twenty.
e

Daugh. And then we'll sleep togeth r?

Doctor. Take her offer. 110

}Vooer. Yes, marry, will we.

Daugh. But you shall not hurt me.

Wooer. I will not, sweet.

Daugh. If you do, love, I'll ery.
Exeunt.

SceNneE III.—tA Part of the Forest near Athens, and
near the Place appointed for the Combat.

Flourish, Enter THESEUS, H1rprpoLyta, EMILIA,
PIRITHOUS, and Attendants,
Emi, I'l no step further.
Pir. Will you lose this sight ?
Emi. Thad rather see a wren hawk ata fly,
Than this decision: every blow that falls
Threats a brave life ; each stroke laments
The ne whereon it falls, and sounds more like
tA bell than blade : I will stay here,—
It is enough my hearing shall be punish’d
With what shall happen, ’gainst the which there is
No deafing, but to hear,—not taint mine eye
With dread sights it may shun.
ir, Sir, my good lord, 10
Your sister will no further.
ves. O, she must:
She shall see deeds of honour in their kind,
tWhich sometime show well, pencill’d: nature now
Shall make and act the story, the belief
Both seal’d with eye and ear. You must be present;
You are the victor’s meed, the price and garland
To crown the question’s title.

Emi.
If L were there, I’d wink.
hes, You must be there ;

Pardon me;

 

Iam extinct: 20
There is but envy in that light, which shows
The one the other. Darkness, which ever was
The dam of Horror, who does stand accurs’d
Of many mortal millions, may even now,
ae casting her black mantle over both,
That neither could find other, get herself
Some part of a good name, and many a murder
Set off whereto she’s guilty.
Hip. You must go.
Emi. In faith, I will not.
Thes. Why, the knights must kindle
Their valour at your eye: know, of this war 30
You are the treasure, and must needs be by
To give the service pay. __
Emi. Sir, pardon me ;
The title of a kingdom may be tried
Out of itself.

Thes. Well, well, then, at your pleasure:
Those that remain with you could wish their office
To any of their enemies.

Hip. Farewell, sister:

I’m like to know your husband ’fore yourself,
By some small start of time: he whom the gods
Do of the two know best, I pray them he
Be made your lot. 40
{Exeunt all except EMILIA and some of the
Attendants, :

Emi. Arcite is gently visag'd; yet his eye
Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon
In a soft sheath ; mercy and manly courage
Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon
Has a most menacing aspect; his brow
Is grav’d, and seems to bury what it frowns on;

Yet sometimes ‘tis not so, but alters to
The quality of his thoughts; long time his eye
Will dwell upon his object; melancholy
Becomes him nobly ; so does Arcite’s mirth ; 50
But Palamon’s sadness is a kind of mirth,
So mingled as if mirth did make him sad,
And sadness merry; those darker humours that
Stick misbecomingly on others, on him
Live in fair dwelling.
[Cornets; and trumpets sound as to a charge,
within.
Hark, how yon spurs to spirit do incite
The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me
And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to
The spoiling of his figure. O, what pity
Enough for such a chance! If I were by. 60
I might do hurt; for they would glance their eyes
Toward my seat, and in that motion might
Omit a ward, or forfeit an offence,
Which crav’d that very time: it is much better
Iam not there; O, better never born
Than minister to such harm.
(Cornets ; and a great cry of “A Palamon!”
within,
What is the chance?
1 Serv. The cry’s ‘A Palamon !”
Emit. Then he has won. ’T was ever likely:
He look’d all grace and success, and he is
Doubtless the prim’st of men. I pr’ythee, run 70
And tell me how it goes.
Shouts ; cornets ; and cry of ‘“A Palamon!”
within.
1 Serv. Still ‘‘ Palamon!”
Emi. Run and inquire. [Exit first Servant.
Poor servant, thou hast lost:
Upon my right side still I wore thy picture,
Palamon’s on the left: why so, I know not;
tL had no end in’t else ; chance would have it so:
On the sinister side the heart lies ; Palamon
Had the best-boding chance. aa
[Another cry, and shout, and cornets, within.
This burst of clamour
Is sure the end o’ the combat.

Re-enter first Servant.
1 Serv. They said that Palamon had Arcite’s body

 

 
 

 

SCENE Iv.

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

1035

 

Within an inch o’ the pyramid, that the cry 80
Was general “ A Palamon!” but anon

Th’ assistants made a brave redemption, and

The two bold tytlers at this instant are

Hand to hand at it.

Emi. Were they metamorphos’d
Both into one—O, why? there were no woman
Worth so compos’d a man: their single share,

Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives
The prejudice of disparity, values shortness
To any lady breathing.
[Cornets; and cry of “Arcite, Arcite!”
within.
More exulting ?
“Palamon” still?
1 Serv, Nay, now the sound is “‘Arcite.” 90
Emi. I pr’ythee, lay attention to the cry;
Set both thine ears to the business.
[Cornets ; and a great shout, and cry of
“Areite, victory !” within.

1 Serv. The cry is
“Arcite!” and “victory!” Hark: “ Arcite, victory!”
The combat’s consummation is proclaim’d
By the wind-instruments.

Emi. Half-sights saw
That Arcite was no babe: God's lid, his richness
And costliness of spirit look’d through him ; it could
No more be hid in him than fire in flax,

Than humble banks can go to law with waters
That drift-winds force to raging. I did think 100
Good Palamon would miscarry ; yet I knew not
Why I did think so: our reasons are not prophets,
When oft our fancies are. ‘They ’re coming off:
Alas, poor Palamon ! [Cornets within.

Re-enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PIRITHOUS, with
ARCITE as victor, Attendants, dc.
Thes. Lo, where our sister is in expectation,
Yet quaking and unsettled.—Fairest Emily,
The gods, by their divine arbitrament,
Have given you this knight: he is a good one
‘As ever struck at head. Give me your hands:
Receive you her, you him ; be plighted with
A love that grows as you decay.
Are. Emily,
To buy you I have lost what’s dearest to me,
Save what is bought ; and yet I purchase cheaply,
As I do rate your value.
Thes. O lov’d sister,
He speaks now of as brave a knight as e’er
Did spur a noble steed : surely, the gods
Would have him die a bach’lor, lest his race 3
Should show i’ the world too godlike : his behaviour
So charm’d me, that methought Alcides was
To him a sow of lead: if I could praise _ 120
+Each part of him to th’ all I’ve spoke, your Arcite
Did not lose byt; for he that was thus good
Encounter’d yet his better. Ihaveheard |
Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o’ the night
With their contentious throats, now one the higher,
Anon the other, then again the first,
And by-and-by out-breasted, that the sense
Could not be judge between ’em: so it far’d
Good space between these kinsmen; till heavens
id

110

i

Make hardly one the winner.—Wear the garland 130

With joy that you have won.—For the subdu’d,

Give them our present justice, since I know

Their lives but pinch ’em : let it here be done.

The scene’s not for our seeing: go we hence, |

Right joyful, with some sorrow.—Arm your prize ;

I know you will not lose her.—Hippolyta,

I see one eye of yours conceives a tear,

The which it will deliver. bases Oy :
Emi. Is this winning ?

O all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy ?

But that your wills haye said it must be so, 140

‘And charge me live to comfort this unfriended,

This miserable prince, that cuts away

‘A life more worthy from him than all women,

J should and would die too.

Hip. Infinite pity,

 

That four such eyes should be so fix’d on one,

That two must needs be blind for’t!
Thes. So it is,

[Flourish. Exeunt.

ScENE IV.—The Same; a Block prepared.

Enter PALAMON and his Knights pinioned, Gaoler,
Executioner, &c., and Guird.

Pal. There’s many a man alive that hath outliv’d
The Jove o’ the people; yea, i’ the selfsame state
Stands many a father with his child: some comfort
We have by so considering ; we expire,

And not without men’s pity ; to live, still

Have their good wishes ; we prevent

The loathsome misery of age, beguile

The gout and rheum, that in lag hours attend

For gray approachers ; we come towards the gods,
Young and unwapper'’d, not halting under crimes 10
Many and stale; that, sure, shall please the gods
Sooner than such, to give us nectar with ’em,

For we are more clear spirits. My dear kinsmen,
Whose lives for this poor comfort are laid down,
You’ve sold ‘em too too cheap.

1 Knight. What ending could be
Of more content? O’er us the victors have
Fortune, whose title is as momentary
As to us death is certain ; a grain of honour
They not o’erweigh us.

2 Knight. Let us bid farewell;

And with our patience anger tottering Fortune, 20
Who, at her certain’st, reels,

3 Knight. Come; who begins?

Pal. Even he that led you to this banquet shall
Taste to ycu all._Ah, ha, my friend, my friend!
Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once;
You’ll see ’t done now tor ever: pray, how does she?
I heard she was not well; her kind of ill
Gave me some sorrow.

Gaoler. Sir, she’s well restor’d,
And to be married shortly.

Pal. By my short life,
Iam most glad on’t; ’tis the latest thing
I shall be glad of ; pr’ythee, tell her so; 30
Commend me to her, and, to piece her portion,
Tender her this. [Gives purse.

1 Knight. Nay, let’s be offerers all.

2 Knight. Is it a maid?
Verily, I think so;

Pal.

A right good creature, more to me deserving
That I can ’quite or speak of.
All the Knights. Commend us to her.
[Giving their purses.

Gaoler. The gods requite you all, and make her
thankful !

Pal. Adieu ; and let my life be now as short

As my leave-taking.
1 Knight. Lead, courageous cousin.
All the Knights. We'll follow cheerfully.
[PaLaMon lays his head on the block, .A great

noise, and cry of ‘Run, save, hold!” within.

Enter Messenger in haste.
Mess. Hold, hold! O, hold, hold, hold! 40

Enter PrrITHOUS in haste.

Pir. Hold, hoa! it is a cursed haste you made,
If you have done so quickly.—Noble Palamon,
The gods will show their glory in a life
That thou art yet to lead.

Can that be, when

Pal.
Venus I've said is false? How do things fare?
Pir. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear
[PALAMON 7ises.
tThat are most dearly sweet and bitter. _
al. au
Hath wak’d us from our dream ?

Pir, List, then.
Mounted upon a steed that Emily
Did first bestow on him,—a black one, owing .,
Not a hair-worth of white, which some will say

Your cousin

 

 
 

1036

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

(Act V.

 

 

Weakens his price, and many will not buy
His goodness with this note ; which superstition
Here finds allowance,—on this horse is Arcite
Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins
Did rather tell than trample; for the horse
Would make his length a mile, if’t pleas’d his rider
‘To put pride in him: as he thus went counting
The flinty pavement, dancing as ’t were to the
music
His own hoofs made,—for, as they say, from iron 60
Came musie’s origin, —what envious flint,
Cold as old Saturn, and like him possess’d
With fire malevolent, darted a spark,
Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made,
1 comment not ; the hot horse, hot as fire,
Took toy at this, and fell to what disorder
His power could give his will, bounds,
end,
Forgets school-doing, being therein train’d,
And of kind manage ; pig-like he whines
At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather
Than any jot obeys; seeks all foul means
Of boisterous and rough jadry, to dis-seat
His lord that kept it bravely : when naught serv'd,
When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor
ditfering plunges

Disroot his rider whence he grew, but that
He kept him ‘tween his legs, on his hind hoofs

J on end he stands,
That Arcite’s legs, being higher than his head,
Seem'd with strange art to hang: his victor’s wreath
Even then fell off his head; and presently 0
Backward the jade comes o’er, and his full poise
Becomes the rider's load. Yet is he living ;
But such a vessel tis that floats but for
The surge that next approaches: he much desires
To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears.

Enter THESEUS, HippoLyta, EMILIA, ARCITE in a
chair,

Pal. O miserable end of our alliance !

The gods are mighty.—Arcite, if thy heart,
Thy worthy, manly heart, be yet unbroken,
Give me thy last words ; Iam Palamon,
One that yet loves thee dying.

Are. Take Emilia, 90
And with her all the world’s joy. Reach thy hand:
Farewell; I’ve told my last hour. I was false,

Yet never treacherous : forgive me, cousin.—

comes on

70

 

One kiss from fair Emilia. [Kisses her.]—T is done:
Take her, I die. Dies.
Pal. _Thy brave soul seek Elysium !
Emi, 1’ll close thine eyes, prince ; blessed souls be
with thee!
Thou art a right good man; and, while I live,
his day I give to tears.
Pal. 2 And I to honour.
Thes. In this place first you fought; even very here
I sunder’d you: acknowledge to the gods
+Your thanks that you are living.
His part is play’d, and, though it were too short,
He did it well; your day is lengthen’d, and
The blissful dew of heaven does arrowze you:
The powerful Venus well hath grac’d her altar,
And given you your love; our master Mars
Hath vouch'd his oracle, and to Arcite gave
The grace of the contention : so the deities
Have show’d due justice.—Bear this hence.

‘al. | . O cousin,
That we should things desire, which do cost us 110
The loss of our desire ! that naught could buy
Dear love but loss of dear love!

Thes. Never fortune

Did play a subtler game: the conquer’d triumphs,

The victor has the loss ; yet in the passage

The gods have been most equal. Palamon,

Your kinsman hath confess’d the right o’ the lady

Did lie in you; for you first saw her, and

Even then proclaim’d your fancy ; he restor'd her,

As your stol’n jewel, and desir'd your spirit

To send him hence forgiven : the gods my justice 120

Take from my hand, and they themselves become

The executioners, Lead your lady off;

And call your lovers from the stage of death,

Whom I adopt my friends. A day or two

Let us look sadly, and give grace unto

The funeral of Arcite; in whose end

The visages of bridegrooms we’ll put on

And smile with Palamon; for whom an hour,

But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry

As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad

As for him sorry.—O you heavenly charmers,

What things you make of us! For what we lack
+We laugh, for what we have are sorry ; still

Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful

For that which is, and with you leave dispute

That are above our question.—Let’s go off,

And bear us like the time. {Flourish. Exeunt.

130

EPILOGUE.

I WOULD now ask ye how ye like the play ;

But, as it is with school boys, cannot oy

I'm cruel fearful. Pray, yet stay a while,

And let me look upon ye. Noman smile?

Then it goes hard, Isee. He that has :

Lov'd yang handsome wench, then, show his
ace,—

’T is strange if none be here,—and, if he will

Against his conscience, let him hiss, and kill

Our market. "Tis in vain, I see, to stay ye:

Have at the worst can come, then!
say ye?

And yet mistake me not; Iam not bold;

We have no such cause. If the tale we’ve told—

For ’tis no other—any way content ye,—

For to that honest purpose it was meant ye,—

We have our end; and ye shall have ere long,

I dare say, many a better, to prolong

Your old loves tous. We and all our might

Rest at your service : gentlemen, good mei

Now what
10

Flourtsh.

 

 

 
 

 

EDWARD III.

 

DRAMATIS PERSONA.

EpwarD THE THIRD, King of England.
Epwarp, Prince of Wales, his Son.
EARL OF WARWICK.

HARL OF DERBY.

EARL OF SALISBURY.

LorpD AUDLEY.

Lorp Percy.

Lopowick, Edward’s Confidant.

SIR WILLIAM MOUNTAGUE.

Sir JoHN CoPLAND.

Two Esquires, and a Herald, English.
RoseErt, styling himself Earl, of Artois.
EARL OF MONTFORT.

GOBIN DE GRAY.

JOHN, King of France.

CHARLES, \ .
PuILiP, His Sons.

DUKE oF LORRAIN.
VEE g rene Lord.
cing 0. ohemia, . .
“4 ee Captain, | ids to King John.
Two Citizens of Calais.
A Captain, and a poor Inhabitant, of the same.
Another Captain ; a Mariner.
Three Heralds, and four other Frenchmen.
Davin, King of Scotland,
EaRL DougLas.
Two Messengers, Scotch.

PHILIPPA, Edward’s Queen.
COUNTESS OF SALISBURY.
A French Woman.

Lords, and divers other Attendants; Heralds,

Officers, Soidiers, dc,

SCENE —Dispersed ; in ENGLAND, FLANDERS, and FRANCE,

 

ACT I.
ScENE I.—London. A Room of State in the Palace.

Flourish. Enter King EpwarbD, attended ; Pa OF WALES, WARWICK, DERBY, AUDLEY, ARTOIS,
and others.

