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LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 (The Chandos Portrait, National Portrait Gallery, London ) 
 
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF 
 
 ^tlUatn ^jjafefsptare 
 
 amiti) a ILife of tf)e fort, iExs 
 planatoeg jfoot=notes, Critical f 
 Notes ana a ffirlossartal iniiex 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Rev. Henry N. Hudson, LL. D. 
 IbarrarO l£&ttion 
 in 
 
 ©toentg "Folumes 
 
 fcUustratefc 
 VoL. I 
 
 BOSTON, U.S.A. 
 
 GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 
 
 C&e ^tfoenaetun JJresa 
 
 1900 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by 
 Henry N. Hudson, 
 
 in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
TO THE MEMORY 
 
 OF 
 
 gatxijeX '®$SXjefcsljetv 
 
 OUR GREATEST ORATOR, STATESMAN, AUTHOR, THE SAVER OF 
 
 our National Union, the Crown and Consummation of 
 American Intellect and Manhood, this edition 
 of his favourite Poet is, with reverential 
 
 AFFECTION, INSCRIBED BY THE 
 
 Editor. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 * 
 
 -♦— 
 
 T HE most obvious peculiarity of this edition is, that it 
 has two sets of notes; one mainly devoted to explain¬ 
 ing the text, and printed at the foot of the page; the other 
 mostly occupied with matters of textual comment and criti¬ 
 cism, and printed at the end of each play. Of course the 
 purpose of this double annotation is, to suit the work, as far 
 as practicable, to the uses both of the general reader and of 
 the special student. Now, whatever of explanation general 
 readers may need, they naturally prefer to have it directly 
 before them; and in at least nine cases out of ten they will 
 pass over an obscure word or phrase or allusion without un¬ 
 derstanding it, rather than stay to look up the explanation 
 either in another volume or in another part of the same 
 volume. Often, too, in case the explanation be not directly 
 at hand, they will go elsewhere in quest of it, and then find, 
 after all, that the editor has left the matter unexplained; so 
 that the search will be to no purpose : whereas, with the plan 
 of foot-notes, they will commonly see at once how the matter 
 stands, and what they have to expect, and so will be spared 
 the labour and vexation of a fruitless quest. 
 
 It scarce need be said that with special students the case 
 is very different. In studying such an author as Shake¬ 
 speare, these naturally expect to light upon many things for 
 the full discussion or elucidation of which they will have to 
 go beyond the page before them; though I believe even 
 these like to have the matter within convenient reach and 
 
 Y 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 VI 
 
 easy reference. At all events, they are, or well may be, 
 much less apt to get so intent on the author’s thought, and 
 so drawn onwards by the interest of the work, but that they 
 can readily pause, and turn elsewhere, to study out such 
 points as may call, or seem to call, for particular investiga¬ 
 tion. In fact, general readers, for the most part, pay little 
 or no attention to the language of what they are reading, 
 and seldom if ever interrogate, or even think of, the words, 
 save when the interest of the matter is choked or checked 
 by some strangeness or obscurity of expression; whereas 
 special students commonly are or should be carrying on a 
 silent process of verbal interrogation, even when the matter 
 is their chief concern : and as these are more sharp-sighted 
 and more on the look-out for verbal difficulties than the for¬ 
 mer, so they are less impatient of the pauses required for 
 out-of-the-way explanation. 
 
 This edition has been undertaken, and the plan of it 
 shaped, with a special view to meeting what is believed to 
 be a general want, and what has indeed been repeatedly 
 urged as such within the last few years. It has been said, 
 and, I think, justly said, that a need is widely felt of an 
 edition of Shakespeare, with such and so much of explana¬ 
 tory comment as may suffice for the state of those unlearned 
 but sane-thoughted and earnest readers who have, or wish to 
 have, their tastes raised and set to a higher and heartier kind 
 of mental feeding than the literary smoke and 'chaff of the 
 time. I have known many bright and upward-looking 
 minds, — minds honestly craving to drink from the highei 
 and purer springs of intellectual power and beauty, — who 
 were frank to own that it was a sin and a shame not to love 
 Shakespeare, but who could hardly, if at all, make that love 
 come free and natural to them. 
 
