^.jZ^j^<^ I /x4^ "»:o Artist. Portrait of Shaksperb The Globe Theatre, 1613 Joan of Arc and Charles . The Two Roses . . . • Speed and Launce The Two Dromios Penance of the Duchess of Gloucester Armado and Jaquenetta Romeo and Juliet Juliet ..... EoMEo and the Apothecary. Katharina and Petruchio Richard and Lady Anne Richard at Bosvvorth Field . Frontispiece. Percival Skelton . Steef, Title. H. G. Selous . To face page 42 J. D. Watson • 5J 46 C. Green ?) 80 ^ Richter )> 121 C. Green )J 152 J. Holmes . JJ 184 Frank Dicksee, A.B.A. » 226 Woolmer . 3) 233 Frank Dicksee, A.R.A. )J 247 ^ A. H. Tourrier • )> 366 J. D. Watson . J) 380 '^ A. Hopkins 'J 421 " INTRODUOTIOK § 1. Shakspere's county, town, father, and birth, April (? 23, our May 3), 1564. § 2. Shakspere's boyhood at home and school, p. iv. § 3. Shakspere married, p. vii. (4 Periods of his Life, p. cxvi.) § 4. Shakspere on the road to London (1587 f), p. ix. § 5. The London of his day referred to, p. x. § 6. The first news of him there (a.d. 1592), p. xi. § 7. The Dates and Order of his Plays, p. xii. a. External evidence, p. xii. A. Internal evidence. 1. Allusions, p. xiv; 2. Metrical tests, p. xv. § 8 Work of the Second Victorian School of Shak- spereans, p. xvi. § 0. The Plays and Poems of Shakspere's Fiest Peeiod (P 1588-1594),. p. xviii. {Titus Andro- nicus not Shakspere's.) a. The Comedy of Errors or Mistaken-Identity Group. (See too p. cxli.) Love's Labours Lost (? 1588-9), p. xix; The Cotnedy of Errors (P1589), p. xxi; Midsvmmer-Night's Bream (? 1590-3), p. xxii. b. Link-play. The Two Gentlemen of Verona (? 1590 -1), p. XXV. c. The Passion Group. Someo and Juliet (1591-3), p. xxvi; Venus and Adonis (1593), p. xxviii ; Lucrece (1593-4), p. xxxii. {The Pas- sionate Pilg'/m (? 1^89-99 ; pr. 1599), p. xxxiv.) d. The Early Histories. Richard II. (? 1593), p. xxxvi ; 1, 2, 3 Henry VI. (? 1592^), p. xxxvii ; Richard III. (? 1694), p. xxxix. § 10. The Plays of Shakspere's Second Peeiod (? 1595-1601), p. xl. a. The Life-plea Group : a History and Comedy. King John (? 1595), p. xl ; The Mer- chant of Venice (? 1596), p. xii. b. A Earce : The Tamimg of the Shrew (? 1596-7), p. xlv. I). The 3 Comedies of EalstafE, with the Trilogy of Henry IV. , V. 1 Henry IV. (1696-7), p. xlviii; 2 Henry IV. (1697-8), p. 1 ; The Merry Wives (1698-9), p. liii; Henry V. (1599), p. Iv. § 11. ^ 12. § 13. § 14. § 15. § 16. § 17. § 18. § 19. § 20. d. The 3 Sunny or Sweet-Time Comedies.'- Much Ado (1699-1600), p. Ivii; At Yau Lilce It (1600), p. Ix; Twelfth- Night (1601), p. Ixiii. e. The Darkening Comedy.' All 's Well (1601-2),, p. Ixv. Shakspere's Sonnets (? 1592-1608), p. Ixviii, p. cxlii. The Plays of Shakspere's Third Peeiod (1601-1608), p. Ixxii. (General view of them, p. xciv.) a. The Unfit-Nature or TJnder-Burden- faiUng Group. Julius Ctesar (1601), p. Ixxii; Hamlet (1602-3), p. Ixxiv ; Measure for Measure^ (? 1603), p. Ixxx. b. The Tempter-yielding Group. ■ Othello (? 1604), p. Ixxxiii ; Macbeth (1605-6), p. Ixxxv. t. The First Ingratitude and Cursing Play : King Lear (1605-6), p. Ixxxvi. d. The Lust or False-Love Group. Troilus and Cressida (? 1606-7), p. Ixxxviii, p. cxlii ; Antony and Cleo- patra (p 1606-7), p. xc. ■ e. The 2nd Ingratitude and Cursing Group Corioldnus (? 1607-8), p. xcii; Timon (? 1607-8), p. xciii. (Review of the "Third-Period Plays, p. xciv.) The Plays of Shakspere's Poueth Peeiod (1609-13). All of Re-union, of Eecou- ciliation and Forgiveness. It. By Men. Fericles (1608-9), p. xcvii; The Tem- pest (? 1609-10), p. xcviii. b. By Women (mainly). Cymbeline (? 1610), p. c; The Winter's Tale (1611), p. cii; Henry VIII. (1612-13), p. civ. The Doubtful Plays. {Sir Thomas More., p. cxv. ) The Two Noble Kinsmen (? 1612-13), part Shakspere's, p. cviii. Edward III. (1594), none of it Shakspere's, p. cxii. The few facts of Shakspere's outward life from 1592 to his death, April 23 (our May 3), 1616, p. cxvi. Shakspere and his Works, p. cxxvii. A Visit to Stratford, p. cxxxii. [Reprint.] Object of this Introduction, p. cxxxiii. The best Books for Shakspere Students, p. cxxxviii. Table of Metre and Dates, p. cxl. Notes, p. cxli. ITear the centre, the heart', of England, in one of those Midland shires that gave Britain its standard speech, was the most famous user of that speech, "William Shakspere, the world's greatest poet, born. Warwickshire was his county, Stratford-upon-Avon his birth-town: ^ The link of Mistaken-Identity or Personation couples all these together. ^ The prison-.ecene, where Claudio's nature fails under the burden of coming death, is the centre of the play 3 « Our Warwlok-shire the Heart of England is."— 1668. Sir Aston Cokain, to Dugdale. a § 1. SHAKSPERKS BIRXaPLACE AND FATHER. Warwickshire, famed for its legends of Sir Guy and Rembrim ; its castles, "Warwick and KenUworth; its ancient Coventry of Guilds and Mysteiy-plays j its battle-field of EdgehUP; its Kingmaker, "Warwick ; its rolling hUIs and vales ; Stratford-upon-Avon, famous alone as having given birth to Shakspere.^ The town lies on the river Avon, there navigable ; and just as the stream reaches the bridge, it broadens to full treble its wonted width, as if to mirror duly the elm-ringd church on its bank, and show in full beauty the swans sailing on its surface. Round the town are more or less distant hills, and the view of it from the nearest, the Welcombe Hills, whose enclosure Shakspere said he was not able to bear, shows the town nestling in the broad valley, a quiet cozy place, now numbering 7,400 inhabitants. It and Henley, not far off to the northward, are described in a Harleian MS. of 1599 as "good markett townes." (My Harrison, p. Ixxxviii.) The house that Shakspere was born in is not certainly known. In 1552 his father lived in " Hendley Streete," and was "presented," or reported, with Humfrey Reynolds and Adrian Quyney for making a dunghill (sterquina/rium) in the street. In 1575, eleven years after his son "William's birth, he bought the property, afterwards two houses, with gardens and orchards, the left-hand house of which tradition assigns as the poet's birthplace (in the first-floor room above the porch and below the gable), and which, having been " restored," now looks outside as if it had been built a week ago, though the inside has been left in its old state. Before its restoration, the left-hand house was used as a butcher's shop, and the right- hand one, then with brick front, as the " Swan and Maidenhead " Inn. The right-hand house is now a Shakspere Museum of relics, views, books, &c. The interior of the left-hand one has been left untoucht, and the dingy whitewash of the bare supposed birth-room is scribbled all over with names of men, known and unknown, among the former being Byron, "Walter Scott, and Alfred Tennyson. Shakspere's father, John Shakspere (not he of Clifford, or the farmer of Ington Meadow, in Hampton Lucy) was probably the son of Richard Shakspere, farmer, of Snitterfield, three miles from Stratford, a tenant of Robert Arden, whose daughter John Shakspere married. In 1552 we find John Shakspere in Henley Street, helping to make a dunghill, as noticed above; and on June 17, 1556, Thomas Siche brings an action against him — John Shakyspere, glouer^, — ^for £8. Besides gloving, he took up corn-dealing, or farming, as, in 1556, he brings an action against Henry Fyld for 18 quarters of barley, which Fyld unjustly detains. On October 2, 1556, he buys a copyhold house, garden, and croft in Greenhill Street, and a copyhold house and garden in Henley Street. In 1557, on April 10, he was marked, but not sworn, as one of the jury of the court-leet to inquire into and reform local abuses. In 1557, he was made an ale-taster (sworn to look to the assize and goodness of bread, ale, and beer), and was fined 8d. for being away from thi-ee courts. Soon after Michaelmas he became a burgess of Stratford, and about the end of 1557 must have married Mary Arden, (youngest daughter of the late Robert Arden, husbandman and landowner, under whose will she took a small property, of about fifty-four acres and a house, called Ashbies, at Wilmecote'', £6 13s. 4c?., and an interest in two tenements at Snitterfield, and other laud at "Wilmecote.) Their first child, Joan, was baptised on September 15, 1558, and probably died soon after. On September 30, 1558 — some six weeks before Queen Elizabeth's accession, on November 17 — John Shakspere was one of the jury of the court-leet, and was also elected ^ After Shakspere's time. Oototer 23, 1642. See the description in Graphic Mlusfrations of Warwick- shire, pp. 8-9. "Warwickshire is also the county of one who is often called England's Shakspere among novelists, George EHot (Mrs. G. H. Lewes, formerly Miss M. Evans). (N.B. — AR the dates here are Old Style ones. Add ten days to each for our New Style.) 2 This spelling of our great poet's name is taken from the only unquestionahly genuine signatures of his that we possess, the three on his will, and the two on his Blackfriars conveyance and mortgage. None of these signatures have an e after the Tc ; three have no a after the first e ; the fifth I read eere, or ere. The a and e had their French sounds, which explain the forms " Shaxper," &c. Though it has hitherto been too much to ask people to suppose that Shakspere knew how to spell his own name, I hope the demand may not prove too great for the imagination of my readers. The spelling of " Shake-speare " in those quartos that have it, and the poet's arms of the fluttering bird and spear, evidently arose from the desire to give meaning to the popular (and, in this case, perhaps, true) etymology-name, which so suited the conceit-mongers of EUzaheth's time. (A friend of mine explains Fumivall as Ferny- vale.) An old acquaintance who, as a hoy, often came in to Stratford market with his grandmother, from their village near, to sell butter, &c., tells me that his grandfather and all the villagers and Stratford folk used then to pronounce the name " Shu.x-per." 3 Glou', with the mark of contraction for er, = ' glover.' ^ Sly's "Wincott ale, Induction to The Shrew. § 1. sbaksphuks mBTn.~His father alderman of stratfobd. constable. On October 6, 1559, he was again made constable, and also "affeeror," or fixer of the fines not fixt by statute, to be levied for offences against the borough by-laws. In May, 1561, he was agaia made afieeror ; and, in September, one of the two chamberlains, which office he held for two years. On December 2, 1562, his daughter Margaret was baptised; and on April 30, 1563, she was buried. These years, 1562-3, were bad plague years for London. Stowe says that in the city and neighbouriag parishes 20,136 people died of it."^ Of 1563 he writes (Annals, ed." 1605, p. 1,112) :— . " Threefold " Forsomuch as the plague of pestilence was so hot in the citie of London, plague to the there was no Terme kept at Michaelmasse : to be short, the poore Citizens of ' poore Citizens London were this yeere plagued with a threefold plague, pestilence, scarcitie of of London. money, and dearth of victuals : the miserie whereof were too long heere to write : no doubt the poore remember it ; the rich, by flight into the countries [= counties], made shift for themselues. „ „ ,, , " An earthquake was in the month of September in diuers places of this realm, specially in Lincolne and Northamptonshire. " Ann. reg. 6. " 5^om the first day of December tUl the 12, was such continuall lightning Lightning and and thunder, especially the same 12 day at night, that the like had not bene thunder. seene nor heard by any man then Uuing." wiped boots with a shoe-clout, cleand a horse, commanded the channel-fieet, the army, or the nation, or written a sermon for any Romanist or Puritan, to say nothing of poems and plays for young nobles and the stage. Another tradition is given in a letter, dated 1693, from a man named Dowdall to Mr. Edward South- well, which says that the parish clerk of Stratford, who showd Dowdall the church, and was above 80 years old, told him that Shakspere was bound apprentice to a butcher, and ran from his master to London, where he was taken into the theatre as a servitor. But the apprentice part of this tradition is inconsistent with Shakspere's fatherhood of three children at 21 years old. ' Builders of theatres put them outside the Walls to prevent their being shut hy order of the City authorities or Proclamation, whenever there came a panic about infection or plague, harm to morality, &o. ^ A hundred yards or so south-west of the Surrey foot of London Bridge. The site of the Globe Theatre, Globe AUey, &c., have long been part of Barclay's Brewery there. See my Harrison, Pt. II., p. xvii. Playhouse 'Yard is by The Times printing-office in Blackfriars, where Burbage's Blaokfriars theatre once was. These theatres were put down in 1647. 1 "Base minded men all three of you [Marlowe, Nash, Peele], if by my miserie ye bee not warned ; for vnto none of you (like me) sought those burres to cleaue : those Puppits (I meane) that speake from our mouths, those Anticks gamisht in our colours. Is it not strange that I, to whome they aU haue been beholding, shall (were ye in that case that I am now) be both at once of them forsaken ? Yes, trust them not : for there is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide, supposes he is as well able to bumbast out a blanke verse as the best of you : and being an absolute Johannes fae totum, is in his owne conceit the only Shake-scene in a countrie." — Allusion-Books, New. Sh, Soc, p. 30. We must not suppose that Greene's bitter words fairly represent Shakspere's character. Henry Chettle, who put forth the Groatsworth after Greene's death, says, evidently of Shakspere, in his own. Kind- xii 5 6. FIRST NEWS OF SHAKSPERE IN LONDON. § 7. THE ORDER OF SEAKSPERE'S PLAYS. evidence, Shakspere's name occurs after that of Kempe the comedian, and before that of Richard Burbage the great tragedian.^ What then had Shakspere written by 1592 to move the -wrath of the dying and deserted Greene? Certainly, say some critics, TJie True Tragedie of Ricliard Duke of Yorke, and the death of good King Henrie the Sixt, &c., printed in 1595, a play enlargd by Shakspere and others into The Third Part of Henry tlie Sixt, first printed in the First Folio of 1623. In both plays occurs the line below quoted by Greene, with the change of serpents (Tr. Trag.) to wonians (Folio) : " Oh Tygers hart wrapt in a womans hide ! I To tid the father wipe his eies withall. How couldst thou draine the life hloud of the childe | And yet be seene to heare a womans face ? " the lines being spoken by York to the tigrish Queen Margaret. I however am strongly of opinion that neither the line above, nor York's speech in which it occurs, is Shakspere's ; and I suspect that the parts of 2 & 3 Henry VI. written by him are of a later date than 1592. Greene's quotation of a line by Marlowe, from a speech with an adage in which he may himself have had a hand, and from a play which the two had written together — with others' help 1 — would sufficiently point the shaft aimd at Shakspere, without necessarily impljring his part-authorship or revision of T/ie True Tragedie at that time. But this matter raises the question of the dates and order of Shakspere's Plays. (His Lif^ is continued in § 15.) § 7. It is a question that has not been yet enough attended to in England, involving, as it does, the cure of the great defect of the English school of Shakspereans, their neglect to study Shakspere as a whole. They have too much lookt on his works as a conglomerate of isolated plays, without order or succession, bound together only by his name, and the covers of the volume that containd them. Whereas the first necessity is to regard Shakspere as a whole, his works as a living organism, each a member of one created unity, the whole a tree of healing and of comfort to the nations, a growth from small beginnings to mighty ends, the successive shoots of one great mind, which can never be seen in its full glory of leaf, and blossom, and fruit, unless it be viewd in its oneness. Certain it is that no one work of Shakspere's, or any other man's, can be rightly and fully valued and understood, unless it is set by his other works, and its relation to them made out, the progress of his mind up to that point followd, and the advance of it afterwards ascertaind. This process can alone enable the student to get the full yield out of the play or the author he studies ; while it gives him quite a new interest in the author's works, by the light it casts on the history of that author's mind. The getting Shakspere's Plays into the nearest possible approach to their right order of writing, is thus a matter of first importance to all students of our great poet. The evidence for this order is twofold, from without, and from within. § la. That from without, consists (1) of entries of Poems and Plays, before or on publication, by publishers, in the Registers of the Stationers' Company incorporated by Queen Mary in 1557, of which the book-entries from 1557 to 1640 have been printed by Mr. E. Arber, in four vols., 4to : the 5th or index volume is yet to come. (2.) The publications of the Poems and Plays. (3.) Allusions in contemporary books, diaries, letters, &c. These give the date at which the poem or play must have been in existence, though it may have been written long before. Nos. 1 and 2, the Stationers' Registers, and publication, date sufficiently for us two Poems, and six plays, all printed in Shakspere's lifetime except As You Like It, which, tho' not expressly dated 1600, is in such a place in the Stat. Reg. that no other year than 1600 can be meant. See Arber's Transcript, iii. 37 ^ : — harts Dreame (p; 38, liaes 13-17, New. Sh. Soc.'s AUusion-BooJcs, 1874) t — "My selfe hane seene his demeanor no lesse ciuill than he exelent in the qualitie he professes. Besides, diners of worship haue reported his vprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that aprooues his Art." 1 "To Wil&m Kempe, WilKam Shakespeare and Richarde Burbage; seruaun^cs to the Lord Chamber- leyne, vpon the councelles warrawt, dated at Whitehall xv'°- Marcij 1594, for twoe seuerall Comedies or Enterludes shewed by them before her ma;'estie in ChristmaB tyme la ate paste, viz. : St. Stephens daye and Tnnocentes daye, xiij", vj", viij , and by waye of her majesties Rewarde vj", xiij", iiij'', in all, xx"." Halliwell's Illustrations, p. 31. ^ "4 Augusti" [1600]. The j'ear is fixed by the subsequent entries [of Benry F".] at p. 169, and {Much Ado and 2 Hen. IV.'] at p. 170. "As you like yt | a booke. Henry the Fift \ a booke. Every man in his humour \ a booke. The comedie of muche a doo about nothiny \ a booke." § 7. EXTERNAL ETIDENCE FOn THE OEDEiJ OF SHAESPBRKS PLATS. xiil enterd - Venus and Adonis 1593; Lucrece 1594; 1 Hen. IV. 1597; Much Ado 1600; publisht „ 1593; . „ ; „ 1598; „ ; enterd Hamlet 1602; Lear 1607; mentioning 1606; Pericles - 1608; pubKsht „ 1603 & 1604; „ 1608; „ 1609.i No. 3, AUusions in contemporary books, &c., date for us four Plays : Julius Gcesar, 1601; TwelftlirNight, February, 1602; Winter's Tale, 1611; Herwy VIII., 1613. The authorities are as follows : — ^Weever's Mirror of Martyrs, 1601, for Julius Cmsar : " The many-headed multitude -were drawne I When eloquent Mark Antonie had showne By Brutus' speech, that Caesar was ambitious ; | His vertues, who but Brutus then was vicious ? " There is no such scene in Plutarch's Life of Csesar, which was Shakspere's original, so that no doubt "Weever alluded to Shakspere's play. Manningham's Diary (Camden Society, 1868, ed. J. Bruce, p. 18 : Manningham was a barrister of the Middle Temple) for Twelftli^Niaht : — _, , „ , „„, ^ „-, ^ ' ■> v "Peb. 2, 1601[-2]. " At ovir feast, wee had a play called Twelve Night, or What You WUl. Much like the Comedy of Errors, or Menechmi in Plautus ; but most like and neere to that in Italian called Inganni A good practise in it to make the steward beleive his lady widowe was in love with him, by counterfaytmg a letter as from his lady in general termes, telling him what she liked best in him, and prescribing his gesture in smiling, bis apparaile, &c., and then when he came to practise, making him believe they took him to be mad," &c. Dr. Porman's Diary, in No. 208 of the Ashmole MSS. in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, art. 12, for Winter's Tale, says, "In the Winters Talle at the glob, 1611, the 15 of maye^," and, — ^his spelling being modernised : — " Observe thee how Leontes, the King of Sicilia, was overcome with jealousy of his wife, with the King of Bohemia, his friend that came to see him, and how he contrived his death, and would have had his cup-bearer to have poisoned {Bohemia], who gave the King of Bohemia warning thereof, and fled with him to Bohemia. Remember also how he sent to the oracle of Apollo, and the answer of Apollo, that she was guiltless, and that the king was jealous, &c. ; and how except the child was found again that was lost, the King should die without issue : for the child was carried into Bohemia, and there laid in a forest, and brought up by a shepherd; and the King of Bohemia's son married that wench ; and how they fled in[to] SicUia to Leontes, and the shepherd having showed the letter of the nobleman by whom Leontes sent away that child, and the jewels found about her, she was known to be Leontes' daughter, and was then sixteen years old." Por Hem-y VIII. 1. Thomas Lorkin's letter, in the Harleian MS. 7002 (British Museum), to Sir Thomas Puckering, dated "London, this last of June, 1613 :" — " No longer since than yesterday [June 29], while Bourbage his company were acting at the Globe the play of Henry VIII, and there shooting of certayne chambers [small cannon or mortarss] in way of triumph, the fire catched," &c. — Singer. 2. John Chamberlaine's letter to Sir Ralph Win wood, dated London, 8th July, 1613, in Winwood's Memorials, vol. iii., p. 469 : — "But the burning of The Glohe,^ or Playhouse, on the Bankside, on St. Peter's day ' -The other dates of publication (and entry) are as follows. All are starrd to imply that the works they date were written earlier, and my conjecturd dates foUow : — 1600. 2 Henry IV. (? 1597-8) 1593-4.TitusAndronicus(? Shakspere's) (? ) (1594. A Shrew, the basis of The Shrew) ) , , (1594. Contention, the basis of 2 Hen. VI.) } i°f' (1595. 3V«e 3Va^«%,the basis of SHen.A'^I.) ) ^°^" * 1597. Eomeo and JuHet . . . (i- 1591-3) * 1597. Eichard II. ... - (? 1593-4) * 1597. Eichard III. (P 1594) * 1598. Love's Labours Lost . . - (? 1589) * 1599. Passionate Pilgrim . . - (? 1589-99) 1600. Henry V. 1599 1600. Mids. Night's Dream . . - (? 1591-3) 1600. Meroh. of Venice (entd. 1598) (? 1596) 1602. Merry Wives (entd. 1601) - (? 1598-9) 1609. Sonnets (? 1593-1608) 1609. Troilus and Cressida (entd. 1608) (? 1606-7) 1622. Othello {? 1604) 1623. Other Plays : first FoHo - (? 1588-1613) A Lover's Complaint, printed in 1609, at the end of Shakspere's Sonnets, I once believed spurious, hut am now content to accept Dyce's declaration that it is an early genuine work. 2 The entries in Black's Catalogue, col. 169, are " *12. The Bocke of Plaies and Notes thereof per FoKMANS for common poUicie. " (leaf) 200. This book was begun a few months before his death, and contains notes of only four plays which he witnessed ; namely — " In Eichard the 2 [not Sh.'s] at the glob, 1611, the 30 of ApriU." 201. "In the Winters Talle at the glob, 1611, the 15 of maye." 201'-2. " Of Cuiobelin, King of England." 206. " In Maokbeth at the glob, 1610, the 20 of aprill." 207-7'. Mut Sh. Soc.'s Trans., 1875-6. ' Built in 1599 out of the materials of The Theatre : see p. xi, above. It was rebuilt in 1613, after the fire. liT § 7. INTERNAL EVIDENCE FOE THE OBBER OF SRAKSPEBKS PLATS. [June 29], cannot escape you ; whicli fell out by a peele of c/iambers (that I know not upon what occasion were to be used in the play), the tampin or stopple of one of them lighting in the thatch that covered the house, burn'd it to the ground in less than two hours, with a dwelling-house adjoining ; and it was a great marvaile and faire grace of God that the people had so little harm, having but two narrow doors to get out at." — SiTiger. The burning of the Globe is mentiond also by Howes, in his continuation of Stowe's Annales, ed. 1631, p. 926 ; but Sir Hy. Wotton, in his account of it, (JSeliquice WoUonicmoe, p. 425, ed. 1685), says that the play was " a new play called All is true."'^ § 76 (1). The evidence of date from within the plays is (1) from allusions in them to past or contemporary events, &c. These date positively only one play, Senry V., which in 1. 30 of its Prologue to Act Y., refers to the Earl of Essex, then in command of the Queen's army in Ireland : — " But now behold. In the quick forge and workmg-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens ! The mayor, and all his brethren, in best sort, — Like to the senators of the antique Eome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels, — Gro forth, and fetch their conquering Csesar in : As, by a lower, but by loving likelihood, Were now the general of our gracious empress, (As, in good time, he may) from Ireland, coming. Bringing rebellion brooched upon his sword. How many would the peaceful city quit. To welcome him ? much more, and much more cause. Did they this Harry." And there can be little doubt that the Prologue to Act I. also refers to the newly-built wooden (0 or) Globe Theatre, opend in 1599. See p. xi, above : — " Can this cockpit hold I Within this wooden 0, the very casques The vasty fields of France ? or may we cram | That did afEright the air of Agincourt ? " But the date of one other play may also be taken as decided by an allusion in it. And that is Romeo and Juliet, by the Nurse's words as to Juliet's age : — ' Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she be fourteen. Susan and she,— God rest aU Christian souls ! Were of an age. — ^WeU, Susan is with Grod ; She was too good for me : But, as I said, On Lammas-eve at night shaU she be fourteen : That shaU she, marry ; I remember it well. ' Tis since the earthquahe now eleven years ; And she was weau'd, — I never shall forget it, — ■ Of all the days of the year, upon that day." —I. iii. 17-25. Now the great earthquake of Shakspere's time — ^to which he also probably refers in Venus and Adonis — was on AprE 6, 1580. And, unless Juliet was suckled till she was between two and three, the Nurse's 11 years should be 13. This gives either 1591 or 1593 for the date of the Play, and as it must be close to Venu^ and Adonis — enterd and publisht 1593, — either date may be held for it, tho' I incline to put it before Vemis and Adonis rather than after if Thus far, then, we have trustworthy dates ^ for two poems (Venus and Adonis, 1593; Lucrece, 1594) and 11 Plays: Romeo and Juliet, 1591-3; \ Henry IV., 1597; 1 Besides these, Francis Meres, in his Palladis Tamia, 1598, gives us the downward dates of some of Shakspere's Sonnets (the whole were publisht in 1609), of 6 Comedies and 6 Tragedies : — " As the soule of Euphorbus was thought to liue in Pythagoras : so the sweete wittie soule of Quid liues in mellifluous and hony-tongued Shakespeare, witnes his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among his priuate friends, &c. " As Plautiis and Seneca are accounted the best for Comedy and Tragedy among the Latinos : so Shakespeare among y° English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage; for Comedy, witnes his Gentlemen of Verona, his Errors, his Louc labors lost, his Loue labours wonne} his Midsummers night dreame, and his Merchant of Venice: for Tragedy, his Richard the 2., Richard the 3., Senry the 4. Sing John, Titus Andronicus, and his Romeo and Juliet." — New Shaksp. Soc.'s Allusion-Books, p. 159. Allusions in other books also give downward dates for plays, as John Weever, 1595, for " Somea-Richard" ; Robert Tofte, 1598, for "Loves labour lost" ; Jn. Marston, 1598, for Richard III.; Primlyco, 1609 Pericles ; J. W. von Vendenheym, April 30, 1610, for Othello, &c. 2 As Tow Like It is sometimes said to be dated 1601 by the allusion in Act IV., sc. i., 1. 153 where Eosahnd, chaffing Orlando, says, "I will weep for nothing, like Biana in the fountain, and I will do that when you are disposed to be merry." Careless referers to Stowe's Survay, 1598, revis'd 1603, have interpreted the removal of the old timber cross at the top of the stone Eleanor Cross, after December 24, 1600, to imply the removal also of what was set up on its east side in 1596, " a curiously wrought tabernacle of grey marble, and in the same an image alabaster of Diana, and water conveyed from the Thames prilling from her naked bresst for a time, but now decayed." — Thoms's reprint, p. 100, col. 2. The allusion in The Comedy of Errors, III. ii. 124-6, to France making war against her heir, gives only the vague date of 1584-89, or 1584-98. See below. ' I say, trustworthy dates, because the external evidence is confirmd by the intemaL 1 Most likely the play recast as ^U 's Wdl that Ends Well. § 7. METRICAL TESTS. SAMPLES OF SHAKSPEEE'S EABLY AND LATE WORKS. Henry V., 1599; As You Like It and Much Ado, 1600; Twelfth-Night, 1602; Hamlet, 1602-4; Lew, 1606; Pericles, 1608; Winter's Tale, 1611; Hewry VIll., 1613. § 76 (2). And for the dates, or rather the order, of the rest, 26 of Shakspere's 37 plays — 18 printed during his Ufe, and 19 after his death (including The Two Nohle Kinsmen), — as well as part of his Sonnets, we are-thrown back on the second part of the Evidence from Within, the Style and Temper of the works. Let us first take the point of Metre, in which Shakspere was changing almost play by play, during his whole life. Here are two passages of narrative from plays of his youth and his age. Just read them, and see which has the formality of the beginner, which the ease and flow of the practist writer : — The Comedie of Errors, I. i. 99-121, p. 88, Folio. " Merck. Oh, liad the gods done so, I had not now 99 Worthily tearm'd them meroilesse to vs ! For ere the ships could meet by twice fiue leagues. We were encountred by a mighty rocke. Which being violently borne vp[on]. Our helpefull ship was splitted in the midst ; So that, in this vniust diuorce of vs, 1 Fortune had left to both of vs alike. What to delight in, what to sorrow for. i Her part, poore soule, seeming as hurdend With lesser waight, but not with lesser woe. Was carried with more speed before the winde And in our sight they three were taken- vp By Fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. At length another ship had seiz'd on vs, And, knowing whom it was their hap to saue, Gaue healthf ull welcome to their ship-wrackt guests, And would haue reft the Fishers of their prey. Had not their barke beene very slow of saile ; And therefore, homeward did they bend their course. Thus haue you heard me seuer'd from my blisse. That by misfortunes was my life prolongd, 120 To tell sad stories of my owne mishaps." 108 I 109 1 'I ;■} The Life of King Henry the Eight, H. iv. 186-209, p. 217, Folio. " First, me thought I stood not in the snule of Heauen, who hMd Commanded Nature, that my Ladies wombe. If it conceiu'd a male-child by me, should Doe no more OfiBces of life too 't, then wk. The Graue does to th' dead. For her Male Is | sue, J Or di'de where they were made, or shortly af | ter "1 This world hadayr'd them. Hence Itookeathought =j This was a Judgement on me, that my kingd I ome \ (Well worthy the best Heyre o' th' World) should not ] Be gladded in 't by me. Then followes, that -wk. I weigh'd the danger which my Eealmes stood-in By this my Issues f aile ; and that gaue to | me Many a groaning throw : thus hulling in The wild Sea of my Conscience. I did steere Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present heere together; that's to say, :i I meant to rectifie my Conscience, — which 1. 1 I then did feele fuU sicke, and yet not well, — \ By all the Eeuerend Fathers of the Land, And Doctors leam'd. First, I began in pri |,uate •) With you, my Lord of Lincolne ; you remem | her, J How vnder my oppression I did reeke. When I first mou'd you." (See, too, Coriol. II. ii. 105-126.) Is it not plain that the Errors lines are the work of the novice, the Hen/ry VIIT. ones of the traind artist, with full command of his material, who has learnt how to conceal his art? Compare the formal structure of the first, with the ease and varied pauses of the second. ISTote in the Errors passage, how every line but 3 dweUs on its last word, has a pause after it, (tho' with 3 central pauses too,) while in the Henry VIIL one, every line but 8 refuses to pause at its last word, and not only runs on into the next line, making central pauses instead of end ones in every case except 3, but also, to facilitate this running-on, puts in 8 lines a light (1.) or weak (wk.) ending at the last word : this, to get the freedom and ease of natural talk.^ Note again that the Errors lines have all ' Of course in the early plays there 'Ilbe some passages with all run-on lines, &c., and in the late plays some passages with all end-stopt lines, &c., but in each case these do not give the general character of the metre of the play they occur in. Here is an exceptional specimen of the run-on line and central pause in Momeo and Juliet, II. vi. 24-29 : — " Som. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy Joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagin'd happiness, that both Eeceive in either, by this dear encounter." Any poet wanting ease must kick those end-stops out of his way, as any dramatic poet must get rid of the xvi § 7. METRICAL TESTS. BTTH-ON AND BTMING LINES. § 8. CHANGES IN SEAKSPERE. 10 syllables or five measures, wMle in Henry VIII., five lines have an extra or 11th syllable, to break the monotony of the verse. Just compai-e then the percentages of these characteristics : — Kun-on lines ( f'-'"',}r i p ^ o!' °''' J ''' T?'' [ SenryVIII. 16 in 24, or 1 m 1-5 Central-pause \ ^""'j^r ,? ^ .^ ' °' ] ^ 11^ ^ \_ Meiiry VIII. 21 m 24, or 1 m 1 -14 Extra-syllaHe {;^™ ^jjj q in 24, or lin 4 WeakendiBgs -[f J™ ^.f^j^ I ^ ^^ ^^ 1 .^ 3 Note again that in Shakspere's earliest genuine play. Love's Labours Lost, as compard with three of his latest, the proportions of ryming 5-measure lines to blank-verse ones, are as follows : — Zom's labours Lost - 1,028 ryme, to 579 blank, or 1 to -56. The Tempest - . - 2 ryme, to 1,458 blank, or 1 to 779. Winter's Tale - - . ryme,^ to 1,825 blank, or 1 to infinity. So the proportion of end-unstopt Hnes to end-stopt ones in three of the earliest and latest plays is as follows : — Earliest Plays. Run. Latest Plays. Eun. Love's Labours Lost • ... . 1 in 18'14 The Comedy of Errors ..... 1 in 10-7 TAe Tico Geni. of Verona - - - - liulO-' T!ie Tempest 1 in 3-02 Cymbellne --.. --.lin 2*52 The Winter's Tale 1 in 2-122 § 8. Now these changes in Shakspere's metre are not accidental.^ They are un- designd outward signs of his inward growth. They were accompanied ' by other changes in style and temper that markt the progress of Shakspere's mind and spirit. He soon gave up the doggrel, the excessive word-play, the quip and crank, of his early plays, their puns, conceits, and occasional bombast, their use of stanzas* in the dialogue ; he put his early superabundant use of fancy more and more under the control of the higher imagination and of • straight aim ; he subdued the rhetoric of his historical plays ; he changed the chafi^ the farce, the whim, of his early comedies, into the death-struggle of the passions, into the terror of his tragedies, laying bare the inmost recesses of the human soul ; and then passt, serene and tender, to the pastorals and romances of his later age. Changing, developing, Shakspere always was. And as his growth is more and more closely watcht and discernd, we shall more and more clearly see, that his metre, his words, his grammar and syntax, move but with the deeper changes of mind and soul of which they are. outward signs, and that all the faculties of clogs of ryme, the source of so mucb padding and fudge in verse, since it makes men say only what they can, not what they would. My friend Mr. Hargrove adds : " When Shakspere began to write, he and his fellow playwrights were but learning the use of blank verse, and for a time they write as men but just set free from shackles would walk ; they rid themselves easily enough of the fetters of ryme, but cannot without much practise and some boldness get over the habits acquired during the wearing of them. Now ryme imposes four conditions ; (1) the first and essential one is the recurrence of the same or similar sounds ; but this happens in all speech or writing : ia order that it may be prominent, we must add (2) that the recurrence be at regular intervals, i.e., that each ryme liae be of the same number of syllables, and (3) that the syllable containing the recurring sound be a marked one, that is, be accented ; this last condition carries with it (4) that a pause, greater or less, must follow the ryming syllables, and therefore be at the end of each line. We get thus four tests of gradual growth from ryming plays, in which the meaning is forced to conform to metre, to those in which the metre is a mere accompaniment, secondary to and harmonizing with the meaning, (1^ Disuse of ryme ; (2) Lines of more or fewer than the prescribed number of syllables ; (3) Lines ending with syllables on which the voice does not dweU (called light endings) or cannot dwell (called weak endings) ; (4) Run-on lines, or such as suffer no pause to be made at the end." ' Possibly hen, men, IV. iv. 771-2, are meant to ryme. " My friend Professor Dowden says : " As characteristic of these early plays, we may notice (i), frequency of ryme, in various arrangements: (a) rymed couplets, (b) rymed quatrains, (c) the sextain, consisting of an alternately ryming quatrain, followed by a couplet (the arrangement of the last six lines of Shakspere's sonnets) ; (ii), occurrence of rymed doggrel verse in two forms, (a) very short lines, and (b) very long lines; ^iii), comparative infrequency of feminine or double ending; (iv), weak ending; (v), unstopped line ; (vi), regular internal structure of the line : extra syllables seldom packed into the verse ; (vii), frequency of classical allusions ; (viii), frequency of puns and conceits ; (ix), wit and imagery drawn out iu detail to the point of exhaustion; (x), clowns who are, by comparison with the later comic characters, outstanding persons in the play, told off specially for clownage; (xi), the presence of termagant or shrewish women; (xii), soliloquies addressed rather to the audience (to explain the business of the piece, or the motives of the actors), than to the speaker's self; (xiii), symmetry in the grouping of persons." — Growth of Shakspere's Mind and Art, p. 59 (with the h taken out of its rhyme, A. -Sax., rim ; Chaucer, rymn., ryme vb. ). ^ Some overgrown children still pooh-pooh them altogether. * One of the 15th century Digby Mysteries is written in stanzas all thro', one stanza being now and then shared among two or three people, as, indeed, several are in Shakspere's Love's Labours Lost. § 8. THE PBOGBMSSIYE CHANGES IN SHAKSPBRE'S VERSE AND MINB. xvli the man went onward together.^ This subject of the growth, the oneness of Shakspere, the links between his successive plays, the light thrown on each by comparison with its neighbour, the distinctive characteristics of each Period and its contrast with the others, the treatment of the same or like incidents, &c., in the different Periods of Shakspere's life — this subject, in all its branches, is the special business of the present, the second school of Victorian students of the great EUzabethan poet, as antiquarian illustration, emendation, and verbal criticism — to say nothing of forgery, or at least, publication of forgd documents" — were of the first school. The work of the first school — minus the forgery — we have to carry on, not to leave undone ; the work of our own second school we have to do. In it, Gervinus of Heidelberg, Dowden of Dublin, Hudson of Boston, are the students' best guides that we have in English speech.' I can only hope to help to their end, by paying how Shakspere's successive plays have struck me, who came late to the study of them, resolvd to try to get at their relation to one another and their author, and not to submit to the mere gammon I used to hear, " Succession of Shakspere's plays ! My dear fellov, impossible ! Shakspere was infinite ; no before and after in him ! " or, " Succession : can't be done ; the very utmost you can hope for, is, to say 1 " I do not believe that he [Shakspere] could have been induced, after he was 40, to write either ryme or blank verse, resembling in metrical structure and rhythmical effect, that which he used to write before he was 25, or even 30. The regular cadence and monotonous, sweetness had grown tiresome to his ear ; his imagination and intellect had become impatient of the luxuriance of beautiful words and superfluous imagery. It had become a necessity to him to go to the heart of the matter by a direoter path, and to produce his effects of beauty and sweetness in apiother way — a way of his own. Compare the description of a similar object in three different plays, belonging to dates considerably distant from each other : the face of a beautiful woman just dead ; there being nothing in the character of the several speakers to explain the difference. " 1. Romeo ani Juliet, second edition (1599) : not in the first edition : therefore presumably written between 1597 and 1599 [I believe very much earlier, 1591-3, the 1st edition being only a pirated version of the 2nd, and neither printed till long after the writing of the play.] : — ' Her blood is settled and her joints are stiif . I Death lies on her, like an untimely frost life and these lips have long been separated. | Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.' [Fancy.] " 2. Antony and Cleopatra [? 1606-7] :— ' If they had swallowed poison, 'twould appear By external swelling : but she looks like sleep, " 3. Cymieline [? 1610] : ' How found you him ? Stark, as you see, Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber. As she would catch another Anthony In her strong toil of grace.'' [Imagination, penetrating to the purpose of her life.] Not as death's dart being laughed at. His right cheek Eeposing on a cushion.' " The difiEerenoe in the treatment in these three cases represents the progress of a great change in manner and taste : a change which could not be put on or off, like the fashion, but was part of the man." " Look, again, at the structure of the verse a few lines further on [Gymbeline, Kct IV., sc. ii., 1. 220-4 ; FoUo, p. 389, col. I) : ' Thou shalt not lacke The Flower that 's like thy face, Pale Primrose, nor {weak) The azur'd Harebell, like thy Veines : no, nor (wk). The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slan I der Out-sweetned not thy breath.' . "I doubt whether you will find a single case in any of Shakspere's undoubtedly early plays of a line of the same structure. Where you find a line of ten syllables ending with a word of one syllable — that word not admitting either of emphasis or pause, but belonging to the next line, and forming part of its first word- group — you have a metrical effect of which Shakspere grew fonder as he grew older ; frequent in his latest period ; up to the end of his middle period, so far as I can remember, unknown." — Mr. Spedding's letter to me oil his " Pause-Test." New Shakspere Soc.'s Trans., 1874, p. 31. 2 The utterers of these forgd documents were J. P. CoUier and the late Peter Cunningham. Those put forth by Mr. ColUer as genuine were the documents from the EUesmere (or Bridgewater House) and Dulwich College Libraries, a State Paper, and Mr. C.'s additions to the Dulwich Letters (see Dr. Ingleby's Complete View). I, in common with many other men, have examind the originals with Mr. Collier's prints of them. He printed one more name to one document than was in it when produced; and when this was found out, the document was made away with, undoubtedly by the forger of it. None of Mr. Collier's statements should be trusted tiU they have been verified. The entries of the actings of Shakspere's plays in Mr. Peter Cunningham's Revels at Court (Shakespeare Society, 1842), pp. 203-5, 210-11, are also printed from forgeries (which Sir T. Duffus Hardy has shown me), though Mr. Halliwell says he has a transcript of some of the entries, made before Mr, Cunningham was bom. Thus the following usually reUed-on dates are forgd ; 1605, Moor of Venice, Merry Wives, Measure for Measure, Errors, Love's Labours Lost, Henry V., Merchant of Venice. 1612, Tempest, Winter's Tale. The forgd biographical documents uttered by Mr. Collier have been a curse to Shakspere students ever since. In December, 1876, The Theatre — which, by the way, once pretended to knowledge enough to criticise the New Shakspere Society's work — reprintnd the Blackfriars Theatre documents as genuine. ' See, too, Mr. Swinburne's two Articles in The Fortnightly Review, 1875-6j xviji § 9. SBAKSPEBE'S FIRST-PERIOD PLATS. LITTLE OF "TITUS ANDEONICUS" IS EIS. to wMch of the three Periods a play belongs ; " — as if the same powers of mind which could put a play into a period, couldn't, with further exercise, settle the place of the play in that period. I don't say that we can do this yet ; we can't ; but it 's only because we haven't yet used our eyes and heads enough. Assuredly a day will come when the large majority of reasonable critics wUi be agreed as to the order of Sliakspere's plays ; and as soon as folk know their Shakspere ABC, we shall have no more such silly fancies as the late Mr. Hunter's — that The Tempest was Love's Labours Won, and written before 1598 — or Mr. Swinburne's, that Henry VIII. was an early Second-Period Play, and therefore before or about 1596. § 9. The handiest test for Shakspere's earliest plays is that of metre, combind with evident youngaess of treatment. "We find in certain plays such a large proportion of rymed lines mixt with blank verse in the ordinary 5-measure dialogue, and in others such unripeness of handling, that we pick out as the First-Period Plays, Love's Lahowrs Lost (the early part of All's Well, representing Love's Lahowrs Won), The Comedy of Errors, Midsuvvmer-Night's Dream, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Borneo and Juliet (with the poems Venus and Adonis and Lucrece, and probably the early part of Troilus and Cressida), Richard II., and the quadrilogy of 1, 2, & 3 Henry VI. and Richard III. (As the Shakspere Temple Garden scene in 1 Henry VI. has an extra syllable to one -fourth of its lines, while Love's Labours Lost has one to only nine lines in the whole play, I do not suppose 1 Henry VI. to be Shakspere's earliest work.) Titus Andbonicus I do not consider here, although it is in Meres's list above, p. xiv, mote 1, and in the First Folio ; for to me, as to Hallam and many others, the play declares as plainly as play can speak, " I am not Shakspere's : my repulsive subject, my blood and horrors, are not, and never were, his." I accept the tradition that Ravenscroft reports when ke revivd and alterd the play in 1687, that it was brought to Shakspere to be toucht up and prepard for the stage. I advise my readers not to read Titus till they have read all the rest of Shakspere, and are in a position to judge what is his work, and what is not. Let no one begin his introduction to Shakspere with Titus. Some of the passages in it that Mr. H. B. Wheatley suggests as Shakspere's (Jfew Sh. Soc.'s Trans., 1874, pp. 126-9) are, I. i. 9 — " Romaines, friends, followers, favourers of my right " (echoed in Marc Antony's speech in Jul. CcBsa/r, III. ii. 75, " Friends, Romans, countrymen ") ; II. i. 82-3, " Shee is a woman, therefore to be woo'd : Shee is a woman, therefore may be wonne " (like Gloster's lines on Lady Anne, Rich. Ill, I. ii. 228-9, and 1 Hen. VI., Y. iii. 78-9) ; also I. i. 70-6, 1X7-119 (cp. Portia's mercy speech. Merchant, IV. i. 183) ; I. i. 141-2^; II. ii. 1-6 ; II. iii. 10-15; in. i. 82-6, 91-7; IV. iv. 81-6 ; V. ii. 21-27 ; V. iii. 160-8.^ ' Note the Chaucer allusion in II. i. 126, " The emperor's court is like the Mouse of Fame." ^ As to the date and sources of Titus, Ben Jonson says in the Induction to his Bartholomeu) Fair, pro- duced " at the Hope on the Bankside [Southwark], in the county of Surrey. . the one-and-thirtieth day of October, 1614,"— and lasting " two hours and an half, and somewhat more," as against the " two hours " of Someo and Jtiliet (1st chorus). — " He that will swear Jeronymo or Andronieus are the best plays yet, shall pass unexcepted at here, as a man whose judgment shows it is constant, and hath stood stiU these five-and -twenty or thirty years." This would carry us back to 1584-9. But it is not till 1594 that Henslowe enters in his Diary on the back of leaf 8 of the scrubby paper MS. at Dulwich College, in his account of " the earle of Sussex his men," that at a new play of this name ho took £3 8s., " ne Ed. at Titus and ondrouicus, the 22 of Jenewary, 1593(-4). . . ij.li. viij. s." (P. 33, Old Shakesp. Soc.'s edition.) It is also not till 1594 (1593-4), that on February 6 " A hooke entitled a noble Roman Historye of Tytus Andronieus " is entered in the Stationers' Eegisters to John Danter (Arbor's Transcript, ii. 644). 'La.VL^s.me &a.yiin.'ias Account of English Dramatic Poets, p. 464, that this play "was first printed 4°, Lond., 1594," but no copy is now known earlier than 1600. But inasmuch as there is an old German Tragedy of Titus Andronieus, which was acted in Germany about the year 1600 by English actors, and that contains a Vespasian, ray old friend Mr. Albert Cohn says, in his Shakespeare in Germany, 1865, that we ought to believe that our English Titus Andronieus was founded on the play of " tittus and Tespasia," markt ne or new, by Philip Henslowe {Diary, MS. leaf 7 back ; print, p. 24), on "the 11 of aprell," 1591, at the acting of which the manager got &% 4s., and which was often performed. Of the sources of the play, Theobald says : ' ' The story we are to suppose merely fictitious. Andronieus is a surname of pure Greek derivation. Tamora is neither mentioned by Ammianus Maroellinus nor any body else that I can find. Nor had Eome, in the time of her emperors, any war with the Goths that I know of : not till after the translation of the empire, I mean to Byzantium. And yet the scene of the play is laid at Eome, and Saturninus is elected to the empire at the Capitol." — Variorum Shahs., xxi. 379. The copy of the ballad in the Eoxburghe Collection, I., 392, 393, vol. i., p. 544, of my friend Mr. Chappell's edition for our Ballad Society, " cannot," says Mr. Chappell, p. 543, " be dated before the reign of James I., and is more probably of that of Charles I. It is included in the Pepys Collection, I. 86, printed for E, Wright. A second edition in the same collection is for Clarke, Thackeray, and others (I. 478). The Eoxburghe edition is by A[lexander] Mplbourne], and the Bagfprd, 643 m. 10, p. U, is by W. 0[nley]." The title of the ballad is " The lamentable and tragical history of Titus Andronieus. With the fall of his §9. SEAKSPERKS FIRST-PERIOD PLATS: '•LOVES LABOURS LOST," Ah. 1589. ^^ Looking then to the metrical facts, that Love's Labours Lost has twice as many rymed lines as blank-verse ones (1 to 'SS), that it has only one run-on line in 18-14, only 9 extras syllable blank- verse lines ; that it has, in the dialogue, 8-line stanzas (I. i.),' several 6-line stanzas (ab, ah, cc : TV. i., iii.), and in Act IV., sc. iii., 222-289, no less than 17 consecutive 4-line verses of alternate rymes (ab, ab), The wooing of Margaret by Suffolk is not his, as its quick falling off into that " cooling card," &c., shows. Faint as the Shakspere scene is, I cannot put it very early, as one-fourth of its lines end with extra syllables. § 9. FIRST-PEBTOD PLATS: 2*3 "SENBY VI.," 1592-4 (?). baseness of the Dauphin, and the abominable way in which Joan of Arc is treated by Frenchmen as well as English. Traditional as the witoh-view of Joan of Arc was in Shakspere's time, one is glad that Shakspere did not set it forth to us. The Second and Third Parts of Henri/ VI. are but recasts of two older plays, the Contention, published in 1594, and the True Tragedy, published in 1595.' The latest discussion of the authorship of these plays is by my friend. Miss Jane Lee, New Sh. Soc.'s Trans., 1875-6, Part II., and never before has the question been so ably and thoroughly handled. I incline to accept the conclusion of herself and some other critics that Shakspere took no part in the Contention and True Tragedy, though it cannot be certain that he had no share in the oi'iginal sketch of Jack Cade. It is unquestionable that Shakspere's hand is in the revised play. Duke Humphry's great speech in Part II. (Act I., sc. i.), " Bravo peers of England," &c.. King Henry's, in Part III. (Act II., sc. v.), the description of Duke Humphry's corpse in Part II. (Act III., sc. ii.), can have been written by no other man. The powerful account of the cardinal's death has been assigned, with some proba- bility, to Marlowe, with whose Faustus's carrying-off scene it is well compared. But certainly parts of the revision were done by Marlowe^, or one of his school, and some parts, as I think, by Greene, or one of his schooP ; and if Marlowe and Greene were, with Peele, as I 'm content to think they were, the authors of the earlier plays, I am not surprised to find their hands beside Shakspere's in the revised one. I believe that the revision of these plays is to some extent like the conversion of A Shrew into The Shrew, and that another adapter's hand than Shakspere's is to be largely recognised in them. He may have retoucht and strengthend them after Greene (died September 5, 1592) and Marlowe (stabd June 1, 1593) had reworkt them. The humour of Cade is thoroughly Shaksperean, and may claim to stand alongside, though it is earlier in date than, that of Sly and Grumio. ■ Mr. Hazlitt reprints toth in Ms Shakspere's Library — a book indisDensable to every real student of Shakspere— Part II., Cont.,yo\.. i., pp. 379-520; Tr. Trag., vol. ii., pp' 2-105. Tlie text of the revised plays, 2 and 3 Henry VI., appeard for the firot time in the Folio of 1623. '■' Miss Lee assigns to Kdrlowe the following portions of the revised plays : see her answer to me in the Discussion on her £«wy VI. ^a-pei in. New Shakspere Society' s Transactions, 1876, Part II. :— 2 Henry VI.. II. iii. 1-58 ; III. i. 142-199, 282-330,357-383; III. ii. 43-121 (with Shakspere); IV. i. 1-U7, x. 18-90 (? IV. ix., Greene); V. i. 1-160, 175-195 ; ii. 10-11, 19-30 (?), 31-65. (I douht, too, the following being Shakspere's:— I. i. 24-35, iv. 41-66; II. i. 1-113 (?) ; III. i. 200-281, 331-356; ii. 1-37, 43-121. 246-269, 339-366 (?) ; V. i. 161-174, ii. 72-90). 3 Senry VI., I. ii. 5-76 ; II. i. 81-6, 200-4 ; ii. 6, 53, 56, 79, 83, 143, 146-8; iii. 49-56; iv. 1-4, 12, 13; v. 114-120; vi. 31-S, 47-50 58, 100-2; III. iii. 4-43,47,48, 67-77, 110- 120, 134-7,141-150 156-161,175-9.191-201, 208-18,221, 226,233-8,244-255 (?) ; IV. ii. 19-30; V. i. 12-16, 21, 22, 31-33, 39, 48-57, 62-66, 69-71, 78, 79, 87-97; iii. 1-24. (I doubt, too, the foUowing being Shak- spere's :— (?) I. i. 216-273, iv. 1-26 (?) ; II. i. 41-78, iii. 9-47 ; V. 58-113 (?), 123-139 (r) ). Miss Lee's division of the Contention and Tme Tragedie between their several authors is in the New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1876, too. In that I agree. On the points on which Miss Lee differs from me, let the reader trust her and not me, till he has workt enough to form an opinion of his own. She has workt at the plays twenty times as much as I have, and has got a certainty about them that I can't pretend to have. The reader must start with the two old plaj's, and note how they each divide into at least two men's work, one choppy and stilted, the other with flowing line and poetic power. Then he can pass to the recast plays, and see how Shakspere has handled them. 3 For instance, I feel almost certain that neither Marlowe nor Shakspere alterd the following left-hand passage from the Contention into the right-hand one from 2 Senry VI. : — 1591 Contention, p. 49. 1623. 2 Henry VI., IV. i. 104-114. "Swf. that I were a God, to shoot forth Thwnder Vpon these paltry, aeruile, abieet Drudges : "Suffolke. This villain being but Captain of a Small things make base men proud. This Villaine Acere, Pinnais, Being Captaine of a Pinnace, threatens more Threatens more plagues then mightie Abradas*, Then Bargulus the strong Illyrian Pyrate The great Masadonian Pj-rate," Drones sucke not Eagles blood, but rob See-hims : It is impossible that I should dye By such a lowly Vassall as thy selfe. " Thy wordes addes fury and not remorse in me." Thy words moue Sage, and not remorse in me : I go of Message from the Queene to France : I charge thee waft me safely crosse the Channell." • Greene, in Ms Ponelope's Web, 1588, mentione "Ahradas, the ereat Macedonian pirat," whfi " thoneht enery one had a letter of mart that bare sayles in the ocean." See Malone's Sholtspere, by BosweU, toI. itviii.. p. 289. Bargulus— or BopSvAAi!, as Plutarch writes it in the Life of PyrrhuB,— is mentioned by Cicero, Bargulus Illyriua latro (HaUiwell). § 9. FIRST-PERIOD PLAYS: "RICHARD III.," 1594 (?). Richard the Third is written on the model of Shakspere's great rival, Christoplier Marlowe, the Canterbury cobbler's son, who was stabd in a tavern brawl on June 1, 1593. It was Marlowe's characteristic to embody in a character, and realise with terrific force, the workings of a single passion. In Tamberlaine he personified the lust of dominion, in Faustus the lust of forbidden power and knowledge, in Barabas (T/ie Jew of Malta) the lust of wealth and blood (J. A. Symonds). In Richard III. Shakspere embodied ambition, and sacrificed his whole play to this one figure. Gloster's first declaration of his motives, shows of course the young dramatist, as the want of relief in the play, and the monotony of its curses, also do. But Richard's hypocrisies, his exultation in them, his despising and insulting his victims, his grim humour and delight in gulling fools, and in his own villainy, are admirably brought out, and that no less than thirteen times in the play. 1. With Clarence. 3. With Hastings. 3. With Anne, widow of Prince Edward, Henry the Sixth's son, whom Richard the Third, when Gloster, had stabd. 4. With Queen Elizabeth, with Rivers and Hastings, and possibly in his professt repentance for the wrongs he did Qiieen Margaret in mui-dering her son and husband. '^ 5. With Edward the Fourth on his death-bed, and his queen, and lords, and as to the author of Clarence's death. 6. With his nephew, Clarence's son. 7. With Queen Elizabeth and his mother, " Amen ! And make me die a good old man ! " 8. With Buckingham, "I as a child will go by thy direction." 9. With the young prince, Edward the Fifth, " God keep you from them and from such false friends." 10. With Hastings and the Bishop of Ely. 11. With the Mayor about Hastings and then about taking the crown — (note Richard's utter brutality and baseness in his insinuation of his mother's adultery). 12. With Buckingham about the murder of the princes. 13. With Queen Elizabeth when he repeats the scene of his wooing with Anne, as the challenge-scene • is repeated in Riclmrd II. Villain as he is, he has the vUlain's coolness too. He never loses temper, except when he strikes the third messenger. As a general he is as skilful as Henry the Fifth, and looks to his sentinels ; whUe, like Henry the Fourth, he is up and doing at the first notice of danger, and takes the right practical measures. Yet the conscience he ridicules, he is made to feel — " There is no creature loves me, ' And if I die no soul will pity me." But we must note that this is only when his will is but half-awake, half-paralysed by its weight of sleep. As soon as the man is himself again, neither conscience nor care for love or jjity troubles him. The weakest part of the play is the scene of the citizens' talk ; and the poorness of it, and the monotony of , the women's curses, have given rise to the theory that in Richard III. Shakspere was only re-writing an old play, of which he let bits stand. But though I once thought this possible, I have since become certain that it is not so. The wooing of Anne by Richard has stirrd me, in reading it aloud, almost as much as anything else in Shakspere. Note, too, how the first lines of the play lift you out of the mist and confusion of the Henry Vf. plays into the sun of Shakspere's genius. Richard III. was first publisht in quarto in 1597, and afterwards in 1598, 1602, 1605, 1612, and 1622 (and 1629, 1634), each edition being printed from the one before it. The Folio text of 1623 shows a number of small word-changes from the Quarto — with important ones of passages occasionally — that render the making of the best text of Riclmrd III. the hardest puzzle in Shakspere-editing. In a very able paper in the Ifew Shakspere Society's TraTisactions, 1875-6, Part I., Mr. James Spedding contends, against the Cambridge editors, Clark and Wright, that the Folio, in all but a few cases, gives Shakspere's own corrections. Professor Delius holds this view too (Jahrhuch, vii. 124), as the Folio has many passages linking Richard III. with Henry VI. that are not in the Quarto. The source of the play — as of all Shakspere's Historical Plays — is Holinshed's Chronicle, which is here taken from Sir Thomas More's Life of Richard III., Polydore Vergil, ifec. See Courtenay's Commentaries on the Historical Plays, ii. 60-117. Courtenay says, "The [then] received history is pretty closely followed." . . " Margaret sustains her part well, but that is entirely fanciful, and not to be admired. Shakspere's character of Queen Anne is imaginary, and not well imagined." One instance that Courtenay brings forward to show that Shakspere designedly blackened Richard's character — his making Richard concernd in bringing about Clarence's death — I have shown to be unfounded ; because Hall, in his Chronicle, p. 343, ed. ^ I have always, tho', considered this genuine repentance, or at least a genuine profession of it. 5 10. SKCONBPERTOD PLAYS: " KTWff JOHN," 1595. Ellis, 1809, says that " some wise menne" did hold this view of Richard, and Holinshed, too, in Edward V., mentions it. The action of the play covers fourteen years, from Henry the Sixth's murder, May 21, 1471, to Richard the Third's death, August 22, 1485. If Shakspere had ever seen on the boards or in print T/ie True Tragedie of Ricliard the Third, 1694, 2 Hazlitt, i. 43, he used it but little, or Dr. Legge's Latin Eichardus Tertius either {Lloyd's Essays, p. 287). SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS. § 10. King John. — With tliis play of pathos and patriotism we open Shakspere's Second Period, — looking on Richard II. as the last play in which ryme plays a prominent part, we take the series of Henry VI. and Richard III. as the transition to the Second Pei'iod ; — and on opening it we are struck with a greater fulness of characterisation and power than we saw in the First-Period plays. But the whole work of Shakspere is continuous. King John is very closely linkt with Richard III. In both plays we have cruel uncles planning their nephews' murder, because the boys stand between them and the Crown. In both we have distracted mothers overwhelmed with grief. In both we have prophecies of ruin and curses on the murderers, and in both the fulfilment of these. In both we have the kingdom divided against itself, and the horrors of civil war. In both we have the same lesson of the danger of division taught to the discontented English parties of Shakspere's own day. Richard III. i^ an example of the misgovernment of a cruel tyrant ; King John of the misgovemment of a selfish coward. But in John we have the mother's pathetic lament for her child far developed above that of Queen Elizabeth's for her murdered innocents, and far more touching than the laments of Queen Margaret and the Duchess of York, while the pathos of the stifled children's death is heightened in that of Arthur. The temptation scene of John and Hubert, repeats that of Richard and Tyrrel. The Bastard's statement of his motives, " Gain, be my lord," &c., is like that of Richard the Third's about his villainy. (The Bastard's speech on commodity may be compared with Lucrece's reproaches to opportunity.) Besides the boy's pleading for his life, besides his piteous death and the mother's cry for him, which comes home to eveiy parent who has lost a child, we have in the play the spirit of Elizabethan England's defiance to the foreigner 1 and the Pope.^ Khig John is founded on the old play of The Troublesome Raigne of King John, 1591. ^ Shakspere deserts the Chronicles without precisely following the old play in eight chief political points, — as shown by Mr. R. Simpson in the Hew Sh. Soe.'s Trans., 1874, — in Older to bring the play closer home to his hearers, and the circumstances of his time, the disputed succession of Elizabeth, and the interference of Spain and the Pope. The old play- writer made the murder of Arthur, as Mr. Lloyd has noticed, ^ the turning-point between the high-spirited success of John at first and his dejection and disgrace at last ; and he, too, fixed on the assertion of national independence against invading Frenchmen and encroaching ecclesiastics as the true principle of dramatic action of John's time. So long as John is the im- personator of England, of defiance to the foreigner, and opposition to the Pope, so long is he a hero. But he is bold outside only, only politically ; inside, morally, he is a coward, sneak, and skunk. See how his nature comes out in the hints for the murder of Arthur, his turning on Hubert when he thinks the murder will bring evil to himself, and his imploring Falconbridge to deny it. His death ought, of course, dramatically to have followed from some act of his in the play, as revenge for the murder of Arthur, or his plundering the abbots or abbeys, or opposing the Pope. The author of The Troublesome Raigne, with a true instinct, made a '■ " The great lesson taught in the last lines of the play should he more hrought out. King, nohles, claimant, all lean on foreign help, and all find it a broken reed which pierces their hands." — C. Hargrove. Besides the passage usually cited from Andrew Boorde for these last lines, he has another nearer to Shak- spere's words : "I think if all the world were set against England, it miglit neuer be conquered, they beyng treue within them selfe," — 1542 (pr. 1S47) Introduction, p. 164 of my edn , 1870. 2 It is the old play re- written. The two mmt be read together and compared, to see what genius makes out of ordinary work. The extreme Protestant tone of the old play is much modified by Shakspere. And as Prof. Delius notices {New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1875-6, Part II.), Shakspere only tells certain incidents that the old play acts, as Falconbridge ransacking the churches, arresting Peter of Pomfret on the stage ; John's meal and poisoning, the death of the monk who poisons him, and Falconbridge's stabbing the abbot. Falconbridge's soliloquies are new too. On the many variations from history in King John, see T. P. Courtenay's Commentaries on the Sistorical Flat/a of Shakspere, two vols., Colbum, 1840, a book indispensahla to the student of these plays. The old Troublesotne Raigne of 1591 is reprinted in Hazlitt's Shakspere's Library, Part II., vol. i., p. 221. See Mr. B. Roe's paper in Macmillan's Mag., 1878, on the dramatic skill with which Shakspere's alteration of the old play was made. 3 Critical Essays,G. Bell and Sons, 1875. The best half-crown book on Shakspere. § 10. SECONB-PERIOD PLAYS: " KltfQ JOHN," 1595; "MERCHANT OF VENICE," 1598. monk murder John out of revenge for his anti-Papal patriotism.' But Shakspere, un- fortunately, set this story aside, though there was some warrant for it in Holinshed, and thus left a serious blot on his drama which it is impossible to remove. The character which to me stands foremost in John is Constance, with that most touching expression of grief for the son she had lost. Beside her cry, the tender pleading of Arthur for his life is heard, and both are backed by the rough voice of Falconbridge, who. Englishman-like, depreciates his own motives at first, but is lifted by patriotism into a gallant soldier, while his deep moral nature shows itself in his heartfelt indignation at Arthur's supposed murder. The rhetoric of the earlier historical plays is kept up in King John, and also Shakspere's power of creating situations, which he had possessed from the first. Of the situation in Act III., sc. i, Mrs. Jameson says in her Characteristics of Women, ed. 1870, pp. 356, 357: — "And what a situation ! One more magnificent was never placed before the mind's eye than that of Constance, when, deserted and betrayed, she stands alone in her despair, amid her false friends and her ruthless enemies ! The image of the mother-eagle, wounded and bleeding to death, yet stretched over her young in an attitude of defiance, while all the baser birds of prey are clamouring around her eyry, gives but a faint idea of the moral sublimity of this scene. Considered merely as a poetical or dramatic picture, the grouping is wonderfully fine : on one side, the vulture ambition of that mean-souled tyrant, John ; on the other, the selfish, calculating policy of Philip ; between them, balancing their passions in his hand, the cold, subtle, heartless Legate ; the fiery, reckless Falconbridge ; the princely Louis ; the still unconquered spirit of that wrangling Queen, old Elinor; the bridal loveliness and modesty of Blanche ; the boyish grace and innocence of young Arthur ; and Constance in the midst of them, in all the state of her great grief, a grand impersonation of pride and passion, helpless at once and desperate, form an assemblage of figures, each perfect in its kind, and taken all together, not surpassed for the variety, force, and splendour of the dramatic and picturesque eflfect." King John is in Meres's list, 1 598, and was first printed in the Folio of 1623. It was written probably in 1595. My friend, Dr. Brinsley Nicholson, contends for two dates in it : 1594, from its storm imagery; 1596, from its fleet passage, alluding, as he thinks, to the Cadiz expedition of 1596. But in 1595 was Drake and Hawkins's Darien expedition " with a fleet of men of war" (Toone's Ghronol. Hist, i.) ; besides Raleigh's second voyage to America. And Shakspere was in London in Armada time, 1588, and heard all about the fleet then. His only boy, Hamnet, was buried on August 11, 1596. If the boy was ill long, Constance's laments over Arthur may have been drawn from Shakspere's wife's over her Hamnet. The dramatic time of King John is " seven days, with intervals, comprising in all not more than three or four months." — P. A. Daniel. N. Sh. Sac. Trans., 1877-9, p. 263. The Merchant op Venice (? 1596). — ^We turn from the rain-green level meads of France, from our own murky land — and yet a land like Venice is a city, a precious stone set in the silver sea — to the sunlit Venice of Italy — " The glorious city of the sea : I Ebbing and flowing, and the salt sea- weed The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets | Clings to the marble of her palaces." — Sogers, We turn to " Padua, where the stars are night by night Watched from the top of an old dungeon tower, Whence blood ran once — the tower of Ezzelin." — Rogers. And we are greeted here, too, with a parent's cry for a lost child ; but whereas in John it was the mother's pathetic, passionate grief for her reft boy, the dearest thing to her on earth, in heaven ; in The Merchant it is the father's fierce and selfish curse on his girl, flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone, and yet far less dear to him than his gold. Here, too, we have an appeal for a life, a cry for mercy to the condemnd. In John it was from Arthur's lips ; in The Merchant it is from Portia's — sweet sources both — and in each case the life is saved : in John by a man's true heart, in tlie Merchant by a woman's ready wit. Other links there are between the plays. The sadness or melancholy of which Arthur speaks in John, Act IV., sc. i. — "I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night Only for wantonness " — ' " No, but for his enmity to, and robbery of the monks. See HazUtt's Sh. Libr., Ft II., vol, i., pp. 309-11."— C. Hargrove. I meant to include these as anti-Papal acts. /•12 ' xlii 5 10. SECOND-PERIOD PLAYS: "THE MERCHANT OF VENICE," 1596. is echoed in Antonio's first speech in the veiy first line of TJie Merclmnt — ' ' In sooth I know not why I am so sad ; " in Salanio's and Salariao's echoes of that ; and in Antonio's — " I hold the world A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one ; " while Portia's first speech, " By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world," and Jessica's " I am never merry when I hear sweet music," repeat the same thought. Gratiano may be compared with Falconbridge ; Blanche, having to choose between her uncle and her bridegroom, with Portia having to choose between her husband's honour and her bridal joys ; the loss of John's forces in the Wash, to that of Antonio's ships on the Goodwia Sands, ^ Night, we found the prototype in his second first-time, comedy, the Errors (with his fourth. The Two Gentlemen), so here for his fourth middle-time comedy we find the prototype in his third first-time play, Midsummer-Night's Dream. It is an interesting undesigned coincidence of succession. I claim it as a confirmation of my order of the first three plays. Romeo and Juliet, in Lady Capulet's speech about Tybalt, III. v. 71, gives us the parallel of Lafeu's " moderate lamentation " and " excessive grief," I. i. 58, and Diana Capulet's name. Tlie Merchant of Venice gives us the ring parallel, and the contrast of Portia being chosen, and its happy result, with Helena's choosing, and its unhapjjy outcome for a time. Pistol in 2 Henry IV. and mainly Henry V. is the prototype of Parolles, who is but Pistol refined and developed, with a touch of Falstaff added, while Parolles's echoing of Lafeu (Act II., sc. iii.) is clearly recollected from Sir Andrew Aguecheek's echoing of Sir Toby Belch in Twelftlb-Night. Parolles's proposal to give himself "some hurts, and say I got them in. exploit" (Act IV., sc. i.) is a remembrance of Falstaff's proposal and its carrying out in 1 Henry IV., after Prince Hal and Poins have robbed the merry old rascal, ifec. Also Parolles's exposure 'by his comrades is suggested by that of Falstaff by Prince Hal and Poins, and is like that of Malvolio in Twelfth-Night. The Second Part of Henry IV. gives us, too, Falstaff's explanation of his abuse of Prince Hal to Doll Tearsheet, as the original of Parolles's excuse for his letter to Diana Capulet abusing Bertram. As to the forward reach of the play, the link with the Sonnets is of the strongest. Think of Shakspere, the higher nature, but the lower in birth and position, during his separation from his Will, so handsome, high-born, hating marriage, misled by unworthy rivals, also selfish and sensual, and compare him with the poor, lowly-born Helena, richer and higher in noble qualities, longing foi-, dwelling in mind on, her handsome Bertram, high-born, hating marriage, misled by Parolles, selfish and sensual too. So far Shakspere and Helena are one, and Will is Bertram. Hamlet gives us, in Polonius's advice to Laertes, the development of the countess's counsel to Bertram, " love all, trust a few," &c. In Measure for Measure, the All's Well substitution of the woman who ought to be a man's bed-mate for the one who ought not so to be, but whom he desired to have, is used again, with the very same precautions against discovery, not to stay too long or to speak, (fee. The name Escalus used here is also that of the Governor in Measure for Measure; and for our Corambus here we get a Corambis in the first quarto of Hamlet. For the parallel to the sunshine and the hail in the king at once here, we go to Lear for the sunshine and rain at once in Cordelia, whose smiles and tears were like a better day. For our clown's " flowery way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire " we turn to the Macbeth porter's " primrose way to the everlasting bonfire." For o\ir " Time will bring on summer, When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns, And be as sweet as sharp," we turn to Cyinbeline with its " Leaf of eglantine, whom, not to slander Outsweeten'd not thy breath." To Belarius in the same play we go for Touchstone's and the clown's contrast of court and country here, and for Imogen to match the despised, neglected Helena, willing to give up her native land and life for the husband who had so wrongd her. Helena, though condemnd by § 10. SECONB-PEEIOD PLATS: "ALL'S WELL TSAT ENDS WELL," 1601-2. Ixvii many women and some men, has yet had justice done her by Coleridge, who calls her Shakspere's " loveliest character " — and he wrote Genevieve ; — and Mrs. Jameson, who says, " There never was perhaps a more beautiful picture of a woman's love cherished in secret, not self-consuming in silent languishment, not desponding over its idol, but patient and hopeful, strong in its own intensity, and sustained by its own fond faith. Her love is like a religion, pure, holy, deep. The faith of her affection combining with the natural energy of her character, believing all things possible, makes them so. It would say to the mountain of pride which stands between her and her hope, ' be thou removed/ and ii is removed." She is the opposite of Hamlet, as she says : — " Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie I Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull WHoh we ascrite to heaven ; the fated sky | Our slow designs when we ourselves are duU." And she believes that great maxim so often forgotten even now — " Whoever strove To show her merit that did miss her love." We can judge her best by the impression that she made on others ; and if we compare the praises of her by Lafeu, the king, the clown, and the countess, who knew her from her cMldhood, and who at least five times sings her praise, we see that Bertram's words of her are justified . Helena is "she who all men praised." Quick as she is to see through ParoUes, she cannot see through Bertram. Love blinds her eyes. How beautiful is her confession of her love for him to his mother, and how pretty is old Lafeu's enthusiasm for her ! Let those, too, who blame her, notice her drawing back for the time on Bertram's declaring he can't love her and won't try to.^ Thenceforward she is passive in the king's hands. It is he for his honour's sake who bids Bertram take her ; and after the young noble's seemingly willing consent, she must have been more than woman to refuse to marry the man whom she knew her love alone could lift from the mire in which he was willingly wallowing. They are wedded ; and the foolish husband takes counsel of his fool and leaves liis wife ; and then, without the kiss she asks so prettUy-for, he sends her home. What she has thenceforth to do she tells us : — " Like timorous thief most fain would steal What law does vouch mine own." How little like a triumph, and possession of her love ! Her husband's brutal letter does but bring into higher rehef her noble unselfishness and love for him. Her only desire is to save him. She knows the urgence of his " important blood," and takes advantage of it to work a lawful meaning in a lawful act, and so without disgrace fulfils the condition that his baseness has made precedent to his reunion with her. For Bertram, the question one is obliged to ask is. How came the son of such a father and such a mother to be what he was 1 Seeing him even with Helena's eyes, what has he to recommend him but his good looks 1 What other good quality of him comes out in the play 1 Physical courage alone. Of moral courage he has none. Headstrong he is, a fool, unable to judge men, lustful, a liar, and a sneak. One thing he has to pride himself in, his noble birth, and that does not save him from being a very snob. He lies like ParoUes himself, and even more liasely, when he wants to get out of a scrape. I cannot doubt that it was one of Shakspere's objects in this play to show the utter worthlessness of pride of birth, as he had done in Love's Labours Lost of wit, unless beneath the noble name was a noble soul. As Berowne had to be emptied of the worthless wit he prided himself upon, so had Bertram of his sUly aristocraticness, his all, before he could be filld with the love of the lower-born lady of God's own make, which should lift him to his true height. With a word for the countess who, as Mrs. Jameson says, " is like one of Titian's old ladies, reminding us still amid their wrinkles of that soul of beauty and sensibility which must have animated them when young ;" with a kindly glance at the shrewd, warm-hearted, true, and generous old Lafeu, we take our leave of the last play of Shakspere's delightful Second Period, whose sunshine has gradually clouded to prepare us for the coming storm. I "Helena. That you are well restored, my lord, I 'm glad : Let the rest go ! King. My honour's at the stake," &c.— II. iii. 148. bcviji § 11. SHAKSPBBE-S SONNETS (? 159i-16M; PRINTED 1609) ARB HIMSELF. The Sonnets. — That some of the Sonnets existed in 1598 we know from Meres. Nos. 138, 144, — the key-sonnet, " Two loves I have, of comfort and despair," &c., — were printed in TJie Passionate Pilgrim in 1599; the whole body of them did not appear till 1609, the year of the publication of Troilus and Cressida, both publications beiug evidently without Shakspere's sanction. The Sonnets are dedicated by Thomas Thorpe, the publisher, to the "onlie begetter of these itisuing sonnets," Mr. W. H., to whom Thorpe wishes "all happinesse and that eternitie promised by our ever-living poet." The first question raised on this dedication is, whether the word " begetter " is to be taken ia the ordinary meaning of the man who calld the Sonnets forth from Shakspere's mind, or in its less usual sense of " obtainer, procurer." ^ Those who support the latter view rely on the fact that the first hundred and twenty-six Sonnets only are written to one man, Shakspere's fair friend Will; while the second group, Nos. 127-154, are written to or about Shakspere's dark mistress. (Some make a third group of two Sonnets, Nos. 153, 154, on Cupid.)^ They argue then that there cannot be an " only begetter " of the Sonnets, because there are two begetters." But looking to the facts that the two Cupid Somiets (153-4), are on Shakspere's mistress, that the dark mistress is involved in Shakspere's friendship for Will, and that the relation between them is treated in the first group of Sonnets; seeing that in Sonnets 38 and 78, Shakspere's verse is said to be solely begotten by Will, " whose influence is thine, and born of thee," and is contrasted with Will's influence as but only an improver of other poets' verse (see also No. 100), I think W. H. may fairly be called the "begetter" of the Sonnets. It is certain also that Shakspere promist his friend "eternitie" through his Sonnets : see 18 (1. 9-14), 55, 60 (1. 13-14), 65, 81, 107 (1. 10-14). That the " W." was Will, we know from Sonnets 135, 136, 143. What the " H." meant is a far more difficult question. From the printing of all " hues," as " Jiews " in italics in the original xx. 7, some have supposed that the begetter's name was Hughes.^ Others have decided that the " H." means Herbert — William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, to whom and whose brother the first Folio of Shakspere's works was dedicated by his feUow-players ; while many critics of the topsy-turvy, or cart-before-the-horse school, have decided that " W. H." means "H. W."— Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.— I don't think it matters much who "W. H." was. The great question is, do Shakspere's Sonnets speak his own heart and thoughts or not ? And were it not for the fact that many critics really deserving the name of Shakspere students, and not Shakspere fools, have held the Sonnets to be merely dramatic, I could not have conceived that poems so intensely and evidently autobiographic and self-revealing, poems so one vsith the spirit and inner meaning of Shakspere's growth and life, could ever have been conceived to be other than what they are, the records of his own loves and fears. And I believe that if the acceptance of them as such had not involved the consequence of Shakspere's intrigue with a married woman, all readers would have taken the Sonnets as speaking of Shakspere's own life. But his admirers are so anxious to remove every stain from him, that they contend for a non-natural interpretation of his poems. They forget the difference of opinion between Elizabethan and Victorian times as to those sweet sins of the flesh, where what is said to be stolen is so willingly given.* They forget the cuckoo cry {Love's Labours Lost, end) rising from nearly all Elizabethan literature, and that the intimacy now thought criminal was then in certain circles nearly as common as handshaking is with us. They forget Shakspere's impulsive nature, and his long absence from his home. They will not face the probabilities of the case, or recollect that David was still God's friend though Bathsheba lived. The Sonnets are, in- one sense, Shakspere's Psalms. Spiritual struggles underlie both poets' work. For myself, I 'd accept any number of " slips in sensual mire " on Shakspere's part, to have the "bursts of (loving) heart " given us in the Sonnets. ' If this were the meaning, why should Thorpe say " onJie begetter " ? 2 This airangement by Groups is some evidence that it is Shakspere's own. The so-called Sonnet 126 is only twelve lines of couplet ryme. Sonnet 145 has been supposed spurious, as it's in four- measure ryme instead of five. But it is linkt to 142 and 144. I hold it genuine. The form of Shakspere's Sonnets is less strict than those of the Italian poets. It consists of three four-line stanzas of alternate five measure ryme, ending with a couplet, abab, cdcd, efef, gg. See Mr. C. Tomlinsou's Book on The Sonnets, Murray, 1874. 8. George Chapman had a friend, Master Eobert Hughes. (See the Preface to the Reader, prefixed to his Bonier, Chatto and Windus, pp. 4.) — H. Littledale. * Compare the "William the Conqueror came before Eichard the Third" story, about Shakspere, E. Burbage, and the citizen's wife. § 11. SEAKSPEBKS SONNETS (? 1594-1604). THE FIRST GEOUP OF TSEM, U26. Ixix The true motto for the first group of Shakspere's Sonnets is to be seen in David's words, " I am distresst for thee, my brother Jonathan ; very pleasant hast thou been unto me. Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of woman." We have had them reproduced for us Victorians, without their stain of sin and shame, in Mr. Tennyson's In Memoriam. We have had them again to some extent in Mrs. Browning's glorious Sonnets to her husband, with their iterance, " Say over again, and yet once over again, that thou dost love me." We may look upon the Sonnets as a piece of music, or as Shakspere's 'pathetic sonata,' each melody introduced, dropt again, brought in again with variations, but one full strain of undying love and friendship through the whole. Why could Shakspere say so beautifully for Antonio of Tlie Merchant, "All debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but see you at my death : notwithstanding, use your pleasure " t. Why did he make Antonio of TwelfiltrNight s&j, " A witchcraft drew me hither"? Why did he make Viola declare — " And I most jocund, apt, and -williDgly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die" ? Of every line and trick of his sweet favour ! But now he 's gone, and my idolatrous fancy Must sanctify his relics " ? Why did he paint Helena alone ; saying " 'T was pretty though a plague To see him every hour ; to sit and draw His arched brows, his hawking eyes, his curls. In our heart's table, — heart too capable Because he himself was Helena, Antonio, A witchcraft drew him to a " boy," a youth to whom he gave his " Love without pretension or restraint, All his in dedication." Shakspere towards him was as Viola towards the Duke. He went "After Tiim I love more than I love these eyes. More than my life." In the Sonnets we have the gentle Will, the melancholy mild-eyed man, of the Droeshout' portrait. Shakspere's tender, sensitive, refined nature is seen clearly here, but through a glass darkly in the plays. I have no space to dwell on the sections into which I separate the Sonnets, and which follow in the table below. I will only call special attention to sections 9 and 11/3 (Nos. 71-4, 87-93), in which Shakspere's love to his friend is so beautifully set forth, and to section 13 (ISTos. 97-99), in which Will's flower-like beauty is dwelt on, as Shakspere's love for him, in absence recalled it. Let those who want to realise the difference between one kind of friendship and another, contrast these Sonnets of Shakspere's with Bacons celebrated Essay on Friendship. On this point I quote the first page of a paper sent in to me at my Bedford Lectures : — " There are some men who love for the sake of what love yields, and of these was Lord Bacon ; and there are some who love for ' love's sake,' and loving once, love always ; and of these was Shakspere. These do not lightly give their love, but once given, their faith is incorporate with their being ; and having become part of themselves, to part with that part would be to be dismembered. Therefore if change or sin corrupt the engrafted limb, the only effect is that the whole body is shaken with anguish, ' And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief To bear love's wrongs, than hate's known injury.' — Son. 40. The offending member may be nursed into health, or loved into life again ; but — forsaken ! — never!" — M. J. (P.8.— My friend Mr. T. Alfred Spalding {GenVs Mag., March, 1878) has divided the first group of 126 Sonnets into 3 classes: I. From Familiarity to Friendship (1 to 25); II. Clouds (ending in separation, 26 to 96); III. Reconciliation (97-126). His sections are : 1-14 (familiarity only), 15-25 (deepening affection). II. 26-32 (Sh.'s feelings when separated from Will), 33-38 (Sh. cut to the heart by Will's sensual = selfish act of denying him as a friend), 39 (second absence), 40-42 (WiU's intrigue with S.'s mistress), 43-55 (third absence — reaching to No. 96 — S.'s thoughts centred on his friend), 56-8 (their separation becoming more certain), 59-65 (S. finds relief in his art), 66-74 (unmitigated ' Pronounce " Drooz-howt " : hout is wood. Iyt § U. SSAKSPERE'S SONNETS (? 1594-1601). ANALYSIS OF GROUP I., SONNETS 1-126. gloom ; S. wishes to be out of tlie world), 75-86 (S.'s love for "Will; but by a rival lie is deposed from Will's beart), 87-90 (S.'s love and self-denial ; the cry of an agonised heart), 91-96 (Sh. stm loves Will, through ail his faults). III. Reconciliation (97-126). Mr. Spalding's admirable article is worth most careful study.) The thoughtless objection that many Sonnets in this group confuse the sex of the person they're addresst to, is answerd by Shakspere himself in Sonnet 20 on the master- mistress of his passion. (Prof. Dowden's forthcoming edition of the Sonnets [C. K. Paul & Co.] should be bought). AtfALYSis OF Group 1. Sonnets 1-126. a. 1-17. Will's beauty, and his duty to marry and beget a son. p. 18-25. WiU's beauty, and Shakspere's love for him. First Absence. Shakspere travelling, and away from WiU. Will's sensual fault blamd, repented, and forgiven. Shakspere has committed a fault that will separate him from Will. {? 2nd Absence in 39.) Will has taken away Shakspere's mistress. (See Group 2, § 6, Sonnets 133-6.) a. 43-55. Second Absence. Will absent. Shakspere has a portrait of him. p. 56-8. The sovereign : slave watching : so made by God. y, 59-60. WiU's beauty. 8. 61. Waking and watching. Shakspere has rivals. Shakspere full of self-love, oonquerd by Time, which will conquer WiU too : yet Shakspere wUl secure him eternity. Shakspere (like Hamlet) tired of the world : but not only on pubUc grounds. WiU has mixt with bad company ; but Shakspere is sure he is pure, and excuses him. Shakspere on his own death, and his entire love for his friend. (Compare the death-thoughts in Hamlet and Measure for Measured) Shakspere's love, and always writing on one theme, his WUl, with the present of a table-book dial and pocket looking-glass combined in one, by Sh. to wm. a. 78-86. Shakspere on his rivals in WiU's love. (? G. Cihapman, the rival poet.2) p. 87-93. Shakspere's fareweU to WUl : most beautiful in the self- forgetfulness of Shakspere's love. WiU vicious. Yet Shakspere loves him. Third Absence. WUl's flower-Uke beauty, and Shakspere's love for him ; foUowed by faults on both sides, and a separation', ended by WUl's desire, 120, 1. 11. a. 100-112. Eenewing of love, three years after the first Sonnets (104). Shakspere's love stronger now in its summer than it was in its spring 102, 1. 5; 119, 1. 10-12.* Note the "heU of time," 120, 1. 6, that WiU's unkindness has made Shakspere tio nl. Sonne s 1-25. J) It 2. 3. 4. 26-32. 33-5. 36-9. 5. 6. it 40-2. 43-61. it 7. )j 62-5. )) 8. »j 66-70. t> 9. )j 71-4. 10. ») 75-7. 11. 12. 13. 14. 78-93. 94-6. 97-99. 100-121. ' I do not think that "The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,'' 74, 1. 11, aUudes to an attempt to stab Shakspere. I believe it is the " confounding age's cruel knife " of 63, 1. 10. 2 "The proud fuU saU of his great verse," 86, 1. 1, probably aUudes to the sweUing hexameters of Chapman's engUshing of Homer. " His spirit, by spirits taught to write," 1. 6, may weU refer to Chapman's claim that Homer's spirit inspired him, a claim made, no doubt in words, before its appearance in print in his Tears of Feace, 1609, Inductio, p. 112, col. i., Chatto and Windus ed. — ' I am, said he, [Homer] that spirit Elysian, That did thy hosomfill With sMh a flood of soul, that thou wert fain. With exclamations of h^r rapture then. To vent it to the echoes of the vale . and thou didst inherit My true sense, for the time then, in my And I invisibly went promptiny thee." See, too, on Shakspere's sneer at his rival's "affable famUiar ghost, which nightly guUs him with in- teUigence," 1. 9, 10, Chapman's Dedication to his Shadow of Night (1594), p. 3, "not without having drops of their souls like an heavenly /amJHa?-," and in his Tears of Peace, p. 123, coL 2. Of an unthrifty angel that My simple fancy .^' . . " StiU being persuaded by the shameless night. That aU my reading, writing, aU my pains. Are serious trifles, and the idle veins These make a better case for Chapman being the rival, than has been made for any one else. (Mr. Harold littledale gave me some of these references.) 3 HappUy not ending like that of Sir Leoline and Lord Eoland de Vaux, in Coleridge. * The doctrine here that " ruin'd love, when it isbuUt anew, Grows fairer than at first " was also put into Tennyson's Princess in its " Blessings on the faUing-out, that aU the more endears " ; but was rightly taken out again. 5 " And to be wroth with one we love. Doth work like madness in the brain." — Coleridge. § 11. SBAKSPHBE'S SONNETS (? 1594-1604). ANALYSIS OF GBOVP II., SONNETS 127-154. Ixxl p. 113-114. Fourth Atsenoe. Shakspere sees Will ia all nature, ■y. 115-121. Shakspere describes his love for Will, and justifies himself. Section 15. Sonnets 122-126. Shakspere excuses himself for giving away Will's present of some tahles, again described his love for WiU, and warns Will that he too must grow old. With regard to the second group of Sonnets, we must always keep Shakspere's own words in No. 121 before us : — "I am that I am' ; and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own : I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel ; By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown ; Unless this general evil they maintain, — All men are bad, and in their badness reign." Still I think it is plain that Shakspere had become iavolvd in an intrigue with a married woman who threw him over for his friend Will. She was dark, had beautiful eyes, and was a fine musician, but false. The most repulsive of the Sonnets is no doubt No. 129. But that and the others plainly show that Shakspere knew that his love was his sin (142), and that in his supposed heaven he found helP. Adultery in those days was no new thing, was treated with an indifference that we wonder at now. What was new, is that which Shak- spere shows us, his deep repentance for the sin committed. Sad as it may be to us to be forced to conclude that sh'ame has to be cast on the noble name we reverence, yet let us remember that it is but for a temporary stain on his career, and that through the knowledge of the human heart he gained by his own trials we get the intensest and most valuable records of his genius. It is only those who have been through the mill themselves, that know how hard God's stones and the devil's grind. The Second Group of Sonnets, 127-154, I divide into — 2. 3. 4. 128. 129. 130. 5. IJ 131-2. 6. 1) 133-6. 137-145. Section 1. Sonnet 127. On his mistress's dark complexion, brows, and eyes. (Op. Berowne on his dark Hosaline, in Love's Zaiours Lost.) On her, his music, playing music (the virginals). „ after enjoying her. He laments his weakness. „ a chaffing description of her. (Compare Marlowe's Ignoto ; Lingua, before 1603, in DoAstey, ix. 370 ; and Shirley's Sisters : " Were it not fine," &c.) Tho' plain to others, his mistress is fairest to Shakspere's doting heart. But her deeds are black ; and her black eyes pity him. She has taken his friend Will from him (cp. 40-42). He asks her to restore his friend (134), or to take him as part of her (and his) Will (135). If she 'U but love his name, she'll love him (Shakspere), as his name too is Will (136). Shakspere knows his mistress is not beautiful, and that she 's false, but he loves her (137) Each lies to and flatters the other (138). Still if she '11 only look kindly on him, it 'U be enough (139). She must not look too cruelly, or he might despair and go mad, and tell the world that ill of her that it would only too soon beUeve (140). He loves her in spite of his senses (141). She has broken her bed- vow ; then let her pity him (142). She may catch his friend if she will but give him a smile (143). He has two loves, a fair man, a dark woman who 'd corrupt the man (144, the- Xey Sonnet). She was going to say she hated him, but, seeing his distress, said, not him (146). (? Misplaced.) A remonstrance with himself, on spending too much, either on dress or outward self-indulgence, and exhorting himself to give it up for inward culture. (The blank for two words in line 2, I fill with " Hemmd with : " cp. Venus and Adonis, 1022, " Hemmd with thieves.") Note his belief in the immortality of the soul, declared in 1. 14. Shakspere's feverish love drives him mad, his doctor— Reason, being set aside (147). Love has obscured his sight (148). He gives himself up wholly to his mistress ; loves whom she loves, hates whom she hates (149). The worst of her deeds he loves better than any other's best (150). The more he ougM to hate her, the more he loves her. He is content to be her drudge, for he loves her (151). Yet he 's forsworn, for he 's told lies of her goodness, and she has broken her bed- vow ; he has broken twenty oaths (152). 8. 10. 146 147-8. 149-162. 1 Compare lago's « I am not what I am," in Othello, I i., and ParoUes's " Simply the thing I am shall make me live," in All's Well, IV. iii. 2 Sonnets 119, lines 2, 8 ; 147, lines 1, 14. Ixxu § 11. SHAKSPERE'S SONNETS ARE SIMSELF. § 12. THIRD-PERIOD PLATS: "JULIUS CMSAR." Section 11. Sonnets 153-i. (May be made Gi-oup III., or Division 2 of Group II.) Two sonnets lighter in tone. In both Cupid sleeps, has his brand put out, in (163) a fountain, (154) a well, which the brand turns into medical baths ; Shak- spere comes for cure, to each, but finds none. He wants his mistress's eyes for that (153). Water cools not love (154). The Sonnets stretch, I believe, over many years ; the existence of a few, even the first six-and-twenty in 1598, ■would satisfy Meres's mention. That three years elapsed between the Sonnets 100-112, and certain former Sonnets, is clear from 104. Sonnet 66 must surely be about the Hamlet time ; and the extreme difficulty of constrring some of the Sonnets, for instance, 107 (for which I cannot admit Mr. Massey's interpretation), points to their composition in Shakspere's Third Period. But whatever their date, I wish to say with all the emphasis I can, that in my belief no one can understand Shakspere who does not hold that his Sonnets are autobiographical, and that they explain the depths of the soul of the Shakspere who wrote the plays. I know that Mr. Browning is against this view, and holds that if Shakspere did " unlock his heart in his Sonnets," then " the less Shakspere he." But I 'd rather take, on this question, the witness of the greatest poetess of our Victorian, nay of all time yet, and ask whether she was the less, or the greater and truer, Elizabeth Barrett Browning^, or poet, because she unlockt Iter heart in /jer Sonnets,^ or because she " went forward and confessed to her critics that her poems had her heart and life in them, they were not empty shells ! " "I have done my work, so far, as work, — not as mere hand and head work, apart from the personal being, — but as the completest expression of- that being to which I could attain " (Pref. ed. 1844). And this is why she has drawn to her all noble souls. If any poet has failed in attaining the like result, let him know that it is because he has not used her means. He has kept his readers outside him, and they in return have kept him outside them, not taking him, as they 've taken her, into their hearts. It is the heart's voice alone that can stir other hearts. I always ask that the Sonnets should be read between the Second and Third Periods, for the " hell of time " of which they speak, is the best preparation for the temper of that Third Period, and enables us to understand it. The fierce and stern decree of that Period seems to me to be, " there shall be vengeance, death, for misjudgment, failure in duty, self-indulgence, sin," and the innocent who belong to the guilty shall suffer with them : Portia, Ophelia, Desdemona, Cordelia, lie beside Brutus, Hamlet, Othello, Lear. Julius C^sae. — "We pass from the friendship of two private Englishmen to one of the great events, the centres of the world's history, the fall of the Roman Republic, the rise of the Roman Empire, that Empire so long the dominant power of the ancient world, and whose influence is so deeply felt even in our modem life. There is no question more of rivals for the love of a now unknown Will, for the favour of a forgotten swarthy mistress ; it is the world's throne that has to be struggled for, the fate of nations that has to be settled ; and yet, still, over the strife, comes to us the paind cry of the betrayd friend " Et tu Brute," and Caesar's heart bursts. The same cry is to reach us from almost every one of Shakspere's future plays with more or less intensity — from Hamlet's father and Hamlet himself ; from Othello and Roderigo ; from Duncan and Banquo ; from Lear and Edgar and Gloster (in Lear) ; from Antony and Octavius ; from Coriolanus, Timon ; from Palamon (if Shakspere wrote part of Two Nohle Kinsmen) and Prosper© ; from Posthumus and Belarius (in Cymbelhie). While beside the false friends stand the true ones, Antony to ' " Honour, again, to the singers of brief poems, to the lyrists and sonnetteers I 0, Shakespeare, let thy name rest gently among them, perfuming the place. We ' swear ' that these sonnets and songs do verily breathe, ' not of themselves, but thee ; ' and we recognise and bless them as short sighs from thy large poetic heart, burdened with diviner inspiration." ..." Sidney, true knight, and fantastic poet, whose soul did too curiously inquire the fashion of the beautiful — the fashion rather than the secret, — but left us in one line, the completest Ars Poetica extant — ' Foole, sayde my Muse to mee, lookc in thine heart, mid write' thy name be famous in all England and Arcadia ! And Ealeigh, tender and strong, of voice sweet enough to answer that ' Passionate Shepherd,' yet trumpet-shriU to speak the ' Soul's errand' thrilling the depths of our own!" . . . — English Poets, pp. 143-5, ed. 1863. This is the teaching that such of our modern poets as are not mere tinkling cymbals, but have souls, need, and that the student of Shakspere's Sonnets must recollect. Is Shakspere the less for having unlockt his heart in his Sonnets ? It's only folk less than the noble poetess, who think so. 2 Is not Mr. Tennyson's heart in his In Memoriam 1 § 12. TEIRH-PERIOD FLATS: "JULIVS CJESAR," 1601. Jsriii Caesar ; Horatio to Hamlet ; Cassio to Othello ; Macduff to Malcolm ; Kent and the Fool to Lear ; the Steward to Timon ; Paulina to Hermione. Friendship was much in Shakspere's thoughts. The lesson of Julius Gcesar is, that vengeance, death, shall follow rebellion for insufficient cause, for misjudging the political state of one's country, and misjudging the means — taking unlawful ones — to attain your ends : Do not evU that good may come. The play is one of that class by which Shakspere taught political lessons to his countrymen. What made Shakspere produce this historical play in 1601 ? We know its date by an extract from Weever's Mirror of Martyrs, 1601, no doubt written when the play was quite fresh in people's minds : — " The many-headed multitude were drawn I When eloquent Mark Antony had shown By Brutus' speech, that Caesar was ambitious : | His virtues, who but Brutus then was vicious ? " As there is nothing in Plutarch's Lives that could have suggested this, Weever must have known Shakspere's play. — What happened in England in 1601 to make Shakspere anxious to enforce the lesson of it 1 Why, Essex's ill-judged rebellion against Queen Elizabeth, on Sunday, Feb. 8, 1601. He, the queen's most petted favourite and general, broke out in armd rebellion against her in London. His outbreak was ridiculously ill-advised. He was taken prisoner, tried, and executed on February 25, 1601. And I cannot doubt that this rebellion was the reason of Shakspere's producing his Julius Ccesar in 1601. Assuredly the citizens of London in that year who heard Shakspere's play must have felt the force of " Ut tu Brute," and must have seen Brutus's death, with keener and more home-felt influence than we feel and hear the things with now. Among Essex's friends was that Lord Southampton, to whom Shakspere dedicated both his Venus in 1593, and Lucrece in 1594 : the latter thus : — " The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end ; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours ; being part in aU I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater ; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with happiness. " Your lordship's in all duty, , "William Shakespeare." For his share in the rebellion, Southampton was imprisond in the Tower (and was not set free tiU after Elizabeth died, in March, 1603), so that we must believe that the whole matter came home to Shakspere's heart, though I feel sure that Shakspere as a patriot, with his intense love for England, preferrd his country to his patron, and told the world too, by his new play, what his feelings were. If, too, Shakspere's company, through Augustine PhUlipps, one of its members with whom the contract was made, was the company that acted Bichwrd II. in the streets for Essex and his party, the actors would be most desirous to prove their loyalty by producing this new play, with its lesson of vengeance on conspirators. I cannot give-in to the notion that Shakspere didn't allude to political events in his plays. We know he did to women's painting their faces and wearing sham hair, to men's absurd dresses and drunkenness, (fee. &c. Why not then to greater things ? He, with his intense patriotism and love of England. To say that he didn't, is all gammon and pooh. Julius Csesar is not the hero of the play : Brutus is ; yet Csesar's spirit rules, as Cassius and Brutus before their deaths acknowledge. As Gloster's murder in 2 Henry VI. is the turning-point of that quadrilogy, as Arthur's death is the turning-point of King John, so here Csesar's murder is the centre and hinge of the play. His death overcomes his conquerors. His bodily presence is weaik and contemptible, but his spirit rises, arms his avengers, and his assassins proclaim its might. -His successor, .Octavius, inherits the empire he created but did not enjoy. Csesar prevails. The C8esa;r of the play is not the great conqueror of Britain (did Shakspere make him despicable for that fj but Csesar, old, decaying, failing both in health and mind. His long success has ruind his character, has turned his head. He fancies himself not a man as other men. He thinks, as Professor Dowden says, that he can read other men with a look : Cassius he does, but the soothsayer and the conspirators he does not. In Act I., sc. ii., he speaks of himself in the third person; he swoons when the crown is offered to him; he opens his doublet and offers his throat to be cut; just like a stage-actor. He has the falling sickness, or epilepsy; Ixxiv § 12. TEIBD-PERIOD PLAYS: "JULIUS CXSAB," 1601. CHARACTER OF BRUTUS. " EAMLBT," 1601-4. he's deaf in one ear, superstitious, pompous, arrogant, and boastful. He accepts flattery ■when professing to be above it ; he vacillates, though he says he 's constant, &c. On the other hand, Brutus is one of Shakspere's noblest men, if not the noblest. We have him first as a friend to Csesar, telling him of the soothsayer : "I love him well," he says (Act I., sc. ii.); "Brutus's love to Csesar was no less than his." Yet he is not gamesome ; he 's vext and at war with himself ; he thinks he is not the man to set the times right, yet if honour calls him he must act : he has thought before of the troubles coming on the State, and would rather be a villager, a pagan, than in Rome under a king. Yet he is no judge of men ; he cannot see that Cassius is playing on him as on a pipe ; he misjudges Antony, and always takes the wrong steps in action. He wants insight and reasoning power, and agrees to join in the murder of Julius Csesar on a supposition only : — " He would te orown'd." " How that might change his nature, there 's the question." It is a parallel to the argument — " support the Sodom of Turkey and oppose Russia, for fear the Sclavs may some day get to Constantinople and cause unpleasantness to us." Brutus is, in fact, somewhat vain of his hereditary character and his own personal one. Blinded by this vanity, which is shown, too, in the putting himself forward to speak about Csesar's death, and, being convinced that no one can answer him, he gives in to Cassius's temptation and the flattery of the appeal to him. He is too noble or too pedantic, too ignorant of human nature, to allow the oath to be taken by the conspirators, or have Mark Antony killed. He cannot see what is necessary in practice, that Csesar's limbs should go with Csesar. His stupid misjudgment of Mark Antony arises from looking at the mere outside of the man, because he's given to sports, to wildness, and much company, and is not a grave student like Brutus himself. His treatment of Cassius, too, is ungenerous, when he scolds the latter for getting gold by bad means, tho' he, Brutus, had before askt for some of it, and grumbled when it was not given him. His want of practical knowledge is again shown in his over-ruling Cassius's wis^ advice about the battle at Philippi, and then throwing away the battle by letting his soldiers plunder Octavius's camp instead of attacking Antony who (great soldier as he was) had beaten Caasius. Yet, with all the deductions we have to make from Brutus's character, there remains one of the noblest figures in Shakspere. Nature stands up and says to all the world, " This was a man," setting him by Hamlet's father; and when we put his notion of honour beside Hotspur's or Henry the Fifth's, we see how much finer a nature the Roman's was than that of our English heroes, and we do not wonder that the man who dying says : — " My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me " — is set down as "the noblest Roman of them all." It was under the burden of setting right his time, that he, unfit to bear that burden, sank, and died by his own hand. And in sharing the strain of that burden on him, his noble wife died too, self-slaughtered. A word must suffice to refer the reader to Professor Dowden's beautiful passage on the glorious scene between Brutus and his wife, pure soul to soul, no thought of earthly dallying between them. Note the lift from the scene between Hotspur and his Kate. The play was first printed in the Folio of 1623, and is drawn from part of Plutarch's Lives of Julius Csesar, Brutus, and Antony, printed in Hazlitt, Part I., vol. iii., pp. 171-253, 315-418. See also my friend Prof. Skeat's Shakspere's Plutarch, MacmUlan & Co. Hamlet. — ^We pass fi-om the seven-hilld city, so long the empress of the world, to "Denmarke, the whyche is a very poore countre, bare, and full of penurite'," and yet a country which, like Rome, conquered England. " The Danes hath bene good warryers, but for theyr poverte I do marueyle how they dyd get ones Englonde. They be subtyll- wytted, and they do proU muche about to get a prey." Of Elsinore, Miss Deedes says : — "Many a warm and starlight summer's eve have I passed sitting on the rocks, below the ramparts of the castle. Who could describe the perfection of such a scene and such a situation? The calm sea rippling at one's feet; opposite, the blight lights of the ' 1642. Andrew Boorde, p. 163 of my edition. § 12. TSIRD-PHSIOB PLATS: "HAMLET," 1601-4. Ixxv Swedish town ; and nearer still the many-coloured lanterns of the numerous ships anchored and at rest for the night. Above, the shining stars, excelliug in beauty, purity, and brightness all earthly lights ; ia one's ears the great silence of a summer's night, broken only by the musical whisper of the rippling waves, the chimes from the town, and the bells in the ships as the midnight hour draws near. Behind, the grim old walls, whereon it is not difficult to imagine 'that one sees the dark figures of Hamlet and his friends, and the shadowy vision of the ghost ; or to fancy one's ear saluted with the ' Who goes there?' of the sentry, the wild pleading of Hamlet, and the sepulchral tones of his supernatural visitor." But it is on no sweet summer's eve that Shakspere, with his sense of nature's sympathy with man, has put his Hamlet; biting winter is the time for that. Let us first .tho' look at the links with Julius Ccesar, links of likeness as wel/ as contrast. There are first, three mentions of Julius Csesar in the play by Horatio, in I. i. ; Polonius, in III. ii. ; Hamlet, in V. i. Then there is the burden of setting right the times out of joint, put as a duty on a student, a man who knows himself unfit for the burden, and who in bearing it brings death to himself and the woman who loves him, her mind giving way under the strain. 3. As Antony has to revenge his friend Csesar's murder, so Hamlet and Laertes have to revenge their fathers' murders ; and Laertes accepts his duty as willingly as Antony does. 4. A ghost appears in each play. 5. Antony's character of Brutus after death is like that of Hamlet's father. 6. Brutus's words to Messala in Act IV., sc. iii., of Julius Ccesa/r on Portia's death "we must die," " she must die once," are like Gertrude's and Claudius's to Hamlet on his father's death, "all that lives must die," &c. 7. Hamlet's making his speech of a dozen or sixteen lines the turning-point of his vengeance is like Brutus and Antony both making their speeches the turning-point of their action. 8. Hamlet's feeling before his fencing-match is just like Cassius's and Brutus's before PhilippL 9. Hamlet lovd plays, as Antony did, &c. Besides, there are other small likenesses, as that of the oath taken by Hamlet's friends, and proposed to be taken by Brutus's ; the murder of Claudius, the usurper of the crown, aiid the murder of Csesar, the intending usurper ; Hamlet reading a book and Brutus reading a book, &C. The links of contrast : We have Hamlet with weakness of will, Brutus with weakness of judgment ; Hamlet quick to resolve but slow to act in his great duty, Brutus slow to resolve but quick to act; Hamlet a good shaper of means to end, Brutus a bad, always wrong in practice ; Hamlet with no man but Horatio true to him, Brutus with no man ever false to him; Hamlet and his Ophelia to be pitied, Brutus and his Portia to be reverenced. The links with the Sonnets 66 and 90 I have already alluded to. The strong ones with Measure for Measu/re will be noted hereafter ; this group of three plays is firmly bound together. Of links with earlier plays we need only notice the Conscience-passage here and in Bichard III. Hamlet's grand resolves and speeches, with nothing coming of them, are just like Richard the Second's; and in many points Hamlet is close akin to Romeo. The motto which I would set at the head of Hamlet is three hues from Mr. Tennyson's " Supposed Con- fessions of a second-rate, sensitive mind not in unity with itself," from his Poems Chiefly Lyricdl, 1830 :— ' ' Oh weary life ! oh weary death ! Oh spirit and heart made desolate ! Oh damnfed vaeiUating'state." In judging the character of Hamlet, and getting rid of the gross absurdity of repre- senting him as a hero, a man of action and decision, whose hesitation was due only to want of conviction of his duty, we must look at the old story of the prose Hamlet of 1608', and recollect that the Hamlet there was the unhesitating man of action. Though ' Though this date of publication is five years later than that of the play, yet nearly aU students allow that the piece here represents the old story that Shakspere used. It is printed in Sazlitt, Pt. I., vol. ii., pp. 224-279, and was englisht from Belief orest's Siatoirea Tragiqwa, which was translated from the Italian of Bandello. That there was an earlier play of Samlet, which Shakspere may have used, too, is certain. The first and spurious Quarto of Shakspere's play (which I believe to be his first sketch — see my Forewords to Griggs's Facsimile, Bs. — with patches by a botcher) was publisht in 1603 ; the second genuine one, the real Samlet, containing most important passages not in the Folio, was issued in 1604 ; the third, printed from Q. 2, in 1605 ; the fourth, printed from Q. 3, in 1611. The Folio text is from an altered copy of Q. 2. The first entry of the play on the Stationers' Registers is on July 26, 1602, by James Robertes: " A booke called The Revenge of Hamlet. Prince [of] Denmarke, as yt was latelie acted by the Lord Chamberlayne his servantes. . . .vj''" See Arber's Transcript, iii. 212. Ixxvi § 12. THIRD-PERIOD PLATS: "HAMLET," 1601-4. HAMLET'S YOUNG LIFE. this story gave Shakspere the incidents of the murder of the father, the adulterous incest and subsequent marriage of the mother and uncle, the shamming madness of the son, with the method of it, " a greate and rare subtyllte," the attempt to find out his secret by a " faere and beautifuU " woman in a secret place, Hamlet's interview with his mother with some one listening behind the arras, the " a rat, a rat," the reproach of the mother by the son, the sending Hamlet to England with two of the murderer's ministers to be killed, and Hamlet's revenge on them, it yet brings Hamlet back after a year in England to sweep to his revenge, to make all the nobles who took part with his uncle drunk, and burn them in the wine-hall, and to cut- his uncle's head clean off his shoulders. This man Shakspere resolved to turn into the hesitating, philosophising, duty-shirking, excuse- seeking Hamlet he has given us, a type of the weakness of every one amongst us, as he changed the first queen's clear justification of herself, and her acting with Hamlet to accomplish his revenge, into the doubtful conduct of Gertrude ; and the frank confession of the woman set to betray Hamlet, into the questionable sharing of Ophelia in her father's plans. The description above of Hamlet's home at Elsinore, his own account of his rides on the jester Yorick's back, of his noble father, of his mother's affection for him, show how happy the boy's home must have been, and how well he understood the beauty of this " brave o'erhanging firmament," and " what a piece of work is man ! how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable ! " Trained he was in all exercises of arms and knightly deeds. " Out of Denmarke," says Andrew Boorde, " a man may go intc Saxsony ; the chefe cyte or town of Saxsony is Witzeburg, whych is a vnyuersite." Thither — to Luther's University — Hamlet went, surrounded by friends. The best fencer in the place, he delighted in the tragedians more than the humorous man and the clown, and, if we may believe Shakspere, was as good a critic of acting as Shak- spere himself. These three years he has noted the age. It is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe ; and down the notes go in the student's tables, of those ills " that make calamity of so long life, the whips and scorn of time," &c. On this young university-man comes the terrible blow of his idolised father's death. I call him young, as his father does, as he himself, Polonius, Laertes, and Ophelia do too ; for though he is thirty at the end of the few months of the play, yet he cannot be more than about twenty when the play begins.^ He goes home, and with his mother, like Niobe all tears, follows his poor father's body to the grave. The election to the throne, not by the rabble, but no doubt by a council of the nobles, follows. Hamlet makes no sign ; his uncle, whom he suspects of foul play, pops in between the election and his hopes. He still neither watches that uncle nor his mother. He grieves and meditates' and falls in love. He moons and spoons. His answer to his father shows what has engaged his thoughts, "with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love." In his " weakness and his melancholy " he is alone, and throws himself on Ophelia's bosom. His mother has sought her comfort too, and married her seducer within a month of her first and noble husband's death. This second blow crushes Hamlet's already downcast spirit. His impulse is to run away, to go back to school in Wittemberg, to friends, tragedians, and note-books. But weak and melan- choly, he weakly gives way to the asking of the mother he despises, and stays at court, but still with no thought of action; all he desires is, to evaporate, or, if he had the pluck or want of conscience, to kill himself. Does not one want a Friar Laurence to cry out as to Romeo, " Art thou a man, thy tears are womanish ? why raU'st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth's thy noble shape is but a form of wax, digressing from the valour of a man ? " One must insist on this, that before any revelation of his father's 1 Thia inconsistency in Hamlet's age needn't trouble any one. It's just like the few days for 3 months in The Merchant, Desdemona speaking after she 's stifled, Bohemia having a sea-coast in Winter's Tale, &c. &c. So long as Shakspere got his main point, his characters right, he didn't care twopence for accidentals. 2 In a capital Paper, "The case of Hamlet the Younger" (Galaxy, April, 1870), by my friend Mr. Richard Grant White, the editor of Shakspere, the same view of Hamlet that I take, was before taken". Mr. Hargrove too has, in his Lectures, he says, often taken this view. Mr. Grant White so well says, p. 637, of Hamlet, " his was one of those naturesinto which wronff enters Me a thorn, to wound and rankle, not as a spur to rouse endeavour." But the "forbidding the chief actor not to mock Polonius " (p. 639) was of course ironical, like the traditional "don't duck him in the horsepond," "don't nail his ears to the post " :— the latter, by the way, was the regular thieves' punishment : the culprit was given a knife, so that he might free himself by cutting his ear, or a bit of it off, when he got tired of standing by his post. (Wittemberg was Luther's university, and on its church, Oct. 31, 1517, he stuck his 95 Theses.) §12. THIBD-PERIOB PLATS: " RAMLET," 1601-4. HAMLET'S WEAKNESS. Ixxvil murder is made to Hamlet, before any burden of revenging that murder is laid upon him, he thinks of suicide as a welcome means of escape, from this fair world of God's, made abominable to his diseasd and weak imagination by his mother's lust, and the dishonour done by her to his father's memory. This is the first, as it will be hereafter the main thing in his thoughts, this the act which he wUl first revenge, and with a will, leaving the vengeance for the murder of his father to the framing of that Providence who " shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will," and who turns the poisond point meant by the murderer for Hamlet's own bosom, into that murderer's breast. While Hamlet waits for his father's ghost, he explains to us his own character. He carries the stamp of one defect, weakness of will, which doubts the noble substance of his nature to his own scandal ; and twice again during the play Shakspere reads for us the riddle of his hero's character, in the Player-king's speech on Purpose, and Claudius's on Prompt Action to Laertes. The terrible secret of his father's murder is reveald to Hamlet; and he swears he 'U sweep to his revenge. Is he apt to do so, or duller than the fat weed that rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf 1 Surely the latter. For what does Hamlet do 1 He denounces first his mother (she's uppermost in his thoughts), second his uncle, third he makes an entry in his taloles,' fourth he gets hysterical, laughs and jokes, and says he '11 go pray, fifth he frames a plan of shamming madness, and swears his friends not to reveal its. cause; sixth, he laments that the burden of revenge which he has just so gladly accepted is put on him. Surely the queen might have commented on his answer to his father with " the gentleman doth protest too much, methinks," and surely he, instead of cursing spite, might have recollected with Helena — " The fated skj Gives us free scope ; only doth hackward pull Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull." We know well how all Scandinavian legend and history are full of the duty of revenge for a father's murder. We know what Hamlet should have done to sweep to his "revenge. The king teUs us, Laertes shows us. Hamlet's own reflection on the peasant and courtier, the queen's " you false Danish dogs," the k;ing's precautions, Laertes's example, all show us how Hamlet, greatly loved by the people, with his friend Horatio more an antique Roman than a Dane, and Marcellus, could have raised the country in a few days, and dethroned Claudius. But that was not the character Shakspere meant to draw. Instead of that, instead of the warrior king's son, in his righteous wrath, sweeping to his revenge, we have the picture of him that Ophelia's exaggeration limns : — '■ " Pale as his sHrt, his knees Imocking each other, ■ And with a look so piteous in purport, As if he had been loosed out of hell." He has sought her to look through her, after Caesar's manner, and see whether she is true to him. He seeks her help ; the man who should be strong, from the woman who is weak; But there is no Juliet, Portia, Viola, Helena, Isabella, to rise in the strength of woman's love, in the readiness of woman's wit, and string again the unstrung mind^, re-nerve the unnervd hand. He has chosen her whose name is Help, but he has chosen wrongly, and help from her comes none. His is the blame, not hers. Mother and love have fa^d him, but his books are left, and to them he turns. " Look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading." Still, neither his troubles nor his books have taken the tang out of his tongue, and his sarcasms convince Polonius that though this be madness, ' See a copy of the note-hook Shakspere meant in the Writing Tables, &c., 1581, in the British Museum. 2 This is all towards Hamlet's fancied madness that I can admit. The mad theory, Shakspere has amswerd himseH. He has shown us who held it, the old fool and the women. And he has also shown us who didn't hold it, the man with a head on his shoulders, Claudius. I accept Shakspere's judgment, mad doctors and Co. notwithstanding. Mr., Grant White says, p. 639: "Indeed, he accused himself of insanity to divers persons until almost the day of his death ; a sure evidence, if they had but known it, that he was not mad : and, indeed, so weak was his purpose that he confessed with particularity to Guildenstem and Eosencrantz, as well as to Horatio 3,nd to his mother, that he was feigning madness for a purpose. He was too weak and incontinent of soul even to keep his own great secret, but went about making others swear that they would keep it for him." My friend Mr. Hargrove presses the hysteria on me, from certain experiences of his own. He says too, •' It is not Hamlet's mind that is unstrung, but his nerves, and the wild behaviour after the Ghost- scene and Play-scene is simply so much escape of accumulated nervous force.^^ I cannot thmk any account of Hamlet complete which does not bring in the word hysteria or ' hysterical.' " Ixxviii § 12. THISD-TERIOD PLATS: '• HAMLET," 1601-1. EAMLETS SOLILOQUY AND PLAT. yet there 's mettod in it. Then come the players ; and the genuine emotion shown by the reciter, reveals to Hamlet " what a rogue and peasant slave he is, a dull and muddy- metalld rascal; pigeon-liverd, and an ass, that he, the son of a dear father murderd, prompted to his revenge by heaven and hell, must like a whore unpack his heart with words." Surely every epithet he here applies to himself is richly deservd. What is the use of his " words, words, words," and such lots of tall ones, when all one wants of him is one act? Then at the end of his big talk comes "about my brains," to frame that paltry excuse for delay, delay : " the spirit may be a devil." Where is Friar Laurence again, with his " Art thou a man ? " Then comes the second great suicide and world-evil soliloquy which was summd up in the Tennyson motto for the play, and which Sonnets 66 and 90 re-echo. The two — this speech and the former suicide one — should be carefully compared. lb. the second, the iucestuous love of Hamlet's mother as the cause of his life-weariness, has given place to the general evUs of the world. His reason for not killing himself is no longer God's canon against self-slaughter, but that the dread of something after death puzzles the will. And then he degrades conscience'' into identity with this same dread, and seems to oifer it as his excuse for letting his resolution to sweep to his revenge, " lose the name of action." This is a mere subterfuge and bit of self-deceit. He will not fight because he may have bad dreams. He will not kill himself because he 's' afraid of something after death. He has neither Macbeth's pluck to jump the life to come, nor MacMahon's " J'y suis, j'y reste," using gun and sword the while. In his second interview with Ophelia, he turns to her at first with gentle words and affection. These are curdled into bitterness and brutality by her offer to return his gifts, not by his fancied seeing of her father behind the arras ; for there is no trace in the play of any change of tone after he 's askt her about Polonius ; nothing like his Guildenstem and Rosencrantz taunt " 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe 1 " He harps still on Ophelia's marriage, and the harlot's face-painting, (so often scolded by Shakspere,) tricks and wantonness. He developes his first " bawd " hint, seeing Ophelia through Gertrude's lust, and says no word of her lie and treachery to him which he is supposed to have just discoverd. Then he turns stage-manager or elocution-master for a while. Isn't there something childish in this just like his boyish glee at the success of his play-stratagem ? Is he not a pipe for fortune's, nay, whim's finger, to_|sound what stops she pleases ? Well, the play succeeds ; the king's guilt is unkennelld. Hamlet is sure that his uncle was his father's murderer. Why didn't he stab Claudius as he fled convicted, conscience- stricken, before his whole court? StUl, of course, Hamlet sweeps to his revenge directly after ! Oh, no. He quotes two little bits of poetry, chuckles over the success of his stratagem, and calls for a tune. He's acted enough for the present, and can chaff his father's murderer. The killing of him can stand over; no hurry about that : "most lame and impotent conclusion." Still there is one thing that Hamlet really wants to do; convict his mother of her baseness. She gives him the opportunity, and after a brilliantly sarcastic exposure of his innocently' treacherous friends, he at once seizes the chance; but first he must have some more tall words, must lash himself up to act, and indulge in some jnore self-deception : — " Now could I drink hot Wood, And do such bitter business as the day "Would quake to look on." Of course " the poor wretch " could no more do it than fly over the moon ; but big words are a relief to such weak creatures.* On his road to his mother he finds the king at that pathetic prayer of his, the most touching piece in. the play, and has an easy chance of performing his vow. He will do it ; but then he thinks, and then he won't do it. His former uncertainties about heaven and hell have been cleard up, he knows all about the conditions of entry to both, and i£ he kUls the murderer on his knees he '11 send him to heaven.* So, to avoid this, he keeps him for hell : a mere excuse of course for delay. His ' See the text as against the meaning ordinarily given to the word and passage. * I suppose Claudius used Eosencrantz and Guildenstem, as Polonius used Ophelia. ' There's a little author now living who does a good deal of this mouthing in both verse and prose, to make up for his weakness. * The theory that this was a genuine excuse, is answerd by Laertes sajdng that he'd cut the throat of Ms father's murderer in the church. § 12. TSIRD-FEBIOD PLATS: " HAMLUT," 1601-4. HAMLETS WORDS, NOT DEEDS. Ixxix mind is full of his motlier. This duty of revenge is a bore to him, and has almost died out of his mind ; any excuse will do to be rid of it. If he could but get over it by accident now, what a blessing it would be ! He hopes he has done so, but his victim is Polonius, and he considers the poor old man just a nuisance happily got out of the way.' Note the almost brutal words in which he talks of Polonius afterwards, and the delightfully cool and self-deceiving way in which he puts the blame of his rash murder of Polonius on Heaven : — " But heaven hath pleased it so, To punish me with this, and this with me. That I must he their scourge and minister." Still, Hamlet with his mother, is Hamlet in his nobleness and strength. Her dis- graceful adultery and incest, and treason to his noble father's memory, Hamlet has felt in his inmost soul. Compared to their ingrain die, Claudius's murder of his father — notwithstanding all his protestations — is only a skin-deep stain. And against his mother and her sin all the magnificent indignation of his purity and virtue speak. We forget his blood-stained hands in the white-heat intensity of his words. While thus gratifying his own impulse — righteous though it be — his father's ghost comes again, to remind him of his first, though his oft-forsaken, duty, and to shield the now-sufiering wife that he, the ghost, when in the flesh, had loved with such sweet fond love. The latter purpose of the ghost Hamlet carries out ; he changes his tone to his mother, tells her what he 'd have her do, abstain from his uncle's bed (which she evidently doesn't do), gets her to promise secrecy to him — a promise that she keeps — and trusts her with his resolve to countermine Eosencrantz and Guildenstern's supposed treacherous schemes* against him. Result : mother and son are at one again, and remain so. Hamlet has resolvd to take revenge on two men who he thinks have betrayd him. Perhaps that '11 train him to revenge his father's murder, after his fresh declaration that that father's " form and cause conjoind, preaching to stones, would make them capable." Yes, stones, but not Hamlet.' After fresh sarcasms against those " sponges," Rosencrantz and GuUdenstern, and grimly humorous sayings over poor Polonius's corpse, Hamlet, unworthy son of gallant father, sees young Fortinbras, worthy son of worthy father, marching for honour's sake against Poland; and now Hamlet looks himself once more fairly in the face, as to his breach of duty, his want of real love to his father. His indignation against his mother's want of love to that father he has given vent to. . Now, perhaps, he can clearly see Ms own want of love to that father, his failure in duty towards him. He does see it. He owns, in the fine speech that 's only in Quarto 2, that he has " cause, and will*, and strength, and means " to do his duty. And still what is his conclusion ? Deeds 1 No ; words again : — " O from this time forth, My thoughts he hloody, or he nothing worth." — (In Quarto 2 only.) Well, Hamlet sets sail for England. He believes his two school-fellows are in a plot to murder hiTn ; and of course they need difierent treatment at his hands from the man ' Compare the same feeling in Hamlet's remonstrance with Laertes in Ophelia's grave (V. i. 312, 313), ' ' What is the reason that you vex me thus ? I loved you ever. " 'I've only killed your father. You really shouldn't be put out ahout a trifle Uke that. It 's unreasonable.' ' The complicity of his school-fellows in the king's plan is hardly possible. Claudius was not the man to let his scheme ooze out into the sponges he used. He 'd not show them the message they cairied, before he sealed it. 3 S. T. Coleridge (I am glad to have just found, Deo. 21, 1880) took in 1812 the view that I do : see the report of his 12th Lecture on Shakspere in J. P. Collier's Seven Lectures on Shakspere and Milton, by 8. T. C. (1856), p. 142 : — " The poet places him [Hamlet] in the most stimulating circumstances that a human being can be placed in. He is the heir apparent of a. throne ; his father dies suspiciously ; his mother excludes her son from his throne by marrying his uncle. This is not enough; but the ghost of the murdered father is introduced to assure the son that he was put to death by his own brother. What is the effect upon the son? Instant action and pursuit of revenge? No: endless reasoning and hesitating — constant urging and solicitations of the mind to act, and as constant an escape from action ; ceaseless reproaches of .himself for sloth and negligence, while the whole energy of his resolution evaporates in these reproaches. This, too, not from cowardice, for he is drawn as one of the bravest of his time— not from want of forethought or slowness of apprehension, for he sees through the very souls of all who surround him — but merely from that aversion to action which prevails among such as have a world in themselves." * That is, Hamletian will, in words. Ixxr § 12. TEISD-PEBIOD PLATS: •'HAMLET,' 1601-4 "INFLRM OF PURPOSE." wlio murderd his father; his vengeance on them — their punishment — must not be put off; so he cleverly makes their death safe forthwith, and finds out the king's villainous plot against himself. Will this fresh personal wrong make Hamlet " sweep to his revenge " at his first fresh chance? We shall see. A pirate chases them. Hamlet shows the old Viking blood and is taken prisoner. His captors land him in Denmark ; he sends for Horatio, and says "to-morrow" he'll see the king. He seems to put off "to-morrow," and, evidently before going to court, strolls into a graveyard, and, after his old manner, moralises on what he sees there. Then comes the knowledge that Ophelia is dead, and his ranting outburst about his love for her. Can we believe it genuine ? Surely not to anything like the extent he professes. No doubt he had loved her more than Laertes had. But his frothy speech shows how little solid love there was underneath it. Next we have Hamlet's talk with Horatio about carrying out his long-deferred vengeance on Claudius, his conviction that the time for its being done is short, but that the " interim " is his. Polonius, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Ophelia — aU who plotted against him — are by his means dead. When is the other, Claudius, his father's murderer to follow too? Still he forms no plan ; still he leaves the performance of his duty to chance or Providence. And it is Claudius, not Hamlet, that plans the plot for his own death. To Hamlet, anything, any amusement that'll delay the fulfilment of his vow, is still welcome. He can indulge in his old sarcasms, undertake a fencing match to please the man he thinks he means to kill. Yet a shadow of coming ill is on him ; a feeling of fatalism comes over him ; " the readiness is all." But is he ready ? Yes, to give his life, to give his life, which has been long his burden, much more willingly out of the way of duty than in it. We are glad that he asks Laertes's pardon, sorry that he makes a lying excuse for his rudeness to him. And then this "brother's wager" is played. The erring queen dies first, poisond by her guilty husband's means. Hamlet learns that he has not half an hour to live ; and then at last does " sweep to his revenge," and sends his father's murderer to heU. Laertes reaps the due reward of his treachery, though asking and getting Hamlet's forgiveness. Hamlet lives to save Horatio from the death his friendship prompts him to share with his friend ; to poiat out a fitter successor to the throne than ever he himself could have made ; and then with all his failings and all his virtues dies. In death he 's done his duty ; and nothing but that could have made him do it. Still tho', " in- cestuous " comes before " murderous," as he denounces Claudius ; and it 's " Follow my mother," not " my father," it 's " Wretched queen, adieu ! " " Horatio, report me and my cause aright," with no mention of his father, tho' Laertes had just named his. And Horatio, who is honest, put forth no such defence for his friend as Hamlet's modem admirers do : he speaks only of, " in this upshot, purposes mistook, fallen on the inventors' heads." The folk who admit no imperfection in Hamlet, first pity him — as we all must — then they love him, and then they glorify him. But, admitting his claims on our pity, on our admiration, for his brilliant intellectual gifts — penetration, wit, humour, sarcasm, reflection — his courage and his virtues, we must find Mm " infirm of purpose : " " unstable as water, he shall not excel." In his diseasd view of the beauties of God's earth and its inhabitants, and of life ; his shirkings of duty, his puttings-off, his making grand subterfuge-full excuses for them ; in his uncertainties about the mystery of death and the future world, Hamlet but typifies each one of us, at some time or other of our Kves. Who is there of us that has not known that " weary life," that " weary death," that "damned vacillating state"? And this is the secret of the attraction of Hamlet over us. " Is there any other man in Shakspere whom we feel such a longing to comfort ? " askt the bonniest and handsomest girl I ever lectured to. ("Pite rennith soone in gentil herte.") But, while willing to sympathise to any extent in his weakness (which is my own), and in the ruin of his love, his nature and his hope, I hold that what Hamlet wanted, was some of the Ulysses will : — " That which, we are, we are I Made weak hy time and fate, hut strong w will. One equal temper of heroic hearts, | To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." I hold too that " nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it " {Macbeth, I. iv.), for that involved the doing of his duty. Under the burden of that, his unfit nature sank. Measure foe Measuee.— We turn from the Baltic shore to the inland city of Vienna, that city where Tennyson's friend Arthur Hallam died, that city which is still notorious for § 12. THtRV-PERIOB FLAYS: "MEASURE FOB MEASURE," 1603. Ixxxi the social evil whicli Sliakspere brings under our notice, where the loss of woman's honour is treated as a mere malheur, mishap, unlucky accident \ and which is therefore the fit city for this play that follows Hamlet, where the cloud of the young prince's mother's lust hung like a pall over his life, and the incest of the "beast that wants discourse of reason " poisond his faith in women, and ruind his young love. On the stifling air of this drama, as contrasted with earlier ones, hear Mr. W. "Watkiss Lloyd : — " We never throughout this play get into the free, open, joyous atmosphere so invigorating in other works of Shakspere : the oppressive gloom of the prison, the foul breath of the brothel, are only exchanged for the chilly damp of conventual walls, or the oppressive retirement of the monastery, where friars are curious as to the motives of ducal seclusion, and are ready to intimate that a petticoat is concerned in the secret." Yet though we have this " night's black curtain " over the play^ ; though woman's and man's incontinence match, to some extent, the queen's and Claudius's in Hamlet; though Claudio in his weak fear of death, like Hamlet, fails to do his duty ; yet here, beside, in intentional contrast to the lust and weak will of woman and man, rises, like the moon in its pure beauty, like the lightning-flash in its white wrath, the noble figure of Isabella, "a thing ensky'd and sainted, an immortal spirit," Shakspere's first wholly Christian woman, steadfast and true as Portia, Brutus's wife, pure as Lucrece's soul, merciful above Portia, Bassanio's bride, in that she prays for forgiveness for her foe, not her friend ; with an unyielding will, a martyr's spirit above Helena's of All's Well, the highest type of woman that Shakspere has yet drawn. (How is she to have the mere charm and tenderness of the ordinary woman ?) In these points, then, I find that Measure for Measure is rightly made to follow Hamlet immediately, and not All's Well, though assuredly with the latter play it has much in common. Note, too, how Measure for Measwre carries on the Homilet reflections on Death and Life. Compare Hamlet, III. i., "to die, to sleep," &c., with Olaudio's "aye, but to die, and go we know not where ; " Hamlet's dread of something after death, with Isabella's "the sense of death is most in apprehension." Again, Hamlet's "insolence of office," (fee, with Isabella's "every pelting petty officer would use his heaven for thunder." Hamlet's "Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny," is like the Duke's "back-wounding calumny the whitest virtue strikes." The like names Claudio and Claudius occur; and Claudius's pathetic speech, "my words fly up, my thoughts remain below," is like Angelo's " Heaven hath my empty words : heaven in my mouth, and in my heart the strong and swelling evil of my conception." While Lucio's " our doubts are traitors," &c., preach the moral of the play of Hanilet. Further, Hamlet's "he took my father grossly full of bread," and Hamlet's desire to take his uncle when he is drunk, asleep, are like Barnardine's excuse , for not dying here : he was, as the Duke says, " a creature unprepared, unmeet for death." Polonius seeing method in Hamlet's apparent madness, and Hamlet's telling his mother he could re- word his sentence, are just the Duke's, " Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense (Such a dependency of thing on thing) As e'er I heard in madness." Of whom, too, but the forlorn Ophelia does the deserted Marianp, remind usi Music pleased the woe of both of them. One always thinks of Tennyson's Mariana in ilis Moated Grange : — "Is this the end, to be left alone, to live forgotten and die forlorn ? " With All 's Well, too, the links are strong. The firm will and energy of Helena is like that of Isabella : her love, though she is deserted and detested, is won back by the same means as Mariana's ; the substitution of Helena for Diana, as here of Mariana for Isabel. Again, the scene in court, the trial as it were before the Duke, and the exposure of Angelo, are like those of Bertram before the king in All's Well, just as Lucio's exposure is like ParoUes's. 1 I speak on the authority of some college friends who were students there, of an article in The Daily News a few years hack, written hy a long-dweller in Yieuna, in which this malheur was largely used, and of later visitors to the city. . 2 The play was probably written during the plague of 1603 in Jiondon, m which 30,578 souls diea. (Stowe.) See § 13, below. A:22 § 12 TaiRD-PERIOD FLAYS: "MEASURE FOR MEASURE," 1603. The clown is a male Mrs. Quickly, though the scene with Escalus is like that of Dogberry and Verges before the Duke, and Gobbo and his son before Bassanio. Yet those who would put Measure for Measure next to AU 's Well, surely overlook the far deeper tone of the former play : its dealing with death and the future world, its weight of reflection, the analysis of Angelo's character, the working of conscience, the greater corruption dealt with, the higher saintliness shown in Isabella. Also, if we look at the name of the play. Measure for Measure, we shall see that Shakspere's idea in it was, though with grim humour and ultimate relenting, to preach in Angelo and Lucio his Third-Period doctrine — an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, vengeance for weakness, jdelding to temptation, and sin, though here the vengeance is but the poetical justice of marriage to the women whom the sinners have sinned with or abandoned. Intending nun as Isabella is, we must nevertheless look on her as no hard recluse, but as " Isabel, sweet Isabel," with cheek- roses, gentle and fair. Yet she is "a thing ensky'd and sainted, an immortal spirit;" and this enables us to understand the conflict that must have gone on in her mind between her sisterly affection and her religious principles when pleading her brother's cause, and her acquiescence in Angelo's resolve that Claudio must die. Both times she needs Lucio's appeal before she '11 again urge how much better mercy becomes the king and judge, than justice. Her unhappy words, "Hark! how I'll bribe you," seem to have first brought out the evil in Angelo. " He tempts her through that which is uppermost in the noble woman, the passion for sacrifice. There is something splendid in the idea of perilling the soul itself for the sake of another " (E. H. Hickey). Shakspere's original, Whetstone, makes his heroine Cassandra give way to her brother's appeal : — " My Andrugio, take comfort in distresse ; Cassandra is wonne, thy ransome greate to paye." But this was not Shakspere's conception of Isabella. She believed that the son of her heroic father was noble like herself ; and when she found that he was willing to sacrifice her honour for his life, " her swift vindictive anger leapt like a white flame from her white spirit','' and her indignant "take my defiance, die, perish," was her fit answer to her brother's base proposal. Yet she who would not stoop to wrong, dared for the sake of Mariana to bear the imputation of it. She had no care for the world's opinion, so that the deed appeared not foul in the truth of her spirit; and as in The Merry Wives and Much Ado, her quick woman's wit took a righteous delight in cir- cumventing a knave. We have another passionate outburst from her when she hears the false news that her brother has been executed. And then she takes her side by the Duke who loves her, to fight with him God's fight against the evil in that foul Vienna ; a far better post, heading Heaven's army in her land, than praying barren prayers in convent walls. She is the first of the three splendid women who illumine the dark Third Period : she, glorious for her purity and righteousness, Cordelia for her truth and filial love, Volumnia for her devotion to honour and her love of her native land. Perhaps we may add a fourth, Portia, Brutus's wife, for nobleness and wifely duty. But the highest of all is Isabella. For Angelo^, we may contrast him with Isabella, as Bertram with Helena, or Proteus with Julia; he has to be emptied of his self-pride in seeming religion, as Bertram of his pride of birth ; but in judging Angelo " let him that thinketh ' he standeth, take heed lest he fall." His is a terrible analysis of character, a self-revelation to any man who has striven for purity, has fancied himself safe, and in the hour of trial has failed. Claudio is, as Mr. Pater says, one of the flower-like young University men that abound at Oxford, To him, self-indulgent, life-loving, death is the greatest terror ; and he sees no great harm in his sister undergoing what his own sweetheart has borne. To Isabella's sense of honour and purity he could not attain ; but in expression of appre- hension he stands even above Hamlet. His words on after-death are among the most poetical in Shakspere. Measure for Pleasure was first printed in the Polio of 1623. Its story is from the old play of Promos and Cassandra, 1578, by George Whetstone, printed in Hazlitt, Part II., vol. ii., p. 201, with the same story in prose, from Whetstone's Heptameron, 1582, Hazlitt, Part I., vol. iii., p. 156 ; and like stories from Goulart's ' See my friend Mr. W. H. Patei's admirahle paper in The Fortnightly Review, 1871 or 187o. 2 Set' W. Bagehot on him. § 12. THIRII-PERIOD PLAYS : " OTHEZIO," 1604-5. Admirable and Memorable Histories, 1607 ; and from Giraldi Cintliio's Hecatommithi, Novel 5, decade 8 (p. 167, ib.), the probable source of "Whetstone's play. There are plenty more stories of the kind. Seeing that the centre of Measure Jor Measure is the scene of Isabella with Claudio in the prison, where his unfit nature fails under the burden of coming death laid on him ; seeing the many links between this play and Hamlet, and the more between that and Julius Cwsar, we cannot be wrong in putting all three together as the first group of the Third Period, the "unfit-nature, or under-burden-failing group," &c. Then we pass to the second group of the two " tempter-yielding plays," with which the first is, by Angelo, &o., strongly linkt, too. (P.S. — In 1881, I should now follow Prof Dowden (who was the first to do it) in putting Troilus and Cressida after Measure for Measwre.) Othello. — From inland Vienna we turn again to Venice, the glorious city in the sea. We were here before in The Merchant, which gives us the name Gratiano (there the humourful), of Desdemona's uncle. Thence the lover went to seek his Jason's fleece in Belmont ; here he comes to seek his pearl in Venice. There, too, Jessica eloped with Lorenzo amid her fathers curses, as Desdemona does with Othello here. There, too, bride and bridegroom, Portia and Bassanio, were separated in the day of marriage, as they are here. But what a change in the tone and purpose of the two plays ! What a change in Shakspere's temper and mind ! True, that in both plays a beautiful, true young bride pleads for a life, for mercy for one condemnd to death ; but from the one, Portia's sweet earnest words still sound like music in our ears, and we rejoice in the woman's ready wit that rescued the soul her prayer had faild to save. From the other, Desdemona's vain appeal for her own life still brings sorrow to our hearts ; and Othello knolls in our ears the so sad dirge, " But yet the pity of it, lago ! oh ! the pity of it, lago." In thinking of Desdemona's fate we turn to the Cenci eyes of JuHet, and com- pare our ill-starrd Desdemona and Othello with that young " pair of star-crosst lovers " whose violent delights had also violent ends, who with a kiss died. But Othello is linkt with the plays nearest it. Measure for Measvjre and Hamlet, in which the lust of Hamlet's mother, and Angelo, ifec, was so leading a feature ; for supposed lust in Desdemona is at the bottom of Othello's jealousy, and thus the main motive for the action. Claudio's imprisonment in . " The viewless winds. And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world " is Othello's "blow me about in winds" (V. ii.); while the Duke's ofier to let Brabantio read the law's bitter letter after his own sense, is the Duke's offer to Angelo in Measure for Measwre to be judge of his own cause. lago's " duteous and knee-crooking knave " is Hamlet's fawner, who " crooks the pregnant hinges of the knee," and Hamlet's opinions on drunkenness among his countrymen are those of Cassio and lago on the Dane. Ophelia's fate and song remind us, too, of Barbara's fate, and Mariana's and Desdemona's songs. lago's curse of the service where preferment goes by letter and affection, is like Hamlet's and Isabella's complaints, which we have before alluded to. Also the plunder of Roderigo by lago may be likend to that of Sir Andrew Aguecheek by Sir Toby Belch. The incident of Othello hidden by lago listening to Cassio talking with lago of Bianca, and then to Cassio and Bianca talking about Desdemona's handkerchief, may be paralleld with the Much Ado incident of Hero's maid Margaret and Balthazar, overheard by Claudio and Don Pedro, who watch them by Don John's contrivance. With the Sonnets one may compare lago's " I am not -v^hat I am," and of Othello, " He is what he is," with Shakspere's "I am that I am," of Sonnet 121. The general estimate of Italian women may be seen in Pope Pius II. 's novel of Lucrece and Ewrialus englisht : — " It is as easy to kepe a woman against her wyll, as a flocke of ilies in the hete of the sonne, excepte she be of herselfe chaste." " A woman's thought is unstable, whyche hath as many myndis as trees hath leues . . . and seldom loue they theyr husbands whom they haue obteyned."' lago is the Richard the Third of the Third Period, the real mainspring, the wire-puller 1 In my Aiidreio Boordey p. 342-3, from John Kyngo's edition, 1560. Ixxxiv § 12. THIRD-PERIOD PLAYS: •• OTHELLO," 1604-5. of the men and women, his puppets, in this play. The Moor, of a free and open nature, Ls to him " an ass," as he says, "led by the nose." All that Othello tells us of himself wins our heai-ts, like Desdemona's, to him. Of royal descent, no boaster but a doer, he has no self-distrust when dealing with men ; he commands like a full soldier. Though he tells a '■■ round, unvarnished tale," yet we see in it proof of that imaginative power which to him, as to Macbeth, was the cause of all his sorrow. He has every manly virtue, and his love is so devoted that he can give up war for it. Distrust at first is impossible to him ; and as he confided in " honest lago," so he declared his life was upon his wife's faith ; and it was ; with the supposed loss of that, his life went. The Italian original says that Othello and Desdemona lived together in Venice in peace and concord. Shakspere, of course, cuts this out, for after it we could never excuse even Othello's believing lago. The play gives him but an hour of love, and then, as if to warn the newly-wedded ones what was commg into their life, Shakspere raises the storm at sea. Unconscious that that storm is but Nature's portent, they bask in balmy sunshine on the isle, and again we have the Romeo ecstasy of love, " if it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy," &c. Again in the riot of Cassio's drunkenness we get a plain hint of Othello's nature : — " My blood begins my safer guides to rule. And passion, having my best judgement coIKed, Esaays to lead the way." Tlie first note of coming discord is struck by lago's " I like not that ; " the first real suspicion is in Othello's "By Heaven, he echoes me." And when once lago's insinuation of jealousy has taken hold of Othello's mind, — Othello, who has till then known women's nature only through the followers of the camp, — his imagination, like Macbeth's, makes the suggestion work with terrible rapidity. The light of love which lit his face when he before met Desdemona, when he yielded to her first entreaties for Cassio, leaves him, never to return. "^ It is a terrible change, as instant as, but so diflFerent from that of Rosalind when she finds her Orlando in the forest. His frame heaves, his lip quivers, the full fire of liis wrath blazes out against lago, as that demon's talk of Cassio frenzies him. Reason leaves him ; he is struck with epilepsy ; and after his recovery from that^ lago shows him Bianca with the handkerchief. His love has become his enemy, against whom spying is lawful, and he resolves to murder her. But yet he cannot forbear to see "the pity of it." "What a depth of love, what yearning tenderness, yet what desperate i-esolve, are expresst in these little words ! " (The thii-d Act is the most powerful one in all Shakspere.) Desdemona's ill-starrd answers provoke instead of calm him, and then he ends her life. Even the beauty of her unselfishness when trying to excuse him from the murder of her cannot touch him.' His words on her are, " She 's like a liar, gone to burning hell." Then comes the disclosure of what a fool and dolt he 's been ; and in his sense 'tis happiness to die. We cannot allow his excuse that he was not easily jealous, though it is true that " being wrought," he was " perplext in the extreme."' The kiss on which he dies shows where his love still was, and that must plead for him. Behind the nobleness of his nature were yet the jealousy, the suspicion, the mean cunning of the savage. Death to the adulteress was but the practice of his race.'' (Let us recollect that Gunpowder Plot was discoverd on November 5, 1605, and pass to the murder of an earlier king.) I ' I speak from recollection of Mr. Irving's touching performance of the part. See my letter in The Daily News, March 2, 1876. Salvini's acting of Othello was a revelation to me: something new in art. That passionate Southern nature leaping into fury, and flying at lago like a tiger would, was beyond a Northern's power. The eweetest-sould, most gracious-natured lady that I know, said to me as I was talking to her of the two men: "Yes: Salvini is Othello; Irving acts him." No more was needed. 2 Mr. Frank Marshall well urges that the weakening effect of the epileptic attack on Othello's mind must be allowed for. (Recollect that Desdemona, Greek dusdaimonia, means " ill-fatedness," " ill- fortune.") 3 Shakspere alterd the original's beating Desdemona to death with a stocking full of sand, into sufEocation, but forgot that a person once stifled couldn't speak again. On. the short time of the action of the play after the landing in Cyprus, two days, see Prof. Wilson's Paper, reprinted in New Shakspere Sockttfs Transactions, 1875-6, Appendix. « The first and only Quarto of Othello was publisht in 1622, six years after Shakspcre's death, by Thomas Walkley, by whom it was cnterd in the Stationers' liegisters on Oct. 6, 1621. It diii'crs in many § 13. TamDPEUIOD PLAYS: "MACBETH," 1605-6. Ixxxv Macbeth. — From Venice and Cyprus we turn to Scotland. Nature changes from her belt of gold and blue, to purple heather and grey rock, but man remains the same, mean, tempted, falling, sinning, murdering, with the vengeance of death falling on him and the wife who here has shared his crime. Macbeth is the play of conscience, though the workings of that conscience are seen far more in Lady Macbeth than in her husband. The play shows, too, the separation from man as well as God, the miserable trustless isolation, that sin brings in its train. As compared with Othello the darkness and terror close in on us so much more rapidly. We have no picture of the sweet Desdemona listening to her Moor, going through her household tasks, and coming back again .to hear the wondrous story of his life ; no bright bridal life, however short. Before the play opens there must have been consultations between the guilty pair on Duncan's murder' ; and when the play opens, the pall of fiendish witchcraft is over us from the first. The fall of the tempted is terribly sudden. The climax of the play is in the second Act, not the fifth, and no repentance is mixed with the vengeance of its close. ^ The only relief is in the gallantry of Macbeth, the gratitude of Duncan, and the pleasant picture of Macbeth's castle, so well put into Duncan's and Banquo's mouths. The links with Othello are, that the hero is, like Othello, a great commander, who has won many victories for his State, that his temptation is both from within and without himself, that the working of passion in both is alike quick, that the victims and murderers alike die, that Othello is accused of witchcraft, as Macbeth practises it. And as the dis- appointed ambition of lago in not getting the place given to Cassio, is at the root of all the evil in Othello, so the immediate motive for Macbeth's action here is the Prince of Cumberland's nomination to the throne, which Macbeth believd would be his. As, too, ■ Emilia's knocking at the door relieves the strain after Desdemona's murder, so does that of the porter here after Duncan's." The murder of the king and the ghost of Banquo connect the play with Hamlet, while the portents before Duncan's death are like those before the death of Hamlet's father and Julius Csesar. With Richan-d HI. we note the links of the murderer clearing his way to the throne, and his enemies out details from the Folio text, which is from an independent source. The original of the story is from the 7th novel of the 3rd decade of Cinthio's collection of stories, called Secatommithi, and is printed with a translation in Hazlitt's Shakspei-e's Library, Pt. I., vol. ii., pp. 285-308. In it the original of lago, the ensign, wrongly loves Desdemona ; and his motive for revenge is hei^ friendly preference of the Ueutenant, who is degraded for wounding a soldier on guard, and for whose restoration she twice entreats her husband. The ensign steals the Moor's handkerchief from her, leaves it on the lieutenant's bolster, and then teUs the Moor it was given by Desdemona to her lover. He also shows the Moor an embroidress copying the pattern on the handkerchief, and undertakes to murder the lieutenant. He does cut off his right leg, and then, with the Moor's help, smashes Desdemona's skuU with a sandfull stocking. They puU the ceiling down on her, and give out that a falling beam killd her. Othello, afterwards mourning her loss, degrades the ensign, who accuses him to the lieutenant. 'The Moor is tried, and on the ensign's testimony, put to the torture, and sent into exile, where he is at last kiUd by his wife's relations. The ensign, continuing his bad practises, is rackt for having brought a false accusation against a companion, and is so injurd that he dies in great agony. The poor prose temptation scenes of the Moor by the ensign should he compared with Shakspere's magnificent ones. There are no Roderigo, Brabantio, Emilia, &c., in the Italian. The entries in the Egerton Papers (Camden Soc, ed. Collier) of Othello being playd in Aug., 1602, and in the Revels Accounts of its acting in 1604, are both rank forgeries. 1 From I. vii. we clearly see that Lady Macbeth cannot refer to anything in the play :— They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you." "Lady M. What beast was't then, That made you break this enterprise to me ? . JVor time, nor place, Did then adhere, and yet you would make both : In the face of this " made you break this enterprise to me," I cannot, of course, agree with Mr. Grant White and other critics that the origination of the crime was Lady Macbeth's. (N.B.— Act against Witch- craft passt June 9, 1604.) 2 " I have always regarded the appearance of Banquo's ghost in III. iv. as the chmax of the play. Up till then, all goes well witti Macbeth; from thence, all conspires to his ruin."— C. Hargrove. 3 The Porter scene is certainly genuine, and the assignment of its grim humour to a fifth- rate comic writer like Middleton is a great mistake. The folk who so assign it, don't know Middleton : they just catch up his name from the witch songs, and stick it on to the Porter, whom he never had anything hke power enough to create. It may be that, as Messrs. Clark and Wright (Preface to Clarendon Press, Macbeth), and. Mr. Grant White {Galaxy, Jan., 1877), urge, Hecate's four-measure speech in III. v., and hers orthe iiret , Witch's at the end of IV. i. 125-132, before the songs, are spurious; but the king's-evil iMSsage in J-V- m. is assuredly Shakspere's; and so is Y. ii., v. 47-50, as Mr. Gttint White says. See my discussion ot the Porter scene in New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, Part II. Irsocvi § 12. THIRD PERIOD PLAYS: "MACBETH," 1605-6; "KING J-E^E," 1605-6. of his way when he has it, as well as the working of conscience in Richard's sleep as in Lady Macbeth's, though she feels it always, he only when his will is dead. Macbeth had the wrong nature for a murderer : he was too imaginative ; he could jump the life to come; but it was the judgment here he dreaded, the terrors that his , own Keltic imagination created to torment him. What Richard the Third passed over with chuckling indifference, nay, with delight, deprived Macbeth of sleep and haunted every moment of his life : — " But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly : Better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace ', have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave ; After hfe's fitful fever, he sleeps well ; Treason has done his worst : nor steel, nor poison. Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing. Can touch him farther ! " The more blood, that he thought would make him safe and hardend, did but increase his terrors ; then came his fit again. But he was resolved to know the worst ; and after his second visit to the witches, it seems to me that the courage of desperation takes the place of the feebleness of the guilty soul ; and except in his two drops down after the servant and the messenger have announced the English force (V. iii., v., end), he faces his fate with the courage and coolness that should have possesst him all along. He is tied to the stake, and light he will ; but though he quails again befoi'e Macduff's tongue, he is yet taunted by iu into fighting, as before into murder by his wife. Banquo, though noble, has yet in him the canny Scot's sense of his or his son's chance of the throne, and keeps near Macbeth, to be ready for what turns up. He cannot tuiswer the usurper's invitation with a Macduff's " Sir, not I," or, like him, fly to England to bring back Duncan's rightful heir, his son. Malcolm would spoil Banquo's son's chance of the throne. (See New Shahspere Society's Traiwactions, 1875-6, Part II.) My friend Mr. Peter Bayne holds that the analysis of Macbeth's ideas and motives is Shakspere's greatest achievement. r think the third Act of Othello is that. But when one compares such a quotation as that from Macbeth's speech above, with any of Shakspere's early work in Love's Labours Lost, or Romeo and Juliet, say, one is amazed at the poet's growth in knowledge of men's minds, of life, in reflective power, and imagination. Dramatically, too, what a splendid advance the play is on Hamlet l^ The slight foundation in history or legend for Macbeth, is in Holinshed's version of Boece's Scotorum Historiai, which is drawn from Fordun, printed in Hazlitt, Part I., vol. ii., p. 149, and extracts from it are given in the Clarendon Press and other cheap editions of the play. Holinshed knew nothing of the slaughter of Macbeth's father, and his wife Gruoch's grandfather, husband, and brother by Duncan's grandfather. (Clar. Press ed., xlii.) The text was printed for the first time in the Folio of 1623. On the sleep-speech see 2 Henry IV. above, p. 1. Note Gunpowder Plot, Nov., 1605. King Leae. — "This play resembles a stormy night. The first scene is like a wild sunset, grand and awful, with gusts of wind and mutterings of thunder, presaging the coming storm. Then comes a furious tempest of crime and madness, through which we see dimly the monstrous and unnatural forms of Goneril and Regan, Cornwall and Edmund, and hear ever and anon the wild laugh of the Fool, the mad howls of Lear, and the low moan of the blind Gloster ; while afar off a ray of moonlight breaks through the clouds, and throws its silvery radiance on the queenly figure of Cordelia standing calm and peaceful in the storm ' Peace, Folio 1 ; place. Folios 2, 3, 4. 2 That the play was written in haste, the hurry of its action in its first acts, the want of finish in its first scenes, the difficulty of its expression, tend to prove. Most critics agree in this opinion. Mr. Grant White says of the play in his edition, x. 424 : — " It exhibits t'hroughout the hearty execution of a grand and clearly conceived design. But the haste is that of a master of his art, who, with conscious command of its resources, and in the frenzy of a grand inspiration, works out his conception to the minutest detail of essen- tial form, leaving the work of surface finish for the occupation of cooler leisure (which in this case never came). ... I regard Macbeth as, for the most part, a specimen of Shakspere's unelaborated, if not unfinished, writing, in the maturity and highest vitality of his genius. It abounds in instances of extremest compression, and most daring ellipsis ; while it exhibits in every scene a union of supreme dramatic and poetic power, and in almost every fine an imperially irresponsible control of language." One great cause of Macbeth being written was no doubt James I.'s interest in witchcraft. He had witches tried for raising the storm that met him when bringing home his bride, Anne of Denmark in 1589. He wrote his Pemoiwlot/ie in 1597 (rep. in 1600 and 1603), and his first English Parliament pas'st an Act against Witchcraft on June 9, 1604. See T. A. Spalding's Elizabethan Demonologij. § 12. THIRD-PEBIOB PLAYS: "KING LFjAB," 1605-6. like an angel o£ truth and purity amid tlie raging strife of a sinful and blood-stained world. At the last, one great thunder-clap of death : the tempest ceases, and in the grey light of a cloudy dawn we see the corpses lying stiff and stark, the innocent and the guilty alike whelmed in the blind rage of Fate " (Florence O'Brien).^ Lear is especially the play of the breach of family ties ; the play of horrors, unnatural cruelty to fathers, brothers, sisters, by those who should have loved them dearest. Not content with unsexing one woman, as in Macbeth, Shakspere has in Lear unsext two. Not content with making Lear's daughters treat him with cruel ingratitude, Shakspere has also made Edmund plot against his brother's and father's lives. Lear is a race-play too. It shows the Keltic passion, misjudgment, and superstition, as in Glendower of 1 Henry IV., ia Macbeth, and Cymbeline. Goneril and B.egan are like the ghoul-like hags of the French Revolution. A few links with Othello may be named. Desdemona and her love for her father being subordinate to that for her husband, are the same as Cordelia's. Othello, at the end of the play, has seen the day that with " this good sword " he 'd have made his way through twenty times their stop, and Lear, too, at the end of this play, has seen the day that with his " good falcliion " he would have made them skip.^ With Macbeth we may compare the witches, the Keltic king, the ingratitude of Macbeth to Duncan, as of Lear's daughters to him, while the terrible fierceness of Lady Macbeth is but the preparation for the more fiend-like Goneril and Regan. Under All's Well we have already noted the likeness of the king's " sunshine and hail at once " to Cordelia's " sunshine and rain at once," her smiles and tears. Lear, as first presented to us, is so self- indulgent and unrestrained, has been so fooled to the top of his bent, is so terribly unjust, not only to Cordelia, but to Kent, that one feels hardly any punishment can be too great for him. The motive that he puts to draw forth the desired expression of affection from Cordelia, " Do profess love to get a big reward," is such that no girl with true love for a father could leave unrepudiated'; and when his proposal gets the answer it deserves, he meets his daughter's nobleness by curses and revenge. Stript by his own act of his own authority*, his FooP with bitter sarcasm teaches him what a fool he's been. And few can , regret that he was made to feel a bite even sharper than a serpent's tooth. Still one is glad to see that he was early struggling against his own first wild passion, and that he would blame his own jealous curiosity before seeing Goneril's purpose of unkindness. One sympa- thises with his prayer to heaven to keep him in temper — " he would not be mad " — with his acquirement of some self-control, when excusing the hot duke's insolence by his illness. One sees tho' how he still measures love by the allowances of knights it will give him ; and it is not till driven out to the mercy of the winds and storm, till he knows that he is but a " pooi-, infirm, weak, and despised old man," till he can think of the poor naked wretches of whom he has before taken too little care, that one pities the sufferer for the consequences of his own folly. When he recovers from his madness and has come to the knowledge of himself, has found, smelt out, those flatterers who 'd destroy him, then is he more truly " every inch a king," though cut to the brains, than ever he was before. The pathos of his recognition of Cordelia, his submission to her, and seeking her blessing, his lamentation over her corpse, are 1 This passage was -written by one who had never heard of Coleridge's comments on Shakspere, and had never seen his words, which I had long forgotten too : — " In the Shaksperian drama there is a vitality which grows and evolves itself from within, a key-note, which guides and controls the harmonies throughout. What is Zear ? It is storm and tempest — the thunder at first grumbling in the far horizon, then gathering around us, and at length bursting in fury over our heads— succeeded by a breaking of the clouds for a while, a last flash of lightning, the closing-in of night, and the single hope of darkness." — Lit. Sem., ii. 104. 2 Compare Shallow in Merry Wives, II. i. 219-221— "I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats." ^ I can't help thinking that if Lear had asked the question as One asked it, free from selfishness of heart, "Lovest thou me more than these ?" the answer would not have been unlike Peter's, "Thou knowest that I love thee.''— E. H. Hiokey. Probably, as Prof. March suggests, Cordelia already lovd the King of France. Compare Rosalind's "What think we oi fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando p"—^« You Like It, III. iv. 41-42. ,_,,,, * The folly of parents giving up their property to their children, was often dwelt on by early English writers. It is so by Robert of Brunne : see the tale he tells about it in my edition of his Sandlyng Synne (written A. D. 1303), pp. 37-9. , ■ -n.- l -a ■ ^ » Note the growth in depth and tenderness of Shakspere's fools as he advances from his Dirst ieriod. Mr. Grant Wliite says, in the Galaxy, January, 1877, p. 72 :— " In King Lear the Fool rises into heroic pro- portions, and becomes a sort of conscience, or second thought, to Lear. Compared even with Touchstone he is very much more elevated, and shows not less than Hamlet, or than Lear himself, the grand development of Shakspere's mind at this period of maturity." See Mr. Hetherington on this in Cornhill Mag., 1881. IxxxTiU § 12. TEIBS-PERIOD PLATS: "KING LEAR," 1605-6; "TSOILUS AND CRESSIDA." exceeded by nothing in Shakspere. Professor Spalding dwells on tlie last scene as an instance of how Shakspere got his most intense effects by no grand situation like Massinger did, like Shakspere himself did in earlier time, but out of the simplest materials. Spalding says, "The horrors which have gathered so thickly throughout the last act are carefully removed to the background, but free room is left for the sorrowful group on which every eye is turned. The situation is simple in the extreme ; but how tragically-moving are the internal convulsions, for the rejDresentation of which the poet has worthily husbanded his force. Lear enters with frantic cries, bearing the body of his dead daughter in his arms ; he alternates between agitating doubts and wishful unbelief of her death, and piteously experiments on the lifeless corpse ; he bends over her with the dotage of an old man's affection, and calls to mind the soft lowness of her voice, till he fancies he can hear its murmurs. Then succeeds the dreadful torpor of despairing insanity, during which he receives the most cruel tidings with apathy, or replies to them with wild incoherence ; and the heart flows forth at the close with its last burst of love only to break in the vehemence of its emotion, commencing with the tenderness of regret, swelling into choking grief, and at last, when the eye catches the tokens of mortality in the dead, snapping the chords of life in an agonised horror." Cordelia is as the sun above the deeps of hell shown in Goneril and Regan. One can hardly help wishing that Shakspere had followed the old story told by Layamon and other repeaters of Geoffrey of Monmouth, and made Cordelia set her father on the throne again, and reign after him for a while in peace. But the tragedian, the preacher of Shakspere's Third-Period lesson, did wisely for his art and meaning, in letting the daughter and father lie in one grave. Of the noble Kent, of Gloster, — who doubles Lear in error, and almost in suffering, — of Edmund, the lago of this play, I have no time to speak. And while content that others should claim Lear as Shakspere's greatest work, for its diversity and contrast of character, its mixing the storm of nature with the passions of man', I must, yet claim Ot/wllo as the work which most deeply touches my heart. Its third Act is the greatest achievement of Shakspere as a dramatist ; the first three Acts ot Macbeth (I. v., vii. ; IL, III.) come next; Lear may follow. The date of Lear may be considered as fixt at 1605-6. It was enterd in the St3,tioners' Registers on Novr. 26, 1607 : " Nathanael Butter, John Busby. Entred for their copie vnder th[e hjandes of Sir George Buck knight and Th(e) wardens a booke called Master William Shakespeare his history e of King e Lear as yt was played before the kinges maiestie at Whitehall vppon Sainct Stephens night [26 Deer.] at Christmas Last by his maiesties servantes playinge vsually at the Globe on the Banksyde . . vj*-" (Arber's Transcript, iii. 366). Two quartos of it were publisht in 1608, independent texts, and neither copied by the Folio. Their title pages confirm the Stat. Reg. date of the performance of the play. The source of the Lear story is Holinshed's Chronicle ; oi the Gloster, Edmund and Edgar story. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia. Mr. Hazlitt has reprinted in his Shakspere's Library : 1. The History of Lear, from Holinshed (Pt. I., vol. ii., p. 314). 2. The same, from the English Gesta Romanorum (ab. 1440 A.D.), edit. Madden, pp. 450-3, {ib. p. 315). 3. The History oj Leir and his Three Daughters, 1605, a play (Part II., vol. ii., p. 305. It was not used by Shakspere.) 4. Queen Cordela, an historical poem, by John Higins, from the Mirror for Magistrates (Pt. I., ii. 324). 5. TJie Story of the Paphlagonian Unkind King, from Sidney's Arcadia (ib. 337). 6. Tlie Ballad of Lear and his Three Daughters (ib. 348). The Latin original of the Lear story is Geoffrey of Momnouth's Hist. Britonum, bk. ii., ch. 11-15. And it was first told, and well told, in English, by Layamon in his Brut, ab. 1 205. That it came originally from Wales there is little doubt. I think Lear must stand by itself as " the first Ingi-atitude and Cursing Play," tho' it is linkt to the Group before it, and the Lust or False-Love Grovip which follows it. Troilus and Ceessida. — This is the most difficult of all Shakspere's plays to deal with, as well for date^ as position. We only know that it was publisht in 1609 with a preface 1 Coleridge says of Act III., so. iv., " 0, what a world's convention of agonies is here ! All external nature in a storm, all moral nature convulsed — the real madness of Lear, the feigned madness of Edgar, the babbling of the Fool, the desperate fidelity of Kent — surely such a scene was never conceived before or since." — Lit. Hem., ii. 201, ed. 1836. On the animal similes, &c., in Lear, see Mr. Kirkman's capital paper in New Shahs. Soc.'s Trans., 1877-9, pp. 385-407. 2 I cannot resist the metrical argument against mj' first 1606-7 date for this play, and should now (1881) put it two years earlier, and link it with the former lust-play, Measure for Measure. Macbeth has two weak endings and twenty-one light ; Troilus and Cressidn has none weak, and only six light, ; 12. THIRD-PERIOD PLATS: "TROILVS AND CRESSIDA," ? 1604-5. Ixxxix by another man, and evidently without Shakspere's consent, as his Sonnets of- the same date also were. This fact seems to point to Shakspere's having left London, possibly in disgust at some neglect of him by his patrons or the public, at which he has been thought to hint in Achilles's complaints. Yet Shakspere had just produced his greatest tragedies, and no one could then have been his rival. The play is evidently written in ill-humour with mankind ; it is a bitter satire. Its purpose is not to show virtue her own feature, but contemptible weakness, paltry vanity, falsehood (like scorn), their own image. The argument of it is, as Thersites says, " a cuckold and a whore." And as Ascham declared that the Morte d' Arthur in which his contemporaries delighted, was nothing but bold bawdry, so Shakspere declares that the heroes of antiquity, the Trojan ancestors in whom the Britons gloried, the Grecian heroes in whom middle and modern England have rejoiced, were a sham ; that with them love was all false, and honour but a delusion. Shakspere's treatment of Chaucer's heroine, Oressida, is, too, a shock to any lover of the early poet's work. To have the beautiful Cressida, hesitating, palpitating like the nightingale, before her sin ; driven by force of hard circumstances which she could not control, into unfaithfulness to her love; to have this Cressid, whom Chaucer spared for very ruth, set before us as a mere shameless wanton, making eyes at all the men. she sees, and showing her looseness in the movement of every limb, is a terrible blow. But whatever may have been Shakspere's motive in this play, we certainly have in it his least pleasing production. There is no relief to the patchery, the jugglery, and the knavery, except the generous welcome of Nestor to Hector in the Grecian camp, and his frank praise of the gallant Trojan, who, labouring for Destiny, made cruel way through ranks of Greekish youth. I lean to the theory that the Troilus and Cressid part of the play is one of Shakspere's First-Period works ^ ; the long speeches, and those often rhetorical, of the Grecian leaders, make one incline to think of the speeches in John and early plays of the Second Period. Yet there is so much practical wisdom, so much knowledge of life, in the play, such weighty reflection, that the Greek part of it must be Third Period, not Second ; while the plays with which it is allied in tone and temper are Timon and Antony and Cleopatra. One link with Lear is seen in the lust of Cressid and Helen, like, tho' less than, that of Goneril and E«gan. Ulysses plays on Achilles and Ajax just as lago does on Othello, Cassio, and Eoderigo. Othello's " My life upon her truth " is like Troilus's speech to Cressida in IV. iv., and Troilus's bits about tho sweetness of Cressid may be compared with Othello's about Desdemona. In Hector's " Honour dearer than life " of V. iii., we are reminded of Isabella's words in Measure for Measure and Brutus's in Julius Gasanr. While Andromache and Cassandra urging Hector not to fight on the day of his death, are like Caesar's wife and the soothsayer, urging him not to go to the Capitol on the day of his murder. With Hamilet, too, we have slight links. AohiUes's " here is Ulysses : I '11 interrupt his reading. What are you reading ? " reminds us of Polonius and Hamlet ; and Troilus's " Words, words, mere words " of Cressid's letter, re-echo Hamlet's. We have, too, the " fan and wind of your fierce swoi-d " to compare with the Player's speech. With Romeo and Juliet we have the link of the lovers waking after their night together, and both are waked by the lark. Also Troilus's words, " Oh ! that her hand in whose comparison all whites are ink," match Romeo's " White wonder of dear Juliet's hand." With The Merchant we get "Troilus's comparison of himself, a merchant sailing to fetch his pearl from her Indian bed, as Bassanio and many Jasons came in quest of Portia to Belmont strand.' Is it possible that Shakspere's envy of Chapman, his rival, with the " proud full sail of his great verse," in his Will's affection (Sonnet 86) had anything to do with Shakspere's deliberate debasing of the heroes of that Homer whom Chapman englisht? It is certain that when he dealt with the same subject in his fine description of the painting of the siege of Troy in The Rape of Liucrece, 1. 1366-1568, his tone is far different from what it is in his play." There is no mention there of Cressid ; the only wanton notist and condemnd is Helen, " the strumpet that began this stir," whose ' Read the Troilus-CreBsida-Pandarus part all through first ; then read the Grecian-camp part all through ; and see whether you don't feel a contrast of power and handling that imply difference of Period. Still, there is oneness of tone through the whole play ; there are touches of reflection in the love-part that I at present accept as early. I wait and hope for further light on the play. Professor Dowden puts it next to Measure for Measure, as one of the " Comedies of Disillusion." See his Primer (Is.). The dramatic time of the play is four days, with an interval for the Truce between sc. ii. and iii. of Act I. ^ Daniel, m New Shaks. Soc. Trans., 1877-9, p. 183. '' So, toq, in The Merchant, V. i. 3-6. I2i xc § 13 THIRD-PEUIOD PLAYS: " TROTLVS AND CR^SSIDA." ? imi-o; " ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA," ? 1600-7. beauty Lucrece wants to tear with her nails, as Hermia does Helena's in Midsummer- Night's Dream. Troilus has only three words, " here Troilus swounds." The jsathetic figure of the sad shadow of Hecuba's beauty is touchingly dwelt on, as in Hamlet, and Shakspere, like Lucrece, " weeps feelingly Troy's painted woes." On the other side, in Ajax's eyes are only "blunt rage and rigour" (1. 1398), while "the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent, Show'd deep regard and smiling government" (1. 1399). Grave Nestor, with his sober action, and wagging beard, all silver white, calms the quarrels of his Greeks, with golden words. And " for AchUles' image stood his spear. Griped in an armed hand ; himself, behind, Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind." Here is the gallant warrior, not the selfish coward, of the play. The reader should set poem and play together ; and consider too whether the treatment given to the subject in the poem doesn't make against the opinion I have hitherto given-in to, of the Troilus-Cressid part of the play being of the early Passion-time group, 1591-4. The play needs a deal more work than has yet been given to it, so far at least as print shows. Troihis is no doubt a young fool in his first love for Cressid, yet note his admiration of Helen's beauty, and his superb metaphors in ex- pressing it. Her — " Youth and freshnesa Wrinkles Apollo's and makes stale the morning." " She is a pearl, whose price has launched above a thousand ships. And turnd crownd kings to merchants." — II. ii. 78-S2. In the latter of these, Shakspere but quotes his dead shepherd Marlowe's magnificent apostrophe to Helen, as before, his " love at first sight " in As You Like It, and as in speaking of Cressid's hand, to "whose soft seizure the cygnet's down is harsh," he no doubt again quotes Marlowe's likening Margaret to the " downy cygnets " in 1 Henry VI. But that Troilus deserves Ulysses's most favourable opinion of him, as given in his answer to Agamemnon, is evident. Troilus takes the lead, and his opinion prevails in the council in Act II. as to whether Helen shall be given up. He is the Trojans' "second hope;" and it would seem that he 's cured at last of his fondness for Cressid, for he calls on the traitor Diomede to turn and fight for his horse and not for his love. Hector, noble figure though he is, is yet made to prefer a school-boy notion of honour to the earlier wisdom and patriotism of the man. Achilles is turned into at once a snob and a coward ; he will not fight Hector single-handed, 'but waits tUl he can set his myrmidons on him ; his patriotism he sets under his lust, or love, as he calls it ; he will not fight his country's enemies, "honour, or go or stay." He is shown as a mean, big, lubberly, peevish boy, even more contemptible than the vain, bragging fool Ajax. Notwithstanding the gleam of generosity on Nestor's figure, and his pluck in being willing to fight Hector if nobody else wUl ; notwithstanding the fine figure of Agamemnon, great commander, marrow and bone of Greece, and the crafty, wise Ulysses, guiding all the threads of the play, one turns without regret from this repulsive picture of the Trojan and Grecian war.' (P.S. — The spurious parts of the play are lines II. ii. 163-7, and all after V. iii. 28.) Antony and Cleopatra. — We change from Troy to Egypt and Rome, from the false Cressid to the false Cleopatra, from the deceived Troilus to the deceived and deceiving ' See Mr. Watldss Lloyd's spirited and ingenious defence of the play in his Critical Essays, p. 217. Troilus and Cressida was enterd in the Stationers' Registers on January 28, 1608-9 : — " Richard Bonion Entred for their Copy vnder th[e h]andes of Master Segar, deputy to Sir George Henry WaUeys Bucke, and master warden Lownes, a booke called the history of Troylus and Cressida . . . vj''"— Arher's Transcript, iii. 400. It was publisht in 1609 by Bonion and "Walley, first with a title not mentioning the play's having been acted, and with a preface : " Eternal reader, you have here a new play never staled with the stage, never clapper-clawed with the palms of the vulgar, and yet passing fuU of the palm comical," &c. ; next with a title " The Historie of Troylus and Cresseida. As it was acted by the Kings Maiesties seruants at the Globe," and without the preface. The play must therefore have been first acted in 1609, between the issues of the 1st and 2nd titles. The preface-writer called the play a comedy: "this author's comedies . . are so framed to the life, that they serve for the most common commentaries of all the actions of our lives, showing such a dexterity and power of wit, that the most displeased with plays are pleased with his comedies. . . . Amongst all, there is none more witty than this . . . refuse not nor like this the less for not being sullied with the smoky breath of the multitude: but thank fortune for the scape it hath had amongst you, since, by the grand possessors [Burbage's company's] wiUs, I believe you should have prayed for them [read it], rather than been prayed." The FoUo text seemo to be printed from a corrected and altered copy of the Quarto one (?). The source 5 12. TaiSn-PBItlOD PLAYS: "ANTONY AND CLEOFATSA," ? 1606-7. Antony, from the bitter, clear-seeing Thersites, stripping heroes and legends of antiquity of their glory, to the equally clear-sighted but happier-tempered Enobtirbus, calmly explaining the character of his mistress, and Philo, with equal penetration, analysing Antony, and lamenting his master's infatuation. But while Troilus and Cressida is lit by no light of sympathy from author or reader, save in the one scene of old JSTestor's welcome to Hector in the Greek camp, on Antony and Cleopatra Shakspere has poured out the glory of his genius in profusion, and makes us stand by, saddend and distresst, as the noble Antony sinks to his ruin, under the gorgeous colouring of the Eastern sky, the vicious splendour of the Egyptian queen ; makes us look with admiring hate on the wonderful picture he has drawn, certainly far the most wonderful study of woman he has left us, of that Cleopatra of whom Enobarbus, who knew her every turn, said — " Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale I Cloy the appetites they feed ; but she makes hungry Her infinite variety : other women | Where most she satisfies." That in her, the dark woman of Shakspere's Sonnets, his own fickle, serpent-like, attractive mistress, is to some extent embodied, I do not doubt. What a superbly-sumptuous picture, as if painted by Veronese or Titian, is that where Cleopatra first met Antony upon the river of Cydnus ! How admirably transferrd from Plutarch's prose !^ And how that fatal inability to say " No " to woman shows us Antony's weakness and the cause of his final fall. The play is like Troilus and Cressida, not only in lust and false women (Cressida and Cleopatra) playing such a prominent part in it, but in Antony's renown and power, and selfish preference of his own whims to honour's call, to his country's good, being the counter- part of Achilles's. All the characters are selfish except Octavia and Eros. Caesar's description of Antony as " a man who is the abstract of all faults that men follow " is not far wrong. We were prepared by Julius Cwsar for the wildness in his blood and the want of noble purpose in his ordinary pursuits ; for his selfishness and unscrupulousness too, by his / of Shakspere's play may have been the old play of the same name by Dekker and Chettle, in earnest of which the manager Henslowe lent £3 on April 7, 1599, and in part payment, 30«. on April 16, and "in full paymente of the Boocke called the tragedie of Troylles and creseda — Agamemnone " being interlined over the name — £3 5s. on May 30, 1599 (Henslowe's Mary, pp. 148, 149, 153). This old play may be that entered in the Stat. Reg. on Febr. 7, 16U2-3, " master Kobertes. Entred for his copie in fuU Court holden this day, to print when he hath gotten sufficient aucthority for yt, The booke of Troilus and Cresseda as yt is acted by my lord Chamberlens Men . . vj"" (Arber's Transcript, iii. 226) ; but it is not likely," as the Lord Chamberlain's (or Burbage's or Shakspere's) Company was a rival to that of Henslowe, who " Lent unto Thomas Downton, the 30 of Jenewary 1598, to desearge Thomas Dickers [Dekker] frome the areaste of my lord Chamberlens men. I saye, lent, iij"^ x" " (Diary, p. 143). If not, the 1603 play may have been a first sketch of Shakspere's play. As Dyce says [Shaksp., vi. 2), it is unquestionable that parts of the play as we have it, "particularly towards the end, are from the pen of a very inferior dramatist ":— see specially Ulysses's speech in V. v. 30-42, Hector's in V. vi., all V. vii. and viii. Whether they belong to Dekker and Chettle's old play (as Dyce suggests), or, as I suppose, to some botcher of Shakspere, — for he'd hardly have left such patches on his own work, — each reader can judge for himself. If Shakspere did not use an old play, he would no doubt take his Troylus-Cressid-Pandarus story from Chaucer's beautiful poem, and his Greek and Trojan war story from Chapman's Homer, Caxton'a Eeeuyell of the Historyes of Troye, from Raoul le Pevre (of the revised edition of which, with " the English much amended by William Fison," a 2_nd edition had been publisht in 1607), or Lydgate's Eystorye, Sege and dystruccyon of Troye, 1513, 1555, from Guido di Colonna. Thos. Paynell euglisht Dares Phrygius's Destruction of Troy, in 1653, and Eobeit Wyer translated Christine de Pise's Hundred Systories of Troye about 1540. The Middle-Age poets all con- sidered Homer a liar, and Dares a trustworthy historian, who had himself been at the Trojan war. See the amusing abuse of Homer in the Prologue to the alliterative Destruction of Troy (from Guide di Colonna), publisht by the Early English Text Society. 1 Eead this {Eaalitt, Pt. I., vol. iii., p. 344) with Shakspere's lines. The whole of Antony's Life, the source of the play, should be compared with Shakspere's drama. (See too Courtenay's Comment, on Hist. Plays, ii. 2fe4.) 'The text of the play appeard first in the FoHo of 1623. The englisht Life of Ootavius Csesar Augustus (compiled by S. G. S. from JEmylius Probus, &c.) reprinted in Skeat's Shakspere's Plutarch, pp. 230-277, Shakspere doesn't seem to have used. It did not appear till the 3rd edition of TSorth's Plutarch in 1603. Shakspere probably workt from the edition of 1579, if he got from North's Life of Theseus [Hazlitt, I. i. 16, 16, 28, 37) the names of Perigenia, ^gle (Perigouna and ^gles in North), Ariadne, and Antiopa, and Theseus's falseness to their fair owners. Midkmnmer-Night's Dream, II. ii. 19-21 [Sleeat, p. xiii.) All the Lives in the 1579 and 1595 editions of North are from Amiot's French translation of Plutarch. The 1603 edition has 15 fresh Lives. " A booke called Anthony and Cleopatra " was enterd in Stat. Peg. on May 20, 1608. xoll § 12. THIBD-PEBIOD PLATS: " CORIOLANUS," ? 1607-8. proposal to sacrifice Lepidus. And though the redeeming qualities of his nature were shown in his love for Caesar, his appeal to the people for revenge, and his skill in managing them, yet in his development, lust and self-indulgence prevail, and under their influence he loses judgment, soldiership, even the qualities of a man. His seeming impulse towards good in the marriage of Octavia lasts but for a time ; all her nobleness and virtue cannot save him. He turns from the gem of women to his Egyptian dish again, and abides by his infatuation even when he knows lie 's deceived. To Cleopatra I despair of here doing justice. The wonderful way in which Shakspere has brought out the characteristics of this sumptuous, queenly harlot^, even though he borrows his main lines from Plutarch's picture, goes far beyond all his previous studies of women. The contrast between her and the noble Roman lady Octavia, to whom her wavering husband bears such favourable witness, is most interesting, and prepares us for the next play. These last two, Troilus and Cressida, and Antony and Cleopatra, if of even date, make a Lust or False-Love Group. (If not of even date, as I now suppose (1881), Troili(,s and Cressida will group with Measure for Measure, and Antony and Cleopatra will stand alone here.) The next two plays form " the second Ingratitude and Cursing Group." CoRiOLANUS. — Another Roman play from Plutarch"; but how different in tone and colour from the last ! An interval of 520 years separates the deaths of the two heroes (Coriolanus's was after 489 B.C. ; Antony's, 30 a.d.). Antony livd in the decay of public spirit, the growth of luxury in Rome, and after his death Augustus became its first Emperor. Coriolanus livd in Rome's early austere days, just when she 'd driven the lustful Tarquin from his throne, and establisht the Republic. And it was in the great battle against Tarquin endeavouring to recover the thi-one, that Coriolanus won his first garland of oak. But it is rather in the heroines than the heroes that the contrast of Antony and Cleopatra and Coriolanus is felt. Against the shifting colours of the kaleidoscope of Cleopatra's whims and moods, against the hail and storm of her passions, the lurid glow of her lust, the fierce lightning of her wrath, rises the pure white figure of Volumnia, clad in the dignity of Honour and Patriotism, the grandest woman in Shakspere, the embodiment of all the virtues that made the noble Roman lady. It is the heaven of Italy beside the hell of Egypt.' And from mothers like Volumnia came the men who conquerd the known world, and have left their mark for ever on the nations of Europe. Read her lines in their beautiful rhythmic prose, " When yet | he was but | tender-bodied, | and the on | ly son | of my womb. | I . . was pleased | to let him | seek danger | where | he was like | to find fame. | . . Had I | a doz | en sons, | each in | my love alike, | I had rather | had eleven | die nobly | for their country, | than one | volup | tuously surfeit | out of | action." See her overcome her mother's righteous indignation against her townsmen's injustice to her gallant son ; see her on her knees to that son, for her country's sake, pleading to him for mercy to her native land, appealing to him in words that all Shakspere's last plays echo and re-echo to us : " Think'st thou it honourable, for a noble man, still to remember wrongs ] " see her win her happy victory, and then return with welcome into Rome, its life ; and then acknowledge that no grander, nobler woman, was ever created by Shakspere's art.