Edward.
OBERT of Artois, banish’d though thou

ie
From France, thy native country, yet
with us
Thou shalt retain as great a plery ‘
For we aie thee Earl of Richmond
ere.
And now go forwards with our pedigree ;
Who next succeeded Philip Le Beau?
_, Art. Three sons of his; which all, successively,
*“Did sit upon their father’s regal throne ;
al Yet died, and left no issue of their loins.
Etlw. But was my mother sister unto those? 10
Art. She was, my lord; and only Isabelle
Was all the daughters that this Philip had:
Whom afterward your father took to wife ;
And, from the fragrant garden of her womb,
Your gracious self, the flower of Europe’s hope,
Derived is inheritor to France.
But note the rancour of rebellious minds.
When thus the lineage of Le Beau was out,
The French obscur’d your mother’s privilege ; :
And, though she were the next of blood, proclaim’d 20
John, of the house of Valois, now their king:
The reason was, they say, the realm of France,
Replete with princes of great parentage,
Ought not admit a governor to rule,
Except he be descended of the male ;
And that’s the special ground of their contempt, ;
Wherewith they study to exclude your grace :
But they shall find that forged ground of theirs
To be but dusty heaps of brittle sand.
Perhaps, it will be thought a heinous thing, 30

 

 

That I, a Frenchman, should discover this :
But Heaven I call to record of my vows;
It is not hate, nor any private wrong,
But love unto my country, and the right,
Provokes my tongue thus lavish in report:
You are the lineal watchman of our peace,
And John of Valois indirectly climbs:
What then should subjects, but embrace their king?
And wherein may our duty more be seen,
Than, striving to rebate a tyrant’s pride,
Place the true shepherd of our commonwealth ?
Edw. This counsel, Artois, like to fruitful showers,
Hath added ath unto my dignity :
And, by the fiery vigour of thy words,
Hot courage is engender’d in my breast,
Which heretofore was rak’d in ignorance ;
But now doth mount with golden wings of fame,
And will approve fair Isabelle’s descent
Able to yoke their stubborn necks with steel
That spurn against my sov’reignty in France.— 50
[Cornet within.
A messenger ?—Lord Audley, know from whence.
[Exit AUDLEY, and returns.
Aud. The Duke of Lorrain, having cross’d the seas,
Entreats he may have conference with your highness.
Edw. Admit him, lords, that we may hear the news.—
[Exeunt Lords. Kina takes his state.

Re-enter Lords ; with LORRAIN, attended.
Say, Duke of Lorrain, wherefore art thou come?
Lor. The most renowned prince, King John of
France, 3
Doth greet thee, Edward : and by me commands,
That, for so much as by his liberal gift

 

 

 
 

 

1038

EDWARD III.

[Act I.

 

The Guyenne dukedom is entail’d to thee,

Thou do him lowly homage for the same: 60
And, for that purpose, here I summon thee

Repair to France within these forty days,

That there, according as the custom is,

Thou may’st be sworn true liegeman to the king;

Or, else, thy title in that province dies,

And he himself will repossess the place.

Edw. See, how occasion laughs me in the face !
No sooner minded to prepare for France,

But, straight, Iam invited ; nay, with threats,
Upon a penalty, enjoin’d to come: 70
’T were but a foolish part, to say him nay.—
Lorrain, return this answer to thy lord:

I mean to visit him, as he requests ;

But how? not servilely dispos’d to bend ;

But like a conqueror, to make him bow :

His lame unpolish’d shifts are come to light;
And truth hath pull'd the visard from his face,
That set a gloss upon his arrogance.

Dare he command a fealty inme? |, 7

Tell him, the crown, that he usurps, is mine ;
And where he sets his foot, he ought to kneel:
’Tis not a petty dukedom that I claim,

But all the whole dominions of the realm ;
Which if with grudging he refuse to yield,

I'll take away those borrow’d plumes of his,
And send him naked to the wilderness,

Lor. Then, Edward, here, in sight of all thy lords,
I do pronounce defiance to thy face.

Prince. Defiance, Frenchman? we rebound it back,
Even to the bottom of thy master’s throat : 90
And,—be it spoke with reverence of the king
My gracious father, and these other lords, —

I hold thy message but as scurrilous ;

And him, that sent thee, like the lazy drone,

Crept up by stealth unto the eagle's nest ;

From whence we'llshake him with so rough a storm,
As others shall be warned by his harm.

War. Bid him leave off the lion’s case he wears;
Lest, meeting with the lion in the field,

He chance to tear him piecemeal for his pride.

Art. The soundest counsel I can give his grace, |
Is, to surrender ere he be constrain'd:

A voluntary mischief hath less scorn,
Than when reproach with violence is borne.

Lor. Degenerate traitor, viper to the place
Where thou wast foster’d in thine infancy,

[Drawing his sword.
Bear’st thou a part in this conspiracy ?
Edw. Lorrain, behold the sharpness of this steel :
[Drawing his.
Fervent desire, that sits against my heart,
Is far more thorny-pricking than this blade; 110
That, with the nightingale, I shall be scar’d,
As oft as I dispose myself to rest.
Until my colours be display'd in France:
This is thy final answer ; so be gone.
Lor. It is not that, nor any English brave,
Afflicts me so, as doth his poison’d view;
That is most false, should most of all be true.
[Exeunt Lorrain, and Train.

Edw. Now, lords, our fleeting bark is under sail:
Our gage is thrown; and war is soon begun,

But not so quickly brought unto an end,— 120

100

Enter Sir WILLIAM MOUNTAGUE.

But wherefore comes Sir William Mountague ?
How stands the league between the Scot and us?

Moun. Crack’d and dissever’d, my renowned lord.
‘The treacherous king no sooner was inform’d
Of your withdrawing of our army back,
But straight, forgetting of his former oath,
He made invasion on the bordering towns:
Berwick is won; Newcastle spoil’d and lost ;
And now the tyrant hath begirt with siege
The castle of Roxborough, where enclos’d
The Countess Salisbury is like to perish.

Edw. That is thy daughter, Warwick, is it not;
Whose husband hath in Bretagne serv'd so long,
About the planting of Lord Montfort there?

War. It is, my lord.

130

 

Edw. Ignoble David! hast thou none to grieve,
But silly ladies, with thy threat’ning arms?

But I will make you shrink your snaily horns.—
First, therefore, Audley, this shall be thy charge;
Go levy footmen for our wars in France :—
And, Ned, take muster of our men at arms:

In every shire elect a several band;

Let them be soldiers of a lusty spirit,

Such as dread nothing but dishonour’s blot:

Be wary therefore ; since we do commence

A famous war, and with so mighty a nation.—
Derby, be thou ambassador for us

Unto our father-in-law, the Earl of Hainault :
Make him acquainted with our enterprise ;

And likewise will him, with our own allies, 150
That are in Flanders, to solicit too

The Emperor of Almaigne in our name.—

Myself, whilst you are anos thus employ’d,

Will, with these forces that I have at hand,

March, and once more repulse the trait’rous Scots.
But, sirs, be resolute ; we shall have wars

On every side :—and, Ned, thou must begin

Now to forget thy study and thy books,

And ure thy shoulders to an armour’s weight.

Prince. As cheerful sounding to my youthful spleen
This tumult is of war’s increasing broils, 161
As, at the coronation of a king,

The joyful clamours of the people are,

When, “Ave, Ceesar!” they pronounce aloud ;
Within this school of honour I shall learn,
Either to sacrifice my foes to death,

Or in a rightful quarrel spend my breath.
Then cheerfully forward, each a several way ;
In great affairs tis naught to use delay. [Exeunt.

140

ScENE II.—Roxborough. Before the Castle.

Enter Countess of SALISBURY, and certain of her
People, upon the walls.

‘ Count. Alas, how much in vain my Poor eyes gaze

For succour that my sovereign should send!

Ah, cousin Mountague, I fear, thou want’st

The lively spirit sharply to solicit

With vehement suit the king in my behalf:

Thou dost not tell him, what a grief it is

To be the scornful captive to a Scot ;

Either to be woo'd with broad untuned oaths,

Or tore’d by rough insulting barbarism :

Thou dost not tell him, if he here prevail, 10

How much they will deride us in the north;

And, in their vile, uncivil, skipping jigs,

Bray forth their conquest, and our overthrow,

Even in the barren, bleak, and fruitless air.

Enter King Davip, and Forces ; with DouGLAs,
LORRAIN, and others.
I must withdraw ; the everlasting foe
Comes to the wall: I'll closely step aside,
And list their babble, blunt, and full of pride.
(Retiring behind the works.
Dav. My Lord of Lorrain, to our brother of France
Commend us, as the man in Christendom
Whom we most reverence, and entirely love. 20
Touching your embassage, return, and say,
That we with England will not enter parley,
Nor never make fair weather, or take truce ;_
But burn their neighbour towns, and so persist
With eager roads beyond their city York.
And never shall our bonny riders rest ;
Nor rusting canker have the time to eat
Their light-born snafHes, nor their nimble spurs ;
Nor lay aside their jacks of gymold mail ;
Nor hang their staves of grained Scottish ash, 30
In peaceful wise, upon their city walls ;
Nor from their button’d tawny leathern belts
Dismiss their biting whinyards,—'till your king
Cry out, Enough; spare England now for ply,
Farewell: ane tell im, that you leave us here
Before this castle ; say, you came trom us
Even when we had that yielded to our hands,

 

 
 

ScEnNE II.]

EDWARD III.

1039

 

 

Lor, I take my leave; and fairly will return
Your acceptable greeting to my king. [Ecxit.
Dav. N ie to our former task again, 40
For the division of this certain spoil.
Doug. My liege, I crave the lady, and no more.
Dav. Nay, soft ye, sir, first I must make my choice;
And first I do bespeak her for myself.
Doug. Why then, my liege, let me enjoy her jewels.
Dav. Those are her own, still liable to her,
And, who inherits her, hath those withal.

® Enter a Messenger, hastily.
Mess. My liege, as we were pricking on the hills,
To fetch in booty, marching hitherward
We might descry a mighty host of men: 50
The sun, reflecting on the armour, show’d
A field of plate, a wood of pikes advanc'd;
Bethink your highness speedily herein:
An easy march within four hours will bring
The hindmost rank unto this place, my liege.
Dav. Dislodge, dislodge, it is the King of England.
Doug. Jemmy my man, saddle my bonny black.
Dav. Meas! thou to fight, Douglas? we are too
weak.
Doug. I know it well, my liege, and therefore flee.
Count. My lords of Scotland, will ye stay and drink?
Rising from her concealment.
Dav. She mocks at us; Douglas, I can’t endure it. 61
Count. Say, good my lord, which is he, must have

the lady ;
And which, her jewels? Iam sure, my lords, |
Ye will not hence, ’till you have shar’d the spoils.
Dav. She heard the messenger, and heard our talk;
And now that comfort makes her scorn at us,

Enter another Messenger.
Mess. Arm, my good lord; O, we are all surpris’d !
Count. After the French ambassador, my liege,
And tell him, that you dare not ride to York ;
Excuse it, that your bonny horse is lame. | "0
Dav. She heard that too ; intolerable grief !—
Woman, farewell: although I do not stay,
[Alarums. HExetnt Scots.
Count. ’Tis not for fear,—and yet you run away.—
O happy comfort, welcome to our house!
The confident and boist’rous boasting Scot,—
That swore before my walls, he would not back,
For all the armed power of this land,—
With faceless fear, that ever turns his back,
Turn’d hence against the blasting north-east wind,
Upon the bare report and name of arms. 80

Enter MOUNTAGUE, and others.
O summer's day! see where my cousin comes.
Moun. ge fares my aunt? Why, aunt, we are not
cots 5
Why do you shut your gates against your friends?
Count. Well may I give a welcome, cousin, to thee,
For thou com'st well to chase my foes from hence.
Moun. The king himself is come in person hither ;
Dear aunt, descend, and gratulate his highness.
Count. How may IJ entertain his majesty,
To show my duty, and his dignity ?
. [Exit, from above.

Flourish. Enter King EDWARD, WARWICK, ARTOIS,
and others.
Edw. What, are the stealing foxes fled and gone, 90
Before we could uncouple at their heels?
War. They are, my liege; but, with a cheerful cry,
Hot hounds, and hardy, chase them at the heels.

Re-enter COUNTESS, attended.
Edw. This is the countess, Warwick, is it not?

  
 

—c:0

 

) I s3

War. ali she, my liege; whose beauty tyrant

ear,

As a May blossom with pernicious winds,

Hath sullied, wither’d, overcast, and done. :
Edw. Hath she been fairer, Warwick, than she is?
War. My gracious king, fair is she not at all,

If that herself were by to stain herself, co

As I have seen her when she was herself.

Edw. What strange enchantment lurk’d in those

her eyes, .

When they excell’d this excellence they have,

That now their dim decline hath power to draw

My subject eyes from piercing majesty,

To gaze on her with doting admiration?

Count, In duty lower than the ground I kneel,
And for my dull knees bow my feeling heart,
To witness my obedience to your highness ;
With many millions of a subject’s thanks
For this your royal presence, whose approach
Hath driven war and danger from my gate.

Edw. Lady, stand up: I come to bring thee peace,
However thereby I have purchas’d war.

Count. No war to you, my liege; the Scots are gone,
And gallop home toward Scotland with their haste.

Edw. Lest yielding here I pine in shameful love,
Come, we’ll pursue the Scots ;—Artois, away.

Count. A little while, my gracious sovereign, stay,
And let the power of a mighty kin 120
Honour our roof ; my husband in the wars,

When he shall hear it, will triumph for joy:

Then, dear my liege, now niggard not thy state ;

Being at the wall, enter our homely gate.

Edw. Pardon me, countess, I will come no near ;
I dream’d to-night of treason, and I fear.

Count. Far from this place let ugly treason lie!

dw. No further off, than her conspiring eye ;

Which shoots infected poison in my heart,

Beyond repulse of wit, or cure of art.

Now in the sun alone it doth not lie,

With light to take light from a mortal eye ;

For here two day-stars, that mine eyes would see,

More than the sun, steal mine own light from me.

Contemplative desire ! desire to be

In contemplation, that may master thee!

Warwick, Artois, to horse, and let’s away.

Count. bee might I speak, to make my sovereign

sta:

Edw. What needs a tongue to such a speaking eye,
That more persuades than winning oratory ? 140

Count. Let not thy Presence, like the April sun,
Flatter our earth, and suddenly be done.

More happy do not make our outward wall,

Than thou wilt grace our inward house withal.

Our house, my hege, is like a country swain,

Whose habit rude, and manners blunt and plain,

Presageth nought ; yet inly beautified

With bounty’s riches, and fair hidden pride:

For, where the golden ore doth buried lie,

The ground, undeck’d with nature’s tapestry,

Seems barren, sere, unfertile, fruitless, dry ;

And where the upper turf of earth doth boast

His pied perfumes, and party-colour’d cost,

Delve there, and find this issue, and their pride,

To spring from ordure, and corruption's side.

But, to make up my all too long compare,—

These ragged walls no testimony are

What is within; but, like a cloak, doth hide,

From weather's waste, the under garnish’d pride.

More gracious than my terms can let thee be, 160

Intreat thyself to stay a while with me.

Edw. As wise as fair; what fond fit can be heard,
When wisdom keeps the gate as beauty’s guard ?—
Countess, albeit my business urgeth me,

It shall attend, while I attend on thee.—

Come on, my lords, here will I host to-night. [Exeunt.

110

130

150

ue

oF
a a

 

 
 

 

 

ACT IT.

SceNE I.—The Same.

Gardens of the Castle.

