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 Shakespeare's wit and humour 
 
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Cornell University 
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SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM A. LAWSON 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 GEORGE W, JACOBS & CO. 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 E.V. 
 

 Copyright, 1912, by 
 George W. Jacobs & Company 
 
 Published August, JCfii 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Printed in U. S. A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Shakespeare's Wit and Humour ... 9 
 
 The Two Gentlemen of Verona 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 Love's Labour's Lost 
 
 
 
 zr-^- 
 
 The Comedy of Errors 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 The Taming of the Shrew . 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 A Midsummer Night's Dream 
 
 
 
 64 ^" 
 
 The Merchant of Venice 
 
 
 
 80 4.^ 
 
 Sir John Falstaff . 
 
 
 
 91 ^' 
 
 King Henry IV— Part I 
 
 
 
 100 *^* 
 
 King Henry IV— Part II 
 
 
 
 137 ^' 
 
 King Henry V . . . 
 
 
 
 163 
 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor 
 
 
 
 173 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing . 
 
 
 
 181 t^ 
 
 As You Like It . . . 
 
 
 
 215 t^ 
 
 Twelfth Night 
 
 
 
 246 L^ 
 
 The Winter's Tale 
 
 
 
 269 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 » 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Tragedies and Historical Plays . . . 278 
 
 Julius Caesar 
 
 
 
 279 
 
 King Henry VI . 
 
 
 
 281 
 
 OtheUo 
 
 
 
 282 
 
 Romeo and Juliet . 
 
 
 
 285 
 
 Hamlet 
 
 
 
 293 
 
 Fools and Clowns 
 
 
 
 303 
 
 All's Well that Ends Well 
 
 
 
 305 
 
 King Lear 
 
 
 
 308 
 
PREFACE 
 
 In preparing this work, the aim has been 
 to gather into a single volume, of convenient 
 size and inviting print, such of Shakespeare's 
 wit and humour as may with pleasure and sat- 
 isfaction be read in the form of extracts, each 
 connected in proper order with the story of the 
 play from which it is taken. The matter se- 
 lected is not dependent upon mere situation, plot 
 or mistakes of identity, to afford enjoyment, 
 but so far as has seemed desirable, the plot of 
 each drama drawn upon has been briefly told, 
 in order to throw light upon the chosen text 
 and make the characters better understood and 
 appreciated. Relatively large space has been 
 devoted to Falstaff, as the crowning achieve- 
 ment of Shakespeare's comic genius. 
 
 Occasional omissions or breaks in the excerpts 
 have been found desirable or unavoidable, for 
 various reasons, and are denoted by dots; 
 thus, . . . Crossness and indelicacies, which 
 the manners and customs of the play-wright's 
 
 S 
 
PREFACE 
 
 day allowed, or even relished and expected, 
 in stage productions, have been excluded, the 
 intention being to make the book as well 
 suited to the young as to any other class 
 of readers. But no words have been changed 
 or interpolated, nor have any other liberties 
 been taken with the text. In most cases the 
 matter omitted relates merely to the action, or 
 otherwise is unsuited to the scope of the work. 
 
 The fun of Shakespeare is scattered with lav- 
 ish hand broadcast through the comedies, but 
 in the tragedies and most of the historical plays 
 it is either scanty or entirely absent. Perhaps 
 not more than one-twentieth part of the mass 
 of his dramatic writings may be classed as either 
 witty or humourous, the rest being sentimental, 
 tragic or otherwise serious. Even of the come- 
 dies much is purely sentiment, recital or inci- 
 dent, rather than gaiety. So to many persons 
 not familiar with his plays, and yet with a lik- 
 ing for good, amusing literature, this book of 
 selections, with helpful analysis, narrative and 
 comment, should prove convenient and profita- 
 ble. The author hopes it often may serve, es- 
 pecially in the case of youthful readers, as a 
 pleasant introduction to a comprehensive study 
 
 6 
 
PREFACE 
 
 and appreciation of the Shakespearian dramas 
 in their entirety. And as the master poet and 
 dramatist is unequalled in entertainment, a care- 
 fully chosen, copious and fully representative 
 collection of his wit and humour scarcely can 
 fail to afford delight to intelligent minds open 
 to mirthful influences. 
 
 William A. Lawson. 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S WIT AND 
 HUMOUR 
 
 The pre-eminence of Shakespeare as a drama- 
 tist and poet is due no less to his astonishing 
 versatility than to the greatness of his powers. 
 No other dramatic author has shown so wide a 
 range of genius. Ancient Greece had poets 
 who never have been surpassed in tragedy, but 
 none who, like the author of " Macbeth," 
 " Othello," " Henry IV," " As You Like It," 
 " A Midsummer Night's Dream," and " The 
 Tempest," exhibited supreme mastery alike in 
 tragedy, comedy, and the realm of fancy. 
 Shakespeare touched with equal ease the sub- 
 lime and the ridiculous, his love of fun and in- 
 finite command of wit and humour being no 
 less remarkable than his poetic fancy, profound 
 insight into human nature, and matchless gifts 
 of expression. 
 
 While it is only to his wit and humour that 
 this book in the main relates, yet blended with 
 
 9 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S WIT AND 
 HUMOUR 
 
 The pre-eminence of Shakespeare as a drama- 
 tist and poet is due no less to his astonishing 
 versatility than to the greatness of his powers. 
 No other dramatic author has shown so wide a 
 range of genius. Ancient Greece had poets 
 who never have been surpassed in tragedy, but 
 none who, like the author of " Macbeth," 
 " Othello," " Henry IV," " As You Like It," 
 " A Midsummer Night's Dream," and " The 
 Tempest," exhibited supreme mastery alike in 
 tragedy, comedy, and the realm of fancy. 
 Shakespeare touched with equal ease the sub- 
 lime and the ridiculous, his love of fun and in- 
 finite command of wit and humour being no 
 less remarkable than his poetic fancy, profound 
 insight into human nature, and matchless gifts 
 of expression. 
 
 While it is only to his wit and humour that 
 this book in the main relates, yet blended with 
 
 9 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 what is witty or humourous is much of what is 
 most beautiful in poetry, most charming in 
 fancy, tenderest in sentiment, and wisest in phi- 
 losophy of life. So to present from his many 
 plays what appropriately may be gathered under 
 the title of the present volume is to exhibit not 
 only the most admirable and varied wit and de- 
 lightful humour, but also a great fund of knowl- 
 edge of human nature, charming felicity of 
 diction, unapproachable powers of characterisa- 
 tion, and the most captivating flights of imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 Shakespeare was both a great wit and a great 
 humourist. But how shall wit and humour be 
 distinguished? It is not uncommon in litera- 
 ture to find them confused, and some noted 
 writers have undertaken to define humour as 
 certain forms of wit, which tends to make con- 
 fusion worse confounded. 
 
 It is first to be remarked that wit is a lways 
 
 purely a mental quality^ and, unlike humour, 
 can never arise from merely physical objects, 
 or things seen. Thus a stage scene or situation 
 may be intensely humourous, as where Falstaff 
 feigns death on the battlefield, but can never be 
 witty. 
 
 lo 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 The differences between wit and humour are 
 numerous, but neither quality can well be 
 bounded by a precise definition. ,Wit is often 
 CT uel, while true humour is never unkin d. Wit 
 may be likened to the flash of the lightning; 
 humour to the genial warmth of the sun. The 
 humourist is always sympathetic, and many great 
 humourous writers, such as Charles Dickens, in- 
 voke tears as well as smiles and laughter, often 
 combining the ludicrous with the pathetic. So 
 Thackeray, in speaking of the " tender hu- 
 mour " of Dickens, calls humour " a mixture of 
 love and wit." This may not be a very good 
 definition, but it serves to direct attention to 
 kindness as an essential element of humour. 
 
 A good distinction between wit and humour 
 is made in Professor Henry Reed's " Lectures 
 on English Literature," in which he says : 
 
 " Wit, I think, may be regarded as a purely 
 intellectual process, while humour is a sense 
 of the ridiculous controlled by feeling, and co- 
 existent often with the gentlest and deepest 
 pathos." 
 
 Another difference, to use an apt saying from 
 Shakespeare, is that " brevity is the soul of 
 wit," while the effect of humour is often height- 
 
 II 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 ened by amplification. This is a fortunate 
 thing for those professional humourists of the 
 present day who are paid by the number of 
 words or lines, or by the page or column. 
 
 De Quincey goes so far as to say that humour 
 is of a diffusive quality, while wit is concen- 
 trated within a few words. But this, although 
 generally true, is not always the case. 
 
 Sydney Smith, in one of his essays, describes 
 wit as the discovery of an unexpected relation 
 between ideas, implying superior intelligence 
 and exciting no other emotion than surprise. 
 He seems to have overlooked the element of 
 pleasure, without which there can scarcely be 
 wit. But the pleasure is not usually shared by 
 the object or victim of a witticism, however 
 keenly it may be enjoyed by others. 
 
 The famous divine considered puns to be 
 merely the wit of words, consisting in the dis- 
 covery of surprising verbal relations. But he 
 pointed out that sometimes a pun is so superior 
 as to redeem its species, instancing the case of 
 a schoolboy who persisted in pronouncing " pa- 
 triarchs " " partridges," thus giving some one 
 opportunity to say the lad was making game 
 of the patriarchs. On the whole, however, 
 
 12 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Sydney Smith regarded puns as a low order of 
 wit, and " deservedly in bad repute." 
 
 According to the same entertaining author, 
 the essence of humour is incongruity which cre- 
 ates a sense of surprise and no other emotion. 
 If, for example, he says, sympathy be aroused, 
 the sense of humour disappears. 
 
 But this is by no means an invariable rule. 
 Consider, for instance, the singular blending of 
 humour and pathos in the account of Falstaff's 
 death by Pistol's wife (Dame Quickly) in 
 " Henry V," wherein she says : 
 
 " Nay, sure, he's not In hell; he's in Arthur's 
 bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 
 . . . Now I, to comfort him, bid him, 'a should 
 not think of God; I hoped there was no need 
 to trouble himself with any such thoughts 
 yet," etc. 
 
 It is to be observed that the incongruity 
 which causes mirth may be merely physical, as 
 when a pompous and carefully attired person 
 excites laughter by slipping on an icy sidewalk 
 and waving his arms wildly as he falls, unin- 
 jured. Of the same order of humour is buf- 
 foonery, such as the antics of a circus clown, 
 and likewise mimicry, which Is always directed 
 
 13 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 to personal peculiarities or defects of some 
 kind. 
 
 Prof. R. G. Moulton has called humour the 
 " human interest in the ludicrous." It may lie 
 in situation, in accident, or in acts, but wit is 
 always verbal. 
 
 An element of sympathy always may be dis- 
 cerned in Shakespeare's humour, and it is this 
 which serves to distinguish it from cold satire, 
 such as characterises the writings of Dean Swift. 
 This kindly feeling for human weaknesses and 
 follies, this broad sympathy is manifest in 
 nearly all the plays. It makes us forget or 
 overlook, for the time being at least, the faults 
 and vices of Falstaff, in our appreciation of 
 the pleasure he affords us by his unfailing 
 gaiety. 
 
 But Falstaff is more witty than humourous, 
 although rich in both qualities. His humour- 
 ous sense of the contrast between his own huge 
 bulk and his diminutive page is shown when he 
 addresses him ironically as "you giant," and 
 says: 
 
 " I do here walk before thee, like a sow, 
 that hath overwhelmed all her litter but one. 
 If the prince put thee into my service for any 
 14 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 better reason than to set me off, why then I 
 have no judgment." 
 
 On the other hand, Falstaff's replies to the 
 Chief Justice sparkle with wit. When, for ex- 
 ample, the jurist said to him, " God send the 
 prince a better companion," the ready retort 
 was, " God send the companion a better prince." 
 
 It has been said that a humourist is always 
 witty, but that a wit may not be at all humor- 
 ous. Accordingly we find a number of Shake- 
 speare's characters both witty and humourous, 
 and some showing wit without humour. Yet 
 others exhibit humour without wit. 
 
 Again there are characters, such as Dog- 
 berry, Bottom, and Malvolio . who are desti- 
 tute of either quality^ and still a source of vast 
 and unfailing entertainment. The constable 
 arouses the liveliest mirth by his pompous ig- 
 norance and self-importance. Bottom by his 
 blundering dulness and simplicity, and Olivia's 
 steward by his exceeding vanity and arrogant 
 pretensions. 
 
 In the same witless category may be placed 
 Justice Shallow and Slender, who are among the 
 most amusing of all the playwright's creations. 
 
 It will be observed that to make illiterate 
 
 IS 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 persons misuse words and phrases is one of 
 Sliakespeare's favourite means of furnishing en- 
 tertainment, as illustrated by Dogberry, Bot- 
 tom, Mistress Quickly, Launcelot Gobbo, 
 Pistol, and other characters. Perhaps Dame 
 Quickly's ludicrous verbal blunders may have 
 given Sheridan the hint for his scarcely less fa- 
 mous Mrs. Malaprop. 
 
 The villainous and subtle lago has a keen, 
 cynical wit, but, being wholly lacking in sym- 
 pathy, he shows no trace of humour. His wit 
 and intellectual power would be more often re- 
 marked and admired were not his character so 
 malevolent and detestable. Note his opinion 
 of women: 
 
 " — You are pictures out of doors. 
 
 Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitchens, 
 
 Saints in your injuries, devils being offended." 
 
 A very different sort of wit is that o f Rosa- 
 lin|d. the heroine of "As You Like It,"~one 
 of the most charming and lovable of Shake- 
 speare's women. It bubbles forth in its spar- 
 kling freshness and purity like the water of a 
 mountain spring, spontaneous, constant, and de- 
 lightful. It is so amiable as to partake some- 
 i6 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 what of the nature of humour. Her wit is 
 chiefly raillery, exhibited in mock seriousness, 
 but it never inflicts a wound. As displayed to 
 Orlando, it masks a tender, romantic love. 
 There is a characteristic touch of Rosalind's wit 
 in her remark to her almost equally witty friend 
 Celia : 
 
 "Do you not know I am a woman? when I 
 think I must speak," 
 
 Still another kind of wit is that of Mercutio, 
 friend of Romeo. It is distinctively masculine, 
 good-humoured, gay, light-hearted, and highly 
 imaginative. Nothing could be richer in fancy 
 or brighter with wit than his well-known lines, 
 beginning : 
 
 " Oh, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with 
 you — " 
 
 in which he speaks of a soldier, frighted from 
 his sleep, who " swears a prayer or two, and 
 sleeps again." 
 
 Mercutio is so rare a character that every 
 reader of " Romeo and Juliet " must regret 
 his "untimely taking off," in the third act of 
 the play. 
 
 17 
 
SHAKESPEARES 
 
 The wit of Portia, in " The Merghaai; of 
 Venice," as dispIaYecr" in hey rnti^ism "^ her 
 suitors, is of a frolicsome and mocking nature. 
 It is no less bright than Rosalind's, and is 
 coupled with rare discernment and grace of 
 diction. One of the most quoted lines from 
 our great author is her summary of Monsieur 
 
 Le Bon: ' 
 
 * 
 " God macfe him, and therefore let him pass 
 for a man." 
 
 Satire is the dis tinguishing qu ality of Biro n, 
 in " Lov e's Labour' s Lost," exhibited m his 
 ridicule oT^he tender passion and of other per- 
 sons of the play. His is the oft-quoted saying: 
 
 " Small have continual plodders ever won, 
 Save base authority from others' books." 
 
 Even more satirical than Biron, and also ex- 
 ceedingly witty, are both Beatrice and Benedick 
 in " Much Ado About Nothing." 
 
 The jester in " King Lear " Is a " bitter 
 fool," whose wit is of the sharpest, but yet 
 of a pathetic quality, because of his manifest 
 devotion to his fallen master. It is this char- 
 acter who likens " nothing " to " the breath of 
 i8 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 an unfed lawyer," and tells of the man who, 
 " in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his 
 hay." 
 
 A peculiar sort of morbid humour is that of 
 " the melancholy Jacques," in "As fou Like 
 It." Among the-mOSTTamiliar and niost fre- 
 quently quoted passages in the plays are his 
 lines beginning, 
 
 " All the world's a stage, 
 
 And ail tne men a nd women mer ely players." 
 
 This picturesque and striking view of man's 
 progress from the cradle to the grave is com- 
 monly assumed to be Shakespeare's own. But 
 when analysed it is seen to be highly cynical, 
 making life appear rather a vain and empty 
 thing. The ideas are highly characteristic of 
 Jacques, but not of the poet's genial and noble 
 philosophy, as gathered from his works in gen- 
 eral. Jacques is a misanthrope, who finds lit- 
 tle good in mankind and nothing much in the 
 world to please him. But his strange humour 
 and superior intellect make him an interesting 
 character and his sayings memorable. 
 
 In marked contrast with Jacques is Touch- 
 stone, the professional jester in the same play, 
 
 19 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 whose humour is of a natural and good-natured 
 sort. He is one of the cleverest of the drama- 
 tist's " fools," and there is much wisdom In his 
 foolery. As the banished Duke says of him, 
 " He uses his folly like a stalking horse, and, 
 under the presentation of that, he shoots his 
 wit." 
 
 The same remark applies to all Shakespeare's 
 " fools " or " clowns." 
 
 Two other forms of humour appear in " The 
 'TWm'np; of the Shrew." The capricious, mad 
 humour of Petruchio, who breaks the unruly, 
 termagant spirit ot Katharine by the exercise of 
 a domineering will, under show of kindness, is 
 highly ironical. And his apparel is no less fan- 
 tastic than his humour. 
 
 Drollery distingoishes the humour of 
 Grumio, Petruchio's servant, a most comical 
 fellow, full of an antic, mischievous spirit. 
 One of his peculiarities is illustrated when he 
 tantalises the hungry Katharine by offering her 
 " the mustard without the beef," and. so pro- 
 vokes her to beat him. 
 
 The ironical humour of Hamlet is of a high 
 and philosophic order, tinged with sadness. It 
 is always gentle, and cloaked under an appear- 
 20 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 ance of seriousness: he never openly jests. 
 There is occasionally a touch of satire in it, 
 as in his replies to Polonius and his instruc- 
 tions to the players. The best of his humour 
 appears in his discourse with Horatio and the 
 grave-diggers, in which the noble prince moral- 
 ises upon mortality, suggesting that Caesar's 
 clay " may stop some hole to keep the wind 
 away," and that the dust of Alexander may do 
 the same office for a bunghole. 
 
 There are numerous other personages in the 
 plays — including Autolycus in " The Winter's 
 Tale," and the two Dromios in " The Comedy 
 of Errors," — who are more or less witty or 
 humourous, but it is needless to make particular 
 mention" of them here. Added to the more 
 prominent above noted, they complete a long 
 and wonderful procession of clearly defined 
 characters, of which no two are alike. In noth- 
 ing is Shakespeare's genius for characterisation 
 more strikingly displayed than in his comic crea- 
 tions, such as Falstaff, and those roles of a grave 
 or tragic sort which yet occasionally relax into 
 entertainment, as in the case of Hamlet, whose 
 rare humour helps to endear him to all hearts. 
 
 Some of the poet's earlier comedies, such 
 
 21 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 as "Lo ^'s Labour's Los t" and "The Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona. " teem with puns and 
 j esting quibbles . It must be admitted that 
 many o f these plays upon words are an i nferior 
 so rt of wit. But in this Shakespeare merely 
 followed the fashion of his time, which ran to 
 all sorts of verbal conceits and trivialities, then 
 much heard and admired in all ranks of society, 
 from the court of Queen Elizabeth down to the 
 lowest orders. Pope overlooked this custom 
 in his strictures upon the dramatist's use of 
 puns and other verbal subtleties as low and 
 trifling. 
 
 In the later plays, puns and quibbles are rela- 
 tively rare, and the wit is almost entirely that 
 of the relations between ideas, not merely ver- 
 bal resemblances. 
 
 22 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 
 
 " The Two Gentlemen of Verona " is be- 
 lieved to have been based upon a Spanish play 
 of an earlier period, having a similar story. 
 
 Proteus and Valentine dwell in Verona and 
 are close friends. Valentine goes to Milan, 
 where he pays court to Silvia, daughter of the 
 Duke of Milan. Thither, after a time, Pro- 
 teus is sent by his father, against his own incli- 
 nation, for he is very much enamoured of Julia, 
 a lady of Verona. But Proteus no sooner sees 
 Silvia than he conceives a passion for her, and 
 treacherously aims to win her from his friend 
 Valentine, abandoning his former love for 
 Julia. 
 
 The duke is bent on marrying his daughter 
 to one Thurio, and Valentine plans an elope- 
 ment, of which Proteus warns her father. 
 The elopement is prevented, and Valentine is 
 banished by the indignant duke. Proteus then 
 pretends to aid Thurio, but secretly presses his 
 own suit to Silvia, who scornfully repels him 
 23 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 and reproaches him for his treachery. She 
 ventures forth, in the company of a friend, to 
 seek Valentine, who has fallen into the hands 
 of outlaws, banished gentlemen like himself, 
 and has agreed to become their leader. 
 
 Meanwhile the forlorn Julia has repaired to 
 Milan in the disguise of a youth, and enters 
 the service of Proteus, whose perfidy she thus 
 discovers. But she still conceals her identity, 
 under the name of Sebastian, and remains faith- 
 ful to him. Together they depart from Milan 
 to seek Silvia, and they find her in the forest 
 inhabited by the outlaws. Being again repulsed 
 by Silvia, Proteus threatens her with violence, 
 and is overheard by Valentine, who rescues her 
 and denounces him. Proteus makes quick re- 
 pentance and is as quickly forgiven by Valen- 
 tine. Julia then reveals herself, and the old 
 love of Proteus is revived. The duke comes in 
 search of his daughter, pardons Valentine, and 
 bestows her hand upon him. And so the play 
 ends happily. 
 
 " The Two Gentlemen of Verona " is doubt- 
 less one of the earliest, if not the first, of Shake- 
 speare's plays. It has much humour, but most 
 of it is of a quality inferior to that of his later 
 24 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 comedies. The fashion of the age ran greatly 
 to verbal quibbles, and wit was considered to 
 lie in ingenious juggling with words. The 
 dramatist merely followed custom in this re- 
 gard, but in doing so incurred the reproach of 
 some modem critics. 
 
 Usage in the Elizabethan period required 
 the introduction of a court fool or clown, in 
 compositions for the stage, and in the present 
 piece this conventional requirement is met by 
 the substitution of servants, Launce and Speed, 
 as fun-makers. 
 
 The play opens in Verona, with an exchange 
 of friendly sentiment between Proteus and Val- 
 entine. Proteus seeks to dissuade his friend 
 from going to Milan, and Valentine replies : 
 
 Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus; 
 Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. 
 
 Pro. If ever danger do .environ thee, 
 Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
 For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine. 
 
 Val. And on a love-book pray for my suc- 
 cess. 
 Pro. Upon some book I love I'll pray for 
 tnee. 
 
 25 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Val. That's on some shallow story of deep 
 love, 
 How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont. 
 
 Pro. That's a deep story of a deeper love; 
 For he was more than over shoes in love. 
 Val. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in 
 love, 
 And yet you never swam the Hellespont. 
 
 Pro. Over the boots 1 nay, give me not the 
 
 boots. 
 Val. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. 
 Pro. , What? 
 
 Val. To be in love, where scorn is bought 
 with groans; 
 Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading 
 
 moment's mirth 
 With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights: 
 If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; 
 If lost, why then a grievous labour won; 
 However, but a folly bought with wit. 
 Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 
 
 • ••••" 
 
 Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at ; I am not Love. 
 
 Val. Love is your master, for he masters 
 you: 
 And he that is so yoked by a fool, 
 Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. 
 
 Pro. Yet writers say. As in the sweetest 
 
 The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
 Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 
 26 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Vol. And writers say, As the most forward 
 bud 
 Is eaten by the canker ere It blow, 
 Even so by love the young and tender wit 
 Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud, 
 Losing his verdure even in the prime. 
 And all the fair effects of future hopes. 
 But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee 
 That art a votary to fond desire ? 
 Once more adieu. 
 
 Valentine departs and Speed, his servant, 
 enters. 
 
 Proteus. Gav'st thou my letter to Julia ? 
 Speed. Ay, sir. 
 
 • ■ ■ • a • 
 
 Pro. But what said she? did she nod? 
 
 Speed. \_Nodding.^ Ay. 
 
 Pro. Nod — Ay — why, that's noddy. 
 
 Speed. You mistook, sir ; I say she did nod : 
 and you ask me if she did nod; and I say, Ay. 
 
 Pro. And that set together is — noddy. 
 
 Speed. Now you have taken the pains to set 
 it together, take it for your pains. 
 
 Pro. No, no; you shall have it for bearing 
 the letter. 
 
 Speed. Well, I perceive I must be fain to 
 bear with you. 
 
 Pro. Why, sir, how do you bear with me? 
 27 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Speed. Marry, sir, the letter very orderly: 
 having nothing but the word noddy for my 
 pains. 
 
 Pro. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. 
 
 Speed. And yet it cannot overtake your 
 slow purse. 
 
 Pro. Come, come; open the matter in brief: 
 what said she? 
 
 Speed. Open your purse, that the money 
 and the matter may be both at once delivered. 
 
 Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains : what 
 said she? 
 
 Speed. Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win 
 her. 
 
 Pro. Why, couldst thou perceive so much 
 from her? 
 
 Speed. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all 
 frorn her; no, not so much as a ducat for de- 
 livering your letter: and being so hard to me 
 that brought your mind, I fear she'll prove as 
 hard to you in telling her mind. Give her no 
 token but stones; for she's as hard as steel. 
 
 Pro. What! said she nothing? 
 
 Speed. No, not so much as — Take this for 
 thy pains. 
 
 The scene changes and a dialogue occurs be- 
 tween Julia and Lucetta, her waiting-woman. 
 
 Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 
 That every day with parle encounter me, 
 28 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 In thy opinion which is worthiest love? 
 
 What think'st thou of the gentle Proteus ? 
 Luc. Lord, lord I to see what folly reigns 
 
 in us I 
 Jul. How now ! what means this passion at 
 
 his name? 
 Luc. Pardon, dear madam; 'tis a passing 
 
 shame 
 That I, unworthy body as I am. 
 Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. 
 
 Jul. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 
 Luc. Then thus : of many good I think him 
 
 best. 
 Jul. Your reason? 
 
 Luc. I have no other but a woman's reason ; 
 I think him so, because I think him so. 
 
 Jul. And wouldst thou have me cast my love 
 
 on him? 
 Luc. Ay, if you thought your love not cast 
 
 away. 
 Jul. Why, he of all the rest hath never 
 
 moved me. 
 Luc. Yet he of all the rest, I think, best 
 
 loves ye. 
 Jul. His little speaking shows his love but 
 
 small. 
 Luc. Fire that is closest kept burns most of 
 
 all. 
 Jul. They do not love that do not show 
 
 their love. 
 
 29 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Luc. O, they love least that let men know 
 
 their love. 
 Jul. I would I knew his mind. 
 Luc. Peruse this paper, madam. 
 
 \^Gives a letter. 
 
 Julia takes the love-letter, which Lucetta 
 says she thinks is from Proteus, and, pretend- 
 ing to be angry, gives it back to Lucetta, to be 
 returned, and dismisses her summarily. 
 
 Jul. And yet, I would I had o'erlook'd the 
 
 letter. 
 It were a shame to call her back again. 
 And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. 
 What fool is she, that knows I am a maid. 
 And would not force the letter to my view ? 
 Since maids, in modesty, say No to that 
 Which they would have the profferer construe 
 
 Ay. 
 Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love. 
 That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse. 
 And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! 
 How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence. 
 When willingly I would have had her here ! 
 How angrily I taught my brow to frown. 
 When inward joy enforced my heart to smile ! 
 My penance is to call Lucetta back. 
 And ask remission for my folly past : — 
 What, ho ! Lucetta ? 
 
 30 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Re-enter Lucetta. 
 
 Luc. What would your ladyship? 
 
 Jul. Is it near dinner time? 
 
 Luc. I would it were; 
 
 That you might kill your stomach on your meat, 
 And not upon your maid. 
 
 Julia, still professing unconcern, contrives to 
 recover the letter, and, having read it, tears 
 it and throws it down. Lucetta retires, remark- 
 ing, aside: 
 
 . . . she would be best pleased 
 To be so angered with another letter. 
 
 Julia then confesses to herself her love for 
 Proteus, kissing each piece of paper for amends. 
 
 The succeeding act finds Valentine and Speed 
 in Milan. 
 
 Val. Go to, sir; tell me, do you know 
 Madam Silvia ? 
 
 Speed. She that your worship loves? 
 
 Val. Why, how know you that I am in love ? 
 
 Speed. Marry, by these special marks : first 
 you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreath 
 your arms like a mal-content; to relish a love- 
 song, like a robin redbreast ; to walk alone, like 
 one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a 
 school-boy that had lost his A B C ; to weep, like 
 31 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 a young wench that had buried her grandam; 
 to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like 
 one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a 
 beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when 
 you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you 
 walked, to walk like one of the lions; when 
 you fasted, it was presently after dinner; 
 when you looked sadly, it was for want of 
 money; and now you are metamorphosed with 
 a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can 
 hardly think you my master. 
 
 Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady 
 Silvia ? 
 
 Speed. She that you gaze on so, as she sits 
 at supper? 
 
 Val. Hast thou observed that? even she I 
 mean. 
 
 Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 
 
 Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on 
 her, and yet knowest her not? 
 
 Speed. Is she not hard favoured, sir? 
 
 Val. Not so fair, boy, as well favoured. 
 
 Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 
 
 Val. What dost thou know? 
 
 Speed. That she is not so fair as (of you) 
 well favoured. 
 
 Val. I mean that her beauty is exquisite, 
 but her favour infinite. 
 
 Speed. That's because the one is painted 
 and the other out of all count. 
 32 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Val. How painted? arid how out of count. 
 
 Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her 
 fair, that no man counts of her beauty. 
 
 Val. How esteemest thou me? I account 
 of her beauty. 
 
 Speed. You never saw her since she was 
 deformed. 
 
 Val. How long hath she been deformed? 
 
 Speed. Ever since you loved her. 
 
 Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her ; 
 and still I see her beautiful. 
 
 Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 
 
 Val. Why? 
 
 Speed. Because love is blind. 
 
 Val. Belike, boy, then you are in love: for 
 last morning you could not see to wipe my 
 shoes. 
 
 Speed. True, sir; I was in love with my 
 bed ; I thank you, you swinged me for my love, 
 which makes me the bolder to chide you for 
 yours. 
 
 A later scene introduces Launce, servant to 
 Proteus, upon a street in Verona, leading his 
 dog. 
 
 Laun. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have 
 done weeping; all the kind of the Launces have 
 this very fault : I have received my proportion, 
 like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir. 
 
 33 
 
SHAKESPEARE*S 
 
 Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab 
 my dog to be the sourest-natured dog that lives : 
 my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sis- 
 ter crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing 
 her hands, and all our house in a great per- 
 plexity; yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed 
 one tear : he is a stone, a very pebble stone, and 
 has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew 
 would have wept to have seen our parting; why, 
 my grandam having no eyes, look you, wept 
 herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll show 
 you the manner of it: this shoe is my father; — 
 no, this left shoe is my father; — no, no, 
 this left shoe is my mother; nay, that can- 
 not be so neither; yes, it is so, it is so; it 
 hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole 
 in it is my mother, and this my father. A 
 vengeance on't! there 'tis. Now, sir, this staff 
 is my sister ; for, look you, she is as white as a 
 lily and as small as a wand; this hat is Nan our 
 maid ; I am the dog : — no, the dog is himself, 
 and I am the dog, — O, the dog is me, and I am 
 myself; ay, so, so. Now come I to my father; 
 Father, your blessing; — now should not the 
 shoe speak a word for weeping; now should I 
 kiss my father ; well, he weeps on : — now come 
 I to my mother (O, that she could speak now !) 
 like a wood woman ; — well, I kiss her : — why 
 there 'tis; here's my mother's breath up and 
 down; now come I to my sister; mark the moan 
 she makes : now the dog all this while sheds not 
 34 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 a tear, nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the 
 dust with my tears. 
 
 Enter Panthino (a servant). 
 
 Pan. Launce, away, away aboard; thy mas- 
 ter is shipped, and thou art to post after with 
 oars. What's the matter! why weep'st thou, 
 man ? Away, ass ; you will lose the tide if you 
 tarry any longer. 
 
 Laun. It is no matter if the tied were lost; 
 for it is the unkindest tied that ever man tied. 
 
 Pan. What's the unkindest tide ? 
 
 Laun. Why, he that's tied here: Crab my 
 dog. 
 
 Pan. Tut, man; I mean thou'lt lose the 
 flood: and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage; 
 and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master ; and 
 in losing thy master, lose thy service; and, in 
 losing thy service, — Why dost thou stop my 
 mouth ? 
 
 Laun. For fear thou shouldst lose thy 
 tongue. 
 
 The Duke of Milan, in a scene with Valen- 
 tine, seeks to discover the latter's intentions re- 
 garding Silvia. 
 
 Duke. There is a lady, sir, in Milan, here, 
 Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy. 
 And nought esteems my aged eloquence : 
 
 35 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 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. 
 
 Fal. Win her with gifts, if she respect not 
 
 words ; 
 Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, 
 More than quick words do move a woman's 
 
 mind. 
 Duke. But she did scorn a present I sent 
 
 her. 
 Fal. 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, 'tis not in hate of you, 
 But rather to beget more love in you : 
 If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; 
 For why, the fools are mad if left alone. 
 Take no repulse whatever she doth say: 
 For, ffet 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. 
 
 Z6 
 
\^ 
 
 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST 
 
 " Love's Labour's Lost " Is one of the most 
 frolicsome and vivacious, and perhaps the light- 
 est, of Shakespeare's comedies. Like " The 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona," it exhibits his ear- 
 liest and most immature style. It is charac- 
 terised by much rhyming , c onstant plays upo n 
 words , and studied repartee, its incessant qu ib- 
 b ling being in accordance with the dramatic 
 fashion of the time. In these earlier composi- 
 tions of the author, the wit c onsis ts rather j n 
 the di sclosure of resemblances be tween words 
 than between ideas, the latter being a much 
 higher order oF wit, which reached its culmina- 
 tion in Falstaff. 
 
 The scene of this play is a park in Navarre, 
 where King Ferdinand pledges himself and his 
 attendant lords — Biron, Longaville, and Du- 
 main — to an ascetic life for a period of three 
 years, during which they are not to see any 
 woman, are to spend their time in study, to eat 
 but one meal daily, to fast one day in each 
 
 37 
 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 week, and to sleep not more than three hours 
 in the twenty-four. But the unexpected com- 
 ing of a princess of France on a diplomatic mis- 
 sion, attended by her ladies - — Rosaline, Maria, 
 and Katherine — of necessity suspends this 
 programme for the time being, and results in 
 the complete forsaking of their vows by the 
 king and his courtiers, through the influence of 
 the tender passion. 
 
 When the king unfolds his academic scheme, 
 Longaville at once accepts it, saying: 
 
 I am resolv'd; 'tis 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 bankrupt quite the wits. 
 
 But Biron at first protests, in this wise : 
 
 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. 
 
 38 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Too much -to know is to know naught but fame; 
 And every godfather can give a name. 
 
 King. How well he's read, to reason against 
 reading ! 
 
 A curious character in this play is Don 
 Armado, a pompous and fantastical Spaniard, 
 whose page is Moth, a bright-witted lad. Here 
 is an example of their talk: 
 
 Arm. 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 affection 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 out- 
 swear Cupid, Comfort me, boy; what great 
 men have been in love? 
 
 Moth. Hercules, master. 
 
 Arm. Most sweet Hercules ! — More au- 
 thority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my 
 child, let them be men of good repute and car- 
 riage. 
 
 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. 
 
 Arm. O well-knit Samson! strong- jointed 
 Samson I I do excel thee in my rapier as much 
 39 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in 
 love too: — who was Samson's love, my dear 
 Moth? 
 
 Moth. A woman, master. 
 
 The satirical Biron falls in love with Rosa- 
 line, a lady in the train of the princess, and thus 
 he soliloquises: 
 
 O ! — and I, forsooth, in love ! I, that have 
 
 been love's whip ; 
 A very beadle to a humourous sigh ; 
 A critic; nay, a night-watch constable; 
 A domineering pedant o'er the boy. 
 Than whom no mortal so magnificent 1 
 This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy; 
 This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid: 
 Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, 
 The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, 
 Liege of all loiterers and malcontents. . . . 
 Whatl I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife! 
 A woman, that is like a German clock. 
 Still a-repairing; ever out of frame; 
 And never going aright, being a watch. 
 But being watch'd that it may still go right ! 
 
 Among the odd characters in the play are 
 Holof ernes, a pedantic schoolmaster; Sir Na- 
 thaniel, a foolish curate fond of big words, and 
 Costard, a clown. The following illustrates 
 their respective qualities: 
 40 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Nath. (to Holofernes.) I praise God for 
 you, sir ; your reasons at dinner have been sharp 
 and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, 
 witty without affection, audacious without im- 
 pudency, learned without opinion, and strange 
 without heresy. I did converse this quondam 
 day with a companion of the king's, who is in- 
 tituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de 
 Armado. 
 
 Hoi. Novi hominem tanquam te: his hu- 
 mour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his 
 tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majes- 
 tical, and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, 
 and thrasonical. He Is too picked, too spruce, 
 too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, 
 as I may call it. 
 
 Nath. A most singular and choice epithet, 
 [Takes out his table-book. 
 
 Hoi. He draweth out the thread of his ver- 
 bosity finer than the staple of his argu- 
 ment. 
 
 Moth. They have been at a great feast of 
 languages and stolen the scraps. 
 
 [To Costard, aside. 
 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 so 
 long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus : 
 thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. 
 41 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Biron gives this satirical description of a 
 courtier accompanying the princess: 
 
 This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons peas, 
 And utters it again when God doth please : 
 He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares 
 At wakes, and wassels, meetings, markets, fairs ; 
 And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, 
 Have not the grace to grace it with such show. 
 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 courtesy: 
 This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice, 
 That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice 
 In 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: 
 This is the flower that smiles on every one. 
 To show his teeth as white as whale's bone : 
 And consciences that will not die in debt 
 Pay him the due of honey-tongu'd Boyet. 
 
 42 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 
 
 There is no little fun in " The Comedy of 
 Errors," but in the main it arises from humour- 
 ous situations dependent upon mistakes of iden- 
 tity. The play has thus more of the elements 
 of farce than of true comedy, and, if presented 
 by a capable dramatic company, is much better 
 enjoyed and appreciated in the theatre than 
 when read. It is apparently based upon a 
 Roman comedy, the " Menaechmi " of Plautus, 
 but is considered much superior to the Latin 
 original. 
 
 The plot lies in a series of laughable errors 
 arising from the impossibility of distinguishing 
 between the twin brothers Antipholus, and also 
 between their twin servants, the two Dromios. 
 The comic dialogue suffers by comparison with 
 later comedies by the same author. Here is a 
 specimen, in which Antipholus of Syracuse 
 matches his wit with that of his servant Dromio : 
 
 Ant. S. Well, sir, learn to jest In good time : 
 There's a time for all things. 
 
 43 
 
SHAKESPEARE^S 
 
 Dro. S. I durst have denied that before you 
 were so choleric. 
 
 Jnt. S. By what rule, sir? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the 
 plain bald pate of Father Time himself. 
 
 Jnt. S. Let's hear it. 
 
 Dro. S. There's no time for a man to re- 
 cover his hair, that grows bald by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and re- 
 covery ? 
 
 Dro. S. Yes, to pay a fine for a peruke, and 
 recover the lost hair of another man. 
 
 Jnt. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, 
 being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement? 
 
 Dro. S. Because it is a blessing that he be- 
 stows on beasts : and what he hath scanted men 
 in hair he hath given them in wit. 
 
 Jnt. S. Why, but there's many a man with 
 more hair than wit. 
 
 Dro. S. Not a man of those but he hath the 
 wit to lose his hair. 
 
 The other Antipholus gives this notable de- 
 scription of Pinch, who figures in the play : 
 
 They brought one Pinch; a hungry lean- faced 
 
 villain, 
 A mere anatomy, a mountebank, 
 A thread-bare juggler, and a fortune-teller; 
 A needy, hoUow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch; 
 A living dead man. 
 