* Her one fault, her son tells us of, her scorn of the common folk. And as his character was moulded on hers, this fault he shared, but he wilfully greatend it, while his pride and self-love stopt his reaching the height of his mother's patriotism. " Flower of warriors," as he is, " his nature (on one side) too noble for this world," bravest of the brave, genero\is in his gifts, his pride — as well of person as of birth — ^flaws and ruins the jewel of his renown. Treated with ingratitude — base and outrageous though in his case it was — he 1 When a friend of mine was in former days chaplain to a House of Mercy, he told me that what struck him most in the women under his charge was the entire ahsenoe of self-control. Every impulse of passion, of feeling good or bad, was yielded to on the instant ; everything was sacrificed to it. This quality was no doubt checkt in Cleopatra by a fox's cunning, a determination to win and keep admiration, a great love of self ; but it was her most prominent characteristic. 2 See the Life of Coriolanm reprinted in Hazlitt, I. iii. 267. Also see Courtmay, iL. 210. The text of th-e play was first printed in the Folio of 1623. ^ In fact, Cleopatra was a Greek, the daughter of Ptolemy Auletus by a lady of Pontus. * If she wants tenderness and charm, it is because her nature is strung in too high a tone for lower graces. § 12. THIRD-PERIOD tLATS : " TIMON OF ATHENS," ? 1607-8. cannot put his country above himself. As Hotspur would third England, so Coriolanus would destroy Rome. His grip is on her throat when his wife Virgilia, mov'd by the gods, as Plutarch tells us, stirs his mother to appeal to him. They are joind lay Valeria — " The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curded by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Diau's temple," — and they visit the Volscian camp. Coriolanus thought he was above nature, that he could hear them unmoved. But mother, wife, and boy prevail. Coriolanus is himself again, and takes death, as he should, from the hand of his country's foe, while his dear ones, unlike Portia, Cordelia, live on in Rome. The ingratitude of the Roman citizens, the cursings of them by Coriolanus, prepare us for the bitterer curses of the next play of this Group. TiMON OF Athens. — We change from Italy to Greece, from the Republic of Rome to the Republic of Athens. But from Rome in her early legendary days, unlit by the genius of poet or philosopher, to Athens in her palmiest historic time, sunnd with the glory of the greatest names in ancient literature and art — Socrates, Plato, Sophocles, and Aristo- phanes ; Xenophon, Thucydides ; Phidias : all these dwelt, in Alcibiades's time, in Greece. But though the change in land, and light of memory, is great, the burden of Shakspere's Timon is still the same as that of his Coriolanus, the ingratitude of men ■} — " Blow, hlow, thou winter wind ! Thou art not so unkiod As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Altho' thy breath be rude. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky ! Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp. Thy sting is not so sharp As friend rememberd not." — As You Like It. The curses of Coriolanus, Thersites, Lear, ring through the play, and no glorious figures of Yolumnia, Cordelia, rise to relieve its gloom. Indeed, except the unnamed ladies who dance, harlots alone are the female characters of the play. One wishes it could be movd next to Troilus and Cressida, to which it is closely akin in temper, so that Coriolanus, with its forgiveness for wrongs, and not revenge, might be the transition play from the Third Period to the Fourth.^ In Timon the only respect-worthy characters are Flavius, Flaminius, the first Stranger, and the Servant who calls Sempronius a villain. The play wants action and characterisation, and is unequal, even in Shakspere's part. One does not wonder that he left it unfinisht, and let its completer do what he liked with it.' Other links besides its cursings, between it and Coriolanus are, Alcibiades taking revenge, by invasion, on Athens, as Coriolanus does on Rome ; the Senators' ingratitude, and subsequent appeal for mercy, to the wrongd invader, in each play. With Antony and Cleopatra, Timon is allied, by its story taken partly from Plutarch's Life of Antony (pp. 399-400, Hazlitt's Shakspere's Library, Part I., vol. iii.''), by the name Ventidius in both plays, by a certain gorgeousness of colour over the early part of Timan. Timon's gold-poison speech reminds us of Romeo's to the apothecary. The play-completer's LucuUus-talk in III. i., seems to me suggested by Shallow's in 2 Herury IV., III. ii. Shakspere gives us his own account of his play in the Poet's description of Fortune 1 The plays in which Shakspere dwells specially on ingratitude are, in the First Period, Richard II. and III. ; in the Second, 1 & 2 Eenry IV., Senry V., Twelfth-Night (by Viola in III. iv.) ; in the Third, Julius Cmar, Lear, Antony and Cleopatra, Coriolanus, Timon; in the Fourth, The Tempest, Cymbeline, ■Eenry VIII. , ,. " Yet Timon comes in the right place as the climax of the Third- Period temper, or at least some leadmg plays of it. ^ The spurious parts are (probably) part of I. i. 189-240, 258-273 ; certainly I. ii. ; II. n. 45-124 ; all III. except vi. 86-102; IV. ii. 30-51; iii. 292-357, 398-410, 452-538; V. i. 1-59; V. iv. {_New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, 130, 242), * Mr. Hazlitt also prints :- 1. Timon, a play anterior to Shakspere's (Part II.), but which he probably did not use ; 2. The Life of Timon, from Painter's Palace of Pleasure, 1566, vol. i., November 28 (Part I., iv. 395) ; 3. Account of Timon, from Sir Richard Barckley's Felicity of Man, 1598, (Part I., iv. 398). pother passage mentioning " Timon, sumamed Misanthropos," is in Plutarch's Life of Alcibiades, p. 296 of Skeat s Shakspere's Plutarch, xoiv 5 12. THIRB-PERIOI) PLAYS: "TIMON," ? 1607-8. RHVIEW OF THE TEIRDPERIOD PLAYS. waving Timon to her hill-set throne and then spurning him, on which all his dependants let him slip down, not one accompanying his declining foot/ Timon is like Lear in thinking he can buy love with gifts. His character is weak and vain, as we see by his foolish self-indulgence and ostentatious generosity ; and his weakness is shown just as strongly by his after-mshing to the other extreme, hate of all men, women, and children, and his native land, because his own friends disappoint him. As Apemantus says : — " This is in tliee a nature tut infected, A poor unmanly melancholy sprung From change of fortune." And even if we take his own account of his former state and the change in him — ■ " Myself who had the world as my confectionary,'' &c. (Act IV., so. iii.), we see what a poor nature he must have had to be so affected by disappointment, how far short of Orlando's good sense and modesty, which would have taught him that he himself was the first person he ought to have curst. He could not ask himself Volumnia's question, " Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man still to remember wrongs ? " Nor, as Apemantus said, had he ever known the middle of humanity, but only the extremity at both ends. Richardson, an old critic of the play, notices as characteristic of Timon, his weak love of distinction, the ostentatiousness of his liberality, his impatience of admonition, his liking of excessive applause ; that his favours did no real good, only gratified men's passions or vanity ; did not relieve the fatherless and widow, but poets, painters, great men, his own attendants ; that his gifts were profuse, in order to get profuse praise for them ; that he set too high a value on his gifts ; that he got for them a due return ; he thought he was acting from pure motives, but he wasn't, only from self-love ; his friends felt this, and gave him back nothing in return. Then he weakly turns on all men ; he makes sure that he has discovered the best, and that when they fail, all mankind are bad. Yet Shakspere sympathises with Timon, as always with the sufferers, rather than with the practical Alcibiades, who takes the right means to revenge himself for his countrymen's ingratitude to him. " Apemantus (whose name means unharmed), why shovildst thou hate men 1 " asks Timon. He 's the professional cynic, affecting to despise feasts and rich folk, yet really seeking and enjoying them. Though a despicable character, he yet utters truths, and most wholesome ones, and gives us a sound analysis of Timon's character. He 's a kind of Third-Period' Jaques. The play is clearly not all Shakspere's. The two epitaphs in the play are both in Plutarch's Antony : the first, " A wretched corse," as on the tomb, and made by Timon ; the second, " Here lye I," as made by the poet Callimachus. May we not rightly put Timon and Coriolcmus together as " the second Ingratitude and Cursing Group " of plays ? Before we deal with the Fourth-Period plays, let us cast a glance back over those of the Third Period which we have just considerd. That Third Period opend in 1601, the year of the petted Essex's rebellion against Elizabeth ; and we saw in Julius Ccesar, not only Shakspere's public lesson of political wisdom (as in his early Historical Plays) to his countrymen, but also his private feeling of that ingratitude, treachery, of the closest friend of his hero, that in his Third Period he so often repeated. We saw illustrated, in the suicide of the misjudging, yet noble, Brutus, and the insanity and suicide of his equally noble wife, the lesson of the Third Period, that (the generous are the victims of the designing, and that) for all misjudgment and crime comes death to the misjudger, the criminal, — if Brutus may be so calld, — and the innocent woman whose life is bound up in his. In Hamlet we saw the bright and happy life of the young prince darkend by the lust and ingratitude of his mother, eclipst by the revelation of his ungrateful uncle's foul murder of his father; while on him, more unfit than Brutus for his task, was laid the burden of revenge. We saw the many shirks from doing his duty of which Hamlet was guilty, and yet how at last, and as it ' In five earlier lines is a statement of extreme interest as to Shakspere's own generous spirit in his work (Prof. Masson, in The Header), so different from that of Greene, Marstou, and the like : — " My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax : no levell'd malice Infects one comma in the course I hold ; But flies an eagle flight, hold, and forth on, Leaving- no track hohind." § 12 RE'VieW Oe THE TSISD-PMRIOB PLAYS, 1601-8. SHAKSPERE'S MIND IN THEM. were under the pressure of that Providence that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will, the Danish prince in his own death carried out the task his father set him, and again proclaimd that for weakness, misjudgment, as well as crime, death is the penalty on the wrong-doer, while the sweet, weak Ophelia, who loved him, shared his fate. We then turnd to Measwrefor Measure, and in this, the one so-called comedy of the Period, we had a moral of like kind preacht : in the way you have sinnd, in the same shall you be punisht : atonement you shall make, not shirk. And though this play was called a comedy, we noticed the strong contrast of its gloom of lust and filth with the bright, health-giving, out-door air of all but the last of Shakspere's second-time comedies. Yet above this lust and filth rose, radiant as a star, the figure of the " ensky'd and sainted " Isabella, God's handmaiden, who could not be unclean. Othello came next : and we were let for awhile — but oh, so short a one — to dwell on the sweet picture of the hero's winning, and wooing, and wearing his beautiful bride. But the treacherous, trusted friend, " honest lago," the devil in man's shape, is soon at work, with his suggestion to Othello of that lust which overshadowd Hamlet and Measv/re for Measure, and chaos has come again ; the noble and generous Moor is the easy victim of his " honest " friend ; all Desdemona's beauty and touching tho' misjudging innocence, are turned into evidences of her guilt, and she, the pure and guiltless, lies stifled on her bridal bed by the husband who'd set his life upon her faith. Soon his own murderer's hand lets out his own life-blood : and again the terrible Third-Period lesson is enforced, for misjudgment, unreasoning jealousy, crime, death is the penalty : no time for repentance is allowd : the innocent must sufi'er with the guilty. Macbeth comes next. The powers of another world are calld in to help forward the ruin of two human souls ready to fall. For the first time Shakspere has unsext the woman's nature he so reverenct and lovd (Queen Margaret of 2 & 3 Henry VI. is not his), and has made ambition turn to gall, that mother's love, with whose self-forgetfulness and pathos Constance's heart-wrung utterances still fill our souls. For the first time he has turnd — though here but for a while — a woman to a demon. The traitor couple murder their king and friend. The act would, they thought,— " To all (their) nights and days to come. Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. They'd "jump the life to come.'' Yet, as Macbeth feard, "We still have judgment here." A.nd so they found it. One they were no longer. Sin kept them apart. Nights they had no longer. " Macbeth, sleep no more ; " " You lack the season of all nature, sleep ; " " All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand." Days of sovereign sway they had not ; neither joy, nor calm content : — ■ " Better he -witli the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to Ue In restless ecstasy," — but judgment here: death, under the pangs of conscience, for his wife; death, from Macduff's sword, for Macbeth. In no play of the time is the lesson of the Third Period more directly preacht than in Macbeth. The ten-ors and horrors of Lear follow. Two women are here unsext, and far more terribly than in Lady Macbeth's case. The ghoul-like lust and fiendish cruelty and ingratitude of Goneril and Regan render them the most repulsive figures in all Shakspei-e. By their side stand Edmund (a second lago : what a contrast to the noble Bastard Falconbridge in John!), and Cornwall almost as bad. Ingratitude of daughters, treachery of a son — driving fathers to despair, to madness, and to death — infidelity of a wife, plotting her husband's death, and poisoning her sister, to gratify her own lust, the heavens themselves joining in the, wild storm of earthly passions, and witchcraft lending itself to enhance their terrors. But still there rises above the foul caldron of vice the gracious figure of Cordelia, who cannot lie; only, when the avenger comes, when judgment is given here, she, the innocent, lies dead among the guilty. Troilus and Cressida comes next, with the bitter, foul-moutht Thersites as its expounder and philosopher. The great early poem of the history of the western world, still the delight of a Gladstone, is stript of all its romance; and the Trojan War is shown in its bitterest, vulgarest reality, as a mere struggle for a harlot-wife, to gratify a cuckold-husband's revenge. xovi § 12. REVIEW OF THE TEIRD-PERIOD PLAYS, 1601-8. SBAKSPERE'S MIND IN TEEM: Every one is mean, every one acts from low motives. Ulysses is just a clever -wire-puller, Ajax a bragging fool, Achilles a petty, spiteful chief, who doesn't even dare to meet his tired enemy alone. Hector prefers a childish notion of honour to right, and patriotism, and good sense. Cressid, so beautiful in Chaucer's picture, is debased into a mere wanton. No light of nobleness is on the play except in the short reception of Hector by Nestor in the Grecian camp. The end of the war is not given ; but Cassandra's voice tells us it is at hand. Lust, and selfishness still prevail, and the noble misjudging Hector has judgment here, — " He's dead; and at the murderer's horse's tail, In heastly sort, dragd thro' the shameful field." Antony and Chopatra comes next, with its gorgeous Eastern colour, its most wonderful study of a woman that Shakspere ever made. Yet lust and orgies are its theme, the ruin of the noble soul who so loved Caesar and revengd him. We saw how brilliantly he disproved Brutus's mean estimate of him ; we heard the unstinted praise that his rival, Csesar's nephew, gave him for his daring, his generous sharing of all his soldiers' hardships ; we saw him tear himself from the arms of the superb paramour who 'd enthralld him, and wed that " piece of virtue " (Csesar), that " gem of women " (as he called her), noble Octavia, and we hoped that his redemption was nigh. But alas, the lift was but that his fall might be the greater. Again he betook himself to the poison of Cleopatra's charms, and under them lost all that men value most, judgment, honour, manliness, the courage that was his boast, and sank to a dishonourd suicidal grave, the senseless victim of his paramour's deceit^ ; while she, from dread of vulgar taunts, died — theatrically-vain and ease-seeking to the last — the gentlest death she could secure, that of asps' bites on her breast. Coriolanus foUowd. The noble, high-born warrior is ruind by class-pride. He cannot stoop to seek, at the hands of its givers, the honour that his noble mother has so long longd-for for him, the honour that his brilliant deeds of arms for them, his fellow-citizens, have won. He was born to rule them, not to beg of them. And when, in their quick fit of ingratitude at his scorn — scorn almost as bitter as Thersites's — they turn on him, as they'd done before, from meaner motives on Brutus — the selfishness at the bottom of all aristocratic pride comes out, Coriolanus puts himself, his own desire of revenge for personal wrong, above his country, and joins her foes. Her life is already in his grasp, and he means to take it, when the splendid figure of his mother — -the grand Volumnia, who loves honour and Rome above herself — kneels before him, and wife and boy help him to rise to his own true height, and forgive, not revenge. " Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man stUl to remember wrongs? " a prelude of the coming Fourth Period. But, for his mistake, comes judgment here ; Coriolanus dies by Volscian hands. His innocents are not involvd with him. They live on in Rome. Lastly came Timon, with its weakly generous, misjudging hero, giving his all to those whom he thought friends, finding them all desert him in his hour of need, and then withdrawing, with curses on all mankind, to get out of the sight of his fellow-men. " I am misanthropos, and hate mankind." And so he ends, "who, alive, all living men did hate." He, too, has judgment here. The gloom of the play is relievd by no gracious female figure — two harlots, greedy for gold, are the only women introduced : — and the faithful steward alone is true. Now look at the mass of evil, of sacrifice of good to ill, of triumph of the base over the noble, that this Third Period represents. Admit gladly that over all the hell-broth of murder, lust, treachery, ingratitude, and crime, there rise the three radiant figures of Isabella, in her saintliness and purity ; Cordelia, in her truth and daughter's love ; Volumnia, in her devotion to honour and her country : think, too, of the one gleam of happy coming bridal between Isabella and the Duke. But look on the other side, at Csesar, Brutus, and the noble Portia dead ; Hamlet and Ophelia dead too ; likewise Othello, Desdemona and Emilia, Macbeth and his wife, Banquo, Macduff's wife and all his little ones, Lear, Cordelia and eyeless Gloster, beside Regan, Goneril, Cornwall, Edmund, Hector's gory corpse, Antony self-slain, Cleopatra too, Coriolanus murderd, Timon miserably dead. Think of the temper in which Shakspere held the scourge of the avenger in his hand, in which he felt the baseness, calumny, and injustice of the world around him, in which he saw, as it were, the heavens as iron above him, and God as a blind and furious fate, cutting men off in their sins, involving the innocent with the guilty. Compare for a minute ' Antony runs on hifi own sword, Eros having first killed himself to avoid killing Antony. § IS. THE FOURTB-FEBIOD PLATS OP SECONCILIATIOS : ••PERICLES," 1608-9. xcvii yxjur memories of Shakspere's patriotic brilliant 'Second Period. Set the abounding, the overflowing happy life of that, against the bitterness, the world-weariness, of this terrible Third Period, and then decide for yourselves whether this change in Shakspere was one of artist only^, or, as I believe, one of man too ; and whether many of the Sonnets do not help you to explain it, with that " hell of time " through which their ^VTiter passt ; — " For if you were by my unkindness shaken, As I by yours, you have pasat a hell of timey — Sonnet 120, 1. 6. Then turn to the Fourth-Period plays, and note the change again of temper and of tone. True that they deal with treachery, ingratitude, breach of family-relations, misjudgment,- weakness. But where is the avenger here ? He is hardly seen. True that Cymbeline's queen in her guilt, despairing, dies. The fool Cloten is killd. The young Mamilius, under the burden of his base father's accusation of the boy's noble mother Hermione, droops and dies : the one innocent life lost. But in the main, the God of forgiveness and reconciliation has iaken the avenger's place ; repentance, not vengeance, is what he seeks. And of all the plays, death is not the end, but life. In three of them the happy bridal life of such sweet girls as Shakspere never before drew, Marina, Mii'anda, Perdita ; in one, the renewed married life of his queens of wifehood and womanhood, Imogen and Hermione ; in one, the life of her who was to bring "peace, plenty, love, and truth ^" to the England that, with all its faults, Shakspere lovd so well. You turn from the storm, the gloom, and the whirlwind of the Third Period, and see in the Fourth " a great peacefulness of light," a harmony of earth and heaven— sweet, fresh, English country scenes. And here, too, I see the change, not of artist only, but of man, of the nature of Shakspere himself in his new life in his peaceful Stratford homa The passage from Shakspere's Third Period to his Fourth always reminds me of the change in Handel's Israel in Egypt, from the magnificent series of the choruses of the plagues — among them, chief, the gloom and darkness that might be felt, and the terrors of the oppressors' cries for the death of their first-born — to the glad, spring-like, sylvan strain, " But as for his people, he led them forth like sheep." ^ (I hope all my readers know it.) § 13. Pericles. — ^This play forms a fit opening for the Fourth Period, in its happy re- uniting of the long-separated family, father, mother, and daughter (Shakspere has now only two daughters, his son died in 1596), and in Pericles's flood of joy and gratitude at his finding wife and girl again, sweeping away all thought of his intended revenge on his wrongers, Dionyza and Cleon.* Pericles is, like Timon, only partly from Shakspere's hand. He wrote only the last three acts, less the prose brothel scenes and the Gower choruses in them.* As you read through the dull beginning acts, you at once feel the change of hand when you come on the first words of Act III. : " Thou God of this great vast." You see the birth of Marina, the supposed death and casting into the sea of her mother Thaisa, the committal of the babe to Cleon's treacherous wife Dionyza, the betrayal of her trust by that harpy, and 1 I do not admit as a sufficient answer, that which, of course, rises in one's mind, that the change from Comedy to Tragedy, and then to Komantic Drama, involvd this change of tone and temper, independently of the author's own moods. I feel that Shakspere's change of subject in his difierent Periods wac made mainly because it suited his moods, the different ways in which, on the whole, from Period to Period, he lookt on the world. Just contrast his Comedies of the First, Second, or Fourth Periods with those of his Third — Measure for Measure and Troilus and Cressida (if we so treat it) ; his Tragedy of the First Period — Eomeo and /«&«— with those of his Third — Samlet, Timon, &c.— and believe, if you can, that Shakspere's mind and spirit were as full of hope and much at ease in the latter period as the earlier. Even the judicial Hallam admits the change in Shakspere. ' Fletcher's words to Shakspere's plan. ' This air, like many others of Handel's, was a borrowd one. * Note in the Fourth Period the heathen divinities: Diana here, Juno, Ceres, &c., in The Tempest, Jupiter in Cymbeline, Apollo in Winter's Tale. "Visions, dreams, oracles, prevail. » Mr. Tennyson first pointed out this to me one Sunday in December, 1873. The fact is certam. See the JVew Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1874, p. 252. On a question like this, one cannot accept any foreigner's opinion as of weight. He cannot judge on it like an Englishman can, tho on other as important points he may lead us, and has led us. xoTiii 5 13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLATS: "PERICLES," 1608-9; "THE TEMPEST," 1609-10. her persuading Leonine to murder Marina simply because she was more beautiful than her own daughter. Then we see Marina rescued, but see, too, the despair of Pericles on hearing of her (supposed) death, his three months' silence, and then his recovery under his daughter's earnest pleas : — ' " Wlo starves the ears slie feeds, and makes tliem hungry. The more she gives them speech." And then his great " sea of joys " rushing upon him when he is convinced of her existence ; then, his first thoughts of vengeance postponed, his visit to the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, the high-priestess, his wife Thaisa, recognising him, and thus finding husband and daughter at once. " Per. Ye gods, your present kindness makes my past misery," &c. Thencrforth he thinks only of their daughter's marriage ; vengeance is forgotten in his joy. Shakspere's motive in taking up the story was surely this reunion of father, mother, and daughter, and not the early part, of ApoUonius of Tyre's incest with his child, which Chaucer reproacht Gower for telling. Still, he may have meant to show us Marina by her purity and virgin presence disarming the lust of men, thus giving us in her a Fourth-Period representative of the glorious Third-Period Isabella. Gower's version of the ancient legend was re-told in two prose forms in Shakspere's day', and an expression or two in the 1608 one, " poor inch of nature," (fee, looks like Shakspere, and as if borrowd from a difierent version of the play to that which we now have. (See Mr. Collier's Introduction in Hazlitt, Part I., vol. iv., p. 240, &c.) One passage in Pericles has for me a personal interest as regards Shakspere. Seeing with what contempt he treated the apothecaries in the Errors and Eomeo mid Juliet, and how little notice he took of the Doctor in Macbeth, we are struck with the very different character he gives to the noble, scientific, and generous Cerymon here. He is a man working for the good of all, the kind of man that Bacon would have desired for a friend. And recollecting that the date of this play is probably 1 608 (or 1 607), I cannot help believing that Cerymon represents to some extent the famous Stratford physician^, Doctor John Hall, who, on June 5, 1607, married Shakspere's eldest daughter Susanna^ The great growth in power shown in the contrast between the scenes of family reunion in Pericles and The Comedy of Errors, between Shakspere's Fourth Period and his First, I have alluded to above, p. xxii. Pericles appeard in Quarto in 1609 (twice), 1611, 1619, 1630, 1635, and was printed from the sixth or 1635 Quarto in the second issue of the third Folio of Shakspere's Plays, 1664, with six other fresh plays, all spurious. The Tempest. — ^We turn. from the southern to the northern shore of the Mediterranean, from Tyre, where Pericles was Prince, to Naples, where Alonso was King, to MUan, of which Prospero was Duke. We change from Ephesus, where cruel Dionyza plotted her friend's child's death, to the fair island in the Mediterranean, the creation of Shakspere's brain', where Prospero saved his foe's child's life. But though the scene is changed, the Fourth- Period spirit of the Poet is the same. Yolumnia's " Think' st thou it honourable for a noble man still to remember wrongs ^ " is still the burden of the play ; the reunion of separated members of a family, the reconciliation of foes, are still its subject, and forgiveness, not revenge, its lesson : — " The rarer action is In virtue, than in vengeance: they, being penitent, Surely we may with justice stretch Gonzalo's sentiment that we have found " all of us 1 The Fatterne of Painfull Aditentures, by Lawrence Twine, 1.576 (in 1 ffazUtt, iv., with Gower's Apollonius of Tyre), and a later tract by George Wilkins, whose title-page alludes to Shakspere's play, " The Painfull Admntures of Pericles, Prince of Tt/re, being The True Hintory of the Play of Pericles, as it was lately presented by the worthy and ancient poet, lohn Gower," 1608. Wilkins' tract has been reprinted in Germany. Mr. Hazlitt gives its "Argument of the whole Historie," and list of " Names of the Personages," I. iv. 243-7. The Life of Pericles of Athens, from North's Plutarch, was inadvertently put by Mr. Hazlitt into his collection. There is no like life of Pericles of Tyre. 2 See his " Cures Performed upon very Eminent Persons in Desperate Diseases, put into English by James Cooke," and publisht in 1657. On p. 52 is his treatment of the " greevous cough " of Mr. (George) Queeny, the youngest brother of his brother-in-law, Thomas Quiney, husband of Judith Shakspere. George Queeny was buried llth April, 1624. ' No original of his story is known. The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown farther." — V. i. § 13. FOTJRTH-PEEIOJ) PLATS: "THE TEMPEST," 160&-10. ourselves " further than perhaps Shakspere's use of the words will bear, and thus claim that the truth uttered in them is " when we are not our own alone, when we are emptied of self, when we are most helpful to others, then alone do we find our (true) selves." No play brings out more clearly than The Tempest the Fourth-Period spirit ; and Miranda evidently belongs to that time ; she and her fellow, Perdita, being idealisations of the sweet country maidens whom Shakspere would see about him in his renewed family life at Stratford. Of them what better can be said than my friend Mr, Phillpots has said of Miranda, in his Rugby school edition of Tim Tempest. Differ tho' they do, each is a phantom of delight, the realisation of Wordsworth's lines : — " Hera shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute iusensate things. " The flpating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willows bend ; Nor shall she fail to see, E'en in the motions of the storm. Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. " The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shaU lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round. And beauty born of murmuring sound ShaU pass into her face." Tiim back to the First-Period Midmmmer-NigMs Dream, and compare with its Stratford girls, staind with the tempers and vulgarities of their day, these Fourth-Period creations of pure beauty and refinement, all earth's loveliness filld with all angels' grace ; and recognise what Shakspere's growth has been. (Note too that in all the first four Fourth-Period plays are lost daughters or sons. Compare also Shakspere on his art in Midsummer-Night's Dream and in The Tempest.) The general consent of critics and readers identifies Shakspere, in the ripeness and calmness of his art and power, more with Prospero than with any other of his characters ; just as the like consent identifies him, in his restless and unsettled state, in his style of less perfect art, with Hamlet. When we compare Prospero's " We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep," with all the questionings and fears about the future life that perplext and terrified Hamlet and Claudio, we may see what progress Shakspere has himself made in soul. The links of this play with Pericles are the opening storm in each, Thaisa and Marina thought drowned or dead, and yet restored to Pericles ; Ferdinand, and Prospero, and Miranda thought drowned, and yet restored to Alonso ; revenge forgotten by Pericles va the fulness of his joy, revenge overcome in Prospero by his willingness to forgive. With earlier plays we can hardly help compariag the faithful, cheery Gonzalo who^provides Prospero and Miranda in their danger with clothes, and food, and books, with the faithful Kent, and Gloster who provides Lear with a room and a litter to drive towards Dover. Caliban is hinted at in Troilus (Act III., so. iii., line 264), while Prospero's speech to Miranda about the zenith and the star, is like Brutus's on the tide in the affairs of men. In his inattention to his government, Prospero is like the Duke in Measure for Measure. With Hamlet we have the likenesses of Antonio getting rid of Prospero and seizing his crown, to Claudius's murder of Hamlet's lather and taking his crown ; and Prospero's warning to Ferdinand that " the strongest oaths are straw to the fire in the blood " like Polonius's to Ophelia of the blazes when the blood bums, giving more light than heat. But Prospero, unlike Hamlet, has been taught by the discipline of his island life, and as soon as fortune gives him his first chance, ne acts, and obtains his end. As a fairyland play, the links of The Tempest with Midsummer- NigMs Dream are strong. But now it is no longer as in Shakspere's youth, that men and women are toys for fairies' whims to play with ; in his age the poet uses his magic to wield the fairy-world and the powers of nature for the highest possible end— the winning back to good, of human souls given over to evil. Contrast, too, for a moment, Oberon's care for the lovers iu the Dream, with the beautiful, tender feeUng of Prospero for Mu-anda and Ferdinand here. He stands above them almost as a god, yet sharing their feelings and blessing them. Note, too, how his tenderness for Miranda revives m his words, ilie fringed curtains of thine eyes advance," the lovely fancy of his youth, her « two blue o § 13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS: " THB TEMPEST," 1609-10; " GYHBELINE," P 1610. windows faintly she upheaveth " (Venv^ and Adonis, line 482). He has seized in Miranda, as in Perdita, on the new type of sweet country-girl imspoUt by town devices, and glorified it into a being fit for an angels' world. And as he links earth to heaven with Miranda, so he links earth to hell with Caliban. In Caliban, too, and Gonzalo's ideal commonwealth' he no doubt gave utterance to the thoughts which the beginning of the newly-founded colonial empire of England raised in him, and from the tracts about which in 1 6 10 on the Bermudas and Virginia, he took the storm and the much- vexed Bermoothes. The play preserves the unities of time and place as well as that of action, to which alone Shakspere generally attends. The unity of time required that the play should take in acting the same time as the events that occasion it ; and the action of T/ie Tempest is comprised within three or four hours. The unity of place required that the different scenes should be reachable by the characters in the same time, and here the only distance to be travelled is from the sea-shore to Prospero's cell. As in Pericles and The Tempest, the forgiveness is wholly on the men's part — Pericles' and Prospero's — I propose to put these two plays together as the first Group of the Fourth Period. The Tempest was first printed in the Folio of 1623. Cymbeline. — If with T/ie Tempest Shakspere meant to break his magician's wand, to bury it " certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound " drown his book (Act V., sc. i., lines 54-7), he happily for the world alterd his mind. From his enchanted island in the Mediterranean and its wise, ruler self-controlld, he passt to Britain, and its king, the slave of unreasoning passions. Yet it was not Lear's savage island, but a half-civUised, Romanised one. Still, like Lear, Gymbeline is a race-play, a Keltic one'^; quick, unreasoning passion is yielded to by every leading character, by Cymbeline when he believes two villains' oaths against Belarius, and banishes him ; when workt on by his beautiful, flattering wife's revenge against Posthvimus, he banishes him and almost curses his daughter Imogen ; when under the influence of the same wife's ambition he refuses to pay Osesar's tribute ; when he at first yields to his impulse to avenge Cloten's murder, and dooms his son Guiderius to death ; by his Queen, in her revenge on Posthumus, and Imogen, and her own death ; by Posthumus in his direction to kill Imogen ; by Imogen in her impetuous love for Posthumus, her pretty impatience to fly to Milford-Haven, her wish for death ; and by Belarius in his revenge of stealing Cymbeline's sons. With the story of British legend Shakspere wove one of those Italian novels he had so often used before, in which the quick resource and turns of lachimo (equal lago) are like those of Proteus and the Duke in TJie Two Gentlemen of Verona. It would seem as if after the effort of originality in The Tempest, as before in the Midsummer-Night's Dream, he fell back on other men's inventions. Here, too, we may say partly his own, for in Cymbelvne, Lear, Othello, dtc, are freely used. Yet that it is a ripe play in thought, the lines — " Reverence, that angel of the world." " Those that I reverence, ^thoae I fear,. The wise "— are enough to show, even if the metrical structure, the number of three syllables in one measure, did not coincide with its lateness in purpose and character. The Fourth-Period doctrine, of repentance for sin, and sin's forgiveness, is the burden here ; pardon 's the word for all. The Italian story is from Boccaccio. Imogen is Madonna Zinevra ; Bernardo Lomelin is Posthumus, and offers the wager, Ambrogiuolo da Piacenza (for lachimo) accepts it, and by bribing a woman friend of the wife's gets into her bed-chamber in a chest, comes out when she's asleep, notes the furniture, &c., and the mole beneath her left breast, with some six little hairs as bright as gold round it, and with this convinces the hesitating husband, who writes to his wife to come to him, and charges his servant to kill her on the road. The man lets her off, she assumes male dress, at last exposes Ambrogiuolo, and tortures him to death, but forgives her husband. The story is also in the old French Roman de la Violette, and Le Compte de Poitiers, in the old French mystery play, Un Miracle de Notre Dame, and in the English Westward for Smelts (1620), probably not used by 1 Taken from Florio's englisht Montaigne's Essays, 1603, extract in 1 HazlUt, Pt. II., iv. 7, with the Search for the Island of Lampedusa, from Harrington's Ariosto, canto xli., a,d. 1591, ib. pp. 3-6. '■' See Mr. Hales's paper on Lear in The Fortnightly Review, for 1874 (?). §13. FOVBTH-FEBIOI) PLATS: " CYMBELINE," ? 1610. cl Shakspere.' The links of Cymbeline are strongest with Winter^s Tale, and will be noticed in the comment on that play.^ As in Tlie Tempest, we have the vices of the court and the virtues of the country contrasted. As in Lear, we have the weak and passionate king, cruelly unjust to his noble daughter. The picture in Imogen's room is that of Cleopatra on the Oydnus, so gorgeously painted in Shakspere's play. With Othello, driven to jealous fury by lago, we compare Posthumus in like case by lachimo. With Imogen's — " Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition, so divine, that cravens , My weak hand " — we compare Hamlet's — " Oh, that the Everlasting had not flxt His canon 'gainst self-slaughter," With Belarius's account of country life and town we compare the Duke's in As You Like It, and with the description of how Imogen is to act the man, the like passages in As You Like It, TJie Merchant, and The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The lovely picture of Imogen in bed takes us back to that of Lucrece ; and the separation of Imogen and Posthumus to come together again, as she thinks, at Milford-Haven, or at any rate her impatience to join her husband, may be contrasted with Juliet's passionate desire to have Romeo in her arms. As CymbeliD.e is mainly a fool, and his Queen altogether a villain, we turn to the hero and heroine of the play, Posthumus and Imogen. And although the accounts of the Gfentleman in the first scene, and lachimo in the fifth, lead us to expect a perfect character, yet Posthumus shows himself, as he says, "a most credulous fool," sooner convinced than Othello, unable to see how poor the evidence of his wife's guilt is, till Philario shows him. He has none of Othello's noble wrath against his tempter, during the temptation scene ; and his abuse of all women on his false and groundless suspicion of one is mean. But his repentance is as full, as his sin has been great. Once and again he desires death for Imogen. He feels that nothing is too great to carry out his atonement for his sin against her. We wish we could have been spared his striking of his page-wife to the ground, but it was because he thought she scorned herself ; forgiven, he forgives, and teaches Cymbeline to forgive too. Imogen is one of those characters whom it is impertinence to praise. With all Julief s impetuous afi'ection and wealth of fancy — " E'er I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And Kke the tyrannous breathing of the North Shakes all our buds from growing," — she is nobler, wiser far. To judge of her height above Posthumus, compare her receiving of lachimo's assertions of Posthumus's infidelity, with Posthumus's receiving of those against her. Note her noble indignation against lachimo's base proposals to her, in which the princess as well as the wife speaks. Then the clever turn of lachimo, and his instant pacifying of her by his praise of her husband. Passionate though her nature is, Posthumus yet bears witness to her restraint of him.' Her love for him again breaks out in her defence of him against Cloten's abuse ; and great is the unconscious pathos of her words on her lost bracelet : — " I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he." Her husband's consciousness of her love is shown in his letter to her, like Antonio's to Bassanio in The Merchamt — "What your own love will, out of this, advise you, follow." She calls for a "horse with wings," she who, like Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims, can ' Holinshed has but little about Cymbeline that Shakspere uses. Hazlitt prints an extract, tho without the names of the king's sons, and the payment of the Roman tribute, in his Shakspere's Library, Pt. I., vol. ii., pp. 194-6. See also Courtenay's Commentaries, vol. ii. Hazlitt likewise prints, I. ii. 179-193, abstracts of the French Vioktte, Compte de Poitiers, and Miracle stories, and of Boccaccio's Tale of Bernabo Lomellia of Genoa. t, • i j 2 Two of the links with Pericks are that Cymbeline's Queen is like Dionyza, and that Pericles and Posthumus both have visions, while asleep, of the way out of their difficulties. {Mulier, from molba aer, is from Caxton's Game of the Chesse. — E. Scott.) ' Compare this with Othello's like words on Desdemona. § 13. FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS: "WINTER'S TALE," 1611. only ride of miles "one score 'twixt sun and sun." Then when, instead of clasping he* husband in her arms, she hears his slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword, her pathetic answer, " False to his bed ! what is it to be false ] " (like Sonnet 61), prepares us for her willingness, like Viola's, that her master's bidding should be done, and her life given up to his base wish. Then comes her meeting with her unknown brothers, her death, like Juliet's, for a time, and the song so little adapted to Euriphile but so fit for her, and in part for Shakspere himself, that her brothers sing over her supposed corpse. But she rises again, not like Juliet to sink into the grave, but to re-live her life more truly than before, the queen, the life, the wife, of the husband she has lifted to herself, the daughter of the father of whose comfort she was great part, the sister of the brothers to whom she had been as the sweet smell of eglantine.^ Winter's Tale. — ^We turn from our murky Britain again to sunlit Sicily and the Mediterranean, and though Mamilius tells us that — " A sad tale's best for winter," yet, notwithstanding all Hermione's suffering, and the death of her gallant boy, who used to frighten her with goblin stories, we can't call Shakspere's Winter's Tale sad. It is so fragrant with Perdita and her primroses and violets, so happy in the reunion and reconciliation of her and her father and mother, so bright with the sunshine of her and of Florizel's young love, and the merry roguery of that scamp Autolycus, that none of us can think of Tlie Winter's Tale as a " sad tale " or play. The last complete play of Shakspere's as it is, the golden glow of the sunset of his genius is over it, the sweet country air all through it ; and of few, if any of his plays, is there a pleasanter picture in the memory than of Winter's Tale. As long as men can think, shall Perdita brightea and sweeten, Hermione ennoble, men's minds and lives. How happily, too, it brings Shakspere before us, mixing with his Stratford neighbours at their sheep-shearing and country sports, enjoying the vagabond pedlar's gammon and talk, delighting in the sweet Warwickshire maidens, and buying them " fairings," telling goblin stories to the boys, "There was a man dwelt by a churchyard V' — opening his heart afresh to all the innocent mirth, and the beauty of nature around him. He borrowed the improbable story of his play from a popular tale by his old abuser Greene, Fandosto^ (or Dorastus and Fawnia — who is Perdita), of which the first edition in 1588 was followed by thirteen others, and which puts the inland Bohemia on the sea-shore, as Shakspere does. This tale contains no original of Paulina and Autolycus, or the reconciliation of Leontes and Hermione'' ; the shepherd's wife's name is Mopsa ; the queen dies on hearing of the death of her son, Shakspere changes Bohemia for SicUy, and vice versa. We must accept the medley and anachronisms of this play, as Hudson says, " making Whitsun pastorals. Christian burial, Giulio Romano, the Emperor of Russia, and Puritans singing psalms to hornpipes, all contemporary with the oracle of Delphi." " It is a winter's tale, an old tale," and one must not object to confusions in it. It is Greene's tale, informed by a new spirit, instinct with a new life. The play, is late in metre, in feeling, in purpose. It has no five-measure ryrae in the dialogue, its end-stopt lines are only one in 2-12, its double-endings are as many as one in 2'85 ; it has passages in Shakspere's latest budding style, " What you do, still betters what is done," &c. Its purpose, its lesson, are to teach forgiveness of wrongs, not vengeance for them ; to give the sinner time to repent and amend, not to cut him off in his sin ; to frustrate the crimes he has purpost. And as in Fericles, father and lost daughter, and wife and ^ The play was first printed in the Folio of 1623. The vision must, one would think, have been written by some one else than Shakspere. ^ Who wiU finish it for us ? ' Eeprinted in Hazlitt's Shakspere's Library, Part I., vol. iv., pp. 18-83. Mr. Hazlitt suggests that Shakspere had also an eye to G-asooigne's englisht " Phoenissse " of Euripides, presented at Gray's Inn in 1566, and printed in Gascoigne's Works, 1573, 1575, 1587, (ed. Hazlitt, 1869-70) ; and that for the character of Autolycus he may have reooUeoted the amusing pedlar in the curious Booh of Dives Pragmatims, 1563 (reprinted in Mr. H. Huth's Fugitive Tracts, 1875), who sold everything then known under the sun. Dr. Simon Forman saw Winter's Tale performed at the Globe on May 15, 1611, as we have noted above, p. xiii. ^ And none of Antigonus or the shepherd's son. § IS. FOUBTa-PJSBIOD PLAYS: "WINTER'S TALE," 1611. mother thought dead, meet again ; as in Gymbelimef father and injured daughter meet again, she forgiving her wrongs ; as there, too, friends meet again, the injured friend forgiving his wrongs, so here do lost daughter, injured daughter and injuring iiather, meet, he being forgiven; so injured friend forgiving, meets injuring friend forgiven; while above all rises the figure of the noble, long-suffering wife Hermione, forgiving the base though now repentant husband who had so cruelly injured her. She links this play to Shakspere's last fragment Hemry VIII., and makes us believe that this twice-repeated reunion of husband and wife, in their daughter, late in life, this twice-repeated forgiveness of sinning husbands by sianed-against wives, have somewhat to do with Shakspere's reunion with his wife, and his renewd family life at Stratford. The Fourth-Period melody is heard all through the play. We see, too, in The Winter's Tale the contrast between court and country, that The Tem/pest and Cymheline showed us. Plenty of other links there are, of which we will note only two : First, one like the sword line at the end of Lemr and Othello, "Slander, whose sting is sharper than the sword's" (Winter's Tale, II. iii. 85); "Slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword " (CyrrAeline, III. iv. 35) ; and second, the clown's clothes making the gentleman-born in Winter's Tale, and Cloten's " Know'st thou me not by my clothes 1"^ In Tlie Tempest we have a storm as here, while our play is linkt to Othello by the king's monomaniacal jealousy being like Othello's, though here it is self-suggested, not from without by an lago. Paulina here is a truer EmOia : she steals no handkerchief : but the ladies are alike in their love for their mistresses, and in their violent indignation, so well-deserved, against their masters. The pretty picture of the two kings' early friendship, which reminds us of those of Celia and Rosalind in As You Like It, and of Hermia and Helena in the Dreani,^ is soon broken down by the monomania of Leontes's jealousy, and the disgracefulness of his talking to his boy Mamilius about his wife's supposed adultery. His attempt to get CamUlo to poison Polixenes is more direct than even John's with Hubert to murder Arthiir, Richard's with Tyrrel to strangle the innocents, Henry the Fourth's with Exton to clear Richard the Second from his path. His sending his guiltless daughter to her death, and his insistance on his wife's guilt and trial, are almost madness too. But his repentance, like Posthumus's, comes at last, and is, we hope, as real. At any rate, he gets the benefit of Shakspere's Fourth-Period mood, which has restord to him the wife and daughter whom he never deserved. Hermione is, I suppose, the most magnanimous and noble of Shakspere's women ; without a fault, she suffers, and for sixteen years, as if for the greatest fault. If we contrast her noble defence of herself against the shameless imputation on her honour, with the conduct of earlier women in like case, the faltering words and swoon of Hero, the few ill-starrd sentences of Desdemona, saying just what would worst inflame her husband's wrath, the pathetic appeal and yet submission of Imogen, we see how splendidly Shakspere has developd in his last great creation. And when Camillo's happy suggestion that Florizel should take Perdita to Sicily and Leontes has borne fruit, and Shakspere, — forced to narrative, as in the news of Lear to Cordelia, — unites father and daughter, and then brings both into union before us with the mother thought so long a corpse and still a stone, the climax of pathos and delight is reached : art can no farther go. Combined with this noble, suffering figure of Hermione, and her long-sundered married life, is the sweet picture of Perdita's and Florizel's love and happy future. Shakspere shows us more of Perdita than of Miranda ; and heavenly as the innocence of Miranda was, we yet feel that Perdita comes to us with a sweeter, more earth-like charm, though not less endowed with all that is pure and holy, than her sister of the imaginary Mediterranean isle. On these two sweet English girls, bright with the radiance of youth and love, the mind delights to linger, and does so with happiness, while sadness haunts the recollection of Shakspere's first great girl-figure Juliet, beautiful in different kind. Not only do we see Shakspere's freshness of spirit in his production of Perdita, but also in his creation of Autolycus. That, at the close of his dramatic- life, after all the troubles he had passed through, Shakspere had yet the youngness of heart to bubble out into this merry rogue, the incarnation of fun and rascality, and let him sail off successful and unharmed, is wonderful. And that there is no diminution of his former comic power is shown, too, in his ' A husband's baseless disbelief in the virtue of a pure and noble wife is tie turning-point of both Cymheline and Winter's Tale. i t ■ 2 Note the likeness of Hermione's "how pretence of love will manage wives," to that of Luciana m the Errors. dv § la FOURTH-PERIOD PLAYS: "HENRY VIII." BY SHAKSPERB AND FLETCHER, 1013. clown, who wants but something to be a reasonable man. With this play we close the genuine dramas of Shakspere, and have now only two to deal with, of which he wrote parts, and of which his loose sheets must have been handed to another man to complete and revise, as in the case of Timon. Heney VIII. — That this is a play of Shakspere's latest style is evident to any one who really knows the characteristics of that style ; the outward marks show it, no less than the inward spirit. The frequent occurrence of the weak-ending \ which alone appears in any numbers in the late plays, the many run-on and extrar syllable lines, the easy conversa- tional .flow of parts of the dialogue, the difference between the rhetorical speeches here and in early historical plays, Uke John, are all evidences of Shakspere's latest style. While in characters, Queen Katharine and her unjust husband are the match of Hermione and hers of TJie Winter's Tale. To wrench Katharine from Shakspere's last time to his early second, as Mr. Swinburne would do, is like putting autumn fi-uit on a tree in spring. The only excuse for the folly of making Hemry VIII. a Second-Period play, is the weakness of many parts of that play ; but it is abundantly clear that these weak passages, and the disappointing effect of the whole play, are due to Fletcher^, and not to 8hak.spere. The great authority on this question is my friend Mr. James Spedding, the able editor of Bacon. The suggestion of the view supported by him with so much ability was made to him by Mr. Tennyson ; it has been confirmed by Mr. Browning, and supported by such able critics as Professor Ingram and Professor Dowden. On the general question, Mr. Spedding observes : — " The effect of this play as a wliole is weak and disappointing. The truth is that the interest, instead of rising towards the end, falls away utterly, and leaves us in the last • Professor Ingram, of Trinity College, Dutlin, has a paper on the weak- and light-endings in Shakspere in the New Shahsp. Sods Tram., 1874. The \T weak-eiulAngs axe " and, as, at, but ( = L. «« in hand, we have no evidence, beyond the vaguest conjecture, to suggest that this plaj has been based on an earlier drama on the same subject. We know that in 1566 a play called Palcemon and Arcyte, by Richard Edwardes, was performed before Queen Elizabeth at Oxford, but certain indications make it pretty clear, though this play has perished, that it can have had little likeness io Tlie Two Noble Kimmen, and may rather have resembled the Damon and Pythias (Hazlitt's Dodsley, vol. iv.) of the same author. Wood's account in the AthencB Oxonienses mentions the play several times, but the following passages, communi- cated to NichoUs, the historian of Elizabeth's Progresses, by Mr. Gutch, from Wood's MSS., are more detailed, and clearly show that Edwardes's play and the play before us must have differed so materially as to make it almost certain that the authors of the latter can have known nothing of the former. Part of the play was performed on Sept. 2, 1566, when a scaffolding fell, and three lives were lost. Wood continues :— ' Sept. 4, 1566. _ At night the Queen was present at the other part of the play of Palmmon and Arcyte, which should have been acted the night before, but deferred because it was late when the Queen came from disputations af St. Mary's. When the play was ended, she called for Mr. Edwa-rds, the author, and gave him very great thanks, with promises of reward, for his pains : then making a pause, said to him and her retinue standing about her, this relating to part of the play : " By Palsemon, I warrant he dallieth not in love when he was m love oxU § IS. " TWO NOBLE KINSMES," 1613, BT SEAK. * FLBTCBEB. § 14. " EDWARD III." NOT SHAKSPEBKS. indeed ; by Arcyte, he was a right martial knight, having a sweet countenance, and a manly face ; by Trecatio, God's pity, what a knave it is ; by Perithous, throwing St. Edward's rich cloak into the funeral fire, which a stander-by would have stayed by the arm with an oath, he knoweth his part, I warrant." In the said play was acted a cry of hounds in the Quadrant, upon the train of a fox in the hunting of Theseus, with which the young scholars, who stood in the windows, were so much taken (supposing it was real), that they cried out, "Now, now! — ^there, there! — he's caught, he's caught!" All which the Queen merrily beholding, said, " 0, excellent ! those boys, in very troth, are ready to leap out of the windows to follow the hounds ! " [. . . .] In the acting of the said play there was a good part performed by the Lady Amelia, who, for gathering her flowers prettily in a garden there re- presented, and singing sweetly in the time of March, received eight angels for a gracious reward by her Majesty's command,' &c. I have given the foregoing account as fully as my limits would permit, as I believe it has never hitherto been pointed out, and it eliminates Edwardes's play from the possible sources of the Shaksperian Drama. Unfortunately we have not such explicit evidence on the remaining possible sonrce of this play. Mr. Dyce {Shakspere, vol. viii., p. 118, ed. 1876) says : '. . . we learn from Henslowe's Diary that a piece entitled Palamon and, Arsett was acted several times at the Newington Theatre in 1594. [Diary, pp. 41, 43, 44, ed. Shake. Soc] Mr. Collier conjectured that the last- mentioned piece may have been a riEacimento of Edwards's play, and that in 1594 Shake- speare may have introduced into Palainon and Arsett those alterations and additions which afterwards "were employed by Fletcher in the play as it was printed in -1634." But I suspect that the Palamon and Arsett of 1594 was a distinct piece from the academical drama of 1566 ; and I cannot persuade myself that the " Shakespearian " portions of Tlie Two Noble Kinsmen were composed so early as 1594, — stamped as they everywhere are with the manner of Shakespeare's later years.' As this play of 1594 has perished, we are unable to say whence the authors derived the under-plot : they have no hint of . it in Chaucer (v. Knightes Tale, 1. 610); and they may either have invented it, or elaborated it from the 1594 play. The question of authorship may be said to have been competently pronounced on for the first time by Charles Lamb, followed by Coleridge, who both declared strongly for Shakspere's share in the work. De Quincey also confidently supported the same view. Against this array of opinion William Hazlitt stands forth pre-eminent. These writers proceeded, however, by no systematic method of examination, and merely pronounced as they felt, that the hand of Shakspere, well known as it was to them, was, or was not, to be found in the work. But the first systematic analysis of the work, in which the evidence is fairly stated, was Professor Spalding's Letter, &c." — as noticed above. (On the Oxford performance of Palcemon and Arcyte, see my Harrison, p. liv.) § 14. Edward the Third. — This play was publisht in 1596 with the following title : "The Eaigne of | King Edward | the Third: | As it hath bin sundrie times plaied about the Citie of London. London,' | Printed for Cuthbert Burby, 1596." It was entered in the Stationers' Registers, on the 1st of December, 1595.' There were other editions of it in 1597, 1609, 1617 (and 1625). The play was therefore well known and popular. But it was not put into any folio of Shakspere's works, not even into the third and fourth, which containd seven New Pieces or doubtful plays; and this, though Cuthbert Burby was the publisher of two genuine Shakspere quartos, the first of Love's Lahowrs Lost in 1598, and the second (the first genuine one) of Romeo and Juliet in 1599, which were both used for the Folio, the Love's Labours Lost one directly, the Romeo and Juliet one thro' its reprint in 1609. The play is not in Meres's list of Shakspere's woi;ks in 1598 ; and it is therefore certain that Edward III. was not known as Shakspere's during his life, nor was his writing it ever suggested till 1656, when T. Goff, in his Catalogue ofPlayes, enterd [Marlowe's] "Edward IL, Edward IIL [and Heywood's] Edward IV." to "Shakspere." In 1760, Capel reprinted and publisht Edward III. as "thought to be writ by Shakspere."^ There is, 1 "Cutbert Burby. Entred for his copie vnder the handes of the wardens A hook intitled Edward the Third and the Slacke Frince, their ivarres with kinge John of Fraunce .... vj''" — Arher's Transcript, iii. 55. 2 It must he rememherd that Capel also thought the non-Shakspere Titus Andronicus genuine. As Parmer says: "Capell thought Edward III. was Shakspere's because nobody could write so, and Titus Andronicus because every body could ! Well fare his heart, for he is a jewel of a reasouer ! " — Tar. Shaksp., xxi. 381. § It. DOUBTFUL PLAYS: " BDWARV III." (1593-6) NOT SHAKSPEBE'S. oxiil therefore, no external evidence in favour of Shakspere's authorsliip of the play. On the contrary, the external evidence is dead against that authorship. The argument for our poet having written the play must therefore proceed from within ; and the question is, what does the internal evidence prove 1 A few wild, untrustworthy folk contend that Shakspere wrote the whole play. Against them, the internal evidence is clear. The style is not his; and it is impossible that he at any time of his life can have been guilty of the faults this drama contains, at the same time that he could have produced its beauties. First, the play has no dramatic unity. It is made up of two halves. It has two distinct plots, that of the King and Countess, and that of the King and the Black Prince and the wars. The plots are not interwoven with one another, after Shakspere's invariable manner ; the first is a mere episode, and simply stops the action and progress of the main plot. Secondly, there 's great want of characterisation throughout the play, except in the King and Countess episode ; all the characters talk in the same high, exaggerated strain. Thirdly, there 's no humour, no wit, and no comedy. Fourthly, there 's a high moral tone forced on the notice of the audience and reader. Fifthly, there are such weak bits as — " But, soft, I hear the music of their drums, By which I guess that their approach is near." Sixthly, there are absurdly inconsistent and mixed metaphors and similes like — " The snares of French liJce emmets on a bank I Entangled in the net of their assaults. Muster about him.; whilst he lion-like, \ Frantic'ly rends and bites the woven toil," &C. Like the prince's- " Now, Audley, sound those silver wings' of thine, And let those milk-white messengers of time Show thy time's learning in this dangerous time." (Are the silver wings, Audley's moustachios, or words of ancient wisdom, or what^ ?) " Wither, my heart, that like a sapless tree I may remain the map of infamy ? " " A slender point Within the compass of the horizon As 'twere a rising bubble in the sea, Or as a bear fast chain'd unto a stake." Seventhly, there are exaggerated and incongruous descrifitions. Take the description of the sea-fight, — " Purple the sea ; whose channel fill'd as fast With streaming gore, that from the maimed fell. As did her gushing moisture break into The cranny'd cleftures of the through-shot planks : Here flew a head, dissever'd from the trunk ; There mangled arms, and legs, were toss'd aloft ; As when a whirlwind takes the summer dust And scatters it in middle of the air." Recollecting that this is part of a mariner's speech, it will be perhaps a sufficient specimen of the bombastic show-off passages that abound in the play and are quite inconsistent with the speaker's character, and which not even the Sergeant's talk in Macbeth can allow us to consider Shakspere's. One other instance I may cite which is worthy of Marlowe's Tamburlaine, — " What may I do To win thy life, or to revenge thy death ? If thou wilt drink the blood of captive kings. Or that it were restorative, command A health of kings' blood, and I'll drink to thee.' There are plenty more instances of like kind in the play, though certain poetic power must be allowed to the writer ; his tendency to show off is effective when put into Audley's mouth in Act IV., sc. iv., the description of the French at Cressy, &c. ; yet any one who attributes all the stilted nonsense in this play to Shakspere may be safely written down ass, for this opinion, however clever on other points he may be. We come, then, to those more moderate and sensible critics, who contend that the King-and-Oountess Act alone is ^ Delius reads " strings." 2 Perhaps the writer was thinking of the Homeric Ivca wrep6eyra. Silver refers to the sweetness of Audley's eloquence. /"Mjlk-white messengers are his grey locks which have brought with them ex- perience. — W. Gr. S. cxiv § 14. BOUBTFUL PLAYS: "EDWARD III." (1595-6) NOT SHAKSPERE'S. Shakspere's. And I willingly grant them that the Act is -worthy of the young Shakspere, and that it is worth an effort to try and secure for his early time so noble a figure as that of the true English woman and wife, the Countess of Salisbury, to set against the Margaret of Henry VI., or the more colourless female characters of the other historical plays before King John. But one has to look at the evidence ; and the first thing that strikes one is this, was Shakspere, who was above all a dramatist, was he likely to put even into another man's play a whole act, twenty pages in the Tauclinitz edition, having nothing to do with, nay, stopping, the action of that play? Next, was he who took all the facts, the groundwork of his historical plays from Holinshed's and other chronicles (though he followed the old King John when he recast it), was he likely to go for any facts in the life of one of our heroic kings, Edward III., to an English translation of an Italian novel, which turned the Earl and Countess of Warwick into panders to betray their married daughter's virtue, and which made the Countess of Salisbury Edward's queen' ? I cannot believe it. Further, is it likely that when in the almost parallel scene, recast in Part III. of Henry VI., near the time when Edward III. was written, — is it likely that when humour was put into the courtship of Lady Elizabeth by Edward IV., humour should have been kept out of Edward III.'s courtship of the Countess, if Shakspere had anything to do with it ? But it is argued that there are many echoes of Shakspere's previous plays in the King and Countess episode, and also many echoes of lines in this episode in Shakspere's after work, while Sonnet 94, line 14, quotes from Act II., sc. i., here, its " Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds." I admit that Shakspere must have read and been impresst by this Act ; perchance he saw the play acted. But I cannot admit that the Act is his. Admirable as many of its parts are, there is a continuous strain throughout it, which to me is not Shakspere's. Its style and want of relief, too, are not his. Its want of connection with the rest of the play, its giving four pages of talk on the stage, where action is required, to the composition of the king's love-letter, is not his. And I submit that it is not my duty to prove the negative ; it is the business of the advocates of Shakspere's authorship of this scene to prove the affirmative. We must not assume that tJiere was no known author of Marlowe's school except himself. ^ There were, doubtless, one-play men in those days, as thei-e have been one-book men since. As at present advised, I refuse to admit the episode as Shakspere's. The story of the Episode is founded on Froissart ^, and the history of it has some interest, for, as my friend Prof. Guizot pointed out to me, Froissart"* first believed in Jean le Bel's story that Edward III. had used force and violated the Countess. Then when he came to England, he inquired right and left as to the truth of the story, and having found it, set it down. But the story was deliberately rejected by Shakspere's authority, Holinshed^ as it was afterwards by Barnes in his History of Edward III., 'p. 251. But Bandello, the Italian story-teller, saw what an admirable tale it would make, and he re-told it", but did all he could to spoil it, with his long affected ' The writer of the Episode in Edward III. rejects Banclello'a pander-mother, and killing the Earl of Salisbury, and making the Countess Queen. He also sweeps away a lot of Bandello's rubbishing talk ; but he doubles the Countess's dagger. My friend Mr. W. G-. Stone, of Walditch, and I are slowly preparing an edition of the play and its originals for the New Shakspere Society. 2 Can't the King and Countess episode be his ? ^ I. 98, ed. 1812. From him Grafton tells the story (without Bandello's additions, of course) in his Chronicle, i. 354, ed. 1809. * "Vous aves bien chy dessus oy parler coumment li roys engles fu enamoures de le comtesse de Sallebrin. Touttesfoix, lez cronikez monseigneur Jehan le Bel parollent de ceste amour plus avant et mains convignablement que je ne doie faire ; car, se il plaist a Dieu, je ne peusse ja a encoupper le roy d'Engleterre, ne le comtesse de Sallebrin, de nul villain reproche. Et pour continuer I'istore et aouvrir le verite de le matere, par quoy touttez bonnez gens en soient apaisiet et sachent pourquoy j'en paroUe et ramentoy maintenant ceste amour, voirs est que messires Jehans li Biaux maintient par ces cronikes que li roys engles asses villainnement usa de ceste damme et en eult, ce dist, ses voUentez si comme par forche : dont je vous di, se Dieux m'ait, que j'ai moult repairiet et conversse en Engleterre, en I'ostel dou roy principaument, et des grans seigneurs de celui pays, mes oncques je n'en oy parler en nul villain cas ; si en ai je demande as pluisseurs qui bien le sceuissent, se riens en euist este. Ossi je ne poroie croire, et U ne fait mies a croire, que ungs si haux et vaillans homs que li roys d'Engleterre est et a este, se dagnaist ensonniier de deshonnerer une sienne noble damme ne un sien chevalier qui si loyaument I'a servi, et servi toutte se vie: si ques d'ores en avant de ceste amour je me tairay." — Froissart, ed. Luce. MS. d' Amiens, III. 293. (Soc. de I'Histoire de France.) 5 Fabian and Polidore Vergil admit the story. Drayton, in his England's Seroical Epistles, makes the Black Prince the wooer of the Countess. 8 In La Secondn. Parte de le Novelle del Bandello ; Lucca, M.D.LIIII., Novella XXXVIII., fols. 228-254. The Countess's name is " Aelips ; " her father ia " Eicciardo, Conte de Varuccia." The French version does not follow the original accurately. §14. DOUBTFUL PLAYS: " EDWARB III.'! (1595-6) NOT SHAKSPBRE'S. REVIEW OF SH.'S PLATS. cxv love-makings, reflections, and love-letters. He invented the secretary and the letters ; he turned the lady's father and mother into panders to her ; he killed her husband ; he made her offer to stab herself, or be killed by the king ; and then made the king offer to marry her, and actually marry her; after which, as the English translation says, "shee was conveyed up into a publiok place, and proclamed Queene of England, to the exceedinge gratulacion, and ioye incredible, of all the subiectes " (I. 199). The Italian story was very freely translated by Boaistuau in his Histovres Tragiques, Uxtraictes des CEtoures Italiennes de Bandel, and this was englisht by William Painter in his Palace of Pleasure, 1575, vol. i., leaves 182 to 199, the forty-sixth novel. We may note in the play the double repetition of the leading idea of the King-and-Countess scene — a man won from intended baseness by the appeal of a nobler nature : first. Prince Charles of France by Villiers's appeal to him ; second. King John of France by his son Prince Charles's appeal to him. In no other play is there any real pretence that Shakspere took part. The so-called " doubtful plays," excepting the two above treated, have not a trace of him in them. I do not think that the substituted piece by a different hand in Sir TJiomas More, pp. 24-9, ed. Dyce, Old Shakesp. Soc, is Shakspere's, or that the leaves 8, 9, of the MS. Harleian, 7,368, on which it is written, are in Shakspere's hand. (Some four years ago I took the opinion of the best MS. men in the Museum on the latter point, and discusst the Shakspereanness of this part of the play with some of the best men I knew. We all agreed that there was nothing necessarily Shaksperean in it, though part of it was worthy of him.^ (It was the Edward III. KLing-and-Countess scene over again.) But this portion of Sir Thomas More is so far better than the rest of the play, that Mr. Spedding wishes to know what other dramatist than Shakspere could have written it.) ' We have now gone through the series of Shakspere's works, have seen him begin with those that suited youth, skits on the Londoners' fashions and follies, showing his Stratford clowns on the London stage, dealing with love and its vagaries, stai-ting into fancy, incorporating all his country lore in Puck and his companions, first stepping on to the ground of Italian story in Tlie Two Gentlemen of Verona, then bursting into a fervour of passion in Emneo and Juliet, and his early isoems ; passing thence to history, to speak his mind to his countrymen on the disputes that rent England asunder in his time. Then again, falling back with renewd power on Italian story, and first taking his due lead before all other men in The Mercliant of Venice, then sinking almost his history in the humourful comedies of Falstaff and the brilliant plays of the Second Period that succeeded them ; then, troubled in heart himself, as we see in his Sonnets, disappointed in his affection for his friend who was his all, cast off by his dark mistress, passing the " hell of time " of which he speaks to his ' Take the test bit, More's remonstrance against the citizens' outbreak to turn out the aliens, p. 27 : — " More. Graunt them remoued, and graunt that this your noyce Hath chidde downe all the maiestie of Ingland ; Ymagin that you see the wretched straingers — Their babyes at their backes, and their poor lugage,— Plodding tooth' ports and costes for transpor- tacion, And that you sytt as kinges in your desyres, Aucthoryty quyte sylenct by your braule, And you in ruff of your opynions clothd : What had you gott ? I'le tell you : yon had taught How insolence and strong hand shoold prevayle, How ordere shoold be quelld; and by this patterne Not on [=one] of you shoold lyve an aged man; For other ruffians, as their fancies wrought, With sealf same hand, sealf reasons, and sealf right, Woold shark on you; and men, lyke ravenous fishes, Woold feed on on [=one] another." It's a strong man's work assuredly. The picture of the plodding aliens with babies and luggage on back, while their oppressors " sit as kings in your desires .... And you in ruff of your opinions clothd; " that ''shark on you," the later uplifting of the office of the king, and the leading the majesty of law in leash, to slip hini like a hound, certainly justified my late sweet-natured friend Richard Simpson in suggesting that these More insertions were "Shakspere's, and do justify Mr. Spedding's arguing that they are so still, specially as the play was one of Shakspere's company's, and the alteration in it was made hurriedly by direction of the Master of the Revels, Sir E. Tyhiey. But when we note that the allusions m the play fix its date to 1586, as Mr. Simpson acknowledgd, when Shakspere was probably at Stratford, that the humour in the insertion is not distinctively his, that another scene, the one between Lady More and her son-in-law and daughter, pp. 75-6, ed. Dyce, is also much above the level of the rest of the play, and yet neither specially Shaksperean nor a later insertion, we are justified in declining to hold as his the first insertion on pp. 24-9. Mr. Simpson's letter on the question is m 4 Notes and Queries, \iii. 1, and Mr. Spedding's in x. 227. oxifi § 14. REVIEW OF SUAKSFERF^'S PLAYS. § 15. SUAKSPESE'S LIFE: ITS FOUR PERIODS. friend when they were reconciled again, and during this time no doubt giving to the world those tragedies in which he laid the burden of life on soids too weak to bear it, in which he let noble men be drawn to their ruin by temptations from without, by suggestions from within, in which he showd ingratitude eating the hearts of father and of chUd, in which he let lust lead its noble victims to their death, in which he showd all old-world glory and honom- but a sham, in which at last he made Timon curse all mankind; and then we saw him, no longer -^vielding the scourge of vengeance, but acting as the minister of reconciliation, passing from liLs time of terror to one of peace, and in Prospero, Postliumus, Imogen, Hermione, Queen Katharine, forgiving injiu-ies for which of old he would have exacted death. And in this temper we find him, after leaving the scenes of his tiials and triumphs in London, enjoying as a boy again the sweet sights and sounds of his native home. § 15. In 1592 we had to face the question of what Shakspere had then written to provoke the sneers, of the dying reprobate, Robert Greene, our poet's predecessor, and perchance teacher, in comedy. And having once enterd on the subject of the succession of Shakspere's plays, and the means by which it was made out, we could not well leave it till we'dworktit thro'. It took us from 1592 to 1613, and gave ns Shakspere's mental and spiritual life during that time. Now we've to put together the few facts of his and his fibmily's outward life that still survive to us. I divide Shakspere's life — like his plays — into four Periods : (1) from his birth, in 1564, to his leaving Stratford for London in perhaps 1587, the Home-Period; (2) from 1587 to 1599, when he was taken as pai-tner in the profits of the Globe, the Period of Struggle to Success; (a. 1587 to 15U2, unrecorded, b. 1592 to 1599, recorded); (3) fi-om 1599 to 1609, or whenever else he left London, the Period of Triumph or Assured-Success ; (4) fi-om his return to Stratford 1609 (?), to his death, 1616, the Period of Renewd Family Life, or Peace. II. a. The Plays I suppose to have been written by 1592 are Love's Labours Lost, The Comedy of Errors, Midsumnier-Nig]i£s Dream, Tlie Two Gentlemen of Verona, Romeo and Juliet, a few passages in Tit\is Andronictts, and the Temple-Garden Scene in 1 Henry VI. These are the only records of his life during the first part of his Period of Struggle. Now for the second part. II. b. In 1593 began, no doubt, Shakspere's visits to his publisher, Richard Field', in St. Paul's Churchyard^, when Venus and Adonis was enterd in the Stationers' Registers, and publisht. It was the acting of Romeo and Jidiet, and the issue of the Venus and iMcrece, that first brought Shakspere fame ; and a tradition, reported by Rows as coming from Sir William Davenant, states that Lord Southampton, to whom these two poems were dedicated, " at one time gave him [Shakspere] a thousand pounds to go through with a purchase which he heard he had a mind to." Bxit though the gift is likely enough, its amount has no doubt been exaggerated, seeing what .£1,000 meant then. 'On the night of December 28, 1594 — one of a week's entei-tainments at Gray's Inn — Shakspere and Bacon ^ He was a f ellow-townsmaa of Shakspere's ; and the goods and chattels of his father, Henry Field, tanner, of Stratford, were valued hy Shakspere's father, John Shakspere, in 1592. [Old Shakespeare Society's Fapers, iv. 36.) 2 St. Paul's Churchyard hefore the Fire was chiefly inhahited hy hooksellers, and several of the early editions of Shakspere's poems and plays were published here. Venxis and Adonis, 1.593, was to he sold at the White Greyhound, where also J. Harrison published The Rape of Lucreee, 1594. The first edition of The Merry Wives of Windsor appeared at the Flower de Luce and Crown, kept by A. Johnson; the first edition of The Merchant of Venice at the Green Dragon, hy T. Heyes ; the first editions of Richard II., Richard III., and First Part of Senry IV. at the Angel, by A. Wise ; the first edition of Troilvs and Cressida at the Spread Eagle over against the great north door of Paul's, hy E. Bonian and H. Whaliey; the first edition of Lear at the Pied BuU, by N. Butter; and the first known edition of Titus Andronicus at the Gun, near the little north door of Paul's, by E. White. M. Law published several of the quartos at the Fox. — H. B. Wheatley, in my Sarrison, p. cv., from Peter Cunningham's Xondon. « In 1593 I suppose Richard II. to have been written ; and in 1593-4, the revising of The Contention and True Tragedy into 2 & 3 Benry VI. with Richard III. In 1594 were publisht Lucreee, a second edition of Venus and Adonis, and the first of The Contention, on which 2 Henry VI. was based, and the first of The Taming of a Shrew, the groundwork of The Taming of the Shrew. Willobie his Avisa, 1594, notices Shakspere's Luerece, and Sir Wm. Harbert and Drayton evidently allude to it, as Robert Southwell does to his Venus. (I shall not note aU the allusions here. For them, see the second edition of Dr. Ingleby's Centurie of Frayse, by Miss F. T. Smith, given by him to the New Shakspere Society in 1879.) § 15. SHAKSPBRE'S LIFE AFTER 1592. HIS SON'S DEATK IN 1596. HIS FATHER'S ARMS. oxvU were no doubt present in Gray's Inn Hall together at the performance of the former's Hrrors: "After such sports, a Comedy of JErrors (like to Plautus his Menechmus) was played by the players : so that night was begun, and continued to the end, in nothing but confusion and eiTors; whereupon it was ever afterwards called The Night of Errors." (Gesta Graiorum, p. 22, ed. 1688 (in Dyce); Nichols's Progresses of Queen Elizabeth, iii. 262; Spedding's Letters and Life of Bacon, i. 326.)' "From a paper now before me, which formerly belonged to Edward Alleyn the player, our poet appears to have lived in Southwark, near the Bear-garden, in 1596," says Malone in his Inquiry into the Authenticity of Certain Papers, &c., p. 215. This paper having disappeard, one of the modem Shakspere forgers provided another of like kind in its place, among the Duhvich College papers, and Mr. J. P. Collier printed it ; but its sham was soon detected. On August 11, 1596, as I have noticed under King JoJm, p. xli, above, Shakspeie's only son, Hamnet (baptised February 2, 1585), died, and was buried at Stratford, " 1596, August 11th. Hamnet, filius William Shakspere" (Neil). That his son's death must have been a great blow to Shakspere, as well as a father as a man wishing to found a family, we cannot doubt. That he had the ambition of being recognised as a gentleman in his own town and county is clear. He was like Walter Scott and so many other Britishers in this, following the hereditary instinct, poor though it is, of his Anglo-Saxon forefathers, that what constitutes a free man is the possession of land : landed, free ; landless, thrall. And though his father on January 26, 1596, had by a deed, in which he is described as John Shakespere, yeoman, sold part of the ground belonging to his Henley Street (or birthplace) property to George Badger for £2, we find in the Heralds' College a draft grant of arms to this John Shakspere, as a gentleman, dated the 20th October, 1596, which, notwithstandiug the doubt formerly thrown on it, T/ie Herald and Genealogist, Part VI., pp. 503-5 (cited by Dyce, Shakspere, 1866, p. 21), inclines to think was executed. We know that then, as now, men rising or having risen in the world could, and did, buy arma for themselves, with, often, forgd pedigrees attacht to them. Harrison says in 1577-87, pp. 128-9 of my edition : — " Gentlemen whose ancestors are not knowen to come in with William duke of Normandie (for of the Saxon races yet remaining we now make none accompt, much lesse of the British issue) doo take their beginning in England, after this maner in our times. Who soeuer studieth the lawes of the realme, who so abideth in the ATiiuersitie giving his mind to his booke, or professeth physicke and the liberall sciences, or beside his seruice in the roome of a capteine in the warres, or good coiinsell giuen at home, whereby his common-wealth is benefited, can live without manuell labour, and thereto is able and will bear the port, charge, and countenance of a gentleman, he shall, for monie, haue a cote and arms bestowed vpon him by heralds (who in the charter of the same doo of custome pretend antiquitie, and seruice, and manie gaie things') and therevnto, being made so good cheape, be called ' master,' which is the title that men giue to esquiers and gentlemen, and reputed for a gentleman euer after. Which is so much the lesse to be disalowed of, for that the prince dooth loose nothing by it, the gentleman being so much subiect to taxes and publike paiments as is the yeoman or husbandman, which he likewise dooth beare the gladlier for the sauing of his reputation. Being called also to the warres, (for with the gouemment of the common-wealth he medleth litle) what soeuer it cost him, he will both arraie & arme himselfe accordinglie, and shew the more manly courage, and all the tokens of the person which he representeth. No man hath hurt by it but himselfe, who peraduenture will go in wider buskens than his legs wiU beare, or as our prouerbe saith, now and then beare a bigger saile than his boat is able to susteine." (Sir Thomas Smith borrowd this passage.) ' In 1595 was puWisM The True Tragedy, which was alterd into 3 Senry VL ; and in 1596, the third edition of Yenus cm A Adonis. I believe that Kmg John was written in 1595, The Merohant in 1596 ; that The Shrew was revised in 1596-7, and 1 JSenry IV. written. 2 The 1699 grant accordingly speaks .of the ancestors of John Shakespeare having been advanct and rewarded for their services by King Henry "VII. (Folio Life, p. 69.) Heralds' gammon, no doubt. That some actors had turnd squires. The Return from Farnassus (1602), printed 1606, teUs us :— ' England affords those glorious vagabonds, That carried erst their fardles on their backs, Coursers to ride on through the gazing streets, Sweeping it in their glaring satin suits. And pages to attend their masterships : With mouthing words that better wits have framed, They purchase lands, and now esquires are made." Hazlitt's Dodaley, i.x. 202. csTiii § 15. SHAKSPERE'S FATHER'S ARMS. PVRCBASS OF NEW PLACE, 1597. Now the " nionie " for the grant of arms to John Shakspere, then known at Stratford as a "yeoman," can hardly have come from him. Without doubt his rising London son supplied it. And when the second grant -was applied for, and made, in 1599, the heralds, Dethick and Camden, wouldn't quarter with Shakspere's arms those of the Warwickshire gentlefolk, the Ardens of Park Hall, Curd worth — Ermine, a/ess checquy or and azure — but gave instead, the arms of the more distant Ardemes of Alvanley, in Cheshire — Gules, three crosslets fitcMe, and a chief or, with a ma/rtlet for difference — who were farther away from Stratford, and not likely to have notice of the matter, or make any fuss about it. Moreover, there is no existing record of the Arden quartering ever having been assumed by Shakspere or his family. On his monument are the Shakspere arms alone ; and they alone are impaled on his daughter Susanna's monument with those of Hall. When he grew older, had his position, and married his younger daughter Judith to a wine-dealer's "^ son, he no doubt gave up the ambitious fancy of his earlier days. In or before Easter Term of the 39th of Elizabeth, 1597, Shakspere bought of William XJnderhill, for £60, New Place^, a house and grounds at the corner of (the Guild) Chapel Lane, and Chapel Street leading to the Grammar School and Church. The house was built by Sir Hugh Clopton, about 1490, bought by a Stratford attorney, William Bott, in 1563, and sold by him to Wm. Underbill in 1567. In the note" of the fine levied on the sale to Shakspere, XJnderhill is described as generosv^, a gentleman, but Shakspere is not so calld. And as in fines the description of the property was almost always doubled^, we find here, as in the double garden and orchard on the sale of the birthplace property, that there were two barns and two gardens included. Shakspere repaired New Place. Long after his death a new house was built, probably on its foundations, and of these a few scraps can still be seen, owing to Mr. Halliweil's care. (He got up a subscription to buy the place. )^ Early in 1598 Shakspere wanted to lay out more money in the neighbourhood of Stratford, and was nibbling at the tithes of which he afterwards bought a moiety or half-part in 1605. Abraham Sturley, writing on January 24, 1597-8, from Stratford to a friend in London — evidently Richard Quiney, father of Shakspere's future wine-dealing son-in-law — says : — "It semeth bi him ('ur [=your] father '), that our countriman, Mr. Shakspere, is wilUnge to disbiu-se some monei upon some od yarde land or other att Shottri or neare about us ; he thinketh it a veri fitt patterne to move him to deale in the matter of our tithes. Bi the instruccions u can geve him theareof, and bi the frendes he can make therefore, we thinke it a faire marke for him to shoote att, and not impossible to hitt. It obtained, would advance him in deede, and would do us much good." {Halliwell, Octavo 172, Folio 140.) A Subsidy Boll, dated October 1, 1598, shows that a namesake (? no relation) of our poet was assesst 13s. 4c?. on property in the parish of St. Helen's, Bishopsgate, London : " Affid. William Shakespeare, v li. — xiij s. iiij d") During a scarcity of grain at Stratford, " A noate of come and malte" there was taken — dated February 4, 1597-8, and among the dwellers in Chapel Street Ward is enterd as a holder of grain, " Wm. Shackespere, X quarters." In this year too is the following entry in the Chamberlains' account : " Pd. to Mr. Shaxpere for on lod of ston . . . . X c?." As the repairs of New Place were probably going on, the poet, and not his father, was probably the seller of the .stona In a dateless and unsignd letter, " To my lovynge sonne Rycharde Quyney, at the Belle in Carter Leyne, deliver thesse in London," evidently written by Adrian Quiney of Stratford, and perhaps in 1598, is the following sentence : " Yff yow bargen with Wm. Sha .... or receve money therefor, brynge your money home, that yow maye." Next comes the only letter wiitten to Shakspere that has survived to us. It is from his friend, the above-named Richard Quiney, asking for the loan of £30 : — " Loveinge ' Eemember that Chaucer's father, uncle, and grandfather, were wine-dealers and tavemers too. 2 So calld before it came into Shakspere's hands. Early in the sixteenth century, when the Cloptons had it, it was calld the great house. (Halliwell, Octavo Life, p. 166.) * " Exemplification " is the technical word for it. * The reason given me as a pupil in chambers for this practice was, that the fine might include enough; one garden might have been accidentally left out of the description of the property bought. Often, with arable land too, some pasture was thrown in on spec. ' In 1597 were publisht the first or spurious Quarto of Borneo and Juliet and the first Quartos of Michard II. and Richard III. In 1598, second editions of Lucrece, Richard II., Richard III., and the first of 1 Senry IV. and Lov^s Labours Lost. The latter play was written about by R. Tofte, in 1598. I suppose that 2 Senry IV. was written in 1597-8, and The Merry Wives in 1598-9. § 15. SHAKSPERE A PARTNER IN THE GLOBE, 1699. THIRD PERIOD OF HIS LIFE. cilx contreyman, I am bolde of yow, as of a ffrende, craweinge yowr helpe with xxx. li. vppon Mr. Bushells and my securytee, or Mr. Myttons with me. Mr. Eosswell is nott come to London as yeate, and I have especiall cawse. Yow shall ffrende me muche in helpeiiig me out of all the debettes I owe in London, I thancke God, & muche quiet my mynde, yrhich wolde nott be indebeted. I am nowe towardes the Cowrte, in hope of answer for the dispatche of my Buysnes. Yow shall nether lease creddytt nor monney by me, the Lorde wyllinge ; & nowe butt perswade yowrselfe soe, as I hope, and yow shall nott need to feare butt with all heartie thanckefullnes I wyll holde my tyme, and content yowr ffrende ; & yf we Bargaine farther, yow shalbe the paie-mas^er yowr selfe. my tyme biddes me hastene to an ende, and soe I committ thys [to] yowr care, & hope of yowr helpe. I feare I shall nott be backe thys night firom the Cowrte. Haste. The Lorde be with yow & with us all. amew ! ffrom the Bell in Carter Lane, the 25 octobr 1598. " Yowrs in all kyndenes, Eyc. Quyney. " To my loueinge good ffrend and contreyman, Mr. Wm. Shackespere, deliver thees." On November 4", 1598, the before-named Abraham Sturley writes from Stratford " to his most lovinge brother, Mr. Richard Quinei, att the Bell in. Carter Lane att London . . . . Ur [=your] letter of the 25. of Octobr . . . imported . . . that our countriman Mr. Wm. Shak. would procure us monei, -which I will like of, as I shall heare when and wheare and howe ; and I prai let not go that occasion, if it mai sorte to ani indifierent condicions. Allso, that if monei might be had for 30 or 40Z., a lease &c. might be procured. . . ." In 1598 came Meres's praise of Shakspere, and a list of his poems and plays, already noted on p. xiv, note 1 ; and in the same year Shakspere acted in Ben Jonson's famous comedy of Uveri/ Man in his Humour} In 1598 also " The Theater " built by James Burbage, where his and his sons' (or Shakspere's) company playd, was puUd down, and rebuilt as "The Globe" on Bankside, Southwark, in 1599; and Shakspere, being a " deserveing " man, was taken as one of the " partners in the profittes of that they call the House " (see Henry V., p. Iv, note 3, above), that is the chief actors' share, not including that of the Burbages as owners of the lease of the theatre from Sir Matthew Brand. He got him "a fellowship in a cry of players" (Hamlet, III. ii. 280), tho' not "halfe a share." I take this admission as a partner into the profits of the New Globe as the start of a new Period in Shakspere's life. It marks definitely his success in London better than his purchase of New Place at Stratford does.^ III. The Third-Period of Shakspere's life, tho' I call it the Period of Assured-Success, opens darkly like the dark Third-Period of his plays, that of his greatest tragedies. In January, 1601 (1600-1), Essex's rebellion breaks out, and, for his share in it, Lord Southampton, Shakspere's patron, is imprisond in the Tower, where he stays till James I.'s accession in 1603 (see p. Ixxiii, above). On September 8, 1601, Shakspere's father, John Shakspere, was buried at Stratford. On May-day, 1602, Shakspere buys of Wm. and Jn. Combe, for £320, a hundred and seven acres of arable land in the parish of Old Stratford ; and as he was not then at Stratford, the conveyance was delivered to his brother Gilbert." On September 28, 1602, Walter Gatley surrenderd to Shakspere a cottage, with its appur- tenances^ in Walker's Street, alias Dead Lane, Stratford, near New Place. And by a fine levied in Michaelmas Term, 1602, we learn that Shakspere bought of Hercules Underhill for £60 a messuage with two barns, two orchards, and two gardens, in Stratford : the » His name stands first in the list of the actors at the end of the play in the Folio edition of Jonson's Works 1616. 2 in 1599 came out the pirated Passionate Pilgrim, the fourth edition of Venus and Adonis, and the second of 1 Menry IV., and the second or genuine Quarto of Someo and Juliet. Senry V. was written in 1599 and Much Ado and As You Like It by or in 1600. 1600 was the chief publishing year of Shakspere s life It saw issued a fifth edition of Venm, a third of Luerece, first of 2 Henry IV. and Much Ado, first and second of both The Merchant and the Midsummer-mghfs Dream, first or imperfect Quarto of Senry V., and the first extant edition of Titus Andronieus. ,.,»-.,• ni • ■* rr„^ 3 Shakspere seems to have increast this property afterwards, for m a fine levied ot it in irinity xerm, 1611, an additional "twenty acres of pasture land" are described ; and that this was not a fancy addition fp cxviii, n. 4, above) appears from the fact that " in a deed which bears date in 1652, this land is also stated to be of the same extent." (HalliweU, Folio Life, p. 165.) In the conveyance, Shakspere is described as " gentleman," and in the exempUfication of the fine of the Gatley sale aa generosus (gentleman). ■* It was copyhold of the Manor of Eowington. The Shaksperes of Eowmgton were a diflerent family. cxx § 15. QUEEN ELIZABETa'S DEATH. SHAKSPERE ONE OF " THE KING'S PLATERS," 1603. doubling was no doubt due to the fancy addition in the note of the fine. In a most interesting play, The Returne from Pernassus, which is dated 1602, from its mentioning the Queen's day (Hazlitt's Dodsley, ix. 161), occurs the following testimony to Shakspeve's powers (i6. 194): "■Kemp. Few of the university, pen plaies well; they smell too much of that writer Ovid, and that writer Metamorphosvs, and talke too much of Proserpina & Juppiter. Why, here 's our fellow Sliakespeare puts them all downe, I, and Ben Jonson too. O that Ben Jonson is a pestilent fellow ; he brought up Horace giving the Poets a pill ; but our fellow Shakespeare hath given him a purge that made him beray his credit." " Bitrbaffe. It's a shrewd fellow indeed."' (Ingleby's Centurie of Prayse, 1874, p. 39.) On March 24, 1602-3, Queen Elizabeth died. Shakspere had written on her in Midsummer- Night's Dream those delightful lines on the " fair vestal throned in the west," "the imperial votaress," II. L 157-164. She had " Graced his desert, And to his ]aies opend her royall care," as Chettle says in his Englandes Mourning Garment, 1603 (New Shakspere Society's AllusionrBooks, p. 98), she had been "so taken" by his plays, as Ben Jonson said in his lines " To the Memory of Shakspere ; " she had so liked Falstaflf that she had orderd his creator to show him in love (see The Merry Wives, p. liii), and yet, as Chettle complains, " the silver-tongM Melicert " (Shakspere) did not "drop from his honied Muse one sable teare." His company no doubt expected favours from James I., thro' one of their members, Laurence Fletcher, who had acted before James in Scotland, with the English actors who were there between October, 1599, and December, 1601, and who was granted the freedom of the city of Aberdeen on October 22, 1601, as " comedian to his Majesty." Accordingly, ten days after James had reacht London, he, by Warrant dated May 17, 1603, licenst Fletcher's (or Shak- spere's) company "these our servants, Laurence Fletcher, William Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, Augustine Phillippes, John Hemmings, Henrie Condell, William Sly, Robert Armyn, Richard Cowlye, and the rest of their associats, freely to use and exercise the arte and faculty of playing comedies, tragedies, histories, enterludes, moralls, pastorals, stage-plaies, and such other like ... as well for the recreation of our loving subjects, as for our solace and pleasure when we shall thinke good to see them, during our pleasure ; and the said comedies, trajedies, histories, enterludes, moralls, pastoralls, stage-plaies, and such like, to show and exercise publiquely to their best commoditie, when the infection of the plague shall decrease, as well within their now usuall howse called the Globe, within our county of Surrey, as also within anie towne halls, or mout halls, or other convenient places within the liberties and freedome of any other citie, universitie, towne, or borough whatso- ever, within our said realmes and dominions " Shakspere's company was thus changed from "The Lord Chamberlain's Servants" to " The King's Players." But it is quite clear from the Warrant, and the Burbages' Memorial of 1635, printed on p. Iv, above, note 3, that when the WaiTant was issued the company did not play at the Blackfriars Theatre, as that had been then for some time " leased out to one Evans that first sett up. the boyes, commonly called the Queenes Majesties Children of the Chappell." It is also quite clear that when, evidently after 1603, the Burbages bought back " the lease remaining from Evans with our money," Shakspere was still an actor', for the Burbages say they placed in the Blackfriars " men players, which were Hemings, Condall, Shakespeare," &c. I see no reason to doubt that Shakspere remaind an actor as long as he stayd in London. It is possible that his Sonnet 111, might have been written as late as 1607-8 ; the later the better, I think, as showing a reason why he 'd like to turn his back on London. The plague of which James I.'s Warrant speaks, is mentioned by Stowe on pp. 1 415, 1,425, of his Annals, ed. 1605. It stopt the King from riding from the Tower thro' the City, as was customary before coronations ; the citizens were orderd not to come to Westminster ; Wednesday, August 5, and every succeeding Wednesday, were appointed to 1 In 1602 were puhlisht the sixth and seventh Quartos of Venus and Adonis, the third of Richard III., the first hotcht Quarto of Samlet, the first imperfect one of TU Merry Wives, and the second of Henri/ V. AlVs Well and Julius Casar I assign to 1601, Samlet to 1602-i, and Measure for Measure to 1603. 2 I know some critics hold that Shakspere loft London in 1604. But then they are such awful guessers. They put Henry VIII. in 1604 too. § 15. SHAKSPERE'S EED CLOTH. HE BJJl'S TITHES. be kept holy, for the offering of prayers " while the heavy hand of God, by the plague of pestilence, continued among us;" and between December 23, 1602, and December 22, 1603, there died of the plague, 30,578 souls.^ After the latter date Stowe does not mention the plague. It probably stopt gradually ; must certainly have been over by March ; as, for the procession of King James, his Queen Anne, and son Henry, on March 15, 1603-4, to the City of London, the King's Players,' as part of the Household,^ were each given four yards and a half of " red cloth ; " and the first name in the list of nine players is " William Shakespeare " (from " The Accompte of Sir George Howne, Knight, Master of the Greate Warederobe" to James I. — AtJienceum, AprH 30, 1864; New Sh. Soc. Trans., 1877-9, p. 11); and on April 9, 1604, the King's CouncU wrote a Letter to the Lord Mayor of London and the Magistrates of Middlesex and Surrey, directing them to allow the King's Company (or Shakspere's), and the Queen's, and Prince's, " publicklie to exercise their plaies in ther severall usuall howses," &c.' Was Shakspere revising Hamlet* — the second or genuine Quarto was publislit in 1604 — writing Measure for Measure (the tone of the play would suit a plague-struck city : see p. Ixxxi, above), and planning Othello during his enforced leisure ? It is odd to turn from that terrible third Act of Othello, and learn that the next news of Shakspere is from Stratford, and shows the poet as a malster. (Folio Life, p. 170.) Between March, 1604, and the end of May, he had sold Philip Rogers, of Stratford, £1 19s. \Qd. worth of malt, and had also, on June 25, lent him 2s. The rogue Rogers had only paid 6s. of his debt ; so Shakspere sued him in the Stratford Court of Record for the balanc^ £\ 15s. 10c?. On July 24, 1604, Shakspere bought for £440 the remaining thirty-two years' term of the moiety or half of a ninety-two years' lease (granted in 1544) of the great and small tithes of Stratford, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, no doubt the same property that he'd been after in January, 1597-8, and the conveyance is from " Raphe Husbande, esquire, to William Shakespeare, of Stratford uppon Avon, gentleman."' It must have been a good purchase, as it brought in £60 a year, that is, paid 5 per cent on the whole of the purchase-money during the thirty-two years, and brought back besides — in yearly instalmente of £38, which could be re-invested as they came in — £1,216 for the £440.' Augustine Phillipps, of Shakspere's company (see Richard II., p. xxxvi, the Bur- bages' Memorial, p. Iv, n. 3, and James I.'s Warrant, p. cxx, above), by his will, dated May, 1605, leaves " William Shakespeare a thirty-shilling peece in gold."' (Gunpowder Plot, jSTovember 5, 1605.) • "Also 'by reason of God's visitation for our sinnes, the plague of Pestplence] there raigning in the Citty of London and suburbes (the Pageants and other showes of triumph, in most sumptuous, maner prepared, hut not finished), the Kinge rode not from the Toure through the Citty in royal manner as had bene accustomed; neither were the Citizens permitted to come at 'Westminster, but forbidden by proclamation, for feare of infection to he by that meanes increased, for there died that weake in. the Citye of London and suhurhes, of all diseases, 1103; of the plague, 857.— Pp. 1415 and 1416 (the second couple so numherd). " 'Wednesday the 10. of August was by the ordinary appoj-nted to be kept HoUiday, and fasted, the chiirch to he frequented with praiers to almighty God, Sermons of repentance to the people, and charity to the poore to he collected & distrihuted, and the like commanded to be done weekly euery Wednesday while the heauy hand of God, by the plague of pest[ilence] continued among vs. — P. 1416 (the second). "In the former yeare, to wit 1602, the plague of pest[ilencej being great in Holland, Sealand, and other the low countries, and many souldiers returning thence into England, the infection was also spred in diuers parts of this realme; namely [= especially], in the Citie of London and liberties thereof it so increased, that in the space of one whole yeare, to wit, from the 23. of December 1602, vnto the 22. of December, 1603, there died of all diseases (as was weekly accompted by the parish clerks, and so certified to the King), 38244, whereof, of the Plague, 30578. God make vs penitent. For he is mercifuU."— P. 1425. 2 Shakspere's yearlj' fee was no doubt £3 6s. 8d., like that of James's "Plaiers of enterludes, 8.," in 1614. (Lansd. MS. 272, leaf 27.) ' To this letter, after Malone saw it, was stuck a forged list — first printed by Mr. Collier, a& usuall, — of the King's Players, with "Shakespeare" second in it. Another forged passage about Shakspere was printed by Mr. Collier in Mrs. Alleyn's letter of October 20, 1603; another about Lodge was also printed by him, &c. &c. ; see the books of my friends Mr. N. E. S. A. Hamilton and Dr. Ingleby on these shameful matters. * Neither of his uses of plague in III. i., IV. vii., or pestilence in V. i. 196, can be taken as an allusion. See my Forewords to Griggs's Facsimile of Samlet, Quarto 2 (1604), 1880. ' But if we allow 10 per cent, for interest— as Shakspere does in his will on his younger daughter Judith ftuiney's marriage-portion, — then the. yearly balance of £16 would only return £512 for the £440. « In 1605, the fourth edition of Richard III. was publisht. In 1607, the fourth edition of Lucrece. I suppose Othello to have been written in 1604, Macbeth in 1605-6, Lear in 1605-6, and Troihis and Creaaida and Antony and Cleopatra in 1606-7. pS2 oxxii ^15. HIS DAUGHTER MARRIES. GRANDFATHER SHAKSPERE. FOURTH PERIOD OF HIS LIFE, 160&-1S. In 1607, Shakspere's eldest daughter, Susanna, being then 24, married, on June 7, Dr. John Hall, a physician at Stratford of large practice^, to the englisht notes of whose cures of patients^including his own wife and da\ighter, himself, the poet Drayton, &c. — I have before alluded, when stating my belief that Dr. Hall is to some extent embodied in Cerymon of Pericles. (Had he but cured Shakspere in 1616 instead of letting him die, we should have had an interesting account of the success. Possibly some successor of Ireland and our Victorian Shakspere-forgers will produce an eai-lier cure of Shakspere from the thousand notes of cases of which Dr. Hall's translator speaks in his Postscript.) On December 31, Shakspere's youngest brother, Edmund, "player," was buried at St. Saviour's, Southwark, close to the Globe Theatre, and 20s. were paid for a " forenoon knell of the great bell." Shakspere's first granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall, the only child of her parents, was baptised on February 21, 1607-8; and on "1608, September 9, Mayi-y Shaxpere, Wydowe," our poet's mother, was buried at Stratford. On October 16, Shakspere stands godfather to a boy, William Walker — son of Hem-y Walker, of Stratford, chosen alderman January 3, 1605-6 — to whom he afterwards left by his will " 20«. in gold." In 1608 died Thomas Whittington, shepherd to Richard Hathaway, and by his will left " unto the poor of Stratford 40s. that is in the hand of Anne Shaxspere, wyfe unto Mr. Wyllyam Shaxspere, and is due debt unto me, being paid to mine executor by the sayd Wyllyam Shaxspere or his assignes." In August, 1608, Shakspere brought an action against John Addenbrooke for a debt. After several months' delay a verdict was given in Shakspere's favour for £6, and £1 4s. costs ; but as the defendant couldn't be found, Shakspere sued Addenbrooke's bail, Thomas Horneby, for the money. The latest date noted in the record is June 7, 1609.^ IV. In or about 1609, after the Period of his great Tragedies, grandfather Shakspere is supposed to have left London, for Ms new life at Stratford, his fresh delight in all its flowers and scenes, its sweet girls and country sports. There is nothing definite to fix the change to any one year ; but as Shakspere's Sonnets and Pericles were both publisht, evidently without his leave, in 1609 ; as a new tone — a new scent as of violets or sweetbriar — breathes from his plays in and after 1609 ; as the later ones are loose in dramatic construction, as if written away from the theatre ; as Shakspere must, before he made his will, have sold or releast to his partners all his interest in the Globe and Blackfriars profits, ' and in his plays, we conclude that his leaving town dates from 1609 or thereabouts', tho' the first Stratford tidings seem against the notion. In September, 1609, Thomas Greene, the Town-Clerk of Stratford, says that a G. Brown might stay longer in his (Greene's) house, ■" the rather because I perceyved I might stay another yere at New Place." Greene may have been living there with his " cosen Shakspere " ; if not, Shakspere cannot have settled at New Place till later. By June 21, 1611, Thomas Greene is probably in his own house, as an order was made that the town is " to repare the churchyard wall at Mr. Greene's dwelling-place" (HaUiwell's Hist, of New Place). In a list of donations "colected towardes the charge of prosecutyng the bill in Parliament for the better repayre of the highe waies, and amendinge divers defectes in the statutes already made," dated Wednesday, September 11, 1611, the name of "Mr. WUliam Shackspere" is found in the margin, with no sum to it. " This MS.," says Mr. Halliwell in his Polio Life, p. 202, "evidently relates to Stratford." ^ The draft of a bill* to be filed before Lord EUesmere by " Richard Lane, of Awston, in ' " This Learned Author lived in our time, and in the County of "Warwick, where he practised Physik many years, and in great Fame for his skill, far and near. Those who seemed highly to esteem him, and whom by Gods hlessing he wrought these cures upon, you shall finde to he among others, Persons Nohle, Rich, and Learned." — James Cooke, the englisher of Dr. Hall's Cures. "To the Judicious Reader." Dr. Hall left another book ready for the press, besides his Cures. His widow sold them both to Mr. Cooke as another man's MSB. [Cures, sign. A. 3, back.) 2 In 1608 were issued the first and second Quartos of Lear, the fourth of 1 Senry IV., the third •of Richard II. , and the third of the imperfect Henry V. I put down Coriolanus and Timon as written in 1607-8. Milton, Clarendon, and Fuller were bom in 1608. ^ In 1609 were publisht The Somiets, the first edition of Troilus and Cressida (in two states, with differing titles, see p. Ixxxviii), the first and second Quartos of Pericles, and the third and fourth of Someo Mnd Juliet. Shakspere's part of Tericles I date 1608-9, and The Tempest 1609-10. * In 1611 came out the fourth edition of Samlet, the third of Pericles, and the second of Titus Androni- cus. I suppose Gymbeline to have been written in 1610, The Winter's Tale in 1611, and the Shakspere part ■of Henry VIII. and The Two Noble Kinsmen (?) in 1612-13. 5 See Folio Life, p. 212. § 15. FOURTH PBEIOD OF SHAKSPERE'S LIFE, 1612-14. the cowiity of Warwicke, esquire, Thomas Greene, of Stratford uppon Avon, in the said county of Warwicke, esquire, and WUliam Shackspeare, of Stratford iippon Avon aforesaid, in the said county of Warwicke, gentleman ; " undated but seemingly drawn up LQ 1612, shows Shakspere in a lawsuit about his share ia the tithes which he had bought in 1605. Some of the lessees of the tithes had refused to pay their share of a reserved rent of £27 13s. 4d, and had thus driven Shakspere and a few others to pay the defaulters' share as well as their own, in order to prevent the lease being forfeited. The draft bill states Shakspere's income from the tithes of com and grain, wool and lamb, privy tithes, oblations and alterages as being £60 a year.^ His brother Richard was buried at Stratford on February 4, 1612-13. On the 10th of March in that year Shakspere bought for £140 from Henry Walker, citizen and minstrel of London, a house^ and a piece of ground near the Blackfriars Theatre, "abutting upon a streete leading down to Pudle Wharffe' on the east part, right against the Kinges Maiesties' Wardrobe." But as Shakspere only paid £80 of the purchase-money, he next day mortgaged the property to the vendor Henry Walker for the odd £60, and let the house, which he mentions in his will, to John Robinson, the then tenant of it. On June 29, 1613, the Globe Theatre on Bankside, Blackfriars, was burnt down during a performance of Henri/ VIII., as I have noted above on pp. xiii, xiv ; and we can fancy Shakspere's feelings on hearing of the destruction of the old house, for so many years the scene of his triumphs. He must have been glad to see its rebuilding at once begun. In a paper dated September 5, 1614, Shakspere is mentioned among the "Auncient ffreeholders in the ffields of Old Stratford and Welcombe," viz. : — " Mr. Shakspeare, Thomas Parker, Mr. Lane, Sir Frauncys Smyth, Mace, Arthur Cawdrey, and Mr. Wright, Vicar of Bishopton ; " thus, " Mr. Shakspeare 4 yard land, noe common nor ground beyond Gospell-bushe, nor ground in Sandfield, nor none iu Slow-hUl-field beyond Bishopton, nor none in the enclosures beyond Bishopton." And by an agreement, dated October 8, 1614, between Shakspere and WiUiam Beplingham, a joint-owner with him of the tithes before-mentiond, Replingham covenanted with Shakspere to repay him all such loss as he should incur in respect of the decreasing' of the yearly value of the tithes held by Replingham and Shakspere, by reason of any enclosure or decaye of tillage intended in the tithable fields by the said RepMngham. To the enclosure of the Welcombe common and hills, whence the best view of Stratford is to be got, the Corporation was strongly opposed, — as so many writers of Tudor time were to like enclosures, because they cared for their poorer neighbours; — and the Corporation clerk or lawyer, Shakspere's kinsman, Thomas Greene, was in London on this business when he made the following Memorandum : — " 1614 : Jovis, 17 No. My cosen Shakspear comyng yesterdy to town, I went to see him how he did. He told me that they assured him they ment to inclose no further than to Gospell Bush, and so upp straight (leavyng out part of the Dyngles to the fiield) to the gate in Clopton hedg, and take in Salisburyes peece ; and that they mean in Aprill to survey the land, and then to gyve satisfaccion, and not before ; and he and Mr. Hall* say they think ther will be nothyng done at all." (Folio lAfe, p. 222.) About a fortnight after the above date, says Dyce, Greene, having left Shakspere in London, retumd to Stratford ; where he continued his notes : — " 23 Dec. A hall. Lettres wrytten, one to Mr. Manyring, another to Mr. Shakspear, with almost all the company's hands to eyther. I also wrytte myself to my cosen Shakspear the coppyes of all our acts, and then also a not of the inconvenyences wold happen by the iuclosure." "The letter to Arthur Main waring (Lord Ellesmere's domestic auditor) is still pre- served; but the more interesting one has perished." A page of Thomas Greene's Diary survives, in which are the three following entries relating to Shakspere's business and the enclosures : — 1. [1614-15] " 10 Januarii, 1614. Mr. Manwaryng and his agreement for me 1 In 1612 were publisht the fifth, edition of Biehard III., and the third (with Heywood's Poems) — no copy of the second edition is known — of The Fassionate JPilgrim. In 1613, the fifth. Quarto of 1 Henry IV. . . .i. 2 See a wood-cut of what purports to he it in Halliwell's Octavo Life, p. 247. The counterpart of tlie conveyance (printed ib., pp. 248-251) is in the Guildhall Library, London. The Mortgage is in the British Museum show-room. An autotype of it can he had at the Museum for 2s. 3 MS. inorearinge. Folio Life, p. 221. ^ No doubt the doctor, Shakspere's son-in-law. § 15. SBAKSPBRE-S DEATH, MAT 3, 1616, NEW STYLE. HIS WILL. with my cosen Shakspeare. 2. [1614-15] 9 Jan., 1614. Mr. Replyngham, 28 Octobris, article with Mr. Shakspear, and then I was putt in by Thursday. 3. [1615] 1 Sept. Mr. Shakspeare told Mr. J. Greene that I was not able to beare the enclosing of Welcombe.'" (Folio Life, p. 223.) In 1614 died John Combe, bailiff or factor to the Earl of "Warwick, and by his will left " To Mr. William Shackspere, five pounds." In the same will is mentiond " Parsons close, alias Shakespeares^ close." This year too the Stratford Corporation, according to their custom when a strange preacher preacht before them, sent a present of wine to one — a Puritan, no doubt — stopping at Shakspere's house. The Chamberlain's account charges, " Item : for one quart of sack, and on quart of clarett wine, geven to a preacher at the Newe Place, XX*" On January 25, 1615-16, the fair copy of Shakspere's Will was ready, but he put off executing it till March 25 — when he had some alterations made in it— after the marriage of his younger daughter, Judith, then 31, who, like her mother, wedded a man younger than herself — tho' only four years now, not eight — Thomas Quiney^ vintner and wine-merchant of Stratford, son of the Richard Quiney who in 1598 askt Shakspere to lend him £30 (p. cxix, above), and who died on May 31, 1602, while bailiff of Stratford. From the fact of Judith having made her mark to a deed instead of signing her name, it has been supposed that she could not write ; but this is not certain, as many folk well known in history, who could write, have still put their marks to deeds. Susanna Hall could write fairly. Having executed his will on March 25, Shakspere died at New Place on April 23, 1616, and was buried in the chancel of Stratford Church on the 25th.* The only report as to the cause of his death is in the Diary (printed in 1839) of the Rev. John Ward, who was appointed vicar of Stratford in 1662, that "Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson, had a merie meeting, and itt seems drank too hard, for Shakespear died of a feavour there contracted." Mr. Halliwell has in his History of New Place suggested another cause : that the pigsties and nuisances which the Corporation books show to have existed in Chapel Lane, which ran the whole length of New Place, bred the fever of which Shakspere is said to have died. Mr. Halliwell gives several extracts from the books, as — "1605: the Chamberlaines shall gyve warning to Henry Smyth to plucke downe his pigges cote which is built nere the chappie wall, and the house of office ( = privy) there." {New Place, p. 29.) Shakspere's Will. — By his will, Shakspere, like so many other imjust Englishmen, in accordance with the unjust custom of their country, settled almost all his property on his eldest child, and gave the younger much less. He bequeathed his daughter Judith (Quiney) only : (1.) £150 — £100 as a marriage portion (with 10 per cent, interest on it till it was paid), and £50 on her releasing her right in his Rowington copyhold tenement (in Dead Lane, p. cxix, n. 4, above), to her sister Susanna Hall. (2.) £150 more if she or any issue of hers should be living at the end of three years from Shakspere's death, with interest thereon at £10 per cent, in the meantime. (If she should die without issue in three years — she lived till February, 1638-9, surviving her three children — S.hakspere gave £100 to his " niece [granddaughter], Elizabeth Hall," and £50 to be invested for, and the income from it paid to, his sister, "Johane Harte," during her life, the principal going equally among her children at her death.) But if Judith Quiney survivd the three years (as she did), her £150 was to be invested, the interest paid to her diiring her life, and the principal among her children after her death. Also, if her husband should settle on her and her issue lands worth the £150, in the judgment of Shakspere's executors, they were to pay the husband " the said cl. li." (the contraction for £150). Then Shakspere gives his sister, Joan Hart, £20 and all his wearing apparel, and a life interest in the house in Stratford wherein she dwelt, she paying 12c?. a year rent for it. He also gave her three sons, William, , and Michael, £5 eacL Then came the small legacies : all his plate, except his broad silver 1 Our Poet did not live to see the termination of this contest : it was not till 1618 that an order of the Privy Council forhade all further attempt at enclosure (Dyce). 2 It's in Hampton, hounded hy Ingon Lane, leading on one side to Snitterfield, on the other to Stratford. (See the plan in Halliwell.) Nothing is known to connect it with Shakspere. ' The name still exists in Stratford, and, I helieve, is pronounot " Q,uin-ny." But Dr. Hall wrote " Queeny." See p. xcviii, note 2. •• These dates are Old Style ones. April 23 and 2.5 correspond to_ May 3- and May 6, New Style. See helow, p. cxxvi. In 1616, the fifth Quarto of Luorece was publisht. In the 1615 Continuation of Stowe's Annals by Edmund Howes, " M. Willi. Shakespeare, gentleman," is enterd among " Our moderne and present excellent Poets which worthely florish in their owne workes " (p. 811). § 15. SHAKSPERE'S WILL, LOST INVENTORY, GRAVE, AND BUST. and gilt bowl (which he gave to his daughter Judith), he bequeathed to the said Elizabeth Hall; £10 to the Stratford poor; his sword to Mr. Thomas Combe; £5 to Thomas Russell, esquire; £13 6s. 8d. to Francis Collins, of "Warwick; then for rings, 26s. 8d. each to Hamlett Sadler, William Eaynoldes, " my fellowes John Hemynges, Eichard Burbage, and Henry Cundell ; " 20s. in gold to his godson William Walker, and 26s. 8d. to Mr. John Nashe. Then came the main devise of the will : he gave his' New Place (p. cxvii), his tenement in Henley Street (pp. ii, vi), his Stratford, Old-Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe tithes (p. cxxi), his Blackfriars house near the Wardrobe, let to Eobinson (p. cxxiii), and all his other hereditaments, to his daughter Susanna Hall for her life, and then to her sons successively in tail male ; and in default of sons, to his said "neece" (that is, grand- daughter, eight years old), Elizabeth Hall in tail male ; and in default of such issue, to his daughter Judith Quiney in tail male ; and in default of such issue, to his own right heirs. Then, by an interlined bequest, he gave his wife his second best bed with the furniture. (She woiild be entitled to dower in his freeholds, and to freebench in. his copyholds, if the custom of the manor gave it.) All the rest of his personalty, after payment of debts, legacies, and funeral expenses, he gave to his son-in-law, "John Hall, gent.," and his daughter Susanna, John Hall's wife, and made them executors of his will, the said Thomas Russell and Francis Collins being overseers of it — to see that the executors did their duty. — The will was witnesst by " Fra : CoUyns, Julyus Shawe, John Robinson, Hamnet Sadler, Robert Whatt- cott," and if the law was then as it is now, Collyns and Sadler^ lost their claim to their legacies by witnessing the will. The will is on three sheets of moderate size, signed by Shakspere on the margin, of the first sheet, at the foot of the second, and about the middle of the third. It was proved on June 22, 1616, by John Hall, who alone acted as executor, power being reserved, as usual, for Susanna Hall to prove, when she wanted to. The note of the proof contains the words " (Inv. ex.)," which shows that Dr. Hall exhibited an Inventory of Shakspere's goods ; and I long hoped that the Fire of London and the rats and rain of and in the St. Paul's Cathedral rooms, where the 17th century Inventories long were, might have left this Shakspere Inventory in one of the eight and twenty boxes in the Probate Office containing these Inventories. After I saw them in an underground room in Doctors' Commons, some ten or eleven years ago, I tried to get the Treasury to appoint a clerk to catalogue these Inventories, but in vain, and so was obliged to have a turn at them myself in the spring of 1881. Mr. J. Chaloner Smith (the superintendent of the Literary Search Department) and I tested every one of the boxes in all its parts, giving about three hours to each box, but we could not find one inventory of Shakspere's time; All but some two or three per cent, were of the date 1660 to 1700, though a few went up to 1530, and a few others down to 1724. We were forced to conclude that all the early 17th century Inventories were burnt in the Fire of London. The only Inventory we found in any way relating to Shakspere was that of Sir John Barnard, the second and surviving hiisband of Shakspere's granddaughter, Elizabeth Hall; and in it the only entries that could relate to Shakspere's land and New Place were "a Eent at Stratford-upon-Avon iiij. li.," and " old goods and Lumber at Stratford-upon-Avon, at iiij. li." When the calendar of these Inventories is made. Lady Barnard's will no doubt turn up. Over Shakspere's grave in the chancel of Stratford Church is a dark flat tombstone, with this inscription, which Dowdall says was "made by himselfe a little before his death " :— " Good frend, for Jesus sake forbeare To digg the dvst encloased heare : Bleste be y° man y' spares thes stones, And cvrst be lie y' moves my bones." On the left or north wall of the chancel, against the blockt-up bottom of the second window from the communion-table, is the monument to Shakspere, containing the celebrated Stratford life-size bust, evidently cut from a death-mask ^ and said by ' If " Hamnet " and " Hamlett " Sadler were one and the same man, as I suppose they were. 2 " We may mention— on the authority of Mr. Butcher, the very courteous clerk of Stratford Church, ■who saw the examination made— that two years ago Mr. Story, the great American sculptor, when at Stratford, made a very careful examination of Shakspere's bust from a raised scaffolding, and came to the conclusion that the face of the bust was modelled from a death-mask. The lower part of the face was very death-like ; the upper Up was elongated and drawn up from the lower one by the shrinking of the nostrils, the first part of ttie face to ' go ' after death ; the eyebrows were neither of the same length nor on cxxvi § 15. SHAESPEEWS DEATB-DAT— APRIL 23 IS OUR HAT 3, 1616. HIS DESCENDANTS. Dugdale {Life, Diary, p. 99), to have been "made by one Gerard Johnson," a well-known sculptor.' This bust and the Droes-hout engraving in the first Folio, are the only authentic repre- sentations of Shakspere. The Chandos, Felton, and other portraits^, and the Kesselstadt death-mask — fine though it is — ^have no real evidence whatever in their favour. The bust was origiually coloured, but Malone stupidly had it all painted white.' It has, however, since been repainted in the original colours : eyes light hazel, hair and beard auburn, cheeks ruddy, sleeved doublet scarlet, sleeveless gown black, neckband and wristbands white, upper part of the cushion, under the hands, green ; under half, crimson ; edge-cord and tassels, gilt. The left hand rests on a piece of white paper ; the right holds a pen and rests on the cushion. The expression of the face is stolid and staring. Below the bust is the inscription following : — " Ivdicio Pylium, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, Terra tegit, popvlvs moeret, Olympvs habet. " Stay, passenger, why goest thov by so fast ? Eead, if thov canst, whom enviovs Death hath plast Within this monvment, Shakspeare, with whome Quick natvre dide ; whose name doth deck y' tomhe Far more than cost ; sich* all y' he hath writt Leaves living art bvt page to serve his witt. Obiit An"Doi 1616, iEtatis 53, die 23 Apr." We must recollect that " 23 April " then was the same day that we call the 3rd of May now. As Mr. John J. Bond says in his Handy Book, 1866, p. xxviL, " Some writers have supposed that both Cervantes and Shakspeare died on the same day, whereas the fact is, that there was ten days' difference between the dates of the death of the one and the other. Michael de Cervantes Saavedra, the author of Don Quixote, died on the 23rd of April, 1616, at Madrid, on Satwrday, according to the New Style of writing dates in use at that time in Spain, which style had been adopted there as early as the year 1582. (Year Letters C.B., 1616, New Style, 23rd of April, 1616, Saturday.) And William Shakspere died on the 23rd of April, 1616, at Stratford-on-Avon, on Tuesday, according to the Old Style of writing dates at that time in use in England, the New Style not having been adopted in England at that time, and not until the year 1752. (Year Letters G.F., 1616, Old Style, 23rd of April, 1616, Tuesday.) Saturday, 23rd of April, 1616, New Style, corresponded with Saturday, 13th of April, 1616, Old Style, Tuesday, 23rd of AprU, 1616, Old Style, corresponded with Tuesday, 3rd of May, 1616, New Style. Hence it is shown that Cervantes died ten days before Shakspeare." And don't let us forget that on this Tuesday, April 23, Old Style, or May 3, New, the great Oliver Cromwell enterd himself as a student at Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge. Shakspere's wife died on August 6, 1623, being sixty-seven years old. His eldest daughter, Susanna HaU, died July 11, 1649, aged sixty-six (having survivd her husband Johja Hall, who died November 25, 1635, aged sixty). His granddaughter Elizabeth Hall married first Thomas Nashe, on April 22, 1626, and (after his death on April 4, 1647), namely, June 5, 1649, a widower, John Barnard of Abington, Northamptonshire, who was kidghted in 1661 ; but she had no child by either husband, and she died at Abington, the same level; the depth from the eye to the ear ivas extraordinary; the cheeks were of different shapes, the left one being the more prominent at top. On the whole, Mr. Story felt certain of the bust being made from a death-mask." — F. J. F., in The Academy, August 22, 1874, p. 205, col. 3. Mr. "Woolner has since told me that he too has examined the bust, and is also convinct that it was made from a death-mast. Chantrey, the sculptor, and Haydon, the painter, &c., had before expresst the same opinion. But, says Mr. Spedding, the death-mask was made to represent a live face, by sticking a pair of almond- shaped raisd lines on the top of the eyelids — to represent open eyes— and laying clay enough upon the upper lip to allow of the dead mouth being made to smile. ^ Mr. HalUweU supposes that Johnson didn't work so late as 1616, but that one of his sons may have cut the bust. 2 The beery, loose-looking picture in the so-called Birthplace is a special abomination to me. ' These lines have been written on this intense piece of iU taste (Neil, p. 66) : — " Stranger to whom this monument is shown, I Whose meddling zeal his barbarous taste displays. Invoke the Poet's curse upon Malone, | And daubs his tombstone, as he mara his plays." s For «»*A, since ; y'=this; y'=that. § 15. SHAKSPEBrS DESCENDANTS AND HOUSE. § 16. SEAKSFERE THE MAN AND AUTIST. oxxvU and was buried there on February 17, 1669-70. The three tombstones of Shakspere's wife, daughter Susanna, and her husband, Dr. Jn. HaU, lie by his in the chancel of Stratford Church. On Mrs. Hall's is the following epitaph, which shows that the daughter had both the father's wit and tender heart : — " Witty atove her sexe, but that 's not all, Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall : Something of Shakespeare was in that ; hut this, Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse. Then, passenger, hast ne'er a tear To weepe with her that wept with all ; But wept, yet set herselfe to chere Them up with comforts oordiall ? Her love shall live, her mercy spread, When thou hast ne're a tear to shed." Shakspere's younger daughter, Judith Quiney, was buried at Stratford on February 9, 1661-2, having survivd her three sons, Shakespeare, baptised November 23, 1616, buried May 8, 1617; Richard, baptised February 9, 1617-18, buried February 26, 1638-9; Thomas, baptised January 23, 1619-20, buried January 28, 1638-9. No entry of the burial of her husband Thomas Quiney is in the Stratford register. Shakspere's sister Joan Hart was buried at Stratford on November 4, 1646. To Joan's grandson, Thomas Hart, Lady Barnard, — who, with her mother and first husband, had barrd the entail under Shakspere's will, — left the Henley Street or Birthplace houses ; and these houses were sold in 1847, by descendants of the Harts, to trustees for the nation. New Place was sold, after Sir John Barnard's death, to Sir Edward Walker. His only child Barbara married Sir John Clopton, and she brought New Place back into the family of its old possessors. About 1720, Sir Hugh Clopton pulled down New Place, and built a new house, probably more or less on the old foundations. His son-in-law and executor, Henry Talbot, sold the property to the E.ev. Francis Gastrell, vicar of Frodsham, Cheshire; and this confounded man not only cut down in 1756 the so-called "Shakspere's mulberry tree" in the garden, because folks wanting to see it botherd him, but also in 1759 pulld down Sir H. Clopton's fresh "New Place." On the property coming into the market in 1862, Mr. J. 0. Halliwell got up a subscription and bought it, afterwards added to it the site of the theatre built on part of the old garden, and other grounds adjacent, laid bare the foundations of the house, put the whole place into nice order, and in 1876 handed it over to the Corporation of Stratford for the use of the public, subject to visitors paying a small fee, as at the Birthplace. The gratitude of every lover of Shakspere is due to Mr. Halliwell — however little they may think of his critical power — not only for his exertions to secure New Place for the nation, but also for his long searches into the records of Shakspere's life, and for never having forgd a document or an emendation, though unluckily he has reprinted other folks' forgeries, and at first declared them genuine. As he says, such mistakes as he 's made, have at least been honest ones. § 16. The statement of my old acquaintance Professor Craik, in his edition oi Julius Ccesar, 18/57, still remains true, that " After all the commentatorship and criticism of which the works of Shakespeare have been the subject, they still remain to be studied in their totality with a special reference to himself. The man Shakespeare as read in his works — Shakespeare as there revealed, not only in his genius and intellectual power, but in his character, disposition, temper, opinions, tastes, prejudices — is a book yet to be written " (pp. 8, 9). Till some one has carefully pickt out the extrardramatic bits from his plays, and combined them with the like bits in his poems, we cannot have his picture complete. But we know enough to get a fair notion of him. His boyhood and young manhood I have already sketcht, on pages iv — ix. The latter was that of his own ideal, as so happily pictured by my friend Miss O'Brien, in her article on "Shakspere's Young Men"^ (and their ' She says on " Shakspere's own ideal of young manhood" ..." First, as to the animal natures of these young heroes of his, it is noticeable what physical perfection they are all supposed to have. . . . His young hero should, as a general thing, ' laugh merrily ' like Valentine, ' eat and drink heartily, walk manfully, and only look sad when his purse was empty.' He should be able to climb walls with Romeo, wrestle with Orlando, fence and fight pirates like Hamlet, or swim through the stormy waves like Ferdinand; and he should enjoy doing it. Shakspere seems to have revelled in the creation of these healthy, and consequently fearless, young fellows. Further, he seems to lay stress on their being- natural, unaffected, as if to him affectation indicated a weakness somewhere in the man's character ; . . . we have hints in the description of ParoUes, with his ' scarfs and bannerets,' ' his soul in his clothes,' (cp. Cloten) which show us Shakspere's amused contempt for such creatures. . . . Shakspere seems to value very highly a decided capacity for friendship between men . . . This friendship is shown us in many forms and varying degrees of intensity. There is the deep and devoted kind ; . . . there is every shade of genial sociability. . . . Clearly his model j'oong man ought to be able to get on § 18. THE MAN SHAKSPERKS CHARACTERISTICS. 5 classes) in TJie Westminster Review for October, 1876. His outward history is that of so many thousands of his countrymen. Born and bred in the country, he comes up to London poor, and gradually makes his fortune there, keeps an eye always to his country-home, lays out his first money there, makes his father a gentleman, and then himself retires to be a country gentleman in Stratford too, leaving behind him the city, the source of his fortune, the scene of his triumphs. He, as is usual with self-made men, wants to found a family, and entails his landed property on his eldest daughter and her child, leaving the yoimgest daughter but £300, marriage-portion and all. As to his likes and dislikes, he dislikt women's sham hair and face-painting', men's absurd dr'esses and frequent changes of fashion^ and their excessive word-play and quips'; he also dislikt jealous wives*, scented effeminate men (Hotspur's courtier, and Osric, (&c.), Puritans^, courtiers' pretensions^, pompous justices', presumptuous officials', and affectations of all kinds ; the fickle multi- tude', child actors, clowns saying more than was set down for them, ranting actors'", and dramatists" ; and, actor and playwright tho' he was, liking the applause with which the well-gract actor left the stage {Richard II., V. ii.), he still felt that his business lowerd his moral nature, and left its stain on him. (Sonnet 111.) No wonder, if the general run of writers and actors was like Marlowe, Peele, and Greene. Shakspere used the poor rather as material for fun, to amuse his richer patrons with, than as folk with whom he felt. He doesn't show much sympathy with 'em, not so much as Chaucer, I think ; but his representations of 'em are all in good part, and, like those of Chaucer and Dickens, make his hearers think kindly of the men they laugh at. Shakspere also couldn't bear the enclosure of commons near towns. He, like the other Elizabethan dramatists, doesn't, in his play, show much home feeling. He and they have hardly any of the modern feeling as to the English homeP 'Twas hardly possible then : Paul's Walks, the theatres, the taverns, were the leading features of the London life of Elizabeth's and James's time ; and tho' hints of happy home-life are given here and there in Shakspere — "sat at good men's feasts" {As You Like It, II. vii.), and, oddly enough, in the Eoman plays — just as in Sir Thomas More's household, in Philip Stubbes's Life of his sweet young wife, who read the Bible so hard and was always asking him to explain texts — yet it was not till the Puritan time that we get the Lucy Hutchinson, the Lady Russell, the foundation of the English home, to which the cavalier spirit, when purified, was to add lightness and grace. The hardness of early English home-life is seen in the Paston Letters, in the Italian Relation of England, in Lady Jane Grey's bringing up, &c. (See the Forewords to my Bdbees' Book, ifec.) In connection with this want of home-life, there seems to me in Shakspere some want of sympathy with child-nature.'''' Admirable as his sketches of children's characters are, with other people. That he should he capable of really {ailing in love is almost a matter of course. It was not a matter of course, in those days or since, that the love so represented should be the pure and honest thing it is with these young heroes. Passionate, ardent, outspoken, it is always straightforward, frank, and honourable, in both the lover and the object of his love, in any character held up for our admiration. . . . Shakspere's young hero must be a gentleman too, in the best sense of that indefinable word. Our poet clearly believed that blood and birth made a good deal of difference, fully agreeing with Spenser, ' that gentle blood will gentle manners breed.' . . . But whether the polish was to be innate or acquired, at all events it must be there before the young man's character would be agreeable to Shakspere. It is not enough that the young hero should be daring and gallant, generous and true, he must also have something of cultivation and grace as well. . . . One point, however, should not be overlooked in connection with these young men. "With all their sociability, their friendship and hospitality, it is remarkable how little allusion there is to anything of a rollicking, drinking style of conviviality. . . . Healthy, brave, natural, genial, constant in friendship, noble in love, well- bred, cultivated, and self -restrained ; such are the main points which we can discover of Shakspere's ideal young man. We would not say that there might not be something higher, that we might not wish for some example of real heroism and self-sacrifice ; but the world is not made up of heroes, and Shakspere did not seem to feel called \ipon to draw the exceptional people." ' See above, p. xx, and note 2 there 2 Portia, in The Merchant, p. xliv, above, &c. 3 See above, pp. xix, xx. * Adriana and the Abbess, in the Errors, II. i, ; V. i. = Twelfth-Night. '' Lear, V. ii. 15, 17; Much Ado, p. Ix, note 1. ^ Merry Wives; i Senry IV. '2 Mr. Spencer. Miss O'Brien also notes the little there is in Shakspere of mother and daughter (cf. Juliet and her mother, Hermione and Perdita), as if he was not sure of the ways of women together. " He Ukt their boldness and pluck. Cp. Edward PV.'s and Coriolanus's boys. " Samlet, III. i. ; Measure for Measure, II. ii. ' 1 Henry IV., end ; 2 Henry IV., indue. ; Julius Ccesar. '" Hamlet, III. ii. ; TroUus and Cressida; Corio- lanus. " Quotations from Marlowe's Tamburlaine and Kyd, in 2 Henry IV., II. iv. § 16. THE MAN SHAKSPKRH. SIS NATURE. SUN JONSON'S LOVE ffOU HIM. oxx.x i'j is rather their parents' feelings for them, than the children themselves, that he seems to care for. Shakspere was, too, like most Tudor Englishmen, too fond of kings and queens. But in his time they were mistaken for their country. (The modern Comtist, also, judging Shakspere as a Victorian, not an Elizabethan, finds that he had no high purpose in his life, set up no high ideal in his plays ; that he ridiculed the poor to please the rich, &c. m.— TRAGEDIES AND COMEDY OF THIRD PERIOD. | Julius Caesar.. 2178 165J2241 31 369 14 31 55 6 16 1623 1601 1601" Julius Ceesar Hamlet , . , . 3931 12082190 81 . 60 508 [86 1. play] 20 53 55 11 47 1603'- J 1602-3» Hamlet MeasureforM. 2809 1131 1574 73 22 6 338 _ 10 29 66 5 47 1623 1603 MeasureforM, Othello .. .. 3317 511 2672 86 — 25 616 — 19 66 71 13 78 1622 1610 1601 Othello Macbeth.. .. 2108 158 1588 118 129 399 — 8 28 43 8 18 1623 1610 1605-6' Macbeth King Lear . . 3332 903 2238 71 83 567 — . 18 34116 1 22 50 16081 1606 1605-6' King Lear Antony and 0. 3062 255 2761 42 « 613 — 14 38 84 1 31 61 1623 1608J 1606-7 Antony and C. Coriolanus ..3409 829 2521 42 _ _ i 708J - — - 31331 76 i 19 I 42 11623 1 - ! 1607-8 I Coriolanus IV.— PLAYS OF FOURTH PERIOD. Tempest.. ..2062 15811158 2— 96 1 476 [51 1. masq.] 216 47 5 11 1623 71614 1610 Tempest Cymlieline .. 33d0 638 2585 107 - 32 | 726 81 1. vision] 815 31 18 42 1623 1611 1610-12 Cymheline Winter's Tale 3073 844|l825 0—57 1 639 [32 L chorus] 814 19 13 16 1623 1611 316U Winter's Tale v.— FIRST SKETCHES IN EARLY QUARTOS. Bom. and Jul. 2066: 261 1151 354I.-I -1 92, 281 -1 - 7 26 30 21 92 1597 1595m U591-3 iRom. and JtU. Hamlet .. .. 2068 509 1462 54 43 - 209 361. play] 13 15 76 37 30 1603> 1 1601-3= Hamlet Henry V. ..1672 898 774 30 - - 1 104 - - - 1 25 35 31 15 1600 1599 1599' Henry V. Merry Wives 1395 I207I 148 40 38Uairies]19 - - - i_| ii _ i 6 4 11602 1 1602 1 1598-9 IMerry Wives 1 VI.-DOUBTFUL PLAYS. | Titus Andron. |2525l 43 1 Henry VL ..i2693! — 2338[ 111 _ 154 _ . 1 8 9 9 12 1600 1600 1588-90 Titus Andron, 2379 311 — — 110 — •.— 5 5 4 7 12 1623 1592 1592^ 1 Henry VI. 2 Henry VI. . 3032: 118 2562 122 — — 255 — 8 25 15 21 12 1623 — 1592-1 2 Henry VL 3 Henry VI. .. 2901i — 2719 155 — — 3ie — 13 11 14 11 7 1623 1592-4 3 Henry VI. Contention . . 19321 381 1571 44 — — 54 — 11 16 32 41 1591 1592 1586-8 Contention True Tragedy 21OII — 120351 66 — 1 — 1181 - 1 - — 14 21 29 38 31 1595 1592 1586-8 iTrue Tragedy 1 VII.-PLAYS IN WHICH SHAKSPERE WAS NOT SOLE AUTHOR. Tam. of Shrew 2571 516 1971 169, 15 1 — 1 260 _ 49 4 18 22 23 5 1623 — 1 1596-7 Tam. of Shrew Troilus and C. 3186 U86 2025 196 — 16 111 - 10 16 62 13 13 i6on 1609 1604-^ Troilus and C. Timon of Ath. 2358 590 1560 184 18 — 257 — 15 28 54 30 37 1623 1607-8 Timon of Ath. Pericles .. .. 2386 418 1136 225 89 — 120 [2221.Gower]17 IS 59 26 18 1609 1608 1608' Pericles Two Noble K. 2731 179 2168 51 — 33 1079 - 1 - L- 9 [46I.Pr.,Ep.] 2 19 46 17 5 1634 1612 T%vo Noble K. Henry VIII. .. 2751 67! 2613 16 — 12 1195 19! 18 3 32 1623 1613? 1613' Henry VIIL Poems putlisht: — Venus and Adonis, 1693; Lucrece, 1594; Passionate Pilgrim, 1599; Phaimx and Turtle (in Chester's Loves Martyr), 1601 ; Sonnets, 1609, with A Lover's Complaint. 1 Enterd one year before at Stationers' Halt. 2 Enterd two years before. ' May be lookt-on as fairly certain. NOTES. p. i. — This is Professor Dowden's grouping of the Plays : — Musical Twelffh^Night. sadness. Much Ado. As You Like It. (Jaques the link to the next group.) Discordant (c). Earnest. All's Well. sadness. Bitter, darli. Measure for Measure. Ironical. Troilus and Cressida (which I place here). 9. Middle Tragedy (=Tragedy o£ reflection). Julius Ceesar. Error and misfortune, rather Hamlet. than passion and crime. 10. Later Tragedy (=Tragedy of passion). Jealousy and murder. Othello. Ambition and murder. Macbeth. Ingratitude and parricide. Lear. Voluptuousness. Antony and Cleopatra. Haughtiness (alienation from country). Coriolanus. Misanthropy (alienation from humamty). Timon. {Timon is the climax.) 11. Romances. Sketch Marina (1st Tempest). Tempest [Tempest again). "'ibe!' Cymbeline. Winter's Tale. 12. Fragments, Henry VIII. Two Noble Kinsman. 1. Prb-Shaksperean Group. (Touched by Shakspere). S4'r/.'"''""''} O^lood and fire). 2. Marlowe-Shakspere Group. Early 2 ScS Henry VI, (Marlowe's j)rese«ce). History. Richard III. (Marlowe's influence). 3. Early Comedies. Love's Labours Lost. E^rrors. Two Oentlemen. Midsummer-Night's Dream. i. Early Tragedy. Romeo and Juliet. 5. Middle History. Richard II. King John. 6. Middle Comedy. Merchant of Venice. 7. Later History (History and Comedy united). 1 & 2 Henry IV. Henry V. 8. Later Comedy. Group (a). Rough and boisterous comedy. No Shrew. sadness. Merry Wives. (b). Refined, joyous, romantic. Observe I have early, middle, and later History ; early, middle, and later Comedy : and early, middle, and later Tragedy ; and the plays might well be read, not only right through in chronological order, but also in these three lines chronologically : — Comedy. Tragedy. History. a b c P. Ixix. Lord Bacon. — The idea of Lord Bacon's having written Shakspere's plays can be entertaind only by folk who know nothing whatever of either writer, or are crackt, or who enjoy the paradox or joke. Poor Miss Delia Bacon, who started the notion, was no doubt then mad, as she was afterwards proved to be when shut up in an asylum. Lord Palmerston, with his Irish humour, naturally took to the theory, as he would have done to the suggestion that Benjamin Disraeli wrote the Gospel of St. John. If Judge Holmes's book is not meant as a practical joke, like Archbishop Whately's Historic Doubts, or proof that Napoleon never livd, then he must be set down as characteristic-blind, like some men are colour-blind. I doubt whether any so idiotic suggestion as this authorship of Shakspere's ■works by Bacon had ever been made before, or will ever be made again, with regard to either Bacon or Shakspere. The tomfoolery of it is infinite.' P. Ixx. Sonnets. — Professor Dowden says : — " The first possible break in the Sonnets is at No. 32 ; the second possible (I don't say actual) one is at No. 74 ; the third possible one at 96. With 100 begins a new series, after three years from the first Sonnets. Beauty, Time, Ofispiing, Verse, Goodness, Love, — ^these are the topics of the Sonnets. How shall beauty conquer time? Firist, by breed (early Sonnets). Well, if you won't beget, then by Verse. But in the end. Love as Love is the one eternal thing, and this love is founded on the virtue of the soul, not the beauty of the face (last of the series, 125). That is the end of the whole matter." But see now Professor Dowden's new edition of the Sonnets, with notes, specially working out the connection between Sonnets 1-126 (Kegan Paul & Co.). Get also Dowden's shilling Shakspere Primer, Macmillans. Armitage Brown divides the Sonnets into six poems, each with its envoy: I., Nos. 1-26; II., 27-55; III., 56-77; IV., 78-101 ; v., 102-126 ; VL, 127-152. He thinks 153-4 do not relate to the mistress of 127-152. P. Ixxiii. Weever's Lines. — Professor Guizot, in a note of February 3, 1877, suggested, that as speeches of Brutus and Antony over Csesar's body were in Appian's Civil Wars, Bk. II., ch. cxxx-di.-cxlvii., and that book was englisht in 1578, I should look whether the 1 P.S. — I have since met with a most estimable lady, full of useful practicalities, a student of Bacon from her youth, who believes that he wrote Shakspere's works. This belief I can only regard as a lament- able delusion, arising from imperfect knowledge of Shakspere as seen in his works. But my acquaintance s collections of the parallelisms of thought and expression in Shakspere and Bacon are full of interest and value. cxlii NOTES: APPIAN ON CXSAIfS DEATH. GRANT WBITE ON "TEOILUS AND CRESSIDA." speeches were in the englislit version, as Weever might have aHuded to it, and not to Shakspere's play. On turning to the anonymous translation of the first books of Appian, publisht by H. Binneman in 1578, I found that though a very long speech by Brutus was given, yet that was a day before Antony's short speeches to the people over the corpse, while Antony's earlier speeches to the Senate were much longer. "There was no such sharj) contrast between the two orators' speeches as Shakspere makes, and Weever alludes to. Moreover, the 1578 englisht Appian can never have been a popular book, and must have been somewhat out of date when Shakspere wrote his play. "Weever's allusion must have been to something fresh in folks' minds in 1601, and to some long and striking speeches that at once foUowd Brutus's, and were aimd at it, like Antony's in the play were, and not to the short " plaine speeches spoken agaynst the Senate," &c., and others to the people, in the englisht Appian. But while I am clear that Weever's allusion was to Shakspere^ and not to Appian, I am none the less grateful to my friend Professor Guizot for having pointed out, as Mr. Watkiss Lloyd had before done in 1866 (Crit. Ess., 1875, p. 401), one of the possible sources, in Appian, of our great poet's famous scene and speeches. As the 1578 Appian is very rare, I printed the corpse speeches from it as the fourth Appendix to the New Shakspere Society's Transactions, 1875-6, Part II. P. Ixxx, 1.- 2. — Cleverly. — The following note was crowded out in setting: — "I say ' cleverly,' without forgetting the scandalous injustice of it. But these fellows' prying irritated Hamlet, like Polonius's did. He could get somebody else to kill 'em ; and at the moment gladly seizd the chance of carrying out his before-formd resolve. It was the noise behiud the arras over again. And, as on that occasion, Hamlet again puts on heaven the murders he commits : ' Even iti that ' — supplying him with his father's seal — ' was Heav'n ordinate.' " — Y. ii. 48. P. Ixxxiv, note 2. The late Professor J. Wilson (Christopher North) lookt on lago's speech about Othello's epilepsy as a mere lie. Dr. Ingleby agrees. P. Ixxxviii. Troilus and Cressida. — " TroUus and Cressida is Shakespeare's wisest play in the way of worldly wisdom. It is filled choke-full of sententious, and, in most cases, slightly satirical revelations of human nature, uttered with a felicity of phrase and an impressiveness of metaphor that make each one seem like a beam of light shot into the recesses of man's heart. Such are these : — ' In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men.' ' The -wound of peace is surety ; Surety secure ; hut modest douht ia called The heacon of the wise.' ' What is aught, hut as 't is valued ? ' ' 'T is mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.' ' A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant.' Besides passages like these, there are others of which the wisdom is inextricably interwoven with the occasion." . . . " The \mdramatic character of Troilus and Cressida, which has been already mentioned, appears in its structure, its personages, and its purpose. . . . There is also a singular lack of that peculiar characteristic of Shakespeare's dramatic style, the marked distinction and nice discrimination of the individual traits, mental and moral, of the various personages. Ulysses is the real hero of the play ; the chief, or, at least, the great purpose of which is the utterance of the Ulyssean view of life ; and in this play Shakespeare is Ulysses, or Ulysses Shakespeare. In all his other plays Shakespeare so lost his personal consciousness in the individuality of his own creations that they think and feel, as well as act, like real men and women other than their creator, so that we cannot truly say of the thoughts and feelings which they express, that Shakespeare says thus or so ; for it is not Shakespeare who speaks, but they with his lips. But in Ulysses, Shakespeare, acting upon a mere hint, filling up a mere traditionary outline, drew a man of mature years, of wide observation, of profoundest cogitative power, one who knew all the weakness and all the wiles of human nature, and who yet remained with blood unbittered and soul unsoured — a man who saw through all shams, and fathomed all motives, and who yet was not scornful of his kind, not misan- thropic, hardly cynical except in passing moods; and what other man was this than ' 'T is certain, greatness once fall'n out with fortune Must fall out with men too ; what the deolin'd is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall ; for meo, like hutter- flies. Show not their mealy wings hut to the summer; And not a man, for being simply man, Hath any honor.' NOTES: PROFESSOR GRANT WHITE ON "TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.-- Mliu Shakespeare himself? What had he to do when he had passed forty years, but to utter his own thoughts when he would find words for the lips of UlysseS'? And thus it is that Troilus and Cressida is Shakespeare's wisest play. If we would know what Shakspere thought of men and their motives after he reached maturity, we have but to read this drama ; drama it is ; but with what other character, who shall say ? For, like the world's pageant, it is neither tragedy nor comedy, but a tragi-comic history, in which the intrigues of amorous men and light-o'-loves and the brokerage of panders are mingled with the delibera- tions of sages and the strife and the death of heroes. " The thoughtful reader will observe that Ulysses pervades the serious parts of the play, which is all Ulyssean in its thought and language. And this is the reason, or rather the fact of the play's lack of distinctive characterisation. For Ulysses cannot speak all the time that he is on the stage ; and, therefore, the other personages, such as may, speak Ulyssean, with, of course, such personal allusion and peculiar trick as a dramatist of Shakespeare's skill coiild not leave them without for difference. For example, no two men could be more unlike in character than Achilles and Ulysses, and yet the former, having asked the latter what he is reading, he, uttering his own thought, say^ as follows with the subsequent reply : — ' Ulffss. A strange fellow here Writes me : That man, how dearly ever parted,' How much in having, or without or in, Cannot make hoast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, hut hy reflection. As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them, and they retort that heat again To the first giver.' ' Achil. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beautj' that is home here in the face, The hearer knows not, but commends itself To others' eyes ; nor doth the eye itself, That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself, Not going from itself ; but eye to eye opposed, Salutes each other with each other's form ; For speculation turns not to itself Till it hath travelled, and is mirror' d there * I.e., gifted, endowed with parts. \ Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all.' " Now these speeches are made of the same metal and coined in the same mint ; and they both of them have the image and superscription of William Shakespeare. No words or thoughts could be more unsuited to that bold, bloody egoist, 'the broad Achilles,' than the reply he makes to Ulysses ; but here Shakespeare was merely using the Greek champion as a lay figure to utter his own thoughts, which are perfectly in character with the son of Autolycus. Ulysses thus flows over upon the whole serious part of the play. Agamemnon, Nestor, JSneas, and the rest, all talk alike, and all like Ulysses. That Ulysses speaks for Shakespeare wUl, I think, be doubted by no reader who has reached the second reading of this play by the way which I have pointed out to him. And why, indeed, should Ulysses not speak for Shakespeare, or how could it be other than that he should % The man who had written Hamlet, King Lewr, OtMlo, and Macbeth, if he wished to find Ulysses, had only to turn his mind's eye inward ; and thus we have in this drama Shakespeare's only piece of introspective work." Let Shakspere's worldly wisdom of 1606 be in Ulysses. His spirit of the Fourth Period is not. God forbid that Ulysses,— not Prospero, — and Cressid, not Imogen, Hermione, Perdita, should give us our last impression of Shakspere ! I give up the theory of two dates to Troilus and Cressida. P. cix, note 3. Miss Hickey defends the quaint for daisies as an archaism, like Milton's " quaint enamelld eyes," and quotes, — ' And then bycometh the grounde so proude That it wole .have a newl shroude, And maketh so queynt his robe, and faire, That it had hewes an hundred payre." . . " There spronge the violete al newe, And fresshfe pervynke ryche of hewe. Ful gaye was all the grounde, and queynt. And poudred, as men had it peynt." . . Somaunt of the Rose, p. 61, ed. E. Bell. P. cxiv. Edward III. Froissart and Jean le Bel.— Mr. W. G. Stone writes :— " Froissart follows Jehan le Bel almost verbally in his account of Edward's visit to the castle of Salisbury after the retreat of the King of Scots. He adds the chess game between the king and countess, and the story of the ring.^ At the end of chap. 50, in which the visit is related, Jehan le Bel promises the story of the countess's violation. Froissart alters this into a promise to give a description of the tournament held by Edward for love of the countess. Jehan le Bel, in chap. 61, also describes the tournament in much the same terms 1 In the Amiens MS. oxHt NOTES: ME. STONE ON " EOWARB III." SHAKSPEItirS BELIGION AND BOOKS. as Froissart uses. In chap. 65, Jelian le Bel narrates that dm'ing the absence of the earl in Brittany, Edward paid a second visit to the countess on the pretext of inspecting the defences of the country. The countess received him, although unwelcome, with courtesy. The king renewd his suit, but faUd. When the night was come, and he knew the countess was in her chamber, and every one in the castle was asleep, he rises, and ordering his chamberlains not to disturb him, goes to. the countess's room, where, after closing the door of the garde-robe, in order to prevent her ladies from coming to her assistance, he stops her mouth and effects his purpose. The next day he returned to London without a word, grandenient couroussie de- ce qu'il avoit commis. After this the king goes to Brittany, and returns to England with the Earl of Salisbury. The earl on reaching his home is received by the countess with constrained cheerfulness, but when they retire for the night she tells him the whole story. He says that he cannot remain in England after this dishonoiu- ; she shall have half his lands for her support and their child's whom he commits to her care. They lament together, and the earl departs for London, taking with him his son. He appears before the king, and after reproaching Edward for his ingratitude, and predicting that it will be an eternal blot on his name, the earl commends his young son to the king's protection, and leaves the court. The earl enters into the service of the King of Spain, who was then at war with the King of Granada, and dies at the siege of Algesiras. Jehan supposes that the countess did not long survive him. M. Polain, the editor of Jehan le Bel, says that his partiality for Edward would have led Jehan to expi'ess any doubts he felt about this story, and that it is confirmed by the chronicles of Flanders." P. cxx. Shahspere, one of the "meane" folk, inade a King's Player. In 1604 Gilbert Dugdale says, in his Time Triumpliant, of James I., "not onely to the indifferent of worth and the worthy of honor, did he freely deale about tliiese causes [giving honours to gentlemen and lords], but to the meane gave grace, as taking to him the late Lord Ohamberlaine's Servants, now the King's Acters ; the Queene taking to her the Earle of Worster's Servants, that are now her Acters; the Prince, their Sonne, Henry Prince of Wales, full of hope, tooke to him the Earle of Nottingham his Servants, who are now his Acters ; so that of Lords Servants, they are now the Servants of the King, Queene, and Prince." — Nichols's Progresses of James I., L 413. P. cxxix. Shakspere's Books. The chief of these are given in the account of the sources of each play in tliis Introduction. I divide Shakspere's books into his trade- or plot-ones — - those that he used directly for his business, as the Metuechnii, Contention, True Tragedy, Troublesome Baigne, A Shrew, Holinslied, Plutarch's Lives, Italian story-books, &c., — and his leisure or occasional books, from which he took bits only, the Bible, Marlowe, Montaigne, Lyly, Harsnet, 4 100 Merry Tales, &c. See my Forewords to Marcus Ward's Shakspere and Holy Writ, 1881. P. cxxx. Shakspere's Beligion. He declares his belief in immortality where he speaks for himself in his Sonnet 146, his remonstrance with his own soul — " So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, JLnd Death once dead, there 's no more dying then." Against this we cannot set his saying for Prospero, " Our little life is rounded with a sleep," not only because that is a sleep from which men may be waked, but because Prospero's dissolution of "the great globe itself" implies a reference to Revelation xx. 11, and xxi. 1, where " a newe heaven and a newe earth " are to take the place of those that " were passed away," and whose "place was no more foimd," and because Prospero's declaration that "Every third thought shall be my grave" surely means that he lookt on this life as a preparation for a future one. At the same time no one can fairly put down as Shaksisere's own belief all the biblical and superstitious utterances in his characters' mouths in his plays. His dramatic voice, of course, does not always speak his own beliefs. Yet such is his " saturation with the Bible story," so thoroughly does it " seem as much part of him as his love of nature and music, bubbling out of him at every turn," that I, with some reluctance, conclude that he held in the main the orthodox layman's belief of his day. See my Forewords to Shaksixre and Holy Writ, Marcus Ward, Is. FREDK. J. FUENIVALL. February 11, 1877. (Partly Eevised, Jan. — July, 1881.) TITUS ANDRONICUS. DRAMATIS PERSONM. Satueninus, Son to the late Emperor Rome. Bassianus, Brother to Satwrninus. Titus Andronicus, a noble Roman. llAECtJS AuDRONicus, Brother to Titus. Lucius, 0/ QUINTUS, ( Sons to Titus Andronicus. Maetius, C MUTIUS, ) Young Lucius, a Boy, Son to Lucius. PuBLius, Son to Ma/rcus Andronicus. ^MiLius, a noble Roman. Alaebus, ] Demetrius, V Smis to Tamora. Ohieon, ) Aaeost, a Moor. A Ca/ptain, Tribune, Messenger, and Chum ; Romans. Goths and Romans. Tamoea, Queen of the Goths. Lavinia, Daughter to Titus Andronicus. A Nurse, and a black Child. Kinsmen of Titus, Senators, Tribunes, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants. SCENE— Rome, and the Country near it. ACT L Scene I. — Eome. Flourish. Enter the Trihwnes and Senators aloft ; and then enter Satueninus and his Followers at one door, amd Bassianus , a/nd his Followers at the other, with drum and colour's. Sat. Noble patricians, patrons of my right. Defend the justice of my cause with arms ; And, countrymen, my loving followers. Plead my successive title with your swords. I am his first-born son, that was the last That wore the imperial diadem of Rome : Then let my father's honours live in me. Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. Bass. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, ^^ Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol ; And sufier not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate. To justice, continence, and nobility : But let desert in pure election shine ; And, Romans, fight for freedom ia your choice. Enter Marcus Andronicus, aloft, with tlie crown. Marc. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and empery. Know, that the people of Rome, for whom we stand 2,, A special party, have by common voice,- In election for the Roman empery. Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius, For many good and great deserts to Rome : A nobler man, a braver warrior. Lives not this day within the city walls. He by the senate is accited home. Prom weary wars against the barbarous Goths ; That, with his sons, a terror to our foes, Hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms. 3^ Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our enemies' pride : five times he hath re- turn'd Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons In coffins from the field ; And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, — by honour of his name, Whom worthily you would have now succeed. And in the Capitol and senate's right, „ Whom you pretend to honour and adore, — That you withdraw you, and abate your strength : Act I. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene II. Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors skould, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. Sat. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts ! Bass. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, ^ And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving friends ; And to my fortune's and the people's favour Commit my cause ia balance to be weigh'd. [Exeunt t/te Followers of Bassianus. Sat. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, I thank you all, and here dismiss you all ; And to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person, and the cause. [Ilxeunt the Followers of Saturninus. Rome, be as just and gracious unto me, m As I am confident and kind to thee. — Open the gates, and let me in. Bass. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [Tfiey go up into the Senate-hou^e. Scene II. — The Same. Unter a Captain, and others. Gap. Romans, make way ! The good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome's best champion. Successful in the battles that he fights, With honour and with fortune is return'd From where he circumscribed with his sword. And brought to yoke, the enemies of Rome. jSound drums and trv/mpets, and then enter two 0/ Titus's Sons. After t/wm two Men bearing a coffin, covered with black ; then two ot'lmr Sons. After them Titus An- DKONicus ; aTid tlien Tamora, viith Alae- Bus, Chieon, Demeteius, Aaron, and oilier Gotlis, prisoners ; Soldiers and People following. They set down the coffin, and Titus speaks. Tit. HaU, Rome, victorious in thy mourn- ing weeds ! Lo ! as the bark, that hath discharg'd her fraught, Returns with precious lading to the bay, From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage, 10 Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To re-salute his country with his tears. Tears of true joy for his retm-n to Rome. Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend ! Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons. Half of the number that King Priam had. Behold the poor remains, alive, and dead ! These, that survive, let Rome reward with love ; These, that I bring unto their latest home, » With burial amongst their ancestors. Here Goths have given me leave to sheath my sword. Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own. Why sufier'st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx %— Make way to lay them by their bretlxren. \TJie tomb is opened. There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars ! O sacred receptacle of my joys. Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, a How many sons of mine hast thou in store. That thou wilt never render to me more ! Luc. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh. Before this earthy prison of their bones ; That so the shadows be not unappeas'd. Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth. Tit. I give him you, the noblest that sur- vives. The eldest son of this distressed queen. 40 Tom,. Stay, Roman brethren ! — Gracious conqueror. Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, A mother's tears in passion for her son : And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, 0, think my son to be as dear to me. Sufficeth not, that we' are brought to Rome, To beautify thy triumphs and return, Captive to thee, and to thy Roman yoke ; But must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets. For valiant doings in their country's cause 1 so O ! if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood : WUt thou draw near the nature of the gods ? Draw near them then in being merciful : Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge ; Thrice-noble Titus, spare my firsl^born son. Tit. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their brethren, whom you Goths beheld Act I. TITUS ANDRONIOUS. .Scene II. Alive, and dead ; and for their brethren slain Eeligiously they ask a sacrifice : ei To this your son is mark'd, and die he must, To appease their groaning shadows that are gone. Luc. Away with him ! and make a fire straight ; And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let 's hew his limbs, till they be clean con- sum'd. [Exeunt Lucius, Quintus, Maktius, and MuTius, with Alaebus. Tarn. O cruel, irreligious piety ! Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous ? Dem. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive 70 To tremble- under Titus' threatening look. Then, madam, stand resolv'd; but hope withal, The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent, May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths (When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was queen), To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. Re-enter Lucius, Quintus, Maktius, and MuTius, vnth their swords hloody. Luc. See, lord and father, how we have perform'd Our Roman rites. Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd. And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, ei Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky. Remaineth nought, but to inter our brethren, And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome. Tit. Let it be so ; and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls. [Trumpets sounded, and the coffins laid in the tomb. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons ; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps ! Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells ; Here grow no damned drugs ; here are no storms, 91 No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons ! Enter Lavinia. Lav. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father, live in fame. Lo ! at this tomb my tributaiy tears I render for my brethren's obsequies : And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on the earth for thy return to Rome. O ! bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortune Rome's best citizens applaud. Tit. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserv'd 102 The cordial of mine age to glad my heart ! — Lavinia, live ; outlive thy father's days, And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise ! Enter Marcus Andronicus, Saturninus, Bassianus, and others. Moffc. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome ! Tit. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus. Marc. And welcome, nephews, from suc- cessful wars. You that survive, and you that sleep in fame. Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all, 111 That in your country's ..service drew your swords ; But safer triumph is this funeral pomp, That hath aspir'd to Solon's happiness, And triumphs over chance in honour's bed. — Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust. This palliament of white and spotless hue. And name thee in election for the empire, 120 With these our late-deceased emperor's sons. Be candidatus then, and put it on, And help to set a head on headless Rome. Tit. A better head her glorious body fits, Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. What should I don this robe, and trouble you? Be chosen with proclamations to-day. To-morrow yield up rule, resign my life, And set abroad new business for you all ? Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, iso And led my country's strength successfully. And buried one-and-twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms. In right and service of their noble country. Give me a staff of honour for mine age. But not a sceptre to control the world : Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. Marc. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery. Sat. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell.? Tit. Patience, Prince Saturninus. Sat. Romans, do me right. — Act I. TITUS ANDRONICTJS. SCJiNB II. Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not Till Saturninus be Rome's emperor. — 142 Andronicus, 'would thou wert shipp'd to hell. Rather than rob me of the people's hearts. Lite. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee ! Tit. Content thee, prince : I wUl restore to thee The people's hearts, and wean them from themselves. Bass. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee. But honour thee, and will do till I die : iso My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be ; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. Tit. People of Rome, and noble tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages : Will you bestow them friendly on Andro- nicus 1 Trib. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. Tit. Tribunes, I thank you ; and this suit I make, leo That you create your emperor's eldest son, Lord Saturnine, whose virtues will, I hope. Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal : Then, if you will elect by my advice. Crown him, and say, — " Long live our emperor ! " Marc. With voices and ajpplause of every sort. Patricians, and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome's great emperor. And say, — " Long live our Emperor Satur- nine ! " [A long flourish. Sat. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done 171 To us in our election this day, I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts. And will with deeds requite thy gentleness : And for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome's royal mistress, mistress of my heart. And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee 1 w Tit. It doth, my worthy lord ; and in this match I hold me highly honour'd of your grace ; Ajid here, in sight of Rome, to Saturniue, King and commander of our commonweal. The wide world's emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners ; Presents well worthy Rome's imperious lord : Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, Miae honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet. Sat. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life ! ISO How proud I am of thee, and of thy gifts, Rome shall record ; and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me. Tit. [To Tamoba.] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor ; To him that, for your honour and your state. Will use you nobly, and your followers. Sat. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue That I would choose, were I to choose anew. — Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy counte- nance : 200 Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer. Thou com'st not to be made a scorn in Rome : Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes : madam, he comforts you. Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths.— Lavinia, you are not displeas'd with this t Lav. Not I, my lord ; sith true nobility Warrants these words ia princely courtesy. Sat. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. — Romans, let us go. 210 Ransomless here we set our prisoners free : Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. Bass. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. [Seizing Lavinia. Tit. How, sir? Are you ia earnest then, my lord 1 Bass. Ay, noble Titus ; and resolv'd withal. To do myself this reason and this right. Marc. Suum cuique is our Roman justice : This prince in justice seizeth but his own. Luc. And that he will, and shall, if Lucius live. Tit. Traitors, avaunt ! Where is the em- peror's guard ? 220 Treason, my lord ! Lavinia is surpris'd. Sat. Surpris'd ! by whom ? Bass. By him that justly may Bear his betroth'd from all the world away. [Exeunt Marcus and Bassianus, with Lavinia. Mut. Brothers, help to convey her hence Act I. TITUS ANDEONJOUS. Scene II. And witli my sword I '11 keep this door safe. \Ex6unt Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. Tit. Follow, my lord, and I'll soon bring her back. Mut. My lord, you pass not here. Tit. What, villain boy! Barr'st me my way in Home % [Kills Mutius. Mut. Help, Lucius, help ! Re-enter Lucius. Luc. My lord, you are unjust, and more than so ; In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. Tit. Nor thou, nor he, are any sons of mine : 2si My sons would never so dishonour me. Traitor, restore Lavinia to the emperor. Luc. Dead, if you will ; but not to be his wife, That is another's lawful promis'd love. [Exit. Sat, No, Titus, no ; the einperor needs her not. Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock : I '11 trust, by leisure, him that mocks me once; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, Confederates aU thus to dishonour me. 240 Was there none else in Rome to make a stale, But Saturnine ? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine. That saidst, I begg'd the empire at thy hands. Tit. O monstrous ! what reproachful words are these ? Sat. But go thy ways ; go, give that chang- ing piece To him that flourish'd for her with his sword. A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy ; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons. To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. 250 Tit. These words are razors to my wounded heart. Sat. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That, like the stately Phoebe 'mongst her nymphs. Dost overshine the gallant'st dames of Rome, If thou be pleas'd with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride. And will create thee Empress of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice 1 And here I swear by all the Roman gods, — Sith priest and holy water art so near, m And tapers burn so bright, and every thing In readiness for Hymenseus stand, — I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espous'd my bride along with me. Tarn. And here, in sight of heaven, to Rome I swear. If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. Sat. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. — Lords, accompany 2?o Your noble emperor, and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered. There shall we consummate our spousal rites. [Exeunt Saturninus and his Followers ; Tamora and her Sons ; Aaron and Goths. Tit. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonour'd thus, and challenged of wrongs ? Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. Man-c. O Titus, see ! 0, see what thou hast done ! In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. Tit. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, 280 Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonour'd all our family : Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons ! Luc. But let us give him burial, as becomes : Give Mutius burial with our brethren. Tit. Traitors, away ! he rests not in this tomb. This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified : Here none but soldiers, and Rome's servitors, Repose in fame ; none basely slain in brawls. Bury him where you can ; he comes not here. Marc. My lord, this is impiety in you. 292 My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him : He must be buried with his brethren. Quint., Mart. And shall, or him we wUl accompany. Tit. And shaU ! What villain was it spake that word ? Quint. He that would vouch it in any place but here. Tit. What ! would you bury him in my despite 1 Marc. No, noble Titus; but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius, and to bury him. 300 Tit. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest. And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded : My foes I do repute you every one ; So, trouble me no more, but get you gone. Act I. TITUS ANDRONIOUS. Scene II. Mart. He is not with himself : let us with- draw. Quint. Not I, till Mutius' bones be buried. [Marcus and the Sons of Titus kneel. Marc. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead, — Quint. Father, and in that name doth nature speak, — ■ Tit. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. Marc. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul, — 310 Luc. Dear father, soul and substance of us aU,— Marc. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue's nest. That died in honour and Lavinia's cause. Thou art a Roman ; be not barbarous : The Greeks upon advice did buiy Ajax, That slew himself; and wise Laertes' son Did graciously plead for hi^ funerals. Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy, Be barr'd his entrance here. Tit. Rise, Marcus, rise. — The dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw, s2i To be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome ! — Well, bitry him, and bury me the next. [Mutius is put into the tomb. Luc. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, Tdl we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. AU. No man shed tears for noble Mutius; He lives in fame that died ia virtue's cause. Marc. My lord, — to step out of these dreary dumps, — How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanced ia Rome ? sso Tit. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is; Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. Is she not then beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. Flourish. Re-enter, at one door, Satueninus, attended; Tamora, Demetrius, Ohieon, and Aaron ; at the other door, Bassianus, Lavinia, and others. Sat. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize : God give you. joy, sir, of your gaUant bride ! Bass. And you of yours, my lord ! I say no more, 2f or wish no less ; and so I take my leave. Sat. Traitor, if Rome have law, or we have power, sm Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. Bass. Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own. My true-betrothed love, and now my wife ? But let the laws of Rome determine all ; Meanwhile, I am possess'd of that is mine. Sat. 'Tis good, sir : you are very short with us ; But, if we live, we'll be as sharp with yoiL Bass. My lord, what I have done, as best I may. Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your grace to know : By all the duties that I owe to Rome, ssi This noble gentleman. Lord Titus here. Is in opinion and in honour wrong'd ; That, in the rescue of Lavinia, With his own hand did slay his youngest son. In zeal to you, and highly mov'd to wrath. To be controH'd in that he frankly gave. Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath express'd himself in all his deeds, A father, and a friend to thee and Rome. !»> Tit. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds : 'Tis thou, and those, that have dishonour'd me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my jiidge, How I have lov'd and honour'd Saturnine. Tcimi. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all ; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. Sat. what, madam ! be dishonour'd openly, And basely put it up without revenge 1 ma Tarn. Not so, my lord : the gods of Rome forfend, I should be author to dishonour you ! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus' innocence in all. Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Then, at my suit, look graciously on him ; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose. Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle lieart.' — \_Aside to Saturninus.] My lord, be rul'd by me, be won at last ; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents : sao You are but newly planted in your throne ; Lest then the people, and patricians too. Upon a just survey, take 'Titus' part, And so supplant you for ingratitude, Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin. Yield at entreats, and then let me alone. I '11 find a day to massacre them all, Act II. TITUS ANDRONIOUS. Scene I. And raze their faction and their family, The cruel father, and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear son's life ; 390 And make them know what 'tis to let a queen Kneel in the streets, and beg for grace in vain. — [^foitci.] Come, come, sweet emperor; — come, Andronicus ; — Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. Sat. Rise, Titus, rise : my empress hath prevail'd. Tit. I thank your majesty, and her, my lord. These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. Tarn. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily^ «» 'And must advise the emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus ; — And let it be mine honour, good my lord. That I have reconoil'd your friends and you. — For you. Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd My word and promise to the emperor. That you will be more mUd and tractable. — And fear not, lords, — and you, Lavinia ; — By my advice, all humbled on your knees. You shall ask pardon of his majesty. 410 Luc. We do ; and vow to heaven, and to his highness. That what we did was mildly, as we migjfit, Tend'ring our sister's honour, and our own. MoA-c. That on mine honour here I do pro- test. Sat. Away, and talk not : trouble us no more. — Tarn. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends : The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; I wUl not be denied : sweet heart, look back. Sat. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother's here, And at my lovely Tamora's entreats, 420 I do remit these young men's heinous faults. Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend ; and sure as death I swore, I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Ooriie ; if the emperor's court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. — This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. Tit. To-morrow, an it please your majesty. To hunt the panther and the hart with me, With horn and hound we'll give your grace lonjowr. 431 Sat. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. \Tr'mwpets. Esceunt. ACT IL Scene I. — The Same. Before the Palace. Enter Aaeon. Awr. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top. Safe out of fortune's shot ; and sits aloft, Secure of thunder's crack, or lightning flash, Advanc'd above pale envy's threat'ning reach. As when the golden sun salutes the mom. And, having gilt the' ocean with his beams. Gallops the zodiac in his glistering coach. And overlooks the highest-peering hills ; So Tamora. Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, 10 And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts. To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress. And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long Hast prisoner held, fetter'd in amorous chains. And faster bound to Aaron's charming eyes, Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts ! I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold. To wait upon this new-made empress. 2c To wait, said I ? to wanton with this queen. This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph. This siren, that will charm Rome's Saturnine, And see his shipwrack, and his commonweal's. Holla ! what storm is this ? Enter Demetrius cmd Ohikon, braving. Bern. Chiron, thy years want wit, thy wit wants edge. And manners, to intrude where I'm grac'd, And may, for aught thou know'st, affected be. CM. Demetrius, thou dost overween in all. And so in this, to bear me down with braves. 'Tis not the difference of a year, or two, si Makes me less gracious, or thee more fortu- nate : I am as able, and as fit, as thou. To serve, and to deserve my mistress' grace ; And that my sword upon thee shall approve. Act II. TITUS ANDEONIOTJS. Scene I. And plead my passions for Lavinia's love. Aar. Clubs, clubs ! tbese lovers will not keep the peace. Dem. Why, boy, although, our mother, unadvis'd. Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side. Are you so desperate grown, to threat your friends 1 40 Go to ; have your lath glued within your sheath, Till you know better how to handle it. CM. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have. Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare. Bern. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave t \Tlhey draw. Aar. Why, how now, lords'! So near the emperor's palace dare you draw, And maintain such a quarrel openly 1 Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge : I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most con- cerns ; 60 Nor would your noble mother, for much more, Be so dishonour'd in the court of Rome. For shame, put up. DcTn. Not I, tUl I have sheath'd My rapier in his bosom, and, withal, Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat. That he hath breath'd in my dishonour here. Chi. For that I am prepar'd and full resolv'd, Foulrspoken coward, that thunder' st with thy tongue. And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform. Aa/r. Away, I say ! eo Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore. This petty brabble will undo us all. — Why, lords, — and think you not how dangerous It is to jet upon a prince's right? What ! is Lavinia then become so loose. Or Bassianus so degenerate, That for her love such quarrels may be broach'd. Without controlment, justice, or revenge ? Young lords, beware ! — an should the empress know This discord's ground, the music would not please. ™ Chi. I care not, I, knew she and all the world : I love Lavinia more than all the world. Dem. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice : Lavinia is thine elder brother's hope. Aar. Why, are ye mad ? or know ye not, in Rome How furious and impatient they be. And cannot brook competitors in love? I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device. Chi. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose, to achieve her whom I love. Aa/r. To achieve her, how I Bern. Why mak'st thou it so strange ? She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd ; 82 She is a woman, therefore may be won ; She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov'd. What, man ! more water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of: and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know : Though Bassianus be the emperor's brother, Better than he have worn Yulcan's badge. Aar. [Aside.'\ Aj, and as good as Saturni- nus may. so Bern. Then, why should he despair that knows to court it With words, fair looks, and liberality 1 What ! hast thou not full often struck a doe, And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose ? Aar. Why, then, it seems some certain snatch or so Would serve your turns. Chi. Ay, so the turn were serVd. Bern. Aaron, thou hast hit it. Aar. 'Would you had hit it too ; Then should not we be tir'd with this ado. Why, hark ye, hark ye, — and are you such fools, 96 To square for this 1 would it offend you then. That both should speed t Chi. Faith, not me. Bern. Nor me, so I were one. Aar. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar. 'T is policy and stratagem must do That you affect ; and so must you resolve, That what you cannot as you would achieve. You must perforce accomplish as you may. Take this of me : Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love. ioq A speedier course than lingering languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. ., My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand ; There will the lovely Roman ladies troop : The forest walks are wide and spacious. And many unfrequented plots there are. Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. Single you thither then this dainty doe, And strike her home by force, if not by words : This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. Come, come; our empress, with her sacred wit. To villainy and vengeance consecrate, 121 Will we acquaint with all that we intend ; And she shall file our engines with advice, Act II. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene III. That will not suffer you to square yoiirselves, But to your wishes' height advance you both. The emperor's court is like the house of Fame, The- palace full of tongues, of eyes, of ears : The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull; There speak, and strike, brave boys, and take your turns ; There serve your lust, shadow'd from heaven's eye, lao And revel in Lavinia's treasury. Chi. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowar- dice. Dem. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits. Per Styga, per manes velwr. [Exeunt. Scene II. — A Forest. Horns and cry of hounds lieard. Enter Titus Andronicus, with Hunters, dec, Marcus, Lucius, Quintus, and Martius. Tit. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green. Uncouple here, and let us make a bay, And wake the emperor and his lovely bride. And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter's peal. That all the court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours. To attend the emperor's person carefully : I have been troubled in my sleep this night, But dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd. [Horns mnd a peal. Enter Saturninus, Tamoba, Bassianus, Lavinia, Demetrius, Chiron, amd Attendants. Tit. Many good morrows to your majesty ; Madam, to you as many and as good. — 12 I promised your grace a hunter's peal. Sat. And you have rung it lustily, my lords. Somewhat too early for new-married ladies. Bass. Lavinia, how say you ? Lav. I say, no ; I have been broad awake two hours and more. Sat. Come on then, horse and chariots let us have, And to our sport. \To Tamora.] Madam, now shall ye see Our Eoman hunting. Marc. I have dogs, my lord, 20 "Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top. Tit. And I have horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o'er the plain. Bern. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound ; But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. \Exeu'nJb. Scene III.— A desert Part of the Forest. Enter Aailoi Or else to heaven she heaves them for re- venge. Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth Boy. Grrandsire, 't is Ovid's Metamorphoses : My mother gave it me. Marc. For love of her that's gone. Perhaps, she cuU'd it from among the rest. Tit. Soft ! so busily she turns the leaves ! Help her : What would she find 1 — Lavinia, shall I read ? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape ; 5i> And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. Marc. See, brother, see ! note, how she quotes the leaves. Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was, Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods 1 — See, see ! — Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt, (0, had we never, never hunted there !) Pattem'd by that the poet here describes. By nature made for murders, and for rapes. 6» Man'c. ! why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies 1 Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends. What Roman lord it was durst do the deed : Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst. That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed \ Man-c. Sit down, sweet niece : — brother, sit down by me. — Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this treason find ! — My lord, look here ; — look here, Lavinia : ro This sandy plot is plain ; guide, if thou canst. This after me. \He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth. I have writ my name Act IV. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene II. Without the help of any hand at all. Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift! "Write thou, good niece, and here display at last "What God wUl have discover'd for revenge. Heaven guide thy pen to priat thy sorrows plain. That v/e may know the traitors and the truth ! [^She takes the staff in lier mouth, and guides it with her stumps and writes. Tit. O ! do you read, my lord, what she hath writ ? Stuprum — Chiron — Demetrius. m Man-c. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous, bloody deed ? Tit. Magni daminator poli, Tarn lentus audis scelera 1 tarn lentus vides 1 Marc. ! calm thee, gentle lord ; although I know There is enough written upon this earth. To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts. And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with me ; Lavinia, kneel ; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope ; 90 And swear with me, — as with the woful fere, And father, of that chaste dishonour'd dame, Lord Junius Brutus swear for Lucrece' rape, — That we will prosecute, by good advice, Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this re- proach. TiJt. 'T is sure enough, an you knew how ; But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware : The dam wUl wake, and if she wind you once : She 's with the lion deeply still in league, loo And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back ; And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You 're a young huntsman : Marcus, let alone ; And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words. And lay it by. The angry northern wind Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad. And where 's your lesson then ? — Boy, what say you ? Boy. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, Their mother's bedchamber should not be safe 110 For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome. Marc. Ay, that 's my boy ! thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like. Boy. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. Tit. Oome, go with me into mine armoury : Lucius, I '11 fit thee ; and withal my boy Shall carry from me to the empress' sons Presents, that I intend to send them both. Oome, come ; thou 'It do thy message, wilt thou not ? Boy. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire. 120 Tit. No, boy, not so ; I '11 teach thee another course. Lavinia, come. — Marcus, look to my house : Lucius and I '11 go brave it at the court ; Ay, marry, will we, sir ; and we '11 be waited on. \Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and Boy. Marc. O heavens ! can you hear a good man groan. And not relent, or not compassion him ? Marcus, attend him in his ecstacy, That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart, Than foemen's mai'ks upon his batter'd shield ; But yet so just, that he will not revenge. — iso Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus ! [Eaat. Scene II. — The Same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Aaeon, Demetrius, and Chiron, aJ one door ; at another door, young Lucius, and an Attenda/nt, vjith a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them. Chi. Demetrius, here 's the son of Lucius ; He hath some message to deliver us. Aa/r. A.J, some mad message from his mad grandfather. Boy. My lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet your honours from Andronicus ; — [^sic^e.] And pray the Roman gods confound you both. Dem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What's the news ? Boy. \_Aside.'\ That you are both decipher'd, that 's the news. For villains mark'd with rape. [To them.] May it please you. My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by me The goodliest weapons of his armoury, 11 To gratify your honourable youth, The hope of Rome ; for so he bade me say, Act IV. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene II. And so I do, and with his gifts present Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well. And so I leave you both, [asic^e] like bloody villains. \^Exeu7fii Boy and Attendomt. Dem. What 's here 1 a scroll ; and written round about ? Let 's see : Integer vitce scelerisque purus, 20 Non eget Mav/ri jaculis neo arou. Chi. O ! 't is a verse in Horace ; I know it well : I read it in the grammar long ago. Aar. Ay, just ! — a verse in Horace ; — aright, you have it. [^sicie.] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass ! Here 's no sound jest ! the old man hath found their guilt. And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines. That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick ; But were our witty empress well afoot, She would applaud Andronicus' conceit : so But let her rest in her unrest awhile. — \To them.^ And now, young lords, was 't not a happy star Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so. Captives, to be advanced to this height 1 It did me good, before the palace gate To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing. Dem. But me more good, to see so great a lord Basely insinuate, and send us gifts. Aar. Had he not reason. Lord Demetrius ? Did you not use his daughter very friendly 1 Bern. I would we had a thousand Roman dames <■! At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. Chi. A charitable wish, and full of love. Aar. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. C7ii. And that would she for twenty thou- sand more. Bern. Come, let us go, and pray to all the gods For our beloved mother in her pains. Aar. [Aside.] Pray to the devils ; the gods have given us over. [Trumpets sound. Dem: Why do the emperor's trumpets flourish thus t Chi. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son. Dem. Soft ! who comes here t « Enter a Nurse, with a hlachamoor Child. Nv/r. Good morrow, lords. O ! tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor % Aar. Well, more, or less, or ne'er a whit at all. Here Aaron is ; and what with Aaron now % Nwr. O gentle Aaron ! we are all undone. Now help, or woe betide thee evermore ! Aar. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep ! What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms] Nwr. ! that which I would hide from heaven's eye, no Our empress' shame, and stately Rome's dis- grace. — She is deliver'd, lords, she is deliver'd. Aar. To whom % Nwr. I mean she's brought a^bed. Awr. Well, God give her good rest ! What hath he sent her % Nwr. A devil. Aar. Why, then she is the devil's dam : A joyful issue. Nur. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrow- ful issue. Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime. The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, TO And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point. Aa/r. Out, you whore ! is black so base a hue?— Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom, sure. Dem,. Villain, what hast thou done % Aar. That which thou canst not undo. Chi. Thou hast undone our mother. Aatr. Villain, I have done thy mother. Dem. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her. Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice ! Accurs'd the offspring of so foul a fiend ! «o Chi. It shall not live. Aa/r. It shall not die. Nur. Aaron, it must : the mother wills it so. Aar. What ! must it, nurse \ then let no man but I Do execution on my flesh and blood. Dem. I '11 broach the tadpole on my rapier's point : Nurse, give it me ; my sword shall soon despatch it. Awr. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. [Takes the child from the Nurse, and draws. Stay, murderous villains ! wiU you kill your brother ? Act IV. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene II. Now, by the burning tapers of the sky, » That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point That touches this my first-born son and heir. I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, "With all his threatening band of Typhon's brood, Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war. Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys ! Ye white-lim'd walls ! ye ale-house painted signs ! Coal-black is better than another hue, loo In that it scorns to bear another hue ; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white. Although she lave them hourly in the flood. Tell the empress from me, I am of age To keep mine own ; excuse it how she can. Dem. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thusi Aar. My mistress is my mistress ; this, myself ; The vigour, and the picture of my youth : This before all the world do I prefer ; no This, maugre all the world, will I keep safe. Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. Dem. By this our mother is for ever shamed. Chi. Rome will despise her for this foul Nur. The emperor in his rage will doom her death. Chi. I blush to think upon this ignomy. Acur. Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears. Fie, treacherous hue ! that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of the heart : Here 's a young lad fram'd of another leer. 120 Look, how the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say, " Old lad, I am thine own." He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self blood that first gave life to you : And from that womb, where you imprison'd were. He is enfranchised and come to light : Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seal be stamped in his face. Nur. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress 1 Dem. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, i=» And we will all subscribe to thy advice : Save thou the chUd, so we may all be safe. Aar. Then sit we down, and let us all con- sult. My son and I will have the wind of you ; Keep there ; now talk at pleasure of your safety. \They sit. Dem. How many women saw this child of his? Aar. Why, so, brave lords : when we join in league, I am a lamb ; but if you brave the Moor, The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. — But say again, how many saw the child ? m Nur. Cornelia the midwife, and myself. And no one else but the deliver'd empress. Aa/r. The empress, the midwife, and your- self : Two may keep counsel, when the third 's away. Go to the empress ; tell her this I said : \Stahhing her. Weke, weke ! — so cries a pig prepared to the spit. Dem. What mean'st thou, Aaron? where- fore didst thou this? Aan: O lord, sir, 'tis a deed of policy. Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, 150 A long-tongu'd babbling gossip ? no, lords, no. And now be it known to you my fidl intent. Not far, one Muliteus, my countryman ; His wife but yesternight was brought to bed. His child is like to her, fair as you are : Go pack with him, and give the mother gold, And tell them both the circumstance of all, And how by this their child shall be advanc'd. And be received for the emperor's heir. And substituted in the place of mine, 100 To calm, this tempest whirling in the court ; And let the emperor dandle him for his own. Hark ye, lords ; you see, I have given her physic. [Pointing to the Nurse. And you must needs bestow her funeral ; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms. This done, see that you take no longer days, But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and the nurse well made away. Then let the ladies tattle what they please. Chi. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air 170 With secrets. Dem. For this care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. [Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, bearing off the dead Nurse. Aar. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies ; Act IV. TITUS ANDEONICUS. Scene III. There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, And secretly' to greet the empress' friends.^ — Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I '11 bear you hence ; For it is you that puts us to our shifts : I '11 make you feed on berries and on roots, And feed on curds and whey, and suck the And cabin in a cave, and bring you up ^^ To be a warrior, and command a camp. [Uxit, vnth the Child. Scene III. — The Same. A public Place. Enter Titus, hearvng arrows, with letters on the ends of them; with him, Marcus, young Lucius, and otiier Gentlemen, with hows. Tit. Come, Marcus, come ; — kinsmen, this is the way. — Sir boy, now let me see your archery : Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight. Terras Astrcea reliquit : Be you remember'd, Marcus, she 's gone, she 's fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets ; Happily you may find her in the sea ; Yet there 's as little justice as at land. — No; Piiblius and Sempronius, you must do it ; 10 'lis you must dig with mattock, and with spade. And pierce the inmost centre of the earth : Then, when you come to Pluto's region, I pray you, deliver him this petition ; Tell him, it is for justice and for aid. And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. — Ah, Rome ! — Well, well ; I made thee miser- able, What time I threw the people's sufirages On him that thus doth tyrannise o'er me. — m Go, get you gone ; and pray be careful all. And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd : This wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence ; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. Ma/rc. O Publius ! is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract % Pub. Therefore, my lord, it highly us con- cerns, By day and night to attend him carefully ; And feed his humour kindly as we may. Till time beget some careful remedy. Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. so Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. Tit. Publius, how now? how now, my masters 1 What, have you met with her ? Pub. No, my good lord ; but Pluto sends you word, If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall : Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd. He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or some where else, lo So that perforce you must needs stay a time. Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I '11 dive into the burning lake below, And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. — Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we ; No big-bon'd men, fram'd of the Cyclops' size, But metalj Marcus, steel to the very back ; Yet wrung with wrongs, more than our backs can bear : And sith there is no justice in earth nor hell. We will solicit heaven, and move the gods, so To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus. \He gives them the arrows. Ad Jovem, that's for you :^here, ad ApolUnem : — , Ad Ma/rtem, that's for myself: — Here, boy, to Pallas : — here, to Mercury : To Saturn, Caius, not to Saturnine ; You were as good to shoot against the wind. — To it, boy ; Marcus, loose when I bid. Of my word, I have written to effect ; There's not a god left unsolicited. eo Marc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts. into the court : We will afflict the emperor in his pride. Tit. Now, masters, draw. \They shoot.~\ O, well said, Lucius ! Good boy, ia Virgo's lap : give it Pallas. Marc. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon: Your letter is with Jupiter by this. Tit. Ha ! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done? See, see ! thou hast shot off one of Taiu-us' horns. 23 Act IV. TITUS ANDEONICUS. Scene IV. Ma/rc. This was the sport, my lord ; when Publius shot, The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock, 70 That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court ; And who should find them but the empress' villain 1 She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present. Tit. Why, there it goes : God give his lordship joy ! Einier the Glown, with a basket and two pigeons in it. News ! news from, heaven ! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings 1 have you any letters 1 Shall I have justice '? what says Jupiter ? Clo. Ho ! the gibbet-maker 1 he says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week. si Tit. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee ? Clo. Alas, sir ! I know not Jupiter : I never drank with him in all my life. Tit. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier? Clo. Ay, of my pigeons, sir ; nothing else. Tit. Why, didst thou not come from heaven t Clo. From heaven 1 alas, sir ! I never came there. God forbid, I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperial's men. 92 Marc. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be, to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you. Tit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace 1 Clo. Nay, truly, sir, T could never say grace in all my life. Tit. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado, But give your pigeons to the emperor : 101 By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. Hold, hold meanwhile, here's money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. — Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a suppli- cation 1 Clo. Ay, sir. Tit. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel ; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons ; and then look for your reward. I 'U be at hand, sir ; see you do it bravely. "i Clo. I warrant you, sir ; let me alone. Tit. Sirrah, hast thou a knife ? Come, let me see it. — Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration ; For thou hast made it like an humble sup- pliant : — And when thou hast given it to the emperor, Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. Clo. God be with you, sir ; I will. Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go. — Publius, follow me. [Hxeunt. Scene IV. — The Same. Before the Palace. JUnter Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Lords, and otlisrs : Saturninus with ilm arrows in his hand that Titus Sat. Why, lords, what wrongs are these ? Was ever seen An emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus ; and, for the ex- tent Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt ? My lords, you know, as do the mightf ul gods, (However these disturbers of our peace Buz in the people's ears) there nought hath pass'd, But even with law, against the wilful sons Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits, m Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness ? And now he writes to heaven for his redress : See, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury; This to Apollo ; this to the god of war ; Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome ! What 's this but libelling against the senate. And blazoning our injustice every where ? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords % As who would say, in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstacies 21 Shall be no shelter to these outrages ; But he and his shall know, that justice lives In Saturninus' health ; whom, if he sleep. He '11 so awake, as he in fury shall Cut off the proud'st. conspirator that lives. Tmn. My gracious lord, my lovely Satur- nine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age. The effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, so Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep, and scarr'd his heart ; And rather comfort his distressed plight, 7A Act IV. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene IV. Than prosecute the meanest, or the best, For these contempts. [^sic?e.] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamota to gloze with all : But, Titus, I have touch'd thee to the qiiick, Thy life-blood out. If Aaron now be wise. Then is all safe, the anchor 's in the port. — Enter Clown. How now, good fellow ! wouldst thou speak with us ? Clo. Yes, forsooth, an your mistership be imperial. m Tarni. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. Clo. 'T is he. — God and Saint Stephen give you good den. I have brought you a letter, and a couple of pigeons here. [Saturninus reads tlie letter. Sat. Go, take him away, and hang him presently. Clo. How much money must I have ? Tarn. Come, sirrah ; you must be hang'd. Clo. Hang'd ! By 'r lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. [Exit, guarded. Sat. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs ! bo Shall I endure this monstrous villainy ? I know from whence this same device pro- ceeds. May this be borne 1 — As if his traitorous sons. That died by law for murder of o\ir brother. Have by my means been butcher'd wrong- fully !— Go, drag the villain hither by the hair : Nor age, nor honour, shall shape privilege. — For this proud mock I '11 be thy slaughter- man; Sly frantic wretch, that holpst to make me great. In hope thyself should govern Borne and me. Enter ^milius. "What news with thee, ^mUius ? ei jEmil. Arm, my lords ! Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gather'd head, and with a power Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus : Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Ooriolanus did. Sat. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths'! These tidings nip me ; and I hang the head 3 As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms. n Ay, now begin our sorrows to approach. 'T is he the common people love so much : Myself hath often heard them say. When I have walked like a private man. That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully. And they have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor. Tarn. Why should you fear? is not our city strong ? Sat. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him. so Tarn. King, be thy thoughts imperious, like thy name. Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it ? The eagle sufiiers little birds to sing. And is not careful what they mean thereby ; Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody. Even so may'st thou the giddy men of Borne. Then cheer thy spirit ; for know, thou em- peror, I will enchant the old Andronicus, With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, so Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep, Whenas the one is wounded with the bait. The other rotted with delicious feed. Sat. But he will not entreat his son for us. Tarn. If Tamora entreat him, then he wUl; For I can smooth and fill his aged ear With golden promises, that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. — [To ^MiLius.] Go thou before, be our am- bassador : 100 Say that the emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meetmg. Even at his father's house, the old Androni- cus. Sat. -lEmilius, do this message honourably : And if he stand on hostage for his safety. Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. JEJmil. Your bidding shall I do efiectually. [Exit. Tarn. Now will I to that old Andi-onicus, And temper him with all the art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. 110 And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, • And bury all thy fear in my devices. Sat. Then go successantly, and plead to him. [Exeunt. Act V. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene I. ACT V. Scene I. — Plains near Rome. Enter Lucius, and an wrmy of Gotlis, with drum and colours. Luc. Approved warriors, and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great Rome, Which signify what hate they bear their emperor, And how desirous of our sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness. Imperious, and impatient of your wrongs ; And wherein Rome hath done you any scath. Let them make treble satisfaction. 1 Goth. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort ; lo Whose high exploits, and honourable deeds, Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt. Be bold in us : we '11 follow where thou lead'st, Like stinging bees in hottest summer's day, Led by their master to the flower'd fields, And be aveng'd on cursed Tamora. Goths. And, as he saith, so say we all with him. j&MC. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth ? Enter a Goth, leading Aaron, with his Child in his arnis. 2 Goth. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd, 20 To gaze upon a ruinous monastery ; And as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise ; when soon I heard The crying babe controll'd with this dis- course : — " Peace, tawny slave, half me, and half thy dam ! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art. Had nature lent thee but thy mother's look. Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor : But where the bull and cow are both milk- white, 31 They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace, villain. Peace ! " — even thus he rates the babe, — " For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth ; Who, when he knows thou art the empress' babe, WUl hold thee dearly for thy mother's sake." With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him, Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither, To use as you think needful of the man. Luc. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil, « That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand : This is the pearl that pleas'd your empress' eye, And here's the base fruit of his burning lust. — Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither wouldst thou convey This growing image of thy fiend-like face ? Why dost not speak 1 What • deaf ? not a word? A halter, soldiers ! hang him on this tree, And by his side his fruit of bastardy. Aar. Touch not the boy; he is of royal blood. Luc. Too like the sire for ever being good. — 60 Pirst hang the chUd, that he may see it sprawl J A sight to vex the father's soul withal. Get me a ladder ! [A ladder brought, which Aaron is made to ascend. Aar. Lucius, save the child ; And bear it from me to the empress. If thou do this, I '11 show thee wondrous things. That highly may advantage thee to hear : If thou wUt not, befall what may befaU, I '11 speak no more ; but vengeance rot you all! Luc. Say on ; an if it please me which thou speak'st. Thy child shaU live, and I will see it nourish'd. eo Aar. An if it please thee? why, assure thee, Lucius, 'T will vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak : For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres. Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots of mischief, treason, villainies Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform 'd : And this shall all be buried in my death, Act V. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Scene I. Unless thou swear to me, my child shall Uve. Luc. Tell on thy mind : I say, thy child shall live. Aa/r. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. ro Imc. Who should I swear by ? thou believ'st no god : That granted, how canst thou believe an oath? Aar. "What if I do not? as, indeed, I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious, And hast a thing within thee, called con- science, "With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies, "Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath : — for that I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god. And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, so To that I '11 urge him : — therefore, thou shalt vow By that same god, what god soe'er it be. That thou ador'st and hast ia reverence. To save my boy, to nourish, and bring him up; Or else I will discover nought to thee. Luc. Even by my god I swear to thee I wiU. Aar. First know thou, I begot him on the empress. Imc. O most insatiate and luxurious woman ! A M ..!, 't/iorth.Tla.rvtagenet? CASSELL Be COMPANY, LIMITED Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PAET I. Scene V. To scovirge you for this apprehension : Look to it -well, and say you are well warn'd. Som. A.J, thou shalt find us ready for thee still, And know us by these colours for thy foes ; For these my friends, in spite of thee, shall wear. Plan. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognisance of my blood-drinking hate. Will I for ever, and my faction, wear, Until it wither with me to my grave, no Or flourish to the height of my degree. Suf. Go forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition : And so farewell, until I meet thee next. [Exit. Som. Have with thee, Poole. — Farewell, ambitious Richard. [Hxit. Plan. How I am brav'd, and must per- force endure it ! War. This blot, that they object against your house. Shall be wip'd out in the next parliament, Call'd for the truth of Winchester and Gloster ; And if thou be not then created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick, lao Meantime, in signal of my love to thee. Against .proud Somerset, and William Poole, WUl I upon thy party wear this rose. And here I prophecy : — this brawl to-day. Grown to this faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send, between the red rose and the white, A thousand souls to death and deadly night. Plan. Good Master Vernon, I am bound to you. That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. Ver. In your behalf still will I wear the same. iso Law. And so wiU I. Plan. Thanks, gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner : I dare say. This quarrel will drink blood another day. [Exeunt. Scene V. — The Same. A Room in the Tower. Enter Mortimer, brought in a chaw by two Keepers. Mor. Kind keepers of my weak decaying Let dying Mortimer here rest himself. — Even like a man new haled from the raok. So fare my limbs with long imprisonment ; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of death, Nestor-like aged, in an age of care. Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer. These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent. Wax; dim, as drawing to their exigent ; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, 10 And pithless arms, like to a wither'd vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground : Yet are these feet, — whose strengthless stay is numbj Unable to support this lump of clay, — Swift- winged with desire to get a grave. As witting I no other comfort have. — But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come ? 1 Keep. Richard Plantagenet, my lord, will come : We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber. And answer was return'd that he will come. Mor. Enough ; my soul shall then be satisfied. — ax Poor gentleman ! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry Monmouth first began to reign. Before whose glory I was great in arms. This loathsome sequestration have I had ; And even since then hath Richard been obscur'd, Depriv'd of honour and inheritance : But now, the arbitrator of despairs. Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement doth dismiss me hence. so I would his troubles likewise were expir'd. That so he might recover what was lost. Enter Richard Plantagenet. 1 Keep. My lord, your loving nephew now is come. Mor. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is he come? Plcvn. Aj, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd. Your nephew, late despised Richard, comes. Mor. Direct mine arms, I may embrace his neck, And in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O ! tell me, when my lips do touch his cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. — And now declare, sweet stem from York's great stock, « Why didst thou say, of late thou wert despis'd? Plan. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm, And in that ease I '11 tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there grew 'twixt Somerset and 47 Act JI. KING HENRY VI.— PAET I. Scene V. Among wliicli terms lie us'd liis lavish tongue, And did upbraid me with my father's death : Which obloquy set bars before my tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. 50 Therefore, good uncle, for my father's sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance sake, declare the cause My father. Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. Mor. That cause, fair nephew,- that im- prison'd me. And hath detaiu'd me all my flow'ring youth Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his disease. Plan. Discover more at large what cause that was ; For I am ignorant, and cannot guess. oe Mor. I will, if that my fading breath permit, And death apjDroach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to this king, Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son. The first-begotten, and the lawful heir Of Edward kiug, the third of that descent : During whose reign the Percies of the north. Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my advancement to the throne. The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this. Was, for that (young King Richard thus remov'd, 71 Leaving no heir begotten of his body) I was the next by birth and parentage ; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel, Duke of Clarence, the third son To King Edward the Third ; whereas he "From John of Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark : as, iu this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, so I lost my liberty, and they their Hves. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth (Succeeding his father Bolingbroke) did reign. Thy father, Earl of Cambridge, then deriv'd From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister, that thy mother was. Again, in pity of my hard distress. Levied an army, weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem ; But, as the rest, so fell that noble earl, 91 And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title rested, were suppress'd. Plan. Of which, my lord, your honour is the last. Mor. True ; and thou seest, that I no issue have. And that my fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir: the rest, I wish thee gather ; But yet be wary in thy studious care. Plan. Thy grave admonishments prevail with me. But yet, methinks, my father's execution Was nothing less than bloody tyranny. 100 Mor. With silence, nephew, be thou politic : Strong-fixed is the house of Lancaster, And, like a mountain, not to be remov'd. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts, when they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. Plan. 0, uncle ! 'would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your age ! Mor. Thou dost then wrong me ; as the slaughterer doth. Which giveth many wounds, when one will kill. iiu Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good ; Only, give order for my funeral : And so farewell ; and fair be all thy hopes, And prosperous be thy life, in peace, and war ! [Dies. Plan. And peace, no war, befall thy parting soul ! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage. And like a hermit overpass'd thy days. — Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast ; And what I do imagine, let that rest. — Keepers, convey him hence ; and I myself 120 Will see his burial better than his life. — [Exeunt Keepers, hearing out the body of Mortimer. Here lies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Chok'd with ambition of the meaner sort : And, for those wrongs, those bitter injuries. Which Somerset hath ofier'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress ; And therefore haste I to the parliament. Either to be restored to my blood. Or make my ill the advantage of my good. [Exit. 48 Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PAET I. Scene I ACT III. Scene I. — ^The Same. The Parliament- House. Flowrish. Ent&r King Henet, Exeter, Gloster, Warwick, Somerset, Win. [Aside.'] So help me God, as I intend it not ! K. Hen. O loving uncle, kind Duke of Gloster, How joyful am I made by this contract ! — Away, my masters : trouble us no more ; But join in friendship, as your lords have done. 1 Serv. Content : I '11 to the surgeon's. 2 Serv. And so will I. 3 Serv. And I will see what physic the tavern affords. [Exeunt Mayor, Servants, John. Yes, your renowned name : shall flight abuse it ? Tal. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain. John. You cannot witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. Tal. And leave my followers here, to fight and die ? My age v^as never tainted with such shame. John. And shall my youth be guUty of such blame ? No more can I be sever'd from your side, Than can yourself yourself in twain divide, Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I j m For live I wDl not, if my father die. Tal. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son. Bom to eclipse thy life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die, And soul with soul from France to heaven fly. \_Exeunt. Scene VI.— A Field of Battle. Alarum : Excwrsions, wherein Talbot's Son is hemmed about, and Talbot rescues him. Tal. Saint George and victory ! flght, sol- diers, fight ! The regent hath with Talbot broke his word. And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John Talbot ? — pause, and take thy breath : I gave thee life, and rescu'd thee from death. John. O, twice my father ! twice am I thy son : The life thou gav'st me first was lost and done J Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my determin'd time thou gav'st new date. Tal. When from the Dauphin's crest thy sword struck fire, lo It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire Of bold-fac'd victory. Then leaden age, Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike rage. Beat down Alengon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia rescu'd thee. The ireful Bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy, and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered. And, interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood ; and, in disgrace, Bespoke him thus : " Contaminated, base, 21 And misbegotten blood I spUl of thine. Mean and right poor ; for that pure blood of mine, Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave boy : " — Here, purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak, thy father's care, Art thou not weary, John ? How dost thou fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal'd the son of chivalry ? Fly to revenge my death, when I am dead ] so The help of one stands me in little stead. O ! too much folly is it, well I wot, 60 Act IV. KING HENEY VI.— PAET I. Scene VII. To hazard all our lives in one small boat. If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage To-morrow I shall die with mickle age : By me they nothing gain, and if I stay, 'T is but the short'ning of my life one day. In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame. All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay ; All these are sav'd, if thou wilt fly away, n John. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart ; These words of yours draw life-blood from my hearti On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry life, and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The coward horse that bears me fall and die ! And like me to the peasant boys of France, To be shame's scorn, and subject of mis- chance ! Surely, by all the glory you have won, so ' An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son : Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot ; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. Tal. Then follow thou thy desperate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus. Thy life to me is sweet : If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side. And, commendable proVd, let 's die in pride. [Eoseimt. Scene VII. — Another Part of the Same. Alarums : Exczi/rsions. Enter Talbot, woimded, swpported by a Servant. Tal. Where is my other lif&? — mine own is gone : O, where 's young Talbot ? where is valiant John ?— Triumphant death, smear'd with captivity, Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee. — When he perceiv'd me shrink, and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish'd over me, And like a hungry lion did commence Rough deeds of rage, and stern impatience ; But when my angry guardant stood gjone, Tend'ring my ruin, and assail'd of none, lo Dizzy-ey'd fury, and great rage of heart. Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clust'ring battle of the French : And in that sea of blood my boy did drench His overmounting spirit ; and there died My Icarus, my blossom, in his pride. Enter Soldiers, hewring the body of John Talbot. Serv. O my dear lord ! lo, where your son is borne ! Tal. Thou antick death, which laugh'st us here to scorn. Anon, from thy insulting tyranny. Coupled in bonds of perpetuity, m Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky. In thy despite shall 'scape mortality. — O ! thou whose wounds become hard-favour d death. Speak to thy father, ere thou yield thy breath : Brave death by speaking, whether he will or no; Imagine him a Frenchmen, and thy foe. — Poor boy ! he smiles, methinks, as who should say, Had death been French, then death had died to-day. Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms. My spirit can no longer bear these harms, so Soldiers, adieu ! I have what I would have, Now my old arms are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies. Ala/rvMis. Exeunt Soldiers and Servant, leamng the two bodies. Enter Charles, ALENgoN, Burgundy, Bastard, La Pu- CELLB, and Forces. Char. Had York and Somerset brought rescue in, We should have found a bloody day of this. Bast. How the young whelp of Talbot's, raging-wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood ! Pmc. Once I encounter'd him, and thus I said : "Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by a maid ; " But, with a proud majestical high scorn, He answered thus : " Young Talbot was not born *o To be the pillage of a giglot wench." So, rushing in the bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. Bur. Doubtless, he would have made a noble knight ; See, where he lies inhearsed in the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms. Bast. Hew them to pieces, hack their bones asunder. Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder. 61 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART I. Scene T. Char. O, no ! forbear ; for that which we have fled During the life, let us not wrong it dead. =0 Enter Sir William Lucy, attended ; a French Herald preceding. Lucy. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, To know who hath obtain'd the glory of the day. Cha/r. On what submissive message art thou sent? Lucy, Submission, Dauphin ! 't is a mere French word ; We English warriors wot not what it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en, And to survey the bodies of the dead. Gliar. For prisoners ask'st thou % hell our prison is. But tell me whom thou seek'st. Lucy. But where 's the great Alcides of the field, eo Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created, for his rare success in arms, Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence ; Lord Talbot of Goodrig and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Eurnival of Shefiaeld, The thrice victorious Lord of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Mareshal to Henry the Sixth ro Of all his wars within the realm of France ? Puc. Here is a silly stately style indeed ! The Turk, that two-and-fifty kingdoms hath. Writes not so tedious a style as this. — Him, that thou magnifiest with all these titles. Stinking, and fly-blown, lies here at our feet. Lucy. Is Talbot slain, the Frenchmen's only scourge. Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis ? ! were mine eyeballs into bullets turn'd. That I in rage might shoot them at your 0, that I could but call these dead to life ! It were enough to fright the realm of France. Were but his picture left among you here. It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me their bodies, that I may bear them hence. And give them burial as beseems their worth. Puc. I think, this upstart is old Talbot's ghost. He speaks with such a proud-commanding spirit. For God's sake, let him have 'em ; to keep them here. They would but stink, and putrefy the air. so Char. Go, take their bodies hence. Lucy. I '11 bear them hence : But from their ashes shall be rear'd A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. Cha/r. So we be rid of them, do with 'em what thou wilt. And now to Paris, in this conquering vein : All will be ours, now bloody Talbot 's slain. \Eooeunt. ACT V. Scene I. — ^London. A Room in the Palace. Enter King Henry, Gloster, and Exeter. K. Hen. Have you perus'd the letters from the pope, The emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac ? Glo. I have, my lord ; and their intent is this :— They humbly sue unto joxvc excellence. To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of England and of Prance. K. Men. How doth your grace affect their motion ? Gh. Well, my good lord ; and as the only means To stop effusion of our Christian blood, And 'stablish quietness on every side. 10 K. Hen. Ay, marry, uncle ; for I always thought, It was both impious and unnatural. That such immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith. Glo. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect. And surer bind, this knot of amity. The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in Prance, Proffers his only daughter to your grace In marriage, with a large and sumj)tuous dowry. ' 20 K. Hen. Marriage, uncle ! alas ! my years are young. And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet, call the ambassadors ; and, as you please, Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART I. Scene III. So let them have their answers every one : I shall be well content with an,y choice Tends to God's glory and my country's weal. Enter a Legate amd two Ambassadors, with Winchester in a cofrdvrMl's habit. Exe. What ! is my Lord of Winchester install'd, And call'd unto a cardinal's degree ? Then, I perceive, that will be verified, 30 Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy, — " If once he come to be a cardinal, He '11 make his cap co-equal with the crown." K. Hen. My lords ambassadors, your several suits Have been consider'd and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable ; And, therefore, are we certainly resolv'd To draw conditions, of a friendly peace ; Which, by my Lord of Winchester, we mean Shall be transported presently to France. « Gh. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have inform'd his highness so at large, As — liking of the lady's virtuous gifts, Her beauty, and the value of her dower — He doth intend she shall be England's queen. K. Hen. In argument and proof of which contract. Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. — And so, my lord protector, see them guarded, And safely brought to Dover; where, in- shipp'd, Commit them to the fortune of the sea. bo [Exewnt Kmg Henry and Train ; Gloster, Exeter, and Ambassadors. Win. Stay, my lord legate : you shall first receive The sum of money, which I promised Should be deliver' d to his holiness For clothing me .in these grave ornaments. Leg. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure. Win. Now, Winchester will not submit, I trow, Or be inferior to the proudest peer. Humphrey of Gloster, thou shalt well per- ceive. That, neither in birth, or for authority. The bishop will be overborne by thee : eo I'll either make thee stoop, and bend thy knee. Or sack this country with a mutiny. [Exevmt. Scene II. — France. Plains in Anjou. Enter Charles, Burgtjndy, Alenqon, La Pucelle, and Forces, marching. Ghm\ These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping spirits. 'T is said, the stout Parisians do revolt, And turn again unto the warlike French. Alen. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France, And keep not back your powers in dalliance. Pile. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us; Else, ruin combat with their palaces ! Enter a Scout. Scout. Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices ! Char. What tidings send our scouts 1 I pr'ythee, speak. 10 Scout. "The English army, that divided was Into two parties, is now.conjoin'd in one. And means to give you battle presently. Char. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is ; But we will presently provide for them. Bv/r. I trust, the ghost of Talbot is not there : Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. Pu^. Of all base passions fear is most ao- curs'd. — Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine; Let Henry fret, and all the world repine. 20 Char. Then on, my lords ; and France be fortunate ! [Exeunt. Scene III. — The Same. Before Anglers. Alarums; Eoccv/rsiom. Enter La Pucelle. Puc: The regent conquers, and the French- men fly. — Now help, ye charming spells, and periapts ; And ye choice spirits that admonish me. And give me signs of future accidents : [Thunder. You speedy helpers, that are substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north. Appear, and aid me in this enterprise ! Enter Fiends. This speedy and quick appearance argues proof Of your accustom'd diligence to me. Now, ye famUiar spirits, that are cull'd 10 Out of the powerful legions under earth, Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART I. Scene III. Help me this once, that France may get the field. [^Aey walk, and speak not. ! hold me not with silence over-long. Where I was wont to feed you with my blood, 1 '11 lop a member off, and give it you, In earnest of a further benefit, So you do condescend to help me now. — \They hang their heads. No hope to have redress 1 — My body shall Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit. {They shake thevr heads. Cannot my body, nor blood-sacrifice, 20 Entreat you to your wonted furtherance ? Then take my soul ; my body, soul, and all. Before that England give the French the foil. \They depart. See ! they forsake me. Now the time is come, That France must vaU her lofty-plumed crest, And let her head fall into England's lap. My ancient incantations are too weak, And hell too strong for me to buckle with : Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. {Exit. Alarums. Enter French and English figMing ; La Pucei-le and Yokb. fight hand to hand. La Pccblle is taken. The French fly. York. Damsel of France, I think, I have you fast : so Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms, And try if they can gain your liberty. — ■ A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace ! See, how the ugly witch doth bend her brows. As if, with Circe, she would change my shape. Puc. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be. York. ! Charles the Dauphin is a proper man : No shape but his can please your dainty eye. Puc. A plaguing mischief light on Charles, and thee ! And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd « By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds ! York. Fell banning hag, enchantress, hold thy tongue ! Puc. I pr'ythee, give me leave to curse awhile. York. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. {Exeunt. Ala/rums. Enter Suffolk, leading in Lady Makgaeet. S^if. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. {Gazes on her. O, fairest beauty ! do not fear, nor fly. For I will touch thee but with reverent hands. I kiss these fingers for eternal peace. And lay them gently on thy tender side. Who art thou ? say, that I may honour thee. Mar. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king, si The King of Naples, whosoe'er thou art. Suf. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd. Be not offended, nature's miracle. Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me : So doth the swan her downy cygnets save. Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile usage once ofi'end, Go, and be free again, as Suffolk's friend. {She twrns away as going. O, stay ! — I have no power to let her pass ; m My hand would free her, but my heart says — no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another counterfeited beam. So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak : I '11 call for pen and ink, and write my mind. Fie, de la Poole ! disable not thyself ; Hast not a tongue 1 is she not here thy prisoner 1 Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight 1 Ay ; beauty's princely majesty is such, ro Confounds the tongue, and makes the senses rough. Mar. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass 1 For, I perceive, I am thy prisoner. Suf. {Aside.^ How canst thou tell she will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love ? Mar. Why speak'st thou not ? what ransom must I pay 1 Suf. [Aside.^ She 's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd ; She is a woman, therefore to be won. Mar. Wilt thou accept of ransom, yea, or no? 80 Suf. {Aside.] Fond man ! remember, that thou hast a wife ; Then, how can Margaret be thy paramour ? Mar. I were best to leave him, for he will not hear. Suf. {Aside.] There all is marr'd ; there lies a cooling card. Mwr. He talks at random : sure, the man is mad. Suf. {Aside.] And yet a dispensation may be had. Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART I. Scene III. Mwr. And yet I would that you would answer me. Svf. \Andei\ I '11 win this Lady Margaret. For whom ? Why, for my king : tush ! that 's a wooden thing. Mwr. He talks of wood : it is some car- penter. 90 Suf. \A.s\de?^ Yet so my fancy may be satisfied, And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in that too ; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor. And our nobUity will scorn the match. Mwt. Hear ye, captain? Are you not at leisure ? Suf. \Aside?^ It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much : Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield. — Madam, I have a secret to reveal. loo Man-. \A.sideP\ What though I be enthrall'd ? he seems a knight, And will not any way dishonour me. Suf. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say. Mar. \Aside^ Perhaps, I shall be rescu'd by the French ; And then I need not crave his courtesy. Suf. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a causje — Mar. \Aside^ Tush ! women have been captivate ere now. Suf. Lady, wherefore talk you so ? Ma/r. I cry you mercy, 't is but quidiar quo. Suf. Say, gentle princess, woidd you not suppose no Your bondage happy, to be made a queen ? Mar. To be a queen in bondage is more vUe, Than is a slave in base servility ; For princes should be free. Suf. And so shall you. If happy England's royal king be free. Ma/r. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me ? Suf I 'II undertake to make thee Henry's queen. To put a golden sceptre in thy hand, And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt condescend to be my — Man: What ? 120 Suf. His love. Ma/r. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife. Suf. No, gentle madam ; I unworthy am To woo so fair a dame to be his wife. And have no portion in the choice myself How say you, madam, are you so content ? Moa: An if mv father please, I am content. 6 Suf. Then call our captains, and our colours, forth ! And, madam, at your father's castle walls We '11 crave a parley, to confer with him. 130 \Trooj)s come forward/ A pa/rley sownded. Enter Reigniee, on the walls. Suf. See, Reignier, see thy daughter pri- soner. Reig. To whom 1 Suf. To me. Beig. Suffolk, what remedy ? I am a soldier, and unapt to weep. Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness. Suf. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord : Consent, and for thy honour give consent. Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king ; Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto. And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty, uo Reig. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks ? Suf. Fair Margaret knows. That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. Reig. Upon thy princely warrant, I descend. To give thee answer of thy just demand. [Exit from the uxills. Suf. And here I will expect thy coming. Trwm/pets sounded. Enter Reignier below. Reig. Welcome, brave earl, into our territories : Command in Anjou what your honour pleases. Suf. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your grace unto my suit t Reig. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth, 151 To be the princely bride of such a lord, Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine own, the counties Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war, My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please. Suf. 'That is her ransom, I deliver her ; And those two counties, I will undertake, Your grace shall well and quietly enjoy. Reig. And I again, in Henry's royal name, As deputy unto that gracious king, loi Give thee her hand, for sign of plighted faith. Suf. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a king ; [Aside.'] And yet, methinks, I could be well content Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART I. Scene IV. To be mine own attorney in this case. — I '11 over then to England with this news, And make this marriage to be solemnis'd. So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe In golden palaces, as it becomes. 170 Reig. I do embrace thee, as I would embrace The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. Mar. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [Going. Suf. Farewell, sweet madam ! But hark you, Margaret : No princely commendations to my king ? Mar. Such commendations as become a maid, A virgin, and his servant, say to him. Syf. Words sweetly plac'd, and modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again, — iso No loving token to his majesty ? Mar. Yes, my good lord ; a pure unspotted heart. Never yet taint with love, I send the king. Stif. And this withal. [Kisses her. Mar. That for thyself : I will not so pre- sume. To send such peevish tokens to a king. [Exeunt Reignier and Margaret. Suf. O, wert thou for myself ! — But, Suffolk, stay; Thou may'st not wander in that labyrinth : There Minotaurs, and ugly treasons, lurk. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise : iso Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount. And natural graces that extinguish art ; Repeat their semblance often on the seas. That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet, Thou may'st bereave him of liis wits with wonder. [Eodt. Scene IV. — Camp of the Duke of York, in Anjou. Enter York, Warwick, amd others. ' York. Bring forth that sorceress, condemn'd to burn. Enter La Pucelle, guarded; and a Shepherd. Shep. Ah, Joan ! ihis kills thy father's heart outright. Have I sought every country far and near. And, now it is my chance to find thee out. Must I behold thy timeless cruel death ? Ah, Joan ! sweet daughter Joan, I '11 die with thee. Puc. Decrepit miser ! base ignoble wretch ! I am descended of a gentler blood : Thou art no father, nor no friend, of mine. Shep. Out, out ! — My lords, an please you, 't is not so ; 10 I did beget her, all the parish knows : Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bachelorship. Wa/r. Graceless ! wilt thou deny thy parentage ? Yorh. This argues what her kind of life hath been : Wicked and vile ; and so her death concludes. Shep. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle ! God knows, thou art a collop of my flesh, And for thy sake have I shed many a tear : Deny me not, I pr'ythee, gentle Joan. 20 Puc. Peasant, avaunt ! — you have suborn'd this man. Of purpose to obscure my noble birth. Shep. 'T is true, I gave a noble to the priest. The morn that I was wedded to her mother. — Kneel down, and take my blessing, good my girl.— WUt thou not stoop"! Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity ! I would, the milk Thy mother gave thee, when thou suck'dst her breast. Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake ! Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs a-field, so I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee ! Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab ? ! burn her, burn her : hanging is too good. [Eodt. Yorh. Take her away ; for she hath lived too long. To fill the world with vicious qualities. Puc. First, let me tell you whom you have condemn'd ; Not me begotten of a shepherd swain. But issu'd from the progeny of kings ; Virtuous, and holy ; chosen from above, By inspiration of celestial grace, 40 To work exceeding miracles on earth. 1 never had to do with wicked spirits : But you, — that are polluted with your lusts, Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, — Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders, but by help of devils. No, misconceived ! Joan of Arc hath be^i GO Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART I. Scene IV. A virgin from her tender infancy, ? Chaste and immaculate in very thought ; Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously efl'us'd. Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. York. Ay, ay.— Away with her to exe- cution ! War. And hark ye, sirs ; because she is a maid, Spare for no fagots, let there be enow : Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. Puc. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts 1 — Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity, eo That warranteth by law to be thy privilege. — I am with child, ye bloody homicides : Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent death. York. Now, heaven forfend ! the holy maid with child ? W Or as one nail by strength drives out another. So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine eye, or Valentinus' praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus ? She's fair, and so is Julia that I love, — That I did love, for now my love is thaw'd, Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, Bears no impression of the thing it was. 20c Methinks, my zeal to Valentine is cold. And that I love him not, as I was wont : ! but I love his lady too too much ; And that 's the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice, That thus without advice begin to love her 1 'T is but her picture I have yet beheld. And that hath dazzled m.y reason's light ; But when I look on her perfections. There is no reason but I shall be blind. 210 If I can check my erring love, I will ; If not, to compass her I '11 use my skill [Hxit. Scene V. — The Same. A Street.. Enter Speed and Launce. Speed. Launce ! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua ! Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone, till he be hang'd ; nor never welcome to a place, till some cer- tain shot be paid, and the hostess say, " Wel- come ! " Speed. Come on, you madcap, I '11 to the ale-house with you presently ; where for one shot of five pence thou shalt have five thou- sand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia ? u Launce. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. Speed. But shall she marry him 1 Lanince. No. Speed. How then ? Shall he marry her % Launce. No, neither. Speed. What, are they broken ? Launce. No, they are both as whole as a fish. Speed. Why then, how stands the matter with them ? 21 Launce. Marry, thus ; when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. Speed. What an ass art thou ! I understand thee not. cwsiiAnrp. scuijT SIPHH® AMI® ILATUWeiEo SPEEU Wliat oji, a^s axt thoio .' I iiTLdefstaizd, ike& rwt z^UJfCs: Whai, a. bloo/c c^i th/iio. tfmt i^wii. cazb'st riot ' .My sta/f lonAersiayLds rtie, TWO GEJVTIEAfEJV OF -1r£BOJVj3 JiCTJl. SCEM£ V CASSE]^ & COMPANY, limited. Act II. THE TWO GEN'I^EMEN OF VEEONA. Scene VII. Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not. My staif understands me. Speed. What thou say'st 1 Launce. Ay, and what I do too : look thee, I '11 but lean, and my stafl' understands me. Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. so Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. Speed. But tell me true, will 't be a match"! Launce. Ask my dog : if he say, ay, it will; if he say, no, it will ; if he shake his tail, and say nothing, it will. Speed. The conclusion is then, that it will. Launce. Thou slialt never get such a secret from me, but by a parable. Speed. 'T is well that I get it so. But, Launce, how say'st thou, that my master is become a notable lover 1 Launce. I never knew him otherwise. 42 Speed. Than how 1 Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak'st me. Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee ; I meant thy master. Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. Laimce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt go with me to the ale-house, so; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. ^ Speed. Whyl Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee, as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go 1 Speed. At thy service. [Exeunt. Scene VI.— The Same. An Apartment in the Palace. Enter Pkoteus. Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be for- sworn ; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn ; To wrong my friend, I shall be much for- sworn ; And even that power which gave me first my oath, Provokes me to this threefold perjury : Love bade me swear, and Love bids me for- swear. O sweet-suggesting Love ! if thou hast sinn'd, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. | At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. 10 Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ; And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit to exchange the bad for better. — Fie, fie, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad, Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do ; But there I leave to love, where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; zo If I lose them, thus find I, by their loss, For Valentine, myself ; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself ; And Silvia (witness Heaven that made her fail-!) Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiop. I will .forget that Julia is alive, Eemembering that my love to her is dead ; And Valentine I '11 hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia, as a sweeter friend. 39 I cannot now prove constant to myself Without some treachery used to Valen- tine : — This night, he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia's chamber- window ; Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now, presently I '11 give her father notice Of their disguising, and pretended flight j Who, all enrag'd, will banish Valentine, For Thurio, he intends, shall wed his daughter ; But, Valentine being gone, I '11 quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio's dull pro- ceeding. 41 Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift. As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift ! {Exit. Scene VII.— Verona. A Boom in Julia's House. Enter Julia and Lucetta. Jul. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me ; And, e'en in kind love, I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly character'd and engrav'd, To lesson me ; and tell me some good mean, How, with my honour, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. Act II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Scene VII. Lmc. Alas ! tte way is wearisome aud long. Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps ; Much less shall she, that hath Love's wings to fly, 11 And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. Imc. Better forbear, till Proteus make re- turn. Jvl. ! know'st thou not, his looks are my soul's food % Pity the dearth that I have pined in, By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love. Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow. As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 20 Iajlc. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire. But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JuiZ. The niore thou damm'st it up, the more it burns. The current, that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage ; But, when his fair course is not hindered. He makes sweet music with the enamell'd stones. Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 3o And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then, let me go, and hinder not my course. I '11 be as patient as a gentle stream, And make a pastime of each weary step. Till the last step have brought me to my love ; And there I '11 rest, as, after much turmoU, A blessed soul doth in Elysium. Imc. But in what habit will you go along % Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would pre- vent 40 The loose encounters of lascivious men. Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such wee As may beseem some well-reputed page. Luc. Why, then your ladyship must cut your hair. Jul. No, girl ; I '11 knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : To be fantastic, may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. Ltio. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches ? Jul. That fits as well as — " Tell me, good my lord, » What compass will you wear your farthin- gale % " Why, even what fashion thou best lik'st, Lucetta. Luc. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. Jul. Out, out, Lucetta ! that wUl be ill- favour'd. Luc. A round hose, madam, now 's not worth a pin. Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. Jul. Lucetta, as thou lov'st me, let me have What thou think'st meet, and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey 'i so I fear nie, it will make me scandalis'd. Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go not. Jul. Nay, that I will not. Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey, when you come. No matter who's displeas'd, when you are gone. I fear me, he will scarce be pleas'd withal. Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear. A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, ro Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. Jul. Base men, that use them to so base efiect ; But truer stars did govern Proteus' birth : His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles ; His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate ; His tears pure messengers sent from his heart ; His heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth. Imc. Pray Heaven, he prove so, when you come to him ! Jul. Now, as thou lov'st me, do him not that wrong, so To bear a hard opinion of his truth : Only deserve my love by loving him, And presently go with me to my chamber, To take a note of what I stand in need of, To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose. My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Oome, answer not, but to it presently : w I am impatient of my tarriance. [Lxeunt. Act III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Scene I. ACT Scene I. — -Milan. An Antechamber in the Duke's Palace. Enter Duke, Thueio, and Proteus. Buke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile : We have some secrets to confer about. — \Exit Thurio. Now, tell me, Proteus, what 's your will with me? Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would discover, The law of friendship bids me to conceal ; But, when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am. My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince. Sir Valentine, my friend, lo This night intends to steal away your daughter : Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determin'd to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates; And should she thus be stol'n away from you, It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty's sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 20 Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care, Which to requite, command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply, when they have judg'd me fast asleep ; And oftentimes hath purpos'd to forbid Sir Valentine her company, and my court ; But, fearing lest my jealous aim might err. And so unworthily disgrace the man (A rashness that I ever yet have shunn'd), so I gave him gentle looks ; thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclos'd to me. And, that thou may'st perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, The key whereof myself have ever kept ; And thence she cannot be convey'd away. Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devis'd a mean III. How he her chamber-window will ascend, And with a corded ladder fetch her down ; 40 For which the youthful lover now is gone, And this way comes he with it presently, Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my lord, do it so cunningly, That my discovery be not aimed at ; For love of you, not hate unto my friend. Hath made me publisher of this pretence. Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. Pro. Adieu, my lord : Sir Valentine is coming. \Exit. Enter Valentine. Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast ? Val. Please it your grace, there is a mes- senger 62 That stays to bear my letters to my friends. And I am going to deliver them. Duke. Be they 'of much import? Vol. The tenor of them doth but signify My health, and happy being at your court. Duke. Nay, then no matter : stay with me awhile. I am to break with thee of some aflfairs. That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. . eo 'T is not unknown to thee, that I have sought To match my friend. Sir Thurio, to my daughter. Val. I know it well, my lord ; and, sure, the match Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter. Cannot your grace win her to fancy him 1 Duke. No, trust me : she is peevish, sullen, froward. Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty ; Neither regarding that she is my child, 70 Nor fearing me as if I were her father : And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers. Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her ; And, where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherish'd by her child-like duty, I now am full resolv'd to take a wife, And turn her out to who will take her in : Then, let her beauty be her wedding-dower; Act III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. Scene I. For me and luy possessions she esteems not. Val. What would your grace have me to do in this ? 80 Duke. There is a lady in Verona here, Whom I affect ; but she is nice, and coy. And nought esteems my aged eloquence : Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor (For long agone I have forgot to court ; Besides, the fashion of the time is chang'd), How, and which way, I may bestow myself, To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words. Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, so More than quick words do move a woman's mind. Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. Val. A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her. Send her another ; never give her o'er. For scorn at first makes after-love the more. If she do frown, 't is not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in j'oli ; If she do chide, 't is not to have you gone. For why the fools are mad, if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say ; loo For, " get you gone," she doth not mean, "away." Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their graces ; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. Duke. But she I mean is promis'd by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth. And kept severely from resort of men. That no man hath access by day to her. Val. W^hy, then I would resort to her by night. 110 Duke. Ay, but the doors be look'd, and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night. Val. What lets but one may enter at her window'? Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground. And buSt so shelving, that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. Val. Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords, To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero's tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. 120 Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood. Advise me where I may have such a ladder. Val. When would you use it 1 pray, sir, tell me that. Duke. This very night ; for Love is like a child, That longs for everything that he can come by. Val. By seven o'clock I '11 get you such a ladder. Diike. But hark thee ; I will go to her alone. How shall I best convey the ladder thither ? Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. lao Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn 1 Val. Aj, my good lord. Duke. Then, let me see thy cloak : I '11 get me one of such another length. Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak 1^ I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. — What letter is this same ? What 's here 1 — "To Silvia r' And here an engine fit for my proceeding ! I '11 be so bold to break the seal for once. [lieads. " My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly ; «o And slaves they are to me, tliat send them flying: 1 could thei/r master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge, where senseless they are lying. .My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them ; While I, tlieir ki/ng, tlmt thither them im- portune. Do curse the grace iliat with such grace hath bless'd them. Because myself do v}ant my servants' for- tune : I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they sJiould harbou/r where their lord should be." What 's here ? 150 " Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee." 'T is so ; and here 's the ladder for the jjurpose. Why, Phaethon (for thou art Merops' son). Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car. And with thy daring folly burn the world ? Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? Si Act III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. Scene I. Go, base intruder ! overweening slave ! Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, And think my patience, more than thy desert. Is privilege for thy departure hence. iro Thank me for this, more than for all the favours. Which, all too much, I have bestow'd on thee : But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court. By Heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter, or thyself. Be gone : I will not hear thy vain excuse ; But, as thou lov'st thy life, make speed fropa hence. [Hxit Duke. Val. And why not death, rather than HviQg torment ? . iro To die is to be banish'd from myself ; And Silvia is myself : banish'd from her, Is self from self ; a deadly banishment. What light is Ught, if Silvia be not seen 1 What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by ? Unless it be, to think that she is by. And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music iu the nightingale ; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, iso There is no day for me to look upon. She is my essence ; and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive. I fly* not death, to fly his deadly doom : Tarry I here, I but attend on death ; But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. ^nter Proteus and Launce. Fro. Run, boy ; run, run, and seek him out. Lawnoe. So-ho ! so-ho ! Pro. What seest thou ? loo Launce. Him we go to find : there 's not a hair on 's head, but 't is a Valentine. Pro. Valentine? Val. No. Pro. Who then ? his spirit ? Vol. Neither. Pro. What then? Vol. Nothing. Lav/nce. Can nothing speak ? master, shall I strike? Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ? 200 Launce. Nothing. Pro. Villain, forbear. Launce. Why, sir, I '11 strike nothing : I pray you, — Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear. — Friend Valen- tine, a word. Val. My ears are stopp'd, and cannot hear good news, So much of bad akeady hath possess'd them. Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine. For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. Val. Is Silvia dead ? Pro. No, Valentine. zw Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred SUvia !— Hath she forsworn me ? Pro. No, Valentine. Val. No Valentine, if Silvia hath forsworn me ! — What is your news ? Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanish'd. Pro. That thou art banish'd : O ! that is the news. From hence, from Silvia, and from me, thy friend. Val. ! I have fed upon this woe already. And now excess of it will make me surfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banish'd ? 222 Pro. A.J, ay ; and she hath offer'd to the doom (Which, unrevers'd, stands in efiiectual force) A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears : Those at her father's churlish feet she tender'd, With them, upon her knees, her humble self, Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them. As if but now they waxed pale for woe : But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 231 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire ; But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die. Besides, her intercession chaf'd him so. When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, With many bitter threats of biding there. Val. No more ; unless the next word that thou speak'st Have some malignant power upon my life : If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 240 As ending anthem of my endless dolour. Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament'st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love ; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover's staff; walk hence with that. And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence ; Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver'd 250 85 Act in. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. SCENK I. Even in the milk-wiiite bosom of thy love. The time now serves not to expostulate : Come, I '11 convey thee through the city-gate, And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. As thou lov'st Silvia, though not for thyself, Regard thy danger, and along with me ! Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy. Bid him make haste, and meet me at the north gate. Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. 260 Val. O my dear Silvia ! hapless Valentine ! [Uaseunt Valentine arid Proteus. Launce. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think, my master is a kind of a knave ; but that 's all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now, that knows me to be in love : yet I am in love ; but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who 't is I love ; aiid yet 't is a woman : but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet 't is a milk-maid ; yet 't is not a maid, for she hath had gossips ; yet 't is a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for wages She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian. Here is the cate-log [pulling out a paper] of her con- ditions. Imprimis, " She can fetch and carry." Why, a horse can do no more : nay, a horse cannot fetch, but only carry ; therefore is she better than a jade. Item, " She can milk," look you ; a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. ^nter Speed. Speed. How now, Signior Launce? what news with your mastership 1 am Launce. With my master's ship 1 why, it is at sea. Speed. Well, your old vice still ; mis- take the word. What news, then, in your paper 1 Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heard'st. Speed. Why, man, how black 1 Launce. Why, as black as ink. Speed. Let me read them. Launce. Fie on thee, jolthead ! thou canst not read. Speed. Thou liest, I can. zoo Lavnce. I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee ? Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. Lawnce. illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy grandmother. This proves, that thou canst not read. Speed. Come, fool, come : try me in thy paper. Launce. There, and Saint Nicholas be thy speed ! Speed. Imprimis, " She can mUk." Launce. Ay, that she can. Speed. Item, " She brews good ale." soo Launce. And thereof comes the proverb, — • Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale. Speed. Item, " She can sew." Launce. That 's as much as to say, Can she so 1 Speed. Item, " She can knit.'' Launce. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit liim a stock 1 Speed. Item, " She can wash and scour.'' Launce. A special virtue ; for then she need not be wash'd and scour'd. sio Speed. Item, " She can spin." Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. Speed. Item, " She hath many nameless virtues." Launce. That 's as much as to say, bastard virtues ; that, indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. Speed. Here follow her vices. Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues. Speed. Item, " She is not to be kissed fasting, in respect of her breath." s2i Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. Speed. Item, " She hath a sweet mouth." Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath. Speed. Item, " She doth talk in her sleep." Lawnce. It 's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. Speed. Item, " She is slow in words." Lammce. O villain, that set this down among her vices ! To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue. I pray thee, out with 't, and place it for her chief virt\ie. Speed. Item, " She is proud." Lammce. Out with that too : it was Eve's legacy, and cannot be ta'en from her. Speed. Item, " She hath no teeth." Launce. I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. Speed. Item, " She is curst." mo Launce. Well ; the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. Speed. Item, " She will often praise her liquor." Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall : if she will not, I will ; for good things should be praised. Act III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. Scene II. Speed. Item, " She is too liberal." ' Launce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that 's writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I '11 keep shut ; now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. Speed. Item, " She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults." Launce. Stop there ; I '11 have her : she was mine, and not mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. Speed. Item, " She hath more hair than wit,"— Launce. More hair than wit, — it may be ; I '11 prove it : the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt : the hair, that covers the wit, is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What 's next ? 3«) Speed. — "And more faults than hairs," — Launce. That 's monstrous : O, that that were out ! Speed. — " And more wealth than faults." Launce. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I '11 have her ; and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible, — Speed. What then? Launce. Why, then will I tell thee, — that thy master stays for thee at the north gate. Speed. For me ? sro Lamnce. For thee ! ay ; who art thou 1 he hath stay'd for a better man than thee. Speed. And must I go to him ? Launce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stay'd so long, that going will scarce serve the turn. Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner 1 pox of your love-letters ! \Exit. Launce. Now will he be swing'd for read- ing my letter. An unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. — I '11 after, to rejoice in the boy's correction. [Exit. Scene II. — The Same. An Apartment in the Duke's Palace. Enter Duke and Thurio ; Proteus behind. Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you, Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight. Thu. Since his exile she hath despis'd me most; Forsworn my company, and rail'd at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. Luke. This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form. A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. — lo How now. Sir Proteus ? Is your country- man, According to our proclamation, gone ? Pre. Gone, my good lord. Luke. My daughter takes his going grievously. Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. Luke. So I believe ; but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee (For thou hast shown some sign of good desert). Makes me the better to confer with thee. Pro. Longer than I prov^ loyal to your grace, 20 Let me not live to look upon your grace. Luke. Thou know'st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. Pro. I do, my lord. Luke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant How she opposes her against my will. Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. Luke. Ay, and perversely she perseVers so. What might we do to make the girl forget 2» The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio ? Pro. The best way is, to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent; Three things that women highly hold in hate. Luke. Ay, but she '11 think that it is spoke in hate. Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it : Therefore, it must, with circumstance, be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. Luke. Then you must undertake to slander him. Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loth to do: 'T is an ill office for a gentleman, *) Especially, against his very friend. Luke. Where your good word cannot ad- vantage him, Your slander never can endamage him : Therefore, the office is indifferent. Being entreated to it by your friend. 87 Act IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VEEONA. Scene I. Pro. You have prevail'd, my lord. If I can do it By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say, this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio.50 Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me ; Which must be done, by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, Because we know, on Valentine's report, You are already Love's firm votary, And cannot soon revolt, and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access eo Where you with Silvia may confer at large ; For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And for your friend's sake, wUl be glad of you, Where you may temper her, by your per- suasion. To hate young Valentine, and love my friend. Pro. As much as I can do I will effect. But you. Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough ; You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full fraught with serviceable vows. Duke. Ay, ?i Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. Pro. Say, that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart. Write, till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again,; and frame some feeling liue, That may discover such integrity : For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews. Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones. Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans so Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After yonr dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady's chamber- window With some sweet concert : to their instru- ments Tune a deploring dump ; the night's dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in love. Thu. And thy advice this night I '11 put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, Let us into the city presently, oi To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music. I have a sonnet that will serA-e the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. Duke. About it, gentlemen ! Pro. We '11 wait upon your grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. Duke. Even now about it ! I will pardon you. \Ex6wnt. ACT Scene I. — A Forest, between Milan and Verona. Enter certain Outlaws. 1 Out. Fellows, stand fast : I see a pas- senger. 2 Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em. Unter Valentine and Speed. 3 Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you ; If not, we '11 make you sit, and rifle you. Speed. Sir, we are undone. These are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. Val. My friends, — 1 Out. That 's not so, sir : we are your enemies. IV. 2 Out. Peace ! we '11 hear him. 3 Out. Ay, by my beard, wUl we ; for he is a proper man. 10 Val. Then know, that I have little wealth to lose. A man I am cross'd with adversity ; My riches are these poor habiliments. Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. 2 Out. Whither travel you ? Val. To Verona. 1 Out. Whence came you t Val. From Milan. 3 Out. Have you long sojourn'd there 1 ai Val. Some sixteen months ; and longer might have stay'd. If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. 1 Out. What ! were you banish'd thence? Val. I was. Act IV. THE TWO GENTLEMENT OF VERONA. Scene II. 2 Ovi. For what offence ? Vol. For that -which now torments me tc rehearse. I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent ; But yet I slew him manfully in light, Without false vantage, or base treachery. 1 Out Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so. so But were you banish'd for sq small a fault i Yal. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. 2 Out. Have you the tongues % Vol. My youthful travel therein made me happy. Or else I often had been miserable.- 3 QvJb. By the bare scalp of Kobin Hodd's fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction. 1 Out. We '11 have him. Sirs, a word Speed. Master, be one of them : It is an honourable kind of thievery. jo Vol. Peace, villain ! 2 Out. Tell us this : have you anything to take toi Vol. Nothing, but my fortune. 3 Out. Know then^ that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth Thrust from the company of awful men : Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady. An heir, and near allied unto the duke. 2 Out. And I from Mantua, for a gentle- man, 60 WhOi in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart. 1 Out. And I for such-like petty crimes as these. But to the purpose ; for we cite our faults, That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives; And, partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection, As we do in our quality much want — 2 Out.' Indeed, because you are a banish'd man. Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. eo Are you content to be our general ? To make a virtue of necessity. And live, as we do, in this wilderness ? 3 Out. What say'st thou ? wilt thou be of our consort? Say, ay, and be the captain of us all. We '11 do thee homage, and be rul'd by thee. Love thee as our commander, and our king. 1 Out. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. 2' Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer'd. 8 ' Val. I take your offer, and will live with you ; 70 Provided that you do no outrages On sUiy women, or poor passengers. 3 Out. No; we detest such vil^ base practices. Come, go with tis : -w^e '11 bring thee to out crews. And show thee all the treasure we have got. Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [Usseimt. Scene II. — Milan. The Court of the Palace. Unter Peotbus. Fro. Already/ have I been false to Valen- tine, And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own Ibve to prefer ; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows. She bids me think how I have been forsworn. In breaking faith with Julia whom I lov'd ; n And, notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover's hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love. The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window. And give some evening music to her ear. Enter Thueio, and Musicians. Thu. How now. Sir Proteus % are you crept before us ? Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio ; for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. so Thu. Ay ; but I hope, sir, that you love not here. Pro. Sir, but I do; or else I would be Thu. Who? Silvia? Pro. Ay, Silvia, — for your sake. Thm. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen. Let 's tune, and to it lustily awhile. Enter Host And wander up, and down to view the city. Mer. Sir, I commend yoii to your-' own content...... - , -■• -[Exit. Ant. S. He that commends me to mine own content, Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water. That in the ocean seeks another drop ; Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself : So I, to find a mother, and a brother. In quest of them, imhappy, lose myself. *) Enter Dromio of Epliesvs. Here comes the almanac of my true date. What now ? How chance thou art retum'd so soon 1 Dro. E. Return'd so soon ! rather approach'd too late. The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit, The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell; My mistress made it one upon my cheek : She is so hot, because the meat is cold ; The meat is cold, because you come not home; You come not home, because you have no stomach ; You have no stomach, having "broke your fast ; 60 But we, that know what 'tis to fast and Fay, Are penitent for your default to-day. Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir. Tell me this, I pray : Where have you left the money that I gave you? Dro. E. O ! sixpence, that I had o' Wednes- day last. To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper ; The saddler had it, sir ; I kept it not. Ant. S. I am not in a sportive humour now. Tell me, and dally not, where is the money ? We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust 60 So great a charge from thine own custody ? Dro. E. 1 pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner. I from my mistress come to you in post ; If I return, I shall be post indeed, For she will score your fault upon my pate. Methinks, your maw, like mine, should be your clock. And strike you home without a messenger. Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come ; these jests are out of season : Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee] fo Dro. E. To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me. 100 Act II. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. SCENK I. .471*. »S^. Come on, sir knave ; have done your foolishness, And tell me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge. Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from the mart Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner. My mistress, and her sister, stay for you. Ant. S. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me. In what safe place you have bestow'd my money ; Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours. That stands on tricks when I am undispos'd.so Where is the thousand, marks thou hadst of me? Dro. E. I have some marks of yours upon my pate ; Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders, But not a thousand marks between you both. If I should pay your worship those again, Perchance, you will not bear them patiently. Ant. S. Thy mistress' marks ! what mistress, slave, hast thou ? Dro. E. Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phoenix ; She that doth fast till you come home to dinner. And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. m Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face, Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave. [Strikes him. Dro. E. What mean you, sir? for God's sake, hold your hands. Nay, an you will not, sir, I 'II take my heels. [Eoeit. Ant. S. Upon my life, by some device or other The villain is o'er-raught of all niy money. They say, this town is full of cozenage ; As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye. Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, Soul-killing witches that deform the body, loo Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks. And many such-like liberties of sin : If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. I '11 to the Centaur, to go seek this slave : I greatly fear, my money is not safe. [Exit. ACT II. Scene I. — House of Antipholus of Ephesus. Enter Aduiana and Luciana. Adr. Neither my husband, nor the slave return'd, That in such haste I sent to seek his master ! Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock. Luc. Perhaps, some merchant hath invited him. And from the mart he 's somewhere gone to dinner. Good sister, let us dine, and never fret : , A man is master of his liberty : Time is their master; and, when they see time. They '11 go, or come : if so, be patient, sister. Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be more? lo Imc. Because their business still lies out o' door. Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill. LiK. O ! know he is the bridle of your will. Adr. There 's none but asses will be bridled so. Imc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe. There 's nothing situate under heaven's eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky. The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls. Are their males' subjects, and at their con- trols. Men, more divine, the masters of all these, 20 Lords of the wide world, and wild wat'ry seas, Indued with intellectual sense and souls, Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls. Are masters to their females, and their lords : Then, let your will attend on their accords. Ad/r. This servitude makes you to keep unwed. Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage- Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway. Luc. Ere I learn love, I '11 practise to obey. Adr. How if your husband start some other where ? so Luc. Till he come home again, I would forbear. Adr. Patience unmov'd, no marvel though she pause ; They can be meek that have no other cause. A wretched soul, bruis'd with adversity, 101 Act II. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene 1. We bid be quiet, when we hear it crj ; But were we burden'd with like weight of pain, As much, or more, we should ourselves com- plain; So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me : But if thou live to see like right bereft, to This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left. Luc. Well, I will many one day, but to try. — Here comes your man : now is your husband nigh. Writer Dbomio of Ephesus. Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand? Dro. E. Nay, he is at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness. Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him? Know'st thou his mind ? Dro. E. A.J, ay; he told his mind upon mine ear. Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it. Ltjbc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning ? 51 Dro. E. Nay, he atruck so plainly, I coro. S. I am transformed, master, am I not^ Ant. S. I think thou art, in mind, and so am I. Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form. Dro. S. No, I am an ape. Luc. If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis to an ass. 201 Dro. S. 'T is true ; she rides me, and I long for grass. 'T is so, I am an ass ; else it could never be. But I should know her, as well as she knows me. Adr. Come, come ; no longer will I be a fool. To put the finger in the eye and weep. Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn. Come, sir, to dinner. — Dromio, keep the gate. — Husband, I '11 dine above with you to-day, And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks. — Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, 211 Say, he dines forth, and let no creature enter. — Come, sister. — Dromio, play the porter well. Ant. S. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hein Sleeping or waking 1 mad, or well advis'd ? Known unto these, and to myself disguis'd ? I '11 say as they say, and persever so. And in this mist at all adventures go. Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate? Adr. Ay ; and let none enter, lest I break your pate. 220 Lioc. Come, come, Antipholus ; we dine too late. [Hxeunt. ACT III. Scene I. — The Sama Enter Antipholus of Epliesus, Deomio of Ephesus, Angelo, and Balthazae. Ant. E. Good Siguier Angelo, you must excuse us all ; My wife is shrewish, when I keep not hours. Say, that I linger'd with you at your shop To see the making of her oarcanet. And that to-morrow you will bring it home. But here's a villain, that would face me down He met me on the mart, and that I beat him, And charg'd him with a thousand marks in gold ; And that I did deny my wife and house. — Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean ' by this ? 10 Dro^^ E. Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know. That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show : If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink. Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. Ant. E. I think, thou art an ass. Dro. E. Marry, so it doth appear, By the wrongs I suifer, and the blows I bear. I should kick, being kick'd, and being at that You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass. Ant. E. You are sad, Siguier Balthazar : 'pray God, our cheer May answer my good will, and your good welcome here. * Bal. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear. 105 Act III. THE COMErY OF EREORS. Scene I. Ant. E. O Signior Balthazar, either at flesh. or fish, A table-full of ■welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. Bal. Good . meat, sir, is common ; that every churl affords. Aid. E. And welcome more common, for that 's nothing but words. Bal. Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast. Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host, and more sparing guest : But though my cates be mean, take them in good part ; Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. But soft ! my door is lock'd. Go bid them let us in. so Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Jin ! Bro. S. [Within.] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, idiot, patch ! Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch. Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st for such stoi-e, When one is one too many 1 Go get thee from the door. Bro. E. What patch is made our porter 1 — My master stays in the street. Bro. S. [Within.] Let him walk from whence he came, lest he catch cold on 's feet. Ant. E. Who talks within there ? ho! open the door. Bro. S. [Within.] Right, sir : I '11 tell you when, an you '11 tell me wherefore. Ant. E. Wherefore 1 for my dinner : I have not din'd to-day. *) Bro. S. [Within.] Nor to-day here you must not ; come again when you may. Ant. E. What art thou that keep'st me out from the house I owe ? Bro. S. [Within.] The porter for this time, sir, and my name is Dromio. Bro. E. O villain ! thou hast stolen both mine ofiice and my name : The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame. If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place. Thou wouldst have chang'd thy face for a name, or thy name for an ass. iMce. [Within.] What a coil is there ! Dromio, who are those at the gate ? Bro. E. Let my master in. Luce. Lace. [Within.] Faith noj he comes too late ; And so tell your master. Bro. E. Lord ! I must laugh. — m Have at you with a proverb : — Shall I set in my staff? Luce. [Within.] Have at you with another: that 's — When ? can you tell 1 Bro. S. [Within.] If thy name be called Luce, Luce, thou hast answer'd him well. Ant. E. Do you hear, you minion 1 you '11 let us in, I hope ? LiMx. [Within.] I thought to have ask'd you. Bro. S. [Within.] And you said, no. Bro. E. So ; come, help : well struck ! there was blow for blow. Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in. Luce. [Within.] Can you tell for whose sake 1 Bro. E. Master, knock the door hard. Luce. [Within.] Let him knock till it ^ ache. Ant. E. You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down. LvLce. [Within.] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town ? m Adr. [Within.] Who is that at the door, that keeps all this noise 1 Bro. S. [Within.] By my troth, your town is troubled with unruly boys. Ant. E. Are you there, wife? you might have come before. Adr. [Within.] Your wife, sir knave? go get you from the door. Bro. E. If you went in pain, master, this knave would go sore. Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor wel- come : we would fain have either. Bed. In debating which was best, we shall part with neither. Bro. E. They stand at the door, master : bid them welcome hither. Ant. E. There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in. Bro. E. You would say so, master, if your garments were thin. 70 Your cake there is warm within ; you stand here in the cold : It would make a man mad as a buck to be so bought and sold. Ant. E. Go fetch me something : I '11 break ope the gate. Bro. S. [Within.] Break any breaking here, and I '11 break your knave's pate. Bro. E. A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind ; Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind. 106 Act III. THE COMEDY OF EERORS. Scene II. Dro. S. [Within.'] It seems, thou wantest breaking. Out upon thee, hind ! JDro. E. Here 's too much out upon thee ! I pray thee, let me in. Dro. S. [Withini\ Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and fish have no fin. Ant. E. Well, I '11 break in. Go borrow me a crow. so Dro. E. A crow without feather ? master, mean you so ? For a fish without a fin, there 's a fowl with- out a feather. If a crow help us in, sirrah, we 11 pluck a crow together. Aini. E. Go get thee gone : fetch me an iron crow. Bal. Have patience, sir ; O ! let it not be so : Herein you war against your reputation. And draw within the compass of suspect The unviolated honour of your wife. Once this, — your long experience of her wisdom, Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, so Plead on her part some cause to you unknown ; And. doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse Why at this time the doors are made against you. Be rul'd by me : depart in patience. And let us to the Tiger all to dinner ; And about evening come yourself alone. To know the reason of this strange restraint. If by strong hand you ofier to break in, Now in the stirring passage of the day, A vulgar comment will be made of it ; loo And that supposed by the common rout Against your yet ungalled estimation, That may with foul intrusion enter in. And dwell upon your grave when you are dead : For slander lives upon succession ; For ever housed, where it gets possession. Anl. E. You have prevail'd. I will depart in quiet, And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry. I know a wench of excellent discourse, — Pretty and witty, wild and yet, too, gentle, — There will we dine : this woman that I mean, My wife (but, I protest, without desert) 112 Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal : To her will we to dinner. — Get you home, And fetch the chain ; by this, I know, 't is made; Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine ; For there 's the house : that chain will I bestow (Be it for nothing but to spite my wife) Upon mine hostess there. Good sir, make haste. Since mine own doors refuse to entei-tain me, I '11 knock elsewhere, to see if they '11 disdain me. 121 Ang. I'll meet you at that place, some hour hence. Atd. E. Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense. \Exewnt, Scene II. — The Same. Entm' LuciANA and Antipholus of Syracuse. Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot A husband's oflice 1 Shall, Antipholus, Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot? Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous % If you did wed my sister for her wealth, Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness : Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth ; Muffle your false love with some show of blindness ; Let not my sister read it in your eye ; Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator ; 10 Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ; Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger ; Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted ; Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint ; Be secret-false : what need she be acquainted I What simple thief brags of his own attaint ? ■ 'T is double wrong, to truant with your bed, And let her read it in thy looks at board : Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed ; 111 deeds are doubled with an evil word. 20 Alas, poor women ! make us but believe. Being compact of credit, that you love us ; Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve ; We in your motion turn, and you may move us. Then, gentle brother, get you in again : Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife. 'T is holy sport to be a little vain, When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. Ant. S. Sweet mistress (what your name is else, I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine), so Less in your knowledge, and your grace, you show not, Than our earth's wonder ; more than earth divine. Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak : 107 Act III. THE COMEDY OP EERORS. Scene II. Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallo-w, weak, The folded meaning of your ■words' deceit. Against my soul's pure truth, why labour you To make it wander in an unknown field 1 Are you a god 1 would you create me new ? Transform me then, and to your power I '11 yield. 4o But if that I am I, then well I know. Your weeping sister is no wife of mine. Nor to her bed no homage do I owe : Far more, far more, to you do I decline. O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, ■ To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears. Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote : Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed I '11 take thee, and there lie ; And, in that glorious supposition, think, so He gains by death, that hath such means to die : Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink ! Zmc. What ! are you mad, that you do reason so t Ant. S. Not mad, but mated ; how, I do not know. Lite. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. Ant S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by. Ltoc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight. Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night. Luc. Why call you me love t call my sister so. Ant. S. Thy sister 's sister. Luc. That 's my sister. Ant. S. No ; eo It is thyself, mine own self's better part ; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart ; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim. Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be. Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee. Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life: Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife. Give me thy hand. Luc. O, soft, sir ! hold you still : I '11 fetch my sister, to get her good will, ro [Exit. Enter Dromio of Syracuse, Iiastily. Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio? where runn'st thou so fast 1 Bro. S. Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio 1 am I your man, am I myself 1 Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself. Dro. S. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and besides myself. Ant. S. What woman's man? and how besides thyself? so Bro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman ; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee ? Bro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast : not that, 1 being a beast, she would have me ; but that she, being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me. Ant. S. What is she t 89 Bro. S. A very reverend body ; ay, such a one as a man may not speak of, without he say, sir-reverence. I have but lean luck in the match, and yet she is a wondrous fat marriage. Ant. S. How dost thoti mean a fat marriage? Bro. S. Marry, sir, she's the kitchen- wench, and all grease ; and I know not what use to put her to, but to make a lamp of her, and run from her by her own light. I warrant, her rags, and the tallow in them, will burn a Poland winter : if she lives till doomsday, she'll bum a week longer than the whole world. i"" Ant. S. What complexion is she of ? Bro. S. Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like so clean kept : for why she sweats ; a man may go over shoes in the grime of it. Ant. S. That 's a fault that water wUl mend. Bro. S. No, sir ; 't is in grain : Noah's flood could not do it. Ant. S. What 's her name ? Bro. S. Nell, sir ; but her name and three quartera, that is, an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to hip. in Ant. S. Then she bears some breadth ? Bro. S. No longer from head to foot, than from hip to hip : she is spherical, like a globe ; I could find out countries in her. Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland ? Bro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks : I found it out by the bogs. los Act IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene I. Ant. S. Where Scotland ? Bro. S. I found it by the barrenness, hard in the palm of the hand. izi Ant. S. Where France ? Bro. S. In her forehead ; armed and re- verted, making war against her hair. Ant. S. Where England ? Bro. S. I look'd for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no whiteness in them : but I guess, it stood in her chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it. Ant. S. Where Spain ? iso Bro. S. Faith, I saw it not ; but I felt it hot in her breath. Ant. S. Where America, the Indies 1 Bro. S. O ! sir, upon her nose, all o'er embellished with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the hot breath of Spain, who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose. Ant. S. Where stood Belgia, the Nether- lands 1 Bro. S. O ! sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; call'd me Dromio; swore. I was assured to her ; told me what privy marks I had about me, as the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her as a witch. And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith, and my heart of steel. She had transform'd me to a curtail-dog, and made me turn i' the wheel. Ant. S. Go hie thee presently post to the road : — An if the wind blow any way from shore, I will not harbour in this town to-night : — If any bark put forth, come to the mart, i5o Where I will walk till thou return to me. If every one knows us, and we know none, 'T is time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone. Bro. S. As from a bear a man would run for life, So fly I from her that would be my wife. [Exit. Ant. S. There's none but, witches do in- habit here. And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence. She that doth call me husband, even my soul Doth for a wife abhor ; but her fair sister, Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse, lei Hath almost made me traitor to myself : But, lest myself be guilty to self- wrong, I '11 stop mine ears against the mermaid's song. JEnter Angelo. Ang. Master Antipholus ? Ant. S. Ay, that 's my name. An^. 1 know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain. I thought to have ta'en you at the Poiijentine; The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long. Ant. S. What is your will that I shall do with this 1 170 Anff. What please yourself, sir : I have made it 'for you. Ant. S. Made it for me, sirf I bespoke it not. Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. Go home with it, and please your wife withal ; And soon at supper-time I '11 visit you, And then receive my money for the chain. Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, For fear you ne'er see chain, nor money, more. Ang. You are a merry man, sir. J'are yorl well. [Exit. Ant. S. What I should think of this, I cannot tell ; iso But this I think, there 's no man is so vain, That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain. I see, a man here needs not live by shifts. When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. I '11 to the mart, and there for Dromio stay : If any ship put out, then straight away. [Exit. ACT IV. Scene I. — The Same. Enter a Merchant, Angelo, and an Officer. Mer. You know, since Pentecost the sum is due, And since I have not much importun'd you ; Nor now I had not, but that I am bound To Persia, and want gilders for my voyage : Therefore make present satisfaction. Or I '11 attach you by this officer. Ang. Even just the sum, that I do owe to you. Is growing to me by Antipholus ; And, in the instant that I met with you. He had of me a chain : at five o'dook m I shall receive the money for the same, 109 Act IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene I. Pleaseth you walk with, me down to his house, I will discharge my bond, and thank you too. ETtter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dbomio of Ephesus. Off. That labour may you save : see where he comes. Ant. E. While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou And buy a rope's end, that will I bestow Among my wife and her confederates. For locking me out of my doors by day. — But soft, I see the goldsmith. — Get thee gone ; Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 20 Dro. E. I buy a thousand pound a year : I buy a rope ! [Exit. Ant. E. A man is well holp up that trusts to you : I promised your presence, and the chain ; But neither chain, nor goldsmith, came to me. Belike, you thought our love would last too long, If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not. Ang. Saving your merry humour, here's the note How much your chain weighs to the utmost caract, The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion. Which doth amount to three odd ducats more so Than I stand debted to this gentleman : I pray you, see him presently discharg'd, For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it. Ant. E, I am not fumish'd with the present money ; Besides, I have some business in the town. Good signior, take the stranger to my house. And with you take the chain, and bid my wife Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof : Perchance, I will be there as soon as you. Ang. Then you wDl bring the chain to her yourself ? «) Ant. E. No ; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough. Ang. Well, sir, I wUl. Have you the chain about you ? Ani. E. An if I have not, sii-, I hope you have, Or else you may return without your money. Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain : Both wind and tide stay for this gentleman, And I, to blame, have held hun here too long. Ant. E. Good Lord ! you use this daUiance, to excuse Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. I should have chid you for not bringing it, so But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl. Mer. The hour steals on : I pray you, sir, despatch. Ang. You hear, how he importunes me : the chain — AnLE. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money. Ang. Come, come J you know, I gave it you even now. Either send the chain, or send me by some token. Ant. E. Fie ! now you run this humour out of breath. Come, where 's the chain? I pray you, let me see it. Mer. My business cannot brook this dal- liance. Good sir, say, whe'r you '11 answer me, or no : If not, I '11 leave him to the officer. ei Avi. E. I answer you ! what should I answer you ? Ang. The money that you owe me for the chain. Ant. E. I owe you none, till I receive the chain. Ang. You know, I gave it you half an hour since. Ant. E. You gave me none : you wrong me much to say so. Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it: Consider how it stands upon my credit. Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. Off. I do, 70 And charge you in the duke's name to obey me. Ang. This touches me in reputation. — Either consent to pay this sum for me, Or I attach you by this officer. Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had? Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar'st. Ang. Here is thy fee : arrest him, officer. — I would not spare my brother in this case. If he should scorn me so apparently. Off. I do arrest you, sir. You hear the suit. 80 Ant. E. I do obey thee, till I give thee bail. — But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear As all the metal in your shop will answer. 110 Act IV. THE COMEDY OF EREORS. Scene. II. Ang. Sirj sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, To your notorious shame, I doubt it not. Unter Deomio of Syracuse. Bro. S. Master, there is a bark of Epi- damnum, That stays but till her owner comes aboard, And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir, I have convey'd aboard, and I have bought The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae. so The ship is in her trim : the merry wind Blows fair from land ; they stay for nought at all. But for their owner, master, and yourself. Ant. E. How now % a madman ! Why, thou peevish sheep. What ship of Epidamnum stays for me ? Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope ; And told thee to what purpose, and what end. Dro. S. You sent me for a rope's end as soon. You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. loo Ant. E. I will debate this matter at more leisure. And teach your ears to list me with more heed. To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight ; Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk That 's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry. There is a purse of ducats : let her send it. Tell her, I am arrested in the street, And that shall bail me. Hie thee, slave, be gone. On, oflScer, to prison tOl it come. [Exewnt Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and . Ant. E. Dro. S. To Adriana? that is where we din'd, 110 Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband : She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. Thither I must, although against my will. For servants must their masters' minds fulfil. [Exit. Scene II. — The Same. Enter Adriana amd Luciana. Adr. Ah ! Luciana, did he tempt thee so ? Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye That he did plead in earnest 1 yea or no ? Look'd he or red or pale t or sad or merrily ? What observation mad'st thou, in this case. Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face ? Luc. First he denied you had in him no right. Adr. He meant, he did me none : the more my spite. Luc. Then swore he, that he was a stranger here. Adr. And true he swore, though yet for- sworn he were. lo Luc. Then pleaded I for jaa. Adr. And what said he ! Luc. That love I begg'd for you, he begg'd of me. Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love 1 Luc. With words that in an honest suit might move. First, he did praise my beauty ; then, my speech. Adr. Didst speak him fair] Zmc. Have patience, I beseech. Adr. I cannot, nor I will not hold me stUl: My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere, lU-fac'd, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere ; Yicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind, 21 Stigmatical in making, worse in mind. Ziic. Who would be jealous then of such a one? No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone. Adr. Ah ! but I think him better than I say. And yet would herein others' eyes were worse. Far from her nest the lapwing cries away : My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse. Enter Deomio of Syracuse. Dro. S. Here, go : the desk ! the purse ! sweet now, make haste. Zmc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? Dro. S. By running fast. Adr. Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well ? SI Dro. S. No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell : A devil in an everlasting garment hath him, One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel ; A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough ;. A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff j 111 Act IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene 111. A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow- lands : A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well ; One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40 Adr. Why, man, what is the matter? Dro. S. I do not know the matter : he is 'rested on the case. Adr. What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit. Dro. S. I know not at whose suit he is arrested well ; But is in a suit of buflf which 'rested him, that can I tell. Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk ? Adr. Go fetch it, sister. [Exit Luciana.] — This I wonder at, That he, unknown to me, should be in debt :— Tell me, was he arrested on a band ? Bro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing ; so A chain, a chain. Do you not hear it ring? Adr. What, the chain ? Dro. S. No, no, the bell. 'T is time that I were gone : It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one. Adr. The hours come back ! that did I never hear. Bro. S. Oyes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a' turns back for very fear. Adr. As if Time were in debt ! how fondly dost thou reason ! Dro. S. Time is a very bankrout, and owes more than he 's worth, to season. Nay, he 's a thief too : have you not heard men say. That Time comes stealing on by night and day? 60 If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way, Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day? Re-enter Luciana. Adr. Go, Dromio : there 's the money, bear it straight, And bring thy master home immediately.- — ■ Come, sister ; I am press'd down with con- ceit; Conceit, my comfort, and my injury. [Exeunt. ScKNE III. — The Same. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. Ant. S. There 's not a man I meet but doth salute me. As if I were their well-acquainted friend ; And every one doth call me by my name. Some tender money to me, some invite me ; Some other give me thanks for kindnesses ; Some offer me commodities to buy : Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop, And show'd me sUks that he had bought for me. And, therewithal, took measure of my body. Sure, these are but imaginary wUes, lo And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. Enter Dromio of Syracuse. Dro. S. Master, here 's the gold you sent me for.— What have you got the picture of old Adam new-apparell'd ? Ant. S. What gold is this ? What Adam dost thou mean ? Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that Adam that keeps the prison : he that goes in the calf s skin that was kUl'd for the Prodigal : he that came behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty. 20 Ant. S. I understand thee not. Dro. S. No ? why, 't is a plain case : he that went, like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a fob, and 'rests them ; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men, and gives them suits of durance ; he that sets up his rest to do more exploits with his mace, than a morris-pike. Ant. S. What, thou mean'st an officer ? Dro. S. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band ; he that brings any man to answer it, that breaks his band ; one that thinks a man always going to bed, and says, " God give you good I'est ! " 32 Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any ship puts forth to-night? may we be gone ? Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since, that the bark Expedition put forth to-night ; and then were you hindered by the sergeant to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you. Ant. S. The fellow is distract, and so am I. 40 And here we wander in illusions. Some blessed power deliver us from hence ! 112 Act IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene IV. Enter a Courtesan. Gowr. "Well met, well met, Master Anti- pholus. I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now : Is that the chaiii you promis'd me to-day ? Ant. S. Satan, avoid ! I charge thee, tempt me not ! Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan 1 Ant. S. It is the devil. Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam, and here she comes in the habit of a licht wench : and thereof comes that the wenches say, " God damn me," that 's as much as to say, "God make me a light wench." It is written, they appear to men like angels of light : light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn ; ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her. Cour. Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir. Will you go with me? we'll mend our dinner here. Bra. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon- meat, or bespeak a long spoon. «> Ant. S. "Why, Dromio 1 Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with the devil. Ant S. Avoid, thou fiend ! what tell'st thoti me of supping 1 Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress •: I conjure thee to leave me, and be gone. Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner, Or for my diamond the chain you promis'd. And I '11 be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Dro. S. Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail, ro A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, A nut, a cherry-stone ; But she, more covetous, would have a chain. Master, be wise : an if you give it her, The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it. Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain. I hope you do not mean to cheat me so. Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch ! Come, Dromio, let us go. Dro. S. " Fly pride," says the peacock : mistress, that you know. [Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. Cour. Now, outof doubt,Antipholusismad, Else would he never so demean himself. si A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats. And for the same he promis'd me a chain ; Both one and other he denies me now. The reason that I gather he is mad. Besides this present instance of his rage, 10 Is a mad-tale he told to-day at dinner. Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. Belike, his wife, acquainted with his fits. On purpose shut the doors against his way. oo My way is now, to hie home to his house, And tell his wife, that, being lunatic. He rush'd into my house, and took perforce My ring away. This course I fittest choose. For forty ducats is too much to lose. [Exit. Scene IV. — The Same. Enter Antipholxis o/EpJissus and the Officer. Ant. E. Fear me not, man ; I will not break away : I '11 give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money, To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for. My wife is in a wayward mood to-day. And will not lightly trust the messenger. That I should be attach'd in Ephesus, I tell you, 't will sound harshly in her ears. Enter Dromio of Ephestjts with a rope's end. Here comes my man : I think he brings the money. — How now, sir ? have you that I sent you for ? Dro. E. Here's that, I warrant you, will pay them all. w Ant. E. But where 's the money 1 Dro. E. "WTiy, sir, I gave the money for the rope. Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope ? Dro. E. I'll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate. Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home 1 Dro. E. To a rope's end, sir; and to that end am I return'd. Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will wel- come you. [Beating him. Off. Good sir, be patient. Dro. E. Nay, 't is for me to be patient ; I am in adversity. 21 Off. Good now, hold thy tongiie. Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands. Ant. E. Thou whoreson, senseless villain ! Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel your blows. Ant. E. Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an ass. Dro. E. I am an ass, indeed ; you may prove it by my long ears. I have serv'd him 113 Ac?r IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene IV. from the hour of my nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he heats me ■with beating ; when I am warm, he cools me with beating : I am wak'd -with it, when I sleep ; rais'd with it, when I sit ; driven out of doors with it, when I go from home ; wel- comed home with it, when I return : nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a beggar wont her brat, and, I think, when he hath lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door. Ant. E. Come, go along : my wife is coming yonder. « Enter Adkiana, Luciana, tlie Cowrtesan, and Pinch. Bro. E. Mistress, respioe finem, respect your end ; or rather the prophecy, like the parrot, " Beware the rope's end." Ant. E. Wilt thou still talk ? [Beats him. Cowr. How say you now ] is not your husband mad ? Adr. His incivility confirms no less. — Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer ; Establish him in his true sense again. And I will please you what you will demand. Imc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks ! 50 Cour. Mark, how he trembles in his ecstacy ! Pinch. Give me your hand, and let me ' feel your pulse. Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear. Finch. I charge thee, Satan, hous'd within this man. To yield possession to my holy prayers. And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight : I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven. Ant. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace ! I am not mad. Adr. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul ! Ant. E. You minion, you, are these your customers 1 eo Did this companion with the safiron face Revel and feast it at my house to-day, Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut, And I denied to enter in my house 1 Adr. O husband, God doth know, you din'd at home ; Where would you had remain'd until this time, Free from these slanders, and this open shame ! Ant. E. Dined at home ! Thou, villain, what say'st thou 1 Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say you did not dine at home. Ant. E. Were not my doors lock'd up, and I shut out ? 70 Dro. E. Perdy, your doors were lock'd, and you shut out. Ani. E. And did not she herself revile me there \ Dro. E. Sans fable, she herself revil'd you there. Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me ? Dro. E. Certes, she did; the kitchen- vestal scorn'd you. Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from thence f Dro. E. In verity, you did : — my bones bear witness, That since have felt the vigour of his rage. Adr. Is 't good to soothe him in these con- traries '! Pinch. It is no shame : the fellow finds his ■^ein, 80 And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy. Ant. E. Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to arrest me. Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you. By Dromio here, who came in haste for it. Dro. E. Money by me? heart and good will you might, But, surely, master, not a rag of money. Ant. E. Went'st not thou to her for a purse of ducats ? Adn: He came to me, and I deliver'd it. I/uc. And I am witness with her that she did. Dro. E. God and the rope-maker bear me witness, so That I was sent for nothing but a rope ! Pinch. Mistress, both man and master is possess'd : I know it by their pale and deadly looks. They must be bound, and laid in some dark room. Ant. E. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day ] And why dost thou deny the bag of gold % Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth. Dro. E. And, gentle master, I receiv'd no gold; But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out. Adr. Dissembling villain ! thou speak'st false in both. loo Ant. E. Dissembling harlot ! thou art false in all, And art confederate with a damned pack. To make a loathsome abject scorn of me ; 114 Act V. THE COMEDY OF EREOE.S. Scene I. But with these nails I 'II pluck out these false eyes, That wovild behold in me this shameful sport. Adr. O, bind him, bind him ! let him not come near me. Pinch. More company ! — the fiend is strong within him. Luc. Ah me ! poor man, how pale and wan he looks ! Enter tlvree or four, and bind Antipholus of Ephesus wnd Dromio of Efliesus. Ant. E. What, will you murder me % Thou gaoler, thou, I am thy prisoner : wilt thou suffer them no To make a rescue ? Off. Masters, let him go : He is my prisonier, and you shall not have him. Finch. Go bind this man, for he is frantic too. Adr. What wUt thou do, thou peevish officer ? Hast thou delight to see a wretched man Do outrage and displeasure to himself? Off. He is my prisoner : if I let him go, The debt he owes will be requir'd of me. Adr. 1 wiU discharge thee, ere I go from thee. Bear me forthwith unto his creditor, 120 And, knowing how the debt grows, I wUl pay it. Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd Home to my house. — O most unhappy day ! Ant. E. O most unhappy strumpet ! I)ro. E. Master, I am here enter'd in bond for you. Ant. E. Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me 1 Dro. E. Will you be bound for nothing ? be mad, good master ; Cry, the devil ! Luc. God help, poor souls ! how idly do they talk ! Adr. Go bear him hence. — Sister, go you with me. — lao [Exeunt PisrcH and Assistants with Ant. E. and Deo. E. Say now, whose suit is he arrested at 1 Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith; do you know him ? Adf. I know the man. What is the sum he owes ? Off. Two hundred ducats. Adr. Say, how grows it due? Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him. Adr. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not. Cowr. Whenas your husband, all in rage, to-day Came to my house, and took away my ring (The ring I saw upon his finger now). Straight after did I meet him with a chain. 140 Adr. It may be so, but I did never see it. — Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is : I long to know the truth hereof at' large. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse, with his rapier dra/um, and Deomio of Syracuse. Luc. God, for thy mercy ! they are loose again. Adr. And come with naked swords. Let 's call more help. To have them bound again. Off. Away ! they '11 kill us. [Exeunt Adriana, Luciana, Courtesan, and Officer. Ant. S. I see, these witches are afraid of swords. Dro. S. She that would be your wife now ran from you. Avi. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence : 149 I long, that we were safe and sound aboard. Dro. S. Faith, stay here this night, they will surely ! do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold. Methinks they are such a gentle nation, that but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my heart to stay here stUl, and turn witch. Ant. S. I will not stay to-night for all the town ; Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. [Exevmt. ACT V. Scene I. — The Same. Before an Abbey. Enter Merchant and Angelo. Ang. I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd you; But, I protest, he had the chain of me, Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. Mer. How is the man esteem'd here in the city? Ang. Of very reverend reputation, sir. Of credit infinite, highly belov'd, Second to none that lives here in the city : His word might bear my wealth at any time. 115 Act V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene I. Mer. Speak softly : yonder, as I think, he walks. Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Ang. 'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck, lo Which he forswore most monstrously to have. Good sir, draw near to me, I '11 speak to him. — Signior Antipholus, I wonder much That you would put me to this shame and trouble ; And not without some scandal to yourself, With circumstance and oaths, so to deny This chain, which now you wear so openly : Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment, You have done wrong to this my honest friend j Who, but for staying on our controversy, 20 Had hoisted sail, and put to sea to-day. This chain you had of me : can you deny it ? Ant. S. I think, I had : I never did deny it. Mer. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too. Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it, or for- swear it 1 Mer. These ears of mine, thou know'sfc, did hear thee. Fie on thee, wretch ! 't is pity that thou liv'st To walk where any honest men resort. Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus. I '11 prove mine honour and mine honesty ao Against thee presently, if thou dar'st stand. Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. [They d/raw. Enter Adriana, Luciana, Courtesan, and others, Adr. Hold ! hurt him not, for God's sake ! he is mad. — Some get within him, take his sword away. Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. Dro. S. Run, master, run ; for God's sake take a house ! This is some priory ; — in, or we are spoil'd. [Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. to the Abbey. Enter the Abbess. Abb. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither ? Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. Let us come in, that we may bind him fast, «> And bear him home for his recovery. Ang. 1 knew, he was not in his perfect wits. Mer. I am sorry now, that I did draw on him. Abb. How long hath this possession held the man 1 Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, And much different from the man he was ; But, till this afternoon, his passion Ne'er brake into extremity of rage. Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wrack of sea? Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye so Stray'd his affection in unlawful love ? A sin prevailing much in youthful men. Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing. Which of these sorrows is he subject to fi Adr. To none of these, except it be the last; Namely, some love, that drew him oft from home. Abb. You should for that have reprehended him. Adr. Why, so I did. Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. Abb. Haply, in private. Adr. And in assemblies too. oo Abb. A.J, but not enough. Adr. It was the copy of our conference. In bed, he slept not for my urging it : At board, he fed not for my urging it ; Alone, it was the subject of my theme ; In company, I often glanced it : Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. Abb. And therefore came it that the man was mad : The venom clamours of a jealous woman Poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth. 70 It seems, his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing. And thereof comes it that his head is light. Thou say'st, his meat was sauc'd with thy up- braidings : Unquiet meals make ill digestions ; Thereof the raging fire of fever bred : And what 's a fever but a fit of madness ? Thou say'st, his sports were hinder'd by thy brawls : Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue But moody and dull melancholy, Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair, ao And at their heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures, and foes to life 1 In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast. The consequence is then, thy jealous fits Have scar'd thy husband from the use of wits. Zmc. She never reprehended him but mildly, 116 Act V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene I. When he demean'd himself rough, rude, and wildly. — Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not?" Adr. She did betray me to my own re- proof. 80 Good people, enter, and lay hold on him. Ahh. No ; not a creature enters in my house. Adr. Then, let your servants bring my husband forth. Ahh. Neither : he took this place for sanctuary. And it shall privilege him from your hands. Till I have brought him to his wits again. Or lose my labour in assaying it. Adr. I will attend my husband, be his nurse. Diet his sickness, for it is my office, And will have no attorney but myself, loo And therefore let me have him home with me. Ahh. Be patient ; for I will not let him stir. Till I have us'd the approved means I have, With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers, To make of him a formal man again. It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, A charitable duty of my order ; Therefore depart, and leave him here with me. Adr. J. will not hence, and leave my hus- band here ; And ill it doth beseem your holiness no To separate the husband and the wife. Ahh. Be quiet, and depart : thou shalt not have him. \Exit. Luc. Complain unto the duke of this in- dignity. Adr. Come, go : I will fall prostrate at his feet, And never rise, until my tears and prayers Have won his grace to come in person hither. And take perforce my husband from the Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five : Anon, I 'm sure, the duke himself in person Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 120 The place of death and sorry execution, Behind the ditches of the abbey here. Ang. Upon what cause f Mer. To see a reverend Syracusian mer- chant, Who put unluckily into this bay Against the laws and statutes of this town, Beheaded publicly for his offence. Ang. See, where they come : we will behold his death. Luc. Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey Enter Duke, attended ; ^geon harelieaded ; with the Headsman and otlier Officers. Duke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly. If any friend will pay the sum for him, isi He shall not die, so much we tender him. Adr. Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess ! Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady: It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. Ad/r. May it please your grace, Antipholus, my husband, — Whom I made lord of me, and all I had. At your important letters, — this ill day A most outrageous fit of madness took him, That desperately he hurried through the street, wo (With him his bondman, all as mad as he) Doing displeasure to the citizens By rushing in their houses, bearing thence Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like. Once did I get him bound, and sent him home. Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went, That here and there his fury had committed. Anon, I wot not by what strong escape. He broke from those that had the guard of him. And with his mad attendant and himself, iso Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords. Met us again, and, madly bent on us, Chas'd us away ; tUl, raising of more aid. We came again to bind them. Then they fled Into this abbey, whither we pursued them ; And here the abbess shuts the gates on us. And will not suffer us to fetch him out. Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence. Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy com- mand. Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help. 160 Duke. Long since thy husband serv'd me in my wars. And I to thee engag'd a prince's word. When thou didst make him master of thy bed. To do him all the grace and good I could.— Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate. 117 Act v. THE COMEDY OP ERROES. Scene I. And bid the lady abbess come to me. I will determine this, before I stir. Eater a Servant. Serv. O mistress, mistress ! shift and save yourself. My master and his man are both broke loose, Beaten the maids a-ro>f, and bound the doctor, 170 Whose beard they have sing'd off with brands of fire ; And ever as it blazed they threw on him Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair. My master preaches patience to him, and the while His man with scissors nicks him like a fool ; And, sure, unless you send some present help, Between them they will kill the conjurer. Adr. Peace, fool ! thy master and his man are here. And that is false thou dost report to us. Serv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true ; iso I have not breath'd almost, since I did see it. He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you, To scorch your face, and to disfigure you. \Gry within. Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress: fly, be gone. Duke. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds ! Adr. Ah me, it is my husband ! Witness you, That he is borne about invisible : Even now we hous'd him in the abbey her,e. And now he 's there, past thought of human reason. Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus. Ant. E. Justice, most gracious duke ! O ! grant me justice, m Even for the service that long since I did thee. When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took Deep scars to save thy life ; even for the blood That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. .Mge. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote, I see my son Antipholus, and Dromio ! Ant. E. Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there ! She whom thou gav'st to me to be my wife. That hath abused and dishonour'd me. Even in the strength and height of injury, aoo Beyond imagination is the wrong That she this day hath shameless thrown on me. Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just. Ant. E. This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me, While she with harlots feasted in my house.' Duke. A grievous fault. Say, woman, didst thou so 1 Adr. No, my good lord : myself, he, and my sister. To-day did dine together. So befall my soul, As this is false he burdens me withal. Luc. Ne'er may I look on day, nor sleep on night, 210 But she tells to your highness simple truth. Ang. O perjur'd woman ! They are both forsworn : In this the madman justly chargeth them. Ani. E. My liege, I am advised what I say: Neither disturbed with the effect of wine, Nor heady-rash provok'd with raging ire, Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner : That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her. Could witness it, for he was with me then ; 220 Who parted with me to go fetch a chain, Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, Where Balthazar and I did dine together. Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, I went to seek him : in the street I met him. And in his company that gentleman. There did this perjur'd goldsmith swear me down, That I this day of him receiv'd the chain. Which, God he knows, I saw not ; for the which He did arrest me with an officer. 230 I did obey, and sent my peasant home For certain ducats : he with none retum'd. Then fairly I bespoke the officer, To go in person with me to my housa By the way we met My wife, her sister, and a rabble more Of vile confederates : along with them They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac'd villain, A mere anatomy, a mountebank, A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, 240 A needy, hoUow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch, A living dead man. This pernicious slave, Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer, And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 118 Act V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene I. And with no face, as 't were, outfacing me, Cries out, I was poasess'd. Then, altogether They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence, And ia a dark and dankish vault at home There left me and my man, both bound to- gether ; Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 250 I gain'd my freedom, and immediately Ran hither to your grace, whom I beseech To give me ample satisfaction For these deep shames, and great indignities. Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him. That he din'd not at home, but was lock'd out. Duhe. But had he such a chain of thee, or no? Ang. He had, my lord ; and when he ran in here. These people saw the chain about his neck. Mer. Besides, I will be sworn, these ears of mine aw Heard you confess you had the chain of him, After you first forswore it on the mart, And, thereupon, I drew my sword on you ; And then you fled into this abbey here, From whence, I think, you are come by miracle. Ant. E. I never came within these abbey- walls. Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me. I never saw the chain. So help me Heaven, As this is false you burden me withal. Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach is this ! 2?o I think, you all have drunk of Circe's cup. If here you hous'd him, here he would have been; If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly ; — You say, he din'd at home ; the goldsmith here Denies that saying. — Sirrah, what say you % Dro. E. Sir, he din'd with her there, at the Porpentine. Cov/r. He did, and from my finger snatch'd that ring. Arvl. E. 'Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her. Duke. Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here ] Gowr. As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace. zso Duhe. Why, this is strange. — Go call the abbess hither. — I think you all are mated, or stark mad. \Exvt cm Attendcmt. jEge. Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word. , Haply, I see a friend will save my life, And pay the sum that may deliver me. Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what tliou wilt. .^ge. Is not your name, sir, call'd Anti- pholus. And is not that your bondman Dromio 1 Dro. E. Within this hour I was his bond- man, sir; But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords : im Now am I Dromio, and his man unbound. ^ge. I am sure you both of you remember me. Dro. E. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you; For lately we were bound, as you are now. You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir ] ^ge. Why look you strange on me 1 you know me well. Ant. E. I never saw you in my life, till now. .^ge. O ! grief hath chang'd me, since you saw me last ; And careful hours, with Time's deformed hand, Have written strange defeatures in my face : a» But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice t Ant. E. Neither. JSge. Dromio, nor thou? Dro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I. ./Ege. I am sure thou dost. Dro. E. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not ; and whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him. ^ge. Not know my voice ! O, time's ex- tremity. Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue In seven short years, that here my only son 310 Knows not my feeble key of untun'd cares ? Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow. And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory. My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear : All these old witnesses (I cannot err) Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. ^ge. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, 321 Thou know'st we parted. But, perhaps, my son, 119 Act V. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. Scene T. Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery. Ant. E. The duke, and all that know me in the city, Can witness with me that it is not so. I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life. Duke. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years Have I been patron to Antipholus, During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa. I see, thy age and dangers make thee dote. 330 Enter Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. Abb. Most mighty duke, behold a man much WTong'd. \All gatlier to see them. Adr. I see two husbands, or mine eyes de- ceive me. Duke. One of these men is Genius to the other ; And so of these : which is the natural man, And which the spirit ? who deciphers them ? Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio : command him away. Dro. E. I, sir, am Dromio : pray, let me stay. Ant. S. JEtgeon. art thou not? or else his ghost ? Dro. S. O, my old master! who hath bound him here ? Abb. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds, 340 And gain a husband by hLs liberty. — Speak, old jSlgeon, if thou be'st the man That hadst a wife once called JEmilia, That bore thee at a burden two fair sons. ! if thou be'st the same -i3Egeon, speak. And speak unto the same Emilia ! ^ge. If I dream not, thou art Emilia. If thou art she, tell me, where is that son That floated with thee on the fatal raft ? Abb. By men of Epidamnum, he, and I, 350 And the twin Dromio, all were taken up : But, by-and-by, rude fishermen of Corinth By force took Dromio and my son from them, And me they left with those of Epidamnum. "Wliat then became of them, I cannot tell ; 1 to this fortune that you see me in. Duke. Why, here begins his morning story right. These two Antipholuses, these two so like. And these two Dromios, one in semblance, — Besides her urging of her wrack at sea ; — • sso These are the parents to these children, Which accidentally are met together. Antipholus, thou cam'st from Corinth first i Ant. S. No, sir, not I : T came from Syra- cuse. Duke. Stay, stand apart : I know not which is which. Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord. Dro. E. And I with him. Ant. E. Brought to this town by that most famous warrior, Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle. Adr. Which of you two did dine with me to-day ? 3-0 Ant. S. I, gentle mistress. Adr. And are not you my husband ? Ant. E. No ; I say nay to that. Ant. S. And so do I ; yet did she call me so; And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, Did call me brother. — What I told you then, I hope, I shall have leisure to make good. If this be not a dream I see and hear. Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. Ant. S. I think, it be, sir : I deny it not. Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain ar- rested me. 380 Ang. 1 think I did, sir : I deny it not. Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail. By Dromio ; but I think, he brought it not. Dro. E. No, none by me. Ant. S. This purse of ducats I receiv'd from you. And Dromio, my man, did bring them me. I see, we stiU did meet each other's man. And I was ta'en for him and he for me. And thereupon these errors are arose. Ant. E. These ducats pawn I for my father here. 390 Duke. It shall not need : thy father hath his life. Gour. Sir, I must have that diamond from you. Ani. E. There, take it ; and much thanks for my good cheer. Abb. Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains To go with us into the abbey here. And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes And all that are assembled in this place. That by this sympathised one day's error Have suffer'd wrong, go keep us company. And we shall make full satisfaction. «» Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail Of you, my sons ; and till this present hour My heavy burden ne'er deliver'd. — The duke, my husband, and my children both. And you the calendars of their nativity, Go to a gossips' feast, and joy with me : After so long grief such festivity ! 120 Tism TWO) mmowjiQ^o D&OMIO 0:E EFOESUS.^Metkinks. /cti yj-ymy rfLzss. yjul Ti/}bm,j hr'ol-hg.i-, rOMETTCOFSRMORS. ^ICT. I/: SCf.:\'.-:i yA'l .!ro. S. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard 1 E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark'd ? 410 S. Your goods, that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur. . S. He speaks to me. — I am your master, Dromio : Come, go with us ; we '11 look to that anon. Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him. \ExeMrd Ant. iS'., Ant. E., Ade., and Luc. Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master's house, Avt. Dro. That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner : She now shall be my sister, not my wife. Dro, E. Methinks, you are my glass, and not my brother : 1 see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. Will you walk in to see their gossiping ? 420 Dro. S. Not I, sir ; you are my elder. Dro. E. That 's a question : how shall we try it? Dro. S. We '11 draw cuts for the senior : till then, lead thou first. Dro. E. Nay, then thus : We came into the world like brother and brother ; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another. [Eoaeimt. \ii VEJSTUS AND ADONIS. Even as the sun with purple-colour'd face Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase ; Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn : Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him. "Thrice fairer than myself," thus she began, " The field's chief flower, sweet above compare. Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man, More white and red than doves or roses are j Nature, that made thee, with herself at strife, 11 Saith, that the world hath ending with thy life. " Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow ; If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed A thousand honey-secrets shalt thou know : Here come and sit, where never serpent And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses : "And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty, 20 Making them red and pale with fresh variety ; Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty : A summer's day will seem an hour but short, Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport." With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, The precedent of pith and livelihood, And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm. Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good : Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force Courageously to pluck him from his horse. Over one arm the lusty courser's rein, si Under her other was the tender boy, Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain. With leaden appetite, unapt to toy ; She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, He red for shame, but frosty in desire. The studded bridle on a ragged bough Nimbly she fastens ; (O, how quick is love !) The steed is stalled up, and even now To tie the rider she begins to prove : 40 Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust, And govern'd him in strength, though not ia lust. So soon was she along, as he was down, Each leaning on their elbows and their hips : Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips; And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, " If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open." He burns with bashful shame ; she with her tears Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks ; so Then with her windy sighs, and golden hairs, To fan and blow them dry again she seeks : He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss ; Whai follows more she murders with a kiss. Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stufi'd, or prey be gone ; Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin. And where she ends she doth anew begin. Forc'd to content, but never to obey, 61 Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face ; She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey. And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace ; Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers. So they were dew'd with such distilling showers. Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, So f asten'd in her arms Adonis lies ; 132 VENUS AND ADONIS. Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes : Rain added to a river that is rank, 71 Perforce will force it overflow the bank. Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale ; Still is he sullen, stiU he lours and frets, 'Twixt crimson shame, and anger ashy-pale ; Being red, she loves him best ; and being white, Her best is better'd with a more delight. Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; And by her fair immortal hand she swears, so From his soft bosom never to remove. Till he take truce with her contending tears. Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet ; And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt. Upon this promise did he raise his chin, Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave. Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in : So offers he to give what she did crave ; But when her lips were ready for his pay. He winks, and turns his lips another way. Never did passenger in summer's heat oi More thirst for drink than she for this good turn. Her help she sees, but help she cannot get ; She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn : "Oh, pity," 'gan she cry, "flint-hearted boy! 'T is but a kiss I beg ; why art thou coy 1 " I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now, Even by the stem and direful god of war. Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow. Who conquers where he comes, in every jar ; Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have. 102 " Over my altars hath he hung his lance. His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest, And for my sake hath leam'd to sport and dance. To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest ; Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red, Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. " Thus he that overrul'd, I oversway'd. Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain : no Strong-temper'd steel his stronger strengtl. obey'd. Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. O ! be not proud, nor brag not of thy might. For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight. "Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, — Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red, — The kiss shall be thiue own as well as mine. What seest thou in the ground ? hold up thy head : Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies ; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes ? 120 " Art thou asham'd to kiss 1 then wink again. And I will wink ; so shall the day seem night ; Love keeps his revels where there are but twain ; Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight : These blue-vein'd violets, whereon we lean. Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. " The tender spring upon thy tempting lip Shows thee unripe, yet may'st thou well be tasted. Make use of time, let not advantage slip ; Beauty within itself should not be wasted : iso Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime, Rot and consume themselves in little time. " Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old, lU-nurtur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O'erwom, despised, rheumatic, and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, Then might'st thou pause, for then I were not for thee ; But having no defects, why dost abhor me 1 " Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow ; Mine eyes are grey, and bright, and quick in turning ; i« My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow. My flesh is soft and plump ; my marrow burning ; My smooth moist hand, were it with thy' hand felt. Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. " Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or like a fairy trip upon the green. Or like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen : 123 VENUS AND ADONIS. Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. " "Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie ; These forceless flowers like sturdy trees sup- port me ; 152 Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky, From morn tUl night, even where I list to sporb me : Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee? " Is thine own heart to thine own face afl'ected ? Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left 1 Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected ; Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft. 160 Narcissus so himself himself forsook, And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. " Torches are made to light, jewels to wear. Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear ; Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse : Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty ; Thou wast begot, — to get it is thy duty. " Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed. Unless the earth with thy increase be fed ? i-o By law of nature thou art bound to breed, That thine may live, when thou thyself art dead ; And so in spite of death thou dost survive. In that thy likeness still is left alive." By this, the love-sick queen began to sweat, For where they lay the shadow had forsook them. And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat, With burning eye did hotly overlook them ; Wishing Adonis had his team to guide. So he were like him, and by Venus' side. And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, 181 And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye. His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight. Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky. Souring his cheeks, cries, "Fie! no more of love : The sun doth bum my face ; I must remove." " Ah me ! " quoth Venus, " young, and so unkind 1 What bare excuses mak'st thou to be gone ! I '11 sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind Shall cool the heat of this descending sun : 190 I '11 make a shadow for thee of my hairs ; If they burn too, I '11 quench them with my tears. " The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, And, lo ! I lie between that sun and thee : The heat I have from thence doth little harm, Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me ; And were I not immortal, life were done Between this heavenly and earthly sun. "Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel 1 Nay, more thain flint, for stone at rain relenteth. 200 Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel What 'tis to love? how want of love tor- menteth ? O ! had thy mother borne so hard a mind. She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind. " What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit ? What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss? Speak, fair ; but speak fair words, or else be mxite : •Give me one kiss, I '11 give it thee again, And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. 210 '' Fie ! lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, Well-painted idol, image dull and dead, Statue contenting but the eye alone. Thing like a man, but of no woman bred : Thou art no man, though of a man's com- plexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction." This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause ; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong : Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause ; 220 And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak. And now her sobs do her intendments break. m VENUS AND ADONIS. Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand; Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground ; Sometimes her arms infold him like a band : She would, he will not in her arms be bound ; And when from thence he struggles to be gone. She locks her lUy fingers one in one. " Fondling,'' she saith, " since I have hemm'd thee here, Within the circuit of this ivory pale, 230 1 11 be a park, and thou shalt be my deer ; iFeed where thou wilt, on mountain oi' in dale ; Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry. Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains Ue. " Within this limit is relief enough, Sweet bottom-grass, and high delightful plain, Eound rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough. To shelter thee from tempest, and from rain : Then be my deer, since I am such a park ; No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark." 240 At this Adonis smiles, as in disdain. That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple : Love made those hollows, if himself were slain. He might be buried in a tomb so simple ; Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie. Why, there Love liv'd, and there he could not die. These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking. Being mad before, how doth she now for wits 1 Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking ? 2=0 Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn. To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn ! Now which way shall she turn ? what shall she say? Her words are done ! her woes the more increasing ; The time is spent, her. object will away, And from her twining arms doth urge re- leasing. ' Pity ! " she cries, " some favour, some remorse ! " Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse. But lo ! from forth a copse that neighbours by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud, Adonis' trampling courser doth espy, 261 And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud : The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds. And now his woven girths he breaks asunder ; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds. Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder : The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth. Controlling what he was controlled with. 270 His ears up-prick'd ; his braided hanging mane Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end ; His nostrils drink the air, -and forth again. As from a furnace, vapours doth he send : His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage, and his high desire. Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps. With gentle majesty, and modest pride ; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps. As who should say, Lo ! thus my strength is tried ; sso And this I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by. What recketh he his rider's angry stir. His flattering holla, or his " Stand, I say ?" What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur. For rich caparisons, or trapping gay 1 He sees his love, and nothing else he sees. For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. Look, when a painter would siu'pass the life. In limning out a well-proportion'd steed, 290 His art with nature's workmanship at strife. As if the dead the living should exceed ; So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone. Round-hoof 'd, short jointed, fetlocks shag and long. Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide. High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide : 125 VENUS AND ADONIS. Look, wliat a horse should have, he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 300 Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares ; Anon he starts at stirring of a feather : To bid the wind a base he now prepares. And whe'r he run or fly, they know not whether ; For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave Hke feather'd wings. He looks iipon his love, and neighs unto her ; She answers him, as if she knew his mind : Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind ; am Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels. Beating his kind embracements with her heels. Then, like a melancholy malcontent. He vails his tail, that, like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent : He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd. Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd. His testy master goeth about to take him, When, lo ! the unback'd breeder, full of fear. Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him. With her the horse, and left Adonis there, aa As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Outstripping crows that striv« to overfly them. All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits. Banning his boisterous and unruly beast : And now the happy season once more fits. That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest ; For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong. When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue. An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd, 331 Bumeth more hotly, swelleth with more rage : So of concealed sorrow may be said ; Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage ; But when the heart's attorney once is mute. The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. He sees her coming, and begins to glow Even as a dying coal revives with wind. And with his bonnet hides his angry brow ; Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind. Taking no notice that she is so nigh, 341 For all askance he holds her in his eye. O, what a sight it was, wistly to view How she came stealing to the wayward boy ! To note the fighting conflict of her hue. How white and red each other did destroy ! But now her cheek was pale, and by-and-by It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky. Now was she just before him as he sat, And like a lowly lover down she kneels ; 350 With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels : His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print, As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint. O, what a war of looks was then between them ! Her eyes, petitioners, to his eyes suing ; His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them ; Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd tne wooing : And all this dumb play had his acts made plain With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain. seo Full gently now she takes him by the hand, A lily prison'd in a gaol of snow. Or ivory in an alabaster band ; So white a friend engirts so white a foe : This beauteous combat, wilful and un- willing, Show'd like two silver doves that sit Br billing. Once more the engine of her thoughts began : " O fairest mover on this mortal round, 'Would thou wert as I am, and I a man. My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound ; 370 For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee. Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee." " Give me my hand," saith he, " why dost thou feel it?" " Give me my heart," saith she, " and thou shalt have it ; 0, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it, And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it: 026 VENUS AND ADONIS. Then love's deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard." " For shame ! " he cries, " let go, and let me go; My day's delight is past, my horse is gone, sao And 't is your favdt I am bereft him so : I pray you hence, and leave me here alone : For all my mind, my thought, my busy care. Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.'' Thus she replies: "Thy palfrey, as he should, Welcomes the warm approach of sweet de- sire : Affection is a coal that must be cool'd ; Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire. The sea hath boimds, but deep desire hath none ; Therefore, no marvel though thy horse be " How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree. Servilely master'd with a leathfern rein. ! But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee. He held such petty bondage in disdain ; Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. " Who sees his true-love in her naked bed. Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white. But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed. His other agents aim at like delight 1 400 Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold To touch the fire, the weather being cold 1 " Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy, And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee. To take advantage on presented joy ; Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee. O ! learn to love ; the lesson is but plain, And once made perfect, never lost again." " I know not love," quoth he, " nor will not know it. Unless it be a boar, and then I ohase it ; 410 'T is much to borrow, and I will not owe it ; My love to love is love but to disgrace it ; For I have heard it is a life in death, That laughs, and weeps, and all but with a breath. 'S Who wears a garment shapeless and un- finish'd ? Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth 1 If springing things be any jot diminish'd, They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth : The colt that 's back'd and burden'd being young, Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong. 420 " You hurt my hand with wringing ; let us part. And leave this idle theme; this bootless chat : Remove your siege from my unyielding heart ; To love's alarms it will not ope the gate : Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery. For where a heart is hard, they make no battery." " What ! canst thou talk ? " quoth she, " hast thou a tongue 1 0, 'would thou hadst not, or I had no hear- ing ! Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong ; I had my load before, now press'd with bearing : 430 Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh- sounding, Ear's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep- sore wounding. " Had I no eyes, but ears, my ears would love That inward beauty and invisible ; Or, were I deaf, thy outward parts wouid move Each part in me that were but sensible : Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see. Yet should I be in love by touching thee. " Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me. And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, 440 And nothing but the very smell were left me. Yet would my love to thee be still as much ; For from the still'tory of thy face excelling Comes breath perfum'd, that breedeth love by smelling. "But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste. Being nurse and feeder of the other four : 127 VENUS AND ADONIS. Would they not wish the feast might ever last, And bid Suspicion double-lock the door, Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest. Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast V 460 Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd, Which to his speech did honey passage yield : Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. This ill presage advisedly she marketh : Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth. Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh. Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, 460 Or like the deadly bullet of a gun. His meaning struck her ere his words begun. And at his look she flatly falleth down, Eor looks kill love, and love by looks re- viveth : A smUe recures the wounding of a frown ; But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth ! The silly boy, believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red ; And all-amaz'd brake ofi" his late intent, For sharply he did think to reprehend her, 470 Wliich cunning love did wittily prevent : Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her ! For on the grass she lies, as she were slain. Till his breath breatheth life in her again. He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks. He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, He chafes her lips, a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd : He kisses her ; and she, by her good will Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. 48i The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day : Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth, Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array He cheers the morn, and all the earth re- lieveth : And as the bright sun glorifies the sky. So is her face Ulumin'd with her eye ; Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd, As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine Were never four such lamps together mix'd. Had not his clouded with his brow's repine ; But hers, which through the crystal tears gave Ught, «' Shone like the moon in water seen by night. " O ! where am I ? " quoth she, " in earth or heaven. Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire ? What hour is this ? or morn or weary even 1 Do I delight to die, or life desire 1 But now I liv'd, and life was death's annoy ; But now I died, and death was lively joy. " O, thou didst kill me ; kill me once again : Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, soo Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain. That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine ; And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen, But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. " Long may they kiss each other for this cure ! O, never let their crimson liveries wear. And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year ! That the star-gazers, having writ on death. May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath. 610 " Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips im- printed, What bargains may I make, still to be sealing 1 To sell myself I can be well contented. So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing ; Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips Set thy seal-manual on my wax- red lips. " A thousand kisses buys my heart from me ; And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. What is ten hundred touches unto thee ? Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone 1 Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, 621 Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble ? " " Fair queen," quoth he, " if any love you owe me, Measure my strangeness with my unripe years : las VENUS AND ADONIS. Before I know myself, seek not to know me ; No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears : The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, Or being early pluck'd is sour to taste. "Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west : The owl, night's herald, shrieks, 'tis very late ; ssi The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest. And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light. Do summon us to part, and bid good night. " Now let me say good night ; and so say you; If you will say so, you shall have a kiss." " Good night," quoth she ; and, ere he says adieu. The honey fee of parting tender'd is : Her arms do lend his neck a sweet em- brace ; Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face. 640 Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth. Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth : He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth, (Their lips together glu'd,) fall to the earth. Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth ; Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey. Paying what ransom the insulter wUIeth ; 550 Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high. That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry. And having felt the sweetness of the spoil. With blindfold fury she begins to forage ; Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil, And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage ; Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Porgetting shame's pure blush, and honour's wrack. Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard em- bracing, Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much handling, eoo Or as the fleet-foot roe that 's tir'd with chasing, Or like the froward infant stUl'd with dandling, He now obeys^ and now no more resisteth, While she takes all she can, not all she listeth. What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering. And yields at last to every light impression 1 Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing. Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds com- mission : Afiection faints npt like a pale-fac'd cowaa-d. But then woos best, when most his choice is froward. 570 When he did frown, O ! had she then gave over. Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd. Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover ; What though the rose have prickles, yet 't is pluck'd : Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast. Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last. For pity now she can no more detain him ; The poor fool prays her that he may depart : She is resolv'd no longer to restrain him. Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, sso The which, by Cupid's bow she doth pro- test. He carries thence incaged in his breast. " Sweet boy," she says, " this night I '11 waste in sorrow, For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet to- morrow 'i Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match ? " He tells her, no ; to-morrow he intends To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. " The boar ! " quoth she, whereat a sudden pale. Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, 590 VENUS AND ADONIS. Usurps her olieek : she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws ; She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck. He on her belly falls, she on her back. Now is she in the very lists of love, Her champion mounted for the hot en- counter : All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manage her, although he mount her; That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy. To clip Elysium, and to lack her joy. m Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes. Do surfeit by the eye, and pine the maw, Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. The warm effects which she in him finds missing. She seeks to kindle with continual kissing. But all in vain ; good queen, it will not be : She hath assay'd as much as may be prov'd ; Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee ; She 's Love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd. 610 " Eie, fie ! " he says, " you crush me ; let me go : You have no reason to withhold me so." " Thou hadst been gone," quoth she, " sweet boy, ere this, But that thou toldst me, thou wouldst hunt the boar. O ! be advis'd ; thou know'st not what it is With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore, Whose tushes never-sheath'd he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill. " On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes ; ew His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret ; His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes ; Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way. And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay. " His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd, Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter ; His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture : The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, pai-t ; through whom he rushes. o*) " Alas ! he nought esteems that face of thine, To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes ; Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne. Whose full perfection all the world amazes ; But having thee at vantage, (wondrous dread !) Would root these beauties, as he roots the mead. " O ! let him keep his loathsome cabin still ; Beauty hath nought to do with, such foul fiends : Come not within his danger by thy will ; They that thrive well take counsel of their friends. 84o When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. " Didst thou not mark my face 1 was it not white ? Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? Grew I not faint ? and fell I not downright 1 Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast. " For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy Doth call himself Afiection's sentinel ; eso Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny. And in a peaceful hour doth cry, ' Kill, kill!' Distempering gentle Love in his desire. As air and water do abate the fire. " This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy. This canker that eats up Love's tender spring, This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring. Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear. That if I love thee, I thy death should fear; mo " And, more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry-chafing boar. Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore ; 130 VENUS AND ADONIS. Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed, Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the head. " What should I do, seeing thee so indeed. That tremble at the imagination 1 The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed. And fear doth teach it divination : m I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow ; If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow. " But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, Or at the fox, which lives by subtlety, Or at the roe, which no encounter dare : Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs, And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds. " And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles, eso How he outruns the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles : The many musets through the which he goes. Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. " Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep. To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell ; And sometime where earth-delving conies keep. To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ; And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer ; Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear : " For there his smell with others being mingled, eoi The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt. Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out ; Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies. " By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear. To hearken if his foes pursue him still ; Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ; 700 And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick, that hears the passing-bell. "Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way : Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur For misery is trodden on by many. And being low, never reliev'd by any. " Lie quietly, and hear a little more ; Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise : To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, in Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralise. Applying this to that, and so to so ; For love can comment upon every woe. " Where did I leave?" — " No, matter where," quoth he ; " Leave me, and then the story aptly ends : The night is spent."—" Why, what of that ? " quoth she. " I am," quoth he, " expected of my friends ; And now 't is dark, and going I shall fall." " In night," quoth she, " desire sees best of all. 720 " But if thou fall, O ! then imagine this, The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. Rich preys make true men thieves ; so do thy lips Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn. Lest she should steal a kiss, and die for- " Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason : Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine. Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason. For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine, 7so Wherein she fram'd thee, in high heaven's despite. To shame the sun by day, and her by night. " And therefore hath she brib'd the Destinies, To cross the curious workmanship of Nature ; To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature; Making it subject to the tyranny Of mad mischances, and much misery ; " As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood ; 131 VENUS AND ADONIS. The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint mi Disorder breeds by heating of the blood : Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair, Swear Nature's death for framing thee so fair. " And not the least of all these maladies But in one minute's fight brings beauty under : Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities. Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder. Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd, and done. As mountain-snow melts with the mid-day sun, t3o " Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity. Love-lacking vestals, and self -loving nuns. That on the earth would breed a scarcity, And barren dearth of daughters and of sons. Be prodigal : the lamp that burns by night Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. " What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ? If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. 752 " So in thyself thyself art made away, A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life. Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets. But gold that's put to use more gold begets." " Nay then," quoth Adon, " you will fall again Into your idle overhandled theme ; 770 The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain. And all in vain you strive against the stream ; For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse. Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. " If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues. And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown ; For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there ; " Lest the deceiving harmony should run 78i Into the quiet closure of my breast ; And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest. No, lady, no ; my heart longs not to groan, But somidly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. " What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger; I hate not love, but your device in love. That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase : O strange excuse, 791 When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse ! " Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled, Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame ; Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves. " Love comforteth like sunshine after rain. But Lust's eflfect is tempest after sun ; soo Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done : Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies ; Love is all truth. Lust full of forged lies. " More I could tell, but more I dare not say ; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, in sadness, now I will away ; My face is full of shame, my heart of teen : Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended. Do burn themselves for having so offended." With this he breaketh from the sweet em- brace 8U Of those fair arms which bound Mm to her breast. And homeward through the dark laund runs apace ; Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd. Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky. So glides he in the night from Venus' eye ; Which after him she dart's, as one on shore Gazing upon a late-embarked friend, VENUS AND ADONIS. Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds con- tend : 820 So did the merciless and pitchy night Fold in the object that did feed her sight. Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood, Or, 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood; Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way. And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour-caves, as seeming troubled, sso Make verbal repetition of her moans : Passion on passion deeply is redoubled. " Ah me ! " she cries, and twenty times, " Woe, woe ! " And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She, marking them, begins a wailing note. And sings extemp'rally a woful ditty ; How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote ; How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty : Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe. And still the choir of echoes answer so. sio Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short : If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight In such-like circumstance, with such-like sport : Their copious stories, oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done. For who hath she to spend the night withal. But idle sounds resembling parasites ; Like shrill-tongu'd tapsters answering every call. Soothing the humour of fantastic wits 1 soo She says, " 'T is so : " they answer all, ".'Tisso;" And would say after her, if she said, « No." Lo ! here the gentle lark, weary of rest. From his moist cabinet mounts up on high. And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun jariseth in his majesty ; Who doth the world so gloriously behold. That cedar-tops and hills seem bumish'd gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good- morrow : " O thou clear god, and patron of all light, seo From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother. May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other." This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove. Musing the morning is so much o'erworn ; And yet she hears no tidings of her love : She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn : Anon she hears them chaunt it lustily. And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. sro And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face. Some twin'd about her thigh to make her stay. She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache. Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. By this she hears the hounds are at a bay. Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder Wreath'd np in fatal folds, just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder : sso Even so the timorous Yelping of the hounds Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds. For now she knows it is no gentle chase. But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud. Because the cry remaineth in one place. Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud ; Finding their enemj' to be so curst. They all strain court'sy who shall cope him first. This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which it enters to surprise her heart ; sm Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear. With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part; 1.33 VENUS AND ADONIS. So she at these sad signs draws up her breath, And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death. " Hard-fa vour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, m Hateful divorce of love," (thus chides she Death,) " Grim-griiming ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean. To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath, Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ? " If he be dead, — O no ! it cannot be. Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it ; — O yes ! it may ; tliou hast no eyes to see. But hatefully at random dost thou hit. mo Thy mark is feeble age ; but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart. " Hadst thou but bid beVare, then he had spoke, And hearing him thy power had lost his power. The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke ; They bid thee crop a weed, thou, pluck'st a flower. Love's golden arrow at him should have fled, And not Death's ebon dart, to strike him dead. " Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weeping ? What may a heavy groan advantage thee 1 oso Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see 1 Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour. Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour." Here overcome, as one fuU of despair, She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopp'd The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd ; But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain. And with his strong course opens them again. oeo 0, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye ; Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry ; Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly, and dare not stay the field. Thus stands she in a trembling ecstacy, TUl, cheering up her senses aU-dismay'd, She tells them, 't is a causeless fantasy. And childish error, that they are afraid ; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more : — And with that word she spied the hunted boar J 900 Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread. Which madly hurries her she knows not whither : This way she runs, and now she will no further, ''Jut back retires to rate the boar for mur- ther. A. thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways ; yhe treads the path that she untreads again : Her more than haste is mated with delays. Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, sio Full of respects, yet nought at all respect- In hand with aU things, nought at all effecting. Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound. And asks the weary caitiff for his master ; And there another licking of his wound, 'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster ; And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim, 920 Against the welkin volleys out his voice ; Another and another answer him. Clapping their proud tails to the ground below. Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go. Look, how the world's poor people are amaz'd At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gaz'd. Infusing them with dreadful prophecies : 134 VENUS AND ADONIS. But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her- cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief ; All entertain'd, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, mo But none is best ; then join they all together, like many clouds consulting for foul weather. By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla ; A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well : The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel ; For now reviving joy bids her rejoice. And flatters her it is Adonis' voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass ; Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, ssi Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd. O hard-beHeving love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous ! Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes ; Despair and hope make thee ridiculous : The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. »9o How she unweaves the web that she hath wrought ; Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame : It was not she that call'd him all-to-naught ; Now she adds honours to his hateful name ; She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings. Imperious supreme of all mortal things. " No, no," quoth she, " sweet Death, I did but jest ; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear, Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe ; loos Then, gentle shadow, (truth I must confess,) I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease. " 'T is not my fault : the boar provok'd my tongue ; Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander ; 'T is he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong ; I did but act, he 's author of thy slander. Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both, without ten women's wit." Thus hoping that Adonis is alive. Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ; low And that his beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate : Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories His victories, his trivimphs, and his glories. " O Jove ! " quoth she, " how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind, To wail his death, who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ; For he being dead, with him ,is beauty slain. And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again. " Fie, fie, fond love ! thou art so full of fear, As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves : 1023 Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves." Even at this word she hears a merry horn. Whereat she leaps that was but late foriprn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies : The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light; And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight : Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view, 1031 lake stars asham'd of day, themselves with- drew. Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit. Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain. And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit. Long after fearing to creep forth again : So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Into the deep-dark cabins of her head : Where they resign their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain ; 1010 Who bids them still consort with ugly night. And never wound the heart with looks again ; Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. VENTJS AND ADONTS. Whereat each tributary subject quakes ; As -when the wind, imprison'd in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth's foundation Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise. That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes ; loso And, being open'd, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd : No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, But stole his blood, and seem'd with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth. Over one shoulder doth she hang her head. Durably she passions, franticly she doteth ; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead : Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow, 1061 Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now. Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three ; And then she reprehends her mangling eye. That makes more gashes where no breach should be : His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled ; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. " My tongue cannot express my grief for one. And yet," quoth she, "behold two Adons dead ! lo-o My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead : Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire ! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. " Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that's worth the viewing t Whose tongue is music now 1 what canst thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing 1 The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim ; But true sweet beauty liv'd and died with him. 1080 "Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! Nor sun nor wind wUl ever strive to kiss you : Having no fair to lose, you need not fear ; The Sim doth scorn, you, and the wind doth hiss you : But when Adonis liv'd, sim and sharp air Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair : " And therefore would he put his bonnet on. Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep ; The wind would blow it ofi', and, being gone. Play with his locks : then would Adonis weep. And straight, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears. 1092 " To see his face, the lion walk'd along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him ; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him ; If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey, And never fright the sUly lamb that day. " When he beheld his shadow in the brook. The fishes spread on it their golden gills ; noo When he was by, the birds such pleasure took. That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries, and ripe-red cherries ; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. " But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave. Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore ; Witness the entertainment that he gave : If he did see his face, why then, I know. He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so. mo " 'T is true, 't is true ; thus was Adonis slain : He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear. Who did not whet his teeth at him again. But by a kiss thought to persuade him there ; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheath'd, unaware, the tusk in his soft groin. VENUS AND ADONIS. " Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have kill'd him first: But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his ; the more am I accurst." With this she f alleth in the place she stood. And stains her face with his congealed blood. 1122 She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold ; She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the wof ul words she told ; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes. Where, lo ! two lamps, burnt out, in dark- ness lies : Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect ; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd. And every beauty robb'd of his effect : 1132 " Wonder of time," quoth she, " this is my spite. That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. " Since thou art dead, lo ! here I prophesy, Son-ow on love hereafter shall attend : It shall be waited on with jealousy. Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end ; Ne'er settled equally, but high or low ; That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe. 1140 " It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud ; Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd With sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile : The strongest body shall it make most weak. Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. "It shall be sparing, and too full of riot. Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet. Pluck down the rich, ennch the poor with treasures ; iiso It shall be raging mad, and silly-mild. Make the young old, the old become a child. " It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear ; It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful, and too severe. And most deceiving, when it seems most just : Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward ; Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. " It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire ; Subject and servile to all discoiitents, iisi As dry combustions matter is to fire : Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, They that love best, their loves shall not enjoy." By this, the boy, that by her side lay kill'd, Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood, that on the ground lay spiU'd, A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white ; Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. 1170 She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell. Comparing it to her Adonis' breath ; And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death : She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears. " Poor flower,'' quoth she, " this was thy father's guise. Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire. For every little grief to wet his eyes : To grow unto himself was his desire, nso And so 't is thine ; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast, as in his blood. " Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast ; Thou art the next of blood, and 't is thy right : Lo ! in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night : There shall not be one minute in an hour. Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower." Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves ; by whose swift aid 1190 Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. 12 m Kim HENRY YL-PART 11. DRAMATIS PERSONS. King Heney the Sixth. Humphrey, Duke of Gloster, his Uncle. Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester. Richard Plant AGENET, Duke of York. Edward and Richard, his ISons. Duke of Somerset, \ Duke of Suffolk, ( Of the Kimg's Duke of Buckingham, C Party. Lord Clifford, amd his Son, ) Earl of Salisbury, ) „^ Earl op Warwick, J ■' Lord Scales, Governor of the Tower. Lord Say. Sir Humphrey Stafford, and his Brother. Sir John Stanley. Walter Whitmore. A Sea Captain, Master, amd Master' s-Mate. Two Gentlemen, Prisoners with Suffolk. Vaux. Hume and Southwell, Priests. ~ the York Faction. Bolingbroke, a Conjwrer. A Spirit raised by him. Thomas Horneb, an Armov/rer. Peter, his Man. Clerk of Ghatlumn. Mayor of Saint Alhams. SiMPCOX, OM Impostor. Two Murderers. Jack Cade. George, John, Dick, Smith tli^ Weamer, Michael, &c., Cade's Followers. Alexander Iden, a Kentish Genthma/n. Margaret, Queen to King Hemry. Eleanor, Duchess of Gloster. Margery Jourdain, a Witch. Wife to Svmpcox. Lords, Ladies, a/nd Attendants; Herald; Petitioners, Aldermen, a Beadle, Sheriff, and Officers; Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards, Soldiers, Messengers, &c. SCENE — In various parts of England. ACT L Scene I. — London. A Room of State in the Palace. Flowrish of trumpets : then Iw/u^oys. Enter, on one side, King Henry, Duke o/*Gloster, Salisbury, Warwick, and Cardinal Beau- fort ; on the other. Queen Margaret, led in by Suffolk; York, Somerset, Bucking- ham, and others, following. Suf. As by your high imperial majesty I had in charge at my depart for France, As procurator to your excellence. To marry Princess Margaret for your grace ; So, iu the famous ancient city. Tours, In presence of the Kings of Prance and Sicil, The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and Alengon, Seven earls, twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops, I have perform'd my task, and was espous'd : And humbly now upon my bended knee, lo In sight of England and her lordly peers. Deliver up my title in the queen To your most gracious hands, that are the substance Of that great shadow I did represent ; The happiest gift that ever marquess gave, The fairest queen that ever king receiv'd. K. Hen. Suffolk, arise. — Welcome, Queen Margaret : I can express no kinder sign of love. Than this kind kiss. — Lord ! that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness ; For thou hast given me, in this beauteous face, 21 A world of earthly blessings to my soul. If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. Q. Ma/r. Great King of England, and my gracious lord, The mutual conference that my mind hath had By day, by night, waking, and in my dreams, In courtly company, or at my beads, With you mine alderliefest sovereign. Makes me the bolder to salute my king With ruder terms, such as my wit affords, Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PAET II. Scene I. And over-joy of heart doth minister. si K. Hen. Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech, Her words y-clad with wisdom's majesty, Makes me from wondering fall to weeping joys ; Such is the fulness of my heart's content. Lords, with one cheerful voice welcome my love. All. Long live Queen Margaret, England's happiness ! Q. Mar. We thank you all. ^Flourish. Suf. My lord protector, so it please your grace, Hfere are the articles of contracted peace, jo Between our sovereign, and the French king Charles, For eighteen months concluded by consent. Olo. [Reads.'\ " Imprimis, It is agreed be- tween the French king, Charles, and William de la Poole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem ; and crown her Queen of England ere the thirtieth of May next en- suing. — Item, — That the duchy of Anjou and the coimty of Maine shall be released and delivered to the king her father " — ea K. Hen. Uncle, how now ? Glo. Pardon me, gracious lord ; Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart. And dimm'd mine eyes, that I can read no further. K. Hen. Uncle of Winchester, I pray, read on. Wm. " Item, — It is further agreed between them, — that the duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the king her father; and she sent over of the King of England's own proper cost and charges, without having any dowry." si K. Hen. They please us well. — Lord mar- quess, kneel down : We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk, And girt thee with the sword. — Cousin of York, We here discharge your grace from being regent r the parts of France, till term of eighteen months Be full expir'd. — Thanks, uncle Winchester, Gloster, York, Buckingham, Somerset, Salisbury, and Vv''arwick ; We thank you all for this great favour done. In entertainment to my princely queen. 71 Come, let us in ; and with all speed provide To see her coronation be perform'd. \Exeunt King, Queen, omd Suffolk. Glo. Brave peers of England, pillars of the state, To you Duke Humphrey must unload his grief, Your grief, the common grief of all the land. What ! did my brother Henry spend his youth, His valour, coin, and people, in the wars ? Did he so often lodge in open field. In winter's cold, and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance f ei And did my brother Bedford toil his wits, To keep by policy what Henry got 1 Have you ourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, Brave York, Salisbury, and victorious War- wick, Receiv'd deep scars in France and Normandy? Or hath mine uncle Beaufort, and myself, With all the learned coiincil of the realm. Studied so long, sat in the council-house Early and late, debating to and fro m How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe 1 And hath his highness in his infancy Been crown'd in Paris, in despite of foes 1 And shall these labours, and these honours, die? Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance. Your deeds of war, and all our counsel, die % O peers of England ! shameful is this league; Fatal this marriage ; cancelling your fame. Blotting your names from books of memory, Razing the characters of your renown, 100 Defacing monuments of conquer'd France, Undoing all, as all had never been ! Car. Nephew, what means this passionate discourse. This peroration with such circumstance 1 For France, 'tis ours; and we will keep it stm. Glo. Ay, uncle ; we will keep it, if we can ; But now it is impossible we should. Suffolk, the new-made duke that rules the roast, Hath given the duchy of Anjou, and Maine, Unto the poor King Reignier, whose large style no Agrees not with the leanness of his purse. Sal. Now, by the death of Him that died for all These counties were the keys of Normandy. — But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant soni W(vr. For grief, that they are past re- covery ; For, were there hope to conquer them again, U9 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene I. My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. Anjou and Maine ! myself did win them both; Those provinces these arms of mine did con- quer : And are the cities, that I got with wounds, Deliver'd up again with peaceful words'! 121 Mort Dieu ! York. For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffo- cate, That dims the honour of this warlike isle ! France should have torn and rent my very heart, Before I would have yielded to this league. I never read but England's kings have had Large sums of gold, and dowries, with their wives ; And our Kiag Henry gives away his own, 129 To match with her that brings no vantages. Glo. A proper jest, and never heard before, That Suffolk should demand a whole fifteenth. For costs and charges in transporting her ! She should have stay'd in France, and starv'd in France, Before — Cflsr. My Lord of Gloster, now you grow too hot. It was the pleasure of my lord the king. Glo. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind : 'T is not my speeches that you do mislike. But 't is my presence that doth trouble ye. i» Rancour will out : proud prelate, in thy face I see thy fury. If I longer stay. We shall begin our ancient bickerings. — Lordiugs, farewell ; and say, when 1 am gone, I prophesied, France wUl be lost ere long. {EaAt. Ga/r. So, there goes our protector in a rage. 'T is known to you he is mine enemy ; Nay, more, an enemy unto you all, And no great friend, I fear me, to the king. Consider, lords, he is the next of blood, iso And heir-apparent to the English crown : Had Henry got an eTnpire by his marriage, And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, There 's reason he should be displeas'd at it. Look to it, lords : let not his smoothing words Bewitch your hearts ; be wise, and circum- spect. What though the common people favour him, Calling him " Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloster;" Clapping their hands, and crying with loud voice — " Jesu maintain your royal excellence ! " leo With — " God preserve the good Duke Humphrey ! " I fear me, lords, for all this flattering gloss. He will be found a dangerous protector. Buck. Why should he then protect our sovereign. He being of age to govern of himself? — Cousin of Somerset, join you with me. And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, We'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. Can: This weighty business will not brook delay ; I '11 to the Duke of Suffolk presently. [Exit. Som, Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's pride, 171 And greatness of his place, be grief to us. Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal. His insolence is more intolerable Than all the princes' in the land beside : Jf Gloster be displac'd, he '11 be protector. Bv^k. Or thou, or I, Somerset, will be pro- tector. Despite Duke Humphrey, or the cardinal. [Eaxunt Buckingham and Somerset. Sal. Pride went before, ambition foUows him. While these do labour for their own prefer- ment, 180 Behoves it us to labour for the realm. I never saw but Humphrey, Duke of Gloster, Did bear him like a noble gentleman. Oft have I seen the haughty cardinal. More like a soldier, than a man o' the church. As stout and proud, as he were lord of all. Swear like a ruifian, and demean himself Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. — Warwick, my son, the comfort of my age. Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy house- keeping, 190 Hath won the greatest favour of the commons, Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey ; And, brother York, thy acts in Ireland, In bringing them to civil discipline. Thy late exploits, done in the heart of France, When thou wert regent for our sovereign, Have made thee fear'd and honour'd of the people. — Join we together, for the public good. In what we can, to bridle and suppress The pride of Suffolk, and the cardinal, 200 With Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition; And, as we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds. While they do tend the profit of the land. Wwr. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land. And common profit of his country. York. [Aside.] And so says York, for he hath greatest cause. Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene II. Sal. Then let 's make haste away, and look unto the main. War. Unto the main ! O father, Maine is lost; That Maine, which by main force Warwick did win. And would have kept, so long as breath did last : 210 Main chance, father, you meant ; but I meant Maine, Which I will win from Prance, or else be slain. \^Exeuvt Warwick and Saiisbury. Yorh. Apjoi a^nd Maine are given to the French ; Paris is lost : the state of Normandy Stands on a tickle point, now they are gone. .Suifolk concluded on the articles. The peers agreed, and Henry was well pleas'd. To change two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter. I cannot blame them all : what is 't to them ? 'Tis thine they give away, and not their own. 220 Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage. And purchase friends, and give to courtesans, StUl revelling, like lords, till all be gone ; Whileas the silly owner of the goods Weeps over them, and wrings his hapless hands. And shakes his head, and trembling stands aloof. While all is shar'd, and all is borne away. Ready to starve, and dare not touch his own: So York must sit, and fret, and bite his tongue. While his own lauds are bargain'd for, and sold. 230 Methinks, the realms of England, France, and Ireland, Bear that proportion to my flesh and blood. As did the fatal brand Althsea bum'd. Unto the prince's heart of Oalydon. Anjou and Maine, both given unto the French ! Cold news for me ; for I had hope of France, Even as I have of fertile England's soU. A day will come when York shall claim his own ; And therefore I will take the Nevils' parts, And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, 240 And, when I spy advantage, claim the crown. For that 's the golden mark I seek to hit. Nor shall proud Lancaster usurp my right. Nor hold the sceptre in his childish fist. Nor wear the diadem upon his head. Whose church-like humours fit not for a crown. Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve : Watch thou, and wake, when others be asleep. To pry into the secrets of the state. Till Henry, surfeiting in joys of love, 250 With his new bride, and England's dear- bought queen. And Humphrey with the peers be fall'n at jars: Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. With whose sweet smell the air shall be per- fum'd, And in my standard bear the arms of York, To grapple with the house of Lancaster ; And, force perforce, I '11 make him yield the crown. Whose bookish rule hath pull'd fair England down. [Exit. Scene II. — The Same. A Room in the Duke of Gloster's House. Enter Gloster and tlis Duchess. Duch. Why droops my lord, like over- ripen'd com, Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load ? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world ? Why are thine eyes fix'd to the sullen earth. Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight ■? What seest thou there? King Hemy's diadem, Enchas'd with all the honours of the world ? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face. Until thy head be circled with the same. 10 Put forth thy hand ; reach at the glorious gold.— What, is 't too short ? I '11 lengthen it with mine ; And, having both together heav'd it up. We '11 both together lift our heads to heaven. And never more abase our sight so low. As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. Glo. O Nell, sweet Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts : And may that thought, when I imagine ill Against my . king and nephew, virtuous Henry, 20 Be my last breathing in this mortal world. My troublous dream this night doth make me sad. 141 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. SCKNE II. DiLch. What dream'd my lord? tell me, and I '11 requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morniag's di-eam. Glo. Methought, this staif, mine office-badge in court, Was broke in twain : by whom, I have forgot, But, as I think, it was by the cardinal ; And on the pieces of the broken wand Were plac'd the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset, And William de la Poole, first Duke of Suffolk. so This was my dream : what it doth bode, God knows. Duch. Tut ! this was nothing but an argu- ment. That he that breaks a stick of Gloster's grove. Shall lose his head for his presumption. But list to me, my Humphrey, my sweet duke : Methought, I sat in seat of majesty, In the cathedral church of Westminster, And in that chair where kings and queens are crown'd ; Where Henry, and Dame Margaret, kneel'd to me. And on my head did set the diadem. 40 Glo. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide out- right. Presumptuous dame ! ill-nurtur'd Eleanor ! Art thou not second woman in the realm. And the protector's wife, belov'd of him 1 Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command. Above the reach or compass of thy thought ? And wilt thou still be hammering treachery. To tumble down thy husband, and thyself. From top of honour to disgrace's feet ? Away from me, and let me hear no more, bo Duch. What, what, my lord ! are you so choleric ■ With Eleanor, for telling but her dream 1 Next time I '11 keep my dreams unto myself. And not be check'd. Glo. Nay, be not angry, I am pleas'd again. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord protector, 't is his highness' pleasure. You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans, Whereas the king and queen do mean to hawk. Gh. I go. — Come, Nell ; thou wilt ride with us ? Duch. Yes, my good lord, I 'II follow presently. o 1 \Exe^mt Glosteb and Messenger. Follow I must ; I cannot go befoi-e. While Glos,ter bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, I would remove these tedious stumbling- blocks. And smooth my way upon their headless necks : And, being a woman, I will not be slack To play my part in Fortune's pageant. Where are you there ? Sir John ! nay, fear not, man. We are alone : here 's none but thee, and I. Enter Hume. Hume. Jesus preserve your royal majesty. Duch. What say'st thou ? majesty ! I am but grace. 71 Hume. But, by the grace of God, and Hume's advice. Your grace's title shall be multiplied. Duch. What say'st thou, man? hast thou as yet conferr'd With Margery Jourdain, the cunning witch And Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer ? And will they undertake to do me good ? Hume. This they have promised, — ^to show your highness A spirit rais'd from depth of under-ground. That shall make answer to such questions, so As by your grace shall be propounded him. Duch. It is enough : I '11 think upon the questions. When from Saint Albans we do make return, We '11 see these things effected to the full. Here, Hume, take this reward ; make merry, man, With thy confederates in this weighty cause. \Exit. Hume. Hume must make merry with the duchess' gold ; Marry, and shall 'But how now, Sir John Hume ? Seal up your lips, and give no words but — mum : The business asketh silent secrecy. oo Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch : Gold cannot come amiss, were she a devil. Yet have I gold, flies from another coast": I dare not say, from the rich cardinal, And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk ; Yet I do find it so : for, to be plain, They, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humour, Have hired me to undermine the duchess. And buz these conjurations in her brain. They say, a crafty knave does need no broker ; 100 142 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene III. Yet am I Suffolk and the cardmal's broker. Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near To call them both a pair of crafty knaves. Well, so it stands ; and thus, I fear, at last, Hume's knavery will be the duchess' wrack, And her attainture will be Humphrey's fall. Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. [Hxit. Scene III. — The Same. Palace. A Room in the Enter Petee, and others, with petitions. 1 Pet. My masters, let 's stand close : my lord proteptor will come this way by-and-by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the quill. 2 Pet. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he 's a good man ! Jesu bless him ! Enter' Suffolk amd Queen Margaret. 1 Pet. Here 'a comes, methihks, and the queen with him. I '11 be the first, sure. 2 Pet. Come back, fool ! this is the Duke of Suffolk, and not my lord protector. Suf. How now, fellow ? wouldst anything with me 1 1 Pet. I pray, my lord, pardon me : I took ye for my lord protector. 12 Q. Mar. " To my lord protector!" are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them. What is thine 1 1 Pet. Mine is, an't please your grace, against John Goodman, my lord cardinal's man, for keeping my house, and lands, and wife, and all, from me. Suf. Thy wife too? that is some wrong indeed. — What 's yours ? — What 's here ? [5eac&.] " Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons of Melford." — How now, sir knave 1 22 2 Pet. Alas ! sir, I am but a poor petitioner of our whole township. Peter. [Presenting his petition.^ Against my master, Thomas Horner, for saying, that the Duke of York was rightful heir to the crown. Q. Mar. What say'st thou ? did the Duke of York say, he was rightful heir to the crown ? Pet. That my master was ? No, forsooth : my master said, that he was ; and that the king was an usurper. 33 Suf. Who is there'! Enter Servants. Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant presently. — We '11 hear more of your matter before the king. [Eoaeunt Servants with Peter. Q. Mar, And as for you, that love to be protected Under the wings of our protector's grace, Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. [Tears tfte petition. Away, base cullions ! — Suffolk, let them go. All. Gome, let 's be gone. « [Eoaev/nt Petitioners. Q. Mwr. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise. Is this the fashion in the court of England ? Is this the government of Britain's isle. And this the royalty of Albion's king ? What ! shall King Henry be a pupil still. Under the surly Gloster's governance ? Am I a queen in title and in style. And must be made a subject to a duke ? I tell thee, Poole, when in the city Tours so Thou rann'st a tUt in honour of my love. And stol'st away the ladies' hearts of France, I thought King Henry had resembled thee. In courage, courtship, and proportion : But all his mind is bent to holiness. To number Ave- Maries on his beads ; His champions are the prophets and apostles ; His weapons, holy saws of sacred writ ; His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves Are brazen images of canonis'd saints. ee I would, the college of the cardinals Woiild choose him pope, and carry him to Rome, And set the triple crown upon his head : That were a state fit for his holiness. Suf. Madam, be patient ; as I was cause Your highness came to England, so will I In England work joxxr grace's full content. Q. Mar. Beside the haughty protector, have we Beaufort, The imperious churchman, Somerset, Buck- ingham, And grumbling York : and not the least of these, 10 But can do more in England than the king. Suf. And he of these that can do most of all. Cannot do more in England than the Nevils ; Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. Q. Mar. Not all these lords do vex me half so much. As that proud dame, the lord protector's wife : She sweeps it through the court with troops of ladies, More like an empress than Duke Humphrey's wife. 143 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene III. Strangers in court do take lier for the queen : She bears a duke's revenues on her back, so And in her heart she scorns our poverty. Shall I not live to be aveng'd on her 1 Contemptuous base-born callat as she is, She vaunted 'mongst her minions t' other day, The very train of her worst wearing-gown Was better worth than all my father's lands, Till Suffolk gave two dukedoms for his daughter. Suf. Madam, inyself have lim'd a bush for her; And plac'd a quire of such enticing birds. That she will light to listen to the lays, so And never mount to trouble you again. So, let her rest, and, madam, list to me ; For I am bold to counsel you in this. Although we fancy not the cardinal. Yet must we join with him, and with the lords. Till we have brought Duke Humphrey in disgrace. As for the Duke of York, this late complaint Will make but little for his benefit : So, one by one, we '11 weed them all at last. And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. 100 Enter King Heney, York, and Somerset ; Duke and Duchess of Gloster, Ga/rdinal Beaufort, Buckingham, Salisbury, cmd Warwick. K, Hen. For my part, noble lords, I care not which ; Or Somerset, or York, all 's one to me. York. If York have ill demean'd himself in France, Then let him be denay'd the regentship. Som. If Somerset be unworthy of the place, Let York be regent ; I will yield to him. War. Whether your grace be worthy, yea, or no, Dispute not that : York is the worthier. Ca/r. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. War. The cardinal 's not my better in the field. no Buck. All in this presence are thy betters, Warwick. War. Warwick may live to be the best of all. Sal. Peace, son ! — and show some reason, Buckingham, Why Somerset should be preferr'd in this. ■ Q. Mar. Because the king, forsooth, will have it so. Glo. Madam, the king is old enough him- self To give his censure. These are no women's matters. Q. Mar. If he be old enough, what needs your grace To be protector of his excellence 1 Glo. Madam, I am protector of the realm. And at his pleasure will resign my place. 121 Suf. Resign it then, and leave thine inso- lence. Since thou wert king, (as who is king but thou ?) The commonwealth hath daily run to wrack ; The Dauphin hath prevail'd beyond the seas ; And all the peers and nobles of the realm Have been as bondmen to thy sovereignty. Car. The commons hast thou rack'd ; the clergy's bags Are lank and lean with thy extortions. Som. Thy sumptuous buildings, and thy wife's attire, iso Have cost a mass of public treasury. Buck. Thy cruelty in execution Upon offenders hath exceeded law. And left thee to the mercy of the law. Q. Man: Thy sale of offices, and towns in France, If they were known, as the suspect is great. Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. \Exit Gloster. Tim Queen drofs her fan. Give me my fan : what, minion ! can you not? [Giving the Duchess a box on tfie ea/r. I cry you mercy, madam : was it you ? Duch. Was't I? yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman : 140 Could I come near your beauty with my nails, I 'd set my ten commandments, in your face. K. Hen. Sweet aunt, be quiet : 't was against her will. Dvjch. Against her will ! Good king, look to 't in time ; She'll hamper thee, and dandle thee like a baby : Though in this place most master wear no breeches, She shall not strike Dame Eleanor unreveng'd. [Exit. Buck. Lord cardinal, I will follow Eleanor, And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds : She 's tickled now ; her fume needs no spurs. She '11 gallop far enough to her destruction isi [Exit. Re-enter Gloster. Glo. Now, lords, my choler being over- blown 144 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene IV. With walking once about the quadrangle, I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. As for your spiteful false objections, Prove them, and I lie open to the law ; But God in mercy so deal with my soul, As I in duty love my king and country. But, to the matter that we have in hand. — I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man loo To be your regent in the realm of France. Suf. Before we make election^ give me leave To show some reason, of no little force, That York is most unmeet of any man. York. I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet : First, for I cannot flatter thee in pride ; Next, if I be appointed for the place, My lord of Somerset will keep me here, Without discharge, money, or furniture, TUl France be won iuto the Dauphin's hands Last time I danc'd attendance on his will, in Till Paris was besieg'd, famish'd, and lost. War. That can I witness : and a fouler fact Did never traitor in the land commit. Suf. Peace, headstrong Warwick ! War. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace ? Enter Servants of Suffolk, bringing in HoENER and Peter. Suf. Because here is a man accus'd of treason : Pray God, the Duke of York excuse himself ! York. Doth any one accuse York for a traitor ? K.Hen What mean'st thou, Suffolk ? Tell me, what are these ? lao Sif. Please it your Majesty, this is the man That doth accuse his master of high treason. His words were these : — That Richard, Duke of York, Was rightful heir unto the English crown, And that your majesty was an usurper. K. Hen. Say, man, were these thy words ? Hor. An 't shall please your majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter. God is my witness, I am falsely accused by the villain. Pet. By these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as we were scouring my Lord of York's armour. York. Base dunghill villain, and mechanical, I '11 have thy head for this thy traitor's speech. — I do beseech your royal majesty, Let him have all the rigour of the law. Hor. Alas ! my lord, hang me, if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentic'e; 13 "6 and when I did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees, he would be even with me. I have good witness of this : therefore, I beseech your majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain's accusation. aoa K. Hen. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law ? Glo. This doom, my lord, if I may judge : Let Somerset be regent o'er the French, Because in York this breeds suspicion ; And let these have a day appointed them For single combat in convenient place ; For he hath witness of his servant's malice. This is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom. 211 Som. I humbly thank your royal majesty. Hor. And I accept the combat willingly. Pet. Alas ! my lord, I cannot fight : for God's sake, pity my case ! the spite of man prevaileth against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me ! I shall never be able to fight a blow. O Lord, my heart ! Glo. Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hang'd. K. Hen. Away with them to prison ; and the day Of combat shall be the last of the next month. — ■ 220 Come, Somerset, we '11 see thee sent away. [Exeunt Scene IV.— The Same. The Duke of Gloster's Garden. Enter Margery Jourdain, Hume, Southwell, and Bolingbroke. Hume. Come, my masters ; the duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises. Boling. Master Hume, we are therefore provided. Will her ladyship behold and hear our exorcisms ] Hume. Ay ; what else \ fear you not her courage. Boling. I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit : but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft, while we be busy below ; and so, I pray you, go in God's name, and leave us. \Exit Hume.] Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate, and grovel on the earth : — John Southwell, read you, and let us to our work.12 Enter Duchess above. Buck. Well said, my masters, and welcome all. To this gear ; the sooner, the better. Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene IV. Baling. Patience, good lady ; -wizards know their times. Deep night, dark night, the silent of the night. The time of night when Troy was set on fire; The time when screech-owls cry, and ban-dogs howl. And spirits walk, and ghosts break up their graves, That time best fits the work we have in hand. Madam, sit you, and fear not : whom we raise, 21 We will make fast within a hallow'd verge. \Here they perform the ceremonies he- longing, and make tlie circle ; Boling- BROKE, or Southwell, reads, Con- juro te, &c. It thunders and lightens terribly ; then the Spirit riseth. Spir. Adsum. M. Jourd. Asmath ! By the eternal God, whose name and power Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall ask ; For till thou speak, thou shalt not pass from hence. Spir. Ask what thou wilt. — That I had said and done ! Boling. First, of the king. What shall of him become ? Spir. The Duke yet lives, that Henry shall depose ; 30 But him outlive, and die a violent death. \As the Spirit speaks, Southwell lorites the answer. Boling. What fates await the Duke of Sufiblk? Spir. By water shall he die, and take his end. Boling. What shall befall the Duke of Somerset ? Spir. Let him shun castles : Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains, Than where castles mounted stand. Have done, for more I hardly can endure. Boling. Descend to darkness and the burning lake : False fiend, avoid ! 40 [Thunder and lightning. Spirit descends. Enter York and Buckingham, hastily, with tlieir Gvmrds. York. Lay hands upon these traitors, and their trash. Beldam, I think, we watch'd you at an inch. What ! madam, are you there ? the king and commonweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains : My lord protector wUl, I doubt it not, See you well guerdon'd for these good deserts. Duch. Not half so bad as thine to Eng- land's king. Injurious duke, that threat'st where is no cause. Buck. True, madam, none at aU. What call you this 1 \Showing her the papers. Away with them ! let them be clapp'd up close, "5 And kept asunder. — ^You, madam, shall with us : Stafford, take her to thee. — [Exit Duchess yj-om above. We'll see your trinkets here all forthcoming; All, away ! [Exeunt Guards, with Southwell, Bolingbroke, &c. York. Lord Buckingham, methinks, you watch'd her well : A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon ! Now, pray, my lord, let 's see the devil's wiit. What have we here ? [Reads^ "The duke yet Uves, that Henry shall depose ; But him outlive, and die a violent death." eo Why, this is just, Aio te, jEaeida, Romanos vincere posse. Well, to the rest : " Tell me, what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk ?— By water shall he die, and take his end. — What shall betide the Duke of Somerset "i — Let him shun castles : Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains. Than where castles mounted stand." Come, come, my lords ; 70 These oracles are hardly attain'd, And hardly understood. The king is now in progress towards Saint Albans ; With him the husband of this lovely lady : Thither go these news, as fast as horse can caiTy them ; A sorry breakfast for my lord protector. Bux:k. Your grace shall give me leave, my Lord of York, To be the post, in hope of his reward. York. At your pleasure, my good lord. — • Who 's within there, ho ! Enter a Servant. Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, To sup with me to-morrow night. — Away ! si [Exeunt. 146 Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene I. ACT II. Scene I. — Saint Albans. Enter King Heney, Queen Maegaret, Gloster, Cardinal, and Suffolk, vdtk Falconers hollaing. Q. Maur. Believe me, lords, for .flying at tlie brook, I saw not better sport these seven years' day : Yet, by your leave, the wind was very high, And, ten to one, old Joan had not gone out. K. Hen. But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest ! — To see how God in all his creatures works ! Yes, man and birds are fain of climbing high. Suf. No marvel, an it like your majesty, My lord protector's hawks do tower so well : 10 They know their master loves to be aloft. And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. Glo. My lord, 't is but a base ignoble mind, That mounts no higher than a bird can soar. Ga/r. I thought as much : he 'd be above the clouds. Glo. Ay, my lord cardinal : how think you by that? Were it not good your grace could fly to heaven ] K. Hen. The treasury of everlasting joy. Car. Thy heaven is on earth; thine eyes and thoughts Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart : 20 Pernicious protector, dangerous peer. That smooth'st it so with king and common- weal. Glo. What, cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory ? Tamtmne am/mis ccelestibus irai ? Churchmen so hot? good iincle, hide such malice ; With such holiness can you do it 1 Suf. No malice, sir ; no more than well becomes So good a quarrel, and so bad a peer. Glo. As who, my lord ? Suf. Why, as you, my lord ; An 't like your lordly lord-protectorship. so Glo. Why, Sufi"olk, England knows thine insolence. Q. Mar. And thy ambition, Gloster. K. Hen. I pr'ythee, peace, Good queen ; and whet not on these furious peers. For blessed are the peacemakers on earth. Ca/r. Let me be blessed for the peace I make Against this proud protector with my sword. Glo. \Aside to the Ca/rdinal.] 'Faith, holy uncle, 'would 't were come to that ! Car. [Aside.'] Marry, when thou dar'st. Glo. [Aside. j Make up no factious numbers for the matter ; In thine own person answer thy abuse. 40 Car. [Aside.l Ay, where' thou dar'st not peep : an if thou dar'st. This evening on the east side of the grove. -AT. Hen. How now, my lords ! Car. Believe me, cousin Gloster, Had not your man put up the fowl so sud- denly. We had had more sport. — [Aside to Gloster.] Come with thy two-hand sword. Glo. True, uncle. Car. [Aside.'] Are you advis'd 1 — the east side of the grove. Glo. [Aside.] Cardinal, I am with you. X. Hen. Why, how now, uncle Gloster ! Glo. Talking of hawking ; nothing else, my lord. — [Aside.'] Now, by God's mother, priest, I'll shave your crown so For this, or all my fence shall fail. Car. [Aside.] Mediae, feipsum — Protector, see to 't well, protect yourself. K. Hen. The winds grow high ; so do your stomachs, lords. How irksome is this music to my heart ! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony ? I pray, my lords, let me compound this strife. Enter One, crying, " A miracle I " Glo. What means this noise ? Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim t One. A miracle ! a miracle ! co Sif. Come to the king, and tell him what miracle. One. Forsooth, a blind man, at Saint Alban's shrine. Within this half hour hath receiv'd his sight ; A man that ne'er saw in his life before. K Hen. Now, God be prais'd, that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair ! U7 Act II. KING HENEY VI.— PART II. Scene I. Enter the Mayor of Saint Albans aTid his Brethren; and Simpcox, borne between two persons in a chair; his Wife and a great multitude following. Car. Here come the townsmen on pro- cession, To present your highness with the man. K. Hen. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his sin be multiplied. 70 Glo. Stand by, my masters ; bring him near the king : His highness' pleasure is to talk with him. IC Hen. Good fellow, tell us here the ciix cumstance. That we for thee may glorify the Lord. What ! hast thou been long blind, and now restor'd ! Simp. Born blind, an 't please your grace. Wife. Ay, indeed, was he. Stif. What woman is this t Wife. His wife, an 't like your worship. Glo. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better told. so K. Hen. Where wert thou born ? Simp. At Berwick in the north, an't like your grace. K. Hen. Poor soul ! God's goodness hath been great to thee : Let never day nor night unhallo'*''d pass. But still remember what the Lord hath done. Q. Mar. Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by chance. Or of devotion, to this holy shrine 1 Simp. God knows, of pure devotion ; being call'd A hundred times, and oft'ner, in my sleep, By good Saint Albau ; who said, — " Simpcox, come ; so Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee." Wife. Most true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him so. Car. What ! art thou lame ] Simp. Ay, God Almighty help me ! Sif. How cam'st thou so 1 Simp. A fall oflf a tree. Wife. A plum-tree, master. Glo. How long hast thou been blind 1 Simp. ! born so, master. Gh. What ! and wouldst climb a tree 'J Simp. But that in all my life, when I was a youth. Wife. Too true ; and bought his climbing very dear. Glo. 'Mass, thou lov'dst plums well, that wouldst venture so. 100 Simp. Alas, master, my wife desir'd some damsons. And made me climb with danger of my life. Glo. A subtle knave ; but yet it shall not serve. — Let me see thine eyes : — wink now ; — now open them. — In my opinion yet thou seest not well. Simp. Yes, mastei-, clear as day ; I thank God, and Saint Alban. Glo. Say'st thou me so ? What colour is this cloak of 1 Simp. Red, master ; red as blood. Glo. Why, that 's well said. What colour is my gown of? Simp. Black, forsooth ; coal-black as jet. ne K. Hen. Why then, thou know'st what colour jet is of? Suf. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. Glo. But cloaks, and gowns, before this day a many. Wife. Never, before this day, in all his life. Glo. Tell me, sirrah, what 's my name 1 Simp. Alas ! master, I know not. Glo. What 's his name 1 Simp. I know not. Glo. Nor his? Sim,p. No, indeed, master. 120 Glo. What 's thine own name ? Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master. Glo. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names, as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours ; but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible. — My lords. Saint Alban here hath done a miracle ; and would ye not think his cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again ? isi Simp. O master, that you could ! Glo. My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips ? May. Yes, my lord, if it please your grace. Glo. Then send for one presently. May. Sirrah, go fetch the beaxlle hither straight. [Exit an Attendant. Glo. Now fetch me a stool hither by-and- by. \A stool brought out.'\ Now, sirrah, i)' you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool, and run away. ui Simp. Alas ! master, I am not able to stand alone : You go about to torture me in vain. 14S Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene II. Reenter Attendant, and a Beadle with a whip. Glo. Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him tUl he leap over that same stool. Bead. I wUl, my lord. — Come on, sirrah ; ofi" with your doublet quickly. Simp. Alas ! master, what shall I do ? I am not able to stand. iso \After tlie Beadle hath hit hi/m once, lie leaps over the stool, and runs away ; and tlie People follow and cry, " A miracle 1 " K. Hen. O God ! seest thou this, and bearest so long \ Q. Mar. It made me laugh to see the vUlain run. Glo. Follow the knave, and take this drab away. Wife. Alas ! sir, we did it for pure need. Glo. Let them be whipp'd through every market-town, till they come to Berwick, from whence they came. \_Exeunt Mayor, Beadle, Wife, &c. Car. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. Suf True ; made the lame to leap, and ily away. Glo. But you have done more miracles than I ; leo You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly- Snter Buckingham. K. Hen. What tidiugs with our cousin Buckingham 1 Buck. Such as my heart doth tremble to unfold. A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent, Under the countenance and confederacy Of Lady Eleanor, the protector's wife. The ringleader and head of all this rout, Have practis'd dangerously against your state, Dealing with witches, and with conjurers : Whom we have apprehended in the fact ; iro Raising up wicked spirits from under-ground, Demanding of King Henry's life and death, And other of your highness' privy council, As more at large your grace shall understand. Gar. And so, my lord protector, by this means Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. This news, I think, hath turn'd your weapon's edge; "T is like, my lord, you will not keep your hour. Glo. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart. Sorrow and grief have vanquish'd all my powers ; iso And, vanquish'd as I am, I yield to thee. Or to the meanest groom. K. Hen. God ! what mischiefs work the wicked ones ; Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby. Q. Mar. Gloster, see here the tainture of thy nest ; And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best. Glo. Madam, for myself, to Heaven I do appeal, How I have lov'd my king, and commonweal; And, for my wife, I know not how it stands. Sorry I am to hear what I have heard ; iso Noble she is, but if she have forgot Honour, and virtue, and convers'd with such As, like to pitch, defile nobility, I banish her my bed and company. And give her, as a prey, to law, and shame, That hath dishonour'd Gloster's honest name. K. Hen. Well, for this night, we will repose us here : To-morrow toward London, back again. To look into this business thoroughly, And call these foul ofienders to their answers ; 200 And poise the cause in justice' equal scales. Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails. \Fhurish. Exeunt. Scene II. — London. The Duke of York's Garden. Enter York, Salisbury, and Warwick. York. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, Our simple supper ended, give me leave. In this close walk, to satisfy myself. In craving your opinion of my title. Which is infallible, to England's crown. Sal. My lord, I long to hear it at full. Wan: Sweet York, begin ; and if thy claim be good. The Nevils are thy subjects to command, York. Then thus : — Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons : The first, Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales ; " The second, William of Hatfield; and the third, Lionel, Duke of Clarence ; next to whom Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster. The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York ; 149 Act II. KING HENEY VI.— PART II. Scene III. The sixtL. was Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloster ; William of Windsor was the seventh, and last. Edward, the Black Prince, died before his father, And left behind him Richard, his only son ; Who, after Edward the Third's death, reign'd as king, 20 Till Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt, Crown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth, Seized on the realm ; depos'd the rightful king ; Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came. And him to Pomfret ; where, as all you know, ' Harmless Richard was murder'd traitorously. War. Father, the duke hath told the truth ; Thus got the house of Lancaster the crown. York. Which now they hold by force, and not by right ; so For Richard, the first son's heir, being dead. The issue of the next son should have reign'd. Sal. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. York. The third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line I claim the crown, had issue — Philippe, a daughter. Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March ; Edmund had issue — Roger, Earl of March ; Roger had issue — Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor. Sal. This Edmund, in the reign of Boling- broke, As I have read, laid claim unto the crown ; And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, « Who kept him in captivity till he died. But to the rest. York. His eldest sister, Anne, My mother, being heir unto the crown, Married Richard, Earl of Cambridge, who was son To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son. By her I claim the kingdom : she was heir To Roger, Earl of March, who was the son Of Edmund Mortimer, who married Philippe, Sole daughter unto Lionel, Duke of Clarence : So, if the issue of the elder son si Succeed before the younger, I am king. War. What plain proceeding is more plain than this 1 Henry doth claim the crown from John of Gaunt, The fourth son ; York claims it from the third. TUl Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign : It fails not yet, but flourishes in thee. And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. Then, father Salisbury, kneel we together And, in this private plot, be we the first, m That shall salute our rightful sovereign With honour of his birthright to the crown. Both. Long live our sovereign Richard, England's king ! York. We thank you, lords ! But I am not your king. Till I be crown'd, and that my sword be stain'd With heart-blood of the house of Lancaster ; And that 's not suddenly to be perform'd. But with advice, and silent secrecy. Do you, as I do, in these dangerous days, Wink at the Duke of Sufiblk's insolence, 70 At Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's ambition. At Buckingham, and all the crew of them. Till they have snar'd the shepherd of the flock, That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey. 'T is that they seek : and they, in seeking that, Shall find their deaths, if York can prophesy. Sal. My lord, break we ofi" : we know your mind at full. War. My heart assures me, that the Earl of Warwick Shall one day make the Duke of York a king. York. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself: Richard shall live to make the Earl of War- wick 81 The greatest man in England but the king. [Exeunt. Scene III. — The Same. A Hall of Justice. Truinpeis sounded. Enter King Heney, Queen Margaeet, Gloster, York, Suf- folk, arid Salisbury ; tJie Duchess of Gloster, Margery Jourdain, South- well, Hume, mid Bolingbroke, under guard. K. Hen. Stand forth. Dame Eleanor Cob- ham, Gloster's wife. In sight of God, and us, your guilt is great : Receive the sentence of the law, for sins Such as by God's book are adjudg'd to death. — 150 Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PAET II. Scene III. [^'o JouEDAiN, ies. York. Take away his weapon. — ^Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master's way. Peter. O God ! have I overcome mine enemies in this presence 1 O Peter ! thou hast prevailed in right. K. Hen. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight ; For, by his death, we do perceive his guilt, loo And God in justice hath reveal'd to us The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, Which he had thought to have murder'd wrongfully. — Come, fellow ; follow us for thy reward. [Exeunt. Scene IV. — The Same. A Street. Enter Glostee arod Servants, in mourning cloaks. Glo. Thus, sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud; And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold : So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. — Sirs, -what 's o'clock % Serv. Ten, my lord. Glo. Ten is the hour that was appointed me To watch the coming of my punish'd duchess : Uneath may she endure the flinty streets, To tread them with her tender-feeling feet. Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind abrook lo The abject people, gazing on thy face, With envious looks, laughing at thy shame, That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels. When thou didst ride in triumph through the streets. But soft! I think, she comes; and I'll prepare My tear-stain'd eyes to see her miseries. Enter tlie Duchess of Glostee, in a white sheet, with papers pinned upon her back, her feet ha/re, and a tapier burning in her hand; Sir John Stanley, a Slieriff, and Officers. Serv. So please your grace, we '11 take her from the sheriff. Glo. No, stir not, for your lives : let her pass by. Duch. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame 1 Now thou dost penance too. Look, how they gaze : 20 See, how the giddy multitude do point, And nod their heads, and throw their eyes on thee. Ah, Gloster, hide thee from their hateful looks, And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame, And ban thine enemies, both mine and thine. Glo. Be patient, gentle Nell : forget tliis grief. Duch. Ah, Gloster ! teach me to forget myself ; For, whilst I think I am thy married wife, And thou a prince, protector of this land, Methinks, I should not thus be led along, so Mail'd up in shame, with papers on my back, And followed with a rabble, that rejoice To see my tears, and hear my deep-fet groans. The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet ; And when I start, the envious people laugh. And bid me be advised how I tread. Ah, Humphrey ! can I bear this shameful yoke? Trow'st thou, that e'er I'll look upon the ■world. Or count them happy that enjoy the sun ? No ; dark shall be my light, and night my.day : To think upon my pomp, shall be my hell. « Sometime I '11 say, I am Duke Humphrey's wife. And he a prince, and ruler of the land ; Yet so he rul'd, and such a prince he was. As he stood by, whilst I, his forlorn duchess, Was made a wonder, and a pointing-stock. To every idle rascal follower. But be thou mild, and blush not at my shame ; Nor stir at nothing, till the axe of death Hang over thee, as, sure, it shortly will : so For Sufiblk, — he that can do all in all With her that hateth thee, and hates us all, — ■ And York, and impious Beaufort, that false priest. Have all lira'd bushes to betray thy wings ; C C-REEN , PINXT G.OOLDB.ERa, SCULPT FEHAH©I1 @F TMS IE) W (D IHI M § g ©F ©ILCSUKDIl S"!?]! IE. dLO: Be' jiatient g/entle. Melt, forge,t this girie.f - HENRY VI, PT.2,ACT 2, SCENE 4. Cassell l<- Company, Limaed. Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PAET II. Scene T. And, fly thou how thou canst, they '11 tangle thee. But fear not thou, until thy foot be snar'd, Nor never seek prevention of thy foes. Glo. Ah, Nell ! forbear : thou aimest all awry; I must offend before I be attainted ; And had I twenty times so many foes, eo And each of them had twenty times their power, All these could not procure me any scath. So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless. Wouldst have me rescue thee from this re- proach ? Why, yet thy scandal were not wip'd away, But I in danger for the breach of law. Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle Nell ; I pray thee, sort thy heart to patience : These few days' wonder will be quickly worn. Enter a Herald. Her. I summon your grace to his majesty's parliament, holden at Bury the first of this next month. n Glo. And my consent ne'er Sisk'd herein before ? This is close dealing. — ^Well, I will be there. \Eodt Herald. My Nell, I take my leave : — and, master sheriff. Let not her penance exceed the king's com- mission. SJisr. An 't please yoirr grace, here my commission stays. And Sir John Stanley is appointed now To take her with him to the Isle of Man. Glo. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here ? Sta/n. So am I given in charge, may 't please your grace. so Glo. Entreat her not the worse, in that I pray You use her well. The world may laugh again; And I may live to do you kindness, if You do it her : and so. Sir John, farewell. Duch. What ! gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell % Glo. Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. \JEx6unt Gloster and Servants. Duch. Art thou gone too 1 All comfort go with thee, For none abides with me : my joy is death, — Death, at whose name I oft have been afear'd, Because I wish'd this world's eternity. — sw Stanley, I pr'y thee, go, and take me hence ; I care not whither, for I beg no favour. Only convey me where thou art commanded. Stan. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man; There to be us'd according to your state. Duch. That 's bad enough, for I am but reproach : And shall I then be us'd reproachfully ? Stam. Like to a duchess, and Duke Hum- phrey's lady : According to that state you shall be used. Duch. Sheriff, farewell, and better than I fare, luo Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. Slier. It is my office ; and, madam, pardon me. Duch. Ay, ay, farewell : thy office is dis- charg'd. — Come, Stanley, shall we go ? Stam,. Madam, your penance done, throw off this sheet. And go we to attire you for our journey. Duch. My shame will not be shifted with my sheet : No ; it will hang upon my richest jobes. And show itself, attire me how I can. Go, lead the way : I long to see my prison, no \_Exeunt. ACT IIL Scene I. — The Abbey at Bury. A Sennet. Enter to the Parliament, King Henry, Queen Margaret, Cardinal Beau- port, Suffolk, York, Buckingham, and others. K. Hen. I muse, my Lord of Gloster is not come : 'T is not his wont to be the hindmost man, Whate'er occasion keeps him from us now. Q. Mar. Can you not see ? or wUl you not observe The strangeness of his alter'd countenance % With what a majesty he bears himself; How insolent of late he is become. How proud, how peremptory, and unlike himself ? We know the time, since he was mild and affable ; And if we did but glance a far-off look, lo Immediately he was upon his knee. That all the court admir'd him for submission : But meet him now, and, be it in the morn, When every one will give the time of day, 153 Act III. KING HENEY VI.— PAET II. Scene I. He knits his brow, and shows an angry eye, And passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, Disdaining duty that to us belongs. Small curs are not regarded when they grin. But great men tremble when the lion roars ; And Humphrey is no Kttle man in England. First, note, that he is near you in descent, 21 And should you fall, he is the next will mount. Me seemeth then, it is no policy, . Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears, And his advantage following your decease, That he should come about your royal person. Or be admitted to your highness' council. By flattery hath he won the commons' hearts. And, when he please to make commotion, 'T is to be fear'd they all will follow him. so Now 't is the spring, and weeds are shallow- rooted ; Suffer them now, and they '11 o'ergrow the garden, And choke the herbs for want of husbandry. The i-everent care I bear unto my lord Made me collect these dangers in the duke. If it be fond, call it a woman's fear ; Which fear if better reasons can supplant, I will subscribe and say, I wrong'd the duke. My Lord of Suffolk, — -Buckingham and York,— Reprove my allegation, if you can, 40 Or else conclude my words effectual. Suf. Well hath your highness seen into this duke ; And had I first been put to speak my mind, I think, I should have told your grace's tale. The duchess, by his subornation, Upon my life, began her devilish practices : Or if he were not privy to those faults, Yet, by reputing of his high descent, (As next the kiag he was successive heir,) And such high vaunts of his nobility, 60 Did instigate the bedlam brain-sick duchess By wicked means to frame our sovereign's fall. Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep. And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb : No, no, my sovereign ; Gloster is a man Unsounded yet, and full of deep deceit. Car. Did he not, contrary to form of law, Devise strange deaths for small offences done ] York. And did he not, in his protectorship, Levy great sums of money through the realm For soldiers' pay in France, and never sent it % By means whereof the towns each day re- volted. «i Buck. Tut ! these are petty faults to faults unknown, Which time will bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey. K. Hen. My lords, at once : the care you have of us. To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot. Is worthy praise ; but shall I speak my con- science % Our kinsman Gloster is as innocent From meaning treason to our royal person, 70 As is the sucking lamb, or harmless dove. The duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given, To dream on evil, or to work my downfall. Q. Mar. Ah ! what 's more dangerous than this fond affiance ? Seems he a dove ? Ms feathers are but bor- row'd. For he 's disposed as the hateful raven. Is he a lamb ? his skin is surely lent him, For he 's inclin'd as is the ravenous wolf. Who cannot steal a shape, that means deceit ? Take heed, my lord ; the welfare of us all so Hangs on the cutting short that f raudf ul man. Enter Someeset. Som. All health unto my gracious sovereign ! K. Hen. Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France? Scmi. That all your interest in those territories Is utterly bereft you ; all is lost. K. Hen. Cold news. Lord Somerset; but God's will be done. York. [Aside."] Cold news for me ; for I had hope of France, As firmly as I hope for fertile England. Thus are my blossoms blasted in tlie bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away ; 90 But I will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave. Enter Gloster. Glo. All happiness unto my lord the king ! Pardon, my liege, that I have stay'd so long. Suf. Nay, Gloster, know, that thou art come too soon. Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art. I do arrest thee of high treason here. Glo. Well, Suffolk's duke, thou shalt not see me blush. Nor change my countenance for this arrest : A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. 100 The purest spring is not so free from mud. As I am clear from treason to my sovereign. Who can accuse me ? wherein am I guilty ! 1XA Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene 1. York. 'T is thought, my lord, that you took bribes of France, And, being protector, stay'd the soldiers' pay ; By means whereof his highness hath lost France. Glo. Is it but thought so % What are they that think it ? I never robb'd the soldiers of their pay, Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have watch'd the night, Ay, night by night, in. studying good for England ! lu That doit that e'er I wrested from the king, Or any groat I hoarded to my use. Be brought against me at my trial-day ! No ; many a pound of mine own proper store, Because I would not tax the needy commons, Have I dispursed to the garrisons, And never ask'd for restitution. Gar. It serves you well, my lord, to say so much. Glo. I say no more than truth, so help me God ! 120 York. In your protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of, That England was defam'd by tyranny. Glo. Why, 't is well known, that whiles I was protector, Pity was all the fault that was in me; For I should melt at an offender's tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault. Unless it were a bloody murderer. Or foul felonious thief that fleec'd poor pas- sengers, I never gave them condign punishment. iso Murder, indeed, that bloody sin, I tortur'd Above the felon, or what trespass else. Suf. My lord, these faults are easy, quickly answer'd ; But mightier crimes are laid unto your charge, Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in his highness' name ; And here commit you to my lord cardinal To keep, until your further time of trial. K. Hen. My Lord of Gloster, 'tis my special hope, That you will clear yourself from all suspect; My conscience tells me you are innocent. i« Glo. Ah, gracious lord ! these days are dangerous. Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition, And charity chas'd hence by rancour's hand ; Foul subornation is predominant. And equity exil'd your highness' land. I know, their complot is to have my life ; And if my death might make this island liappy, And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness ; im But mine is made the prologue to their play ; For thousands more, that yet suspect no peril, Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort's red sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice. And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy hate ; Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue The envious load that lies upon his heart ; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon. Whose overweening arm I have pluck'd back, By false accuse doth level at my life : iw And you, my sovereign lady, with the rest, Causeless have laid disgraces on my head. And with yo.ur^best endeavour have stirr'd up My liefest liege to be njine enemy. Ay, all of you have laid your heads together; Myself had notice of your conventicles, And all to make away my guiltless life. I shall not want false witness to condemn me, Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt ; The ancient proverb will be well effected, — A staff is quickly found to beat a dog. m Ca/r. My liege, his railing is intolerable. If those that care to keep your royal person From treason's secret knife, and traitors' rage. Be thus upbraided, chid, and rated at, And the offender granted scope of speech, 'T will make them cool in zeal unto your grace. Suf. Hath he not twit our sovereign lady here, With ignominious words, though clerkly couch'd. As if she had suborned some to swear -w> False allegations to o'erthi'ow his state ? Q. Mar. But I can give the loser leave to chide. Glo. Far truer spoke, than meant : I lose, indeed ; Beshrew the winners, for theyplay'd me false! And well such losers may have leave to speak. Buck. He '11 wrest the sense, and hold us here all day. — Lord cardinal, he is your prisoner. Ca/r. Sirs, take away the duke, and guard him sure. Glo. Ah, thus King Henry throws away his crutch; Before his legs be firm to bear his body : loo Thus is the shepherd beaten from thy side, And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. Ah, that my fear were false ! ah, that it were ! For, good King Henry, thy decay I fear. [Exeunt Attendamts with Gloster. K. Hen. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best, 355 Act ITI. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene I. Do, or undo, as if ourself were here. Q. Mar. What ! will your highness leave the parliament 1 K. Hen. Ay, Margaret, my heart is drown'd with grief. Whose flood begins to flow within mine eyes j My body round engirt with misery, 200 For what 's more miserable than discontent ? — Ah, uncle Humphrey ! in thy face I see The map of honour, truth, and loyalty ; And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to come. That e'er I prov'd thee false, or feai''d thy faith. What low'riag star now envies thy estate. That these great lords, and Margaret our queen. Do seek subversion of thy harmless life ? Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man wrong ; And as the butcher takes away the calf, 210 And binds the wretch, and beats it when it strays. Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house ; Even so, remorseless, have they borne him hence ; And as the dam runs lowing up and down, Looking the way her harmless young one went, And can do nought but waU her darling's loss; Even so myself bewails good Gloster's case. With sad unhelpful tears ; and with dimm'd eyes Look after him, and cannot do him good ; So mighty are his vowed enemies. 220 His fortunes I will weep ; and, 'twixt each groan, Say^" Who 's a traitor ? Gloster he is none." [Exit. Q. Mar. Fair lords, cold snow melts with the sun's hot beams. Henry my loi-d is cold in great afiairs. Too full of foolish pity ; and Gloster's show Beguiles him, as the mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers ; Or as the snake, roll'd in a flowering bank, With shining cheoker'd slough, doth sting a child, That for the beauty thinks it excellent. a.™ Believe me, lords, were none more wise than I (And yet herein I judge mine own wit good). This Gloster should be quickly rid the world. To rid lis from the fear we have of him. Car. That he should die is worthy policy, But yet we want a colour for his death. 'T is meet he be condemn'd by course of law. Suf. But, in my mind that were no policy : The king will labour still to save his life ; The commons haply rise to save his life ; 240 And yet we have but trivial argument, More than distrust, that shows him worthy death. York. So that, by this, you would not have him die. Suf. Ah ! York, no man alive so fain as I. Yorh. 'T is York that hath more reason for his death. — But, my lord cardinal, and you, my Lord of Suffolk, Say, as you think, and speak it from your soids. Were 't not all one, an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite, As place Duke Humphrey for the king's pro- tector ? 250 Q. Mar. So the poor chicken should be sure of death. Suf. Madam, 't is true : and were 't not madness then, To make the fox surveyor of the fold ? Who, being accus'd a crafty murderer, His guilt should be but idly posted over, Because his purpose is not executed. No ; let him die, in that he is a fox. By nature prov'd an enemy to the flock, Before his chaps be stain'd with crimson blood. As Humphrey prov'd by reasons to my liege. And do not stand on quillets, how to slay him : Be it by gins, by snares, by subtilty, 262 Sleeping, or waking, 'tis no matter how, So he be dead ; for that is good deceit Wliich mates him first, that first intends deceit. Q. Mar. Thrice-noble Sufiblk, 'tis reso- lutely spoke. Suf. Not resolute, except so much were done. For things are often spoke, and seldom meant ; But, that my heart accordeth with my tongue, — • Seeing the deed is meritorious, 270 And to preserve my sovereign from his foe, — • Say but the word, and I will be his priest. Car. But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk, Ere you can take due orders for a priest. Say, you consent, and censure well the deed, And I '11 provide his executioner ; I tender so the safety of my liege. Suf. Here is my hand; the deed is worthy doing. Q. Mar. And so say I. Act III. KING HENEY VI.— PART II. Scene I. York. And I ; and now we three have spoke it, 2K1 It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a Messenger Mess. Great lords, from Ireland am I come amain. To signify that rebels there are up, And put the Englishmen unto tfie sword. Send succours, lords, and stop the rage betime, Before the wound do grow incurable ; For, being green, there is great hope of help. Car. A breach that craves a quick ex- pedient stop ! What counsel give you in this weighty cause? York. That Somerset be sent as regent thither. 290 'T is meet, that lucky ruler be employ'd ; Witness the fortune he hath had in France. Som. If York, with all his far-fet policy. Had been the regent there instead of me. He never would have stay'd in France so long. York. No, not to lose it aU, as thou hast done. I rather would have lost my life betimes. Than bring a burden of dishonour home. By stajdng there so long, till all were lost. Show me one scar character'd on thy skin : Men's flesh preserv'd so whole do seldom win. Q. Mar. Nay then, this spark will prove a raging fire, 302 If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with. — No more, good York; — sweet Somerset, be still :— Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been regent there. Might happily have prov'd far worse than his. York. What, worse than nought ? nay, then a shame take all ! Som. And, in the number, thee, that wishest shame. Ca/r. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. The uncivil kerns of Ireland are in arms, sio And temper clay with blood of Englishmen : To Ireland will you lead a band of men, Collected choicely, from each county some, And try your hap against the Irishmen ? York. I will, my lord, so please his majesty. Suf. 'Why, our authority is his consent, And what we do establish, he confirms : Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. York. I am content. Provide me soldiers, lords, Whiles I take order for mine own afiairs. 320 Suf. A charge. Lord York, that I will see perform'd. But now return we to the false Duke Humphrey. Car. No more of him ; for I will deal with him, That henceforth he shall trouble us no more : And so break ofi"; the day is almost spent. Lord Sufiblk, you and I must talk of that event. York. My Lord of Sufiblk, within fourteen days. At Bristol I expect my soldiers , For there I '11 ship them all for Ireland. Suf. I '11 see it truly done, my Lord of York. \jEoceunt all hut York. York. Now, York, or never, steel thy fear- ful thoughts, 331 And change misdoubt to resolution : Be that thou hop'st to be, or what thou art Resign to death ; it is not worth the enjoying. Let pale-fac'd fear keep with the mean-bom man. And find no harbour in a royal heart. Faster than spring-time showers comes thought on thought, And not a thought but thinks on dignity. My brain, more busy than the labouring spider, Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well ; 't is politicly done, 341 To send me packing with an host of men : I fear me, you but warm the starved snake, Who, cherish'd in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 'T was men I lack'd, and you wiU give them me : I take it kindly ; yet, be well assur'd. You put sharp weapons in a madman's hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up in England some black storm. Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven, or hell ; 360 And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage. Until the golden circuit on my head. Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams. Do calm the fuiy of this mad-bred fiaw. And, for a minister of my intent, I have seduc'd a headstrong Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can. Under the title of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade seo Oppose himself against a troop of kerns ; Aid fought so long, till that his thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quill'd porpentine : And, in the end being rescu'd, I have seen Him caper upright, like a wild Morisco, Shaking the bloody darts, as he his bells. FuU often, like a shag-hair'd crafty kern. Hath he conversed with the enemy, 157 Act hi. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene II. And undiscover'd come to me again, And given me notice of their villainies. 370 This devil here shall be my substitute ; For that John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth resemble : By this I shall perceive the commons' mind, How they affect the house and claim of York. Say, he be taken, rack'd, and tortured, I know, no pain they can inflict upon him WiU make him say, I mov'd him to those arms. Say, that he thrive, as 't is great like he will. Why, then from Ireland come I with my strength, sso And reap the harvest which that rascal sow'd; For, Humphrey being dead, as he shall be. And Henry put apart, the next for me. [Exit. Scene II. — Bury. A Room in the Palace. Enter certain Murderers, hastily. 1 Mur. Run to my Lord of Suffolk ; let him know. We have despatch'd the duke, as he com- manded. 2 Mv/r. O, that it were to do ! — What have we done ? Didst ever hear a man so penitent ? 1 Mur. Here comes my lord. Enter Suffolk. Suf. Now, sirs, have you despatch'd this thing? 1 Mv/r. Ay, my good lord, he ''s dead. Suf. Why, that 's well said. Go, get you to my house ; I will reward you for this venturous deed. The king and all the peers are hei-e at hand. Have you laid fair the bed? Is all things well, n According as I gave directions ? 1 Mv/r. 'T is, my good lord. Suf. Away, be gone. [Eoceunt Mv/rderers. Sound trumpets. Enter King Henuy, Queen Margaeet, Cardinal Beaufort, Somerset, Lords, and others. K. Hen. Go, call our uncle to our presence straight : Say, we intend to try his grace to-day, If he be guilty, as 't is published. Suf. I '11 call him presently, my noble lord. [Exit. E. Hen. Lords, take your places; and, I pray you all, Proceed no straiter 'gainst our iincle Gloster, Than from true evidence, of good esteem, 21 He be approv'd in practice culpable. Q. Mar. God forbid any malice should prevail, That faultless may condemn a nobleman ! Pray God, he may acquit him of suspicion ! K. Hen. I thank thee, Meg ; these words content me much. Re-enter Suffolk. How now? why look'st thou pale? why tremblest thou ? Where is our uncle ? what 's the matter, Suffolk ? Suf. Dead in his bed, my lord ; Gloster is dead. Q. Mar. Marry, God forfend ! so Ga/r. God's secret judgment ! — I did dream to-night,. The duke was dumb, and could not speak a word. [Tlie King swoons. Q. Mar. How fares my lord ? — Help, lords ! the king is dead. Som. Rear up his body : wring him by the nose. Q. Ma/r. Run, go, help, help ! — O Henry, ope thine eyes ! Suf. He doth revive again. — Madam, be patient. K. Hen. O heavenly God ! Q. Ma/r. How fares my gracious lord ? Suf. Comfort, my sovereign ! gracious Henry, comfort ! K. Hen. What ! doth my Lord of Suffolk comfort me ? Came he right now to sing a raven's note, 40 Whose dismal tune bereft my vital powers. And thinks he, that the chirping of a wren. By crying comfort from a hollow breast. Can chase away the flrst-conceived sound ? Hide not thy poison with suchsugar'd words; Lay not thy hands on me ; forbear, I say : Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting. Thou baleful messenger, oat of my sight ! Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyi-anny Sits in grim majesty to fright the world. so Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wound- ing. Yet do not go away : — come, basilisk, And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight ; For in the shade of death I shall find joy. In life but double death, now Gloster 's dead. Q. Mar. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus ? Although the duke was enemy to him. Yet he, most Christian-like, laments his death : Act TTI. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene II. And for myself, foe as he was to me, Might liquid tears, or heart-offending groans Or blood-consuming sighs, recall his life, ei I would be blind with weeping, sick with groans. Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs. And all to have the noble duke alive. What know I how the world may deem of me? For it is known, we were but hollow friends ; It may be judg'd, I made the duke away : So shall my name with slander's tongue be wounded. And princes' courts be fiU'd with my re- proach. This get I by his death. Ah me, unhappy ! To be a queen, and crown'd with infamy ! 7i K. . Hen. Ah, woe is me for Gloster, wretched man ! Q. Mar, Be woe for me, more wretched than he is. What, dost thou turn away, and hide thy face? I am no loathsome leper ; look on me. What, art thou, like the adder, waxen deaf? Be poisonous too, and kill thy forlorn queen. Is all thy comfort shut in Gloster's tomb ? Why, then Dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy: Erect his statua, and worship it, so And make my image but an ale-house sign. Was I for this nigh wrack'd upon the sea. And twice by awkward wind from England's bank Drove back again unto my native clime ? What boded this, but well-forewarning wind Did seem to say, — Seek not a scorpion's nest. Nor set no footing on this unkind shore ? What did I then, but curs'd the gentle gusts. And he that loos'd them from their brazen caves ; And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore, so Or turn our stem upon a dreadful rock. Yet jSiolus would not be a murderer. But left that hateful office unto thee : The pretty-vaulting sea refus'd to drown me, Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore. With tears as salt as sea through thy unkind- ness : The splitting rocks cower'd in the sinking sands. And would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart, more hard than they, Might in thy palace perish Margaret. loo As far as I could ken thy chalky cliffs, When from the shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm ; And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view, I took a costly jewel from my neck, — - A heart it was, bound in with diamonds, — And threw it towards thy land. The sea re- ceived it. And so I wish'd thy body might my heart : And even with this I lost fair England's view, 110 And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart. And call'd them blind and dusky spectacles. For losing ken of Albion's wished coast. How often have I tempted Suffolk's tongue (The agent of thy foul inconstancy), 'To sit and witch me, as Ascanius did. When he to madding Dido would unfold His father's acts, commenc'd in burning Ti-oy ! Am I not witch'd like her ? or thou not false like him ? Ah me ! I Can no more. Die, Margaret, 120 For Henry weeps that thou dost live so long. Noise within. Enter Warwick omd Salis- bury. The Commons press to the door. War. It is reported, mighty sovereign. That good Duke Humphrey traitorously is murder'd By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means. The commons, like an angry hive of bees. That want their leader, scatter up and down, And care not who they sting in his revenge. Myself have calm'd their spleenful mutiny, Until they hear the order of his deatL K. Hen. That he is dead, good Warwick, 't is too true ; iso But how he died, God knows, not Henry. Enter his chamber, view his breathless corse. And comment then upon his sudden death. War. That I shall do, my Uege. — Stay, Salisbury, With the rude multitude, till I return. [Warwick goes into an inner room,, and Salisbury retires. K. Hen. Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts ! My thoughts that labour to persuade my soul. Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life. If my suspect be false, forgive me, God, For judgment only doth belong to Thee. we Fain would I go to chafe his paly lips With twenty thousand kisses, and to drain Upon his face an ocean of salt tears. To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk, 159 Act hi. KING HENEY VI.— PART II. Scene II. «' And with my fingers feel Ms hand unfeeling ; But ail in vain are these mean obsequies, And to survey his dead and earthy imag^, What -were it but to make my sorrow greater ? The doors of an imner chamber a/re thrown open, and Gloster is discovered dead in his bed ; Warwick and otliers stamding by it. War. Come hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. K. Hen. That is to see how deep my grave is made ; iso For with his soul fled all my worldly solace, For seeing him, I see my life in death. War. As surely as my soul intends to live With that dread King, that took our state upon Him To free us from His Father's wrathful curse, I do believe that violent hands were laid Upon the life of this thrice-famed duke. Suf. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn tongue ! What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow? War. See, how the blood is settled in his face. 160 Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless. Being all descended to the labouring heart ; Who, in the conflict that it holds with death. Attracts the same for aidance 'gainst the enemy ; Which with the heart there cools, and ne'er returneth To blush and beautify the cheek again. But see, his face is black, and full of blood ; His eye-balls further out than when he liv'd. Staring full ghastly like a strangled man : iro His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with struggling ; His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for life, and was by strength subdued. Look, on the sheets, his hair, you see, is sticking ; His well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged. Like to the summer's corn by tempest lodg'd. It cannot be but he was murder'd here ; The least of all these signs were probable. Suf. Why, Warwick, who should do the duke to death 1 Myself and Beaufort had him in protection, lao And we, I hope, sir, are no murderers. War. But both of you were vow'd Duke Humphrey's foes. And you, forsooth, had the good duke to Iceep : 'T is like you would not feast him like a friend, And 't is well seen he found an enemy. Q. Mar. Then you, belike, suspect these noblemen As guilty of Duke Humphrey's timeless death. Wa/r. Who finds the heifer dead, and bleeding fresh. And sees fast by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter ? i*) Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest, But may imagine how the bird was dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak ] Even so suspicious is this tragedy. Q. Mar. Are you the butcher, Sufiblk ? where 's your knife ? Is Beaufort term'd a kite? where are his talons ? Suf. I wear no knife, to slaughter sleeping men ; But here 's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, That shall be scoured in his rancorous heart. That slanders me with murder's crimson badge. — 200 Say, if thou dar'st, proud Lord of Warwick- shire, That I am faulty in Duke Humphrey's death. [Eooewnt Cardinal, Somerset, and otliers. War. What dares not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him ? Q. Ma/r. He dares not calm his contumelious spirit, Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, Though Suffolk dare him twenty thousand times. War. Madam, be stUl, with reverence may I say ; For every word you speak in his behalf Is slander to your royal dignity. Suf. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in de- meanour, 210 If ever lady wrong'd her lord so much. Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stem untutor'd churl, and noble stock Was graft with crab-tree slip ; whose fruit thou art, And never of the Nevils' noble race. War. But that the guilt of murder bucklers thee. And I should rob the deathsman of his fee. Quitting thee thereby of ten thousand shames. And that my sovereign's presence makes me mild, 219 I would, false murderous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for thy passed speech, 160 Act III. KING HENEY VI.— PART II. Scene II. And say, it was thy mother that thou meant'st ; That thou thyself wast born in bastardy : And, after all this fearful homage done, Give thee thy hire, and send thy soul to hell. Pernicious bloodsucker of sleeping men. • Svf. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, If from this presence thou dar'st go with me. War. Away even now, or I will drag thee hence. Unworthy though thou art, I '11 cope with thee, ' 230 And do some service to Duke Humphrey's ghost. [Exeunt Suffolk cmd Warwick. K. Hen. What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted ? Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just ; And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. [A Twise withm. Q. Mar. What noise is this ? Ee-enter Suffolk arid Warwick, with their weapons dravm. K. Hem,. Why, how now, lords ? your wrathful weapons drawn Here in our presence ? dare you be so bold ? — Why, what tumultuous clamour have we here? Suf. The traitorous Warwick, with the men of Bury, 240 Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. Noise of a crowd within. Re-enter Salisbury. Sal. [Speaking to those within."] Sirs, stand apart ; the king shall know your mind. — Dread Iprd, the commons send you word by me, Unless false Suffolk straight be done to death. Or banished fair England's territories. They will by violence tear him from your palace, And torture him with grievous lingering death. They say, by him the good Duke Humphrey died; They say, in him they fear your highness' death ; And mere instinct of love, and loyalty, 250 Free from a stubborn opposite intent, As being thought to contradict your liking. Makes them thus forward in his banishment. They say, in care of your most royal person. That, if your highness should intend to sleep, 14 And charge, that no man should disturb youi' re'st. In pain of your dislike, or pain of death. Yet, notwithstanding such a strait edict. Were there a serpent seen, with forked tongue. That slily glided towards your majesty, 200 It were but necessary, you were wak'd ; Lest, being suffer'd in that harmful slumber. The mortal worm might make the sleep eternal : And therefore do they cry, though you forbid. That they will guard you, whe'r you will or no. From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is ; With whose envenomed and fatal sting, Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth. They say, is shamefully bereft of life. Commons. [Within.] An answer from the king, my Lord of Salisbury ! 2? Suf. 'T is like, the commons, rude un polish'd hiads. Could send such message to their sovereign -, But you, my lord, were glad to be employ'd. To show how quaint an orator you are : But all the honour Salisbury hath won, Is, that he was the lord ambassador. Sent from a sort of tinkers to the king. Commons. [Within.] An answer from the king, or we will all break in ! K. Hen. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me, I thank them for their tender loving care ; zeo And had I not been cited so by them. Yet did I purpose as they do entreat ; For sure, my thoughts do hourly prophesy Mischance unto my state by Suffolk's means : And therefore, by His Majesty I swear. Whose far unworthy deputy I am. He shall not breathe infection in this air But three days longer, on the pain of death. [Exit Salisbury. Q. Mar. O Henry ! let me plead for gentle Suffolk. K. Hen, Ungentle queen, to calL him gentle Suffolk. 290 No more, I say ; if thou dost plead for him. Thou wilt but add increase unto my wrath. Had I but said, I would have kept my word. But when I swear, it is irrevocable. — If after three days' space thou here be'st found On any groimd that I am ruler of, The world shall not be ransom for thy life. — Oome, Warwick, come, good Warwick, go with me ; I have great matters to impart to thee. [Exeunt King Henry, Warwick, Lords, iSsg. Q. Mar. Mischance and sorrow go along with you ! ' ™ 161 Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART TI. Scene II. Heart's discontent, and sour affliction, Be playfellows to keep you company ! There 's two of you ; tlie devil make a tkird, And threefold vengeance tend upon your steps ! Suf. Cease, gentle queen, these execrations. And let thy Suffolk take his heavy leave. Q. Mar. Fie, coward woman, and soft- hearted wretch ! Hast thou not spirit to curse thine enemy ? Suf. A plague upon them ! wherefore should I curse them 1 Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake's groan, 310 I would invent as bitter-searching terms, As curst, as harsh, and horrible to hear, Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signs of deadly hate. As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathsome cave. My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten fliat; My hair be fix'd on end, as one distract ; Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban : And even now my burden'd heart would break, 320 Should I not cui'se them. Poison be their drink ! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste ! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees ! Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks ! Their softest touch as smart as lizards' stings ! Their music frightful as the serpent's hiss. And boding screech-owls make the concert full! AU the foul terrors in dark-seated hell — Q. Mar. Enough, sweet Suffolk : thou tor- ment'st thyself; And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst glass, S30 Or like an overcharged gun, recoil. And turn the force of them upon thyself. Suf. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave t Now, by the ground that I am banish'd from. Well could I curse away a winter's night, Though standing naked on a mountain top, Wl^re biting cold would never let grass grow. And think it but a minute spent in sporb. Q. Mar. O ! let me entreat thee, cease. Give me thy hand. That I may dew it -ndth my mournful tears ; Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place, 341 To wash away my woful monuments. O ! could this kiss be printed in thy hand, That thou mightst think upon these by the Through whom a thousand sighs are breath'd for thee. So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief ; 'T is but surmis'd whilst thou art standing by, As one that surfeits, thinking on a want. I will repeal thee, or, be well assur'd, Adventure to be banished myself ; 350 And banished I am, if but from thee. Go, speak not to me ; even now be gone. — ! go not yet. — Even thus two friends con- demn'd Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves. Leather a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell ; and farewell life with thee ! Suf. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished. Once by the king, and three times thrice by thee. 'T is not the land I care for, wert thou thence; A wilderness is populous enoiigh, seo So Suffolk had thy beavenly company : For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world. And where thou art not, desolation. 1 can no more. — Live thou to joy thy Ufe ^ Myself no joy in nought, but that thou liv'st. Enter Vaux. Q. Mar. Whither goes Vaux so fast ? what news, pr'ythee ? Vaux. To signify unto his majesty, That Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death ; For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, sro That makes him gasp, and stare, and catch the air. Blaspheming God, and cursing men on eartk Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost Were by his side ; sometime he calls the king, And whispers to his pillow, as to him. The secrets of his overcharged soul : And I am sent to tell his majesty, That even now he cries aloud for him. Q. Mar. Go, tell tliis heavy message to the king. [Eodt Vaux. Ah me ! what is this world ? what news are these 1 380 But wherefore grieve I at an hour's poor loss, Omitting Suffolk's exUe, my soul's treasure 1 Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, And with the southern clouds contend in tears 1 Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows. Now, get thee hence : the king, thou know'st, is coming ; 162 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene I. If thou be found by me, thou art but dead. Suf. If I depart from thee, I cannot live ; And in thy sight to die, what -were it else. But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap 1 soo Here could I breathe my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe, Dying with mother's dug between its lips ; "Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad, ' And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes, To have thee with thy lips to stop my mouth : So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul. Or I should breathe it so into thy body, And then it liv'd in sweet Elysium. To die by thee, were but to die in jest ; 400 From thee to die, were torture more than death. ! let me stay, befaU what may befall. Q. Mar. Away ! though parting be a fretful corsive. It is applied to a deathful wound. To France, sweet Suffolk : let me hear from thee; For wheresoe'er thou art in this world's globe, 1 '11 have an Iris that shall find thee out. Suf. I go. Q. Mar. And take my heart with thee. Suf. A jewel, lock'd into the wofuU'st cask That ever did contain a thing of worth. 410 Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we : This way fall I to death. Q. Mar. This way for me. \EQixunt severally. Scene III. — London. Cardinal Beaufpet's Bedchamber. Enter King Henry, Salisbury, Warwick, and others. The Cardinal in bed; Attend- ants with him. K. Hen. How fares my lord ? speak, Beau- fort, to thy sovereign. Ca/r. If thou be'st death, I '11 give thee England's treasure. Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. K. Hen. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life. Where death's approach is seen so terrible ! War. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee. Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed 1 where should he die? Can I make men live, whe'r they will or no? — 10 ! torture me no more, I will confess. — Alive again ? then show me where he is : 1 '11 give a thousand pound to look upon him. — He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them. — Comb down his hair : look ! look ! it stands upright. Like lime-twigs set to catch my winged soul.- — ■ Give me some drink ; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. k. Hen. O Thou eternal Mover of the heavens. Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch ! » O ! beat away the busy meddling fiend. That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, And from his bosom purge this black despair. War. See, how the pangs of death do make him grin. Sal. Disturb him not, let him pkss peace- ably. K. Hen. Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be. Lord cardinal, if thou think'st on heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.- — He dies, and makes no sign. God, forgive him ! War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. so K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. — Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close. And let us all to meditation. \Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene I. — Kent. The Sea-shore near Dover. Firing heard at sea. Tlien enter from a boat, a Captain, a Master, a Master's Mate, Walter Whitmore, amd otliers ; with them Suffolk, disguised, and other Gentle- m,en, prisoners. Cap. The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the liosom of the sea, And now loud-howling wolves arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night ; Who with their drowsy, slow, and flagging wings Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. 163 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PAET II. Scene I. Therefore, bring forth the soldiers of our prize ; Eor, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here shall they make their ransom on the sand, 1" Or with their blood stain this discolour'd shore. ^ Master, this prisoner freely give I thee ; — And thou that art his mate, make boot of this ; — The other [pointing to Suffolk], Walter Whitmore, is thy share. 1 Gent. What is my ransom, master? let me know. Mast. A thousand crowns, or else lay down your head. Mate. And so much shall you give, or off goes yours. Cap. What ! think you much to pay two thousand crowns. And bear the name and port of gentlemen 1 Cut both tlje villains' throats ! — for die you shall : 20 The lives of those which we have lost in fight. Be counterpois'd with such a petty sum ! 1 Gent. I '11 give it, sir ; and therefore spare my life. 2 Gent. And so will I, and write home for it straight. Whit. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, [To Suffolk] And, therefore, to revenge it shalt thou die ; And so should these, if I might have my will. Cap. Be not so rash : take ransom; let him live. Suf. Look on my George : I am a gentle- man. Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid. 30 Whit. And so am I ; my name is Walter Whitmore. How now ? why start'st thou 1 what ! doth death affright ? Suf. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is death. A cunning man did calculate my birth, And told me that by Water 1 should die : Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded; Thy name is Gaultier, being rightly sounded. WJiit. Gaultier, or Walter, which it is, I care not ; Never yet did base dishonour blur our name, But with our sword we wip'd away the blot : Therefore, when merchant-like I sell re- venge, 41 Broke be my sword, my arms torn and de- fac'd, And I proclaim'd a coward through the world ! [Lays hold on Suffolk. jSuf. Stay, Whitmore; for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la Poole. Whit. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags ! Suf. Ay, but these rags are no part of the duke : [Jove sometime went disguis'd, and why not I?] Cap. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. Suf. Obscure and lowly swain, Kiag Henry's blood, so The honourable blood of Lancaster, Must not be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand, and held my stirrup 1 Bare-headed plodded by my foot-cloth mule, And thought thee happy when I shook my head? How often hast thou waited at my cup. Fed from my trencher, kneel'd down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret 1 Remember it, and let it make thee crest- fall'n ; Ay, and allay this thy abortive pride. 60 How in our voiding lobby hast thou stood, And duly waited for my coming forth ? This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf, And therefore shall it charm thy riotous tongue. Whit. Speak, captain, shall I stab the for- , lorn swain ? Cap. First let my words stab him, as he hath me.' Sif. Base slave, thy words are blunt, and so art thou. Cap. Convey him hence, iand on our long- boat's side Strike off his head. Suf. Thou dar'st not for thy own. Cap. [Yes, Poole. Suf Poole?] Cap. Poole? Sir Poole? lord? Ay, kennel, puddle, sink ; whose filth and dirt n Troubles the silver spring where England drinks. Now will I dam up this thy yawning mouth, For swallowing the treasure of the realm ; Thy lips, that kiss'd the queen, shall sweep the ground ; And thou, that smil'dst at good Duke Hum- phrey's death. Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain. 164 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PAET II. Scene II. Who in contempt shall hiss at thee again : And -wedded be thou to the hags of hell, For daring to affy a mighty lord so Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish poUcy art thou grown great, And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg'd With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding heart. By thee Anjou and Maiae were sold to France ; The false revolting Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord ; and Picardy Hath slain their governors, surpris'd our forts, 89 And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms : And now the house of York — ^thrust from the crown, ' By shameful murder of a guiltless king, And lofty proud encroaching tyranny — Bums with revenging fire; whose hopeful colours Advance our half-fac'd sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ — Invitis nubibus. The commons, here in Kent, are up in arms ; And, to conclude, reproach and beggary loi Is crept into the palace of our king. And all by thee. — Away ! — Convey him hence. Suf. O, that I were a god, to shoot forth thiulder Upon these paltry, servile, abject drudges ! Small things make base men proud : this villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more Than Bargulus the strong lUyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles' blood, but rob bee- hives. It is impossible, that I should die no By such a lowly vassal as thyself. Thy words move rage, and not remorse, in me : I go of message from the queen to France ; I charge thee, waft me safely cross the Channel. Cap. Walter!— WhU. Come, Suffolk ; I must waft thee to thy death. Suf. Gelidus timor occupat artus : — it is thee I fear. WMt. Thou shalt have cause to fear, before I leave thee. What ! are ye daunted now 'i now will ye stoop'? 1 Gent. My gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. Stof. Suffolk's imperial tongue is stem and rough, Us'd to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we should honour such as these With humble suit : no, rather let my head Stoop to the block than these knees bow to any, Save to the God of heaven, and to my king : And sooner dance upon a bloody pole, Than stand uncover'd to the vulgar groom. True nobility is exempt from fear : More can I bear, than you dare execute, iso Cap. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. Stif. Come, soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot. — Great men oft die by vile Bezonians. A Roman sworder and banditto slave Murder'd sweet TuUy ; Brutus' bastard hand Stabb'd Julius Csesar ; savage islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. [Ilxit Suffolk, ivith Whitmore and otJiers. Cap. And as for these whose ransom we have set, It is our pleasure one of them depart : i« Therefore, come you with us, and let him go. [Exeunt all but the First Gentleman. Re-enter Whitmore, with Suffolk's body. Whit. There let his head and lifeless body lie. Until the queen, his mistress, bury it. [Hxit. 1 Gent. O barbarous and bloodv spectacle ! His body will I bear unto the king : If he revenge it not, yet will his friends ; So wiU the queen, that living held him dear. [Ilxit, with the body. Scene II. — Blackheath. Enter George Bevis and John Holland. Geo. Come, and get thee a sword, though made of a lath : they have been up these two days. Johm. They have the more need to sleep now then. Geo. I tell thee. Jack Cade the clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it. Johm. So he had need, for 'tis threadbare. Well, I say, it was never merry world in England, since gentlemen came up. Geo. O miserable age ! Virtue is not re- garded in handicraftsmen. ^ 165 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene II. John. The nobility think scorn to go in leather aprons. Geo. ^a,j, more ; the king's council are no good workmen. John. True ; and yet it is said, Labour in thy vocation : which is as much to say as, — let the magistrates be labouring men ; and therefore should we be magistrates. Geo. Thou hast hit it ; for there 's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand. 21 John. I see them ! I see them ! There 's Best's son, the tanner of Wingham, — Geo. He shall have the skins of our enemies to make dog's-leather of. John. And Dick the butcher, — Geo. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity's throat cut like a calf. John. And Smith the w^eaver, — Geo. Argo, their thread of life is spun. so John. Come, come; let's fall Lq with them. Drum. Enter Cade, Dick the Butcher, Smith the Weaver, and otliers in great number. Cade. We John Cade, so termed of our supposed father, — ■ JDich. [Aside.'\ Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings. Cade. IFor our enemies shall fall before us, inspired with the spizit of putting down kings and princes, — Command silence. Dich. Silence ! Cade. My father was a Mortimer, — 40 Dick. \Aside.'\ He was an honest man, and a good bricklayer. Cade. My mother a Plantagenet, — Dich. [Aside.'\ I knew her well ; she was a midwife. Cade. My wife descended of the Lacies, — Dick. \Asidei\ She was, indeed, a pedlar's daughter, and sold many laces. Smith. \Aaide.'\ But, now of late, not able to travel with her furred pack, she washes bucks here at home. Cade. Therefore am I of an honourable house. 60 Dich. \Asidel\ A.j, by my faith, the field is honourable, and there "was he bom, under a hedge ; for his father had never a house, but the cage. Cade. Valiant I am. Smith. \Aside.'\ 'A must needs, for beggary is valiant. Cade. I am able to endure much. Dick. [Aside.'] No question of that, for I have seen him whipped three market-days together. Cade. I fear neither sword nor fire. eo Smith. [Aside.] He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of proof. Dick. [Aside.] But, methinks, he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt i' the hand for stealing of sheep. Cade. Be brave then ; for your captain is brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves sold for a penny; the three-hooped pot shall have ten hoops ; and I will make it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass. And, when I am king (as king i will be), — '2 All. God save your majesty ! Cade. I thank you, good people : — there shall be no money ; all shall eat and drink on my score ; and I will apparel them all in one livery, that they may agree Uke brothers, and worship me their lord. Dick. The first tMng we do, let 's kUl all the lawyers. Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be made parchment 1 that parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a man ? Some say, the bee stings ; but I say, 't is the bee's wax, for I did but seal once to a thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now ? who 's there ? Enter some, bringing im the Clerk of Cliatham. Smith. The clerk of Chatham : he can write and read, and cast accompt. Cade. O monstrous ! Smith. We took him setting of boys' copies. 90 Cade. Here 's a villain ! Smith. H' as a book in his pocket, with red letters in 't. Cade. Nay, then he is a conjurer. Dick. Nay, he can make obligations, and write co\irt-hand. Cade. I am sorry for 't : the man is a proper man, of mine honour ; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. — Come hither, sirrah, I must examine thee. What is thy name 1 100 Clerk. Emmanuel. Dick. They use to write it on the top of letters. — 'T will go hard with you. Cade. Let me alone. — Dost thou use to write thy name, or hast thou a mark to thy- self, like an honest plain-dealing man ? Clerk. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought up, that I can write my name. 16S Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene IT. All. He hath confessed: away with him! he 's a villain and a traitor. no Cade. Away with him, I say : hang him with his pen and ink-horn about his neck. [Exeunt some with tlie Clerk. Enter Michael. Mich. Where 's our general ? Cade. Here I am, thou particular fellow. Mich. Fly, fly, fly ! Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the king's forces. Cade. Stand, villain, stand, or I '11 fell thee down. He shall be encountered with a man as good as himself : he is but a knight, is 'a? Mich. No. 120 Cade. To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [Kneels.^ — Rise up Sir John Mortimer. Now have at him. Enter Sir Humpheey Stafford, amd William his Brother, with drum amd Forces. Staf. Rebellious hiads, the filth and scum ' of Kent, Mark'd for the gaUows, lay your weapons down : Home to your cottages, forsake this groom. The king is merciful, if you revolt. W. Staf. But angry, wrathful, and inclin'd to blood, If you go forward : therefore yield, t)r die. Cade. As for these sUken-coated slaves, I pass not : lao It is to you, good people, that I speak. O'er whom in time to come I hope to reign ; For I am rightful heir imto the crown. Staf. VUlain ! thy father was a plasterer ; And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not? Cade. And Adam was a gardener. W. Staf. And what of that 1 Cade. Marry, this : — Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March, Married the Duke of Clarence' daughter, did he not % Staf. Ay, sir. i4o Cade. By her he had two children at one birth. W. Staf That 's false. Cade. A.J, there 's the question ; but I say, 't is true. The elder of them, being put to nurse, Was by a beggar-woman stol'n away ; And, ignorant of his birth and parentage. Became a bricklayer when he came to age. His son am I : deny it, if you can. Dick. Nay, . 't is too true ; therefore, he shall be king. i5o Smith. Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks are alive at this day to testify it : therefore, deny it not. Staf. And will you credit this base drudge's words. That speaks he knows not what ? All. A.J, marry, will we ; therefore get ye gone. W. Staf Jack Cade, the Duke of York hath taught you this. Cade. \Aside.'\ He lies, for I invented it myself. — Go to, sirrah : tell the king from me, that for his father's sake, Henry the Fifth, in whose time boys went to span- counter for French crowns, I am content he shall reign ; but I '11 be protector over him. 162 Dick. And, furthermore, we 'U have the Lord Say's head, for selling the dukedom of Maine. Cade. And good reason ; for thereby is England maiued, and faiu to go with a stafi", but that my puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded the commonwealth, and made it an eunuch ; and more than that, he can speak French, and therefore he is a traitor. iro Staf. gross and miserable ignorance ! Cade. Nay, answer, if you can : the Frenchmen are our enemies; go to then, I ask but this : can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good counsellor, or nol All. No, no ; and therefore we '11 h&ve his head. W. Staf. WeU, seeing gentle words will not prevail, Assail them with the army of the king. Staf. Herald, away ; and, throughout every town. Proclaim them traitors that are up with Cade ; lao That those which fly before the battle ends, May, even in their • wives' and children's sight. Be hang'd up for example at their doors. — And you, that be the king's friends, follow me. [Exeunt the two Stapfords and Forces. Cade. And you, that love the commons, follow me. — Now show yourselves men : 't is for liberty. We will not leave one lord, one gentleman : Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon. For they are thrifty honest men, and such 167 Act IV. KING HENEY VI.— PAET II. Scene IV. As would (but that they dare not) take our parts. 190 Dick. They are all in order, and march toward us. Cade. But then are we in order, when we are most out of order. Come : march ! forward ! [Eooeunt. Scene III. — Another Part of Blackheath. Ala/rums. The two pen-ties enter, and fight, and hoik the Staffords a/re slain. Cade. Where 's Dick, the butcher of Ash- ford? Dick. Here, sir. Cade. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house : therefore thus will I reward thee, — the Lent shall be as long again as it is ; and thou shalt have a license to kill for a hundred lacking one. Dick. I desire no more. Cade. And, to speak truth, thou deservest no less. This monument of the victory will I bear ; and the bodies shall be dragged at my horse' heels, till I do come to London, where we will have the mayor's sword borne before us. Dick. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols, and let out the prisoners. Cade. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come j let 's march towards London. [Exeunt. Scene IV.- -London. A E,oom in the Palace. Enter King Henet, reading a supplication ; the Duke of Buckingham, and Lord Say, with him : at a distance, Queen Maegaket, mourning over Suffolk's head. Q. Mar. Oft have . I heard that grief softens the mind. And makes it fearful and degenerate ; Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep. But who can cease to weep, and look on this? Here may his head lie on my throbbing breast ; But where 's the body that I should embrace ? Biuik. What answer makes your grace to the rebels' supplication ? K. Hen. I 'U send some holy bishop to entreat ; For God forbid, so many simple souls lo Should perish by the sword ! And I myself. Rather than bloody war shall cut them short. Will parley with Jack Cade, their general. — But stay, I '11 read it over once again. Q. Mar. Ah, barbarous villains ! hath this lovely face Rul'd like a wandering planet over me. And could it not enforce them to relent. That were unworthy to behold the same 1 K. Hen. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head. Say. Ay, but I hope, your highness shall have his. 20 K. Hen. How now, madam % Still lamenting, and mourning for Suffolk's death % I fear me, love, if that I had been dead, Thou wouldest not have mourn'd so much for me. Q. Mar. No, my love ; I should not mourn, but die for thee. Enter a Messenger. K. Hen. How now ! what news 1 why com'st thou in such haste 1 Mess. The rebels are in Southwark. Fly, my lord ! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended from the Duke of Clarence' house. And calls your grace usurper openly, so And vows to crown himself in Westminster. His army is a ragged miiltitude Of hinds and peasants, rude and merciless : Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's death Hath given them heart and courage to pro- ceed. All scholars, lawyers, courtiers, gentlemen. They call false caterpillars, and intend their death. K. Hen. O graceless men ! they know jiot what they do. Buck. My gracious lord, retire to Killing- worth, Until a power be rais'd to put them down. 40 Q. Mar. Ah ! were the Duke of Suffolk now alive. These Kentish rebels would be soon appeas'd. K. Hen. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee. Therefore away with us to KiUingworth. Say. So might your grace's person be in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes ; And therefore in this city will I stay, And live alone as secret as I may. 16S Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene VII. Enter anotlier Messenger. 2 Mess. Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge ; The citizens fly and forsake their houses ; so The rascal people, thirsting after prey, Join with the traitor; and they jointly swear, To spoU the city, and your royal court. £tick. Then linger not, my lord : away, take horse. K. Hen. Come, Margaret : God, our hope, will succour us. Q. Mar. My hope is gone, now Sufiblk is deceas'd. E. Hen. [To Lord Say.] Farewell, my lord : trust not the Kentish rebels. Buck. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray'd. Say. The trust I have is in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. eo [Exeunt. Scene V.— The Same. The Tower. Enter Lord Scales, and otJiers, walking on the walls. Then enter certain Citizens, below. Scales. How now ! is Jack Cade slain ? 1 Cit. No, my lord, nor likely to be slain ; for they have won the bridge, killing all those that withstand them. The lord mayor craves aid of your honour from the Tower, to defend the city from the rebels. Scales. Such aid as I can spare, you shall command ; But I am troubled here with them myself : The rebels have essay'd to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield, and gather head. And thither I will send you Matthew Gough. 10 Kght for your king, your country, and your lives ; And so farewell, for I must hence again. [Exeunt. Scene VI.— The Same. Cannon Street. He Enter Jack Cade and his Followers, strikes his staff" on London Stone. Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London Stone, I charge and command, that, of the city's cost, the pissing-conduit run nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now, 15 1C9 henceforward, it shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer. Enter a Soldier, running. Sold. Jack Cade ! Jack Cade ! Cade. Knock him down there. [They kill hvm. Smith. If this fellow be wise, he '11 never call you Jack Cade more : I think, he hath a very fair warning. Dick. My lord, there 's an army gathered together in Smithfield. 12 Cade. Come then, let 's go fight with them. But first, go and set London Bridge on fire, and, if you can, bum down the Tower too. Come, let 's away. [Exevmt. Scene VIL— The Same. Smithfield. Ala/rum. Enter, on one side. Cade and his Gomparvy ; on tlie other, the Citizens, and the King's Forces, /leaded by Matthew Gough. They fight; the Citizens are routed, and Matthew Gough is slain. ' Cade. So, sirs. — Now go some and pull down the Savoy ; others to the inns of court : down with them all. Dick. I have a suit iinto your lordship. Cade. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word. Dick. Only, that the laws of England may come out of your mouth. John. [Aside.] Mass, 'twill be sore law then; for he was thrust in' the mouth with a spear, and 'tis not whole yet. n Smith. [Aside.] Nay, John, it will be stink- ing law; for his breath stinks with eating toasted cheese. Cade. I have thought upon it ; it shall be so. Away ! bum all the records of the realm : my mouth shall be the parliament of England. JoJm. [Aside.] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his teeth be pulled out. Cade. And henceforward all things shall be in common. w Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, a prize, a prize ! here 's the Lord Say, which sold the towns in France ; he that made us pay one-and-twenty fifteens, and one shilling to the pound, the last subsidy. Enter George Bevis, with tlie Lord Say. Cade. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. — Ah, thou say, thou serge, nay, thou buckram lord ! now art thou within point- Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene VII. blank of our jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my majesty, for giving up of Normandy unto Monsieur Basimecu, the dauphin of France 1 Be it known unto thee by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar- school : and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the tally, thou hast caused printing to be used ; and, contrary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-milL It will be proved to thy face, that thou hast men about thee, that usually talk of a noun, and a verb, and such abominable words, as no Chris- tian ear caa endure to hear. Thou hast ap- pointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison ; and because they could not read, thou hast hanged them ; when, indeed, only for that cause they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou not ? Say. What of that ■? Cade. Marry, thou oughtest not to let thy horse wear a cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. 52 I>ick. And work in their shirt too ; as my- self, for example, that am a butcher. Say. You men of Kent, — JJick. What say you of Kent 1 Say. Nothing but this : 't is bona terra, mala gens. Cade. Away with him ! away with him ! he speaks Latin. Say. Here me but speak, and bear me where you will. eo Kent, in the Commentaries Csesar writ. Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle : Sweet is the country, because full of riches ; The people liberal, valiant, active, wealthy ; Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. .1 sold not Maine, I lost not Normandy ; Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. Justice with favour have I always done ; Prayers and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never. When have I aught exacted at your hands, n But to maintain the king, the realm, and you ? Large gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks, Because my book preferr'd me to the king, And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing wherewith we fly to heaven. Unless you be possess'd with devilish spirits. You cannot but forbear to murder me. This tongue hath parley'd unto foreign kings For your behoof, — Cade. Tut ! when struck'st thou one blow in the field 1 ei Say. Great men have reaching hands : oft have I struck Those that I never saw, and struck them dead. Geo. O monstrous coward ! what, to come behind folks ? Say. These cheeks are pale for watching for your good. Cade. Give him a box o' the ear, and that will make 'em red again. Say. Long sitting, to determine poor men's causes. Hath made me full of sickness and diseases.so Cade. Ye shall have a hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet Dick. Why dost thou quiver, man 1 Say. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. Cade. Nay, he nods at us ; as who should say, I'll be even with you. I'll see if his head will stand steadier on a pole, or no. Take him away, and behead him. Say. Tell me, wherein have I offended most? Have I affected wealth, or honour ] speak. 100 Are my chests fill'd up with extorted gold ? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold ? Whom have I injur'd, that ye seek my death? These hands are free from guiltless blood- shedding. This breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. 0, let me live ! Cade. I feel remorse in myself with his words ; but I '11 bridle it : he shall die, an it be but for pleading so well for his life. Away with him ! he has a familiar under his tongue: he speaks not o' God's name. Go, take him away, I say, and strike off his head presently; and then break into his son-in-law's house. Sir James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles hither. lu All. It shall be done. Say. Ah, countrymen ! if when you make your prayers, God should be so obdurate as yourselves, How woiild it fare with your departed souls ? And therefore yet relent, and save my life. Cade. Ayfuy with him, and do as I com- mand ye. 120 [Exeunt some, with Lord Say. The proudest peer in the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me 170 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene VIII. tribute : there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead, ere they have it. Men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command, that their wives be as free as heart can wish, or tongue can telL Dick. My lord, when shall we go to Cheap- side, and take up commodities upon our bills? Cacle. Marry, presently. All. O, brave ! iso He-enter Rebels, with the heads of Lord Say and his Soririn-law. Cade. But is not this braver? — Let them kiss one another, for they loved well, when they were alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night ; for with these borne before us, instead of maces, will we ride through the streets ; and at every comer have them kiss. — Away ! [Eaxunt. Scene VIII. — Southwark. Alarum. Enter Cade and all his Babble- ment. Cade. Up Fish Street ! down Saint Magnus' Corner ! kill and knock down ! throw them into Thames ! — [A parlet/ sounded, then a retreat.^ What noise is this I hear ? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or parley, when I command them kill ? Enter Buckingham, and Old Clifford, vnth Forces. Buck. Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee. Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the king Unto the commons whom thou hast misled ; And here pronounce free pardon to them all That will forsake thee, and go home in peace. Clif. What say ye, countrymen? will ye relent, n And yield to mercy, whilst 'fis offer'd you. Or let a rabble lead you to your deaths ? Who loves the king, and will embrace his pardon. Fling up his cap, and say — God save his majesty ! Who hateth him, and honours not his father, Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake. Shake he his weapon at us, and pass by. All. God save the king ! God save the king ! 19 Cade. What ! Buckingham, and Clifford, are ye so brave ? — And you, base peasants, do ye believe him? will you needs be hanged with your pardons about your necks ? Hath my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? I thought, ye would never have given out these arms, till you had recovered your ancient freedom ; but you are all recreants, and dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your backs with burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and daughters before your faces : for me, — I will make shift for one, and so, — God's curse light upon you all ! 32 All. We '11 follow Cade, we '11 follow Cade. Clif. Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, That thus you do exclaim, you'll go with him? Will he conduct you through the heart of France And make the meanest of you earls and dvikes ? Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to ; Nor knows he how to live, but by the spoil. Unless by robbing of your friends, and us. 40 Were 't not a shame, that whilst you live at jar. The fearful French, whom you late van- quished. Should make a start o'er seas, and vanquish you? Methinks, already, in this civil broU, I see them lording it in London streets, Crying — " Villiago ! " unto all they meet. Better ten thousand base-born Cades mis- carry. Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy. To France, to France ! and get what you have lost. Spare England, for it is your native coast, so Henry hath money, you are strong and manly : God on our side, doubt not of victory. All. A Clifford! a Clifford! we'U foHow the king, and Clifford. Cade. Was ever feather so lightly blown to and fro, as this multitude ? The name of Henry the Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave me desolate. I see them lay their heads together to sur- prise me : my sword make way for me, for here is no staying. — In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very midst of you ; and heavens and honour be witness, that no want of resolution in me, but only my 171 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene X. followers' base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake me to my heels. [Exit. Buck. What ! is he fled. 1 go some, and follow him ; And he, that briags his head unto the king. Shall have a thousand crowns for his re- ward. — [Exeunt some of them. Follow me, soldiers : we '11 devise a mean To reconcile you all unto the king. [Eoeeunt. Scene IX. — Kenilworth Castle. Sound Trumpets. Enter King Henet, Queen Margaret, and Somerset, on the Terrace of the Castle. K. Hen. Was ever king that joy'd an earthly throne. And could command no more content than 1 1 No sooner was I crept out of my cradle. But I was made a king, at nine months old : Was never subject long'd to be a kiag, As I do long and wish to be a subject. Enter Buckingham and Olifford. Buck. Health, and glad tidings, to your majesty ! K. Hen. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor. Cade, stirpris'd? Or is he but retir'd to make him strong ? Enter below, a number of Cade's Followers, with halters about their necks. Clif. He 's fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield. And humbly thus, with halters on then- necks, 11 Expect your highness' doom, of life, or death. K. Hen. Then, heaven, set ope thy ever- lasting gates, To entertain my vows of thanks and praise ! — Soldiers, this day have you redeem'd yoinr lives, And show'd how well you love your prince and country : Continue still in this so good a mind, And Henry, though he be infortunate. Assure yourselves, wUl never be unkind : And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, 20 I do dismiss you to your several countries. All. God save the king! God save the king ! Enter a Messenger. Mess. Please it your grace to be advertised. The Duke of York is newly come from Ireland, And with a puissant and a mighty power Of Gallowglasses and stout Kernes, Is marching hitherward in proud array ; And still proclaimeth, as he comes along. His arms are only to remove from thee The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. . so E. Hen. Thus stands my state, 'twixt Cade and York distress'd, Like to a ship, that, having scap'd a tempest, Is straightway calm'd and boarded with a pirate. But now is Cade driven back, his men dis- pers'd, And now is York in arms to second him. — I pray thee, Buckingham, go and meet him. And ask him, what's the reason of these arms. Tell him, I '11 send Duke Edmund to the Tower ; — And, Somerset, we will commit thee thither, Until his army be dismiss'd from him. 40 Som. My lord, I '11 yield myself to prison wiUiagly, Or unto death, to do my country good. K. Hen. In any case, be not too rough in terms, For he is fierce, and cannot brook hard language. Buck. I will, my lord ; and doubt not so to deal. As all things shall redound unto your good. K. Hen. Come, wife, let 's in, and learn to govern better ; For yet may England curse my wretched reign. [Exeurvt. 172 Scene X. — Kent. Iden's Garden. Enier Cade. Cade. Fie on ambition ! fie on myself, that have a sword, and yet am ready to famish ! These five days have I hid me in these woods, and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me ; but now am I so hungry, that if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man's stomach this hot weather. And I think this word sallet was born to do me good : for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill ; and many a time, when I have been dry and bravely marching, it hath served me instead Act V. KING HENEY YL— PART II. Scene I. of a quart-pot to drink in ; and now the word sallet must serve me to feed on. Enter Iden, with Servants, behind. Iden. Lord ! who would live turmoiled in the court, And may enjoy such quiet walks as these ? This small inheritance, my father left me, Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by others' waning ; 20 Or gather wealth I care not with what envy : Sufficeth that I have maintains my state, And sends the poor well pleased from my gate. Cade. Here 's the lord of the soil come to seize me for a stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain, thou wilt betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the king by carrying my head to him ; but I '11 make thee eat iron like an ostrich, and swallow my sword like a great pin, ere thou and I part. Iden. Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be, 30 I know thee not ; why then should I betray thee? Is 't not enough, to break into my garden, And like a thief to come to rob my grounds. Climbing my walls in spite of me, the owner. But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms ? Cade. Brave thee? ay, by the best blood that ever was broached, and beard thee too. Look on me well : I have eat no meat these five days ; yet, come thou and thy five men ; and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never eat grass more. 40 Iden. Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England stands, That Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, Took odds to combat a poor famish'd man. Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine. See if thou canst outface me with thy looks : Set Hmb to limb, and thou art far the lesser ; Thy hand is but a finger to my fist ; Thy leg a stick, compared with this truncheon; My foot shall fight with all the strength thou hast : And if mine arm be heaved in the air, so Thy grave is digg'd abeady in the earth. As for words, whose greatness answers words, Let this my sword report what speech for- bears. Cade. By my valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard. — Steel, if thou turn the edge, or cut not out the burly-boned clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in thy sheath, I beseech Jove on my knees, thou mayest be turned to hobnails. \They figlvt. Cade falls.\ O ! I am slain. Famine, and no other, hath slain me : let ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have lost, and I 'd defy them all. Wither, garden; and be henceforth a bury- ing-place to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is fled. 64 Iden. Is't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor ? Sword, I will hallow thee for this thy deed. And hang thee o'er my tomb, when I am. dead : Ne'er shall this blood be wiped from thy point. But thou shalt wear it as a herald's coat. To emblaze the honour that thy master got. ro Cade. Iden, farewell ; and be proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me, she hath lost her best man, and exhort all the world to be cowards ; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by famine, not by valour. [Dies. Iden. How much thou wrong'st me. Heaven be my judge. Die, damned wretch^ the curse of her that bare thee ! And as I thrust thy body in with my sword, So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence will I drag thee headlong by the heels Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy grave, so And there cut ofi" thy most ungracious head ; Which I will bear in triumph to the king. Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. [Exeunt Iden, dragging out the body, and Servants. ACT Y. Scene I. — The Same. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath. The King's Camp on one side. On the otlier, enter Yoek attended, with drum and colours ; his Forces at some distance. York. From Ireland thus comes York, to claim his right, And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head : Ring, bells, aloud ; bum, bonfires, clear and bright. To entertain great England's lawful king. Ah, sancta majestas ! who would not buy thee dear? Let them obey, that know not how to rule ; 173 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene I. This hand was made to handle nought but gold : I cannot give due action to my words, Except a sword, or sceptre, balance it. A sceptre shall it have, have I a soul, lo On which I'll toss the flower-de-luce of Prance. Enter Buckingham. Whom have we here ? Buckingham, to dis- turb me ? The king hath sent him, sure : I must dis- semble. Bii,ch. York, if thou meanest well, I greet thee well. York. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting. Art thou a messenger, or come of pleasure 1 Buck. A messenger from Henry, our dread liege. To know the reason of these arms in peace ; Or why thou, — being a subject as I am, — Against thy oath and true allegiance swom,2o Shouldst raise so great a power without his leave. Or dare to bring thy force so near the court. York. [Aside.^ Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. ! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint, 1 am so angry at these abject terms ; And now, like Ajax Telamonius, On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. I am far better bom than is the king. More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts ; But I must make fair weather yet awhile, so Till Henry be more weak, and I more strong. — O Buckingham, I pr'ythee, pardon me, That I have given no answer all this while : My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. The cause why I have brought this army hither. Is, to remove proud Somerset from the king, Seditious to his grace, and to the state. Bvx:k. That is too much presumption on thy part ; But if thy arms be to no other end, The king hath yielded unto thy demand : 40 The Duke of Somerset is in the Tower. York. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner ? . Buck. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. York. Then, Buckingham, I do dismiss my powers. — Soldiers, I thank you all ; disperse your- selves : Meet me to-morrow in Saint George's field. You shall have pay, and everything you wish. And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, Command my eldest son, — nay, all my sons, As pledges of my fealty and love ; so I '11 send them all, as willing as I live : Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have Is his to use, so Somerset may die. Buck. York, I commend this kind sub- mission : We twain will go into his highness' tent. Enter Kirvg Henry, attended. K. Hen. Buckingham, doth York intend no harm to us. That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm] York. In aU submission and humility, York doth present himself unto your high- ness. K. Sen. Then what intend these forces thou dost bring ? eo York. To heave the traitor Somerset from hence ; And fight against that monstrous rebel, Cade, Who since I heard to be discomfited. Enter Iden, with Cade's lisad. Iden. If one so rude, and of so mean con- dition. May pass into the presence of a king, Lo ! I present your grace a traitor's head. The head of Cade, whom I in combat slew. K. Hen. The head of Cade?— Great God, how just art Thou ! — ! let me view his visage being dead, That living wrought me such exceeding trouble. fo Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him % Iden. I was, an 't like your majesty. K. Hen. How art thou caU'd, and what is thy degree 1 Iden. Alexander Iden, that 's my name ; A poor esquire of Kent, that loves his king. Buck. So please it you, my lord, 't were not amiss, He were created knight for his good service. K. Hen. Iden, kneel down. [He hneeh.'\ Rise up a knight. We give thee for reward a thousand marks ; And will, that thou henceforth attend on us. Iden. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, si And never live but true unto his liege. K. Hen. See, Buckingham ! Somerset comes with the queen : Go, bid her hide him quickly from the duke. m Act V. KING HENEY VI.— PAET II. Scene I. Enter Queen Margaret and Somerset. Q. Mar. For thousand Yorks lie shall not hide his head, But boldly stand, and front him to his face. York. How now ! is Somerset at liberty % Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisqn'd thoughts, And let thy tongue be equal with thy heart. Shall I endure the sight of Somerset % — so False king, why hast thou broken faith with me. Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse ? King did I call thee ? no, thou art not king ; Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, Which dar'st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. That head of thine doth not become a crown ; Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's stafi", ■ And not to grace an awful princely sceptre. That gold must round engirt these brows of mine ; Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear, loo Is able with the change to kill and cure. Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up, And with the same to act controlling laws. Give place : by Heaven, thou shalt rule no more O'er him whom Heaven created for thy ruler. Som. O monstrous traitor ! — I arrest thee, York, Of capital treason 'gainst the king and crown. Obey, audacious traitor : kneel for grace. York. Wouldst have me kneel ? first let me ask of these. If they can brook I bow a knee to man % no Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail ; \Emt an AUendamt. I know, ere they will have me go to ward, They '11 pawn their swords for my enfranchise- ment. Q. Mar. Call hither Olifibrd ; bid him come amain, To say, if that the bastard boys of York Shall be the surety for their traitor father. [Eodt Buckingham. York. blood-bespotted Neapolitan, Outcast of Naples, England's bloody scourge. The sons of York, thy betters in their birth. Shall be their father's bail ; and bane to those 120 That for my surety will refuse the boys. Enter Edward and. Eichard Plantagenet, with Forces, at one side ; at the other, with Forces also, Old Clifford and his Son. See, where they come : I '11 warrant they '11 make it good. Q. Mar. And here comes Olifibrd, to deny their bail. Clif. Health and all happiness to my lord the king ! [Kneels. York. I thank thee, Olifibrd : say, what news with thee ? Nay, do not fright us with an angry look : We are thy sovereign, Olifibrd, kneel again ; For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. Clif. This is my king, York : I do not mistake ; But thou mistak'st me much, to think I do. — To Bedlam with him ! is the man grown mad 1 130 K. Hen. Ay, Clifford ; a bedlam and ambitious humour Makes him oppose himself against his king. Clif. He is a traitor : let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his. Q. Mar. He is arrested, but will not obey : His sons, he says, shall give theirwords for him. York. Will you not, sons 1 Edw. Ay, noble father, if our words will serve. Rich. And if words will not, then our weapons shall. Clif. Why, what a brood of traitors have we here ! i4o York. Look in a glass, and call thy image so; I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. — Call hither to the stake my two brave bears, That with the very shaking of their chains They may astonish these fell-lurking curs : Bid Salisbury, and Warwick, come to me. Drums. Enter Warwick and Salisbury, with Forces. Clif. Are these thy bears 1 we '11 bait thy bears to death. And manacle the bear-ward in their chains. If thou dar'st bring them to the baiting-place. Rich. Oft have I seen a hot o'erweening cur 150 Eun back and bite, because he was withheld; Who, being sufier'd with the bear's fell paw, Hath clapp'd his tail between his legs, and cry'd : And such a piece of service will you do. If you oppose yourselves to match Lord War- wick. Clif. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump. As crooked in thy manners as thy shape ! York. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. Clif. Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves. 175 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART IT. Scene 1L K. Hen, Why, Warwick, hatli thy knee forgot to bow ? — 160 Old Salisbury, — shame to thy silver hair. Thou mad misleader of thy braia-sick son ! — What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the ruffian, And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles % ! where is faith ? ! where is loyalty? If it be banish'd from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbour in the earth? — Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war, And shame thine honourable age with blood ? Why art thou old, and want'st experience ? iro Or wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it % For shame ! in duty bend thy knee to me, That bows unto the grave with mickle age. Sal. Mv lord, I have consider'd with my- self The title of this most renowned duke ; And in my conscience do repute his grace The rightful heir to England's royal seat. K. Hen. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me ? Sal. I have. K. Hen. Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath ? iso Sal. It is great sin to swear unto a sin. But greater sia to keep a sinful oath. Who can be bound by any solemn vow To do a murderous deed, to rob a man. To force a spotless virgin's chastity. To reave the orphan of his patrimony, To wring the widow from her custom'd right, And have no other reason for this wrong, But that he was bound by a solemn oath ? Q. Ma/r. A subtle traitor needs no so- phister. 190 K. Hen. CaU Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. York. Call Buckingham, and all the friends thou hast, 1 am resolv'd for death, or dignity. Clif. The first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. Wa/r. You were best to go to bed, and dream again, To keep thee from tho tempest of the field. Glif. I am resolv'd to bear a greater storm. Than any thou canst conjure up to-day ; And that I '11 write upon thy burgonet. Might I but know thee by thy household badge. 200 War. Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest, The rampant bear chain'd to the ragged staff. This day I '11 wear aloft my burgonet, (As on a mountain-top the cedar shows. That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm,) Even to aftright thee with the view thereof. Clif. And from thy burgonet I 'U rend thy bear, And tread it under foot with all contempt. Despite the bear-ward that protects the bear. Y. Glif. And so to arms, victorious father. To quell the rebels, and their complices. 211 Rich. Fie ! charity ! for shame ! speak not in spite. For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. Y. Clif. Foul stigmatic, that 's more than than thou canst tell. Rich. If not in heaven, you '11 surely sup in hell. [Exeunt severally. Scene II. — Saint Albans. Ala/rums : Excursions. Enter Warwick. War. CliflFord of Cumberland, 't is Warwick calls : And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, Now, when the angry trumpet sounds alarm, And dead men's cries do fill the empty air, Clifibrd, I say, come forth and fight with me ! Proud northern lord, CHflbrd of Cumberland, Warwick is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Enter York. How now, my noble lord ? what, all afoot ? York, i'he deadly-handed Clifford slew my steed ; But match to match I have encounter'djhim, 10 And made a prey for parrion kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he lov'd so weU. Enter Clifford. War. Of one or both of us the time is come. York. Hold, Warwick ! seek thee out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. War. Then, nobly, York ; 't is for a crown thou fight'st. — As I intend, Clifibrd, to thrive to-day. It grieves my soul to leave thee unassaU'd. [Exit. Clif. What seest thou in me, York? why dost thou pause 1 York. With thy brave bearing should I be in love, 20 But that thou art so fast mine enemy. Clif. Nor should thy prowess want praise and esteem, But that 't is shown ignobly, and in treason. York. So let it help me now against thy sword. As I in justice and true right express it. 176 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene III. Clif. My soul and body on the action both !— Torh. A dreadful lay ! Address thee in- stantly. Clif. La fin cov/ronne les csuvres. \Tliey fight, and GuweoRD falls and dies. York. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou art still. Peace with his soul, Heaven, if it be thy will ! [Exit. Enter Young Clifford. Y. Clif. Shame and confusion ! all is on the rout : 31 Pear frames disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. war ! thou son of hell, Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our part Hot coals of vengeance ! — Let no soldier fly ; He that is truly dedicate to war . Hath no self-love ; nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially, but by circumstance. The name of valour.- — [Seeing his fatJier's body.] O ! let the vUe world end, « And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven together ! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast. Particularities and petty sounds To cease ! — Wast thou ordain'd, dear father, To lose thy youth in peace, and to achieve The sUver livery of advised age. And, in thy reverence, and thy chair-days, thus To die in ruffian battle ? — Even at this sight, My heart is tum'd to stone : and while 't is mine, so It shall be stony. York not our old men spares ; No more will I their babes : tears virginal Shall be to me even as the dew to fire ; And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims. Shall to my flaming wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity : Meet I an infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it. As wild Medea young Absyrtus did ; In cruelty wUl I seek out my fame. eo Come, thou new nun of old Clifford's house : [Taking up the body. As did ^neas old Anchises bear. So bear I thee upon my manly shoidders ; But then ^neas bare a living load. Nothing so heavy as these woes of mine. [Exit. Enter Richard Plantagbnet and Somerset, fighting. Somerset is killed. Rich. So, lie thou there ; — Por, underneath an ale-house' paltry sign, The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his death. Sword, hold thy temper ; heart, be wrathful stUl : ra Priests pray for enemies, but princes kill. [Exit. Alarums: Excursions. Enter King Henry, Queen Margaret, and others, retreating. Q. Mar. Away, my lord ! you are slow : for shame, away ! X. Hen. Can we outrun the heavens ? good Margaret, stay. Q. Mar. What are you made of ? you '11 nor fight, nor fly ; _ Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence, To give the enemy way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly. [Alarum afar off. If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes : but if we haply scape (As well we may, if not through your neglect), so We shall to London get, where you are lov'd. And where this breach, now in our fortunes made, May readily be stopp'd. Enter Young Clifford. Y. Clif. But that my heart 's on future mischief set, I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly ; But fly you must : uncurable discomfit Reigns in the hearts of all our present parts. Away, for your relief ! and we will live To see their day, and them our fortune give. Away, my lord, away ! so [Eoceunt. Scene III. — Fields near Saint Albans. Alarum: Retreat. Flourish; tlien enter York, Richard Plantagenet, Warwick, and Soldiers, with drum and colou/rs. York. Of Salisbury, who can report of him? That winter lion, who in rage forgets Aged contusions and all brush of time, And, like a gallant in the brow of youth. Repairs him with occasion t This happy day Is not itself, nor have we won one foot, If Salisbury be lost. Rich. My noble father, 127 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART II. Scene III. Three times to-day I holp him to his horse, Three times bestrid him ; thrice I led Tiim off, Persuaded him from any further act : lo But stni, where danger was, still there I met him; And like rich hangings in a homely house. So was his will in his old feeble body. But, noble as he is, look where he comes. Evier Salisbury. Sal. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day ; By the mass, so did we all. — I thank you, Richard : God knows how long it is I have to live ; And it hath pleas'd Him, that three times to-day You have defended me from imminent death. — Well, lords, we have not got that which we have : »> 'T is not enough our foes are this time fled, Being opposites of such repairing nature. Yorh. I know, our safety is to follow them; For, as I hear, the king is fled to London, To call a present court of parliament : Let us pursue him, ere the writs go forth. — What says Lord Warwick? shaU we after them? War. After them ? nay, before them, if we can. Now, by my faith, lords, 'twas a glorious day : Saint Alban's battle, won by famous York, so Shall be etemis'd in all age to come. — Sound, drums and trumpets ! — and to London all; And more such days as these to us befaU ! [Exeunt. 178 LOYE'S LABOUR'S LOST. DRAMATIS PERSONJE. Ferdinand, King of Navarre. BiRON, 1 LoNGAViLLE, V Lords attending on tlie King. DUMAINE, j BoYET, \ Lords attending on t/ie Princess Mercade, j of France. Don Adriano de Armado, a fantastical Spaniard. Sir Nathaniel, a Cwrate. HoLOFERNES, a Sclhoolmaster. Dull, a Constable. SGENE- CosTARD, a Clown. Moth, Page to Armado. A Forester. Princess of France. Rosaline, \ Maria, > Ladies attending on the Princess. Katharine, ) Jaquenetta, a Country Wench. Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess. -Navarre. ACT I. Scene I. — Navarre. A Park, with a Palace in it. Enter tite King, Biron, Longavillb, and Dumaine. King. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live register'd upon our brazen tombs. And then grace us in the disgrace of death, When, spite of cormorant devouring time. The endeavour of this present breath may My That honour, which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors ! — for so you are. That war against your own affections, And the huge army of the world's desires, — Our late edict shall strongly stand in force : n Navarre shall be the wonder of the world ; Our court shall be a little Academe, Still and contemplative in Kving art. You three, Biron, Dumaine, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me. My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here : Your oaths are pass'd, and now subscribe your names. That his own hand may strike his honour down, 20 That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are arm'd to do, as sworn to do. Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. Long. I am resolv'd : 't is but a three years' fast. The mind shall banquet, though the body pine : Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankerout the wits. Dum. My loving lord, Dumaine is mor- tified. The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves : To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, si With all these living in philosophy. Biron. I can but say their protestation over. So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances ; As, not to see a woman in that term. Which, I hope well, is not enrolled there : And, one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside ; *> The which, I hope, is not enrolled there : And then, to sleep bxit three hours in the night, And not be seen to wink of all the day, (When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day) — Which, I hope well, is not enrolled there. ! these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, 179 Act I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. SCESTE 1. Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep. King. Your oath, is pass'd to pass a-way from these. Biron. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please. so I only swore to study with your grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space. Long. You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest. Biron. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. — What is the end of study? let me know. King. Why, that to know ■which else we should not know. Biron. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense ? King. Aj, that is study's god-like recom- pense. Biron. Come on then, I •wUl swear to study so. To know the thing I am forbid to know ; eo As thus, — ^to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid ; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid ; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keepiag oath. Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study's gain be thus, and this be so. Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no. King. These be the stops that hiader study quite, ro And train our intellects to vain delight. Biron. Why, all delights are vain ; but that most vain. Which, vnth. pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth ; while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile : So, ere you find where light in darkness Hes, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed, eo By fixing it upon a fairer eye ; Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed. And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-search' d with saucy looks : Small have continual plodders ever won. Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights, That give a name to every fixed star, Have no more profit of their shining nights. Than those that walk, and wot not what they are. 91 Too much to know is to know nought but fame ; And every godfather can give a name. King. How well he 's read, to reason against reading ! Dum. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding ! Long. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. Biron. The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding. Dum. How follows that ? Biron. Fit in his place and time. Dum. In reason nothing. Biron. Something then in rhyme. King. Biron is like an envious sneapiiig frost, 100 That bites the first-born infants of the spring. Biron. Well, say I am : why should proud summer boast. Before the birds have any cause to sing ? Wliy should I joy in an abortive birth 1 At Christmas I no more desire a rose, Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows ; But like of each thing that in season grows. So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. King. Well, sit you out : go home, Biron : adieu ! no Biron. No, my good lord ; I have sworn to stay with you : And, though I have for barbarism spoke more, Than for that angel knowledge you can say. Yet confident I '11 keep what I have swore, And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper : let me read the same j And to the strict'st decrees I '11 write my name. King. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame ! Biron. [Beads. ^ " Item, That no woman shall come within a mile of my court." — Hath this been proclaim'd ? 120 Long. Four days ago. Biron. Let 's see the penalty. [Beads.] " On pain of losing her tongue." — WTio devis'd this penalty ? Long. Marry, that did I. Biron. Sweet lord, and why ? Long. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. Biron. A dangerous law against gentility ! [Reads^.] " Item, If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, ISO Act I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene I. he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise." — • isi This article, my liege, yourself must break ; For, well you know, here comes in embassy The French king's daughter with yourself to speak, — A maid of grace, and complete majesty, — About surrender-up of Aquitain To her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father : Therefore, this article is made in vain. Or vainly comes the admired princess hither. King. What say you, lords 1 why, this was quite forgot. aio Biron. So study evermore is overshot : While it doth study to have what it would. It doth forget to do the thing it should ; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'T is won, as towns with fire ; so won, so lost. King. We must of force dispense with this decree : She must lie here on mere necessity. Biron. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years' For every man with his affects is bom, iso Not by might master'd, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me, I am forsworn on mere necessity. — So to the laws at large I write my name ; [Subscribes. And he that breaks them in the least degree. Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to others as to me ; But, I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. But is there no quick recreation granted ? leo King. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain ; A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain ; One, whom the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony ; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny : This child of fancy, that Armado hight. For interim to our studies, shall relate iro In high-bom words the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain, lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I ; But, I protest, I love to hear him lie. And I will use him for my minstrelsy. Biron. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight. Long. Costard, the swain, and he shall be our sport ; And so to study, three years is but shoi't. Enter Dull, with a letter, and Costard. Dull. Which is the duke's own person ? iso Biron. This, fellow. What wouldst ? Dull. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his grace's tharborough : but I would see his own jjerson in flesh and blood. Biron. This is he. Dull. Signior Arm — Arm — commends you. There 's villainy abroad : this letter will tell you more. Cost. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. King. A letter from the magnificent Armado. Biron. How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. isi Long. A high hope for a low heaven : God grant us patience ! Biron. To hear, or forbear laughing 1 Long. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately ; or to forbear botL Biron. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. Cost. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. 201 Biron. In what manner ? Cost. In manner and form following, sir ; all those three : I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park ; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner, — ^it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman ; for the form, — in some form. Biron. For the following, sir ? 210 Cost. As it shall follow in my correction ; and God defend the right ! Kiiig. Will you hear this letter with attention % Biron. As we would hear an oracle. Cost. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. King. [Reads.'\ " Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent, and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's God, and body's fostering patron," — Cost. Not a word of Costard yet. 220 King. " So it is,"— Cost. It may be so ; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so, — King. Peace ! Cost. — be to me, and every man that dares not fight. 181 Act I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. KiTig. No words ! Cost. — of other men's secrets, I beseech you. King. "So it is, besieged with sable- coloured melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour to the most whole- some physic of thy health-giving air ; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time when ? About the sixth hour ; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. So iliuch for the time when. Now for the ground which ; which, I mean, I walked upon : it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place where ; where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event, that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou vieweat, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where ; — it standeth north-north- east and by east from the west comer of thy curious-knotted garden : there did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth," — 2^5 Cost. Me. King. — " that unletter'd small-knowing soul,"— Cost. Me. King. ■ — " that shallow vassal," — Cost. Still me. mo King. — " which, as I remember, hight Costard,"— Cost. O ! me. King ■ — " sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and con- tinent canon, with — with — O ! with — but wi+.h this I passion to say wherewith," — Cost. With a wench. King. — " with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female ; or, for thy more sweet under- standing, a woman. Him I (as my ever- esteemed duty pricks me on) have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet grace's officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estima- tion." 264 Didl. Me, an 't shall please you : I am Antony DulL King. — " For Jaquenetta (so is the weaker vessel called), which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain, I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all complements of devoted and heart- burning heat of duty, Don Adriano de Armado." 2"i Biron. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard. King. Ay, the best for the worst. — But, sirrah, what say you to this ? Cost. Sir, I confess the wench. King. Did yon hear the proclamation 1 Cost. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. Kwig. It was proclaimed a year's imprison- ment, to be taken with a wench. 281 Cost. I was taken with none, sir : I was taken with a damosel. King. Well, it was proclaimed damosel. Cost. This was no damosel neither, sir : she was a virgin. King. It is so varied too, for it was pro- claimed virgin. Cost. If it were, I deny her virginity : I was taken with a maid. 2«o King. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. Cost. This maid will serve my turn, sir. King. Sir, I wiU pronounce your sentence : you shall fast a week with bran and water. Cost. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. King. And Don Armado shall be your ■ keeper. — My Lord Biron, see him deliver'd o'er : And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn, soo [Exeunt King, Longa villi;, and Dumaine. Biron. I '11 lay my head to any good man's hat, These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. — Sirrah, come on. Cost. I suffer for the truth, sir : for true it is, I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaqnenetta is a true girl ; and therefore, wel- come the sour cup of prosperity ! Affliction may one day smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow ! \Exeunt. Scene II. — ^Armado's House in the Park. Enter Armado and Moth. Arm. Boy, what sign is it, when a man of great spirit grows melancholy ? Moth. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. Arm. Why, sadness is one and the self- same thing, dear imp. Moth. No, no ; O Lord ! sir, no. Arm. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal 1 Moth. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior. 10 162 Act I. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. Arm. "Why tough senior? why tough senior ? Moth. Why tender juvenal ? why tender Juvenal ? Arm. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a con- gruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. Moth. And I, tough senior, as an apper- tinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. Arm. Pretty, and apt. Moth. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I aj)t, and my saying pretty ? 20 Arm. Thou pretty, because little. Moth. Little pretty, because little. Where- fore apt ? Arm. And therefore apt, because quick. Moth. Speak you this in my praise, master? Arm. In thy condign praise. Moth. I will praise an eel with the same praise. Arm. What, that an eel is ingenious ? Moth. That an eel is quick. Arm. I do say, thou art quick in answers. Thou heatest my blood. so Moth. I am answered, sir. Arm,. I love not to be crossed. Moth. [Aside."] He speaks the mere con- trary : crosses love not him. Arm. I have promised to study three years with the duke. Moth. You may do it in an hour, sir. Arm,. Impossible. Moth. How many is one thrice told ? Arm. I am ill at reckoning : it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. « Moth. You are a gentleman, and a gamester, sir. Arm. I confess both : they are both the varnish of a complete man. Moth. Then, I am sure, you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. Arm. It doth amount to one more than two. Moth. Which the base vulgar do call three. Arm. True. Moth. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study ? Now, here is three studied, ere you '11 thrice wink ; and how easy it is to put years to the word three, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. 54 Arm. A most fine figure ! Moth. [Aside."] To prove you a cypher. Arrfi. I will hereupon confess I am in love ; and, as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of afiection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised courtesy. I think scorn to sigh : methinks, I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love ? es Moth. Hercules, master. Arm. Most sweet Hercules ! — More autho- rity, dear boy, name more ; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. Moth. Samson, master : he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town-gates on his back, like a porter, and he was in love. 72 Arm. O well-knit Samson ! strong-jointed Samson ! I do excel thee in my rapier, as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. 1 am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth ? Moth. A woman, master. Arm. Of what complexion ? Moth. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. so Arm: Tell me precisely of what complexion. Moth. Of the sea^water green, sir. Arm. Is that one of the four complexions ? Moth. As I have read, sir ; and the best of them too. Arm. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers ; but to have a love of that colour, methinks, Samson had small reason for it. He, surely, afiected her for her wit. Moth. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit. Arm. My love is most immaculate white and red. Moth. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours. 91 Arm. Define, define, well-educated infant. Moth. My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me ! Arm. Sweet invocation of a chUd ; most pretty, and pathetical ! Moth. If she be made of white and red. Her faults will ne'er be known ; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred. And fears by pale-white shown : 100 Then, if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know ; For stUl her cheeks possess the same, Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master; against the reason of white and red. Arm. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar ? Moth. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since ; but I think, 183 Act II. LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. Scene 1. now 'tis not to be found; or, if it were, it would neitter serve for tlie writing, nor the tune. 112 Arm. I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl, that I took in the park with the rational hiad Costard : she deserves well. Moth. [Aside.^ To be whipped ; and yet a better love than my master. Arm. Sing, boy : my spirit grows heavy in love. i-'o Moth. And that's great marvel, loving a light wench. Arm. I say, sing. Moth. Forbear till this company be past. Mnter Dull, Costard, and Jaqxtenetta. Dull. Sir, the duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard safe : and you must let him take no delight, nor no penance, but a' must fast three days a week.. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park ; she is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well. Arm. I do betray myself with blushing. — Maid. ISO Jaq. Man. Arm. I will visit thee at the lodge. Jaq. That 's hereby. Arm. I know where it is situate. Jaq. Lord, how wise you are ! Arm. I will tell thee wonders. Jaq. With that face ? Arm. I love thee. Jaq. So I heard you say. Arm. And so farewell. . i4o Jaq. Fair weather after you ! . Dull. Come, Jaquenetta, away. [Exeunt Dull and Jaquenetta. Arm. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences, ere thou be pardoned. Cost. Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a full stomach. Arm. Thou shalt be heavily punished. Cost. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. Arm. Take away this villain : shut him up. 150 Moth. Come, you transgressing slave : away ! Cost. Let me not be pent up, sir : I will fast, being loose. Moth. No, sir ; that were fast and loose : thou shalt to prison. Cost. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shaU see — Moth. What shall some see ? Cost, Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words ; and therefore I will say nothing : I thank God I have as little patience as another ^man, and therefore I can be quiet. les [ExeMut Moth and Costakd. Arm. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn (which is a great argument of falsehood), if I love. And how can that be true love, which is falsely attempted ? Love is a familiar ; Love is a devil : there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength : yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not : his disgrace is to be, called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour ! rust, rapier ! be still, drum ! for your manager is ia love ; yea, he loveth. Assist me some extemporal god of rhyme, for, I am sure, I shall turn sonneter. Devise, wit ; write, pen ; for I am for whole volumes in folio. [Eodt. ACT IL Scene I. — Another Part of the Park. A Pavilion and Tents at a distance. Enter the Princess of France, Eosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, and other Attendants. Boyet. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits : Consider whom the king your father sends. To whom he sends, and what 's his embassy : Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre ; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitain, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace. As Nature was ia making graces dear, lo When she did starve the general world be- side, 184 ^^IKM : I love -thee'. ■J.,^Q: Sol ':-'.'>\: JJLC ■i'/^j. LOVJl'S LMiOUR J.JST .ACT J.SCJiA''/!! U. CASSEU. & COMP^>rY, LIMITED Act II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene I. And prodigally gave them all to you. Prin. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise ; Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues. I am less proud to hear you tell my worth, Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker. — Good Boyet, 20 You are not ignorant, all-telling fame Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow. Till painful study shall outwear three years. No woman may approach his silent court : Therefore to us seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates. To know his pleasure ; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moviug fair solicitor. Tell him, the daughter of the King of France, so On serious business, craving quick despatch. Importunes personal conference with his grace. Haste, signify so much ; while we attend, like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. Boyet. Proud of employment, willingly I go- Prvn. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. — [Exit Boyet. Who are the votaries, my loving lords. That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? 1 Lord. Longaville is one. Frim. Know you the man ? Ma/r. r know him, madam : at a marriage- feast, 40 Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge solemnised In Normandy, saw I this LongaviUe. A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd ; Well fitted in the arts, glorious in arms : Nothing becomes him ill, that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss, If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil, Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will ; Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills 60 It should none spare that come within his power. Prin. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is 't sol Mar. They say so most that most his humours know. Prin. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest ? 16 185 Kath. The young Dumaine, a well-accom- plish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd : Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill. For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. 60 I saw him at the Duke Alen§on's once ; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. Ros. Another of these students at that time Was there with him : if I have heard a truth Biron they call him ; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit ; For every object that the one doth catch, to The other turns to a mirth-moving jest. Which his fair tongue (conceit's expositor) Delivers in such apt and gracious words, That aged ears play truant at his tales. And younger hearings are quite ravished ; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. Prim. God bless my ladies ! are they all in love. That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise ? Lord. Here comes Boyet. Re-enter Boyet. Prin. Now, what admittance, lord? so Boyet. Navarre had notice of your fair approach ; And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady. Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt. He rather means to lodge you in the field. Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath. To let you enter his impeopled house. Here comes Navarre. \T1ie Ladies rrmsk. Enter King, Longaville, Dumaine, Biron, and Attendants. King. Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. so Prin. Fair, I give you back again; and welcome I have not yet : the roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. King. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. Prin. I will be welcome then. Conduct me thither. Kin^. Hear me, dear lady : I have sworn an oath. Act II. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene I. Prin. Our Lady help my lord ! he 'U be forsworn. King. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. Prin. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. loo King. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. Prin. "Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise. Where now his knowledge must prove igno- rance. I hear, your grace hath sworn out house- keeping : 'T is deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden-bold : To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. "Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. no [Gives a paper. King. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. Prin. You will the sooner that I were away, For you'll prove perjur'd, if you make me stay. Biron. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once ? Bos. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? Biron. I know you did. Eos. How needless was it then To ask the question ! Biron. You must not be so quick. Bos. 'T is 'long of you, that spur me with such questions. Biron. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast, 't will tire. Bos. Not tUl it leave the rider in the mire. Biron. What time o' day % 121 Bos. The hour that fools should ask. Biron. Now fair befall your mask ! Bos. Fair fall the face it covers ! Biron. And send yon many lovers ! Bos. Amen, so you be none. Biron. Nay, then will I be gone. King. Madam, your father here doth inti- mate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns ; Being but the one-half of an entire sum, iso Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say, that he, or we, (as neither have) Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more ; in surety of the which. One part of Aquitain is bound to us. Although not valued to the money's wortL If then the king your father will restore But that one-half which is unsatisfied. We will give up our right in Aquitain, And hold fair friendship with his majesty, uo But that, it seems, he little purposeth. For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns ; and not de- mands. On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitain ; Which we much rather had depart withal. And have the money by our father lent. Than Aquitain, so gelded as it is. Dear princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make iso A yielding, 'gainst some reason, in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. Prin. You do the king my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. King. I do protest, I never heard of it ; And if you prove it, I '11 repay it ba«k, Or yield up Aquitain. Prin. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances ibo For such a sum, from special officers Of Charles his father. King. Satisfy me so. Boyet. So please your grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other specialities are bound : To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. King. It shall suffice me : at which inter- view, All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime, receive such welcome at my hand, As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. i7o You may not come, fair princess, in my gates ; But here without you shall be so receiv'd, As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart. Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell : To-morrow shall we visit you again. Prin. Sweet health and fair desires consort your grace ! King. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place ! [Kxeunf King and his Train. Biron. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. Bos. 'Pray you, do my commendations ; I would be glad to see it. 181 Biron. 1 would you heard it groan. Bos. Is the fool sick 1 186 Act II. LOVE'S LABOUE'S LOST. Scene I. Bwon. Sick at the heart. Bos. Alack ! let it blood. £iron. Would that do it good 1 Bos. My physic says, ay. Biron. Win you prick 't with your eye ? Bos. No point, with my knife. Biron. Now, God save thy life ! iso Bos. And yours from long living ! Biron. I cannot stay thanksgiving. \Betiri71g. Dv/m. Sir, I pray you, a word. What lady is that same ] Boyet. The heir of Alengon, Katharine her name. Dv/m. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. {Eoait. Long. I beseech you a word. What is she in the white ? Boyet. A woman sometimes, an you saw her La the light. Long. Perchance, light in the light. I de- sire her name. Boyet. She hath but one for herself; to desire that, were a shame. Long. Pray you, sir, whose daughter 1 km Boyet. Her mother's, I have heard. Long. God's blessing on your beard ! Boyet. Good sir, be not offended. Bhe is an heir of Palconbridge. Long. IS&j, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. Boyet. Not unlike, sir ; that may be. [Exit Long. Biron. What 's her name in the cap ? Boyet. Rosaline, by good hap. Biron. Is she wedded, or no 1 210 Boyet. To her will, sir, or so. Biron. O ! you are welcome, sir. Adieu. Boyet. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. [jExit Biron. — Ladies umnask. Mar. That last is Biron, the merry mad- cap lord : Not a word with him but a jest. Boyet. And every jest but a word. Prin. It was well done of you to take him at his word. Boyet. I was as willing to grapple, as he was to board. Mar. Two hot sheeps, marry ! 'Boyet. And wherefore not ships ? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. Mar. You sheep, and I pasture : shall that finish the jest? 220 Boyet. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her. Mar. Not so, gentle beast. My lips are no common, though several they be. Boyet. Belonging to whom ? Ma/r. To my fortunes and me Prvn. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree. The civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men, for here 't is abused. Boyet, If my observation (which very seldom lies). By the hearo's still rhetoric, disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. Prin. With what ? 2ao Boyet. With that which we lovers entitle, affected. Prin. Your reason ? Boyet. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire : His heart, like an agate, with your print , impressed. Proud with his form, in his eye pride ex- pressed : His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. 240 Methought, all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy ; Who, tend'ring their own worth, from where they were glass'd, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. His face's own margent did cote such amazes, That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I '11 give you Aquitain, and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving tiss. Prin. Come to our pavUion : Boyet is dis- pos'd. Boyet. But to speak that in words, which his eye hath disclos'd. 2so I only have made a mouth of his eye. By adding a tongue, which I know will not Ue.. Bos. Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully. Mar. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. Bos. Then was Yenus like her mother, for her father is but grim. Boyet. Do you hear, my mad wenches ? Mar. No. Boyet. What then, do you see ? Bos. A.J, our way to be gone. Boyet. You are too hard for me. [Exeunt. 1S7 Act III. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene 1. ACT IIL Scene I. — Another Part of the Same. Enter Armado and Moth. Arm. Warble, child : make passionate my sense of hearing. Moth. [Singing. '\ Concolinel — Arm. Sweet air ! — Go, tenderness of years : take this key, give enlargement to the swain., bring him festinately hither ; I must employ him in a letter to my love. Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl t Arm. How meanest thou? brawling in French? Moth. No, my complete master ; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note, and sing a note ; sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love ; sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love ; with your hat, penthouse- like, o'er the shop of your eyes ; with your arms crossed on your thin belly-doublet, like a rabbit on a spit ; or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours, these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these, and make them men of note, (do you note me ?) that most are affected to these. Arm. How hast thou purchased this ex- perience ? Moth. By my penny of observation. Arm. But O, — but O, — so Moth. — the hobby-horse is forgot. Arm. Callest thou my love hobby-horse ? Moth. No, master ; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love, perhaps, a hackney. But have you forgot your love ? Arm. Almost I had. Moth. Negligent student ! learn her by heart. Arm. By heart, and in heart, boy. Moth. And out of heart, master : all those three I will prove. 40 Arm. What wUt thou prove ? Moth. A man, if I live ; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant : by heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her ; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. Arm. I am all these three. Moth. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at alL so Arm. Fetch hither the swain : he must carry me a letter. Moth. A message well sympathised : a horse to be ambassador for an ass. Arm. Ha, ha ! what sayest thou ? Moth. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. Arm. The way is but short. Away ! Moth. As swift as lead, sir. Arm. Thy meaning, pretty ingenious ? eo Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow ? Moth. Minima, honest master; or rather, master, no. Arm. I say, lead is slow. Moth. You are too swift, sir, to say so : Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun ? Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric ! He reputes me a cannon ; and the bullet, that 's he : — I shoot thee at the swain. Moth. Thump then, and I flee. [Eodf. Arm. A most acute juvenal ; voluble and free of grace ! By thy favour, sweet welkin ; I must sigh in thy face : Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. 70 My herald is retum'd. He-enter Moth with Costaed. Moth. A wonder, master ! here 's a Costard broken in a shin. Arm. Some enigma, some riddle : come, — thy I'envoy ; — begin. Cost. No egma, no riddle, no V envoy ! no salve in the mail, sir. O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain ! no I'envoy, no I'envoy : no salve, sir, but a plantain. Arm. By virtue, thou enforcest laughter ; thy sUly thought, my spleen ; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling: O, pardon me, my stars ! Doth the incon- siderate take salve for I'envoy, and the word Vermoy for a salve ? si Moth. Do the wise think them other? is not V envoy a salve ? Arm. No, page : it is an epilogue or dis- course, to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it ; 188 Act III. LOVE'S LABOFE'S LOST. Scene L The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. There 's the moral. Now the V envoy. Moth. I -will add the I'envoy. Say the moral again. »o Arm. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee. Were still at odds, being but three. Moth. Until the goose came out of door, And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my I'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee. Were stiU at odds, being but three. Arm. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four, loo Moth. A good Venvoy, ending in the goose. Would you desire more ? Cost. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that 's flat. — Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat. — To sell a bargain well, is as cunning as fast and loose : Let me see, a fat Venvoy ; ay, that's a fat goose. Arm. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin 1 Moth. By saying, that a Costard was broken in a shin. Then call'd you for the Venvoy. Cost. True, and I for a plantain: thus came your argument in ; no Then the boy's fat Venvoy, the goose that you bought, And he ended the market. Arm. But tell me; how was there a Costard broken in a shin ? Moth. I will tell you sensibly. Cost. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth : I will speak that Venvoy. I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, lis Fell over the threshold^ and broke my shin. Arm. We will talk no more of this matter. Cost. Till there be more matter in the shin. Arm. Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee. Cost. ! marry me to one Frances 1 — I smell some Venvoy, some goose in this. Arm. By my sweet soul, I mean, setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person : thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. Cost. True, true, and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. 129 Arm. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance ; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this : bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. There is remune- ration ; for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. {Exit. Moth. Like the sequel, I. — Signior Costard, adieu. Cost. My sweet ounce of man's flesh ! my incony Jew ! — [Exit Moth. Now wUl I look to his remuneration. Re- muneration ! ! that 's the Latin word for three farthings : three farthings, remunera- tion. — "What's the price of this inkle? a penny : — No, I 'U give you a remuneration : " why, it carries it. — Remuneration ! — why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. 143 Enter Biron. Biron. O, my good knave Costard ! ex- ceedingly well met. Cost. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remtmeration ? Biron. What is a remuneration ? Cost. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. Biron. ! why then, three-farthing-worth of silk. 150 Cost. I thank your worship. God be wi' you. Biron. O, stay, slave ! I must employ thee : As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. Cost. When would you have it done, sir t Biron. O ! this afternoon. Cost. Well, I wUl do it, sir. Fare you well. Biron. ! thou knowest not what it is. Cost. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. 159 Biron. Why, villain, thou must know first. Cost. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning. Biron. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this : — The princess comes to hunt here in the park. And in her train there is a gentle lady ; When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her : ask for her. And to her white hand see thou do commend This seal'd up coimsel. There 's thy guerdon : go. [Gives him money. Cost. Gardon. — ! sweet garden ! better than remuneration; eleven-pence farthing better. Most sweet gardon ! — I wUl do it, sir, in print. — Gardon — remuneration ! [Eosit. Biron. O ! — And I, forsooth, in love 1 I, that have been love's whip ; 188 Act IV. LOVE'S LABOTJE'S LOST. Scene I. A very beadle to a humorous sigh ; A critic, nay, a night-watch constable ; A domineering pedant o'er the boy, Than whom no mortal so magnificent ! iso This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy ; This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid, Eegent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting paritors : (0 my little heart !) And I to be a corporal of his field. And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop ! What ! I love ! I sue ! I seek a wife ! m A wpman, that is like a German clock, Still a repairing, ever out of frame. And never going aright, being a watch. But being watch'd that it may still go right ! Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all ; And, among three, to love the worst of all ; A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed', aoo Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard; And I to sigh for her ! to watch for her ! To pray for her ! Go to ; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan : Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. [Exit. ACT IV. Scene I. — ^Another part of the Same. Unter tJie Princess, Rosaline, Maeia, Katharine, Boyet, Lords, Attendants, and a Forester^ Prin. Was that the king, that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill ? Boyet. I know not ; but I think, it was not he. Prim. Whoe'er he was, he show'd a mount- ing mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our des- patch ; On Saturday we will return to EVance. — Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush, That we must stand and play the murderer in? For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice ; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. w Prin. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot. And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. For, Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. Prin. What, what? first praise me, and again say, no? short-liv'd pride ! Not fair ? alack for woe ! For. Yes, madam, fair. Prin. Nay, never paint me now : Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true. \Giving him money. Fair payment for foul words is more than due. For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. a) Prin. See, see ! my beauty wUl be sav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days ! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. — But come, the bow : — now mercy goes to kUl, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus wUl I save my credit in the shoot : Not wounding, pity would not let me do 't ; If wounding, then it was to show my skUl, That more for praise than purpose meant to kiU. And, out of question, so it is sometimes : so Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part. We bend to that the working of the heart ; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. Boyet. Do not curst wives hold that self- sovereignty Only for praise' sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords ? Prin. Only for praise ; and praise we may afibrd To any lady that subdues a lord. 40 Enter Costard. Prin. Here comes a member of the com- monwealth. Cost. God dig-you-den alL Pray you, which is the head lady ? Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene L Frin. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. Cost Which is the greatest lady, the highest ? Frin. The thickest, and the tallest. Cost. The thickest, and the tallest? it is so ; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit. One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. so Are not you the chief woman ? you are the thickest here. Frin. What 's your will, sir ! what 's your will? Cost. I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline. Frin. 0, thy letter, thy letter ! he 's a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. — Boyet, you can carve; Break up this capon. Boyet. I am bound to serve. — This letter is mistook; it importeth none here: It is writ to Jaquenetta. Frin. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. 69 Boyet. [Reads.] " By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible; true, that thou art beauteous ; truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beau- teous, truer than truth itself, have commise- ration on thy heroical vassal ! The magnani- mous and most illustrate King Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon, and he it was that might rightly say, Veni, vidi, vici; which to anatomise in the vulgar (O base and obscure vulgar ! ) videlicet, he came, saw, and overcame : he came, one; saw, two ; overcame, three. Who came ? the king ; why did he come ? to see ; why did he see? to overcome. To whom came he ? to the beggar ; what saw he ? the beggar ; who overcame he ? the beggar. The conclusion is -victory ; on whose side ? the king's. The captive is enriched : on whose side? the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial : on whose side ? the king's ? — no, on both in. one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison ; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I com- mand thy love ? I may. Shall I enforce thy love ? I could. Shall I entreat thy love ? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes; for tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus, expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine, in the dearest design of industry, Don Adeiano db Aemado." Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his . prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before. so And he from forage wUl incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den. Frin. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter ? What vane ? what weathercock ? did you ever hear better ? Boyet. I am much deceiv'd, but I remem- ber the style. Frin. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhUe. Boyet. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court ; A phantasm, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the prince, and his book-mates. Frin. Thou, fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter ? Cost. I told you ; my lord. loi Frin. To whom shouldst thou give it ? Cost. From my lord to my lady. Frin. From which lord to which lady ? Cost. From my Lord Biron, a good master of mine, To a lady of France, that he call'd Rosaline. Frin. Thou hast mistaken his letter. — Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this : 't will be thine another day. [Exeunt Princess and Traim,. Boyet. Who is the suitor? who is the suitor ? Ros. Shall I teach you to know ? Boyet. A.J, my continent of beauty. Ros. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off ! no Boyet. My lady goes to kill horns ; but if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year mis- carry. Finely put on ! Ros. Well then, I am the shooter. Boyet. And who is your deer ? Roe. If we choose by the horns, yourself : come not near. Finely put on, indeed !-^ Ma/r. You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. 191 Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IL Boyet. But siie herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now ? Bos. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? 121 Boyet. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. Eos. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it. Thou canst not hit it, my good man. Boyet. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, cmotlier can. \Exeunt Res. and Kath. Cost. By my troth, most pleasant : how both did fit it ! ylfar. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it. iso Boyet. A mark ! O ! mark but that mark : a mark, says my lady. Let the mark have a prick in 't to mete at, if it may be. Ma/r. Wide o' the bow-hand : i' faith, your hand is out. Cost. Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he '11 ne'er hit the clout. Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. Cost. Then will she get the upshot by cleaving the pin. Ma/r. Come, come, you talk greasily ; your lips grow foul. C6st. She 's too hard for you at pricks, sir : challenge her to bowl. Boyet. I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. \Exeunt Boybt and Maria. Cost. By my soul, a swain ! a most simple clown ! 140 Lord, Lord ! how the ladies and I have put him down ! 0' my truth, most sweet jests ! most incony vulgar wit ! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado o' the one side, — 0, a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady, and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand ! and how most sweetly a' wiU swear ! — And his page o' t' other side, that handful of wit ! Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit ! Sola, sola ! [S/iouting within. [Exit Costard. Scene II. — The Same. Enter Holofeenes, Sir Nathaniel, and Dull. Nath. Very reverend sport, truly : and done in the testimony of a good conscience. Hoi. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, — ^in blood ; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth Uke a jewel in the ear of coelo, — ^the sky, the welkin, the heaven ; and anon falleth like a crab, on the face of terra, — ^the soil, the land, the eartL Nath. Truly, Master Holofemes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least : but, sir, I assure ye, it was a buck of the first head. lo Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. Dull. 'Twas not a haud credo, 'twas a pricket. Hoi. Most barbarous intimation ! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way of explication ; facer e, as it were, replication, or, rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, — after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather iinlettered, or, ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, — to insert again my haud credo for a deer. Dull. I said, the deer was not a /laud credo : 't was a pricket. ji Hoi. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus ! — O, thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look ! Ifath. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book ; He hath not eat paper, as it were ; he hath not drunk ink : his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts ; And such barren plants are set before us, that we thankful should be (Which we of taste and feeling are) for those parts that do fructify in us more than he; For as it would ill become me to be vain, in- discreet, or a fool, 30 So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school : But, omne bene, say I ; being of an old father's mind, Many can brook the weather, that love not the wind. Dull. You two are book-men : can you tell by your wit, What was a month old at Cain's birth, that 's not five weeks old as yet ? Hoi. Dictynna, goodman Dull ; Dictynna, goodman Dull. Dull. What is Dictynna? isz Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. N(vth. A title to Pliajbe, to Luna, to the moon. HoL The moon was a month old when Adam was no more ; And raiight not to five weeks, when he came to five-score. « The allusion holds in the exchange. DvU. 'T is true indeed : the collusion holds in the exchange. HoL God comfort thy capacity ! I say, the allusion holds in the exchange. Bull. And I say, the pollusion holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old ; and I say beside, that 't was a pricket that the princess kill'd. Hoi. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an ex- temporal epitaph on the death of the deer % and, to humour the ignoiunt, I have call'd the deer the princess kUl'd, a pricket. 52 Nalh. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge ; so it shall please you to abro- gate scurrility. Hoi. I will something affect the letter ; for it argues facility. The preyful princess pierc'd and prich'd a pretty pleasing pricket ; Some say, a sore ; but not a sore, till rww 'made sore with shooting. The, dogs did yell; put I to sore, titen sorel jwnvps from, thicket; Or 'pricket sore, or else sorel , tlte people fall Or-hooting. If sore he sore, then I to sore makes fifty sores , sore I 1 Of one sore I an hundred Tnahe, hy adding but one -more I. «o Nath. A rare talent ! Dull. If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. Hoi. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple ; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, appre- hensions, motions, revolutions ! these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb oi pia -mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. Nath. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners ; for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under yon ; you are n good member of the commonwealth. Hoi. Mehercle 1 if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction ; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. 17 But, vir safit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. Jaq. God give you good morrow, master person. Hoi. Master person, — quasi pers-on. An if one should be pierced, which is the one ? «i Cost. Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. Hoi. Of piercing a hogshead ! a good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth ; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine : *t is pretty ; it is well. Jaq. Good master person, be so good as read me this letter. It was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado : I beseech you, read it. Hoi. Fauste, precor gelidd qua/ndo pecus o-mne sub imihra Ruminat, and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan ! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice : es Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan ! old Mantuan ! - who under- standeth thee not, loves thee not. — Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. — Under pardon, sir, what are the contents ? or, rather, as Horace says in his — What, my soul, verses ? Nath. Ay, sir, and very learned. 100 Hoi. Let me hear a stafi^, a stanza, a verse ; lege, domine. Nath. If love fnake me forsworn, how shall I swear to love ? Ah, never faith could Iwld, if not to beauty vowed ! Though to myself forsworn, to thee 1 ^11 faithful prove ; Those thoughts to 'me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book Where all those pleasures live, that art would, comprehend : If knowledge be the 'mark, to know thee shall suffice. WeU learned is that toiigue, that well can thee commend ; i'" All ignorant that soul, that sees thee without wonder ; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder. Which, not to anger bent, is music, and sweet fire. 193 Act IV. Celestial as thou art, ! pa/rdon love this wrong. That sings heaven's praise with svxh an earthly tongue ! Hoi. You find not the apostrophes, and so miss the accent : let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified ; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man : and why, indeed, Naso, but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of in- vention'! Imita/ri is nothing, so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella^ virgin, was this directed to you ? 123 Jaq. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange queen's lords. Hoi. I will overglance the superscript. " To the snow-white hand of the most beau- teous Lady Rosaline." I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto : " Your ladyship's in all desired em- ployment, Biron." Sir Nathaniel, this Biron is one of the votaries with the king ; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's, which, accidentally,, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. — Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the king ; it may con- cern much. Stay not thy compliment, I forgive thy duty ; adieu. uo Jaq. Good Costard, go with me. — Sir, God save your life ! Cost. Have with thee, my girl. [Hxeunt Cost, and Jaq. Ji^ath. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith, — • Hoi. Sir, tell not me of the father ; I do fear colourable colours. But, to return to the verses : did they please you, Sir Nathaniel ? Nath. Marvellous well for the pen. \w Hoi. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine ; where if before repast it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, under- take your hen venuto ; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. N^ath. And thank you too ; for society (saith the text) is the happiness of life. 159 Hoi. And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. — [To Dull.] Sir, I do invite you too : you shall not say me nay : pauca LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IIL verba. Away ! the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. [HxeiMtU. Scene IIL — Another Part of the Same. Unter BiRON, with a paper. Biron. The king he is hunting the deer ; I am coursing myself : they have pitch'd a toil ; I am toiling in a pitcli, — pitch that defiles. Defile! a foul word. Well, sit thee down, sorrow ! for so, tliey say, the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool. Well proved, wit ! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax : itkUls sheep; it kills me, la sheep. Well proved again o' my side ! I will not love ; if I do, hang me : i' faith, I will not. O ! but her eye, — by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her ! yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy ; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already ; the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it : sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady ! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper : God give him grace to groan ! [Gets up into a tree. Enter the King, vnth a paper. King. Aj me ! Biron. [Aside.] Shot, by heaven ! — Proceed, sweet Cupid : thou hast thump'd him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. — In faith, secrets !— King. [Jieads.] So sweet a kiss tlie golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose. As thy eyeheams, when tlieir fresh rays liave smote Tim night of dew that on my clieelcs down flows : Nor shines tJte silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light ; so Thon shin'st im every tear that I do weep : No drop hut as a coach doth carry thee. So ridest t/iou triumphing in my woe. Do hut behold the tears that swell in ms, And they thy glory through my grief will show : But do not love thyself / then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. 191 Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene III. O qiMeen qfqtceens, Iww far dost Hum excel, Mo thought can think, nor tongue of mortal teU. How shall she know my griefs ? I '11 drop the paper. 4c Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here ? [Steps aside. Enter Longaville, with a paper. [Aside.'^ What, Longaville ! and reading ! listen, ear. Biron. \Aside.'\ Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear ! Long. Ay me ! I am forsworn. Biron. \Aside.'\ Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. King. \Aside.'\ In love, I hope : sweet fellowship in shame ! Biron. \Aside.'\ One drunkard loves another of the name. Long. Am I the first that have been per- jur'd so ? Biron. [Aside.] I could put thee in comfort : not by two that I know. Thou mak'st the triumviry, the corner-cap of society, The shape of Love's Tyburn, that hangs up simplicity. 51 Long. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move. O sweet Maria, empress of my love ! These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. Biron. [Aside.] ! rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose : Disfigure not his slop. Long. This same shall go. [He reads the sonnet. Did not the heavenly rJietoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom tlte world cannot hold argvr ment, Persuade my lieart to this false perjury 1 Vows for thee broke deserve not pumishment. A woman I forswore ; but I will prove, ei Thou being a goddess, I forswore rot thee : My vow was earthly, tliou a lieavenly love ; Thy grace, being gained, cures all disgrace in me. Vows a/re but breath, and breath a vapowr is : Then thou, fair sum, which on my earth dost shine, ExhaVst this va/pour vow ; in thee it is : If broken, then it is no fault of mine. If by me broke. What fool is not so wise, To lose an oath, to win a paradise ? Jo Biron. [Aside.] This is the liver- vein, which makes flesh a deity ; A green goose, a goddess : pure, pure idolatry. God amend us, God amend! we are much out o' the way. Enter Dumaine, with a paper. Long. By whom shall I send this % — Com- pany ! stay. [Steps aside. Biron. [Aside.] All hid, all hid; an old infant play. Like a demi-god here sit I in the sky. And wretched fools' secrets heedf ally o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill ! O heavens ! I have my wish : Dumaine transform'd : four woodcocks in a dish! Du/m. O most divine Kate ! so Biron, [Aside.] O most profane coxcomb ! Dum. By heaven, the wonder of a mortal eye! Biron. [Aside.] By earth, she is but cor- poral ; there you lie. Du/m. Her amber hairs for foul have amber ooted. Biron. [Aside.] An amber-colour'd raven was well noted. Dum,. As upright as the cedar. Biron. [A side.] Stoop, I say : Her shoulder is with child. Dum,. As fair as day. Biron. [Aside.] Aj, as some days ; but then no sun must shine. Dum. O, that I had my wish ! Long. [Aside.] And I had mine ! King. [Aside.] And I mine too, good Lord ! Biron. [Aside.] Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word t 01 Dum. I would forget her ; but a fever she Beigns in my blood, and will remember'd be. Biron. [Aside.] A fever in your blood? why, then incision Would let her out in saucers : sweet mis- prision ! Dum,. Once more I '11 read the ode that I have writ. Biron. [Aside.] Once more I '11 mark how love can vary wit. Dum. On a day, alack the day ! Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom, passing fair, 100 Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves the wind, All UTiseen, 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself tlie Jteaven's breath. Air, qiioth he, thy cheeks may blow ; Air, 'would I might trium.ph so ! But alack ! my hand is sworn. Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: 195 Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene III. Vow, alack ! for youth unmeet, no Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in ine. That I am, forsworn for thee ; Thou for whom Jove would swear Jwao hut an Ethiop were ; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. This will I send, and something else more plain, That shall express my true love's fasting pain. O, 'would the king, Biron, and Longaville, 120 Were lovers too ! Ill, to example ill. Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note; For none offend, where all alike do dote. Long. [Advancing. '[ Dumaine, thy love is far from charity. That in love's grief desir'st society : You may look pale, but I should blush, I know. To be o'erheard, and taken napping so. King. [Advancing.] Come, sir, you blush ; as his your case is such ; You chide at him, offending twice as much : You do not love Maria ; Longaville iso Did never sonnet for her sake compile. Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom, to keep down his heart. I have been closely shrouded in this bush. And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your fashion, Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion : Ay me ! says one ; O Jove ! the other cries ; One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes: ITo Long.] You would for paradise break faith and troth ; 140 [To Dumaine.] And Jove for your love would infringe an oath. What will Biron say, when that he shall hear Faith infringed, which such zeal did swear 1 How will he scorn ! how will he spend his wit ! How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it ! For all the wealth that ever I did see, I would not have him know so much by me. Biron. Now step I forth to whip hypo- crisy. — [Descends from, the tree. Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me : Good heart ! what grace hast thou, thus to reprove iso These worms for loving, that art most in love? Your eyes do make no coaches ; in your tears There is no certain princess that appears : You '11 not be perjur'd, 't is a hateful thing : Tush ! none but minstrels like of sonneting. But are you not asham'd ? nay, are you not, All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot ? You found liis moth; the king your moth did see ; But I a beam do find in each of three. O ! what a scene of foolery have I seen, leo Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen ! me ! with what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat ! To see great Hercules whipping a gig. And profound Solomon tuning a jig. And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, And critic Timon laugh at idle toys ! Where lies thy grief? ! tell me, good Dumaine : And, gentle Longaville, where Kes thy pain ? And where my liege's? all about the breast ; — iro A caudle, ho ! King. Too bitter'is thy jest. Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view ? Biron. Not you to me, but I betray'd by you: I, that am honest ; I, that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in ; 1 am betray'd, by keeping company With men like you, men of inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme ? Or groan for Joan ? or spend a minute's time In pruning me ? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, m A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb ? — KiTig. Soft ! Whither away so fast ? A true man, or a thief, that gallops so ? Birmi. I post from love; good lover, let me go. Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. Jaq. God bless the king ! King. What present hast thou there? Cost. Some certain treason. King. What makes treason here ? Cost. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. King. If it mar nothing neither. The treason and you go in peace away to- gether. Jaq. I beseech your grace, let this letter be read : iso Our person misdoubts it ; it was treason, he said. King. Biron, read it over. [Biron reads tlie letter. Where hadst tliou it ? Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene III. Jaq. Of Costard. King. Where liadst thou it ? Cost. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. King. How now ! what is in you ? why dost thou tear it % Biron. A toy, my liege, a toy : your grace needs not fear it. Long. It did move him to passion, and therefore let 's hear it. Bum. [Picking up the pieces.'\ It is Biron's writing, and here is his name. aw Biron. [To Costaed.] Ah, you whoreson logger-head ! you were bom to do me shame. — Guilty, my lord, guilty ! I confess, I confess. King. What? Biron. That you three fools lack'd me, fool, to make up the mess ; He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I, Are pick-pui'ses in love, and we deserve to die. O ! dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. Bum. Now the number is even. Biron. True, true ; we are four. — Will these turtles be gone ? King. Hence, sirs ; away ! Cost. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. 210 [Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta. Biron. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O ! let us embrace. As true we are, as flesh and blood can be : The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree : We cannot cross the cause why we are born ; Therefore, of all hands must we be forsworn. King. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine 1 Biron. Did they? quoth you. Who sees the heavenly Rosaline, That, like a rftde and savage man of Inde, At the first opening of the gorgeous east, 220 Bows not his vassal head, and, stricken blind. Kisses the base ground with obedient breast ? What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow. That is not blinded by her majesty 1 King. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee now ? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon. She an attending star, scarce seen a light. Biron. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron. O ! but for my love, day would turn to night. Of all complexions the cuU'd sovereignty 2si Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek ; Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues, — Fie, painted rhetoric ! 0! she needs it not : To things of sale a seller's praise belongs ; She passes praise ; then praise too short dotli blot A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye : 240 Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy. O ! 't is the sun, that maketh all things shine ! King. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. Biron. Is ebony like her 1 O wood divine ! A wife of such wood were felicity. ! who can- give an oath 1 where is a book? That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, If that she learn not of her eye to look : No face is fair, that is not full so black. 250 King. paradox ! Black is the badge of heU, The hue of dungeons, and the scowl of night ; And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. Biron. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. ! if in black my lady's brows be deck'd, It mourns, that painting, and usurping hair. Should ravish doters with a false aspect ; And thei'efore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days ; For native blood is counted painting now, 200 And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise. Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. Dum. To look like her are chimney- sweepers black. Long. And since her time are colliers counted bright. King. And Ethiops of their sweet com- plexion crack. Dum. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. Biron. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours should be wash'd away. King. 'T were good, yours did ; for, sir, to tell you plain, 1 '11 find a fairer face not wash'd to-day. 270 Biron. I '11 prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here. King. No devil will fright thee then so much as she. Bum. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. Long. [Showing Ms shoe.] Look, here 's thy love : my foot and her face see. Biron. O ! if the streets were paved with thine eyes. 197 Act IV. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene III. Her feet were much too dainty for such tread. Duni O vile ! then, as she goes, what up- ward lies The streets should see, as she walk'd over- head. King. But what of this ? Are we not all in love 1 Biron. O ! nothing so sure ; and thereby all forsworn. zso King. Then leave this chat : and, good Biron, now prove Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. Dum. Ay, marry, there ; some flattery for this evU. Long. O ! some authority how to proceed ; Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil. Dum. Some salve for perjury. Biron. O ! 't is more than need. — Have at you then, affection's men-at-arms : Consider, what you first did swear unto, — To fast, — to study, — and to see no woman : Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth. Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young, 291 And abstinence engenders maladies. And where that you have vow'd to study, lords. In that each of you have forsworn his book. Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look'! For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, Have found the ground of study's excellence, Without the beauty of a woman's face ? From women's eyes this doctiine I derive : They are the ground, the books, the aca- demes, 800 From whence doth spring the true Prome- thean fire. Why, universal plodding prisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries. As motion, and long-during action, tires The sinewy vigour of the traveller. Now, for not looking on a woman's face. You have in that forsworn the use of eyes. And study too, the causer of your vow ; For where is any author in the worli), Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye 1 sio Learning is but an adjunct to ourself, And where we are, our learning likewise is : Then, when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes. Do we not likewise see our learning there 1 O ! we have made a vow to study, lords. And in that vow we have forsworn our books : For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, In leaden contemplation have found out Such fiery numbers, as the prompting eyes Of beauty's tutors have enrich'd you with? 193 Other slow arts entirely keep the brain, »2i And therefore, finding barren practisers, Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil ; But love, first leanied in a lady's eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain, But, -with the motion of all elements, Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye ; sw A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind ; A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound. When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd : Love's feeling is more soft, and sensible. Than are the tender horns of cockled snails : Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. For valour, is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides ? Subtle as Sphinx ; as sweet, and musical. As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair ; And, when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods !M1 Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write. Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs; O ! then his lines would ravish savage ears. And plant in tyrants mild humility. From women's eyes this doctrine I derive : They sparkle still the right Promethean fire ; They are the books, the arts, the academes. That show, contain, and nourish all the world ; .150 Else none at all in aught proves excellent. Then, fools you were these women to for- swear. Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. For wisdom's sake, a word that aU men love. Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men. Or for men's sake, the authors of these women. Or women's sake, by whom we men are men. Let us once lose our oaths, to find ourselves. Or else we lose ourselves, to keep our oaths. It is religion to be thus forsworn; am For charity itself fulfils the law ; And who can sever love from charity ? King. Saint Cupid, then ! and, soldiers, to the field ! Biron. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords ! Pell-mell, down with them ! but be first advis'd, In conflict that you get the sun of them. Lmig. Now to plain-dealing : lay these glozes by. Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France ? Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene L King. And win them too : therefore, let us devise Some entertainment for them in their tents. Biron. First, from the park let us conduct them thither ; 371 Then, homeward, every man attach the hand Of his fair mistress. In the afternoon We will with some strange pastime solace them, Such as the shortness of the time can For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours. Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers^ King. Away, away ! no time shall be omitted. That will be time, and may by us be fitted. Biron. Allans! Allans! — Sow'd cockle reap'd no corn ; sso And justice always whirls in equal measure : Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn ; If so, our copper buys no better treasure. \Exeu'M. ACT V. Scene I. — Another Part of the Same. Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel, atid Dull. HoL Satis quod sufficit. Nath. I praise God for you, sir : your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sen- tentious ; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impu- dency,j learned without opinion, and strange Uol. Video, et gaudeo. Arm. [To Moth.] Ohirrah ! llol. Quare chirrah, not sirrah 1 Arm. Men of peace, well encounter'd. Hal. Most military sir, salutation. Moth. They have been at a great feast of. languages, and stolen the scraps. s9 Cost. O ! they have lived long on the alms- basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word ; for thou art not withoiit heresy. I did converse this quondam I so long by the head as fionarificabilitudini day with a companion of the king's, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. lo Hoi. JVovikominem,tcmquamte: his humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregri- nate, as I may call it. 2f^ath. A most singular and choice epithet. [I)raM}s out his table-book. Hoi. He draweth oiit the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argu- ment. I abhor such fanatical phantasms, such insociable and point-device companions ; such rackers of orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should say doubt ; det, when he should pronounce debt, — d, e, b, t, not d, e, t ; he clepeth a calf, caulf ; half, haulf ; neighbour vacatur nebour ; neigh ab- breviated ne. This is abhominable (which he would call abominable), it insinuateth me of insanie : ne intelligis, domdne? to make frantic, lunatic. Nath. La/us Deo, bone vrUelligo. Hoi. Bone ? — hone for bene: Prisdan a little scratoh'd ; 't will serve. si Knter Armado, Moth, and Costard. Nath. Videsne quis venit 1 tatibus : thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. Moth. Peace ! the peal begins. Arm. [To Hol.] Monsieur, are you not letter'd ] Moth. Yes, yes, he teaches boys the horn- book. — ^What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head ? Hol. Ba, piieriUa, with a horn added. k Moth. Ba ! most silly sheep, with a horn. — You hear his learning. Hol. Quis, quis, thou consonant ? Moth. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them ; or the fifth, if I. Hol. I will repeat them ; — a, e, i. Moth. The sheep : the other two concludes it; — o, u. Arm. Now, by the salt wave of the Medi- terranean, a sweet touch, a quick venew of wit ! snip, snap, quick and home : it rejoiceth my intellect ; true wit ! eo Moth. Offer'd by a child to an old man; which is wit-old. Hol. What is the figure ? ' what is the figure ] Moth. Horns. Hol. Thou disputest like an infant: go, whip thy gig. Math. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy cireum circa. A gig of a cuckold's horn ! « Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IL Cost. An I had but one penny in the world, thoii shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O ! an tlie heavens were so pleased, that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldsfc thou make me ! Go to ; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. Hoi. O ! I smell false Latin ; dunghill for unffuem. Arm. Arts-man, prceambula : we will be singled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the chai'ge-house on the top of the mountain ? s) Hoi. Or inons, the hills. Arm. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. Hoi. I do, sans question. Arm. Sir, it is the king's most sweet plea- sure and afi'ection, to congratulate the princess at her pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. Hoi. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measur- able for the afternoon : the word is well cull'd, chose ; sweet and apt, I do assure you, sir ; I do assure. si Arm. Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure you, very good friend. — For what is inward between us, let it pass ; — I do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy, — I beseech thee, apparel thy head ; — and among other importunate and most serious designs, — and of great import indeed, too, — but let that pass ; — ^for I must tell thee, it will please his grace (by the world) sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, dally with my excrement, with my mustachio : but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable : some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world : but let that pass. — The very all of all is, — but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy, — that the king would have me pre- sent the princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antick, or fire-work. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions, and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. Hoi. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. — Sir Nathaniel, as concern- ing some entertainment of time, some show in^'the posterior of this day, to be rendered by our assistance, — at the king's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, — before the princess, I say, none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. m Nath. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them ? Hoi. Joshua, yourself; myself, or this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabseus ; this swain (because of his great limb or joint) shall pass Pompey the Great ; the page, Her- cules. Arm. Pardon, sir ; error : he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb : he is not so big as the end of his club. Hal. Shall I have audience ] he shall pre- sent Hercules in minority : his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake ; and I will have an apology for that purpose. Moth. An excellent device ! so, it any of the audience hiss, you may cry, " Well done, Hercules ! now thou crushest the snake ! " that is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. Arm. For the rest of the Worthies'! — ■ Hoi. I will play three myself. Moth. Thrice-worthy gentleman ! no Arm. Shall I tell you a thing ? Hoi. We attend. Arm,. We will have, if this fadge not, an antick. I beseech you, follow. Hoi. Via ! — Goodman Dull, thou hast spoken no word all this while. ' Dull. Nor understood none neither, sir. Hoi. Allons ! we will employ thee. Didl. I '11 make one in a dance, or so ; or I will play On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. 150 Hoi. Most dull, honest Dull. To our sport, away ! [Eiceunt. Scene II. — Another Part of the Same. Before the Princess's PavUion. Enter the Princess, Katharine, Rosaline, and Makia. Prin. Sweet hearts, we sha'U be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in : A lady wall'd about with diamonds ! — Look you, what I have from the loving king. Eos. Madam, came nothing else along with that? Prin. Nothing but this 1 yes ; as much love in rhyme. As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper, Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IL Writ on both sides the leaf, margin and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name. Bos. That was the way to make his god- head wax ; 10 For he hath been five thousand years a boy. Kath. A.J, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. Bos. You '11 ne'er be friends with him : he kUl'd your sister. Kath. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy ; And so she died : had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit. She might have been a grandam ere she died ; And so may you, for a light heart lives long. Bos. What 's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word ^ Kath. ^ light condition in a beauty dark. Bos. We need more light to find your meaning out. 21 Kath. You '11 mar the light by taking it in snufF; Therefore, I '11 dai-kly end the argument. Bos. Look, what you do, you do it stLU i' the dark. Kath. So do not you, for you are a light wench. Bos. Indeed, I weigh not you, and there- fore light. Kath. You weigh me not ? — O ! that 's you care not for me. Bos. Great reason ; for, past cure is stUl past care. Prin. Well bandied both ; a set of wit well play'd. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too : so Who sent it ■? and what is it 1 Bos. T would you knew : An if my face were but as fair as yours. My favour were as great : be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron. • The numbers true ; and, were the numbering too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground : I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs, O ! he hath drawn my picture in his letter. Prin. Anything like ? Bos. Much in the letters, nothing in the praise. ' 40 Prin. Beauteous as ink : a good conclusion. Kath. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. Bos. 'Ware pencils ! ho ! let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter : O, that your face were not so full of O's ! Prin. A pox of that jest ! and I beshrew all shrows ! But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine ? Kath. Madam, this glove. Prin. Did he not send you twain ? Kath. Yes, madam ; and, moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover : so A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity. Mar. This, and these pearls to me sent Longaville : The letter is too long by half a mile. Prin. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart. The chain were longer, and the letter short 1 Ma/r. A.J, or I would these hands might never part. Prin. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. Bos. They are worse fools to purcliase mocking so. That same Biron I '11 torture ere I go. «o O ! that I knew he were but in by the week ! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek. And wait the season, and observe the times. And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, And shape his service wholly to my hests. And make him proud to make me proud that jests ! So portent-like would I o'ersway his state, That he should be my fool, and I his fate. Prin. None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd. As wit turn'd fool : folly, in wisdom hatch'd. Hath wisdom's warrant, and the lieljD of school, 71 And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool . Bos. The blood of youth burns not with such excess. As gravity's revolt to wantonness. Mar. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note. As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote ; Since all the power thereof it doth apply, To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. Enter Boyet. Prin. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. Boyet. ! I am stabb'd with laughter. Where 's her grace % so Prin. Thy news, Boyet ? Boyet. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm ! encounters mounted are Against your peace. Love doth approach disguis'd. Armed in arguments : you '11 be surpris'd. 201 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. Muster your wits ; stand in your own defence ; Or hide your heads like co'wards, and fly hence. Prin. Saiat Denis to Saint Cupid ! What are they, That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say. Boyet. Under the cool shade of a sycamore, I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour, 90 When, lo ! to interrupt my purpos'd rest. Toward that shade I might hehold addrest The king and his companions : warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by. And overheard what you shall ovei-hear ; That by-and-by disguis'd they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page. That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage : Action, and accent, did they teach him there ; " Thus must thou speak, and thus thy body bear : " loo And ever and anon they made a doubt. Presence majestical would put him out ; " For," quoth the king, " an angel shalt thou see; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously." The boy replied, "An angel is not evil ; I should have fear'd her, had she been a devil." With that all laugh'd, and clapp'd him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubb'd his elbow, thus, and fleer'd, and swore, A better speech was never, spoke before ; no Another, with his finger and his thumb, Cry'd " Via ! we will do 't, come what will come ; " The third he caper'd, and cried, "All goes well ; " The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell With that, they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears. To check their folly, passion's solemn tears. Prin. But what, but what, come they to visit us 1 Boyet. They do, they do ; and are apparell'd thus, — 120 Like Muscovites, or Russians : as I guess, Their purpose is, to parle, to court, and dance; And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress; which they'll know By favoui-s several which they did bestow, Prin. And will they so ? the gallants shall be task'd ; For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd, And not a man of them shall have the grace, Despite of suit, to see a lady's face. — Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, And then the king will court thee for his dear : isi Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me tliine, So shall Biron take me for Rosaline. — And change you favours, too ; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes. Eos. Come on then : wear the favours most in sight. Kath. But in this changing what is your intent ? Prin. The effect of my intent is, to cross theirs : They do it but in mocking merriment ; And mock for mock is only my intent. ho Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook ; and so be mocked withal, Upon the next occasion that we meet, With visages display'd, to talk and greet. Ros. Biit shall we dance, if they desire us to't? Prin. No ; to the death, we will not move a foot : Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace ; _ But, while 'tis spoke, each turn away her face. Boyet. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart. And quite divorce his memory from his part. Prin. Therefore I do it; and, I make no doubt, 151 The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. There 's no such sport, as sport by sport o'er- thrown ; To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own : So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they, well mock'd, depart away with shame. \Trumpets sound within. Boyet. The trumpet sounds : be mask'd, the maskers come. \Tlie Ladies mask. Enter the KiXG, Biron, Longaville, and DuMAiNE, in Russian /taints, and masked; Moth, Musicians, and Attendants. Moth. " All hail, the richest beauties on the earth ! " Boyet. Beauties no richer than rich taffata. Moth. " A holy parcel of the fairest dames, [2'Ae Ladies turn their hacks to him. 202 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. That ever turn'd their — ^backs — to mortal views ! " 181 Bi/ron. " Their eyes," villain, " their eyes." Moth. " That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal views ! Out"— Boyet. . True ; " out," indeed, Moth. " Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe Not to behold "— Biron. " Once to behold," rogue. Moth. " Once to behold with your sun- beamed eyes — with your sun-beamed eyes " — 170 Boyet. They will not answer to that epithet ; You were best call it daughter-beamed eyes. Moth. They do not mark me, and that brings me out. Biron. Is this your perfectness 1 be gone, you rogue. Bos. What would these strangers 1 know their minds, Boyet. If they do speak our language, 't is our will That some plain man recount their purposes. Know what they would. Boyet. What would you with the princess? Biron. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation. Bos. What would they, say they 1 m Boyet. Nothing but peace, and gentle visitation. Bos. Why, that they have ; and bid them so be gone. Boyet. She says, you have it, and you may be gone. King. Say to her, we have measur'd many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. Boyet. They say, that they have measur'd many a mile. To tread a measure with you on this grass. Bos. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile : if they have measur'd many. This measure then of one is easily told. iso Boyet. If, to come hither, you have measur'd miles, And many miles, the princess bids you tell, How many inches do fill up one mile. Biron. Tell her, we measure them by weary steps. Boyet. She hears herself. Ros. How many weary steps. Of many weary miles you have o'ergone. Are number'd in the travel of one mile 1 Bi/ron. We number nothing that we spend for you : Our duty is so rich, so infinite. That we may do it still without accompt. a» Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it. Ros. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. King. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do ! Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, ■ to shine (Those clouds removed) upon our watery eyne. Ros. O vain petitioner ! beg a greater matter ; Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water. King. Then, in our measure vouchsafe but one change. Thou bidd'st me beg ; this begging is not strange. 210 Ros. Play, music, then ! nay, you must do it soon. \Music flays. Not yet ; — no dance : — thus change I like the moon. King. Will you not dance? How come you thus estrang'd ? Ros. You took the moon at full, but now she 's changed. King. Yet still she is the moon, and I the man. Yet music plays : vouchsafe some motion to it. Ros. Our ears vouchsafe it. King. But your legs should do it. Ros. Since you are strangers, and come here by chance. We '11 not be nice : take hands : — we will not dance. King. Why take we hands then ? Ros. Only to part friends.- — - Court'sy, sweet hearts ; and so the measure ends. 231 King. More measure of this measure : be not nice. Ros. We can afibrd no more at such a price. King. Prize you yourselves ? What buys your company ? Rgs. Your absence only. King. That can never be. Ros. Then cannot we be bought ; and so adieu. Twice to your visor, and half once to you ! King. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat. Ros. In private then. King. I am best pleas'd with that. \Tliey converse apa/rt. Biron. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. sao Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. Prin. Honey, and milt, and sugar : there are three. Bisron. Nay then, two treys, (an if you grow so nice) Metheglin, wort, and malmsey. — Well run, dice ! There 's half a dozen sweets. Pr'in. Seventh sweet, adieu. Since you can cog, I '11 play no more with you. Biron. One word in secret. Prin. Let it not be sweet. Biron. Thou griev'st my gall. Prin. Gall 1 bitter. Biron. Therefore meet. [Tlisy converse apart. Duin. Will you vouchsafe "with me to change a word 1 Mar. Name it. Bam. Fair lady, — • Mar. Say you so 1 Fair lord, — Take that for your fair lady. Dwm. Please it you, 240 As much in private, and I '11 bid adieu. [They converse apart. Kaih. What, was your visor made without a tongue ? Long. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. Kalh. O, for your reason ! quickly, sir ; I long. Long. You have a double tongue within your mask. And would afford my speechless visor half. Kaih. Veal, quoth the Dutchman. — Is not veal a calf? Long. A calf, fair lady % Kath. No, a fair lord calf. Long. Let 's part the word. Katli. No, I '11 not be your half : Take all, and wean it : it may prove an ox. Long. Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks. 251 Will you give horns, chaste lady 1 do not so. Kath. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. Lorig. One word in private with you, ere Idle. Kath. Bleat softly then : the butcher hears you cry. [They converse apart. Boyet. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible, Cuttuig a smaller hair than may be seen ; Above the sense of sense, so sensible Seemeth their conference ; their conceits have wings 280 Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter tilings. Ros. Not one word more, my maids : break off, break off. Biron. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff ! King. Farewell, mad wenches : you have simple wits. [Exeunt King, Lords, Moth, Music, and Attendants. Prin. Twenty adieus, my frozen Musco- vites. — Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at ? Boyet. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out. Ros. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross ; fat, fat. Prin. poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout ! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night, 270 Or ever, but in visors, show their faces ? This pert Biron was out of countenance quite. Ros. O ! they were all in lamentable cases ! The king was weeping-i'ipe for a good word. Prin. Biron did swear himself out of all suit. Mar. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword : No point, quoth I : my servant straight was mute. Kath. Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart ; And trow you, what he call'd me ? Prin. Qualm, perhaps. Kath. Yes, in good faith. Prin. Go, sickness as thou art ! Ros. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. 281 But will you hear'? the king is my love sworn. Prin. And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me. Kath. And Longaville was for my service born. Mar. Dumaine is mine, as sure as bark on tree. Boyet. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear. Immediately they will again be here In their o\vn. shapes ; for it can never be. They will digest this harsh indignity. Prin. Will they return? Boyet. They will, they will, God knows ; And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows : 291 Therefore, change favours ; and, when they repair. Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. Prin. How blow % how blow ? speak to be understood. Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IT. Boyet. Fair ladies, mask'd, are roses in their bud: Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown. Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. Prin. Avaunt, perplexity ! What shall we do, If they return in their own shapes to woo ? Ros. Good madam, if by me you '11 be ad- vis'd, 300 Let 's mock them still, as well known, as disguis'd. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear ; And wonder, what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows, and prologue vilely penn'd. And their rough carriage so ridiculous. Should be presented at our tent to us. Boyet. Ladies, withdraw ; the gallants are at hand. Prin. Whip to our tents, as roes run over land. [Eoceunt Prin., Ros., Kath., and Mar. Enter the King, Biron, Longaville, and Dumaine, in their proper habits. King. Fair sir, God save you ! Where is the princess 1 sio Boyet. Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty. Command me any service to her thither 1 King. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. Boyet. I will ; and so will she, I know, my lord. [Exit. Biron. This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs ; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. 320 This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve : Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve too, and lisp : why, this is he, That kiss'd away his hand in coui-tesy -^ This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice Li honourable terms : nay, he can sing A mean most meanly, and, in ushering. Mend him who can : the ladies call him, sweet ; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. sso This is the flower that smiles on every one. To show his teeth as white as whales-bone ; And consciences, that will not die in debt, Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet. King. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart. That put Armado's page out of his part ! Enter the Princess, us/iered by Boyet j Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, amd At- tendants. Biron. See where it comes ! — Behaviour, what wert thou, Till this man show'd thee ? and what art thou now? King. All haU, sweet madam, and fair time of day ! Prin. Fair, in all hail, is foul, as I con- ceive. 340 King. Construe my speeches better, if you may. Prim. Then wish me better : I will give you leave. King. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court : vouchsafe it then. Prin. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow : Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur'd men. King. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke ; The virtue of your eye must break my oath. Prin. You nickname virtue ; vice you should have spoke ; For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now, by my maiden honour, yet as pure ssi As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house's guest ; So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vow'd with integrity. King. ! you have liv'd in desolation here. Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. Prin. Not so, my lord ; it is not so, I swear : We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game. seo A mess of Russians left us but of late. King. How, madam? Russians? Prin. Ay, in truth, my lord ; Trim gallants, full of courtship, and of state. Hos. Madam, speak true. — It is not so, my lord : My lady (to the manner of the days) In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four, indeed, confronted were with four In Russian habit : here they stay'd an hour, And talk'd apace ; and in that hour,, my lord, 205 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IL They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools ; but this I think, S7i When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. Biron. This jest is dry to me. — Fair, gentle sweet. Your wit makes wise things foolish : when we greet. With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye. By light we lose light : your capacity Is of that nature, that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish, and rich things but poor. Ros. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,— Biron. I am a fool, and full of poverty, sso Kos. But that you take what doth to you belong. It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. Biron. O ! I am yours, and all that I possess. ' Bos. All the fool mine ? Biron. I cannot give you less. Eos. Which of the visors was it that you wore? Biron. Where? when? what visor? why demand you this ? Bos. There, then, that visor; that super- fluous case. That hid the worse, and show'd the better face. Kinff. We are descried : they '11 mock us now downright. Dunn. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. Prin. Amaz'd, my lord 1 Why looks your highness sad ? s9i Bos. Help ! hold his brows ! he '11 swoond. Why look you pale ? — Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. Bvrcm. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out ? — Here stand I, lady ; dart thy skill at me ; Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout ; Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my igno- rance ; Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit ; And I will wish thee never more to dance, «» Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O ! never will I trust to speeches penn'd. Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue ; Nor never come in visor to my friend ; Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song ; Tafiata phrases, silken terms precise, Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce aifectation, Figures pedantical : these summer-flies Have blown me fuU of maggot ostentation. I do forswear them ; and I here protest, no By this white glove, (how white the hand, God knows) Henceforth my wooing mind shall be ex- press'd In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes : And, to begin,- — wench, so God help me, la ! My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. Ros. Sans sans, I pray you. Biro^i. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage : — bear with me, I am sick ; I '11 leave it by degrees. Soft ! let us see : — Write " Lord have mercy on us " on those three ; They are infected, in their hearts it lies ; iw They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes : These lords are visited ; you are not free. For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. Prin. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us. Biron. Our states are forfeit : seek not to undo us. Ros. It is not so. For how can this be true. That you stand forfeit, being those that sue ? Biron. Peace ! for I wUl not have to do with you. Ros. Nor shall not, if T do as I intend. Biron. Speak for yourselves : my wit is at an end. 4so King. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse. Prin. The fairest is confession. Were you not here, but even now, disguis'd 1 King. Madam, I was. Prin. And were you well advis'd ? King. I was, fair madam. Prin. When you then were here. What did you whisper in your lady's ear ? King. Tliat more than all the world I did respect her. Prin. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her. King. Upon mine honour, no. Prin. Peace ! peace ! forbear : Your oath once broke, you force not to for- swear. 440 King. Despise me, when I break this oath of mine. Prin. I will ; and therefore keep it. — Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear ? Ros. Madam, he swore, that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world ; adding thereto, moreover. Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. That he would wed me, or else die my lover. Prim. God give thee joy of him ! the noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. King. What mean you, madam ? by my life, my troth, 450 I never swore this lady such an oath. Ros. By heaven, you did ; and to confirm it plain, You gave me this : but take it, sir, again. K%7ig. My faith, and this, the princess I did give : I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. Prin. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear; And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear. — What ! will you have me, or your pearl again ? Biron. Neither of either ; I remit both twain. — I see tne trick on 't : — here was a consent, 46o Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some -Dick, That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she 's dispos'd. Told our intents before ; which once disclos'd. The ladies did change favours, and then we. Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, 470 We are again forsworn, — in will, and error. Much upon this it is ;— [to Boyet] and might not you Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue 1 Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire. And laugh upon the apple of her eye 1 And stand between her back, sir, and the fire. Holding a trencher, jesting merrily ? You put our page out : go, you are allow'd ; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you 1 there 's an eye. Wounds like a leaden sword. 48i Boyet. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. Biron. Lo, he is tilting straight ! Peace ! I have done. Enter Costard. Welcome, pure wit ! thou partest a fair fray. Cost- O Lord, sir, they would know. Whether the three Worthies shall come in, or no. Biron. What, are there but three 1 Cost. No, sir ; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. Biron. And three times thrice is nine. Cost. Not so, sir ; under correction, sir, I hope, it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know : 490 I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir, — Biron. Is not nine. Cost. Under correction, sir, we know where- until it doth amount. Biron. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. Cost. O Lord ! sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir. Biron. How much is it 1 Cost. O Lord ! sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth ■ amount : for mine own part, I am, as they say, but to perfect one man in one poor man, — Pompion the Great, sir. mi Biron. Art thou one of the Worthies 1 Cost. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great : for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy, but I am to stand for him. Biron. Go, bid them prepare. Cost. We will turn it finely off", sir : we will take some care. [Hxit. King. Biron, they will shame us ; let them not approach. Biron. We are shame-proof, my lord ; and 't is some policy To have one show worse than the king's and his company. sio King. I say, they shall not coma Prin. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now. That sport best pleases, that doth least know how : Where zeal strives to content, and the con- tents Die in the zeal of them which it presents. Their form confounded makes most form in mirth; When great things labouring perish in their birth. Biron. A right description of our sport, my lord. Knter Aemado. Arm. Anointed, I implore so much ex- pense of thy royal sweet breath, as will utter a brace of words. 520 [Armado converses with tlie King, and delivers a faper to him. Prin,. I)i)th this man serve Godl Bvrcii. Whj ask you? 207 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IP. Prin. He speaks not like a man of God's making. Arm. That 's all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch ; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical ; too, too vain ; too, too vain : but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna della guerra. I wish you the peace of miad, most i-oyal couplement ! \Exit. King. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy ; the swain, Pompey the Great ; the parish curate, Alexander ; Armado's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabseus. 532 And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive. These four will change habits, and present the other five. Biron. There is five in the first show. King. You are deceived, 't is not so. Biron. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge- priest, the fool, and the boy : — Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. 540 King. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. Enter Costard armed, for Pompey. Cost. " I Pompey am,"^- Boyet. You lie, you are not he. Cost. " I Pompey am," — Boyet. With libbard's head on knee. Biron. Well said, old mocker : I must needs be friends with thee. Cost. " I Pompev am, Pompey surnam'd the Big,"— " Dum. The Great. Cost. It is " Great," sir ; — " Pompey sur- named the Great ; That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat : And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France." sso If your ladyship would say, " Thanks, Pom- pey," I had done. Prin. Great thanks, great Pompey. Cost. 'T is not so much worth ; but I hope, I was perfect. I made a little fault in , " Great." Biron. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy. Enter Sir Nathaniel armsd, for Alexander. Naih. " When, in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander ; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might : My 'scutcheon plain declares, that I am Alisander." Boyet. Your nose says, no, you are not ; for it stands too right. Biron. Your nose smells, no, in this, most tendei-smelling knight. seo Prin. The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander. Nath. " When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander ; " — Boyet. Most true ; 't is right : you were so, Alisander. Biron. Pompey the Great, — Cost. Your servant, and Costard. Biron. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. Cost. \To Nath.] O ! sir, you have over- thrown Alisander the conqueror. You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this : your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax : he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to sjjeak'? run away for shame, Alisander. [Nath. retires?^ There, an 't shall please you : a foolish mild man ; an honest man, look you, and soon dash'd ! He is a marvellous neigh- bour, faith, and a very good bowler ; but, for Alisander, alas! you see, how 'tis;— a little o'erparted. — But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. Prin. Stand aside, good Pompey. .■>») Enter Holofeenes armed, for Judas, and Moth armed, for Hercules. Hoi. " Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canus ; And, when he was a babe, a child, a shrimji. Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. Quoniam he seemeth in minority. Ergo I come with this apology." Keep some state in thy eodt, and vanish. — " Judas I am," — Bum. A Judas ! Hoi. Not Iscariot, sir. — 590 " Judas I am, ycleped Maccabaeus." Dum. Judas Maccabaeus dipt, is plain Judas. Biron. A kissing traitor. — How art thou prov'd Judas 1 Hoi. " Judas I am," — Dum. The more shame for you, Judas. Hoi. What mean you, sir ? Boyet. To make Judas hang himself. Hoi. Begin, sir : you are my elder. 208 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. Biron. Well folio w'd : Judas was hanged on an elder. Hoi. I will not be put out of countenance. Biron. Because thou hast no face. eoi Uol. What is this ? Boyet. A cittern-head. Dum. The head of a bodkin. Biron. A death's-face in a ring. Long. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. Boyet. The pummel of Csesar's falchion. Dum. The carv'd-bone face on a flask. Biron. St. George's half-cheek ia a brooch. Dum. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. m Biron. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth- drawer. And now, forward ; for we have put thee in countenance. Hoi. You have put me out of countenance. Biron. False : we have given thee faces. Hoi. But you have out-fac'd them all. Biron. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. Boyet. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude ! nay, why dost thou stay ] Dum. Eor the latter end of his name. Biron. For the ass to the Jude ? give it him : — Jud-as, away. 620 Hoi. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. Boyet. A light for Monsieur Judas ! it grows dark, he may stumble. Frin. Alas, poor Maccabseus, how hath he been baited ! Enter Armado armed, for Hector. Biron. Hide thy head, Achilles : here comes Hector in arms. Dum. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. King. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this. Boyet. But is this Hector 1 King. I think Hector was not so clean- timber'd. eso Long. His leg is too big for Hector's. Dvnn. More calf, certain. Boyet. No ; he is best indued in the small. Biron. This cannot be Hector. Dum, He 's a god or a painter ; for he makes faces. Arm. " The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty. Gave Hector a gift," — Dum. A gUt nutmeg. Biron. A lemon. Long'. Stuck with cloves. 640 18 ! Dum. No, cloven. Arm. Peace ! ".The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty. Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion ; A man so breath'd, that certain he would fight ye. From morn tUl night, out of his pavilion. I am that flower," — Dum. That mint. Long. That columbine. Arm. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. LoTig. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. 650 Dwm. Ay, and Hector 's a greyhound. Arm. The sweet war-man is dead and rot- ten : sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried : when he breathed, he was a man. — But I will forward with my device. Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. [Biron whispers Costard. Frin. Speak, brave Hector : we are much delighted. Arm. I do adore thy sweet grace's slipper. Boyet. Loves her by the foot. Dum. He may not by the yard. em Arm. " This Hector far surmounted Han- nibal,"— Cost. The party is gone : fellow Hector, she is gone ; she is two months on her way. Arm. What meanest thou 1 Cost. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor wench is cast away : she 's quick ; the child brags in her belly already : 't is yours. Arm. Dost thou infamonise me among potentates ? Thou shalt die. Cost. Then shall Hector be whipp'd for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hang'd for Pompey that is dead by him. 672 Dv/m, Most rare Pompey ! Boyet, Renowned Pompey ! Bvron. Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey ! Pompey the Huge ! Dum. Hector trembles. Biron. Pompey is moved. — More At6s, more AtSs ! stir them on ! stir them on ! Dum. Hector will challenge him. eso Biron. Ay, if he have no more man's blood in 's belly than will sup a flea. Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. Cost. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man : I '11 slash ; I '11 do it by the sword. — I pray you, let me borrow my arms again. Dum. Room for the incensed Worthies ! Cost. I '11 do it in my shirt. Act Y. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IL Dirni. Most resolute Pompey ! Moth. Master, let me take you a button- hole lower. 690 Do you not see, Pompey is uncasing for the combat ? What mean you^ you will lose your reputation. Arm. Gentlemen, and soldiers, pardon me ; I will not combat in my shirt. Dum. You may not deny it : Pompey hath made the challenge. Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. Biron. What reason have you for 't ? Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance. ™ Boyet. True, and it was enjoin'd him in Rome for want of linen ; since when, I '11 be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of JaqTie- netta's, and that he wears next his heart for a favour. Enter Monsieur Mercade, a Messenger. Mer. God save you, madam. Prin. Welcome, Mercade, But that thou interrupt'st our merriment. Mer. I am. sorry, madam ; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. — The king your father — Prin. Dead, for my life ! no Mer. Even so : my tale is told. Bin-on. Worthies, away ! The scene begins to cloud. Arm. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [Exeunt Worthies. King. How fares your majesty ? Prin. Boyet, prepare : I wUl away to-night. King. Madam, not so ; I do beseech you, stay. Prin. Prepare, I say. — I thank you, gracious lords. For all your fair endeavours ; and entreat, 720 Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide. The liberal opposition of our spirits : If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath, your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord ! A heavy heart bears not a humble tongue. Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain'd. King. The extreme part of time extremely forms isa All causes to the purpose of his speed ; And often, at his very loose, decides That which long process could not arbitrate : And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smihng courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince ; Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it From what it purpos'd ; since, to wail friends lost. Is not by much so wholesome, profitable, 740 As to rejoice at friends but newly found. Prin. I understand you not : my griefs are dull. Biron. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief ; And by these badges understand the king. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Play'd foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies, Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents ; And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous, — As love is full of unbefitting strains ; rao All wanton as a child, skipping, and vain ; Form'd by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms, Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance : Which party-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes. Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities. Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults. Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, reo Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours : we to ourselves prove false. By being once false, for ever to be true To those that make us both, — fair ladies, you: And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself, and turns to grace. Prin. We have receiv'd your letters fuU of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love ; And, in our maiden council, rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, 770 As bombast, and as lining to the time. But more devoxit than this, in our respects. Have we not been ; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. Dnm. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest. Long. So did our looks. Ros. We did not cote them so. King. Now, at the latest minute of the hour. Grant us yotir loves. 210 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene IL Prin. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your grace is perjur'd much, 780 Full of dear guiltiness ; and therefore this. — If for my love (as there is no such cause) You will do aught, this shall you do for me : Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the World ; There stay, until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about their annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood; If frosts, and fasts, hard lodging, and thin weeds, ™i Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love. But that it bear this trial, and last love ; Then, at the expiration of the year. Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts. And by this virgin palm, now kissing thine, I will be thine ; and, tUl that instant, shut My woful self up in a mourning house. Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father's death, soo If this thou do deny, let our hands part : Neither intitled in the other's heart. King. If this, or more than this, I would deny. To flatter up these powers of mine with rest. The sudden hand- of death close up mine eye. Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast. Bvron. And what to me, my love? and what to me ? Bos. You must be purged too, your sins are rank : You are attaint with faults and perjury ; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, sio A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick. Bvmh. But what to me, my love ? but what to mel Kath. A wife ! — ^A beard, fair health, and honesty ; With three-fold love I wish you all these three. Bwm. O ! shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife? Kaih. Not so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day I '11 mark no words that smeoth-fac'd wooers say : Come when the king doth to my lady come ; Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some. 820 Bum. I'll serve thee true and faithfully ' till then. Kath. Yet swear not, lest you be forsworn again. Long. What says Maria % Mar. At the twelvemonth's end, I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend. ■Long. I '11 stay with patience ; but the time is long. Mar. The liker you ; few taUer are so young. Bwon. Studies my lady ? mistress, look on me. Behold the window of my heart, mine eye. What humble suit attends thy answer there ; Impose some service on me for thy love. 8so Bos. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron, Before I saw you, and the world's large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks ; Full of comparisons and wounding flouts. Which you on all estates will execute. That lie within the mercy of your wit : To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain. And, therewithal, to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day, 840 Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches ; and your task shall be. With all the fierce endeavour of yoiir wit. To enforce the pained impotent to smUe. Biron. To move wild laughter in the throat of death ? It cannot be ; it is impossible : Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. Eos. Why, that 's the way to choke a gibing spirit. Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. 850 A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it : then, if sickly ears. Deaf d with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then. And I will have you, and that fault withal; But, if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation. Biron. A twelvemonth? well, begiU what will befall, _ ^eo I '11 jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. 211 Act V. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST. Scene II. Frin. [To t/is King.] Ay, sweet my lord : and so I take my leave. Kingf. No, madam ; we will bring you on your way. Biron. Our wooing doth not end like an . old play ; Jack hath not Jill : these ladies' courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. King. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day. And then 't will end. Biron. That 's too long for a play. Enter Armado. Arm. Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me, — Prin. Was not that Hector 1 em Bum. The worthy knight of Troy. Arm. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary : I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three years. But, most esteemed great- ness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the owl and the cuckoo ? it should have followed in the end of our show. Kiv^. CaU them forth quickly ; we will do so. Arm. Holla ! approach. sso Enter Holofernes, Nathaniel, Moth, CosTABD, and otlurs. This side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the Spring ; the one maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin. SONG. Spring. I. TFA«w daisies pied, and violets blue, And lad/y-smocks all silver-white, And auchoo-huds of yellow hue. Do paint the meadows mth delight, The cuckoo tlien, on every tree. Mocks married men, for thus sings he. Cuckoo ; 890 Cuckoo, cuckoo, — word of fear Unpleasing to a married ear I II. When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughm,en's clocks. When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws. And maidens bleach their summer smocfcs. The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married m,en, for thus sings lie. Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — word of fear, soo Unpleasing to a married ear ! Winter. III. When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepJierd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into tlie hall, And milk comes frozen home i/n pail. When blood is nipped, and ways befoul. Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, to-vjho, a Tnerry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. sio IV. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw. And birds sit broodiTig in the snow. And Marian's nose looks red and raw. When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly si/ngs the staring owl, To-who ; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. Arm. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of ApoUo. You, that way : we, this way. [Exeunt. 212 ROMEO AND JULIET. DRAMATIS PHHSONjE. EsclLUS, Prince of Verona. Paris, a young Nobleman, Kinsman to tlis Prince. Montague, ) Heads of two Houses, at va/ria/nce Capulet, j with each other. Uncle to Capulet. Romeo, Son to Montague. Mercutio, Kinsman to tlie Prince, and Friend to Romeo. Benvolio, NepJiew to Montague, and Friend to Romeo. Tybalt, Nephew to Lady Capulet. Friar Laurence, a Fra/nciscan. Friar John, of the same Order. BalthasAR, Servant to Romeo. g'reS, } ^^''^"'^^ to Capulet. SGENE- Peter, another Servant to Capulet. Abram, Servant to Montague. An Apotheca/ry. Tli/ree Musicians. Chorus. Boy ; Page to Paris ; an Officer. Lady Montague, Wife to Montague. Lady Capulet, Wife to Capulet. Juliet, Daughter to Capulet. Nwrse to Juliet. Citizens of Verona; male and female Relations to both Houses ; Maskers, Guards, Watch men, and Attenda/nts. During the greater part of the Play, in Verona : once, in the Fifth Act, at Mantua. PEOLOGUE. Enter Chorus. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene. From ancient grudge break to new mutiny. Where civil blood makes civil hands un- clean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life ; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife. The of their deatli-mark'd fearful love. And the continuance of their parents' rage, Which, but their children's end, nought could remove,' u Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage ; The which if you with patient ears attend. What here shall miss, our toil shall strive, to mend. \Eacit. ACT L Scene I. — A Public Place. Erder Sampson amd Gregory, an-med with swords and bucklers. Sam. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals. Ore. No, for then we should be colliers. Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we '11 draw. Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o' the collar. Sam. I strike quickly, being moved. Gre. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. " lo Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. Gre. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand ; therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's. 213 Act 1. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene I. Gh-e. That shows thee a weak slave ; for the weakest goes to the wall. 20 Sam. 'T is true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall : — ^therefore I will push Montague's men from the wa;ll, and thrust his maids to the wall. Gre. The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men. Sam. 'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant : when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids ; I will cut off their heads. Gre. The heads of the maids ? 30 Sam. A.J, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads ; take it in what sense thou wilt. Gre. They must take it in sense, that feel it. Sam. Me they shall feel, while I am able to stand ; and, 't is known, I am a pretty piece of flesh. Gre. 'T is well, thou art not fish ; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of the Montagues. Enter Abeam and Balthasar. Sam. My naked weapon is out : quarrel, I will back thee. 40 Gre. How ! turn thy back, and run ? Sam. Fear me not. Gre. No, marry : I fear thee ! Sa/m. Let us take the law of our sides : let them begin. Gre. I wiU frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them ; which is a disgrace to them, if they bear it. Ahr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? 50 Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir. Ahr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Sam. Is the law of our side, if I say ay ? Gre. No. Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir ; but I bite my thumb, sir. Gre. Do you quarrel, sir 1 Abr. Quarrel, sir ? no, sir. Sam. If you do, sir, I am for you : I serve as good a man as you. eo Ahr. No better. Sam. Well, sir. Enter Benvolio, at a distance. Gre. Say — better : here comes one of my master's kinsmen. Sam. Yes, better, sir. Ahr. You lie. Sam. Draw, if you be men. — Gregory, re- member thy swashing blow. [They fight. Ben. Part, fools ! put up your swords ; you know not what you do. ro [Beats down their swords. Enter Tybalt. Tyh. What ! art thou drawn among these heartless hinds ? Turn thee, Benvolio ; look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace : put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tyh. What ! drawn, and talk of peace ? I hate the word. As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward. [T/iey fight. Enter several persons of both Houses, wliojoin tliefray ; then enter Citizens, with clubs. 1 Cit. Clubs, bUls, and. partisans ! strike ! beat them down ! Down with the Capulets ! down with the Montagues ! Enter Capulet, in his gown ; and Lady Capulet. Cap. What noise is this? — Give me my long sword, ho ! so La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch ! — Why call you for a sword ? Cap. My sword, I say ! — Old Montague is come. And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Montague and Lady Montague. Mon. Thou villain Capulet ! — Hold me not; let me go. La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir a foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince, with his Train. Prin. Eebellious subjects, enemies to peace. Prof aners of this neighbour-stained steel, — Will they not hear ? — what ho ! you men, you beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins, — 90 On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistemper'd weapons to the ground. And hear the sentence of your moved prince. — Three civU brawls, bred of an airy word, By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets ; And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments, 214 Act I. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene I. To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Canker'd with peace, to part your canter'd hate. 100 If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time, all the rest depart away : You, Capulet, shall go along with me ; And, Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our further pleasure in this case. To old Free-town, our common judgment-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. [Eaxunt'PRnsCE, and Attendants ; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt, Citizens, and Servants. Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach ? — Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began ? Ben. Here were the servants of your ad- versary, in And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. I drew to part them ; in the iastant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd ; Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung about his head, and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him ia scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part. Till the priace came, who parted either part. La. Mon. O ! where is Romeo 1 saw you him to-day ? 121 Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window of the east, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad ; Where, underneath the grove of sycamore. That westward rooteth from the city's side. So early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made ; but he was 'ware of me. And stole into the covert of the wood : lao I, measuring his afiections by my own, Which then most sought, where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his. And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me. Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen. With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew. Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs : But all so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the farthest east begin to draw 140 The shady curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son. And private in his chamber pens himself; Shuts up his windows, locks fair, daylight out. And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause 1 Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn of him. Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means 1 150 Mon. Both by myself, and many other friends : But he, his own affections' counsellor. Is to himself — I will not say, how true — But to himself so secret and so close. So far from sounding and discovery. As is the bud bit with an envious worm. Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air. Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow. We would as willmgly give cure, as know. 160 Enter Romeo, at a distance. , Ben. See, where he comes : so please you, step aside ; I '11 know his grievance, or be much denied. Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay. To hear true shrift. — Come, madam, let 's away. [Exeunt Montague and Lady. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Horn. Is the day so young? Ben. But new struck nine. Bom. Ah me ! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast ? Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours ? Bom. Not having that, which, having, makes them short. Ben. In love t "o Bom. Out — Ben. Of love? Bom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view. Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof ! Bom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine 1—0 me !— What fray was here ? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here 's much to do with hate, but more with love : — 1* Why then,. O brawling love ! loving hate ) 215 Act I. EOMEO AND JULIET. ISCE.NE II. O anything, of nothing first created ! O heavy lightness ! serious vanity ! Misshapen chaos of -well-seeming forms ! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! StiU-waking sleep, that is not what it is ! This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh t Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. BoTii. Good heart, at what 1 Ben. At thy good heart's oppression. Rom. Why, such is love's transgression. — Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast ; loi Which thou wilt propagate, to have it press'd With more of thine : this love, that thou hast shown, Doth add more grief to too-much of mine own. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs ; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes ; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears : What is it else ? a madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz. [Goinff. Ben. Soft, I will go along ; 200 An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Bom. Tut ! I have lost myself ; I am not here ; This is not Romeo, he 's some other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love. Bom. What ! shall I groan, and tell thee 1 Ben. Groan '! why, no ; But sadly teU me, who. Bom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his wUl; A word ill urg'd to one that is so ill. — In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. Ben. I aim'd so neax-, when I suppos'd you lov'd. 210 Bom. A right good mark-man ! And she's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is sootiest hit. Bom. Well, in that hit you miss : she '11 not be hit With Cupid's arrow, — she hath Dian's wit ; And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,' From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide the encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saintseducing gold : ! she is rich in beauty ; only poor, 220 That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn, that she will still live chaste 1 Bom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste ; For beauty, starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty ofi" from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise ; wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair : She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead, that live to tell it now. Ben. Be rul'd by me; forget to think of her. 230 Bom. O ! teach me how I should forget to think. Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes : Examine other beauties. Bom. 'T is the way To call hers, exquisite, in question more. These happy masks, that kiss fair ladies' brows, Being black, put us in mind they hide the fair : He that is strucken blind, cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve, but as a note 240 Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair? Farewell : thou canst not teadi me to forget. Ben. I '11 pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [Bxeunt. Scene II. — A Street. Enter Capdlet, Paeis, aivJ, Servant. Gap. And Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike ; and 't is not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace. Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both; And pity 't is, you liv'd at odds so long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit ? Ca2). But saying o'er what I have said before : My child is yet a stranger in the world. She hath not seen the change of fourteen years ; Let two more summers wither in their pride. Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. u Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made. Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath swallow'd all my hopes but she,' She is the hopeful lady of my earth : But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart, My wUl to her consent is but a part ; 216 Act I. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. Among An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent, and fair according voice. This night I hold an old-accustom'd feast, 20 Whereto I have invited many a guest. Such as I love ; and you, among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading stars, that make dark heaven light. Such comfort, as do lusty young men feel. When well-apparell'd April on the heel Of limping winter treads, even such delight fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house ; hear all, all see, so And like her most, whose merit most shall Be : Which, on more view of many, mine, being one. May stand in number, though in reckoning none. Come, go with me. — Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona ; find those persons out. Whose names are written there [giving a paper], and to them say. My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. [Exeunt Capulet ancl Paris. Serv. Find them out, whose names are written here? It is written, that the shoe- maker should meddle with his yard, and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, 'and the painter with his nets ; but I am sent to find those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. — In good time. Unter Benvolio and Romeo. ■Ben. Tut, man! one fire.burns out another's burning. One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish ; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning ; One desperate grief cures with another's languish : Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. so Som. Your plantain-leaf is excellent for that. Ben. For what, I pray thee 1 Rom. For your broken shin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad 1 Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is : Shut up in prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd, and tormented, and — Good den, good fellow. Serv, God gi' good den. — I pray, sir, can you read ? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. Serv. Perhaps you have learn'd it without book : but, I pray, can you read anything you see ? eo Rom. A.J, if I know the letters, and the language. Serv. Ye say honestly ; rest you merry. Rom. Stay, fellow ; I can read. [Reads. " Signior Martino, and his wife, and daughters : County Anselme, and his beau- teous sisters ; the lady widow of Vitruvio ; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces ; Mercutio, and his brother Valentine ; mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters ; my fair niece Rosaline ; Livia ; Signior Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt ; Lucio, and the lively Helena." 70 A fair assembly ; whither should they come 1 Serv. Up. Rom. Whither to supper 1 Serv. To our house. Rom. Whose house t Serv. My master's. Ro)n. Indeed, I shotild have asked you that before. Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet ; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry. [Exit. Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline, whom thou so lov'st. With all the admired beauties of Verona : Go thither ; and, with uiiattainted eye, Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires ; And these, who, often drown'd, could never die, 90 Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars. One fairer than my love ! the all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match, since first the world begun. Ben. Tut ! you saw her fair, none else being by Herself pois'd with herself in either eye ; But in that crystal scales, let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid. That I will show you shining at this feast. And she shall scant show well, that now shows best. Rom. I '11 go along, no such sight to. be shown, i™ But to rejoice in splendour of mine own. , [Exeunt. 19 217 Act I. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Scene III. — A Room in Capulet's House. Enter Lady Oapulet and Nurse. La. Cap. Nurse, where 's my daughter ? call her forth to me. Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead, — at twelve year old, — I bade her come. — What, lamb ! what, lady- bird !— God forbid ! — where 's this girl 1 — what, Juliet ! Enter Juliet. Jul. How now ! who calls ? Nurse. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here. What is your will ? La. Cap. This is the matter. — Nurse, give leave awhile. We must talk in secret. — Nurse, come back again : I have remember'd me, thou's hear our coiinsel. Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age. 10 Nurse. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. La. Cap. She 's not fourteen. Nurse. I '11 lay fourteen of my teeth, — And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four, — She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammas-tide ? La. Cap. A fortnight, and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year. Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be four- teen. Susan and she — God rest all Christian souls ! — Were of an age. — ^Well, Susan is with God ; She was too good for me. But, as I said, 20 On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen ; That shall she, marry : I remember it well. 'T is since the earthquake now eleven years ; And she was wean'd, — I never shall forget it,— Of all the days of the year, upon that day ; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall : My lord and you were then at Mantua. — Nay, I do bear a brain : — but, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple 30 Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool ! To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug ! Shake, quoth the dove-house -. 't was no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years ; For then she could stand alone, nay, by the rood, She could have run and waddled all about ; For even the day before she broke her brow : And then my husband — God be with his soul ! 'A was a merry man — took up the child : 40 "Yea," quoth he. "dost thou fall upon thy face 1 Thou wilt fall backward, when thou hast more wit ; Wilt thou not, Jule 1 " and, by my holy-dam, The pretty wretch left crying, and said — "Ay." To see now, how a jest shall come about ! I warrant, an I should live a thousand years, I never should forget, it : " Wilt thou not, Jule? "quoth he; And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said — " Ay." La. Cap. Enough of this ; I pray thee, hold thy peace. Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh, 60 To think it should leave crying, and say — "Ay:" And yet, I warrant, it had upon its brow A bump as big as a young cockrel's stone ; A perilous knock ; and it cried bitterly. " Yea," quoth my husband, " fall'st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward, when thou com'st to age; Wilt thou not, Jule ? " it stinted, and said — "Ay." Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say L Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace ! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd : An I might live to see thee married once, ei I have my wish. La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme I come to talk of. — Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married ? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nv/rse. An honour ! were not I thine only nurse, I would say, thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. La. Cap. Well, think of marriage now ; younger than you. Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, ;o Are made already mothers : by my count, I was your mother, much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then, in brief, — 218 Act I. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene IV. The vialiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady ! lady, such a man. As all the world — why, he 's a man of wax. La. Cap. Verona's summer hatli not such a flower. Nurse. Nay, he 's a flower ; in faith, a very flower. La. Cap. What say you ? can you love the gentleman ? This night you shall behold him at our feast : Bead o'er the volume of young Paris' face, si And find delight writ there with beauty's pen ; Examine every several lineament, And see how one another lends content ; And what obscur'd in this faii- volume lies, Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him, only lacks a cover : The fish lives in the sea ; and 't is much pride. For fair without the fair within to hide. so That book in many's eyes doth share the glory> That in gold clasps locks in the golden story : So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him, making yourself no less. NxLrse. No less % nay, bigger : women grow by men. La. Cap. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love ? Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move ; But no more deep wUl I endart mine eye. Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. 8» Enter a Servant. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait ; I beseech you, follow straight. La. Cap. We follow thee. Juliet, the county stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. [Uxeunt. Scene IV. — A Street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, withfive or six Maskers, Torc/irbearers, and ot/iers. Horn. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse. Or shall we on without apology 1 Ben. The date is out of such prolixity We '11 have no Cupid hoodwinked with a scarf. Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath. Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper ; (Nor jio without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance :) But, let them measure us by what they will. We '11 measure them a measure, and be gone. ■ Bom. Give me a torch : I am not for this ambling ; ' u Being but heavy, I wUl bear the light. Mer. Nay,' gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. Earn. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes, With nimble soles ; I have a soul of lead, So stakes me to the ground, I cannot move. Mer. You are a lover : borrow Cupid's wings. And soar with them above a common bound. Horn. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft. To soar with his light feathers ; and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe : 21 Under love's heavy burden do I sink. Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burden love ; Too great oppression for a tender thing. Horn. Is love a tender thing ? it is too roiigh. Too rude, too boisterous ; and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with loye : , Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. — Give me a case to put my visage in : [Putting on a mask. A visor for a visor !-7-what care I, so What curious eye doth quote deformities ? Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me. £en. Come, knock, and enter ; and no sooner in. But every man betake him to his legs. Som. A torch for me : let wantons, light of heart. Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels ; For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase, — I '11 be a candle-holder, and look on : The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Mer. Tut ! dun 's the mouse, the constable's own word. «> If thou art dun, we '11 draw thee from the mire Of this, save reverence, love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. — Come, we burn daylight, ho. jRom. Nay, that 's not so. Mer. I mean, sir, in delay 219 Act I. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by- day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that, ere once in our five wits. Rom. And we mean well in going to this mask; But 't is no wit to go. Mer. Why, may one ask ? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. J/er. And so did I. so Rom. Well, what was yours I Mer. That dreamers often lie. Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. Mer. O ! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife ; and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Over men's noses as they lie asleep : Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs ; The cover, of the wings of gi-asshoppers ; eo The traces, of the smallest spider's web ; The collars, of the moonshine's Watery beams ; Her whip, of cricket's bone ; the lash, of film ; Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid. Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub. Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers. And in this state she gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love : n O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on court'sies straight : O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees : O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream ; Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues. Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose. And then dreams he of smelling out a suit : And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail. Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, so Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats. Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades. Of healths five, fathom deep ; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts, and wakes ; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. This is that veiy Mab, That plats the manes of horses in the night ; And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish-hairs. Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes. 91 This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them, and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage. This is she — Rom. Peace, peace ! Mercutio, peace ! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain. Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ; Which is as thin of substance as the air ; And. more inconstant than the wind, who WOOS 100 Even now the frozen bosom of the north. And, being anger'd, pufis away from thence. Turning his face to the dew-dropping south. Ben. This wind, you talk of, blows us from ourselves ; Supper is done, and we shall come too late. Rom. I fear, too early ; for my mind mis- gives. Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels ; and expire the term Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast, iio By some vile forfeit of untimely death : But He, that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my saU. — On, lusty gentlemen. Ben. Strike, drum. \Exeunt. Scene V.— A Hall in Capulet's House. Musicians waiting. Enter Servants. 1 Serv. Where 's Potpan, that he helps not to take away ? he shif t-a-trencher ! he scrape- a-trencher J 2 Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwashed too, 't is a foul thing. 1 Serv. Aw&j with the joint-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the plate. — Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane ; and, as thou lovest me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone, and Nell. — Antony ! and Potpan ! 2 Serv. Ay, boy; ready. ii 1 Serv. You are looked for, and called for, asked for, and sought for, in the great chamber. 2 Serv. We cannot be here and there too. — Cheerly, boys : be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. \They retire behind. 220 Act I. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. Enter Capulet, c&c, vnth the Guests, and the Mashers. Gap. Welcome, gentlemen ! ladies, that have their toes TJnplagu'd with corns, ■will have a bout with you;— Ah ha, my mistresses ! which of you all Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty, she, I '11 swear, hath corns. Am I come near you now? 20 Welcome, gentlemen ! I have seen the day, That I have worn a visor, and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear, Such as would please ; 't is gone, 't is gone, 't is gone. You are welcome, gentlemen ! — Come, musi- V cians, play. A hall ! a hall ! give room, a,nd foot it, girls. \Music plays, and they dance. More light, ye knaves ! and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.— Ah ! sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, 30 For you and I are past our dancing days ; Ho\jr long is 't now, since last yourself and I Were in a mask ? 2 Gap. By 'r lady, thirty years. Gap. What, man ! 't is not so much, 'tis not so much. 'T is since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecost as qviickly as it will, Some five-and-twenty years ; and then we mask'd. 2 Gap. 'T is more, 't is more : his son is elder, sir ; His son is thirty. Gap. Will you tell me that ? His son was but a ward two years ago. « Rom. What lady 's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight ? Serv. I know not, sir. Rom. O ! she doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear ; Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear ! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows, As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand, 60 And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now ? forswear it, sight ! For I ne'er saw true be9,uty till this night. T-yh. This, by his voice, should be a Mon- tague. — Fetch me my rapier, boy.- — What ! dares the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antick face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity ? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin. To strike hini dead I hold it not a sin. Gap. Why, how now, kinsman ? wherefore storm you so ? 00 Tyh. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe ; A vUlaia, that is hither come in spite; To scorn at our solemnity this night. Gap. Young Eomeo is 't ? Tyh. , 'T is he, that villain Romeo. Gap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone : He bears him like a portly gentleman ; And, to say truth, Verona brags of him, To be a virtuous and well-govem'd youth. I would not for the wealth of all this town, Here, in my house, do him disparagement ; 70 Therefore be patient, take no note of him : It is my will ; the which if thou respect. Show a fair presence, and put ofi' these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyh. It fits, when such a villain is a guest. I '11 not endure him. Gap. He shall be endur'd : What ! goodman boy ! — I say, he shall ; — ■ go to ;— Am I the master here, or you ? go to. You'll not endure him!— God shall mend my soul — You '11 make a mutiny among my guests, so You wHl set cock-a-hoop ! you '11 be the man ! Tyh. Why, uncle, 't is a shame. Gap: Go to, go to ; You are a saucy boy. — Is 't so, indeed 1 — This trick may chance to scathe you ; — I know what. You must contrary me ! marry, 't is time. — Well said, my hearts ! — You are a princox ; go:— Be quiet, or — More light, more light ! — Foj shame ! I '11 make you quiet. What ! — cheerly, my hearts ! Tyh. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their difierent greeting. * I will withdraw : but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall. [Exit. 221 Act I. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. Rom. \To Juliet.] If I profane with my iinwortliiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this ; My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to "palm is holy palmers' kiss. loo Rovfi. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Bom. O, then, dear saiat, let Ups do what hands do ; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turti to de- spair. Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Bom. Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg'd. [Kissing her. Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Bom. Sin from my Ups 1 O trespass sweetly urg'd ! Give me my sin again. Jul. ' You kiss by the book. no Nurse, Madam, your mother craves a word with you. Bom. What is her mother ? Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house. And a good lady, and a wise, and virtuous. I nurs'd her daughter, that you talk'd withal; I tell you — he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. Bom. Is she a Capulet 1 dear account ! my Kfe is my foe's debt. Ben. Away, be gone : the sport is at the best. Bom. A.J, so I fear ; the more is my un- rest. 120 Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone : We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. — Is it e'en so ? Why then, I thank you aU; 1 thank you, honest gentlemen ; good night : — More torches here ! — Come on, then let 's to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late ; I '11 to my rest. \Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman ? Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. What 's he, that now is going out of door 1 130 Nurse. '^^Tsry, that, I think, be yoimg Petruchio. Jid. What's he, that follows there, that would not dance % Nwrse. I know not. Jul. Go, ask his name. — If he be married. My grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Mont- ague ; The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My only love sprung from my only hate ! Too early seen unknown, and known too late ! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, i4o That I must love a loathed enemy. Nurse. What 's this ? what 's this ? Jul. A rhyme I learn'd even now Of one I danc'd withal. [One calls within, "Juliet." Nurse. Anon, anon : — Come, let 's away ; the strangers all are gone. [Exeunt. Enter Chorus. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, And, young affection gapes to be his heir : That fair, for which love groan'd for, and would die. With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again. Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain. And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks : Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear ; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new-beloved anywhere : But passion lends them power, time means to meet, Tempering extremities with extremes sweet. [Eodt. Act II. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. ACT II. Scene I. — An Open Place, adjoining Capulet's Garden. Enter Romeo. Rom. Can I go forward, when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. \He climbs the wall, and leaps dovni within it. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Ben. Romeo ! my cousin Romeo ! Romeo ! Mer. He is wise ; And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. Ben. He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I 'U conjure too. — Romeo, humours, madman, passion, lover ! Appear thou in the Hkeness of a sigh : Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied ; Cry but — Ah me ! pronounce but — love and dove ; lo Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word. One nickname for her purblind son and heir. Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim, When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar- maid. — He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.^ — I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes, By her high forehead, and her scarlet lip. By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh. And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, 20 That in thy likeness thou appear to us. Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Mer. This cannot anger him : 't would anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it, and conjur'd it down ; That were some spite : my invocation Is fair and honest, and, ia his mistress' name, I conjure only but to raise up him. Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees, 30 To be consorted with the humorous night : Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar-tree, And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit, As maids call , medlars, when they laugh alone. — O Romeo ! that she were, ! that she were An open et ccetera, thou a poprin pear ! Romeo, good night : — I '11 to my truckle-bed ; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. 40 Come, shall we go ? Ben. Go, then ; for 't is in Vain To seek him here, that means not to be found. [Exeunt. Scene II. Enter Romeo. Bom. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. — [Juliet appears above, at a window. But, soft ! what light through yonder window breaks 1 It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! — Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief. That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she : Be not her maid, since she is envious ; Her vestal livery is but sick and green. And none but fools do wear it ; cast it ofi". — It is my lady ; O ! it is my love : 10 O, that she knew she were ! — She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. — I am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks : Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. "What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars. As daylight doth a lamp : her eye in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright, 21 That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! O i that I were a glove upon that hand. That I might touch that cheek ! Jul. All me ! Bom. She speaks : — 223 Act II. ROMEO AJSTD JULIET. Scene II. 0, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head. As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him, so When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, And sails upon the bosom of the air. Jul. Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo % Deny thy father, and refuse thy name : Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. And I '11 no longer be a Capulet. Eom. [Aside.'l Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? Jul. 'T is but thy name, that is my enemy : Thou art thyself though, not a Montague. What 's Montague '! it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part « Belonging to a man. O ! be some other name. What 's itt a name? that which we call a rose, By any other word would smell as sweet ; So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes, Without that title. — Romeo, doff thy name ; And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself ! Rom. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I '11 be new baptis'd ; so Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou, that, thus be- screen'd in night. So stumblest on my counsel 1 Rom.- By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am -. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself. Because it is an enemy to thee : Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague 1 m Eom. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dis- like. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore ? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er perch these walls ; For stony limits cannot hold love out : And what love can do, that dares love attempt ; Tlierefore, thy kinsmen are no stop to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they Avill murder thee. '0 Rom. Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye, Than twenty of their swords : look thoti but sweet. And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes ; And, but thou love me, let them find me here : My life were better ended by their hate. Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? Rom,. By Love, that first did prompt me to inquire ; so He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot ; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. , Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face ; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek. For that which thou hast heard me speak to- night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny What I have spoke : but farewell compli- ment ! Dost thou love me 1 I know thou wilt say — Ay ; «o And I will take thy word ; yet, if thou swear'st. Thou may'st prove false : at lovers' perjuries. They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo ! If thou dost love, pronounce it faitlifuUy : Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I '11 frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond ; And therefore thou may'st think my haviour light : But trust me, gentleman, I '11 prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. loi I should have been more strange, I must con- fess. But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true love's passion : therefore, pardon me ; And not impute this yielding to light love. Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear. That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, — Jul. O, swear not by the moon, the incon- stant moon. That monthly changes in her circled orb, no 224 Act II. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. Lest tliat tiiy love prove likewise variable. Bom. What shall I swear by 1 Jul. Do not swear at all ; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, Aad I '11 believe thee. Bom. If my heart's dear love — Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night : It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden ; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be. Ere one can say, it lightens. Sweet, good night ! 120 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath. May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night ! as sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! Bom,. O ! wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? Jul. What satisfaction canst thou Have to- night ? Bom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it ; And yet I would it were to give again. Bom. Wouldst thou withdraw it 1 for what purpose, love? iso Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love as deep ; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. [Ifii/rse calls mthin. I hear some noise within : dear love, adieu ! — Anon, good nurse ! — Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit: Bom. O blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, un Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Be-enter Juliet, above. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable. Thy purpose marriage, send me word to- morrow. By one that I '11 procure to come to thee. Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; And all my fortunes at thy foot I 'U lay, And follow thee my lord .throughout the world. Nurse. [Within.] Madam! Jul. 1 come, anon. — But if thou mean'st not well, 160 I do beseech thee — Nurse. [ Within.] Madam ! Jul. By-and-by ; I come. — To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief : To-morrow will I send. Bom. So thrive my soul, — Jtil. A thousand times good night ! [£xit. Bom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. — Love goes toward love, as school-boys from their books ; But love from love, toward school with heavy looks. , [Betiring. Be-enter Juliet, above. Jul. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! — O, for a fal- coner's voice. To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine lea With repetition of my Romeo's name. Bom. It is my soul, that calls upon my name : How silver-sweet sound ' lovers' tongues by night. Like softest mu.sic to attending ears ! Jul. Romeo ! Bom. , My dear % Jul. What o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee ? Bom. By the hour of nine. Jul. I will not faU : 't is twenty years tUl then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. iro Bom. Let me stand here, till thou re- member it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. Bom. And I '11 still stay, to have thee still ^forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone : And yet no further than a wanton's bird. Who lets it hop a little from her hand. Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. lei Bom. I would, I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I ; Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 22S Act II. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Good night, good night : parting is such sweet SOIJ'OW, That I shall say good night, till it be morrow. [Hxit. Bom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast ! — 'Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest ! Hence will I to riiy ghostly father's cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [Eodt. Scene III. — Friar Laurence's Cell. Unter Friar Laurence, with a basket. Fri. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of Hght; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels : Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye The day to cheer, and night's dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds, and precious-juiced flowers. The earth, that 's nature's mother, is her tomb; Wliat is her burying grave, that is her womb ; And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find : 12 Many for many virtues excellent. None but for some, and yet all different. O ! mickle is the powerful grace that lies In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities : For nought so vile that on the eai-th doth live. But to the earth some special good doth give ; Nor aught so good, but, strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse : Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, 21 And vice sometime 's by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this weak flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power : For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part ; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs, — grace, and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, 29 Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Eomeo. JRom. Good morrow, father ! Fri. Benedicite ! What early torigue so sweet saluteth me 1 Young son, it argues a distemper'd head, So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed : Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye. And where care lodges, sleep wiU never lie ; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore, thy earliness doth me assure, Thou art up-rous'd by some distemperature : Or if not so, then here I hit it right, — 41 Our Borneo hath not been in bed to-night. Rom. That last is true ; the sweeter rest was mine. Fri. God pardon sin ! wast thou with Rosaline ? Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father's no; I have forgot that name, and that name's woe. Fri. That 's my good son : but where hast thou been, then % Rom. I '11 tell thee, ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy ; Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me. That's by me wounded : both our remedies si Within thy help and holy physic lies : I bear no hatred, blessed man ; for, lo ! My intercession likewise steads my foe. Fri. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift ; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. Rom. Then plainly know, my heart's dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet : As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine ; And all combin'd, save what thou must com- bine 00 By holy marriage. When, and where, and how. We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, I '11 tell thee as we pass ; but this I pray. That thou consent to marry us to-day. Fri. Holy Saint Francis ! what a change is here ! Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear. So soon forsaken? young men's love, then, lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria ! what a deal of brine Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline ! How much salt water thrown aw^ay in waste. To season love, that of it doth not taste ! n The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears ; Lo ! here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet. 226 F. DICKSEE, A.R.A., Del. Eellenger, Sculp. ROMEO AND JULIET. Juliet, Good night, good night ! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. "Romeo and Juliet," Act II. y Scene II. Act II. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene IV. If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline : And art thou chang'd'! pronounce this sen- tence, then,— Women may fall, when there 's no strength in men. so Bom. Thou chidd'st me oft for loving Rosaline. Fri. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. Bom. And bad'st me bury love. Fri. Not in a grave. To lay one in, another out to have. Bom. I pray thee, chide me not : her I love now Doth grace for grace, and love for love allow : The other did not so. Fri. ! she knew well. Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. But come, young waverer, come, go with me, In one respect I 'II thy assistant be ; so For this alliance may so happy prove. To turn your households' rancour to pure love. Bom. O I let us hence ; I stand on sudden haste. Fri. Wisely, and slow : they stumble that run fast. [Exeitnt. Scene TV. — ^A Street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. Where the devU should this Romeo be?— Came he not home to-night 1 Ben. Not to his father's : I spoke with his man. Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so, that he will sure run mad. Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father's house. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Romeo will answer it. lo Mer. Anj man, that can write, may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. Alas, poor Romeo ! he is already dead; stabbed with a white wench's black eye ; run through the ear with a love-song ; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft ; and is he a man to en- counter Tybalt ? Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? lo Mer. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O ! he is the courageous captain of complements. He fights as you sing prick- song, keeps time, distance, and proportion > rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom : the very butcher of a sUk biitton, a duellist, a duellist ; a gentle- man of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado ! the punto reverso ! the hay ! — Ben. The what? a Mer. The pox of such antick, lisping, afiect- ing fantasticoes, these new tuners of accents ! — " By Jesu, a very good blade ! — a very tall man ! — a very good whore ! " — Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez- mois, who stand so much on the new form, that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench ? O, their bons, their bons ! Enter Romeo. Ben. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo. ss Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. — O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified ! — Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in : Laura, to his lady, was a kitchen-wench ; marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her ; Dido, a dowdy ; Cleopatra, a gipsy ; Heleii and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. — Siguier Romeo, hon jour ! there 's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Bom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you ? Mer. The slip, sir, the slip : can you not conceive ? so Bom. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great ; and in such a case as mine, a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That's as much as to say — such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Bom. Meaning — to court'sy. Mer. Thou hast mpst kindly hit it. Bom. A most courteous exposition. Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Bom. Pink for flower. «> Mer. Right. Bom. Why, then is my pump well flowered. Mer. Sure wit : follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump ; that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, sdely singular. Bom. single-soled jest! solely singular for the singleness. Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wit faints. ™ 227 Act II. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene IV. Eo7n. Switct and spurs, switch and spurs ; or I '11 cry a match. 2Ier. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done ; for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of tny wits, than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose ? Rom. Thou wast never with me for any- thing, when thou wast not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not. so 2Ier. Thy wit is a very bitter-sweeting ; it is a most sharp sauce. RoTTi. And is it not well served in to a sweet goose ? Mer. ! here 's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an iach narrow to an ell broad. Rom. I stretch it out for that word — broad : which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. ss Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now ait thou Romeo ; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature : for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Ben. Stop there, stop there. Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceived ! I would have made it short ; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale : and meant^ indeed, to occupy the argiiment no longer. 102 Rom. Here 's goodly gear \ Enter Nurse and Peter. Mer. A sail, a sail ! Ben. Two, two ; a shirt, and a smock. Nurse. Peter ! Peter. Anon '? Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face ; for her fan 's the fairer face. no Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. Mer. God ye good den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good den ? Mer. 'T is no less, I tell you ; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Nurse. Out upon you ! what a man are you? Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made himself to mar. Nwrse. By my troth, it is well said ; — for himself to mar, quoth 'a? — Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo ? 121 Rom. I can tell you ; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him, than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea ! is the worst well ? very well took, i' faith ; wisely, wisely. Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. lao Ben. She will indite him to some supper. Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd ! So ho ! Rom, What hast thou found ? Mer. No hare, sir ; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. An old hare hoar, and an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent : But a hare that is hoa/r, is too much for a score. When it hoars ere it be spent. — Romeo, will you come to your father's? we'll to dinner thither. ui Rom. I will follow you. Mer. Farewell, ancient lady ; farewell, lady, lady, lady. [Eiceunt Mebcutio and Eenvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell ! — I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this, that was so full of his ropery ? . Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk ; and will speak more in a minute, than he will stand to in a month.' 150 Nurse. An 'a speak anything against me, I '11 take him down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks ; and if I can- not, I '11 find those that shall. Scurvy knave ! I am none of his flirt-gills ; I am none of his skains-mates. — And thou must stand by too, and sufier every knave to use me at his pleasure 1 Peter. I saw no man use you at his plea- sure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I wai-rant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. iss Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed, that every part about me quivers. — Scurvy knave ! — Pray you, sir, a word ; and as I told you, my young lady bade me inquire you out : what she bid me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say : for the gentlewoman is young ; 228 Act II. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly, it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee, — Nurse. Good heart ! and, i' faith, I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord ! she will be a joyful woman. RoTti. What wilt thou tell her, nurse'? thou dost not mark me. Nwrse. I will tell her, sir, — that you do protest ; which, as I take it, is a gentleman- like offer. 180 Rom. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon ; And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell Be shriv'd, and manied. Here is for thy pains. Nurse. No, truly, sir ; not a penny. Rom. Go to ; I say, you shall. Nurse. This afternoon, sir % well, she shall be there. Rom,. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey- wall : Withiu this hour my man shall be with thee. And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair ; loi "Which to the high top-gallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell ! — Be trusty, and I '11 quite thy pains. Farewell ! — Commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee ! — Hark you, sir. Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse ? Nwrse. Is your man secret ? Did you ne'er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away? 200 Rom. I warrant thee ; my man 's as true as steel. Nurse. Well, sir ; my mistress is the sweetest lady — Lord, Lord ! — when 't was a little prating thing, — O ! — There 's a noble- man in town, one Paris, that would faiii lay knife aboard ; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man ; but, I '11 warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter ? 210 Rom. Ay, nurse ; what of that ? both with an R. Nurse. Ah, mocker ! that 's the dog's name. R is for the No : I know it begins with some other letter ; and she hath the prettiest sententious, of it, of you and rose- mary, that it would do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady. Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [J'a»i Romeo, j Peter ! Peter. Anon? Nwrse. Before, and apace. [Exeunt. Scene V.- -Capulet's Garden. Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine, when I did send the nurse ; In half an hour she promis'd to return. Perchance, she cannut meet him : — that 's not so. — Oh ! she is lame : love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over louring hills : Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey ; and from nine till twelve 10 Is three long hours, — yet she is not come. Had she affections, and warm youthful blood, She 'd be as swift in motion as a ball ; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me : But old folks, many feign as they were dead ; Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Enter Nwrse and Peter. God ! she comes. — O honey nurse ! what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Nwrse. Peter, stay at the gate. 20 \Eaxt Peter. Jul. Now, good sweet nurse, — O Lord ! why look'st thou sad ? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrUy ; If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nwrse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. — Fie, how my bones ache ! What a jaunt have I had ! Jul. I would, thou hadst my bones, and I thy news : Nay, come, I pray thee, speak ; — good, good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu, what haste ! can you not stay awhile ? Do vou not see, that I am out of breath ? a Act II. ROMEO AND JULIET. SfijSNE VI. Jul. How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath To say to me — that thou art out of breath ? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay- Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good, or bad ? answer to that ; Say either, and I '11 stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is 't good or bad ? Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice ; you know not how to choose a man : Romeo ! no, not he ; though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand, and a foot, and a body, — though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, — but, I 'U warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. — Go thy ways, wench ; serve God. — What, have you dined at home ? Jul. No, no : but all this did I know be- fore. What says he of our marriage ? what of that ? Nurse. Lord, how my head aches ! what a head have I ! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces, so My back o' t' other side. — O, my back, my back ! — Beshrew your heart, for sending me about. To catch my death with jaunting up and down ! Jul. r faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, , sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love ? Nurse. Your love says like an honest gentleman, And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome. And, I warrant, a virtuous : — Where is your mother ? Jul. Where is my mother? — why, she is within ; Where should she be ? How oddly thou re- pliest : 60 " Tour love says like an honest gentleman, — Where is yo,ur mother 1 " Nurse. O, God's lady dear ! Are you so hot? Marry, come xvp, I trow; Is this the poultice for my aching bones ? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here 's such a coil ; — come, what says Romeo ? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day ? Jul. I have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Eriar Laurence' cell ; There stays .a husband to make you a wife : jo Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks, They '11 be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church ; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon, when it is dark ; I am the drudge, and toil in your delight. But you shall bear the burden soon at night. Go ; I '11 to dinner : hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune ! — Honest nurse, farewell. [ExeuM. Scene VI. — Friar Laurence's CeU. Enter Friar Laurence and Rojieo. Fri. So snule the heavens upon this holy act, That after-hours with sorrow chide us not ! Bom. Amen, Amen ! but come what sorrow can. It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight : Do thou but close our hands with holy words. Then love-devouring death do what he dare ; It is enough I may but call her mine. Fri. These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die : like fire and powder, w Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own delicionsness. And in the taste confounds the appetite : Therefore, love moderately; long love doth so ; Too swift an-ives as tardy as too slow. Fnter Juliet. Here comes the lady. — ! so light a foot WOl ne'er wear out the everlasting flint : A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air. And yet not fall ; so light is vanity. 20 Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor. Fri. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Bom. Ah, Juliet ! if the measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue 230 Act III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SOKNE I. Unfold the imagin'd. happiness, that both Receive in either by this dear encounter. Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in ■words, so Brags of his substance, not of ornament : They are but beggars that can count their ■worth ; But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of ■wealth. Fri. Come, come ■with me, and ■we ■will make short work ; For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone. Till holy church incorporate t-wo in one. \Exewn,t. ACT III. Scene I. — ^A Public Place. E-nUr Mercutio, Benvolio, Pa,ge, and Servants. Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let 's retire : The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, And, if ■we meet, ■we shall not 'scape a bra^wl ; For no^w, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of those fello^ws that, ■when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says, " God send me no need of thee ! " and, by ■the operation of the second cup, draws it on the dra^wer, ■when, indeed, there is no need, n Ben. Am I like such a fellow ? Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood, as any in Italy ; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what too ? J/sr. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou ! why, thou •wUt quarrel ■with a man that hath a hair more, or a hair less, in his beard, than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason, but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye, but such an eye, wovild spy out such a quarrel ? Thy head is as full of quarrels, as an egg is full of meat ; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter 1 with another, for tying his new shoes with old riband 'i and yet thou wUt tutor me from quarrelling ! , ss Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee-simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. Mer. The fee-simple ? O simple ! Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. Mer. By my heel, I care not. Eivter Tybalt and otJiers. Tyh. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. — 40 Gentlemen, good den ! a word with one of you. Mer. And but one word with one of us 1 Couple it with something ; make it a word and a blow. Tyh. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. Mer. Could you not take some occasion ■without giving ? Tyh. Mercutio, thou consort'st ■with Romeo, — Mer. Consort ! . what ! dost thou make us minstrels? an thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords : here 's my fiddlestick ; here 's that shall make you dance. 'Zounds, consort ! 62 Ben. "We talk here in the pxibUc haunt of men : Either withdraw unto some private place, And reason coldly of your grievances ; Or else depart ; here all eyes gaze on us. Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze : I will not budge for no man's pleasure, I. Enter Romeo. Here Tyh. Well, peace be with you, sir. comes my man. Mer. But I '11 be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery : w Marry, go before to field, he '11 be your follower ; Your worship, in that sense, may call him — man. Tyh. Romeo, the love I bear thee can aflbrd No better term than this, — thou art a vUlain. Eom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting : — villain am I none ; Therefore farewell; I see, thou know'st me not. 231 Act III. ROMEO AND JULIET. SCENK I. Tyh. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me ; therefore ttxrn, and draw. fo Rom. I do protest, I never injur'd thee ; But love thee better than thou canst devise, TUl thou shalt know the reason of my love : And, so, good Capulet, which name I tender As dearly as miue own, — ^be satisfied. Mer. calm, dishonourable, vile sub- mission ! ' . Alia stoccata carries it away. [Draws. Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk 1 Tyh. What wouldst thou have with me 1 rs Mer. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives ; that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pUcher by the ears ? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Tyh. I am for you. [Drawing. Rom. Gentle Mercutio, ■put thy rapier up. Mer. Come, sir, your passado. [They fight. Rom. Draw, Benvolio ; beat down their weapons. — Gentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage ! — Tybalt, — Mercutio, — the prince expressly hath ■ 81 Forbidden bandying in Verona streets. — Hold, Tybalt !— good Mercutio ! [Exeunt Tybalt and his Partisans. Mer. I am hurt. — A plague o' both the houses ! — I am sped :— Is he gone, and hath nothing 1 Ben. What ! art thou hurt 1 Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch ; marry, 't is enough. — Where is my page?— Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [Eadt Page. Rom. Courage, man ; the hurt cannot be much. Mer. No, 't is nqt so deep as a well, nor BO wide as a church-door ; but 't is enough, 't will serve : ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. — A plague o' both your houses ! — 'Zounds ! a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death ! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic ! — ^Why the devil came you between us 1 I was hurt under your arm. Rom. I thought all for the best. Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. — A plague o' both your houses ! . "» They have made worms' meat of me : I have it. And soundly too : — your houses ! [Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio. Rom. This gentleman, the prince's near ally. My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt In my behalf ; my reputation staiu'd With Tybalt's slander, Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my cousin. — O sweet Juliet ! Thy beauty hath made me efleminate, And in my temper soften'd valour's steel. Re-enter Benvolio. Ben. O Romeo, Romeo ! brave Mercutio 's dead ; 120 That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds. Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Rom. This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end. Re-enter Tybalt. Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Rovi. Alive ! in triumph ! and Mercutio slain ! Away to heaven, respective lenity, And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct, now ! — Now, Tybalt, take the villain back again, That late thou gav'st me ; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, isi Staying for thine to keep him company : Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him. Tyh. Thou, wretched boy, that didst con- sort him. here, Shalt with him hence. Rom. This shall determine that. [Tliey fight; Tybai/i falls. Ben. Romeo, away ! be gone ! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain : — Stand not amaz'd : — ^the prince will doom thee death, If thou art taken : — hence ! — ^be gone ! — Rom. 0, I am fortune's fool ! Ben. Why dost thou stay 1 140 [Exit Romeo. Enter Citizens, d'c. 1 Cit. Which way ran he, that kill'd Mercutio ? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he 1 Ben. There lies that Tybalt. 1 Cit. Up, sir : — go with me ; I charge thee in the prince's name, obey. Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capu- let, their Wives, and others. Prin. Where are the vile begimiers of this fray? Ben. noble prince ! I can discover all 232 •ArOOLMEH.PIHXT JH BAKER SCUTiP' JULIET Corner geniZey nzgM> -JiOMEO & jaUXlTJlDTin. SCEJ^E U CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED Act in. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl ; There lies the man, slain by young Romeo., That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. La. Gap. Tybalt, my cousin ! O my brother's child ! ISO prince ! O cousin ! husband ! O, the blood is spUI'd Of my dear kinsman ! — Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours, shed blood of Montague. — cousin, cousin ! . Prin. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? Ben. lybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did slay : Romeo, that spoke him fair, bade him bethink How nice the quarrel was ; and urg'd withal Your high displeasure : — all this, uttered With gentle breath, calm look, kjiees humbly bow'd, 160 Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast ; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point. And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside, and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, *' Hold, friends ! Mends, part ! " and, swifter than his tongue. His agUe aim beats down their fatal points. And 'twixt them rushes ; underneath whose arm m An envious chrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled ; But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd revenge, And to 't they go like lightning ; for ere I Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain ; And as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. La. Cap. He is a kinsman to the Montague ; Aflection makes him false, he speaks not true : isi Some twenty of them fought in this black strife. And all those twenty could but kill one life. 1 beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give: Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live. Prin. Romeo slew him, he slew Mercutio ; Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? Moh: Not Romeo, prince, he was Mercutio's friend ; His fault concludes but what the law should end. The life of Tybalt. Prin. And for that ofience, iso Immediately we do exile him hence : I have an interest in your hate's proceeding. My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a- bleeding ; But I '11 amerce you with so strong a fine, That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses ; Nor tears, nor prayers, shall purchase, out Therefore use none : let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he 's found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will : Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. \_Exeunt. Scene II. — ^A Room in Capulet's House. Enter Juliet. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds. Towards Phoebus' lodging ; such a waggoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west. And bring in cloudy night immediately. — Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night ! That runaways' eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd-of, and unseen ! — Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties ; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. — Come, civil night. Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, u And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods : Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks. With thy black mantle ; till strange love. grown bold. Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night ! come, Romeo ! come, thou day in night ! For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. — Come, gentle night; come, loving, black- brow'd night, »> Give me my Romeo : and, when he shall die. Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine, That all the world will be in love with night. And pay no worship to the garish sun. — O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it ; and though I am sold. Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day,. As is the night before some festival 20 233 Act III. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. To an impatient child that hath new robes, 30 And may not wear them. O ! here comes my nurse, And she brings news ; and every tongue, that speaks But Romeo's name, speaks heavenly eloquence. Unter Nurse, with cords. Now, nurse, what news \ What hast thou there ? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch % Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them dovm. Jul. Ah. me ! what news ? why dost thou wring thy hands 1 . Nurse. Ai, well-a-day ! he 's dead, he 's dead, he 's dead ! We are undone, lady, we are undone ! — Alack the day ! — ^he 's gone, he 's killed, he 's dead ! Jul. Can Heaven be so envious 1 Nurse. Romeo can, 40 Though Heaven cannot. — 0, Romeo, Romeo — "Who ever would have thought it ? — Romeo — Jul. What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus ? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself ? say thou but /, And that bare vowel, 7, shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice : I am not I, if there be such an I ; Or those eyes shut, that make thee answer, /. If he be slain, say — -/; or if not, — ^no : so Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, — God save the mark ! — here on his manly breast : A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse ; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood. All in gore blood ; — I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart ! — poor bankrout, break at once ! To prison, eyes ; ne'er look on liberty ! Vile earth, to earth resign ; end motion here. And thou, and Romeo, press one heavy bier ! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt ! the best friend I had : ei O courteous Tybalt ! honest gentleman ! That ever I should live to see thee dead ! Jul. What storm is this, that blows so contrary 1 Is Romeo slaughter'd ? and is Tybalt dead ? My dearest cousin, and my dearer lord ? — Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom For who is living, if those two are gone ? Nwrse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo, that kill'd him, he is banished. 70 Jul. O God ! — did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did : alas the day ! it did. Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face ! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave ? Beautiful tyrant ! fiend angelical ! Dove-feather'd raven ! wolvish ravening lamb ! Despised substance of divinest show ! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st; A damned saint, an honourable villain ! — nature ! what hadst thou to do in hell, eo When thoii didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh % — Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound ? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace ! Nurse. There 's no trust. No faith, no honesty in men ; all perjur'd. All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. — Ah ! where 's my man 1 give me some aqvxi vitoB : — These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo ! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue so For such a wish ! he was not born to shame : Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit ; For 't is a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him ! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kni'd your cousin f Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband 1 Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name, Wlien I, thy three-hours' wife, have mangled if!— But, wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin ? 100 That villain cousin would have kiU'd my husband : Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring ; Your tributary drops belong to woe. Which you, mistaken, ofier tip to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain ; And Tybalt 's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort ; wherefore weep I then 1 Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death. That murder'd me, I would forget it fain ; But, ! it presses to my memoiy, no 234 Act III. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds. " Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished ! " That " banished," that one word " banished," Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death "Was woe enough, if it had ended there : Or, — if sour woe delights in fellowship, And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, — "Why foUow'd not, when she said — Tybalt's dead, Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, "Which modem lamentation might have moVd 1 320 But, with a rearward following Tybalt's death, " Eomeo is banished ! " — ^to speak that word. Is father, mother, Tybalt, Eomeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead : — " Eomeo is banished ! " There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word 's death ; no words can that woe sound. — "Where is my father, and my mother, nurse t Nurse. "Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse : "WiU you go to them'! I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears : mine shall be spent, iso "When theirs are dry, for Eomeo's banishment. Take up. those cords. — Poor ropes, you are beguU'd, Both you and I, for Eomeo is exil'd : He made you for a highway to my bed, But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords ; come, nurse ; I 'U to my wed- ding bed ; And death, not Eomeo, take my maidenhead ! Nurse. Hie to your chamber ; I 'U find Eomeo To comfort you : — I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Eomeo will be here at night : I '11 to him ; he is hid at Laurence' cell. m Jul. O, find him ! give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell. [Exeunt. Scene III. — Friar Laurence's Cell. Enter Fria/r Laurence Flies may do this, but I from this must fly : They are free men, but I am banished. And say'st thou yet, that exile is not death ? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-groimd knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean. But—" banished "—to kUl me ? " Banished 1 " O friar ! the damned use that word in hell ; HowUng attends it : how hast thou the heart. W5 Act III. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, w To mangle me with, that word — " banished ? " Fri. Thoii fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O ! thou wilt speak again of banish- ment. Fri. I '11 give thee armour to keep off that word ; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet " banished ? " — Hang up philo- sophy ! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom. It helps not, it prevails not : talk no more, m Fri. O ! then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes ? Fri. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love. An hour but married, Tybalt murdered. Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. to [Knocking within. Fri. Arise ; one knocks : good Romeo, hide thyself Rom. Not I ; unless the breath of heart- sick groans. Mist-like, infold me from the search of eyes. \Kiwching. Fri. Hark, how they knock ! — Who 's there? — Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken. — Stay awhile. — Stand up ; \Knoching. Run to my study. — By-and-by. — God's will ! What simpleness is this ! — -I come, I come. \Kru)cki7i^. Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what 's your will ? Nurse. [Withini\ Let me come in, and you shall know my errand : I come from Lady Juliet. Fri. Welcome then, so Enter Nurse. Nurse. holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar, Where is my lady's lord ? where 's Romeo ? Fri. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. ! he is even in my mistress' case. Just in her case. O woful sympathy ! Piteous predicament ! Even so lies she. Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blub- bering. — Stand up, stand up ; stand, an you be a man : For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand ; Why should you fall into so deep an O ? so Rom. Nurse ! Nurse. Ah sir ! ah sir ! — Well, death 's the end of all. Rom. Spak'st thou of Juliet? how is it with her ? Doth she not think me an old murderer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remoVd but little from her own ? Where is she? and how doth she? and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love ? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps ; And now falls on her bed ; and then starts up ; 100 And Tybalt calls; and" then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rovi. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder her ; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. — O, tell me, friar, tell me. In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [I)rawing his sword. Fri. Hold thy desperate hand : Art thou a man ? thy form cries out, thou art; Thy tears are womanish ; thy wild acts de- note 110 The unreasonable fury of a beast : Unseemly woman, in a seeming man ; And ill-beseeming beast, in seeming both ! Thou hast amaz'd me : by my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt ? wilt thou slay thy- self? And slay thy lady, that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself ? Why raU'st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth ? Since birth, and heaven, and earth, all three do meet iso In thee at once, which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie ! thou sham'st thy shape, thy love, thy wit; Which, like an usurer, abound'st in all. And usest none in that true iise indeed , Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Act III. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene IT. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax, Digressing from the valour of a man ; Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjuiy, Killing that love which thou hast vow'cl to cherish ; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, lao Misshapen in the conduct of them both. Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, Is set arfire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismembei-'d with thine own de- fence. What ! rouse thee, man ; thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead; There art thou happy : Tybalt would kill thee, But thou sleVst Tybalt ; there art thou happy too : The law, that threaten'd death, becomes thy friend. And turns it to exile ; there art thou happy : A pack of blessings light upon thy back ; wi Happiness courts thee in her best array ; But, like a misbehav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence, and comfort her ; But, look, thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua ; wn Where thou shalt live, till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends. Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back. With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation. — Go before, nurse : commend me to thy lady ; And bid her hasten all the house to bed. Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto : Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord ! I could have stay'd here all the night. To hear good counsel : O, what learning' is ! — My lord, I '11 tell my lady you will come, isi Horn. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sii'. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [Exit. Eom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this ! Fri. Go hence. Good night ; and here stands all your state : — Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua : I '11 find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time 170 Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand ; 't is late : farewell ; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me. It were a grief, so brief to part with thee : Earewell. , [Exeiint. Scene IV. — A Room in Capulet's House. Enter Capulet, Lady Oapulet, and Paeis. Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so un- luckily, That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I : — well, we were bom to die. — 'T is very late, she '11 not come down to-night : I promise you, but for your company, I would have been a-bed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no time to woo. — Madam, good night : commend me to your daughter. La. Cap. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow ', 10 To-night she 's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love : I think, she will be rul'd In all respects by me ; nay, more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed ; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love, And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next — But, soft : what day is this ? Pa/r. Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday? ha! ha! Well, Wednes- day is too soon ; O' Thursday let it be : — 0' Thursday, tell her, She shall be married to this noble earl. — 21 Will you be ready ? do you like this haste ? We '11 keep no great ado : — a friend, or two ; — For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late. It may be thought we held him carelessly. Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore, we '11 have some half a dozen friends. And there an end. But what say you to Thursday ? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone : — o' Thursday bo it then. — so Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed, 237 Act III. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day. — Farewell, my lord. — Light to my chamber, ho ! Afore me ! it is so very late, that we May caU it early by-and-by. — Good night. [Mxxtvnt. Scene V. — Juliet's Chamber. Unter Romeo and Juliet. Jul. Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hoUow of thine ear ; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree : Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Horn. It was the lark, the herald of the mom. No nightiagale : look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops : lo I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yon light isnot daylight, I know it, I : It is some meteor that the sun exhales, To be to thee this night a torch-bearer, And light thee on thy way to Mantua : Therefore stay yet ; thou need'st not to be gone. Horn. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I '11 say, yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow ; 20 Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads : I have more care to stay than will to go : — Come, death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so. — ■ How is 't, my soul ? let 's talk, it is not day. Jul. It is, it is ; hie hence, be gone, away ! It is the lark that sings so out of tune. Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps. Some say, the lark makes sweet division ; This doth not so, for she divideth us : so Some say, the lark and loathed toad change O ! now I would they had chang'd voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunts-up to the day. ' now be gone : more light and light it grows. Bom. More light and light : more dark and dark our woes. Sinter Nurse. Nurse. Madam ! Jul. Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother 's coming to your chamber : The day is broke ; be wary, look about. 40 [Hxit. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let Ufe out. Bom. Farewell, farewell ! one kiss, and I '11 descend. [descends. Jul. Art thou gone so 1 love ! lord ! ay, husband, friend ! I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days : O ! by this count I shall be much in years. Ere I again behold my Romeo. Bom. Farewell ! I will omit no opportunity ' That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O ! think'st thou, we^^shall ever meet again ? so Bom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. Jul. God ! I have an ill-divining soul : Methinks, I see thee, now thou art so low. As one dead in the bottom of a tomb : Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Bom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you: Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu ! adieu ! [Ilxit. Jul. O fortune, fortune ! all men call thee fickle : If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him eo That is renown'd for faith ? Be fickle, fortune ; For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long. But send him back. La. Cap. [Within.] Ho, daughter ! are you up? Jul, Who is 't that calls 1 is it my lady mother ? Is she not down so late, or up so early ? What unacoustom'd cause procures her hither? £nter Lady Captjlet. La. Gap. Why, how now, Juliet ? Jul. Madam, I am not well. La. Ca/p. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death ? What ! wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears ? And if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live : 70 Therefore, have done. Some grief shows much of love ; Act III. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. La. Gap. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. La. Cap. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death. As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain, madam ? La. Cap. That same villain, Romeo. Jul. Villain and he are many miles asunder. so God pardon him I I do, with all my heart ; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. La. Cap. That is, because the traitor mur- derer lives. Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. 'Would, none but I might venge my cousin's death ! La. Cap. We will have vengeance for it, fear thovi not : Then weep no more. I '11 send to one in Mantua, — Where that same banish'd runagate doth Hve, — Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram, That he shall soon keep Tybalt company : so And then, I hope, thou wilt be satisfied. Jul. Indeed, I never shall be satisfied With Romeo, tUl I behold him — dead — Is my poor heart, so for a kinsman vex'd. — Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it. That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. — O ! how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd, — and cannot come to him, — To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him ! loi La. Cap. Find thou the means, and I '11 find such a man. But now I '11 tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? La. Cap. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child ; One who, to put thee from thy heaviness. Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy. That thou expect' st not, nor I look'd not for. Jul. Madam, in happy time, what day is that ? 110 La. Cap. Marry, my child, early next Thiirsday morn, The gallant, young, and noble gentleman. The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now, by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride. I wonder at this haste ; that I must wed Ere he, that should be husband, comes to woo. I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam, I wUl not marry yet; and, when I do, I swear, va It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. — These are news indeed ! La. Cap. Here conies your father; tell him so yourself, And see how he wiQ take it at your hands. Eiiter Capulet and Nwrae. Cap. When the sun sets, the earth doth drizzle dew ; But for the sunset of my brother's son. It rains downright. — How now ? a conduit, girl ? what ! stUl in tears ? Evermore showering ? In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind : iso For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is, SaUing in this salt flood ; the winds, thy sighs : Who, raging with thy tears, and they with them, Without a sudden calm, will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. — How now, wife ? Have you deliver'd to her our decree ? La. Cap. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would, the fool were married to her grave ! Cap. Soft, take me with you, take me with you, wife. mo How 1 will she none ? doth she not give us thanks 1 Is she not proud? doth she not count her bless'd. Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Jul. Not proud, you have; but thankful, that you have : Proud can I never be of what I hate ; But thankful even for hate, that is meant love. Cap. How now ! how now, chop-logic ! What is this ? "Proud," — and "I thank you,"— and "I thank you not ; " — 239 Act III. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. And yet " not proud ; " — mistress minion, you, 160 Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next, To go -with. Paris to Saint Peter's Ohurclij Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion ! out, you baggage ! You tallow-face ! La. Gap. Fie, fie ! what, are you mad ? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees. Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage ! dis- obedient wretch ! I tell thee what, — get thee to church o' Thursday, leo Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me ; My fingers itch. — ^Wife, we scarce thought us bless'd, That God had lent us but this only child ; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hUding ! Nurse. God in heaven bless her ! — You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why, my lady wisdom 'i hold your tongue, Good prudence : smatter with your gossips ; go. m Nurse. I speak no treason. Cap. O ! God ye good den. Nurse. May not one speak ? Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool ! Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, 'For here we need it not. La. Cap. You are too hot. Cap. God's bread ! it makes me mad. Day, night, hour, tide, time, work, play, Alone, in company, still my care hath been To have her match'd ; and having now pro- vided A gentleman of noble parentage, of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd. Stuff 'd (as they say) with honourable parts, m Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man, — And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, To answer — " I '11 not wed," — " I cannot love," — "I am too young," — "I pray you, pardon me;"— But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you; Graze where you will, you shall not house with me : Look to 't, think on 't, I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, ad- vise. 190 An you be mine, I '11 give you to my friend ; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i' the streets. For, by my soul, I '11 ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good Trust to 't, bethink you, I '11 not be forsworn. [Exit. Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief? — O, sweet my mother, cast me not away ! Delay this marriage for a month, a week ; Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed «» In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. La. Cap. Talk not to me, for I 'U not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with -thee. [Exit. Jul. O God ! — nurse ! how shall this be prevented ? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven ; How shall that faith return again to earth, Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth ? — comfort me, counsel me. — Alack, alack ! that Heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself ! — 210 What say'st thou ? hast thou not a word of joy'? Some comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banished ; and all the world to nothing, That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or, if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the, county. ! he 's a lovely gentleman ; Romeo 's a dishclout to him : an eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye. As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, 221 1 think you are happy in this second match. For it excels your first : or if it did not. Your first is dead ; or 't were as good he were. As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speakest thou from thy heart ? Nurse. And from my soul too ; else beshrew them both. Jul. Amen ! Nurx. What? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me mar- vellous much.. 230 Go in ; and tell my lady I am gone. ^S) Act IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene I. Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell To make confession, and to be absolv'd. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. {Eodt. Jul. Ancient damnation! most wicked fiend ! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongne Which she hath prais'd him with above com- pare So many thousand times 1 — Go, counsellor ; Thou, and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. — MO I '11 to the friar, to know his remedy : If all else fail, myself have power to die. [Exit. ACT IV. Scene I. — Friar LAUKENCifs Cell Enter Friar Laurence avd Paris. Fri. On Thursday, sir? the time is very short. Par. My father Capiilet will have it so ; And I am nothing slow, to slack his haste. Fri. You say, you do not know the lady's mind : Uneven is the course, I like it not. Pa/r. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death. And therefore have I little talk'd of love ; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous, That she doth give her sorrow so much sway, An.d in his wisdom hastes our marriage, ii To stop the inundation of her tears ; Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. Fri. [isicfo.] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd. Look, sir, here comes the lady towards my cell. Enter Juliet. Par. Happily met, my lady, and my wife ! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Pa/r. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next. » Jul. What must be shall be. Fri. That 's a certain, text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father ? To answer that, I should confess to Jul. Pa/r. Do not deny to him, that you love you. Jul. I will confess to you, that I love him. Par. So win ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behiad your back, than to your face. 21 Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that ; 30 For it was bad enough before their spite. Pa/r. Thou wrong'st it, more than tears, with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander'd it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. — Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass 1 Fri. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. — My lord, we must entreat the time alone. *) Pa/r. God shield, I should disturb devo- tion ! — JuHet, on Thursday early will I rouse you : TiU then, adieu ; and keep this holy kiss. [Exit. Jul. O ! shut the door ; and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me ; past hope, past cure, past help ! Fri. Ah, Juliet ! I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits : I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it. On Thursday next be married to this county. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, 60 Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it : If in thy wLsdom thou canst give no help. Do thou but call my resolution wise. And with this knife I '11 help it presently. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands ; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long experienc'd time, eo Give me some present counsel ; or, behold, 241 Act IV. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. 'Twixt my extremes and me tMs bloody knife Shall play the umpire ; arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so Ions to speak ; I long to die, If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Fri. Hold, daughter ; I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris, n Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself. Then is it likely thou wilt -undertake A thing like death to chide away tl^is shame. Thou cop'st with death himself to 'scape from And, if thou dar'st, I '11 give thee remedy. Jul. ! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower ; Or walk in thievish ways ; or bid me lurk Where serpents are ; chain me with roaring bears ; so Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house, O'er-cover'd quite with dead mein's rattling "bones. With reeky shanks, and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud; Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble ; And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Fri. Hold, then : go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow ; so To-morrow night look that thou Ke alone, Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber : Take thou this vial, being then in bed. And this distUled liquor drink thou off ; When, presently, through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour ; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease : No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou Uvest ; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes ; thy eyes' windows fall, loo Like death, when he shuts up the day ^ life; Each part, depriv'd of supple government. Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear hke death : And in this borrow'd likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead : Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncover'd on the bier, uo Thou shalt be' borne to that same ancient vault, Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the meantime, against thou shalt awake. Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift ; And hither shall he come, and he and T Will watch .thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame. If no unconstant toy, nor womanish fear, Abate thy valour in the acting it. 120 Jul. Give me, give me ! ! tell not me of fear. Fri. Hold ; get you gone : be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I '11 send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love, give me strength ! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. [Exeunt. Scene II. — A Room in Capulet's House. Enier Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nwrse, and Servants. Cap. So many guests invite as her'e are writ. — \_Eidt Servant. Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. 2 Serv. You shall have none ill, sir ; for I '11 try if they can lick their fingers. Gap. How canst thou try them so ? 2 Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers : therefore, he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Gap. Go, be gone. — ■ [Exit Servant. We shall be much unfumish'd for this time. — What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence ? Nwrse. Ay, forsooth. Gap. Well, he may chance to do some good on her : A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse. See, where she comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? where have you been gadding 1 Jul. Where I have learn'd me to repent the sin 242 Act IV. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Of disobedient 9pposition. To you, and your behests ; and am enjoin'd By toly Laurence to fall prostrate here, 20 To beg your pardon. — Pardon, I beseech you: Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. Cap. Send for the county : go tell him of this; I '11 have this knot knit up to-morrow morn- ing- Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell ; And gave him what becompd love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on 't ; this is well, — stand up : This is as't should be. — Let me see the county: Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. — Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar, si All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, wlU you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow ? La. Cap. No, not till Thursday : there is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. — We'll to church to-morrow. [Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. La. Cap. We shall be short in our pro- vision : 'T is now near night. Cap. Tush ! I wUl stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. «) Go thou to Juliet ; help to deck up her : I '11 not to bed to-night ; — let me alone ; I '11 play the housewife for this once. — ^What, ho!— They are all forth : well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. [Exeunt. Scene III. — Juliet's Chamber. Enter Juliet amd Nurse. Jul. A.J, those attires are best : — but, gentle nurse, I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night ; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of ' sin. Enter Lady Capulet. La. Cap. What, are you busy, ho? need you my help 1 Jul. No, madam; we have cuU'd such necessaries As are behoveful for our state to-morrow : So please you, let me now be left alone. And let the nurse this night sit up with you ; For, I am sure, you have your hands full all 11 In this so sudden busiuess. La. Ca/p. Good night : Get thee to bed, and rest ; for thou hast need. \Exeunt Lady Capulet avd Nwrse. Jul. Farewell ! — God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life : I '11 call them back again to comfort me. — Nurse ! — ^What should she do here ? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, viaL — 20 What if this mixture do not work at all f Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? — No, no ; — this shall forbid it : — lie thou there. \Laying down a dagger. What if it be a poison, which the friar Subtly hath minister'd to have me dead. Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd. Because he married me before to Romeo ? I fear, it is ; and yet, methinks, it should not. For he hath stUl been tried a holy man. — How if, when I am laid into the tomb, so I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me ? there 's a fearful point ! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in. And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? Or, if I live, is it not very like. The horrible conceit of death and night. Together with the terror of the place, — As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, Where, for this many hundred years, the bones 40 Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd ; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth. Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort : — Alack, alack ! is it not like, that I, So early waking, — what with loathsome smells. And shrieks like mandrakes' torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad; — 243 Act IY. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. ! if I wake, stall I not be distrauglit, Environed "with all these hideous fears, 50 And madly play with my forefathers' joints. And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ? And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone,. As with a club, dash out my desperate brains? O, look ! methinks, I see my cousia's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point. — Stay, Tybalt, stay ! — Romeo, I come ! this do I drink to thee. [SJie throws herself on the bed. Scene IV. — Capulet's Hall. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. La. Gap. Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse. Nwrse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Capulet. Ga-p. Come, stir, stir, stir ! the second cock hath crow'd, The curfew bell hath rung, 't is three o'clock : — Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica : Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, go, you cot-quean, go ; Get you to bed : 'faith, you '11 be sick to- morrow Eor this night's watching. Gap. No, not a whit. What ! I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. 10 La. Gap. A.J, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time ; But I will watch you from such watching now. [Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse. Cap. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood ! — Now, fellow, What's there? Enter Servants, with spits, logs, and baskets. 1 Serv. Things for the cook, sir ; but I know not what. Gap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit 1 Serv.] — Sirrah, fetch drier logs ; Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. 2 Serv. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs. And never trouble Peter for the matter. . [Exit. Cap. 'Mass, and well said; a merry whore- son, ha ! ™ Thou shalt be logger-head. — Good faith ! 't is day: The county wiU be here with music straight. For so he said he would. — [Music within.] I hear him. near. — Nurse ! — Wife ! — What, ho ! — ^What, nurse, I say! Enter Nwrse. Go, waken Juliet ; go, and trim her up : I'll go and chat with Paris. — Hie, make haste. Make haste ; the bridegroom he is come al- ready : Make haste, I say. Scene V. — Juliet's Chamber ; Juliet on the bed. Enter Nwrse. Nwrse. Mistress ! — what, mistress ! — Juliet ! —fast, I warrant her, she : — Why, lamb ! — why, lady ! — fie, you slug-a- bed !— Why, love, I say ! — madam ! sweet-heart ! — why, bride ! What ! not a word ? — you take your penny- worths now : Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant. The County Paris hath set up his rest. That you shall rest but little. — God forgive me. Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep ! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam ! Ay, let the county take you ia your bed : 10 He 'U. fright you up, i' faith. — ^Will it not be? What, dress'd ! and in your clothes ! and down again ! I must needs wake you. Lady ! lady ! lady !— Alas ! alas ! — Help ! help ! my lady 's dead ! — O, well-a-day, that ever I was bom ! — Some aqym vitce, ho ! — my lord, my lady ! Enter Lady Capulet. La. Gap. What noise is here 1 Nurse. O lamentable day ! La. Gap. What is the matter ? Nurse. Look, look ! heavy day ! ift. Gwp. me ! O me ! — ^my child, my only life, Revive, look up, or I will die with thee ! — 20 Help, help !— Call help. 244 Act IV. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene V. Enter Capulet. Ca^. Eor stame ! bring Juliet forth ; her lord is come. Nv/rse. She 's dead, deceas'd, she 's dead ; alack the day ! La. Cap. Alack the day ! she 's dead, she 's dead, she 's dead. Cap. Ha ! let me see her. — Out, alas ! she 's cold j Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated ; Death lies on her, Hke an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day ! La. Cap. O woful time ! so Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail. Ties up my tongue, and will not let me speak. Enter Fria/r Lauebnce amd Paris, with Musicians. Fri. Come, is the bride ready to go to church ? Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. — son ! the night before thy wedding-day Hath Death lain with thy wife. — There she lies. Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir ; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's ! i" Pa/r. Have I thought long to see this morn- ing's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this ? La. Cap. Accurs'd, happy, wretched, hate- ful day! Most miserable hour, that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage ! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child. But one thing to rejoice and solace in. And cruel death hath catch'd it from my sight ! Nurse. O woe ! O woful, woful, woful day ! Most lamentable day, most woful day. That ever, ever, I did yet behold ! day ! O day ! O day ! O hateful day ! Never was seen so black a day as this : O woful day, O woful day ! Pa/r. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain ! Most detestable death, by thee beguil'd, By ci;uel cruel thee quite overthrown ! — love ! life ! — not life, but love in death ! Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kiU'd ! Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now 6o To murder, murder our solemnity % — child ! child ! — my soul, and not my child !— Dead art thou ! — alack ! my child is dead ; And with my child my joys are buried. Fri. Peace, ho ! for shame ! confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid ; now Heaven hath all. And all the better is it for the maid : Your part in her you could not keep from death. But Heaven keeps his part in eternal Hfe. m The most you sought was her promotion, For 't was your heaven, she should be ad- vanc'd : And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O ! in this love, you love your child so ill. That you run mad, seeing that she is well : She 's not well married that lives married long; But she 's best married that dies married yoiing. Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary On this fair corse ; and, as the custom is, so In all her best array bear her to church ; For though fond nature bids us all lament. Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All thiags, that we ordained festival, Turn from their office to black funeral : Our instruments to melancholy bells ; Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast ; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change ; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse. And all things change them to the contrary. Fri. Sir, go you in ; — and^ madam, go with him ; — «i And go, Sir Paris : — every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do lour upon you, for some ill J Move them no more, by crossing their high will. \Eaceunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paeis, and Friar. 1 Mus. 'Faith, we may put up our pipes, and be, gone. Ny/rse. Honest good fellows, ah ! put up, put up ; For, well vou know, this is a pitiful case. ^ [Exit. 1 Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. 245 Act V. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene I. Enter Petee. Peter. Musicians, O, musicians! "Heart's ease, Heart's ease : " ! an you ■will have me live, play " Heart's ease." 102 1 Mm. Why " Heart's ease 1 " Peter. O, musicians, because my heart it- self plays — "My heart is full of woe." ! play me some merry dump, to cotafort me. 2 Mus. Not a dump we : 't is no time to play now. Peter. You will not then 1 Mus. No. 110 Peter. I will then give it you soundly. 1 Mus. What will you give us ? Peter. No money, on my faith ; but the gleek : I will give you the minstrel. 1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving- creature. Peter. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I wiU carry no crotchets : I '11 re you, I '11 /a you. Do you note me ? 1 Mus. An you re us, and /a us, you note us. 2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit. 121 Peter. Then have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. — Answer me like men : When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound — ■ Why " silver sound ? " why " music with her silver sound 1 " What say you, Simon Cat- ling? 1 J/ms. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. 131 Peter. Pretty ! — What say you, Hugh Rebeck ? 2 Mus. I say — " silver sound," because musicians sound for silver.: Peter. Pretty too !— -what say you, James Soundpost ] 3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say. Peter. O ! I cry you mercy ; you are the singer : I will say for you. It is- — ■" music with her sUver sound," because musicians have no gold for soim.ding : — JTien music with her sil/oer sound 140 With speedy help doth lend redress. {Exit. 1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same ! 2 Mus. Hang him. Jack ! Come, we '11 in here J tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt. ACT V. Scene I. — Mantua. A Street Enter Romeo. Eom, If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand : My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne ; And, all this day, an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt, my lady came and found me dead ; (Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think !) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips. That I reviv'd, and was an emperor. Ah me ! how sweet is love itself possess'd, 10 When but love's shadows are so rich in joy ! Enter Balthasar. News from Verona ! — How now, Balthasar ? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady ? Is my father well ? How doth my Lady Juliet ? that I ask again ; For nothing can be ill if she be well. Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capels' monument. And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault, 20 And presently took post to tell it you. O, pardon me for bringing these iU hews. Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Pom. Is it e'en so? then, I deny you, stars ! Thou know'st my lodging: get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses ; I will hence to-night. Pal. I do beseech you, sir, have patience : Your looks are pale and wild, and do import ■ Some misadventure! Pom. Tush ! thou art deceiv'd : Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. so Hast thou no letters to me from the friar ? Pal. No, my good lord. Pom. No matter ; get thee gone, And hire those horses : I '11 be with thee straight. — [Exit Balthasar. Well, Jiiliet, I will lie with thee to-night. 2ie F. DICK.SEE, A.R.A., Del. Q'JESNEL, i«(//>. ROMEO AND THE APOTHECARY. Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. " Romeo and Juliet," Act y., Scene /. Act V. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene II. Let 's see for means : — mischief ! thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men ! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatter'd weeds, with overwhelmiag brows, Culliug of simples; meagre were his looks, 4o Sharp misery had worn him to the bones : And in his needy shop a tortoise hung. An alligator stuffd, and other skins Of ill-shap'd fishes ; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses, Were thinly scatter'd to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said — An if a man did need a poison now, 50 Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here Kves a caitiff wretch would sell it him. ! this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house : Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. — What, ho ! apothecary ! Enter Apoikeca/ry. Ap. Who calls so loud 1 Mom. Come hither, man.^ — I see, that thou art poor ; Hold, there is forty ducats : let me have A dram of poison ; such soon-speeding gear eo As will disperse itself through all the veias. That the life- weary taker may fall dead ; And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently, as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Ap. Such mortal drugs I have ; but Mantua's law Is death to any he that utters them. Bom. Art thou so bare, and full of wretched- ness. And f ear'st to die ? famine is in thy cheeks. Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes, m Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back ; The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law : The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will. And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold ; worse poison to men's souls, so Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou may'st not sell : I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none. Farewell ; buy food, and get thyself in flesh. — Come, cordial, and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave, for there must I use thee. [Exeunt. Scene II. — Friar Laurence's Cell. Enter Friar John. John. Holy Franciscan friar ! brother ' ho ! Enter Fria/r Laurence. LoM. This same should be the voice of Friar John. — Welcome from Mantua : what says Romeo ? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. John. Going to find a barefoot brother out,' One of our order, to associate me. Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town. Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, 10 Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth; So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Lau. Who bare my letter then to Romeo ? John. I could not send it, — here it is again, — Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. LciM. Unhappy fortune! by my brother- hood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge. Of dear import ; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence ; Get me an iron crow, and bring it straight 21 Unto my cell. Joha. Brother, I '11 go and bring it thee. [Exit. LoM. Now must I to the monument alone ; Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake : She will beshrew me much, that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents ; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell tUl Romeo come : Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb ! [Exit, 247 Act V. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Scene III. — A Churchyard ; in it a Monu- ment belonging to the Oapulets. Enter Paris, and his Page, hearing flowers a/ad a torch. Par. Give me thy torch, boy : hence, and stand aloof ; — Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yond yew-trees lay thee all along. Holding thine ear close to the hoUow ground : So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread. Being loose, unfirm with digging up of graves. But thou shalt hear it : whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear'st something ap- proach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee ; go. Page. I am almost afraid to stand alone lo Here in the churchyard ; yet I will adventure. \Retires. Pa/r. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew, (0 woe ! thy canopy is dust and stones !) WMch with sweet water nightly I -svill dew. Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans : The obsequies that I for thee wiU keep, Nightly shall be, to strew thy grave and weep ! — \The Boy whistles. The boy gives warniag something doth ap- proach. •« What cursed foot wanders this way to-night. To. cross my obsequies, and true love's rite? 20 What ! with a torch % — ^muffle me, night, awhile. [Retires. Enter Bomeo and Balthasar, with a torch, mattock, (Sec. Rom. Give me that mattock, and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter : early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee, Whate'er thou hear'st or seest, stand all aloof. And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of deatb. Is, partly, to behold my lady's face ; But, chiefly, to take thence from her dead finger so A precious ring, a ring that I must use In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone : But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do. By Heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint. And strew this hungry churchyard with thy Umbs. The time and my intents are savage-wild. More fierce, and more inexorable far, Than empty tigers, or the roaring sea. Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. •JO Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship.— Take thou that : live, and be prosperous ; and farewell, good fellow. Bal. For all this same, I 'U hide me here- about : His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. \Retire». Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth. Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, [Breaking open the door of the monuinent. And, in despite, I '11 cram thee with more food! Par. This is that banish'd haughty Mon- tague, That murder'd my love's cousin, — with which grief, 50 It is supposed, the fair creature died, — And here is come to do some villainous shame To the dead bodies : I will apprehend him. [Advancing. Stop thy unhaUow'd toU, vile Montague. Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death? Condemned villaia, I do apprehend thee : Obey, and go with me ; for thou must die. Rom. I must, indeed ; and therefore cam6 I hither. — Good gentle youth, tenipt not a desperate man; Fly hence, and leave me : — ^think upon these gone ; »> Let them afiright thee. — I beseech thee, youth. Put not another sin upon my head. By urging me to fury : — 0, be gone ! By Heaven, I love thee better than myself. For I come hither arm'd against myself : Stay not, be gone ; — live, and hereafter say — A madman's mercy bade thee run away. Par. I do defy thy conjurations. And apprehend thee for a felon here. ea Rom. Vfilt thou provoke me? then, have at thee, boy. [They fight. Page. O Lord ! they fight : I will go call the watch. [Exit. Pa/r. O ! I am slain. [Falls.] — If thou be merciful. Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies. Rom. In faith, I will. — Let me peruse this face : — Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris ! — What said my man, when my betossed soul 248 Act V. ROMEO AND JULIET. Some III. Did not attend him as we rode'! I think, He told me, Paris should have married Juliet : Said he not so ? or did I dream it so 1 Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet, so To think it was so t — O ! give me thy hand. One writ with me in sour misfortune's book ! I '11 bury thee in a triumphant grave. — A grave t O, no ! a lantern, slaughter'd youth. For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. [Laying Paris in the monvmient. How oft, when men are at the point of death, Have they been merry ! which their keepers call A lightning before death : O ! how may I 90 Call this a lightning ? my love ! my wife ! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty : Thou art not conquer'd ; beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips, and in thy cheeks. And death's pale flag is not advanced there. — Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet "l ! what more favour can I do to thee. Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy ? 100 Forgive toe, cousin ! — Ah ! dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair 1 Shall I believe That unsubstantial death is amorous ; And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour ? For fear of that I still will stay with thee. And never from this palace of dim night Depart again : here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids ; ! here WiU I set up my everlasting rest, no And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. — Eyes, look your last ! Arms, take your last embrace ! and, lips, O you. The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death ! Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide ! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark ! Here 's to my love ! [Drinks.'] — true apothecary ! no Thy drugs are quick. — Thus with a kiss I die. [Dies. Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Laurence, with a lantern, crow, and spade. Fri. Saint Francis be my speed ! how oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves ! — Who 's there ? Bal. Here 's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. Fri. Bliss be upon . you ! Tell me, good my friend. What torch is yond, that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls 1 as I discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument. Bal. It doth so, holy sir ; and there's my master. One that you love. Fri. Who is it? Bal. Romeo. Fri. How long hath he been there ? Bal. Full half an hour. Fri. Go with me to the vault. Bal. I dare not, sir. lai My master knows not but I am gone hence ; And fearfully did menace me with death. If I did stay to look on his intents. Fri. Stay then, I '11 go alone. — Fear comes upon me ; ! much I fear some ill unlucky thing. Bal. As I did sleep under this yew-tree here, 1 dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him. Fri. Romeo ! — [Advancing. Alack, alack ! what blood is this, which stains im The stony entrance of this sepulchre ? — What mean these masterless and ^ory swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace 1 [Enters the tomb. Romeo ! 0, pale ! — Who else 1 what ! Paris too? And steep'd in blood ? — ^Ah ! what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance ! — The lady stirs. [Juliet wakes. Jul. O comfortable friar ! where is my lord ? T do remember well where I should be. And there I am. — Where is my Romeo 1 im [Ifoise within. Fri. I hear some noise. — Lady, come from that nest Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep : A greater Power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents : come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead ; And Paris too : come, I '11 dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming; Come, go, good Juliet. — [Ifoise again.] I dare no longer stay. 159 2& Act Y. EOMEO AND JULIET. Scene III. Jul. Go, get ttee hence, for I will not away. — \_Exit Friar Laurence. Wtat 's here ? a cup clos'd in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl ! drunk all, and left no friendly drop. To help me after ? — I will kiss thy lips ; Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them, To make me die with a restorative. \Ki8ses Mm. Thy lips are warm ! 1 Watch. [Within.^ Lead, boy ; — which way? Jul. Yea, noise?— then I'U be brief. — O happy dagger ! les [Snatching Romeo's dagger. This is thy sheath ; [stabs /lerself] there rust, and let me die. [Dies. Enter Watch, luith tlie Page o/Paeis. Page. This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn. 1 Watch. The ground is bloody : search about the churchyard. Go, some of you ; whoe'er you find, attach. [Exewnt some. Pitiful sight ! here lies the county slain ; — ■ And Juliet bleeding ; warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain this two days buried.— Go, tell the prince, — run to the Capulets, — Raise up the Iklontagues, — some others search : — [Exeunt other Watchmen. We see the ground whereon these woes do lie ; But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry, isi Enter some of the Watch, with Balthasae. 2 Watch. Here 's Romeo's man ; we found him in the churchyard. 1 Watch. Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither. Enter a/nother Watchman, with Fria/r Latjeencb. 3 Watch. Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and weeps : We took this mattock and this spade from him, As he was coming from this churchyard side. 1 Watch. A great suspicion ; stay the friar too. Enter the Prince and Attendants. Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning's rest? Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, amd others. Ca/p. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad ? La. Cap. The people in the street cry — Romeo, Some — Juliet, and some — Paris ; and all run With open outcry toward our monument. Prince. What fear is this, which startles in our ears ? 1 Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain ; And Romeo dead ; and Juliet, dead before. Warm and new kUl'd. Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. 1 Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man, With instruments upon them, fit to open 200 These dead men's tombs. , Cap. O Heaven !— wif^ ! look how our daughter bleeds ! This dagger hath mista'en, — for, lo ! his house Is empty on the back of Montague, — And is mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom. La. Cap. O me ! this sight of death is as a bell, That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague and others. Prince. Come, Montague ; for thou art early up, To see thy son and heir more early down. Mon. Alas, my Uege, my wife is dead to- night ; ' 210 Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age ? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou untaught ! what manners is in this. To press before thy father to a grave ? Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities. And know their spring, their head, their true descent ; And then will I be general of your woes. And lead you even to dea;th. Meantime for- bear, 220 And let mischance be slave to patience. — Bring forth the parties of suspicion. Fri. I am the greatest, able to do lea^t. Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murder j And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus'd. Prince. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. Fri. I will be brief, for my short date of breath Is not so long as is a tedious tale. 2so 250 Act V. ROMEO AND JULIET. Scene III Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet ; And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife : I married them ; and their stolen marriage- day Was Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city; Por whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth'd, and would have married her per- force, To County Paris : — then comes she to me. And, with wild looks, bid me d'evise some means ■ 240 To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kUl herself. Then gave I her (so tutor'd by my art) A sleeping potion ; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her Tha form of death : meantime, I writ to Romeo, That he should hither come as this dire night, To help to take her from her borrow'd grave, Beiug the time the potion's force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, 250 Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight Return'd'my letter back. Then, all alone, At the prefixed hour of her waking. Came I to take her from her kindred's vault. Meaning to keep her closely at my cell, Till I conveniently could send to Romeo : But when I came (some minute ere the time Of her awakening), here untimely lay The noble Paris, and true Romeo, dead. 259 She wakes ; and I entreated her come forth. And bear this work of Heaven with patience : But then a noise did scare me from the tomb. And she, too desperate, would not go with me. But (as it seems) did violence on herself All this I know, and to the marriage Her nurse is privy ; and, if aught in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific'd, some hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. — 270 Where 's Romeo's man 1 what can he say to this? Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's death ; And then iu post he came from Mantua, To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father ; And threaten'd me with death, goiag ia the vault. If I departed not, and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter, I will look on it.— Where is the county's page, that rais'd the watch ? — Sirrah, what made your master in this place ] Page. He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave, sei And bid me stand aloof, and so I did : Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb, And, by-and-by, my master drew on him ; And then I ran away to call the watch. Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death : And- here he writes, that he did buy a poison Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. — 290 Where be these enemies ? Gapulet ! Mon- tague! See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate. That Heaven finds means to kill your joys with love ; And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen : — all are punish'd. Cap. O brother Montague ! give me thy hand : This is my daughter's jointure ; for no more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more : For I will raise her statue in pure gold ; That, while Verona by that name is known. There shall no figure at such rate be set, aoi As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie ; Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings ; The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished : For never was a story of more woe. Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. sic 251 so:p^nets. From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decease, His tender heir might bear his memory : But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self -substantial fuel, Making a famiue where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And, tender chiirl, mak'st waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee. II. When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now, will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held : Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, To say, within thiue own deep-sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer, — " This fair chUd of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old ex- cuse," — Proving Ms beauty by succession thine ! This were to be new-made, when thou art old. And see thy blood warm, when thou feel'st it cold. III. Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest, Now is the time that face should form another ; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest. Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. Por where is she so fair, whose unear'd womb Disdains the tUlage of thy husbandry t Or who is he so fond, will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity t Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime : So thou through windows of thine age shalt see. Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. But if thou live, remember'd not to be. Die single, and thine image dies with thee. IV. Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy ? Nature's bequest gives nothiug, but doth lend ; And, being frank, she lends to those are free. Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse The bounteous largess given thee to give ? Profitless usurer, why dost thou use So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live ? For, having traffic with thyself alone, Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive. Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit canst thou leave 1 Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee, Which, used, lives th' executor to be. Those hours, that with gentle work did frame The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell. Will play the tyrants to the very same, And that unfair which fairly doth excel : For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there ; Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o'ersnow'd, and bareness everywhere : Then, were not summer's distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass. Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was : But flowers distUl'd, though they with winter meet, Leese but their show ; their substance stiU lives sweet. 252 SONNETS. Then let not winter's ragged hand deface In thee thy summer, ere thou be distiU'd : Make sweet some vial ; treasure thou some place With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kUl'd. That use is not forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That 's for thyself to breed another thee, Or ten times happier, be it ten for one : Ten times thyself were happier than thou art. If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee. Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart. Leaving thee living in posterity 1 Be not seK-wiU'd, for thou art much too fair To be Death's conquest, and make worms thine heir. VII. Lo ! in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, " Serving with looks his sacred majesty ; And having clLmb'd the steep-up heavenly hill. Resembling strong youth in his middle age. Yet mortal looks adore his beauty stUl, Attending on his golden pilgrimage : But when from high-most pitch with weary car. Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are From his low tract, and look another way. So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon, TJnlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly 1 Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy- Why loVst thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly. Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy ? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds. By unions married, do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly chide thee, who con- founds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark, how one string, sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each, by mutual ordering ; Resembling sire and child and happy mother, Who, aU in one, one pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song, being many, seem- ing one. Sings this to thee, — "Thou single wilt prove none." IX. Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye, That thou consum'st thyself in single life 1 Ah ! if thou issueless shalt hap to die. The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife ; The world will be thy widow, and still weep. That thou no form of thee hast left behind, When every private widow well may keep. By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind. Look, what an unthriffc in the world doth spend. Shifts but his place, for stUl the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, And, kept unus'd, the user so destroys it. No love towards others in that bosom sits. That on himself such murderous shame commits. For shame ! deny that thou bear'st love to any. Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wUt, thou art belov'd of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident ; For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate^ That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to con- spire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate. Which to repair should be thy chief desire. O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind ! Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love ? Be, as thy presence is, gracious 'and kind. Or to thyself, at least, kind-hearted prove : Make thee another self, for love of me, That beavity still may live in thine or thee. XI. As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st In one of thine, from that which thou de- partest ; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou may'st call thine, when thou from youth convertest. Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; Without this, folly, age, and cold decay : If all were minded so, the times should cease, And threescore year would make the world away. 253 SONNETS. Let those whom. Nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish : Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave thee more ; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish. She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. When I do count the clock that tells the time. And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white ; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. And summer's green all girded up in sheaves. Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; Then of thy beauty do I question make. That thou among the wastes of time must go. Since sweets and beauties do themselves for- sake, And die as fast as they see others grow ; And nothiug 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. XIII. O, that you were yourself ! but, love, you are No longer yours, than you yourself here Uve: Against this coming end you should prepare. And j'our sweet semblance to some other give : So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no determination ; then you were Yourself again, after yourself s decease. When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay, Which husbandrj' in honour might uphold Against the stormy gusts of winter's day, And barren rage of death's eternal cold 1 O ! none but iinthrifts. Dear my love, you know, You had a father : let your son say so. XIV. Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck, And yet, methiuks, I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evU luck. Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality ; Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell, Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind; Or say with princes if it shall go well. By oft predict that I in heaven find : But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive. And, constant stars, in them I read such art. As truth and beauty shall together thrive. If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert; Or else of thee this I prognosticate. Thy end is trath's and beauty's doom and date. XV. When I consider every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment ; That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows. Whereon the stars in secret influence com- ment ; When I perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and check'd even by the selfsame sky, Yaunt in their youthful sap, at height de- crease. And wear their brave state out of memory ; Then the conceit of this inconstant stay Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful Titne debateth with Decay, To change your day of youth to sullied night; And, all in war with Time, for love of you. As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XVL But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant. Time, And fortify yourself in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme ? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens, yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit : So should the lines of life that life repair, Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen, Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair, Can make you live yourself in eyes of men. To give away yourself keeps yourself stUl, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. XVII. Who will believe my verse in time to come. If it were fiU'd with your most high deserts 1 Though yet. Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts. 254 SONNETS. If I could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come -would say, " This poet lies ; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces." So should my papers, yeUow'd -with their age. Be scom'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage. And stretched metre of an antique song : But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice, — in. it, and in my rhyme. XVIII. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day 1 Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ; And every fair from fair sometime declines. By chance, or nature's changing course, un- trimm'd ; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. XIX. Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws. And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, And bum the long-liv'd phoenix in her blood ; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets. And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world, and all her fading sweets ; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime : O ! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow. Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow, For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong. My love shall in my verse ever live young. A woman's face, with Nature's own hand painted. Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion ; A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted With shifting change, as is false women's fashion ; An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling. Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ; A man in hue, all hues in his controlling. Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls amazeth ; And for a woman wert thou first created ; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting. And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose nothing. But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure. So is it not with me, as with that Muse, Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ; Making a couplement of proud compare. With sun, and moon, with earth and sea's rich . gems. With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. O ! let me, true in love, but truly write. And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air : Let them say more that like of hearsay well; I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. XXII. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date ; But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee Is biit the seemly raiment of my heart. Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me : How can I then be elder than thou art ? O ! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary. As I, not for myself, but for thee wUl, Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. Presume not on thy heart, when mine is slain ; Thou gaVst me thine, not to give back again. 255 SONNETS. XXIII. As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who Avith his fear is put besides his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart ; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love's might. O ! let my books be then the eloquence And diimb presagers of my speaking breast. Who plead for love, and look for recompense. More than that tongue that more hath more express'd. O ! learn to read what silent love hath writ : To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. XXIV. Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart : My body is the frame wherein 't is held. And perspective it is best painter's art ; For through the painter must you see his skill,- To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still. That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done : Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee ; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. XXV. Let those who are in favour with their stars Of public honour and proud titles boast, WMlst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marigold at the sun's eyes ; And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior, famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foU'd, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toU'd : Then happy I, that love and am belov'd. Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd. XXVI. Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit. To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit : Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it, But that I hope some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow Tin whatsoever star that guides my moving Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving. To show me worthy of thy sweet respect : Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head where thou may'st prove me. XXVII. Weary with toil I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; But then begins a journey in my head, To wprk my mind, when body's work 's expired : For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee. And keep my drooping eyelids open wide. Looking on darkness which the blind do see : Save that my soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view. Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night. Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. Lo ! thus by day my limbs, by night my mind. For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. XXVIII. How can I then return in happy plight. That am debarr'd the benefit of rest 1 When day's oppression is not eas'd by night, But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd 1 And each, though enemies to either's reign, Do in consent shake hands to torture me ; The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toU, stUl farther off from thee. 256 SONNETS. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven : So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night. When sparkling stars twire not, thou gild'st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make grief 's strength seem stronger. When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state. And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. And look upon myself, and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope. With what I most enjoy contented least ; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate : For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. XXX. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to &ow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe. And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay, as if not paid before : But if the while I think on thee, dear friend. All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end. Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye. As interest of the dead, which now appear But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie ! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone. Who all their parts of me to thee did give ; That due of many now is thine alone : Their images I lov'd I view in thee. And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. XXXII. If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover. And shalt by fortune once more re- survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover. Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripp'd by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme. Exceeded by the height of happier men. O ! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought : " Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought. To march in ranks of better equipage : But since he died, and poets better prove. Theirs for their style I '11 read, his for his love." XXXIII. Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy ; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face. And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. Even so my sun one early mom did shine. With all-triumphant splendour on my brow ; But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine. The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit dis- dain eth; Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun stauieth. XXXIV. Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way. Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke i 22 267 SONNETS. 'T is not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace : Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief ; Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss : The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah ! but those tears are pearl, which thy love sheds, And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done ; Roses have thorns, and silver f ountaias mud ; Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorising thy traspass with compare ; Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss. Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are : For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense, — Thy adverse party is thy advocate, — And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence. Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessory needs must be To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. XXXVI. Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one : So shall these blots that do with me remain, Without thy help by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite. Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee. Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame : Nor thou with public kindness honour me. Unless thou take that honour from thy name : But do not so ; I love thee in such sort. As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. XXXVII. As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth. So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth ; For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more. Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store : So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd. Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give. That I in thy abundance am suific'd, And by a part of all thy glory live. Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee : This wish I have ; then ten times happy How can my Muse want subject to invent. While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse Thine own sweet argument, too excellent For every vulgar paper to rehearse 1 O ! give thyself the thanks, if aught in me Worthy perusal stand against thy sight ; For who 's so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thyself dost give invention light 1 Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate; And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal numbers to outlive long date. If my slight Muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. O ! how thy worth with manners may I sing. When thou art all the better part of me ? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring t And what is 't but mine own, when I praise thee? Even for this let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one, That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deserv'st alone. O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove. Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive. And that thou teachest how to make one twain. By praising him here, who doth hence re- XL. Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them aU : What hast thou then more than thou hadst before 1 No Inve, my love, that thou may'st true love call : All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. 2.58 SONNETS. Then, if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest ; But yet be blam'd, if thou thyself deceivest By •wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robbeiy, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty ; And yet love knows, it is a greater grief To bear love's wrong, than hate's known in- Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites ; yet we must not be foes. XLI. Those petty wrongs that -liberty commits, When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thy beauty and thy years full well befits. For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won. Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assaU'd ; And when a woman woos, what woman's son Will sourly leave her till she have prevail'd 1 Ah me ! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear. And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forc'd to break a two-fold truth ; Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee. Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. That thou hast her, it is not all my grief. And yet it may be said, I lov'd her dearly ; That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief, A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye : — Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her ; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me. Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss; Both find each other, and I lose both twain. And both for my sake lay on me this cross : But here 's the joy ; my friend and I are one; Sweet flattery ! then she loves but me alone. When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected ; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee. And darkly bright are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright. How would thy shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light. When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so 1 How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day. When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay ? All days are nights to see, till I see thee, And nights bright days, when dreams do show thee me. XLIV. If the dull substance of my flesh were thought. Injurious distance should not stop my way ; For then, despite of space, I would be brought. From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then, although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee : For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as think the place where he would be. But,- ah ! thought kills me, that I am not thought. To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that, so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend time's leisure with my moan ; Receiving nought by elements so slow But heavy tears badges of cither's woe. XLV. The other two, slight air and purging fire. Are both with thee, wherever I abide ; The first my thought, the other my desire. These present-absent with swift motion slide : For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of love to thee. My life, being made of four, with two alone Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melan- choly ; Until life's composition be recur'd By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again, assur'd Of thy fair health, recounting it to me : This told, I joy; but then, no longer glad, I send them, back again, and straight grow sad. XLVI. Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight ; Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar. My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. 259 SONNETS. My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, (A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes,) But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To 'cide this title is impannelled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart ; And by their Verdict is determined The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part : As thus ; mine eye's due is thine outward part, And my heart's right thine inward love of heart. XLVII. Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took. And each doth good turns now unto the other. When that mine eye is famish'd for a look. Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother, With my love's picture then my eye doth feast. And to the painted banquet bids my heart : Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his thoughts of love doth share a part : So, either by thy picture or my love, Thyself away art present still with me ; For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move, And I am stUl with them, and they with thee; Or, if they sleep, thy picture ia my sight Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's de- light. XLVIII. How careful was I, when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust ; That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust ! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are. Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief. Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care. Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest. Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast. From whence at pleasure thou may'st come and part ; And even thence thou wilt bp stol'n, I fear. For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. XLIX. Against that time, if ever that time come. When I shall see thee frown on my defects, Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects; Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye ; When love, converted from the thing it was. Shall reasons find of settled gravity ; Against that time do I ensconce me here Within the knowledge of mine own desert. And this my hand against myself uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part : To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws. Since why to love I can allege no cause. How heavy do I journey on the way. When what I seek (my weary travel's end) Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, "Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend ! " The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me. As if by some instinct the wretch did know. His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee. The bloody spur cannot provoke him on That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide. Which heavily he answers with a groan, More sharp to me than spurring to his side ; For that same groan doth put this in my mind. My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. Thus can my love excuse the slow ofience Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed : From where thou art why should I haste me thence 1 Till I return, of posting is no need. O ! what excuse will my poor beast then find. When swift extremity can seem but slow ? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind ; In winged speed no motion shall I know : Then can no horse with my desire keep pace; Therefore desire (of perfect' st love being made) Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race ; But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade ; Since from thee going he went wilful-slow, Towards thee I '11 run, and give him leave LII. So am I as the rich, whose blessed key Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 380 SONNETS. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming, in the long year set Like stones of worth, they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest, Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide. To make some special instant special-blest, By new unfolding his imprison'd pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. LIII. What is your substance, whereof are you made. That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you ; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set. And you in Grecian tires are painted new : Speak of the spring, and foison of the year. The one doth shadow of your beauty show. The other as your bounty doth appear ; And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you, for constant heart. Liv. 0, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses ; Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses : But, for their virtue only is their show. They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade ; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made; And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth. When that shall fade, by verse distils your truth. LV. Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ; But you shall shine more bright in these con- tents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn. And broils root out the work of masonry. Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth : your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity. That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise. You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. LVI. Sweet love, renew thy force : be it not said, Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, which but to-day by feeding is allay'd, To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might : So, love, be thou ; although to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness. Let this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted- new Come daily to the banks, that, when they see Return of love, more blest may be the view ; Or call it winter, which, being full of care, Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare. LVII. Being your slave, what should I do but tend Upon the hours and times of your desire ? I have no precious time at all to spend, Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the worid-without-end hoijr, Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you, Nor think the bitterness of absence sour. When you have bid your servant once adieu ; Nor dare I question with my jealous thought. Where you may be, or your afiairs suppose ; But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought, Save, where you are how happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will (Though you do anything) he thinks no ill. LVIII. That God forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure. Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! 261 SONNETS. O ! let me suffer (being at your beck) The imprison'd absence of your liberty ; And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list ; your charter is so strong, That you yourself may privilege your time To what you will ; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. IdX. If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd. Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burden of a former child ? O ! that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book. Since mind at first in character was done ; That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame ; Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O ! sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore. So do our minutes hasten to their end ; Each changing place with that which goes before. In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd. Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow : And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand. Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. LXI. Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night 1 Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken. While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight 1 Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home, into my deeds to pry ; To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy ? O no ! thy love, though much, is not so great : It is my love that keeps mine eye awake ; Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat. To play the watchman ever for thy sake ; For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere. From me far off, with others all-too-near. Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my soul, and all my eveiy part ; And for this sin there is no remedy. It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine. No shape so true, no truth of such account ; And for myself mine own worth do define, As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeed, Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ; , Self so self-loving were iniquity. 'T is thee (myself) that for myself I praise. Painting my age with beau.ty of thy days. LXIII. Against my love shall be, as I am now. With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er- worn, When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his brow With lines and wrinkles ; when his youthful morn Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night ; And all those beauties, whereof now he 's king. Are vanishing, or vanish'd out of sight, Stealing away the treasure of his spring ; For such a time do I now fortify Against confounding age's cruel knife. That he shall never cut from memory My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life : His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green. LXIV. When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd The rich-proud cost of outworn biiried age ; When sometime lofty towers I see down- raz'd, And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage 262 SONNETS. When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store : When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay. Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, — That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. LXV. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor bound- less sea. But sad mortality o'ersways their power. How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower 1 ! how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout. Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays 1 O fearful meditation ! where, alack. Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? 0, none, unless this miracle have might. That in black ink my love may still shine bright. Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry ; — As, to behold desert a beggar born. And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn. And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted. And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd, And strength by limping sway disabled. And art made tongue-tied by authority. And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill. And simple truth miscall'd simplicity. And captive good attending captain ill : Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone. Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. LXVII. Ah ! wherefore with infection should he live. And with his presence grace impiety. That sin by him advantage should achieve. And lace itself with his society 1 Why should false painting imitate his cheek. And steal dead seeing of his living hue 1 Wliy should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins ? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And, proud of many, lives upon his gains. O ! him she stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since, before these last so bad. Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn. When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born. Or durst inhabit on a living brow ; Before the golden tresses of the dead. The right of sepulchres, were shorn away. To live a second life on second head ; Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay. In him those holy antique hours are seen. Without all ornament, itseM, and true. Making no summer of another's green. Robbing no old to dress his beauty new ; And him as for a map doth Nature store. To show false Art what beauty was of yore. Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd ; But those same tongues that give thee so thine own. In other accents do this praise confound, By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ; Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes were kind. To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds : But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, — that thou dost common grow. LXX. That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect. For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time ; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. SONNETS. Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days, Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd ; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd : If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. LXXI. No longer mourn for me when I am dead. Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vUe world, with vilest worms to dwell : Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it ; for I love you so. That I in your sweet thoughts, would be for- got. If thinking on me then should make you woe. O ! if (I say) you look upon this verse. When I perhaps compounded am with clay. Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay ; Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me after I am gone. LXXII. O ! lest the world should task you to recite What merit liv'd in me, that you should love After my death, — dear love, forget me quite, For you in me can nothing worthy prove ; Unless you would devise some virtuous lie. To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise iipon deceased I, Than niggard truth would willingly impart. O ! lest your true love may seem false in this. That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me nor you. For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. That time of year thou may'st in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west. Which by-and-by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest : In me thou seest the glowing of such fire. That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Oonsum'd with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long : LXXIV. But be contented : when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away. My life hath in this line some interest. Which for memorial still with thee shall When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee. The earth can have but earth, which is his due ; My spirit is thine, the better part of me : So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life. The prey of worms, my body being dead ; The coward conquest of a wretch's knife. Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains. And that is this, and this with thee remains. So are you to my thoughts, as food to life. Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground ; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and Ms wealth is found : Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure ; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure : Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by-and-by clean starved for a look ; Possessing or pursuing no delight. Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day; Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change 1 Why, with the time, do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange 'i Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed. That every word doth almost tell my name. Showing their birth, and where they did pro- ceed? SONNETS. O ! know, sweet love, 1 always write of you, And you and love are still my argument ; So, all my best is dressing old words new, Spending agaiii what is already spent : For as the sun is daily new and old, So is my love, still telling what is told. LXXVII. Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear. Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste ; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book this learning may'st thou taste : The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show. Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth may'st know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look, "what thy memory cannot contain. Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain. To take a new acquaintance of thy mind. These offices, so oft as thou wilt look. Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book. LXXVIII. So oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And xinder thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing. And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the leamed's wing. And given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee : In others' works thou dost but mend the style. And arts with thy sweet graces graced be ; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning my rude ignorance. LXXIX. Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace : But now my gracious numbers are decay'd, And my sick Muse doth give another place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argviment Deserves the travail of a worthier pen ; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent. He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. 23 265 He lends thee virtue^ and he stole that word From thy behaviour ; beauty doth he give. And found it in thy cheek ; he can afibrd No praise to thee bat what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say. Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay. LXXX. ! how I faint when I of you do write. Knowing a better spirit doth use your name. And in the praise thereof spends all his might. To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame : But since your worth (wide as the ocean is) The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat. Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ridej Or, being wrack'd, I am a worthless boat. He of tall building, and of goodly pride : Then, if he thrive, and I be cast away. The worst was this, — my love was my decay. LXXXI. Or I shall live your epitaph to make. Or you survive when I in earth am rotten : From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die : The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse. Which eyes not yet created shall o'erread ; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse. When all the breathers of this, world are dead ; You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen), Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. LXXXII. 1 grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore may'st without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise ; And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. SONNETS. And do so, love ; yet when they have devis'd What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert tnily sympathis'd In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend ; And their gross painting might be better us'd Where cheeks need blood : in thee it is abus'd. LXXXIII. I never saw that you did paiating need, And therefore to your fair no painting set ; I found, or thought I found, you did exceed The barren tender of a poet's debt : And therefore have I slept in your report, That you yourself, being extant, well might show How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sia you did impute, Which shall be most my glory, being dumb ; For I impair not beauty being mute. When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of your fair eyes. Than both your poets can in praise- devise. LXXXIV. Who is it that says most ? which can say more Than this rich praise, that you alone are you 1 In whose confine immured is the store. Which should example, where your equal grew. Lean penury witliin that pen doth dwell. That to his subject lends not some small glory; But he that writes of you, if he can tell That you are you, so dignifies his story. Let him but cojsy what in you is writ. Not making worse what nature made so clear. And such a counterpart shall fame his wit. Making his style admired everywhere. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse. Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. LXXXV. My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still. While comments of your praise, richly com- pil'd, Reserve their chai-acter with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd. I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words. And, like unletter'd clerk, stiU cry " Amen " To every hymn that able spirit aflbrds, In polish 'd form of well-refined pen. Hearing you prais'd, I say, " 'T is so, 't is true," And to the most of praise add something more ; But that is in my thought, whose love to you. Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before : Then others for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. Was it the proud full sail of his great verse. Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain in- hearse. Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ? No, neither he, nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghost. Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors of my silence cannot boast. I was not sick of any fear from thence : But when your countenance fil'd up his line, Then lack'd I matter ; that enfeebled mine. LXXXVII. Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing. And like enough thou know'st thy estimate : The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ; My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting ? And for that riches where is my deserving ? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing. Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ; So thy great gift, upon misprision gi-owing, Comes home again, on better judgment mak- ing. Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter. In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. LXXXVIII. When thou shalt be dispos'd to set me light. And place my merit in the eye of scorn. Upon thy side against myself I '11 fight. And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn : SONNETS. With mine own weakness being best ac- quainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted, That thou, in losing me, shalt win much glory : And I by this will be a gainer too ; For bending all my loving thoughts on thee. The injuries that to myself I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all LXXXIX. Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault. And I will comment upon that offence ; Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt. Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill. To set a form upon desired change. As I '11 myself disgrace : knowing thy will, I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange; Be absent from thy walks ; and in my tongue Thy sweet-beloved name no more shall dwell. Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong, And haply of our old acquaintance tell. For thee, against myself I '11 vow debate, For T must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate. xc. Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now : Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross. Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow. And do not drop in for an after-loss. Ah ! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow. Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe ; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow. To linger out a purpos'd overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite. But in the onset come : so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might ; And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. xci. Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill. Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse ; And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure. Wherein it finds a joy above the rest ; But these particulars are not my measure : All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me, E,icher than wealth, prouder than garments' cost. Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; And having thee, of all men's pride I boast : Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take All this away, and me most wretched make. XCII. But do thy worst to steal thyself away. For term of life thou art assured mine ; And life no longer than thy love will stay. For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs. When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongs Than that which on thy humour doth depend, Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind. Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. O ! what a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die : But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not : XCIII. So shall I live, supposing thou art true. Like a deceived husband ; so love's face May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new ; Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place ; For there can live no hatred in thine eye ; Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many's looks the false heart's history Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange ; But Heaven in thy creation did decree. That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ; Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be. Thy looks should nothing thence but sweet- ness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow. If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show ! xciv. They that have power to hurt, and will do none That do not do the thing they most do show. Who, moving others, are themselves as stone. Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; 267 SONNETS. They rightly do inherit heaven's graces, And husband nature's riches from expense ; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence. The summer's flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die ; But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity ; Por sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. xcv. How sweet and lovely dost thou' make, the shame. Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name ! O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose ! That tongue that tells the story of thy days, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport,) Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ; Naming thy name blesses an ill report. O ! what a mansion have those vices got. Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot. And all things turn to fair that eyes can see ! Take heed, dear heart, of this large privi- lege ; The hardest knife iU-us'd doth lose his edge. xcvi. Some say, thy fault is youth, some wanton- ness ; Some say, thy grace is youth, and gentle sport ; Both grace and faults are loVd of more and less : Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a throned queen The basest jewel will be well esteem'd. So are those errors that in thee are seen To truths translated, and for true things deem'd. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks translate ! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state ! But do not so ; I love thee in such sort. As, thou being mine, mine is thy good re- port. XCVII. How like a winter hath my absence been Prom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year ! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen. What old December's bareness everywhere ! And yet this time remov'd was summer's time ; The teeming autumn, big with rich increase. Bearing the wanton burden of the prime. Like widow'd wombs after their lords' de- cease : Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit ; For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute ; Or, if they sing, 't is with so dull a cheer. That leaves look pale, dreading the winter 's near. XCVIII. From you have I been absent in the spring. When proud-pied AprU, dress'd in all his trim. Hath put a spirit of youth in everything, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with hiTTi : Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of difierent flowers in odour and in hue. Could make me any summer's story tell. Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : Nor did I wonder at the lily's white. Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern all of those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, As with your shadow I with these did play: XCIX. The forward violet thus did I chide : — Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells. If not from my love's breath ? The purple pride Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells. In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd. The Hly I condemned for thy hand. And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair : The roses fearfully on thorns did stand. One blushing shame, another wljite despair ; A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both, And to this robbery had annex'd thy breath ; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see. But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee. SONNETS. Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgett'st so long To speak of that which gives thee all thy might 1 Spend' st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects Ught? Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle numbers time so idly spent : Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey. If Time have any wrinkle graven there ; If any, be a satire to decay. And make Time's spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes .life; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. CI. truant Muse ! what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd ? Both truth and beauty on my love depends ; So dost thou too, and therein dignified. Make answer. Muse : wilt thou not haply say, " Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd, Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay ; But best is best, if never intermix'd ? " Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? Excuse not silence so ; for 't lies in thee To make him much outlive a gilded tomb. And to be prais'd of ages yet to be. Then do thy office. Muse : I teach thee how • To make him seem long hence as he shows now. CII. My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming ; 1 love not less, though less the show appear : That love is merchandia'd, whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring. When I was wont to greet it with my lays : As Philomel in summer's front doth sing. And stops her pipe in growth of riper days : Not that the summer is less pleasant now. Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night. But that wild music burdens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue. Because I would not dull you with my song. Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth. That having such a scope to shovr her pride. The argument, all bare, is of more worth. Than when it hath my added praise beside 1 O ! blame me not, if I no more can write : Look in your glass, and there appears a face. That over-goes my blunt invention quite. Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well ? For to no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to teU ; And more, much more, than in my verse can sit. Your own glass shows you, when you look in it. CIV. To me, fair friend, you never can be old. For as you were when first your eye I ey'd. Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride ; Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen ; Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. All ! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand. Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd : For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, — Ere you were bom was beauty's summer dead. cv. Let not my love be call'd idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show. Since all alike my songs and praises be, To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, StUl constant in a wondrous excellence ; Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd. One thing expressing, leaves out difierence. Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, Fail-, kind, and true, varying to other words ; And in this change is my invention spent. Three themes in one, which wondrous scope afibrds. Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, Which three, till now, never kept seat in SONNETS. cvi. When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights. Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So aU their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; And for they look'd but with divining eyes. They had not skill enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days. Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. CVII. Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come. Can yet the lease of my true love control, Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now, with the drops of this most balmy time My love looks fresh, and death to me sub- scribes. Since, spite of him, I 'U Uve in this poor rhyme, While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. CVII I. What 's in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit ? What 's new to speak, what new to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit 1 Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine, I must each day say o'er the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou miue, I thine. Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. So that eternal love, iu love's fresh case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age ; Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page ; Finding the first conceit of love there bred. Where time and outward form would show it dead. cix. ! never say that I was false of heart. Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify. As easy might I from myself depart. As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie. That is my home of love : if I have ranged, Like him that travels, I return again. Just to the time, not with the time ex- changed, — So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe, though in my nature reign'd All frailties that besiege all kind of blood. That it could so preposterously be stain'd. To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ; For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose ; in it thou art my aU. ex. Alas ! 't is true, I have gone here and there, And made myself a motley to the view ; Gror'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear. Made old offences of affections new : Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth Askance and strangely ; but, by all above. These blenches gave my heart another youth. And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end : Mine appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god ia love, to whom I am confin'd. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. CXI. O ! for my sake do you with Fortune chide. The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds. That did not better for my life provide. Than public means, which public manners breeds : Thence comes it that my name receives a brand ; And almost thence my nature is subdu'd To what it works in, like the dyer's hand. Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd, whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection ; No bitterness that I will bitter think. Nor double penance, to coirect correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye. Even that your pity is enough to cure me. CXII. Your love and pity doth the impression fill Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow; For what care I who calls me well or ill, So you o'ergreen my bad, my good allow 1 270 SONNETS. You are my all-the-world, and I must strive To know my shames and praises from your tongue ; None else to me, nor I to none alive, That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense To critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense : — You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world Isesides methinks they 're dead. CXIII. Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind. And that which governs nie to go about Doth part his function, and is partly blind, Seems seeing, but effectually is out ; Eor it no form delivers to the heart Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch : Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ; For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour, or deformed'st creature. The mouiitain or the sea, the day or night, The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature : Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. cxiv. Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you. Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery 1 Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true. And that your love taught it this alchymy. To make of monsters and things indigest Such cherubims as your sweet self resemble. Creating every bad a perfect best. As fast as objects to his beams assemble f O ! 't is the first : 't is flattery in my seeing. And my great mind most kingly drinks it up : Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing. And to his palate doth prepare the cup : If it be poison' d, 't is the lesser sin That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin. cxv. Those lines that I before have writ, do lie. Even those that said I could not love you dearer ; Yet then my judgment knew no reason why My most full flame should afterwards bum clearer. But reckoning Time, whose million'd accidents Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings. Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents. Divert strong minds to the course of altering things : Alas ! why, fearing of Time's tyranny. Might I not then say, " Now I love you best," When I was certain o'er iacertainty. Crowning the present, doubting of the rest 1 Love is a babe ; then might I not say so. To give full growth to that wliich still doth grow? cxvi. Let me not to the mai'riage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove : 0-, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark. That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark. Whose worth 's unknown, although his height be taken. Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. CXVII. Accuse me thus : that I have scanted all Wherein I should your great deserts repay ; Forgot upon your dearest love to call. Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day ; That I have frequent been with unknown minds, And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right ; That I have hoisted sail to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight : Book both my wilfulness and errors down. And on just proof surmise accumulate : Bring me within the level of your frown. But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate ; Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of your love. CXVIII. Like as, to make our appetites more keen. With eager compounds we our palate urge ; As, to prevent our maladies unseen,. We sicken to shim sickness, when we purge ; 271 SOISTNETS. Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding ; And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love, to anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assur'd. And brought to medicine a healthful state, Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur'd ; But thence I learn, and find the lesson true. Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. What potions have I drunk of Siren tears, Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within. Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears^ Still losing when I saw myself to win ! What wretched errors hath my heart com- mitted. Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted. In the distraction of this madding fever ! O benefit of ill ! now I find true, That better is by evil still made better ; And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuk'd to my content, And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. cxx. That you were once unkind, befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel. Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken, As I by yours, you 've pass'd a hell of time ; And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suflFer'd in your crime. O ! that our night of woe might have re- member'd My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits ; And soon to you, as jov. to me, then tender'd The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee ; Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. cxxi. 'T is better to be vile, than vile-esteem'd. When not to be receives reproach of being. And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. Eor why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood ? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good 1 No, I am that I am ; and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own : I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel ; By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown ; TJnless this general evil they maintain, — All men are bad, and in their badness reisni. Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full character'd with lasting memory. Which shall above that idle rank remain, Beyond all date, even to eternity ; Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by nature to subsist ; Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd. That poor retention could not so much hold. Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score ; Therefore to give them from me was I bold. To trust those tables that receive thee more : To keep an adjunct to remember thee, Were to import forgetf ulness in me. cxxiii. No ! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change : Thy pyramids, built up with newer might. To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ; They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy. Not wondering at the present, nor the past ; For thy records and what we see do lie. Made more or less by thy continual haste. This I do vow, and this shall ever be, I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee : cxxiv. If my dear love were but the chUd of state. It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd, As subject to Tune's love, or to Time's' hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd. No, it was builded far from accident ; It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor faUs Under the blow of thralled discontent. Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls : 272 SONNETS. It fears not policy, that heretic, Which works on leases of short-number'cl hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, "Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime. cxsv. Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy. With my extern the outward honouriug, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which prove more short than waste or ruia- ingl Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent; For compound sweet foregoing simple savour. Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent 1 No, let me be obsequious in thy heart. And take thou my oblation, poor but free. Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art. But mutual render, only me for thee. Hence, thou subom'd informer ! a true soul. When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control. cxxvi. O thou, my lovely boy, who, in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour ; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st; If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back. She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes km. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure ! She may detain, but not still keep her treasure : Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be. And her quietus is to render thee. In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name ; But now is black beauty's successive heir, And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame ; For since each hand hath put on nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face, Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower. But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black. Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Slandering creation with a false esteem : Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue says, beauty should look so. CXXVIII. How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, TJpoii that blessed wood, whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks, that nimble leap To kiss the tender iuward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap. At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand ! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait. Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this. Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. cxxix. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action ; and till action, lust Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight ; Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had. Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad : Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; A bliss ia proof, — and prov'd, a very woe ; Before, a joy propos'd ; behind, a drearii. All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. cxxx. My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ; Coral is far more red than her lips' red ; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun ; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white. But no such roses see I in her cheeks ; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 27S SONNETS. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound : I grant I never saw a goddess go ; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground : And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare. cxxxi. Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art. As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel ; For well thou know'st, to my dear-doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan : To say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to myself alone. And, to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face. One on another's neck, do witness bear. Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place. In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds. And thence this slander, as I think, pro- ceeds. CXXXII. Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain. Have put on black, and loving mourners be. Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west, As those two moiuTiing eyes become thy face. O ! let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace. And suit thy pity like in every part : Then will I swear, beauty herself is black. And all they foul that thy complexion lack. CXXXIII. Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me ! Is 't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken. And my next self thou harder hast engross'd : Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ; A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd. Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward. But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail ; Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard; Thou canst not then use rigour in my gaol : And yet thou wUt ; for I, being pent in thtee. Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. cxxxiv. So, now I have confess'd that he is thine, And I myself am mortgag'd to thy wUl, Myself I 'U forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still : But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free. For thou art covetous, and he is kind ; He leam'd but, surety-like, to write for me. Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take. Thou usurer, that putt'st forth all to use. And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake ; So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost ; thou hast both him and me : He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. cxxxv. Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus ; More than enough am I, that vex thee still. To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious, Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine ? Shall will in others seem right gracious. And in my will no fair acceptance shine 1 The sea, all waterj yet receives rain still. And in abundance addeth to his store ; So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will One will of mine, to make thy large Will more. Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill ; Think all but one, and me in that one Will. cxxxvi. If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will, And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there ; Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. Will will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay. fill it full with wills, and my will one. In things of great receipt with ease we prove. Among a number one is reckon'd none : Then in the number let me pass untold. Though in thy stores' account I one must be; For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold That nothing me, a something sweet to thee : Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov'st me, — for my name is Will 274 SONNETS. CXXXVII. Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold, and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet what the best is, take the worse to be. If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks, Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride. Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot. Which my heart knows the wide world's com- mon place ? Or mine eyes seeing this, say, this is not, To put fair truth upon so foul a face ? In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd, And to this false plague are they now trans- ferr'd. CXXXVIII. When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies. That she might think me some untutor'd youth. Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young. Although she knows my days are past the best. Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue : On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd. But wherefore says she not, she is unjust ? And wherefore say not T, that I am old 1 ! love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love loves not to have years told : Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be. CXXXIX. O ! call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart ; Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue ; Use power with power, and slay me not by art. Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere ; but in my sight. Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside : What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might Is more than my o'erpress'd defence can 'bide 1 Let me excuse thee : ah ! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies. And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That they elsewhere might dart their injuries. Yet do not so ; but since I am near slain. Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain. CXL. Be wise as thou art cruel ; do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much dis- dain ; Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit, better it were. Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so ; As testy sick men, when their deaths be near. No news but health from their physicians know : Eor, if I should despair, I should grow mad. And in my madness might speak ill of thee ; Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad. Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I jnay not be so, nor thou belied. Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. CXLI. In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes. For they in thee a thousand errors note ; But 't is my heart that loves what they de- spise, Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted ; Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone : But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee. Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus far I count my gain. That she that makes me sin awards me pain. CXLII. Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving. O ! but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving ; Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine. That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments. And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee : Boot pity in thy heart, that when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide. By self-example may'st thou be denied ! 275 SONNETS. CXLHI. Lo ! as a careful housewife runs to catcli One of her feather'd creatures broke away, Sets down her babe, and makes all swift de- spatch In pursuit of the thing she would have stay ; Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase. Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent To follow that which flies before her face. Not prizing her poor infant's discontent : So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee, Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind ; But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me, And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind : So will I pray that thou may'st have thy WUl, If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. CXIilV. Two loves I have of comfort and despair. Which like two spirits do suggest me still : The better angel is a man, right fair, ' The worser spirit a woman, colour'd ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be tum'd fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ; But being both from me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another's hell : Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out. CXLV. Those lips that Love's own hand did make, Breath'd forth the sound that said, " I hate," To me that languish' d for her sake ; But when she saw my woful state. Straight in her heart did mercy come, Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet Was us'd in giving gentle doom. And taught it thus anew to greet : " I hate," she alter'd with an end, That foUow'd it as gentle day Doth follow night, who, like a fiend, Prom heaven to hell is flown away : " I hate " from hate away she threw. And sav'd my life, saying — " not you." CXLVI. Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, Fool'd by these rebel powers that thee array. Why dost thou pine within, and sufier dearth. Painting thy outward walls so costly gay i Why so large cost, having so short a lease. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend 1 Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge 1 is this thy body's end ? Then, soul, live thou upon' thy servant's loss, And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; Within be fed, without be rich no more : So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men. And, Death once dead, there 's no more dying then. CXLVII. My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease ; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill. The uncertain-sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love. Angry that his prescriptions are not kept. Hath left me, and I desperate now approve. Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care. And frantic-mad with evermore unrest : My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are. At random from the truth vainly express'd ; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright. Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. CXLVIII. O me ! what eyes hath Love put in my head. Which have no correspondence with true sight ! Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled. That censures falsely what they see aright 1 If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote. What means the world to say it is not so 1 If it be not, then love doth well denote Love's eye is not so true as all men's : no. How can it ? O ! how can Love's eye be true. That is so vex'd with watching and with tears 1 No marvel then though I mistake my view ; The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning Love ! with tears thou keep'st me blind. Lest eyes weU-seeing thy foul faults should find. CXLIX. Canst thou, O cruel ! say, I love thee not, When I, against myself, with thee partake ? Do I not think on thee, when I forgot Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake ? 276 SONNETS. Who hateth thee that I do call my friend 1 On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon 1 Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend Revenge upon myself with present moan ? What merit do I in myself respect, That is so proud thy service to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion of thine eyes 'i But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind : Those that can see then, lov'st, and I am blind. CL. O ! from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway t To make me give the lie to my true sight. And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becoming of things iU, That in the very refuse of thy deeds There is such strength and warrantise of skill. That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds 1 Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and see just cause of hate ? O ! though I love what others do abhor. With others thou shouldst not abhor my state : If thy unworthiness rais'd love in ,me. More worthy I to be belov'd of thee. CLI. Love is too young to know what conscience is; Yet who knows not, conscience is bom of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss. Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove : For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason ; My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love ; flesh stays no farther reason, But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be. To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it, that I call Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall. CLII. In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn. But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing. In act thy bed- vow broke, and new faith torn, In vowing new hate after new love bearing. But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee. When I break twenty ? I am perjur'd ^ most ; For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee. And aU my honest faith in thee is lost : For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness. Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy ; And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blind- ness. Or made them swear against the thing they see; For I have sworn thee fair: more perjur'd I, To swear, against the truth, so foul a lie! CLIII. Oupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep : A maid of Dian's this advantage found. And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground ; Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love A dateless lively heat, still to endure. And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove Against strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new- fir'd, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast ; I, sick withal, the help of bath desir'd. And thither hied, a sad-distemper'd guest, But found no cure : the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire, — my mistress' eyes. CLIV. The little Love-god lying once asleep. Laid by his side his heart-inflaming iDrand, Whilst many nymphs, that vow'd chaste life to keep. Came tripping by ; but in her maiden hand The fairest votary took up that fire Which many legions of true Hearts had warm'd : And so the general of hot desire Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm'd. This brand she quenched in a cool well by. Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual. Growing a bath, and healthful remedy For men diseas'd ; but I, my mistress' thrall. Came there for cure, and this by that I prove. Love's fire heats water, water cools not love. 277 KING HENRY YI.-PART IH. DRAMATIS PERSONJi:. King Henry the Sixth. Edward, Prince of Wales, his Son. Lewis XL, King of France. Duke of Somerset, Duke op Exeter, Earl of Oxford, Earl op Northumberland. Earl op. Westmoreland, Lord Clifford, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York Edward, JSarl of March, afterwards- King Edwa/rd IV., Edmund, Earl of Rutland, George, afterwards Duke of Clarence, Richard, afterwards Duke of Gloster, Duke op Norfolk, Marquess of Montague, Earl op Warwick, Earl op Pembroke, Lord Hastings, Lord Stafford, ) Sir John Mortimer, \ TJnchs to tlie Duke Sir Hugh Mortimer, ) of York. SCENE— Dviring part of the On King Henry's Side. His Sons. Oft/ie Duke of '' York's Party. Henry, Earl of Riclvmond, a Youth. Lord Rivers, Brotlier to Lady Grey. Sir William Stanley. Sir John Montgomery. Sir John Somerville. Tutor to Rutland. Mayor of York. Lieutenant of the Tower. A Nobleman. Two Keepers. A Huntsman. A Son that has killed his Father. A Father that has killed his Son. Queen Margaret. Lady Grey, afterwards Queen to Edward IV. Bona, Sister to the French Queen. Soldiers, and other Attendants on King Henry and King Edward, Messengers, Watclir m,en, Sc. Third Act, in France ; during the rest of the Play, in England. ACT I. Scene I. — London. The Parliament-House. Drums. Some Soldiers of York's pa/rty break in. Then enter the Duke of York, Edward, Richard, Norfolk, Montague, ' Warwick, and others, with white roses in their liats. War. I wonder how the king escap'd our hands. York. While we pursu'd the horsemen of the north, He slUy stole away, and left his men : Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose warlike ears could never brook retreat, Cheer'd up the drooping army ; and himself. Lord Clifford, and Lord Stafford, all abreast, Oharg'd our main battle's front, and, breaking m. Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. Edw. Lord Stafford's father, Duke of Buckingham, lo Is either slain or wounded dangerous : I cleft his beaver with a downright blow ; That this is true, father, behold his blood. [Showing his bloody sword. Mont. [To YoRK,s7iowmg'/tM.]And, brother, here 's the Earl of Wiltshire's blood. Whom I encounter'd as the battles join'd. Rich. Speak thou for me, and tell them what I did. [Throwing down the Duke of Somerset's Jiead. York. Richard hath best deserv'd of all my sons. — But, is your grace dead, my Lord of Somerset 1 Norf Such hope have all the line of John of Gaunt ! Rich. Thus do I hope to shake King Henry's head. » 278 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PAET III. Scene I. War. And so do I. — Victorious Priace of York,. Before I see thee seated in that throne, Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, I vow by Heaven these eyes shall never close. This is the palace of the fearful king. And this th6 regal seat : possess it, York ; For this is thine, and not King Henry's heirs'. York. Aesist me then, sweet Warwick, and I will ; For hither we have broken in by force. N^orf. We '11 all assist you ; he that flies shall die. so York. Thanks, gentle Norfolk. — Stay by me, my lords : — And, soldiers, stay, and lodge by me this night. War. And when the king comes, offer him no violence. Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. [The Soldiers retire. York. The queen this day here holds her parliament. But little thinks we shall be of her council. By words or blows here let us win our right. Jiich. Arm'd as we are, let 's stay within this house. War. The bloody parliament shall this be call'd. Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be king. And bashful Henry depos'd, whose cowardice Hath made us by- words to our enemies. 42 York. Then leave me not, my lords ; be resolute ; I mean to take possession of my right. War. Neither the king, nor he that loves him best, The proudest he that holds up Lancaster, Dare stir a wing, if Warwick shake his bells. I '11 plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares. — Resolve thee, Richard: claim the English crown. [Warwick leads York to the throne, who seats himself. Flmirish. Enter King Henry, Clifford, Northumberland, Westmoreland, Exe- ter, and others, with red roses in their hats. K. Hen. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, so Even in the chair of state ! belike, he means, Back'd by the power of Warwick, that false peer, To aspire unto the crown, and reign as king. — Earl of Northumberland, he slew thyfather, — And thine. Lord Clifford ; and you both have vow'd revenge On him, his sons, his favourites, and his friends. North. If I be not, heavens be reveng'd on me ! Glif. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel. West. What! shall we suffer this? let's pluck him down : My heart for anger bums, I cannot brook it. K. Hen. Be patient, gentle Earl of West- , moreland. si Glif. Patience is for poltroons, such as he : He durst not sit there, had your father liv'd. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us assail the family of York. North. Well hast thou spoken, cousin : be it so. K. Hen. Ah ! know you not, the city favours them. And they have troops of soldiers at their beck? Exe. But when the duke is slain, they '11 quickly fly. K. Hen. Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart, ro To make a shambles of the parliament-house ! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and threats. Shall be the war that Henry means to use. \Tlhey advance to the Duke. Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne. And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet ; I am thy sovereign. York. I am thine. Exe. For shame ! come down : he made thee Duke of York. York. 'T was my inheritance, as the earldom was. Exe. Thy father was a traitor to the crown. War. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown, 80 In following this usurping Henry. GUf. Whom should he follow but his natural king % War. True, Clifford ; and that 's Richard, Duke of York. K. Hen. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne % York. It must and shall be so. Content thyself. War. Be Duke of Lancaster : let him be king.' West. He is both king and Duke of Lan- caster ; And that the Lord of Westmoreland shall maintain. 279 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I. War. And "Warwick shall disprove it. You forget, Ttat we are those which, chas'd you from the field, 90 And sle-w your fathers, and with colours spread March'd through the city to the palace gates. North. Yes, "Warwick, I remember it to my grief; And, by his soul, thou and thy house shall rue it. West. Plantagenet, of thee, and these thy sons, Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I '11 have more lives, Than drops of blood were in my father's veins. Clif. Urge it no more ; lest that instead of ■words, I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger, As shall revenge his death before I stir. loo War. Poor OlifiEbrd ! how I scorn his worthless threats. York. "Will you, we show our title to the crown? If not, our swords shall plead it in the field. K. Hen. "What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? Thy father was, as thou art, Duke of York ; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March. I am the son of Henry the Fifth, "Who made the Dauphin and the French to stoop. And seiz'd upon their towns and provinces. Wa/r. Talk not of France, sith thou hast lost it all. nn K. Hen. The lord protector lost it, and not I : "When I was crown'd, I was but nine months old. Rich. You are old enough now, and yet, methinks, you lose. Father, tear the crown from the Usurper's head. Edw. Sweet father, do so : set it on your head. Mmit. [To York.] Good brother, as thou lov'st and honour'st arms. Let's fight it out, and not stand cavilling thus. Rich. Sound drums and trumpets, and the king will fly. Torh. Sons, peace ! K. Hen. Peace thou, and give King Henry leave to speak. 120 War. Plantagenet shall speak first : hear him, lords ; And be you silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him shall not live. K. Hen. Think'st thou, that I will leave my kingly throne, "Wherein my grandsire and my father sat ? No : first shall war unpeople this my realm ; Ay, and their colours — often borne in France, And now in England, to our heart's great sorrow, — Shall be my winding-sheet. — "Why faint you, lords ? My title 's good, and better far than his. iso War. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be king. K. Hen. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. York. 'T was by rebellion against his king. K. Hen. [Aside.l I know not what to say : my title 's weak.- — ■ Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir ? York. What then? K. Hen. An if he may, then am I lawful king; For Richard, in the view of many lords, Resign'd the crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose heir my father was, and I am his. 140 York. He rose against him, being his sovereign, And made him to resign his crown perforce. Wa/r. Stippose, my lords, he did it uncon- strain'd, Think you, 't were prejudicial to his crown ? Exe. No; for he could not so resign his crown, 3ut that the next heir should succeed and reign. K. Hen. Art thou against us, Duke of Exeter? Eax. His is the right, and therefore pardon me. York. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not ? Exe. My conscience tells me he is lawfvil king. 150 K. Hen. All will revolt from me, and turn to him. North. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou lay'st. Think not, that Henry shall be so depos'd. Wa/r. Depos'd he shall be in despite of all. North. 'Thou art deceiv'd : 't is not thy southern power. Of Essex, Norfolk, 'Suffolk, nor of Kent, — Which makes thee thus presumptuous and proud, — Can set the duke up in despite of me. Clif. King Henry, be thy title right or wrong. Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy defence : loo 2S0 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I. May that ground gape, and swallow me alive, Where I shall kneel to him that slew my father ! K. Hen. O Cliflford, how thy words revive my heart ! York. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what conspire you, lords? War. Do right unto 1;his princely Duke of York, Or I will fill the house with armed men. And o'er the chair of state where now he sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. \He stamps with his foot, and the Soldiers show themselves. K. Hen. My Lord of Warwick, hear me but one word. 170 Let me for this my life-time reign as king. York. Confirm the crown to me, and to miae heirs. And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv'st. K. Hen. I am content : Richard Plan- tagenet. Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. Clif. What wrong is this unto the prince your son ! Wan: What good is this to England, and himself ! West. Base, fearful, and despairing Henry ! Clif. How hast thou injur'd both thyself and us ! West. I cannot stay to hear these articles. North. Nor I. lei Clif. Come, cousin, let us tell the queen these news. West. Farewell, faint-hearted and degene- rate king. In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. North. Be thou a prey unto the house of . York, And die in bands for this unmanly deed ! Clif. In dreadful war may'st thou be over- come. Or live in peace, abandon'd, and despis'd ! \Eoixu7i,t Northumberland, Clifford, and Westmoreland. War. Turn this way, Henry, and regard them not. Exe. They seek revenge, and therefore will not yield. lao K. Hen. Ah, Exeter ! ' War. Why should you sigh, my lord ] K. Hen. Not for myself. Lord Warwick, but my son, Whom I unnaturally shall disinherit. But be it as it may, I here entail The crown to thee, and to thine heirs for ever; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease this civil war, and, whilst I live. To honour me as thy king and sovereign ; And neither by treason, nor hostility. To seek to put me down, and reign thyself. 200 York. This oath I willingly take, and will perform. [Coming from the throne. War. Long live King Henry ! — Plantage- net, embrace him. K. Hen. And long live thou, and these thy forward sons ! York. Now York and Lancaster are re- concil'd. Esce. Accurs'd be he that seeks to make them foes ! [Sennet. The Lords come forward. York. Farewell, my gracious lord : I '11 to my castle. War. And I '11 keep London with my sol- diers. Norf And I to Norfolk with my followers. Mont. And I unto the sea from whence I came. [Boceimt York and his Sons, Warwick, Norfolk, Montague, Soldiers, and Attendants. K. Hen. And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court. 210 Enter Queen Margaret aTid the Prince of Wales. Exe. Here comes the queen, whose looks bewray her anger : I '11 steal away. K. Hen. Exeter, so will I. Q. Ma/r. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. K. Hen. Be patient, gentle queen, and I will stay. Q. Ma/r. Who can be patient in such ex- tremes ? Ah, wretched man ! 'would I had died a maid. And never seen thee, never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast prov'd so unnatural a father ! Hath he deserv'd to lose his birthright thus 1 Hadst thou but lov'd him half so well as 1, 220 Or felt that pain which I did for him once. Or nourish'd him, as I did with my blood. Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart- blood there, Rather than have made that savage duke thine heir, And disinherited thine only son. Prince. Father, you cannot disinherit me: If you be king, why should not I succeed ? K. Hen. Pardon me, Margaret i— pardon me, sweet son : — 24 281 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene II. The Earl of Warwick and the duke enforc'd me. Q. Mar. Enforc'd thee ! art thou king, and wilt be forc'd 1 230 I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch ! Thou hast undone thyself, thy son, and me. And given unto the house of York such head. As thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his heirs unto the crown, What is it, but to make thy sepulchre, And creep into it far before thy time ? Warwick is chancellor, and the Lord of Calais ; Stern Faulconbridge commands the narrow seas; The duke is made protector of the realm ; 210 And yet shalt thou be safe 1 such safety finds The trembling lamb, environed with wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly woman. The soldiers should have toss'd me on their pikes, I Before I would have granted to that act ; But thou preferr'st thy life before thine honour : And seeing thou dost, I here divorce myself, Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, Until that act of parliament be repeal'd, Whereby my son is disinherited. 250 The northern lords, that have forsworn thy colours. Will follow mine, if once they see them spread; And spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace, And utter ruin of the house of York. Thus do I leave thee. — Come, son, let's away: Our army is ready ; come, we '11 after them. K Hen. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. Q. Mar. Thou hast spoke too much already : get thee gone. K. Hen. Gentle son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? Q. Mar. Ay, to be murdei-'d by his enemies. Prince. When I return with victory from the field, 261 1^11 see your grace ; till then, I '11 follow her. Q. Mar. Come, son, away ! we may not linger thus. \Exeunt Queen Margaret and the Prince. K. Hen. Poor queeu ! how love to me, and to her soai, Hath made her break out into terms of rage ! Reveng'd may she be on that hateful duke. Whose haughty spirit, winged with desire, Will cost my crown, and, like an empty eagle. Tire on the flesh of me and of my son ! The loss of those three lords torments my heart: . """ I '11 write unto them, and entreat them fair. — Come, cousin ; you shall be the messenger. Exe. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. [Exeuvjt. Scene II. — A Room in Sandal Castle, near Wakefield. Enter Edward, Richard, and Montague. Bich. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave. Edw. No, I can better play the orator. Mont. But I -have reasons strong and forcible. Enter York. York. Why, how now, sons" and brother, at a strife ? What is your quarrel ? how began it first ? Edw. No quarrel, but a slight contention. York. About what % Rich. About that which concerns your grace, and us ; The crown of England, father, which is yours. York. Mine, boy ? not till King Henry be dead. 10 Rich. Your right depends not on his life, or death. Edw. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now : By giving the house of Lancaster leave to breathe. It will outrun you, father, in the end. York. I took an oath that he should quietly. reign. Edw. But for a kingdom any oath may be broken : I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. Rich. No ; God forbid, your grace should be forsworn. 1 York. I shall be, if I claim by Open war. Rich. I '11 prove the contrary, if you '11 hear me speak. so York. Thou canst not, son : it is impossible. Rich. Air oath is of no moment, being not took Before a true and lawful magistrate, That hath authority over him that swears : Henry had none, but did usurp the place ; Then, seeing 't was he that made you to depose. Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to arms. And, father, do but think, How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown, Within whose circuit is Elysium, so And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. J82 Act 1. KING HENRY VI.^PART III. Scene III. Why do we linger thus 1 I cannot rest, Until the white rose, that I wear, be dyed Even in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. York. Richard, enough : I will be king, or die. — Brother, thou shalt to London presently, And whet on Warwick to this enterprise. — Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk And tell him privily of our intent. — You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, *> With whom the Kentishmen will willingly rise : In them I trust ; for they are soldiers. Witty, courteous, liberal, full of spirit. — While you are thus employ'd, what resteth more But that I seek occasion how to rise. And yet the king not privy to my drift. Nor any of the house of Lancaster 1 Enter a Messenger. But, stay.-;- What news? Why com'st thou in such post ? Mess. The queen with all the northern earls and lords Intend here to besiege you in your castle, so She is hard by with twenty thousand men, Aud therefore fortify your hold, my lord. York. Ay, with my sword. What ! think'st thou, that we fear them 1 — Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me ; My brother Montague shall post to London : Let noble Warv/ick, Oobham, and the rest, Whom we have left protectors of the king, With powerful policy strengthen themselves. And trust not simple Henry, nor his oaths. Mont. Brother, I go ; I '11 win them, fear it not : o» And thus most humbly I do take my leave. [Exit. Enter Sir John and Sir Hugh Mortimer. York. Sir John, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour ; The army of the queen mean to besiege us. Sir John. She shall not need, we '11 meet her in the field. York. What, with five thousand men ? Hich. Ay, with five hundred, father, for a , need. A woman 's general ; what should we fear ? [A Tnwrch afar off. Edv). I hear their drums : let's set our men in order. And issue forth, and bid them battle straight. York. Five men to twenty !^-though ■ the odds be great, 'i I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Mauy a battle have I won in France, Whenas the enemy hath been ten to one :. Why should I not now have the like success i [A larum. Exeun t. Scene III. — Plains near Sandal Castle. Alarwms : Excursions. Enter Rutland amd his Tutor. Rut. Ah ! whither shall I fly to 'scape their hands 1 Ah, tutor ! look, where bloody Clifibrd comes. Enter Clifford amd Soldiers. Clif. Chaplain, away : thy priesthood saves thy life. As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall die. Tut. And I, my lord, will bear him com- pany. Olif. Soldiers, away with him. Tut. Ah, Clifford ! murder not this inno- cent child, Lest thou be hated both of God and man. [Exit, forced off hy Soldiers. Clif. How now ! is he dead already ? Or is it fear lo That makes him close his eyes 1 I '11 open them. But. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his devouring paws ; And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey. And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. — Ah, gentle Clifford ! kill me with thy sword. And not with such a cruel threatening look. Sweet Clifford ! hear me speak before I die : I am too mean a subject for thy wrath ; Be thou reveng'd on men, and let me live. 20 Clif. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy : my father's blood Hath stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. Rut. Then let my father's blood open it again : He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him. Clif Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me. No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves, And hung their rotten coffins up in chains. It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the house of York so Is as a fury to, torment my soul ; And till I root- out tlieir accursed line, 283 Act I. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene IV. my And leave not one alive, I live in hell. Therefore — Rut. O ! let me pray before I take death. — To thee I pray : sweet Clifford, pity me ! Glif. Such pity as my rapier's point affor'ds. Rut. I never did thee harm : why wilt thou slay me ? Glif. Thy father hath. Rut. But 't was ere I was born. Thou hast one son, for his sake pity me, « Lest, in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as misei-ably slain as I. Ah ! let me live in prison all my days ; And when I give occasion of offence, Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. Clif. No cause ? Thy father slew my father : therefore, die. [Stahs him. Rut. Di fadant, laudis sumina sit ista turn ! \pies. Glif. Plantagenet ! I come, Plantagenet ! And this thy son's blood, cleaving to my blade, so Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood, Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. {Exit. Scene IV. — The Ala/rum. Enter York. York. The army of the queen hath got the field: My uncles both are slain in rescuing me ; And all my followei-s to the eager foe Tui-n back, and fly like ships before the wind. Or Jambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. My sons — -God kuow.s, what hath bechanced them : But this I know, they have demean'd them- selves Like men bom to renown, by life, or death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried, — " Courage, father ! tight it out ! " .10 And full as oft came Edward to my side. With purple faulchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encounter'd him : And when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried, — " Charge ! and give no foot of ground ! " And cried, — "A crown, or else a glorious tomb ! A sceptre, or an earthly sepulchre ! " With this, we charg'd again ; but, out, alas ! We bodg'd again : as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide, 20 And spend her strength with over-matching waves. [A slwrt ala/rwm within. Ah, hark ! the fatal followers do pursue ; And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury ; And were I strong, I would not shun their fury. The sands are number'd, that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter Queen Margaret, Clifford, Northum- berland, the young Prince, and Soldiers. Come, bloody Clifford, — trough Northumber- land, — I dare your quenchless fury to more rage. I am your butt, and I abide your shot. North. Yield to our mercy, proud Planta- genet. so Glif. Ay, to such mercy, as his ruthless arm With downright payment show'd unto my father. Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car. And made an evening at the noontide prick. York. My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all ; And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven. Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with. Why come you not ? — what ! multitudes, and fear? Glif. So cowards fight, when they can fly no further ; 40 So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons ; So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their lives. Breathe out inVectives 'gainst the officers. York. O Clifford ! but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'errun my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face. And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with cowardice, Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this. Glif. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows, twice two for one. [Draws. Q. Mar. Hold, valiant Clifford ! for a thousand causes 01 I would prolong awhile the traitor's life. — Wrath makes him deaf : speak thou, Northum- berland. North. Hold, Clifford ! do not honour him so much 2S1 Act 1. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene IV. To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn, him with his foot away? It is war's prize to take all vantages. And ten to one is no impeach of valour. eo \Tliey lay lumds on York, who struggles: Clif. Ay, ay : so strives the woodcock with the gin. North. So doth the cony struggle in the net. [York is taken prisoner. York. So triumph thieves upon their con- quer'd booty ; So true men yield, with robbers so o'er- match'd. North. What would your grace have done unto him now 1 Q. Mar. Brave wamors, Clifford and Nor- thumberland, Come, make him stand upon this molehill here. That raught at mountains with outstretched arms. Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. — What ! was it you, that would be England's king ? ™ Was 't you that revell'd in our parliament, And made a preachment of your high de- scent ? Where are your mess of sons to back you now? The wanton Edward, and the lusty George ? And where 's that valiant crook-back prodigy, Dicky your boy, that, with his grumbling voice. Was wont to cheer his dad in mutinies ? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland ? Look, York : I stain'd this napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford with his rapier's point so Made issue from the bosom of the boy ; And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York ! but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I pr'ythee, grieve, to make me merry, York : What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails. That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death ? Why art thou patient, man ? thou shouldst be mad; And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. si Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me sport ; York cannot speak, unless he wear a crown. — A crown for York ! — and, lords, bow low to him. — Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. — [Putting a paper crown on his head, Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king. Ay, this is he that took King Henry's chair, And this is he was his adopted heir. — But how is it, that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soon, and broke his solemn oath ? 100 As I bethink me, you should not be king. Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, And rob his temples of the diadem. Now in his life, against your holy oath 1 ! 't is a fault too too unpardonable. — Off with the crown ; and, with the crown, his head ! And, whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead. Clif. That is my office, for my father's sake. Q. Mar. Nay, stay ; let 's hear the orisons he makes. no York. She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France ; Whose tongue more poisons than the adder's tooth ! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex, To triumph, like an Amazonian trull, Upon their woes whom fortune captivates ! But that thy face is, visor-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, 1 would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush : To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd. Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. 120 Thy father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monai-ch taught thee to in- sult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen ; Unless the adage must be verified, That beggars, mounted, run their hoi-se to death. 'T is beauty that doth oft make women proud ; But, God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 'T is virtue that doth make them most ad- mir'd ; lao The contrary doth make thee wonder'd at. 'T is government that makes them seem di- vine ; The want thereof makes thee abominable. 285 Act II. KING HENEY VI.— PAET III. Scene I. Thou art as opposite to every good, As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the septentrion. O tiger's heart, wrapp'd in a woman's hide ! How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal ; And yet be seen to bear a woman's face 1 im Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible ; Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorse- less. Bidd'st thou me rage ? why, now thou hast thy wish : Wouldst have me weep ? why, now thou hast thy will. For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies. And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee, fell Olifibrd, and thee, false Frenchwoman. North. Beshrew me, but his passions move me so, 150 That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. Fork. That face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have stain'd with blood ; But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, O, ten times more, than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears ! This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet toy. And I with tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this ; And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, i«i Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears ; Yea, even my foes will shed fast-falling tears, And say, — "Alas ! it was a piteous deed." — There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse. And in thy need such comfort come to thee. As now I reap at thy too crael hand ! — Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world ; My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads ! North. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, I should not, for my life, but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. 171 Q. Mar. What ! weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland ? Think but upon the wrong he did us all. And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. Clif. Here 's for my oath j here 's for my father's death. \Stahbing him. Q. Mar. And here 's to right our gentle- hearted king. [Slabbing him. York. Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee. [Dies. Q. Mar. OS with his head, and set it on York gates : So York may overlook the town of York. iso [Flourish. Exeunt. ACT II. Scene I.^A Plain near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire. A March. Enter Edward and Richard, with their Power. Edv). I wonder, how our princely father 'scap'd ; Or whether he be 'scap'd away, or no. From Clifibrd's and Northumberland's pur- suit. Had he been ta'en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard the news; Or had he 'scap'd, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of his good escape. — How fares my brother ? why is he so sad 1 Hick I cannot joy, until I be resolv'd Where our right valiant father is become. 10 I saw him in the battle range about, And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought, he bore him in the thickest troop, As doth a lion in a hei-d of neat : Or as a bear, encompass'd round with dogs ; Who having pinch'd a few, and made them cry. The rest stand all aloof, and bark at him. 80 far'd our father with his enemies ; So fled his enemies my warlike father : Methinks, 't is prize enough to be his son. 20 See, how the morning opes her golden gates. And takes her farewell of the glorious sun : How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a younker, prancing to his love ! Edw. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three suns ? Jiich. Three glorious suns, each one a per- fect sun, Not separated with the racking clouds, But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. 286 Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PAET III. Scene I. See, see ! they join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow'd some league inviolable : so Now are they but one lamp, one light, one sun ! In this the heaven figures some event. Edw. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of. I think, it cites us, brother, to the field. That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Each one already blazing by our meeds. Should, notwithstanding, join our lights to- gether. And over-shine the earth, as this the world. Whate'er it bodes, henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair-shining suns. «> Rich. Nay, bear three daughters : by your leave I speak it. You love the breeder better than the male. Enter a Messenger. 5ut what art thou, whose heavy looks foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue '! Mess. Ah ! one that was a woful looker-on, Whenas the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely father, and my loving lord. Edw. O, speak no more ! for I have heard too much. ' Hich. Say, how he died, for I will hear it all. Mess. Environed he was with many foes ; so And stood against tliem, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks, that would have enter'd Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds ; And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. By many hands your father was subdu'd ; But only slaughter'd by the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifibrd, and the queen, Who orown'd the gracious duke in high despite ; Laugh'd in his face ; and, when with grief he wept, 60 The ruthless queen gave him, to dry his cheeks, A napkin steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain :, And, after many scorns, many foul taunts. They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the same ; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd. Edw. Sweet Duke of York ! our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no staff, no stay. O Clifford ! boisterous Clifford ! thou hast slain 70 The flower of Europe for his chivalry j And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, For, hand to hand, he would have vanquish'd thee. Now, my soul's palace is become a prison : Ah ! would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest ! For never henceforth shall I joy again. Never, O ! never, shall I see more joy. Eich. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart : so Nor can my tongue unload my heart's great burden ; For selfsame wind, that I should speak withal, Is kindling coals that fire all my breast. And bum me up with flames that tears would quench. To weep is to make less the depth of grief : Tears, then, for babes ; blows and revenge for me ! — Richarjl, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death, Or die renowned by attemj)ting it. Edw. His name that valiant duke hath left with thee ; His dukedom and his chair with me is left, oo Mich. Nay, if thou be that princely eagle's bird. Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the sun : For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom say; Either that is thine, or else thou wert not his. March. Enter Warwick and Montague, with their Army. War. How now, fair lords ? What fare ? what news abroad ? Rich. Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each word's de- liverance Stab poniards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds. valiant lord ! the Duke of York is slain, wo Edw. O Warwick ! Warwick ! that Plan- tagenet, Which held thee dearly as his soul's re- demption, Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. Wa/r. Ten days ago I drown'd these news in tears, And now, to add more measure to your woes, 1 cotae to tell you things sith then befallen. After the bloody fra^y at Wakefield fought, 287 Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I. Wiere your brave father breath'd his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss, and his depart. I, then in London, keeper of the king, m Muster'd my soldiers, gather'd flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, March'd towards Saint Albans to intercept the queen. Bearing the king in my behalf along ; For by my scouts I was advertised, That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late decree in parliament, Touching King Henry's oath and your suc- cession. Short tale to make, — we at Saint Albans met, 120 Our battles joiu'd, and both sides fiercely fought ; But, whether 't was the coldness of the king. Who look'd full gently on his warlike queen, That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen, Or whether 't was report of her success, Or more than common fear of Clifibrd'g rigour, Who thunders to his captives blood and death, I cannot judge : but, to conclude with truth. Their weapons like to lightning came and went ; Our soldiers' — like the night-owl's lazy flight, Or like an idle thresher with a flail, — isi Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. I cheer'd them up with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay and great rewards : But all in vain ; they had no heart to fight, . And we, in them, no hope to win the day ; So that we fled : the king unto the queen ; Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and myself, lahaste, post-haste, are come to join with you ; For in the marches here, we heard, you were. Making another head to fight again. i4i Edw. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick ? And when came George from Burgundy to England ^ War. Some six miles ofi' the duke is with the soldiers ; And for your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt. Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of soldiers to this needful war. Rich. 'T was odds, belike, when valiant Warwick fled : Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit. But ne'er, till now, his scandal of retire. iso War. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou heax ; For thou shalt know, this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the "awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in war. As he is f am'd for mildness, peace, and prayer. Rich. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not : 'T is love I bear thy glories makes me speak. But in this troublous time, what 's to be done] Shall we go throw away our coats of steel, leo And wrap our bodies in black moiirning gowns. Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads ? Or shall we on the helmets of our foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms ? If for the last, say — Ay, and to it, lords. War. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out. And therefore comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting queen, With Clifford, and the haught Northumber- land, 19 And of their feather many more proud birds, Have wrought the easy-melting king like wax. He swore consent to your succession, His oath enrolled in the parliament ; And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his oath, and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster : Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong. Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself. With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of March, ir9 Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure. Will but amount to five-and-twenty thousand, Why, Via ! to London will we march amain, And once again bestride our foaming steeds. And once again cry — Charge ! upon our foes ! But never once again turn back, and fly. Rich. A.J, now, methinks, I hear great Warwick speak. Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day, That cries— Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. Edw. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And when thou faU'st, (as God forbid the hour !) 190 Must Edward fall, which peril Heaven forfend ! War. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York : The next degree is England's royal throne ; For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd In every borough as we pass along ; And he that throws not up his cap for joy. Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. Acyr II, KING HEKRY VI.— PART III. Scene II. King Edward, — valiant Richard, — Mon- Stay we no longer dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets, and about our task. Rich. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, '"''^ As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. Edw. Then strike up, drums ! — God and Saint G«orge for us ! Enter a Messenger. War. How now? what news 1 Mess. The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The queen is coming with a puissant host ; And craves your company for speedy counsel. W(w. Why then it sorts : brave warriors, let 's away. [Exevrnt. Scene II. — Before York. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Mar- garet, the Prince of Wales, Clifford, and Northumberland, with drums and Q. Mwr. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York. Yonder 's the head of that arch-enemy. That sought to be encompass'd with your crown : Doth not the object cheer your heart, my lord? K. Hen. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack : To see this sight, it irks my very soul. — Withhold revenge, dear God ! 't is not my fault. Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow. Clif. My gracious liege, this too much lenity. And harmful pity, must be laid aside. lo To whom do lions cast their gentle looks ? Not to the beasts that would usurp their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick ? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who 'scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting ? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on; And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitiovis York did level at thy crown ; Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows : He, but a duke, would have his son a king, v. 25 And raise his issue like a loving sire ; Thou, being a king, bless'd with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him. Which argu'd thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed their young ; And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in protection of their tender ones. Who hath not seen them, even with those wings Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight, so Make war with him that climb'd unto their nest. Offering their own lives in their young's defence ? For shame, my liege ! make them your pre- cedent. Were it not pity, that this goodly boy Should lose his birthright by his father's fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, — " What my great-grandfather and grandsire got, My careless father fondly gave away." Ah ! what a shame were this ! Look on the boy; And let his manly face, which promiseth 40 Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him. K. Hen. Full well hath Clifford play'd the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But, Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear. That things ill got had ever bad success ? And happy always was it for that son. Whose father for his hoarding went to hell ? I '11 leave my son my virtuous deeds behind ; And 'would my father had left me no more ; For all the rest is held at such a rate 51 As brings a thousand-fold more care to keep. Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah, cousin York ! 'would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy head is here ! Q. Mm-. My lord, cheer up your spirits : our foes are nigh. And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promis'd knighthood to our forward son ; Unsheathe your sword, and dub him pre- sently. — Edward, kneel down. 80 K. Hen. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight ; And learn this lesson, — Draw thy sword in right. 2S9 Act II. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene II. Prince. My gracious father, by your kingly leave, I '11 draw it as apparent to the crown. And in that quarrel use it to the death. Clif. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Royal commanders, be in readiness : For, with a band of thirty thousand men. Comes Warwick, ba That Phaethon should check thy fiery steeds, Thy burning car never had scorch'd the earth ; And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as kings should do. Or as thy father, and his father, did. Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer- flies ; I, and ten thousand in this luckless realm. Had left no mourning widows for our death. And thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but gentle air l. And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity ? 21 Bootless are plaints, and cureless are my wounds ; No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight : The foe is merciless, and will not pity ; For at their hands I have deserv'd no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds. And much efiuse of blood doth make me faint. — Come, York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest ; 1 stabb'd your fathers' bosoms, split my breast. [He faints. Alarum and Retreat. Enter Edward, Geoege, Richard, Montague, Warwick, cmd Soldiers. Edw. Now breathe we, lords : good fortune bids us pause, so And smooth the frowns of war with peaceful looks.- — ■ Some troops pursue the bloody-minded queen. That led calm Henry, though he were a king. As doth a sail, fill'd with a fretting gust, Command an argosy to stem the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifibrd fled with them % War. No, 'tis impossible he should escape; For, though before his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave; And wheresoe'er he is, he 's surely dead. « ■ [Clifford groans and dies. Edw. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave 1 Rich. A deadly groan, like life and death's departing. Edw. See who it is : and, now the battle 's ended. If friend, or foe, let him be gently us'd. Rich. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 't is Cliflbrd ; Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch In hewing Rutland when his leaves put forth. But set his murdering knife unto the root From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring,— I mean, our princely father, Duke of York, so War. From ofl^ the gates of York fetch down the head. Your father's head, which Clifibrd placed there ; Instead whereof, let this supply the room : Measure for measure must be answered. Edw. Bring forth that fatal screech-owl to our house. That nothing sung but death to us and ours : Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue no more shall speak [Attendants bring the body forward. War. I think, his understanding is bereft. — Speak, Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee 1 — 60 Dark cloudy death o'ershades his beams of Hfe, And he nor sees, nor hears us wliat we say. Rich. O, 'would he did ! and so, perhaps, he doth : 'T is but his policy to counterfeit. Because he would avoid such bitter taunts 2M Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PAET III. Scene I. Which in the time of death he gave our father. Geo. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. Rich. Ulifford ! ask mercy, and obtain no grace. Edw. Clifibrd ! repent in bootless penitence. War. Clifford ! devise excuses for thy faults. m Geo. While we devise fell tortures for thy faults. Rich. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York. Edw. Thou pitiedst Rutland, I will pity thee. Geo. Where's Captain Margaret, to fence you now ? Wa/r. They mock thee, Clifford : swear as thou wast wont. Rich. What ! not an oath ! nay, then the world goes hard. When Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. — I know by that, he 's dead ; and, by my soul, If this right hand would buy two hours' life, That I in all despite might rail at him, eo This hand should chop it off; and with the issuing blood Stifle the villain, whose unstaunched thirst York and young Rutland could not satisfy. Wwr. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head. And rear it in the place your father's stands. And now to London with triumphant march. There to be crowned England's royal king. From whence shall Warwick cut the sea to France, ; And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. So shalt thou sinew both these lands to- gether ; 90 And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The scatter'd foe that hopes to rise again ; For though they cannot greatly sting to hurt, Yet look to have them buz, to offend thine ears. First will I see the coronation, And then to Brittany I '11 cross the sea, To effect this marriage, so it please my lord. Edw. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be ; For in thy shoulder do I build my seat. And never will I undertake the thing, loo. Wherein thy counsel and consent is want- ing.— Richard, I will create thee Duke of Gloster ; — And George, of Clarence ; — Warwick, as our- self. Shall do, and undo, as him pleaseth best. Rich. Let me be Duke of Clarence, Georga of Gloster, For Gloster's dukedom is too ominous. War. Tut ! that 's a foolish observation : Richard, be Duke of Gloster. Now to London, To see these honours in possession. [Exeunt^ ACT IIL Scene I. — A Chase in the North of England. < Enter two Keepers, with cross-bows in their hands. 1 Keep. Under this thick-grown brake we 'U shroud ourselves ; For through this laund anon the deer will come ; And in this covert will we make our stand. Culling the principal of all the deer. 2 Keep. I'll stay above the hill, so both may shoot. 1 Keep. That cannot be ; the noise of thy cross-bow Will scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the best : And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I '11 tell thee what befell me on a day, lo In this self place where now we mean to stand. 2 Keep. Here comes a man, let 's stay till he be past. Enter King Henry, disguised, with a prayer- book. K. Hen. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love. To greet mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, 't is no land of thine ; Thy place is fill'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm wash'd off wherewith thou wast anointed : No bending knee will call thee Csesar now, No humble suitors press to speak for right. No, not a man comes for redress of thee, 20 For how can I help them, and not myself? 1 Keep. Ay, here 's a deer whose skin 's a keeper's fee : This is the quondam king; let's seize upon him. 293 Act hi. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I. K. Hen. Let me embrace the sour adver- sities ; For wise men say, it is the wisest course. 2 Keep. Why linger we % let us lay hands upon Mm. 1 Keep. Forbear awhile ; we '11 hear a little more. K. Hen. My queen and son are gone to France for aid ; And, as I hear, the great commanding War- wick Is thither gone, to crave the French king's sister so To wife for Edward. If this news be true. Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost : For Warwick is a subtle orator. And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account then, Margaret may win him. For she 's a woman to be pitied much : Her sighs will make a battery in his breast. Her tears will pierce into a marble heart ; The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn, And Nero will be tainted with remorse, m To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she 's come to beg ; Warwick, to give: She on his left side craving aid for Henry, He on his right asking a wife for Edward. She weeps, and says — her Henry is depos'd ; He smiles, and says — his Edward is install'd ; That she, poor wretch, for grief can speak no more : Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong, Tuferreth arguments of mighty strength, And, in conclusion, wins the king from her, 5o With promise of his sister, and what else. To strengthen and support King Edward's place. thus 't will be ; and thou, poor soul, Art then forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn. '2 Keep. Say, what art thou that talk'st of kings and queens ? K. Hen. More than I seem, and less than I was born to : A man at least, for less I should not be ; And men may talk of kings, and why not I '! 2 Keep. Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king. K. Hen. Why, so I am, in mind ; and that's enough. e" 2 Keep. But, if thou be a king, where is thy crown ? K. Hen. My crown is in my heart, not on my head ; O Margaret ! Not deck'd with diamonds, and Indian stones, Nor to be seen : my crown is call'd, content ; A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy. 2 Keep. Well, if you be a king crown'd with content, Your crown content, and you, must be con- tented To go along with us ; for, as we think. You king. King Edward hath de- 296 are the pos'd ; And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance, Will apprehend you as his enemy. ri K. Hen. But did you never swear, and break an oath ? 2 Keep. No, never such an oath ; nor will not now. K. Hen. Where did you dwell, when I was King of England ? 2 Keep. Here in this country, where we now remain. K Hen. I was anointed king at nine months old ; My father and my grandfather were kings ; And you were sworn true subjects unto me : And tell me then, have you not broke your oaths ? 1 Keep. No ; so For we were subjects but while you were king. K. Hen. Why, am I dead ? do I not breathe a man'! Ah, simple men ! you know not what you swear. Look, as I blow this feather from my face. And as the air blows it to me again. Obeying with my wind when I do blow. And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded always by the greater gust : Such is the lightness of you common men. But do not break your oaths ; for of that sin 90 My mild entreaty shall not make you guilty. Go where you will, the king shall be com- manded ; And be you kings : command, and I '11 obey. 1 Keep. We arc true subjects to the king. King Edward. K. Hen. So would you be again to Henry, If he were seated as King Edward is. 1 Keep. We charge you, in God's name, and the king's, To go with us unto the officers. K. Hen. In God's name, lead ; your king's name be obey'd ; And what God will, that let your king per- f onn ; loo And what he will, I humbly yield unto. [Exeunt. Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART Til. Scene II. Scene II. — London. A Room in the Palace. Enter King Edwaed, Glostee, Clarence, and Lady Gkey. K. Edw. Brother of Gloster, at Saint Albans field This lady's husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain, His lands then seiz'd on by the conqueror : Her suit is now, to repossess those lands ; Which we in justice cannot well deny, Because in quarrel of the house of York The worthy gentleman did lose his life. Glx). Your highness shall do well, to grant her suit ; It were dishonour, to deny it her. K. Edw. It were no less ; but yet I 'U make a pause. lo Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] Yea ; is it so? I see, tlie lady hath a thing to grant, Before the king will grant her humble suit. Cla/r. [Aside to Gloster.] He knows the game : how true he keeps the wind ! Gh. [Aside to Clarence.] Silence ! K- Edw. Widow, we will consider of your suit. And come some other time to know our mind. L. Grey. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay : May it please your highness to resolve me now. And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me. 20 Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] Ay, widow? then I '11 wai-rant you all your lands, An if what pleases him shall pleasure you. Fight closer, or, good faith, you '11 catch a blow. Cla/r. [Aside to Gloster.] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] God forbid that, for he '11 take vantages. K. Edw. How many children hast thou, widow % tell me. Clar. [Aside to Gloster.] I think, he means to beg a child of her. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] Nay, whip me then ; he '11 rather give her two. L. Grey. Three, my most gracious lord. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] You shall have four, if you '11 be rul'd by him. so K. Edw. 'T were pity, they should lose their father's lands. L. Grey. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it then. K. Edw. Lords, give us leave : I '11 try this widow's wit. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] Ay, good leave have you ; for you will have leave, Till youth take leave, and leave you to the crutch. [Gloster and Clarence stand apa/rt. K. Edw. Now teU me, madam, do you love your children ? L. Grey. Ay, full as dearly as I love my- self. K. Edw. And would you not do much, to do them good ? L. Grey. To do them good I would sustain some harm. K. Edw. Then get your husband's lands, to do them good. 40 L. Grey. Therefore I came unto yoir majesty. K. Edw. I 'II tell jou how these lands are to be got. L. Grey. So shall you bind me to your highness' service. K. Edw. What service wilt thou do me, if I give them ? L. Grey. What you command, that rests in me to do. K. Edw. But you will take exceptions to my boon. L. Grey. No, gracious lord, except I cannot do it. K. Edw. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. L. Grey. Why then, I will do what your grace commands. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] Hepliesherhard; and much rain wears the marble. ' 5c Clar. [Aside to Gloster.] As red as fire! nay, then her wax must melt. L. Grey. Why stips my lord ? shall I not hear my task ? K. Edw. An easy task : 't is but to love a king. L. Grey. That 's soon perform'd, because I am a subject. K. Edw. Why then, thy husband's lands I freely give thee. L. Grey. I take my leave with many thou- sand thanks. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] The match is made : she seals it with a curtsy. K. Edw. But stay thee; 'tis the fruits of love I mean. L. Grey. The fruits of love I mean, my loving liege. K. Edw. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. eo What love think'st thou I sue so much to get? L. Grey. My love till death, my humble thanks, my prayers : That love which virtue begs, and virtue grants. 207 Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene II. K. Edw. No, by my troth, I did not mean such love. L. Grey. Why, then you mean not as I thought you did. K. Edw. But now you partly may perceive my mind. L. Grey. My mind wUl never grant what I perceive Your highness aims at, if I aim aright. K. Edw. To tell thee plain, I aim to Ue with thee. L. Grey. To tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison. ro K. Edw. Why, then thou shalt not have thy husband's lands. L. Grey. Why, then mine honesty shall be my dower ; For by that loss I will not purchase them. K. Edw. Therein thou wi-ong'st thy children mightily. L. Grey. Herein your highness wrongs both them and me. But, mighty lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the sadness of my suit ; Please you dismiss me, either with ay, or no. K. Edw. Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request ; No, if thou dost say no to my demand. so L. Grey. Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end. Gh. [Aside to Clarence.] The widow likes him not, she knits her brows. Clar. [Aside to Glostee,] He is the bluntest wooer in Christendom. K. Edw. [Aside.l Her looks do argue her replete with modesty ; Her words do show her wit incomparable ; All her perfections challenge sovereignty : One way, or other, she is for a king, And she shaU be my love, or else my queeiL — Say, that King Edward take thee for his queen ? L. Grey. 'T is better said than done, my gi-acious lord: so I am a subject fit to jest withal, But far unfit to be a sovereign. K. Edw. Sweet widow, by my state I swear to thee, I speak no more than what my soul intends ; And that is, to enjoy thee for my love. L. Grey. And that is more than I will yield unto. I know, I am too mean to be your queen, And yet too good to be your concubine. K. Edw. You cavil, widow : I did mean, my queen. £. Grey. 'T will grieve your grace, my sons ahould call you father. i»> K. Edw. No more than when my daughters call thee mother. Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children ; And, by God's mother, I, being but a bachelor, Have other some : why, 't is a happy thing To be the father unto many sons. Answer no more, for thou shalt be my queen. Glo. [Aside to Clarence.] The ghostly father now hath done his shrift. Clar. [Aside to Gloster.] When he was made a shriver, 't was for shift. K. Edw. Brothers, you muse what chat we two have had. Glo. The widow likes it not, for she looks very sad. "o K Edw. You'd think it strange if I should marry her. Clar. To whom, my lord ? K Edw. Why, Clarence, to myself. Glo. That would be ten days' wonder at the least. Clar. That 's a day longer than a wonder lasts. Glo. By so much is the wonder in extremes. K. Edw. Well, jest on, brothers : I can tell you both. Her suit is granted for her husband's lands. Enter a Nohleman. Nob. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken. And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. K. Edw. See that he be convey'd unto the Tower : — 120 And go we, brothers, to the man that took him. To question of his apprehension. — Widow, go you along. — Lords, use her honour- ably. [Exeunt King Edward, Lady Grey, Clarence and Lord. Glo. Ay, Edward will use women honour- ably. 'Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all. That from his loins no hopeful branch may spring. To cross me from the golden time I look for ! And yet, between my soul's desire, and me, — The lustful Edward's title buried, — Is Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, 130 And all the unlook'd-for issue of their bodies, To take their rooms, ere I can place myself : A, cold premeditation for my purpose ! Why then, I do but dream on sovereignty ; Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene III. Like one that stands upon a promontory. And spies a far-off shore '• where he would tread, Wishing his foot were eqxial with i his eye ; And chides the sea that sunders him from thence, Saying — he'll lade it dry to have his way : So do I wish the crown, being so far off, mo And so I chide the means that keep me from it; And so I say — I '11 cut the causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities. — My eye 's too quick, my heart o'erweens too much. Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say there is no kingdom then for Richard, What other pleasure can the world afford i I '11 make my heaven in a lady's lap, And deck my body in gay ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and .looks. 160 O miserable thought ! and more unlik,ely, Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns. Why, love forswore me in my mother's womb : And, for I should not deal in her soft laws, She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe, To shrink mine arm up like a wither'd shrub; To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to mock my body ; To shape my legs of an unequal size ; To disproportion me in every part ; leo Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp, That carries no impression like the dam. And am I then a man to be belov'd ? ' O monstrous fault, to harbour such a thought! Then,' since this earth affords no joy to me But to command, to check, to o'erbear such As are of better person than myself, I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown ; And, whiles I live, to account this world but . hell, Until mymisshap'd tnink, that bearsthis head, Be round impaled with a glorious crown, m And yet I know not how to get the crown, For niariy lives stand between riie and home : And I, — like one lost in a thorny wood, That rents the thorns, and is rent with the thorns. Seeking a way, and straying from the way, Not knowing how to find the open air. But toiling desperately to find it out, — Torment myself to catch the English crown : And from that torment I will free myself, iso Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why, I can smile, and murder while I smile. And cry, content, to that which grieves my heart. And wet my cheeks with artificial tears. And frame my face to all occasions. I '11 -drown more sailors than the mermaid shall, I '11 slay more gazers than the basilisk ; I '11 play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive more slily than Ulysses could. And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. ino I can add colours to the chameleon, CKange shapes with Proteus, for advantages, , And set the murd'rous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown t Tut ! were it further off, I '11 pluck it down. [Hxit. Scene III.^France. A Room in the Palace. Flourish. Enter Lewis tlie French King, and Lady Bona, attended: the King takes his state. Then enter Queen Margaret, Prince Edward, and the Karl of Oxford. K. Lew. [Eisim/.] Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret, Sit down with us : it ills befits thy state And birth, that thou shouldst stand, while Lewis doth sit. Q. Mar. No, mighty king of France ; now Margaret Must strike her sail, and learn awhile to serve, Where kings command. I was, I must con- fess. Great Albion's queen in former golden days ; But now mischance hath trod my title down. And with dishonour laid me on the ground, Where I must take like seat unto my fortune, And to my humble seat conform myself. n K. Lew. Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair 1 Q. Mar. From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears, And stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares. K. Lew. Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself. And sit thee by our side : \seats her by him] yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; It shall be eas'd, if France can yield relief. 20 Q. Mar. Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts, And give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART III, Scene III. Now, therefore, be it known to noble Lewis, That Henry, sole possessor of my love, Is of a king become a banish'd man. And forc'd to live in Scotland, a forlorn ; While proud ambitious Edward, Duke of York, Usurps the regal title, and the seat Of England's true-anoiated lawful king. This is the cause, that I, poor Margaret, so With this my son, Prince Edward, Henry's heir, Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid ; And if thou fail us, all our hojje is done. Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help ; Our people and our peers are both misled, Our treasure seiz'd, our soldiers put to flight. And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight. K. Lew. Renowned queen, with patience calm the storm, While we bethink a means to break it off. Q. Mar. The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe. « K. Lew. The more I stay, the more I'll succour thee. Q. Mar. O ! but impatience waiteth on true sorrow : And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow. Unter Warwick, attended. K. Lew. What 's he, approacheth boldly to our presence ? Q. Mar. Our Earl of Warwick, Edward's greatest friend. K. Lew. Welcome, brave Warwick. What brings thee to France ? [Descending from his state. Queen Margaeet rises. Q. Mar. Ay, now begins a second storm to rise ; For this is he that moves both wind and tide. War. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, My lord and sovereign, and thy vowed friend, I come, in kindness, and unfeigned love, si First, to do greetings to thy royal person ; And then, to crave a league of amity ; And lastly, to confirm that amity With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady Bona, thy fair sister. To England's king in lawful marriage. Q. Mar. If that go forward, Henry's hope is done. War. [To Bona.] And, gracious madam, in our king's behalf, I am commanded, with your leave and favour. Humbly to kiss your iand, and with my tongue «' To tell the passion of my sovereign's heart ; Where fame, late entering at his heedful ears, Hath plac'd thy beauty's image, and thy virtue. (J. Mar. King Lewis, and Lady Bona, hear me speak. Before you answer Warwick. His demand Springs not from Edward's well-meant honest love. But from deceit, bred by necessity ; For how can tyrants safely govern home. Unless abroad they purchase great alliance 1 ro To prove him tyrant, this reason may suffice, That Henry liveth still ; but were he dead. Yet here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son. Look, therefore, Lewis, that by this league and marriage Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; For though usurpers sway the rule awhile, Yet heavens are just, and time suppresseth wrongs. War. Injurioiis Margaret ! PrinQe. And why not queen 1 War. Because thy father Henry did usurp. And thou no more art prince, than she is queen. so Oxf. Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt, Which did subdue the greatest part of Spain ; And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth, Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest ; And after that wise prince, Henry the Fifth, Who by his prowess conquered all France : From these our Henry lineally descends. War. Oxford, how haps it, in this smooth discourse. You told not, how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that which Henry the Fifth had gotten ? Methinks, these peers of France should smile at that. »i But for the rest, — you tell a pedigree Of threescore and two years ; a silly time To make prescription for a kin<^dom's worth. Oxf. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak against thy liege. Whom thou obeyedst thirty and six years, And not bewray thy treason with a blush ? War. Can Oxford, that did ever fence the right. Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree 1 For shame ! leave Henry, and call Edward king. 100 Oxf. Call him my king, by whose injurious doom My elder brother, the Lord Aubrey Vere, Was done to death ] and more than so, my father. Even in the downfall of his mellow'd years. 300 Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene III. Wben nature brought him to the door of death ? , No, Warwick, no ; while life upholds this arm. This arm upholds the house of Lancaster. War. And I the house of York. K. Lew. Queen Margaret, Pi-ince Edward, and Oxford, Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside, no While I use further conference with Warwick. Q. Ma/r. Heavens grant, that Warwick's words bewitch him not ! \Retir'mg with the Prince and Oxford . K. Lew. Now, Warwick, tell me, even upon thy conscience. Is Edward your true king? for I were loath, To link with him that were not lawful chosen. Wa/r. Thereon I pawn my credit, and mine honour. K. Lew. But is he gracious in the people's eye? War. The more, that Henry was unfortu- nate. K. Lew. Then further, all dissembling set aside. Tell me for truth the measure of his love 120 Unto our sister Bona. Wa/r. Such it seems. As may beseem a monarch like himself. Myself have often heard him say, and swear. That this his love was an eternal plant, Whereof the root was fix'd in virtue's ground. The leaves and fruit maintain'd with beauty's sun. Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. K. Lew. Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve. Bona. Your grant, or your denial, shall be mine. — iso \To Warwick.] Yet I confess, that often ere this day. When 1 have heard your king's desert re- counted. Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. K. Lew. Then, Warwick, thus : — our sister shall be Edward's ; And now forthwith shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which with her dowry shall be counter- pois'd. — Draw near. Queen Margaret, and be a witness. That Bona shall be wife to the English king. Prince. To Edward, but not to the English king. i«> Q. Man: Deceitful Warwick ! it was thy device. By this alliance to make void my suit : Before thy coming, Lewis was Henry's friend. K. Lew. And still is friend to him and Margaret ; But if your title to the crown be weak. As may appear by Edward's good success, Then 't is but reason, that I be releas'd From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand. That your estate requires, and mine can yield. isc War. Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease. Where having nothing, nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, You have a father able to maintain you, And better 't were you troubled him than France. Q. Man: Peace ! impudent and shameless Warwick, peace, Proud setter-up and puller-down of kings ; I will not hence, till with my talk and tears, Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance, and thy lord's false love; For both of you are birds of selfsame feather. \A horn sounded within. K. Lew. Warwick, this is some post to us, or thee. lez Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord ambassador, these letters are for you, Sent from your brother, Marquess Mon- tague ; — ■ These from our king unto your majesty ; — And, madam, these for you ; from whom, I know not. \They all read their letters. Oxf. I like it well, that our fair queen and mistress Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at his. Prince. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled : I hope all 's for the best. iro K. Lew. Warwick, what are thy news ? and yours, fair queen ? Q. Mar. Mine, such as fill my heart with unhop'd joys. War. Mine, full of sorrow and heart's dis- content. K. Lew. What ! has your king married the Lady Grey, And now, to sooth your forgery and his. Sends me a paper to persuade me patience 1 Is this the alliance that he seeks with France 1 Dare he presume to scorn us in this maimer 1 Q. Man-. I told your majesty as much before : 301 Act III. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene III. This proveth Edward's love, and Warwick's honesty. iso War. King Lewis, I here protest, in sight of heaven, And by the hope I have of heavenly bliss, That I am clear from this misdeed of Ed- ward's ; No more my king, for he dishonours me ; But most himself, if he covild see his shame. Did I forget, that by the house of York My father came untimely to his death ? Did I let pass the abuse done to my niece % Did I impale hiia with the regal crown ? Did I put Henry from his native right ? iso And am I guerdon'd at the last with shame ? Shame on himself, for my desert is honour : And to repair my honour lost for him, I here renounce him, and return to Henry. My noble queen, let former grudges pass, And henceforth I am thy true servitor. I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona, And replant Henry in his former state. Q. Mar. Warwick, these words have turn'd my hate to love ; And I forgive and quite forget old faults, 200 And joy that thou becom'st King Henry's friend. War. So much his friend, ay, his unfeigned friend, That if King Lewis "luchsafe to furnish us With some few bandf of chosen soldiers, I '11 undertake to land them on our coast. And force the tyrant from his seat by war. 'T is not his new-made bride shall succour him : And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, He 's very likely now to fall from him, For matching more for wanton lust than honour, 210 Or than for strength and safety of our country. Bona. Dear brother, how shall Bona be reveng'd. But by thy help to this distressed queen % Q. Mar. Renowned prince, how shall poor Henry live. Unless thou rescue him from foul despair % Bona. My quarrel, and this English queen's, are one. War. And mine, fair Lady Bona, joins with yours. K. Lew. And mine, with hers, and thine, and Margaret's. Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolv'd. You shall have aid. 220 Q. Mar. Let me give humble thanks for all at once. E. Lew. Then, England's messenger, return in post ; And tell false Edward, thy supposed king. That Lewis of France is sending over masquers, To revel it with him and his new bnde. Thou seest what 's past ; go fear thy king withal. Bona. Tell him, in hope he '11 prove a widower shortly, I '11 wear the willow garland for his sake. Q. Mar. Tell him, my mourning weeds are laid aside, And I am ready to put armour on. 230 War. Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I '11 uncrown him ere 't be long. There 's thy reward : be gone. \Ex!it Messenger, K. Lew. But, Warwick, thou. And Oxford, with five thousand men. Shall cross the s4as, and bid false Edward battle : And, as occasion serves, this noMe queen And prince shall follow with a fresh supply. Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt : What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty ? 239 War. Thisshallassuremyconstantloyalty:— . That if our queen and this young prince agree, I '11 join mine eldest daughter, and my joy, To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. Q. Mar. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion. Son Edward, she is fair and virtuous, Therefore delay not, give thy hand to War- wick ; And with thy hand thy faith irrevocable. That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine. Prince. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it ; And here, to pledge my vow, I give my hand. \He gives his hand to Warwick. K. Lew. Why stay we now ? These soldiers shall be levied, ■ 251 And thou, Lord Bourbon, our high admiral, Shalt waft them over with our royal fleet. — I long till Edward fall by war's mischance. For mocking marriage with a dame of France. \Exeunt all but Warwick. War. I came from Edward as ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal foe : Matter of marriage w? s the charge he gave me. But dreadful war shall answer his demand. Had he none else to make a stale but me ? 260 Then none but I shall turn his jest to sorrow. I was the chief that rais'd him to the crown, And I '11 be chief to bring him down again : Not that I pity Henry's misery, But seek revenge on Edward's mockery. [Exit Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I, ACT IV. Scene I. — London. A Room in the Palace. Enter Gloster, Clarence, Somerset, and Montague. Glo. Now tell me, brother Clarence, what think you Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey % Hath not our brother made a worthy choice ? Gla/r. Alas ! you know, 't is far from hence to France : How could he stay till Warwick made return? Som. My. lords, forbear this talk : here comes the king. Glo. And his well-chosen bride. Gla/r.. I . mind to tell him plainly what I think. Flourish. Enter King Edward, attended; Lady Grey, as Queen ; Pembroke, Staf- ford, and Hastings. K. Edw. Now, brother of Clarence, how like you our choice. That you stand pensive as half malcontent 1 lo Clar. As well as Lewis of France, or the Earl of Warwick ; Which are so weak of courage, and in judg- ment, That they '11 take no offence at our abuse. K. Edw. Suppose they take offence without a cause, They are but Lewis and Warwick : I am Edward, Your king and Warwick's, and must have my wUl. Glo. And you shall have your will, because our king ; Yet hasty marriage seldom proveth well. K. Edw. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too ? Glo. Not I: . 20 No, God forbid, that I should wish them sever'd Whom God hath join'd together ; ay, and 't were pity. To sunder them that yoke so well together. K. Edw. Setting your scorns, and your mislike, aside, Tell me some reason why the Lady Grey Should not become my wife, and England's queen. — - And you too, Somerset, and Montague, Speak freely what you think. Cla/r. Then this is mine opinion,-T— that King Lewis Becomes your enemy, for mocking him so About the marriage, of the Lady Bona. Glo. And Warwick, doing what you gave in charge, , Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. K. Edw. What, if both Lewis and Warwick be appeas'd By such invention as I can devise ? Mont. Yet to have join'd with France in such alliance. Would more, have strengthen'd this our commonwealth 'Gainst foreign storms, than any home-bred marriage. , , Hast, why, knows not Montague, that of itself England is safe, if true within itself? « Mont. Yes ; but the safer, when 't is back'd with France. Hast. 'T is better using France, than trust- ing France. Let us be back'd with God, and with the seas. Which he hath given for fence impregnable. And with their helps only defend ourselves ; In them and in ourselves our safety lies. . Clar. For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford. K. Edw. Ay, what of that ? it was my will, and grant ; And for this once my will shall stand for law. Glo. And yet, methinks, your grace hath not done well, 51 To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales Unto the brother of your loving bride : She better woiild have fitted me, or Clarence; But in your bride you bury brotherhood. Clan: Or else you would not have bestow'd the heir Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son, And leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. K. Edw. Alas, poor Clarence ! is it for a wife. That thou art malcontent ? I will provide thee. 60 Gla/r. In choosing for yourself you show'd your judgment ; Which being shallow, you shall give me leave To play the broker in mine own behalf ; And to that end I shortly mind to leave you. K. Edw. Leave me, or tarry, Edward will be king. And not be tied unto his brother's wilL Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I. Q. Eliz. My lords, before it pleas'd his majesty To raise my state to title of a queen, Do me but right, and you must all confess That I was not ignoble of descent : 70 And meaner than myself have had like fortune. But as this title honours me and mine, So your dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing, Do cloud my joys with danger and with sorrow. K. Edw. My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns. What danger, or what sorrow can befall thee. So long as Edward is thy constant friend, And their true sovereign, whom they must obey? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love thee too. Unless they seek for hatred at my hands ; so Which if they do, yet will I keep thee safe. And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. Glo. [Aside.^ I hear, yet say not much, but think the more. Enter a Messenger. K. Edw. Now, messenger, what letters, or what news. From France? Mess. My sovereign liege, no letters, and few words ; But such as I, without your special pardon. Dare not relate. K. Edw. Go to, we pardon thee : therefore, in brief. Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them. so What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters ? Mess. At my depart these were his very words : — " Go tell false Edward, thy supposed king. That Lewis of France is sending over masquers. To revel it with him and his new bride." K. Edw. Is Lewis so brave ? belike, he thinks me Henry. But what said Lady Bona to my marriage ? Mess. These were her words, utter'd with mild disdain : " Tell him, in hope he 11 prove a widowei- shortly, I '11 wear the willow garland for his sake." 100 K. Edw. I blame not her, she could say little less ; She had the wrong : but what said Henry's, queen ? For I have heard, that she was there in place. Mess. " Tell him," quoth she, " my mourn- ing weeds are done, And I am ready to put armour on." K. Edw. Belike, she minds to play the Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries? Mess. He, more incens'd against your majesty Than all the rest, discharg'd me with these words : — "Tell him from me, that he hath done me wrpng, 110 And therefore I '11 uncrown him ere 't be long." K. Edw. Ha ! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words ? Well, I will arm me, being thus forewarn'd ; They shall have wars, and pay for their pre- sumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret ? Mess. Ay, gi-acious sovereign : they are so link'd in friendship. That young Prince Edward marries Warwick's daughter. Clar. Belike, the elder ; Clarence will have the younger. Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast. For 1 will hence to Warwick's other daughter; That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage 121 I may not prove inferior to yourself. — You, that love me and Warwick, follow me. [Exit Claeence, and Somersei follows. Glo. [Aside.] Not I : My thoughts aim at a further matter ; I Stay not for the love of Edward, but the crown. JC. Edw. Clarence and Somerset both gone to Warwick ! Yet am I arm'd against the worst can happen. And haste is needful in this desperate case. — Pembroke, and Stafford, you in our behalf iso Go levy men, and make prepare for war ; They are already, or quickly will be landed : Myself in person will straight follow you. [Exeunt Pembroke and Stafford. But, ere I go, Hastings, and Montague, Resolve my doubt. You twain, of all the rest. Are near to Warwick by blood, and by alliance : Tell me if you love Warwick more than nie? If it be so, then both depart to him : I rather wish you foes ; than hollow friends ; But, if you mind to hold your true obedience. Give me assurance with some friendly vow. That I may never have you in suspect. 142 Mont. So God help Montague, as he proves true ! Hast. And Hastings, as he favours Edward's cause ! 304, Act IV. KING HENRV VI.— PART III. Scene III. K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, will you stand by us *! Glo. Ay, in despite of all that shall with- stand you. K. Edvi. Why so ; then am I sure of victory. Now therefore let us hence ; and lose no hour. Till we meet Warwick with his foreign power. [Exeunt. Scene II. — ^A Plain in Warwickshire. Enter Warwick and Oxford with French and other Forces. Wa/r. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well : The common people by numbers swarm to us. Enter Clarence and Somerset. But see, where Somerset and Clarence come ! Speak suddenly, my lords, are we all friends 1 Clar. Fear not that, my lord. War. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick : And welcome, Somerset. — I hold it cowardice, To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawn'd an open hand in sign of love ; Else might I think, that Clarence, Edward's brother, lo Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings : But welcome, sweet Clarence ; my daughter shall be thine. And now what rests, but in night's coverture. Thy brother being carelessly encamp'd. His soldiers lurking in the towns about. And but attended by a simple guard, We may surprise and take him at our pleasure ? Our scouts have found the adventure very easy : That as Ulyssesj and stout Diomede, With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents, 20 And brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds ; So we, well cover'd with the night's black mantle. At unawares may beat down Edward's guard. And seize himself ; I say not, slaughter him, For I intend but only to surprise him. — You, that will follow me to this attempt, Aj)plaud the name of Henry with your leader. [They all cry " Henry I " Why, then, let 's on our way in silent sort : For Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George ! [Exeunt. 26 Scene III. — Edward's Camp near Warwick. Enter certain Watchmen, to guard the King's Tent. 1 Watch. Come on, my masters, each man take his stand : The king by this is set him down to sleep. 2 Watch. What, will he not to bed 1 1 Watch. Why, no ; for he hath made a solemn vow, Never to lie and take his natural rest. Till Warwick or himself be quite supjDress'd. 2 Watch. To-morrow then, belike, shall be the day, K Warwick be so near as men report. 3 Watch. But say, I pray, what nobleman is that, That with the king here resteth in his tent ? 1 Watch. 'T is the Lord Hastings, the king's chiefest friend. u 3 Watch. O ! is it so ? But why commands the king. That his chief followers lodge in towns about him. While he himself keeps in the cold field 1 2 Watch. 'T is the more honour, because more dangerous. 3 Watch. Ay, but give me worship and quietness ; I like it better than a dangerous honour. If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, 'T is to be doubted, he would waken him. 1 Watch. Unless our halberds did shut up his passage. 20 2 Watch. Ay ; wherefore else guard we his royal tent. But to defend his person from night-foes ? Enter Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, Somerset, and Forces. War. This is his tent; and see, where stand his guard. Courage, my masters ! honour now, or never ! But follow me, and Edward shall be ours. 1 Watch. Who goes there ? 2 Watch. Stay, or thou diest. [Warwick, and the rest, cry all — " Wa/r- wick ! Warwick ! " and set upon the Guard ; who fly, crying — " Arm ! Arm !" Warwick, and the rest, follow- ing them. Drwms heating, and trumpets sounding, re- enter Warwick, and the rest, bringing the King out in his gown, sitting in a chair : Gloster and Hastings ^y over the stage. Som. What are they that fly there ? 305 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene V. War. Richard, and Hastings : let them go ; here 's the duke. K. Edw. The duke ! why, Warwick, when we parted last. Thou call'dst me kiag ! War. A.J, but the case is alter'd : so "When you disgrac'd me in my embassade, Then I degraded you from being king, And come now to create you Duke of York. Alas ! how should you govern any kingdom, That know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor how to use your brothers brotherly, Nor how to study for the people's welfare, Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies ? K. Edw. Yea, brother of Clarence, art thou here too ? m Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. — Yet, Warwick, in despite of all mischance, Of thee thyself, and all thy complices, Edward will always bear himself as king : Though fortune's malicS overthrow my state. My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. War. Then, for his mind, be Edward England's king : \Tahes off his crown. But Henry now shall wear the English crown. And be true king indeed ; thou but the shadow. — My Lord of Somerset, at my request, 50 See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey'd Unto my brother. Archbishop of York. When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows, I '11 follow you, and tell what answer Lewis, and the Lady Bona, send to him :- — Now, for a while, farewell, good Duke of York. K. Edw. What fates impose, that men must needs abide : It boots not to resist both wind and tide. \jExit King Edward, led out ; Somerset with him. Oxf. What now remains, my lords, for us to do. But march to London with our soldiers 1 eo Wa/r. A.J, that 's the first thing that we have to do ; To free King Henry from imprisonment. And see him seated in the regal throne. \Exeunt. ScEJTE IV. — London. A Room in the Palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth and Rivers. Riv. Madam, what makes you in this sudden change ? Q. Eliz. Why, brother Rivers, are you yet to learn. What late misfortune is befall'n King Ed- ward? JRiv. What ! loss of some pitch'd battle against Warwick? Q. Eliz. No, but the loss of his own royal person. Siv. Then is my sovereign slain 1 Q. Eliz. A.J, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner ; Either betray'd by falsehood of his guard, Or by his foe surpris'd at unawares : And, as I further have to understand, 10 Is new committed to the Bishop of York, Fell Warwick's brother, and by that o\xx foe. Riv. These news, I must confess, are fuU of grief; Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may : Warwick may lose, that now hath won the day. Q. Eliz. Till then, fair hope must hinder life's decay ; And I the rather wean me from despair. For love of Edward's offspring in my womb : This is it that makes me bridle passion. And bear with mildness my misfortune's cross ; Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a tear, 21 And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs. Lest with my sighs or tears I blast or drown King Edward's fruit, true heir to the English crown. Riv. But, madam, where is Warwick then become ? Q. Eliz. I am informed, that he comes towards London, To set the crown once more on Henry's head. Guess thou the rest ; King Edward's friends must down : But to prevent the tyrant's violence, (For trust not him that hath once broken faith,) 30 I '11 hence forthwith unto the sanctuary, To save at least the heir of Edward's right : There shall I rest secure from force, and fraud. Come, therefore ; let us fly while we may fly : If Warwick take us, we are sure to die. [Exeunt. ScENEi V. — A Park near Middleham Castle in Yorkshire. Enter Gloster, Hastings, Sir William Stanley, and otliers. Gh. Now, my Lord Hastings, and Sir William Stanley, 306 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene VI. Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither, Into this chiefest thicket of the park. Thus stands the case. You know, our king, my brother. Is prisoner to the bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage and great liberty, And often, but attended with weak guard, Comes hunting this way to disport himself. I have advertis'd him by secret means. That if about this hour he make this way, lo Under the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his friends, with horse and men, To set him free from his captivity. Enter King Edwaed and a Huntsman. Hunt. This way, my lord, for this way lies the game. K. 'Edw. Nay, this way, man : see, where the huntsmen stand.— Now^ brother of Gloster, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Stand you thus close, to steal the bishop's deer'! Glo. Brother, the time and case requireth haste. Your horse stands ready at the park-corner. K. Edw. But whither shall we then 1 20 Hast. To Lynn, my lord ; and ship from thence to Flanders. Glo. Well guess'd, believe me; for that was my meaning. K. Edw. Stanley, I will requite thy for- wardness. Glo. But wherefore stay we ? 't is no time to talk. K. Edw. Huntsman, what say'st thou ? wilt thou go along ? Hunt. Better do so, than tarry and be hang'd. Glo. Come then ; away ! let 's have no more ado. K. Edw. Bishop, farewell : shield thee from Warwick's frown, And pray that I may repossess the crown. [Exewnt. Scene VI. — A Room in the Tower. Enter- Kimg Henry, Claeence, Warwick, Somerset, yowng Richmond, Oxford, Montague, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Attendants. K. Hen. Master lieutenant, now that God and friends Have shaken Edward from the regal seat. And turn'd my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys. At our enlargement what are thy due fees ? Lieu. Subjects may challenge nothing of their sovereigns ; But if an humble prayer may prevail, I then crave pardon of your majesty. K. Hen. For what, lieutenant? for well using me % Nay, be thou sure, I'll well requite thj kindness, 10 For that it made my imprisonment a pleasure : Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive, when, after many moody thoughts, At last by notes of household harmony They quite forget their loss of liberty. — But, Warwick, after God, thou set'st me free. And chiefly therefore I thank God, and thee , He was the author, thou the instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite, By living low, where fortune cannot hurt me, 20 And that the people of this blessed land May not be punish'd with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head stUl wear thfc crown, I here resign my government to thee. For thou art fortunate in all thy deeds. War. Your grace hath still been fam'd for virtuous. And now may seem as wise as virtuous. By spying, and avoiding, fortune's malice ; For few men rightly temper with the stars : Yet in this one thing let me blame your grace, ' ,<» For choosing me when Clarence is in place. Cla/r. No, Warwick, thou art worthy 01 the sway, To whom the heavens in thy nativity Adjudg'd an olive branch, and laurel crown. As likely to be blest in peace, and war ; And, therefore, I yield thee my free consent. Wwr. And I choose Clarence only for pro- tector. K. Hen. Warwick, and Clarence, give me both your hands. Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts, That no dissension hinder government : « I make you both protectors of this land, While I myself will lead a private life. And in devotion spend my latter days. To sin's rebuke, and my Creator's praise. War. What answers Clarence to his sove- reign's will ? Glar. That he consents, if Warwick yield consent ; 307 Act IV. KING HENEY VI.— PART III; Scene VIL For on thy fortune I repose myseK. War. Why then, though loath, yet must I be content. We '11 yoke together, Hke a double shadow To Henry's body, and supply his place ; so I mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour, and his ease. And, Clarence, now then, it is more than needful, Forthwith that Edward be pronounc'd a traitor. And all his lands and goods be confiscate. Glar. What else? and that succession be determin'd. War. Ay, therein Clarence shall not want his part. K. Hen. But, with the first of all your chief affairs, Let me entreat (for I command no more), That Margaret your queen, and my son Edward, eo Be sent for to return from France with speed : For, tiU I see them here, by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclips'd. Glar. It shall be done, my sovereign, with all speed. K. Hen. My Lord of Somerset, what youth ■ is that. Of whom you seem to have so tender care ? Som. My liege, it is young Henry, Earl of Richmond. K. Hen. Come hither, England's hope. \Lays his hand on his head. ] If secret powers Suggest but truth to my divining thoughts. This pretty lad will prove our country's bHss. His looks are full of peaceful majesty ; n His head by nature fram'd to wear a crown, His hand to wield a sceptre ; and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne. Make much of him, my lords ; for this is he Must help you more than you are hurt by me. Enter a 2[essenger. War. What news, my friend ? Mess. That Edward is escaped from your brother. And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. War. Unsavoury news ! but how made he escape 1 so 2Iess. He was convey'd by Richard Duke of Gloster, And the Lord Hastings, who attended him In secret ambiish on the forest side. And from the bishop's huntsmen rescu'd him ; For hunting was his daily exercise. War. My brother was too careless of his charge. — But let us hence, my sovereign, to provide A salve for any sore that may betide. \^Exeura all hut Someeset, Richmond, and Oxford. Som. My lord, I like not of this flight of Edward's ; For, doubtless, Burgundy will yield him help, And we shall have more wars, before 't be long. 91 As Henry's late presaging prophecy Did glad my heart with hope of this young Richmond, So doth my heart misgive me, in these con- flicts What may befall him, to his harm and ours : Therefore, Lord Oxford, to prevent the worst, Forthwith we '11 send him hence to Brittany, Till storms be past of civil enmity. Oxf. Aj, for if Edward repossess the crown, 'T is like that Richmond with the rest shall down. 100 Som. It shall be so ; he shall to Brittany. Come therefore ; let 's about it speedily. \IlxevM. Scene VII. — ^Before York. Enter King Edward, Gloster, Hastings, and Forces. K. Edw. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Yet thus far fortune maketh us amends. And says that once more I shall interchange My waned state for Henry's regal crown. Well have we pass'd, and now repass'd the seas, And brought desired help from Burgundy : What then remains, we being thus arriv'd From Ravenspurg haven before the gates of York, But that we enter, as into our dukedom ? Glo. The gates made fast ! — Brother, I Hke not this ; lo For many men, that stumble at the threshold, Are well foretold that danger lurks within. K. Edw. Tush, man ! abodements must not now affright us : By fair or foul means we must enter in. For hither will our friends repair to us. Hast. My liege, I 'II knock once more to summon them. Enter, on tlte walls, the Mayor of York, and his Brethren. May. My lords, we were forewarned of your coming. 308 Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene VII. And shut the gates for safety of ourselves ; For now we owe allegiance unto Henry. K. Edw. But, master mayor, if Henry be your king, 20 Yet Edward, at the least, is Duke of York. May. True, my good lord ; I know you for no less. K. Edw. Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom, As being well content with that alone. Glo. [Aaide.^ But when the fox hath once got in his nose. He'll soon find means to make the body follow. Hast. Why, master mayor, why stand you in a doubt 1 Open the gates : we are King Henry's friends. May. Ay, say you so'! the gates shall then be-open'd. [Exeunt from above. Gh. A wise stout captain, and soon per- suaded ! so Hast. The good old man would fain that all were well. So 't were not 'long of him ; but, being enter'd, I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade Both him and all his brothers unto reason. ^ He-enter the Mayor, and two Aldermen, below. K. Edw. So, master mayor : these gates must not be shut, But in the night, or in the time of war. What ! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys, \Tahes Ms keys. For Edward will defend the town, and thee, And all those friends that deign to follow me. March. Enter Montgomery and Forces. Glo. Brother, this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiVd. « K. Edw. Welcome, Sir Johnj but why come you in arms ? Mont. To help King Edward in his time of storm. As every loyal subject ^ought to do. K. Edw. Thanks, good Montgomery ; but we now forget Our title to the crown, and only claim Our dukedom, till God please to send the rest. Mont. Then fare you well, for I will hence again : I came to serve a king, and not a duke. — « Drummer, strike up, and let us march away. \A mjarch begun. K. Edw. Nay, stay, Sir John, awhile ; and we '11 debate, By what safe means the crown may be recover'd. Mont. What talk you of debating ? in few words. If you '11 not here proclaim yourself our king, I '11 leave you to your fortune, and be gone To keep them back that come to succour you. Why shall we fight, if you pretend no title 1 Glo. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points? K. Edw. When we grow stronger, then we '11 make our claim. Till then, 't is wisdom to conceal our mean- ing. 60 Hast. Away with scrupulous wit ! now arms must rule. Glo. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns. Brother, we will proclaim you out of hand : The bruit thereof will bring you many friends. K. Edw. Then be it as you will ; for 't is my right. And Henry but usurps the diadem. Mont. A.J, now my sovereign speaketh like himself. And now will I be Edward's champion. Hast. Sound, trumpet ! Edward shall be here proclaim'd.^ — Come, fellow-soldier, make thou proclama- tion. 70 [Gwes him a paper. Flourish. Sold. [Heads.] " Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c." Moni. And whoso'er gainsays King Ed- ward's right. By this I challenge him to single fight. [Throws down his gawntlet. All. Long live Edward the Fourth ! K. Edw. Thanks, brave Montgomery, and thanks tmto you all : If fortune serve me, I '11 requite this kind- ness. Now, for this night, let 's harbour here in York, And when the morning sun shall raise his car 80 Above the border of this horizon. We '11 forward towards Warwick, and his mates ; For, well I wot that Henry is no soldier. — Ah, froward Clarence ! how evil it beseems thee. To flatter Henry, and forsake thy brother ! Yet, as we may, we 'U meet both thee and Warwick. — Act IV. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene VIII. Come on, brave soldiers : doubt not of the day; And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay. [Uxeunt. Scene VIII. — London. A Room in the Palace. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Warwick, Clarence, Montague, Exeter, amd Oxford. Wa/r. What counsel, lords ? Edward from Belgia, With hasty Grermans, and blunt Hollanders, Hath pass'd in safety through the narrow And with his troops doth march amain to London ; And many giddy people flock to him. K. Hen. Let 's levy men, and beat him back again. Clar. A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench. Wwr. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war ; lo Those will I muster up : — and thou, son Clarence, Shalt stir up in Sufiblk,Norfolk, and in Kent, The knights and gentlemen to come with thee : — Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclin'd to hear what thou com- mand'st : — And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov'd In Oxfordshire, shalt muster up thy friends. — My sovereign, with the loving citizens. Like to his island girt in with the ocean, 20 Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs. Shall rest in London, tiU we come to him. — Fair lords, take leave, and stand not to reply.— Farewell, my sovereign. K. Hen, Farewell, my Hector, and my Troy's true hope. Clar. In sign of truth, I kiss your highness' hand. K. Hen. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate. Mont. Comfort, my lord ; — and so I take my leave. Oxf. [Kissing Henry's Jiand.] And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu. K. Hen. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, so And all at once, once more a happy farewell. War. Farewell, sweet lords : let 's meet at Coventry. [Exeunt Warwick, Clarence, Oxford, and Montague. K Hen. Here at the palace will I rest awhile. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship ? Methinks, the power, that Edward hath in field. Should not be able to encounter mine. Exe. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest. K. Hen. That 's not my fear ; my meed hath got me fame. I have not stopp'd mine ears to their demands. Nor posted off their suits with slow delays ; 40 My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs. My mercy dry'd their water-fiowing tears ; I have not been desirous of their wealth. Nor much oppress'd them with great subsidies. Nor forward of revenge, though they much err'd. Then, why should they love Edward more than me 1 No, Exeter, these graces challenge grace : And, when the lion fawns upon the lamb. The lamb will never cease to follow him. 60 [Shout within : " A Lancaster ! A Lancaster!" Exe. Hark, hark, my lord ! what shouts are these? Enter King Edward, Gloster, and Soldiers. K. Edw. Seize on the shame-fac'd Henry ! bear him hence. And once again proclaim us King of England. — You are the fount that makes small brooks to flow : Now stops thy spring ; my sea shall suck them dry. And swell so much the higher by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower ! let him not speak. [Exeunt some with King Henry. And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course. Where peremptory Warwick now remains. The sun shines hot, and, if we use delay, no Cold biting winter mars our hop'd-for hay. Glo. Away betimes, before his forces join. And take the great-grown traitor unawares : Brave warriors, march amain towards Coventry. [Exeunt. 310 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene I. ACT V. Scene I. — Coventry. Enter, upon the walls, Warwick, tlie Mayor of Coventrt/, two Messengers, cmd others. Wair. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford % How far hence is thy lord, mine honest fellow % 1 Mess. By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. War. How far off is our brother Mon- tague % — Where is the post that came from Montague ? 2 Mess. By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Enter Si/r John Someeville. War. Say, Somerville, what says my loving son? And, by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now? Som. At Southam I did leave him with his forces. And do expect him here some two hours hence. [Drvmi heard. War. Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his drum. 11 Som. It is not his, my lord ; here Southam lies : The drum your honour hears marcheth from Warwick. War. Who should that be? belike, un- look'd-for friends. Som. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. Ma/rch. Flowrish. Enter King Edwaed, Glostee, cmd Forces. K. Edw. Go, trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. Glo. See, how the surly Warwick mans the wall. Wa/r. O unbid spite ! is sportful Edward come? Where slept our scouts, or how are they seduc'd. That we could hear no news of his repair? so E. Edw. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates ? Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy knee, Call Edward king, and at his hands beg mercy, And he shall pardon thee these outrages. Wa/r. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up and pluck'd thee down ? Call Warwick patron, and be penitent, And thou shalt stUl remain the Duke of York. Glo. I thought, at least, he would have said — the king. Or did he make the jest against his will ? 3o War. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift ? Glo. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give ■: I 'U do thee service for so good a gift. War. 'Twas I, that gave the kingdom to thy brother. ' K. Edw. Why then, 't is mine, if but by Warwick's gift. Wa/r. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight : And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again ; And Heniy is my king, Warwick his subject. K. Edw. But Warwick's king is Edward's prisoner ; And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this : What is the body, when the head is off? « Glo. Alas ! that Warwick had no more forecast. Bat, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, The king was slily finger'd from the deck ! Yoa left poor Henry at the bishop's palace. And, ten to one, you '11 meet him in the Tower. K. Edw. 'T is even so : yet you are Warwick still. Glo. Come, Warwick, take the time ; kneel down, kneel down. Nay, when? strike now, or else the iron cools. War. I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, 60 And with the other fling it at thy face. Than bear so low a sail to strike to thee. K. Edw. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide thy friend. This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shallj whiles thy head is warm, and new cut off. Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood, — " Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.' Enter Oxford, with drum a/nd colours. Wa/r. cheerful colours ! see, where Oxford comes. 311 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene II. Oxf. Oxford, Oxford, for Lancaster ! [Oxford and his forces enter the city. Glo. The gates are open, let us enter too. K. Edw. So other foes may set upon our backs. 61 Stand we in good array ; for they, no doubt, Will issue out again, and bid us battle : If not, the city being but of small defence, We '11 quickly rouse the traitors in the same. War. O ! -welcome, Oxford, for we want thy help. Enter Montague, with drum and colowrs. Mont. Montague, Montague, for Lan- caster ! \lle and his forces enter the city. Glo. Thou and thy brother both shall buy this treason. Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. E. Edw. The harder match'd, the greater victory : ro My mind presageth happy gain, and conquest. Enter Somerset, with drum and colours. Som. Somerset, Somerset, for Lancaster ! \He and his forces enter the city. Glo. Two of thy name, both Dukes of Somerset, Have sold their lives unto the house of York ; And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. Enter Clarence, with drwm and colours. War. And lo ! where George of Clarence sweeps along, Of force enough to bid his brother battle ; With whom an upright zeal to right prevails. More than the nature of a brother's love. — [Gloster and Clarence whisper. Come, Clarence, come ; thou wilt, if Warwick calls. 