Enter LODOWICK,

Lodowick. ,
MIGHT perceive his eye in her eye lost,
His ear to drink her sweet tongue’s utter-
ance ; ; :
And changing passion, like inconstant
clouds,— ; ;
That, rack’d upon the carriage of the winds,
Increase, and_die,—in his disturbed cheeks.
Lo, when she blush’d, even then did he look

   

pale;
J As if her cheeks, by some enchanted power,
\. Attracted had the cherry blood from
‘Anon, with reverent fear when she grew pale,
His cheeks put on their scarlet ornaments ; 10
But no more like ber oriental red,
Than brick to coral, or live things to dead.
Why did he then thus counterfeit her looks?
If she did blush, ’t was tender modest shame,
Being in the sacred presence of a king;
Tf he did blush, ’t was red immodest shame,
To vail his eyes amiss, being a king:
If she look'd pale, ’t was silly woman’s fear,
To bear herself in presence of a king ;
If he look'd pale, it was with guilty fear, 20
To dote amiss, being a ao king: r
Then, Scottish wars, farewell; I fear, ’t will prove
A ling’ring English siege of peevish love.
Here comes his highness, walking all alone.
Enter King EDWARD.
Edw. She is grown more fairer far since I came
ither ;
Her voice more silver every word than other,
Her wit more fluent: what a strange discourse
Unfolded she, of David, and his Scots ?
“Even ee oo she, *‘ he spake,”—and then spoke
road,
With epithets and accents of the Scots; 30
But somewhat better than the Scot could speak :
“ And thus,” quoth she,—and answer'd then herself ;
For who could speak like her? but she herself
Breathes from the wall an angel’s note from heaven
Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes.
When she would talk of peace, methinks, her tongue
Commanded war to prison ; when of war,
it waken’d Cesar from his Roman grave,
To hear war beautified by her discourse.
Wisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue ; 40
Beauty a slander, but in her fair face:
There is no summer, but in her cheerful looks ;
Nor frosty winter, but in her disdain.
I cannot blame the Scots, that did besiege her,
For she is all the treasure of our land ;
But call them cowards, that they ran away,
Having so rich and fair a cause to stay.—
Art thou there, Lodowick? give me ink and paper.
Lod. I will, my sovereign.
Edw. And bid the lords hold on their play at chess,
For we will walk and meditate alone. 51
Lod. I will, my liege. [Exit.
Edw. This fellow is well read in poetry.
And hath a lusty and persuasive spirit :
I will acquaint him with my passion ;
Which he shall shadow with a veil of lawn,
Through which the queen of beauty’s queens shall see
Herself the ground of my inflrmity.—

 

Re-enter LODOWICK.

Hast thou pen, ink, and paper ready, Lodowick?
Lod. Ready, my liege.
Edw. Then in the summer arbour sit by me,
Make it our council-house, or cabinet;
Since green our thoughts, green be the conventicle,
Where we will ease us by disburd’ning them,
Now, Lodowick, invocate some golden muse,
To bring thee hither an enchanted pen, |
That may, for sighs, set down true sighs indeed;
Talking of grief, to make thee ready groan ;
And, when thou writ’st of tears, encouch the word,
Before, and after, with such sweet laments, 70
That it may raise drops in a Tartar’s eye,
And make a flint heart Scythian pitiful :
For so much moving hath a poet’s pen ;
Then, if thou be a poet, move thou so,
And be enriched by thy sovereign’s love.
For, if the touch of sweet concordant strings
Could force attendance in the ears of hell ;
How much more shall the strains of poet’s wit
Beguile, and ravish, soft and humane minds?
Lod. To whom, my lord, shall I direct my style? 80
Edw. To one that shames the fair, and sots the wise;
Whose body, as an abstract, or a brief,
Contains each general virtue in the world:
Better than beautiful,—thou must begin ;
Devise for fair a fairer word than fair;
And every ornament, that thou wouldst praise,
Fly it a pitch above the soar of praise :
For flattery fear thou not to be convicted;
For, were thy admiration ten times more,
Ten times ten thousand more the worth exceeds, 90
Of that thou art to praise, thy praise’s worth.
Begin, I will to contemplate the while:
Forget not to set down, how passionate,
How heart-sick, and how full of languishment,
Her beauty makes me.
Lod, Write I toa woman?
Edw. What beauty else could triumph over me;
Or who, but woman, do our love-lays greet ?
What, think’st thou I did bid thee praise a horse?
Lod. Of what condition or estate she is, 100
’T were requisite that I should know, my lord.
Edw. Of such estate, that hers is as a throne,
And my estate the footstool where she treads:
Then may’st thou judge what her condition is,
By the proportion of her mightiness.
Write on, while I peruse her in my thoughts.—
Her voice to music, or the nightingale :—
To music every summer-leaping swain
Compares his sun-burnt lover when she speaks:
And why should I speak of the nightingale ?
The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong ;
And that, compar'd, is too satirical:
For sin, though sin, would not be so esteem’d;
But, rather, virtue sin, sin virtue deem’d.
Her hair, far softer than the silkworm’s twist,
Like to a flattering glass, doth make more fair
The yellow amber: like a flattering glass
Comes in too soon; for, writing of her eyes,
I'll say, that like a glass they catch the sun,
And thence the hot reflection doth rebound
Against my breast, and burns my heart within,
Ah, what a world of descant makes my soul

110

120

 

 

 
 

ScENE L]

EDWARD III.

1041

 

Upon this voluntary ground of love!—

Come, Lodowick, hast thou turn’d thy ink to gold?

If not, write but in letters capital

My mistress’ name,

And it will gild thy paper: read, lord, read,

Fill thou the empty hollows of mine ears

With the sweet hearing of thy poetry.

Lod. Thave not to a period brought her praise. 130
Edw. Her praise is as my love, both infinite,

Which apprehend such violent extremes,

That they disdain an ending period.

Her beauty hath no match, but my affection;

Hers more than most, mine most, and more than

more:

Hers more to praise, than tell the sea by drops;

Nay, more, than drop the massy earth oy sands,

And, sand by sand, print them in memory :

Then wherefore talk’st thou of a eriod,

To that which craves unended pecnneton? 140

Read, let us hear.

Lod. ‘‘ More fair, and chaste, than is the queen of
shades,” -—
Edw. That line hath two faults, gross and palpable :

Compar'’st thou her to the pale queen of night,

Who, being set in dark, seems therefore light ?

What is she, when the sun lifts up his head,

But like a fading taper, dim and dead?

My love shall brave the eye of heaven at noon,

And, being unmask’d, outshine, the golden sun.

Lod. What is the other fault, my sovereign lord? 150
Fidw. Read o’er the line again.

Lod. ‘‘ More fair, and chaste,”—

dw. J did not bid thee talk of chastity,

To ransack so the treasure of her mind;

For I had rather have her chas’d, than chaste.

Out with the moon-line, I will none of it,

And let me have her liken’d to the sun:

Say, she hath thrice more splendour than the sun,

That her porter on emulates the sun,

That she breeds sweets as plenteous as the sun,

That she doth thaw cold winter like the sun,

That she doth cheer fresh summer like the sun,

That she doth dazzle gazers like the sun:

And, in this application to the sun,

Bid her be free and general as the sun;

Who smiles upon the basest weed that grows,

As lovingly as on the fragrant rose. : :

Let's see what follows that same moon-light line.
Lod. “More fair, and chaste, than is the queen of

shades ;

More bold in constancy ”— 170

, Edw. In constancy! than who?
Lod. —“‘than Judith was.”
Edw. O monstrous line! Put in the next a sword,

And I shall woo her to cut off my head.

Blot, blot, good Lodowick! Let us hear the next.
Lod. There’s all that yet is done. aneceh,
Edw. I thank thee then, thou hast done little ill ;

But what is done, is passing passing ill.

No, let the captain talk of boist’rous war ;

The prisoner, of immured dark constraint ;

The sick man best sets down the pangs of death ;

The man that starves, the sweetness of a feast;

The frozen soul, the benefit of fire ;

And every grief, his happy opposite: |

Love cannot sound well, but in lovers’ tongues ;

Give me the pen and paper, I will write.—

Enter COUNTESS.
But, soft, here comes the treasurer of my spirit.—
Lodowick, thou know’st not how to draw a battle;
These wings, these flankers, and these squadrons
Argue in thee defective discipline: ’ 1
Thou shouldst have plac’d this here, this other here.
Count. Pardon my boldness, my thrice-gracious lord;
Let my intrusion here be call’d my duty,
That comes to see my sovereign how he fares.
Edw. Go, draw the same, I tell thee in what form.
Lod. I go. , (Exit.
Count. Sorry I am, to see my liege so sad:
What may thy subject do, to drive from thee
Thy gloomy consort, sullen melancholy?

160

180

 

Edw. Ah, lady, Iam blunt, and cannot strew 200
The flowers of solace in a ground of shame :—
Since I came hither, countess, I am wrong’d.
Count. Now, God forbid, that any in my house
Should uals my sovereign wrong! Thrice-gentle
ing,
Acquaint me with your cause of discontent.
ctw. How near then shall I be to remedy ?

Count. As near, my liegé, as all my woman's power.
Can pawn itself to buy thy remedy.

Edw. If thou speak'st true, then have I my redress:
Hongar® thy power to redeem my joys, 210
And Iam joyful, countess; else, I die.

Count. I will, my liege.

Edw. Swear, countess, that thou wilt.

Count. By Heaven, I will.

Edw. Then take thyself a little way aside ;

And tell thyself, a king doth dote on thee:

Say, that within thy power it doth lie,

To make hin happy; and that thou hast sworn,

To give me all the joy within thy power:

Do this; and tell me, when I shall be happy. 220

Count. All this is done, my thrice-dread sovereign :
That power of love, that I have power to give,

Thou hast with all devout obedience;
Employ me how thou wilt in proof thereof.

Edw. Thou hear’st me say, that I do dote on thee.

Count. If on my beauty, take it if thou canst ;
Though little, I do prize it ten times less:

If on my virtue, take it if thou canst;
For virtue’s store by giving doth augment:
Be it on what it will, that I can give,
And thou canst take away, inherit it.

Edw. It is thy beauty that I would enjoy.

Count. O, were it painted, I would wipe it off,
And dispossess myself, to give it thee.

But, sovereign, it is solder’d to my life;

Take one, and both; for, like an humble shadow,

It haunts the sunshine of my summer's life.
dw. But thou may’st lend it me, to sport withal.

Count, As easy may my intellectual soul
Be lent ae and yet my body live, 210
As lend my body, palace to my soul,

Away from her, and yet retain ny soul.

My body is her bower, her court, her abbey,
And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted ;
If I should lend her house, my lord, to thee,
I kill my_poor soul, and my poor soul me.

Edw. Didst thou not swear, to give me what I

would?

Count. I did, my liege ; so, what you would, I could.

Edw. I wish no more of thee, than thou may’st

give:
Nor beg I do not, but I rather buy, 250
That is, thy love; and, for that love of thine,
In rich exchange, I tender to thee mine.

Count. But that your lips were sacred, O my lord,
You would profane the holy name of love:
That love, you offer me, you cannot give;
For Cesar owes that tribute to his queen:
That love, you beg of me, I cannot give;
For Sarah owes that duty to her lord.
He, that doth clip, or counterfeit, your stamp,
Shall die, my lord: and will your sacred self
Commit high treason spameh the King of heaven,
To stamp his image in forbidden metal,
Forgetting your allegiance, and your oath?
In violating marriage’ sacred law,
You break a greater honour than yourself:
To be aking, is of a younger house,
Than to be married; your progenitor,
Sole-reigning Adam on the universe,
By God was honour’d for a married man,
But not by him anointed for a king.
It is a penalty, to break your statutes,
Though not enacted by your highness’ hand:
How much more, to infringe the holy act
Made by the mouth of God, seal’d with his hand?
I know, my sovereign—in my husband’s love,
Who now doth loyal service in his wars—
Doth but to try the wife of Salisbury,
Whether she will hear a wanton’s tale, or no;

230

260

270

 

 

 
 

 

EDWARD IIT.

[Act IL.

 

1012

Lest being therein guilty by my stay,

From that, not from my liege, I turn away. te 0
Exit.

Edw. Whether is her beauty by her words divine;
Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty 2
Like as the wind doth beautify a sail,

And as a sail becomes the unseen wind,

So do her words her beauty, beauty words.
O, that I were a honey-gathering bee,

To bear the comb of virtue from his flower;
And not a poison-sucking envious spider,
To turn the vice I take to deadly venom!
Religion is austere, and beauty gentle;

Too strict a guardian for so fair a ward.

O, that she were, as is the air, to me!

Why, so she is; for, when I would embrace her,
This do I, and catch nothing but myself.

I must enjoy her; for I cannot beat,

With reason, and reproof, fond love away.

Enter WARWICK.
Here comes her father: I will work with him,
To bear my colours in this field of love.

War. How is it, that my sovereign is so sad?
May I with pardon know your highness’ grief,
And that my old endeavour will remove it,

It shall not cumber long your majesty.

Edw. A kind and voluntary gift thou proffer'st,

That I was forward to have begg’d of thee.

But, O thou world, great nurse of flattery,

Why dost thou tip men’s tongues with golden words,
And peise their deeds with weight of heavy lead,
That fair performance cannot follow promise?

O, that a man might hold the heart’s close book ;
And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter 310
The breath of falsehood not character’d there!

War. Far be it from the honour of my age,

That I should owe bright gold, and render lead!
Age is a cynic, not a flatterer:

I say again, that, if I knew your grief,

And that by me it may be lessened,

My proper harm should buy your highness’ good.

Edw. These are the vulgar tenders of false men,
That never pay the duty of their words.

Thou wilt not stick to swear what thou hast said ; 320
But, when thou know’st my grief’s condition,

This rash-disgorged vomit of thy word

Thou wilt eat up again, and leave me helpless.

War. By Heaven, I will not; uae your majesty
Did bid me run upon your sword, and die.

Edw. Say, that ny grief is no way med’cinable,
But by the loss and bruising of thine honour?

War. If nothing but that loss may vantage you,

I would account that loss my vantage too.
Edw. Think’st, that thou canst unswear thy oath
again? 330

War. I cannot; nor I would not, if I could.

Edw. But, if thou dost, what shall I say to thee?

War. What may be said to any perjur’d villain,
That breaks the sacred warrant of an oath.

Edw, What wilt thou say to one that breaks an

oath?
War. That he hath broke his faith with God and

290

300

man,
And from them both stands excommunicate.
Edw. What office were it, to suggest a man
To break a lawful and religious vow ?
War. An oftice for the devil, not for man.
Edw. That devil's office must thou do for me;
Or break thy oath, or cancel all the bonds
Of love, and duty, ‘twixt thyself and me.
And therefore, Warwick, if thou art thyself,
The lord and master of thy word and oath,
Go to thy daughter ; and, in my behalf,
Command her, woo her, win her any ways,
To be my mistress, and my secret love.
I will not stand to hear thee make reply ;
Thy oath break hers, or let thy sovereign dic.

War. O doting king! O detestable office !
Well may I tempt myself to wrong myself,
When he hath sworn me by the name of God,

340

350
[Exit.

 

‘lo break a vow made by the name of God.
What if I swear by this right hand of mine,

To cut this right hand off? the better way
Were, to profane the idol, than confound it:
But neither will I do; I'll keep my oath,

And to my daughter make a recantation

Of all the virtue I have preach’d to her:

I'll say, she must forget her husband Salisbury,
If she remember, to embrace the king;

I'll say, an oath may easily be broken,

But not so easily pardon’d, being broken ;

I'l) say, it is true charity to love,

But not true love to be so charitable ;

Ill say, his greatness may bear out the shame,
But not his kingdom can buy out the sin;

I'll say, it is my duty to persuade,

But not her honesty to give consent. 370

Enter COUNTESS.

See, where she comes: was never father, had,
Against his child, an embassage so bad.

Count. My lord and father, I have sought for you:
My mother and the peers iniportune you,
To keep in presence of his majesty,
And do your best to make his highness merry.

War. How shall I enter on this graceless errand?
I must not call her child ; for where’s the father
That will, in such a suit, seduce his child ?
Then, Wife of Salisbury,—shall I so begin ?
No, he’s my friend ; and where is found the friend,
That will do friendship such endamagement ?—
Neither my daughter, nor my dear friend's wife,
Iam not Warwick, as thou think’st I am,
But an attorney from the court of hell;
That thus have hous'd my spirit in his form,
To do a message to thee trom the king.
The mighty King of England dotes on thee:
He, that hath power to take away thy life,
Hath power to take thine honour ; then consent
To pawn thine honour, rather than thy lite:
Honour is often lost, and got again ;
But life, once gone, hath no recovery.
The sun, that withers hay, doth nourish grass ;
The king, that would distain thee, willadvance thee.
The poets write, that great Achilles’ spear
Could heal the wound it made: the moral is,
What mighty men misdo, they can amend.
The lion doth become his bloody jaws,
And grace his foragement, by being mild
When vassal fear lies trembling at his feet.
The king will in his glory hide thy shame;
And those, that gaze on him to find out thee,
Will lose their eyesight, looking in the sun.
What can one drop of poison harm the sea,
Whose hugy vastures can digest the ill,
And make it lose his operation ?
The king's great name will temper thy misdeeds,
And give the bitter potion of reproach
A sugar’d-sweet and most delicious taste :
Besides, it is no harm, to do the thing
Which without shame could not be left undone.
Thus have I, in his majesty’s behalf,
Apparell’d sin in virtuous sentences,
And dwell upon thy answer in his suit.