 .44 
 
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW 
 
 The " shrew " is Katharine, one of the two 
 daughters of Baptista, a rich gentleman of Pad- 
 ua. Petruchio is a gentleman of Verona, who 
 comes to Padua for the avowed purpose of mar- 
 rying for money. He is warned of Katharine's 
 violent temper and shrewish disposition, but 
 nevertheless becomes a suitor for her hand and 
 a share of her father's wealth. He is a man 
 of bold and enterprising spirit, possessed of a 
 wild, fantastic humour, who assumes an imperi- 
 ous attitude toward Katharine, the better to sub- 
 due her self-will, unruly nature, and insolent 
 demeanour. His method is to mask his domi- 
 neering tactics with an air of kindness and 
 solicitude, but, if his methods are rough and 
 overbearing, he is not bad-hearted, and is only 
 violent when it suits his purpose to be so. 
 
 Grumio, servant to Petruchio, has a pecu- 
 liarly antic disposition and is invincibly droll 
 under all circumstances. Bianca, a sister of 
 Katharine, is of a sweet nature. She has three 
 suitors — Lucentio, Gremio, and Hortensio. 
 
 45 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Petruchio appears with Grumio, in the open- 
 ing scene of the play, before the house of his 
 friend Hortensio, in Padua. 
 
 Pet. . . . Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I 
 
 say. 
 Gru. Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is 
 there any man has rebused your worship ? 
 Pet. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. 
 Gru. Knock you here, sir? why, sir, what 
 am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir? 
 Pet. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate. 
 And rap me well, or I'll 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 ? 
 Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock I'll wring it : 
 I'll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. 
 
 \^He wrings Grumio by the ears. 
 Gru. Help, masters, help! my master is 
 
 mad. 
 Pet. Now, knock when I bid you; sirrah 
 villain ! 
 
 Enter Hortensio. 
 
 Hor. How now ! what's the matter ? — My 
 old friend Grumio ! and my good friend Petru- 
 chio! . . . 
 
 46 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Pet. Signior Hortensio, come you to part 
 the fray? . . . 
 
 Hor. , . . Rise, Grumio, rise; we will 
 
 compound this quarrel. 
 Gru. ... 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. . . . 
 
 Whom would to God I had well knock'd at first. 
 Then had not Grumio come by the worst. 
 Pet. A senseless villain I — Good Horten- 
 sio, 
 I bade the rascal knock upon your gate. 
 And could not get him for my heart to do it. 
 Gru. Knock at the gate 1 — O, heavens ! 
 Spake you not these words plain, — Sirrah 
 
 knock me here, 
 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. 
 
 In a subsequent scene, Hortensio introduces 
 Petruchio to Gremio, and says Petruchio 
 
 47 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Will undertake to woo curst Katharine ; 
 Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. 
 
 Pet. I know she Is an irksome, brawling 
 scold. 
 
 Grem. . . . But will you woo this wild-cat? 
 
 Pet. Will I live? 
 
 Gru. Will he woo her ? ay, or I'll hang her. 
 
 Pet. Why came I hither but to that intent? 
 Think you a little din can daunt mine ears ? 
 Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 
 Have I not heard the sea, puff'd up with winds, 
 Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? 
 Have I not heard great ordnance in the field. 
 And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies ? 
 Have I not in a pitched battle heard 
 Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets 
 
 clang ? 
 And do you tell me of a woman's tongue; 
 That gives not half so great a blow to hear, 
 As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire ? 
 Tush 1 tush ! fear boys with bugs. 
 
 Gru. For he fears none. 
 
 Hortensio disguises himself in order that, in 
 the capacity of a music teacher, he may pay 
 court to Bianca, and is introduced to her home 
 by Petruchio. Petruchio is assured by Baptista 
 that if he marries Katharine he shall have 
 48 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 twenty thousand crowns, down, and on the 
 father's death half of all his lands. 
 
 Hortensio, who has undertaken to give 
 Katharine a lesson on the lute, " re-enters with 
 his head broken." 
 
 Bap. How now, my friend! why dost thou 
 
 look so pale ? 
 Hor. For fear, I promise you, if I look 
 
 pale. 
 Bap. What, will my daughter prove a good 
 
 musician ? 
 Hor. I think she'll sooner prove a soldier: 
 Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. 
 
 Bap. 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. 
 When, with a most Impatient devilish spirit. 
 Frets, call you these? quoth she ; /'// 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 awhile. 
 As on a pillory, looking through the lute. 
 While she did call me rascal fiddler 
 And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile 
 
 terms, 
 As she had studied to misuse me so. 
 
 49 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Pet. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench ; 
 I love her ten times more than e'er I did : 
 O, how I long to have some chat with her ! 
 Bap. Well, go with me, and be not so dis- 
 comfited : 
 Proceed in practice with my younger daughter: 
 She's apt to learn, and thankful for good 
 
 turns. — 
 Signior Petruchio, will you go with us. 
 Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? 
 Pet. I pray you do : I will attend her here. 
 [Exeunt Bap., Gre., Tra., and HoR. 
 And woo her with some spirit when she comes. 
 Say that she rail; why, then I'll tell her plain 
 She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: 
 Say that she frown; I'll say that she looks as 
 
 clear 
 As morning roses newly washed with dew: 
 Say she be mute, and will not speak a word; 
 Then I'll commend her volubility, 
 And say she uttereth piercing eloquences 
 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 mar- 
 ried — 
 But here she comes ; and now, Petruchio, speak. 
 
 Enter Katharine. 
 
 Good-morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I 
 hear. 
 
 50 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 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; — 
 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. 
 
 Petruchio, undaunted by Katharine's sharp 
 tongue, proceeds with his strange wooing, and 
 she strikes him, to try if he be a gentleman, she 
 says. He swears he will cuff her, if she strikes 
 again, but remains unruffled, returning bold com- 
 pliments for her insults, and declaring he will 
 marry her, willing or unwilling. Her father 
 enters, and Petruchio, disregarding her terma- 
 gant rage, announces that they have agreed so 
 well together that " upon Sunday is the wed- 
 ding day." Katharine declares: 
 SI 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 I'll see thee hanged on Sunday first. 
 
 Baptista, however, takes Petruchio's word 
 for it, despite her protestations, says " it is a 
 match," and Petruchio and Katharine severally 
 leave the room. 
 
 On the day appointed for the wedding every- 
 thing is in readiness, the guests are assembled, 
 but Petruchio has not returned from his an- 
 nounced journey to Venice, and Katharine is 
 furiously angry and ashamed. She vents her 
 rage, and goes out weeping, but Biondello, a 
 servant, then enters and announces: 
 
 Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and 
 an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice 
 turn'd; 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 mothy sad- 
 dle, and stirrups of no kindred; besides, pos- 
 sessed with the glanders, and like to mose in 
 the chine; troubled with the lampass, 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, be- 
 gnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and 
 shoulder-shotten ; ne'er legged before, and with 
 
 52 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 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 pack- 
 thread. 
 
 Grumio accompanies his master, in like 
 strange costume, " caparisoned like the horse." 
 
 Despite all protests, Petruchio insists upon 
 being married " in his mad attire," and swears 
 so loudly in church during the ceremony that 
 the amazed priest lets fall the book. And as 
 the holy man stoops to pick it up the bridegroom 
 gives him such a cuff that down go both book 
 and priest. At which the bride " trembled and 
 shook." 
 
 After the ceremony Petruchio calls for wine, 
 drinks, and throws the dregs in the sexton's 
 face ; then kisses the bride 
 
 . . . with such a clamorous smack 
 
 That, at the parting, all the church did echo. 
 
 Petruchio comes with his bride to her fa- 
 ther's house, where the wedding feast is ready. 
 53 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Pet. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you 
 for your pains: 
 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? 
 
 Pet. I must away to-day, before night come : 
 Make it no wonder; if you knew my business. 
 You would entreat me rather go than stay. 
 And, honest company, I thank you all. 
 That have beheld me give away myself 
 To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife: 
 Dine with my father, drink a health to me; 
 For I must hence; and farewell to you all. 
 
 Tranio. Let us entreat you stay till after 
 dinne r. 
 
 Pet. It may not be. 
 
 Gre. Let me entreat you. 
 
 Pet. It cannot be. 
 
 Kath. Let me entreat you. 
 
 Pet. I am content. 
 
 Kath. Are you content to stay? 
 
 Pet. 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, 
 
 54 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 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 ; 
 For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself: 
 'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom, 
 That take it on you at the 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. 
 
 Pet. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy 
 command. — 
 Obey the bride, you that attend on her; 
 Go to the feast, revel and domineer. 
 Carouse full measure to her maidenhead; 
 Be mad and merry, — or go hang yourselves: 
 But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. 
 Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare; nor 
 
 fret. 
 I will be master of what is mine own : 
 She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, 
 My household stuff, my field, my barn. 
 My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; 
 
 55 
 
SHAKESPEARES 
 
 And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; 
 I'll bring mine action on the proudest he 
 That stops my way in Padua. — Grumio, 
 Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with 
 
 thieves ; 
 Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. — 
 Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch 
 
 thee, Kate; 
 I'll buckler thee against a million. 
 
 [Exeunt Pet., Kath., and Gru. 
 Bap. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet 
 
 ones. 
 Gre. Went they not quickly, I should die 
 
 with laughing. 
 Tra. Of all mad matches, never was the 
 
 like! 
 Luc. Mistress, what's your opinion of your 
 
 sister ? 
 Bian. That, being mad herself, she's madly 
 
 mated. 
 Gre. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. 
 
 Of the wedding journey to Petruchio's house, 
 Grumio talks to himself on his arrival in the 
 hall: 
 
 Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad mas- 
 ters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so 
 beaten? was ever man so rayed? was ever man 
 so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, 
 and they are coming after to warm them. Now, 
 56 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 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, con- 
 sidering the weather, a taller man than I will 
 take cold. — Holla, ho! Curtis 1 
 
 Enter Curtis. i 
 
 Curt. Who is that calls so coldly? 
 
 Gru. A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou 
 mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with 
 no greater a run but my head and my neck. A 
 fire, good Curtis. 
 
 Curt. Is my master and his wife coming, 
 Grumio ? 
 
 Gru. O, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore fire, 
 fire ; cast on no water. 
 
 Curt. Is she so hot a shrew as she's re- 
 ported? 
 
 Gru. She was, good Curtis, before this 
 frost; but, thou knowest, winter tames man, 
 woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old 
 master, and my new mistress, and myself, fel- 
 low Curtis. 
 
 The servant Curtis is eager for news of the 
 journey, and Grumio at length gratifies him: 
 
 Gru. Tell thou the tale: — but hadst thou 
 not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how 
 57 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou 
 shouldst have heard, in how miry a place; how 
 she was bemoiled; how he left her with the 
 horse upon her; how he beat me because her 
 horse stumbled; how she waded through the 
 dirt to pluck him off me; how he swore; how 
 she prayed — that never pray'd 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. 
 
 Curt. By this reckoning, he is more shrew 
 than she. 
 
 When Petruchio and Katharine arrive, he 
 makes a show of welcoming her to his home, 
 but abuses and beats the men-servants. The 
 pair sit down to dinner, but he declares the cook 
 has burnt the meat, and throws it and the 
 dishes about the stage. So bride and groom 
 go fasting to bed, one of the servants remark- 
 ing : " He kills her in her own humour," which 
 is the key to Petruchio's system of taming. 
 
 Petruchio presently returns to the dining- 
 hall, and in a monologue thus further discloses 
 his method : 
 
 58 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 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'll 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 reverend care of her; 
 And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night : 
 And, if she chance to nod, I'll rail and brawl, 
 And with the clamour keep her still awake. 
 This is a way to kill a wife with kindness : 
 And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong 
 
 humour. 
 He that knows better how to tame a shrew, 
 Now let him speak; 'tis charity to show. 
 
 A subsequent scene brings out Katharine's 
 discontent and Grumio's humourous disposi- 
 tion. 
 
 Kath. The more my wrong, the more his 
 spite appears: 
 What, did he marry me to famish me ? 
 Beggars, that come unto my father's door. 
 Upon entreaty have a present alms; 
 If not, elsewhere they meet with charity : 
 But I, — who never knew how to entreat, 
 Nor never needed that I should entreat, — 
 Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep; 
 
 59 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 .With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed : 
 And that which spites me more than all these 
 
 wants, 
 He does it under name of perfect love ; 
 As who would say, if I should sleep or eat, 
 'Twere 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 ? 
 Kath. 'Tis 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? 
 Kath. I like it well: good Grumio, fetch it 
 
 me. 
 Gru. I cannot tell ; I fear 'tis choleric. 
 What say you to a piece of beef and mustard? 
 Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon. 
 Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. 
 Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the 
 
 mustard rest. 
 Gru. Nay, then I will not; you shall have 
 the 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. 
 Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false delud- 
 ing slave. [Beats him. 
 
 60 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Petruchio comes in with a dish of meat, but 
 compels Katharine to thank him before he al- 
 lows her to eat. A tailor then enters with a 
 new gown that has been made for the bride. 
 
 Pet. Thy gown? why, ay; — ^ Come, tailor, 
 let us see't. 
 
 mercy, God I what masquing 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, 
 Like to a censer in a barber's shop : — 
 Why, what, o' devil's name, tailor, call'st thou 
 this? 
 Hor. I see she's like to have neither cap 
 nor gown. [Aside. 
 
 Tai. You bid me make It orderly and well. 
 According to the fashion and the time. 
 
 Pet. Marry, and did ; but if you be remem- 
 ber'd, 
 
 1 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'll 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 : 
 Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. 
 
 Pet. Why, true; he means to make a pup- 
 pet of thee. 
 
 6i 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Tau She says your worship means to make 
 
 a puppet of her. 
 Pet. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, 
 
 thou thread, 
 Thou thimble, 
 Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, 
 
 nail. 
 Thou flea, thou nit, thou-winter-cricket thou 1 — 
 Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of 
 
 thread ? 
 Away, thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant; 
 Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard. 
 As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou 
 
 liv'st ! 
 I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown. 
 
 The tailor protests that the gown was made 
 as ordered, but Petruchio refuses to take it, and 
 sends him away. 
 
 Pet. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto 
 
 your father's 
 Even in these honest mean habiliments: 
 Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor; 
 For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich; 
 And as the sun breaks through the darkest 
 
 clouds. 
 So honour peereth in the meanest habit. 
 What, is the jay more precious than the lark, 
 Because his feathers are more beautiful? 
 Or is the adder better than the eel, 
 62 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 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. 
 
 Through such treatment Katharine becomes 
 fully subdued and gentle-mannered. And at 
 a banquet in her father's house Petruchio wins 
 a wager that he has the most obedient wife in 
 all the company. The test is that each hus- 
 band shall send to the parlor for his wife, and 
 Katharine is the only one who comes immedi- 
 ately and without cavil. Petruchio charges her 
 to tell " these headstrong women " what duty 
 they owe their " lords and husbands," and she 
 responds thus eloquently: 
 
 Such duty as the subject owes the prince, 
 Even such a woman oweth to her husband; 
 And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour. 
 And not obedient to his honest will. 
 What is she but a foul contending rebel, 
 And graceless traitor to her loving lord? — 
 
 1 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. 
 
 62 
 
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM 
 
 " A Midsummer Night's Dream " is a play 
 of sentiment and fancy, of illusion and enchant- 
 ment. In this production the poet's imagina- 
 tion reached its highest development. It links 
 romance with fairyland, so that " beings lighter 
 than the gossamer and smaller than the cow- 
 slip's bell " are magnified to human proportions 
 and set upon the stage, to add charm and amuse- 
 ment to its succession of diverting scenes and 
 incidents. 
 
 Apart from the entertainment arising from 
 situation and enchantment, the humour of the 
 play Is found chiefly in an interlude, which is 
 the undertaking by a number of illiterate me- 
 chanics to enact the piece known as " Pyramus 
 and Thisbe," for the diversion of Theseus, 
 Duke of Athens, and Hippolyta, his affianced 
 bride. Ovid's s,ad tale of Pyramus and Thisbe, 
 which Shakespeare burlesques, had been trans- 
 lated into several English versions, and appears 
 to have been very popular in the sixteenth cen- 
 64 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 tury. The youth and maid were lovers, whose 
 homes were side by side. Their parents op- 
 posed their union, but they found means of 
 converse through a chink in the dividing wall 
 between the two dwelling places. They were 
 secretly to meet one night in Ninus' tomb, to 
 which Thisbe repaired in the darkness, but 
 while she waited she was alarmed by a lioness 
 and fled into the wood, letting her mantle fall 
 in her haste. This the beast tore with his 
 bloody jaws. When Pyramus came and found 
 the mantle in this condition, and prints of the 
 lion's feet, he believed Thisbe had been slain, 
 and took his own life with his sword. Thisbe, 
 returning, found him dead, and, in despair, 
 yielded up her life upon the point of the same 
 weapon. 
 
 The following scene is laid in a room of a 
 cottage in Athens. 
 
 Enter Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout, 
 Quince, and Starveling. 
 
 Quin. Is all our company here? 
 
 Bot. You were best to call them generally, 
 man by man, according to the scrip. 
 
 Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's 
 name, which is thought fit, through all Athens, 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 to play in our interlude before the duke and 
 duchess on his wedding-day at night. 
 
 Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what 
 the play treats on; then read the names of the 
 actors ; and so grow to a point. 
 
 Quin. Marry, our play is — The most 
 lamentable comedy, and most cruel death of 
 Pyramus and Thisby. 
 
 Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure 
 you, and a merry. — Now, good Peter Quince, 
 call forth your actors by the scroll. — Masters, 
 spread yourselves. 
 
 Quin. Answer, as I call you. — Nick Bot- 
 tom, the weaver. 
 
 Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, 
 and proceed. 
 
 Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for 
 Pyramus. 
 
 Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant ? 
 
 Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gal- 
 lantly for love. 
 
 Bot. That will ask some tears in the true 
 performing of it. If I do it, let the audience 
 look to their eyes; I will move storms; I will 
 condole in some measure. To the rest : — yet 
 my chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play 
 Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make 
 all split. 
 
 The raging rocks, 
 With shivering shocks, 
 Shall break the locks 
 Of prison gates: 
 
 66 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 And Phibbus' car 
 Shall shine from far. 
 And make and mar 
 The foolish Fates. 
 
 This was lofty ! — Now, name the rest of the 
 players. — This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; 
 — a lover is more condoling. 
 
 Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. 
 
 Flu. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. You must take Thisby on you. 
 
 Flu. What is Thisby? a wandering knight? 
 
 Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. 
 
 Flu. Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; 
 • I have a beard coming. 
 
 Quin. That's all one; you shall play it In a 
 mask, and you may speak as small as you will. 
 
 Bot. An I may hide my face, let me play 
 Thisby too; I'll speak in a monstrous little 
 voice ; — Thisne, Thisne. — Ah, Pyramus, my 
 lover dear; thy Thisby dear! and lady dear! 
 
 Quin. No, no, you must play Pyramus ; and, 
 Flute, you Thisby. 
 
 Bot. Well, proceed. 
 
 Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor. 
 
 Star. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play 
 Thisby's mother. — Tom Snout, the tinker. 
 
 Snout. Here, Peter Quince. 
 
 Quin. You, Pyramus's father; myself, This- 
 by's father; — Snug, the joiner, you, the lion's 
 part : — and, I hope, here is a play fitted. 
 67 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Snuff. Have you the lion's part written? 
 pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of 
 study. 
 
 Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is 
 nothing but roaring. 
 
 Bot. Let me play the lion too: I will roar, 
 that I will do any man's heart good to hear me ; 
 I will roar, that I will make the duke say. Let 
 him roar again, let him roar again. 
 
 Quin. An you should do it too terribly you 
 would fright the duchess and the ladles, that 
 they would shriek; and that were enough to 
 hang us all. 
 
 All. That would hang us every mother's 
 son. 
 
 Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should 
 fright the ladies out of their wits, they would 
 have no more discretion but to hang us : but I 
 will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you 
 as gently as any suckling dove ; I will roar you 
 an 'twere any nightingale. 
 
 Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus, 
 for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper 
 man, as one shall see on a summer's day; a most 
 lovely, gentleman-like man; therefore you must 
 needs play Pyramus. 
 
 Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What 
 beard were I best to play it in? 
 
 Quin. Why, what you will. 
 
 Bot. I will discharge it In either your straw- 
 coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your 
 68 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 purple-in-grain beard, or your . . . perfect yel- 
 low. 
 
 Quin. . . . Masters, here are your parts: 
 and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire 
 you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet 
 me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, 
 by moonlight; there will we rehearse: for if we 
 meet in the city, we shall be dogg'd with com- 
 pany, and our devices known. In the mean- 
 time I will draw a bill of properties, such as our 
 play wants. I pray you, fail me not. 
 
 Bot. We will meet; and there we may re- 
 hearse more obscenely and courageously. Take 
 pains; be perfect; adieu. 
 
 Quin. At the duke's oak we meet. 
 
 They meet again the following night by the 
 light of the moon, at the appointed place, where, 
 unnoted by them, Titania, queen of the fairies, 
 is lying asleep. Her husband, Oberon, the 
 fairy king, vexed at her refusal to yield to him 
 a certain adopted child, has cast a spell upon 
 her by squeezing the juice of a magical flower 
 upon her slumbering eyes. The effect of the 
 charm is that she must madly dote upon what- 
 ever living thing she sees when she awakes. 
 
 Bot. Are we all met? 
 Quin. Pat, pat; and here is a marvellous 
 69 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 convenient place for our rehearsal. This green 
 plot shall be our stage, this hawthorne brake 
 our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as 
 we will do it before the duke. 
 
 Bot. Peter Quince, — 
 
 Quin. What say'st thou, bully Bottom? 
 
 Bot. There are things in this comedy of 
 Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. 
 First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill him- 
 self; which the ladies cannot abide. How an- 
 swer you that ? 
 
 Snout. By'r lakin, a parlous fear. 
 
 Star. I believe you must leave the killing 
 out, when all is done. 
 
 Bot. Not a whit: I have a device to make 
 all well. Write me a prologue ; and let the pro- 
 logue seem to say, we will do no harm with our 
 swords, and that Pyramus Is not killed indeed: 
 and for tite 'ifhore better assurance, tell them 
 that I jPyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom 
 the weaver : this will put them out of fear. 
 
 Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue; 
 and it shall be written in eight and six. 
 
 Bot. No, make it two more; let it be writ- 
 ten in eight and eight. 
 
 Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the 
 lion? 
 
 Star. I fear It, I promise you. 
 
 Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with 
 yourselves: to bring in, God shield us I a lion 
 among ladies is a most dreadful thing : for there 
 70 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 is not a more fearful wild-fowl tiian your lion 
 living; and we ought to look to it. 
 
 Snout. Therefore another prologue must 
 tell he is not a lion. 
 
 Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and 
 half his face must be seen through the lion's 
 neck; and he himself must speak through, say- 
 ing thus, or to the same defect, — " Ladies," or 
 " Fair Ladies ! I would wish you, or I would 
 request you, or, I would entreat you, not to fear, 
 not to tremble : my life for yours. If you think 
 I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. 
 No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other 
 men are : " — and there, indeed, let him name 
 his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the 
 joiner. 
 
 Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there is 
 two hard things ; that is, to bring the moonlight 
 into a chamber: for, you know, Pyramus and 
 Thisby meet by moonlight. 
 
 Snug. Doth the moon shine that night we 
 play our play? 
 
 Bot. A calendar, a calendar! look in the 
 almanack; find out moonshine, find out moon- 
 shine. 
 
 Quin. Yes, it doth shine that night. 
 
 Bot. Why, then you may leave a casement 
 of the great chamber-window, where we play, 
 open; and the moon may shine in at the case- 
 ment. 
 
 Quin. Ay; or else one must come in with a 
 
 71 
 
SHAKESPEARES 
 
 bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes 
 to disfigure or to present the person of moon- 
 shine. Then there is another thing: we must 
 have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus 
 and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the 
 chink of a wall. 
 
 Snug. You never can bring in a wall. — 
 What say you, Bottom ? 
 
 Bot. Some man or other must present wall : 
 and let him have some plaster, or some loam, 
 or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; 
 or let him hold his fingers thus, and through 
 that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. 
 
 Quin. If that may be, then all is well. 
 Come, sit down, every mother's son, and re- 
 hearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin: when 
 you have spoken your speech, enter into that 
 brake ; and so every 'one according to his cue. 
 
 At this juncture comes Puck, a mischievous 
 sprite and " merry wanderer of the night," who, 
 unseen by them, hearkens to their rehearsal, and 
 waits for an opportunity to play some trick 
 upon them. When Bottom goes out. Puck fol- 
 lows him, and transforms his head into that of 
 a long-eared ass. Meanwhile the ridiculous, 
 bungling rehearsal proceeds. 
 
 Quin. Speak, Pyramus. — Thisby, stand 
 forth. 
 
 72 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Pyr. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours 
 
 sweet, 
 Quin. Odours, odours. 
 
 Pyr. odours savours sweet: 
 
 So doth thy breath, my dearest Thisby 
 dear. — 
 But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile, 
 And by and by I will to thee appear. \^Exit. 
 Puck. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played 
 here ! [Aside. — Exit. 
 
 This. Must I speak now ? 
 Quin. Ay, marry, must you: for you must 
 understand he goes but to see a noise that he 
 heard, and is to coma again. 
 
 This. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily 
 
 white of hue, 
 Of colour like the red rose on triumphant 
 brier, 
 Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, 
 As true as truest horse, that yet would never 
 tire, 
 ril meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. 
 
 Quin. Ninus' tomb, man ; why, you must not 
 speak that yet: that you answer to Pyramus. 
 You speak all your part at once, cues and all. — 
 Pyramus enter : your cue is past ; it is, never tire. 
 
 At this point Bottom returns, and, at sight of 
 his changed and monstrous form, the others, 
 alarmed, take to their heels. Puck follows, to 
 
 73 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 torment them with fresh pranks. Bottom 
 sings, to keep up his courage, and so awakens 
 Titania, who, under the influence of the magical 
 spell, instantly falls in love with him, lavishes 
 endearments upon him, and summons fairies — 
 Peasblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard- 
 seed — to be his attendants. She bids them 
 wait upon him and lead him to her bower, 
 where Oberon, In the background and unseen, 
 amuses himself by listening to the following 
 discourse : 
 
 Tita. Come, sit thee down upon this flow- 
 ery bed, 
 • While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, 
 And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, 
 
 And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. 
 
 Bot. Where's Peasblossom? 
 
 Peas. Ready. 
 
 Bot. Scratch my head, Peasblossom. — 
 Where's Monsieur Cobweb? 
 
 Cob. Ready. 
 
 Bot. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, 
 get your weapons In your hand and kill me a 
 red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thisde; 
 and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. 
 Do not fret yourself too much in the action, 
 monsieur; and, good monsieur, have a care the 
 honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have 
 
 74 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 you over-flown with a honey-bag, signior. — 
 Where's Monsieur Mustardseed ? 
 
 Must. Ready. 
 
 Bot. Give me your neif, Monsieur Mus- 
 tardseed. 
 Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. 
 
 Must. What's your will? 
 
 Bot. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help 
 Cavalero Cobweb to scratch. I must to the 
 barber's monsieur; for methinks I am marvel- 
 lous hairy about the face : and I am such a ten- 
 der ass, if my hair do but tickle me I must 
 scratch. 
 
 Tita. What, wilt thou hear some music, my 
 sweet love ? 
 
 Bot. I have a reasonable good ear in mu; 
 sic ; let us have the tongs and the bones. 
 
 Tita. Or say, sweet love, what thou de- 
 sir'st to eat. 
 
 Bot. Truly, a peck of provender; I could 
 munch your good dry oats, Methinks I have 
 a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, 
 sweet hay, hath no fellow. 
 
 Tita. I have a venturous fairy that shall 
 seek 
 The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new 
 nuts. 
 
 Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of 
 dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your 
 people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep 
 come upon me. 
 
 75 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 They sleep, and Oberon, advancing, breaks 
 Titania's spell by touching her eyes with an 
 herb. When she awakens, she loathes the sight 
 of Bottom, whom Puck likewise relieves of en- 
 chantment, so that later he wakes alone, re- 
 stored to his proper form, and says : 
 
 When my cue comes, call me, and I will an- 
 swer : — my next is. Most fair Pyramus. 
 
 Heigh-ho I — Peter Quince ! Flute, the bel- 
 lows-mender I Snout, the tinker! Starveling! 
 God's my life, stolen hence, and left me asleep ! 
 I have had a most rare vision. I have had a 
 dream — past the wit of man to say what 
 dream it was. — Man is but an ass if he go 
 about to expound this dream. Methought I 
 was — there is no man can tell what. Me- 
 thought I was, and methought I had, — But 
 man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to 
 say what methought I had. The eye of man 
 hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen; 
 man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to 
 conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream 
 was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad 
 of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's 
 Dream, because it hath no bottom; and I will 
 sing it in the latter end of a play, before the 
 duke: peradventure, to make it the more gra- 
 cious, I shall sing it at her death. [Exit. 
 
 76 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 At length the time arrives for the representa- 
 tion of " Pyramus and Thisbe " before Duke 
 Theseus, Hippolyta, Demetrius, Lysander, and 
 other guests of the occasion. The prologue, 
 as spoken by one of the clownish players, is an 
 amusing example of misplaced stops or pauses, 
 thus : 
 
 // we of end, it is with our good will. 
 
 That you should think we come not to of end 
 But with good will. To show our simple skill, 
 
 That is the true beginning of our end. 
 Consider, then, we come but in despite. 
 
 We do not come as minding to content you. 
 Our true intent is. All for your delight 
 
 We are not here. That you should here re- 
 pent you. 
 The actors are at hand: and, by their show, 
 You shall know all that you are like to know. 
 
 The other blunderers proceed with the play, 
 after the manner following, to the diversion 
 of the assemblage : 
 
 Enter Lion and Moonshine. 
 
 Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts 
 do fear 
 The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps 
 on floor, 
 
 77 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 May noWj perchance, both quake and tremble 
 here, 
 
 When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. 
 Then know that I, one Snug, the joiner, am 
 A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam : 
 For if I should as lion come in strife 
 Into this place, 'twere pity of my life. 
 
 The. A very gentle beast, and of a good 
 conscience. 
 
 Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, 
 that e'er I saw. 
 
 Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. 
 
 The. True; and a goose for his discretion. 
 
 Dem. Not so, my lord; for his valour can- 
 not carry his discretion ; and the fox carries the 
 goose. 
 
 The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot 
 carry his valour; for the goose carries not the 
 fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and 
 let us listen to the moon. 
 
 Moon. This lantern doth the horned moon 
 present ; 
 Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be. 
 
 The. This is the greatest error of all the 
 rest: the man should be put into the lantern. 
 How is it else the man i' the moon ? 
 
 Dem. He dares not come there for the can- 
 dle : for, you see, it is already in snuff. 
 78 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Hip. I am weary of this moon: would he 
 would change I 
 
 In this fashion the travesty of " Pyramus and 
 Thisbe " goes on to its close, after which " A 
 Midsummer Night's Dream " concludes with a 
 visit of Puck, Oberon, Titania, and the fairy 
 train to the palace, where they dance and sing, 
 voicing their blessings on the household and the 
 union of Hippolyta with the duke. 
 
 79 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 
 
 Perhaps no play of Shakespeare's is more 
 read, or more popular as presented upon the 
 stage, than " The Merchant of Venice." Its 
 plot combines two highly interesting stories — 
 the tale of Shylock and his bond, and that of 
 Portia and the caskets — both of which are of 
 Latin origin. It is probable, however, that 
 Shakespeare found the rough material for his 
 masterpiece in an earlier English play referred 
 to in Gosson's "School of Abuse" (1579), 
 representing " the greedinesse of worldly 
 chusers and bloody mindes of usurers." But 
 the marvellous power of characterisation, fe- 
 licity of expression, poetry, wit, and skilful 
 development of the double plot bear the unmis- 
 takable impress of the poet's matchless genius, 
 and are all his own. 
 
 The story of the usurer Shylock's crafty bond, 
 with its forfeit of " a pound of flesh, cut near- 
 est the merchant's heart," and also that of the 
 80 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 three caskets, from which Portia's wooers were 
 required to choose, need but a brief outline 
 here. 
 
 Bassanio, being in need of money, and wish- 
 ing to pay court in suitable fashion to the rich 
 heiress Portia, at Belmont, induces his friend 
 Antonio, a fellow-merchant, to borrow for his 
 use 3,000 ducats from Shylock. The Jew bit- 
 terly hates the Christian Antonio, who publicly 
 has reviled and spat upon him for lending 
 money on interest, and finds in this new transac- 
 tion an opportunity for revenge. Shylock, 
 however, cunningly dissembles, and, professing 
 a desire to be friendly, lends the 3,000 ducats 
 without interest, stipulating only, in pretended 
 jest, that Antonio shall sign a bond to forfeit a 
 pound of flesh in case of failure to repay the 
 loan in three months. Antonio, through disas- 
 ters to his ships, incurs the forfeit, and the Jew, 
 provided with scales and a keen knife, demands 
 from a high court of justice in Venice a judg- 
 ment enabling him immediately to exact the for- 
 feiture. 
 
 Meanwhile Bassanio has at Belmont made 
 fortunate choice of the leaden casket, which, by 
 the terms of her father's will, entitles him to 
 81 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 claim Portia as his bride, and her heart goes 
 with her hand. 
 
 When Antonio's bond becomes forfeit, and 
 Portia is apprised of his desperate situation, she 
 not only advances twice the sum of the loan, 
 but, disguised as a young doctor of law, and with 
 credentials furnished by her cousin. Dr. Bellario 
 of Padua, she goes to Venice and takes his 
 place, to sit in judgment upon Shylock's cause. 
 After failing in her efforts to induce the Jew 
 to accept payment and forego the forfeiture, she 
 bids him cut his pound of flesh, but warns him 
 that if he shed a drop of Christian blood his 
 life becomes forfeit, under the Venetian law. 
 
 The bafHed usurer then demands his money, 
 but Portia rules that, as he has conspired 
 against a Christian, the law demands confisca- 
 tion of all his wealth ; one-half to the State, the 
 other to Antonio, and that Shylock's very life 
 is at the mercy of the duke. 
 
 Shylock's life Is spared, on condition that he 
 become a Christian. And, on the intercession 
 of the noble Antonio, he Is allowed to retain 
 one-half his wealth, provided he shall will it 
 to his daughter Jessica, who has eloped with 
 and married a Christian. 
 82 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Portia exhibits rare ability and grace of dic- 
 tion during the trial, which is one of the most 
 thrilling and absorbing scenes ever represented 
 on the stage. 
 
 An entertaining character in the play is 
 Gratiano, a friend of Bassanio and Antonio, 
 whose lively wit serves as a foil to Antonio's 
 sadness. The three thus converse: 
 
 Ant. I hold the world but as the world, 
 
 Gratiano — 
 A stage, where every man must play a part. 
 And mine a sad one. 
 
 Gra. Let me play the fool : 
 With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come ; 
 And let my liver rather heat with wine 
 Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. 
 Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, 
 Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
 Sleep when he wakes? and creep into the 
 
 jaundice 
 By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, — 
 I love thee, and it is my love that speaks, — 
 There are a sort of men whose visages 
 Do cream and mantle like a standing pond. 
 And do a wilful stillness entertain, 
 With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 
 Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 
 As who should say, I am Sir Oracle. 
 And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark! 
 83 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 O, my Antonio, I do know of these, 
 That therefore only are reputed wise 
 For saying nothing; . . . 
 But fish not, with this melancholy bait, 
 For this fool's gudgeon, this opinion. — 
 
 Gra. . . . silence is only commendable 
 In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not ven- 
 dible. [Exit Gra. 
 
 Jnt. Is that anything now? 
 
 Bass. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of 
 nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His 
 reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two 
 bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you 
 find them; and, when you have them, they are 
 not worth the search. 
 
 In Portia's home at Belmont she discusses 
 with her maid Nerlssa the merits of her suitors. 
 
 Ner. Your father was ever virtuous; and 
 holy men, at their death, have good inspira- 
 tions; therefore, the lottery that he hath de- 
 vised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and 
 lead, — whereof who chooses his meaning 
 chooses you, — will, no doubt, never be chosen 
 by any rightly but one who you shall rightly 
 love. But what warmth is there in your affec- 
 tion towards any of these princely suitors that 
 are already come ? 
 
 Por. I pray thee, over-name them; and as 
 thou namest them, I will describe them; and 
 84 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 according to my description, level at my affec- 
 tion. 
 
 Ner. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. 
 
 Por. Ay, Aat's a colt indeed, for he doth 
 nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes It 
 a great appropriation to his own good parts 
 that he can shoe him himself. . . . 
 
 Ner. Then is there the County Palatine. 
 
 Por. He doth nothing but frown; as who 
 should say. An if you will not have me, choose: 
 he hears merry tales and smiles not: I fear he 
 will prove the weeping philosopher when he 
 grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness 
 in his youth. I had rather be married to a 
 death's head with a bone In his mouth than to 
 either of these. God defend me from these 
 twol 
 
 Ner. How say you by the French lord. 
 Monsieur Le Bon? 
 
 Por. God made him, and therefore let him 
 pass for a man. In truth, I know It is a sin to 
 be a mocker: but, he! why, he hath a horse 
 better than the Neapolitan's ; a better bad habit 
 of frowning than the Count Palatine: he is 
 every man and no man; If a throstle sing he falls 
 straight a-capering; he will fence with his own 
 shadow; If I should marry him I should marry 
 twenty husbands. If he would despise me I 
 would, forgive him; for If he love me to mad- 
 ness I shall never requite him. 
 
 85 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Ner. What say you then to Falconbridge, 
 the young baron of England? 
 
 Por. You know I say nothing to him; for 
 he understands not me, nor I him; he hath 
 neither Latin, French, nor Italian ; and you will 
 come into the court and swear that I have a 
 poor pennyworth in the English. He is a 
 proper man's picture; but, alasl who can con- 
 verse with a dumb show? How oddly he is 
 suited ! I think, he bought his doublet in Italy, 
 his round hose in France, his bonnet in Ger- 
 many, and his behaviour everywhere. 
 
 Ner. What think you of the Scottish lord, 
 his neighbour? 
 
 Por. That he hath a neighbourly charity in 
 him; for he borrowed a box of the ear of the 
 Englishman, and swore he would pay him again 
 when he was able: I think the Frenchman 
 became his surety, and sealed under for 
 another. 
 
 Ner. How like you the young German, the 
 Duke of Saxony's nephew? 
 
 Por. Very vilely in the morning when he is 
 sober; and most vilely in the afternoon when 
 he is drunk; when he is best he is a little worse 
 than a man; and when he is worst, he is little 
 better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever 
 fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without 
 him. 
 
 Ner. If he should offer to choose, and 
 
 86 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 choose the right casket, you should refuse to 
 perform your father's will if you should refuse 
 to accept him. 
 
 Por. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I 
 pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on 
 the contrary casket: for, if the devil be within 
 and that temptation without, I know he will 
 choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I 
 will be married to a sponge. 
 
 Ner. You need not fear, lady, the having 
 any of these lords; they have acquainted me 
 with their determinations; which is indeed, to 
 return to their home, and to trouble you with 
 no more suit, unless you may be won by some 
 other sort than your father's imposition, de- 
 pending on the caskets. 
 
 Por. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will 
 die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by 
 the manner of my father's will. I am glad this 
 parcel of wooers are so reasonable ; for there is 
 not one among them but I dote on his very ab- 
 sence, and I pray God grant them a fair de- 
 parture. 
 
 A curious, clownish character in the play is 
 Launcelot Gobbo, servant to Shylock. He 
 thus soliloquises in a street scene. 
 