 To be plying such minds with arguments of duty, or with 
 thoughts of the good to be gained by standing through un- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 VU 
 
 pleasant task-work, seems to me a rather ungracious and 
 impotent business. For it has long been a settled axiom 
 that the proper office of poetry is to please; of the highest 
 poetry, to make wisdom and virtue pleasant, to crown the 
 True and the Good with delight and joy. This is the very 
 constituent of the poet’s art; that without which it has no 
 adequate reason for being. To clothe the austere forms of 
 truth and wisdom with heart-taking beauty and sweetness, is 
 its life and law. Poetry, then, ought of course to be read as 
 poetry ; and when not read with pleasure, the right grace and 
 profit of the reading are missed. For the proper instructive- 
 ness of poetry is essentially dependant on its pleasantness; 
 whereas in other forms of writing this order is or may be 
 reversed. The sense or the conscience of what is morally 
 good and right should indeed have a hand, and a prerogative 
 hand, in shaping our pleasures; and so indeed it must be, 
 else the pleasures will needs be transient, and even the seed¬ 
 time of future pains. * So right-minded people ought to 
 desire, and do desire, to find pleasure in what is right and 
 good; the highest pleasure in what is rightest and best: 
 nevertheless the pleasure of the thing is what puts its healing, 
 purifying, regenerating virtue into act; and to converse with 
 what is in itself beautiful and good without tasting any pleas¬ 
 antness in it, is or may be a positive harm. 
 
 How,, then, in reference to Shakespeare, is the case of 
 common readers to be met? As before remarked, to urge 
 reasons of duty is quite from the purpose : reading Shake¬ 
 speare as duty and without pleasure is of no use, save as it 
 may lift and draw them into a sense of his pleasantness. 
 The question is, therefore, how to make him pleasant and at¬ 
 tractive to them; how to put him before them, so that his 
 spirit may have a fair chance to breathe into them, and quick¬ 
 en their congenial susceptibilities; for, surely, his soul and 
 theirs are essentially attuned to the same music. Doubtless 
 
Vlll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 a full sense of his pleasantness is not to be extemporized: 
 with most of us, nay, with the best of us, this is and must be 
 a matter of growth: none but Shakespeare himself can 
 educate us into a love of Shakespeare; and such education, 
 indeed all education , is a work of time. But I must insist 
 upon it, that his works can and should be so edited, that 
 average readers may find enough of pleasantness in them 
 from the first to hold them to the perusal: and when they 
 have been so held long enough for the workmanship to steal 
 its virtue and sweetness into them, then they will be naturally 
 and freely carried onwards to the condition where “ love is 
 an unerring light, and joy its own security.” 
 
 These remarks, I believe, indicate, as well as I know how 
 to do, my idea— I can hardly say, I dare not say, my ideal — 
 of what a popular edition of Shakespeare ought to be. The 
 editorial part should, as far as possible, be so cast and tem¬ 
 pered and ordered as to make the Poet’s pages pleasant and 
 attractive to common minds. Generally to such minds, and 
 often even to uncommon minds, Shakespeare’s world may 
 well seem at first a strange world, — strange not only for the 
 spiritualized realism of it, but because it is so much more 
 deeply and truly natural than the book-world to which they 
 have been accustomed. The strangeness of the place, togeth¬ 
 er with the difficulty they find in clearly seeing the real forms 
 and relations of the objects before them, is apt to render the 
 place unattractive, if not positively repulsive, to them. The 
 place is so emphatically the native home of both the soul 
 and the senses, that they feel lost in it; and this because 
 they have so long travelled in literary regions where the soul 
 and the senses have been trained into an estrangement from 
 their proper home. It is like coming back to realities after 
 having strayed among shadows till the shadows have come to 
 seem realities. 
 
 Not seldom the very naturalness of Shakespeare’s world 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 frightens unaccustomed readers : they find, or feel, so to 
 speak, a kind of estranged familiarity about it, as of a place 
 they have once known, but have lost the memory of; so that 
 it seems to them a land peopled with the ghosts of what had 
 long ago been to them real living things. Thus the effect, for 
 some time, is rather to scare and chill their interest than to 
 kindle and heighten it. And the Poet is continually popping 
 his thoughts upon them so pointedly, so vividly, so directly, 
 so unceremoniously, that their sensibilities are startled, and 
 would fain shrink back within the shell of custom ; so different 
 is it from the pulpy, pointless, euphemistic roundaboutness 
 and volubility which they have been used to hearing from 
 the Pulpit, the Press, the vulgar oratory, and the popular 
 authorship of the day. Therewithal, the Poet often springs 
 upon them such abrupt and searching revelations of their 
 inner selves, so stings them with his truth, so wounds them 
 with his healing, and causes such an undreamed-of birth of 
 thoughts and feelings within them, that they stare about 
 them with a certain dread and shudder, and “ tremble like 
 a guilty thing surprised,” as in the presence of a magician 
 that has stolen their inmost secrets from them, and is showing 
 them up to the world. 
 