Count. Unnatural besiege! Woe me unhappy,
To have escap’d the danger of my foes,
And to be ten times worse inwir’d by friends!
Hath he no means to stain my honest blood,
But to corrupt the author of my blood,
To be his scandalous and vile solicitor?
No marvel then, though the branches be infected,
When poison hath encompassed the root :
No marvel, though the leprous infant die,
When the stern dam envenometh the dug.
Why then, give sin a passport to offend,
And youth the dangerous rein of liberty :
Blot out the strict forbidding of the law;
And cancel every canon, that prescribes
A shame for shame, or penance for offence.
No, let me die, if his too boist’rous will
Will have it so, before I will consent
To be an actor in his graceless lust.

390

400

410

420

430

 

 
 

 

Scene IT.)

EDWARD III.

1043

 

War. Why. now thou speak’st as I would have thee

speak :

And mark how I unsay my words again.

An honourable grave is more esteem’d,

Than the polluted closet of a kine?

The greater man, the greater is the thing,

Be it good, or bad, that he shall undertake:

An unreputed mote, flying in the sun,

Presents a greater substance than it is:

The freshest summer's day doth soonest taint

The loathed carrion that it seems to kiss:

Deep are the blows made with a mighty axe:

That sin doth ten times aggravate itself,

That is committed in a holy place:

An evil deed, done by authority,

Is sin, and subornation: deck an ape

In tissue, and the beauty of the robe

Adds but the greater scorn unto the beast.

A spacious field of reasons could I urge,

Between his glory, daughter, and thy shame:

That poison shows worst in a golden cup;

Dark night seems darker by the lightning flash ;

Lilies, that fester, smell far worse than weeds ;

And every glory that inclines to sin,

The same is treble by the opposite.

So leave I, with my blessing in thy bosom ;

Which then convert to a most heavy curse,

When thou convert’st from honour’s golden name 460

To the black faction of bed-blotting shame! [Ezxit.
Count. I’ follow thee ; and, when my mind turns so,

My body sink my soul in endless woe! Exit.

410

450

ScENE II.—The Same. A Room in the Castle.

Enter DERBY and AUDLEY, meeting.
Der, Thrice-noble Audley, well encounter’d here:
How is it with our sovereign, and his peers?
Aud, ‘Tis full a fortnight, since I saw his highness,
What time he sent me forth to muster men ;
Which Laccordingly have done, and bring them hither
In fair array before his majesty.
What news, my Lord of Derby, from the emperor?
Der. As good as we desire: the emperor
Hath yielded to his highness friendly aid ;
And makes our king lieutenant-general, 10
In all his lands and large dominions:
Then via for the spacious bounds of France!
Aud. eee doth his highness leap to hear these
news
Der. I have not yet found time to open them ;
The king is in his closet, malcontent,
For what, I know not, but he gave in charge,
*Till after dinner, none should interrupt him: |
The Countess Salisbury. and her father Warwick,
Artois, and all, look underneath the brows. —
.fud. Undoubtedly, then something is amiss. 20
[Lrumpet within.
Der. The trumpets sound; the king is now abroad.

Enter EDwaRD.
Aud. Here comes his highness. i i
Der. Befall my sovereign all my sovereign’s wish !
Edw. Ah, that thou wert a witch, to make it so!
Der. The emperor greeteth you:[Presenting letters.
Edw. ’Would it were the countess! :
Der. And hath accorded to your highness’ suit.
Edw. Thou liest, she hath not; but I would, she had!
Aud. All love, and duty, tomy lord the king!
Edw. pile all but one is none:—what news main
you
Aud. Vhave, my liege, levied those horse and foot,
According to your charge, and brought them hither.
Edw. Then let those foot trudge hence upon those
horse,
According to our discharge, and be gone.—
Derby, I'll look upon the countess’ mind
Anon. .
Der. The countess’ mind, my liege?
Edw. I mean the emperor: leave me alone.
Aud. What’s in his mind?

 

Der. Let’s leave him to his humour. 40
[Eveunt DERBY and AUDLEY.
Edw. ae from the heart’s abundance speaks the
ongue ;

Countess for emperor: and, indeed, why not?

She is as imperator over me;

And I to her

Am as a kneeling vassal, that observes

The pleasure, or displeasure, of her eye.—

Enter LoDowIck.
What says the more than Cleopatra’s match
To Cesar now?
Lod. That yet, my liege, ere night
She will resolve your majesty. (Drum within.
Haw. What om is this, that thunders forth this
arch, él
To start the tender Cupid in my bosom ?
Poor sheepskin, how it brawls with him that beateth
it!

Go, break the thund’ring parchment bottom out,

And I will teach it to conduct sweet lines

Unto the bosom of a heavenly nymph:

For I will use it as my writing-paper ;

And so reduce him, from a scolding drum,

To be the herald, and dear counsel-bearer,

Betwixt a goddess and a mighty king. 60
Go, bid the drummer learn to touch the lute,

Or hang him in the braces of his drum ;

For now we think it an uncivil thing,

To trouble heaven with such harsh resounds:
Away.— . {Exit LopowickK.
The quarrel, that I have, requires no arms,

But these of mine; and these shall meet my foe

In a deep march of penetrable groans:

My eyes shall be my arrows; and my sighs

Shall serve me as the ventage of the wind, 70
To whirl away my sweet’st artillery:

Ab but, alas, she wins the sun of me,

For that is she herself; and thence it comes,

That poets term the wanton warrior, blind ;

But love hath eyes as judgment to his steps,

*Till too much loved glory dazzles them,.—

Re-enter LODOWICK.
How now? :
Lod. My liege, the drum, that struck: the lusty
march,
Stands with Prince Edward, your thrice-valiant son.

Enter PRINCE. LobDowIck retires to the door.
Edw. I see the boy. O, how his mother’s face, 80
Moulded in his, corrects my stray’d desire,
And rates my heart, and chides my thievish eye;
Who being rich enough in seeing her,
Yet seeks elsewhere: and basest theft is that,
Which cannot cloke itself on poverty.—
Now, boy, what news?
Prince, I have assembled, my dear lord and father,
The choicest buds of all our English blood,
For our affairs to France; and here we come,
To take direction from your majesty. . 90
Edw. Still do I see in him delineate
His mother’s visage; those his eyes are hers,
Who, looking wistly on me, make me blush;
For faults against themselves give evidence:
Lust is a fire ; and men, like lanthorns, show
Light lust Pc themselves, even through. them-
selves.
Away, loose silks of wavering vanity !
Shall the large limit of fair Britany
By me be overthrown? and shall I not
aster this little mansion of myself?
Give me an armour of eternal steel ;
I go to conquer kings; and shall I then
Subdue myself, and be my enemy’s friend?
It must not be.—Come, boy, forward, advance!
Let's with our colours beat the air of France.
Lod. My liege, the countess, with a smiling cheer,
Desires access unto your majesty.
[Advancing from the door, and whispering him.
Edw. Why, there it goes! that very smile of hers

+100

 

 
 

 

1044

EDWARD II.

{Act IL

 

Hath ransom’d captive France; and set the king,
The Dauphin, and the peers, at liberty.—
Go, leave me, Ned, and revel with thy friends.
. [Exit PRINCE.

Thy mother is but black; and thou, like her,
Dost put into my mind how foul she is.—
Go, fetch the countess hither in thy hand,
And let her chase away those winter clouds;
For she gives beauty both to heaven and earth.

ee (Avit LODOWICKE.
The sin is more, to hack and hew poor men,
Than to embrace, in an unlawful bed,
The register of all varieties
Since leathern Adam ’till this youngest hour. 120

Re-enter LoDowIck, with the COUNTESS.
Go, Lodowick, put thy hand into my purse, .
Play, spend, give, riot, waste; do what thou wilt,
So thou wilt hence a while, and leave me here.
[Exit LODOWICK.
Now, my soul's playfellow! and art thou come,
To speak the more than heavenly word, of yea,
To my subjection in thy beauteous love?
Count. My father on his blessing hath commanded—
Edw. That thou shalt yield to me.
Count. Ay, dear my liege, your due.
Edw. And that, my dearest love, can be no less 130
Than right for right, and tender love for love.
Count. en wrong for wrong, and endless hate for
ate.—
But,—sith I see your majesty so bent,
That my unwillingness, my husband’s love,
Your high estate, nor no respect respected
Can be my help, but that your mightiness
Will overbear and awe these dear regards,—
I bind my discontent to my content,
And, what I would not, I’ll compel I will;
Provided, that yourself remove those lets,
That stand between your highness’ love and mine.
Edw. Nae them, fair countess, and, by Heaven, I
will.
Count. It is their lives, that stand between our love,
That I would have chok’d up, my sovereign.
Edw. Whose lives, my lady?
Count. My thrice-loving liege,
Your queen, and Salisbury my wedded husband ;
Who living have that title in our love,
That we cannot bestow but by their death.
Edw. Thy opposition is beyond our law.
Count. And so is your desire: if the law
Can hinder you to execute the one,
Let it forbid you to attempt the other:
I cannot think you love me as you say,
Unless you do make good what _you have sworn.
Edw. N' <i more; thy husband and the queen shall
e.

140

150

Fairer thou art by far than Hero was;
Beardless Leander not so strong as I:

He swum an easy current for his love;
But I will through a helly spout of blood,
To arrive at Sestos where my Hero lies.

160

 

Count. Nay, you'll do more; you'll make the river

00,
With their heart-bloods that keep our love asunder,
Of which, my husband, and your wife, are twain.
Edw. Thy beauty makes them guilty of their death,
And gives in evidence, that they shall die ;
Upon which verdict, I, their judge, condemn them.
Count. O perjur’d beauty ! more corrupted judge!
When, to the great star-chamber o’er our heads,
The universal sessions calls to count ' 170
This packing evil, we both shall tremble for it.
Edw. What says my tair love? is she resolute?
Count. aoe 'd to be dissolv’d; and, therefore,
is,—
Keep but thy word, great king, and J am thine.
Siand where thou dost, I’ll part a little from thee,
And see how I will yield me to thy hands.
[Lurning suddenly upon him, and showing
two daggers.
Here by my side do hang my wedding knives:
Take thou the one, and with it kill thy queen,
And learn by me to find her where she lies ;
And with this other I’ll despatch my love,
Which now lies fast asleep within my heart:
When they are gone, then I'll consent to love.
Stir not, lascivious king, to hinder me;
My resolution is more nimbler far,
Than thy prevention can be in my rescue,
And, if thou stir, I strike : therefore stand still,
And hear the choice that I will put thee to:
Either swear to leave thy most unholy suit,
And never henceforth to solicit me;
Or else, by Heaven, [kneeling] this sharp-pointed knife
Shall stain thy earth with that which thou wonldet

stain,

My poor chaste blood. Swear, Edward, swear,
Or I will strike, and die, before thee here.

Edw. Even by that PowerI swear, that gives me now
The power to be ashamed of myself,
I never mean to part my lips again
In any word that tends to such a suit.
Arise, true English lady ; whom our isle
May better boast of, than e’er Roman might
Of her, whose ransack’d treasury hath task’d
The vain endeavour of so many pens:
Arise; and be my fault thy honour’s fame,
Which after-ages shall enrich thee with.
I am awaked from this idle dream ;—
Warwick, my son, Derby, Artois, and Audley,
Brave warriors all, where are you all this while?

Enter PRINCE and Lords.
Warwick, I make thee warden of the north :—
You, Prince of Wales, and Audley, straight to sea ;
Scour to Newhaven; some, there stay for me:—
Myself, Artois, and Derby, will through Flanders, 210
To greet our friends there, and to crave their aid:
This night will scarce suffice me, to discover
My folly’s siege against a faithful lover ;
For, ere the sun shall gild the eastern sky,
We'll wake him with our martial harmony. [Zxeunt.

200

 

 

 
 

ScENE J.—Flanders.

Be John.
\ ERE, ’till our navy, of a thousand

 
  

sail,
Have made a breakfast to our foe
3 y sea, : ;
~% Let us encamp, to wait their happy

speed.—
Lorrain, what readiness is Edward

SS in?
How hast thou heard that he pro-
vided is
Of martial furniture for this exploit ?
Lor. To lay aside unnecessary soothing,
And not to spend the time in circumstance,
°T is bruited for a certainty, my lord,
That he’s exceeding strongly fortified ; 10
His subjects flock as willingly to war,
As if unto a triumph they were led.
Char. England was wont to harbour malcontents,
Blood-thirsty and seditious Catilines,
Spendthrifts, and such as gape for nothing else
But change and alteration of the state ;
And is it possible, that they are now
So loyal in themselves?
Lor. All but the Scot; who solemnly protests,
As heretofore I have inform’d his grace,
Never to sheathe his sword, or take a truce.
John. Ah, that’s the anchorage of some better hope!
But, on the other side, to think what friends
King Edward hath retain’d in Netherland,
Among those ever-bibbing epicures,
Those frothy Dutchmen, puff’d with double beer,
That drink and swill in every place they come,
Doth not a little aggravate mine ire :
Besides, we hear, the emperor conjoins,
And stalls him in his own authority: | 30
But, all the mightier that their number is,
The greater glory reaps the victory. _
Some friends have we, beside domestic power ;
The stern Polonian, and the warlike Dane,
The King of Bohemia, and of Sicily,
Are all become confederates with us,
And, as I think, are marching hither apace.
Drie within.
But, soft, I hear the music of their drums,
By which I guess that their approach is near.

Enter BOHEMIA, and Forces; and Aid of Danes,
Poles, and Muscovites.
Boh. King John of France, as league, and neigh-
bourhood 40
Requires, when friends are anyway distress’d,
I come to aid thee with my country’s force.
Pole. And from great Moscow, fearful to the Turk,
And lofty Poland, nurse of hardy men,
I bring theRe servitors to fight for thee,
Who willingly will venture in thy cause.
John. Welcome, Boheniian king; and welcome, all:
This your great kindness I will not forget ;
Beside your plentiful rewards in crowns,
That from our treasury ye shall receive: _ ; 50
There comes a hair-brain’d nation, deck’d in pride,
The spoil of whom will be a treble game.—
And now my hope is full, my joy complete :
At sea, we are as puissant as the force

 

 

ACT ITI.

The French Camp.

Enter King JOHN of France; his two Sons, SHALES Duke of Normandy, and PuHILip ; Duke of LORRAIN,
and others.

Of Agamemnon in the haven of Troy;

By land, with Xerxes we compare of strength,
Whose soldiers drank up rivers in their thirst :

Then, Bayard-like, blind over-weening Ned,

To reach at our imperial diadem,

Is, either to be swallow’d of the waves, 60
Or hack’d a-pieces when thou com’st ashore.

Enter a Mariner.
Mar. Near to the coast I have descried, my lord,
As I was busy in my watchful charge,
The proud armado of King Edward's ships:
Which, at the first, far off when I did ken,
Seem’d as it were a grove of wither’d pines ;
But, drawing near, their glorious bright aspect,
Their streaming ensigns wrought of colour’d silk,
Like to a meadow full of sundry flowers,
Adorns the naked bosom of the earth: 70
Majestical the order of their course,
Figuring the horned circle of the moon:
On the top-gallant of the admiral,
And likewise all the handmaids of his train,
The arms of England and of France united
Are quarter’d equally by herald’s art.
Thus, tightly carried with a merry gale,
They plough the ocean hitherward amain.
John. Dare he already crop the flower-de-luce ?
I hope, the honey being gather’d thence, 80
He, with the spider, afterward approach’d,
Shall suck forth deadly venom from the leaves.—
But where’s our navy? how are they prepar’d
To wing themselves against this flight of ravens ?
Mar. They, having knowledge brought them by the

scouts,
Did break from anchor straight; and, puff’d with rage,
No otherwise than were their sails with wind,
Made forth ; as when the empty eagle flies,
To satisfy his hungry griping maw.