 Certainly my conscience will serve me to run 
 from this Jew, my master. The fiend is at 
 mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me, 
 87 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot, or 
 good Gobbo, or good Launcelot Gobbo, use 
 your legs, take the start, run away. My con- 
 science says, — No; take heed, honest Launce- 
 lot; take heed, honest Gobbo: or as aforesaid, 
 honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run, scorn run- 
 ning with thy heels. Well, the most cour- 
 ageous fiend bids me pack : Via! says the fiend ; 
 away! says the fiend, for the heavens; rouse up 
 a brave mind, says the fiend, and run. Well, 
 my conscience, hanging about the neck of my 
 heart, says very wisely to me, — My honest 
 friend, Launcelot, being an honest man's son, or 
 rather an honest woman's son; — for indeed, 
 my father did something smack, something 
 grow to, he- had a kind of taste; — well, my 
 conscience says, Launcelot, budge not. Budge, 
 says the fiend. Budge not, says my conscience. 
 Conscience, say I, you counsel well; fiend, say 
 I, you counsel well: to be ruled by my con- 
 science, I should stay with the Jew, my master, 
 who (God bless the mark!) is a kind of devil; 
 and, to run away from the Jew, I should be 
 ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence, 
 is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the 
 very devil incarnation: and, in my conscience, 
 my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, 
 to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. 
 The fiend gives the more friendly counsel: I 
 will run, fiend; my heels are at your command- 
 ment; I will run. 
 
 88 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Here follows a scrap of dialogue between 
 Launcelot and Jessica, Shylock's daughter : 
 
 Jes. I shall be saved by my husband; he 
 hath made me a Christian. 
 
 Laun. Truly, the more to blame he: we 
 were Christians enow before; e'en as many as 
 could well live, one by another. This making 
 of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we 
 grow all to be pork eaters we shall not shortly 
 have a rasher on the coals for money. 
 
 The vivacious wit of Portia is well exempli- 
 fied in these satirical remarks, addressed to 
 Nerissa : 
 
 I'll hold thee any wager, 
 When we are both accouter'd like young men, 
 I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, 
 And wear my dagger with the braver grace. 
 And speak, between the change of man and boy, 
 With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps 
 Into a manly stride; and speak of frays, 
 Like a fine bragging youth : and tell quaint lies. 
 How honourable ladies sought my love. 
 Which I denying, they fell sick and died; 
 I could not do withal : then I'll repent. 
 And wish, for all that, that I had not kill'd 
 
 them: 
 And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, 
 
 89 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S . 
 
 That men shall swear I have discontinued 
 
 school 
 Above a twelvemonth. — I have within my 
 
 mind 
 A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks 
 Which I will practise. 
 
 90 
 
SIR JOHN FALSTAFF 
 
 Sir John Falstaff is the most entertaining of 
 all Shakespeare's characters, the one on which 
 he most lavished the boundless resources of his 
 wit. No role received so much attention from 
 the dramatist. The fat knight figures promi- 
 nently in the first and second parts of " King 
 Henry IV," has the chief role in " The Merry 
 Wives of Windsor," and his death is de- 
 scribed in " Henry V." Thus he appears, or 
 is given space, in no less than four plays, a 
 distinction not enjoyed by any other of Shake- 
 speare's personages, unless the followers of 
 Falstaff be counted. The playwright evidently 
 was conscious of the superior merit of this re- 
 markable characterisation, for he makes Fal- 
 staff say : 
 
 ^ 
 
 The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, 
 man, is not able to invent anything that tends 
 to laughter, more than I invent, or is invented 
 on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the 
 cause that wit is in other men. 
 91 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 It may be said with confidence that no other 
 character, in all literature, is comparable with 
 Falstaff in nimbleness, copiousness, and bril- 
 liancy of wit. His jests at times are gross, but 
 usually of a highly intellectual quality. They 
 flow constantly and with the utmost ease from 
 his tireless invention; gay and sparkling, un- 
 tainted by malice, and leaving no sting. And 
 Sir John's wit is joined to strong common sense 
 and a keenness of insight that are distinguishing 
 characteristics of this inimitable role. 
 
 It was because of Falstaff that Dr. Samuel 
 Johnson remarked that none of Shakespeare's 
 plays was more read than the first and second 
 parts of " King Henry IV," and that " perhaps 
 no author has ever in two plays afforded so 
 much delight." 
 
 Falstaff seems to have been an entirely orig- 
 inal creation of the poet's genius, not an his- 
 toric character. Shakespeare first gave him the 
 name of " Sir John Oldcastle," which caused 
 some offense to Protestants, because there was 
 a real Oldcastle, better known as Lord Cobham, 
 a very serious personage, who died a martyr 
 to their faith. Hence the change to Falstaff, 
 which left obscure Prince Henry's reference to 
 92 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 the jovial knight as " my old lad of the castle," 
 a play upon the original name. n 
 
 Falstaff should never be confounded with Sir 
 John Fastolfe, a real personage, who in the I 
 play of " King Henry VI " is denounced for 
 cowardly conduct on the field of battle, stripped 
 of the garter, and banished from the realm. ^ 
 
 Falstaff's reference to his age as " some fifty, 
 or, by our lady, inclining to threescore," is to 
 be taken humourously. It must have been at 
 least seventy years, for it appears from the sec- 
 ond part of " King Henry IV " that he was 
 page to the Duke of Norfolk when Justice 
 Shallow was " of Clement's Inn," and that he 
 and Shallow spent " a merry night " in Saint 
 George's fields together before Shallow entered 
 the inns of court, which was " fifty-five years 
 ago." This conclusion of advanced age ac- 
 cords well with Prince Henry's reference to 
 him as " that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, 
 . . . that vanity in years." 
 
 Falstaff's chief characteristic is his constant 
 gaiety. There is ever a jest upon his lips, even 
 under circumstances the most adverse to merri- 
 ment. His good humour and unfailing wit win 
 him indulgence for his vices. Although he re- 
 93 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 veals himself as a conscienceless liar, rogue, 
 glutton, drunkard, and robber, whose sole aim 
 in life seems to be the gratification of his appe- 
 tites and baser passions, he stealthily creeps into 
 our indulgence. We must despise his charac- 
 ter, and yet we grieve for his loss when, " his 
 heart fracted," he disappears from the pages 
 made enchanting by his rare personality. A 
 man more full of faults is seldom pictured, but 
 had Falstaff been designed to win charity for 
 sinners the aim scarcely could have been more 
 successfully accomplished. When the ponder- 
 ous knight finally vanishes from the scene we 
 feel, like Prince Henry when Falstaff was feign- 
 ing death on the battlefield, that we could have 
 " better spared a better man." 
 
 The " cowardice " of Falstaff is made in the 
 plays in which he figures occasion for much fun 
 at his expense. But it seems to be of a calcu- 
 lating sort, due to a disregard of " honour," 
 rather than to physical fear. It is to be re- 
 membered that he is a knight in a military age, 
 when knighthood is the reward of conspicuous 
 valour, and is in receipt of a pension from the 
 crown when first he comes upon the stage. On 
 sevjeral occasions he exhibits remarkable coolness 
 94 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 and courage. When the Sheriff of London 
 comes to arrest him for highway robbery, a 
 hanging offence in those days, Falstaff continues 
 to make merry, and presently goes to sleep be- 
 hind the arras, where he conceals himself by 
 direction of the prince. On this occasion it 
 required remarkable intrepidity in the knight 
 to jest in this fashion with the prince: 
 
 If you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, let 
 him enter: if I become not a cart as well as 
 another man, a plague on my bringing-up! I 
 hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter 
 as another. 
 
 Such was the airy response to the prince's 
 bantering declaration that Falstaff was " a natu- 
 ral coward, without instinct." 
 
 At another time he fights the constables who 
 seek to take him into custody for debt. Even 
 at Gad's Hill he is the last of the robbers to 
 run away, and does not flee until he is left to 
 cope with two assailants. On the bloody field 
 of Shrewsbury he leads his " ragamuffins " 
 where they are " peppered," so that out of one 
 hundred and fifty not three remain alive, ac- 
 cording to his own meditation. 
 
 95 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 His feigning death on the same battlefield 
 was a deliberate although ignoble stratagem, not 
 an exhibition of fright. " It was a time to 
 counterfeit," says Falstaff. 
 
 His reputation seems to have been that of 
 a good fighter. Dame Quickly says it may 
 cost some of the peace officers their lives to take 
 him; that "he will stab," "will foin (thrust), 
 like any devil." And Justice Shallow says Fal- 
 staff when but a lad " broke Schoggan's head." 
 Coleville of the Dale, a valiant knight, sur- 
 renders to him at Shrewsbury in terms implying 
 that Falstaff is a man of military reputation : 
 
 I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that 
 thought yield me. 
 
 Prince Henry, in a time of peril to the 
 throne, obtains for Sir John a military com- 
 mand. And when the dissolute knight is ca- 
 rousing, " a dozen captains " " stand at door," 
 asking for him, thus indicating that his leader- 
 ship is sought. 
 
 The Earl of Westmoreland addresses Fal- 
 staff familiarly, as a man of consequence, tell- 
 ing him it is time they joined the King; that 
 " the King looks for us all." And in an im- 
 96 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 portant scene the King's attendants are Prince 
 Henry, Lord John of Lancaster, the Earl of 
 Westmoreland, Sir Walter Blount, and Sir John 
 Falstaff. 
 
 So it would appear, from such circumstances 
 and incidents, that Falstaff is not a constitutional 
 coward, governed by fear, but rather a man 
 who, as he says himself, fights no longer than 
 he sees reason for fighting. 
 
 It must be admitted, on the other hand, that 
 there is much in the plays to support the gen- 
 eral view of Falstaff as a poltroon. At Gad's 
 Hill he roars for mercy as he runs from the 
 Prince and Poins, and afterwards they twit him 
 for his " cowardice." In " The Merry Wives " 
 he hides himself in a buck-basket, under soiled 
 linen, rather than face discovery and danger, 
 and in a like situation of peril he is disguised 
 as an old woman and soundly beaten with a 
 cudgel while he seeks safety in flight. And the 
 opinion of Mistresses Ford and Page as to his 
 lack of courage is but too plainly indicated in 
 the text. 
 
 Yet, after all is said, it remains true that Fal- 
 staff seems never to lose his wits, but, on the 
 contrary, appears always resourceful, cool, and 
 
 97 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 self-possessed, ready to take advantage of every 
 favourable opportunity. He confronts adver- 
 sity with a smile, and turns misfortune into a 
 jest. • 
 
 That Shakespeare meant Falstaff to be more 
 or less contradictory may be inferred from the 
 remark of Prince Henry that " he is the stran- 
 gest fellow." Maurice Morgann aptly sums 
 up the incongruities of this remarkable charac- 
 ter in these words : 
 
 " At once young and old, dupe and wit, harm- 
 less and wicked, with natural courage but no 
 honour; knave without malice, liar without de- 
 ceit, knight, gentleman, and soldier without dig- 
 nity or decency." 
 
 Scarcely less peculiar and unique than Falstaff 
 himself are his retainers — Bardolph, Nym, 
 and Pistol. All are rascals, but each has well- 
 marked individuality. 
 
 In personal appearance Bardolph is distin- 
 guished by a fiery-red nose, which is the subject 
 of many of Falstaff's witticisms. On the field 
 of battle (King Henry V, act 3, scene 2), 
 Bardolph is the only one of the precious trio 
 who does not show the white feather. When 
 discarded by Falstaff he turns tapster. Pistol 
 98 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 saying of him, in characteristic phrase, " His 
 mind is not heroic." The last word of Bar- 
 dolph is that he is " like to be executed for 
 robbing a church" (King Henry V, dct 3, 
 scene 6). 
 
 Pistol is " a sneaking bully," a bombastic, 
 swaggering braggart, fond of high-sounding, 
 classical phrases borrowed from plays current 
 at the time, and most ludicrously bungled in his 
 vain speech. He is best pictured in the words 
 of the page in " King Henry V " : " He hath a 
 killing tongue and a quiet sword." In a laugh- 
 able scene in the same play. Pistol is compelled 
 to " eat the leek." 
 
 By contrast with Pistol, Corporal Nym is very 
 quiet and of few words, but both at times dis- 
 play wit. Nym is a great coward when there 
 is any real danger. He is a most fantastic and 
 bombastic knave, pressing the word " humour " 
 into service on all possible occasions — a draw- 
 ling, affected rogue. 
 
 These three worthies are cut-purses and pick- 
 pockets. And Falstaff himself (in " King 
 Henry IV") speaks of "purse-taking" (rob- 
 bery) as his " vocation." Both Falstaff and his 
 followers deserved hanging, under the severe 
 99 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 criminal laws of the period, which made rob- 
 bery and larceny capital offences. Falstaff had 
 even sunk so low as to share in the proceeds of 
 a petty theft. "Didst thou not share: hadst 
 thou not fifteen pence? " asks Pistol, when Fal- 
 staff reminds him of Mistress Bridget's loss of 
 the handle of her fan. 
 
 Closely associated with Falstaff, as a boon 
 companion, is the dissolute but keen-witted 
 young Prince of Wales, whom he familiarly 
 calls "Hal" (afterwards King Henry V), 
 The first scene in which they appear is " an 
 apartment in a tavern," in the first act of King 
 Henry IV, and they banter each other in this 
 fashion : 
 
 Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? 
 
 P. Hen. Thou art so fat-witted, with drink- 
 ing of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after sup- 
 per, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that 
 thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which 
 thou wouldst truly know. What a devil hast 
 thou to do with the time of the day? . . . 
 
 Fal. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; 
 for we that take purses go by the moon and the 
 seven stars, and not by Phoebus, — he, that 
 wandering knight so fair. And, I pr'ythee, 
 sweet wag, when thou art king, — as, God save 
 
 lOO 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 thy grace (majesty, I should say; for grace thou 
 wilt have none), — 
 
 P. Hen. What, none? 
 
 Fal. No, by my troth; not so much as will 
 serve to be prologue to an egg and butter, 
 
 P. Hen. Well, how then? come, roundly, 
 roundly. 
 
 Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou 
 art king, let not us that are squires of the night's 
 body be called thieves of the day's beauty; let 
 us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, 
 minions of the moon; and let men say we be 
 men of good government, being governed, as 
 the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the 
 moon, under whose countenance we steal. 
 
 P. Hen. Thou sayest well, and it holds well 
 too; for the fortune of us that are the moon's 
 men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being gov- 
 erned, as the sea is, by the moon. As, for 
 proof, now: a purse or gold most resolutely 
 snatched on Monday night, and most disso- 
 lutely spent on Tuesday morning; got with 
 swearing lay by, and spent with crying bring in; 
 now in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder, 
 and by and by in as high a flow as the ridge of 
 the gallows. 
 
 They proceed to jest about tavern reck- 
 onings : 
 
 P. Hen. Did I ever call thee to pay thy 
 part? 
 
 lOI 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Fal. No; I'll give thee thy due, thou hast 
 paid all there. 
 
 P. Hen. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my 
 coin would stretch; and where it would not, I 
 have used my credit. 
 
 Fal. Yea, and so used it that, were it not 
 here apparent that thou art heir-apparent, — 
 but, I pr'ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gal- 
 lows standing in England when thou art king? 
 and resolution thus fobbed as it is with the rusty 
 curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, 
 when thou art king, hang a thief. 
 
 P. Hen. No ; thou shalt. 
 
 Fal. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll 
 be a brave judge. 
 
 P. Hen. Thou judgest false already: I 
 mean, thou shalt have the hanging of the 
 thieves, and so become a rare hangman. 
 
 Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it 
 jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the 
 court, I can tell you. 
 
 P. Hen. For obtaining of suits? 
 
 Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof 
 the hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, 
 I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged bear. 
 
 P. Hen. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. 
 
 Fal. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire 
 bag-pipe. 
 
 P. Hen. What sayest thou to a hare, or the 
 melancholy of Moor-ditch? 
 
 102 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, 
 and art, indeed, the most comparative, rascal- 
 lest, — sweet young prince, — but, Hal, I 
 pr'ythee, trouble me no more with vanity. I 
 would to God thou and I knew where a com- 
 modity of good names were to be bought. An 
 old lord of the council rated me the other day 
 in the street about you, sir, — but I marked him 
 not; and yet he talked very wisely, — but I re- 
 garded him not; and yet he talked wisely, and 
 in the street too. 
 
 P. Hen. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries 
 out in the streets, and no man regards it. 
 
 Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and 
 art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast 
 done much harm upon me, Hal, — God forgive 
 thee for it I Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew 
 nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak 
 truly, little better than one of the wicked. I 
 must give over this life, and I will give it over ; 
 by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain : I'll be 
 damned for never a king's son in Christendom. 
 
 P. Hen. Where shall we take a purse to- 
 morrow. Jack? 
 
 Fal. Where thou wilt, lad; I'll make one; 
 an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me. 
 
 P. Hen. I see a good amendment of life in 
 thee, — from praying to purse-taking. 
 
 Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation, Hal; 'tis 
 no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. — 
 
 103 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Poins, a highwayman, comes in, and familiar 
 greetings ensue. He tells them of a robbery 
 he has planned for four o'clock on the follow- 
 ing morning at Gad's Hill, of certain pilgrims 
 and traders, and asks them to take part in it. 
 Falstaff quickly assents, but the prince demurs. 
 Falstaff then takes his leave, the prince saying: 
 
 Farewell, thou latter spring! Farewell, AU- 
 hallown summer! 
 
 Poins then proposes to the prince, as a 
 " jest," that Falstaff, Bardolph, one Peto, and 
 one Gadshill shall rob the men he has described, 
 and that then the Prince and he (Poins) shall 
 rob Falstaff and his companions. The prince 
 ^ assents. It is arranged that the two shall ap- 
 point a place of meeting with Falstaff and the 
 others, but fail to appear, when Falstaff and his 
 fellow-rogues shall venture upon the exploit 
 themselves, after which the prince and Poins, 
 disguised in masks and suits of buckram, shall 
 set upon them and rob them of their booty. 
 
 " The virtue of the jest," Poins explains, will 
 be the lies that Falstaff will afterwards tell when 
 they meet him at supper, and in their " reproof." 
 
 Poins takes his leave, and the prince, in a 
 104 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 soliloquy, likens himself to the sun behind a 
 cloud, and discloses his intention eventually to 
 throw off his loose behaviour and redeem him- 
 self in the eyes of men. 
 
 The robbery takes place as planned by Poins, 
 the prince first secretly removing Falstaff's 
 horse, so the corpulent knight is compelled to 
 walk. Falstaff protests to his fellows that 
 " eight yards of uneven ground is threescore 
 and ten miles a-foot " with him. As they are 
 in the act of dividing their booty, the prince and 
 Poins, disguised, set upon them, demanding the 
 money. Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill immedi- 
 ately run away, and Falstaff also, after a blow 
 or two, leaving the plunder. The prince says 
 to Poins: 
 
 Falstaff sweats to death, and lards the lean 
 earth as he walks along. Were it not for 
 laughing, I should pity him. 
 
 Poins. How the rogue roared 1 
 
 They all meet again at the Boar's Head tav- 
 ern in Eastcheap, London. The prince and 
 Poins are already there when Falstaff and the 
 other robbers enter, and the following colloquy 
 ensues : 
 
 105 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Poins. Welcome, Jack: where hast thou 
 been? 
 
 Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a 
 vengeance too ! marry, and amen ! — Give me a 
 cup of sack, boy. — Ere I lead this life long, I'll 
 sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them 
 too. A plague of all cowards ! — Give me a 
 cup of sack, rogue. — Is there no virtue extant? 
 
 [He drinks. 
 
 P. Hen. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a 
 dish of butter? pitiful-hearted Titan, that 
 melted at the sweet tale of the sun! if thou 
 didst, then behold that compound. 
 
 Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too : 
 there is nothing but roguery to be found in vil- 
 lainous man : yet a coward is worse than a cup 
 of sack with lime in it, — < a villainous coward. — 
 Go thy ways, old Jack, die when thou wilt: if 
 manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon 
 the face of the earth, then am I a shotten her- 
 ring. There live not three good men unhanged 
 in England; and one of them is fat, and grows 
 old : God help the while ! a bad world, I say. I 
 would I were a weaver ; I could sing psalms or 
 anything. A plague of all cowards, I say still. 
 
 P. Hen. How now, woolsack ! what mutter 
 you? 
 
 Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee 
 out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and 
 drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of 
 
 1 06 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face 
 more. You Prince of Wales I 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Fal. Are you not a coward? answer me to 
 that : — and Poins there ? 
 
 Poins. Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call 
 me coward, I'll stab thee. 
 
 Fal. I call thee coward! I'll see thee 
 damned ere I call thee coward : but I would give 
 a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou 
 canst. You are straight enough in the shoul- 
 ders, — you care not who sees your back: call 
 you that backing of your friends? A plague 
 upon such backing ! give me them that will face 
 me. — Give me a cup of sack : — I am a rogue 
 if I drunk to-day. 
 
 P. Hen. O villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped 
 since thou drunkest last. 
 
 Fal. All's one for that. A plague of all 
 cowards, still say I. {He drinks. 
 
 P. Hen. What's the matter? 
 
 Fal. What's the matter! there be four of 
 us here have ta'en a thousand pound this day 
 morning. 
 
 P. Hen. Where is it. Jack? where is it? 
 
 Fal. Where is it! taken from us it is: a 
 hundred upon poor four of us. 
 
 P. Hen. What, a hundred, man? 
 
 Fal. I am a rogiie, if I were not at half- 
 sword with a dozen of them two hours to- 
 107 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 gether. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight 
 times thrust through the doublet, four through 
 the hose ; my buckler cut through and through ; 
 my sword hacked like a hand-saw, — ecce sig- 
 num! I never dealt better since I was a man: 
 all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! — 
 Let them speak: if they speak more or less than 
 truth, they are villains, and the sons of dark- 
 ness. 
 
 P. Hen. Speak, sirs; how was it? 
 
 Gads. We four set upon some dozen,^ — 
 
 <Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord. 
 
 Gads. And bound them. 
 
 Peto. No, no, they were not bound. 
 
 Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every 
 man of them ; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew. 
 
 Gads. As we were sharing, some six or 
 seven fresh men set upon us, — 
 
 Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come 
 in the other. 
 
 P Hen. What, fought ye with them all? 
 
 Fal. All ! I know not what ye call all ; but 
 if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch 
 of radish: if there were not two or three and 
 fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two- 
 legged creature. 
 
 P. Hen. Pray God, you have not murdered 
 some of them. 
 
 Fal. Nay, that's past praying for: I have 
 peppered two of them; two I am sure I have 
 
 io8 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 paid, — two rogues in buckram suits. I tell 
 thee what, Hal, — if I tell thee a lie, spit in my 
 face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old 
 ward; — here I lay, and thus I bore my point. 
 Four rogues in buckram let drive at me, — 
 
 P. Hen. What, four? thou saidst but two 
 even now. 
 
 Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four. 
 
 Poins. Ay, ay, he said four. 
 
 Fal. These four came all a-front, and 
 mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado 
 but took all their seven points in my target, 
 thus. 
 
 P. Hen. Seven? why, there were but four 
 even now in buckram. 
 
 Poins. Ay, four in buckram suits. 
 
 Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a vil- 
 lain else. 
 
 P. Hen. Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall 
 have more anon. 
 
 Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal? 
 
 P. Hen. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. 
 
 Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. 
 These nine in buckram that I told thee of, — 
 
 P. Hen. So, two more already. 
 
 Fal. Their points being broken, — 
 
 Poins. Down fell their hose. 
 
 Fal. Began to give me ground: but I fol- 
 lowed me close, came in foot and hand; and 
 with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. 
 
 109 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 p. Hen. O monstrous ! eleven buckram men 
 grown out of two I 
 
 Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three 
 misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at 
 my back and let drive at me ; — for it was so 
 dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand. 
 
 p. Hen. These lies are like the father that 
 begets them, — gross as a mountain, open, pal- 
 pable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou nott- 
 pated fool, thou . . . obscene, greasy tallow- 
 keech, — 
 
 Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is 
 not the truth the truth ? 
 
 P- Hen. Why, how couldst thou know 
 these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark 
 thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us 
 your reason : what sayest thou to this ? 
 
 Poins. Come, your reason. Jack, — youf 
 reason. 
 
 Fal. What, upon compulsion? No; were 
 I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, 
 I would not tell you on compulsion. Give 
 you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were 
 as plenty as blackberries I would give no man 
 a reason upon compulsion, I. 
 
 P. Hen. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; 
 this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this 
 horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh, — 
 
 Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, 
 you dried neat's tongue, . . . you stock-fish, — 
 
 no 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 O for breath to utter what is like thee ! — you 
 tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile 
 standing-tuck, — 
 
 P. Hen. Well, breathe awhile, and then to 
 it again: and when thou hast tired thyself in 
 base comparisons, hear me speak but this. 
 
 Poins. Mark, Jack, 
 
 P. Hen. We two saw you four set on four ; 
 you bound them, and were masters of their 
 wealth. — Mark now, how a plain tale shall put 
 you down. — Then did we two set on you four; 
 and, with a word, out-faced you from your 
 prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you 
 here in the house : — and, Falstaff, you carried 
 your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dex- 
 terity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and 
 roared, as ever I heard a bull-calf. What a 
 slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast 
 done, and then say it was in fight I What trick, 
 what device, what starting-hole, canst thou now 
 find out to hide thee from this open and ap- 
 parent shame? 
 
 Poins. Come, let's hear. Jack; what trick 
 hast thou now? 
 
 Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he 
 that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters : was 
 it for me to kill the heir-apparent? Should I 
 turn upon the true prince? Why, thou know- 
 est I am as valiant as Hercules : but beware in- 
 stinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. 
 
 Ill 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on 
 instinct. I shall think the better of myself and 
 thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and 
 thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, 
 I am glad you have the money. — Hostess, clap 
 to the doors [to Hostess within'] : — watch to- 
 night, pray to-morrow. — Gallants, lads, boys, 
 hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship 
 come to you ! What, shall we be merry ? 
 Shall we have a play extempore? 
 
 P. Hen. Content; — and the argument 
 shall be thy running away. 
 
 Fal. Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou 
 lovest me I 
 
 Enter Hostess. 
 
 Host. O Jesu, my lord the prince, — 
 
 P. Hen. How now, my lady the hostess 1 — 
 What sayest thou to me ? 
 
 Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman 
 of the court at door would speak with you : he 
 says he comes from your father. 
 
 P. Hen. Give him as much as will make 
 him a royal man, and send him back again to 
 my mother. 
 
 Fal. What manner of man is he ? 
 
 Host. An old man. 
 
 Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at 
 midnight? — Shall I give him his answer? 
 
 112 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 p. Hen. Pr'ythee, do, Jack. 
 
 Fal. Faith, and I'll send him packing. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 P. Hen. Now, sirs : — by'r lady, you 
 fought fair ; — so did you, Peto ; — so did 
 you, Bardolph : you are lions too, you ran away 
 upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince ; 
 no, — fie I 
 
 Bard. Faith, I ran when I saw others run. 
 
 P. Hen. Tell me now in earnest, how came 
 Falstaff's sword so hacked? 
 
 Peto. Why, he hacked it with his dagger; 
 and said he would swear truth out of Eng- 
 land, but he would make you believe it was 
 done in fight; and persuaded us to do the like. 
 
 Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with 
 spear-grass to make them bleed; and then to 
 beslubber our garments with it, and swear it was 
 the blood of true men. I did that I did not 
 this seven year before, — I blushed to hear his 
 monstrous devices. 
 
 P. Hen. O villain, thou stolest a cup of 
 sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with 
 the manner, and ever since thou hast blushed 
 extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy 
 side, and yet thou rannest away: what instinct 
 hadst thou for It ? 
 
 Bard. My lord, do you see these meteors? 
 do you behold these exhalations? 
 
 P. Hen. I do. 
 
 113 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Bard. What think you they portend? 
 P. Hen. Hot livers and cold purses. 
 Bard. Choler, my lord, if rightly taken. 
 P. Hen. No, if rightly taken, halter. — 
 Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone. 
 
 Re-enter Falstaff. 
 
 How now, my sweet creature of bombast! 
 How long is't ago. Jack, since thou sawest thine 
 own knee ? 
 
 Fal. My own knee! when I was about thy 
 years, Hal, I was not an eagle's talon in the 
 waist; I could have crept into any alderman's 
 thumb-ring: a plague of sighing and grief! it 
 blows a man up like a bladder. — There's vil- 
 lainous news abroad: here was Sir John Bracy 
 from your father; you must to the court in the 
 morning. 
 
 Falstaff proceeds to relate that the Earl of 
 Northumberland, Henry Percy, his son (Hot- 
 spur), with the Earl of Douglas, Owen Glen- 
 dower and others, had taken the field against 
 King Henry. Falstaff continues : 
 
 But tell me, Hal, art thou not horribly 
 
 afeard? thou being heir-apparent, could the 
 
 world pick thee out three such enemies again 
 
 as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that 
 
 114 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly 
 afraid? doth not thy blood thrill at it? 
 
 P. Hen. Not a whit, i' faith; I lack some of 
 thy instinct. 
 
 Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to- 
 morrow when thou comest to thy father: if 
 thou love me, practise an answer. 
 
 P. Hen. Do thou stand for my father ! and 
 examine me upon the particulars of my life. 
 
 Fal. Shall I ? content : — this chair shall be 
 my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this 
 cushion my crown. 
 
 P. Hen. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, 
 thy golden scepter for a leaden dagger, and thy 
 precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown I 
 
 Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite 
 out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. — Give 
 me a cup of sack to make mine eyes look red, 
 that it may be thought I have wept ; for I must 
 speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cam- 
 byses' vein. 
 
 P. Hen. Well, here is my leg. 
 
 Fal. And here is my speech. — Stand aside, 
 nobility. 
 
 Host. O Tesu, this is excellent sport, i' 
 faith! 
 
 Fal. Weep not, sweet queen; for trickling 
 tears are vain. 
 
 Host. O, the father, how he holds his 
 countenance ! 
 
 115 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Fal. For God's sake, lords, convey my 
 tristful queen; 
 For tears do stop the floodgates of her eyes. 
 
 Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of 
 these harlotry players as ever I see ! 
 
 Fal. Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good 
 tickle-brain. — Harry, I do not only marvel 
 where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou 
 art accompanied: for though the camomile, the 
 more it is trodden on, the faster it grows, yet 
 youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. 
 That thou art my son, I have partly thy 
 mother's word, partly my own opinion; but 
 chiefly a villainous trick of thine eye, and a 
 foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth 
 warrant me. If, then, thou be son to me, here 
 lies the point; — why, being son to me, art 
 thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of 
 heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries? a 
 question not to be asked. Shall the son of 
 England prove a thief, and take purses? a 
 question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry, 
 which thou hast often heard of, and it is known 
 to many in our land by the name of pitch: 
 this pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth 
 defile; so doth the company thou keepest: for, 
 Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, 
 but in tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; 
 not in words only, but in woes also : — and 
 yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often 
 
 ii6 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 noted in thy company, but I know not his 
 name. 
 
 P. Hen. What manner of man, an it like 
 your majesty. 
 
 Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a 
 corpulent; of a dieerful look, a pleasing eye, 
 and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his 
 age some fifty, or, by'r lady, inclining to three- 
 score; and now I remember me, his name is 
 Falstaff: if that man should be lewdly given, 
 he deceiveth me ; for, Harry, I see virtue in his 
 looks. If, then, the tree may be known by the 
 fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, perempto- 
 rily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: 
 him keep with, the rest banish. And tell me 
 now, thou naughty varlet, tell me, where hast 
 thou been this month ? 
 
 P. Hen. Dost thou speak like a king? Do 
 thou stand for me, and I'll play my father. 
 
 Fal. Depose me? if thou dost it half so 
 gravely, so majestically, both in word and mat- 
 ter, hang me up by the heels for a rabbit-sucker 
 or a poulter's hare. 
 
 P. Hen. Well, here I am set. 
 
 Fal. And here I stand: — judge, my mas- 
 ters. 
 
 P. Hen. Now, Harry, whence come you? 
 
 Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap. 
 
 P. Hen. The complaints I hear of thee are 
 grievous. 
 
 117 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 f'al. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false: — 
 nay, I'll tickle ye for a young prince, i' faith. 
 
 P. Hen. Swcarest thou, unffracious boy? 
 henceforth ne'er look on me. 1'hou art vio- 
 lently carried away from grace: there is a devil 
 haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old man, — 
 a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou 
 converse with that trunk of humours, that bolt- 
 ing-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of 
 dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that 
 stuffed cloak-baff of guts, that roasted Man- 
 ningtree ox, with the pudding in his belly, that 
 reverend vice, that gray iniquity, that father 
 ruffian, that vanity in years? Wherein is he 
 good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein 
 neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat 
 it? wherein cunning, but in craft? wherein 
 crafty, but in villainy? wherein \illainous, but 
 in all things? wherein worthy, but in nothing? 
 
 Fill. I would your grace would take me 
 with you : whom means your grace ? 
 
 P. Hen. That villainous abominable mis- 
 leader of youth, Falstaff, that old white- 
 bearded Satan. 
 
 Fal. My lord, the man I know. 
 
 P. Hen. I know thou dost. 
 
 Fal. But to say 1 know more harm in him 
 tijan in myself, were to say more than I know. 
 That he is old, — the more the pity, — his 
 white hairs do witness it. ... If suck and 
 
 Ii8 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 sugar be a fault, God help the wicked! If to 
 be old and merry be a sin, then many an old 
 host that I know is damned : if to be fat be to be 
 hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved. 
 No, my good lord; banish Peto, banish Bar- 
 dolph, banish Poins: but, for sweet Jack Fal- 
 stait, kind Jack FalstafF, true Jack FalstafF, 
 valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more 
 valiant, beins, as he is, old Jack FalstafE, banish 
 not him thy Harry's company : — banish plump 
 Jack, and banish all the world. 
 
 At this point a knocking is heard, and Bar- 
 dolph runs in to say that the Sheriff, " with a 
 most monstrous watch," is at the door; to search 
 the house. Falstaff exclaims, with remarkable 
 coolness, in view of the fact that he is in immi- 
 nent danger of arrest for a felony : 
 
 Out, you rogue I — play out the play : I have 
 much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff. 
 
 With like nonchalance, Falstaff exchanges 
 jests with the prince, saying: 
 
 ... if you will deny the sheriff, so; if not, 
 let him enter : if I become not a cart as well as 
 anotiier man, a plague on my bringing up 1 I 
 hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter 
 as another. 
 
 119 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 By direction of the prince, Falstaff hides be- 
 hind the arras (tapestry hangings). The Sher- 
 iff is then admitted, and the prince pledges his 
 word that he will send Falstaff on the follow- 
 ing day to answer to the charge of robbery, with 
 which assurance the Sheriff retires. 
 
 P. Hen. This oily rascal is known as well 
 as Paul's. Go, call him forth. 
 
 Poins. Falstaff ! — fast asleep behind the 
 .arras, and snorting like a horse. 
 
 P. Hen. Hark, how hard he fetches breath. 
 Search his pockets. [PoiNS searches.l What 
 hast thou found? 
 
 Poins. Nothing but papers, my lord. 
 
 P. Hen. Let's see what they be : read them. 
 
 Poins. l^Reads.'] Item, A capon, 2s. 2d. 
 Item, Sauce, . . . . os. 4d. 
 
 Item, Sack, two gallons, . . 5 s. 8 d. 
 
 Item, Anchovies and sack after supper, 2s. 6d. 
 Item, Bread, . . . . os. o|d. 
 
 P. Hen. O monstrous! but one halfpenny- 
 worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack ! 
 — What there is else, keep close ; we'll read it 
 at more advantage : there let him sleep till day. 
 I'll to the court in the morning. We must 
 all to the wars, and thy place shall be hon- 
 ourable. I'll procure this fat" rogue a charge 
 of foot; and I know his death will be a march 
 of twelve-score. The money shall be paid 
 120 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 back again with advantage. Be with me be- 
 times in the morning; and so, good-morrow, 
 Poins. 
 
 Poins. Good-morrow, good my lord. 
 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 In the third act of the play a room in the 
 same tavern is the scene. Enter Falstaff and 
 Bardolph : 
 
 Fal. Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely 
 since diis last action? do I not bate? do I not 
 dwindle? Why, my skin hangs about me like 
 an old lady's loose gown ; I am withered like an 
 old apple-john. Well, I'll repent, and that 
 suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be 
 out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no 
 strength to repent. An I have not forgotten 
 what the inside of a church is made of, I am a 
 pepper-corn, a brewer's horse: the inside of a 
 church 1 Company, villainous company, hath 
 been the spoil of me. 
 
 Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful, you can- 
 not live long. 
 
 Fal. Why, there is it: come, sing me a 
 . . . song; make me merry, I was as virtu- 
 ously given as a gentleman need to be ; virtuous 
 enough; swore little; diced not above seven 
 times a week; . . . paid money that I bor- 
 rowed — three or four times: lived well, and 
 
 121 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 in good compass: and now I live out of all or- 
 der, out of all compass. 
 
 Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that 
 you must needs be out of all compass, — out of 
 all reasonable compass. Sir John. 
 
 Fal. Do thou amend thy face, and I'll 
 amend my life: thou art our admiral, thou 
 bearest the lantern in the poop, — but 'tis in the 
 nose of thee; thou art the Knight of the Burn- 
 ing Lamp. 
 
 Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no 
 harm. 
 
 Fal. No, I'll be sworn; I make as good use 
 of it as many a man doth of a Death's head or a 
 memento mori: I never see thy face but I think 
 upon hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; 
 for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. 
 If thou wert any way given to virtue, I would 
 swear by thy face; my oath should be. By this 
 fire, that's God's angel; but thou art altogether 
 given over; and wert indeed, but for the light 
 in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When 
 thou rannest up Gadshill in the night to catch 
 my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an 
 ignis fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no 
 purchase in money. O, thou art a perpetual 
 triumph, an everlasting bonfire light! Thou 
 hast saved me a thousand marks in links and 
 torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt 
 tavern and tavern : but the sack that thou hast 
 
 122 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 drunk me would have bought me lights as good 
 cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I 
 have maintained that salamander of yours with 
 fire any time this two-and-thirty years; God re- 
 ward me for it 1 
 
 Enter Hostess. 
 
 How now, Dame Partlet the hen ! have you in- 
 quired yet who picked my pocket? 
 
 Host. Why, Sir John, what do you think. 
 Sir John? do you think I keep thieves in my 
 house? I have searched, I have inquired, so 
 has my husband, man by man, boy by boy, serv- 
 ant by servant: the tithe of a hair was never 
 lost in my house before. 
 
 Fal. You lie, hostess : Bardolph was shaved, 
 and lost many a hair; and I'll be sworn my 
 pocket was picked. Go to, you are a woman, 
 go. 
 
 Host. Who, I? no; I defy thee: God's 
 light, I was never called so in mine own house 
 before. 
 
 Fal. Go to, I know you well enough. 
 
 Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me. 
 Sir John. I know you, Sir John : you owe me 
 money. Sir John; and now you pick a quarrel 
 to beguile me of it: I bought you a dozen of 
 shirts to your back. 
 
 Fal. Dowlas, filthy dowlas: I have given 
 123 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 them away to bakers' wives, and they have 
 made bolters of them. 
 
 Host. Now, as I am a true woman, hol- 
 land of eight shillings an ell. You owe money 
 here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by- 
 drlnkings, and money lent you, four-and-twenty 
 pound. 
 
 Fal. He had his part of it; let him pay. 
 
 Host. He? alas, he is poor; he hath noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Fal. How ! poor ? look upon his face ; what 
 call you rich? let them coin his nose, let them 
 coin his cheeks: I'll not pay a denier. What, 
 will you make a younker of me? shall I not 
 take mine ease in mine inn, but I shall have my 
 pocket picked? I have lost a seal-ring of my 
 grandfather's worth forty mark. 
 
 Host. O Jesu, I have heard the prince tell 
 him, I know not how oft, that that ring was 
 copper ! 
 
 Fal. Hbw! the prince is a Jack, a sneak- 
 cup: 'sblood, an he were here I would cudgel 
 him like a dog if he would say so. 
 Enter Prince Henry and Poins, marching. 
 
 Falstaff meets the Prince, playing on his 
 
 truncheon like a fife. 
 
 Fal How now, lad! is the wind in that 
 door, i' faith ? must we all march ? 
 
 Bard. Yea, two and two, Newgate-fashion. 
 
 Host. My lord, I pray you, hear me. 
 
 124 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 p. Hen. What sayest thou, Mistress 
 Quickly? How does thy husband? I love 
 him well; he is an honest man. 
 
 Host. Good my lord, hear me. 
 
 Fal. Pr'ythee, let her alone, and list to me. 
 