 But this is not all. Besides the unfamiliarity of Shake¬ 
 speare’s matter, so many and so great lingual changes have 
 taken place since his time, and, still more, his manner both 
 of thought and expression is so intensely idiomatic, his diction 
 so suggestive and overcharged with meaning, his imagery so 
 strong and bold, his sense so subtile and delicate, his mod¬ 
 ulation so various and of such solid and piercing sweetness, 
 that common readers naturally have no little difficulty in 
 coming to an easy and familiar converse with him. On some 
 of these points, an editor can give little or no positive help : 
 he can at the best but remove or lessen hindrances, and per¬ 
 haps throw in now and then a kindling word or breath. But, 
 
X 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 on others of them, it lies within an editor’s province to 
 render all the positive aid that common readers need for 
 making them intelligently and even delightedly at home with 
 the Poet. 
 
 Of course this is to be mostly done by furnishing such and 
 so much of comment and citation as may be required for 
 setting the Poet’s meaning out clear and free, and by trans¬ 
 lating strange or unfamiliar words, phrases, and modes of 
 speech into the plain, current language of the day. And 
 here it is of the first importance that an editor have the mind, 
 or the art, not only to see things plainly, but to say a plain 
 thing in a plain way; or, in the happy phrase of old Roger 
 Ascham, to “ think as wise men do, and speak as common 
 people do.” And the secret of right editing is, to help aver¬ 
 age readers over the author’s difficulties with as little sense 
 as possible of being helped; to lead them up his heights and 
 through his depths with as little sense as possible of being led. 
 To do this, the editor must have such a kind and measure of 
 learning in the field of his labour as can come only by many 
 years of careful study and thought; and he must keep the 
 details and processes of his learning out of sight, putting forth 
 only the last and highest results, the blossom and fragrance, 
 of his learnedness: and the editor who does not know too 
 much in his subject to be showing his knowledge is green 
 and crude, and so far unfitted for his task. Generally speak¬ 
 ing, it is doubtless better to withhold a needed explanation 
 than to offer a needless one; because the latter looks as if 
 the editor were intent on thrusting himself between the author 
 and the reader. 
 
 Probably we all understand that the best style in writing is 
 where average minds, on reading it, are prompted to say, 
 “Why, almost anybody could have done that”; and a style 
 that is continually making such readers sensible of their ig¬ 
 norance, or of their inferiority to the writer, is not good. For 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XI 
 
 the proper light of a truly luminous speaker is one that strikes 
 up a kindred light in the hearer; so that the light seems to 
 come, and indeed really does come, from the hearer’s own 
 mind. It is much the same in editing a standard author for 
 common use. And for an editor to be all the while, or often, 
 putting average readers in mind how ignorant and inferior 
 they are, is not the best way, nor the right way, to help 
 them. 
 
 But what seems specially needful to be kept in mind is, 
 that when common people read Shakespeare, it is not to 
 learn etymology, or grammar, or philology, or lingual antiqui¬ 
 ties, or criticism, or the technicalities of scholarism, but to 
 learn Shakespeare himself; to understand the things he puts 
 before them, to take-in his thought, to taste his wisdom, to 
 feel his beauty, to be kindled by his fire, to be refreshed with 
 his humour, to glow with his rapture, and to be stolen from 
 themselves and transported into his moral and intellectual 
 whereabout; in a word, to live, breathe, think, and feel with 
 him. I am so simple and old-fashioned as to hold that, in 
 so reading the Poet, they are putting him to the very best 
 and highest use of which he is capable. Even their intellects, 
 I think, will thrive far better so, than by straining themselves 
 to a course of mere intellectualism. All which means, to be 
 sure, that far more real good will come, even to the mind, by 
 foolishly enjoying Shakespeare than by learnedly parsing him. 
 So that here I am minded to apply the saying of Wordsworth, 
 that “ he is oft the wisest man who is not wise at all.” 
 