John. There’s for thy news. Return unto thy bark;
And, if thou scape the bloody stroke of war, 91
And do survive the conflict, come again,

And let us hear the manner of the fight.—
[Exit Mariner.
Mean space, my lords, ’tis best we be dispers’d
To several places, lest they chance to land:
First, you, my lord, with your Bohemian troops,
Shall pitch your battles on the lower hand ;
My eldest son, the Duke of Normandy,
Together with this aid of Muscovites,
Shall climb the higher ground another way ; 100
Here in the middle coast, betwixt you both,
Philip, my youngest boy, and I will lodge.
So, lords, be gone, and look unto your charge;
You stand for France, an empire fair and large.—
[Exeunt CHARLES, LORRAIN, BOHEMIA,
and Forces.
Now tell me, Philip, what is thy conceit,
Touching the challenge that the English make?

Phi. I say, my lord, claim Edward what he can,
And bring he ne’er so plain a pedigree,

*T is you are in possession of the crown,

And that’s the surest point of all the law: 110
But, were it not; yet, ere he should prevail,

I’ll make a conduit of my dearest blood,

Or chase those straggling upstarts home again.

 

 

 
 

 

S 1046

EDWARD IIT.

{Act TIL

 

 

John, Well said, young Philip! Call for bread and
wine,
That we may cheer our stomachs with repast,
To look our foes more sternly in the face.
[4 table and provisions brought in; KING and
his Son set down to it. Ordnance afar off.

' Now is begun the heavy day at sea.

Fight, Frenchmen, fight ; be like the field of bears,
When they defend their younglings in their caves!
Steer, angry Nemesis, the happy helm; 120
That, with the sulphur battles of your rage,
The English fleet may be dispers'd, and sunk !
[Ordnance again.
Phi. O, father, how this echoing cannon-shot,
Like sweetest harmony, digests my cates!
John. Now, boy, thou hear’st what thund’ring terror
‘tis

To buckle for a kingdom's sovereignty :

The earth, with giddy trembling when it shakes,

Or when the exhalations of the air

Break in extremity of lightning flash, 5

Affrights not more, than kings, when they dispose 130

To shew the rancour of their high-swoln hearts.
[Retreat heard.

Retreat is sounded ; one side hath the worse :

O; if it be the French !—Sweet Fortune, turn ;

And, in thy turning, change the froward winds,

That, with advantage of a favouring sky,

Our men may vanquish, and the other fly!

Enter Mariner.

My heart misgives :—say, mirror of pale death,
To whom belongs the honour of this day?
Relate, I pray thee, if thy breath will serve,
The sad discourse of this discomfiture.

Mar. TI will, my lord.
My gracious sovereign, France hath ta’en the foil,
And boasting Edward triumphs with success.
These iron-hearted navies,
When last I was reporter to your grace,
Both full of angry spleen, of hope, and fear,
Hasting to meet each other in the face,
At last conjoin’d ; and by their admiral
Our admiral encounter'd many shot:
By this, the other, that beheld these twain
Give earnest penny of a further wrack,
Like fiery dragons took their haughty flight ;
And, likewise meeting, from their smoky wombs
Sent many grim ambassadors of death.
Then ’gan the day to turn to gloomy night ;
And darkness did as well enclose the quick,
As those that were but newly reft of life:
No leisure serv’d for friends to bid farewell ;
And, if it had, the hideous noise was such,
As each to other seemed deaf, and dumb:
Purple the sea; whose channel fill’d as fast
With streaming gore, that from the maimed fell,
As did her gushing moisture break into
The crannied cleftures of the through-shot planks :
Here flew a head, dissever’d from the trunk;
There mangled arms, and legs, were toss'd aloft ;
As when a whirlwind takes the summer dust,
And scatters it in middle of the air:
Then might ye see the reeling vessels split,
And tottering sink into the ruthless flood,
Until their lofty tops were seen no more.
All shifts were tried, both for defence and hurt:
And now the effect of valour, and of fear,
Of resolution, and of cowardice,
We lively potied ; how the one for fame,
The other by compulsion laid about:
Much did the Nonpareille, that brave ship ;
So did the black-snake of Boulogne, than which
A bonnier vessel never yet spread sail:
But all in vain; both sun, the wind and tide,
Revolted all unto our foemen’s side,
That we perforce were fain to give them way,
And they are landed: thus my tale is done;
We have untimely lost, and they have won.

John. Then rests there nothing, but, with present

140

160

180

.. Speed,
To join our several forces all in one,

 

And bid them battle, ere they range too far.—
Come, ee Philip, let us hence depart ;
This soldier’s words have pierc’d thy father’s heart.

ScENE IJ.—Picardy. Fields near Cressi.

Enter a Frenchman, meeting certain others, a
Woman and two Children, laden with household-
stuff, as removing.

1 F. Well met, my masters: how now? what’s
the news?

And wherefore are you laden thus with stuff?

What, is it quarter-day, that you remove,

And carry bag and baggage too?

2 F. Quarter-day? ay, and quartering day, I fear:

Have you not heard the news that flies abroad?
1F. What news? -

3 F. How the French navy is destroy’d at sea,

And that the English army is arriv’d.
1F. What then? : 10
2 F. What then, quoth you? why, is ‘t not time to

y,

When enemy and destruction is so nigh?

LF, Cepients thee, man; they are far enough frum

ence ;

And will be met, I warrant you, to their cost,
Before they break so far into the realm.

2F, Ay, so the grasshopper doth spend the time
In mirthful jollity, ’till winter come ;
And then too late he would redeem his time,
When frozen cold hath nipp’d his careless head.
He, that no sooner will provide a cloak,
Than when he sees it doth begin to rain,
May, peradventure, for his negligence,
Be throughly wash’d when he suspects it not.
We, that have charge, and such a train as this,
Must look in time to look for them and us,
Lest, when we would, we cannot be reliev’d.

1 ¥F. Belike, you then despair of all success,
And think your country will be subjugate.

3 F. We cannot tell; ’tis good, to fear the worst.

1¥. Yet rather fight, than, like unnatural sons,
Forsake your loving parents in distress.

2 F. Tush, they, that have already taken arms,
Are many fearful millions, in respect
Of that small handful of our enemies:
But ’tis a rightful quarrel must prevail;
Edward is son unto our late king’s sister,
Where John Valois is three degrees remov’d.

Wom. Besides, there goes a prophecy abroad,
Publish’d by one that was a friar once,
Whose oracles have many times prov’d true;
And now he says, ‘ The time will shortly come,
When as a lion, roused in the west,
Shall carry hence the flower-de-luce of France :”
These, I can tell ye, and such-like surmises
Strike many Frenchmen cold unto the heart.

20

30

40

Enter another Frenchman, hastily.

4 F. Fly, countrymen, and citizens of France!
Sweet-flow’ring peace, the root of happy life,
Is quite abandon’d and expuls’d the land:
Instead of whom, ransack-constraining war
Sits raven-like upon your houses’ tops ;
Slaughter and mischief walk within your streets,
And, unrestrain’d, make havoc as they pass:
The form whereof even now myself beheld,
Now, upon this fair mountain, whence I came.
For so far off as 1 direct mine eyes,
I might perceive five cities all on fire,
Corn-fields, and vineyards, burning like an oven;
And, as the eee vapour in the wind
Turn'd but aside, I likewise might discern
The poor inhabitants, escap’d the flame,
Fall numberless upon the soldiers’ pikes:
Three ways these dreadful ministers of wrath
Do tread the measures of their tragic march;
Upon the ieee hand comes the conquering king,
Upon the left his hot unbridled son,
And in the midst, our nation’s glittering host ;

50

 

 
 

 

Scene II.)

EDWARD II.

1047 |

 

All which, though distant, yet conspire in one

To leave a desolation where they come.

Fly, therefore, citizens, if you be wise,

Seek out some habitation further off: 70
Here if you stay, your wives will be abus’d,

Your treasure shar’d before your weeping eyes;
Shelter yourselves, for now the storm doth rise;
Away, away! methinks, I hear their drums :—

Ah, wretched France, I greatly fear thy fall;

Thy glory shaketh like a tottering wall. [Exeunt.

ScENE III.—The Same.

Drums. Enter King EDwarp, marching; DERBY,
&c., and Forces, and GOBIN DE GREY.
Edw. Where is the Frenchman, by whose cunning
uidance
We found the shallow of this river Somme,
And had direction how to pass the sea?
Gob. Here, my good lord.
Edw. How art thou call’d? thy name?
Gob. Gobin de Grey, if please your excellence.
Edw. Then, Gobin, for the service thou hast done,
We here enlarge and give thee liberty ;
And, for a recompense, beside this good,
Thou shalt receive five hundred marks in gold.— 10
I know not how, we should have met our son ;
Whom now in heart I wish I might behold.

Enter ARTOIS.
Art, Good news, my lord; the prince is hard at

and,
And with him comes Lord Audley, and the rest,
Whom since our landing we could never meet.

Drums. Enter PRINCE, AUDLEY, and Forces,
Edw. Welcome, fair prince! How hast thou sped,
my son,
Since thy arrival on the coast of France?
Prince. Successfully, I thank the gracious heavens:
Some of their strongest cities we have won,
As Harfleur, Lo, Crotage, and Carentan ; 20
And others wasted ; leaving at our heels
A wide apparent field, and beaten path,
For solitariness to progress in:
Yet, those that would submit, we kindly pardon’d ;
But who in scorn refus’d our proffer’d peace,
Endur’d the penalty of sharp revenge.
Edw. Ah, France, why shouldst thou be thus
obstinate
Against the kind embracement of thy friends?
How gently had we thought to touch thy breast,
And set our foot upon thy tender mould,
But that, in froward and disdainful pride,
Thou, like a skittish and untamed colt,
Dost start aside, and strike us with thy heels ?—
But tell me, Ned, in all thy warlike course
Hast thou not seen the pours King of France?
Prince. Yes, my good lord, and not two hours ago,
With full an hundred thousand fighting men,
Upon the one side o’ the river’s bank,
Ion the other; with his multitudes
I fear’'d he would have cropp’d our smaller power: 40
But, happily, Bencely ine your approach, |
He hath withdrawn himself to Cressi plains ;
Where, as it seemeth by his good array,
He means to bid us battle presently. :
Edw. He shall be welcome, that’s the thing we
crave.

Drums. Enter King JOHN; CHARLES and_PHILIP,
his Sons; BouEMIA, LORRAIN, &c., and Forces,
John. Edward, know, that Joan, the true King of
France,— :

Musing thou shouldst encroach upon his land,

And, in thy tyrannous proceeding, slay

His faithful subjects, and subvert his towns,—

Spits in thy face ; and in this manner following 50
pbraids thee with thine arrogant intrusion.

First, I condemn thee for a fugitive,

A thievish pirate, and a needy mate ;

 

One, that hath either no abiding place,

Or else, inhabiting some barren soil,

Where neither herb nor fruitful grain is had,

Dost altogether live by pilfering:

Next,—insomuch thou hast infring’d thy faith,

Broke league and solemn covenant made with me,—
I hold thee for a false pernicious wretch : 60
And last of all,—although I scorn to cope

With one such an inferior to myself ;

Yet, in respect thy thirst is all for gold,

Thy labour rather to be fear’d than lov’d,—

To satisfy thy lust in either part,

Here am I come; and with me I have brought
Exceeding store of treasure, pearl, and coin.

Leave therefore now to persecute the weak ;

And, armed ent’ring conflict with the arm’d,

Let it be seen, ’mongst other petty thefts, 70
How thou canst win this pillage manfully.

Edw. If gall, or wormwood, have a pleasant taste,

Then is thy salutation honey-sweet :

But as the one hath no such property,

So is the other most satirical.

Yet wot how I regard thy worthless taunts ;—
If thou have utter’d them to soil my fame,

Or dim the reputation of my birth,

Know, that thy wolfish barking cannot hurt:

Tf slily to insinuate with the world, 80
And with a strumpet’s artificial line

To paint thy vicious and deformed cause,

Be well assur’d, the counterfeit will fade,

And in the end thy foul defects be seen :

But if thou didst it to provoke me on,—

As who should say, I were but timorous,

Or, coldly negligent, did need a spur,—

Bethink thyself, how slack I was at sea ;

How, since my landing, I have won no towns,
Enter’d no further but upon the coast, 90
And there have ever since securely slept.

But if I have been otherwise employ’d,
Imagine, Valois, whether I intend

To skirmish, not for pillage, but for the crown
Which thou dost wear; and that I vow to have,
Or one of us shall fall into his grave.

Prince. Look not for cross invectives at our hands,

Or railing execrations of despite :

Let creeping serpents, hid in hollow banks,

Sting with their tongues; we have remorseless
swords, 100

And they shall plead for us, and our affairs.

Yet thus much, briefly, by my father’s leave:

As all the immodest poison of thy throat

Is scandalous and most notorious lies,

And our pretended quarrel truly just,

So end the battle when we meet to-day ;

May either of us prosper and prevail,

Or, luckless curst, receive eternal shame !

Edw. That needs no further question ; and, I know,
His conscience witnesseth, it is my right.— 110
Therefore, Valois, say, wilt thou yet resign,

Before the sickle’s thrust into the corn,
Or that enkindled fury turn to flame?
John. Edward, I know what right thou hast in
France;
And ere I basely will resign my crown,
This champion field shall be a pool of blood,
And all our prospect as a slaughter-house.

Prince. Ay, that approves thee, tyrant, what thou

te

art:
No father, king, or shepherd of thy realm ;
But one, that tears her entrails with thy hands,
And, like a thirsty tiger, suck’st her blood.
Aud. You peers of France, why do you follow him
That is so prodigal to spend your lives?
Char. Whom should they follow, aged impotent,
But he that is their true-born sovereign? :
Edw. Upbraid’st thou him, because within his face |
Time hath engrav’d deep characters of age? |
Know, these grave scholars of experience,
Like stiff-grown oaks, will stand immovable,
When whirlwinds quickly turn up younger trees. 130 |
Der. Was ever any of thy father’s house :
King, but thyself, before this. present time?

120

 

 
 

 

1048

EDWARD III.

[Acr IIL

 

Edward's great lineage, by the mother's side,
Five hundred years hath held the sceptre up :—
Judge then, conspirators, by this descent,
Which is the true-born sovereign, this, or that.

Phi. Good father, range your battles, prate no more;
These English fain would spend the time in words,
That, night approaching, they might scape untought.

John. Lords, and my loving subjects, now’s the

time,
That your intended force must bide the touch :
Therefore, my friends, consider this in brief,—
He, that you fight for, is your natural king ;
He, against whom you fight, a foreigner :
He, that you fight for, rules in clemency,
And reins you with a mild and gentle bit ;
He, against whom you fight, if he prevail,
Will straight enthrone himself in tyranny,
Make slaves of you, and, with a heavy hand,
Curtail and curb your sweetest liberty.
Then, to protect your country, and your king,
Let but the haughty courage of your hearts
Answer the number of your able hands,
And we shall quickly chase these fugitives.
For what’s this Edward, but a belly-god,
A tender and lascivious wantonness,
That t’ other day was almost dead for love?
And what, I pray you, is his goodly guard ?
Such as, but scant them of their chines of beef,
And take away their downy feather-beds, 160
And, presently, they are as resty-stiff
As 't were a many over-ridden jades.
Then, Frenchmen, scorn that such should be your

lords,
And rather bind ye them in captive bands.
French. Vive leroi! God save King John of France!
John. Now on this plain of Cressi spread yourselves,—
And, Edward, when thou dar’st, begin the fight.
[Exeunt King JOHN, CHARLES, PHILIP,
LORRAIN, BOHEMIA, and Forces.

Edw. We presently will meet thee, John of
France :—
And, English lords, let us resolve the day,
Either to clear us of that scandalous crime, 170

Or be entombed in our innocence.—

And, Ned, because this battle is the first
That ever yet thou fought’st in pitched field,
As ancient custom is of martialists,

To dub thee with the type of chivalry,

In solemn manner we will give thee arms :—
Come, therefore, heralds, orderly bring forth
A strong attirement for the prince my son.—

Flourish. Enter four Heralds, bringing a coat-
armour, a helmet, a lance, and a shield: first
Herald’ delivers the armour to King Epwarp;
who puts it on his Son.