 P. Hen. What sayest thou. Jack? 
 
 Fal. The other night I fell asleep here be- 
 hind the arras, and had my pocket picked : . • . 
 they pick pockets. 
 
 P. Hen. What didst thou lose. Jack? 
 
 Fal. Wilt thou believe me, Hal? three or 
 four bonds of forty pound a-piece, and a seal- 
 ring of my grandfather's. 
 
 P. Hen. A trifle, some eight-penny matter. 
 
 Host. So I told him, my lord; and I said 
 I heard your grace say so: and, my lord, he 
 speaks most vilely of you, like a foul-mouthed 
 man as he is, and said he would cudgel you. 
 
 P. Hen. What! he did not? 
 
 Host. There's neither faith, truth, nor 
 womanhood in me else. 
 
 Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in 
 a stewed prune ; nor no more truth in thee than 
 in a drawn fox; and for womanhood. Maid 
 Marian may be the deputy's wife of the ward 
 to thee. Go, you thing, go. 
 
 Host. Say, what thing? what thing? 
 
 Fal. What thing! why, a thing to thank 
 God on. 
 
 Host. I am no thing to thank God on, I 
 
 125 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 would thou shouldst know it; I am an honest 
 man's wife; and, setting thy knighthood aside, 
 thou art a knave to call me so. 
 
 • • ■ • • • 
 
 P. Hen. Thou sayest true, hostess; and he 
 slanders thee most grossly. 
 
 Host. So he doth you, my lord; and said 
 this other day you ought him a thousand pound. 
 
 P. Hen. Sirrah, do I owe you a thousand 
 pound ? 
 
 Fal. A thousand pound, Hal! a million: 
 thy love is woi'th a million; thou owest me thy 
 love. 
 
 Host. Nay, my lord, he cali'd you Jack, 
 and said he would cudgel you. 
 
 Fal. Did I, Bardolph? 
 
 Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you said so. 
 
 Fal. Yea, — li he said my ring was copper. 
 
 P. Hen. I say 'tis copper: darest thou be as 
 good as thy word now? 
 
 Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou art 
 but man, I dare : but as thou art prince, I fear 
 thee, as I fear the roaring of the lion's whelp. 
 
 P. Hen. And why not as the lion ? 
 
 Fal. The king himself is to be feared as 
 the lion : dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear 
 thy father ? nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle 
 break. 
 
 P. Hen. . . . Charge an honest woman 
 -with picking thy pocket! Why, thou . . . 
 126 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 impudent, embossed rascal, if there were any- 
 thing in thy pocket but tavern-reckonings, . . . 
 and one poor penny-worth of sugar-candy to 
 make thee long-winded, — if thy pocket were 
 enriched with any other injuries but these, I 
 am a villain: and yet you will stand to it; you 
 will not pocket-up wrong: art thou not 
 ashamed? 
 
 Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? thou know- 
 est in the state of innocency Adam fell; and 
 what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the days 
 of villainy? Thou seest I have more flesh than 
 another man, and therefore more frailty. You 
 confess, then, you picked my pocket? 
 
 P. Hen. It appears so by the story. 
 
 Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee: go, make 
 ready breakfast; love thy husband, look to thy 
 servants, cherish thy guests: thou shalt find me 
 tractable to any honest reason : thou seest I am 
 pacified. — Still? — Nay, pr'ythee, be gone. 
 [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to the news at 
 court: for the robbery, lad, — how is that an- 
 swered? 
 
 P. Hen. O, my sweet beef, I must still be 
 good angel to thee : — the money is paid back 
 again. 
 
 Fal. O, I do not like that paying back; 'tis 
 a double labour. 
 
 P. Hen. I am good friends with my father, 
 and may do anything. 
 
 127 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing 
 thou doest, and do it with unwashed hands too. 
 
 Bard. Do, my lord. 
 
 P. Hen. I have procured thee, Jack, a 
 charge of foot. 
 
 Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where 
 shall I find one that can steal well? O for a 
 fine thief, of the age of two-and-twenty or 
 thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. 
 Well, God be thanked for these rebels, — they 
 offend none but the virtuous: I laud them, I 
 praise them. 
 
 The next appearance of Falstaff is upon a 
 public road near Coventry, with Bardolph. 
 The knight directs Bardolph to go before him 
 to the town and fill him a bottle of sack, and 
 directs that his soldiers shall march through. 
 Bardolph departs, and Falstaff soliloquises: 
 
 If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a 
 soused gurnet. I have misused the king's press 
 damnably. I have got, in exchange of a hun- 
 dred and fifty soldiers, three hundred and odd 
 pounds. I press me none but good house- 
 holders, yeomen's sons; inquire me out con- 
 tracted bachelors, such as had been asked twice 
 on the bans; such a commodity of warm slaves 
 as had as lief hear the devil as a drum; such as 
 fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck 
 128 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 fowl or a hurt wild-duck. I pressed me none 
 but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their 
 bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have 
 bought out their services; and now my whole 
 charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieuten- 
 ants, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged 
 as Lazarus in the painted cloth, where the 
 glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as, in- 
 deed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust 
 serving-men, younger sons to younger brothers, 
 revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fallen; the 
 cankers of a calm world and a long peace; ten 
 times more dishonourable ragged than an old- 
 faced ancient: and such have I, to fill up the 
 rooms of them that have bought out their serv- 
 ices, that you would think that I had a hundred 
 and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from 
 swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A 
 mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I 
 had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the 
 dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scare- 
 crows. I'll not march through Coventry with 
 them, that's flat : — nay, and the villains march 
 wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on; 
 for, indeed, I had the most of them out of 
 prison. There's but a shirt and a half in all 
 my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins 
 tacked together and thrown over the shoulders 
 like a herald's coat without sleeves; and the 
 shirt, to say the truth, stolen from my host at 
 
 129 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Saint Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of 
 Daventry. But that's all one; they'll find linen 
 enough on every hedge. 
 Enter Prince 1 Henry and Westmoreland. 
 
 P. Hen. How now, blown Jackl how now, 
 quilt I 
 
 Fal. What, Hal 1 how now, mad wag 1 what 
 a devil dost thou in Warwickshire ? — My 
 good Lord of Westmoreland, I cry you 
 mercy : I thought your honour had already been 
 at Shrewsbury. 
 
 West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time 
 that I were there, and you too; but my powers 
 are there already. The king, I can tell you, 
 looks for us all : we must away all night. 
 
 Fal. Tut, never fear me: I am as vigilant 
 as a cat to steal cream. 
 
 p. Hen. I think, to steal cream, indeed; for 
 thy theft hath already made thee butter. But 
 tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that come 
 after? 
 
 Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. 
 
 P. Hen. I did never see such pitiful rascals. 
 
 Fal. Tut, tut; good enough to toss; food 
 for powder, food for powder; they'll fill a pit 
 as well as better : tush, man, mortal men, mortal 
 men. 
 
 West. Ay, but. Sir John, methinks they are 
 exceeding poor and bare, — too beggarly. 
 
 Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know not 
 
 130 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 IIIIMII II I ■ I ■ 
 
 where they had that; and for their bareness, I 
 am sure they never learned that of me. 
 
 P. Hen. No, I'll be sworn; unless you call 
 three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, 
 make haste: Perq^ is already in the field. 
 
 Fal. What, is the king encamped? 
 
 West. He is. Sir John : I fear we shall stay 
 too long. 
 
 Fal. Well, 
 To the latter end of a fray and the beginning 
 
 of a feast 
 Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest. [^Exeunt. 
 
 Sir John next figures in the opening scene of 
 the fifth act of the play, in attendance upon the 
 king, with Princes Henry and John and Sir 
 Walter Blunt, in the royal camp near Shrews- 
 bury. There is a brief dialogue between Prince 
 Henry and Falstaff when the others have re- 
 tired, and the latter then gives vent to his fa- 
 mous views regarding the nature of honour. 
 
 Fal. Hal, if thou see me down in the battle, 
 and bestride me, so; 'tis a point of friendship. 
 
 p. Hen. Nothing but a colossus can do thee 
 that friendship. Say thy prayers, and farewell. 
 
 Fal. I would it were bed-time, Hal, and all 
 well. 
 
 P. Hen. Why, thou owest God a death. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 131 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Fal. 'Tis not due yet; I would be loth to 
 pay him before his day. What need I be so 
 forward with him that calls not on me ? Well, 
 'tis no matter ; honour pricks me on. Yea, but 
 how if honour prick, me off when I come on? 
 how then ? Can honour set-to a leg ? no : or an 
 arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? 
 no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? 
 no. What is honour? a word. What is in 
 that word, honour? What is that honour? air. 
 A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it ? he that 
 died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. 
 Doth he hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? 
 yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the 
 living ? no. Why ? detraction will not suffer it : 
 — therefore I'll none of it: honour is a mere 
 scutcheon: and so ends my catechism. [^Exit. 
 
 The third scene of the same act is the battle- 
 field near Shrewsbury. Sir Walter Blunt en- 
 counters Douglas, and is left dead upon the 
 ground. While the noise of the combat con- 
 tinues Falstaff enters. 
 
 Fal. Though I could 'scape shot-free at 
 London, I fear the shot here : here's no scoring 
 but upon the pate. — Soft! who art thou? Sir 
 Walter Blunt: — there's honour for you: 
 here's no vanity ! — I am as hot as molten lead,, 
 and as heavy too : God keep lead out of me ! I 
 132 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 need no more weight than my own bowels. — I 
 have led my raggamuffins where they are pep- 
 pered : there's not three of my hundred and fifty 
 left alive; and they are for the town's end, to 
 beg during life. — But who comes here? 
 
 Enter Prince Henry. 
 
 P. Hen. What, stand'st thou idle here? 
 lend me thy sword: 
 Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff 
 Under the hoofs of vaunting enemies. 
 Whose deaths are unreveng'd: pr'ythee, lend 
 me thy sword. 
 
 Fal. O Hal, I pr'ythee, give me leave to 
 breathe awhile. — Turk Gregory never did 
 such deeds in arms as I have done this day. 1 
 have paid Percy, I have made him sure. 
 
 P. Hen. He is, indeed; and living to kill 
 thee. Lend me thy sword, I pr'ythee. 
 
 Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be 
 alive thou gettest not my sword; but take my 
 pistol, if thou wilt. 
 
 P. Hen. Give it me : what, is it in the case ? 
 
 Fal. Ay, Hal; 'tis hot, 'tis hot; there's that 
 will sack a city. 
 
 [^The Prince draws out a bottle of sack. 
 
 p. Hen. What, is't time to jest and dally 
 now? {^Throws it at him, and exit. 
 
 Fal. Well, if Percy be alive, I'll pierce him. 
 If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if 
 133 
 
S H A K ESPEARE'S 
 
 I come in his willingly, let him make a car- 
 bonado of me. I like not such jrrinning hon- 
 our as Sir Walter hath : give me life : which if I 
 can save, so; if not, honour comes unlocked for, 
 and there's an end. {Exit. 
 
 On another part of the plain Prince Henry 
 and Hotspur meet, and, while they measure 
 swords, Douglas fights with Falstaff, who falls 
 as if he were dead. Douglas retires, and Hot- 
 spur falls and dies. The prince laments his 
 foe's untimely end, and, seeing Falstaff lying 
 still upon the ground, exclaims : 
 
 What, old acquaintance ! could not all this flesh 
 Keep in a little life ? Poor Jack, farewell 1 
 I could have better spar'd a better man. 
 O, I should have a heavy miss of thee, 
 If I were much in love with vanity. 
 Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, 
 Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. 
 Embowell'd will I see thee by and by: 
 Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. \^Exit. 
 Fal. {^Rising slowly.'] Embowelled! if 
 thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to 
 powder me and eat me too to-morrow. 'Sblood, 
 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant 
 Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counter- 
 feit? I lie, I am no counterfeit: to die is to be 
 a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a 
 134 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 man who hath not the life of a man; but to 
 counterfeit dying, when a man thereby llveth, 
 is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect 
 image of life indeed. The better part of 
 valour is discretion ; in which better part I have 
 saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this 
 gunpowder Percy, though he be dead; how if 
 he should counterfeit too, and rise? I am 
 afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. 
 Therefore I'll make him sure: yea, and I'll 
 swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as 
 well as I ? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and 
 nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah [stahbing 
 Aim], with a new wound in your thigh, come 
 you along with me. 
 
 \_Takes Hotspur on his back. 
 
 Re-enter Prince Henry and Prince John. 
 
 P. John. But, soft! whom have we here? 
 Did you not tell me this fat man was dead ? 
 
 P. Hen. I did; I saw him dead, breathless 
 and bleeding 
 On the ground. — 
 Art thou alive ? or is it fantasy 
 That plays upon our eyesight? I pr'ythee, 
 
 speak; 
 We will not trust our eyes without our ears : — 
 Thou art not what thou seem'st. 
 
 Fal. No, that's certain; I am not a double 
 
 135 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 man: but if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I 
 a Jack. There is Percy {^throwing the body 
 down] : if your father will do me any honour, 
 so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. 
 I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure 
 you. 
 
 P. Hen. Why, Percy I killed myself, and 
 saw thee dead. 
 
 Fal. Didst thou ? — Lord, Lord, how this 
 world is given to lying ! I grant you I was down 
 and out of breath, and so was he; but we rose 
 both at an instant, and fought a long hour by 
 Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believed, so; 
 if not, let tliem that should reward valour bear 
 the sin upon their own heads. I'll take it upon 
 my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh: 
 if, the man were alive, and would deny it, 
 zounds, I would make him eat a piece of my 
 sword. 
 
 P. John. This is the strangest tale that e'er 
 I heard. 
 
 P. Hen. This is the strangest fellow, 
 brother John. — 
 Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back: 
 For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, 
 I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have. 
 The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is 
 ours. . . . 
 
 [^Exeunt P. Henry and P. John. 
 
 Fal. I'll follow, as they say, for reward. 
 
 136 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 He that rewards me, God reward him I If I 
 do grow great, I'll grow less ; for I'll purge, and 
 leave sack, and live cleanly, as a nobleman 
 should do. [Exit, bearing of the body. 
 
 In the second part of the play of " King 
 Henry IV," Falstaff appears on a London 
 street, with his page bearing his sword and 
 buckler. 
 
 Fal. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at 
 me : the brain of this foolish-compounded clay, 
 man, is not able to invent anything that tends 
 to laughter, more than I invent or is invented 
 on me: I am not only witty in myself, but the 
 cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk 
 before thee like a sow that hath overwhelmed 
 all her litter but one. If the prince put thee 
 into my service for any other reason than to set 
 me off, why then I have no judgment. Thou 
 . . . mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in 
 my cap than to wait at my heels. I was never 
 manned with an agate till now: but I will set 
 you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile ap- 
 parel, and send you back again to your master, 
 for a jewel, — the juvenal, the prince your mas- 
 ter, whose chin is not yet fledged. I will 
 sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my 
 hand than he shall get one on his cheek ; and yet 
 he will not stick to say his face is a face-royal: 
 
 137 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 God may finish it when he will, it is not a hair 
 amiss yet: he may keep it still as a face-royal, 
 for a barber shall never earn sixpence out of 
 it; and yet he will be crowing as if he had writ 
 man ever since his father was a bachelor. He 
 may keep his own grace, but he is almost out 
 of mine, I can assure him. — What said Master 
 Dumbleton about the satin for my short cloak 
 and my slops ? 
 
 Page. He said, sir, you should procure him 
 better assurance than Bardolph: he would not 
 take his bond and yours; he liked not the se- 
 curity. 
 
 Fal. Let him be damned, like the glutton! 
 may his tongue be hotter ! — A . . . rascally 
 yea-forsooth knave! to bear a gentleman in 
 hand, and then stand upon security ! — ... I 
 had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth 
 as offer to stop it with security. 
 
 Page. Sir, here comes the nobleman that 
 committed the prince for striking him about 
 Bardolph. 
 
 Fal. Wait close; I will not see him. 
 Enter the Lord Chief- Justice and an Attendant. 
 
 Ch. Just. What's he that goes there? 
 
 Atten. Falstaff, an 't please your lordship. 
 
 Ch. Just. He that was in question for the 
 robbery ? 
 
 Atten. He, my lord : but he hath since done 
 138 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 good service at Shrewsbury; and, as I hear, is 
 now going with some charge to the Lord John 
 of Lancaster. 
 
 Ch. Just. What, to York? Call him back 
 again. 
 
 Atten. Sir John Falstaff! 
 
 Fal. Boy, tell him, I am deaf. 
 
 Page. You must speak louder; my master 
 is deaf. 
 
 Ch. Just. I am sure he is, to the hearing of 
 anything good. — Go, pluck him by the elbow ; 
 I must speak with him. 
 
 Atten. Sir John, — 
 
 Fal. What! a young knave, and begging I 
 Is there not wars? is there not employment? 
 Doth not the king lack subjects? Do not the 
 rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame 
 to be on any side but one, it is worse shame to 
 beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse 
 than the name of rebellion can tell how to make 
 it. 
 
 Atten. You mistake me, sir. 
 
 Fal. Why, sir, did I say you were an honest 
 man? setting my knighthood and my soldier- 
 ship aside, I had lied in my throat if I had said 
 so. 
 
 Atten. I pray you, sir, then set your knight- 
 hood and your soldiership aside; and give me 
 leave to tell you, you lie in your throat, if you 
 say I am any other than an honest man. 
 
 139 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Fal. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay 
 aside that which grows to me I If thou get- 
 test any leave of me, hang me; if thou takest 
 leave, thou wert better be hanged ! You hunt- 
 counter, hence ! avant ! 
 
 Atten. Sir, my lord would speak with you. 
 
 Ch. Just. Sir John Falstaff, a word with 
 you. 
 
 Fal. My good lord ! — God give your 
 lordship good time of day. I am glad to see 
 your lordship abroad: I heard say your lord- 
 ship was sick: I hope your lordship goes 
 abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not 
 clean past your youth, hath yet some smack of 
 age in you, some relish of the saltness of time; 
 and I most humbly beseech your lordship to 
 have a reverent care of your health. 
 
 Ch. Just. _ Sir John, I sent for you before 
 your expedition to Shrewsbury. 
 
 Fal. An 't please your lordship, I hear his 
 majesty is returned with some discomfort from 
 Wales. 
 
 Ch. Just. I talk not of his majesty: — you 
 would not come when I sent for you. 
 
 Fal. And I hear, moreover, his highness is 
 fallen into . . . apoplexy. 
 
 Ch. Just. Well, God mend himl I pray 
 you let me speak with you. 
 
 Fal. This apoplexy is, as I take it, a kind 
 
 140 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 of lethargy, an 't please your lordship; a kind 
 of sleeping in the blood, a . . . tingling. 
 
 Ch. Just. What tell you me of it? be it as 
 it is. 
 
 Fal. It hath its original from much grief, 
 from study, and perturbation of the brain 1 I 
 have read the cause of his effects in Galen ; it is 
 a kind of deafness. 
 
 Ch. Just. I think you are fallen into the 
 disease; for you hear not what I say to you. 
 
 Fal. Very well, my lord, very well : rather, 
 an 't please you, it is the disease of not listening, 
 the malady of not marking, that I am trou- 
 bled withal. 
 
 Ch. Just. To punish you by the heels would 
 amend the attention of your ears; and I care 
 not if I do become your physician. 
 
 Fal. I am as poor as Job, my lord, but not 
 so patient: your lordship may minister the po- 
 tion of imprisonment to me in respect of pov- 
 erty; but how should I be your patient to follow 
 your prescriptions, the wise may make some 
 dram of a scruple, or, indeed, a scruple itself. 
 
 Ch. Just. I sent for you when there were 
 matters against you for your life, to come speak 
 with me. 
 
 Fal. As I was then advised by my learned 
 counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did 
 not come. 
 
 141 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Ch. Just. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you 
 live in great infamy. 
 
 Fal. He that buckles him in my belt cannot 
 live in less. 
 
 Ch. Just. Your means are very slender, and 
 your Ti^aste is great. 
 
 Fal. I would it were otherwise; I would 
 my means were greater and my waist slenderer. 
 
 Ch. Just. You have misled the youthful 
 prince. 
 
 Fal. The young prince hath misled me: I 
 am the fellow with the great belly, and he my 
 dog. 
 
 Ch. Just. Well, I am loth to gall a new- 
 healed wound: your day's service at Shrews- 
 bury hath a little gilded over your night's ex- 
 ploit on Gadshill: you may thank the unquiet 
 time for your quiet o'erposting that actioru 
 
 Fal. My lord, — 
 
 Ch. Just. But since all is well, keep it so: 
 wake not a sleeping wolf. 
 
 Fal. To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell 
 a fox. 
 
 Ch. Just. What! you are as a candle, the 
 better part burnt out. 
 
 Fal. A wassail candle, my lord ; all tallow : 
 if I did say of wax, my growth would approve 
 the truth. 
 
 Ch. Just. There is not a white hair on your 
 face but should have his effect of gravity. 
 
 142 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Fal. His effect of gravy, gravy, gravy. 
 
 Ch. Just. You follow the young prince up 
 and down, like his ill angel. 
 
 Fal. Not so, my lord; your ill angel is 
 light; but I hope he that looks upon me will 
 take me without weighing: and yet, in some 
 respects, I grant, I cannot go : — I cannot tell. 
 Virtue is of so little regard in these coster- 
 monger times that true valour is turned bear- 
 herd: pregnancy is made a tapster, and hath 
 his quick wit wasted in giving reckonings: all 
 the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice 
 of this age shapes them, are not worth a goose- 
 berry. You that are old consider not the ca- 
 pacities of us that are young; you measure the 
 heat of our livers with the bitterness of your 
 galls: and we that are in the vaward of our 
 youth, I mujt confess, are wags too. 
 
 Ch. Just. Do you set down your name in 
 the scroll of youth, that are written down old 
 with all the characters of age? Have you not 
 a moist eye? a dry hand? a yellow cheek? a 
 white beard? a decreasing leg? an increasing 
 belly? Is not your voice broken? your wind 
 short? your chin double? your wit single? and 
 every part about you blasted with antiquity? 
 and will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, 
 fie. Sir John! 
 
 Fal. My lord, I was born about three of 
 the clock in the afternoon, with a white head, 
 
 143 
 
SHAKESPEARE*S 
 
 and something a round belly. For my voice, 
 — I have lost it with hollaing and singing of 
 anthems. To approve my youth further, I will 
 not; the truth is, I am only old in judgment and 
 understanding; and he that will caper with me 
 for a thousand marks, let him lend me the 
 money, and have at him. For the box o' the 
 ear that the prince gave you, — he gave it like 
 a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible 
 lord. I have checked him for it; and the 
 young lion repents; marry, not in ashes and 
 sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack. 
 
 Ch. Just. Well, God send the prince a bet- 
 ter companion ! 
 
 Fal. God send the companion a better 
 prince ! I cannot rid my hands of him. 
 
 Ch. Just. Well, the king hath severed you 
 and Prince Harry: I hear you are going with 
 Lord John of Lancaster against the archbishop 
 and the Earl of Northumberland. 
 
 Fal. Yea ; I thank your pretty sweet wit for 
 it. But look you, pray, all you that kiss my 
 Lady Peace at home, that our armies join not 
 in a hot day; for, by the Lord, I take but two 
 shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat 
 extraordinarily : if it be a hot day, and I brand- 
 ish anything but my bottle, I would I might 
 never spit white again. There is not a danger- 
 ous action can peep out his head but I am thrust 
 upon it: well, I cannot last ever: but it was 
 
 144 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 always yet the trick of our English nation, if 
 they have a good thing, to make it too com- 
 mon. If you will needs say I am an old man, 
 you should give me rest. I would to God my 
 name were not so terrible to the enemy as it 
 is : I were better to be eaten to death with rust 
 than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual 
 motion. 
 
 Ch. Just. Well, be honest, be honest; and 
 God bless your expedition ! 
 
 Fal. Will your lordship lend me a thou- 
 sand pound to furnish me forth ? 
 
 Ck. Just. Not a penny, not a penny; yOu 
 are too Impatient to bear crosses. Fare you 
 well: commend me to my cousin Westmore- 
 land. 
 
 [Exeunt Chief-Justice and Attendant. 
 
 Fal. If I do, fillip me with a three-man 
 beetle. 
 
 Fal. What money is in my purse? 
 
 Page. Seven groats and two pence. 
 
 Fal. I can get no remedy against this con- 
 sumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers 
 and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. 
 — Go bear this letter to my Lord of Lancas- 
 ter ; this to the prince ; this to the Earl of West- 
 moreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, 
 whom I have weekly sworn to marry since I 
 perceived the first white hair on my chin. 
 145 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 About it; you know where to find me. [Exit 
 Page.] ... It is no matter if I do halt; I 
 have the wars for my colour, and my pension 
 shall seem the more reasonable. A good wit 
 will make use of anything. I will turn diseases 
 to commodity. [Exit. 
 
 A second street scene in London opens with 
 Constables Fang and Snare waiting to arrest 
 Falstaff for debt, at the suit of Mistress Quickly, 
 hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap. She warns 
 them to be wary; that "he will foin (fence) 
 like any devil; he will spare neither man, 
 woman, nor child." She proceeds to lament be- 
 cause of his heavy debt to her, declaring: 
 
 I am undone by his going ; I warrant you, he 
 is an infinitive thing upon my score : — good 
 Master Fang, hold him sure : — good Master 
 Snare, let him not 'scape. ... A hundred 
 mark is a long loan for a poor, lone woman to 
 bear: and I have borne, and borne, and borne. 
 . . . There is no honesty in such dealing; un- 
 less a woman should be made an ass and a beast, 
 to 'bear every knave's wrong. Yonder he comes ; 
 and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, 
 with him. Do your offices, do your offices, 
 Master Fanjg and Master Snare ; do me, do me, 
 do me your offices. 
 
 146 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Enter Sir John Falstaff, Page, and Bar- 
 
 DOLPH. 
 
 Fal. How now ! whose mare's dead ? what's 
 the matter. 
 
 Fang. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of 
 Mistress Quickly. 
 
 Fal. Away, varlets I — Draw, Bardolph : 
 cut me off the villain's head; throw the quean 
 in the channel. 
 
 Host. Throw me In the channel! I'll 
 throw thee in the channel. Wilt thou? wilt 
 thou ? thou bastardly rogue ! — Murder, mur- 
 der! O thou honeysuckle villain! wilt thou 
 kill God's officers and the king's? O thou 
 honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a 
 man-queller and a woman-queller. 
 
 Fal. Keep them off, Bardolph. 
 
 Fang. A rescue! a rescue! 
 
 Host. Good people, bring a rescue or two. 
 — Thou wo'tj wo't thou? thou wo't, wo't 
 thou ? do, do, thou rogue ! do, thou hemp-seed ! 
 
 Fal. Away, you scullion! you rampallian! 
 you fustilarian! . . . 
 
 The Lord Chief Justice enters, stops the tu- 
 mult, and, after making inquiry of the hostess, 
 rebukes Falstaff for his wrong-doing and evil 
 ways. 
 
 147 
 
SHAKESPEARE^S 
 
 Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe 
 thee? 
 
 Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, 
 thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear 
 to me upon a parcel-gift goblet, sitting in my 
 Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea- 
 coal fire, upon Wednesday in Whitsun-week, 
 when the prince broke thy head for liking his 
 father to a singing-man of Windsor, — thou 
 didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy 
 wound, to marry me, and make me my lady 
 thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not 
 goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in 
 then, and call me gossip Quickly? coming in to 
 borrow a mess of vinegar ; telling us she had a 
 good dish of pawns ; whereby thou didst desire 
 to eat some; whereby I tqld thee they were ill 
 for a green wound? And didst thou not, 
 when she was gone down stairs, desire me to 
 be no more so familiarity with such poor peo- 
 ple; saying that ere long they should call me 
 madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid 
 me fetch the thirty shillings? I put thee now 
 to thy book-oath : deny it, if thou canst ! 
 
 Fal. My lord, this is a poor mad soul; and 
 she says, up and down the town, that her eldest 
 son is like you: she hath been in good case, 
 and, the truth is, poverty hath distracted her. 
 But for these foolish officers, I beseech you I 
 may have redress against them. . . . 
 
 148 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 The Chief Justice further rebukes Sir John 
 and admonishes him to pay the hostess. Fal- 
 staff again asks for deliverance from the con- 
 stables, " being upon hasty employment in the 
 king's affairs." He takes the woman aside, and 
 what here follows' is heard to pass between 
 them: 
 
 Fal. As I am a gentleman, — 
 
 Host. Nay, you said so before. 
 
 Fal. As I am a gentleman : — come, no 
 more words of it.. 
 
 Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, 
 I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the 
 tapestry of my dining-chambers. 
 
 Fal. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking: 
 and for thy walls, — a pretty slight drollery, or 
 the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunt- 
 ing in water-work. Is worth a thousand of these 
 bed-hangings and these fly-bitten tapestries. 
 Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, an 
 it were not for thy humours, there is not a bet- 
 ter wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and 
 draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in 
 this humour with me ; dost not know me ? come, 
 come, I know thou wast set on to this. 
 
 Host. Pray thee. Sir John, let it be but 
 twenty nobles: i' faith, I am loth to pawn my 
 plate, so God save me, la. 
 
 149 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Fal. Let it alone; I'll make other shift: 
 you'll be a fool still. 
 
 Host. Well, you shall have it, though I 
 pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to sup- 
 per. You'll pay me all together? 
 
 Fal Will I live? 
 
 In the third act Falstajff and Bardolph appear 
 in a courtyard before Justice Shallow's house in 
 Gloucestershire, to which they have come on a 
 recruiting mission. After half-a-dozen men, 
 assembled by the foolish Justice, have been ex- 
 amined for military service by Sir John, in bur- 
 lesque fashion, the selection is finally made as 
 follows : 
 
 Fal. Come sir, which men shall I have? 
 
 Shal. Four of which you please. 
 
 Bard. Sir, a word with you : — I have 
 three pound to free Mouldy and BuUcalf. 
 
 Fal. Go to; well. 
 
 Shal. Come, Sir John, which four will you 
 have? 
 
 Fal. Do you choose for me. 
 
 Shal. Marry, then, — Mouldy, BuUcalf, 
 Feeble, and Shadow. 
 
 Fal. Mouldy and BuUcalf: — for you. 
 Mouldy, stay at home till you are past service: 
 and for your part, BuUcalf, — grow until you 
 come unto it: I wiU none of you. 
 150 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself 
 wrong : they are your likeliest men, and I would 
 have you served with the best. 
 
 Fal. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, 
 how to choose a man? Care I for the limb, the 
 thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance 
 of a man I Give me the spirit. Master Shal- 
 low. — Here's Wart ; — you see what a ragged 
 appearance it is : he shall charge you and dis- 
 charge you, with the motion of a pewterer's 
 hammer ; come off, and on, swifter than he that 
 gibbets-on the brewer's bucket. And this same 
 half- faced fellow. Shadow, — give me this man : 
 he presents no mark to the enemy; the foeman 
 may with as great aim level at the edge of a 
 penknife. And, for a retreat,— how swiftly 
 will this Feeble, the woman's tailor, run off! 
 O, give me the spare men, and spare me the 
 great ones. — Put me a caliver into Wart's 
 hand, Bardolph. 
 
 After Shallow and the others have left the 
 scene, Falstaff remains and thus to himself ridi- 
 cules the Justice: 
 
 ... I do see the bottom of Justice Shallow. 
 Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to 
 this vice of lying! This same starved justice 
 hath done nothing but prate to me of the wild- 
 ness of his youth, and the feats he hath done 
 about TurnbuU Street; and every third word 
 151 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's 
 tribute. I do remember him at Clement' s-inn, 
 like a man made after supper of a cheese-par- 
 ing: when he was naked, he was, for all the 
 world, like a forked radish, with a head fan- 
 tastically carved upon it with a knife : he was so 
 forlorn that his dimensions to any thick sight 
 were invincible: he was the very genius of 
 famine : ... he came ever in the rearward of 
 the fashion; and sung those tunes to the over- 
 scutched huswifes that he heard the carmen 
 whistle, and sware they were his fancies or his 
 good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger be- 
 come a squire, and talks as familiarly of John 
 of Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to 
 him; and I'll be sworn he never saw him but 
 once in the Tilt-yard; and then he burst his 
 head for crowding among the marshal's men. 
 I saw it and told John of Gaunt he beat his own 
 name ; for you might have thrust him and all his 
 apparel into an eel-skin; the case of a treble 
 hautboy was a mansion for him, a court : — and 
 now he has land and beeves. Well, I will be 
 acquainted with him if I return ; and it shall go 
 hard but I will make him a philosopher's two 
 stones to me: if the young dace be a bait for 
 the old pike, I see no reason in the law of na- 
 ture, but I may snap at him. Let time shape, 
 and there an end. lExit. 
 
 152 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Falstaff reappears in the fourth act. The 
 scene is a forest in Yorkshire, where he en- 
 counters Sir John Coleville of the Dale, a 
 knight of the forces opposed to the king. Fal- 
 staff arraigns him as a traitor, and Coleville 
 surrenders, remarking: 
 
 I think you are Sir John Falstaff ; and in that 
 thought yield me. 
 
 This would appear to indicate that Falstaff 
 had some military repute, and was not regarded 
 as a poltroon. For Coleville is later addressed 
 by Prince John as " a famous rebel," and his 
 reply to the prince showed him to be courage- 
 ous. Such a brave knight scarcely would have 
 yielded to Falstaff without a blow had not the 
 latter enjoyed some reputation for valour, how- 
 ever ill-deserved. 
 
 Immediately after Coleville's surrender. 
 Prince John comes on the scene. 
 
 P. John. Now, Falstaff, where have you 
 iDeen all this while?" 
 When everything is ended, then you come : 
 These tardy tricks of yours will, on my life, 
 One time or other break some gallows back. 
 
 Fal. I would be sorry, my lord, but it 
 
 153 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 should be thus : I never knew yet but rebuke and 
 check was the reward of valour. Do you 
 think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? have 
 I, in my poor and old motion, the expedition 
 of thought? I have speeded hither with the 
 very extremest inch of possibility; I have 
 foundered nine-score and odd posts: and here, 
 travel tainted as I am, have, in my pure and 
 immaculate valour, taken Sir John Colevile of 
 the dale, a most furious knight and valourous 
 enemy. But what of that? he saw me, and 
 yielded; that I may justly say with the hook- 
 nosed fellow of Rome, — I came, saw, and 
 overcame. 
 
 P. John. It was more of his courtesy than 
 your deserving. 
 
 _ Fal. I know not : — here he is, and here I 
 yield him: and I beseech your grace, let it be 
 booked with the rest of this day's deeds ; or, by 
 the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad 
 else, with mine own picture on the top of it, 
 Colevile kissing my foot. 
 
 P. John. Fare you well, Falstaff: I, in my 
 condition. 
 Shall better speak of you than you deserve. 
 
 [^Exeunt all but Fal. 
 
 Fal. I would you had but the wit: 'twere 
 
 better than your dukedom. Good faith, this 
 
 same young sober-blooded boy doth not love 
 
 154 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 me ; nor a man cannot make him laugh ; — but 
 that's no marvel; he drinks no wine. ... A 
 good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in 
 it. It ascends me into the brain ; dries me there 
 all the foolish and dull and crudy vapours which 
 environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, for- 
 getive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable 
 shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice, — the 
 tongue, — which is the birth, becomes excellent 
 wit. The second property of your excellent 
 sherris is, — the warming of the blood; which, 
 before cold and settled, left the liver white and 
 pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity and 
 cowardice : but the sherris warms it, and makes 
 it course from the inwards to the parts extreme : 
 it illumineth the face; which, as a beacon, gives 
 warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, 
 man, to arm ; and then the vital commoners and 
 inland petty spirits muster me all to their cap- 
 tain, the heart, who, great and puffed up with 
 this retinue, doth any deed of courage : and this 
 valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the 
 weapon is nothing without sack, for that sets it 
 a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold 
 kept by a devil till sack commences it and sets it 
 in act and use. Hereof comes it that Prince 
 Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did 
 naturally inherit of his father, he hath, like 
 lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, hus- 
 banded, and tilled, with excellent endeavour of 
 
 155 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 drinking good and good store of fertile sherris, 
 that he is become very hot and valiant. If I 
 had a thousand sons, the first human principle 
 I would teach them should be, — to forswear 
 thin potations, and to addict themselves to sack. 
 
 Sack, which Falstaff extolled so highly, and 
 drank copiously, was a strong Spanish wine, 
 probably sherry, or resembling it. 
 
 From the forest, attended by Bardolph, Fal- 
 staff proceeds to the home of Justice Shallow, 
 in Gloucestershire, where he is made welcome, 
 with profuse expressions of hospitality. But, 
 as soon as he is left alone, the rotund knight 
 satirises his host in this fashion: 
 
 If I were sawed into quantities, I should 
 make four dozen of such bearded hermits' 
 staves as Master Shallow. It is a wonderful 
 thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's 
 spirits and his: they, by observing of him, do 
 bear themselves like foolish justices ; he, by con- 
 versing with them, Is turned into a justice-like 
 serving-man: their spirits are so married in 
 conjunction with the participation of society 
 that they flock together in consent, like so many 
 wild geese. If I had a suit to Master Shallow, 
 I would humour his men with the imputation 
 of being near their master: if to his men, I 
 would curry with Master Shallow that no man 
 156 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 could better command his servants. It is cer- 
 tain that either wise bearing or ignorant car- 
 riage is caught, as men take diseases, one of 
 another: therefore, let men take heed of their 
 company. I will devise matter enough out of 
 this Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual 
 laughter the wearing out of six fashions. 
 
 While Falstaff tarries, as a guest of the Jus- 
 tice, Pistol brings news of the death of the 
 old king and of Prince Henry's succession to 
 the throne. 
 
 Fal. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. — 
 Master Robert Shallow, choose what office thou 
 wilt in the land, 'tis thine.— Pistol, I will dou- 
 ble-charge thee with dignities. 
 
 Bard. O joyful day ! 
 I would not take a knighthood for my fortune. 
 
 Pist. What, I do bring good news ? 
 
 Fal. Carry Master Silence to bed. — Mas- 
 ter Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou 
 wilt; I am fortune's steward. Get on thy 
 boots: we'll ride all night: — O sweet Pistol! 
 
 — away, Bardolph! [Exit Bardolph.] 
 
 — Come, Pistol, utter more to me ; and, withal, 
 devise something to do thyself good. — Boot, 
 boot, Master Shallow: I know the young king 
 is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses ; 
 the laws of England are at my commandment. 
 
 15.7 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Happy are they which have been my friends; 
 and woe unto my lord Chief- Justice ! 
 
 Falstaff and his followers, accompanied by 
 Justice Shallow, ride post-haste to London, and 
 take their stand in a public place near West- 
 minster Abbey, where they may see the young 
 king returning from the coronation ceremonies. 
 
 Fal. Stand here by me, Master Robert 
 Shallow; I will make the king do you grace: I 
 will leer upon him, as he comes by; and do but 
 mark the countenance that he will give me. 
 
 Ptst. God bless thy lungs, good knight. 
 
 Fal. Come here. Pistol; stand behind me. 
 — O, if I had had time to have made new liv- 
 eries, I would have bestowed the thousand 
 pound I borrowed of you [fo Shallow]. But 
 'tis no matter ; this poor show doth better : this 
 doth infer the zeal I had to see him, — ; 
 
 Shal. It doth so. 
 
 Fal. It shows my earnestness of affec- 
 tion, — 
 
 Shal. It doth so. 
 
 Fal. My devotion, — 
 
 Shal. It doth, it doth, it doth. 
 
 But the knight and his retainers are doomed 
 to sad disappointment. 
 
 158 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Enter the King and his Train, the Chief-Jus- 
 tice among them. 
 
 Fal. God save thy grace, King Hal; my 
 royal Hal ! 
 
 Pist. The heavens thee guard and keep, 
 most royal imp of fame ! 
 
 Fal. God save thee, my sweet boy I 
 
 King. My lord chief-justice, speak to that 
 vain man. 
 
 Ch. Just. Have you your wits? know you 
 what 'tis you speak? 
 
 Fal. My king ! my Jove 1 I speak to thee, 
 my heart ! 
 
 King. I know thee not, old man ; fall to thy 
 prayers. 
 