 Now I cannot choose but think that, if this were always 
 duly bornh in mind, we should see much more economy of 
 erudition than we do. It is the instinct of a crude or con¬ 
 ceited learning to be ever emphasizing itself, and poking its 
 fingers into the readers’ eyes : but a ripe and well-assimilated 
 learning does not act thus : it is a fine spirit working in the 
 mind’s blood, and not a sort of foam or scum mantling its 
 
xii 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 surface, or an outgrowth bristling into notice. So that here, 
 as in all true strength, modesty rules the transpiration. Ac¬ 
 cordingly an editor’s proper art is to proceed, not by a for¬ 
 mal and conscious use of learning, but by the silent efficacy 
 thereof transfusing itself insensibly into and through his work, 
 so as to accomplish its purpose without being directly seen. 
 
 Nor is Shakespeare’s language so antiquated, or his idiom 
 of thought so remote from ordinary apprehension, as to re¬ 
 quire a minute, or cumbrous, or oppressive erudition for 
 making his thoughts intelligible to average minds. His 
 diction, after all, is much nearer the common vernacular of 
 the day than that of his editors : for where would these be if 
 they did not write in a learned style ? To be sure, here, as 
 elsewhere, an editor’s art, or want of art, can easily find or 
 make ever so many difficulties, in order to magnify itself and 
 its office by meeting them, or by seeming to meet them. 
 And in fact it has now become, or is fast becoming, very much 
 the fashion to treat Shakespeare in this way; an elaborate 
 and self-conscious erudition using him as a sort of perch to 
 flap its wings and crow from. So we have had and are hav¬ 
 ing editions of his plays designed for common use, wherein 
 the sunlight of his poetry is so muffled and strangled by a 
 thick haze of minute, technical, and dictionary learning, that 
 common eyes can hardly catch any fresh and clear beams of 
 it. Small points and issues almost numberless, and many of 
 them running clean off into distant tenth-cousin matters, are 
 raised, as if poetry so vital and organic as his, and with its 
 mouth so full of soul-music, were but a subject for lingual 
 and grammatical dissection ; or a thing to be studied through 
 a microscope, and so to be “ examined, ponder’d, search’d, 
 probed, vex’d, and criticised.” Is not all this very much as 
 if the main business of readers, with Shakespeare’s page 
 before them, were to “pore, and dwindle as they pore”? 
 
 Here the ruling thought seems to be, that the chief profit 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Xlll 
 
 of studying Shakespeare is to come by analyzing and parsing 
 his sentences, not by understanding and enjoying his poetry. 
 But, assuredly, this is not the way to aid and encourage 
 people in the study of Shakespeare. They are not to be 
 inspired with a right love or taste for him by having his 
 lines encumbered with such commentatorial redundances 
 and irrelevancies. Rather say, such a course naturally ren¬ 
 ders the Poet an unmitigable bore to them, and can hardly 
 fail to disgust and repel them; unless, perchance, it may 
 superinduce upon them a certain dry-rot of formalistic learn¬ 
 ing. For, in a vast many cases, the explanations are far 
 more obscure to the average reader than the things ex¬ 
 plained ; and he may well despair of understanding the 
 Poet, when he so often finds it impossible to understand 
 his explainers. Or the effect of such a course, if it have 
 any but a negative effect, can hardly be other than to tease 
 and card the common sense out of people, and train them 
 into learned and prating dunces, instead of making them 
 intelligent, thoughtful, happy men and women in the ordi¬ 
 nary tasks, duties, and concerns of life. 
 