Edward Plantagenet, in the name of God,

As with this armour I impall thy breast,

So be thy noble unrelenting heart

Wall'd in with flint of matchless fortitude,

That never base affections enter there ;

Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou com'st !--

Now follow, lords, and do him honour too.

Der. (Receiving the helmet from the second Herald.

Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales,

As I do set this helmet on thy head,

Wherewith the chamber of thy brain is fenc’d,

So may thy temples, with Bellona’s hand,

Be still adorn’d with laurel victory ; 190

Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou com’st !
Aud. [Receiving the lance from the third Herald.

Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales,

Receive this lance, into thy manlike hand ;

Use it in fashion of a brazen pen,

To draw forth bloody stratagems in France,

And print thy valiant deeds in honour’s book ;

Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou com’st !
Art. [Receiving the shield from the fourth Herald.

Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales,

Hold, take this target, wear it on thy arm;

And may the view thereof, like Perseus’ shield,

Astonish and transform thy gazing foes

180

200

 

To senseless images of meagre death ; rat!
Fight and be valiant, conquer where thou com st!
tdw. Now wants there nought but knighthood;
which, deferr'd,

We leave, till thou hast won it in the field.

Prince. My gracious father, and ye forward peers,
This honour, you have done‘me, animates
And cheers my green yet-scarce-appearing strength
With comfortable good-presaging signs ;
No otherwise tban did ala Jacob’s words, 210
When as he breath’d his blessings on his sons:
These hallow’d gifts of yours when I profane,
Or use them not to glory of my God,
To patronage the fatherless, and poor,
Or for the benefit of England’s peace,
Be numb my joints! wax feeble both mine arms!
Wither my heart! that, like a sapless tree,
I may remain the map of infamy.

Edw. Then thus our steeled battles shall be

rang’d ;—
The leading of the vaward, Ned, is thine;
To dignify whose lusty spirit the more,
We temper it with Audley’s gravity ;
That, courage and expericnce join’d in one,
Your manage may be second unto none:
For the main battles, I will ila myself ;
And, ae in the rearward march behind.
That orderly dispos’d, and set in ’ray,
Let us to horse; and God grant us the day!

ScENE IV.—The Same.

Alarums, as of a battle joincd. Enter a many
Frenchmen, flying; PRINCE, and English, pur-
suing; and exeunt: then enter King JOHN and
LORRAIN.

John. O Lorrain, say, what mean our men to fly?

Our number is far greater than our foes.

Lor. The garrison of Genoeses, my lord,

That came from Paris, weary with their march,

Grudging to be so suddenly employ’d,

No sooner in the fore-front took their place,

But, straight retiring, so dismay’d the rest,

As likewise they betook themselves to flight ;

In which, for haste to make a safe escape,

More in the clust’ring throng are press’d to death, 10

Than by the enemy, a thousand-fold.

John. O hapless fortune! Let us yet assa:

Y.
If we can counsel some of them to stay. [Exreunt.

 

Screng V.—The Same.

Drums. Enter King EDWARD and AUDLEY.
Edw. Lord Audley, whiles our son is in the chase,
Withdraw your powers unto this litle hill,
And here a season let us breathe ourselves.
Aud. I will, my lord. [Eaxit. Retreat.
Edw. Just-dooming Heaven, whose secret pro-
vidence 7
To our gross judgment is unscrutable,
How are we bound to praise thy wondrous works,
That hast this day giv’n way unto the right,
And made the wicked stumble at themselves?

Enter ARTOIS, hastily.
Art, Rescue, King Edward! rescue for thy son! 10
Edw. Rescue, Artois? what, is he prisoner?
Or, else, by violence fell beside his horse?
Art. Neither, my lord ; but narrowly beset
With turning Frenchmen, whom he did pursue,
As ’t is impossible that he should scape,
Except your highness presently descend.
Edw. Tut, let him fight ; we gave him arms to-day.
And he is labouring for a knighthood, man.

Entcr DERBY, hastily.
Der. The prince, my lord, the prince! O, succour

hImM 5
He's close encompass’d with a world of odds! 20

 

 
 

 

 

SCENE V.] EDWARD III. 1049
Edw. Then will he win a world of honour too. And now, behold,—after my winter's toil,
If he by valour can redeem him thence: My painful voyage on the boist’rous sea
If not, what remedy? we have more sons Of war's devouring gulfs and steely rovcks,—
Than one, to comfort our declining age. I bring my fraught unto the wished port,
My summer's hope, my travel’s sweet reward: 70

Re-enter AUDLEY, hastily.

Aud. Renowned Edward, give me leave, I pray,
To lead my soldiers, where I may relieve
Your grace’s son, in danger to be slain.

The snares of French, like emmets on a bank,

Muster about him; whilst he, lion-like,

Entangled in the net of their assaults,

Franticly rends, and bites the woven toil :

But all in vain, he cannot free himself.

Edw. Audley, content; I will not have a man,
On pain of death, sent forth to succour him:

This is the day ordain’d by destiny

To season his courage with those grievous thoughts,

That, if he breathe out Nestor’s years on earth,

Will make him savour still of this exploit.

Der. Ah, but he shall not live to see those days.

Edw. Why, then his epitaph is oe praise. 40

Aud. Yet, good my lord, tis too much wilfulness,
To let his blood be spilt, that may be sav’d.

Edw. Exclaim no more; for none of you can tell,
Whether a borrow’d aid will serve, or no;
Perhaps, he is already slain, or ta’en :

And dare a falcon when she’s in her flight,

And ever after she’ll be haggard-like :

Let Edward be deliver’d by our hands,

And still, in danger, he’ll expect the like ;

But if himself himself redeem from thence,

He will have vanquish’d, cheerful, death, and fear,

And ever after dread their force no more,

Than if they were but babes, or captive slaves.
Aud. O cruel father !—Farewell, Edward, then!
Der. Farewell, sweet prince, the hope of chivalry !
Art. O, would my life might ransom him from

death !

Edw. But, soft; methinks, I hear

Retreat sounded.

The dismal charge of trumpets’ loud retreat :

All are not slain, I hope, that went with him ;

Some will return with tidings, good, or bad.

50

60

Flourish. Enter Prince EDWARD in triumph, bear-
ing in his hand his shivered lance; his sword, and
battered armour, borne before him, and the body of
the King of BOHEMIA, wrapped in the colours:
Lords run and embrace him.

Aud. O joyful sight! victorious Edward lives!
Der. Welcome, brave prince! ; F
Edw. Welcome, Plantagenet! [Embracing him.
Prince. First having done my duty, as beseem'd,
[Kneels, and kisses his Father's hand.
Lords, I regreet you all with hearty thanks. ‘|

 

And here, with humble duty, I present
This sacrifice, this tirst-fruit of my sword,
Cropp’d and cut down even at the gate of dc ath,
The ae of Bohemia, father, whom I slew;
Whose thousands had intrench’d me round about,
And lay as thick upon my batter'd crest,
As on an anvil, with their pond’rous glaives:
Yet marble courage still did underprop ;
And when my weary arins, with often blows,—
Like the continual-lab’ring woodman’s axe,
That is enjoin’d to fell a load of oaks,—
Began to falter, straight I would remember
My gifts you gave me, and my zealous vow,
And then new courage made me fresh again;
That, in despite, I carv’d my passage forth,
And put the multitude to speedy hight.
Lo, thus hath Edward’s hand fill’d your request,
And done, I hope, the duty of a knight.

Edw. Ay, well thou hast deserv’d a knighthood,

80

Ned!
And, therefore, with thy sword, yet reeking warm 90
[Receiving it from the Soldier who bore it,
and laying it on the kneeling PRINCE.
With blood of those that fought to be thy bane,
Arise, Prince Edward, trusty knight at arms:
This day thou hast confounded me with joy,
And prov’d thyself fit heir unto a king.
Prince. Here is a note, my gracious lord, of those
That in this conflict of our toes were slain:
Eleven princes of esteem ; fourscore
Barons ; a hundred and twenty knights ;
And thirty thousand common soldiers ;
And, of our men, a thousand.
Edw. Our God be prais’d!
hope,
Thou know’st King Edward for no wantonness,
No love-sick cockney ; nor his soldiers, jades.—
But which way is the fearful king escap'd ?
Prince. Towards Poitiers, noble father, and hissons.
Edw. N a thou, and Audley, shall pursue them
still;
Myself, and Derby, will to Calais straight,
And there begirt that haven-town with siege:
Now lies it on an upshot; therefore strike,
And wistly follow while the game’s on foot. 110
What picture’s this ? |Pointing to the colours.
Prince. A pelican, my lord,
Wounding her bosom with her crooked beak,
That so her nest of young ones may be fed
With drops of blood that issue from her heart;
The motto, ‘* Sic et vos, And so should you.”
[Flourish. Exeunt in triumph.

100
Now, John of France,

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ACT IV.

ScENE I.—Bretagne.

   

aN, Montfort. :
AMS Y Lord of Salisbury, since by your aid |
\ Mine enemy Sir Charles of Blois is slain,
And I again am quietly possess’d
In Bretagne’s dukedom, know, that I
resolve, :
For this kind furtherance of your king,
and you, . :

To swear allegiance to his majesty :
In sign whereof, receive this coronet,
Bear it unto him; and, withal, my oath,
Never to be but Edward’s faithful friend.

Sal. I take it, Montfort: thus, I hope, ere long 10
The whole dominions of the realm of France
Will be surrender’d to his cougnenue hand.

[Exeunt MontTForT and Train.

Now, if I knew but safely how to pass,
I would at Calais gladly meet his grace,
Whither, Iam by letters certified,
That he intends to have his host remov’d.
It shall be so: this policy will serve :—
Ho, who's within? Bring Villiers to me.—

Enter V WLIERS.

Villiers, thou know’st, thou art my prisoner,
And that I might, for ransom, if I would, 20
Require of thee an hundred thousand francs,
Or else retain and keep thee captive still:
But so it is, that for a smaller charge
Thou may'st be quit, an if thou wilt thyself;
And this it is, procure me but a passport
Of Charles the Duke of Normandy, that I, 2
Without restraint, may have recourse to Calais
Through all the countries where he hath to do,
(Which thou may’st easily obtain, I think,
By reason I have often heard thee say, 30
He and thyself were students once together)
And then thou shalt be set at liberty.
How say’st thou? wilt thou undertake to do it?

Vil. I will, my lord; but I must speak with him.

Sal. Why, so thou shalt ; take horse, and post from

hence:

Only, before thou go’st, swear by thy faith,
That, if thou canst not compass my desire,
Thou wilt return my prisoner back again ;
And that shall be sufficient warrant for thee.

Vil. To that condition I agree, my lord, 40
And will unfeignedly perform the same. :

Sal. Farewell, Villiers.— [Exit VILLIERS.
This once I mean to try a Frenchman’s faith.

ScENE IJ.—Picardy. The English Camp before
Calais.

Enter King EDWARD and DERBY, with Soldiers.
Edw. Since they refuse our proffer’d league, my

lord,
And will not ope their gates, and let us in,
We will intrench ourselves on every side,
That neither victuals, nor supply of men,
May come to succour this accursed town;
Famine shall combat where our swords are stopp'd.

 

Camp of the English.

Forces under the Earl of SALISBURY ; SALISBURY’s Tent. Enter SALISBURY ; to him,
the Earl of MonTFORT, attended, a coronet in his hand.

Der. The promis’d aid, that made them stand aloof,
Is now retird, and gone another way ;
It will repent them of their stubborn will.

Enter some poor Frenchmen.
But what are these poor ragged slaves, my lord? 10
Edw. Ask what they are; it seems, they come from
Calais.
Der. You wretched patterns of despair and woe,
What are ye? living men; or gliding ghosts,
op from your graves to walk upon the earth?
1 £#. No ghosts, my lord, but men that breathe a life
Far worse than is the quiet sleep of death:
We are distressed poor inhabitants,
That long have been diseased, sick, and lame;
And now, because we are not fit to serve,
The captain of the town hath thrust us forth, 20
That so expense of victuals may be sav'd.
dw. A charitable deed, and worthy praise.—
But how do you imagine then to speed?
We are your enemies; in such a case
We can no less but put you to the sword,
Since, when we proffer'd truce, it was refus‘d.
1. Anif your grace no otherwise vouchsafe,
As welcome death is unto us as life.
Edw. Poor silly men, much wrong’d, and more dis-
tress’d !—
Go, Derby, go, and see they be reliev’d ; 30
Command that victuals be appointed them,
And give to every one five crowns a-piece :—
[Exeunt DERBY and Frenchmen.
The lion scorns to touch the yielding prey ;
And Edward’s sword must flesh itself in such
As wilful stubbornness hath made perverse.—

Enter the Lord PERcY, from England.

Lord Percy ! welcome: what’s the news in England?
Per. The queen, my lord, commends her to your

grace ;
And from her highness, and the lord vicegerent,
I bring this happy tidings of success:
David of Scotland, lately up in arms, 40
(Thinking, belike, he soonest should prevail,
Your highness being absent from the realm)
Is, by the faithful service of your peers,
And painful travel of the queen herself,
That, big with child, was every day in arms,
Vanquish’d, subdu’d, and taken prisoner.
Edw. Teens Percy, for thy news, with all my
eart!
‘What was he, took him prisoner in the field?

Per. A squire, my lord; John Copland is his name:
Who since, entreated by her majesty, 50
Denies to make surrender of his prize
To any but unto your grace alone;

Whereat the queen is grievously displeas’d. -

Edw. Well, then we’Tlhave a pursuivant despatch’d,
To summon Copland hither out of hand,

And with him he shall being his prisoner king.

Per. The queen’s, my lord, herself by this at sea;
And purposeth, as soon as wind will serve,

To land at Calais, and to visit you.

Edw. She shall be welcome; and, to wait her coming,
I'll pitch my tent near to the sandy shore. 61

 

 
 

Scenr IV.]

EDWARD III.

1051

 

Enter a French Captain.

Cap. The burgesses of Calais, mighty king,
Have, by a council, willingly decreed
To yield the town, and castle, to your hands;
Upon condition, it will please your grace
To grant them benefit of life, and goods.
Edw. They willso! then, belike, they may command,
Dispose, elect, and govern as they list.
No, sirrah, tell them, since they did refuse
Our princely clemency at first proclaim’d,
They shall not have it now, although they would;
I will accept of nought but fire and sword,
Except, within these two days, six of them,
That are the wealthiest merchants in the town,
Come naked, all but for their linen shirts,
With each a halter hang’d about his neck,
And prostrate yield themselves, upon their knees,
To be afflicted, hang’d, or what I please ;
And so you may inform their masterships.
.., ., L#xeunt Epwarp and PERcY.
Cap. Why, this it is to trust a broken staff. 380
Had we not been persuaded, John our king
Would with his army have reliev’d the town,
We had not stood upon defiance so:
But now ’tis past that no man can recall;

And better some do go to wrack, than all. (Exit.

 

Scene III.—Poitou. Fields near Poitiers. The
French Camp; Tent of the Duke of NorMaNby.

Enter CHARLES and VILUIERS.

Char. I wonder, Villiers, thou shouldst importuneme
For one that is our deadly enemy.
Vil. Not for his sake, my gracious lord, so much
Am I become an earnest advocate,
As that thereby my ransom will be quit.
Char. eae Oen, man! why, need’st thou talk o:
a ;
Art thou not free? and are not all occasions,
That happen for advantage on our foes,
To be accepted of, and stood upon?
vil. No, good my lord, except the sam2 be just; 10
For profit must with honour be comix’d,
Or else our actions are but scandalous :
But, letting pass these intricate objections,
Will’t please your highness to subscribe, or no?
Char. Villiers, I will not, nor I cannot do it;
Salisbury shall not have his will so much,
To claim a passport how it please himself.
Vil. Why, then I know the extremity, my lord,
I must return to prison whenceI came.
Char. Return! I hope, thou wilt not, Villiers: 20
What bird, that hath escap’d the fowler’s gin,
Will not be ware how she’s ensnar’d again?
Or, what is he, so senseless, and secure,
That, having hardly pass'd a dangerous gulf,
Will put himself in peril there again? |
Vil. Ah, but it is mine oath, my gracious lord,
Which I in conscience may not violate,
Or else a kingdom should not draw me hence. ‘
Char. Thine oath! why, that doth bind thee toabide:
Hast thou not sworn obedience to thy prince? 30
Vil. In all things that uprightly he commands:
But either to persuade, or threaten me,
Not to perform the covenant of my word,
Is lawless, and I need not to obey. Y
Char. Why, is it lawful for a man to kill,
And not, to break a promise with his foe? a
Vil. To kill, my lord, when war is once proclaim’d,
So that our quarrel be for wrongs receiv'd,
No doubt, is lawfully permitted us: _
But, in an-oath, we must be well advis’d 40
How we do swear; and, when we once have sworn,
Not to infringe it, though we die therefore :
Therefore, my lord, as willing I return, :
As if I were to fly to paradise. (Going.
Char. Stay, my Villiers; thy honourable mind
Deserves to be eternally admir’d.