 And the king proceeds with his stern rebuke, 
 admonishing Falstaff to amend his life, and 
 banishing him, on pain of death, not to come 
 within ten miles of the royal person, but prom- 
 ising him an allowance, that lack of means may 
 not force him to evil ways. The king charges 
 the Chief Justice to see the tenor of the royal 
 word performed, and goes on his way, with his 
 train. 
 
 Fal. Master Shallow, I owe you a thou- 
 sand pound. 
 
 159 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Shal. Yea, marry, Sir John; which I be- 
 seech you to let me have home with me. 
 
 Fal. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. 
 Do not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for 
 in private to him : look you, he must seem thus 
 to the world : fear not your advancement ; I will 
 be the man yet that shall make you great. 
 
 Shal. I cannot perceive how, — unless you 
 give me your doublet, and stuff me out with 
 straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let me 
 have five hundred of my thousand. 
 
 Fal. Sir, I will be as good as my word : this 
 that you heard was but a colour. 
 
 Shal. A colour, I fear, that you will die in. 
 Sir John. 
 
 Fal. Fear no colours : go with me to dinner. 
 Come, Lieutenant Pistol; — come, Bardolph: 
 — I shall be sent for soon at night. 
 
 Re-enter Prince John, the Chief- Justice, 
 
 Officers, tfc. 
 
 Ch. Just. Go, carry Sir John Falstaff to the 
 Fleet; 
 Take all his company along with him. 
 Fal. My lord, my lord, — 
 Ch. Just. I cannot now speak: I will hear 
 you soon. — 
 Take them away. 
 
 Falstaff's imprisonment may have been brief, 
 but it appears from the first act of the play of 
 1 60 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 " King Henry V " that the old knight was 
 greatly broken by his disappointment and the 
 harsh treatment he received from the young 
 king, his quondam boon companion. He is re- 
 ported very ill of a fever in the Boar's Head 
 tavern, where Pistol has become host by mar- 
 riage with the widow Quickly. And the 
 woman exclaims, when they are called to the 
 bedside of the dying Sir John : 
 
 The king has killed his heart. 
 
 Some time later. Pistol announces to Bar- 
 dolph and Nym that Falstaff is dead, and that 
 they all " must yearn therefore." 
 
 Bard. Would I were with him, where- 
 some'er he Is, either In heaven or In hell ! 
 
 Host. Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in 
 Arthur's bosom. If ever man went to Arthur's 
 bosom. 'A made a finer end, and went away, 
 an it had been any christom child; 'a parted 
 even just between twelve and one, even at the 
 turning o' the tide : for after I saw him fumble 
 with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile 
 upon his fingers' ends, I knew there was but one 
 way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a 
 babbled of green fields. How now, Sir John! 
 quoth I: what, man! be o' good cheer. So 'a 
 cried out — God, God, God! three or four 
 i6i 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a 
 should not think of God; I hoped there was no 
 need to trouble himself with any such thoughts 
 yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his 
 feet : I put my hand into the bed and felt them, 
 and they were as cold as any stone. 
 
 The character of Falstaff has been scored 
 very severely by some learned critics as utterly 
 vile, worthless, and contemptible. But it would 
 seem that Shakespeare could not so have re- 
 garded it, else Bardolph scarcely would have 
 been made to manifest for his dead patron so 
 profound a regard as that expressed in his brief 
 comment. 
 
 We must admit that the corpulent old knight 
 was a very sinful person, a rogue without hon- 
 our, a drunkard, and a liar. And yet, with all 
 his faults, we are charmed by his infinite wit 
 and gaiety of spirit, and his unfailing good 
 humour and cheerfulness. 
 
 162 
 
KING HENRY V 
 
 After the death of Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, 
 and Pistol join the British army in France. 
 The first scene of the third act of " King 
 Henry V " finds them outside the walls of the 
 city of Harfleur, where an active siege is in 
 progress. They are attended by the keen- 
 witted boy who was page to their former 
 master. 
 
 Bardolph cries, " On, on to the breach," but 
 Nym says, "Pray thee, corporal, stay; the 
 knocks are too hot," and Pistol chimes in with 
 a like sentiment, while the lad expresses the 
 wish that he were again in London. " I would 
 give all my fame," he declares, " for a pot of 
 ale and safety," which is just what Falstaff 
 might have said in a like situation. 
 
 Then enters Captain Fluellen, a Welsh offi- 
 cer of King Henry's forces, and drives the lag- 
 gards forward, crying: 
 
 Up to the preach, you dogsl avaunt, you 
 cuUions I 
 
 163 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 The boy alone remains, and thus character- 
 ises the erstwhile followers of Sir John: 
 
 As young as I am, I have observed these 
 three swashers. I am boy to them all three: 
 but all they three, though they would serve me, 
 could not be man to me ; for, indeed, three such 
 antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, 
 
 — he is white-livered and red- faced; by the 
 means whereof 'a faces it out, but fights not. 
 For Pistol, — he hath a killing tongue and a 
 quiet sword; by the means whereof 'a breaks 
 words and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, 
 
 — he hath heard that men of few words are 
 the best men; and therefore he scorns to say 
 his prayers lest 'a should be thought a coward : 
 but his few bad words are matched with as few 
 good deeds ; for 'a never broke any man's head 
 but his own, and that was against a post when 
 he was drunk. They will steal anything, and 
 call it purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, 
 bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for three 
 halfpence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn 
 brothers in filching; and in Calais they stole a 
 fire-shovel: I knew by that piece of service the 
 men would carry coals. They would have me 
 as familiar with men's pockets as their gloves 
 or their handkerchers : which makes much 
 against my manhood, if I should take from 
 another's pocket to put into mine ; for it is plain 
 pocketing up of wrongs. I must leave them, 
 
 164 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 and seek some better service : their villainy goes 
 against my weak stomach, and therefore I must 
 cast it up. l^Exit. 
 
 The scene shifts to the British camp in 
 Picardy, where the simple-minded, credulous 
 Fluellen commends to the Welsh commander, 
 Gower, the " gallant service," of " Ancient 
 Pistol" "at the pridge," and likens him to 
 Mark Antony in valour. Pistol enters and im- 
 plores pardon for Bardolph, in these words: 
 
 Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him; 
 For he hath stol'n a pax, and hanged must 'a 
 
 be, — 
 A damned death! 
 
 Let gallows gap for dog; let man go free. 
 And let no hemp his windpipe suffocate : 
 But Exeter hath given the doom of death 
 For pax of little price. 
 Therefore, go speak, — the duke will hear thy 
 
 voice ; 
 And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut 
 With edge of penny cord and vile reproach : 
 Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee re- 
 quite. 
 Flu. Auncient Pistol, I do partly under- 
 stand your meaning. 
 
 Pist. Why, then, rejoice therefore. 
 Flu. Certainly, Auncient, it is not a thing to 
 165 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 rejoice at : for if, look you, he were my prother 
 I would desire the duke to use his goot pleasure, 
 and put him to execution; for discipline ought 
 to be used. 
 
 Pist. Die and be damn'd! and fico for thy 
 friendship ! 
 
 [Exit Pistol. 
 
 Gow. Why, this is an arrant counterfeit 
 rascal; I remember him now; . . . 
 
 Flu. I'll assure you, 'a uttered as prave 
 'ords at the pridge as you shall see in a sum- 
 mer's day. . . . 
 
 Gow. Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that 
 now and then goes to the wars, to grace him- 
 self, at his return into London, under the form 
 of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect in 
 the great commanders' names: and they will 
 learn you by rote where services were done ; — 
 at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at 
 such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was 
 shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy 
 stood on; and this they con perfectly In the 
 phrase of war, which they trick up with new- 
 tuned oaths: and what a beard of the general's 
 cut, and a horrid suit of the camp, will do 
 among foaming bottles and ale-washed wits, is 
 wonderful to be thought on. But you must 
 learn to know such slanders of the age, or else 
 you may be marvellously mistook. 
 i66 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Later, on the battlefield, Pistol, attended by 
 the boy, captures a French soldier and threat- 
 ens to cut his throat unless given, in his ridicu- 
 lously bombastic phrase, " egregious ransom." 
 The boy interprets the Frenchman's promise to 
 pay tvsro hundred crowns, and Pistol says : 
 
 Tell him my fury shall abate, and I 
 The crowns will take. 
 
 Pistol goes out, followed by his prisoner, and 
 the boy comments: 
 
 I did never know so full a voice issue from so 
 empty a heart: but the saying is true, — the 
 empty vessel makes the greatest sound. Bar- 
 dolph and Nym had ten times more valour than 
 this roaring devil i' the old play, that every one 
 may pare his nails with a wooden dagger; and 
 they are both hanged; and so would this be if 
 he durst steal anything adventurously. I must 
 stay with the ladceys, with the luggage of our 
 camp: the French might have a good prey of 
 us if he knew of it; for there is none to guard 
 it but boys. [Exit. 
 
 In a subsequent scene, Fluellen denounces 
 Pistol as " a peggarly, pragging knave," cudgels 
 him soundly, despite his threats of vengeance, 
 
 167 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 and compels him to eat a leek and to accept a 
 groat " to heal his pate." 
 
 " I take thy groat in earnest of vengeance," 
 says the swaggering coward, and, after the 
 Welshman departs, he exclaims : 
 
 All hell shall stir for this ! 
 
 But presently, crestfallen after some con- 
 temptuous words from Gower, who saw him 
 forced to eat the leek, Pistol soliloquises: 
 
 News have I that my Nell is dead . . . 
 And there my rendezvous is quite cut off. 
 Old do I wax, and from my weary limbs 
 Honour is cudgeled. . . . 
 To England will I steal, and there I'll steal : 
 And patches will I get unto these scars. 
 And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. 
 
 And with these words the fantastic knave 
 makes his final exit from the stage. 
 
 The play of " King Henry V " is much en- 
 livened by the young king's wooing of Princess 
 Katherine of France, who speaks but little Eng- 
 lish. He addresses her in semi-humourous 
 fashion, thus: 
 
 . . . F faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy 
 understanding: I am glad thou canst speak no 
 i68 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 better English ; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst 
 find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think 
 I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know 
 no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say 
 I love you : then, if you urge me further than 
 to_ say, Do you in faith ? I wear out my suit. 
 Give me your answer ; i' faith, do ; and so clap 
 hands and a bargain : how say you, lady ? 
 
 Kath. Sauf votre honneur, me understand 
 veil. 
 
 K. Hen. Marry, If you would put me to 
 verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why 
 you undid me : for the one I have neither words 
 nor measure, and for the other I have no 
 strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure 
 in strength. If I could win a lady at leap-frog, 
 or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour 
 on my back, under the correction of bragging 
 be it spoken, I should quickly leap into a wife. 
 Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my 
 horse for her favours, I could lay on like a 
 butcher, and sit like a jack-a-napes, never off. 
 But, before God, Kate, I cannot look greenly, 
 nor gasp out my eloquence, nor I have cunning 
 in protestation; only downright oaths, which I 
 never use till urged, nor never break for urg- 
 ing. If thou canst love a fellow of this tem- 
 per, Kate, whose face is not worth sun-burning, 
 that never looks in his glass for love of any- 
 thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. 
 
 169 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 I speak to thee plain soldier : if thou canst love 
 me for this, take me ; if not, to say to thee that 
 I shall die is true, — but for thy love, by the 
 Lord, no ; yet I love thee too. And while thou 
 livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and 
 uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do 
 thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo 
 in other places: for these fellows of infinite 
 tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' 
 favours, they do always reason themselves out 
 again. What! a speaker is but a prater: a 
 rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall ; a 
 straight back will stoop ; a black beard will turn 
 white; a curled pate will grow bald; a fair face 
 will wither; a full eye will wax hollow: but a 
 good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon; or, 
 rather, the sun, and not the moon, — for it 
 shines bright and never changes, but keeps his 
 course truly. If thou would have such a one, 
 take me : and take me, take a soldier ; take a 
 soldier, take a king : and what sayest thou, then, 
 to my love? speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray 
 thee. 
 
 Kath. Is it possible dat I should love de 
 enemy of France? 
 
 K. Hen. No; it is not possible you should 
 love the enemy of France, Kate: but in loving 
 me you should love the friend of France; for I 
 love France so well that I will not part with a 
 village of it ; I will have it all mine : and, Kate, 
 
 170 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 when France is mine and I am yours, then yours 
 is France and you are mine. 
 
 Kath. I cannot tell vat is dat. 
 
 K. Hen. No, Kate? I will tell thee in 
 French; which I am sure will hang upon my 
 tongue like a new-married wife about her hus- 
 band's neck, hardly to be shook off. 
 
 Come, your answer in broken music, — for thy 
 voice is music and thy English broken; there- 
 fore, queen of all, Katharine, break thy mind to 
 me In broken English, — -wilt thou have me? 
 
 Kath. Dat is as it sail please de rot mon 
 pere. 
 
 K. Hen. Nay, it will please him well, Kate, 
 — it shall please him, Kate. 
 
 Kath. Den it sail also content me. 
 
 K. Hen. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I 
 call you my queen. 
 
 She tells him in French that she does not wish 
 him so to descend from his greatness as to kiss 
 her hand, to which he replies: 
 
 Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. 
 
 To this she also objects, saying it is not the 
 custom of France for maids to kiss before they 
 are married. This being interpreted to him, 
 he responds: 
 
 171 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 O Kate, nice customs court'sy to great kings. 
 Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confined within 
 the weak list of a country's fashion : we are the 
 makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that 
 follows our places stops the mouth of all find- 
 faults, — as I will do yours for upholding the 
 nice fashion of your country in denying me a 
 kiss: therefore, patiently and yielding. [KisS' 
 ing her.'] You have witchcraft in your lips, 
 Kate: there is more eloquence in a sugar touch 
 of them than in the tongues of the French coun- 
 cil; and they should sooner persuade Harry of 
 England than a general petition of monarchs. 
 
 172 
 
THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR 
 
 There is a tradition that Queen Elizabeth 
 was so much pleased with the wit of Falstaff, in 
 the play of " King Henry IV," that she directed 
 Shakespeare to write another, in which the 
 merry knight should be exhibited in a love af- 
 fair. And the story goes that she was so eager 
 to see the new piece that she ordered it to be 
 completed within twelve days. Whether this 
 was the origin of " The Merry Wives of Wind- 
 sor " may be doubtful, but it appears from in- 
 ternal evidence that the play was hastily writ- 
 ten. It is a play of intrigue, in which Falstaff 
 pays court, at one and the same time, to Mis- 
 tresses Ford and Page, married women of 
 Windsor, of high respectability and social 
 standing. 
 
 These merry wives are close friends, and, lit- 
 erally by comparing notes from Sir John, to their 
 intense amusement, they discover his duplicity, 
 for he had written to each of them precisely the 
 same professions of love. They then put their 
 
 173 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 heads together to invent a scheme for his dis- 
 comfiture. Falstaff is lured by a message to 
 visit Mistress Ford one morning at an ap- 
 pointed hour, but soon after his arrival an alarm 
 is given by Mistress Page, who says that Ford, 
 who is very jealous, is coming, with officers, to 
 search for the knight. Upon the suggestion of 
 Mistress Page, Falstaff squeezes himself into a 
 " buck-basket," used for the conveyance of the 
 soiled linen of the household to a laundering- 
 place, and the two women cover him with such 
 linen. As Ford enters, two serving-men bear 
 out Falstaff in the basket. Let the adventur- 
 ous knight relate the experience, as some time 
 later he communes with himself at the Garter 
 Inn, after ordering Bardolph to bring him a 
 quart of sack, with a toast in it : 
 
 Have I lived to be carried in a basket, like a 
 barrow of butcher's offal; and to be thrown into 
 the Thames? Well, if I be served such an- 
 other trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and 
 butter'd, and give them to a dog for a new 
 year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the 
 river with as little remorse as they would have 
 drowned a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i' the 
 litter : and you may know by my size that I have 
 a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were 
 
 174 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 as deep as hell I should down, I had been 
 drowned but that the shore was shelvy and shal- 
 low : a death that I abhor ; for the water swells 
 a man; and what a thing I should have been 
 when I had been swelled ! I should have been 
 a mountain of mummy. 
 
 A little later Falstaff tells the jealous Ford, 
 who has gained his confidence under the ficti- 
 tious name of Brook (with the idea of reveng- 
 ing himself upon the knight and discovering 
 what he believes to be his wife's misconduct), 
 these further particulars of the misadventure : 
 
 Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple 
 of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were called forth 
 by their mistress to carry me in the name of 
 foul clothes to Datchet-lane : they took me on 
 their shoulders; met the jealous knave their 
 master in the door; who asked them once or 
 twice what they had in their basket: I quaked 
 for fear lest the lunatic knave would have 
 searched it. , . . Well: on went he for a 
 search, and away went I for foul clothes. But 
 mark the sequel, Master Brook; I suffered the 
 pangs of three several deaths: first, an intoler- 
 able fright to be detected with a jealous rotten 
 bell-wether: next, to be compassed, like a good 
 bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to 
 point, heel to head : and then, to be stopped in, 
 
 175 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes 
 that fretted in their own grease: think of that, 
 
 — a man of my kidney, — think of that : that 
 am as subject to heat as butter; a man of con- 
 tinual dissolution and thaw; it was a miracle to 
 'scape suffocation. And in the height of this 
 bath, v/hen I was more than half-stewed in 
 grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the 
 Thames, and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, 
 like a horse-shoe; think of that, — hissing hot, 
 
 — think of that. Master Brook, 
 
 Falstaff is beguiled into paying Mistress 
 Ford another visit, and is again surprised by 
 the return of her husband. In order to escape 
 discovery, the knight is induced to don a gown 
 and bonnet belonging to " the fat woman of 
 Brentwood," whom Ford regards as a witch 
 and cannot abide. When Falstaff, thus dis- 
 guised, is leaving the house, he encounters Ford, 
 who beats him soundly with a cudgel, mistaking 
 him for the old woman. Later, Falstaff thus 
 ruminates over this second misadventure: 
 
 I would all the world might be cozened ; for 
 I have been cozened and beaten too. If it 
 should come to the ear of the court how I have 
 been transformed, and how my transformation 
 hath been washed and cudgelled, they would 
 
 176 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and 
 liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant 
 they would whip me with their fine wits till I 
 were as crest-fallen, as a dried pear. I never 
 prospered since I foreswore myself at pritnero. 
 Well, if my wind were but long enough to say 
 my prayers, I would repent. — 
 
 Despite these mishaps, Falstaff is deluded by 
 the two fun-loving women into entering a third 
 trap. He is induced to meet them at night in 
 Windsor Park, disguised as Heme the hunter, 
 with a buck's head and horns. There, as the 
 pair had planned, a party of children, dressed 
 like fairies, with lighted tapers in their hands, 
 surround him. Believing them to be fairies, 
 and that " he that speaks to them shall die," 
 Falstaff lies down upon his face. They pinch 
 him, and burn his fingers with the tapers. Then 
 Ford, Page, and others, as planned by the 
 merry wives, appear, and the old knight is made 
 the target of their jests and raillery, to his ex- 
 ceeding mortification. But at the close of the 
 scene Sir John is invited to accompany them all 
 to the home of the Pages, to laugh over the 
 sport, " by a country fire." 
 
 The play of " The Merry Wives " is some- 
 
 177 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 what farcical, and affords entertainment even 
 more by the humour of its succession of in- 
 geniously contrived situations, and its diverting 
 incidents, than by its dialogue. In its opening 
 part Justice Shallow and Slender, who figure in 
 the earlier play of " King Henry IV," appear 
 with Sir Hugh Evans before Page's house, and 
 the following amusing colloquy ensues. 
 
 Shal. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will 
 make a Star-chamber matter of it; if he were 
 twenty Sir John Falstaffs he shall not abuse 
 Robert Shallow, esquire. 
 
 Slen. In the county of Gloster, justice of 
 peace, and coram. 
 
 Shal. Ay, cousin Slender, and Custalorum. 
 
 Slen. Ay, and Ratolorum too ; and a gentle- 
 man born, master parson; who writes himself 
 Armigero; in any bill, warrant, quittance, or ob- 
 ligation, — Armigero! 
 
 Shal. Ay, that we do; and have done any 
 time these three hundred years. 
 
 Slen. All his successors, gone before him, 
 have done't; and all his ancestors, that come 
 after him, may : they may give the dozen white 
 luces in their coat. 
 
 Shal. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot. 
 Eva. It is not meet the Council hear a riot; 
 178 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 there is no fear of Got in a riot; the Council, 
 look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, 
 and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments m 
 that. 
 
 Shal. Ha I o' my life, if I were young again, 
 the sword should end it. 
 
 Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym, 
 and Pistol. 
 
 Fal. Now, Master Shallow; you'll com- 
 plain of me to the king? 
 
 Shal. Knight, you have beaten my men, 
 killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. 
 
 Fal. But not kissed your keeper's daugh- 
 ter? 
 
 Shal. Tut, a pin ! this shall be answered. 
 
 Fal. I will answer it straight ; — I have 
 done all this: — That is now answered. 
 
 Shal. The Council shall know this. 
 
 Fal. 'Twere better for you if it were 
 known in counsel : you'll be laughed at. 
 
 Eva. Pauca verba, Sir John, goo.t worts. 
 
 Fal. Good worts ! good cabbage. — Slen- 
 der, I broke your head; what matter have you 
 against me? 
 
 Slen. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head 
 against you; and against your coney-catching 
 rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They 
 179 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, 
 and afterwards picked my pocket. 
 
 In a later scene Sir John discharges Pistol 
 and Nym because of their refusal to bear his 
 amorous notes to the merry wives. The two 
 worthies then plot to revenge themselves by be- 
 traying his schemes to Masters Ford and Page, 
 which they proceed to do, thus laying the foun- 
 dation for Falstafi's subsequent mishaps and 
 chagrin. 
 
 i8o 
 
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING 
 
 The plot of " Much Ado About Nothing," 
 with the exception of the comic portion relative 
 to Benedick and Beatrice, seems to have been 
 derived from an old Italian novel by Bandello, 
 in which the chief incidents, and even the names 
 of some of the characters, are the same. 
 
 The play opens with an announcement by 
 Leonato, Governor of Messina, to his daughter, 
 Hero, and his niece, Beatrice, that Don Pedro, 
 Prince of Arragon, from whom a messenger has 
 just brought a letter, is coming to Messina. 
 There has been a military action, in which a 
 young Florentine noble named Claudio won 
 much favour with the prince. Also in the 
 prince's train Is Benedick, a young nobleman of 
 Padua, and concerning him Beatrice makes 
 satirical inquiry of the messenger. 
 
 Beatrice. I pray you, how many hath he 
 killed and eaten in these wars ? But how many 
 hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to eat 
 all of his killing. 
 
 i8i 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Bene- 
 dick too much; but he'll be meet with you, I 
 doubt it not. 
 
 Mess. He hath done good service, lady, 
 in these wars. 
 
 Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath 
 holp to eat it : he is a very valiant trencherman ; 
 he hath an excellent stomach. 
 
 Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. 
 
 Beat. And a good soldier to a lady: but 
 what is he to a lord? 
 
 Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; 
 stuffed with all honourable virtues. 
 
 Beat. It is so, indeed: he is no less than a 
 stuffed man : but for the stuffing, — well, we are 
 all mortal. 
 
 Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece : 
 there is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior 
 Benedick and her: they never meet but there 
 is a skirmish of wit between them. 
 
 Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that. In 
 our last conflict four of his five wits went halt- 
 ing off, and now is the old man governed with 
 one : so that if he have wit enough to keep him- 
 self warm, let him bear it for a difference be- 
 tween himself and his horse; for it is all the 
 wealth that he hath left, to be known a reason- 
 able creature. — Who is his companion now? 
 He hath every month a new sworn brother. 
 • Mess. Is it possible ? 
 
 182 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Beat. Very easily possible: he wears his 
 faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever 
 changes with the next block. 
 
 Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in 
 your books. 
 
 Beat. No: an he were I would burn my 
 study. . . . 
 
 Don Pedro enters, attended by his brother 
 Don Juan, Claudio, Benedick, and others. 
 The prince is welcomed by Leonato, and a play 
 of wit begins between Beatrice and Benedick. 
 
 Beat. I wonder that you will still be talk- 
 ing, Signior Benedick; nobody marks you. 
 
 Bene. _ What, my dear ladyDisdain I are 
 you yet living? ""5 
 
 Beat. Is it possible disdain should die while 
 she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior 
 Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to 
 disdain if you come in her presence. 
 
 Bene. Then is courtesy a turn-coat. — But it 
 is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you ex- 
 cepted: and I would I could find in my heart 
 that I had not a hard heart: for, truly, I love 
 none. 
 
 Beat. A dear happiness to women; they 
 would else have been troubled with a pernicious 
 suitor. I thank God, and my cold blood, I am 
 of your humour for that : I had rather hear my 
 
 183 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves 
 me. 
 
 Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that 
 mind! so some gentleman or other shall 'scape 
 a predestinate scratched face. 
 
 Beat. Scratching could not make it worse 
 an 'twere such a face as yours were. 
 
 Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. 
 
 Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a 
 beast of yOurs. 
 
 Bene. I would my horse had the speed of 
 your tongue, and so good a continuer. But 
 keep your way o God's name; I have done. 
 
 Beat. You always end with a jade's trick; I 
 know you of old. 
 
 After Leonato and the ladies go out, Claudio 
 confesses to Benedick and Don Pedro that he is 
 in love with Hero. Benedick declares her 
 cousin, Beatrice, " exceeds.her as much in beauty 
 as the first of May doth the last of December," 
 but proceeds to scoff at marriage, vowing that 
 he will always remain a bachelor. 
 
 When Benedick leaves them, it is arranged 
 between Don Pedro and Claudio that at the 
 revels to come in the evening the prince, in some 
 disguise, shall tell Hero he is Claudio, and make 
 love to her in his behalf. The prince is over- 
 heard and misunderstood by a servant, and 
 184 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 word "is brought to Leonato that Don Pedro is 
 in love with Hero and means to acknowledge it 
 to her immediately. In a later scene, for 
 Leonato, Hero and Beatrice, the following col- 
 loquy occurs: 
 
 Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one 
 day fitted with a husband. 
 
 Beat. Not till God make men of some 
 other metal than earth. Would it not grieve 
 a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of 
 valiant dust! to make an account of her life to 
 a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none : 
 Adam's sons are my brethren ; and, truly, I hold 
 it a sin to match in my kindred. 
 
 Leon. Daughter, remember what I told 
 you: if the prince do solicit you in that kind, 
 you know your answer. 
 
 Beat. The fault will be in the music, 
 cousin, if you be not wooed in good time : if the 
 prince be too important, tell him there is meas- 
 ure in everything, and so dance out the answer. 
 For, hear me. Hero, wooing, wedding, and re- 
 penting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a 
 cinque-pace : the first suit is hot and hasty, like a 
 Scotch jig, and full as fantastical ; the wedding, 
 mannerly modest as a measure, full of state and 
 ancientry; and then comes repentance, and, 
 with his bad legs, falls into the cinque-pace 
 faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. 
 
 185 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing 
 shrewdly. 
 
 Beat. I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a 
 church by daylight. 
 
 Don Pedro later tells Claudio that he has 
 wooed and won Hero in Claudio's name, and 
 obtained her father's consent. And Beatrice 
 jesting over the matter, says: 
 
 I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho I for 
 a husband. 
 
 D. Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you 
 one. 
 
 Beat. I would rather have one of your 
 father's getting. Hath your grace ne'er a 
 brother like you? Your father got excellent 
 husbands, if a maid could come by them. 
 
 D. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? 
 
 Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have 
 another for working-days; your grace is too 
 costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your 
 grace, pardon me ; I was born to speak all mirth 
 and no matter. 
 
 £)'. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, 
 and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of 
 question, you were born in a merry hour. 
 
 A merry plot is then contrived by Don Pedro, 
 to bring about a match between Benedick and 
 
 186 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Beatrice; that he shall be made to believe she 
 is very much in love with him, despite her rail- 
 lery, and that she be played upon in like fashion, 
 to be persuaded that Benedick is deeply enam- 
 oured of her. The scheme is first applied in a 
 garden, where Benedick soliloquises, thus: 
 
 I do much wonder that one man, seeing how 
 much another man is a fool when he dedicates 
 his behaviours to love, will, after he hath 
 laughed at such shallow follies in others, be- 
 come the argument of his own scorn by falling 
 in love. And such a man is Claudio. I have 
 known when there was no music with him but 
 the drum and fife; and now had he rather hear 
 the tabor and the pipe : I have known when he 
 would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good 
 armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake 
 carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was 
 wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an 
 honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned 
 orthographer ; his words are a very fantastical 
 banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I 
 be so converted, and see with these eyes?. I 
 cannot tell ; I think not : I will not be sworn but 
 Love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll 
 take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster 
 of me he shall never make me such a fool. One 
 woman is fair; yet I am well: another is wise; 
 yet I am well: another virtuous; yet I am well: 
 187 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 but till all graces be in one woman, one woman 
 shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, 
 that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or 
 I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look 
 on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or 
 not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excel- 
 lent musician, and her hair shall be of what 
 colour it please God. Hal the prince and 
 Monsieur Love ! I will hide me in the arbour. 
 
 \^fFithdraws. 
 
 Don Pedro, Claudio ("Monsieur Love"), 
 Leonato and Balthazar enter. Balthazar sings : 
 
 I. 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more; 
 
 Men were deceivers ever; 
 One foot in sea and one on shore, 
 To one thing constant never; 
 Then sigh not so, 
 But let them go, 
 And be you blithe and bonny; 
 Converting all your sounds of woe 
 Into, Hey, nonny, nonny. 
 
 II. 
 
 Sing no more ditties, sing no mo 
 
 Of dumps so dull and heavy; 
 The fraud of men was ever so 
 
 Since summer first was leavy. 
 Then sigh not so, &c. 
 
 The singer departs, and the others proceed 
 with their sport of beguiling Benedick, having 
 noted his hiding in the arbour. 
 i88 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 D.^ Pedro. Come hither, Leonato. What 
 was it you told me to-day, — that your niece 
 Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? 
 
 Claud. ... I did never think that lady 
 would have loved any man. 
 
 Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonder- 
 ful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, 
 whom she hath in all outward behaviours 
 seemed ever to abhor. 
 
 Bene. Is't possible? Sits the wind in that 
 corner ? ' {Aside. 
 
 They go on in the same fashion, making it 
 appear to Benedick that Beatrice is wildly in 
 love with him but too proud to disclose to him 
 her passion. They then go out, having ar- 
 ranged to cause a like net to be spread for 
 Beatrice, and to have her call him to dinner. 
 
 Benedick advances from the arbour. 
 
 Bene. This can be no trick. The confer- 
 ence was sadly borne. — They have the truth 
 of this from Hero. They seem to pity the 
 lady; it seems her affections have their full bent. 
 Love me! why, it must be requited. I hear 
 how I am censured : they say I will bear myself 
 proudly if I perceive the love come from her; 
 they say, too, that she will rather die than give 
 any sign of affection. — I did never think to 
 189 
 
SHAKESPEARE^S 
 
 marry — I must not seem proud. — Happy are 
 they that hear their detractions and can put 
 them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 
 'tis a truth, I can bear them witness: and vir- 
 tuous — 'tis so, I cannot reprove it ; and wise, 
 but for loving me. — By my troth, it is no addi- 
 tion to her wit ; — nor no great argument of 
 her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. 
 — I may chance have some old quirks and rem- 
 nants of wit broken on me because I have railed 
 so long against marriage; but doth not the ap- 
 petite alter? A man loves the meat in his 
 youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall 
 quips, and sentences, and these paper bullets of 
 the brain awe a man from the career of his 
 humour? No: the world must be peopled. 
 When I said I would die a bachelor I did not 
 think I "should live till I were married. — Here 
 comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady: 
 I do spy some marks of love in her. 
 
 Enter Beatrice. 
 
 Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid you 
 come in to dinner. 
 
 Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your 
 pains. 
 
 Beat. I took no more pains for those 
 thanks than you take pains to thank me; if it 
 had been painful I would not have come. 
 190 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Bene. You take pleasure, then, in the mes- 
 sage ? 
 
 Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take 
 upon a knife's point, and choke a daw withal. 
 
 — You have no stomach, signior ; fare you well. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Bene. Ha! Against my will I am sent to 
 
 bid you come to dinner — there's a double 
 
 meaning in that. / took no more pains for 
 
 those thanks than you took pains to thank me 
 
 — that's as much as to say, Any pains that I 
 take for you is as easy as thanks. — If I do not 
 take pity of her, I am a villain ; if I do not love 
 her, I am a Jew : I will go get her picture. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 A similar garden scene ensues, where Beatrice, 
 hidden in a bower, listens while Hero tells two 
 gentlewomen how greatly Benedick dotes upon 
 her cousin, and they extol him to the skies. 
 One of them remarks that it were not good for 
 Beatrice to know of his love, lest she make sport 
 of it, and Hero answers : 
 
 Why, you speak truth : I never yet saw man. 
 How wise, how noble, young, how rarely 
 
 featured. 
 But she would spell him backward: if fair 
 
 faced. 
 She'd swear the gentleman should be her sister, 
 191 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic, 
 
 Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; 
 
 If low, an agate very vilely cut: 
 
 If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; 
 
 If silent, why, a block moved with none. 
 
 So turns she every man the wrong side out. 
 
 Beatrice, in concealment, takes the bait greed- 
 ily, and when they have retired she advances and 
 owns to herself, aloud, her intention to requite 
 Benedick's love, taming her " wild heart " to 
 his " loving hand." 
 
 In a subsequent scene Don Pedro, Claudio 
 and Leonato amuse themselves with Benedick 
 by discussing the question whether he is in love, 
 and he makes a partial admission, remarking: 
 
 Gallants, I am not as I have been. 
 
 Well, every one can master a grief, but he 
 that has it. 
 
 They continue to jest at his expense: 
 
 Claud. If he be not in love with some 
 woman there is no believing old signs: he 
 brushes his hat o' mornings: what should that 
 bode? 
 
 D. Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the 
 barber's ? 
 
 192 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been 
 seen with him; and the old ornament of his 
 cheek hath already stuffed tennis-balls. 
 
 Leon. Indeed, he looks younger than he 
 did, by the loss of a beard. 
 
 D. Pedro. Nay, he rubs himself with civet. 
 Can you smell him out by that? 
 
 Claud. That's as much as to say the sweet 
 youth's in love. 
 
 D. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his 
 melancholy. 
 
 Claud. And when was he wont to wash his 
 face? 
 
 D. Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for 
 the which I hear what they say of him. 
 
 Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is 
 now crept into a lute-string, and now governed 
 by stops. 
 
 D. Pedro. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale 
 for him : conclude, conclude, he is in love. 
 
 Don John, out of malice and envy toward 
 Claudio, sets in operation a wicked plot, con- 
 trived by his follower, Borachio, to defeat the 
 approaching marriage of Hero. Borachio is in 
 the favour of Margaret, the waiting-gentle- 
 woman to Hero, and it is arranged that in the 
 absence of Hero from her chamber, on the even- 
 ing before the wedding, Margaret shall take 
 
 193 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Hero's place, admit Borachio, and answer to the 
 name of her mistress. 
 
 This scheme being fully arranged, Don John 
 denounces Hero as disloyal, before Don Pedro 
 and Claudio, and offers to prove the charge by 
 showing them her chamber window entered. 
 Claudio becomes distrustful, and declares that 
 if he should see reason why he should not marry 
 he would shame her before the whole congre- 
 gation gathered to witness the wedding on the 
 morrow. And Don Pedro says he will join 
 with Claudio to disgrace her, should there be 
 cause. 
 
 The next scene in the conspiracy introduces 
 Dogberry, one of the most amusing of all 
 Shakespeare's comic roles. Although desti- 
 tute of either wit or humour, and the very per- 
 sonification of dulness, pretentious ignorance 
 and stupidity — in short, a solemn ass — this 
 constable is a source of infinite diversion to the 
 discriminating reader, and has furnished the 
 stage one of its^most noted and most popular 
 characters. His blundering misuse of words, 
 in his efforts to impress his hearers with his 
 wisdom and learning, his egregious vanity and 
 conceit, his fatuous reasoning and his pride of 
 194 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 office and authority — even his very tedious- 
 ness — unite to make a personage whose very 
 name excites a smile. The dramatist's mar- 
 vellous powers of characterisation are strikingly 
 exhibited in this remarkable creation. There 
 is nothing equal to Dogberry in this kind, but 
 Constable Elbow, in " Measure for Measure," 
 is of the same or a similar type. 
 
 The scene is a street by night. Enter Dog- 
 berry and Verges, with the men composing the 
 watch. 
 
 Dogb. Are you good men and true? 
 
 Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they 
 should suffer salvation, body and soul. 
 
 Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too 
 good for them, if they should have any al- 
 legiance in them, being chosen for the prince's 
 watch. 
 
 Verg. Well, give them their charge, neigh- 
 bour Dogberry. 
 
 Dogb. First, who think you the most 
 desertless man to be constable ? 
 
 I Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George 
 Seacoal ; for they can write and read. 
 
 Dogb. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal: 
 God hath blessed you with a good name : to be 
 a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune : but 
 to write and read comes by nature. 
 
 195 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 2 Watch. Both which, master constable, — 
 
 Dogb. You have; I knew it would be your 
 answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give 
 God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for 
 your writing and reading, let that appear when 
 there is no need of such vanity. You are 
 thought here to be the most senseless and fit 
 man for the constable of the watch; therefore 
 bear you the lantern. This is your charge; 
 — you shall comprehend all vagrom men ; 
 you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's 
 name. 
 
 2 Watch. How if 'a will not stand? 
 
 Dogb. Why, then, take no note of him, but 
 let him go; and presently call the rest of the 
 watch together, and thank God you are rid of 
 a knave. 
 
 Verg. If he will not stand when he is bid- 
 den, he is none of the prince's subjects. 
 
 Dogb. True, and they are to meddle with 
 none but the prince's subjects. — You shall also 
 make no noise in the streets; for for the watch 
 to babble and talk is most tolerable and not to 
 be endured. 
 
 2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk; 
 we know what belongs to a watch. 
 
 Dogb. Why, you speak like an ancient and 
 most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how 
 sleeping should offend: only, have a care that 
 your bills be not stolen. — Well, you are to call 
 
 196 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 at all the ale-houses, and bid them that are 
 drunk get them to bed. 
 
 2 Watch. How if they will not? 
 
 Dogb. Why, then, let them alone till they 
 are sober; if they make you not then the better 
 answer, you may say they are not the men you 
 took them for. 
 
 2 Watch. Well, sir. 
 
 Dogb. If you meet a thief, you may sus- 
 pect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true 
 man: and, for such kind of men, the less you 
 meddle or make with them, why, the more is 
 your honesty. 
 
 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, 
 shall we not lay hands on him ? 
 
 Dogb. Truly, by your office you may; but I 
 think they that touch pitch will be defiled: the 
 most peaceable way for you, if you do take a 
 thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and 
 steal out of your company. 
 
 Verg. You have been always called a merci- 
 ful man, partner. 
 
 Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by 
 my will ; much more a man who hath any hon- 
 esty in him. 
 
 Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night 
 you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. 
 
 2 Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and 
 will not hear us ? 
 
 Dogb. Why, then, depart in peace, and let 
 
 197 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 the child wake her with crying: for the ewe 
 that will not hear her lamb when it baas will 
 never answer a calf when he bleats. 
 
 Verg. 'Tis very true. 
 
 Dogh. This is the end of the charge. You, 
 constable, are to present the prince's own per- 
 son; if you meet the prince in the night you 
 may stay him. 
 
 Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that I think 'a can- 
 not. 
 
 Dogh. Five shillings to one on't, with any 
 man that knows the statues, he may stay him : 
 marry, not without the prince be willing: for, 
 indeed, the watch ought to offend no man; and 
 it is an offence to stay a man against his will. 
 
 Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so. 
 
 Dogh. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good 
 night : an there be any matter of weight chances, 
 call up me: keep your fellows' counsels and 
 your own, and good night. — Come, neighbour. 
 
 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our 
 charge : let us go sit here upon the church-bench 
 till two, and then all to bed. 
 
 Dogh. One word more, honest neighbours : 
 I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's 
 door; for the wedding being there to-morrow, 
 there is a great coil to-night. Adieu, be vigi- 
 lant, I beseech you. 
 