80 Clar. Father of Warwick, know you what this means 1 [^Taking the red rose out of his hat. Look here, I throw my infamy at thee : I will not ruinate my father's house. Who gave his blood to lime the stones together. And set up Lancaster. Why, trow'st thou, Warwick, That Clarence is so harsh, so blunt-unnatural. To bend the fatal instruments of war Against his brother, and his lawful king 1 Perhaps, thou will object my holy oath : To keep that oath, were more impiety so Than Jephtha's, when he sacrific'd his daughter. I am so sorry for my trespass made. That to deserve well at my brother's hands, I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe ; With resolution, wheresoe'er I meet thee, (As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad,) To plague thee for thy foul misleading me. And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, And to my brother turn my blushing cheeks. — Pardon me, Edward, I wUl make amends ; loo And, Richard, do not frown upon my faults. For I will henceforth be no more unconstant. K. Edw. Now welcome more, and ten times more belov'd, Than if thou never hadst deserVd our hate. Glo. Welcome, good Clarence : this is brother-like. War. O passing traitor, perjur'd, and unjust ! K. Edw. What, Warwick, wilt thou leave the town, and fight, Or shall we beat the stones about thine ears 1 War. Alas ! I am not coop'd here for defence : I will away towards Barnet presently, im And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar'st. K. Edw. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares, and leads the way. — Lords, to the field! Saint George, and victory ! [March. Exeunt. Scene II. — A Field of Battle near Barnet. Alarums and Excursions. Enter King Edward, bringing in Warwick wounded. K. Edw. So, lie thou there : die thou, and die our fear ; For Warwick was a bug, that fear'd us all. — Now, Montague, sit fast : I seek for thee. That Warwick's bones may keep thine company. \Eodt. War. Ah ! who is nigh ? come to me, friend or foe. And tell me, who is victor, York, or Warwick 1 Why ask I that 1 my mangled body shows. My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows. That I must yield my body to the earth. And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. lo Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge. Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle. Under whose shade the ramping lion slept ; Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spread- ing tree. And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind, 312 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART IIT. Scene TV. These eyes, that now are dimm'd with death's black veil, Have been as piercing as the midday sun, To search the secret treasons of the world : The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd with blood. Were liken'd oft to kingly sepulchres ; 20 For who liv'd king, but I could dig his grave? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow 1 Lo, now my glory smear'd in dust and blood ! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had. Even now forsake me ; and, of all my lands. Is nothing left me, but my body's length. Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust 1 And, live we how we can, yet die we must. £nter Oxfoed and Somerset. iSo7n. All, Warwick, Warwick ! wert thou as we are, We might recover all our loss again. so The queen from France hath brought a puissant power ; Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst thou fly ! War. Why, then I would not fly. — Ah, Montague ! If thou be there, sweet brother, take my hand. And with thy lips keep in my soul awhile. Thou lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood, That glues my lips, and will not let me speak. Come quickly, Montague, or I am dead. Som. Ah, Warwick ! Montague hath breath'd his last ; 40 And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, And said — " Commend me to my valiant brother." And moi-e he would have said ; and more he spoke, Which sounded like a cannon in a vault, That mought not be distinguish'd : but, at last, I well might hear, deliver'd with a groan, — " O, farewell, Warwick ! " Wan: Sweet rest his soul ! — Fly, lords, and save yourselves ; For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [Dies. Ox/. Away, away, to meet the queen's great power ! [Uxeunt, bearing o^f Warwick's body. Scene III. — Another Part of the Field. Flourish. Enter King Edwaed in triumph; with Clarence, Glostee, and the rest. K. Ediv. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course. And we are grac'd with wreaths of victory. But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, I spy a black, suspicious, threat'ning cloud, That will encounter with our glorious sun, Ere he attain his easeful western bed : I mean, my lords, those powers, that the queen Hath rais'd in Gallia, have arriv'd our coast, And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. Clar. A little gale will soon disperse that cloud, 10 And blow it to the source from whence it came : Thy very beams will dry those vapours up. For every cloud engenders not a storm. Glo. The queen is valu'd thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her ; If she have time to breathe, be weU-assur'd, Her faction wUl be full as strong as ours. K. Edw. We are advertis'd by our loving friends, That they do hold their course toward Tewksbury. We, having now the best at Barnet field, 20 Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; And, as we march, our strength will be augmented In every county as we go along. — Strike up the drum ! cry — Courage ! and away. [Flourish. Exeunt. Scene IV. — Plains near Tewksbury. March. Enter Queen Maegaeet, Prince Edwaed, Someeset, Oxford, and Soldiers. Q. Mar. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss. But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown over- board. The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost. And half our sailors swallow'd in the flood ; Yet lives our pilot still : is 't meet that he Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad. With tearful eyes add water to the sea, And give more strength to that which hath too much ; 27 313 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene V. Whiles in his moan the ship splits on the rock, Which industry and courage might have sav'd 1 n Ah, what a shame ! ah, ■what a fault were this ! Say, Warwick was our anchor ; what of that t And Montague our topmast ; what of him 1 Our slaughtered friends the tackles ; what of these 1 Why, is not Oxford hei-e another anchor, And Somerset another goodly mast 1 The friends of France our shrouds and tack- lings '? And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge 1 20 We will not from the helm, to sit and weep, But keep our course, though the rough wind say no. From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wrack. As good to chide the waves, as speak them fair. And what is Edward but a ruthless sea 1 What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit ? And Richard but a ragged fatal rock 1 All these the enemies to our poor bark. Say, you can swim ; alas ! 't is but a while : Tread on the sand ; why, there you quickly sink : so Bestride the rook ; the tide will wash you off, Or else you famish ; that 's a threefold death. This speak I, lords, to let you understand. In case some one of you would fly from us. That there's no hop'd-for mercy with the brothers, More than with ruthless waves, with sands, and rocks. Why, courage, then ! what cannot be avoided, 'T were childish weakness to lament, or fear. Prince. Methinks, a woman of this valiant spirit Should, if a coward heard her speak these words, 10 Infuse his breast with magnanimity, And make him, naked, foil a man at arms. I speak not this as doubting any here ; For, did I but suspect a fearful man. He should have leave to go away betimes. Lest, in our need, he might infect another, And make him of like spirit to himself. If any such be here, — as God forbid ! — • Let him depart before we need his help. Oxf. Women and children of so high a courage, 50 And warriors faint ! why, 't were perpetual shame. — O brave young prince ! thy famous grand- father Doth live again in thee : long may'st thou live. To bear his image, and renew his glories ! Smn. And he, that will not fight for such a hope Go home to bed, and, like the owl by day, If he arise, be mock'd and wonder'd at. Q. Mar. Thanks, gentle Somerset : — sweet Oxford, thanks. Prince. And take his thanks, that yet hath nothing else. Enter a Messenger. Mess. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand, eo Ready to fight : therefore, be resolute. Oxf. I thought no less : it is his policy To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. Som. But he 's deceived : we are in readi- ness. Q. Mar. This cheers my heart to see your forwardness. Oxf. Here pitch our battle ; hence we will not budge. Flourish and March. Enter King Edward, Clarence, Gloster, and Forces. K. Edw. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood. Which, by the heavens' assistance and your strength, Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. I need not add more fuel to your fire, ?» For, well I wot, ye blaze to burn them out. Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords ! Q. Mar. Lords, knights, and gentlemen, what I should say. My tears gainsay ; for every word I speak, Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes. Therefore, no more but this : — Henry, your sovereign. Is prisoner to the foe ; his state usurp'd, His realm a slaughter-house, his subjects. slain, His statutes cancell'd, and his treasure spent \ And yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. You fight in justice : then, in God's name, lords, 81 Be valiant, and give signal to the fight. [Exeunt both Armies. Scene V. — Another Part of the Same. Alarums : Excursions : and afterwards a Ee- ■ treat. Then enter King ^vwabd, CLARENCJi!, GiiOSTER, arec? Forces /with Queen Margaret, Oxford, and Somerset, prisoners. K. Edw. Now, here a period of tumultuous broils. 314 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PAET III. Scene V. Away with Oxford to Ham's Castle straight : For Somerset, off \vith his guilty head. Go, bear them hence : I will not hear them speak. Oxf. For my part, I'll not trouble thee with words. Soin. Nor I ; but stoop with patience to my fortune. [Fxeunt Oxfokd and Somerset, guarded. Q. Mar. So part we sadly in this troublous world. To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. K. Edw. Is proclamation made, that who finds Edward Shall have a high reward, and he his life ? lo Glo. It is : and lo, where youthful Edward comes ! Enter Soldiers, with Prince Edward. K. Edw. Bring forth the gallant : let us hear him speak. What ! can so young a thorn begin to prick ? Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make. For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects. And all the trouble thou hast turn'd me to 1 Prince. Speak like a subject, proud ambi- tious York. Suppose, that I am now my father's mouth : Resign "thy chair, and where I stand kneel thou, Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee. Which, traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. 21 Q. Mar. Ah, that thy father had been so resolv'd ! Glo. That you might still have worn the petticoat, And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lan- caster. Prince. Let ^sop fable in a winter's night ; His currish riddles sort not with this place. Glo. By Heaven, brat, I '11 plague you for that word. Q. Mar. Aj, thou wast bom to be a plague to men. Glo. For God's sake, take away this captive scold. Prince. Nay, take away this scolding crook- back, rather. so K. Edw. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue. Clar. Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert. Prince. I know my duty : you are all un- dutiful. Lascivious Edward, — and thou perjur'd George, — And thou misshapen Dick, — I tell ye all, I am your better, traitors as ye are ; And thou usurp 'st my father's right and mirie. K. Edw. Take that, the likeness of this railer here. [Stabs him,. Glo. Sprawl'st thou 1 take that, to end thy , agony. [Stahs him. Clar. And there 's for twitting me with perjury. \Stahs him. Q. Mar. O, kiU me too ! 4i Glo. Marry, and shall. [Offers to kill her. K. Edw. Hold, Richard, hold ! for we have done too much. Glo. Why should she live, to fill the world with words 1 K. Edw. What ! doth she swoon 1 use means for her recovery. Glo. Clarence, excuse me to the king, my brother. I'll hence to London on a serious matter : Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. Clar. What? what? Glo. The Tower ! the Tower ! [Exit. Q. Mar. O Ned ! sweet Ned ! speak to thy mother, boy : si Canst thou not speak ? — traitors ! mur- derers ! They that stabb'd Csesar shed no blood at all. Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame. If this foul deed were by to equal it : He was a man ; this, in respect, a child ; And men ne'er spend their fury on a child. What 's worse than murderer, that I may name it 1 No, no ; my heart will burst, an if I speak ; And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. — 60 Butchers and villains ! bloody cannibals ! How sweet a plant have you untimely cropp'd ! You have no children, butchers ! if yoii had. The thought of them would have stirr'd up remorse : But, if you ever chance to have a child. Look in his youth to have him so cut off. As, deathsmen, you have rid this sweet young prince ! K. Edw. Away with her ! go, bear her hence perforce. Q. Mar. Nay, never bear me hence, des- patch me here : Here sheathe thy sword, I '11 pardon thee my death. 70 What ! wilt thou not 1 — then, Clarence, do it thou. Clar. By Heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. Q. Mar. Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. Gla/r. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it ? 315 Act V. KING KENRY VI.— PART III. Scene VI. Q. Mar. Ay, but thou usest to forswear thyself : 'T was sin before, but now 't is charity. What ! wilt thou not ? Where is that devil's butcher, Hard-favour'd Richard ? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here : murder is thy alms- deed ; Petitioners for blood thou ne'er jjutt'st back. 80 A'. Fdv}. Away, I say ! I charge j'e, bear her hence. Q. Mar. So come to you, and yours, as to this prince ! [Exit. K. Edw. Where 's Richard gone ? Glar. To London, all iu post ; and, as I guess. To make a bloody supper in the Tower. K. Edw. He 's sudden, if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence : discharge the common sort With pay and thanks, and let's away to London, And see our gentle queen how well she fares : By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. so [Exevmt. Scene VI. — -London. A Room in the Tower. King Henry is discovered sitting with a book in his hand, the Lieutenant attending. Enter Gloster. Glo. Good day, my lord. What ! at your book so hard ? K. Hen. Ay, my good lord : my lord, I should say rather ; 'T is sin to flatter ; good was little better : Good Gloster, and good devil, were alike, And both preposterous ; therefore, not good lord. Glo. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves : we must confer. \Exit Lieutenant. K. Hen. So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf : So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And next his throat unto the butcher's knife. — What scene of death hath Roscius now to act \ Glo. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind : n The thief doth fear each bush an officer. K. Hen. The bird, that hath been limed in a bush. With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush ; And I, the hajjless male to one sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye. Where my poor young was lim'd, was caught, and kill'd. Glo. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete, That taught his son the office of a fowl ? And yet, for all his wings, the fool was drown'd. 20 K. Hen. I, Dsedalus; my poor boy, Icarus ; Thy father, Minos, that denied our course ; The sun, that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy. Thy brother Edward ; and thyself ^ the sea. Whose envious gulf did swallow up his life. Ai ! kill me with thy weapon, not with words. My breast can better brook thy dagger's point. Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost thou come ? is 't for my life ? 29 Glo. Think'st thou I am an executioner ? K. Hen. A persecutor, I am sure, thou art: If murdering innocents be executing. Why, then thou art an executioner. Glo. Thy son I kill'd for his presumption. K. Hen. Hadst thou been kUl'd, when first thou didst presume, Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy, — that many a thousand. Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's, 89 And many an orphan's water-standing eye, — Men for their sons', wives for their husbands', Orphans for their parents' timeless death, — Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shriek'd at thy birth, an evil sign ; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time ; Dogs howl'd, and hideous tempest shook down trees ; The raven rook'd her on the chimney's top. And chattering pies in dismal discords sung. Thy mother felt more than a mother's pain. And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope ; 50 To wit, — an indigested and deformed lump. Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst thou in thy head, when thou wast bom. 316 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PABT III. Scene VIT. To signify, thou cam'st to bite the world : And, if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou cam'st — Glo. I '11 hear no more ; — die, prophet, in thy speech : [Stahs him. For this, amongst the rest, was I ordain'd. K. Hen. A.j, and for much more slaughter after this. ! God forgive my sins, and pardon thee, eo \pies. Glo. What ! will the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted. See, how my sword weeps for the poor king's death ! 0, may such purple tears be always shed From those that wish the downfall of our house ! — If any spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither : [Stabs him again. 1, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed, 't is true, that Henry told me of ; For I have often heard my mother say, 70 1 came into the world with my legs forward. Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste, And seek their ruin that usurp'd our right? The midwife wonder'd ; and the women cried, " 0, Jesus bless us, he is bom with teeth !" And so I was ; which plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since the heavens have shap'd my body so. Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it. I have no brother, I am like no brother ; so And this word love, which greybeards call divine. Be resident in men like one another. And not in me : I am myself alone. — ■ Clarence, beware : thou keep'st me from the light ; But I will sort a pitchy day for thee : For I will buz abroad such prophecies. That Edward shall be fearful of his life ; And then, to purge his fear, I '11 be thy death. King Henry, and the prince his son, are gone : Clarence, thy turn is next, and then the rest; 90 Counting myself but bad, till I be best. — I '11 throw thy body in another room, And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. [Exit, with the body. Scene VII. — The Same. A Room in the Palace. King Edward is discovered sitting on his throne ; Queen Elizabeth with the infant Prince, Claeence, Glostee, Hastings, and others, neon- hivi. K. Edw. Once more we sit in England's royal throne, Re-purchas'd with the blood of enemies. What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn, Have we mow'd down, in tops of all their pride ! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd For hardy and undoubted champions ; Two Cliffords, as the father and the son ; And two Northumberlands : two braver men Ne'er spurr'd their coursers at the trumpet's sound-; With them, the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, 10 That in their chains fetter'd the kingly lion. And made the forest tremble when they roar'd. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat, And made our footstool of security. — Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy.— Young Ned, for thee, thine uncles, and myself. Have in our armours watch'd the winter's night. Went all a-foot in summer's scalding heat. That thou might'st repossess the crown in peace ; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. Glo. [Aside."] I '11 blast his harvest, if your head were laid ; n For yet I am not look'd on in the world. This shoulder was ordain'd so thick, to heave ; And heave it shall some weight, or break my back. — Work thou the way, — and thou shalt execute. K. Edw. Clarence, and Gloster, love my lovely queen. And kiss your princely nephew, brothers both. Clar. The duty, that I owe unto your majesty, I seal upon the lips of this sweet babe. Q. Eliz. Thanks, noble Clarence, worthy brother, thanks. so Glo. And, that I love the tree from whence thou sprang'st. Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. — [Aside.] To say the truth, so Judas kiss'd his master. 317 Act V. KING HENRY VI.— PART III. Scene VII. And cried — All hail ! when as he meant — all harm. K. Eclw. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country's peace, and brothers' loves. Clar. What will your grace have done with Margaret ? Reignier, her father, to the King of France Hath pawn'd the Sicils and Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom. K. Edw. Away with her, and waft her hence to France. — »i And nowwhat rests, but that we spend the time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure of the court ? Sound, drums and trumpets ! — farewell, sour annoy ! For here I hope, begins our lasting joy. [Exeunt. 318 LUORECE. Fkom the besieged Ardea all in post, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host, And to Collatium bears the lightless fire Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire. And girdle with embracing flames the waist Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste. Haply that name of chaste unhappily set This bateless edge on his keen appetite ; When CoUatine unwisely did not let lo To praise the clear unmatched red and white Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight ; Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties. With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. Tor he the night before, in Tarquin's tent, TJnlock'd the treasure of his happy state ; What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate : Eeckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate, That kings might be espoused to more fame, 20 But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. O happiness enjoy'd but of a few ! And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done, As is the morning's silver-melting dew Against the golden splendour of the sun ; An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun : Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms, Are weakly f ortress'd from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator ; so What needeth then apologies be made To set forth that which is so singular ? Or why is Collatine the publisher Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown From thievish ears, because it is his own ? Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty Suggested this proud issue of a king ; For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be : Perchance that envy of so rich a thing, Braving compare, disdainfully did sting « His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt That golden hap which their superiors want. But some untimely thought did instigate His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those : His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal which in his liver glows. O rash-false heat, wrapp'd in. repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old ! When at Collatium this false lord arriv'd, so Well was he welcom'd by the Roman dame. Within whose face beauty and virtue striv'd Which of them both should underprop her fame : When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame ; When beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that or with silver white. But beauty, in that white intituled. From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field; Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild eo Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield ; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, — When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white. This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen, Argu'd by beauty's red, and virtue's white : Of either's colour was the other queen. Proving from world's minority their right : Yet their ambition makes them still to fight; The sovereignty of either being so great. That oft they interchange each other's seat. 70 This silent war of lilies and of roses. Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field. In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses ; Where, lest between them both it should be kiU'd, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies, that would let him Rather than triumph in so false a foe. 319 LIICRECE. Now thinks he, that her husband's shallow tongue — The niggard prodigal that prais'd her so — la that high task hath done her beauty- wrong, 80 "Which far exceeds his barren skill to show : Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe Enchanted Tarquin answei-s with surmise, In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper ; Eor unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil, Birds never lim'd no secret bushes fear : So guiltless she securely gives good cheer, And reverent welcome to her princely guest. Whose inward ill no outward harm ex- press'd : 91 Eor that he colour'd with his high estate. Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty ; That nothing in him seem'd inordinate. Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy ; But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store, That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for But she, that never cop'd with stranger eyes. Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, 100 Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books : She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks ; Nor could she moralise his wanton sight. More than his eyes were open'd to the light. He stories to her ears her husband's fame. Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ; And decks with praises Collatine's high name. Made glorious by his manly chivalry With bruised arms and wreaths of victory : no Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express, And, wordless, so greets heaveii for his success. Ear from the purpose of his commg thither. He makes excuses for his being there : No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear ; TUl sable Night, mother of dread and fear. Upon the world dim darkness doth display. And in her vaulty prison stows the Day. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, 120 Intending weariness with heavy spright : For after supper long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night : Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight. And every one to rest themselves betake, Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake. As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining ; Yet ever to obtaia his will resolving. Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining : 130 Despair to gain doth traflac oft for gaining ; And when great treasure is the meed pro- pos'd. Though death be adjunct, there 's no death suppos'd. Those that much covet are with gain so fond, That what they have not, that which they possess. They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less ; Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain. That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age ; And in this aim there is such thwarting strife, That one for all, or all for one we gage \ As life for honour in fell battle's rage ; Honour for wealth ; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. So that in venturing ill we leave to be The things we are for that which we expect ; And this ambitious foul infirmity, 150 In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have : so then we do neglect The thing we have ; and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing, by augmenting it. Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make. Pawning his honour to obtain his lust, And for himself himself he must forsake : Then where is truth, if there be no self- trust t When shall he think to find a stranger just. When he himself himself confounds, betrays To slanderous tongues, and wretched hateful days % 161 320 LUCKECE. Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had clos'd up mortal eyes ; No comfortable star did lend his light, No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries : Now serves the-season that they may surprise The sUly lambs ; pure thoughts are dead and still, While lust and murder wakes to stain and kill. And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm ; iro Is madly toss'd between desire and dread ; Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm ; But honest Fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul charm. Doth too-too oft betake him to retire, Beaten, away by brain-sick rude Desire. His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth. Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye ; And to the flame thus speaks advisedly : iso " As from this cold flint I enforc'd this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire." Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprise. And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this ai'ise : Then loolsing scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughter'd lust. And justly .thus controls his thoughts unjust. " Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not 190 To darken her whose light excelleth thine ; And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot With your uncleanness that which is divine ; Ofier pure incense to so pure a shrine : Let fair humanity abhor the deed That spots and stains love's modest snow- white weed. " O shame to knighthood and to shining arms ! O foul dishonour to my household's grave ! O impious act, including all foul harms ! A martial man to be soft fancy's slave ! 200 True valour still a true respect should have; Then my digression is so vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face. " Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, And be an eyesore in my golden coat ; Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, To cipher me how fondly I did dote ; That my posterity, sham'd with the note, Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin To wish, that I their father had not bin. 210 " What win I, if I gain the thing I seek 1 A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week, Or sells eternity to get a toy 1 For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy 1 Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, " Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down ] " If CoUatinus dream of my intent, WiU he not wake, and in a desperate rage Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent 1 220 This siege that hath engirt his marriage. This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage. This dying virtue, this surviving shame. Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame ? " O ! what excuse ckn my invention make, When thou slialt charge me with so black a deed? Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake. Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed 1 The guilt being great, the fear doth stUl exceed ; 229 And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, Biit coward-like with trembling terror die. " Had CoUatiniis kill'd my son or sire. Or lain in ambush to betray my life. Or were he not my dear friend, this desire Might have excuse to work upon his wife, As in revenge or quittal of such strife ; But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend. The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. " Shameful it is ; — ay, if the fact be known : Hateful it is ; — there is no hate in loving : 240 I '11 beg her love ; — but she is not her own : The worst is but denial, and reproving. My will is strong, past reason's weak remov- ing : Who fears a sentence, or an old man's saw, Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe." 321 LTJCEECE. hot-burning Thus, graceless, holds he disputation 'Tweeu frozen conscience and will, And with good thoughts makes dispensation. Urging the worser sense for vantage still ; Which in a moment doth confound and kill 250 All pure effects, and doth so far proceed, That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. Quoth he : " She took me kindly by the hand, And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes. Fearing some hard news from the warlike band. Where her beloved CoUatinus Hes. O, how her fear did make her colour rise ! First red as roses that on lawn we lay. Then white as lawn, the roses took away. " And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd, 260 Forc'd it to tremble with her loyal fear ! Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd. Until her husband's welfare she did hear ; Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer, That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood. " Why hunt I then for colour or excuses ? All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth : Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses ; Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth : 270 Affection is my captain, and he leadeth ; And when bis gaudy banner is display'd. The coward fights, and will not be dismay'd. '' Then, childish fear, avaunt ! debating, die ! Respect and reason, wait on wrinkled age ! My heart shall never countermand mine eye: Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage ; My part is youth, and beats these from the stage. Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize ; Then, who fears sinking where such treasure lies 1" ' 280 As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost chok'd by unresisted lust. Away he steals with open listening ear, Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust ; Eoth which, as servitors to the unjust, So cross him with their opposite persuasion. That now he vows a league, and now in- Within his thought her heavenly image sits, And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine : That eye which looks on her confounds his wits ; 280 That eye which him beholds, as more divine. Unto a view so false wUl not incline ; But with a pure ajapeal seeks to the heart, Which, once corrupted, takes the worser part; And therein heartens up his servile powers, Who, flatter'd by their leader's jocund show, Stuff up his lust, as minutes till up hours ; And as their captain, so their pride doth grow. Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led, -m The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece' bed. The locks between her chamber and his will. Each one by him enforc'd, retires his ward ; But as they open they all rate his ill. Which drives the creeping thief to some regard : The threshold grates the door to have him heard ; Night- wandering weasels shriek, to see him there ; They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, Through little vents and crannies of the place The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay, 311 And blows the smoke of it into his face. Extinguishing his conduct in this case ; But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch. Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch : And being lighted, by the light he spies Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks ; He takes it from the rushes where it lies. And griping it, the needle his finger pricks ; As who should say, "This glove to wanton tricks ."20 Is not inur'd ; return again in haste ; Thou seest our mistress' ornaments are chaste." But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him ; He in the v,^orst sense construes their denial: The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him. He takes for accidental things of trial. Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial, LUCRECE. Who with a ling'ring stay his course doth let, Till every minute pays the hour his debt. " So, so," quoth he ; " these lets attend the time, sso Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring. To add a more rejoicing to the prime, And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing. Pain pays the income of each precious thing ; Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands. The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands." Now is he come unto the chamber-door. That shuts him from the heaven of his thought, Which with a yielding latch, and with no more. Hath barr'd him from the blessed thing he sought. 340 So from himself impiety hath wrought. That for his prey to pray he doth begin. As if the heavens should countenance his But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer. Having solicited the eternal power That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair, And they would stand auspicious to the hour, Even there he starts : — quoth he, " I must deflower : The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact, How can they then assist me in the act 1 " Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide ! 351 My will is back'd with resolution ; Thoughts are but dreams, till their effects be tried ; The blackest sin is clear'd with absolution ; Against love's fire fear's frost hath dissolution. The eye of heaven is out, and misty night Covers the shame that follows sweet delight." This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the latch, And with his knee the door he opens wide. The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch : seo Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside ; But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing. Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. Into the chamber wickedly he stalks. And gazeth on her yet unstained bed. The curtains being close, about he walks, Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head : By their high treason is his heart misled ; Which gives the watchword to his hand full soon, 370 To draw the cloud that hides the silver Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun. Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight ; Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun To wink, being bliaded with a greater light : Whether it is that she reflects so bright, That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed. But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed. ! had they in that darksome prison died. Then had they seen the period of their ill : sso Then CoUatine again, by Lucrece' side. In his clear bed might have reposed still ; But they must ope, this blessed league to kill, And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight. Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss ; Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, Swelling on either side, to want his bliss ; 389 Between whose hills her head entombed is : Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies) To be admir'd of lewd unhallow'd eyes. Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white Show'd like an April daisy on the grass. With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night. Her eyes, like mangolds, had sheath'd their light, _ And canopied in darkness sweetly lay, Till they might open to adorn the day. Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her breath ; «» O modest wantons ! wanton modesty ! Showing life's triumph in the map of death. And death's dim look in life's mortality : Each in her sleep themselves so beautify. As if between them twain there were no strife. But that life liv'd in death, and death in life. 323 LUCEECE. Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue, A pair of maiden, worlds unoonquered, Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew, And him by oath they truly honoured. 410 These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred ; Who, like a foul usurper, went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out. What could he see, but mightily he noted ? Wliat did he note, but strongly he desir'd 1 What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, And in his wUl his wilful eye he tir'd. With more than admiration he admir'd Her azure veias, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. 420 As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey. Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied, So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay. His rage of lust by gazing qualified ; Slack'd, not suppress'd ; for standing by her side, His eye, -which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins : And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals, fell exploits efiectmg. In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor children's tears, nor mothers' groans respecting, 431 Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting: Anon his beating heart, alarum strikmg, Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking. His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, His eye commends the leading to his hand ; His hand, as proud of such a dignity. Smoking with pride, march'd on to make his stand On her bare breast, the heart of all her land. Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, 440 Left their round turrets destitute and pale. They, mustering to the quiet cabinet Where their dear governess and lady lies, Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, And fright her with confusion of their cries : She, much amaz'd, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes, Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold. Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and controU'd. Imagine her as one in dead of night Erom forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, 450 That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, Whose grim aspect set every joiat a-shaking ; What terror 't is ! but she, in worser taking, From sleep disturbed, heedfuUy doth view The sight which makes supposed terror true. Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears. Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies ; She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears Quick-shifting anticks, ugly in her eyes : Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries ; Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, 461 In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights. His hand, that yet remains upon her breast, (Rude ram to batter such an ivory wall,) May feel her heart (poor citizen !) distress'd. Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall. Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. This moves in him more rage, and lesser To make the breach, and enter this sweet city. First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin To sound a parley to his heartless foe ; 47 1 Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin. The reason of this rash alarm to know. Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show ; But she with vehement prayers urgeth still. Under what colour he commits this ill. Thus he replies : " The colour in thy face. That even for anger makes the lUy pale. And the red rose blush at her own disgrace. Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale ; Under that colour am I come to scale 48i Thy never-oonquer'd fort : the fault is thine. For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. " Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide : Thy beauty hath ensnar'd thee to this night, where thou with patience must my wUl abide, My will, that marks thee for my earth's delight. Which I to conquer sought with all my might; But as reproof and reason beat it dead, 4S9 By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. 324 LUCRECE. "I see what crosses my attempt will bring ; I know what thorns the growing rose defends ; I think the honey guarded with a sting : All this, beforehand, counsel comprehends ; But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends : Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, And dotes on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty. " I have debated, even in my soul. What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed ; But nothing can affection's course control, soo Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. I know repentant tears ensue the deed, Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity ; Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy." This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, Which, like a falcon towering in the skies Coucheth the fowl below with his wings' shade. Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies : So imder his insulting falchion lies Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon's bells. 511 " Lucrece,'' quoth he, " this night I must enjoy thee : If thou deny, then force must work my way, For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee : That done, some worthless slave of thine I '11 slay, To kill thine honour with thy life's decay ; And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. " So thy surviving husband shall remain The scornful mark of every open eye ; 520 Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain. Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy : And thou, the author of their obloquy, Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes, And sung by children in succeeding times. " But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend : The fault unknown is as a thought unacted ; A little harm, done to a great good end. For lawful policy remains enacted. The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted In a pure compound ; being so applied, ssi His venom in effect is purified. " Then for thy husband and thy children's sake, Tender my suit : bequeath not to their lot The shame that from them no device can take, The blemish that will never be forgot ; Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour's blot : For marks descried in men's nativity Are nature's faults, not their own infamy." Here with a cockatrice' dead-killing eye am He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause ; While she, the picture of pure piety, Like a white hind under the gripe's sharp claws, Pleads in a wilderness, where are no laws, To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite. But when a black-fac'd cloud the world doth threat In his dim mist the aspiring mountains hiding, From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get, Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, sso Hindering their present fall by this dividing : So his unhallowed haste her words delays, And moody Pluto winks, while Orpheus plays. Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally, While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth : Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth. His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth No penetrable entrance to her plaining : Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining. seo Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix'd In the remorseless wrinkles of his face ; Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix'd, Which to her oratory adds more grace. She puts the period often from his place ; And 'midst the sentence so her accent breaks, That twice she doth begin, ere once she S23eaks. She conjures him by high almighty Jove, By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath. By her untimely tears, her husband's love, 570 By holy human law, and common troth, By heaven and earth, and all the power of both, ^5 LUCREOE. That to his borrow'd bed he make retire, And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. Quoth she : " Reward not hospitality With such black payment as thou hast pre- tended ; Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee ; Mar not the thiag that cannot be amended ; End thy ill aim before thy shoot be ended : He is no woodman that doth bend his bow 680 To strike a poor unseasonable doe. " My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me ; Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me; Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me ; Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me : My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee. If ever man were mov'd with woman's moans, Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans. " All which together, like a troubled ocean. Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threatening heart, 590 To soften it with their continual motion ; For stones dissolv'd to water do convert. O, if no harder than a stone thou art, Melt at my tears and be compassionate ! Soft pity enters at an iron gate. " In Tarquin's likeness I did entertain thee ; Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame ? To all the host of heaven I complain me. Thou wrong'st liis honour, wound'st his princely name : Thou art not what thou seem'st ; and if the same, em Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king ; For kings like gods should govern every- thing. " How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, Wlien thus thy vices bud before thy spring 1 If in thy hope thou dar'st do such outrage, What dar'st thou not, when once thou a,rt a king ? O, be remember'd ! no outrageous thing From vassal actors can be wip'd away ; Then kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. " This deed will make thee only lov'd for fear ; But happy monarchs still are fear'd for love : With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, When they in thee the like offences prove : If but for fear of this, thy will remove ; For princes are the glass, the school, the book. Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look. " And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn 1 Must he in thee read lectures of such shame 1 Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame, 620 To privilege dishonour in thy name 1 Thou back'st reproach against long-living laud. And mak'st fair reputation but a bawd. " Hast thou command 1 by him that gave it thee, From a pure heart command thy rebel will : Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity. For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil. When, pattern'd by thy fault, foul Sin may say, He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way? 630 " Think but how vUe a spectacle it were, To view thy present trespass in another. Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear ; Their own transgressions partially they smother : This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. O, how are they wrapp'd in with infamies, That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes ! " To thee, to thee, my heav'd-up hands appeal, Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier ; I sue for exil'd majesty's repeal ; " eio Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire : His true respect will prison false desire, And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne. That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine." " Have done,'' quoth he : " my uncontrolled tide Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide. And with the wind in greater fury fret : The petty streams, that pay a daily debt LUCREOE. To their salt sovereign -with their fresh falls' haste, oso Add to his flow, but alter not his taste." " Thou art," quoth she, " a sea, a sovereign king; And, lo ! there falls into thy boundless flood Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning. Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. If all these petty ills shall change thy good. Thy sea within a puddle's womb is hears'd, And not the puddle in thy sea dispers'd. " So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave ; Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ; mo Thou their fan- life, and they thy fouler grave ; Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride : The lesser thing should not the greater hide ; The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot. But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root. "So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state " — " No more," quoth he ; " by Heaven, I will not hear thee : Yield to my love ; if not, enforced hate, Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee ; That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee era Unto the base bed of some rascal groom. To be thy partner in this shameful doom." This said, he sets his foot upon the light, For light and lust are deadly enemies : Shame folded up in blind concealing night. When most unseen, then most doth tyrannise. The wolf hath seiz'd his prey, the poor lamb cries; Till with her own white fleece her voice controll'd Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold : For with the nightly linen that she wears eso He pens her piteous clamours in her head. Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed ! The spots whereof could weeping purify, Her tears should drop on them perpetually. But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, And he hath won what he would lose again ; This forced league doth force a further strife ; This momentary joy breeds months of pain : This hot desire converts to cold disdain. 69i Pure Cliu&tity is rifled of her store. And Lust, the thief, far 230orer than before. Look, as the full-fed hound, or gorged hawk, Unapt for tender smell, or speedy flight, Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk The prey wherein by nature they delight ; So surl'eit-taking Tarquin fares this night : His taste delicious, in digestion souring, Devours his will, that liv'd by foul devour- deeper sin than bottomless conceit Can comprehend in still imagination ! Drunken Desire must vomit his receipt. Ere he can see his own abomination. While Lust is in his pride, no exclamation Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire. Till, like a jade. Self-will himself doth tire. And then, with lank and lean discolour'd cheek, With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace. Feeble Desire, all recreant, poor, and meek. Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case : ni The flesh being proud. Desire doth fight with Grace, For there it revels ; and when that decays. The guilty rebel for remission prays. So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome, Who this accomplishment so hotly ohas'd ; For now against himself he sounds this doom, — That through the length of times he stands disgrac'd ; Besides, his soul's fair temple is defac'd ; 7i» To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, To ask the spotted princess how she fares. She says, her subjects with foul insurrection Have batter'd down her consecrated wall. And by their mortal fault brought in subjec- tion Her immoi'tality, and made her thrall To living death, and pain perpetual : Which in her prescience she controlled still, But her foresight could not forestall their will. Even in this thought through the dark night he stealeth A. captive victor that hath lost in gain ; rw Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth. The scar that will despite of cure remain ; Leaving his spoil perjplex'd in greater pain. 327 LUCEECE. She beai-s the load of lust he left behind, And he the burden of a guilty mind. He, like a thievish dog, creeps sadly thence. She like a wearied lamb lies panting there ; He scowls, and hates himself for his offence, She desperate with her naUs her flesh doth tear ; He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear, uo She stays, exclaiming on the direful night ; He runs, and chides his vanish'd, loath'd delight. He thence departs a heavy convertite. She there remains a hopeless castaway ; He in his speed looks for the morning light. She prays she never may behold the day ; " For day," quoth she, " night's scapes doth open lay. And my true eyes have never practis'd how To cloak offences with a cunning brow. " They think not but that every eye can see The same disgrace which they themselves behold, 751 And therefore would they stUl in darkness be. To have their unseen siji remain untold ; For they their guilt with weeping will unfold. And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel." Here she exclaims against repose and rest. And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind. She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, And bids it leap from thence where it may find 760 Some purer chest to close so pure a mind. Frantic with grief, thus breathes she forth her spite Against the unseen secrecy of night : " O comfort-killing Night, image of hell ! Dim register and notary of shame ! Black stage for tragedies and murders fell ! Vast sin-concealing chaos! nurse of blame ! Blind muffled bawd ! dark harbour for defame ! Grim cave of death, whispering conspirator With close-tongu'd treason and the ravisher ! " hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night ! m Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime. Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, Make war against proijortion'd course of time : Or if thou wUt permit the sun to climb His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed. Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. " "With rotten damps ravish the morning air ; Let their exhal'd unwholesome breaths make sick The life of purity, the supreme fair, rso Ere he arrive his weary noontide prick ; And let thy misty vapours march so tliick, Thatin their smoky ranks his smother'd light May set at noon, and make perpetual night. " Were Tarquin Night, as he is but Night's child. The silver-shining queen he would distain ; Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defil'd. Through Night's black bosom should not peep again : So should I have co-j)artners in my pain ; And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, As palmers' chat makes short their pilgrim- " Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms, and hang their heads with mine. To mask their brows, and hide their infamy ; But I alone alone must sit and pine. Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine; Mingling nay talk with tears, my grief with groans. Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. " Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, Let not the jealous Day behold that face soo Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak Immodestly lies martyr'd with disgrace : Keep still possession of thy gloomy place. That all the faults which in thy reign are made May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade. " Make me not object to the tell-tale Day ! The light will show, character'd in my brow, The story of sweet chastity's decay. The impious breach of holy wedlock vow : Yea, the illiterate, that know not how sio To cipher what is writ in learned books. Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. " The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story. And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name ; The orator, to deck his oratory. Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame ; Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame, Will tie the hearers to attend each line. How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine. LUCRECE. "Let my good name, that senseless reputation For Oollatine's dear love be kept unspotted : If that be made a theme for disputation, 822 The branches of another root are rotted, And undeserv'd reproach to him allotted, That is as clear from this attaint of mine. As I ere this was pure to Collatine. " O unseen shame ! invisible disgrace ! O unfelt sore ! crest-wounding, private scar ! Reproach is stamp'd in OoUatinus' face, And Tarquin's eye may read the mot afar, sso How he in peace is wounded, not in war. Alas, how many bear such shameful blows. Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows. " If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me. From me by strong assault it is bereft. My honey lost, and I, a drone-like ;,bee. Have no perfection of my summer left. But robb'd and ransack'd by injurious theft : In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept. And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept. 840 " Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wrack ; — Yet for thy honour did I entertain him ; Commg from thee, I could not put him back. For it had been dishonour to disdain him ; Besides, of weariness he did complain him. And talk'd of virtue : — O unlook'd-for evil. When virtue is profan'd in such a devil ! " Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud. Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests 1 Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud 1 Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts t esi Or kings be breakers of their own behests 1 Bat no perfection is so absolute. That some impurity doth not pollute. " The aged man that coffers-up his gold. Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and pain- ful fits. And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold. But like stUl-pimng Tantalus he sits. And useless bams the harvest of his wits ; Having no other pleasure of his gain, m But torment that it cannot cure his pain. " So then he hath it, when he cannot use it, And leaves it to be rdaster'd by his young ; Who in their pride do presently abuse it : Their father was too weak, and they too strong. To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long. The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours. Even in the moment that we call them ours. " Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring ; Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers ; szo The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing; What virtue breeds, iniquity devours : We have no good that we can say is ours, But ill-annexed Opportunity Or kills his life, or else his quality. " Opportunity ! thy guilt is great . 'T is thou that execut'st the traitor's treason ; Thou sett'st the wolf where he the lamb may get; Whoever plots the sin, thou point'st the sea- son : 'T is thou that spurn'st at right, at law, at reason ; sso And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him. Sits Sin to seize the souls that wander by him. " Thou mak'st the vestal violate her oath ; Thou blow'st the fire, when temperance is thaw'd ; Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth: Thou foul abettor 1 thou notorious bawd ! Thou plantest scandal, and displaceth laud : Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, , Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief ! " Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, sso Thy private feasting to a public fast, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste : Thy violent vanities can never last. How comes it then, yile Opportunity, Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee 1 " When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend. And bring him where his suit may be ob- tain'd ? When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end, Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd 1 m Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd '? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee. But they ne'er meet with Opportunity. 28 329 LXJCEEOE. " The. patient dies while the physician sleeps ; The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds ; Justice is feasting while the widow weeps ; Advice is sporting while infection breeds : Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds : Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder's rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their " When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid : They buy thy help ; but Sin ne'er gives a fee ; He gratis comes, and thou art well-appay'd As well to hear as grant what he hath said. My Collatine would else have come to me, When Tarquin did ; but he was stay'd by thee. " GuUty thou art of murder and of theft ; Guilty of perjury and subornation ; Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift ; 920 Guilty of incest, that abomination : An accessary by thine inclination To all sins past, and all that are to come, From the creation to the general doom. " Misshapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night, Swift-subtle post, carrier of grisly care. Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Base watch of woes, sin's pack-horse, virtue's snare ; Thou nursest all, and murder'st all that are. O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time ! 930 Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. " Why hath thy servant. Opportunity, Betray'd the hours thou gav'st me to repose 1 Cancell'd my fortunes, and enchained me To endless date of never-ending woes 1 Time's office is to fine the hate of foes ; To eat up errors by opinion bred, Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. " Time's glory is to calm contending kings, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light, To stamp the seal of time in aged things, 941 To wake the morn, and sentinel the night, To wrong the wronger till he render right, To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours. And smear with dust their glittering golden towers : •' To fill with worm-holes stately monuments. To feed oblivion with decay of things, To blot old books, and alter their contents, To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings. To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs, To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel, ssi And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel : " To show the bedlam daughters of her daughter. To make the child a man, the man a ohUd, To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter, ' To tame the unicorn and lion wild. To mock the subtle, in themselves beguil'd. To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops. And waste huge stones with little water- di'ops. " Why work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrim- age, MO Unless thou couldst return to make amends ? One poor retiring minute in an age Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends, Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends : O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back, I could prevent this storm, and shun thy wrack ! " Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity. With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight: Devise extremes beyond extremity. To make him curse this cursed crimefol night : 970 Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright. And the dire thought of his committed evil Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil. " Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, Afilict him in his bed with bedrid groans ; Let there bechance him pitiful mischances. To make him moan, but pity not his moans : Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stones ; And let mild women to him lose their mildness. Wilder to him than tigers in their wild- " Let him have time to tear his curled hair. Let him have time against himself to rave, Let him have time of time's help to despair, Let him have time to live a loathed slave, Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave, And time to see one that by alms doth live Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. LUCRECE. " Let him have time to see his friends his foes, And merry fools to mock at him resort ; Let him have time to mark how slow time goes 990 In time of sorrow, and how swift and short His time of folly, and his time of sport : And ever let his unrecalling crime Have time to wail the abusing of his time. " O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, Teach me to curse him that thou taught'st this ill! At his own shadow let the thief run mad. Himself himself seek every hour to kill ! Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spUl ; For who so base would such an office have As slanderous death's-man to so base a slave 1 1001 " The baser is he, coming from a king, To shame his hope with deeds degenerate : The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate ; For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. The moon being clouded presently is miss'd. But little stars may hide them when they list. *' The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire. And unperceiv'd fly with the filth away ; loio But if the like the snow-white swan desire. The stain upon his silver down will stay. Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day. Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly. But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye. *' Out, idle words ! servants to shallow fools. Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators ! Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools ; Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters; To trembling clients be you mediators : 1020 For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my case is past the help of law. " In vain I rail at Opportunity, At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night ; In vain I cavil with mine infamy, In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite ; This helpless smoke of words doth me no right. The remedy indeed to do me good. Is to let forth my foul-defiled blood. " Poor hand, why quiver' st thou at this de- cree 1 1030 Honour thyself to rid me of this shame ; For if I die, my honour lives in thee. But if I live, thou liv'st in my defame : Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame, And wast afear'd to scratch her wicked foe, Kill both thyself and her for yielding so." This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth, To find some' desperate instrument of death ; But this no-slaughter-house no tool imparteth, To make more vent for passage of her breath ; Which, thronging through her lips, so van- isheth iMi As smoke from ^tna, that in air consumes. Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. " In vain," quoth she, " I live, and seek in vain Some happy mean to end a hapless life : I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain. Yet for the selfsame purpose seek a knife ; But when I fear'd, I was a loyal wife. So am I now : — O no ! that caimot be ; ww Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. " O ! that is gone, for which I sought to live, And therefore now I need not fear to die. To clear this spot by death, at least I give A badge of fame to slander's livery ; A dying life to living infamy. Poor helpless help, the treasure stol'n away. To bum the guiltless casket where it lay ! "Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know The stained taste of violated troth ; I will not wrong thy true affection so, loeo To flatter thee with an infringed oath ; This bastard graff shall never come to growth : He shall not boast, who did thy stock pol- lute, That thou art doting father of his fruit. " Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, Nor laugh with his companions at thy state ; But thou shalt know thy interest was not bought Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth thy gate. For me, I am the mistress of my fate, io69 And with my trespass never will dispense. Till life to death acquit my forc'd offence. 331 LUCREOE. " I will not poison ttee with my attaint, Nor fold my fault in oleanly-coin'd excuses ; My sable ground of sin I will not paint, To hide the truth of this false night's abuses : My tongue shall utter all ; mine eyes, like sluices. As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale. Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale." By this, lamenting Philomel had ended The well-tun'd warble of her nightly sorrow, And solemn night with slow-sad gait de- scended 1081 To ugly hell ; when, lo ! the blushing morrow Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow : But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see. And therefore still in night would cloister'd be. Eevealing day through every cranny spies, And seems to point her out where she sits weeping ; To whom she sobbing speaks : " O eye of eyes ! Why pry'st thou through my window 1 leave thy peeping ;_ Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping : 1090 Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath nought to do what 's done by night." Thus cavils she with everything she sees : True grief is fond and testy as a child. Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees : Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild ; Continuance tames the one ; the other wild, Like an unpractis'd swimmer plunging still, With too much labour drowns for want of skUl. So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care, 1100 Holds disputation with each thing she views. And to herself all sorrow doth compare : No object but her passion's strength renews, And as one shifts, another straight ensues : Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words ; Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords. The little birds that tune their morning's joy Make her moans mad with their sweet melody : For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy ; Sad souls are slain in merry company ; mo Grief best is pleas'd with grief's society : True sorrow then is feelingly suffic'd, When with like semblance it is sym- pathis'd. 'T is double death to drown in ken of shore ; He ten times pines that pines beholding food; To see the salve doth make the wound ache more ; Great grief grieves most at that would do it good; Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood. Who, being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'erflows ; Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. " You mocking birds," quoth she, " your tunes entomb lu'i Within your hollow-swelling f eather'd breasts. And in my hearing be you mute and dumb ! — My restless discord loves no stops nor rests ; A woful hostess brooks not merry guests. — Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ; Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with tears. " Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair : As the dank earth weeps at thy languish- ment, ii3» So I at each sad strain wUl strain a tear, And with deep groans the diapason bear ; For burden- wise I '11 hum on Tarquin stUl, While thou on Tereus descant'st better skiU. " And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part. To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I, To imitate thee well, against my heart Will fix a sharp knife, to affright mme eye, Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die. These means, as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heartstrings to true lan- guishment. 1141 " And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day. As shaming any eye should thee behold. Some dark-deep desert, seated from the way. That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold. Win we find out ; and there we will unfold To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds : Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds." 332 LUCRECE. As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, Wildly determining which way to fly, ii5o Or one encompass'd with a windiag maze, That cannot tread the way out readily ; So with herself is she in mutiny, To live or die which of the twain were better. When life is sham'd, and death reproach's debtor. " To kill myself," quoth she, " alack ! what were it, But with my body my poor soul's pollution 1 They that lose half, with greater patience bear Than they whose whole is swallow'd in con- fusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion, neo Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one. Will slay the other, and be nurse to none. " My body or my soul, which was the dearer, When the one pure, the other made divine ? Whose love of either to myself was nearer. When both were kept for heaven and Collar tiael Ah me ! the bark peel'd from the lofty pine. His leaves will wither, and his sap decay ; So must my soul, her bark being peel'd away. "Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted. Her mansion batter'd by the enemy ; im Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted. Grossly engirt with daring infamy : Then let it not be call'd impiety, If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole. Through which I may convey this troubled soul. " Yet die I will not, tUl my Collatine Have heard the cause of my untimely death. That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, Revenge on him that made me stop my breath. U80 My stained blood to Tarquin I '11 bequeath, Which by him tainted shall for him be spent. And as his due writ in my testament. " My honour I '11 bequeath unto the knife That wounds my body so dishonoured. 'T is honour to deprive fdishonour'd life ; The one will live, the other being dead : So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred ; For in my death I murder shameful scoi'n : My shame so dead, mine honour is new- born, uso " Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost. What legacy shall I bequeath to thee ? My resolution, love, shall be thy boast. By whose example thou reveng'd may'st be. How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me : Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. " This brief abridgment of my will I make : — My soul and body to the skies and ground ; My resolution, husband, do thou take ; 1200 Mine honour be the knife's that makes my wound ; My shame be his that did my fame confound ; And all my fame that lives disbursed be To those that live, and think no shame of me. " Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will ; How was I overseen that thou shalt see it ! My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill ; My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it. Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, " So be it :" Yield to my hand ; my hand shall conquer thee : 1210 Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be." This plot of death when sadly she had laid, And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untun'd tongue she hoarsely calls her maid. Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies ; For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies. ' Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so. As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. Her mistress she doth give demure good- morrow. With soft-slow tongue, true mark of modesty. And sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow, 1221 For why her face wore sorrow's livery ; But durst not ask of her audaciously Why her two suns were cloud- eclipsed so. Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe. But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye, Even so the maid with swelling drops 'gan wet Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy Of those fair suns set in her mistress' sky, 1230 LUOREOE. Who in a salt-wav'd ocean quench, their .light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night. A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling : One justly weeps, the other takes in hand No cause but company of her drops spilling : Their gentle sex to weep are often willing, Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts, And then they drown their eyes, or break their hearts : 1239 For men have marble, women waxen minds. And therefore are they form'd as marble will; The weak oppress'd, the impression of strange kinds Is form'd in them by force, bv fraud, or skill : Then call them not the authors of their ill. No more than wax shall be accounted evil. Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil. Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain. Lays open all the little worras that creep ; In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils that obsciu-ely sleep. 1250 Through crystal walls each little mote will peep : Though men can cover crimes with bold stem looks, Poor women's faces are their own faults' books. No man inveigh against the wither'd flower. But chide rough winter that the flower hath kiU'd : Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour. Is worthy blame. O ! let it not be hild For women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd With men's abuses : those proud lords, to blame. Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. i^eo The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, Assail'd by night, with circumstances strong Of present death, and shame that might ensue By that her death, to do her husband wrong : Such danger to resistance did belong. That dying fear through all her body spread ; And who cannot abuse a body dead ] By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak To the poor counterfeit of her complaining : " My girl," quoth she, " on what occasion break 12™ Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining ? If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood : If tears could help, mine own would do me good. " But tell me,, girl, when went " (and there she stay'd Till after a deep groan) — " Tarquin from hence ?" " Madam, ere I was up,'' replied the maid ; " The more to blame my sluggard negligence : Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense, — Myself was stirring ere the break of day, 12a) And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. " But, lady, if your maid may be so bold, She would request to know your heaviiiess." " O, peace ! " quoth Lucrece ; " if it should be told. The repetition cannot make it less ; For more it is than I can well express : And that deep torture may be call'd a hell, When more is felt than one hath power to tell. " Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen, — Yet save that labour, for I have them here. 1230 What should I say? — Oneof my husband's men Bid thou be ready by-and-by, to bear A letter to my lord, my love, my dear : Bid him with speed prepare to carry it ; The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ." Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, First hovering o'er the paper with her quill. Conceit and, grief an eager combat fight ; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill : isoa Much like a press of people at a door Throng her inventions, whichshall go before. At last she thus begins : " Thou worthy lord Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, Health to thy person ! next, vouchsafe t' afibrd (If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see) Some present speed to come and visit me. So I commend me from our house in grief : My woes are tedious, though my words are brief." 334 LUOEECB. Here folds she up the tenor of her woe, isio Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. By this short schedule CoUatine may know Her grief, but not her grief's true quality : She dares not thereof make discovery, Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse. Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse. Besides, the life and feeling of her passion She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her ; When sighs and groans and tears niay grace the fashion Of her. disgrace, the better so to clear her 1320 From that suspicion which the world might bear her. To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter With words, till action might become them better. To see sad sights move more than hear them told; For then the eye interprets to the ear The heavy motion that it doth behold, When every part a part of woe doth bear : 'T is but a part of sorrow that we hear ; Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords. And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words. 1330 Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ, " At Ardea to my lord, with more than haste." The post attends, and she delivers it. Charging the sour-fac'd groom to hie as fast As lagging fowls before the northern blast : Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems : Extremity still urgeth such extremes. The homely villain court'sies to her low ; And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye Receives the scroll, without or yea or no, is* And forth with bashful innocence doth hie : But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie Imagine every eye beholds their blame ; For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame : When, silly groom ! God wot, it was defect Of spirit, life, and bold audacity. Such harmless creatures have a true respect To talk in deeds, while others saucily Promise more speed, but do it leisurely : Even so this pattern of the worn-out age isso Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage. His kindled duty kindled her mistrust. That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd ; She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's lust. And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd ; Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd : The more she saw the blood his cheeks re- plenish, The more she thought he spied in her some blemish. But long she thinks till he return again. And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone, iseo The weary time she cannot entertain, For now 't is stale to sigh, to weep, and groan : So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired nioan. That she her plaints a little while doth stay, Pausing for means tomournsome newer way. At last she calls to mind where hangs apiece Of skUful painting, made for Priam's Troy ; Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, For Helen's rape the city to destroy, iseo Threat'ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy ; Which the conceited painter drew so proud. As heaven, it seem'd, to kiss the turrets bow'd. A thousand lamentable objects there, In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life. Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear. Shed for the slaughter'd hvisband by the wife : The red blood reek'd, to show the painter's strife; And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights. Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. There might you see the labouring pioneer iseo Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust ; And from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust. Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust : Such sweet observance in this work was had, Thatonemight see those far-off eyes look sad. In great commanders grace and majesty You might behold, triumphing in their faces ; In youth quick bearing and dexterity ; And here and there the painter interlaces 1390 Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces : Which heartless peasants did so well re- semble. That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. 335 LUCRECE. In Ajax and Ulysses, 0, what art Of physiognomy might one behold ! The face of either cipher'd either's heart ; Their face their manners most expressly told ; In Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd ; But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Show'd deep regard and smiling govern- ment. 1400 There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As 't were encouraging the Greeks to fight ; Making such sober action with his hand, That it beguil'd attention, charm'd the sight. In speech, it seemed, his beard, all silver white, Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to ^the sky. About him were a press of gaping faces. Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice ; All jointly listening, but with several graces, As if some mermaid did their ears entice : nn Some high, some low, the painter was so nice. The scalps of many, almost hid behind, To jump up higher seem'd, to mock the mind. Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head, His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour'sear ; Here one, being throng'd, bears back, all boU'n and red ; Another, smother'd, seems to pelt and swear ; And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words, 1420 It seem'd they would debate with angry swords. Eor much imaginary work was there ; Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles' image stood his spear, Grip'd in an armed hand : himself behind Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind. A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined. And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy When their brave hope, bold Hector, maroh'd to field, ifflo Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield ; And to their hope they such odd action yield. That through their light joy seemed to appear (Like bright things stain' d) a kind of heavy fear. And from the strond of Dardan, where they fought, To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran. Whose waves to imitate the battle sought With swelling ridges ; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and than 1440 Retire again, till meeting greater ranks They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks. To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, To find a face where all distress is stell'd. Many she sees, where cares have carved some. But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes. Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies. In her the painter had anatomis'd ux Time's ruin, beauty's wrack, and grim care's reign : Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis'd ; Of what she was no semblance did remain ; Her blue blood chang'd to black in every vein, Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed, Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead. On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldame's woes. Who nothing wants to answer her but cries. And bitter words to ban her cruel foes : um The painter was no god to lend her those ; And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, To give her so much grief, and not a tongue. " Poor instrument,'' quote she, " without a sound, I '11 tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue. And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted wound. And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong. And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long, And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. 1470 " Show me the strumpet that began this stir, That with my najjs her beauty I may tear. Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear : Thine eye kindled the fire that burneth here ; 336 LUCREOE. And here, in Troy, for trespass of thine eye. The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter, die. "Why should the private pleasure of some ■ one Become the public plague of many moe 1 Let sin, alone committed, light alone uea TJpon his head that hath transgressed so ; Let guiltless souls be freed from guUty woe. For one's offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sia in general 1 " Lo ! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds. Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies, And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds. And one man's lust these many lives cpn- f ounds : Had doting Priam, check'd his son's desire, Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire." uei Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes ; For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell, Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes ; Then little strength rings out the doleful knell : So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell To pencUl'd pensiveness and colour'd sor- row; She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow. She throws her eyes about the painting round, And who she finds forlorn she doth lament : isoo At last she sees a wretched image bound. That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent; His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content. Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes. In him the painter labour'd with his skill To hide deceit, and give the harmless show An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, A brow unbent that seem'd to welcome woe ; Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so lao That blushing red no guilty instance gave. Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. But, like a constant and confirmed devil. He entertain'd a show so seeming-just, And therein so ensconc'd his secret evil. That jealousy itself could not mistrust False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust 29 337 Into so bright a day such black-fac'd storms, Or blot with hell-bom sin such saint-like forms. The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew 1620 For perjur'd Sinon, whose enchanting story The credulous old JPriam after slew ; Whose words like wild-fire burnt the shining glory Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, And little stars shot from their fixed places. When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces. This picture she advisedly perus'd, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill, Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abus'd ; So fair a form lodg'd not a mind so Ul : isso And still on him she gaz'd, and gazing still. Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied. That she concludes the picture was belied. " It cannot be," quoth she, " that so much guile " — She would have said — " can lurk in such a look ;" But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the whUe, And from her tongue " can lurk " from " can- not " took ; " It cannot be " she in that sense forsook. And tum'd it thus : " It cannot be, I find. But such a face should bear a wicked mind : 1540 " For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild, (As if with grief or travail he had fainted,) "To me came Tarquin armed ; so beguil'd With outward honesty, but yet defil'd With inward vice : as Priam him did cherish, So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish. " Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds ! Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise ? For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds : issi His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds ; Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. LUCRECE. " Such devils steal effects from lightless hell ; For Sinon in his fire doth quake -with cold, And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dweU ; These contraries such unity do hold, Only to flatter fools, and make them bold : So Priam's trust false Sinon' s tears doth flatter, iseo That he finds means to bum his Troy with water." Here, all enrag'd, such passion her assails, That patience is quite beaten from her breast. She tears the senseless Sinon with her naUs, Comparing him to that unhappy guest Whose deed hath made herseK herself detest : At last she smilingly with this gives o'er ; "Fool! fool!" quoth she, "his wounds will not be sore." Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her com- plaining. 1570 She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow. And both she thinks too long with her re- maining. Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sus- taining : Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; And they that watch see time how slow it creeps. Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought, That she with painted images hath spent. Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others' detriment ; Losing her woes in shows of discontent. isso It easeth some, though none it ever cur'd, To think their dolour others have endur'd. But now the mindful messenger, come back. Brings home his lord and other company ; Who finds his Lucrece clad inmourning black; And round about her tear-distained eye Blue circles stream 'd, like rainbows in the sky : These water-galls in her dim element Foretell new storms to those already spent. Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares : 1591 Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw; Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares ; Both stood like old acquaintance in a trance. Met far from home, wondering each other's chance. At last he takes her by the bloodless hand. And thus begins : " What uncouth ill event Hath thee befaU'n, that thou dost trembling stand ? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent 1 1600 Why art thou thus attir'd in discontent ? Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness. And tell thy grief, that we may give re- dress." Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire. Ere once she can discharge one word of woe : At length address'd to answer his desire. She modestly prepares to let them know Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe ; While Collatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her watery nest ion Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. " Few words," quoth she, " shall fit the tres- pass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending : In me moe. woes than words are now de- pending ; Ajud my laments would be drawn out too long. To teU them all with one poor tired tongue. " Then be this aU the task it hath to say r Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay 1020 Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; And what wrong else may be imagined By foul enforcement might be done to me. From that, alas ! thy Lucrece is not free. " For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight. With shining falchion in my chamber came A creeping creature, with a flaming light. And softly cried: 'Awake, thou Boman dame, And entertain my love ; else lasting shame On thee and thine this night I will inflict. If thou my love's desire do contradict, lesi " ' For some hard-favour'd groom of thine,' quoth he, ' Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, I '11 murder straight, and then I '11 slaughter thee, And swear I found you where you did fulfil The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill The lechers in their deed : this act will be My fame, and thy perpetual infamy.' 388 LTJCRECE. " With this I did begin to start and cry, And then against my heart he set his sword, Swearing, unless I took all patiently, i64i I should not live to speak another word ; So should my shame still rest upon record, And never be forgot in mighty Rome The adulterate death of Lucrece and her " Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak. And far the weaker with so strong a fear : My bloody judge forbade my tongue to No rightful plea might plead for justice there : His scarlet lust came evidence to swear leso That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes; And when the judge is robb'd, the prisoner dies. " ! teach me how to make mine own excuse, Or, at the least, this refuge let me find : .Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse. Immaculate and spotless is my mind ; That was not forc'd ; that never was inclin'd To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure." Lo ! here the hopeless merchant of this loss, With head declin'd, and voice damm'd up with woe, 1661 With sad-set eyes, and wretched arms across, From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow The grief away, that stops his answer so : But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain ; What he breathes out, his breath drinks up again. As through an arch the violent roaring tide Outnms the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast, lero In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being past : Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw. To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. Which speechless woe of his poor she at- tendeth, And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh : " Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power ; no flood by raining slaketh. My woe too sensible thy passion maketh More feeling-painful : let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. aeso " And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me : Be suddenly revenged on my foe. Thine, mine, his own : suppose thou dost defend me From what is past : the help that thou shalt lend me Comes all too Ikte, yet let the traitor die ; For sparing justice feeds iniquity. " But ere I name him, you, fair lords,'' quoth she (Speaking to those that came with CoUatine), " Shall plight your honourable faiths to me. With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine ; ism For 't is a meritorious fair design, To chase injustice with revengeful arms : Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies' harms." At this request, with noble disposition Each present lord began to promise aid. As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd ; But she, that yet her sad task hath not said. The protestation stops. " ! speak," quoth she, "00 " How may this forced stain be wip'd from me? " What is the quality of mine offence, Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, My low-declined honour to advance ? May any terms acquit me from this chance 1 The poison'd fountain. clears itself again ; And why not I from this compelled stain?" With this, they all at once began to say, Her body's stain her mind untainted clears ; While with a joyless smile she turns away mi The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears. " No, no," quoth she ; " no dame, hereafter living. By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving." Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break. She throws forth Tarquin's name : " He, he," she says. But more than " he " her poor tongue could not speak ; Till after many accents and delays. Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, LUCREOE. She utters this: "He, he, fair lords, 'tis he, 1721 That guides this hand to give this wound to me." Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast A harmful knife, that thence her soul un- sheathed : That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed ; Her contrite sighs imto the clouds bequeathed Her winged spright, and through her wounds doth fly Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny. Stone-still astonish'd with this deadly deed, 1730 Stood CoUatiae and all his lordly crew ; Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed, Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw : And from the purple fountain Brutus drew The murderous knife, and, as it left the place. Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase ; And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Circles her body in on every side, Who like a late-sacked island vastly stood, mo Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood. Some of her blood still pure and red re- main'd, And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd. About the mourning and congealed face Of that black blood a watery rigol goes, Which seems to weep \ipon the tainted place : And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes, Corrupted blood some watery token shows ; And blood untainted still doth red abide. Blushing at that which is so putrifled. 1750 " Daughter, dear daughter !" old Lucretius cries, " That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd. If in the child the father's image Ues, Where shall I live, now Lucrece is imliv'd 1 Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd. If children pre-decease progenitors. We are their ofispriag, and they none of ours. " Poor broken glass, I often did behold In thy sweet semblance my old age new-bom; But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old. Shows me a bare-bon'd death by time out- worn. 1761 ! from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn. And shiver'd all the beauty of my glass. That I no more can see what once I was. " O time ! cease thou thy course, and last no longer, If they surcease to be that should survive. Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger. And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? The old bees die, the young possess their hive : Then live, sweet Lucrece ; live again, and see 1770 Thy father die, and not thy father thee ! " By this starts CoUatine as from a dream. And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place ; And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face. And counterfeits to die with her a space ; Till manly shame bids him possess his breath. And live to be revenged on her death. The deep vexation of his inward soul 1779 Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue ; Wto, mad that sorrow should his use control. Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, Begins to talk ; but through his lips do throng Weak ■ words so thick, come in his poor heart's aid, That no man could distinguish what he said. Yet sometime " Tarquin " was pronounced plain. But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. This windy tempest, till it blow up rain. Held back his sorrow's tide to make it more ; At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er ; 1790 Then son and father weep with equal strife. Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife. The one doth call her his, the other his. Yet neither may possess the claim they lay. The father says : " She 's mine." " O ! mine she is," Replies her husband, " do not take away My sorrow's interest ; let no mourner say He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be waU'd by CoUatine." 340 LTJCREOE. " !" quoth Lucretius, " I did give that life, 1800 Which she too early and too late hath spill'd." " Woe, woe !" quoth CoUatine, " she was my wife, I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd." " My daughter " and " My wife " with cla- mours fill'd The dispers'd air, who, holding Lucrece' life, Answer'd their cries, " My daughter " and " My wife." Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from. Lucrece' side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride. Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show. He with the Romans was esteemed so isn As silly-jeering idiots are with kings, Eor sportive words, and uttering foolish things : But now he throws that shallow habit by. Wherein deep policy did him disguise, And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly, To check the tears in CoUatinus' eyes. " Thou wronged lord of Rome," quoth he, " arise : Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool, isio Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school. " Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe 1 Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grie- vous deeds ? Is it revenge to give thyself a blow. For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ? Such childish humour from weak minds pro- ceeds ; , Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. " Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such relenting dew of lamentations. But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part, 1830 To rouse our Roman gods with invocations. That they will suffer these abominations. Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'd. By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chas'd. " Now, by the Capitol that we adore. And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd. By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store. By all our country rights in Rome main- tain'd, And by chaste Lucrece' soul, that late com- plain'd Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, is*) We will revenge the death of this true wife." This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow ; And to his protestation urg'd the rest, Who, wondering at him, did his words allow : Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow; And that deep vow which Brutus made before, He doth again, repeat, and that they swore. When they had sworn to this advised doom, They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence ; isso To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence : Which being done with speedy diligence. The Romans plausibly did give consent To Tarquin's everlasting banishment. 3tl THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. DRAMATIS PERSONS. A Lord. Christopher Sly, a Tinker. 'j Persons in Hostess, Page, Players, Hunts- \the Induo- men, and Servants. ) tion. Baptista, a rich Gentleman of Padua. ViNCENTio, cm old Gentleman of Pisa. LucENTio, Son to Vincentio. Petruchio, a Gentlema/n of Verona. HORTENSIO, } ^^^^°''" *" ^^'^''- Serva/nts to Lucentio. Tranio, BlONDELLO, p ' t Servants to Petruchio. A Pedant. T> ' [ Daughters to Baptista. Widow. Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio. SCENE. — Sometimes in Padua, and sometimes ia Peteuchio's House in the Country. INDTJCTION. Scene I. — Before an Ale-touse on a Heath. Enter Hostess and Sly. Sly. I 'U pheese you, in faith. Host. A pair of stocks, yovx rogue ! Sly. Y' are a baggage : the Slys are no rogues; look in the chronicles, we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris ; let the world slide. Sessa ! Host. You wUl not pay for the glasses you have burst 1 Sly. No, not a denier.. Go by. Saint Jeronimy : go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. 12 Host. I know my remedy : I must go fetch the thirdborough. [Exit. Sly. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I '11 answer him by law. I '11 not budge an inch, boy : let him come, and kindly. [Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep. Wind Horns. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants. Lord. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds : Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd, And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach. 20 Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge-comer, in the coldest fault ? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. 1 Hun. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord ; He cried upon it at the merest, loss. And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent : Trust me, I take him for the better dog. Lord. Thou art a fool : if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them all : so To-morrow I intend to hunt again. 1 Hun. I will, my lord. Lord. What 's here 1 one dead, or drunk ? See, doth he breathe 1 2 Hu'^. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale. This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. Lord. monstrous beast ! how like a swine he lies ! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image ! ' Sirs, I will practise on tTiis drunken man. What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, 40 A most delicious banquet by his bed. And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself ? 1 Hun. Believe me, lord, I think he can- not choose. 2 Hum,. It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd. 342 Induction. THE TAMINa OF THE SHREW. Scene I. Lord. Even as a flattering dream, or worth- less fancy. Then take him np, and manage well the jest. Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pic- tures j Balm his foul head with warm distilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet. 61 Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound ; And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, And, with a low submissive reverence, Say, " "What is it your honour will command T Let one attend him with a silver basin. Full of rose-water, and bestrew'd with flowers ; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, And say, " Will 't please your lordship cool your hands V eo Some one be ready with a costly suit, And ask him what apparel he will wear ; Another tell him of his hounds and horse, And that his lady mourns at his disease. Persuade him, that he hath been lunatic ; And, when he says he is — , say, that he dreams. For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs : It will be pastime passing excellent. If it be husbanded with modesty. 7o 1 Hun. My lord, I warrant you, we will play our part. As he shall think, by our true diligence, He is no less than what we say he is. Lord. Take him up gently, and to bed with him, And each one to his office when he wakes. — [Sly is home out. A trv/rrvpet sownds. Sirrah, go see what trumpet 't is that sounds : — [Eodt Servant. Belike, some noble gentleman, that means. Travelling some journey, to repose him here. — Re-enter Servant. How now ? who is it ? Serv. An it please your honour. Players that offer service to your lordship, sj Lord. Bid them .come near. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. Players. We thank your honour. Lord. Do you intend to stay with me to- night ^ A Play. So please your lordship to accept our duty. Lord. With all my heart. — This fellow I remember, Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son : — 'T was where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well. I have forgot your name ; but, sure, that part Was aptly fitted, and naturally perform'd. A Play. I think, 't was Soto that your honour means. m Lord. 'T is very true ; thou didst it excel- lent. Well, you are come to me in happy time. The rather for I have some sport in hand. Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play to-night ; But I am doubtful of your modesties. Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour, (For yet his honour never heard a play,) You break into some pieiTy passion, And so offend him ; for I tell you, sirs, loo If you should smile he grows impatient. A Play. Fear not, my lord : we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antick in the world. Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one : Let them want nothing that my house affords. — \EoKunt Servant and Players. [To a Servant.'^ Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page, And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady : That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber ; And call him madam, do him obeisance, no Tell him from me, as he will win my love, He bear himself with honourable action. Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies Unto their lords by them accomplished : Such duty to the drunkard let him do. With soft low tongue, and lowly courtesy ; And say, " What is't your honour will com- mand. Wherein your lady, and your humble wife. May show her duty, and make known her love?" And then, with kind embracements, tempting kisses, 120 And with declining head iato his bosom, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd To see her noble lord restor'd to health, Who, for this seven years, hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar. And if the boy hath not a woman's gift, To rain a shower of commanded tears. An onion will do well for such a shift, Which, in a napkin being close convey'd. Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. iso See this despatoh'd with all the haste thou canst : 343 Induction. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. Anon I 'U give thee more instructions. [JEocit Servant. I know, the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman : I long to hear Mm call the drunkard husband, And how my men will stay themselves from laughter. When they do homage to this simple peasant. I '11 in to counsel them : haply, my presence May well abate the over-merry spleen, is9 Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [Exeunt. Scene II, — A Bed-chamber ia the Lord's House. Sly is discovered in a rich night-gown, with Attendants ; some with apparel, others with basin, ewer, and other o,ppurtenamces. Enter Lord, dressed like a servant. Sly. For God's sake, a pot of small ale ! 1 Serv. Will 't please your lordship drink a cup of sack ? 2 Serv. Will 't please your honour taste of these conserves ? 3 Serv. What raiment will your honour wear to-day ? Sly. I am Christophero Sly ; call not me honour, nor lordship : I ne'er drank sack in my life ; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I '11 wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet ; nay, some- time, more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. 12 Lord. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour ! O, that a mighty man, of such descent. Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit ! Sly. What ! would you make me mad % Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son, of Burton Heath, by birth a pedlar, by educa- tion a card-maker, by transmutation a bear- herd, and now by present profession a tinker ? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not : if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave in Christendom. What ! I am not bestraught. Here 's — 1 Serv. O ! this it is that makes your lady mourn. 2 Serv. ! this it is that makes your servants droop. Lord. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth ; so Call home thy ancient thoughts from banish- ment. And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck : Wilt thou have music 1 hark ? Apollo plays, [Music. And twenty caged nightingales do sing : Or wilt thou sleep ? we 'U have thee to a couch Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk, we will bestrew the ground : lo Or wilt thou ride, thy horses shall be trapp'd. Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking ? thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark : or wilt thou hunt 1 Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them. And fetch shrill echoes from the hoUow earth. 1 Serv. Say thou wilt course, thy grey- hounds are as swift As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe. 2 Serv. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, so And Cytherea all in sedges hid. Which seem to move and wanton with her breath. Even as the waving sedges play w,ith wind. Lord. We '11 show thee lo as she was a maid, And how she was beguiled and surpris'd, As lively painted as the deed was done. 3 Serv. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds ; And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, ss So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. Lord. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord : Thou hast a lady, far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. 1 Serv. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee. Like envious floods, o'erran her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world ; And yet she is inferior to none. Sly. Am I a lord 1 and have I such a lady ? ■ Or do I dream ? or have I dream'd till now ? 1 do not sleep ; I see, I hear, I speak ; n 314 Induction. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things. — Upon my life, I am a lord indeed. And not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly. — Well, bring our lady hither to our sight ; And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale. 2 Serv. Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands ? \Servants present a ewer, basin, and na/pkvn. O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd ! O, that once more you knew but what you are ! These fifteen years you have been in a dream, Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept. 80 Sly. These fifteen years ! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of aU that time ? 1 Serv. O ! yes, my lord, but very idle words ; — For though you lay here in this goodly cham- ber, •Yet "would you say, ye "were beaten out of door. And rail upon the hostess of the house. And say you would present her at the leet, Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts. Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. Sly. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. ^ 3 Serv. Why, sir, you know no house, nor no such maid. Nor no such men, as you have reckon'd up, — As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, And Peter Turf, and Henry Pimpemell, And twenty more such names and men as these. Which never were, nor no man ever saw. Shj. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends ! All. Amen. Shj. I thank thee ; thou shalt not lose by it. Enier the Page, as a Lady, with Attendants. Page. How fares my noble lord ? loo Sly. Marry, I fare weU, for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife ] Page. Here, noble lord : what is thy wUl with her ? Sly. Are you my wife, and will not call me husband ? My men should call me lord : I am your goodman. Page. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband ; I am your wife in all obedience. Sly. I know it well. — What must I caU her? Lord. Madam. Sly. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam ? no Lord. Madam, and nothing else: so lords call ladies. Sly. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd And slept above some fifteen year or more. Page. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me. Being all this time abandon'd from your bed. Sly. 'T is much. — Servants, leave me and her alone. — Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. Page. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two ; Or if not so, until the sun be set : 120 For your physicians have expressly charg'd, In peril to incur your former malady. That I should yet absent me from your bed. I hope this reason stands for my excuse. Sly. Aj, it stands so, that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loth to fall into my dreams again : I will therefore tarry, in despite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a Servant. Serv. Your honour's players, hearing your amendment. Are come to play a pleasant comedy ; lao For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood, And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy : Therefore, they thought it good you hear a play, And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms, and lengthens life. Sh/. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty a Christmas gambol, or a tumbling-trick ? Page. No, my good lord : it is more pleas- ing stuff. Sly. What, household stuff? 140 Page. It is a kind of history. Sly. Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side. And let the world slip : we shall ne'er be younger. \They sit down. 315 Act I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. ACT I. Scene I. — Padua. A Public Place. Enter Lucbntio and Tranio. Zmc. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arriv'd for fruitful Lotnbardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy ; And, by my father's love and leave, am arm'd With his good wiU, and thy good company. My trusty servant, well approv'd in all ; Here let us breathe, and haply institute A course of learning, and ingenious studies. Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, lo Gave me my being, and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Yincentio's son, brought up in Florence, It shall become, to serve all hopes conceived, To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds : And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study. Virtue, and that part of philosophy Will I apply, that treats of happiness By virtue specially to be achiev'd. 20 Tell me thy mind ; for I have Pisa left. And am to Padua come, as he that leaves A shallow plash, to plunge him in the deep. And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. Tran. Mi perdoinate, gentle master mine, I am in all affected as yourself, Glad that you thus continue your resolve. To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admire This virtue, and this moral discipline, 30 Let 's be no stoics, nor no stocks, I pray ; Or so devote to Aristotle's checks. As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd. Balk logic with acquaintance that you have. And practise rhetoric in your common talk : Music and poesy use to quicken you. The mathematics, and the metaphysics. Fall to them, as you find your stomach serves you. No profit grows, where is no pleasure ta'en. — In brief, sir, study what you most affect. lo Luc. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay awhile : what company is this ? ■ Tra. Master, some show, to welcome us to town. .£'?i*e9-BAPTiSTA, Katharina, Bianca, Gremio, and HoETENSio. Lucentio and Tranio stand aside. Bap. Gentlemen, importune me no further, For how I firmly am resolv'd you know ; That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter. Before I have a husband for the elder. si If either of you both love Katharina, Because I know you well, and love you well. Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure. Gre. \Aside.^ To cart her rather : she's too rough for me. — There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife ? Kath. [To Bap.] I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates 1 Hor. Mates, maid ! how mean you that ? no mates for you. Unless you were of gentler, milder mould, m Kath. I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear : I wis, it is not half way to her heart ; But if it were, doubt not her care should be To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool, And paint your face, and use you like a fool. Hor. From all such devils, good Lord, de- liver us ! Gre. And me too, good Lord ! Tra. Hush, master ! here is some good pastime toward : That wench is stark mad, or wonderful fro- ward. Luc. But in the other's silence do I see ro Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio ! Tra. Well said, master : mum ! and gaze your filL Bap. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good What I have said, — Bianca, get you in : And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl. Kath. A pretty peat ! it is best Put finger in the eye, — an she knew why. Bian. Sister, content you in my discon- tent. 80 Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe : My books, and instruments, shall be my com- pany. On them to look, and practise by myself. LiLc. Hark, Tranio ! thou may'st hear Minerva speak. 346 Act I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. Hor. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange ? Sorry am I, ttat our good will effects Biamca's grief. Gre. Why, will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue % Bap. Gentlemen, content ye; I am re- Solv'd. 90 Go in, Bianca. \Eodt Bianca. And for I know, she taketh most delight In music, instruments, and poetry, Schoolmasters will I keep within my house. Fit to instruct her youth. — If you, Hortensio, Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such, Prefer them hither ; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing-up ; And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay, For I have more to commune with Bianca. loo [Exit, Kath. Why, and I trust, I may go too ; may I not ? What ! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike, I knew not what to take, and what to leave? Ha ! [Exit. Gre. You may go to the devil's dam : your gifts are so good, here 's none will hold you. — Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out : our cake 's dough on both sides. Fare- well : — yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. 112 Hor. So will I, Signior Gremio : but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brook'd parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both, — ^that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca's love, — to labour and effect one thing specially. Gre. What's that, I pray? Hor. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. 120 Gre. A husband ! a devU. Hor. I say, a husband. Gre. I say, a devil. Think'st thou, Hor- tensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell ? Hor. Tush, Gremio ! though it pass your patience and mine, to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. iso Gre. I cannot tell ; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition, — to be whipped at the high-cross every morning. Hor. 'Faith, as you say, there 's small choice in rotten apples. But, come ; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista's eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to 't afresh. — Sweet Bianca ! — Happy man be his dole ! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio ? ui Cfre. I am agreed : and 'would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on. [Exeunt Gremio and Hoetensio. Tra. [Advancing. '\ I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible. That love should of a sudden take such hold ? Luc. O Tranio ! till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible, or likely ; But see ! while idly I stood looking on, iso I found the effect of love in idleness ; And now in plainness do confess to thee, — ■ Thou art to me as secret, and as dear, As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, — Tranio, I burn, I pine ; I perish, Tranio, If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst : Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. Tra. Master, it is no time to chide you now ; Affection is not rated from the heart : leo If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so, — Redime te captum, quam queas minimo. Luc. Gramercies, lad ; go forward ; this contents; The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound. Tra. Master, you look'd so longly on the maid, Perhaps you mark'd not what 's the pith of all. Luc. O ! yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face. Such as the daughter of Agenor had, That made great Jove to humble him to her • hand. When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand. "o Tra. Saw you no more ! mark'd you not, how her' sister Began to scold, and raise up such a storm, That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? Luc. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move. And with her breath she did perfume the air : Sacred, and sweet, was all I saw in her. Tra. Nay, then, 't is time to stir him from his trance. — Act I. THE TAMING- OF THE SHREW. Scene II. I pray, awake, sir : if you love the maid, Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands : Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd, iso That, till the father rid his hands of her, Master, your love must live a maid at home ; And therefore has he closely mew'd her up, Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors. Luc. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father 's he ! But art thou not advis'd, he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her? Tra. Ay, marry am I, sir ; and now 't is plotted. Luc. I have it, Tranio. Tra. Master, for my hand. Both our inventions meet and jump in one. i9o Luc. TeU me thine first. Tra. You will be schoolmaster, And undertake the teaching of the maid : That 's your device. Iajm. It is : may it be done? Tra. Not possible ; for who shall bear your part. And be in Padua, here, Vincentio's son ; Keep house, and ply Ms book, welcome his friends. Visit his countrymen, and banquet them % Luc. Basta, content thee ; for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguished by our faces, 200 For man or master : then, it follows thus : — Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead. Keep house, and port, and servants, ■ as I should. I will some other be ; some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. 'T is hatch'd, and shall be so : — Tranio, at once Uncase thee, take my colour'd hat and cloak : When Biondello comes, he waits on thee ; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. Tra. So had you need. 210 [They- eaxhange habits. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And 1 am tied to be obedient (For so your father charg'd me at our parting j " Be serviceable to my son," quoth he. Although, I think, 't was in another sense), I am content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio. Luc. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves. And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thraU'd my wounded eye. 220 Enter Biondello. Here comes the rogue. — Sirrah, where have you been ] Bion. Where have I been? Nay, how now ? where are you 1 Master, has my fellow Tranio stol'n your clothes, Or you stol'n his, or both ? pray, what's the news? Luc, Sirrah, come hither : 't is no time to jest. And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life. Puts my apparel and my countenance on, And I for my escape have put on his ; For in a quarrel, since I came ashore, 230 I kill'd a man, and fear I was descried. Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes. While I make way from hence to save my life. You understand me ? Bion. I, sir ? ne'er a whit. Luc. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth : Tranio is chang'd into Lucentio. Bion. The better for him ; 'would I were so too ! Tra. So coiild I, 'faith, boy, to have the next wish after. That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest daughter. But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master's, I advise 240 You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies : When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio ; But in all places else, your master, Lucentio. Luc. Tranio, let 's go. — One thing more rests, that thyself execute; To make one among these wooers : if thou ask me why, Sufficeth, my reasons are both good and weighty. [Exeunt. 1 Serv. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. Sly. Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely : comes there any more of it ? 250 Page. Mj lord, 't is but begun. Sly. 'T is a very excellent piece of work, madam lady : 'would 't were done ! Scene II.- -The Same. Before HoRTENSio'i House. Enter Petruchig and Grumio. Pet. Verona, for a while I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua ; but, of aU, My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio ; and, I trow, this is his house. — 348 Act I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. Here, sirrah Gnimio ! knock, I say. Gru. Knock, sir ! whom should I knock ? is there any man has rebused your worship % Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. Grv,. Knock you here, sir ? why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir ? lo Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate ; And rap me well, or I '11 knock your knave's pate. Gru. My master is grown quarrelsome. — I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst. Pet. Will it not be ? 'Eaith, sirrah, an you '11 not knock, I '11 wring it: I '11 try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. \IIe wrings Gbumio by the ears. Gru. Help, masters, help ! my master is mad. Pet. Now, knock when I bid you : sirrah 1 villain ! Ufiter HoRTENSio. Hot. How now ? what 's the matter 1 — My old friend Grumio, and my good friend Pe- truchio ! — How do you aU at Verona'! 22 Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray ? Con tutto il core hen trovato, may I say. Hor. Alia nostra casa ben venuio ; molto honorato signior mio Petruchio. Rise, Grumio, rise : we will compound this quarrel. Gru. Nay, 't is no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin. — If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, — look you, sir, — he bid me knock him, and rap him soundly, sir : well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so ; being, perhaps, (for aught I see) two-and-thirty, — a pip out ? ss Whom, 'would to God, I had well knock'd at first. Then had not Grumio come by the worst. Pet. A senseless vUlain ! — Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, And could not get him for my heart to do it. Gru. Knock at the gate ? — O heavens ! Spake you not these words plain, — " Sirrah, knock me liere, «o Rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly ? " And come you now with knocking at the gate ? Pet. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. Hor. Petruchio, patience : I am Grumio's pledge. Why, this' a heavy chance 'twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale Blows you to Padua, here, from old Verona ? Pet. Such wind as scatters young men through the world. To seek their fortunes further than at home, m Where small experience grows. But, in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me : Antonio, my father, is deceas'd, And I have thrust myself into this maze. Haply to wive, and thrive, as best I may. Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home. And so am come abroad to see the world. Hor. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee. And wish thee to a shrewd Ol-favour'd wife ? Thou 'dst thank me but a little for my counsel ; eo And yet I '11 promise thee she shall be rich. And very rich : — but thou 'rt too much my friend. And I '11 not wish thee to her. Pet. Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife (As wealth is burthen of my wooing dance). Be she as foul as was Florentius' love. As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd As Socrates' Xanthippe, or a worse : m She moves me not, or not removes, at least,- Affection's edge in me, — were she as rough As are the swelling Adriatic seas : I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. Gru. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is : why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet, or an aglet-baby ; or an old trot with ne'er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two- and-fifty horses : why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal. si Hor. Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in, I will continue that I broach'd in jest. I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife With wealth enough, and young, and beau- teous. Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman : Her only fault, and that is faults enough. Is, that she is intolerable curst. And shrewd, and froward; so beyond all measure. That, were my state far worser than it is, m I would not wed her for a mine of gold. Act I. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. Scene II. Pet. Hortensio, peace ! thou know'st not gold's effect. — Tell me her father's name, and 't is enough ; For I will board her, though she chide as loud As thunder, when the clouds in autumn crack. Hor. Her father is Baptista Mitiola, An affable and courteous gentleman ; Her name is Katharina Minola, Eenown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue. Pet. I know her father, though I know not her, 100 And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her ; And therefore let me be thus bold with you, To give you over at this first encounter. Unless you will accompany me thither. Gru. I pray, you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O' my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may, perhaps, call him half a score knaves, or so ; why, that 's nothing : an he begin once, he '11 rail in his rope-tricks. I '11 teU you what, sir, — an she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it, that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir. Hor. Tarry, Petruohio, I must go with thee. For in Baptista's keep my treasure is : He hath the jewel of my life in hold. His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, And her withholds from me, and other more Suitors to her, and rivals in my love ; 121 Supposing it a thing impossible, For those defects I have before rehears'd, That ever Katharina will be woo'd : Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en, That none shall have access unto Bianca, Till Katharine the curst have got a husband. Gru. Kathariue the curst ! A title for a maid of all titles the worst. Hor. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, iso And offer me, disguis'd in sober robes, To old Baptista as a schoolmaster Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca ; That so I may, by this device, at least Have leave and leisui'e to make love to her, And unsuspected court her by herself. Enter Gremio, arid JsucestiO' disguised, with hooks under his arm. Gru. Here 's no knavery ! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay then- heads together ! Master, master, look about you : who goes there? ha! Hor. Peace, Grumio : 't is the rival of my love. 140 Petruchio, stand by awhile. Gru. A proper stripling, and an amorous ! [TJiey retire. Gre. O ! very well ; I have perus'd the note. Hark you, sir ; I '11 have them very fairly bound : All books of love, see that at any hand, And see you read no other lectures to her. You understand me. — Over and beside Signior Baptista's liberality, I '11 mend it with a largess. — Take your papers, too, And let me have them very well perfum'd, 150 For she is sweeter than perfume itself, To whom they go to. What will you read to her? Luc. Whate'er I read to her, I '11 plead for you, As for my patron, stand you 'so assur'd. As firmly as yourself were still in place ; Yea, and perhaps with more successful words Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir. Gre. O, this learning ! what a thing it is ! GVii. O, this woodcock ! what an ass it is ! Pet. Peace, sirrah ! iso Hor, Grumio, mum ! — [Coming forward.'\ God save you, Signior Gremio ! Gre. And you 're well met, Signior Hor- tensio. Trow you. Whither I am going 1 — To Baptista Minola. I promis'd to inquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca ; And, by good fortune, I have lighted well On this young man ; for learning, and be- haviour. Fit for her turn; well read in poetry. And other books, — good ones, I warrant'ye. Hor. 'T is well : and I have met a ffentle- o man, 170 Hath promis'd me to help me to another, A fine musician to instruct our mistress : So shall I no whit be behind in duty To fair Bianca, so belov'd of me. Gre. Belov'd of me, and that my deeds shall prove. Gru. And that his bags shall prove. Hor. Gremio, 't is now no time to vent our love. Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, I '11 tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman, whom by chance I met. Upon agreement from us to his liking, isi Will undertake to woo curst Katharine ; Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. Gre. So said, so done, is well. — 350 Act I. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene IL Hortensio, have you told him all her faults 1 Pet. I know, she is an irksome, brawling scold : If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. Gre. No, say'st me so, friend? What countryman % Pet. Bom in Verona, old Antonio's son : My father dead, my fortune lives for me ; iso And I do hope good days and long to see. Chre. O ! sir, such a Ufe, with such a wife, were strange ; But if you have a stomach, to't o' God's name : You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat % Pet. WilllUve? Gru. WUl he woo her ] ay, or I '11 hang her. Pet. Why came I hither, but to that intent ? Thiiik you, a little din can daunt mine ears ? Have I not in my time heard lions roar ? Have I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds, 30O Rage like an angry boar, chafed with sweat 1 Have I not heard great ordnance in the field. And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies ? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang ? And do you tell me of a woman's tongue. That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? Tush ! tush ! fear boys with bugs. Gru. For he fears none. Gre. Hortensio, liark. 210 This gentleriian is happily arriv'd, My mind presumes, for his own good, and ours. Hor. I promis'd we would be contributors. And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe'er. Gre. And so we will, provided that he win her. Gru. I would, I were as sure of a good dinner. Enter Tbanio, bravely apparelled; and BlONDELLO. Tra. Gentleinen, God save you ! If I may be bold. Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way To the house of Signior Baptista Minola 1 Gre. He that has the two. fair daughters : — is 't he you mean 1 220 Tra. Even he. — Biondello ! Gre. Hark you, sir : you mean not her too ? Tra. Perhaps, him and her, sir : what have you to do ? Pet. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. Tra. I love no chiders, sir. — Biondello, let's away. Luc. [Aside.^ Well begun, Tranio. Hor. Sir, a word ere you go. Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea, or no? Tra. An if I be, sir, is it any ofience ? Gre. No ; if without more words you will get you hence. Tra. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free 230 For me, as for you ? Gre. But so is not she. Tra. For what reason, I beseech you ? Gre. For this reason, if you '11 know. That she 's the choice love of Signior Gremio. Hor. That she 's the chosen of Signior Hor- tensio. Tra. Softly, my masters ! if you be gentle- men. Do me this right ; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman. To whom my father is not all unknown ; And were his daughter fairer than she is, 240 She may more suitors have, and me for one. Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers ; Then, well one more may fair Bianca have. And so she shall. Lucentio shall make one. Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. Gre. What ! this gentleman will out-talk us all. Luc. Sir, give him head : I know, he '11 prove a jade. Pet. Hortensio, to what end are all these words 1 Hor. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you, Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter 1 250 Tra. No, sir ; but hear I do, that he hath two. The one as famous for a scolding tongue. As is the other for beauteous modesty. Pet. Sir, sir, the first 's for me ; let her go by- Gre. Yea, leave that labour to great Her- cules, And let it be more than Alcides' twelve. Pet. Sir, imderstand you this of me : in sooth. The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for. Her father keeps from all access of suitors. And wUl not promise her to any man, 280 Until the elder sister first be wed ; The younger then is free, and not before. Tra. If it be so, sir, that you are the man Must stead us all, and me among the rest ; 351 Act II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. And if you break the ice, and do this feat, Achieve the elder, set the younger free For our access, — whose hap shall be to have her WUl not so graceless be, to be ingrate. Hot. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive ; And since you do profess to be a suitor, ko You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding. Tra. Sir, I shall not be slack : in sign whereof. Please ye we may contrive this afternoon. And quaff carouses to our mistress' health ; And do as adversaries do iu law, Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. Oru., Bion. O excellent motion ! Fellows, let 's be gone. Hor. The motion 's good indeed, and be it so. — Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. iiso [Uaxunt. ACT II. Scene I. — The Same. A Room in Baptista's House. Snter Kathabina and Bianca. JBian. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself, To make a bondmaid and a slave of me : That I disdain ; but for these other gawds, Unbiud my hands, I '11 pull them off myself, Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat ; Or what you will command me, will I do, So well I know my duty to my elders. Kath. Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell Whom thou lov'st best : see thou dissemble not. Bian. Believe me, sister, of all the men aUve, 10 I never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other. Kath. Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hor- tensio ? BiaTi. If you affect him, sister, here I swear, I 'U plead for you myself, but you shall have him. Kath. O ! then, belike, you fancy riches more : You will have Gremio to keep you fair. Bian. Is it for him you do envy me so ? Nay, then you jest ; and now I well perceive, You have but jested with me all this while. I pr'ythee, sister Kate, untie my hands. 21 Kath. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. \Strilces her. Unter Baptista. Ba/p. Why, how now, dame ! whence grows this insolence ? — Bianca, stand aside : — poor girl ! she weeps. — Go ply thy needle ; meddle not with her. — For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee ] When did she cross thee with a bitter word ? Kath. Her sUence flouts me, and I'll be reveng'd. \Flies after Bianca. Bap. What ! in my sight ? — Bianca, get thee ia. [Exit Bianca. Kath. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see, si She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. Talk not to me : I wUl go sit and weep. Till I can find occasion of revenge. \Exit. Bap. Was ever gentleman thus griev'd as I?— But who comes here ? Enter Gremio, vnth Ltjcentio in the hahit of a mean man ; Petruchio, with Hoetensio as a musician; and Teanio, with BiON- i)ELLO hearing a lute and hooks. Gre. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. Bap. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen ! « Pet. And you, good sir. Pray, have you not a daughter, Call'd Katharina, fair, and virtuous 1 Bap. I have a daughter, sir, call'd Kathar- ina. Gre. You are too blunt : go to it orderly. Pet. You wrong me, Siguier Gremio : give me leave. — I am a gentleman of Verona, sir. That, hearing of her beauty, and her wit. Her affability, and bashful modesty, Her wondrous qualities, and mild behaviour, 50 Am bold to show myself a forward guest Within your house, to make mine eye the witness Of that report which I so oft have heard. And, for an entrance to my entertainment, I do present you with a man of mine, [Presenting Hortensio. Cunning in music and the mathematics, 352 Act II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene L To instruct her fully in those sciences, Whereof, I know, she is not ignorant. Accept of him, or else you do me wrong : His name is Licio, born in Mantua. m Bap. You 're welcome, sir ; and he, for your good sake. But for my daughter, Katharine, this I know, She is not for your turn, the more my grief. Pet. I see, you do not mean to part with her. Or else you like not of my company. Ba2}. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. Whence are you, sir 1 what may I call your name? Fet. Petruchio is my name, Antonio's son ; A man well known -throughout all Italy. Bap. I know him well : you are welcome for his sake. ro Gre. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. Backare ! you are mai-vellous forward. Pei. O ! pardon me, Signior Greinio ; I would faia be doing. Gre. I doubt it not, sir ; but you will curse your wooing. — Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this 3'^oung scholar [^presenting Lucentio], that hath been long studying at Rheims ; as cun- ning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio : pray accept his service, ss Bap. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio ; welcome, good Cambio. — [To Tranio.] But, gentle sir, methinks, you walk like a stranger : may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming ? Tra. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own. That, being a stranger in this city here. Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, so Unto Bianca, fair, and virtuous. ' Nor is your firm resolve imknown to me. In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request, — That, upon knowledge of my parentage, I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo. And free access and favour as the rest. And, toward the education of your daughters, I here bestow a simple instrument. And this small packet of Greek and Latin books : 100 If you accept them, then their worth is great. Bap. Lucentio is your name ? of whence, I pray 1 Tra. Of Pisa, sir ; son to Vinceutio. Bap. A mighty man of Pisa; by report I know him well : you are very .welcome, sir. — \To HoR.] Take you the lute, [to Luc] and you the set of books ; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within ! Enter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters ; and tell them both, io» These are their tutors : bid them iise them well. [Exit Servant, with Hortensio, LtFCENTIO, and BlONDELLO. We will go walk a little in the orchard, And then to dinner. You are passing wel- come, And so I pray you all to think yourselves. Pet. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste. And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him, me. Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have better'd rather than decreas'd : Then tell me, — if I get your daughter's love, What dowry shall I have with her to wife 1 Bap. After my death, the one half of my lands ; ra. And in possession twenty thousand crowns. Pet. And, for that dowry, I '11 assure her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever. Let specialties be therefore drawn between us. That covenants may be kept on either hand. Bap. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd, That is, her love ; for that is all in all. Pet. Why, that is nothing ; for I tell you, father, lao I am as peremptory as she proud-minded ; And where two raging fires meet together. They do consume the thing that feeds their fury : Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all ; So I to her, and so she yields to me, Eor I am rough, and woo not like a babe. Bap. Well may'st thou woo, and hapjjy be thy speed ! But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words. Pet. Ay, to the proof, as mountaius are for winds, "0 That shake not, though they blow perpetually. Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broken. Bap. How now, my friend ? why dost thou look so pale ? 30 3S3 Act II. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. Scene I. Hot. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. Bap. What, wiU. my daughter prove a good m^usician % Hor. I think, she '11 sooner prove a soldier : Iron may hold her, but never lutes. Baix Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? Hor. Why, no, for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering, iso When, with a most impatient, devilish spirit, "Frets call you these?" quoth she; "I'll fume with them :'' And with that word she struck me on the head. And through the instrument my pate made way; And there I stood amazed for a while, As on a pillory, looking through the lute, While she did call me rascal fiddler. And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms. As had she studied to misuse me so. Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench ! I love her ten times more than e'er I did : lei O, how I long to have some chat with her ! Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so dis- comfited : Proceed in practice with my younger daughter; She's apt to learn, and thankful for good turns. — Signior Petruchio, wUl you go with us, Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you 1 Pet. I pray you do; I will attend her here, [Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, and HoRTENSio. And woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say, that she rail ; why, then I 'II tell her plain, "0 She sings as sweetly as a nightingale : Say, that she frown ; I '11 say, she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew : Say, she be mute, and will not speak a word ; Then I '11 commend her volubility, And say, she uttereth piercing eloquence : If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks, As though she bid me stay by her a week : If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day When I shall ask the banns, and when be married. — '*• But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak. Enter Kathaeina. Good moiTow, Kate, for that 's your name, I hew. Kath. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing : They call me Katharine, that do talk of me. Pet. You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst ; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom ; Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all cates : and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation : — iso Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs. Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife. Kath. Mov'd ! in good time : let him that mov'd you hither. Remove you hence. I knew you at the first, You were a movable. Pet. Why, what 's a movable 1 Kath. A joint-stool. Pet. Thou hast hit it : come, sit on me. Kath. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. Pet. Women are made to bear, and so are you. 200 Kath. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean. Pet. Alas, good Kate ! I wUl not burden thee; For, knowing thee to be but youngand light, — Kath. Too light for such a swain as you to catch. And yet as heavy as my weight should be. Pet. Should be ? should buz. Kath. Well ta'en, and like a buzzard. Pet. O slow-wing'd turtle ! shall a buzzard take thee? Kath. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buz- zard. Pet Come, come, you wasp ; i' faith, you are too angiy. Kath. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. 210 Pet. My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Kath. A.J, if the fool could find it where it lies. Pet. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting ? In his tail. Kath. In his tongue. Pet. Whose tongue 1 Kath. Yours, if you talk of tails ; and so farewell. Pet. What ! with my tongue in your tail ? nay, come again : Good Kate, I am a gentleman. Kath. That I '11 try. [Striking him. Act II. THE TAMING OP THE SHREW. Scene I. Pet. I swear I '11 cuff you, if you strike again. Kath. So may you lose your arms : If you strike me, you are no gentleman, 220 And if no gentleman, why, then no arms. Pet. A herald, Kate? ! put me in thy books. Kath. What is your crest? a coxcomb ? Pet. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen, Kcdh. No cock of mine ; you crow too like a craven. Pet. Nay, come, Kate, come ; you must not look so sour. Kath. It is my fashion when I see a crab, Pet. Why, here's no crab, and therefore look not sour. Kath. There is, there is. Pet. Then show it me. Kdth. Had I a glass, I would. Pet. What, you mean my face ? sso Kath. Well aim'd of such a young one. Pet. Now, by Saint George, I am top young for you. Kath. Yet you are wither'd. Pet. 'T is with cares. Kath. I care not. Pet. Nay, hear yon, Kate : in sooth, you 'scape not so. Kath. I chafe you, if I tarry : let me go. Pet. No, not a whit : I find you passing gentle. 'T was told me, you were rough, and coy, and sullen. And now I find report a very liar ; For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers. MO Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches wiU ; Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk ; But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers. With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp? O slanderous world ! Kate, like the hazel- twig. Is straight, and slender ; and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. O ! let me see thee walk : thou dost not h^lt. Kath. Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command. 251 Pet. Did ever Dian so become a grove, As Kate this chamber with her princely gait ? O ! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate, And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sport- ful. Kath. Where did you study all this goodly speech ? Pet. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. Kath. A witty mother ! witless else her son. Pet. Am I not wise ? Kath. Yes ; keep you warm. Pet. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharine, in thy bed. '' 260 And therefore, setting all this chat aside, Thus in plain terms : — your father hath con- sented That you shall be my wife; your dowry 'greed on ; And, will you, nill you, I will marry yqu. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn ; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty. Thy beauty that ddth make me like thee well. Thou must be married to no man but me : For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Comformable, as other household Kates. 271 Here comes your father : never make denial ; I must and will have Katharine to my wife. Be-enter Baptista, Gbemio, and Tranio. Baf. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter ? Pet. How but well, sir ? how but well ? It were impossible I should speed amiss. Bap. Why, how now, daughter Katharine ? in your dumps? Kath. Call you me daughter ? now, I pro- mise you. You have show'd a tender fatherly regard, To wish me wed to one half lunatic ; zso A mad-cap puffian, and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. Pet. Father, 't is thus :— yourself and all th'e world. That talk'd of her, have talk'd amiss of her. If she be curst, it is for policy, For she 's not froward, but modestas the dove ; She is not hot, but temperate as the morn ; For patience she will prove a second Grissel, And Roman Lucrece for her chastity ; And to conclude, — we have 'greed so well together, 290 That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. Kath. I '11 see thee hang'd on Sunday first. Gre. Hark, Petruchio : she says she '11 see thee hang'd first. Tra, Is this your speeding ? nay then, good night our part. Pet. Be patient, gentlemen, I choose hei for myself: 355 Act II. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. If ske and I be pleas' d, what 's that to you 1 'T is bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone, That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, 't is incredible to believe How much she loves me. O, the kindest Kate ! 300 She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath. That in a twink she won me to her love. ! you are novices : 't is a world to see. How tame, when men and women are alone, A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. — • Give me thy hand, Kate : I will unto Venice, To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day. — Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests ; 1 will be sure, my Katharine shall be fine, sio £ap, I know not what to say ; but give me your hands : God send you joy, Petruchio ! 't is a match. Gre., Tra. Amen, say we : we will be wit- nesses. Pet. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu. I will to Venice ; Sunday comes apace. "We wiU have rings, and things, and fine array; And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o' Sunday. [Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina, severally. Gre. Was ever match clapp'd up so sud- denly ? £ap. 'Faith, gentlemen, now I play a mer- chant's part. And venture madly on a desperate mart. 320 Tra. 'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you: 'T will bring you gain, or perish on the seas. £ap. The gain I seek is — quiet in the match. Gre. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. — ' But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter. Now is the day we long have looked for -; I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. Tra. And I am one, that love Bianca more Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess. Gre. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. ' » Tra. Grey-beard, thy love doth freeze. Qre. But thine doth fry. Skipper, stand back : 'tis age, that nourisheth. Tra. But youth, in ladies' eyes that flourisheth. , Bap. Content you, gentlemen; I'll com- pound this strife : 'T is deeds must win the prize ; and he, 01 both. That can assure my daughter greatest dower. Shall have Bianca's love. — Say, Siguier Gremio, what can you assure her ■? Gre. First, as you know, my house within the city Is richly furnished with plate and gold : 340 Basins, and ewers, to lave her dainty hands ; My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry ; In ivory coffers I have stufl'd my crowns ; In cypress chests my arras, countei-points. Costly apparel, tents, and canopies. Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needlework, Pewter and bi-ass, and all things that belong To house, or housekeeping : then, at my farm, I have a hundred mUch-kine to the paU, 350 Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls. And all things answerable to this portion. Myself am struck in years, I must confess ; And if I die to-morrow, this is hei-s, If whilst I live she will be only mine. Tra. That " only " came well in. — Sir, list to me : I am my father's heir and only son : If I may have your daughter to my wife, I '11 leave her houses three or four as good, Within rich Pisa walls, as any one aeo Old Siguier Gremio has in Padua ; Besides two thousand ducats by the year Of fruitful land, all which shall be her join- ture.; — What, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio? Gre. Two thousand ducats by the year of land 1 My land amounts not to so much in all : That she shall have ; besides an argosy. That now is lying in Marseilles' road. — What, have I chok'd you with an argosy t Tra. Gremio, 't is known, my father hath no less 370 Than three great argosies, besides two galli- asses. And twelve tight galleys : these I will assure her. And twice as much, whate'er thou ofifer'st next. Gre. Nay, I have offer'd all, I have no more; And she can have no more than all I have, : — If you like me, she shall have me and mine. Tra. Why, then the maid is mine from all • woi'ld. By your firm promise. Gremio is out-vied. Baj). I must confess, your offer is the best ; I And, let your father make her the assurance, sso 356 Act III. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. She is your own ; else, you must pardon me : If you should die before hiin, where 's her dower 'i Tra. That 's but a cavil : he is old, I young. Gre. And may not young men die, as well as old % . Bap. Well, gentlemen, 1 am thus resolv'd. — On Sunday next, you know. My daughter Katharine is to be married : Now, on the Sunday following shall Bianca Be bride to you, if you make this assurance ; If not, to Siguier Gremio : soo And so I take my leave, and thank you both. Gre. Adieu, good neighbour. — Now I fear thee not : Sirrah, young gamester, your father were a fool To give thee all, and, in his waning age. Set foot under thy table. Tut ! a' toy ! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. \Exit. Tra. A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide! Yet I have faced it with a card of ten. 'T is in my head to do my master good : — I see no reason, but suppos'd Lucentio 400 Must get a father, call'd — suppos'd Vincentio ; And that's a wonder : fathers, commonly. Do get their children; but in this case of wooing, A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning. \Exit. ACT III. Scene I.^ — A Room in Baptista's House. Enter Lucentio, Hortensio, and Bianca. Luc. Fiddler, forbear : you grow too for- ward, sir. Have you so soon forgot the entertainment Her sister Katharine welcom'd you withal ? Hor. But, wrangling pedant, this is The patroness of heavenly harmony : Then give me leave to have prerogative ; And when in music we have spent an hour, Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. Luc. Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain'd ! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, n After his studies, or his usual pain? Then give me leave to read philosophy. And while I pause serve in your harmony. Hor. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. Bicm. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, • To strive for that which resteth in my choice. I am no breeching scholar in the schools ; I '11 not be tied to hours, nor 'pointed times. But learn my lessons as I please myself. 20 And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down : — Take you your instrument, play you the whiles ; His lecture will be done, ere you have tun'd. Hot. You '11 leave his lecture, when I am in tune ? [Betires. Luc. That will be never i—rtune your instrument. Bian. Where left we last ? Luc. Here, madam : — Hie ibat Si/niois ; hie est Sigeia teUua ; Hie steterat Priami regia eelsa senis. Bian. Construe them. 30 I/uc. Hie ibat, as I told you before, — Simois, I am Lucentio, — hie est, son unto Vincentio of Pisa,' — Sigeia tellus, disguised thus to get your love ; — Hie steterat, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, — Priami, is my man Tranio, — regia, bearing my port, — celsa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon. Hor. [Beturnhig.] Madam, my instrument's in tune. Bian. Let 's hear. [Hor. plays ^ O fie ! the treble jars. Luc. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. Bian. Now let me see if I can construe it ; 40 Hie ibat Simois, I know you not ; — hie est Sigeia tellus, I trust you not ; — Hie steterat Priami, take heed he hear us not ; — regia, presume not ; — celsa senis, despair not. Hor. Madam, 't is now in tune. Liic. All but the base. Hor.. The base is right ; 't is the base knave that jars. How fiery and forward our pedant is ! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love ; Pedascule, I '11 watch you better yet. Bian. In time I may believe, yet I mis- trust, w Zmc. Mistrust it not ; for sure, jSIacides Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather. 357 Act III. THE TAMIISTG OF THE SHEEW. Scene II. Bian. I must believe my master ; else, I promise you, I should be arguing still upon tbat doubt : But let it rest. — Now, Licio, to you. Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. Hor. \To LucENTic] You may go walk, and give me leave awhile : My lessons make no music in three parts. Luc. Are you so formal, sir ? [jisitie.] Well, I must wait, eo And watch withal ; for, but I be deceiv'd. Our fine musician groweth amorous. Hor. Madam, before you touch the instru- ment, To learn the order of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art ; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, More pleasant, pithy, and efiectual. Than hath been taught by any of my trade : And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. Bian. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. 70 Hor. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. Bian. \Reads.'\ " Gamut, / am, the ground of all accord, A re, to plead Hortensio' s passion ; B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord, C fa ut, tltat loves with all affection : D sol re, one cliff, two notes have I : E la mi, show pity, or I die." Call you this gamut ? tut ! I like it not : Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice, To change true rules for odd inventions. so Enter a Servant. Serv. Mistress, your father prays you leave . your books. And help to dress your sister's chamber up : You know, to-morrow is the wedding-day. Bian. Farewell, sweet masters both : I must be gone. [Bxeunt Bianca and Servant. Luc. 'Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. \JExit. Hor. But I have cause to pry into this pedant : Methinks, he looks as though he were in love. — Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble. To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale. Seize thee that list : if once I find thee rang- ing, 90 Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. \Exit. Scene II. — The Same. Before Baptista's House. Prefer Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katharina, Bianca, Lucentio, and Attendants. Bap. Siguier Lucentio, this is the 'pointed day, That K.atharine and Petruchio should be married, And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. What will be said ? what mockery will it be. To want the bridegroom, when the priest attends To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage ! What says Lucentio to this shame of ours ? Kath. No shame but mine : I must, for- sooth, be forc'd To give my hand, oppos'd against my heart. Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen ; lo Who woo'd in haste, and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool. Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour ; And to be noted for a merry man, He '11 woo a thousand, 'point the day of mar- riage. Make friends, in\'ite them, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd; Now must the world point at poor Katharine, And say, — " Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife, If it would please him come and marry her." Tra. Patience, good Katharine, and Bap- tista too. 21 Upon my life, Petruchio means but well. Whatever fortune stays him from his word : Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise ; Though he be merry, yet withal he 's honest. Kath. 'Would Katharine had never seen him though ! [Exdt, weeping, /allowed by Bianca and otJiers. . Bap. Go, girl ; I cannot blame thee now to weep. For such an injury would vex a very saint, Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter Biondello. Bion. Master, master ! old news, and such news as you never heard of ! si Bap. Is it new and old too ? how may that be? Bion. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio's coming ? Bap. Is he come ? Bion. Why, no, sir. Bap. What then? 358 Act IIL THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SOENE II. Bion. He is coming. Bap. When will he be here 1 Bion. When he stands where I am, and sees you there. 41 Tra. But, say, what to thine old news ? Bion. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat, and an old jerkin ; a pair of old breeches, thrice turned ; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced ; an old rusty sword ta'en out of the town-armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless ; with two broken points ; his horse hipped, with an old niothy saddle, and stirrups of no kindred ; besides, possessed with the glanders, and like to mose in the chine ; troubled with the lam- pass, infected with the fashions, full of wind- galls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back, and shoulder-shotten ; ne'er-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep's leather; which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots ; one girth six times pieced, and a woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread. 62 Bap. ■ Who comes with him I Bion. 0, sir ! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse ; with a linen stock on one leg, and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list ; an old hat, and " the humour of forty fancies " pricked in 't for a feather : a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christiari footboy, or a gentleman's lackey. n Tra. 'T is some odd humour pricks him to this fashion ; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell'd. Bap. I air glad he is come, howsoe'er he comes. Bion, Why, sir, he comes not. Bap. Didst thou not say, he comes ? Bion. Who ? that Petruchio came 1 ' Bap. Ay, that Petruchio came. Bion. No, sir ; I say, his horse comes, with him on his back. Bap. Why, that 's all one. »" Bion. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I hold you a penny, A horse and a man Is more than one, And yet not many. Enter Petruchio and G-eumio. Fet. Come, where be these gallants 1 who 's at home ? Ba]]. You are welcome, sir. Pet. And yet I come not well. Bap. And yet you halt not. Tra. Not so well apparell'd, As I wish you were. Pet. Were it better, I should rush in thus. But where is Kate ? where is my lovely bride 1 — ■ 91 How does my father 1 — Gentles, methinks you frown : And wherefore gaze this goodly company, As if they saw some wondrous monument. Some comet, or unusual prodigy ? Ba]}. Why, sir, you know, this is your wedding-day. First were we sad, fearing you would not come ; Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fie ! doff this habit, shame to your estate, An eyesore to our solemn festival. 100 Tra. And tell us what occasion of import Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife. And sent you hither so unlike yourself 1 Pet. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear : Sufficeth, I am come to keep my word, Though in some part enforced to digress ; Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse As you shall well be satisfied withal. But, where is Kate ? I stay too long from her : The morning wears, 't is time we were at church. 110 Tra. See not your bride in these unreverent robes. Go to my chamber : put on clothes of mine. Pet. Not I, believe me : thus I '11 visit her. Bap. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. Pet. Good sooth, even thus ; therefore ha' done with words : To me she's mai-ried, not unto 'my clothes. Could I repair what she will wear in me, As I can change these poor accoutrements, 'T were well for Kate, and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with you, 120 When I should bid good-morrow to my bride, And seal the title with a lovely kiss ! [Exeunt Peteuchio, Geumio, and BlONDELLO. Tra. He hath some meaning iti his mad attire. We will persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church. Bap. I '11 after him, and see the event of this. [Exit. Tra. But to her love concerneth us to add Her father's liking : which to bring to pass, 359 Act III. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. As 1 before imparted to your worsliip, I am to get a man,— whate'er he be, 130 It skills not much, we '11 fit him to our turn, — And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, And make assurance, here in Padua, Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, And marry sweet Bianca with consent. LiK. Were it not that my fellow-school- master Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly, 'T were good, methinks, to steal our marriage ; Which once perform'd, let all the world say no, 140 I '11 keep mine own, despite of all the world. Tra. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business. We '11 over-reach the grey-beard, Gremio, The narrow-prying father, Minola, The quaint musician, amorous Licio ; All for my master's sake, Lucentio. Re-enter Gremio. Signior Gremio, came you from the church ? Gre. As willingly as e'er I came from school. Tra. And is the bride, and bridegroom, coming home? 150 Gre. A bridegroom say you ? 't is a groom indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. Tra. Curster than she ? why, 't is impossible. Gre. Why, he 's a devil, a devil, a very fiend. Tra. Why, she 's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam. Gre. Tut ! she 's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him. I '11 tell you, Sir Lucentio : when the priest Should ask, if Katharine should be his wife, " Ay, by goga-wouns," quoth he ; and swore so loud, That, all amaz'd, the priest let fall the book ; , And, as he stoop'd again to take it up, wi This mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff. That down fell priest and book, and book and priest : "Now take them up," quoth he, "if any list." Tra. What said the wench, when he arose again "i Gre. Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp'd, and swore, As if the vicar meant to cozen him. Bat after many ceremonies done, He calls for wine : — " A health !" quoth he; as if He had been aboard, carousing to his mates After a storm : — quaff'd off the muscadel, in And threw the sops all in the sexton's face ; Having no other reason, But that his beard grew thin and hungerly, And seem'd to ask him sops as he was drink- ing. This done, he took the bride about the neck, And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack, That, at the parting, all the church did echo. And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame; Andafter me, I know, the rout is coming : ibo Such a mad marriage never was before. Hark, hark ! I hear the minstrels play. [Miisic. Enter Petruchio, Katharina, Bianca, Bap- TiSTA, HoRTENSio, Grujiio, and Train. Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your j)ains. I know, you think to dine with me to-day, And have prepar'd great store of wedding- cheer ; But, so it is, my haste doth call me hence. And therefore here I mean to take my leave. Bap. Is 't possible you will away to-night 1 Pet. I must away to-day, before night come. 189 Make it no wonder : if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. — And, honest company, I thank you all. That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Dine with my father, drink a health to me. For I must hence : and farewell to you all. Tra. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. Pet. It may not be. Gre. Let me entreat you. Pet. It cannot be. Kath. Let me entreat you. Pet. I am content. Kfitli. Are you content to stay ? soo Pet. I am content you shall entreat me stay. But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. Kath. Now, if you love me, stay. Pet. .Grumio, my horse ! Gru. Ay, sir, they be ready : the oats have eaten the horses. Kath. Nay, then. Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day ; No, nor to-morrow, nor till I please myself. The door is open, sir, there lies your way. You may be jogging whiles your boots are green ; 210 360 Act IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. Scene I. For me, 1 11 not be gone, till I please myself. — 'T is like you '11 prove a jolly surly groom, That take it on you at tlxe first so roundly. Pet. O, Kate ! content thee : pr'ythee, be not angry. Kath. I will be angry. What hast thou to do?— Father, be quiet ; he shall stay my leisure. Gre. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. Kath. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner. I see, a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. sao Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. — Obey the bride, you that attend on her : Go to the feast, revel and domineer, Caroiise fuU measure to her maidenhead, Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves. But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret ; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels ; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, 230 My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything ; And here she stands ; touch her whoever dare, I '11 bring mine action on the proudest he That stops my way iii Padua. — Grumio, Draw forth thy weapon ; we 're beset with thieves : Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. — Fear not, sweet wench ; they shall not touch thee, Kate : I '11 buckler thee against a million. [Exeunt Petruchio, Katharina, and Grumio. Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. mo Tra. Of all mad matches never was the like! Iak. Mistress, what 's your opinion of your sister ? Bian. That, being mad herself, she 's madly mated. Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. Bap. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants For to supply the places at the table. You know, there wants no junkets at the feast. — Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place. And let Bianca take her sister's room. Tra. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it ? 250 Bap. She shall, Lucentio. — Come, gentle- men, let 's go. [Exeunt. ACT IV. Scene I. — A Hall in Petruchio's Country House. Enter Grumio. Gru. Fie, fie, on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways ! . Was ever man s© beaten ? was ever man so rayed ? was ever man so weary ? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot, and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me ; but, I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself, for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho ! Curtis ! " Enter Curtis. Curt. Who is that calls so coldly ? Gru. A piece of ice : if thoxi doubt it, thou may'st slide from my shoulder to my heel, with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. 20 31 361 Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio ? Gru. O ! ay, Curtis, ay ; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water. Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she 's re- ported ? Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this frost ; but, thou know'st, winter tames man, woman, and beast, for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. Cwrt. Away, you three-inch fool ! I am no beast. 29 Gru. Am I but three inches'? why, thy horn is a foot ; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand (she being now at hand) thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office? Curt. I pr'ythee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world 1 Gru. A cold world, Curtis, in every office Act IY, THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. but thine ; and, therefore, fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. 40 Curt. There 's fire ready ; and therefore, good Grumio, the news. Gru. Why, " Jack, boy ! ho, boy !" and as much news as thou wilt. Curt. Come, you are so full of cony-catch- ing. Gru. Why, therefore, fire : for I have caught extreme cold. Where 's the cook 1 is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept; the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, the carpets laid, and everything in order ? 52 Curt. All ready ; and therefore, I pray thee, news. Gru. First, know, my horse is tired ; my master and'inistress fallen out. Ciirt. How? Gru. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. Curt. Let 's ha 't, good Grumio. Gru. Lend thine ear. eo Curt. Here. Gru. There. \St/riking him. Curt. This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. Gru. And therefore 't is called a sensible tale ; and this cufi" was but to knock at your ear, and beseech listening. Now I begin : Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress, — Cwt. Both of one horse ? Gru. What 's that to thee ? Curt. Why, a horse. 70 Gru. Tell thou the tale : — but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse ; thou shouldst have heard, in how miry a place ; how she was bemoUed ; how he left her with the horse upon her ; how he beat me because her horse stumbled ; how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me ; how he swore ; how she prayed, that never prayed before ; how I cried ; how the horses ran away ; how her bridle was burst ; how I lost my crupper ; — with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave. 82 Curt. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she. Gru. Ay ; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find, when he comes home. But what talk I of this? — Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, PhiHp, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest : let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brushed, and their garters of an indifferent knit : let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master's horsetail, till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready ? 92 Curt. They are. Gru. Call them forth. Curt. Do you hear ? ho ! you must meet my master, to countenance my mistress. Gru. Why, she hath a face of her own. Curt. Who knows not that ? Gru. Thou, it seems, that callest for com- pany to countenance her. 100 Curt. I call them forth to credit her. Gru. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. Enter several Servants. Nath. Welcome home, Grumio. Fhil. How now, Grumio ? Jos. What, Grumio ! Nich. Fellow Grumio ! Nath. How now, old lad ? Gru. Welcome, you ; — how now, you ; — what, you ; — fellow, you ; — and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat ? 111 Nath. All things is ready. How near is our master ? Gru. E'en at hand, alighted by this ; and therefore be not — Cock's passion, silence ! — I hear my master. Enter Petruchio and Katharina. Pet. Where be these knaves ? What ! no man at door. To hold my stirrup, nor to take my horse ? Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip ? — All Serv. Here, here, sir; here, sir. Pet. Here, sir ! here, sir ! here, sir ! here, sir ! You logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms ! 120 What, no attendance ? no regard? no duty? — Where is the foolish knave I sent before ? Gru. Here, sir ; as foolish as I was before. Pet. You peasant swain ! you whoreson malt-horse drudge ! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park. And bring along these rascal knaves with thee ?• Gru. Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made, And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel ; There was no link to colour Peter's hat, And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing : iso Act TV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene L There were none fine, but Adam, Kalph, and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly ; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. Pet. Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in. — [Sxeunt Ser^jants. \Sings.^ Wliere is the life that late I led — Where are those — ? Sit down, Kate, and welcome. Soud, soud, soud, soud ! He-enter Servants, with supper. Why, when, I say 1 — Nay, good sweet Kate, bo merry. Off with my boots, you rogues, you villains ! When? [Siwg's.] It was tlie friar of orders grey, wo As -Im forth walked on his way : — Out, you rogue ! you pluck my foot awry : Take that, and mend the plucking of the other. — [Strikes him. Be merry, Kate. — Some water, here; what, ho!— Where's my spaniel Troilus? — Sirrah, get you hence. And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither : [B!>dt Sen^ant. One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be ac- quainted with. — Where are my slippers ? — Shall I have some water 1 Enter a Servant with a basin and ewer. Conie, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. You whoreson villain ! will you let it fall 1 iso [Strikes him. Kath. Patience, I pray you ; 't was a fault unwiUing. Fet. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave ! Come, Kate, sit down ; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanksi sweet Kate, or else shall I ? What's this? mutton ■» 1 S&rv. Ay. Pet. Who brought it ? 1 Serv. I. Pet. 'T is burnt ; and so is all the meat. /That dogs are these ! — Where is the rascal cook? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not? There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. [Throws the meai, &c., at them. You heedless joltheads, and unmanner'd slaves ! lei What ! do you grumble ? I '11 be with you straight. Kath. I pray you, husband, be not so dis- quiet : The meat was well, if you were so contented. Pet. I tell thee, Kate, 't was burnt and dried away. And I expressly am forbid to touch it. For it engenders choler, planteth anger ; And better 't were, that both of us did fast. Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric. Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh, no Be patient, to-morrow 't shall be mended. And for this night we '11 fast for company. Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. [Exeunt Petruchio, Kathabina, and Curtis. Nath. Peter, didst ever see the like ? Peter. He kills her in her own humour. Re-enter Curtis. Gru. Where is he ? Cwrt. In her chamber. Making a sermon of continency to her ; And rails, and swears, and rates, that sha,. poor soul. Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, 133 And sits as one new-risen from a dream. Away, away ! for he is coming hither. [Ex&wnt.. Re-enter Petruchio. Pet. Thus have I politicly begun my reign,. And 't is my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp, and passing empty. And, till she stoop, she must not be fuU- gorg'd. For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard. To make her come, and know her keeper's call ; 189 That is, to watch her, as we watcn these kites. That bate, and beat, and will not be obedient. She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat ; Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not : As with the meat, some undeserved fault I '11 find about the making of the bed ; And here I'll fling the pillow, there the- bolster. This way the coverlet, another way the sheets : Ay, and amid this hurly, I intend. That all is done in reverent care of her; 199 And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night :. And, if she chance to nod, I '11 rail and brawL A'cT IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. Scene II. And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness ; And thus I '11 curb her mad and headstrong humour. He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak : 't is charity to show. [Exit. ScESTE II. — Padua. Before Baptista's House. Unter Tbanio and Hoetensio. Tra. Is't possible, friend Licio, that Mis- tress Bianca Doth fancy any other but Lucentio 1 I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. Hor. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said. Stand by, and mark the manner of his teach- ing. [They stand aside. Enter Bianca and Lucentio. Xmc. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read? Bian. What, master, read you] first re- solve me that. Luc. I read that I profess, the Art to Love. Bian. And may you prove, sir, master of your art ! Luc. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart. [TJiey retire. Hor. [Coming for war d.'\ Quick proceeders, marry ! — Now tell me, I pray, u You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca Lov'd none in the world so well as Lucentio. Tra. O despiteful love ! unconstant woman- kind !— I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. Hor. Mistake no more : I am not Licio, Nor a musician, as I seem to be. But one that scorns to live in this disguise. For such a one, as leaves a gentleman. And makes a god of such a cuUion. 20 Know, sir, that I am call'd Hortensio. Tra. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard Of your entire affection to Bianca ; And since mine eyes are witness of her light- ness, I will with you, if you be so contented. Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. Hor. See, how they kiss and court ! — Sig- nior Lucentio, Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow Never to woo her more ; but do forswear her. As one unworthy all the former favours 30 That I have fondly flatter'd her withal. Tra. And here I take the like unfeigned oath. Never to marry with her, though she would entreat. Fie on her ! see, how beastly she doth court him. Hor. 'Would aU the world, but he, had quite forsworn ! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy widow. Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov'd me. As I have lov'd this proud disdainful haggard. And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. — ■» Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks. Shall win my love : — and so I take my leave, In resolution as I swore before. [Exit Hortensio. — Lucentio and Bianca advance. Tra. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace. As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case ! Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love. And have forsworn you, with Hortensio. Bian. Tranio, you jest. But have you both forsworn me ? Tra. Mistress, we have. Imc. Then we are rid of Licio. Tra. r faith, he'U have a lusty widow now, 50 That shall be woo'd and wedded in a day. Bian. God give him joy ! Tra. Ay, and he '11 tame her. Bian. He says so, Tranio. Tra. 'Faith, he is gone unto the taming- school. Bian. The taming-school ! what, is there such a place "i Tra. Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master ; That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long. To tame a shrew, and charm her chattering tongue. Enter Biondello, running. Bion. master, master ! I have watch'd so long That I 'm dog-weary ; but at last I spied co An ancient angel coming down the hUl, Will serve the turn. Tra. What is he, Biondello % Bion. Master, a mercatant, or a pedant, I know not what ; but formal in apparel, In gait and countenance surely like a father. Luc. And what of him, Tranio 1 Tra. If he be credulous, and trust my tale, I 'U make him glad to seem Vincentio, 3M Act IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene IIL And give assurance to Baptista Minola, As if he were the right Vincentio. ro Take in yonr love, and then let me alone. [Exeunt Lucbntio and Bianca. Enter a Pedant. Fed. God save you, sir ! Tra. And you, sir ! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the furthest '? Fed. Sir, at the furthest for a week or two; But then up further, and as far as Rome, And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. Tra. What countryman, I pray ? Fed. Of Mantua. Tra. Of Mantua, sir 1 — marry, God forbid ! And come to Padua, careless of your life ? Fed. My life, sir, ! how, I pray '! for that goes hard. so Tra. 'T is death for any one in Mantua To come to Padua. Know you not the cause? Your ships are stay'd at Venice ; and the duke, For private q^uarrel 'twixt your duke and him, Hath publish'd and proclaim'd it openly. 'T is marvel ; but that you are but newly come, You might have heard it else proclaim'd about. Fed. Alas, sir ! it is worse for me than so ; For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence, and must here deliver them. Tra. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, m This will I do, and this I will advise you. — Pii-st, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa 1 Fed. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been ; Pisa, renowned for grave citizens. Tra. Among them, know you one Vin- centio 1 Fed. I know him not, but I have heard of him : A merchant of incomparable wealth. Tra. He is my father, sir ; and, sooth to say. In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. Bion. [Aside^ As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one. loi Tra. To save your life in this extremity. This favour will I do you for his sake ; And think it not the worst of all your fortunes. That you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit shall you undertake. And in my house you shall be friendly lodg'd. Look, that you take upon you as you should ! You understand me, sir ; — so shall you stay Till you have done your business in the city. If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. in Fed. O ! sir, I do ; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty. Tra. Then go with me, to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand : My father is here look'd for every day. To pass assurance of a dower in marriage 'Twixt me and one Baptista's daughter here : In all these circumstances I '11 instruct you. Go with me, to clothe you as becomes you. izo \Exeunt. Scene III. — A Room in Petruchio's House. Enter Katharina oMd Grumio. Gru. No, no, forsooth ; I dare not, for my life. Kath. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. What, did he marry me to famish me 1 Beggars, that come unto my father's door, Upon entreaty, have a present alms ; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity : But I, who never knew how to entreat, Nor never needed that I should entreat. Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep ; With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. 10 And that which spites me more than all these wants, He does it under name of perfect love ; As who should say, if I should sleep, or eat, 'T were deadly sickness, or else present death. I pr'ythee go, and get me some repast ; I care not what, so it be wholesome food. Gru. What say you to a neat's foot 1 Kath. 'T is passing good : I pr'ythee let me have it. Gru. I fear, it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe, finely broil'd ? 20 Kath. I like it well : good Grumio, fetch it me. Gru. I cannot tell ; I fear, 't is choleric. What say you to a piece of beef, and mustard? Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. Gru. A.J, but the mustard is too hot a little. Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest. Gru. Nay, then I will not : you shall have the mustard. Or else you get no beef of Grumio. Kath. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. Gru. Why, then the mustard without the beef. so 365 Act IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene III. Kath. Go, get tiee gone, thou false de- luding slave, [Beats him. That feed'st me with the very name of meat. Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you. That triumph thus upon my misery ! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio, loith a dish of meat, and HOETENSIO. Pet. How fares my Kate % What, sweet- ing, all amort % Hot. Mistress, what cheer ? Kath. 'Faith, as cold as can be. Pet. Pluck up thy spirits ; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love ; thou seest how diUgent I am, s9 To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee : \Setg ilie dish on a table. I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What ! not a word 1 Nay then, thou lov'st it not. And all my pains is sorted to no proof. — Here, take away this dish. Kath. I pray you, let it stand. Pet. The poorest service is repaid with thanks. And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. Kath. I thank you, sir. Hor. Signior Petruchio, fie ! you are to blame. Come, Mistress Kate, I 'U bear you company. Pet. [Aside.] Eat it up all, Hortensio if thou lov'st me. — so Much good do it unto thy gentle heart ! Kate, eat apace. — And now, my honey love. Will we return unto thy father's house. And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings, With ruffs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things ; With scarfs, and fans, and double change of bravery. With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. What, hast thou din'd ? The tailor stays thy leisure, To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure, eo Enter Tailor. Come, taUor, let us see these ornaments ; Lay forth the gown. — ErUer Hoiberdasher. What news with you, sir ? Sab. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer; A velvet dish : — fie, fie ! 't is lewd and filthy. Why, 't is a cockle or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap : Away with it ! come, let me have a bigger. Kath. I '11 have no bigger : this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these, jo Pet. When you are gentle, you shall have one too ; And not till then. Hor. [Aside i\ That will not be in haste. Kath. Why, sir, I trust, I may have leave to speak, And speak I will ; I am no child, no babe : Your betters have endur'd me say my mind, And, if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will teU the anger of my heart Or else my heart, concealing it, will break : And, rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words, at Pet. Why, thou say'st true : it is a paltry cap, A custard-coflSn, a bauble, a silken pie. I love thee well, in that thou lik'st it not. Kath. Love me, or love me not, I like the cap. And it I wiU have, or I will have none. [Exit Haberdasher. Pet. Thy gown ? why, ay : — come, tailor, let us see 't. O, mercy, God ! what masking stuff is here ? What's this? a sleeve? 'tis like a demi- cannon : What ! up and down, carv'd like an apple- tart? Here 's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash, 90 Like to a censer in a barber's shop. — Why, what, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou this? Hor. [Aside.] I see, she's like to have neither cap nor gown. Tai. You bid me make it orderly and well. According to the fashion and the time. Pet. Marry, and did : but if you be re- member'd, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home. For you shall hop without my custom, sir. I '11 none of it ; hence ! make your best of it. Kath. I never saw a better-fashion'd gown. More quaint, more pleasing, nor more com- mendable. 102 Belike, you mean to make a puppet of me. Pet. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. Tai. She says, your worship means to make a puppet of her. JUI T OTJT J^U!;R, ] -I IK JJ-hATH, gCULl'; IKi\.SmAIRIlWA AMI© FE^mW(SlEII( "pET: Whj, tkos was moulded, on, a porringer; Jl velvet/ dis-?b; —fi&. Jz& ' Tj3.MLIV& of tile SSREW ^CTIT SCSXEM OASSELL &. COMPANY, LIMITED. Act IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene III. Pet. O. monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou thread, Thou thimble, Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail ! Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou ! — Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread ? no Away ! thou rag, thou quantity, thou rem- nant. Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard. As thou shalt think on pratiug whilst thou liv'st ! I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown. Tai. Your worship is deceiv'd : the gown is made Just as my master had direction. Grumio gave order how it should be done. Gru. I gave him no order ; I gave him the stuff. Tai. But how did you desire it should be made? Grw. MaiTy, sir, with needle and thread. Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ? 121 Gru. Thou hast faced many things. Tai. I have. Gru. Face not me : thou hast braved many men ; brave not me : I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto thee, — I bid thy master cut out the gown ; but I did not bid Hm cut it to pieces : ergo, thou liest. Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify. Pet. Read it. iso Gru. The note lies in 's throat, if he say I said so. Tai. "Imprimis, a loose-bodied-gown." Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread. I said, a gown. Pet. Proceed. Tai. " With a small compassed cape." Gfru. I confess the cape. Tai. " With a trunk sleeve.'' Gru. I confess two sleeves. "o Tai. " The sleeves curiously cut." Pet. Ay, there 's the villainy. Gru. Error i' the bill, sir ; error i' the bill. [ commanded the sleeves should be cut out, a,nd sewed up again ; and that I '11 prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. Tai. This is true, that I say : an I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it. Gru. 1 am for thee straight : take thou the bUI, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. Ror. God-a-mercy, Grumio, then he shall have no odds. i5z Pet. Well, sir, ia brief, the gown is not for me. Gru. You are i' the right, sir : 't is for my mistress. Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master's use. Gru. Villain, not for thy life ! Take up my mistress' gown for thy master's use ! Pet. Why, sir, what 's your conceit in that? Gru. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. Take up my mistress' gown to his master's use ! 160 0, fie, fie, fie ! Pet. [Aside.] Hortensio, say thou wUt see the tailor paid. — Go take it hence ; be gone, and say no more, Hor. Tailor, I '11 pay thee for thy gown to- morrow : Take no unkindness of his hasty words. Away, I say ; commend me to thy master. [Hxit Tailor. Pet. Well, come, my Kate ; we wiU untq your father's. Even in these honest mean habiliments. Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor: For 't is the mind that makes the body rich ; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 171 So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark, Because his feathers are more beautiful ? Or is the adder better than the eel. Because his painted skin contents the eye ? ! no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture, and mean array. If thou account'st it shame, lay it on me ; na And therefore frolic : we will hence forthwith, To feast and sport us at thy father's house. — Go, call my men, and let us straight to him ; And bring our horses unto Long Lane end ; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot.- — Let 's see ; I think, 't is now some seven o'clock. And well we may come there by dinner-time. Katli. I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two. And 't will be supper-time, ere you come there. Pet. It shall be seven, ere I go to horse. Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do, mo You are still crossing it. — Sirs, let 't alone : 1 will not go to-day ; and ere I do, It shall be what o'clock I say it is. Hor. Why, so this gallant wUl command the sun. \_Exeimt. Act IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. SCEXE IV. Scene IV. — Padua. Before Baptista's House. Enter Tranio, and ilie Pedant dressed like Vincentio. Tra. Sir, this is tlie Louse : please it you, that I call? Fed. Ay, what else? and, but I be de- ceived, Signior Baptista may remember me. Near twenty years ago, in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. Tra. 'T is well ; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as 'longeth to a father. Unter Biondello. Fed. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy ; 'T were good he were school'd. Tra. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you : Imagiue 't were the right Vincentio. 12 £ion. Tut ! fear not me. Tra. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista ? Bion. I told him, that your father was at Venice, And that you look'd for him this day in Padua. Tra. Thou 'rt a tall fellow : hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista. — Set your countenance, sir. — Enter Baptista and Lucentio. Signior Baptista, you are happUy met. — Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of. 20 I pray you, stand good father to me now. Give me Bianca for my patrimony. Fed. Soft, son ! — Sir, by your leave : having come to Padua To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio Made me acquainted with a weighty cause Of love between your daughter and himself : And, for the good report I hear of you, And for the love he beareth to your daughter, And she to him, — to stay him not too long, 30 I am content, in a good father's care. To have him match'd ; and, if you please to like No worse than I, upon some agreement. Me shall you find ready and willing With one consent to have her so bestow'd ; For curious I cannot be with you, Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. Bap. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say: Your plainness, and your shortness please me well. Right true is it, your son Lucentio here «> Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him. Or both dissemble deeply then- affections ; And, therefore, if you say no more than this, That like a father you will deal with hiin, And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, The match is made, and all is done : Your son shall have my daughter with con- sent. Tra. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best. We be affied, and such assurance ta'en. As shall with either part's agreement stand ? 5ap. Not in my house, Lucentio ; for, you know, 51 Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants. Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still. And, happily, we might be interrupted. Tra. Then at my lodging, an it like you : There doth my father lie, and there this night We '11 pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here ; My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. The worst is this, — that, at so slender warn- ing, ca You 're like to have a thin and slender pit- tance. Bap. It likes me well : — Cambio, hie you home, And bid Bianca make her ready straight ; And, if you wUl, tell what hath happened : Lucentio's father is arriv'd in Padua, And how she 's like to be Lucentio's wife. Liic. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart ! Tra. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. — • Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way 1 Welcome : one mess is like to be your cheer. Come, sir ; we wUl better it in Pisa. n Bap). I follow you. [Exeunt Tranio, Fedant, and Baptista. Bion. Cambio ! — Luc. What say'st thoii, Biondello ? Bion. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you ? Luc. Biondello, what of that ? Bion. 'Faith, nothing ; but he has left me here behind, to expoimd the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. so Luc. I pray thee, moralise them. Bion. Then thus. Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son. Luc. And what of him ? ■ Bion. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper. 363 Act IV. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene V. Luc. And then 1 — Bion. The old priest at Saint Luke's Church is at your command at all hours. Lmc. And what of all this ? 90 Bion. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance : take you as- surance of her, cum prwilegio ad imprimeii- dwm sohtm. To the church ! — ^take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses. If this be not that you look for, I have no more to say. But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. Liic. Hear'st thou, Biondello 1 Bion. I cannot tarry : I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit ; and so may you, sir ; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke's, to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix. [Sxit. Luc. I may, and will, if she be so con- tented : She will be pleas'd, then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I '11 roundly go about her : It shall go hard, if Cambio go without her. [Hxit. Scene V. — ^A Public Road. Enter Peteuchio, Kathakina, and HORTENSIO. Fet. Come on, o' God's name : once more toward our father's. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon ! Kath. The moon ! the sun : it is not moon- light now. Pet I say, it is the moon that shines so bright. Kath. I know, it is the sun that shines so bright. Pet. Now, by my mother's son, and that 's myself. It shall be moon, or star, or what I list. Or ere I journey to your father's house. — Go one, and fetch our horses back again. — Evermore .cross'd, and cross'd ; nothing but cross'd ! i<* Hor. Say as he says, or we shall never go. Kath. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far. And be it moon, or sun, or what you please. An if you jilease to call it a rush-candle. Henceforth, I vow, it shall be so for me. Pet. I say, it is the moon. Kath. I know, it is the moon. Pet. Nay, then you lie : it is the blessed sun. Kath. Then, God be bless'd, it is the blessed sun : But sun it is not, when you say it is not. And the moon changes, even as your mind, ao What you will have it nam'd, even that it is; And so it shall be so for Katharine. Mar, Petruchio, go thy ways : the field is won. Pet. Well, forward, forward ! thus the bowl should run. And not unluckily against the bias. — But soft ; what company is coming here 1 Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. [To Vincentio.] Good morrow, gentle mis- tress : where away 1 — Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman ? Such war of white and red within her cheeks ! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty, si As those two eyes become that heavenly face 1 — Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. — Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake. Hor. 'A will make the man mad, to make a woman of liim. Kath. Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet, Whither away, or where is thy abode 1 Happy the parents of so fair a child ; Happier the man, whom favourable stars «> Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow ! Pet. Why, how now, Kate? I hope thou art not mad : This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither'd. And not a maiden, as thou say'st he is. Kath. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes. That have been so bedazzled with the sun. That everything I look on seemeth green. Now I perceive thou art a reverend father ; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. Pet. Do, good old grandsire; and, withal, make known so Which way thou travellest : if along with us. We shall be joyful of thy company. Vin. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress. That with your strange encounter much amaz'd me, My name is call'd Vincentio ; my dwelling — Pisa ; And boxmd I am to Padua, there to visit A son of mine, which long I have not seen. Aci V. THE TAMING OF THE SHEEW. Scene L Pet. Wliat is his name 1 Yin. Lucentio, gentle sir. Pet. HappUy met; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age, eo I may entitle thee — my loving father : The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, Nor be not griev'd : she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio ; And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. to Yin. But is this true? or is it else your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake 1 Hor. I do assure thee, father, so it is. Pet. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof ; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. [Exeunt Petbuchio, Kathaeina, and Vincentio. Hor. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow; and if she be fro ward. Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be un- toward. [Exit. ACT V. Scene I. — Padua. Before Lucentio's House. Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio, and BlANCA ; Gkemio walking on the other side. Bion. Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready. Iau:. I fly, Biondello ; but they may chance to need thee at home : therefore leave us. Bion. Nay, 'faith, I 'II see the church o' your back ; and then come back to my master as soon as I can. [EoKunt Lucentio, Bianca, and Biondello. Gre. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. Enter Petruchio, Kathaeina, Vincentio, and Attendants. Pet. Sir, here 's the door, this is Lucentio's house : lo My father's bears more toward the market- place ; Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. Yin. You shaU not choose but driok before you go. I think, I shall command your welcome here, And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward. [Knocks. Gre. They 're busy within ; you were best knock louder. Enter Pedant above, at a window. Ped. What 's he, that knocks as he would beat down the gate ? Yin. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir 1 29 Ped. He 's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. Yin. What, if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to make merry withal ? Ped. Keep your hundred pounds to your- self : he shall need none, so long as I live. Pet. Nay, I told you, your son was well beloved in Padua. — Do you hear, sir ? — to leave frivolous circumstances, — I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio, that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him. so Ped. Thou liest : his father is come from Pisa, and here looking out at the window. Yin. Art thou his father 1 Ped. Ay, sir ; so his mother says, if I may believe her. Pet. [To Vincentio.] Why, how now, gentleman ! Why, this is flat knavery, to take upon you another man's name. Ped. Lay hands on the villain. I believe, 'a means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. Be-enter Biondello. Bion. I have seen them in the church to- gether : God send 'em good shipping ! — But who is here ? mine old master, Vincentio ! now we are undone, and brought to nothing. Yin. [Seeing Biondello.] Come hither, crack-hemp. Bion. I hope I may choose, sir. Yin. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me ? Bion. Forgot you 1 no, sir : I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life. ei Yin. What, you notorious villain, didst thou never see thy master's father, Vincentio 1 Bion. What, my old, worshipful old master? yes, marry, sir ; see where he looks out of the window. 370 Act V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene I. Vin. Is 't so, indeed? [5ecBfe Biondbllo. Bion. Help, help, help ! here 's a madman will murder me. [Exit. Fed. Help, son ! help, Signior Baptista ! 59 [Exit from, the vnndow. Pet. Pr'ythee, Kate, let 's stand aside, and see the end of this controversy. [Tliey retire. He-enter Pedant below ; Baptista, Teanio, and Servants, Tra. Sir, what are you, that offer to beat my servant ? Vin. What am I, sir ? nay, what are you, sir ? — O immortal gods ! fine villain ! A silken doublet ! a velvet hose ! a scarlet cloak ! and a copatain hat ! — 0, I am undone ! I am undone ! while I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend aU at the university. Tra, How now ? what 's the matter ? 70 Bap. What, is the man lunatic i Tra. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentle- man by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what 'cems it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it. Vin. Thy father ? O villain ! he is a sail- maker in Bergamo. Bap. You mistake, sir ; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name ? Vin. His name ? as if I knew not his name : I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. 82 Fed. Away, away, mad ass ! his name is Lucentio ; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. Vin. Lucentio ! O ! he hath murdered his master. — Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the duke's name. — O, my son, my son ! — Tell me, thou villain, where is my son Lucentio ? Tra. Call forth an officer. so Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. — Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forth- coming. Vin. Carry me to the gaol ! Gre. Stay, officer : he shall not go to prison. Bap. Talk not, Signior Gremio. I say, he shall go to prison. Gre. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be conycatched in this business. I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. Ped. Swear, if thou darest. 100 Gre. Nay, I dare not swear it. Tra. Then thou wert best say, that I am not Lucentio. Gre. Yes, I knosv thee to be Signior Lu- centio. Bap. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with tiim ! Vin. Thus straiigers may be haled and abus'd. — monstrous villain ! Re-enter Biondello, with Ltjcentio aiid BlANCA, Bion. O, we are spoiled ! and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all imdone. Luc. Pardon, sweet father. [Kneeling. Vin. Lives my sweet son 1 110 [BiONDELiiO, Tranio, and Pedant run out. Bian. Pardon, dear father. [Kneeling. Bap. How hast thou ofiended ? Where is Lucentio ? Luc. Here 's Lucentio, Eight son to the right Vincentio ; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine. While counterfeit supposes blear'd thine eyue. Gre. Here's packing with a witness, to deceive us all ! Vin. Where is that damned villain, Tranio, That fac'd and brav'd me in this matter so t Bap. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio? Bian. Cambio is chang'd into Lucentio. 121 Luc. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town ; And happily I have arrived at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforc'd him to ; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. Vin. I '11 slit the villain's nose, that would have sent me to the gaol. iso Bap. [To Lucentio.] But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter without asking my good will ? Vim. Fear not, Baptista ; we will content you : go to ; but I will in, to be revenged for this villainy. [Exit. Bap. And I, to sound the depth of this knavery. [Exit, Luc. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown. [Exeunt Lucentio anc? Bianca. Gre. My cake is dough ; but I '11 in among the rest. Out of hope of aU, but my share of the feast. [Exit. Petruchio and Katharina advance. Kath. Husband, let 's follow, to see the end of this ado. "0 Pet. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. 371 Act V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. Kaih. What, in the midst of the street % Pet. What ! art thou ashamed of me % Kath. No, sir, God forbid ; but ashamed to kiss. Pet. Why, then let's home agaki. — Come, sirrah, let 's away. Kath. Nay, I will give thee a kiss : now pray thee, love, stay. Pet. Is not this well? — Come, my sweet Kate : Better once than never, for never too late. \Eoix,unt. Scene II. — A Room in Lucentio's House. A Banquet set out. Enter Baptista, Vin- CENTio, Grbmio, iihe Pedant, Lucentio, BiANCA, Petruchio, Katharina, Hor- TENSio, and Widow; Tkanio, Biondello, Grumio, and others, attending. Luc. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree : And time it is, when raging war is done, To smile at scapes and perils overblown.— My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome. While I with selfsame kindness welcome thine. — Brother Petruchio, — sister Katharina, — And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow. Feast with the best, and welcome to my house : My banquet is to close our stomachs up. After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down ; lo For now we sit to chat, as well as eat. [They sit at table. Pet. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat ! Bap. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. Pet. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. Hot. For both our sakes I would that word were true. Pet. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. Wid. Then never trust me, if I be afeard. Pet. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense : I mean, Hortensio is afeard of you. Wid. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. 20 Pet. Roundly replied. Kath. Mistress, how mean you that 1 Wid. Thus I conceive by him. Pet. Conceives by me ! — How likes Hor- tensio that 1 Ilor. My widow says, thus she conceives her tale. Pet. Yerj well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow. Kath. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round : — I pray you, tell me what you meant by that. Wid. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew. Measures my husband's sorrow by his woe : And now you know my meaning. so Kath. A very mean meaning. Wid. Right, I mean you. Kath. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. Pet. To her, Kate ! Mor. To her, widow ! Pet. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down. Jlor. That 's my office. Pet. Spoke like an officer. — Ha' to thee, lad. [Brinks to Hortensio. Bap. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks ? Gre. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. Bian. Head and butt? an hasty- witted body 40 Would say, your head and butt were head and horn. Vin. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken'd you ? Bian. Ay, but not frighted me ; therefore, I '11 sleep again. Pet. Nay, that you shall not ; since you have begun. Have at you for a bitter jest or two. Bian. Am I your bird 1 I mean to shift my bush. And then pursue me as you draw your bow. — You are welcome all. [Exeunt Bianca, Katharina, and Widow. Pet. She hath prevented me. — Here, Signior Tranio ; This bird you aim'd at, though you hit her not : 50 Therefore, a health to all that shot and miss'd. Tra. sir ! Lucentio slipp'd me, like his greyhound, Which runs himself, and catches for his master. Pet. A good swift simile, but something cui-rish. Tra. 'Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself : 'T is thought, your deer does hold you at a bay. Bap. O ho, Petruchio ! Tranio hits you now. 372 Act V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. Imc. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. Hor. Confess, confess, hath he not hit you here % Pet. 'A has a little gall'd me, I confess ; eo And, as the jest did glance away from me, 'T is ten to one it maim'd you two outright. Bwp. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. Pet. Well, I say no : and therefore, for assurance. Let 's each one send unto his wife ; Aiid he, whose wife is most obedient To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we will propose. Hor. Content. What is the wager % Luc. Twenty crowns. Pet,. Twenty crowns ! 71 I '11 venture so much of my hawk, or hound. But twenty times so much upon my wife. Zitc. A hundred then. Hor. Content. Pet. A match ! 't is done. Hor. Who shall begin'? Luo. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. Bion. I go. [Exit. Pap. Son, I will be your half, Bianca comes. Luc. I '11 have no halves ; I '11 bear it all myself. Re-enter Biondello. How now ! what news ? Bion. Sir, my mistress sends you word. That she is busy, and she cannot come. si Pet. How ! she is busy, and she cannot come ! Is that an answer % Gre. A.J, and a kind one too : Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. Pet. I hope, better. Hor. Sirrah Biondello, go, and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. [Exit Biondello. Pet. O ho ! entreat her ! Nay, then she must needs come. Hor. I am afraid, sir. Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Re-enter Biondello. Now, where 's my wife? 90 Bion. She says, you have some goodly jest in hand ; She will not come : she bidrj you come to her. Pet. Worse and worse • she will not come? vile, Intolerable, not to be endur'd ! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress ; say, I command her come to me. [Exit Gkumio. Hor. I know her answer. Pet. What? Hor. She will not. Pet. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Enter Katharina. Ba/p. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina ! loo Kath. What is your will, sir, that you send for me ? Pet, Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife? Kath. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. Pet. Go, fetch them hither : if they deny to come. Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands. Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. [Exit Katharina. Luc. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. Hor. And so it is. I wonder what it bodes. Pet. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, An awful rule, and right supremacy ; no And, to be short, what not that 's sweet and happy ? Bap. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio ! The wager thou hast won ; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns ; Another dowry to another daughter. For she is chang'd, as she had never been. Pet. Nay, I will win my wager better yet. And show more sign of her obedience. Her new-built virtue and obedience. See, where she comes, and brings your froward wives 120 As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. — Re-enter Katharina, with Bianca and Widow. Katharine, that cap of yours becomes you not : Oif with that bauble, throw it under foot. [Katharina pulls off her caij, and throws it down. Wid. Lord ! let me never have a cause to sigh. Till I be brought to such a silly pass ! Bian. Fie ! what a foolish duty call you this? Luc. I would, your duty were as foolish too : The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, 373 . Act V. THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. Scene II. charge thee, tell these Hath cost me an hundred crowns since supper- time. Bian. The more fool you for laying on my duty. 130 Pet. Katharine, I headstrong women. What duty they do owe their lords and hus- bands. Wid. Come, come, you 're mocking : we wUl have no telling. Pet. Come on, I say ; and first begin with her. Wid. She shall not. Pet. I say she shall : — and first begin with her. Eath. Fie, fie ! unknit that threatening unkind brow. And dart not scornful glances from those eyes, To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor : It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads, i*) Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds. And in no sense is meet, or amiable. A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty ; And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty WiU deign to sip, or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper. Thy head, thy sovereign ; one that cares for thee. And for thy maintenance ; commits his body To painful labour, both by sea and land, 150 To watch the night in storms, the day in cold. Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and- And craves no other tribute at thy hands, But love, fair looks, and true obedience. Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince. Even such a woman oweth to her husband ; And when she 's fro ward, peevish, sullen, sour. And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel, im And graceless traitor to her loving lord 1 — I am asham'd, that women are so simple To offer war, where they should kneel for peace ; Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth. Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, Bvit that our soft conditions, and our hearts, Should well agree with our external parts 'i Come, come, you froward and unable worms, My mind hath been as big as one of yours, m My heart as great, my reason, haply, more To bandy word for word, and frown for frown ; But now I see, our lances are but straws. Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, — That seeming to be most, which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband's foot : In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready ; may it do him ease. iso Pet. Why, there 's a wench ! — Come on, and kiss me, Kate. Imc. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha 't. Vin. 'T is a good hearing, when children are toward. Zi4c. But a harsh hearing, when women are froward. Pet. Come, Kate, we '11 to bed. — We three are married, but you two are sped, 'T was I won the wager, though you hit the white ; And being a winner, God give you good night. [Exeunt Petruchio and Katharina. Ilor. Now go thy ways, thou hast tam'd a curst shrew. Luc. 'T is a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd so. im {HxeuTit. 37* Kma RICHARD III. DRAMATIS PERSONAM. King Edward the Fourth. Edward, Prince of Wales, \ Sons to the KiCHARD, Duke of York, j King. George, Duke ofCla/rence, \ Brothers to the EiCHARD, Duke of Gloster, ) King. A young Son of Clarence. Henry, Earl of Richmond. Cardinal Bourchier, Archbishop of Canter- bury. Thomas Eotherham, Archhisliop of York. John Morton, Bishop of Ely. Duke of Buckingham. Duke of Norfolk. Earl of Surrey, his Son. Earl Rivers, Brother to King Edwa/rd's Queen. Marquess op Dorset, amd Lord Grey, her Sons. Earl of Oxford. Lord Hastings. Lord Stanley. Lord Lovel. Sir Thomas Vaughan. Sir Richard Ratcliff. Sir William Catesby. Sir James Tyrrel. Sir James Blount. Sir Walter Herbert. Sir Robert Beakenbury, Lieutenant of the Tower. Christopher TJrswick, a Priest. Another Priest. Lord Mayor of London. Sheriff of Wiltshire. Elizabeth, Queen of King Edward IV. Margaret, Widow of King Henry VI. Duchess op York, MotJier to King Edward IV., Clarence, and Gloster. Lady Anne, Widow of Edward, Priiice of Wales. A young Daughter of Clarence. Lords, and other Attendants ; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Mur- derers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, (Sue. SCEJm. —Ejuglasd. ACT I. Scene I. — London. A Street. Enter Gloster. Glo. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York ; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments ; Our stem alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front ; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, n He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber, To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shap'd for sportive tricks. Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ; I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty, To stmt before a wanton ambling nymph ; I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling Nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time 20 Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable. That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ; — Why I, in this weak piping time of peace. Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to see my shadow in the sun. And descant on mine own deformity : And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, so And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous. By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the king In deadly hate the one against the other : 375 Act I. KING EIOHAED III. Scene I. And if King Edwavd be as true and just, As I am subtle, false, and treacherous. This day shall Clarence closely be mew'd up. About a prophecy, -which says — that G Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. lo Dive, thoughts, down to my soul : here Clar- ence comes. Enter Clarence, guarded, and Beakenbury. Brother, good day. What means this armed guai'd, That waits upon your grace ? Glar. His majesty, Tendering my person's safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to the Tower. Glo. Upon what cause ? Clar. Because my name is George. Glo. Alack ! my lord, that fault is none of yours ; He should, for that, commit your godfathers. ! belike, his majesty hath some intent. That you should be new-christen'd in the Tower. so But what 's the matter, Clarence ? may I know? Clar. Yea, Richard, when I know ; but I protest, As yet I do not : but, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams ; And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, And says, a wizard told him, that by G His issue disinherited should be ; And, for my name of George begins with G, It follows in his thought that I am he. 59 These, as I learn, and such like toys as these. Have mov'd his highness to commit me now. Glo. Why,_ this it is, when men are rul'd by women ! 'T is not the king, that sends you to the Tower : My Lady Grey, his wife, Clarence, 't is she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it not she, and that good man of worship, A-ntony Woodville, her brother there, That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he is deliver'd ? We are not safe, Clarence ; we are not safe, n Clar. By Heaven, I think, there is no man secure But the queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds That trudge betwixt the king and Mistress Shore. Heard you not, what an humble suppliant Lord Hastings was to her for his delivery ? Glo. Humbly complaining to her deity Got my lord chamberlain his liberty. 1 '11 tell you what ; I think, it is our way. If we will keep in favour with the king. To be her men, and wear her livery : so The jealous o'erworn widow, and herself. Since that our brother dubb'd them gentle- women. Are mighty gossips in our monarchy. Brah. I beseech your graces both to pardon me : His majesty hath straitly given in charge, That no man shall have private conference. Of what degree soever, with his brother. Glo. Even so ; an 't please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of anything we say. We speak no treason, man : we say, the king Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen oi Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous : — We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue ; And that the queen's kindred are made gentlefolks. How say you, sir ? can yovi deny all this ] Brah. With this, my lord, myself have nought to do. Glo. Naught to do with Mistress Shore ? I tell thee, fellow, He that doth naught with her, excepting one. Were best to do it secretly, alone. 100 Brah. What one, my lord 1 Glo. Her husband, knave. Wouldst thou betray me? Brah. I beseech your grace to pardon me ; and withal. Forbear your conference with the noble duke. Clar. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and wUl obey. Glo. We are the queen's abjects, and must obey. — Brother, farewell : I will unto the king ; And whatsoe'er you will employ me in. Were it to call King Edward's widow sister, I will perform it to enfranchise you. no Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you. can imagine. Clar. I know, it pleaseth neither of us well. Glo. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long ; I will deliver you, or else lie for you : Meantime, have patience. Clar. I must perforce : farewell. [Exeunt Clarence, Brakenbury, and Gua/rd. Glo. Go, tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return. Simple, plain Clarence ! — I do love thee so. That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, If Heaven will take the present at our hands. 376 Act I. KING RICHAED III. Scene II. But who comes here 1 the new-deliver'd Hast- ings 1 121 Unter Hastings. ffast. Good time of day unto my gracious lord. Glo. As much unto my good lord chamber- lain. Well are you welcome to this open air. How hath your lordship brook'd imprison- ment ? Hast. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must ; But I shall Hve, my lord, to give them thanks, That were the cause of my imprisonment. Glo. "No doubt, no doubt, and so shall Clarence too ; For they that were your enemies are his, lao And have prevail'd as much on him as you. Hast. More pity that the eagle should be mew'd, While kites and buzzards prey at liberty. Glo. What news abroad 1 Hast. No news so bad abroad as this at home : — The king is sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily. Glo. Now, by Saint Paul, that news is bad indeed. ! he hath kept an evil diet long, And overmuch consum'd his royal person : mo 'T is very grievous to be thought upon. What, is he in his bed ? Host He is. Glo. Go you before, and I will follow you. [Hxit Hastings. He cannot live, I hope ; and must not die, TUl George be pack'd with posthorse up to heaven. 1 'U in, to urge his hatred more to Clarence, With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath not another day to live : iso Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy. And leave the world for me to bustle in : Por then I'll many Warwick's youngest daughter : What though I kill'd her husband, and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends, Is to become her husband and her father : The which will I ; not ali so much for love As for another secret close intent. By marrying her which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market : m Clarence still breathes ; Edward still lives and reigns ; When, they are gone, then must I count my gains. [Hxit. Scene II. — The Same. Another Street. Enter the corse of King Heney the Sixth, home in an open coffin, Gentlemen hearing halberds, to guard it ; and Lady Anne as mourner. Anne. Set down, set down your honourable load — If honour may be shrouded in a hearse — Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament The untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. — Poor key-cold figure of a holy king ! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster ! Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood ! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost. To hear the lamentations of j)oor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughter'd son, Stabb'd by the selfsame hand that made these wounds ! li Lo, in these windows, that let forth thy life, I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes : — O, cursed be the hand that made these holes ! Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it ! Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence ! More direful hap betide that hated wretch. That makes us wretched by the death of thee, Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads. Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives ! jo If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view ; And that be heir to his unhappiness ' If ever he have wife, let her be made More miserable by the death of him, Than I am made bv my young lord, and thee!— Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load. Taken from Paul's to be interred there ; so And still, as you are weary of this weight. Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse. \The Bearers take up the corse and adva/nce. Enter Gloster. Glo. Stay you, that bear the corse, and set it down. Anne. What black magician conjures up this fiend. 32 377 Act I. KING RIOHAED III. Scene II. To stop devoted charitable deeds 1 Glo. Villains ! set down the corse ; or, by Saint Paul, I '11 make a corse of him that disobeys. 1 Gent. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. Glo. Unmanner'd dog ! stand thou when I command : m Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I '11 strike thee to my foot, And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. [The Bearers set down tlie coffin. Anne. What ! do you tremble 1 are you all afraid 1 Alas ! I blame you not ; for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. — - Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell ! Thou hadst but power over his mortal body. His soul thou canst not have : therefore, be gone. Glo. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. Anne. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence, and trouble us not j m For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell, Fill'd it with cursing cries, and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. — ■ O, gentlemen ! see, see ! dead Henry's wounds Open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh ! — Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For 't is thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins, where no blood dwells : Thy deed, inhuman and unnatural, eo Provokes this deluge most unnatural. — O God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death ! O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death ! Either, heaven, with lightning strike the murderer dead. Or, earth, gape open wide, and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood. Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered ! Glo. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. Anne. Villain, thou know'st no law of God nor man : 70 No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. Glo. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. Anne. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth ! Glo. More wonderful, when angels are so angry.— Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman. Of these supposed evils, to give me leave. By circumstance, but to acquit myself. Anne. Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man. For these known evils but to give me leave. By circumstance, to curse thy cursed self so Glo. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself. Anne. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current, but to hang thyself. Glo. By such despair, I should accuse my- self. Anne. And by despairing shalt thou stand excus'd ; For doing worthy vengeance on thyself. That didst unworthy slaughter upon others. Glo. Say, that I slew them not. Anne. Then say they were not slain : But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. Glo. I did not kill your husband. Anne. Why, then he is alive. Glo. Nay, he is dead ; and skin by Ed- ward's hand. 92 Anne. In thy foul throat thou liest : Queen Margaret saw Thy murderous falchion smoking in his blood ; The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy brothers beat aside the point. Gh. I was provoked by her sland'rous tongue. That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoul- ders. An-)ie. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind, That never dreamt on aught but butcheries. Didst thou not kill this king 1 Glo. I grant ye. 101 Anne. Dost grant me, hedgehog'! then, God grant me too, Thou may'st be damned for that wicked deed ! ! he was gentle, mild, and \'irtuous. Glo. The better for the King of heaven that hath him. Anne. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come. Glo. Let him thank me, that holp to send him thither ; For he was fitter for that place than earth. Anne. And thou unfit for any place but hell. ^ Glo. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. 378 Act I. KING EICHARD III. SCEXB II, Anne. Some dungeon. Glo. Your bed-chamber. ni Anne. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest ! Glo. So will it, madam, till I lie with you. Anne. I hope so. Glo. I know so. — But, gentle Lady Anne, — To leave this keen encounter of our wits, And fall somewhat into a slower method, Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner 1 Anne. Thou wast the cause, and most accurs'd effect. 120 Gh. Your beauty was the cause of that effect ; Your beauty, that did haunt me in my sleep, To undertake the death of all the world, So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. Anne. If I thought that, I tell thee, homi- cide. These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks. Glo. These eyes could not endure that beauty's wrack ; You should not blemish it, if I stood by : As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that ; it is my day, my life. iso Anne. Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life ! Glo. Curse not thyself, fair creature ; thou art both. Anne. I would I were, to be reveng'd on thee. Gh. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee. Anne. It is a quarrel just and reasonable. To be reveng'd on him that kill'd my hus- band. Glo. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband. Did it to help thee to a better husband. Anne. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. "o Glo. He lives that loves you better than he could. Anne. Name him. Glo. Anne. Glo. The selfsame name, but one of better nature. Anne. Where is he 1 Glo. Here. [She spitteth at him.] Why dost thou spit at me ? Anne. 'Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake ! Glo. Never came poison from so sweet a place. Plantagenet. Whv, that was he. Anne. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight ! thou dost infect mine eyes. Glo. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. Anne. 'Would they were basilisks, to strike thee dead ! iso Glo. I would they were, that I might die at once ; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Sham'd their aspects with store of childish drops : These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear ; No, when my father York and Edward wept To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made, When black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a chUd, Told the sad story of my father's death, leo And twenty times made pause to sob and weep. That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks. Like trees bedash'd with rain: in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear ; And what these sorrows could not thence exhale, Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. I never sued to friend, nor enemy ; My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word; But now thy beauty is propos'd my fee. My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. iro \SJie looks scornfully at him. Teach not thy lip such scorn ; for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo ! here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword; Which if thou please to hide in this true breast, And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke. And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open : she offers at it with his sword. Nay, do not pause ; for I did kill King Henry ; — But 't was thy beauty that provoked me. iso Nay, now despatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward : — But 't was thy heavenly face that set me on. \_Slie lets fall the sword. Take up the sword again, or take up me. Anne. Arise, dissembler : though I wish thy death. Sf9 Act I. KING RICHARD III. Scene III. I wOl not be thy executioner. Glo. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. Anne. I have already. Glo. That was in thy rage : Speak it again, and even with the word, This hand, which, for thy love, did kUI thy love, ShaU, for thy love, kill a far truer love : iso To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary. Arme. I would, I knew thy heart. Glo. 'T is figur'd in my tongue. Anne. I fear me, both are false. Glo. Then never man was true. Anne. Well, well, put up your sword. Glo. Say, then, my peace is made. Anne. That shalt thou know hereafter. Glo. But shall I live in hope ? Anne. All men, I hope, live so. 200 Glo. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. Ann^e. To take is not to give. \Slie puts on the ring. Glo. Look, how my ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart ; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted servant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever, Anne. What is it ? Glo. That it may please you leave these sad designs " 210 To him that hath more cause to be a mourner. And presently repair to Crosby Place ; Where, after I have solemnly interr'd. At Chertsey monastery, this noble king, And wet his grave with my repentant tears, I will with all expedient duty see you : For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Grant me this boon. Anne. With aU my heart; and much it joys me too. To see you are become so penitent. — 220 Tressel, and Berkley, go along with me. Glo. Bid me farewell. Amie. 'T is more than you deserve ; But since you teach me how to flatter you. Imagine I have said farewell already. [Eaxunt Lady Anne, Tressel, and Berkley. Glo. Sirs, take up the corse. Gent. Towards Chertsey, noble lord ? Glo. No, to White Friars ; there attend my coming. [Exeunt the rest, with the corse. Was ever woman in this humour woo'd ? Was ever woman in this humour won 1 229 I '11 have her, but I will not keep her long. What ! I, that kiU'd her husband, and his father. To take her in her heart's extremest hate ; With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes. The bleeding witness of her hatred by ; Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me. And I no friends to back my suit withal. But the plain devil, and dissembling looks, And yet to win her,— all the world to nothing ! Ha! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom T, some three months since, 241 Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury ? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, — Fram'd in the prodigality of nature, Young, valiant, wise, and, no doubt, right royal,— The spacious world cannot again afibrd : And will she yet abase her eyes on me. That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince. And made her widow to a woful bed ? On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety? On me, that halt, and am misshapen thus ? My dukedom to a beggarly denier, 252 I do mistake my person all this while : Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, Myself to be a marvellous proper man. I '11 be at charges for a looking-glass ; And entertain a score or two of tailors. To study fashions to adorn my body : Since I am crept in favour with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost. 26» But, first, I '11 turn yon fellow in his grave. And then return lamenting to my love. — Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass. That I may see my shadow as I pass. [Mxit. Scene III. — ^The Same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Queen Elizabeth, Lord Rivers, and Lord Grey. Biv. Have patience, madam : there 's no doubt, his majesty Will soon recover his accustom'd health. Grey. In that you brook it iU, it makes him worse : Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort. And cheer his grace with quick and merry words. Q. Eliz. If he were dead, what would be- tide on me % 380 ^AT-:1G11T SCULP-' IEIl€ISIA15.in) AMI® ILAPT AHM] 'RlciM.RD ^ Bub shaZO lUve iiz '/vope^ ? ^NNE yllL rrheriy, Ihojie-, 'l£v& so. RzCSjIKD m. ^CT 1 SCEJfEll CASSELL ^company; LttCTWD- Act I. KING EIOHARD III. Scene III. Grey. No other harm, but loss of such a lord. Q. Mis. The loss of such a lord includes all harms. Grey. The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son, To be your comforter when he is goiae. lo Q. Eliz. Ah ! he is young ; and his minority Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloster, . A man that loves not me, nor none of you. Riv. Is it concluded, he shall be protector? Q. Eliz. It is determin'd, not concluded yet : But so it must be, if the king miscarry. Enter Buckingham and Stanley. Grey. Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Stanley. Buck. Good time of day unto your royal gi"ace. Stan. God make your majesty joyful as you have been ! Q. Eliz. The Coixntess Richmond, good my Lord of Stanley, 20 To your good prayer will scarcely say Amen. Yet, Stanley, notwithstanding she 's your wife, And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur'd, I hate not you for her proud arrogance. Stan. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers ; Or, if she be accus'd on true report, Bear with her weakness, which, I think, pro- ceeds From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice. Q. Eliz. Saw you the king to-day, my Lord of Stanley? so Stan. Bvit now, the Duke of Buckingham and I Are come from visiting his majesty. Q. Eliz. What likelihood of his amendment, lords? Buck. Madam, good hope : his grace speaks cheerfully. Q. Eliz. God grant him health ! Did you confer with him ? Buck. Ay, madam : he desires to make atonement Between the Duke of Gloster and your brothers. And between them and my lord chamberlain ; And sent to warn them to his royal presence. Q. Eliz. 'Would all were well !— But that will never be. ^ I fear, our happiness is at the height. Enter Glostbe, Hastings, and Dorset. Glo. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it. — Who are they that complain unto the king, That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not ? By holy Paul, they love his grace but lightly That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. Because I cannot flatter, and speak fair. Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog. Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. eo Cannot a plain man live, and think no harm, But thus his simple truth must be abus'd With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks 1 Grey. To whom in all this presence speaks your grace ? Glo. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injur'd thee? when done thee wrong? — Or thee % — or thee ? — or any of your faction ? A plague upon you all ! His royal person (Whom God preserve better than you would wish !) Cannot be quiet scarce a breathing- while, w But you must trouble him with lewd com- plaints. Q. Eliz. Brother of Gloster, you mistake the matter. The king, on his own royal disposition, And not provok'd by any suitor else. Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred. That in your outward action shows itself Against my children, brothers, and myself. Makes him to send; that thereby he may gather The ground of your ill-will, and so remove it. Glo. I cannot tell ; — the world is grown so bad, ro That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch : Since every Jack became a gentleman. There 's many a gentle person made a Jack. Q. Eliz. Come, come, we know your mean- ing, brother Gloster : You envy my advancement, and my friends'. God grant, we never may have need of you ! Glo. Meantime, God grants that we have need of you : Our brother is imprison'd by your means. Myself disgi'ac'd, and the nobility Held in contempt ; while great promotions so Are daily given, to ennoble those That scarce, some two days since, were worth a noble. Q. Eliz. By Him that rais'd me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoy 'd, I never did incense his majesty 381 Act I. KING EICHARD III. Scene III. Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. — My lord, you do me shameful injury, Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. Glo. You may deny, that you were not the mean so Of my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment. Riv. She may, my lord ; for — Glo. She may, Lord Rivers, — why, who knows not so ? She may do more, sir, than denying that : She may help you to many fair preferments, And then deny her aiding hand therein. And lay those honours on your high desert. What may she not ? She may, — ay, marry, may she, — Eiv. What, marry, may she 1 Glo. What, marry, may she ? marry with a king, 100 A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. I wis, your grandam had a worser match. Q. Eliz. My Lord of Gloster, I have too long borne Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs; By Heaven, I wUl acquaint his majesty Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur'd. I had rather be a country serving-maid. Than a great queen, with this condition. To be so baited, scorn'd, and stormed at : Small joy have I in being England's queen, no Enter Queen Margaret, behind. Q. Ma/r. And lessen'd be that small, God, I beseech him ! Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me. Glo. What ! threat you me with telling of the king ? Tell him, and spare not : look, what I have said I will avouch in presence of the king : I dare adventure to be sent to the Tower. 'T is time to speak; my pains are quite forgot. Q. Mar. Out, devil ! I do remember them too well : Thou kill'dst my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. 120 Glo. Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband king, I was a pack-horse in his great affairs ; A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends ; To royalise his blood, I spent mine own. Q. Mar. Ay, and much better blood than his, or thine. Glo. In all which time, you, and your husband Grey. Were factious for the house of Lancaster ; — And, Eivers, so were you. — Was not your husband In Margaret's battle at St. Albans slain % 130 Let me put in your minds, if you forget. What you have been ere this, and what you are; Withal, what I have been, and what I am. Q. Mar. A murd'rous villain, and so still thou art. Glo. Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick, Ay, and forswore himself, — which Jesu pardon ! Q. Mar. Which God revenge ! (xlo. To fight on Edward's party, for the crown ; And, for his meed, poor lord, he is mew'd up. I would to God, my heart were flint, like Edward's, "o Or Edward's soft and pitiful, like mine : I am too childish-foolish for this world. Q. Ma/r. Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world, Thou cacodemon ! there thy kingdom is. Biv. My Lord of Gloster, in those busy days. Which here you urge to prove us enemies. We foUow'd then oiu: lord, our sovereign king ; So should we you, if you should be our king. Glo. If I should be ! — I had rather be a pedlar. Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof! Q. Eliz. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose 151 You should enjoy, were you this country's king. As little joy you may suppose in me That I enjoy, being the queen thereof. Q. Mar. A little joy enjoys the queen thereof ; For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient. — ■ \Advancing. Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pill'd from me ! Which of you trembles not, that looks on me? If not, that, I being queen, you bow like subjects, lei Yet that, by you depos'd, you quake like rebels ? — Ah ! gentle villain, do not turn away. Glo. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my sight % Q. Mar. But repetition of what thou hast marr'd ; That will I make, before I let thee go. 382 Act I. KING EICHAED IIT. Scene III. Glo. "Wert thou ^ot banished on pain of death 1 Q. Mar. I was ; but I do find more pain in banishment Than death can yield me here by my abode. A husband, and a son, thou ow'st to me, — no And thou, a krugdom ; — all of you, allegiance : This sorrow that I have, by right is yours. And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. Glo. The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper, And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes; And then, to dry them, gav'st the duke a clout, Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Eut- land ; — His curses, then from bitterness of soul Denounc'd against thee, are all fallen upon thee ; iso And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed. Q. Eliz. So just is God, to right the innocent. Hast. O ! 't was the foulest deed to slay that babe, And the most merciless, that e'er was heard of. Biv. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. Dor. No man but prophesied revenge for it. Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. Q. Mar. What ! were you snarling all, before I came, Eeady to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me ? iso Did York's dread curse prevail so much with Heaven, That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death. Their kingdom's loss, my woful banishment, Should all but answer for that jjeevish brat 1 Can curses pierce the clouds, and enter heaven % — Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses ! — Though not by war, by surfeit die your king. As ours by murder, to make him a king ! • Edward, thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward, my son, that was Prince of Wales, 200 Die in his youth by like imtimely violence ! Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self ! Long may'st thou live, to wail thy children's loss. And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine ! Long die thy happy days before thy death ; And, after many lengthen'd hours of grief. Die neither mother, wife, nor England's queen ! Eivers, and Dorset, you were standers-by, 210 And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabb'd with bloody daggers : God, I pray him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlook'd accident cut off ! Glo. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag. Q. Mar. And leave out thee 1 stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. If Heaven have any grievous plague in store. Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, O ! let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their indignation 220 On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace ! The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul ! Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st. And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends ! No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine. Unless it be while some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils ! Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog ! Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity The slave of nature, and the son of hell ! 230 Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb ! Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins ! Thou rag of honour ! thou detested — Glo. Margaret. Q. Ma/r. Eichard ! Glo. Ha ! Q. Mar. I call thee not. Glo. I cry thee mercy then; for I did think, That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names. Q. Mar. Why, so I did ; but look'd for no reply. O ! let me make the period to my curse. Glo. 'T is done by me, and ends in — Margaret. Q. Eliz. Thus have you breath'd your curse against yourself. no Q. Ma/r. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune ! Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider, Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about '! Act I. KING RICHARD III. Scene III. Fool, fool ! thou wliett'st a kuife to kill thyself. The clay will come that thou shalt wish for me To help thee curse this pois'nous bunch-back'd toad. Hast. False-boding -woman, end thy frantic curse. Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. Q. Mar. Foul shame upon you ! you have all mov'd mine. Biv. "Were you well serv'd, you would be taught your duty. 250 Q. Mar. To serve me well, you all should do me duty, Teach me to be your queen, and you my subjects. O ! serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty. Dor. Dispute not with her, she is lunatic. Q. Ma/r. Peace, master marquess ; you are malapert : Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. O ! that your young nobility could judge. What 't were to lose it, and be miserable ! They that stand high have many blasts to shake them, And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces. 260 Glo. Good counsel, marry : — learn it, learn it, marquess. Dor. It touches you, my lord, as much as me. Glo. A.J, and much more ; but I was born so high. Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top. And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun. Q. Mar. And turns the sun to shade, — alas ! alas ! — Witness my son, now in the shade of death ; Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up. Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest. — 270 O God ! that seest it, do not sufier it : As it was won with blood, lost be it so ! BvLch. Peace, peace ! for shame, if not for charity. Q. Mar. Urge neither charity nor shame to me : Uncharitably with me have you dealt. And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher'd. My charity is outrage, life my shame, And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage ! Buck. Have done, have done. Q. Mar. O princely Buckingham! I '11 kiss thy hand, 280 In sign of league and amity with thee : Now fair befall thee and thy noble house ! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, Nor thou within the compass of my curse. Bv/;k. Nor no one here ; for curses never The lips of those that breathe them in the air. Q. Mar. I will not think but they ascend the sky. And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace. O Buckingham ! take heed of yonder dog : Look, when he fawns, he bites ; and, when he bites, 290 His venom tooth will rankle to the death : Have not to do with him, beware of him ; Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks on him. And all their ministers attend on him. Gh. What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham 1 Buck. Nothiag that I respect, my gracious lord. Q. Mar. What ! dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel. And soothe the devil that I warn thee from ? ! but remember this another day. When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, 300 And say, poor Margaret was a prophetess. — Live each of you the subjects to his hate, And he to yours, and all of you to God's ! [Exit. Hast. My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses. Rw. And so doth mme. I muse, why she 's at liberty. Glo. I cannot blame her : by God's holy mother, She hath had too much wrong, and I repent My part thereof, that I have done to hei-. Q. Eliz. I never did her any, to my knowledge. Gh. Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong. > 810 1 was too hot to do somebody good, That is too cold in thinking of it now. Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid ; He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains ; — God pardon them that are the cause thereof ! Eiv. A virtuous and a Christian-like con- clusion. To pray for them that have done scath to us. Glo. So do I ever, [asic?e] being well advis'd ; For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself. Enter Catesby. Gates. Madam, his majesty doth call for you: 2&i Act I. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. And for your grace ; and you, my noble lords. Q. Eliz. Oatesby, I come. — Lords, ■will yoix go witb me ? Rw. We wait upon your grace. [^Exeunt all hut Gloster. Glo. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach, I lay unto the grievous charge of others. Clarence, whom I, indeed, have cast in dark- ness, I do beweep to many simple gulls ; Namely, to Stanley, Hastings, Buckingham; And tell them, 't is the queen and her allies 330 That stir the king against the duke my brother. Now they believe it ; and withal whet me To be reveng'd on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey : But then I sigh, and, with a piece of Scripture, Tell them, that God bids us do good for evU : And thus I clothe my naked villainy With old odd ends stol'n forth of holy writ, And seem a saint, when most I play the devil. Enter two Murderers. But soft ! here come my executioners. — How now, my hardy, stout, resolved mates ! Are you now going to despatch this thing ? 341 1 Mwrd. We are, my lord; and come to have the warrant, That we may be admitted where he is. Gh. Well thought upon; I have it here about me. \Gives tlie wa/rrant. When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, Withal obdurate : do not hear him plead, For Clarence is well-spoken, and, perhaps. May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. 1 Murd. Tut, tut ! my lord, we will not stand to prate ; s5o Talkers are no good doers : be assur'd, We go to use our hands, and not our tongues. Glo. Your eyes drop miOstones, when fools' eyes fall tears : I like you, lads; — about your business straight ; Go, go, despatch. 1 Mwrd. We will, my noble lord. [Exewnt. Scene IV. — London. A Room in the Tower. Enter Clarence aud Brakenbury. Brah. Why looks your grace so heavily to- day? ■ Gh/r. 6 ! I have pass'd a miserable night, 33 So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights. That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night. Though 't were to buy a world of happy days ; So full of dismal terror was the time. Brak. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you, tell me. Clwr. Methought that I had broken from the Tower, And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy ; 10 And in my company my brother Gloster, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches : thence we look'd toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times. During the wars of York and Lancaster That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling, Struck me (that thought to stay him) over- board. Into the tumbling billows of the main. 20 O Lord ! methought, what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wracks ; A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl. Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels. All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes 29 Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 't were in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems. That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by. Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death. To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ? Gla/r. Methought I had, and often did I strive To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood Stopt in my soul, and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wandering air ; But smother'd it within my panting bulk, as Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. Brak. Awak'd you not in this sore agony ? Gla/r. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life ; ! then began the tempest to my soul ! 1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, "\Vith that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul, 385 Act T. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. "Was my great father-in-la-w, renowned War- wick; Who spake aloud, — " What scourge for per- jury 60 Can this dark monarcliy afford false Clarence?" And so he vanish'd. Then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he shriek'd out aloud, — " Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence, — That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury; — Seize on him, Furies ! take him unto tor- ment ! " With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise, eo I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell ; Such terrible impression made my dream. Brak. No marvel, lord, though it a&ighted you ; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. Cla/r. Ah, keeper, keeper ! I have done these things. That now give evidence against my soul. For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me ! — O God ! if my deep prayers cannot appease thee. But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds, n Yet execute thy wrath in me alone : 0, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children ! — Keeper, I pr'ythee, sit by me awhile ; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep, Brak. I will, my lord : God give your grace good rest. — [Clarence sleeps. Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours. Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. Princes have but their titles for their glories. An outward honour for an inward toil ; And, for unfelt imaginations, so They often feel a world of restless cares : So that, between their titles, and low name, There 's nothing difiers but the outward fame. Enter the two Murderers. 1 Mv/rd. Ho ! who 's here 1 Brak. What wouldst thou, fellow? and how oam'st thou hither % 1 Mwrd. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. Brak. What ! so brief? 2 Murd. 'T is better, sir, than to be tedious. — 89 Let him see our commission, and talk no more. \A paper delivered to Brakenbuey, who reads it. Brak. I am, in this, commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands : — I will not reason what is meant hereby. Because I will be guiltless from the meaning, There Hes the duke asleep, and there the keys. I '11 to the king, and signify to him. That thus I have resign'd to you my charge. 1 Murd. You may, sir; 'tis a point of wisdom : fare you well. \_Eodt Brakenbury. 2 Murd. What, shaU we stab hipi as he sleeps ? 100 1 Murd. No ; he '11 say, 't was done cowardly, when he wakes. 2 Murd. Why, he shall never wake until the great judgment-day. 1 Murd. Why, then he '11 say, we stabb'd him sleeping. 2 Murd. The urging of that word, judg- ment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me. 1 Murd. What ! art thou afraid 1 2 Murd. Not to kill him, having a warrant ; but to be damn'd for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me. 112 1 Murd. I thought, thou hadst been reso- lute. 2 Murd. So I am, to let him live. 1 Murd. I '11 back to the Duke of Gloster, and tell him so. 2 Murd. Nay, I pr'ythee, stay a little : I hope, this passionate humour of mine will change ; it was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty. 1 Murd. How dost thou feel thyself now ? 2 Murd. Some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me. 122 1 Murd. Remember our reward, when the deed 's done. 2 Murd. 'Zounds ! he dies : I had forgot the reward. 1 Murd. Where 's thy conscience now ? 1 Mv/rd. O! in the Duke of Gloster's purse. 1 Murd. When he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience files out. 2 Murd. 'Tis no matter ; let it go : there's few or none will entertain it. isi 1 Murd. What, if it come to thee again ? 2 Murd. I '11 not meddle with it ; it makes a man a coward ; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him ; a man cannot swear, but it checks him ; a man cannot lie with his neigh- bour's wife, but it detects him : 't is a blushing shame-faced spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom ; it fiUs a man full of obstacles : it made me once restore a purse of gold, that by chance I found; it beggars any man that Act I. KING EICHARD III. Scene IV. keeps it : it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing ; and every man, that means to live well, endeavours to trust to himself, and live without it. iis 1 Mwrd. 'Zounds ! it is even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the duke. 2 Mwrd. Take the devil in thy mind, and believe him not : he would insinuate with thee, but to make thee sigL 1 Mwrd. I am strong-fram'd ; he cannot prevail with me. 150 2 Murd. Spoke like a tall man that respects his reputation. Come, shall we fall to work? 1 Murd. Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then throw him into the malmsey-biitt in the next room. 2 Murd. O excellent device ! and make a sop of him. 1 Murd. Soft ! he wakes. 2 Murd. Strike. 1 Murd. No ; we '11 reason with him. Clar. [Waking.^ Where art thou, keeper? give me a cup of wine. leo 1 Murd. You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon. Clar. In God's name, what art thou ? 1 Murd. A man, as you are. Clar. But not, as I am, royal. 1 Murd. Nor you, as we are, loyal. Clar. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble. 1 Murd. My voice is now the king's, my looks mine own. Clar. How darkly, and how deadly dost thou speak ! Your eyes do menace me : why look you pale ? Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come 1 iro SotJi Murd. To, to, to — Cla/r. To murder me ? Both Murd. Ay, ay. Clar. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you ? 1 Murd. Offended us you have not, but the king. Clar. I shall be reconcil'd to him again. 2 Murd. Never, my lord ; therefore pre- pare to die. Clar. Are you drawn forth among a world of men, 180 To slay the innocent 1 What is my offence ? Where are the evidence that do accuse me ? What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning judge ? or who pronounc'd The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death ? Before I be convict by course of law, To threaten me with death is most unlawful. I charge you, as you hope to have redemption By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins, That you depart, and lay no hands on me ; wo The deed you undertake is damnable. 1 Mwrd. What we will do, we do upon command. 2 Murd. And he that hath commanded is our king. Clar. Erroneous vassals ! the great. King of kings Hath in the table of his law commanded, That thou shalt do no murder : will you then Spurn at his edict, and fulfil a ihan's ? Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand. To hurl upon their heads that break his law. 2 Murd. And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee, 200 For false forswearing, and for murder too. Thou didst receive the sacrament, to fight In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. 1 Murd. And, like a traitor to the name of God, Didst break that vow, and with thy trea- cherous blade Unripp'dst the bowels of thy sovereign's son. 2 Mwrd. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend. 1 Mwrd. How canst thou urge God's dread- ful law to us. When thou hast broke it in such dear degree ? Clar. Alas ! for whose sake did I that ill deed ? , 210 For Edward, for my brother, for his sake : He sends you not to murder me for this ; For in that sin he is as deep as I. If God will be avenged for the deed, ! know you yet, he doth it publicly ; Take not the quarrel from his powerful arm : He needs no indirect or lawless course. To cut off those that have offended him. 1 Mwrd. Who made thee then a bloody minister. When gallant-springing, brave Plantagenet, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee? Clar. My brother's love, the devil, and my rage. 2--' 1 Mwrd. Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy faults. Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. Gla/r. If you do love my brother, hate not me; 1 am his brother, and I love him well. If you are hir'd for meed, go back again. And I will send you to my brother Gloster; Who shall reward you better for my life 387 Act II. KING RICHARD III. Scene I. Than Edward will for tidings of my death. 230 2 Murd. Tou are deceiVd ; your brother Gloster hates you. Clar. O ! no ; he loves me, and he holds me dear. Go you to him from me. Both 2Iurd. A.j, so we will. Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father York Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm. And charg'd us from his soul to love each other, He little thought of this divided friendship : Bid Gloster think on this, and he will weep. 1 Murd. Ay, millstones ; as he lesson'd us to weep. Clar. ■ O ! do not slander him, for he is kind. \ Murd. Right;* as snow in harvest. — Come, you deceive yourself; 241 'T is he that sends us to destroy you here. Cla/r. It cannot be ; for he bewept my fortune. And hugg'd me in his arms, and swore, with sobs. That he would labour my delivery. 1 Murd. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heaven. 2 2Iurd. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord. Clar. Have you that holy feeling in your souls, 349 To counsel me to make my peace with God, And are you yet to your own souls so bUnd, That you will war with God by murdering me? O ! sirs, consider, they that set you on To do this deed, will hate you for the deed. 2 Murd. What shall we do ? Clar. Relent, and save your souls. 1 Murd. Relent ! no : 't is cowardly, and womanish. Clar. Not to relent, is beastly, savage, devilish. — Which of you, if you were a prince's son. Being pent from liberty, as I am now, If two such murderers as yoiirselves came to you, 260- Would not entreat for life 1 — My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks ; ! if thine eye be not a flatterer, Come thou on my side, and entreat for me, As you would beg, were you in my distress. A begging prince what beggar pities not ? 2 Murd. Look behind you, my lord. 1 Murd. Take that, and that : \stahs Mr)i\ if all this will not do, 1 '11 drown you in the malmsey-butt within. \Exit, with the body. 2 Mwrd. A bloody deed, and desperately despatch'd I 270 How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous murder. Re-enter First Murderer. 1 Murd. How now ! what mean'st thou, that thou help'st me not? By Heaven, the duke shall know how slack you have been. 2 Murd. I would he knew that I had sav'd his brother ! Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say. For I repent me that the duke is slain. [Exit. 1 Murd. So do not I : go, coward, as thou art. Well, I '11 go hide the body in some hole, 279 Till that the duke give order for his burial : And when I have my meed, I will away ; For this will out, and then I must not stay. [Exit. ACT II. Scene I. — London. A Room iu the Palace. Enter King Edward, led in sick, Queen Elizabeth, Dorset, Rivers, Hastings, Buckingham, Grey, aiid others. K. Edw. Why, so : — now have I done a good day's work. — You peers, continue this united league : I every day expect an embassage From my Redeemer to redeem me hence ; And more in peace my soul shall part to heaven, Since I have made myfriends at peace on earth. Rivers and Hastings, take each other's hand; Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love. Riv. By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate ; And with my hand I seal my true heart's love. 10 Hast. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like ! K. Edw. Take heed, you dally not before your king ; Lest he that is the supreme King of kings Confound your hidden falsehood, and award Either of you to be the other's end. Hast. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love ! Act II. KING RICHARD III. Scene I. Biv. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart ! K. Edw. Madam, yourself are not exempt from this, — ' l^or you, son Dorset, ^Buckingham, nor you ;— You have been factious one against the other. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand ; 21 And what you do, do it unfeignedly. Q. Eliz. There, Hastings : — I will never more remember Our former hatred, so thrive I, and mine ! K. Edw. Dorset, embrace him; — Hastings, love lord marquess. Dor. This interchange of love, I here pro- test, Upon my part shall be inviolable. Hast. And so swear I, my lord. {They embrace. K. Edw. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife's allies, so And make me happy in your unity. Buck. Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate Upon your grace [to the Queen], but with all duteous love Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me With hate in those where I expect most love. When I have most need to employ a friend, And most assured that he is a friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guUe, Be he unto me. This do I beg of Heaven, When I am cold in love to you or yours. 40 [They embrace. K. Edw. A pleasing cordial, princely Buck- ingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloster here. To make the blessed period of this peace. Buck. And, in good time, here comes the noble duke. Enter Gloster. Glo. Good morrow to my sovereign king, and queen ; And, princely peers, a happy time of day ! K. Edw. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. — ■ Gloster, we have done deeds of charity ; Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, so Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. Glo. A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord. — Among this princely heap, if any here. By false intelligence, or wrong surmise, Hold me a foe ; If I \inwittingly, or in my rage. Have aught committed that is hardly borne By any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his friendly peace : 'T is death to me to be at enmity ; eo I hate it, and desire all good men's love. — Eirst, madam, I entreat true peace of you. Which I will purchase with my duteous service ; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodg'd between us ; Of you, and you, Lord Rivers, and of Dorset, That all without desert have frown'd on me ; Of you, Lord Woodville, and. Lord Scales, of you, Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen; indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive 70 With whom my soul is any jot at odds. More than the infant that is born to-night : I thank my God for my humility. Q. Eliz. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter : — I would to God, all strifes were well com- pounded. — My sovereign lord, I do beseech your highness To take our brother Clarence to your grace. Glo. Why, madam, have I offer'd love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence 1 Who knows not, that the gentle duke is dead? {They all start. You do him injury to scorn his corse. 81 K. Edw. Who knows not, he is dead ! who, knows he is ? Q. Eliz. All-seeing Heaven, what a world is this ! Buck. Look I so pale. Lord Dorset, as the resf! Dor. Aj, my good lord; and no man in the presence. But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. K. Edw. Is Clarence dead 1 the order was revers'd. Glo. But he, poor man, by your first order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear ; Some tardy cripple bare the countermand, bo That came too lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood. Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did. And yet go current from suspicion. Enter Stanley. Stan. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done ! Act II. KING RIOHAED III. Scene II. K. Edw. I pr'ythee, peace : my soul is full of sorrow. Stan. I will not rise, unless your highness hear me. K. Edw. Then say at once, what is it thou request'st. Stan. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life ; 100 Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman. Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. K. Edw. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave? My brother kill'd no man, his fault was thought. And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who sued to me for him who, in my wrath, Kneel'd at my feet, and bade me be advis'd ? Who spoke of brotherhood? who spoke of love ? 109 Who told me, how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick, and did fight for me 1 Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury, When Oxford had me down, he rescu'd me, And said, "Dear brother, live, and be a king?" Who told me, when we both lay in the field. Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me Even in his garments ) and did give himself. All thin and naked, to the numb-cold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you 120 Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters, or your waiting- vassals. Have done a drunken slaughter, and defac'd The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon ; And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. But for my brother not a man would speak, Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself For him, poor soul. — The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his life, iso Yet none of you would once beg for his life. — O God ! I fear, thy justice will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this. — Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Ah, poor Clarence ! \_Exeunt King, Queen, Hastings, Rivers, Dorset, and Grey. Glo. This is the fruit of rashness. — Mark'd you not. How that the guilty kmdred of the queen Look'd pale, when they did hear of Clarence' death ? ! they did urge it still unto the king : God will revenge it. Come, lords ; wUl you go. To comfort Edward with our company ? mo Buck. We wait upon your grace. [Exeunt. Scene II. — London. A Room in the Palace. Enter the Buchess of York, with a Son and Daughter of Clarence. Son. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead? Buck. No, boy. Daugh. Why do you weep so oft ? and beat your breast ; And cry — " O Clarence, my unhappy son ! " Son. Why do you look on us, and shake your head. And call us orphans, wretches, castaways, If that our noble father were alive ? Buch. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both; I do lament the sickness of the king, As loath to lose him, not your father's death. It were lost sorrow to wail one that 's lost, n Son. Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead ? The king mine uncle is to blame for it : God will revenge it ; whom I will importune With earnest prayers all to that effect. Baugh. And so will I. Buck. Peace, children, peace ! the king doth love you well : Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caus'd your father's death. Son. Grandam, we can ; for my good uncle Gloster 20 Told me, the king, provok'd to it by the queen, Devis'd impeachments to imprison him : And when my uncle told me so, he wept. And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek ; Bade me rely on him as on my father. And he would love me dearly as his child. Buch. Ah ! that deceit should steal such gentle shape. And with a virtuous visor hide deep vice ! He is my son, ay, and therein my shame, Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit, so Son. Think you, my uncle did dissemble, grandam ? Bvx:h. Ay, boy. Son. I cannot think it. Hark ! what noise is this ? Enter Queen Elizabeth, distractedly; Rivers and DoBSET following Iier. Q. Eliz. Ah ! who shall hinder me to waiL and weep, Act II. KING RICHARD III. Scene II. To chide my fortune, and torment myself? I '11 join with black despair against my soul, And to myself become an enemy. Duch. What means this scene of rude im- patience ? Q. EUz. To make an act of tragic violence : — • Edward, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead ! — Why grow the branches, when the root is gone ? a Why wither not the leaves, that want their sap 1 — If you will live, lament ; if die, be brief ; That our swift-wing'd souls may catch the king's ; Or, like obedient subjects, follow him To his new kingdom of ne'er changing night. Duch. Ah ! so much interest have I in thy sorrow, ' As I had titli in thy noble husband. I have bewept a worthy husband's death, And liv'd with looking on his images ; so But now, two mirrors of his princely sem- blance Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death, And I for comfort have but one false glass. That grieves me when I see my shame in him. Thou art a widow : yet thou art a mother. And hast the comfort of thy children left : But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms. And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands, Clarence and Edward. O ! what cause have I (Thine being but a moiety of my moan), to To over-go thy woes, and drown thy cries ! Son. Ah, aunt ! you wept not for our father's death ; How can we aid you with our kindred tears t Daugh. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd ; Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept. Q. EUz. Give me no help in lamentation ; I am not barren to bring forth complaints. All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes. That I, being govern'd by the watery moon. May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world ! ™ Ah, for my husband, for my dear lord Ed- ward ! Chil. Ah, for our father, for our dear lord Clarence ! Duch. Alas, for both ! both mine, Edward and Clarence. Q. EUz. What stay had I but Edward? and he 's gone. Chil. What stay had we but Clarence? and he 's gone. 391 Duch. What stays had I but they? and they are gone. Q. EUz. Was never widow had so dear a loss. Chil. Were never orphans had so dear a loss. Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss. Alas ! I am the mother of these griefs : so Their woes are parcell'd, mine are general She for an Edward weeps, and so do I ; I for a Clai'ence weep, so doth not she : These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I ; I for an Edward weep, so do not they : — Ala,s ! you three on me, threefold distress'd. Pour all your tears, I am your sorrow's nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentation. Dor. Comfort, dear mother : God is much displeas'd. That you take with unthankfulness his doing. In common worldly things 't is call'd ungrate- ful, 91 With dull unwillingness to repay a debt, Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent; Much more to be thus opposite with Heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. Biv. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, Of the young prince your son : send straight for him ; Let him be crown'd ; in him your comfort lives. Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave, 99 And plant your joys in living Edward's throne. Enter Gloster, Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, Eatcliff, and others. Glo. Sister, have comfort : all of us have cause To waU the dimming of our shining star ; But none can cure their harms by wailing them. — Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy ; I did not see your grace. — Humbly on my knee I crave your blessing. Diuih. God bless thee, and put meekness in thy breast. Love, charity, obedience, and true duty. Glo. Amen; \_aside'\ and make me die a good old man ! — That is the butt-end of a mother's blessing ; uo I marvel, that her grace did leave it out. Buck. You cloudy princes, and heart-sor- rowing peers, That bear this heavy mutual load of moan. Act II. KING RICHARD III. ' Scene III. No"w cheer each, other in each other's love ; Though we have spent our harvest of this king, We are to reap the harvest of his son. The broken rancour of your high-swoln hearts, But lately splinter' d, knit, and join'd together, Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept : Me seemeth good, that, with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet 121 Hither to London, to be crown'd our king. Riv. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham 1 Buck Marry, my lord, lest, by a multitude. The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out; Which would be so much the more dangerous. By how much the estate is green, and yet ungovern'd ; Where every horse bears his commanding rein, And may direct his course as please himself. As well the fear of harm, as harm apparent, iso In my opinion, ought to be prevented. Glo. I hope the king made peace with all of us ; And the compact is firm and true in me. Siv. And so in me ; and so, I think, in all : Yet, since it is but green, it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach. Which, haply, by much company might be urg'd : Therefore, I say with noble Buokmgham, That it is meet so few should fetch the prince. Hast. And so say I. i4o Glo. Then be it so ; and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. Madam, — and you, my sister, — will you go To give your censu.res in this business 1 [Ettxunt all but Buckingham and G-loster. Buoh. My lord, whoever journeys to the prince. For God's sake, let not us two stay at home : For by the way I '11 sort occasion, As index to the story we late talk'd of. To part the queen's proud kindred from the prince. Glo. My other self, my counsel's consistory. My oracle, my prophet ! — My dear cousin, isi I, as a chUd, will go by thy direction. Towards Ludlow then, for we '11 not stay behind. [Exeunt. Scene III. — The Same. A Street. Enter two Citizens, meeting. 1 Git. Good morrow, neighbour : whither away so fast 1 2 Cit. I promise you, I scarcely know my- self. Hear you the news abroad ? 1 Cit. Yes; that the king is dead. 2 Cit. Ill news, by 'r lady ; seldom comes the better : I fear, I fear, 't will prove a giddy world. Enter another Citizen. 3 Git. Neighbours, God speed ! 1 Cit. Give you good morrow, sir. 3 Cit. Doth the news hold of good King Edward's death ? 2 Cit. Aj, sir, it is too true ; God help, the while ! 3 Cit. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. 1 Cit. No, no ; by God's good grace, his son shall reign. lo 3 Cit. Woe to that land that 's govern'd by. a child ! 2 Cit. In him there is a hope of govern- ment ; That, in his nonage, council under him. And, in his fuU and ripen'd years, himself. No doubt, shall then, and tUl then, govern well. 1 Cit. So stood the state, when Henry the Sixth Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old. 3 Cit. Stood the state so ? no, no, good friends, God wot ; For then this land was famously enrich'd With politic grave council : then the king 20 Had virtuous uncles to protect his grace. 1 Cit. Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother. 3 Cit. Better it were, they all came by his father. Or by his father there were none at all ; For emulation, who shall now be nearest. Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. O ! full of danger is the Duke of Gloster ; And the queen's sons and brothers haught and proud : And were they to be rul'd, and not to rule, This sickly land might solace as before. .so 1 Cit. Come, come ; we fear the worst ; all will be well. 3 Cit. When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks ; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand ; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night 1 Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well ; but, if God sort it so, 'T is more than we deserve, or I expect Act II. KING EIOHARD III. Scene IV. 2 Cit. Truly, the hearts of men are full of fear: You cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of dread. lo 3 Cit. Before the days of change, still is it so. By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust Ensuing danger ; as by proof we see The water swell before a boisterous storm. But leave it all to God. Whither away? 2 Cit. Marry, we were sent for to the justices. 3 Cit. And so was I : I '11 bear you com- pany. [Exenmt. Scene IV. — London. A Eoom in the Palace. Enter the Archhishop of York, tJie yowng Duke of York, Queen Elizabeth, and the Duchess of York. Arch. Last night, I heard, they lay at Stony Stratford, And at Northampton they do rest to-night : To-morrow, or next day, they will be here. Duch. I long with all my heart to see the prince. I hope, he is much grown since last I saw him. Q. Eliz. But I hear, no : they say, my son of York Hath almost overta'en him in. his growth. York. Ay, mother, but I would not have it so. Duch. Why, my young cousin, it is good to grow. Xork. Grandam, one night, as we did sit at supper, lo My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow More than my brother : " Ay," quoth my uncle Gloster, " Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace : " And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast. Because sweet flowers are slow, and weeds make haste. Duch. 'Good faith, 'good faith, the saying did not hold In him that did object the same to thee : He was the wretched'st thing when he was young. So long a-growing, and so leisurely. That, if his rule were true, he should be gra- cious. ™ Arch. And so, no doubt, he is, my gracious madam. Duch. I hope, he is ; but yet let mothers doubt. York. Now, by my troth, if I had been remember'd, I could have given my uncle's grace a flout. To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine. Dvxih. How, my young York? I pr'ythee let me hear it. York. Marry, they say, my uncle grew so fast, That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old : 'T was full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. Dibch. I pr'ythee, pretty York, whp told thee this ? si York. Grandam, his nurse. Duch. His nurse ! why, she was dead ere thou wast bom. York. If 't were not she, I cannot tell who told me. Q. Eliz. A parlous boy. Go to, you are too shrewd. Arch. Good madam, be not angry with the child. Q. EUz. Pitchers have ears. Enter a Messenger. Arch. Here comes a ' messenger : what news? Mess. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report. Q. Eliz. How doth the prince ? Mess. Well, madam, and in health. Duch. What is thy news 1 a Mess. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey are sent to Pomfret, And with them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. DuAih. Who hath committed them ? Mess. The mighty dukes, Gloster and Buckingham. Arch. For what offence ? Mess. The sum of all I can, I have disclos'd : Why, or for what, the nobles were committed. Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. Q. EUz. Ah me ! I see the ruin of my house. The tiger now hath seiz'd the gentle hind ; m Insulting tyranny begins to jet Upon the innocent and awless throne : Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre ! I see, as in a map, the end of all. Duch. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days. How many of you have mine eyes beheld ! My husband lost his life to get the crown. And often up and down my sons were toss'd, For me to joy, and weep, their gain and loss : Act III. KING RICHARD III. Scene I. And being seated, and domestic broils eo Clean over-blown, tLemselves, the conquerors, Make war upon themselves; brother to brother. Blood to blood, self against self : — O ! ^prepos- terous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen, Or let me die, to look on death no more. Q. Eliz. Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell. Duch. Stay, I will go with you. Q. Eliz. You have no cause. Arch. [To the Queen.] My gracious lady, go, And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, I '11 resign unto your grace ro The seal I keep : and so betide to me, As well I tender you, and all of yours. Go ; I '11 conduct you to the sanctuary. [Exeunt. ACT III. Scene I. — London. A Street. Tlie Trumpets sound. Ejiier tlie Prince of Wales, Glostee, Buckingham, Cardinal BoUECHlER, and others. Buck. Welcome, sweet prince, to London, to your chamber. Glo. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign : The weary way hath made you melancholy. Prince. No, uncle ; but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome and heavy : I want more uncles here to welcome me. Olo. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit : No more can you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show; which, God he knows, 10 Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want were dangerous; Your grace attended to their sugar'd words. But look'd not on the poison of their hearts : God keep you from them, and from such false friends ! Prince. God keep me from false Mends ! but they were none. Glo. My lord, the mayor of London comes to greet you. Enter the Lord Mayor, and his Train. May. God bless your grace with health and happy days ! Prince. I thank you, good my lord; and thank you all. — [Eocevrnt Mayor, (kc. I thought my mother and my brother York 20 Would long ere this have met us on the way : Fie ! what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no. Enter Hastings. Busk. And in good time here comes the sweating lord. Prince. Welcome, my lord. What ! will our mother come 1 Hast. On what occasion, God he knows, not I, The queen your mother, and your brother York, Have taken sanctuary : the tender prince Woidd fain have come with me to meet your grace, But by his mother was perforce withheld, so Bvjck. Fie ! what an indirect and peevish course Is this of hers. — Lord cardinal, wUl your grace Persuade the queen to send the Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently ? If she deny. Lord Hastings, go with him. And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce. Card. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory Can from his mother win the Duke of York, Anon expect him here : but if she be obdurate To mUd entreaties, God in heaven forbid 40 We should infringe the holy privilege Of blessed sanctuary ! not for all this land Would I be guilty of so great a sin. Buck. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord. Too ceremonious and traditional : Weigh it but with the grossness of this age. You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserv'd the place, And those who have the wit to claim the place : so This prince hath neither claim'd it, nor deserv'd it ; And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it: Then, taking him from thence that is not there, You break no privilege nor charter there. Oft have I heard of sanctuary men. 894 Act III. KING EICHARD III. Scene I. But sanctuary children, ne'er till now. Card. My lord, you stall o'er-rule my mind for once. — Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me? Ha^t. I go, my lord. Prince. Good lords, make all tlie speedy taste you may. — oo \Exewn,t Cardinal and Hastings. Say, uncle Gloster, if our brother come. Where shall we sojourn till our coronation 1 Glo. Where it seems best iinto your royal self. If I may coxmsel you, some day or two Your highness shall repose you at the Tower : Then, where you please, and shall be thought most fit For your best health and recreation. Prince. I do not like the Tower, of any place. — Did Julius Osesar build that place, my lord ? Buck. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place, 70 Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. Prince. Is it upon record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it % Buck. Upon record, my gracious lord. Prince. But say, my lord, it were not register'd, Methinks, the truth should live from age to age. As 't were retail'd to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. Glo. \Aside^ So wise so yoimg, they say, do never live long. Prince. What say you, uncle ? so Glo. I say, without characters, fame lives long. [.4«ic?e.] Thus, like the formal Vice, Iniquity, I moralise two meanings in one word. Prince. That Julius Caesar was a famous man : With what his valour did enrich his wit. His wit set down to make his valour live : Death makes no conquest of this conqueror, Por now he lives in fame, though not in life. — I '11 tell you what, my cousin Buckingham,- — Buck. What, my gracious lord ? so Prince. An if I live until I be a man, I '11 win our ancient right in France again, Or die a soldier, as I liv'd a king. Glo. [Aside.] Short summers lightly have a forward spring. Unter York, Hastings, and the Cardinal. Buck. Now, in good time, here comes the Dake of York. Prince. Richard of York ! how fares our noble brother ? York. Well, my dread lord ; so must I caU you now. Prince. Ay, brother, to our grief, as it is yours. Too late he died, that might have kept that title. Which by his death hath lost much majesty. Glo. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York 1 m York. I thank you, gentle uncle. O ! my lord. You said, that idle weeds are fast in growth ; The prince my brother hath outgrown me far. Glo. He hath, my lord. York. And therefore is he idle ? Glo. O ! my fair cousin, I must not say so. York. Then he is more beholding to you, than I. Glo. He may command me as my sovereign, But you have power in me as in a kinsman. York. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. no Glo. My dagger, little cousin ? with all my heart. Prince. A beggar, brother 1 York. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give ; And being but a toy, which is no grief to give. Glo. A greater gift than that I '11 give my cousin. York. A greater gift? O! that's the sword to it. Glo. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. York. O ! then, I see, you '11 part but with light gifts : In weightier things you '11 say a beggar, nay. Glo. It is too weighty for your grace to wear. 120 York. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. Glo. What ! would you have my weapon, little lord ? York, I would, that I might thank you as you call me. Glo. How? ForA. Little. Prince. My Lord of York will stiU be cross in talk. — Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with him. York. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me. Uncle, my brother mocks both you and'me ; Because that I am little, like an ape, iso He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders. Buck. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons ! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle, 395 Act III. KING EICHARD III. Scene II. He prettily and aptly taunts Hmself. So cunning, and so young, is wonderful. Glo. My lord, will 't please you pass along? Myself, and my good cousin Buckingliani, Will to your mother, to entreat of her To meet you at the Tower, and welcome you. York. What ! will you go unto the Tower, my lord'? wo Prince. My lord protector needs will have it so. Yorh. I shaU not sleep in quiet at the Tower. Glo. Why, what should you fear ? York. Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost : My grandam told me, he was murder'd there. Prince. I fear no uncles dead. Glo. ISTor none that live, I hope. Prince. An if they live, I hope, I need not fear. But come, my lord ; and, with a heavy heart. Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower, iso [A Sennet. Exeunt Prince,. Yoek, Hast., Card., and Attendants. Buck. Think you, my lord, this little prating York Was not incensed by his subtle mother To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously ? Glo. No doubt, no doubt. O ! 't is a parlous boy ; Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable : He 's all the mother's, from the top to toe. Buck. Well, let them rest. — Come hither, Catesby ; thou art sworn As deeply to effect what we intend, As closely to conceal what we impart. Thou know'st our reasons urg'd • upon the way : — leo What think'st thou ? is it not an easy matter To make William Lord Hastings of our mind. For the instalment of this noble duke In the seat royal of this famous isle ? Gates. He for his father's sake so loves the prince. That he will not be won to aught against him. Buck. What think'st thou then of Stanley? will not he ? Gates. He will do all in all as Hastings doth. Buck. WeU theh, no more but this. Go, gentle Catesby, And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings, w How he doth stand affected to our purpose ; And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, To sit about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons : If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling. Be thou so too, and so break off the talk, And give us notice of his inclination ; For we to-morrow hold divided councils. Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ'd. iso Glo. Commend me to Lord William : tell him, Catesby, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle ; And bid my lord, for joy of this good news, Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. Buck. Good Catesby, go, effect this business soundly. Gates. My good lords both, with all the heed I can. Glo. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep ? Gates. You shall, my lord. Glo. At Crosby Place, there shall you find us both. [Eodt Catesby. Buck. Now, my lord, what shall we do, if we perceive 391 Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots? Glo. Chop off his head ; — something we will determine : — And, look, when I am king, claim thou of me The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables Whereof the king, my brother, was possess'd. Buck. I '11 claim that promise at your grace's hand. Glo. And look to have it yielded with all kindness. Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards We may digest our complots in some form. 200 \Exeu7vt. Scene II. — Before Lord Hastings' House. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, my lord ! — [Knocking. Hast. [Within.] Who knocks? Mess. One from the Lord Stanley. Hast. [Within.] What is 't o'clock? Mess. Upon the stroke of four. Enter Hastings. Hast. Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights 1 Mess. So it appears by that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble' self. Hast. What then? Mess. Then certifies your lordship, that this night 10 He dreamt the boar had rased off his helm : Besides, he says, there are two councils held; And that may be determin'd at the one, Act III. KING EICHAED III. Scene II. Which may make you and him to rue at th' other. Therefore, he sends to know your lordship's pleasure, — If you will presently take horse with him. And with all speed post with him toward the north, To shun the danger that his soul divines. Hast. Go, felloW) go : return unto thy lord; Bid him not fear the separated councils : 20 His honour and myself are at the one, And at the other is my good friend Catesby, Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us, Whereof I shall not have intelligence. Tell him, his fears are shallow, without instance : And for his dreams — I wonder he 's so simple To trust the mockery of unquiet slumbers. To fly the boar, before the boar pursues. Were to incense the boar to follow us. And make pursuit, where he did mean no chase. so Go, bid thy master rise and come to me ; And we will both together to the Tower, Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly. Mess. I '11 go, my lord, and tell him what you say. [Exit. Enter Catesby. Gates. Many good morrows to my noble lord! Hast. Good morrow, Catesby : you are early stirring^ What news, what news, in this our tottering state ? Gates. It is a reeling world, indeed, my lord; And, I believe, will never stand upright. Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. 40 Hast. How ! wear the garland ! dost thou mean the crown ? Gates. Ay, my good lord. Hast. I '11 have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders. Before I '11 see the crown so foul misplac'd. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it? Gates. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward Upon his party, for the gain thereof : And thereupon he sends you this good news, — That this same very day your enemies. The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret. so Hast. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, Because they have been still my adversaries ; But, that I '11 give my voice on Richard's side. To bar my master's heirs in true descent, God knows, I will not do it, to the death. Gates. God keep your lordship in that gracious mind. Hast. But I shall laugh at this a twelve- month hence. That they which brought me in my master's hate, I live to look upon their tragedy. Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make- me older, I '11 send some packing that yet think not on 't. 61 Gates. 'T is a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are imprepar'd, and look not for it. Hast. monstrous, monstrous ! and so falls it out With Rivers, Yaughan, Grey ; and so 't will do With some men else, who think themselves as safe As thou and I; who, as thou know'st, are dear To princely Richard, and to Buckingham. Gates. T'he princes both make high account of you ; [^sicZe.J For they account his head upon the bridge. ■ 70 Hast. I know they do, and I have well deserv'd it. Enter Stanley. Come on, come on ; where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided ? Stan. My lord, good morrow : — ^good mor- row, Catesby. — You may jest on, but, by the holy rood, I do not like these several councUs, I. Hast. My lord, I hold my life as dear as yours ; And never, in my days, I do protest. Was it so precious to me as 't is now. Think you, but that I know our state secure, I would be so triumphant as I am ? Stan. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London, Were jocund, and suppos'd their states were sure. And they, indeed, had no cause to mistrust ; But yet, you see, how soon the day o'ercast : This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt. Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward ! What, shall we toward the Tower ? the day is spent. Hast. Come, come, have with you. — Wot you what, my lord ? To-day, the lords you talk of are beheaded. 90 397 Act III. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. Stan. They, for their truth, might better wear their heads, Than some that have accus'd them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let 's away. Enter a Pursuivant. Hast. Go on before ; I '11 talk with this good fellow. [Exeunt Stanley and Catesby. How now, sirrah 1 how goes the world with thee ! Purs. The better, that your lordship please to ask. Hast. I tell thee, man, 't is better with me now, Than when thou mett'st me last, where now we meet : Then was I going prisoner to the Tower, By the suggestion of the queen's allies ; loo But now, I tell thee (keep it to thyself), This day those enemies are put to death, And I in better state than e'er I was. Purs. God hold it, to your honour's good content. ffast. Gramercy, fellow. There, drink that for me. [Throioing him his purse. Purs. I thank your honour. [Exit. Enter a Priest. Priest. "Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour. JIast. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. I am in your debt for your last exercise ; Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you. no Enter Buckingham. Buck. What, talking with a priest, lord chamberlain ! Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest : Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. Hast. 'Good faith, and when I met this holy man. The men you talk of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower 1 Buck. I do, my lord ; but long I cannot stay there : I shall return before your lordship thence. Sast. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there. Puck. [Aside.] And supper too, although thou know'st it not. isb Come, will you go ? Hast. I '11 wait upon your lordship. [Exeunt. Scene III. — Pomfret. Before the Castle. Enter Ratcliff, with a Guard, conducting Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to execiUion. Riv. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this : — ■ To-day shalt thou behold a subject die For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. Grey. God bless the prince from all the pack of you ! A knot you are of damned blood-suckers. Vaugh. You live, that shall cry woe for this hereafter. Rat. Despatch : the limit of your lives is out. Riv. O Pomfret, Pomfret ! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers ! Within the giiilty closure of thy walls lo Richard the Second here was hack'd to death : And, for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink. Grey. Now Margaret's curse is fallen upon our heads. When she exclaim'd on Hastings, you, and I, For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son. Riv. Then curs'd she Richard, then curs'd she Buckingham, Then curs'd she Hastings : — O, remember, God, To hear her prayer for them, as now for us ! And for my sister, and her princely sons, 20 Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, Which, as thou know'st, imjustly must be spilt ! Rat. Make haste : the hour of death is expiate. Riv. Come, Grey, — come, Vaughan ; — let us here embrace : Farewell, until we meet again in heaven. [Exeunt. Scene IV.- — London. A Room in the Tower. Buckingham, Stanley, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Catesby, Lovel, and others, sitting at a table : Officers of the Council attending. Hast. Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met Is, to determine of the coronation : In God's name, speak, when is the royal day 1 Buck. Are all things ready for the royal time? Stan. They are ; and wants but nomination. Act III. KING EIOHAED III. Scene IV. Ely. To-morrow then I judge a happy day. Buck. Who knows the lord protector's mind herein ? Who is most inward with the noble duke 1 Ely. Your grace, we think, should soonest know his mind. Buch. We know each other's faces ; for our hearts, lo He knows no more of mine than I of yours ; Nor I of his, my lord, than you of mine. Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. Hast. I thank his grace, I know he loves me well ; But, for his purpose in the coronation, I have not sounded him, nor he deliver'd His gracious pleasure any way therein : Bvit you, my honourable lords, may name the time; And in the duke's behalf I '11 give my voice. Which, I presume, he '11 take in gentle part. 20 Enter Gloster. Ely. In happy time, here comes the duke himself. Glo. My noble lords and cousins, all, good morrow. I have been long a sleeper ; but, I trust, My absence doth neglect no great design, Which by my presence might have been con- cluded. Buck. Had you not come upon your cue, my lord, William Lord Hastings had pronounc'd your part, I mean, your voice, for crowning of the king. Glo. Than my Lord Hastings, no man might be bolder : RiH lordship knows me well, and loves me well. »> My Lord of Ely, when I was last in Holbom, I saw good strawberries in your garden there ; I do beseech you, send for some of them. Ely. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart. [Exit. Glo. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. \Takes him aside. Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our busi- ness. And finds the testy gentleman so hot, That he will lose his head, ere give consent. His master's child, as worshipfuUy he terms it. Shall lose the royalty of England's throne. 40 Buck. Withdraw yourself awhile ; I 'U go with you. [JExeimt Gloster amd Buckingham. Stan. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden ; For I myself am not so well provided, As else 1 would be, were the day prolong'd. Be-enter Bishop of Ely. Ely. Where is my lord, the Duke of Gloster ? I have sent for these strawberries. Hast. His grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning : There 's some conceit or other likes him well, When that he bids good morrow with such spirit. 60 I think, there 's never a man in Christendom Can lesser hide his love or hate than he ; For by his face straight shall you know his heart. Stan. What of his heart perceive you in his face, By any livelihood he show'd to-day ? Hast. Marry, that with no man here he is offended ; For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. Re-enter Glostek and Buckingham. Glo. I pray you all, tell me wha,t they de- serve. That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that hath pre- vail'd 00 Upon my body with their hellish charms ? Hast. The tender love I bear your grace, my lord. Makes me most forward in this princely presence To doom the offenders : whosoe'er they be, I say, my lord, they have deserved death. Glo. Then.be your eyes the witness of thei:- evil. Look how I am bewitch'd ; behold mine arm Is, like a blasted sapling, wither'd up : And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch. Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, 70 That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. Hast. If they have done this deed, my noble lord, — Glo. If ! thou protector of this damned strumpet, Talk'st thou to me of ifs ? — Thou art a traitor : Off with his head ! — now, by St. Paul I swear, I will not dine until I see the same. — Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done ; The rest that love me, rise, and follow me. [Exewnt Council, with Gloster and Buckingham. Hast. Woe, woe, for England ! not a whit for me ; Act III. KING RICHARD- III. Scene V. For I, too fond, might have prevented this, so Stanley did dream, the boar did rase his helm ; And I did scorn it, and disdain'd to fly. Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And started when he look'd upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. ! now I need the priest that spake to me : 1 now repent I told the pursuivant. As too triumphing, how mine enemies To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd, And I myself secure in grace and favour. 90 Margaret, Margaret ! now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head. Rat. Come, come, despatch; the duke would be at dinner : Make a short shrift, he longs to see your head. Hast. O momentary grace of mortal men 1 Which we more hunt for than the grace of God. Who buUds his hope in air of your good looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast ; Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. loo Lov. Come, come, despatch ; 't is bootless to exclaim. Hast. O bloody Richard ! — miserable Eng- land ! 1 prophesy the fearfuU'st time to thee. That ever wretched age hath look'd upon. Come, lead me to the block, bear him my head : They smile at me, who shortly shall be dead. [Exeunt. Scene V.— The Same. The Tower Walls. Enter Gloster and Buckingham, in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured. Glo. Come, cousin, canst thou quake, and change thy colour, Murder thy breath in middle of a word. And then again, begin, and stop again. As if thou wert distraught and mad with terror ? Bitch. Tut ! I can counterfeit the deep tragedian ; Speak, and look back, and pry on every side. Tremble and start at wagging of a straw. Intending deep suspicion : ghastly looks Are at my service, like enforced smiles ; And both are ready in their ofiices, 10 At any time to grace my stratagems. But what ! is Catesby gone ? Glo. He is ; and, see, he brings the mayor along. Enter tlie Lord Mayor and Catesby. Bv^h. Lord mayor, — Glo. Look to the drawbridge there ! BiJLch. Hark ! a drum. Glo. Catesby, o'erlook the walls. Buch. Lord mayor, the reason we have sent — Glo. Look back, defend thee : here are enemies. Buck. God and our innocency defend and guard us ! Enter Lovel and Ratclipf, with Hastings head. Glo. Be patient, they are friends ; RatcUff and Lovel. 20 Lov. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor. The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. Glo. So dear I lov'd the man, that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breath'd upon the earth a Christian ; Made him my book, wherein my soul re- corded The history of all her secret thoughts : So smooth he daub'd his vice with show of virtue. That, his apparent open guilt omitted, I mean his conversation with Shore's wife, so He liv'd from all attainder of suspect. Buck. Well, well, he was the covert'st shelter'd traitor That ever liv'd. — Would you imagine, or almost believe (Were 't not that by great preservation We live to tell it), that the subtle traitor This day had plotted, in the council-house. To murder me, and my good Lord of Gloster 1 May. Had he done so 1 Glo. What ! think you we are Turks, or infidels ? 40 Or that we would, against the form of law. Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death. But that the extreme peril of the case. The peace of England, and our persons' safety, Enforc'd us to this execution ? May. Now, fair befall you ! he deserv'd his death ; And your good graces both have well pro- ceeded. To warn false traitors from the like attempts. Buch. I never look'd for better at his hands. After he once fell in with Mistress Shore ; to Yet had we not determin'd he should die, XJntU your lordship came to see his end ; 400 Act III. KING RICHARD III. Scene VII. loving haste of these our Which now the friends, Something against our meanings, have pre- vented : Because, my lord, I would have had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously confess The manner and the purpose of his treasons ; That you might well have signified the same Unto the citizens, who haply, may Misconster us in him, and wail his death, oo May. But, my good lord, your grace's words shall serve, As well as I had seen, and heard him speak : And do not doubtj right noble princes both, But I '11 acquaint our duteous citizens With all your just proceedings in this case. Glo. And to that end we wish'd your lord- ship here, To avoid the censures of the carping world. Buck. But since you come too late of our intent, Yet witness what you hear we did intend : m And so, my good lord mayor, we bid farewell. [Exit Lord Mayor. Glo. Go after, after, cousin Buckingham. The mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all post There, at your meetest vantage of the time, Infer the bastardy of Edward's children : Tell them, how Edward put to death a citizen. Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the crown; meaning, indeed, his house. Which by the sign thereof was termed so. Moreover, urge his hateful luxury. And bestial appetite in change of lust ; so Which stretch'd unto their servants, daughters, wives. Even where his raging eye, or savage heart. Without control lusted to make a prey. Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person : Tell them, when that my mother went with child Of that insatiate Edward, noble York, My princely father then had wars in France ; And by true computation of the time, Found that the issue was not his begot ; Which well appeared in his lineaments, so Being nothing like the noble duke my father. Yet touch this sparingly, as 't were far off; Because, my lord, you know, my mother lives. Bwh. Doubt not, my lord, I'll play the orator, As if the golden fee, for which I plead, Were for myself : and so, my lord, adieu. Glo. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's Castle ; Where you shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers, and well-learned bishops. Buck. I go; and, towards three or four o'clock, 100 Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. [Eodt. Glo. Go, Level, with all speed to Doctor Shaw, — Go thou \to Gates.] to Friar Penker : — bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard's Castle. [Exeunt Lovel aiid Catesby. Now will I go, to take some privy order, ' To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight ; And to give notice, that no manner person Have any time recourse unto the princes. [Exit. Scene YI. — The Same. A Street. Enter a Scrivener. Scriv. Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings ; Which in a set hand fairly is engross'd. That it may be to-day read o'er in Paul's : And mark how well the sequel hangs together. Eleven hours I have spent to write it over, For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me. The precedent was full as long a-doing ; And yet within these five hours Hastings liv'd, Untainted, unexamin'd, free, at liberty. Here 's a good world the while ! — Who is so That cannot see this palpable device 1 Yet who so bold but says he sees it not ? Bad is the world; and all will come to naught, When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. [Exit. Scene YIL— The Same. The Court of Baynard's Castle. Enter Gloster at one door, and Buckingham at another. Glo. How now, how now? what say the citizens 1 Buck. Now by the holy mother of our Lord, The citizens are mum, say not a word. Glo. Touch'd you the bastardy of Edward's children 1 Buck 1 did ; with his contract with Lady Lucy, 34 .401 Act III. KING EIOHARD III. Scene VII. And his contract by deputy in France ; Tte insatiate greediness of his desires, And his enforcement of the city wives ; His tyranny for trifles ; his own bastardy, As being got, your father then in France ; lo And lais resemblance, being not like the duke. Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father. Both in your form and nobleness of mind ; Laid open all your -victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your boiinty, virtue, fair humility ; Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouch'd, or slightly handled in discourse ; And, when my oratory drew toward end, 20 I bade them that did love their country's good, Cry — " God save Richard, England's royal king ! " Glo. And did they so ? Buck. No, so God help me, they spake not a word ; But, like dumb statuas, or breathing stones, Star'd each on other, and look'd deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended there. And ask'd the mayor, what meant this wilful silence : His answer was, the people were not us'd To be spoke to but by the recorder. so Then he was urg'd to tell my tale again : — ■ "Thus saith the duke, thus hath the duke inferr'd;" But nothing spoke in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own. At lower end of the hall, hurl'd up their caps, And some ten voices cried, " God save King Richard ! " And thus I took the vantage of those few, — " Thanks, gentle citizens, and friends," quoth I; " This general ajpplause and cheerful shout Argues your wisdom, and your love to Richard : " 40 And even here brake off, and came away. Glo. What tongueless blocks were they.! would they not speak ? WlU not the mayor then and his brethren come? Btick. The mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear ; Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit : And look you get a prayer-book in your hand. And stand between two churchmen, good my lord : For on that ground I '11 make a holy descant : And be not easily won to our requests ; Play the maid's part, still answer nay, and take it. so Glo. I go; and if you plead as well for them As I can say nay to thee for myself, No doubt we bring it to a happy issue. Buck. Go, go, up to the leads ! the lord mayor knocks. [Uxit Gloster. Sinter the Lord Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens. Welcome, my lord : I dance attendance here ; I think the duke will not be spoke withal. — Enter, from the Castle, Oatesby. Now, Catesby ! what says your lord to my request ? Gates. He doth entreat your grace, my noble lord. To visit him to-morrow, or next day. He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation ; ci And in no worldly suits would he be mov'd, To draw him from his holy exercise. Buck. Return, good Catesby, to the gracious duke : Tell him, myself, the mayor and aldermen. In deep designs, in matter of great moment. No less importing than our general good, Are come to have some conference with his grace. Gates. I '11 signify so much unto him straight. [Exit. Buck. Ah, ha ! my lord, this prince is not an Edward ; 70 He is not lolling on a lewd day-bed. But on his knees at meditation ; Not dallying with a brace of courtesans, But meditating with two deep divines ; Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul. Happy were England, would this virtuous prince Take on his grace the sovereignty thereof ; But, sure, I fear, we shall not win him to it. May. Marry, God defend his grace should say us nay ! so Buck. I fear, he will. Here Catesby comes Re-enter Catesby. Now, Oatesby, what says his grace % Gates. He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to come to him : His grace not being warn'd thereof before. He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him: Buck. Sorry I am, my noble cousin should Suspect me, that I mean no good to him : By Heaven, we come to him in perfect love ; 402 Act III. KING RIOHAED III. Scene VII. And so once more return, and tell Ms grace. [Uxit Catesby. When holy and devout religious men oi Are at their beads, 't is much to draw them thence ; So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter Glostek, in a gallery above, between two Bishops. Catesby returns. May. See, where his grace stands 'twBen two clergymen ! Buck. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity ; And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True ornament to know a holy man. — Famous Plantagenet, most gracious prince. Lend favourable ear to our requests, loo And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion, and right Christian zeal. Glo. My lord, there needs no such apology; I do beseech your grace to pardon me. Who, earnest in the service of my God, Deferr'd the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your grace's pleasure ? Buck. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above. And all good men of this ungovern'd isle. Glo. I do suspect, I have done some offence, That seems disgracious in the city's eye ; m And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. Buck. You have, my lord ; 'would it might please your grace, On our entreaties to amend your fault. Glo. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land? Buck. Know then, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical. The scepter'd office of your ancestors) Your state of fortune, and your due of birth. The lineal glory of your royal house, 120 To the corruption of a blemish'd stock ; Whiles, in the mildness of your sleepy- thoughts. Which here we waken to our country's good, This noble isle doth want her proper limbs ; Her face defac'd with scars of iiifamy. Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shoulder'd in the swallowing gulf Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. Which to recure we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly government of this your land : m Not as protector, steward, substitute. Or lowly factor for another's gain ; But as successively from blood to blood. Your right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation. In this just cause come I to move your grace. Glo. I cannot tell, if to depart in silence, Or bitterly to speak in your reproof, ui Best fitteth my degree, or your condition : If not to answer, — ^you might haply think. Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty. Which fondly you would here impose on me ; If to reprove you for this suit of yours. So season'd with your faithful love to me. Then, on the other side, I check'd my friends. Therefore, to speak, and to avoid the first, iso And then, in speaking, not to incur the last, Definitely thus I answer you. Your love deserves my thanks ; but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. First, if all obstacles were cut away, And that my path were even to the crown, As the ripe revenue and due of birth, Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty, and so many, my defects, That I would rather hide me from my great- ness, 160 Being a bark to brook no mighty sea. Than in my greatness covet to be hid. And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But, God be thank'd, there is no need of me ; And much I need to help you, were there need; The royal tree hath left us royal fruit, Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time, WUl well become the seat of majesty, And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. On him I lay that you would lay on me, iro The right and fortune of his happy stars ; Which God defend that I should wring from him ! Buck. My lord, this argues conscience in your grace ; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial. All circumstances well considered. You say, that Edward is your brother's son : So say we too, but not by Edward's wife ; For first was he contract to Lady Lucy — Your mother lives a witness to his vow — And afterward by substitute betroth'd iso To Bona, sister to the king of France. These both put off, a poor petitioner, A care-craz'd mother to a many sons, A beauty-waning and distressed widow. Even in the afternoon of her best days. Made prize and imrchase of his wanton eye, Seduc'd the pitch and height of his degree To base declension and loath'd bigamy. 403 Act IV. KING RICHARD III. Scene I. By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edward, whom our manners call the prince. 190 More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing Kmit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, taike to your royal self This proffer'd benefit of dignity ; If not to bless us and the land withal, Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of abusing times, Unto a lineal true-derived course. J/ay. Do, good my lord ; your citizens en- treat you. 200 Buck. Refuse not, mighty lord, this profier'd love. Gates. O ! make them joyful : grant their lawful suit. Glo, Alas ! why would you heap this care on me? I am unfit for state and majesty : I do beseech you, take it not amiss; I cannot, nor I will not, yield to you. Block. If you refuse it, — as in love and zeal. Loath to depose the child, your brother's son; As well we know your tenderness of heart, And gentle, kind, efieminate remorse, 210 Which we have noted in you to your kindred. And equally, indeed, to all estates, — Yet know, whe'r you accept our suit or no. Your brother's son shall never reign our king; But we will plant some other in the throne. To the disgrace and downfall of your house : And in this resolution here we leave you. — Come, citizens, we will entreat no more. [Exeunt Buckingham and Citizens. Gates. Call him again, sweet prince; accept their suit : If you deny them, all the land will rue it. 220 Glo, Will you enforce me to a world of cares 1 Call them again : I am not made of stone. But penetrable to your kind entreaties, [Uxit Catesby. Albeit against my conscience and my soul. — He-enter Buckingham, and the rest. Cousin of Buckingham, and sage, grave men, Since you will buckle fortune on my back. To bear her burden, whe'r I will, or no, I must have patience to endure the load : But if black scandal, or foul-fac'd reproach, Attend the sequel of your imposition, ssc Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me From all the impure blots and stains thereof : For God doth know, and you may partly see, How far I am from the desire of this. Mat/. God bless your grace ! we see it, and will say it. Glo. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. Buck. Then I salute you with this royal title, — "Long live King Richard, England's worthy king ! " All. Amen. Buck. To-morrow may it please you to be crown'd t 210 Glo. Even when you please, for you will have it so. Buck. To-morrow then we will attend your grace : And so most joyfully we take our leave. Glo. [To the Bishops.^ Come, let us to our holy work again. — Farewell, my cousin : — farewell, gentle friends. [Uoceunt. ACT IV. Scene I. — Before the Tower. Enter, on one side, Queen Elizabeth, Duchess of York, and Marquess 0/" Dorset; on the other, Anne, Duchess of Gloster, leading Lady Margaret Plantagenet, Clarence's young daughter. Duch. Who meets us here? — my niece Plantagenet, Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloster ! Now, for my Ufe, she 's wand' ring to the Tower, On pure heart's love, to greet the tender princes. — Daughter, well met. Anne. God give your graces both A happy and a joyful time of day. Q. Eliz. As much to you, good sister : whither away ? Anne. No further than the Tower; and, as I guess. Upon the like devotion as yourselves. To gratulate the gentle princes there. w Q. Eliz. Kind sister, thanks : we '11 enter all together. Enter Beakenburt. And, in good time, here the lieutenant comes. — Master lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, .404 Act IV; KING RICHARD III. Scene I. How doth, the prince, and my young son of York? Brak. Right well, dear madam. By your patience, I may not suffer you to visit them : The king hath strictly charg'd the contrary. Q. Eliz. The king ! who 's that 1 Brak. I mean the lord protector. Q. Eliz. The Lord protect him from that kingly title ! Hath he set bounds between their love and me? 20 I am their mother ; who shall bar me from them? Duch. I am their father's mother ; I will see them. Anne. Their aunt I am Ln law, in love their mother : Then bring me to their sights ; I '11 bear thy blame, And take thy office from thee, on my peril. Brak. No, madam, no ; I may not leave it so : I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. \Mxit. Enter Stanley. Stan. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence. And I '11 salute your grace of York as mother. And reverend looker-on of two fair queens. — \To Anne.] Oonae, madam, you must straight to Westminster, si There to be crowned Richard's royal queen. Q. Eliz. Ah. ! cut my lace asunder. That my pent heart may have some scope to beat. Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news. Anns. Despiteful tidings ! O, unpleasing news ! . Dor. Be of good cheer : — mother, how fares your grace ? Q. Eliz. O Dorset ! speak not to me, get thee gone ; Death and destruction dog thee at thy heels : Thy mother's name is ominous to children. « If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell. Go, hie thee, hie thee, from this slaughter- house. Lest thou increase the number of the dead. And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse, — Nor mother, wife, nor England's 'counted queen. Stan. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. — Take all the swift advantage of the hours ; You shall have letters from me to my son In your behalf, to meet you on the way : bo Be not ta'en tardy by unwise delay. Duch. O ill-dispersing wind of misery ! — O, my accursed womb ! the bed of death, A cockatrice hast thou hatch'd to the world. Whose unavoided eye is murderous ! Stan. Come, madam, come : I in all haste was sent. Anne. And I with all unwillingness will go.— ' ! 'would to God, that the inclusive verge Of golden metal, that must round my brow. Were red-hot steel to sear me to the brain ! oo Anointed let me be with deadly venom ; And die, ere men can say — God save the queen ! Q. Eliz. Go, go, poor soul, T envy not thy glory ; To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. Anne. No ! why ? — When he, that is my husband now. Came to me, as I foUow'd Henry's corse ; When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands, Which issu'd from my other angel husband. And that dear saint which then I weeping foUow'd ; O ! when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face, ra This was my wish, — " Be thou," quoth 1, " accurs'd, For making me, so young, so old a widow ! And, when thou wedd'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife (if any be so mad) More miserable by the life of thee, Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death!" Lo ! ere I can repeat this curse again, Within so small a time, my woman's heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words. And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse : so Which hitherto hath held mine eyes from rest; For never yet one hour in his bed Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep. But with his timorous dreams was still awak'd. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick, And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. Q. Eliz. Poor heart, adieu; I pity thy complaining. Anne. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. Dor. Farewell, thou woful welcomer of glory. mh Act IV. KING EICHAED III. Scene II. AnTie. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it. so Duch. [To DoR.J Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee ! — [To Anne.] Go thou to Eichard, and good angels tend thee ! — \To Q. Eliz.] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee ! — I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me ! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen. And each hour's joy wrack'd with a week of teen. Q. Eliz. Stay yet ; look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes, whom envy hath immur'd within your walls ; Eough cradle for such little pretty ones ! loo Eude ragged nur.se, old sullen play-fellow For tender princes, use my babies well ! So foolish sorrow bids your stones farewell. [Exeunt. Scene II. — ^A Eoom of State in the Palace. Flourish of Trwnvpets. Eichard, crowned ; Buckingham, Oatesby, a Page, and others. K. Bich. Stand all apart. — Cousin of Buck- ingham,- — Bibck. My gracious sovereign ! K. Rich. Give me thy hand. [Eich. ascends the throne.] Thus high, by thy advice. And thy assistance, is King Eichard seated : — But shall we wear these glories for a day, Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them 1 Buck. Still live they, and for ever let them last! K. Bich. Ah ! Buckingham, now I do play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed. — Young Edward lives. — Think now what I would speak. lo Buck. Say on, my loving lord. K. Bich. Why, Buckingham, I say, I would be king. Buck. Why, so you are, my thrice-re- nowned lord. K. Rich. Ha ! am I king ? 'T is so ; but Edward lives. Bvxih. True, noble prince. K. Bich. O bitter consequence, That Edward still should live ! — " True, noble prince." — Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull : — Shall I be plain ? — I wish the bastards dead ; And I would have it suddenly perform'd. What say'st thou now? speak suddenly, be brief. 20 Bv/:k. Your grace may do your pleasure. K. Bich. Tut, tut ! thou art all ice, thy kindness freazes. Say, have I thy consent that they shall die ? Buck. Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord. Before I positively speak in this : I will resolve you herein presently. [Eodt. Gates. [Aside.'\ The king is angry : see, he gnaws his lip. K. Bich. [Descends from his throne.] IwUl converse with iron-witted fools. And unrespective boys : none are for me That look into me with considerate eye. 30 High-reaching Buckingham grows circum- spect. Boy!— Page. My lord. K. Bich. Know'st thou not any, whom cor- rupting gold Will tempt imto a close exploit of death 1 Page. I know a discontented gentleman, Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit : Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything. K. Bich. What is his name 1 40 Page. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. K. Rich. I partly know the man : go, call him hither, boy. — [Exit Page. The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels. Hath he so long held out with me untir'd. And stops he now for breath? — well, be it so. — Enter Stanley. How now, Lord Stanley ? what 's the news ? Stan. Know, my loving lord, The Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled To Eichmohd, in the parts where he abides. K. Bich. Come hither, Catesby : rumour it abroad, 50 That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick ; I will take order for her keeping close. Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman. Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter : — The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. — ■ Look, how thou dream'st ! — I say again, give out. That Anne, my queen, is sick, and like to die: About it ; for it stands me much upon. 406 Act IV. KING RICHARD III. Scene III. To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me.— [Exit Oatesby. I must be married to my brother's daughter, Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. — Murder her brothers, and then marry her 1 ei Uncertain way of gain ! But I am in So far in blood, that sin will pluck on sin. Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. — Re-enter Page, with Tyreel. Is thy name Tyrrel ? Tyr. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject. K. Rich. Art thou, indeed 1 Tyr. Prove me, my gracious lord. K. Rich. Dar'st thou resolve to kill a friend of mine ? Tyr. Please you ; but I had rather kill two enemies. 70 K. Rich. Why, then thou hast it : two deep enemies, Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep's dis- turbers. Are they that I would have thee deal upon. Tyrrel, I mean those bastards in the Tower. Tyr. Let me have open means to come to them. And soon I '11 rid you from the fear of them. K. Rich. Thou sing'st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel : Go, by this token. — Rise, and lend thine ear. [ Whispers. There is no more but so : — say, it is done, And I will love thee, and prefer thee for it. so Tyr. I will despatch it straight. [Exit. Re-enter Buckingham. Buck. My lord, I have consider'd iu my mind The late requsst that you did sound me in. IC. Rich. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond. Buck I hear the news, my lord. K. Rich. Stanley, he is your wife's son : — well look imto it. Buck. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise. For which your honour and your faith is pawn'd ; The earldom of Hereford, and the movables, Which you have promised I shall jDossess. so K.. Rich. Stanley, look to your wife : if she convey Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. Buck. What says your highness to my just request ? K. Rich. I do remember me, — Henry the Sixth Did prophesy, that Richmond should be king. When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king ! — perhaps — Buck. My lord, — K. Rich. How chance, the prophet could not at that time Have told me, I being by, that I should kUl him ? 100 Buck. My lord, your promise for the earl- dom, — E. Rich. Richmond ! — ^When last I was at Exeter, The mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle. And call'd it — Rougemont : at which name I started. Because a bard of Ireland told me once, I should not live long after I saw Richmond. Buck. Mj lord, — X. Rich. Ay ; what 's o'clock ? Buck. I am thus bold to put your grace in mind Of what you promis'd me. no K. Rich. Well, but what's o'clock? Buck. Upon the stroke of ten. K. Rich. Well, let it strike. Buck. Why, let it strike ? K. Rich. Because that, like a Jack, thou keep'st the stroke , Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein to-day. Buck. Why, then resolve me whether you will, or no. K. Rich. Thou troublest me : I am not in the vein. [Exeunt King Richard and Train. Buck. And is it thus ? repays he my deep service With such contempt % made I him king for this? O ! let me think on Hastings, and be gone 120 To Brecknock, while my fearful head is on. [EaAt. Scene III. — The Same. Enter Tyrrel. Tyr. The tyrannous and bloody act is done; The most arch deed of piteous massacre, That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery. Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melted with tenderness and mUd compassion. Wept like to children in their death's sad story. 407 Act IV. KING EICHAED III. Scene IV. "Oh ! thus,'' quoth Dighton, "lay the gentle babes," — "Thus, thus," quoth Forrest, "girdling one another lo Within their alabaster innocent arms : Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, And, in their summer beauty, kiss'd each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay ; Which once," quoth Forrest, " almost chang'd my mind ; But, O ! the devil " — there the villain stopp'd ; When Dighton thus told on, — "We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature. That, from the prime creation, e'er she fram'd." Hence both are gone with conscience and re- morse : 20 They could not speak ; and so I left them both. To bear this tidings to the bloody king. Unter King Richard. And here he comes. — All health, my sovereign lord ! K. Rich. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news? Tyr. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it is done. K. Eich. But didst thou see them dead ? Tyr. I did, my lord. K. Rich. And buried, gentle Tyrrel 1 Tyr. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them ; 29 But where, to say the truth, I do not know. K. Rich. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, at after- supper, When thou shalt tell the process of their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good, And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till then. Tyr. I humbly take my leave. \_Exit. K. Rich. The son of Clarence have I pent up close ; His daughter meanly have I match'd in marriage ; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom, And Anne, my wife, hath bid this world good night. Now, for I know the Bretagne Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter, 41 And, by that knot, looks proudly on the crown. To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter Oatesby. Gates. My lord !— K. Rich. Good or bad news, that thou com'st in so bluntly ? Gates. Bad news, my lord : Morton is fled to Richmond ; And Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. K. Rich. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near. Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. so Come; I have learn'd, that fearful com- menting Is leaden servitor to dull delay ; Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary : Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king. Go, muster men : my counsel is my shield ; We must be brief, when traitors brave the field. [Exeunt. Scene IV. — Before the Palace. Enter Queen Margaret. Q. Mar. So, now prosperity begins to mel- low. And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk'd, To watch the waning of mine enemies. A dire induction am I witness to, And will to France ; hoping, the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret : who comes here ? [Retiring. Enter Queen Elizabeth and tlw Duchess of York. Q. Eliz. Ah, my poor princes ! ah, my tender babes ! My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets ! ic If yet your gentle souls fly in the air. And be not fix'd in doom perpetual. Hover about me with your aiiy wings, And hear your mother's lamentation. Q. Mar. Hover about her ; say, that right for right Hath dimm'd your infant mom to aged night. Duch. So many miseries have craz'd my voice. That my woe-weailed tongue is still and mute. — Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead ? Q. Ma/r. Plantagenet doth quit Plantage- net ; 20 Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. Q. Eliz. Wilt thou, O God ! fly from such gentle lambs, 408 Act IV. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. And throw them in the entrails of the -wolf 1 "When didst thou sleep, when such a deed was done? Q. Mar. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. Buck. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurp'd. Brief abstract and record of tedious days. Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth, [Sitting down. Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood ! Q. Eliz. Ah ! that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave, si As thou canst yield a melancholy seat ; Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here ! Ah ! who hath any cause to mourn but we ? \Sitti7hg dovm by her. Q. Mar. [Coining forward.'] If ancient sor- row be most reverend. Give mine the benefit of seniory. And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society, [Sitting down with them. Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine : — I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him ; 40 I had a Henry, till a Richard kill'd him ; Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him. Duch. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him ; I had a Rutland too ; thou holp'st to kill him. Q. Ma/r. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound, that doth hunt us all to death ; That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes, To worry lambs, and lap their gentle blood : so That foul defacer of God's handy-work. That excellent grand-tyrant of the earth. That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls. Thy womb let loose, to chase us to our graves. — O ! upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee, that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother's body. And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan 1 Duch. O, Harry's wife ! triumph not in my woes : God witness with me, I have wept for thine. Q. Ma/r. Bear with me : I am hungry for revenge, w And now I cloy me with beholding it. 3S Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward ; Thy other Edward dead, to quit my Edward ; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match not the high perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead, that stabb'd my Edward ; And the beholders of this frantic play. The adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. 70 Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer, Only reserv'd their factor, to buy souls, And send them thither ; but at hand, at hand. Ensues his piteous and unpitied end : Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray. To have him suddenly convey'd fi-om hence. — Cancel his bond of life, dear God ! I pray. That I may live and say, the dog is dead. Q. Mitt. O ! thou didst prophesy, the time would come. That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back'd toad. 81 Q. Mar. I call'd thee then vain flourish of my fortune ; I call'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen ; The presentation of but what I was ; The flattering index of a direful pageant ; One heav'd o' high, to be hurl'd down below ; A mother only mock'd with two fair babes ; A dream of what thou wast ; a garish flag. To be the aim of every dangerous shot ; A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble ; m A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is thy husband now? where be thy brothers ? Where be thy two sons ? wherein dost thou joy? Who sues, and kneels, and says — God save the qiieen ? Where be the bending peers that flatter'd thee? Where be the thronging troops that follow'd thee? Decline all this, and see what now thou art. For happy wife, a most distressed widow ; For joyful mother, one that wails the name ; 09 For one being sued to, one that humbly sues ; For queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care ,- For she that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me ; For she being fear'd of all, now fearing one ; For she commanding all, obey'd of none. Thus hath the curse of justice whirl'd about, And left thee but a very prey to time ; Having no more but thought of what thou wast. To torture thee the more, being what thou art. 409 Act IV. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. Thou, didst usurp my place, and dost thou not Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow ? no Now thy proud neck bears half my burden'd yoke ; From which, even here, I slip my wearied head, And leave the burden of it all on thee. Farewell, York's wife, and queen of sad mis- chance : These English woes shall make me smUe in France. Q. Miz. O thou ! well skUl'd in curses, stay awhile, And teach me how to cnrse mine enemies. Q. Mar. Forbear to sleep the night, and fast the day ; Compare dead happiness with living woe ; Think that thy babes were fairer than they were, 120 And he that slew them fouler than he is : Bettering thy loss makes the bad-causer worse : Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. Q. Miz. My words are dull ; O ! quicken them with thine ! Q. Mar. Thy woes wiU make them sharp, and pierce like mine. [£lxit. Buck. Why should calamity be full of words 1 Q. Eliz. Windy attorneys to their client woes. Airy succeeders of intestate joys. Poor breathing orators of miseries ! Let them have scope : though what they do impart iso Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart. Bueh. If so, then be not tongue-tied : go with me. And in the breath of bitter words let 's smother My damned son, thtit thy two sweet sons smother'd. \A Trumpet heard. The trumpet sounds : be copious in exclaims. Entsr King Richard, and his Train, marching. K. Rich. Who intercepts me in my expedi- tion ? Buch. O ! she that might have intercepted thee. By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done. Q. Eliz. Hid'st thou that forehead with a golden crown, no Where should be branded, if that right were right, The slaughter of the prince that ow'd that crown. And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers ? Tell me, thou villain-slave, where are my children ? Buck. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence, And little Ned Plantagenet, his son % Q. Eliz. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey ? Buch. Whetfe is kind Hastings ! K. Rich. A flourish, trumpets ! — strike alarum, drums ! ii9 Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Rail on the Lord's anointed. Strike, I say ! — [Flourish. A la/rums. Either be patient, and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations. Buch. Art thou my son ? K. Rich. Ay; I thank God, my father, and yourself. Buch. Then patiently hear my impatience. K. Rich. Madam, I have a touch of your condition, That cannot brook the accent of reproof. Buch. O ! let me speak. K. Rich. Do, then ; but I '11 not hear. Buch, I will be mild and gentle in my words. 161 K. Rich. And brief, good mother; for I am in haste. Buch. Art thou so hasty ? I have stay'd for thee, God knows, in torment and in agony. K. Rich. And came I not at last to comfort you? Buch. No, by the holy rood, thou know'st it well. Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burden was thy birth to me ; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy ; Thy school-days frightful, desperate, wild and furious ; 170 Thy prime of manhood daring, bold and ven- turous ; Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody. More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred : What comfortable hour canst thou name. That ever grac'd me with thy company % K. Rich. 'Faith, none, but Humphrey Hour, that call'd your grace To breakfast once, forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your eye, Let me march on, and not offend you, madam. — Act IV. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. Strike up the drum ! Duch. I pr'ythee, hear me speak, iso K. Rich. You speak too bitterly. Duch. Hear me a -word ; For I shall never speak to thee again. K. Rich. So. Duch. Either thou wilt die by God's just ordinance, Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror ; Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish, And never more behold thy face again. Therefore, take with thee my most grievous curse ; Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st ! iso My prayers on the adverse party fight ; And there the little souls of Edward's children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies, And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end ; Shame serves thy life, and doth thy death attend. [Exit. Q. Eliz. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse Abides in me : I say Amen to her. \Going. K. Rich. Stay, madam, I must talk a word with. you. Q. Eliz. I have no more sons of the royal blood 200 For thee to slaughter : for my daughters, Richard, They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens ; And therefore level not to hit their lives. K. Rich. You have a daughter call'd Eliza- beth, Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. Q. Eliz. And must she die for this ? - ! let her live, And I '11 corrupt her manners, stain her beauty ; Slander myself as false to Edward's bed ; Throw over her the veil of infamy : So she may live unscarr'd of bleeding slaugh- ter, 2X0 I will confess she was not Edward's daughter. K. Rich. Wrong not her birth; she is a royal princess. Q. Eliz. To save her life, I '11 say she is not so. K, Rich. Her life is safest only in her birth. Q. Eliz. And only in that safety died her brothers. K. Rich. Lo ! at their birth good stars were opposite. Q. Eliz. No, to their lives ill friends were contrary. K. Rich. All unavoided is the doom of destiny. Q. Eliz. True, when avoided grace makes destiny. My babes were destin'd to a fairer death, 220 If grace had bless'd thee with a fairer life. K. Rich. You speak, as if that I had slain my cousins. Q. Eliz. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen'd Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hands soever lanc'd their tender hearts, Thy head, all indirectly, gave direction : No doubt the murderous knife was dull and blunt. Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart, To revel in the entrails of my lambs. But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame, 230 My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys, TUl that my nails were anchor'd in thine eyes; And I, in such a desperate bay of death. Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. K. Rich. Madam, so thrive I in my enter- prise, And dangerous success of bloody wars. As I intend more good to you and yours, Than ever you or yours by me were harm'd ! Q. Eliz. What good is cover'd with the face of heaven, 240 To be discover'd, that can do me good 1 K. Rich. The advancement of your children, gentle lady. Q. Eliz. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads ? K. Rich. Unto the dignity and height of fortune, The high imperial type of this earth's glory. Q. Eliz. Flatter my sorrow with report of it: Tell me, what state, what dignity, wha( honour. Canst thou demise to any child of mine ? K. Rich. Even all I have ; ay, and myself and all. Will I withal endow a child of thine ; 250 So in the Lethe of thy angiy soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs. Which thou supposest I have done to thee. Q. Eliz. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness' date. K. Rich. Then know, that from my soul ] love thy daughter. ill Act IV. KING RICHARD IIL Scene IV. Q. Eliz. My daughter's mother thinks it with her soul. K. Rich. "What do you think % Q. Eliz. That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul. So, from thy soul's love, didst thou love her brothers ; 260 And from my heart's love I do thank thee for it. K. Rich. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning. I mean, that with my soul I love thy daughter, And do intend to make her Queen of England. Q. Eliz. Well then, who dost thou mean shall be her king ? K. Rich. Even he that makes her queen : who else should be % Q. Eliz. What! thou? K. Rich. Even so : how think you of it ? Q. Eliz. How canst thou woo her 1 K. Rich. That I would learn of you, As one being best acquainted with her humour. Q. Eliz. And wilt thou learn of me 1 m K. Rich. Madam, with all my heart. Q. Eliz. Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, A pair of bleeding hearts ; thereon engrave Edward and York ; then, haply, will she weep : Therefore present to her — as sometime Mar- garet Did to thy father, steep'd in Rutland's blood, — A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brother's body. And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal. If this inducement move her not to love, 280 Send her a letter of thy noble deeds ; Tell her, thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence, Her uncle Rivers ; ay, and, for her sake, Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. K. Rich. You mock me, madam ; this is not the way To win your daughter. Q. Eliz. There is no other way, Unless thou couldst put on some other shape, And not be Richard that hath done all this. K. Rich. Say, that I did all this for love of her? Q. Eliz. Nay, then indeed, she cannot choose but hate thee, 290 Having bought love with such a bloody spoil. K. Rich. Look, what is done cannot be now amended : Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes. Which after-hours give leisure to repent : If I did take the kingdom from your sons, To make amends I '11 give it to your daughter. If I have kill'd the issue of your womb, To quicken your increase, I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter. A grandam's name is little less in love aoo Than is the doting title of a mother,: They are as children but one step below, Even of your mettle, of your very blood : Of all one pain — save for a night of groans Endur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. Your children were vexation to your youth ; But mine shall be a comfort to your age. The loss you have is but a son being king, And by that loss your daughter is made queen. I cannot make you what amends I would, 310 Therefore accept such kindness as I can. Dorset, your son, that with a fearful soul Leads discontented steps in foreign soil. This fair alliance quickly shall call home To high promotions and great dignity : The king, that calls your beauteous daughter wife. Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother ; Again shall you be mother to a king. And all the ruins of distressful times Repair'd with double riches of content. 320 What ! we have many goodly days to see : The liquid drops of tears that you have shed. Shall come again transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. Go then, my mother ; to thy daughter go : Make bold her bashful years with your experience ; Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale ; Put in her tender heart the aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty ; acquaint the princess With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys : And when this arm of mine hath chastised sss The petty rebel, dull-brain'd Buckingham, Bound with triumphant garlands will I come. And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed ; To whom I will retail my conquest won. And she shall be sole victress, Caesar's Csesar. Q. Eliz. What were I best to say? her father's brother Would be her lord 1 or shall I say, her uncle 1 Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles ' Under what title shall I woo for thee, .141 That God, the law, my honour, and her love. Can make seem pleasing to her tender years? X. Rich. Infer fair England's peace by this alliance. Q. Eliz. Which she shall purchase with stUl lasting war. K. Rich. Tell her, the king, that may com- mand, entreats. 412 Act IV. KING RICHARD HI. Scene IV. Q. Eliz. That at her hands, which the kings' King forbids. K. Rich. Say, she shall be a high and mighty queen. Q. Eliz. To wail the title, as her mother doth. K. Rich. Say, I will love her everlastingly. Q. Eliz. But how long shall that title, ever, last ? S51 K. Rich. Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end. Q. Eliz. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last 1 K. Rich. As long as Heaven, and nature, lengthens it. Q. Eliz. As long as hell, and Richard, likes of it. K. Rich. Say, I, her sovereign, am her subject low. Q. Eliz. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty. K. Rich. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. Q. Eliz. An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told. K. Rich. Then plainly to her tell my loving tale. 360 Q. Eliz. Plain, and not honest, is too harsh a style. K. Rich. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. Q. Eliz. O, no, my. reasons are too deep and dead ; — Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves. K. Rich. Harp not on that string, madam; that is past. Q. Eliz. Harp on it still shall I, till heart- strings break. K. Rich. Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown, — Q. Eliz. Profan'd, dishonour'd, and the third usurp'd. K. Rich. I swear — Q. Eliz. "Bj nothing ; for this is no oath. Thy George, profan'd, hath lost his holy honour ; 370 Thy garter, blemish'd, pawn'd his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurp'd, disgrac'd his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believ'd, Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong'd K. Rich. Now, by the world, — Q. Eliz. 'T is full of thy foul wrongs. K. Rich. My father's death, — Q. Eliz. Thy life hath it dishonour'd. K. Rich. Then, by myself, — Q. Eliz. "Thyself is self-misus'd. God's wrong is most of all. X. Rich. Why then, by God,— ■ Q. Eliz. If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by Him The unity, the king my husband made, 330 Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died. If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by Him, The imperial metal, circling now thy head, Had grac'd the tender temples of my child ; And both the princes had been breathing here. Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust, Thy broken faith hath made the prey for worms. What canst thou swear by now ? K. Rich. The time to come. Q. Eliz. That thou hast wronged in the time o'erpast ; For I myself have many tears to wash sgo Hereafter time, for time past, wrong'd by thee. The children live, whose fathers thou hast slaughter'd, Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age : The parents live, whose children thou hast butcher'd. Old barren plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come ; for that thou. Misus'd ere us'd, by times ill-us'd o'erpast. K. Rich. As I intend to prosper, and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous affairs Of hostile arms ! myself myself confound ! «o Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours ! Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest ! Be opposite all planets of good luck To my proceeding, if, with dear heart's love. Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter ! In her consists my happiness and thine : Without her, follows to myself, and thee. Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul. Death, desolation, ruin, and decay : 410 It cannot be avoided but by this ; It will not be avoided but by this. Therefore, dear mother (I must call you so), Be the attorney of my love to her. Plead what I will be, not what I have been ; Not my deserts, but what I will deserve : Urge the necessity and state of times. And be not peevish-fond in great designs. Q. Eliz. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus? K. Rich. Ay, if the devil tempt thee to do good. 420 Q. Eliz. Shall I forget myself to be myself? K. Rich. Ay, if yourselfs remembrance wrong yourself. Q. Eliz. Yet thou didst kill my children. Act IV. KING RICHAED III. Scene IV. K. Rich. But in your daughter's womb I bury them : Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed Selves of themselves to your recomforture. Q. Miz. Shall I go win my daughter to thy wilH K. Sick. And be a happy mother by the deed. Q. Miz. 1 go. — Write to me very shortly, And }-ou shall understand from me her mind. 430 K. Rich. Bear her my true love's kiss, and so farewell. (Kissing her.) [Exit Q. Elizabeth. Belenting fool, and shallow, changing woman ! How now 1 what news ? Enter Ratclifp ; Gatesby following. Rat. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy ; to our shores Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarm'd, and unresolv'd to beat them back. 'Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral ; Aiid there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore, no K. Rich. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk : — EatcliflF, thyself, — or Oatesby ; where is he ? Gates. Here, my good lord. K. Rich. Catesby, fly to the duke. Gates. I will, my lord, with all convenient haste. K. Rich. Ratcliff, come hither. Post to Salisbury : When thou com'st thither, — [To Catesby.] DitII, unmindful villain, Why stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the duke ? Gates. First, mighty liege, tell me your highness' pleasure. What from your grace I shall deliver to him. K. Rich, O !, true, good Oatesby. — Bid him levy straight 450 The greatest strength and jjower he can make, And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. Gates. I go. [Exit. Rat. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury 1 K. Rich. Why, what wouldst thou do there, before I go ? Rat. Your highness told me, I should post before. Enter Stanley. K. Rich. My mind is chang'd. — Stanley, what news with you ? Stan. None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing ; Nor none so bad, but well may be reported. K. Rich. Heyday, a riddle ! neither good nor bad ? 46o What need'st thou run so many miles about. When thou may'st tell thy tale the nearest way? Once more, what news 1 Stan. Richmond is on the seas. K. Rich. There let him sink, and be the seas on him ! White-liver'd runagate ! what doth he there ? Stan. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. K. Rich. Well, as you guess 1 Stan. Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England, here to claim the crown. K. Rich. Is the chair empty 1 is the sword unsway'd 1 470 Is the kmg dead 1 the empire unpossess'd 1 What heir of York is there alive, but we ? And who is England's king, but great York's heir? Then, tell me, what makes he upon the seas ? Stan. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. K. Rich. Unless for that he comes to be your liege. You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. Thou wilt revolt, and fly to him, I fear. Stan. No, my good lord ; therefore mistrust me not. IC Rich. Where is thy power then to beat him back ? 48o Where be thy tenants, and thy followers 1 Are they not now upon the western shore. Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships ? Stan. No, my good lord, my friends are in the north. K. Rich. Cold friends to me : what do they in the north. When they should serve their sovereign in the west? Stan. They have not been commanded, mighty king. Pleaseth your majesty to give me leave, I '11 muster up my friends, and meet your grace. Where, and what time, your majesty shall please. 490 K. Rich. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond : But I '11 not trust thee. Stan. Most mighty sovereign, AC3T IV. KING RICHARD III. Scene V. You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful. I never was, nor never will be false. K. Kick. Go then, and muster men : but leave behind Your son, George Stanley. Look your heart be firm, Or else his head's assurance is but fraU. Stan. So deal with him, as I prove true to you. [Exit. Enter a Messenger. Mess. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends am well advertised, soo Sir Edward Courtney, and the haughty prelate. Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, With many more confederates, are in arms. Enter another Messenger. 2 Mess. In Kent, my liege, the GuUdfords are in arms ; And every hour more competitors Mock to the rebels, and their power grows strong. Enter a third Messenger. 3 Mess. My lord, the army of great Buck- ingham — K. Bich. Out on ye, owls ! nothing but songs of death 1 [He strikes him. There, take thou that, till thou bring better news. 3 Mess. The news I have to tell your majesty sio Is, that by sudden floods and fall of waters, Buckingham's army is dispers'd and scatter'd; And he himself wander'd away alone. No man knows whither. K. Bich. I cry thee mercy : There is my purse, to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend proclaim'd Reward to him that brings the traitor in ? 3 Mess. Such proclamation hath been made, my lord. Enter a fourth Messenger. 4 Mess. Sir Thomas Lovel, and Lord Mar- quess Dorset, 'T is said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms : But this good comfort bring I to your high- ness, • 621 The Bretagne navy is dispers'd by tempest. Richmond, in Dorsetshire, sent out a boat Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks. If they were his assistants, yea, or no ; Who ansVver'd him, they came from Buck- ingham Upon his party : he, mistrusting them, Hois'd sail, and made his course again for Bretagne. K. Bich. March on, march on, since we are up in arms ; If not to fight with foreign enemies, 530 Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Enter Catbsbt. Gates. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken ; That is the best news. That the Earl of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford, Is colder news, but yet they must be told. K. Bich. Away towards Salisbury ! while we reason here, A royal battle might be won and lost. — Some one take order, Buckingham be brought To Salisbury : the rest march on with me. [Exewit. 415 Scene V. — A Room in Lord Stanley's House. Enter Stanley and Sir Christopher Ueswick. Stan. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me : — That, in the sty of the most bloody boar, My son George Stanley is frank'd up in hold : If I revolt, off goes young George's head ; The fear of that holds off my present aid. So, get thee gone : commend me to thy lord. Withal, say, that the queen hath heartily consented. He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. But, tell me, where is princely Richmond now? Ch/ris. At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford-west, in Wales. w Stan. What men of name resort to him ? Chris. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier, Sir Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley ; Oxford, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew ; And many other of great name and worth : And towards London do they bend their power. If by the way they be not fought withal. Stan. Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand ; My letter will resolve him of my mind. 20 Farewell. [Giving papers to Sir Christopher. [Exeimt. Act V. KING RICHAED III. Scene III. ACT V. Scene I. — Salisbury. An Open Place. Enter the Sheriff, and Guard, with Bucking- ham, led to execution. Buck. Will not King Richard let me speak with him 1 Sher. No, my good lord ; therefore be patient. Buck. Hastings, and Edward's children, Grey, and Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, Vaughan, and all that have miscarried By underhand corrupted foul injustice. If that your moody discontented souls Do through the clouds behold this present hour. Even for revenge mock my destruction ! — This is All-Souls' day, fellow, is it not % lo Sher. It is. Buck. Why, then All-Soids' day is my • body's doomsday. This is the day, which, in King Edward's time, 1 wish'd might fall on me, when I was found I^'alse to his children, or his wife's allies : This is the day, wherein I wish'd to fall By the false faith of him whom most I trusted ; This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul Is the determin'd respite of my wrongs. That high All-Seer, which I dallied with, 20 Hath turn'd my feigned prayer on my head. And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest. Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points in. their masters' bosoms : Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck : — "When he," qiioth she, "shall split thy heart with sorrow, Remember, Margaret was a prophetess." — Come, lead me, officers, to the block of shame; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. \Exenjmt Buckingham and Officers. Scene II. — A Plain near Tamworth. Enter, with drum cmd colours, Richmond, Oxford, Sir Jambs Blunt, Si/r Walter Herbert, and otliers,with Forces, marching. Richm. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march'd on without impediment : And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoU'd your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms, this foul swine 10 Lies now even in the centre of this isle. Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn : From Tamworth thither is but one day's march. In God's name, cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody tfial of sharp war. Oxf. Every man's conscience is a thousand men. To fight against this guilty homicide. Herb. I doubt not, but his friends will turn to us. Blunt. He hath no Mends, but what are friends for fear, 20 Which in his dearest need will fly from him. Richm. All for our vantage : then, in God's name, march. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. \Exewnt. Scene III. — Bosworth Field. Enter King Richard, and Forces ; ilm Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Surrey, and others. K. Rich. Here pitph our tents, even here in Bosworth Field. — My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad 1 Sur. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. K. Rich. My Lord of Norfolk,— Nor. Here, most gracious liege. K. Rich. Norfolk, we must have knocks ; ha ! must we not ? Nor. We must both give and take, my loving lord. ' K. Rich. Tip with my tent ! here will I lie to-night ; But where to-morrow^ — Well, all's one for that. — Who hath descried the number of the traitors? 416 Act V. KING RICHARD III. Scene III. Nor. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. 10 K. Rich. Why, our battalia trebles that account : Besides, the king's name is a tower of strength. Which they upon the adverse faction want. Up with the tent ! — Come, noble gentlemen. Let us survey the vantage of the ground. — Call for some men of sound direction. — Let 's lack no discipline, make no delay, For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. \Eooeunt. Enter, on the oilier side of the field, Rich- mond, Sir William Brandon, Oxford, and other Officers. Some of the Soldiers pitch Richmond's Tent. Richm. The weary sun hath made a golden set. And, by the bright track of his fiery car, 20 Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. — Sir WUliam Brandon, you shall bear my standard. — Give me some ink and paper in my tent : I '11 draw the form and model of our battle, Limit each leader to his several charge, And part in just proportion our small power. My Lord of Oxford, — ^you, Sir William Brandon, — And you, Sir Walter Herbert, stay with me. The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment : Good Captain Blunt, bear my good night to him, so And by the second hour in the morning Desire the earl to see me in my tent. — Yet one thing more, good captain, do for me ; Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know? Blwfit. Unless I have mista'en his colours much (Which, well I am assur'd, I have not done), His regiment lies half a mile, at least. South from the mighty power of the king. RicJvm. If without peril it be possible, Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him, 40 And give him from me this most needful note. Bhmt. Upon my life, my lord, I 'U under- take it : And so, God give you quiet rest to-night ! Richm. Good night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen, Let us consult upon to-morrow's business ; In to my tent ; the dew is raw and cold. {They withdraw into the Tent. Enter, to his Tent, King Richard, Norfolk, Ratcliff, and Catbsby. K. Rich. What is 't o'clock ? Cates. It's supper-time, my lord ; it's nine o'clock. K. Rich. I will not sup to-night. — Give me some ink and paper. — so What, is my beaver easier than it was, And all my armour laid into my tent ? Gates. It is, my liege ; and all things are in readiness. K. Rich. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge. Use careful watch ; choose trusty sentinels. Nor. I go, my lord. K. Rich. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk. Nor. I warrant you, my lord. [Exit. E Rich. Ratcliif! Rat. My lord ? E. Rich. Send out a pursuivant-at-arms eo To Stanley's regiment : bid him bring his power Before sun-rising, lest his son George fall Into the blind cave of eternal night. — Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. — Ratclifi"!— Rat. My lord ? E. Rich. Saw'st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland 1 Rat. Thomas the Earl of Surrey, and him- self, 70 Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers. E. Rich. So : I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine : I have not that alacrity of spirit. Nor cheer of mind, that I was wont to have. — Set it down. ^— Is ink and paper ready? Rat. It is, my lord. E. Rich. Bid my guard watch. Leave me. Ratclifi', about the mid of night come to my tent. And help to arm me. — Leave me, I say. so [King Richard retires into his tent. Exeunt Ratcliff and Catesby. Richmond's Tent opens, and discovers him, and his Officers, &c. Enter Stanley. Stam. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm ! Richm. All comfort that the dark night can aflford, Be to thy person, noble father-in-law ! Tell me, how fares our loving mother ? Stan. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, 417 Act Y. KING RICHARD III. Scene III. Who prays continually for Richmond's good. So much for that. — The silent hours steal on, And flaky darkness breaks within the east. In brief, for so the season bids us be. Prepare thy battle early in the morning ; so And put thy fortune to the arbitrement Of bloody strokes, and mortal-staring war. I, as I may (that which I would I cannot). With best advantage will deceive the time, And aid thee in this doubtful shook of arms : But on thy side I may not be too forward, Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, Be executed in his father's sight. Farewell. The leisure and the fearful time Cuts ofi' the ceremonious vows of love, loo And ample interchange of sweet discourse. Which so long sunder'd friends should dwell upon. God give us leisure for these rites of love ! Once more, adieu. — Be valiant, and speed well! Richm. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment. I '11 strive, with troubled thoughts, to take a nap : Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow. When I should mount with wings of victory. Once more, good night, kind lords, and gentlemen. \_Exeunt Lords, &c., with Stanley. O ! Thou, whose captain I account myself, no Look on my forces with a gracious eye ; Put in their hands thy bruising irons of wrath. That they may crush down with a heavy fall The usurping helmets of our adversaries ! Make us thy ministers of chastisement. That we may praise thee in thy victory ! To thee I do commend my watchful soul. Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes : Sleeping, and waking, O ! defend me still ! [Sleeps. The Ghost of Prince Edward, Son to Heney the Sixth, rises between the two Tents. Ghost. [To K. Rich.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! 120 Think, how thou stabb'dst me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury : despair, therefore, and die. — [To Richm.] Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls Of butcher'd princes fight in thy behalf : King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee. The Glwst of King Heney the Sixth rises. Ghost. [To K. Rich.] When I was mortal, my anointed body By thee was punched full of deadly holes. Thiak on the Tower, and me : despair, and die; Harry the Sixth bids thee despair, and die ! — [To Richm.] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror ! iso Harry that prophesy'd thou shouldst be king, Doth comfort thee in sleep : live, and flourish ! The Ghost of Clarence rises. Ghost. [To K. Rich.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! I, that was wash'd to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray'd to death ! To-morrow in the battle think on me. And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die! [To Richm.] Thou offspring of the hoUse of Lancaster, The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee ; Good angels guard thy battle ! Live, and flourish ! i* The Ghosts of Rivers, Grey, and Yaughan^, rise. Ghost of Riv. [To K. Rich.] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow ! Rivers, that died at Pomfret. Despair, and die! Ghost of Grey. [To K. Rich.] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair. Ghost of Vaugh. [To K. Rich.] Think upon Yaughan, and with guiLty fear Let fall thy lance. Despair, and die ! — All. [To Richm.] Awake, and think, our wrongs in Richard's bosom WiU conquer him. — Awake, and win the day I The Ghost o/" Hastings rises. Ghost. [To K. Rich.] Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake ; And in a bloody battle end thy days. Think on Lord Hastings. Despair, and die ! — [To Richm.] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake ! isi Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England's The Ghosts of the two young Princes rise. Ghosts. [To K. Rich.] Dream on thy cousins smother'd in the Tower : Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death. Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair, and die !— [To Richm.] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy ; Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy ! 418 Act V. KING RICHARD III. Scene TIL Live, and beget a happy race of kings. Edward's xmhappy sons do bid thee flourish. The Ghost of Queen Anne rises. Glwst. [To K. Rich.] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, lei That never slept a quiet hour with thee, Now fills thy sleep with perturbations : To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair, and die!— [To RiCHM.] Thou, quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep ; Dream of success and happy victory : Thy adversary's wife doth pray for thee. The Ghost of Buckingham rises. Ghost. [To K. Rich.] The first was I that help'd thee to the crown ; The last was I that felt thy tyranny. wo O ! in the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness. Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death : Faiuting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath ! — [To RiCHM.] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid : But cheer thy heart, and be thou not dismay'd : God and good angels fight on Richmond's side; And Richard falls in height of all his pride. [The Ghosts vanish. Ki/ng Richaed starts out of his dream. K. Rich. Give me another horse ! — ^biad up my wounds ! — Have mercy, Jesu ! — Soft ! I did but dream. — 0, coward conscience, how dost thou afiiict me ! — 181 The lights bum blue. — It is now dead mid- night. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What, do I fear myself? there's none else by: Richard loves Richard ; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here ? No ; — yes ; I am : Then fly, — what, from myself? Great reason, why : Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself? Alack ! I love myself. Wherefore ? for any good That I myself have done unto myself? ! no : alas ! I rather hate myself. For hateful deeds committed by myself. 1 am a villain. Yet I lie ; I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well : — fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree ; Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree ; All several sins, aU us'd in each degree, 200 Throng to the bar, crying all, — Guilty ! guilty ! I shall despair. — There is no creature loves me; And if I die, no soul shall pity me : — Nay, wherefore should they? since that I myself Fiad in myself no pity to myself. Methought, the souls of all that I had mur- der'd Came to my tent ; and every one did threat To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter Ratclifp. Rat. My lord, — K. Rich. Who 's there ? 210 Rat. Ratclifi", my lord ; 't is I. The early village cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn : Your friends are up, and buckle on their armour. K. Rich. O Ratcliff ! I have dream'd a fearful dream. — What thinkest thou? will our friends prove all true ? Rat. No doubt, my lord. K. Rich. O Ratcliff! I fear, I fear,— Rat. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. K. Rich. By the Apostle Paul, shadows to- night Have struck more terrorto the soul of Richard, Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers, 220 Armed ui proof, and led by shallow Richmond. It is not yet near day. Come, go with me : Under our tents I '11 play the eaves-dropper. To hear if any mean to shrink from me. [Exewnt. Richmond wakes. Enter Oxpoed and others. Lords. Good morrow, Richmond. Richm. Cry mercy, lords, and watchful gentlemen, That you have ta'en a tardy sluggard here. Lords. How have you slept, my lord ? Richm,. The sweetest sleep, and fairest- boding dreams,' That ever enter'd in a drowsy head, 230 Have I since your departure had, my lords. Methought, their souls, whose bodies Richard murder' d, Came to my tent, and cried on victory : Act V. KING mCHARD III. Scene III. I promise you, my heart is very jocund In tlie remembrance of so fair a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords ? Lords. Upon the stroke of four. Richm. Why, then 'tis time to arm, and give direction. — \He advances to the Troops. More than I have said, loving countrymen. The leisure and enforcement of the time 2*) Forbids to dwell on : yet remember this, — God and our good cause fight upon our side ; The prayers of holy saints, and wronged souls. Like high-rear'd bulwarks, stand before our Richard except, those whom we fight against Had rather have us win, than him they follow. For what is he they follow '? truly, gentlemen, A bloody tyrant, and a homicide ; One rais'd in blood, and one in blood estab- lish'd; One that made means to come by what he hath, 250 And slaughter'd those that were the means to help him ; A base foul stone, made precious by the foil Of England's chair, where he is falsely set : One that hath ever been God's enemy. Then, if you fight against God's enemy, God will, injustice, ward you as his soldiers; If you do sweat to put a tyrant down. You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain ; If you do tight against your country's foes, Your country's fat shall pay your pains the hire ; 260 If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, Your wives shall welcome home the con- querors ; If you do free your children from the sword. Your children's children quit it in your age. Then, in the name of God, and all these rights, Advance your standards, draw your willing swords. For me, the ransom of my bold attempt Shall be this cold corse on the earth's cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part there- of. 270 Sound, drums and trumpets, boldly and cheerfully ; God and Saint George ! Richmond and victory ! \Eoixunt. Re-enter King Richaed ; Ratclifp, Atten- dants, and Forces. K. Rich. What said Northumberland, as touching Richmond ? Rat. That he was never trained up in arms. K. Rich. He said the truth : and what said Surrey then 1 Rat. He smil'd and said, the better for our purpose. K. Rich. He was i' the right ; and so, indeed it is. [Clock strikes. Tell the clock there. — Give me a calendar. — Who saw the sun to-day 1 Rat. Not I, my lord. K. Rich. Then he disdains to shine ! for, by the book, sso He should have brav'd the east an hour ago : A black day will it be to somebody. — Ratcliff", — • Rat. My lord ? K. Rich. The sun will not be seen to-day : The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would, these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine to-day ! Why, what is that to me More than to Richmond 1 for the selfsame heaven. That frowns on me, looks sadly upon him. Unter Norfolk. iV^or. Arm, arm, my lord ! the foe vaunts in the field. 290 K. Rich. Come, bustle, bustle. Caparison my horse. Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power. I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain. And thus my battle shall be ordered. My forward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot : Our archers shall be placed in the midst. John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of the foot and horse. They thus directed, we will follow 300 In the main battle ; whose puissance on either side Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. This, and Saint George to boot ! — What think'st thou, Norfolk? Wor. A good direction, warlike sovereign. — This found I on my tent this morning. [Giving a scroll. K. Rich. [J?«ac?s.] "Jocky of Norfolk, be not too bold. For Dickon thy master is bought and sold." A thing devised by the enemy. — Go, gentlemen ; every man to his charge. Let not our babbling dreams afiright our souls ; 310 Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe : Our strong arm be our conscience, swords our law. DraiL'fi !'y A, HOPKINS. RICHARD AT BOSWORTH FIELD. King Richard. I think there be six Richmonds in the field ; Five have I slain to-day, instead of him. "Richard III.," Act K, Seme IV. Act V. KING EIOHAED III. Scene IV. March on, join bravely, let us to 't pell- mell ; If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. — What shall I say more than I have inferr'd t Remember whom you are to cope withal ; — A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Bretagnes, and base lackey peasants, Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth !2o To desperate adventures and assur'd destruc- tion. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest ; You having lands, and bless'd with beauteous wives. They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them, but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Bretagne at our mothex-'s cost ? A milksop, one that never in his life Pelt so much cold as over shoes in snow 1 Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again ; Lash hence these overweening rags of Prance, These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives; ssi Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit. For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves. If we be conquer'd, let men conquer us. And not these bastard Bretagnes, whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd. And, on record, left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives ? Ravish our daughters? — [Brum afar offJ\ Hark ; I hear their drum. Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeo- men ! S40 Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood ; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves ! Enter a Messenger. What says Lord Stanley 1 will he bring his power ? Mess. My lord, he doth deny to come. K. Bioh. Off with his son George's head ! Nor. My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh : After the battle let George Stanley die. K. Bich. A thousand hearts are great with- in my bosom. Advance our standards ! set upon our foes ! sso Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons ! Upon them ! Victory sits on our helms. [Exev/nt. Scene IV. — Another Part of the Field. Alweum, : Excursions. Enter NoRroLK, and Forces ; to him Catesby. Gates. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk ! rescue, rescue ! The king enacts more wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger. His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost ! Alarum. Enter King Richaed. K. Bich. A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom for a horse ! Gates. Withdraw, my lord : I '11 help you to a horse. K. Bich. Slave ! I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die. lo I think there be six Richmonds in the field ; Five have I slain to-day, instead of him. — A horse ! a horse ! my kingdom for a horse ! [Exeunt. Ala/rums. Enter King Richard and Rich- mond ; and exev/nt fighting. Betreat and flowrish. Then enter Richmond, Stanley bearing the crovm,, with divers otlier Lords, a/nd Forces. Bichm. God, and your arms, be prais'd, victorious friends. The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. Stan. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acq^iit thee. Lo ! here, this long-usurped royalty Prom the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal : Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. 20 Bichm. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all!— But, tell me, is young George Stanley living ? Stan. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town, Whither, if you please, we may withdraw us. Bichm. What men of name are slain on either side 1 Stan. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. \ Bichm. Inter their bodies as becomes their births. Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled That in submission will return to us ; so And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament. We will unite the white rose and the red : — Smile Heaven upon this fair conjunction, m. Act V. KING RICHARD III. Scene IV. That long hatli frown'd upon their enmity ! — WJiat traitor hears me, and says not Amen 1 England hath long been mad, and scarr'd her- self; The brother bHndly shed the brother's blood, The father rashly slaughter'd his own son, The son, compeU'd, been butcher to the sire; All this divided York and Lancaster « Divided in their dire division. — O ! now, let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true sucoeeders of each royal house. By God's fair ordinance conjoin together ! And let their heirs (God, if thy will be so) Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac'd peace, "With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days ! Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again. And make poor England weep in streams of blood ! 60 Let them not live to taste this land's increase. That would with treason wound this fair land's peace ! Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again : That she may long live here, God say Amen ! 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