 

 

Give mc the paper, I’ll subscribe to it:
[Signs, and gives it back.

And, wheretofore I lov’d thee as Villiers,
Hereafter I'll embrace thee as myself ; 50
Stay, and be still in favour with thy lord.

Vil. [humbly thank your grace: I must despatch,
And send this paeeeE first unto the earl,
and then I will attend your highness’ pleasure. [Ezit.

Char. Do so, Villiers ;—and Charles, when he hath

need,
Be such his soldiers, howsoe’er he speed!

Enter King Jonn.
John. Come, Charles, and arm thee; Edward is
entrapp’d,
The Prince of Wales is fall’n into our hands,
And we have compass’d him, he cannot scape.

Char. But will your highness fight to-day ? 60
John. Wy Bae else, my son? he’s scarce eight thousand
strong,

And we are threescore thousand at the least.
Char. I have a prophecy, my gracious lord,

Wherein is written, what success is like

To happen us in this outrageous war;

It was deliver’d me at Cressi’ field,

By one that is an aged hermit there. [Reads.
“When feather’d fowl shall make thine army tremble,
And flint stones rise, and break the battle ’ray,

Then think on him that doth not now dissemble ; 70
For that shall be the hapless dreadful day :
Yet, in the end, thy foot thou shalt advance
As far in England, as thy foe in France.”
John. By this it seems we shall be fortunate:
For as it is impossible, that stones
Should ever rise, and break the battle ‘ray 3
Or airy fowl make men in arms to quake;
So is it like, we shall not be eubawd
Or, say this might be true, yet, in the end,
Since he doth promise, we shall drive him hence, 80
And forage their country, as they have done ours,
By this revenge that loss will seem the less.

| But all are frivolous fancies, toys, and dreams:

Once, we are sure we have ensnar’d the son,
Catch we the father after how we can. [Ezxeunt.

Scene IV.—The Same. The English Camp.
Enter Prince EDWARD, AUDLEY, and others.

Prince. Audley, the arms of death embrace us round,

And comfort have we none, save that to die,

We pay sour earnest for a sweeter life.

At Cressi’ field our clouds of warlike smoke

Chok’d up those French moths, and dissever’d them:
But now their multitudes of millions hide,

Masking as 't were, the beauteous burning sun;
Leaving no hope to us, but sullen dark,

And eels terror of all-ending night.

Aud. This sudden, mighty, and expedient head, 10
That they have made, fair prince, is wonderful.
Before us in the valley lies the king,

Vantag’d with all that heaven and earth can yield;
His party stronger battled than our whole:

His son, the braving Duke of Normandy,

Hath trimm’d the mountain on our right hand up

In shining plate, that now the aspiring hill

Shows like a silver quarry, or an orb;

Aloft the which, the banners, bannerets,

And new-replenish’d pendants, cuff the air, 20
And beat the winds, that, for their gaudiness,
Struggles to kiss them: on our left hand lies

Philip, the younger issue of the king,

Coating the other hill in such array,

That all his gilded upright pikes do seem

Straight trees of gold, the pendant streamers, leaves;
And their device of antique heraldry,

Quarter’d in colours seeming sundry fruits,

Makes it the orchard of the Hesperides:

Behind us too the hill doth bear his height, 30
(For, like a half-moon, op’ning but one way,

 

Thy suit shall be no longer thus deferr’d ;

 
 

1052

EDWARD III.

{Act IV.

 

It rounds us in) there at our backs are lodg’d
The fatal cros3s-bows ; and the battle there
Is govern'd by the rough Chatillion.
Then thus it stands,—the valley tor our flight
The king binds in; the hills on either hand
Are proudly royaliscd by his sons;
And on the hill behind stand3 certain death,
In pay and service with Chatillion.
Prince. Death's name is much more mighty than
his deeds ;— 40
Thy parcelling this power hath made it more.
As many sands as these my hands can hold,
Are but my handrul of so many sands ;
Then, all the world,—and call it but a power,—
Easily ta’en up, and quickly thrown away:
But, if I stand to count them sand by sand,
The number would confound my memory,
And make a thousand millions of a task,
Which, briefly, is no more, indeed, than one.
These quarters, squadrons, and these regiments, 50
Before, behind us, and on either hand,
Are but a power: when we naine a man,
His hand, his foot, his head, have several strengths ;
And being all but one self instant strength,
Why, all this many, Audley, is but one,
And we can call it all but one man’s strength.
He, that hath far to go, tells it by miles;
It he should tell the steps, it kills his heart:
The drops are infinite, that make a flood;
And yet, thou know’st, we call it but a rain. 60
There is but one France, and one King of France,
That France hath no more kins; and that sane king
Hath but the puissant legion of one king ;
And we have one: then apprehend no odds;
For one to one is fair equality.—

Enter a Herald.

What tidings, messenger? be plain, and brief.
Her. The King of France, my sovereign lord and
master,
Greets thus by me his foe the Prince of Wales:
If thou call forth an hundred men of name,
Of lords, knights, ’squires, and English gentlemen, 70
And with thyself and those kneel at his feet,
He straight will fold his bloody colours up,
And ransom shall redeem lives forfeited :
If not, this day shall drink more English blood
Than e’er was buried in our British earth.
What is the answer to his proiter’d mercy ?
Prince. This heaven, that covers France, contains
the mercy
That draws from me submissive orisons ;
That such base breath should vanish from my lips,
To urge the plea of mercy to a man,
The Lord forbid! Return, and tell thy king,
My tongue is made of steel, and it shall beg
My mercy on his coward burgonet ;
Tell him, my colours are as red as his,
My men as bold, our English arms as strong,
Return him my defiance in his face.

Her. I go.
Enter another Herald.

Prince. What news with thee?
ier. The Duke of Normandy, my lord and master,
Pitying thy youth is so engirt with peril, 90
By me hath sent a nimble-jointed jennet,
As swift as ever yet thou didst bestride,
And therewithal he counsels thee to fly ;
Else, death himself hath sworn, that thou shalt die.
Prince. Back with the beast unto the beast that
sent him ;
Tell him, I cannot sit a coward’s horse:
Bid him to-day bestride the jade himself ;
For I will stain my horse quite o'er with blood,
And double-gild my spurs, but. I will catch him;
So tell the carping boy, and get thee gone. 100
[Exit Herald.

[Exit.

Enter another Herald.
Her. Edward of Wales, Philip, the second son
To the most mighty Christian King of France,
Seeing thy body’s living date expir’d,

 

All full of charity and Christian love,
Commends this book, full fraught with prayers,
‘To thy fair hand, and, for thy hour of lite,
Entreats thee that thou meditate therein,
And arm thy soul for her long journey towards.
Thus have I done his bidding, and return.
Prince, Herald of Philip, greet thy lord from me ; 110
All good, that he can send, I can reccive :
But think’st thou not, the unadvised boy
Hath wrong'd himself, in thus far tend’ring me?
Haply, he cannot pray without the book ;
I think him no divine extemporal :
Then render back this commonplace of prayer,
To do himself good in adversity ;
Besides, he knows not my sin's quality,
And therefore knows no prayers tor my avail;
Ere night his prayer may be, to pray to God 120
To put it in my heart to hear his prayer;
So tell the courtly wanton, and be gone.
Her. I go. : [Fxit.
Prince. How confident their strength and number
makes them !—-
Now, Audley, sound those silver strings of thine,
And let those milk-white messengers of time
Show thy time’s learning in this dangerous time ;
Thyself art bruis’d and bit with many broils,
And stratagems forepast with iron pens
Are texted in thine honourable face ; 130
‘Thou art a married man in this distress,
But danger woos me as a blushing maid:
Teach me an answer to this perilous time.
Aud. To die is all as common, as to live;
The one in choice, the other holds in chase :
For, from the instant we begin to live,
We do pursue and hunt the time to die:
First bud we, then we blow, and after seed ;
Then, presently, we fall; and, as a shade
Follows the body, so we follow death.
If then we hunt for death, why do we fear it?
If we fear it, why do we follow it?
If we do fear, with fear we do but aid
The thing we fear to seize on us the sooner:
If we fear not, then no resolved proffer
Can overthrow the limit of our fate :
For, whether ripe, or rotten, drop we shall,
As we do draw the lottery of our doom.
Prince. Ah, good old man, a thousand thousand
armours
These words of thine have buckled on my back: 150
Ah, what an idiot hast thou made of life,
To seck the thing it fears ! and how disgrac’d
The imperial victory of murd’ring death !
Since all the lives, his conquering arrows strike,
Seek him, and he not them, to shame his glory.
I will not give a penny for a life,
Nor half a halfpenny to shun grim death ;
Since for to live is but to seek to die,
And dying but beginning of new life:
Let come the hour when he that rules it will! 160
Yo live, or die, I hold indifferent, [Exeunt.

140

ScENE V.—The Same. The French Camp.

Enter King JOHN and CHARLES.

John. A sudden darkness hath defac’d the sky,
The winds are crept into their caves for fear,

The leaves move not, the wood is hush’d and still,

The birds cease singing, and the wand’ring brooks

Murmur no wonted greeting to their shores ;

Silence attends some wonder, and expecteth

That Heaven should pronounce some prophecy :

Whence, or from whom, proceeds this silence,
Charles?

Char. Our men, with open mouths, and staring eyes,
Look on each other, as they did attend 10
Each other's words, and yet no creature speaks;

A tongue-tied fear hath made a midnight hour,
And speeches sleep through all the waking regions,

John, But now the pompous sun, in all his pride,

Look’d through his golden coach upon the world,

 

 

 

 
 

 

ScENE VI.] EDWARD III. 1053
And, on a sudden, hath he hid himself ; Which if thyself without consent do break, 90
That now the under earth is as a grave, Thou art not charged with the breach of faith.—
Dark, deadly, silent, and uncomfortable. Go, hang him ; for thy licence lies in me:
[4 clamour of ravens heard. | And my constraint stands the excuse for thee.
Hark! what a deadly outcry do I hear! Char. What, am I not a soldier in my word?
Char. Here comes my brother Philip. 20 | Then, arms adieu, and let them fight that list:
John. All dismay’d :— in inet give my see en my waist,
ut with a guardian I shall be controll’d,
Enter PHILIP. To say, I may not give my things away ?
What fearful words are those thy looks presage ? Upon my soul, had Edward Prince of Wales
Phi. A flight, a flight! 100

John. Coward, what flight? thou liest, there needs
no flight.
Phi. A flight!
John. Awake thy craven powers, and tell on
qe ere substance of yint ear indeed,
ich is so ghas' rinted in thy tace:
What is the funtion? :
Phi. A flight of ugly ravens 30
Do croak and hover oer our soldiers’ heads,
And keep in triangles, and corner’d squares,
Right as our forces are embattled ;
With their approach there came this sudden fog,
Which now hath hid the airy floor of heaven,
And made at noon a night unnatural
Upon the quaking and dismayed world:
In brief, our soldiers have let fall their arms,
And stand like metamorphos’d images,
Bloodless and pale, one gazing on another. 40
John. Ay, now I call to mind the prophecy ;
But I must give no entrance to a fear.—.
Return, and hearten up those yielding souls ;
Tell them, the ravens, seeing them in arms,—
So many fair against a famish’d few,—
Come but to dine upon their handiwork,
And prey upon the carrion that they kill:
For when we see a horse laid down to die,
Although he be not dead, the ravenous birds
Sit watching the departure of his life ; 50
Even so these ravens, for the carcasses
Of those poor a ger that are mark’d to die,
Hover about, and, if they cry to us,
*T is but for meat that we must kill for them.
Away, and comfort up my soldiers,
And sound the trumpets; and at once despatch
This little business of a silly fraud. [Exit PHILIP.

Noise within. Enter a French Captain, with
SALISBURY, prisoner.

Cap. Behold, my liege, this knight, and forty more,—
Of whom the better part are slain and fled,—
With all endeavour sought to break our ranks, 60
And make their way to the encompass’d prince ;
Dispose of him as please your majesty.
‘ohn. Go, pad the next bough, soldier, that thou
seest,
Disgrace it with his body presently :
For I do hold a tree in France too good
To be the gallows of an English thief.
Sal. My Lord of Normandy, I have your pass
And warrant for my safety through this land.
Char. Villiers procur’d it for thee, did he not?
Sal. He did. 70
Char. And it is current, thou shalt freely pass.
John. Ay, freely to the gallows to be hang’d,
Without denial, or impediment :—
Away with him. ’
Char. 1 hope, your highness will not so disgrace me,
And dash the virtue of my seal at arms:
He hath my never-broken name to show, |
Character’d with this princely hand of mine ;
And rather let me leave to be a prince,
Than break the stable verdict of a prince: 80
I do beseech you, let him pass in quiet.
| John. Thou and thy word lie both in my command ;
What canst thou promise, that I cannot break ?
Which of these twain is greater infamy,
To disobey thy father, or thyself ? :
Thy word, nor no man’s, may exceed his power ;
Nor that same man doth never break his word,
That keeps it to the utmost of his power :
The breach of faith dwells in the soul’s consent 5

 

Engag'd his word, writ down his noble hand,
For all your knights to piss his father’s land,
The royal king, to grace his warlike son,
Would not alone safe-conduct give to them,
But with all bounty feasted them and theirs. ;
John. Dwell’st thou on precedents? Then be it so.—
Say, Englishman, of what degree thou art?
‘al, An earl in England, though a prisoner here ;
And those, that know me, call me Salisbury.
John. Then, Salisbury, eh whither thou art bound ?
Sal. To Calais, where my liege, King Edward, is. 110
John. To Calais, Salisbury? Then to Calais pack ;
And bid the king prepare a noble grave,
To put his princely son, black Edward, in.
And as thou travell’st westward from this place,
Some two leagues hence there is a lofty hill,
Whose top seems topless, for the embracing sky
Doth hide his high head in her azure bosom ;
Unto whose tall top when thy foot attains,
Look back upon the humble vale below,
(Humble of late, but now made pee with arms) 120
And thence behold the wretched Prince of Wales,
Hoop’d with a band of iron round about.
After which sight, to Calais spur amain,
And say, the prince was smother’d, and not slain :
And tell the ae this is not all his ill;
For I will greet him, ere he thinks I will.
Away, be gone; the smoke but of our shot
Will choke our foes. though bullets hit them not.
[Exeunt.

 

Scene VI.—The Same. A Part of the Field of Battle.

Alarwms, as of a battle joined, skirmishings.
Enter Prince EDWARD and AR1OIS.

Art. sig fares your grace? are you not shot, my
ord ?
Prince. No, dear Artois; but chok’d with dust and

smoke, ‘

And stepp’d aside for breath and fresher air.

‘Art. Breathe then, and to’t again: the amazed

French

Are quite distract with gazing on the crows ;

And, were our quivers full of shafts again,

Your grace should see a glorious day of this :—

O, for more arrows, lord! that is our want.

Prince. Courage, Artois ! a fig for feather’d shafts,
When feather'd fowls do bandy on our side! 10
What need we fight, and sweat, and keep a coil,
When railing crows out-scold our adversaries ?

Up, up, Artois! the ground itself is arm’d:
Fire-containing flint; command our bows

To hurl away their pretty-colour'd yew,

And to ’t with stones: away, Artois, away ;

My soul doth prophesy we win the day. [Exeunt.

Alarums, and Parties skirmishing. Enter
King JOHN.