 Dogberry and Verges go their ways, and 
 Borachio and Conrade come on the scene. The 
 198 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 dialogue is aptly suggestive of darkness, the 
 better to indicate that the watchmen may over- 
 hear the two villains without being seen. 
 
 Bora. What, Conrade ! — 
 
 Watch, Peace, stir not. [Aside. 
 
 Bora. Conrade, I say ! 
 
 Con. Here, man, I am at thy elbow. 
 
 Bora. Mass, and my elbow itched; I 
 thought there would a scab follow. 
 
 Con. I will owe thee an answer for that; 
 and now forward with thy tale. 
 
 Bora. Stand thee close then under this pent- 
 house, for it drizzles rain; and I will, like a 
 true drunkard, utter all to thee. 
 
 Watch. [Aside.l Some treason, nfasters; 
 yet stand close. 
 
 Bora. Therefore know, I have earned of 
 Don John a thousand ducats. 
 
 Con. Is it possible that any villainy should 
 be so dear? 
 
 Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were 
 possible any villainy should be so rich ; for when 
 rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones 
 may make what price they will. 
 
 Con. I wonder at it. 
 
 Bora. That shows thou art unconfirmed. 
 Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or 
 a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man. 
 
 Con. Yes, it is apparel. 
 
 199 
 
SHAKESPEARE^S 
 
 Bora. I mean the fashron. 
 
 Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. 
 
 Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool's 
 the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed 
 thief this fashion is ? 
 
 Watch. I know that Deformed; 'a has 
 been a vile thief this seven year; 'a goes up and 
 down like a gentleman: I remember his name. 
 
 Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody? 
 
 Con. No ; 'twas the vane on the house. 
 
 Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a de- 
 formed thief this fashion is? how giddily he 
 turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen 
 and five-and-thirty ? sometimes fashioning them 
 like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting; 
 sometimes like god Bel's priests m the old 
 church window; sometimes like the shaven 
 Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapes- 
 try. . . . 
 
 Con. All this I see ; and see that the fashion 
 wears out more apparel than the man. But art 
 not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, 
 that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into tell- 
 ing me of the fashion ? 
 
 Bora. Not so neither ; but know that I have 
 to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's 
 gentlewoman, by the name of Hero; she leans 
 me out at her mistress's chamber-window, bids 
 me a thousand times good night, — I tell this 
 tale vilely : — ' I should first tell thee, how the 
 
 200 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and 
 placed and possessed by my master Don John, 
 saw afar off in the orchard this amiable en- 
 counter. 
 
 Con. And thought they Margaret was 
 Hero? 
 
 Bora. Two of them did, the prince and 
 Claudio; but the devil my master knew she 
 was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which 
 first possessed them, partly by the dark night, 
 which did deceive them, but chiefly by my vil- 
 lainy, which did confirm any slander that Don 
 John had made away went Claudio enraged^ 
 swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, 
 next morning at the temple, and there, before 
 the whole congregation, shame her with what 
 he saw over-night, and send her home again 
 without a husband. 
 
 1 Watch. We charge you in the prince's 
 name, stand. 
 
 2 Watch. Call up the right master consta- 
 ble: we have here recovered the most danger- 
 ous piece of lechery that ever was known in the 
 commonwealth. 
 
 1 Watch. And one Deformed is one of 
 them; I know him, 'a wears a lock. 
 
 Con. Masters, masters! 
 
 2 Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed 
 forth, I warrant you. 
 
 Con. Masters, — 
 
 201 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 I Watch. Never speak; we charge you, let 
 us obey you to go with us. 
 
 Bora. We are like to prove a goodly com- 
 modity, being taken up of these men's bills. 
 
 Con. A commodity in question, I warrant 
 you. Come, we'll obey you. [^Exeunt. 
 
 A Room in Leonato's House. Enter Leo- 
 NATO, with Dogberry and Verges. 
 
 Leon. What would you with me, honest 
 neighbour ? 
 
 Dogh. Marry, sir, I would have some con- 
 fidence with you that decerns you nearly. 
 
 Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see 'tis a 
 busy time with me. 
 
 Dogh. Marry, this it is, sir, 
 
 Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir. 
 
 Leon. What is it, my good friends? 
 
 Dogh. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a lit- 
 tle off the matter : an old man, sir, and his wits 
 are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire 
 they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin be- 
 tween his brows. 
 
 Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as 
 -any man living that is an old man and no hon- 
 ester than I. 
 
 Dogh. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, 
 neighbour Verges. 
 
 Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. 
 202 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, 
 but we are the poor duke's officers: but, truly, 
 for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a 
 king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all 
 of your worship. 
 
 Leon. All thy tediousness on mel ha I 
 
 Dogb. Yea, and 'twere a thousand times 
 more than 'tis: for I hear as good exclamation 
 on your worship as of any man in the city; and 
 though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear 
 it. 
 
 Verg. And so am I. 
 
 Leon. I would fain know what you have to 
 say. 
 
 Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, ex- 
 cepting your worship's presence, have ta'en a 
 couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. 
 
 Dogb. A good old man, sir; he will be 
 talking; as they say. When the age is in the wit 
 is out ; God help us I it is a world to see ! — 
 Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges : — well, 
 God's a good man ; an two men ride of a horse, 
 one must ride behind. — An honest soul, i' 
 faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke 
 bread: but God is to be worshipped. All men 
 are not alike, — alas, good neighbour ! 
 
 Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too 
 short of you. 
 
 Dogb. Gifts that God gives, 
 
 Leon. I must leave you. 
 
 203 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Doffb. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have 
 indeed comprehended two auspicious persons, 
 and we would have them this morning ex- 
 amined before your worship. 
 
 Leon. Take their examination yourself, 
 and bring it me ; I am now in great haste, as it 
 may appear unto you. 
 
 Dogb. It shall be sufEgance. 
 
 Dogb. Go, good partner, go, get you to 
 Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and ink- 
 horn to the gaol: we are now to examination 
 these men. 
 
 Verg. And we must do it wisely. 
 
 Dogb. We will spare for no wit, I warrant 
 you; here's that [touching his forehead'] shall 
 drive some of them to a non com: only get the 
 learned writer to set down our excommunica- 
 tion, and meet me at the gaol. 
 
 A prison scene ensues, with Dogberry, 
 Verges and Sexton in gowns, and the watch, 
 with Conrade and Borachio, prisoners. 
 
 Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared? 
 
 Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sex- 
 ton! 
 
 Sexton. Which be the malefactors? 
 
 Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner : 
 
 Verg. Nay, that's certain; we have the ex- 
 hibition to examine. 
 
 204 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Sexton. But which are the offenders that 
 are to be examined? let them come before mas- 
 ter constable. 
 
 Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before 
 me. — What is your name, friend? 
 
 Bora. Borachio. 
 
 Dogb. Ptay write down — Borachio. — 
 Yours, sirrah? 
 
 Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and. my name 
 is Conrade. 
 
 Dogb. Write down — master gentleman 
 Conrade. — Masters, do you serve God? 
 
 Sr«. } Yea, sir, we hope. 
 
 Dogb. Write down — that they hope they 
 serve God : — and write God first ; for God de- 
 fend but God should go before such villains! — 
 Masters, it is proved already that you are little 
 better than false knaves ; and it will go near to 
 be thought so shortly. How answer you for 
 yourselves ? 
 
 Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. 
 
 Dogb. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure 
 you ; but I will go about with him. — ■ Come you 
 hither, sirrah : a word in your ears, sir; I say to 
 you, it is thought you are false knaves. 
 
 Bora. Sir, I say to you, we are none. 
 
 Dogb. Well, stand aside. — 'Fore God, they 
 are both in a tale. Have you writ down — 
 that they are none ? 
 
 205 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Sexton. Master constable, you go not the 
 way to examine ; you must call forth the Watch 
 that are their accusers. 
 
 Dogb. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. — 
 Let the Watch come forth. — < Masters, I charge 
 you in the prince's name, accuse these-men. 
 
 1 Watch. This man said, sir, that Don 
 John, the prince's brother, was a villain. 
 
 Dogb. Write down — Prince John a vil- 
 lain. — Why, this is flat perjury, to call a 
 prince's brother villain. 
 
 Bora. Master constable, — 
 
 Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace; I do not 
 like thy look, I promise thee. 
 
 Sexton. What heard you him say else? 
 
 2 Watch. Marry, that he had received a 
 thousand ducats off Don John for accusing the 
 Lady Hero wrongfully. 
 
 Dogb. Flat burglary as ever was com- 
 mitted. 
 
 Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is. 
 Sexton. What else, fellow? 
 
 1 Watch. And that Count Claudio did 
 mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before 
 the whole assembly, and not marry her. 
 
 Dogb. O villain! thou wilt be condemned 
 into everlasting redemption for this. 
 Sexton. What else? 
 
 2 Watch. This is all. 
 
 Sexton. , And this is more, masters, than 
 
 206 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 you can deny. Prince John is this morning 
 secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner 
 accused, in this very manner refused, and upon 
 the grief of this suddenly died. — Master con- 
 stable, let these men be bound and brought to 
 Leonato's ; I will go before and show him their 
 examination. lExit. 
 
 Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned. 
 
 Verg. Let them be in band. 
 
 Con. Off, coxcomb ! 
 
 Dogb. God's my life! where's the sexton? 
 let him write down — the prince's officer, cox- 
 comb. — Come, bind them. — Thou naughty 
 varlet ! 
 
 Con. Away! you are an ass, you are an 
 ass. 
 
 Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place? 
 Dost thou not suspect my years ? — O that he 
 were here to write me down an ass! but, mas- 
 ters, remember, that I am an ass; though it 
 be not written down, yet forget not that I am 
 an ass. — No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, 
 as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. 
 I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an 
 officer; and, which "is more, a householder; and, 
 which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any 
 is in Messina : and one that knows the law, go 
 to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fel- 
 low that hath had losses ; and one that hath two 
 gowns, and everything handsome about him. 
 
 207 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 — Bring him away. O that I had been writ 
 down an ass I [^Exeunt. 
 
 At the altar, when the marriage ceremony to 
 unite Hero and Claudio has begun, and the 
 friar asks if there be any impediment, Claudio 
 denounces her as unchaste. And Don Pedro 
 relates that he, his brother John and Claudio 
 had seen her talk with a ruffian at her chamber 
 window, who had since confessed to a long 
 course of infamous intimacy with her. 
 
 At this recital Hero falls in a swoon, and 
 her father, believing her guilty, cries shame 
 upon her. Claudio's charges are confirmed by 
 Don John as well as Don Pedro, and the three 
 leave the church. 
 
 The friar pleads for Hero with her father, 
 declaring his belief in her innocence, and sug- 
 gesting that she be kept in seclusion until it can 
 be established, meanwhile giving out that she 
 is dead and has been privately buried. This 
 course is followed. 
 
 Beatrice, convinced that her cousin has been 
 slandered, avows to Benedick her love for him, 
 and persuades him to challenge Claudio, which 
 he does. While Don Pedro and Claudio are 
 discussing the matter, come Dogberry, Verges 
 208 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 and the watch, with Conrade and Borachio. 
 Don Pedro recognises the prisoners and asks 
 what offences they have done. Dogberry an- 
 swers : 
 
 Marry, sir, they have committed false re- 
 port; moreover, they have spoken untruths; 
 secondarily, they are slanders ; sixth and lastly, 
 they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have veri- 
 fied unjust things: and, to conclude, they are 
 lying knaves. 
 
 The prince, remarking that " this learned 
 constable is too cunning to be understood," asks 
 the prisoners the cause of their arrest. Bo- 
 rachio makes a full confession of the deception 
 he had practised at the instance of Don John, 
 and tells how the watchmen had overheard the 
 narration of it to Conrade. Dogberry then 
 says: 
 
 Come, bring away the plaintiffs ; by this time 
 our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of 
 the matter: and, masters, do not forget to 
 specify, when time and place shall serve, that 
 I am an ass. 
 
 Leonato enters, and, Borachio's confession 
 being made known to him, the princes implore 
 his pardon. Leonato prays them to make 
 209 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 known to all Messina that his daughter died 
 innocent, and says his brother Antonio has a 
 daughter almost a copy of Hero, and that if 
 Claudio will marry her it will make amends. 
 To this Claudio consents. 
 
 Dogb. Moreover, sir, — which, indeed, is 
 not under white and black, — this plaintiff here, 
 the offender, did call me ass : I beseech you, let 
 it be remembered in his punishment. And 
 also, the Watch heard them talk of one De- 
 formed : they say he wears a key in his ear and 
 a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in 
 God's name; the which he hath used so long, 
 and never paid, that now men grow hard- 
 hearted, and will lend nothing for God's sake: 
 pray you, examine him upon that point. 
 
 Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest 
 pains. 
 
 Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most 
 thankful and reverend youth, and I praise God 
 for you. 
 
 Leon. There's for thy pains. 
 
 Dogb. God save the foundation ! 
 
 Leon. Go ; I discharge thee of thy prisoner, 
 and I thank thee. 
 
 Dogb. I leave an arrant knave with your 
 worship; which I beseech your worship to cor- 
 rect yourself, for the example of others. God 
 keep your worship; I wish your worship well; 
 
 210 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 God restore you to health; I humbly give you 
 leave to depart ; and if a merry meeting may be 
 wished, God prohibit it. — Come, neighbour. 
 
 Following this scene there is a little en- 
 counter of wit between Beatrice and Benedick, 
 in which these passages occur : 
 
 Beat. . . . There's not one wise man 
 among twenty that will praise himself. 
 
 Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, 
 that lived in the time of good neighbours : if a 
 man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere 
 he dies, he shall live no longer in monument 
 than the bell rings and the widow weeps. 
 
 Beat. And how long is that, think you? 
 
 Bene. Question : — why, an hour in clam- 
 our, and a quarter in rheum: therefore it is 
 most expedient for the wise (if Don Worm, 
 his conscience, find no impediment to the con- 
 trary) to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as 
 I am to myself. 
 
 Bene. Do not you love me? 
 Beat. No, no more than reason. 
 
 Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince, 
 and Claudio 
 Have been deceived; for they swore you did. 
 Beat: Do not you love me? 
 
 211 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Bene. No, no more than reason. 
 
 Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and 
 
 Ursula, 
 
 Are much deceived; for they did swear you did. 
 
 Bene. They swore that you were almost 
 
 sick for me. 
 Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh 
 
 dead for me. 
 Bene. 'Tis no such matter. — Then you do 
 
 not love me? 
 Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recom- 
 pense. 
 Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the 
 
 gentleman. 
 Claud. And I'll be sworn upon 't that he 
 loves her; 
 For here's a paper written in his hand — 
 A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, 
 Fashion'd to Beatrice. 
 
 Hero. And here's another, 
 
 Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her 
 
 pocket, 
 Containing her affection unto Benedick. 
 
 Bene. A miracle ! — here's our own hands 
 against our hearts I — Come, I will have thee ; 
 but, by this light I take thee for pity. 
 
 Beat. I would not deny you ; — but, by 
 this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; 
 and partly to save your life, for I was told you 
 were in a consumption. 
 
 212 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Bene. Peace; I will stop your mouth. 
 
 [Kissing her. 
 
 D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick the 
 married man? 
 
 Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college 
 of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my hu- 
 mour. Dost thou think I care for a satire, or 
 an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten 
 with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome 
 about him. In brief, since I do purpose to 
 marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that 
 the world can say against it; and therefore 
 never flout at me for what I have said against 
 it ; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my con- 
 clusion. 
 
 The closing scene of the play is a room in 
 Leonato's house, where Claudio comes pre- 
 pared to fulfil his promise to marry the daugh- 
 ter of Antonio, and joys to find her the real 
 Hero. Sa they are wed, and also Beatrice and 
 Benedick. 
 
 The resemblance between Dogberry and 
 Constable Elbow In their misuse of words is 
 indicated by the following extract from " Meas- 
 ure for Measure." Elbow comes before Duke 
 Angelo with certain persons under arrest. 
 
 213 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Ang. How now, sir I What's your name? 
 and what's the matter? 
 
 Elb. If it please your honour, I am the 
 poor duke's constable, and my name is Elbow; 
 I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here 
 before your good honour two notorious bene- 
 factors. 
 
 Ang. Benefactors 1 Well; what benefac- 
 tors are they ? are they not malefactors ? 
 
 Elb. If it please your honour, I know not 
 well what they are: but precise villains they 
 are, that I am sure of; and void of all profana- 
 tion in the world that good Christians ought to 
 have. 
 
 214 
 
AS YOU LIKE IT 
 
 One of the most sparkling of Skakespeare's 
 comedies is " As You Like It," which abounds 
 in lively wit and delightful poetic fancy. Much 
 of its dialogue is of the most animated sort. 
 In Rosalind the poet created one of the most 
 charming of all his female characters. Her 
 jests and raillery flow from a seemingly inex- 
 haustible fount of gaiety and sprightly repartee, 
 and yet at heart she is tender and romantic. 
 
 Contrasted with the effervescent mirth of 
 this fascinating heroine is the cynical wit and 
 philosophy of " the melancholy Jaques " and 
 the quizzical humour of Touchstone, the court 
 fool. 
 
 Romantic love is the motive of most of the 
 action, but It Is treated In a light and airy way, 
 and made the theme of much merriment. 
 There is little plot. The principal scenes are 
 laid In the forest of Arden, to which the 
 rightful Duke, banished by Frederick, his 
 usurping younger brother, has retired, accom- 
 panied by his devoted adherents. His daugh- 
 215 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 ter Rosalind has been suffered to remain at the 
 court of Frederick because of her attachment 
 for Celia, the usurper's daughter, but Is In turn 
 banished, without cause and on pain of death. 
 Rosalind dons man's attire, the better to avoid 
 molestation on her journey, and repairs to the 
 forest of Arden, accompanied by the devoted 
 Celia and the faithful Touchstone. Arrived at 
 their destination, they enter upon a pastoral 
 life. 
 
 Orlando, son of Sir Roland de Bois, Is 
 cruelly and unjustly treated by his elder brother 
 Oliver, and deprived of his Inheritance. Prior _ 
 to the exile of Rosalind, Orlando engages In a 
 wrestling match before Duke Frederick, and 
 defeats Charles, the Duke's wrestler, whom 
 Oliver secretly had prompted to maim or kill 
 Orlando. There Is love at first sight between 
 Orlando and Rosalind, who with Celia views 
 the wrestling and encourages him to do his best, 
 after her entreaties have failed to dissuade him 
 from the venture. After his victory she gives 
 him a chain from her neck and says to him: 
 
 Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown 
 More than your enemies. 
 
 216 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Orlando, dumb with passion, fails to respond, 
 which gives point to this subsequent dialogue: 
 
 Cel. Why, cousin; why, Rosalind; — Cu- 
 pid have mercy ! — Not a word ? 
 
 Ros. Not one to throw at a dog. 
 
 Cel. No, thy words are too precious to be 
 cast away upon curs, throw some of them at 
 me; come, lame me with reasons. 
 
 Ros. Then there were two cousins laid up; 
 when the one should be lamed with reasons and 
 the other mad without any. 
 
 Cel. But is all this for your father? 
 
 Ros. No, some of it is for my father's 
 child. O, how full of briers is this working- 
 day world I 
 
 Cel. They are but burs, cousin, thrown 
 upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in 
 the trodden paths our very petticoats will catch 
 them. 
 
 Ros. I could shake them off my coat : these 
 burs are in my heart. 
 
 Cel. Hem them away. 
 
 Ros. I would try, if I could cry hem and 
 have him. 
 
 Cel. Come, come, wrestle with thy affec- 
 tions. 
 
 Ros. O, they take the part of a better 
 wrestler than myself. 
 
 Cel. O, a good wish upon you! you will 
 try in time, in despite of a fall. . . . 
 217 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 After the wrestling, Orlando returns to his 
 brother's house, but is warned by Adam, an 
 aged servitor, not to venture in, as Oliver means 
 to kill him. The faithful Adam gives him 500 
 crowns, which is all his store, and together they 
 set out to " light upon some settled low con- 
 tent." They reach the forest of Arden, spent 
 with hunger and fatigue, and are given succour 
 by the banished Duke and his companions. 
 
 Meanwhile Rosalind, in masculine garb, and 
 Celia, dressed like a shepherdess, with Touch- 
 stone, have entered the forest and are greatly 
 tired. 
 
 Ros. O Jupiter! how weary are my spirits! 
 
 Touch. I care not for my spirits if my legs 
 were not weary. 
 
 Ros. I could find in my heart to disgrace 
 my man's apparel, and to cry like a woman: 
 but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as doub- 
 let and hose ought to show itself courageous to 
 petticoat: therefore, courage, good Aliena. 
 
 Cel. I pray you, bear with me ; I can go no 
 farther. 
 
 Touch. For my part, I had rather bear with 
 you than bear you : yet I should bear no cross 
 if I did bear you; for, I think, you have no 
 money in your purse. 
 
 218 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 To them come Corin and Silvius, shepherds, 
 and the princesses arrange with Corin for the 
 purchase of a cottage, pasture and sheep, re- 
 taining him in their service. 
 
 Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Amiens, Jaques, and others of the ban- 
 ished Duke's train. 
 SONG. 
 
 Ami. Under the greenwood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat. 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Jaq. More, more, I pr'ythee, more. 
 
 Ami. It will make you melancholy, Mon- 
 sieur Jaques. 
 
 Jaq. I thank it. More, I pr'ythee, more. 
 I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel 
 sucks eggs. More, I pr'ythee, more. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Who doth ambition shun, [All together here. 
 
 And loves to live i' the sun. 
 
 Seeking the food he eats. 
 
 And pleas'd with what he gets, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 219 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Jaq. I'll give you a verse to this note, that 
 I made yesterday in despite of my invention. 
 Ami. And I'll sing it. 
 Jaq. Thus it goes : 
 
 If it do come to pass 
 That any man turn ass, 
 Leaving his wealth and ease 
 A stubborn will to please, 
 
 Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame; 
 Here shall he see 
 Gross fools as he, 
 
 An if he will come to Ami. 
 
 Ami. What's that ducdame? 
 Jaq. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools 
 into a circle. 
 
 The scene changes to another part of the 
 forest, where a table is set with food. The 
 banished duke, Amiens and others appear, and 
 as Jaques enters the duke accosts him : 
 
 Dtike S. Why, how now, monsieur ! what a 
 life is this. 
 
 That your poor friends must woo your com- 
 pany? 
 
 What ! you look merrily. 
 
 Jaq. A fool, a fool 1 — I met a fool i' the 
 forest, 
 
 A motley fool ; — a miserable world ! — 
 
 As I do live by food, I met a fool. 
 
 Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun, 
 
 220 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 And rail'd on Lady Fortune in good terms, 
 In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool. 
 Good-morrow, fool, quoth I : No, sir, quoth he, 
 Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me for- 
 tune. 
 And then he drew a dial from his poke, 
 And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, 
 Says very wisely. It is ten o'clock : 
 Thus may we see, quoth he, how the world 
 
 wags. 
 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine; 
 And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; 
 And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, 
 And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; 
 And thereby hangs a tale. When I did hear 
 The motley fool thus moral on the time. 
 My lungs began to crow like chanticleer. 
 That fools should be so deep contemplative ; 
 And I did laugh, sans intermission. 
 An hour by his dial. — O noble fool ! 
 A worthy fool 1 — Motley's the only wear. 
 Duke S. What fool is this? 
 Jaq. O worthy fool I — One that hath been 
 a courtier. 
 And says, if ladies be but young and fair, 
 They have the gift to know it: and in his 
 
 brain, — 
 Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit 
 After a voyage, — he hath strange places 
 cramm'd 
 
 221 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 With observation, the which he vents 
 
 In mangled forms. — O that I were a fool ! 
 
 I am ambitious for a motley coat. 
 
 All the world's a stage, 
 And all the men and women /merely players ; 
 They have their exits and their entrances; 
 And one man in his time plays many parts, 
 His acts being seven ages. At first the infant. 
 Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms; 
 Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel 
 And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
 Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, 
 Jealous in honour, sudden and quick In quarrel. 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the 
 
 justice, 
 In fair round belly with good capon lln'd, 
 With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern instances; 
 And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts 
 Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon. 
 With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; 
 His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide 
 For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, 
 Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, 
 
 222 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 That ends this strange eventful history, 
 Is second childishness and mere oblivion; 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. 
 
 Another part of the Forest. 
 Enter Corin and Touchstone. 
 
 Cor. And hov/ like you this shepherd's life. 
 Master Touchstone ? 
 
 Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself, 
 it is a good life ; but in respect that it is a shep- 
 herd's life, it is naught. In respect that it is 
 solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that 
 it is private, it is a very vile life. Now in re- 
 spect it is in the fields, it pleaseth me well; but 
 in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious. As 
 it is a spare life, look you, it fits mj^ humour 
 well ; but as there is no more plenty in it, it goes 
 much against my stomach. Hast any philoso- 
 phy in thee, shepherd ? 
 
 Cor. No more but that I know the more 
 one sickens the worse at ease he is ; and that he 
 that wants money, means, and content, is with- 
 out three good friends; that the property of 
 rain is to wet, and fire to burn; that good pas- 
 ture makes fat sheep; and that a great cause 
 of the night is lack of the sun; that he that hath 
 learned no wit by nature nor art may complain 
 of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kin- 
 dred. 
 
 223 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Touch. Such a one is a natural philosopher. 
 Wast ever in court, shepherd? 
 
 Cor. No, truly. 
 
 Touch. Then thou art damned. 
 
 Cor. Nay, I hope, — 
 
 Touch. Truly, thou art damned; like an ill- 
 roasted egg, all on one side. 
 
 Cor. For not being at court ? Your reason. 
 
 Touch. Why, if thou never wast at court 
 thou never saw'st good manners; if thou never 
 saw'st good manners, then thy manners must be 
 wicked; and wickedness is sin, and sin is dam- 
 nation. Thou art in a parlous state, shepherd. 
 
 Cor. Not a whit, Touchstone: those that 
 are good manners at the court are as ridiculous 
 in the country as the behaviour of the country 
 is most mockable at the court. You told me 
 you salute not at the court, but you kiss your 
 hands; that courtesy would be uncleanly if cour- 
 tiers were shepherds. 
 
 Rosalind enters, reading verses in her praise, 
 written upon a paper by Orlando, which she 
 had found on a tree. After her comes Celia, 
 also reading verses to Rosalind, and they con- 
 verse, Corin and Touchstone retiring: 
 
 Cel. Didst thou hear these verses? 
 
 Ros. O yes, I heard them all, and more 
 too; for some of them had in them more feet 
 than the verses would bear. 
 224 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Cel. That's no matter; the feet might bear 
 the verses. 
 
 Ros. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could 
 not bear themselves without the verse, and 
 therefore stood lamely in the verse. 
 
 Cel. But didst thou hear without wonder- 
 ing how thy name should be hanged and carved 
 upon these trees ? 
 
 Ros. I was seven of the nine days out of the 
 wonder before you came ; for look here what I 
 found on a palm tree: I was never so be- 
 rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an 
 Irish rat, which I can hardly remember. 
 
 Cel. Trow you who hath done this ? 
 
 Ros. Is it a man? 
 
 Cel. . And a chain, that you once wore, about 
 his neck. Change you colour ? 
 
 Ros. I pray thee, who ? 
 
 Cel. O lord, lord! it is a hard matter for 
 friends to meet; but mountains may be removed 
 with earthquakes, and so encounter. 
 
 Ros. Nay, but who is it? 
 
 Cel. Is it possible ? 
 
 Ros. Nay, I pr'ythee now, with most peti- 
 tionary vehemence, tell me who it is. 
 
 Cel. O wonderful, wonderful, and most 
 wonderful wonderful ! and yet again wonderful, 
 and after that, out of all whooping ! 
 
 Ros. Good my complexion ! dost thou think, 
 though I am caparisoned like a man, I have a 
 
 225 
 
SHAKESPEARES 
 
 doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch 
 of delay more is a South-sea of discovery. I 
 pr'ythee, tell me, who is it? quickly, and speak 
 apace. I would thou couldst stammer, that 
 thou mightst pour this concealed man out of thy 
 mouth, as wine comes out of a narrow-mouthed 
 bottle; either too much at once or none at all. 
 I pr'ythee take the cork out of thy mouth, that 
 I may drink thy tidings. 
 
 Is he of God's making? What manner of 
 man ? Is his head worth a hat or his chin worth 
 a beard? 
 
 Cel. Nay, he hath but a little beard. 
 
 Ros. Why, God will send more if the man 
 will be thankful : let me stay the growth of his 
 beard if thou delay me not the knowledge of 
 his chin. 
 
 Cel. It is young Orlando, that tripped up 
 the wrestler's heels and your heart both in an 
 instant. 
 
 Ros. Nay, but the devil take mocking: 
 speak sad brow and true maid. 
 
 Cel. V faith, coz, 'tis he. 
 
 Ros. Orlando? 
 
 Cel. Orlando. 
 
 Ros. Alas the day ! what shall I do with my 
 
 doublet and hose ? — What did he when thou 
 
 saw'sthim? What said he? Howlook'dhe? 
 
 Wherein went he? What makes he here? 
 
 226 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Did he ask for me? Where remains he? 
 How parted he with thee ? and when shalt thou 
 see him again? Answer me in one word, 
 
 Cel. You must borrow me Gargantua's 
 mouth first : 'tis a word too great for any mouth 
 of this age's size. To say ay and no to these 
 particulars is more than to answer in a cate- 
 chism. 
 
 Ros. But doth he know that I am in this 
 forest, and in man's apparel? Looks he as 
 freshly as he did the day he wrestled? 
 
 Cel. It is as easy to count atomies as to re- 
 solve the propositions of a lover : — but take a 
 taste of my finding him, and relish it with good 
 observance. I found him under a tree, like a 
 dropped acorn. 
 
 Ros. It may well be called Jove's tree, 
 when it drops forth such fruit. 
 
 Cel. Give me audience, good madam. 
 
 Ros. Proceed. 
 
 Cel. There lay he, stretched along like a 
 wounded knight. 
 
 Ros. Though it be pity to see such a sight, 
 it well becomes the ground. 
 
 Cel. Cry, holla t to thy tongue, I pr'ythee ; 
 it curvets unseasonably. He was furnished 
 like a hunter. 
 
 Ros. O, ominous ! he comes to kill my heart. 
 
 Cel. I would sing my song without a bur- 
 den : thou bring'st me out of tune. 
 
 227 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Ros. Do you not know I am a woman? 
 when I think, I must speak. Sweet, say on. 
 
 Cel. You bring me out. — Soft ! comes he 
 not here ? 
 
 Ros. 'Tis he: slink by, and note him. 
 
 [Celia and Rosalind retire. 
 
 Enter Orlando and Jaques. 
 
 Jaq. I thank you for your company; but, 
 good faith, I had as lief have been myself alone. 
 
 Orl. And so had I; but yet, for fashion's 
 sake, I thank you too for your society. 
 
 Jaq. God be with you : let's meet as little as 
 we can. 
 
 Orl. I do desire we may be better strangers. 
 
 Jaq. I pray you, mar no more trees with 
 writing love-songs in their barks. 
 
 Orl. I pray you, mar no more of my verses 
 with reading them ill-favouredly. 
 
 Jaq. Rosalind is your love's name? 
 
 Orl. Yes, just. 
 
 Jaq. I do not like her name. 
 
 Orl. There was no thought of pleasing you 
 when she was christened. 
 
 Jaq. What stature is she of? 
 
 Orl. Just as high as my heart. 
 
 Jaq. You are full of pretty answers. Have 
 you not been acquainted with goldsmiths' wives, 
 and conned them out of rings ? 
 228 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Orl, Not so ; but I answer you right painted 
 cloth, from whence you have studied your ques- 
 tions. 
 
 Jaq. You have a nimble wit: I think it was 
 made of Atalanta's heels. Will you sit down 
 with me ? and we two will rail against our mis- 
 tress the world, and all our misery. 
 
 Orl. I will chide no breather in the world 
 but myself, against whom I know most faults. 
 
 Jaq. The worst fault you have is to be in 
 love. 
 
 Orl. 'Tis a fault I will not change for your 
 best virtue. I am weary of you. 
 
 Jaq. By my troth, I was seeking for a fool 
 when I found you. 
 
 Orl. He is drowned in the brook; look but 
 in, and you shall see him. 
 
 Jaq. There I shall see mine own figure. 
 
 Orl. Which I take to be either a fool or a 
 cipher. 
 
 Jaq. I'll tarry no longer with you : farewell, 
 good Signior Love. 
 
 Orl. I am glad of your departure: adieu, 
 good Monsieur Melancholy. 
 
 [Exit Jaq. — Cel. and Ros. come forward. 
 
 Ros. I will speak to him like a saucy lac- 
 quey, and under that habit play the knave with 
 him. — Do you hear, forester ? 
 
 Orl. Very well: what would you? 
 
 Ros. I pray you, what is 't o'clock? 
 
 229 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Orl. You should ask me what time o' day; 
 there's no clock in the forest. 
 
 Ros. Then there's no true lover in the for- 
 est, else sighing every minute and groaning 
 every hour would detect the lazy foot of time 
 as well as a clock. 
 
 Orl. And why not the swift foot of time? 
 had not that been as proper? 
 
 Ros. By no means, sir. Time travels in 
 divers paces with divers persons. I will tell 
 you who time ambles withal, who time trots 
 withal, who time gallops withal, and who he 
 stands still withal. 
 
 Orl. I pr'ythee, who doth he trot withal? 
 
 Ros. Marry, he trots hard with a young 
 maid between the contract of her marriage and 
 the day it is solemnized ; if the interim be but a 
 se'nnight, time's pace is so hard that it seems 
 the length of seven years. 
 
 Orl. Who ambles time withal? 
 
 Ros. With a priest that lacks Latin and a 
 rich man that hath not the gout: for the one 
 sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the 
 other lives merrily, because he feels no pain; 
 the one lacking the burden &f lean and waste- 
 ful learning; the other knowing no burden of 
 heavy tedious penury. These time ambles 
 withal. 
 
 Orl. Who doth he gallop withal? 
 
 Ros. With a thief to the gallows; for 
 
 230 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 though he go as softly as foot can fall, he thinks 
 himself too soon there. 
 
 Orl. Who stays it still withal? 
 
 Ros. With lawyers in the vacation ; for they 
 sleep between term and term, and then they per- 
 ceive not how time moves. 
 
 Orl. Where dwell you, pretty youth? 
 
 Ros. With this shepherdess, my sister ; here 
 in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a 
 petticoat. 
 
 Orl. Are you native of this place ? 
 
 Ros. As the coney, that you see dwell where 
 she is kindled. 
 
 Orl. Your accent Is something finer than 
 you could purchase in so removed a dwelling. 
 
 Ros. I have been told so of many: but in- 
 deed an old religious uncle of mine taught me 
 to speak, who was in his youth an inland man; 
 one that knew courtship too well, for there he 
 fell in love. I have heard him read many lec- 
 tures against it; and I thank God I am not a 
 woman, to be touched with so many giddy of- 
 fences as he hath generally taxed their whole 
 sex withal. 
 
 Orl. Can you remember any of the prin- 
 cipal evils that he laid to the charge of women ? 
 
 Ros. There were none principal; they were 
 all like one another as halfpence are; every one 
 fault seeming monstrous till his fellow fault 
 came to match it. 
 
 231 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Orl, I pr'ythee, recount some of them. 
 
 Ros. No; I will not cast away my physic 
 but on those that are sick. There is a man 
 haunts the forest that abuses our young plants 
 with carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs 
 odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles ; 
 all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: 
 if I could meet that fancymonger I would give 
 him some good counsel, for he seems to have 
 the quotidian of love upon him. 
 
 Orl. I am he that is so love-shaked : I pray 
 you, tell me your remedy. 
 
 Ros. There is none of my uncle's marks 
 upon you : he taught me how to know a man in 
 love ; in which cage of rushes I am sure you are 
 not prisoner. 
 
 Orl. What were his marks? 
 
 Ros. A lean cheek; which you have not: a 
 blue eye and sunken; which you have not: an 
 unquestionable spirit; which you have not: a 
 beard neglected; which you have not: but I 
 pardon you for that ; for simply your having in 
 beard is a younger brother's revenue : — then 
 your hose should be ungartered, your bonnet 
 unhanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe 
 untied, and everything about you demonstrating 
 a careless desolation. But you are no such 
 man; you are rather point-device in your ac- 
 coutrements; as loving yourself than seeming the 
 lover of any other. 
 
 232 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Orl. Fair youth, I would I could make diee 
 believe I love. 
 
 Ros. Me believe It! you may as soon make 
 her that you love believe it; which, I warrant, 
 she is apter to do than to confess she does : that 
 is one of the points in the which women still 
 give the lie to their consciences. But, in good 
 sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the 
 trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired? 
 
 Orl. I swear to thee, youth, by the white 
 hand of Rosalind, I am that he, that unfortu- 
 nate he. 
 
 Ros. But are you so much in love as your 
 rhymes speak? 
 
 Orl. Neither rhyme nor reason can express 
 how much. 
 
 Ros. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell 
 you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip 
 as madmen do: and the reason why they are 
 not so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is 
 so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. 
 Yet I profess curing it by counsel. 
 
 Orl. Did you ever cure any so? 
 
 Ros. Yes, one; and in this manner. He 
 was to imagine me his love, his mistress; and 1 
 set him every day to woo me: at which time 
 would I, being but a moonlsh youth, grieve, "be 
 effeminate, changeable, longing, and liking; 
 proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, Inconstant, 
 full of tears, full of smiles; for every passion 
 
 233 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 something, and for no passion truly anything, as 
 boys and women are for the most part cattle of 
 this colour : would now like him, now loath him ; 
 then entertain him, then forswear him; now 
 weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave 
 my suitor from his mad humour of love 
 to a loving humour of madness; which 
 was, to forswear the full stream of the 
 world, and to live in a nook nearly monastic. 
 And thus I cured him ; and this way will I take 
 upon me to wash your liver as clean as a sound 
 sheep's heart, that there shall not be one spot of 
 love in 't. 
 
 Orl. I would not be cured, youth. 
 
 Ros. I would cure you if you would but call 
 me Rosalind, and come every day to my cote 
 and woo me. 
 
 Orl. Now, by the faith of my love, I will: 
 tell me where it is. 
 
 Ros. Go with me to it, and I'll show it you : 
 and, by the way, you shall tell me where in the 
 forest you live. Will you go? 
 
 Orl. With all my heart, good youth. 
 ' Ros. Nay, you must call me Rosalind. — 
 Come, sister, will you go? 
 
 Some time after, Rosalind and Celia discuss 
 Orlando, who has been taking the " cure " rec- 
 ommended by his lady love, who is still mas- 
 querading as a youth. 
 
 234 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Ros. Never talk to me; I will weep. 
 
 Cel. Do, I pr'ythee ; but yet have the grace 
 to consider that tears do not become a man. 
 
 Ros. But have I not cause to weep? 
 
 Cel. As good cause as one would desire; 
 therefore weep. 
 
 Ros. His very hair Is of the dissembling 
 colour. 
 
 Cel. Something browner than Judas's: 
 marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. 
 
 Ros. V faith, his hair is of a good colour. 
 
 Cel. An excellent colour : your chestnut was 
 ever the only colour. 
 
 Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as 
 the touch of holy bread. 
 
 Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of 
 Diana: a nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not 
 more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in 
 them. 
 
 Ros. But why did he swear he would come 
 this morning, and comes not ? 
 
 Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him. 
 
 Ros. Do you think so? 
 
 Cel. Yes; I think he is not a pickpurse nor 
 a horse-stealer ; but for his verity in love, I do 
 think him as concave as a covered goblet or a 
 worm-eaten nut. 
 
 Ros. Not true in love? 
 
 Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is 
 not in. 
 
 235 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Ros. You have heard him swear downright 
 he was. 
 
 Cel. Was is not is: besides, the oath of a 
 lover is no stronger than the word of a tapster; 
 they are both the confirmers of false reckonings. 
 He attends here in the forest on the duke, your 
 father. 
 
 Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had 
 much question with him. He asked me of 
 what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as 
 he; so he laughed and let me go. But what 
 talk we of fathers when there is such a man as 
 Orlando ? 
 
 Cel. O, that's a brave man ! he writes brave 
 verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths, 
 and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart 
 the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that 
 spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff 
 like a noble goose: but all's brave that youth 
 mounts and folly guides. 
 
 A later scene in the forest brings the dis- 
 guised Rosalind, Celia and Jaques into converse. 
 
 Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be bet- 
 ter acquainted with thee. 
 
 Ros. They say you are a melancholy fel- 
 low. 
 
 Jaq. I am so ; I do love it better than laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 Ros. Those that are in extremity of either 
 236 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 are abominable fellows, and betray themselves 
 to every modern censure worse than drunkards. 
 
 Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say noth- 
 ing. 
 
 Ros. Why, then, 'tis good to be a post. 
 
 Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melan- 
 choly, which is emulation; nor the musician's, 
 which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which 
 is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; 
 nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, 
 which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all these : 
 but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded 
 of many simples, extracted from many objects: 
 and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my 
 travels, in which my often rumination wraps me 
 in a most humourous sadness. 
 
 Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have 
 great reason to be sad : I fear you have sold your 
 own lands to see other men's; then, to have seen 
 much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes 
 and poor hands. 
 
 Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience. 
 
 Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I 
 had rather have a fool to make me merry than 
 experience to make me sad; and to travel for it 
 too. 
 
 Enter ORLANDO. 
 
 Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosa- 
 lind! 
 
 237 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you 
 talk in blank verse. 
 
 Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: look 
 you lisp and wear strange suits; disable all the 
 benefits of your own country; be out of love 
 with your nativity, and almost chide God for 
 making you that countenance you are ; or I will 
 scarce think you have swam in a gondola. 
 [^Exit Jaques.] Why, how now, Orlando! 
 where have you been all this while? You a 
 lover! — An you serve me such another trick, 
 never come in my sight more. 
 
 Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an 
 hour of my promise. 
 
 Ros. Break an hour's promise in love ! He 
 that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, 
 and break but a part of a thousandth part of a 
 minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of 
 him that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoul- 
 der, but I warrant him heart-whole. 
 
 Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no 
 more in my sight: I had as lief be woo'd of a 
 snail. 
 
 Orl. Of a snail! 
 
 Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes 
 slowly, he carries his house on his head; a bet- 
 ter jointure, I think, than you can make a 
 woman: besides, he brings his destiny with 
 him. 
 
 238 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a 
 holiday humour, and like enough to consent, — 
 What would you say to me now, an I were your 
 very very Rosalind? 
 
 Orl. I would kiss before I spoke. 
 
 Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and 
 when you were gravelled for lack of matter, 
 you might take occasion to kiss. Very good 
 orators, when they are out, they will spit; and 
 for lovers lacking, — God warn us ! — matter, 
 the cleanliest shift is to kiss. 
 
 Orl. How if the kiss be denied? 
 
 Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and 
 there begins new matter. 
 
 Orl. Who could be out, being before his be- 
 loved mistress ? 
 
 Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were 
 your mistress; or I should think my honesty 
 ranker than my wit. 
 
 Orl. What, of my suit? 
 
 Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out 
 of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind? 
 
 Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because 
 I would be talking of her. 
 
 Ros. Well, in her person, I say, I will not 
 have you. 
 
 Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die. 
 
 Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The 
 poor world is almost six thousand years old, 
 and in all this time there was not any man died 
 
 239 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. 
 Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Gre- 
 cian club; yet he did what he could to die be- 
 fore; and he is one of the patterns of love. 
 Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, 
 though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been 
 for a hot midsummer-night ; for, good youth, he 
 went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, 
 and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; 
 and the foolish chroniclers -of that age found it 
 was — Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies ; 
 men have died from time to time, and worms 
 have eaten them, but not for love. 
 
 Orl. I would not have my right Rosalind of 
 this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill 
 me. 
 
 Ros. By this hand, it will not kill a fly. But 
 come, now I will be your Rosalind in a more 
 coming-on disposition; and ask me what you 
 will, I will grant it. 
 
 Orl. Then love me, Rosalind. 
 
 Ros. Yes, faith will I, Fridays and Satur- 
 days, and all. 
 
 Orl. And wilt thou have me? 
 
 Ros. Ay, and twenty such. 
 
 Orl. What say'st thou? 
 
 Ros. Are you not good? 
 
 Orl. I hope so. 
 
 Ros. Why, then, can one desire too much 
 of a good thing? -^ Come, sister, you shall be 
 
 240 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 the priest, and marry us. — Give me your hand, 
 Orlando : — What do you say, sister ? 
 
 Orl. Pray thee, marry us. 
 
 Cel. I cannot say the words. 
 
 Ros. You must begin, — Will you, Or- 
 lando, — 
 
 Cel. Go to : — Will you, Orlando, have to 
 wife this Rosalind? 
 
 OrL I will. 
 
 Ros. Ay, but when? 
 
 OrL Why, now; as fast as she can marry 
 us. 
 
 Ros. Then you must say, — / take thee, 
 Rosalind, for wife. 
 
 Orl. I take thee, Rosalind, for wife. 
 
 Ros. I might ask you for your commission; 
 but, — I do take thee, Orlando, for my husband: 
 — there's a girl goes before the priest; and, 
 certainly, a woman's thoughts run before her 
 actions. 
 
 Orl. So do all thoughts; they are winged. 
 
 Ros. Now tell me how long you would have 
 her, after you have possessed her. 
 
 Orl. For ever and a day. 
 
 Ros. Say a day, without the ever. No, no, 
 Orlando; men are April when they woo, De- 
 cember when they wed: maids are May when 
 they are maids, but the sky changes when they 
 are wives. I will be more jealous of thee than 
 a Barbary cock-pigeon over his hen; more 
 
 241 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 clamorous than a parrot against rain; more 
 new-fangled than an ape; more giddy in my 
 desires than a monkey : I will weep for nothing, 
 like Diana in the fountain, and I will do that 
 when you are disposed to be merry; I will laugh 
 like a hyena, and that when thou art inclined to 
 sleep. 
 
 Orl. But will my Rosalind do so ? 
 
 Ros. By my life, she will do as I do. 
 
 Orl. O, but she is wise. 
 
 Ros. Or else she could not have the wit to 
 do this: the wiser, the waywarder: make the 
 doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the 
 casement; shut that, and it will out at the key- 
 hole; stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at 
 the chimney. 
 
 • ■ • • • • 
 
 You shall never take her without her an- 
 swer, unless you take her without her tongue. 
 O, that woman that cannot make her fault her 
 husband's occasion, let her never nurse her 
 child herself, for she will breed it like a fool. 
 
 In a forest scene, before the banished duke, 
 Touchstone gives proof of the rare quality of 
 his wit: 
 
 Jaq. Good my lord, bid him welcome. 
 This is the motley-minded gentleman that I 
 have so often met in the forest: he hath been 
 a courtier, he swears. 
 
 242 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Touch. If any man doubt that, let him put 
 me to my purgation. I have trod a measure; 
 I have flattered a lady ; I have been politic with 
 my friend, smooth with mine enemy; I have 
 undone three tailors; I have had four quarrels, 
 and like to have fought one. 
 
 Jaq. And how was that ta'en up? 
 
 Touch. Faith, we met, and found the quar- 
 rel was upon the seventh cause. 
 
 Jaq. How seventh cause? 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Touch. Upon a lie seven times removed; 
 — bear your body more seeming, Audrey : — ■ 
 as thus, sir, I did dislike the cut of a certain 
 courtier's beard; he sent me word, if I said his 
 beard was not cut well, he was in the mind it 
 was: this is called the Retort courteous. If I 
 sent him word again, it was not well cut, he 
 would send me word he cut it to please himself : 
 this is called the Quip modest. If again, it 
 was not well cut, he disabled my judgment: 
 this is called the Reply churlish. If again, it 
 was not well cut, he would answer, I spake not 
 true: this is called the Reproof valiant. If 
 again, it was not well cut, he would say, I 
 lie: this is called the Countercheck quarrelsome: 
 and so, to the Lie circumstantial, and the Lie 
 direct. 
 
 Jaq. And how oft did you say his beard 
 was not well cut? 
 
 243 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Touch. I durst go no farther than the Lie 
 circumstantial, nor he durst not give me the 
 Lie direct; and so we measured swords and 
 parted. 
 
 Jaq. Can you nominate in order now the 
 degrees of the lie? 
 
 Touch. O, sir, we quarrel in print by the 
 book, as you have books for good manners: I 
 will name you the degrees. The first, the Re- 
 tort courteous; the second, the Quip modest; 
 the third, the Reply churlish; the fourth, the 
 Reproof valiant; the fifth, the Countercheck 
 quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with circum- 
 stance; the seventh, the Lie direct. All these 
 you may avoid but the lie direct; and you may 
 avoid that too with an //. I knew when seven 
 justices could not take up a quarrel; but when 
 the parties were met themselves, one of them 
 thought but of an //, as // you said so, then I 
 said so; and they shook hands, and swore 
 brothers. Your // is the only peace-maker : — 
 much virtue in //. 
 
 Jaq. Is not this a rare fellow, my lord ? he's 
 as good at anything, and yet a fool. 
 
 Duke S. He uses his folly like a stalking- 
 horse, and under the presentation of that he 
 shoots his wit. 
 
 Oliver comes to the forest in search of Or- 
 lando, who there rescues him from the attack 
 
 244 
 
WIT AND HUMOURS 
 
 of a lion. This creates a sudden change of 
 heart in the wicked brother: he repents of his 
 past wrong-doing and unkindness, and is for- 
 given. 
 
 The usurping duke, on his way to the forest 
 with an army, to capture and kill his brother, is 
 converted from his enterprise, and likewise 
 from the world, by "an old, religious man " he 
 chances to meet, and abandons the dukedom to 
 the rightful ruler. 
 
 In the last scene of the play Rosalind weds 
 Orlando, and Celia his reformed brother, 
 while Touchstone, in keeping with his pro- 
 fessed disregard for appearances and romance, 
 marries Audrey, an ill-favoured, simple-minded 
 Tind ignorant country wench. 
 
 245 
 
TWELFTH NIGHT 
 
 The story of "Twelfth Night; or What 
 You Will," is of Italian origin. Its chief in- 
 cidents are evidently derived either from a 
 novel by Bandello or an Italian play based upon 
 that romance and entitled " II Sacrlficio," in 
 which there is a character named Malevoltl, 
 corresponding to Shakespeare's Malvolio. 
 
 The scene Is laid in lUyrla. Duke Orsino is 
 in love with Olivia, a rich countess who has se- 
 cluded herself from the world because of grief 
 over her brother's death. Viola, a young gen- 
 tlewoman who has been shipwrecked and has 
 disguised herself in man's apparel, enters the 
 service of the duke under the name of Cesario, 
 and is employed by him to urge his suit with 
 the countess. Olivia, not suspecting the decep- 
 tion, falls in love with the handsome messenger. 
 Viola's brother, Sebastian, who was separated 
 from her by the shipwreck, eventually appears. 
 He is so much her counterpart, as she looks in 
 masculine attire, that Olivia mistakes him for 
 246 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 the pretended Cesario and woos him ardently. 
 He at once returns her love, and a speedy mar- 
 riage follows, before she discovers his identity. 
 The duke then transfers his affections to Viola, 
 who has been secretly in love with him. 
 
 The chief character of the comic underplot 
 of the play is Malvolio, the exceedingly vain, 
 affected, self-important steward of the countess. 
 Maria, her waiting-woman, conspires with Sir 
 Toby Belch, a convivial uncle of Olivia, and Sir 
 Andrew Aguecheek, a ludicrous suitor for the 
 hand of the countess, to play upon the vanity of 
 Malvolio, so as to make him believe his mistress 
 is in love with him. This deception succeeds 
 so well that he is made utterly ridiculous, and 
 the countess, who does not suspect the cause of 
 his strange behaviour, is completely amazed by 
 it. 
 
 The " clown " who figures in this play is one 
 of the cleverest of Shakespeare's fools or jest- 
 ers, 
 
 A Room in Olivia's House. 
 
 Enter Maria and Clown. 
 
 Mar. Nay; either tell me where thou hast 
 been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a 
 247 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 bristle may enter in way of thy excuse : my lady 
 will hang thee for thy absence. 
 
 Clo. Let her hang me: he that is well 
 hanged in this world needs to fear no colours. 
 
 Mar. Make that good. 
 
 Clo. He shall see none to fear. 
 
 Mar. A good lenten answer : I can tell thee 
 where that saying was born, of, I fear no col- 
 ours. 
 
 Clo. Where, good Mistress Mary? 
 
 Mar. In the wars; and that may you be 
 bold to say in your foolery, 
 
 Clo. Well, God give them wisdom that 
 have it; and those that are fools, let them use 
 their talents. 
 
 Mar. Yet you will be hanged for being so 
 long absent: or, to be turned away; is not that 
 as good as a hanging to you? 
 
 Clo. Many a good hanging prevents a bad 
 marriage; and for turning away, let summer 
 bear it out. 
 
 Enter Olivia and Malvolio. 
 
 Clo. Wit, an 't be thy will, put me into 
 good fooling I Those wits that think they have 
 thee, do very oft prove fools; and I, that am 
 sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For 
 what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool 
 than foolish wit. — God bless thee, lady! 
 248 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 on. Take the fool away. 
 
 Clo. Do you not hear, fellows? Take 
 away the lady. 
 
 Oli. Go to, you're a dry fool; I'll no more 
 of you : besides, you grow dishonest. 
 
 Clo. Two faults, madonna, that drink and 
 good counsel will amend : for give the dry fool 
 drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishon- 
 est man mend himself: if he mend, he is no 
 longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher 
 mend him. Anything that's mended is but 
 patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched 
 with sin; and sin that amends is but patched 
 with virtue. . . . The lady bade take away the 
 fool; therefore, I say again, take her away. 
 
 OH. Sir, I bade them take away you. 
 
 Clo. Misprision in the highest degree I — 
 Lady, Cucullus non facit monachum; that's as 
 much as to say, I wear not motley in my brain. 
 Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a 
 fool. 
 
 Oli. Can you do it? 
 
 Clo. Dexterously, good madonna. 
 
 Oli. Make your proof. 
 
 Clo. I must catechise you for it, madonna. 
 Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. 
 
 Oli. Well, sir, for want of other idleness, 
 I'll 'bide your proof, 
 
 Clo. Good madonna, why mourn'st thou? 
 
 Oli. Good fool, for my brother's death. 
 
 249 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Clo. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. 
 
 Oli. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. 
 
 Clo. The more fool you, madonna, to 
 mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven. 
 — Take away the fool, gentlemen. 
 
 Oli. What think you of this fool, Mal- 
 volio ? doth he not mend ? 
 
 Mai. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of 
 death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the 
 wise, doth ever make the better fool. 
 
 Clo. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, 
 for the better increasing your folly ! Sir Toby 
 will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not 
 pass his word for twopence that you are no 
 fool. 
 
 Oli. How say you to that, Malvolio? 
 
 Mai. I marvel your ladyship takes delight 
 in such a barren rascal ; I saw him put down the 
 other day with an ordinary fool that has no 
 more brain than a stone. Look you now, he's 
 out of his guard already; unless you laugh and 
 minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I pro- 
 test, I take these wise men, that crow so at 
 these set kind of fools, no better than the fools' 
 zanies. 
 
 Oli. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, 
 and taste with a distempered appetite. To be 
 generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to 
 take those things for bird-bolts that you deem 
 cannon-bullets. There is no slander in an al- 
 
 250 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 lowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor 
 no railing in a known discreet man, though he 
 do nothing but reprove. 
 
 In a subsequent scene the clown sings : 
 
 O, mistress mine, vrhere are you roaming? 
 O stay and hear; your true love's coming, 
 
 That can sing both high and low: 
 Trip no further, pretty sweeting; 
 
 Journeys end in lovers' meeting, 
 Every wise man's son doth know. 
 
 What is love? 'tis not hereafter; 
 Present mirth hath present laughter; 
 
 What's to come is still unsure: 
 In delay there lies no plenty; 
 Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, 
 
 Youth's a stuff will not endure. 
 
 In a merry talk with Sir Toby and Sir An- 
 drew, Maria unfolds her plan to deceive Mal- 
 volio and make him ridiculous. 
 
 For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with 
 him: if I do not gull him into a nayword, and 
 make him a common recreation, do not think I 
 have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I 
 know I can do it. 
 
 Sir To. Possess us, possess us; tell us some- 
 thing of him. 
 
 Mar. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of 
 Puritan. 
 
 Sir And. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him 
 like a dog. 
 
 251 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Sir To. What, for being a Puritan? thy ex- 
 quisite reason, dear knight ? 
 
 Sir And. I have no exquisite reason for 't, 
 but I have reason good enough. • 
 
 Mar. The devil a Puritan that he is, or 
 anything constantly but a time pleaser: an af- 
 fection'd ass that cons state without book and 
 utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded 
 of himself, so crammed, as he thinks, with ex- 
 cellences, that it is his ground of faith that all 
 that look on him love him; and on that vice in 
 him will my revenge find notable cause to work. 
 
 Sir To. What wilt thou do ? 
 
 Mar. I will drop in his way some obscure 
 epistles of love; wherein, by the colour of his 
 beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his 
 gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and 
 complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly 
 personated. I can write very like my lady, 
 your niece ; on a forgotten matter we can hardly 
 make distinction of our hands. 
 
 Sir To. Excellent! I smell a device. 
 
 Sir And. I have 't in my nose too. 
 
 Sir To. He shall think, by the letters that 
 thou wilt drop, that they com-; from my niece, 
 and that she is in love with him. 
 
 Mar. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of 
 that colour. 
 
 Sir And. And your horse now would make 
 him an ass. 
 
 252 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Maria writes a cunningly worded love letter 
 in a counterfeit of Olivia's hand, and drops it 
 on a walk in the garden when Malvolio is ap- 
 proaching. The two jocular knights and 
 Fabian, a servant, hide themselves where they 
 can hear what he may say, and Maria disap- 
 pears. 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 Mai. 'Tis but fortune; all is fortune. 
 Maria once told me she did affect me: and I 
 have heard herself come thus near, that, should 
 she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. 
 Besides, she uses me with a more exalted re- 
 spect than anyone else that follows her. What 
 should I think on 't ? 
 
 Sir To. Here's an overwhelming rogue! 
 
 Fab. O, peace! Contemplation makes a 
 rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his 
 advanced plumes ! 
 
 Sir And. 'Slight, I could so beat the 
 rogue : — 
 
 Sir To. Peace, I say. 
 
 Mai. To be Count Malvolio;—. 
 
 Sir To. Ah, rogue! 
 
 Sir And. Pistol him, pistol him. 
 
 Sir To. Peace, peace. 
 
 Mai. There is example for 't; the lady of 
 the Strachy married the yeoman of the ward- 
 robe. 
 
 253 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Sir And. Fie on him, Jezebel ! 
 
 Fah. O, peace! now he's deeply in; look 
 how imagination blows him. 
 
 Mai. Having been three months married 
 to her, sitting in my state, — - 
 
 Sir To. O for a stone-bow to hit him in the 
 eye! 
 
 Mai. Calling my officers about me in my 
 branched velvet gown; having come from a 
 day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping. 
 
 Sir To. Fire and brimstone! 
 
 Fab. O, peace, peace. 
 
 Mai. And then to have the humour of 
 state: and after a demure travel of regard, — 
 telling them I know my place as I would they 
 should do theirs, — to ask for my kinsman 
 Toby. 
 
 Sir To. Bolts and shackles ! 
 
 Fah. O, peace, peace, peace! now, now. 
 
 Mai. Seven of my people, with an obedient 
 start, make out for him : I frown the while ; and 
 perchance, wind up my watch, or play with 
 some rich jewel. Toby approaches; court'sies 
 there to me : 
 
 Sir To. Shall this fellow live? 
 
 Fab. Though our silence be drawn from 
 us with cars, yet peace. 
 
 Mai. I extend my hand to him thus, 
 quenching my familiar smile with an austere re- 
 gard of control: 
 
 254 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Sir To. And does not Toby take you a 
 blow o' the lips then? 
 
 Mai. Saying, Cousin Toby, my fortunes 
 having cast me on your niece, give me this pre- 
 rogative of speech: — 
 
 Sir To. What, what? 
 
 Mai. You must amend your drunkenness. 
 
 Sir To. Out, scab I 
 
 Fab. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews 
 of our plot. 
 
 Mai. Besides, you waste the treasure of 
 your time with a foolish knight; 
 
 Sir And. That's me, I warrant you. 
 
 Mai. One Sir Andrew: 
 
 Sir And. I knew 'twas I ; for many do call 
 me fool. 
 
 Mai. What employment have we here? 
 
 [Taking up the letter. 
 
 Fab. Now is the woodcock near the gin. 
 
 Sir To. O, peace! and the spirit of hu- 
 mours intimate reading aloud to him ! 
 
 Mai. By my life, this is my lady's hand: 
 these be her very C's, her Z7's, and her T's; and 
 thus makes she her great P's. It is in con- 
 tempt of question her hand. 
 
 Sir And. Her C's, her U\, and her T's. 
 Why that? 
 
 Mai. [reads.] To the unknown beloved, 
 this, and my good wishes: her very phrases 1 — 
 By your leave, wax. — Soft ! — and. the impres- 
 
 255 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 sure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: 
 'tis my lady. To whom should this be ? 
 Fah. This wms him, liver and all. 
 
 Mai. {reads.'} Jove kno'ws I love: 
 But, •whof 
 Lips do not move. 
 No man must knona. 
 
 No man must know. — What follows? the 
 numbers altered 1 — No man must know: — If 
 this should be thee, Malvolio ? 
 
 Sir. To. Marry, hang thee, brock! 
 
 Mai. I may command inhere I adore: 
 
 But silence, like a Lucrece knife. 
 With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; 
 M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. 
 
 Fab. A fustian riddle! 
 
 Sir To. Excellent wench, say I. 
 
 Mai. M, O, A, I, doth sway my life. — 
 Nay, but first let me see, — let me see, — let me 
 see. 
 
 Fab. What a dish of poison hath she 
 dressed him ! 
 
 Sir To. And with what wing the stannyel 
 checks at it ! 
 
 Mai. I may command where I adore. 
 Why, she may command me : I serve her, she is 
 my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal 
 capacity. There is no obstruction in this ; — • 
 And the end, — What should that alphabetical 
 position portend? If I could make that re- 
 256 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 semble something In me, — Softly 1 — M, O, 
 A, /.- 
 
 Sir To. O, ay I make up that : — he is now 
 at a cold scent. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 Mai. M, — Malvolio ; — M, — why, that 
 begins my name. 
 
 Mai. But then there is no consonancy in the 
 sequel; that suffers under probation: A should 
 follow, but O does. 
 
 Fab. And shall end, I hope. 
 
 Sir To. Ay, or I'll cudgel him, and make 
 him cry O. 
 
 Mai. And then / comes behind. 
 
 Fab. Ay, an you had any eye behind you, 
 you might see more detraction at your heels 
 than fortunes before you. 
 
 Mai. M, O, A, I; — This simulation is not 
 as the former : — and yet, to crush this a little, 
 it would bow to me, for every one of these let- 
 ters are in my name. Soft; here follows 
 prose. — // this fall into thy hand, revolve. In 
 my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid 
 of greatness. Some are born great, some 
 achieve greatness, and some have greatness 
 thrust upon them. Thy fates open their hands; 
 let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, 
 to insure thyself to what thou art like to be, 
 cast thy humble slough and appear, fresh. Be 
 
 257 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants: 
 let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thy- 
 self into the trick of singularity: She thus ad- 
 vises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who 
 commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to 
 see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. 
 Go to; thou art made, if thou desirest to be so; 
 if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow 
 of servants, and not worthy to touch fortune's 
 fingers. Farewell. She that would alter serv- 
 ices with thee. 
 
 The fortunate unhappy. 
 Daylight and champian discovers not more: 
 this is open. I will be proud, I will read 
 politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will 
 wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-de- 
 vice, the very man. I do not now fool myself 
 to let imagination jade me; for every reason 
 excites to this, that my lady loves me. She 
 did commend my yellow stockings of late, she 
 did praise my leg being cross-gartered; and in 
 this she manifests herself to my love, and, with 
 a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits 
 of her liking. I thank my stars I am happy. 
 I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and 
 cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of put- 
 ting on. Jove and my stars be praised I — 
 Here is yet a postscript. Thou canst not 
 choose but know who I am. If thou entertain- 
 est my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy 
 
 258 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 smiles become thee well: therefore in my pres- 
 ence still smile, dear my sweet, I pr'ythee. 
 Jove, I thank thee. — I will smile: I will do 
 everything that thou wilt have me. {Exit. 
 
 Fab. I will not give my part of this sport 
 for a pension of thousands to be paid from the 
 Sophy. 
 
 Sir To. I could marry this wench for this 
 device : 
 
 Sir And. So could I too. 
 
 Sir To. And ask no other dowry with her 
 but such another jest. 
 
 Enter Maria. 
 
 Sir To. Why, thou hast put him in such a 
 dream, that, when the image of it leaves him, 
 he must run mad. 
 
 Mar. If you will then see the fruits of the 
 sport, mark his first approach before my lady: 
 he will come to her in yellow stockings, and 
 'tis a colour she abhors; and cross-gartered, a 
 fashion she detests ; and he will smile upon her, 
 which will now be so unsuitable to her disposi- 
 tion, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, 
 that it cannot but turn him into a notable con- 
 tempt : if you will see it, follow me. 
 
 259 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 In a subsequent scene Maria reports to Sir 
 Toby that Malvolio has donned yellow stock- 
 ings and is cross-gartered " most villainously." 
 She adds : 
 
 He does obey every point of the letter that 
 I dropped to betray him. He does smile his 
 face into more lines than are in the new map, 
 with the augmentation of the Indies: you have 
 not seen such a thing as 'tis; I can hardly for- 
 bear hurling things at him. I know my lady 
 will strike him ; if she do, he'll smile, and take 't 
 for a great favour. 
 
 Sir To. Come, bring us, bring us where he 
 is. {^Exeunt. 
 
 Later, in the garden, Olivia is warned by 
 Maria that Malvolio is coming " in strange 
 manner " ; that " he is sure possessed," " tainted 
 in his wits." 
 
 OH. Go call him hither. — I'm as mad as 
 he, 
 If sad and merry madness equal be. — 
 
 Enter Malvolio. 
 
 How now, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 
 
 {^Smiles fantastically. 
 
 260 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 on. Smil'st thou ? 
 I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. 
 
 Mai. Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does 
 make some obstruction in the blood, this cross- 
 gartering. But what of that; if it please the 
 eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet 
 is : Please one and please all. 
 
 OIL Why, how dost thou, man; what is the 
 matter with thee ? 
 
 Mai. Not black in my mind, though yellow 
 in my legs. It did come to his hands, and com- 
 mands shall be executed. I think we do know 
 the sweet Roman hand. 
 
 on. God comfort theel Why dost thou 
 smile on, and kiss thy hand so oft? 
 
 Mar. How do you, Malvolio ? 
 
 Mai. At your request? Yes; nightingales 
 answer daws. 
 
 Mar. Why appear you with this ridiculous 
 boldness before my lady? 
 
 Mai. Be not afraid of greatness: — 'twas 
 Well writ. 
 
 on. What meanest thou by that, Mal- 
 volio ? 
 
 Mai. Some are horn great, — 
 
 Oli. Ha? 
 
 Mai. Sonpe achieve greatness, — 
 
 Oli. What say'st thou? 
 261 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Mai. And some have greatness thrust upon 
 them. 
 
 OIL Heaven restore thee ! 
 
 Mai. Remember who commended thy yel- 
 low stockings: — 
 
 Oil. Thy yellow stockings ? 
 
 Mai. And wished to see thee cross-gar- 
 tered. 
 
 Oli. Cross-gartered ? 
 
 Mai. Go to: thou art made, if thou desirest 
 to he so: — 
 
 Oli. Am I made? 
 
 Mai. If not, let me see thee a servant still. 
 
 Oli. Why, this is very midsummer mad- 
 ness. 
 
 Oli. Good Maria, let this fellow be looked 
 
 to. Where's my cousin Toby? Let some of 
 
 my people have a special care of him; I would 
 
 not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. 
 
 \^Exeunt Olivia and Maria. 
 
 Mai. Oh, ho! do you come near me now? 
 no worse man than Sir Toby to look to me? 
 This concurs directly with the letter: she sends 
 him on purpose that I may appear stubborn to 
 him; for she incites me to that in the letter. 
 Cast thy humble slough, says she ; — be oppo- 
 site with a kinsman, surly with servants, — let 
 thy tongue tang with arguments of state, — put 
 thyself into the trick of singularity; — and, 
 262 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 consequently, sets down the manner how ; as, a 
 sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in 
 the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I 
 have limed her ; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove 
 make me thankful ! And, when she went away 
 now. Let this fellow be looked to: Fellow! 
 not Malvolio, nor after my degree, but fellow. 
 Why, everything adheres together; that no 
 dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no 
 obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circum- 
 stance, — What can be said? Nothing, that 
 can be, can come between me and the full pros- 
 pect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the 
 doer of this, and he is to be thanked. 
 
 Maria returns and, with the help of Sir 
 Toby and Fabian, amuses herself by pretend- 
 ing, before Malvolio, that she thinks him pos- 
 sessed by a devil, mad or bewitched. Malvolio 
 treats them disdainfully and retires, saying: 
 
 Go, hang yourselves all! you are idle shal- 
 low things : I am not of your element ; you shall 
 know more hereafter. 
 
 After the deluded steward goes out, Sir 
 Toby tells Maria and Fabian that he will have 
 Malvolio put in a dark room and bound, " for 
 their pleasure and his penance," until they tire 
 of the pastime and have mercy upon him. The 
 263 
 
SHAKESPEARE*S 
 
 victim being thus shut up, Maria induces the 
 clown to personate Sir Topas the curate, so as 
 to deceive Malvolio and entertain Sir Toby. 
 
 Clo. What, hoa, I say, — Peace in this 
 prison ! 
 
 Sir To. The knave counterfeits well; a 
 good knave. 
 
 Mai. [/« an inner chamber. '\ Who calls 
 there ? 
 
 Clo. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to 
 visit Malvolio the lunatic. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir To- 
 pas, go to my lady. 
 
 Clo. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest 
 thou this man? talkest thou nothing but of la- 
 dies? 
 
 &ir To. Well said, master parson. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, never was man thus 
 wronged: good Sir Topas, do not think I am 
 mad; they have laid me here in hideous dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Clo. Fie, thou dishonest Sathan! I call 
 thee by the most modest terms ; for I am one of 
 those gentle ones that will use the devil him- 
 self with courtesy. Say'st thou that house is 
 dark? 
 
 Mai. As hell. Sir Topas. 
 
 Clo. Why, it hath bay-windows, transpar- 
 ent as barricadoes, and the clear storeys to- 
 
 264 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 wards the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; 
 and yet complainest thou of obstruction? 
 
 Mai. I am not mad, Sir Topas; I say to 
 you this house is dark. 
 
 Clo. Madman, thou errest. I say there is 
 no darkness but ignorance; in which thou art 
 more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. 
 
 Mai. I say this house is as dark as igno- 
 rance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; 
 and I say there was never man thus abused. I 
 am no more mad than you are; make the trial 
 of it in any constant question. 
 
 Clo. What is the opinion of Pythagoras 
 concerning wild-fowl? 
 
 Mai. That the soul of our grandam might 
 haply inherit a bird. 
 
 Clo. What thinkest thou of his opinion? 
 
 Mai. I think nobly of the soul, and no way 
 approve of his opinion. 
 
 Clo. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in 
 darkness: thou shalt hold the opinion of 
 Pythagoras ere I will allow thy wits; and fear 
 to, kill a woodcock lest thou dispossess the soul 
 of thy grandam. Fare thee well. 
 
 The clown then diverts himself by talking in 
 his own voice and person to the imprisoned 
 steward. 
 
 Clo. . . . Who calls, ha ? 
 Mai. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve 
 265 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, 
 ink, and paper; as I am a gentleman, I will live 
 to be thankful to thee for 't. 
 
 Clo. Master Malvolio! 
 
 Mai. Ay, good fool. 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, how fell you beside your 
 five wits? 
 
 Mai. Fool, there was never man so notori- 
 ously abused; I am as well in my wits, fool, as 
 thou art. 
 
 Clo. But as well? then you are mad indeed, 
 if you be no better in your wits than a fool. 
 
 Mai. They have here propertied me; keep 
 me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and 
 do all they can to face me out of my wits. 
 
 Clo. Advise you what you say; the minis- 
 ter is here. — Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the 
 heavens restore ! endeavour thyself to sleep, 
 and leave thy vain bibble-babble. 
 
 Mai. Sir Topas, — 
 
 Clo. Maintain no words with him, good 
 fellow. Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God b' wi' 
 you, good Sir Topas. — Marry, amen. — I will, 
 sir, I will. 
 
 Mai. Fool, fool, fool, I say, — 
 
 Clo. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, 
 sir ? I am shent for speaking to you. 
 
 Mai. Good fool, help me to some light and 
 some paper ; I tell thee I am as well in my wits 
 as any man in Illyria. 
 
 266 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Clo. Well-a-day, — that you were, sir ! 
 
 Mai. By this hand, I am: Good fool, some 
 ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will 
 set down to my lady; it shall advantage thee 
 more than ever the bearing of letter did. 
 
 Clo. I will help you to 't. But tell me 
 true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but 
 counterfeit ? 
 
 Mai. Believe me, I am not ; I tell thee true. 
 
 Clo. Nay, I'll ne'er believe a madman till 
 I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and 
 paper, and ink. 
 
 The letter written by the duped Malvolio in 
 his confinement is conveyed to his mistress by 
 the clown, and his complaint that she has 
 wronged him by means of a letter gives her an 
 inkling that some deception has been practised. 
 She sends for him, and when he appears and 
 shows the missive that Maria dropped in the 
 garden for him to pick up, Olivia recognises 
 Maria's handwriting. Fabian then reveals the 
 sportive plot to make a laughing stock of the 
 vain and pretentious steward, and Olivia ex- 
 presses much sympathy for him in his discom- 
 fiture. But the clown cannot forbear to exult 
 over the crestfallen victim, mocking him in this 
 fashion : 
 
 267 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Why, some are horn great, some achieve 
 greatness, and some have greatness thrown 
 upon them. I was one, sir, in this interlude; 
 one Sir Topas, sir ; but that's all one : — By the 
 Lord, fool, I am not mad; — But do you re- 
 member? Madam, why laugh you at such a 
 barren rascal? an you smile not, he's gagged. 
 And thus the whirligig of time brings in his re- 
 venges. 
 
 Malvolio goes off, vowing vengeance on all 
 his persecutors. But as Fabian announces that 
 Sir Toby has married Maria, in recompense for 
 writing the decoy letter which afforded him so 
 much entertainment through the fooling of 
 Malvolio, it is to be presumed that she has little 
 reason to fear the steward's resentment and is 
 well satisfied with the result of her clever trick- 
 ery. 
 
 268 
 
THE WINTER'S TALE 
 
 " The Winter's Tale " seems to have been 
 so named because the moving, romantic story 
 it unfolds is well suited to be told by the fire- 
 side, and to beguile of tediousness the long 
 hours of a wintry evening. Or, more directly, 
 the title may have been suggested by the re- 
 mark of Hermione's son to his mother, in the 
 first scene of the second act: "A sad tale's 
 best for winter." 
 
 The plot is based upon " Pandosto," a novel 
 by Robert Greene, popular in Shakespeare's 
 day. 
 
 Leontes, King of Sicilia, insanely and with- 
 out cause jealous of his devoted wife Hermi- 
 one, casts her into prison, where she gives birth 
 to a daughter. By the king's orders the infant 
 is exposed to death, on a remote and desolate 
 coast, where it is found and reared by shep- 
 herds, and is by them named Perdita. The 
 queen's innocence is subsequently declared by 
 an oracle, but, on being told of the death of 
 269 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 her son Mamillius, she falls in a swoon and is 
 borne away by her faithful women. She is 
 mourned as dead by Leontes, but lives in con- 
 cealment for sixteen years, and is then restored 
 to him. 
 
 Perdita, who is of rare charm and gentleness 
 when grown to womanhood, is encountered by 
 Florizel, Crown Prince of the kingdom in 
 which she is reared, knd in the disguise of a 
 shepherd he woos her and wins her love. 
 Eventually her identity is established, and all 
 ends happily. 
 
 The comic character of the play is Autolycus, 
 a merry pedlar, thief and liar, who picks the 
 pockets of the rustics and diverts himself by 
 their ignorance and simplicity. 
 
 Enter Autolycus, singing. 
 
 When dafFodils begin to peer, — 
 
 With, hey! the doxy over the dale, — 
 Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year; 
 
 For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. 
 
 The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, — 
 With, hey ! the sweet birds, O, how they sing ! — 
 
 Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; 
 For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. 
 
 The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, — 
 
 With, hey I with, hey! the thrush and the jay, — 
 Are summer songs for me and my aunts, 
 
 While we lie tumbling in the hay. 
 270 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 I have served Prince Florizel, and, in my time, 
 wore three-pile; but now I am out of service: 
 
 But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? 
 
 The pale moon shines by night: 
 And when I wander here and there, 
 
 I then do most go right. 
 
 If tinkers may have leave to live, 
 
 And bear the sow-skin budget. 
 Then my account I well may give 
 
 And in the stocks avouch it. 
 
 My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look 
 to lesser linen. My father named me Auto- 
 lycus ; who being, as I am, littered under Mer- 
 cury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered 
 trifles. With die and drab I purchased this 
 caparison; and my revenue is the silly-cheat: 
 gallows and knock are too powerful on the 
 highway; beating and hanging are terrors to 
 me ; for the life to come, I sleep out the thought 
 of it. — A prize ! a prize ! 
 
 Enter Clown. 
 
 Clo. Let me see: — every 'leven wether 
 
 tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; 
 
 fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to ? 
 
 Aut. If the springe hold, the cock's mine. 
 
 [Aside. 
 Clo. I cannot do 't without counters. — 
 Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep- 
 shearing feast? Three pound of sugar; five 
 271 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 pound of currants; rice — what will this sister 
 of mine do with rice? But my father hath 
 made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it 
 on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nose- 
 gays for the shearers, — three-man song-men 
 all, and very good ones; but they are most of 
 them means and bases ; but one puritan amongst 
 them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I 
 must have saffron, to colour the warden pies; 
 mace — dates, — none ; that's out of my note ; 
 nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, — but 
 that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as 
 many of raisins o' the sun. 
 
 Jut. O that ever I was born ! 
 
 [Grovelling on the ground. 
 
 Clo. V the name of me, — 
 
 Jut. O, help me, help, me! pluck but off 
 these rags; and then, death, death! 
 
 Clo. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of 
 more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these 
 off. 
 
 Jut. O, sir, the loathsomeness of them of- 
 fends me more than the stripes I have received, 
 which are mighty ones and millions. 
 
 Clo. Alas, poor man! a million of beating 
 may come to a great matter. 
 
 Jut. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my 
 money and apparel ta'en from me, and these 
 detestable things put upon me. 
 
 Clo. What, by a horseman or a footman? 
 
 272 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Aut. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. 
 
 Clo. Indeed, he should be a footman, by 
 the garments he has left with thee : if this be a 
 horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. 
 Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee: come, lend 
 me thy hand. [Helping him up. 
 
 Aut. O, good sir, tenderly, 1 
 
 Clo. Alas, poor soul! 
 
 Aut. Oh, good sir, softly, good sir: I fear, 
 sir, my shoulder blade is out. 
 
 Clo. How now! canst stand? 
 
 Aut. Softly, dear sir! [picks his pocket"] 
 good sir, softly; you ha' done me a charitable 
 office. 
 
 Clo. Dost lack any money? I have a little 
 money for thee. 
 
 Aut. No, good sweet sir ; no, I beseech you, 
 sir: I have a kinsman not past three quarters 
 of a mile hence, unto whom I was going; I 
 shall there have money or anything I want: 
 offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my 
 heart. 
 
 Clo. What manner of fellow was he that 
 robbed you? 
 
 Aut. A fellow, sir, that I have known to 
 go about with troU-my-dames : I knew him once 
 a servant of the prince : I cannot tell, good sir, 
 for which of his virtues it was, but he was cer- 
 tainly whipped out of the court. 
 
 Clo. His vices, you would say; there's no 
 
 273 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 virtue whipped out of the court: they cherish 
 it, to make it stay there ; and yet It will no more 
 but abide. 
 