John. Our multitudes are in themselves confounded,
Dismayed, and distraught ; swift-starting fear
Hath buzz’'d a cold dismay through all ourarmy, 20
And every petty disadvantage prompts
The fear-possessed abject soul to fly :
Myself, whose spirit is steel to their dull lead, ,
(What with recalling of the prophecy,
And that our native stones from English arms
Rebel against us) find myself attainted__
With strong surprise of weak and yielding fear.

Enter CHARLES.
Char. Fy, father, fly ! the French do kill the French:

 

 

 
 

 

1054

EDWARD III.

[Acr IV.

 

Some, that would stand, let drive at some that fly:
Our drums strike nothing but discouragement, 30
Our trumpets sound dishonour and retire ;
The spirit of fear, that feareth nought but death,
Cowardly works confusion on itself.
Enter PHILIP.
Phi. Pluck out your eyes, and see not this day's
shame!

An arm hath beat an army; one poor David
Hath with a stone foil’d twenty stout Goliahs:
Some twenty naked starvelings, with small flints,
Have driven back a puissant host of men,
Array’d and fenc’d in all accomplements..

John. Mordieu, they quoit at us, and killus up; 40
No less than forty thousand wicked elders
Have forty lean slaves this day ston’d to death.

Char. O, that I were some other countryman !
This day hath set derision on the French;
And all the world will blurt and scorn at us.

John. What, is there no hope left?

Phi. No hope, but death, to bury up our shame. |

John. Make up once more with me; the twentieth

part )
Of those that live, are men enough to quail
The feeble handful on the adverse part. 50
Char. Then charge again: it Heaven be not oppos'd,
We cannot lose the day.
John. On, on; away. [Freuni.

Alarums, é&c. Enter AUDLEY, wounded, and two
Esquires, his rescuers.
1 Esq. How fares my lord?
Aud, E’en as aman may do,
That dines at such a bloo y feast as this.
2 sq. IL hope, my lord, that is no mortal scar.
Aud. No matter, if it be; the count is cast,
And, in the worst, ends but a mortal man.
Good friends, convey me to the princely Edward, 60
That, in the crimson bravery of my blood,
I may become him with saluting him ;
I'll smile, and tell him, that this open scar
Doth end the harvest of his Audley’s war. ([Ezxewnt.
[Other alarums ; afterwards, a retreat.

 

ScENE VII.—The Same. The English Camp.

Flourish. Enter Prince EDWARD, intriumph, leading
prisoners, King JOHN and his Son CHARLES; and
Officers, Soldiers, &c., with ensigns spread.
Prince. Now, John in France, and lately John of

France, :

Thy bloody ensigns are my captive colours ;

And you, high-vaunting Charles of Normandy,

That once to-day sent me a horse to fly,

Are now the subjects of my clemency.

Fie, lords! is *t not a shame, that English boys,

Whose early days are yet not worth a beard,

Should in the bosom of your kingdom thus,

One against twenty, beat you up together?

 

John. Thy fortune, not thy force, hath cananers
Ss, 1

us.
Prince. Anargument, that Heaven aids the right.—

Enter ARTOIS, with PHILIP.
See, see, Artois doth bring along with him
The late good counsel-giver to my soul !—
Welcome, Artois ;-and welcome, Philip, to:
Who now, of you, or I, have need to pray ?
Now is the proverb verified in you,
Too bright a morning breeds a louring day.-

Enter AUDLEY, led by the two Esquires

But, say, what grim discouragement comes here!
Alas, what thousand armed men of France
Have writ that note of death in Audley’s face?— 20
Speak, thou that woo’st death with thy careless smile,
And look’st so merrily upon thy grave
As if thou wert enamour'd on thine end,
What hunery sword hath so bereav'd thy face,
And lopp'd a true friend from my loving soul ?

ud, O prince, thy sweet bemoaning speech to

me

Is as a mournful knell to one dead-sick.

Prince. Dear Audley, if my tongue ring out thy end,
My arms shall be thy grave: what may I do,

To win thy life, or to revenge thy death? 30
If thou wilt drink the blood of captive kings,—

Or, that it were restorative, command

A health of king’s blood, and I’ll drink to thee:

If honour may dispense for thee with death,

The never-dying honour of this day

Share wholly, Audley, to thyself, and live.

Aud, Victorious prince,-—that thou art so, behold

A Cesar’s fame in kings’ captivity, —

If I could hold dim death but at a bay,

Till I did see my liege thy royal father, 40
My soul should yield this castle of my flesh,

This mangled tribute, with all willingness,

To darkness, consummation, dust, and worms.

Prince. Cheerly, bold man! thy soul is all too proud,
To yield her city for one little breach ;

She 'ld be divorced from her earthly spouse
By the soft temper of a Frenchman’s sword?
Lo, to repair thy life, I give to thee

Three thousand marks a year in English land.

Aud. I take thy gift, to pay the debts I owe: 50
These two poor ‘squires redeem’d me from the French,
With lusty and dear hazard of their lives ;

What thou hast given to me, I give to them;
And, as thou lov’st me, prince, lay thy consent
To this bequeath in my last testament.

Prince. Renowned Audley, live, and have from me
This gift twice doubled, to these squires, and thee:
But, live, or die, what thou hast given away,

To these, and theirs, shall lasting freedom stay.—
Come, gentlemen, I'll see my friend bestow’d 60
Within an easy litter; then well march

Proudly toward Calais, with triumphant pace,

Unto my royal father, and there bring

The tribute of my wars, fair France's king. [Exeunt.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

ACT V.

ScENE I.—Picardy. The English Camp before Calais.

Va

: Edward.

.,O more, Queen Philippa, pacify yourself;

( Copland, except he can excuse his fault,

\ Shall find displeasure written in our
1 looks.—

And now unto this proud resisting town:
Sy Soldiers, assault ; I will no longer stay,
y To be deluded by their false delays;

Put all to sword, and make the spoil your
own.

    
 
 

‘ Trumpets sound to arms. Enter, fromthe
town, six Citizens, in their shirts, and
bane sostets with halters about their
necks.

Cit. Met oy, Tne Edward! mercy, gracious
ord!

Edw. Contemptuous villains! call ye now for truce?
Mine ears are stopp’d against your bootless cries :— 10
Sound, drums; Lee draw, threat’ning swords!

1 Cit. Ah, noble prince,

Take pity on this town, and hear us, mighty king!
We ciaim the promise that your highness made ;
The two days’ respite is not yet expir’d,

And we are come, with willingness, to bear

What torturing death, or punishment, you please,
So that the trembling multitude be sav’d.

Edw. My promise? well, I do confess as much:

But I requir’d the chiefest citizens, !
And men of most account, that should submit ;
You, peradventure, are but servile grooms,

Or some felonious robbers on the sea,
Whom, apprehended, law would execute,
Albeit severity lay dead in us:

No, no, ye cannot over-reach us thus.

2 Cit. The sun, dread lord, that in the western fall
Beholds us now low brought through misery,
Did in the orient purple of the morn
Salute our coming forth, when we were known; 30
Or may our portion be with damned fiends.

Edw. If it be so, then let our covenant stand,
We take possession of the town in peace:
But, for yourselves, look you for no remorse ;
But, as imperial justice hath decreed,
Your bodies shall be dragg’d about these walls,
And after feel the stroke of quartering steel:
This is your doom ;—go, soldicrs, see it done.

een. Ah, be more mild unto these yielding men !

It is a glorious thing, to ’stablish peace ; 40
And kings approach the nearest unto God,
By giving life and safety unto men:
As thou intendest to be King of France,
So let her people live to call thee king ; se
For what the sword cuts down, or fire hath spoil’d,
Is held in reputation none of ours. Bing

Edw. Although experience teach us this is true,
That peaceful quietness brings most delight
When most of all abuses are controll’d,

Yet, insomuch it shall be known, that we 50
As well can master our affections,

As conquer other by the dint of sword,

Philippa, prevail; we yield to thy request ;

These men shall live to boast of clemency,—

And, tyranny, strike terror to thyself. .

Cit. Lone live your highness! happy be your reign!

 

Enter King Epwarb, with PHILIPPA his Queen, and DERBY ; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

Edw. Go, get you hence, return unto the town;
And if this kindness hath deserv’d your love,
Learn then to reverence Edward as your king.—

Exeunt Coie:
Now, might we hear of our affairs abroad, 60
We would, till gloomy winter were o’er-spent,
Dispose our men in garrison a while.
But who comes here?

Enter COPLAND and King Davin.
Der. Copland, my lord, and David King of Scots.
Edw. Is this the proud presumptuous squire o’ the

north,
That would not yield his prisoner to my queen?
Cop. I am, my liege, a northern ‘squire, indeed,
But neither proud nor insolent, I trust.
Edw. What mov’d thee then, to be so obstinate
To contradict our royal queen’s desire ?
Cop. No wilful disobedience, mighty lord,
But my desert, and public law of arms:
I took the king myself in single fight;
And, like a soldier, would be loath to lose
The least pre-eminence that I had won:
And Copland, straight, upon your highness’ charge,
Is come to France, and, with a lowly mind,
Doth vail the bonnet of his victory.
Receive, dread lord, the custom of my fraught,
The wealthy tribute of my labouring hands ; 80
Which should long since have been surrender’d up,
Had but your gracious self been there in place.
Queen. But, Copland, thou didst scorn the king’s
command,
Neglecting our commission in his name.
Cop. His name I reverence, but his person more;
His name shall keep me in allegiance still,
But to his person I will bend my knee.
Edw. I pray thee, Philippa, let displeasure pass ;
This man doth please me, and I like his words:
For what is he, that will attempt high deeds, 90
And lose the glory that ensues the same?
All rivers have recourse unto the sea;
And Copland’s faith, relation to his king.—
Kneel iene tore down; now rise, King Edward’s
nl =
And, to maintain thy state, I freely give
Five hundred marks a year to thee and thine.—

Enter SALISBURY.
Welcome, Lord Salisbury : what news from Bretagne?

Sal, This, mighty king: the country we have won;
And John de Montfort, regent of that place,

Presents your highness with this coronet, 100
Protesting true allegiance to your grace.

Edw. We thank thee for thy service, valiant ear] ;
Challenge our favour, for we owe it thee.

Sal. But now, my lord, as this is joyful news,

So must my voice be tragical again, i
And I must sing of doleful accidents,
Edw. What, have our men the overthrow at
Poitiers ?
Or is my son beset with too much odds?

Sal. He was, my lord: and as my worthless self,
With forty other serviceable knights, 11¢
Under sate-conduct of the Dauphin’s seal
Did travel that way, finding him distress’d,

 

 
 

1056

A troop of lances met us on the way,
Surpris’d, and brougit us prisoners to the king ;
Who, proud of this, and eager of revenge,
Commanded straight to cut off all our heads:
And surely we had died, but that the duke,
More full of honour than his angry sire,
Procur’d our quick deliverance from thence:
But, ere we went, ‘Salute pur king,” quoth he, 120
“* Bid him provide a funeral for his son,
To-day our sword shall cut his thread of life;
And, sooner than he thinks, well be with him,
To quittance those displeasures he hath done :”
This said, we pass’d, not daring to reply;
Our hearts were dead, our looks ditfus’d and wan,
Wandring, at last we climb’d unto a hill;
From whence, although our grief were much before,
Yet now to see the occasion with our eyes
Did thrice so much increase our heaviness : 130
For there, my lord, O, there we did descry
Down in a valley how both armies lay.
The French had cast their trenches like a ring;
And every barricado’s open front
Was thick emboss'd with brazen ordinance:
Here stood a battle of ten thousand horse ;
There twice as many pikes, in quadrantwise :
Here cross-bows, armd with deadly-wounding darts :
And in the midst, like to a slender point
Within the compass of the horizon,— 140
As’t were a rising bubble in the sea,
A hazel-wand amidst a wood of pines,—
Or as a bear fast chain’d unto a stake,
Stood famous Edward, still expecting when
Those dogs of France would fasten on his flesh.
Anon, the death-procuring knell eae é
Off go the cannons, that, with trembling noise,
Did shake the very mountain where we stood ;
Then sound the trumpets’ clangours in the air,
The battles join: and, when we could no more 150
Discern the ditference 'twixt the friend and foe,
(So intricate the dark confusion was)
Away we turn'd our wat'ry eyes, with sighs
As black as powder fuming into smoke.
And thus, I fear, unhappy have I told
The most untimely tale of Edward’s fall.

Queen. Ah me! is this my welcome into France?
Is this the comfort, that I look’d to have,
When I should meet with my beloved son?
Sweet Ned, 1 would, thy mother in the sea 160
Had been prevented of this mortal grief !

Edw. Content thee, Philippa; tis not tears, willserve
To call him back, if he be taken hence:
Comfort thyself, as I do, gentle queen,
‘With hope of sharp, unheard-of, dire revenge.—
He bids me to provide his funeral ;
And so I will: but all the peers in France
Shall mourners be, and weep out bloody tears,
Until their empty veins be dry and sere:
The pillars of his hearse shall be their bones; 170
The mould that covers him, their cities’ ashes ;
His knell, the groaning cries of dying men;
And, in the stead of tapers on his tomb,
An hundred fifty towers shall burning blaze,
While we bewail our valiant son’s decease.

Flourish of trumpets within. Enter a Herald.
Her. Rejoice, my lord; ascend the imperial throne!
The mighty and redoubted Prince of Wales,
Great servitor to bloody Mars in arms,
The Frenchman’s terror, and his country’s fame,
Triumphant rideth like a Roman peer:
And, lowly at his stirrup, comes afoot

 

EDWARD III.

 

[Act V.

King John of France, together with his son,
In captive bonds; whose diadem he brings,
‘fo crown thee with, and to proclaim thee king.
Edw. Away with mourning, Philippa, wipe thine

eyes ;—
Sound, trumpets, welcome in Plantagenet !

A loud flourish. Enter PRINCK, AUDLEY, ARTOIS,
with King JOHN, and PHILIP.

As things, long lost, when they are found again,
So doth my son rejoice his father’s heart,
For whom, even now, my soul was much perplex’d !
[Running to the PRINCE, and embracing him.
Queen. Be this a token to express my joy, 190
Livostng him.
For inward passions will not let me speak.
Prince. My gracious father, here receive the gift,
y resenting him we King JOHN'S crown.
This wreath of conquest, and reward of war,
Got with as mickle peril of our lives,
As e’er was thing of price before this day ;
Install your highness in your proper right:
And, herewithal, I render to your hands
These prisoners, chief occasion of our strife.

Edw. So, John of France, I see, you keep your word.
You proniis’d to be sooner with ourself 200
Than we did think for, and ’t is so indeed:

But, had you done at first as now you do,

How many civil towns had stood untouch'd,
That now are turn’d to ragged heaps of stones?
How many people’s lives might you have sav’d,
That sre untimely sunk into their graves?

John. Edward, recount not things irrevocable ;
Tell me what ransom thou requir’st to have?

Edw. Thy ransom, John, hereafter shall be known:
But first to England thou must cross the seas, 210
To see what entertainment it affords;

Howe’er it falls, it cannot be so bad
As ours hath been since we arriv’d in France.

John. Accursed man! of this I was foretold,
But did misconster what the prophet told.

Prince. Now, father, this petition Edward makes,—
To Thee, ienedal whose grace hath been his strongest

shield,
That, as Thy pleasure chose me for the man
To be the instrument to show Thy power,
So Thou wilt grant, that many princes more,
Bred and brought up within that little isle,
May still be famous for like victories !—
And, for my part, the bloody scars I bear,
The weary nights that I have watch’d in field,
The dangerous conflicts I have often had,
The fearful menaces were proffer’d me,
The heat, and cold, and what else might displease,
I wish were now redoubled twenty-fold;
So that hereafter ages, when they read
The painful traffic of my tender youth,
Might thereby be inflamed with such resolve,
As not the territories of France alone,
But likewise Spain, Turkey, and what countries else
That justly would provoke fair England’s ire,
Might, at their presence, tremble and retire!

Edw. Here, English lords, we do proclaim a rest,
And interceasing of our painful arms:

Sheathe up your swords, refresh your weary limbs,

Peruse your spoils; and, after we have breath’d

A day or two within this haven town, 240

God willing, then for England we'll be shipp'd ;

Where, in a happy hour, I trust, we shall

Arrive, three kings, two princes, and a queen,
(Flourish. Exeunt omnes.

220

 

CASSELL PETTUR & GALPIN, BELLE SAUVAGE WORKS. LONDON. RO
1176