 Aut. Vices, I would say, sir, I know this 
 man well: he hath been since an ape-bearer; 
 then a process-server, a bailiff; then he com- 
 passed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and mar- 
 ried a tinker's wife within a mile where my 
 land and living lies; and, having flown over 
 many knavish professions, he settled only in 
 rogue: some call him Autolycus. 
 
 Clo. Out upon himl prig, for my life, prig: 
 he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings. 
 
 Aut. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the 
 rogue that put me into this apparel. 
 
 Clo. Not a more cowardly rogue in all 
 Bohemia; if you had but looked big and spit 
 at him, he'd have run. 
 
 Aut. I must confess to you, sir, I am no 
 fighter: I am false of heart that way; and that 
 he knew, I warrant him. 
 
 Clo. How do you now? 
 
 Aut. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I 
 can stand and walk: I will even take my leave 
 of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's. 
 
 Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way ? 
 
 Aut. No, good- faced sir; no, sweet sir. 
 
 Clo. Then fare thee well: I must go buy 
 spices for our sheep-shearing. 
 
 Aut. Prosper you, sweet sirl [Exit 
 
 274 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Clown.] Your purse is not hot enough to 
 purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your 
 sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat 
 bring out another, and the shearers prove 
 sheep, let me be enrolled, and my name put in 
 the book of virtue ! ISings. 
 
 Jog on, jog on, the footpath way. 
 
 And merrily hent the stile-a: 
 A merry heart goes all the day. 
 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a. [Exii. 
 
 While the shepherds and shepherdesses are 
 celebrating the sheepshearing with feasting and 
 dancing, a servant enters and announces the ar- 
 rival of Autolycus : 
 
 Serv. O master, if you did but hear the 
 pedlar at the door, you would never dance 
 again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe 
 could not move you: he sings several tunes 
 faster than you'll tell money : he utters them as 
 he had eaten ballads, and all men's ears grew 
 to his tunes. 
 
 Clo. He could never come better: he shall 
 come in: I love a ballad but even too well: if 
 it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very 
 pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. 
 
 Serv. He hath songs for man or woman of 
 all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers 
 with gloves: — he has the prettiest love-songs 
 for maids. 
 
 • • • • ft ■ 
 
 275 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in; and let him 
 approach singing. 
 
 Enter AuTOLYCUS, singing. 
 
 Lawn as white as driven snow; 
 
 Cyprus black as e'er was crow; 
 
 Gloves as sweet as damask-roses; 
 
 Masks for faces and for noses; 
 
 Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber, 
 
 Perfume for a lady's chamber; 
 
 Golden quoifs and stomachers. 
 
 For my lads to give their dears; 
 
 Fins and poking-sticks of steel, 
 
 What maids lack from head to heel. 
 
 Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; 
 
 Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: 
 
 Come, buy. 
 
 Autolycus proceeds to sell absurd ballads to 
 men and maids, certifying to their truth with 
 most extravagant lies. He goes out with the 
 rustics, and after a time returns and exults to 
 himself in this fashion : 
 
 Ha, ha I what a fool Honesty is ! and Trust, 
 his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman ! I 
 have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit 
 stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, 
 table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, 
 bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fast- 
 ing; — they throng who should buy first, as if 
 my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a 
 276 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 benediction to the buyer : by which means I saw 
 whose purse was best in picture; and what I 
 saw, to my good use I remembered. My 
 clown (who wants but something to be a rea- 
 sonable man) grew so in love with the wenches' 
 song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he 
 had both tune and words; which so drew the 
 rest of the herd to me, that all their other 
 senses stuck in ears: ... I would have filed 
 keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no 
 feeling, but my sir's song, and admiring the 
 nothing of it. So that, in this time of lethargy, 
 I picked and cut most of their festival purses; 
 and had not the old man come in with a whoo- 
 bub against his daughter and the king's son, 
 and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had 
 not left a purse alive in the whole army. 
 
 To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble 
 hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose 
 is requisite also, to smell out work for the other 
 senses. 
 
 277 
 
TRAGEDIES AND HISTORICAL PLAYS 
 
 The impression is common that Shakespeare 
 made a practice of introducing amusing char- 
 acters, wit or humour, in his tragedies, for the 
 purpose of " comic relief." But this is not en- 
 tirely well founded. Such variety is seen in 
 some of his tragedies and historical plays, but 
 not in others. There is little or nothing to 
 provoke mirth, or even a smile, in " King Rich- 
 ard II," " King John," " Pericles," the three 
 parts of " King Henry VI," " King Henry 
 VIII," "Titus Andronicus," and " Coriola- 
 nus." King Richard III, in the play of the 
 same name, exhibits much biting satire, but it 
 is far from laughable. In " Julius Caesar " 
 there is nothing comic other than a few lines 
 given the cobbler in the opening scene. In 
 " Macbeth " one of the most tense situations 
 is relieved by the porter's humourously coarse 
 observations when knocking is heard and he 
 admits Macduff, but otherwise the drama is 
 wholly sombre. 
 
 278 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 The tragic strain of " Othello," on the other 
 hand, is somewhat offset by the cynical wit of 
 lago. " Romeo and Juliet " has much wit and 
 humour, to which Mercutio, the friar and the 
 nurse contribute richly. The bitter wit of the 
 fool in " King Lear " is scarcely mirthful, but 
 exceedingly incisive and illuminating. 
 
 Of the historical plays " King Henry IV " is 
 remarkable for comic features, each of the two 
 parts into which the play is divided being lav- 
 ishly enriched by the wit and humour of Prince 
 Henry and inimitable Falstaff, with his retinue 
 of entertaining characters. There is also much 
 amusement in " King Henry V." 
 
 Even the pervading melancholy and gloom 
 of " Hamlet " are relieved by the ironical wit 
 and philosophic humour of the prince, and also 
 by the chop-logic of the grave-diggers. 
 
 " Julius CsBsar " opens with a street scene, in 
 which " a rabble of citizens," gathered to re- 
 joice in the ruler's triumph over Pompey, is 
 accosted by Flavius and MaruUus, enemies of 
 the conqueror. Singling out one of the gath- 
 ering, MaruUus questions him. 
 279 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Marullus. You, sir, what trade are you? 
 
 2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine work- 
 man, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. 
 
 Mar. But what trade art thou? answer me 
 directly. 
 
 2 Cit. A trade, sir, that I hope I may use 
 with a safe conscience; which is indeed, sir, a 
 mender of bad soles. 
 
 Mar. What trade, thou knave, thou 
 naughty knave, what trade ? 
 
 2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out 
 with me: yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend 
 you. 
 
 Mar. What meanest thou by that? mend 
 me, thou saucy fellow! 
 
 2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you. 
 
 Flav, Thou art a cobbler, art thou? 
 
 2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with 
 the awl : I meddle with no tradesman's matters, 
 nor women's matters, but with awl. I am, in- 
 deed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes ; when they are 
 in great danger, I re-cover them. As proper 
 men as ever trod upon neats-leather have gone 
 upon my handiwork. 
 
 Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop 
 to-day ? 
 Why dost thou lead these men about the 
 streets ? 
 
 2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, 
 to get myself into more work. But, indeed, 
 
 280 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to re- 
 joice in his triumph. 
 
 In " King Henry VI " the rebel Cade is 
 made highly ludicrous by his own exhibitions of 
 ignorance and lack of intelligence. The char- 
 acterisation is especially strong when he ad- 
 dresses his followers at Blackheath: 
 
 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, — 
 
 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 like brothers, and worship 
 me their lord. 
 
 Dick. The first thing we do, let's kill all the 
 lawyers. 
 
 Cade. Nay, that I mean to do. Is not this 
 a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an inno- 
 cent lamb should be made parchment? that 
 parchment, being scribbled o'er, should undo a 
 man? Some say the bee stings; but I say 'tis 
 281 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 the bee's wax ; for I did but seal once to a thing, 
 and I was never mine own man since. . . . 
 
 In a later scene, at Smithfield, the arch-rebel 
 thus arraigns the captive Lord Say: 
 
 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, con- 
 trary to the king, his crown, and dignity, thou 
 hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to 
 thy face that thou hast men about thee that 
 usually talk of a noun and a verb, and such 
 abominable words as no Christian ear can en- 
 dure to hear. Thou hast appointed justices of 
 peace, to call poor men before them about mat- 
 ters 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 ior 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. 
 
 The cynical wit of the evil-minded lago is 
 strikingly shown in the second act of " Othello." 
 282 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 * ■ 
 
 The scene Is at Cyprus. Desdemona, bride of 
 the Moor, and Emilia, her waiting-woman and 
 wife to lago, enter and are greeted by Cassio, 
 lieutenant to Othello. 
 
 Cassio. Let it not gall your patience, good 
 lago. 
 That I extend my manners ; 'tis my breeding 
 That gives me this bold show of courtesy. 
 
 {Kissing her.) 
 lago. Sir, would she give you so much of 
 her lips 
 As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, 
 You'd have enough. 
 
 Des. Alas, she has no speech. 
 
 lago. In faith, too much; 
 I find it still when I have list to sleep : 
 Marry, before your ladyship, I grant. 
 She puts her tongue a little in her heart. 
 And chides with thinking. 
 
 Emil. You have little cause to say so. 
 lago. Come on, come on; you are pictures 
 out of doors. 
 Bells in your parlours, wild cats in your kitch- 
 ens, 
 'Saints in your injuries, devils being of- 
 fended. 
 
 ■ ■ ■ • a • 
 
 Des. What wouldst thou write of me if 
 thou shouldst praise me? 
 283 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 logo. O gentle lady, do not put me to 't; 
 For I am nothing if not critical. 
 
 If she be fair and wise, — fairness and wit, 
 The one's for use, the other useth it. 
 
 Des. Well prais'd! How if she be black 
 
 and witty? 
 lago. If she be black, and thereto have a 
 wit, 
 She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit. 
 Des. Worse and worse. 
 
 Des. But what praise couldst thou bestow 
 on a deserving woman indeed, — one that, in 
 the authority of her merit, did justly put on the 
 vouch of very malice itself ? 
 
 lago. She that was ever fair, and never 
 proud; 
 Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud; 
 Never lack'd gold, and yet went never gay ; 
 Fled from her wish, and yet said. Now I may; 
 She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nig^. 
 Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure 
 
 fly; ... 
 She that could think, and ne'er disclose her 
 
 mind; 
 See suitors following, and not look behind; 
 She was a wight, if ever such wight were, — 
 Des. To do what? 
 
 284 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 lago. To suckle fools and chronicle small 
 beer. 
 
 Des. O most lame and impotent conclu- 
 sion! 
 
 One of the most interesting of Shakespeare's 
 characters is Mercutio, in " Romeo and Juliet," 
 who falls a victim to the deadly feud between 
 the Capulets and Montagues. He is distin- 
 guished for light-hearted merriment, alert wit 
 and playful fancy. In a street scene he ex- 
 changes jests with Romeo. 
 
 Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. 
 
 Mer. And so did I. 
 
 Rom. Well, what was yours? 
 
 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 fore-finger of an alderman, 
 Drawn with a team of little atomies 
 Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep : 
 Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' 
 
 legs; 
 The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; 
 The traces, of the smallest spider's web; 
 285 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 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 o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. 
 And in this state she gallops night by night 
 Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of 
 
 love: 
 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. 
 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 ; 
 
 286 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or 
 
 two, 
 And sleeps again. 
 
 Before he met Juliet, and fell in love with 
 her at sight, Romeo had made no secret of his 
 transitory passion for Rosaline, and openly 
 grieved because she was unmoved. This gives 
 point to the ridicule cast upon him by Friar 
 Lawrence in the following colloquy, when 
 Romeo visits him in his cell : 
 
 Fri. L. Be plain, good son, and homely in 
 thy drift; 
 Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. 
 Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear 
 love is 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 combine 
 By holy marriage: when, and where, and how 
 We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, 
 I'll tell thee as we pass ; but this I pray. 
 That thou consent to marry us to-day. 
 
 Fri. L. Holy St. 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 
 287 
 
SHAKESPEARE^S 
 
 Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline ! 
 How much salt water thrown away in waste, 
 To season love, that of it doth not taste ! 
 The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, 
 Thy old groans ring yet in my ancient ears; 
 Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit 
 Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet: 
 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. 
 
 Rom. Thou chldd'st me oft for loving 
 Rosaline. 
 
 Fri. L. For doting, not for loving, pupil 
 mine. 
 
 Rom. And bad'st me bury love. 
 
 Fri. L. Not in a grave, 
 
 To lay one in, another out to have. 
 
 Rom. I pray thee, chide not: she whom I 
 love now 
 Doth grace for grace and love for love allow; 
 The other did not so. 
 
 Fri. L. O, she knew well 
 
 Thy love did read by rote, and could not spell. 
 
 An amusing scene is that between Juliet and 
 her old nurse, by whom she had sent Romeo a 
 message. Juliet is wildly impatient for her an- 
 288 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 swer, which the nurse, with characteristic stub- 
 bornness and beating about the bush, delays to 
 give when she returns. 
 
 Enter Nurse and Peter. 
 
 Jul. ... O honey nurse, what news ? 
 Hast thou met with him ? Send thy man away. 
 Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. 
 
 lExit Peter. 
 Jul. Now, good sweet nurse, — O Lord, 
 why look'st thou sad? 
 Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; 
 If good, thou sham'st the music of sweet news 
 By playing it to me with so sour a face. 
 
 Nurse. I am a-weary, give me leave a- 
 while ; — 
 Fie, how my bones achel what a jaunt have I 
 had! 
 Jul. I would thou hadst my bones and I thy 
 news: 
 Nay, come, I pray theei speak; — good, good 
 nurse, speak. 
 Nurse. Jesu, what haste? can you not stay 
 awhile ? 
 Do you not see that I am out of breath ? 
 
 Jul. How art thou out of breath, when 
 thou hast breath 
 To say to me that thou art out of breath ? 
 The excuse that thou dost make in this delay 
 
 289 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. 
 Is thy news good or bad? answer to that; 
 Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance: 
 Let me be satisfied, is 't good or bad? 
 
 Nurse. Well, you have made a simple 
 choice; you know not how to choose a man: 
 Romeo! no, not he; though his face be better 
 than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's ; and 
 for a hand, and a foot, and a body, — though 
 they be not to be talked on, yet they are past 
 compare: he is not the flower of courtesy, — 
 but I'll 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 before. 
 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. 
 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. V 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 gen- 
 tleman. 
 And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome, 
 290 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 And, I warrant, a virtuous, — Where is your 
 mother ? 
 Jul. Where is my mother I — why, she is 
 within; 
 Where should she be? How oddly thou re- 
 
 pliest 1 
 Your love says, like an honest gentleman, — 
 Where is your mother? 
 
 Nurse. O, God's lady dear ! 
 
 Are you so hot? marry, come up, I trow; 
 Is this the poultice for my aching bones? 
 Henceforward, do your messages yourself. 
 Jul. Here's such a coil I — come, what says 
 
 Romeo ? 
 Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift 
 
 to-day ? 
 Jul. I have. 
 
 Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Law- 
 rence' cell; 
 There stays a husband to make you a 
 wife. . . . 
 Jul. Hie to high fortune I — honest nurse, 
 
 farewell. 
 Peter, a servant, talks to musicians in Capu- 
 let's house : 
 
 Pet. 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 — 
 291 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 why silver sound? why music with her silver 
 sound? — What say you, Simon Catling? 
 
 1 Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a 
 sweet sound. 
 
 Pet. Pretty! — What say you, Hugh Re- 
 beck ? 
 
 2 Mus. I say silver sound because musi- 
 cians sound for silver. 
 
 Pet. Pretty too ! — What say you, James 
 Sound-post? 
 
 3 Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. 
 Pet. O, I cry you mercy ; you are the singer : 
 
 I will say for you. It is music with her silver 
 sound because musicians have no gold for 
 sounding : — 
 
 Then music with her silver sound 
 With speedy help doth lend redress. 
 
 An encounter of wits between Romeo and 
 Mercutio in a street meeting: 
 
 Mer. Well said: follow me this jest now 
 till thou hast worn out thy pump ; that when the 
 single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, 
 after the wearing, sole singular. 
 
 Rom. O single-soled jest, solely singular 
 for the singleness I 
 
 Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio; 
 my wits faint. 
 
 Rom. Switch and spurs, switch and spurs; 
 or I'll cry a match. 
 
 292 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Mer. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose 
 chase, I have done; for thou hast more of the 
 wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, 
 I have in my whole five: was I with you there 
 for the goose? 
 
 Rom. Thou wast never with me for any- 
 thing when thou wast not there for the goose. 
 
 Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that 
 jest. 
 
 Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not. 
 
 Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it 
 is a most sharp sauce. 
 
 Rom. And is it not well served in to a 
 sweet goose? 
 
 Mer. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that 
 stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad I 
 
 Rom. I stretch it out for that word, broad: 
 which added to the goose, proves thee far and 
 wide a broad goose. 
 
 Mer. Why, is not this better now than 
 groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now 
 art thou Romeo. 
 
 Claudius, King of Denmark, Is murdered by 
 his brother, who pours poison in his ears while 
 he sleeps. The murderer then occupies the 
 throne and marries the widow of the dead 
 king. Prince Hamlet, son of Claudius, is in- 
 formed by his father's ghost of the secret 
 293 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 crime, and Is sworn to vengeance. The posi- 
 tion of the prince in the court and household of 
 the usurper being one of peril, it is needful for 
 him to conceal his knowledge of the truth, and, 
 while waiting opportunity for revenge, to mask 
 his real feelings and purposes. The better to 
 disarm suspicion, he at times, as occasion arises, 
 pretends to be mentally deranged. 
 
 Hamlet's uncle, however, is uneasy, and in- 
 structs Guildenstern, a false friend of the 
 prince, and also the Lord Chamberlain Polo- 
 nius, a very politic and dissembling old courtier, 
 to ascertain his state of mind, his secret thoughts 
 and aims. The manner of Gulldenstern's final 
 rebuff by the wary and keen-witted prince Is 
 shown in the first of the following extracts 
 from the play of " Hamlet," and also the 
 prince's Intentional mystification of Polonlus. 
 The prince Is really amusing himself at the ex- 
 pense of the Lord Chamberlain, who echoes 
 Hamlet's seemingly distraught and contradic- 
 tory remarks. 
 
 Ham. Will you play upon this pipe? 
 Guil. My lord, I cannot. 
 Ham. I pray you. 
 Guil. Believe me, I cannot. 
 294 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Ham. I do beseech you. 
 
 Guil. I know no touch of it, my lord. 
 
 Ham. 'Tis as easy as lying: govern these 
 ventages with your finger and thumb, give it 
 breath with your mouth, and it will discourse 
 most eloquent music. Look you, these are the 
 stops. 
 
 Guil. But these cannot I command to any 
 utterance of harmony; I have not the skill. 
 
 Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy 
 a thing you make of me! You would play 
 upon me; you would seem to know my stops; 
 you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; 
 you would sound me from my lowest note to 
 the top of my compass : and there is much mu- 
 sic, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet can- 
 not you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think 
 that I am easier to be played on than a pipe? 
 Call me what instrument you will, though you 
 can fret me you cannot play upon me. 
 
 Enter POLONlus. 
 
 God bless you, sir ! 
 
 Pol. My lord, the queen would speak with 
 you, and presently. 
 
 Ham. Do you see yonder cloud that's 
 almost in shape of a camel? 
 
 Pol. By the mass, and 'tis like a camel in- 
 deed. 
 
 Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel. 
 295 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Pol. It is backed like a weasel. 
 
 Ham. Or like a whale ? 
 
 Po/. Very like a whale. 
 
 Ham. Then will I come to my mother by 
 and by. — They fool me to the top of my bent. 
 — I will come by and by. 
 
 Pol. I will say so. 
 
 Ham. By and by is easily said. [^Exit. 
 
 A Churchyard. Enter two Clowns with 
 spades, &c. 
 
 1 Clo. Is she to be buried in Christian bur- 
 ial that wilfully seeks her own salvation? 
 
 2 Clo. I tell thee she is; and therefore 
 make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat 
 on her, and finds it Christian burial. 
 
 1 Clo. How can that be, unless she 
 drowned herself in her own defence? 
 
 2 Clo. Why, 'tis found so. 
 
 1 Clo. It must be se ofendendo; it cannot 
 be else. For here lies the point: if I drown 
 myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act 
 hath three branches; it is to act, to do, and to 
 perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly. 
 
 2 Clo. Nay, but hear you, goodman del- 
 ver, — 
 
 I Clo. Give me leave. Here lies the wa- 
 ter- good: here stands the man; good: if the 
 man go to this water and drown himself, it is, 
 296 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 will he, nill he, he goes, — mark- you that : but 
 if the water come to him and drown him, 
 he drowns not himself: argal, he that is not 
 guilty of his own death shortens not his own 
 life. 
 
 2 Clo. But is this law? 
 
 1 Clo. Ay, marry, is 't; crowner's quest 
 law. 
 
 2 Clo. Will you ha' the truth on 't? If 
 this had not been a gentlewoman she should 
 have been buried out of Christian burial. 
 
 1 Clo. Why, there thou say'st: and the 
 more pity that great folk should have counte- 
 nance in this world to drown or hang them- 
 selves more than their even Christian. — Come, 
 my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but 
 gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they 
 hold up Adam's profession. 
 
 2 Clo. Was he a gentleman? 
 
 1 Clo. He was the first that ever bore 
 arms. 
 
 2 Clo. Why, he had none. 
 
 1 Clo. What, art a heathen? How dost 
 thou understand the Scripture? The Scrip- 
 ture says, Adam digged : could he dig without 
 arms? I'll put another question to thee: if 
 thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess 
 thyself, — 
 
 2 Clo. Go to. 
 
 I Clo. What is he that builds stronger 
 
 297 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 than either the mason, the shipwright, or the 
 carpenter? 
 
 2 Clo. The gallows-maker; for that frame 
 outlives a thousand tenants. 
 
 1 Clo. I like thy wit well, in good faith: 
 the gallows does well; but how does it well? it 
 does well to those that do ill: now thou dost 
 ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the 
 church : argal, the gallows may do well to thee. 
 To 't again, come. 
 
 2 Clo. Who builds stronger than a mason, 
 a shipwright, or a carpenter? 
 
 1 Clo. Ay, tell me that, and unyoke. 
 
 2 Clo. Marry, now I can tell. 
 
 1 Clo. To 't. 
 
 2 Clo. Mass, I cannot tell. 
 
 Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance. 
 I Clo. Cudgel thy brains no more about it, 
 for your dull ass will not mend his pace with 
 beating; and when you are asked this question 
 next, say a grave-maker; the houses that he 
 makes last till doomsday. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 [^Throws up a skull. 
 Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and 
 could sing once : how the knave jowls it to the 
 ground, as if it were Cain's jawbone, that did 
 the first murder! This might be the pate of a 
 politician, which this ass now o'erreaches; one 
 that would circumvent God, might it not? 
 298 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Hor. It might, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Or of a courtier; which could say, 
 Good-morrow, sweet lord/ How dost thou, 
 good lord? This might be my lord such-a-one, 
 that praised my lord such-a-one's horse, when 
 he meant to beg it, — might it not ? 
 
 Hor. Ay, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Why, e'en so: and now my Lady 
 Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the 
 mazard with a sexton's spade: here's fine rev- 
 olution, an we had the trick to see 't. Did 
 these bones cost no more the breeding but to 
 play at loggats with 'em? mine ache to think 
 on 't. 
 
 [Clown throws up another skull. 
 Ham. There's another: why may not that 
 be the skull of a lawyer? Where be his quid- 
 dits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and 
 his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave 
 now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty 
 shovel, and will not tell him of his action of 
 battery? Hum! This fellow might be in 's 
 time a great buyer of land, with his statutes, 
 his recognisances, his fines, his double vouch- 
 ers, his recoveries: is this the fine of his fines, 
 and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his 
 fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers 
 vouch him no more of his purchases, and dou- 
 
 299 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 ble ones too, than the length and breadth of a 
 pair of indentures? The very conveyances of 
 his lands will hardly lie in this box; and must 
 the inheritor himself have no more, ha ? 
 
 Hor. Not a jot more, my lord. 
 
 Ham. Is not parchment made of sheep- 
 skins ? 
 
 Hor. Ay, my lord, and of calf-skins too. 
 
 Ham. They are sheep and calves which 
 seek out assurance In that. I will speak to this 
 fellow. — Whose grave's this, sir ? 
 
 I Clo. Mine, sir. — 
 
 O, a pit of clay for to be made [Sings. 
 
 For such a guest is meet. 
 
 Ham. I think it be thine Indeed; for thou 
 llest in 't. 
 
 I Clo. You lie out dn 't sir, and therefore 
 It is not yours: for my part, I do not lie in 't, 
 and yet It Is mine. 
 
 Ham. Thou dost lie in 't, to be In 't, and 
 say it is thine: 'tis for the dead, not for the 
 quick; therefore thou liest. 
 
 I Clo. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away 
 again from me to you. 
 
 Ham. What man dost thou dig it for? 
 
 I Clo. For no man, sir. 
 
 Ham. What woman, then? 
 
 I Clo. For none, neither. 
 
 Ham. Who is to be burled in 't? 
 300 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 I Clo. One that was a woman, sir; but, 
 rest her soul, she's dead. 
 
 Ham. How absolute the knave is ! we must 
 speak by the card, or equivocation will undo 
 us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I 
 have taken note of it; the age is grown so 
 picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near 
 the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe. — 
 How long hast thou been a grave-maker? 
 
 I Clo. Of all the days i' the year, I came 
 to 't that day that our last King Hamlet o'er- 
 came Fortinbras. 
 
 Ham. How long is that since? 
 
 I Clo. Cannot you tell that? every fool 
 can tell that: it was the very day that young 
 Hamlet was born, — he that is mad, and sent 
 into England. 
 
 Ham. Ay, marry, why was he sent into 
 England ? 
 
 I Clo. Why, because he was mad: he shall 
 recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it's no 
 great matter there. 
 
 Ham. Why? 
 
 I Clo. 'Twill not be seen in him there; 
 there the men are as mad as he. 
 
 Ham. How came he mad? 
 
 I Clo. Very strangely, they say. 
 
 Ham. How strangely? 
 
 I Clo. Faith, e'en with losing his wits. 
 
 Ham. Upon what ground? 
 
 301 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 I Clo. Why, here in Denmark: I have 
 been sexton here, man and boy, thirty 
 years. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Ham. Dost thou think Alexander looked o' 
 this fashion i' the earth? 
 
 Hor. E'en so. 
 
 Ham. And smelt so? pah! 
 
 {^Throws down the skull. 
 
 Hor. E'en so, my lord. 
 
 Ham. To what base uses we may return, 
 Horatio ! Why may not imagination trace the 
 noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping 
 a bung-hole? 
 
 Hor. 'Twere to consider too curiously to 
 consider so. 
 
 Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow 
 him thither with modesty enough, and like- 
 lihood to lead it: as thus; Alexander died, Al- 
 exander was buried, Alexander returneth into 
 dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; 
 and why of that loam whereto he was converted 
 might they not stop a beer-barrel? 
 Imperious Cssar, dead and turn'd to clay, 
 Might stop a hole to keep the wind away: 
 O, that that earth which kept the world in awe 
 should patch a wall to expel the winter's 
 flaw!-^ 
 
 302 
 
FOOLS AND CLOWNS 
 
 Shakespeare seems to have used the words 
 fool and clown indiscriminately to signify a pro- 
 fessional jester. Thus in the list of " persons 
 represented " in " As You Like It " Touchstone 
 is described as " a clown or domestic fool." 
 The jester in " Twelfth Night " is set down as 
 " a clown." But our author also uses the word 
 clown to signify a rude and illiterate country 
 lout or rustic. 
 
 From a very early period in England, as in 
 European countries generally, it was the prac- 
 tice of kings and nobles to retain a fool or 
 jester, who was allowed the utmost freedom in 
 his personal references, a licence which often 
 was carried far beyond what now would seem 
 the furthest bounds of toleration. The fool, 
 however, was expected to entertain by his wit 
 and skill in questioning and repartee. All of 
 Shakespeare's fools are witty, and show a kind 
 of wisdom in their jests. Thus Viola says of 
 the " clown " in " Twelfth Night " : 
 303 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 This fellow's wise enough to play the fool; 
 
 And, to do that well, craves a kind of wit : _ 
 
 He must observe their mood on whom he jests, 
 
 The quality of persons, and the time; 
 
 And, like the haggard, check at every feather 
 
 That comes before his eye. This is a practice 
 
 As full of labour as a wise man's art : 
 
 For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit; 
 
 But wise men, folly-fallen, quite taint their wit. 
 
 And in the same play Olivia says: 
 
 There is no slander in an allowed fool, 
 though he do nothing but rave. 
 
 Some of the brightest and most oft-quoted 
 sayings in the plays of Shakespeare come from 
 the mouths of the wearers of motley and cap 
 and bells. And there is much knowledge of 
 human nature, as well as dehghtful humour in 
 this observation by Touchstone, the domestic 
 jester in " As You Like It " : 
 
 When a man's verses cannot be understood, 
 nor a man's good wit seconded with the for- 
 ward child understanding, it strikes a man more 
 dead than a great reckoning in a little room. 
 
 It is Touchstone, too, who discriminates be- 
 tween the " lie circumstantial " and the " lie 
 304 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 direct," and remarks the saving virtue of " your 
 if," " the only peace-maker." 
 
 An erratic or antic disposition seems to have 
 been essential for success in the fool's calling, 
 which is indicated by the remark of Dr. 
 Thomas Fuller regarding the court jester, that 
 
 " It is an office which none but he that hath wit 
 can perform, and none but he that lacks it will 
 perform." 
 
 The four plays of Shakespeare in each of 
 which a professional fool or clown figures are 
 " King Lear," " As You Like It," " Twelfth 
 Night," and " All's Well That Ends Well." 
 
 The fool in " Lear " is a most remarkable 
 character, distinguished not only by his bitter 
 and penetrating wit but also by his worldly 
 philosophy and his touching devotion to his 
 royal master. 
 
 In this book the best of Touchstone's wit will 
 be found under die title of " As You Like It," 
 and of the clown in " Twelfth Night," in the 
 chapter devoted to that play. 
 
 An illustrative example of the quality of the 
 jester in " All's Well That Ends Well" is here 
 subjoined, but the countess is more than a match 
 for him at his own game of banter : 
 ^ 305 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 RousiLLON. A Room in the Countess's 
 Palace. 
 
 Enter Countess and Clown. 
 
 Count. Come on, sir; I shall now put you 
 to the height of your breeding. 
 
 Clo. I will show myself highly fed and 
 lowly taught: I know my business is but to the 
 court. 
 
 Count. To the court! why, what place 
 make you special, when you put off that with 
 such contempt? But to the court! 
 
 Clo. Truly, madam, if God have lent a 
 man any manners, he may easily put it off at 
 court : he that cannot make a leg, put off 's cap, 
 kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, 
 hands, lip, nor cap ; and, indeed, such a fellow, 
 to say precisely, were not fit for the court: but, 
 for me, I have an answer will serve all 
 men. 
 
 Count. Will your answer serve fit to all 
 questions ? 
 
 • •■••. 
 
 Clo. From below your duke to beneath 
 your constable it will fit any question. 
 
 Count. It must be an answer of most mon- 
 strous size that must fit all demands. 
 
 Clo. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if 
 306 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 the learned should speak truth of it : here it is, 
 and all that belongs to 't. Ask me if I am a 
 courtier : it shall do you no harm to learn. 
 
 Count. To be young again, if we could: I 
 will be a fool in question, hoping to be the 
 wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir, are you 
 a courtier? 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir ! — There's a simple put- 
 ting off ; — more, more, a hundred of them. 
 
 Count. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, 
 that loves you. 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir I — Thick, thick ; spare 
 not me. 
 
 Count. I think, sir, you can eat none of 
 this homely meat. 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir I — Nay, put me to 't, I 
 warrant you. 
 
 Count. You were lately whipped, sir, as I 
 think. 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir ! — spare not me. 
 
 Count. Do you cry, O Lord, sir/ at your 
 whipping, and spare not me? Indeed, your O 
 Lord, sir! is very sequent to your whipping: 
 you would answer very well to a whipping, if 
 you were but bound to 't, 
 
 Clo. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in 
 my — O Lord, sir! I see things may serve 
 long, but not serve ever. 
 
 Count. I play the noble housewife with the 
 time, to entertain it so merrily with a fool. 
 
 307 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Clo. O Lord, sir I — Why, there 't serves 
 well again. 
 
 Count. An end, sir, to your business. Give 
 Helen this. 
 And urge her to a present answer back: 
 Commend me to my kinsmen and my son : 
 This is not much. 
 
 Clo. Not much commendation to them. 
 
 Count. Not much employment for you: 
 you understand me? 
 
 Clo. Most fruitfully: I am there before 
 my legs. 
 
 Count. Haste you again. 
 
 The aged and choleric King Lear, before all 
 his court, had called upon his three daughters 
 to make declaration of their love for him. 
 Two of them, Goneril and Regan, were pro- 
 fuse in their professions of devotion, and to 
 each he gave a third of his kingdom. But 
 Cordelia, the remaining daughter, would pro- 
 fess nothing more than such love and duty as is 
 due a father, reserving some portion of her 
 love for him whom, haply, she would wed. 
 This answer so angered the king that in his 
 rage he cast her off, and disinherited her, di- 
 viding the remaining third of his kingdom be- 
 tween his other daughters, who ultimately 
 308 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 repaid him with the basest ingratitude, con- 
 temptuous and cruel treatment. But the king 
 of France, present on this occasion, was so 
 pleased with the truth and sincerity of Cordelia 
 that he took her, dowerless, for his bride. 
 
 The following scenes occur after Lear has 
 foolishly divested himself of his kingdom and 
 surrendered all authority and rule to the Dukes 
 of Albany and Cornwall, husbands, respec- 
 tively, of Goneril and Regan. 
 
 The first scene is in the Duke of Albany's 
 palace, where the banished Earl of Kent, in 
 disguise and still faithful to Lear, trips up the 
 heels of an impudent messenger from the duch- 
 ess to the king. 
 
 Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank 
 thee : there's earnest of thy service. 
 
 [Giving Kent money. 
 
 Fool. Let me hire him too; here's my cox- 
 comb. {^Giving Kent his cap. 
 
 Lear. How now, my pretty knave! how 
 dost thou? 
 
 Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my cox- 
 comb. 
 
 Kent. Why, fool? 
 
 Fool. Why, for taking one's part that's out 
 of favour. 
 
 m m » • ♦ ■ 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 Kent. This is nothing, fool. 
 
 Fool. Then 'tis like the breath of an un- 
 fee'd lawyer, — you gave me nothing for 't. — 
 Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle ? 
 
 Lear. Why, no, boy; nothing can be made 
 out of nothing. 
 
 Fool. Pr'ythee, tell him, so much the rent 
 of his land comes to : he will not believe a fool. 
 
 [To Kent. 
 
 Lear. A bitter fool I 
 
 Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my 
 boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet one? 
 Lear. No, lad; teach me. 
 Fool. That Lord that counsell'd thee 
 To give away thy land, 
 Come place him here by me, — ■ 
 
 Do thou for him stand : 
 The sweet and bitter fool 
 Will presently appear; 
 The one in motley here. 
 The other found out there. 
 Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? 
 Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given 
 away; that thou wast born with. 
 
 Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. 
 
 Fool. No, faith, lords and great men will 
 
 not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they 
 
 would have part on 't, and loads too : they will 
 
 not let me have all fool to myself; they'll be 
 
 310 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 snatching. — Nuncle, give me an egg, and I'll 
 give thee two crowns. 
 
 Lear. What two crowns shall they be? 
 
 Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i' the 
 middle, and eat up the meat, the two crowns 
 of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i' 
 the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou 
 borest thine ass on thy back o'er the dirt: thou 
 hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou 
 gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like 
 myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds 
 it so. 
 
 Fools had ne'er less grace in a year; ^Singing. 
 
 For wise men are grown foppisli, 
 And know not how their wits to wear, 
 
 Their manners are so apish. 
 
 Pr'ythee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can 
 teach thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie. 
 
 Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you 
 whipped. 
 
 Fool. I marvel what kin thou_ and thy 
 daughters are: they'll have me whipped for 
 speaking true, thou'lt have me whipped for 
 lying; and sometimes I am whipped for hold- 
 ing my peace. I had rather be any kind o' 
 thing than a fool : and yet I would not be thee, 
 nuncle; thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides, 
 and left nothing i' the middle. 
 
 Lear, incensed by his daughter Goneril's ill 
 treatment and ingratitude, denounces her and 
 311 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 sets forth to make his home with Regan, from 
 whom he is destined to receive even worse un- 
 kindness. 
 
 Scene — Court before the Duke of Al- 
 bany's Palace. 
 
 Fool. . . . Thou canst tell why one's nose 
 stands i' the middle on 's face ? 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Why to keep one's eyes of either side 
 's nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he 
 may spy into. 
 
 Lear. I did her wrong, — 
 
 Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his 
 shell? 
 
 Lear. No. 
 
 Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a 
 snail has a house. 
 
 Lear. Why ? 
 
 Fool. Why, to put his head in; not to give 
 it away to his daughters, and leave his horns 
 without a case. 
 
 Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a 
 father! — Be my horses ready? 
 
 Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The 
 reason why the seven stars are no more than 
 seven is a pretty reason. 
 
 Lear. Because they are not eight? 
 
 Fool. Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a 
 good fool. 
 
 312 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Lear. To take 't again perforce 1 — Mon- 
 ster ingratitude 1 
 
 Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'd 
 have thee beaten for being old before thy time. 
 
 Lear. How's that? 
 
 Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till 
 thou hadst been wise. 
 
 Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet 
 heaven ! 
 Keep me in temper : I would not be mad 1 — 
 
 A later scene, before the castle of the Earl 
 of Gloucester. 
 
 Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild- 
 geese fly that way. 
 Fathers that wear rags 
 
 Do make their children blind; 
 But fathers that bear bags 
 Shall see their children kind. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 Kent. How chance the king comes with so 
 small a number? 
 
 Fool. An thou hadst been set i' the stocks 
 for that question, thou hadst well deserved it. 
 
 Kent. Why, fool? 
 
 Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to 
 teach thee there's no labouring in the winter. 
 . . . Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs 
 down a hill, lest it break thy neck with follow- 
 ing it; but the great one that goes up the hill, 
 313 
 
SHAKESPEARE'S 
 
 let him draw thee after. When a wise man 
 gives the better counsel, give me mine again: I 
 would have none but knaves follow it, since a 
 fool gives it. 
 
 That sir which serves and seeks for gain, 
 
 And follows but for form, 
 Will pack when it begins to rain. 
 
 And leave thee in the storm. 
 But I will tarry ; the fool will stay, 
 
 And let the wise man fly: 
 The knave turns fool that runs away ; 
 
 The fool no knave, perdy. 
 
 Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart 1 — 
 but, down! 
 
 Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did 
 to the eels when she put them i' the paste alive ; 
 she knapped 'em o' the coxcombs with a stick, 
 and cried, Down, wantons, down! 'Twas her 
 brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, but- 
 tered his hay. 
 
 Filled with rage at the base ingratitude of his 
 two daughters, who wish him to dispense with 
 all his followers, the crazed Lear curses them 
 and goes forth at night to wander upon a deso- 
 late, storm-swept heath, attended only by the 
 faithful Earl of Kent and " the bitter fool." 
 314 
 
WIT AND HUMOUR 
 
 Fool. He that has and a little tiny wit, — [Singing. 
 With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain, — 
 Must make content with his fortunes fit, 
 Though the rain it raineth every day. 
 
 Lear. True, boy. — Come, bring us to this 
 hovel. [^Exeunt Lear and Kent. 
 Fool. . . . 
 I'll speak a prophecy ere I go : — 
 
 When priests are more in word than matter; 
 When brewers mar their malt with water; 
 When nobles are their tailors' tutors ; 
 No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; 
 When every case in law is right; 
 No squire in debt, nor no poor knight ; 
 When slanders do not live in tongues; 
 Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; 
 
 • ••■•■ 
 
 Then shall the realm of Albion 
 
 Come to great confusion : 
 
 Then comes the time, who lives to see 't, 
 
 That going shall be us'd with feet. 
 This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live 
 before his time. 
 
 315 
 
HMililliiltiiiJHIUiitait