 Thus Shakespeare is now in a fair way to undergo the 
 same fate which a much greater and better book has already 
 undergone. For even so a great many learned minds, in¬ 
 stead of duly marking how little need be said, and how 
 simply that little should be said, have tried, apparently, how 
 much and how learnedly they could write upon the Bible ; 
 how many nice questions they could raise, and what elabo¬ 
 rate comments they could weave about its contents. Take, 
 for example, the Sermon on the Mount: left to its natural 
 and proper working, that brief piece of writing has in it more 
 of true culture-force or culture-inspiration than all the mere 
 scientific books in the world put together : and learned com¬ 
 mentaries stand, or claim to stand, in the rank of scientific 
 works. Yet even here, as experience has amply proved, a 
 
xiv 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 sort of learned incontinence can easily so intricate and per¬ 
 plex the matter, and spin the sense out into such a curious 
 and voluminous interpretation, as fairly to s t \vamp plain 
 minds, and put them quite at a loss as to what the Divine 
 utterances mean. The thing is clear enough, until a garru¬ 
 lous and obtrusive learning takes it in hand; and then dark¬ 
 ness begins to gather round it. 
 
 And so the Bible generally, as we all know, has been so 
 worried and belaboured with erudite, or ignorant, b'ut at all 
 events diffusive, long-winded, and obstructive commentary; 
 its teachings and efficacies have got so strangled by the 
 interminable yarns of interpretation spun about them; that 
 now at length common people have pretty much lost both 
 their faith in it and their taste for it: reverence for it has 
 come to be regarded as little better than an exploded super¬ 
 stition : and indeed its light can hardly struggle or filtrate 
 through the dense vapours of learned and elaborate verbosity 
 exhaled from subjacent regions. The tendency now is to 
 replace the Bible with Shakespeare as our master-code of 
 practical wisdom and guidance. I am far, very far indeed, 
 from regarding this as a sign of progress, either moral or 
 intellectual: viewed merely in reference to literary taste, the 
 Bible is incomparably beyond any other book in the world: 
 but, if such a substitution must be made, Shakespeare is 
 probably the best. The Poet himself tells us, “ they that 
 dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton.” 
 And so, to be sure, the process has set in, and is already 
 well advanced, of smothering his proper light beneath com- 
 mentatorial surplusage and rubbish. 
 
 So strong is the conceit of studying all things scientifi¬ 
 cally, that we must, forsooth, have Shakespeare used as the 
 raw material of scientific manufacture. It seems to be pre¬ 
 sumed that people cannot rightly feed upon his poetry, unless 
 it be first digested for them into systematic shape by passing 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 through some gerund-grinding laboratory. But the plain 
 truth is, that works of imagination cannot be mechanized 
 and done over into the forms of science, without a total 
 dissipation of their life and spirit, of all indeed that is prop¬ 
 erly constitutive in them. It is simply like dissecting a bird 
 in order to find out where the music comes from and how 
 it is made. 
 
 I have, perhaps, dwelt upon this topic too long, and may 
 fitly close it with a few pertinent words from Bacon, which 
 always come into my remembrance when thinking on the 
 subject. “The first distemper of learning,” says he, “is 
 when men study words and not matter. And how is it 
 possible but this should have an operation to discredit learn¬ 
 ing, even with vulgar capacities, when they see learned men’s 
 works like the first letter of a patent, or a limned book; 
 which, though it hath large flourishes, yet is but a letter? 
 It seems to me that Pygmalion’s frenzy is a good emblem 
 or portraiture of this vanity : for words are but the images 
 of matter; and, except they have the life of reason and 
 invention, to fall in love with them is all one as to fall in love 
 with a picture.” In another passage, he puts the matter as 
 follows : “ Surely, like as many substances in Nature which 
 are solid do putrefy and corrupt into worms; so it is the 
 property of good and sound knowledge to putrefy and dis¬ 
 solve into a number of subtile, idle, unwholesome, and (as 
 I may term them) vermiculate questions, which have indeed 
 a kind of quickness and life of spirit, but no soundness of 
 matter or goodness of quality.” 
 
 To preclude misapprehension, as far as may be, I must 
 add that the foregoing remarks have an eye only to editions 
 of the Poet designed for common use; and so cannot be 
 justly construed as reflecting on such as look mainly to the 
 special use of students and scholars. Doubtless there may 
 be, nay, there must be, from time to time, say as often as 
 
XVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 once in forty or fifty years, highly learned editions of Shake¬ 
 speare ; such, for instance, as Mr. Howard Furness’s mag¬ 
 nificent Variorum, which, so far as it has come, is a truly 
 monumental achievement of learning, judgment, good sense, 
 and conscientious, painstaking industry. Of course such a 
 work must needs enter very largely into the details and pro¬ 
 cesses of the subject, pursuing a great many points out 
 through all the subtilties and intricacies of critical inquiry. 
 But, for the generality of readers, such a handling of the 
 theme is obviously quite out of the question: in this hard 
 working-day world, they have too much else in hand to be 
 tracing out and sifting the nice questions which it is the 
 business of a profound and varied scholarship to investigate 
 and settle; and the last and highest results of such scholar¬ 
 ship is all that they can possibly have time or taste for. If 
 any one says that common readers, such as at least ninety- 
 nine persons in a hundred are and must be, should have the 
 details and processes of the work put before them, that so 
 they may be enabled to form independent judgments for 
 themselves; — I say, whoever talks in this way is either 
 under a delusion himself, or else means to delude others. 
 It may flatter common readers to be told that they are just 
 as competent to judge for themselves in these matters as 
 those are who have made a lifelong study of them : but the 
 plain truth is, that such readers must perforce either take the 
 results of deep scholarship on trust, or else not have them at 
 all; and none but a dupe or a quack, or perhaps a com¬ 
 pound of the two, would ever think of representing the 
 matter otherwise. 
 
 But the main business of this Preface is yet to come, and 
 what remains must be chiefly occupied with certain questions 
 touching the Poet’s text. And here I must first make a 
 brief general statement of the condition in which his text has 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XVII 
 
 come down to us, leaving the particular details in this kind 
 to be noted in connection with the several plays themselves. 
 
 Of the thirty-eight plays included in this edition, sixteen, 
 or, if we count-in the originals of the Second and Third Parts 
 of King Henry the Sixth, eighteen, were published, severally 
 and successively, in what are known as the quarto editions, 
 during the Poet’s life. Some of them were printed in that 
 form several times, but often with considerable variations of 
 text. One more, Othello, was issued in that form in 1622, 
 six years after the Poet’s death. Copies of these editions 
 are still extant, though in some cases exceedingly rare. 
 Most of these issues were undoubtedly “ stolen and surrep¬ 
 titious ” ; and it is nowise likely that in any of them a single 
 page of the proofs was ever corrected by Shakespeare him¬ 
 self. In the popular literature of his time, proof-reading 
 generally was done, if done at all, with such a degree of slov¬ 
 enliness as no. one would think of tolerating now. And that 
 proof-sheets can be rightly and properly corrected by none 
 but the author himself, or by one very closely and minutely 
 familiar with his mind, his mouth, and his hand, is a lesson 
 which an experience of more than thirty years in the matter 
 has taught me beyond all peradventure. And, in fact, the 
 printing in most of these quarto issues is so shockingly bad, 
 that no one can gain an adequate idea of how bad it is, 
 except by minutely studying the text as there given, and 
 comparing it in detail with the text as given in modern edi¬ 
 tions. 
 
 All the forecited plays, with one exception, Pericles, were 
 set forth anew in the celebrated folio of 1623, seven years 
 after the Poet’s death. Most of them are indeed printed 
 much better there than in the earlier issues, though some of 
 them are well known to have been printed from quarto 
 copies. Therewithal the folio set forth, for the first time, so 
 far as is known, all the other plays included in this edition, 
 
XV111 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 except The Two Noble Kinsmen. The volume was published, 
 professedly at least, under the editorial care of the Poet’s 
 friends and fellow-actors, John Heminge and Henry Condell. 
 
 The printing of the folio is exceedingly unequal: in some 
 of the plays, as, for instance, Julius Ccesar , Twelfth Night\ 
 and As You Like It , it is remarkably good for the time, 
 insomuch that the text, generally, is got into an orderly and 
 intelligible state without much trouble; while others, as 
 All's Well ' Coriolanus , and Timon of Athens, abound in the 
 grossest textual corruptions, so that the labour of rectifica¬ 
 tion seems to be literally endless. Even where the printing 
 is best, there are still so many palpable, and also so many 
 more or less probable, misprints, that the text, do the best 
 we can with it, must often stand under considerable uncer¬ 
 tainty. It is not unlikely that in some parts of the volume 
 the Editors themselves may have attended somewhat to the 
 correcting of the proofs, while in others theyjeft it entirely 
 to the printers. Of course all the plays then first published 
 must have been printed either from the author’s own manu¬ 
 scripts, or else from play-house transcripts of them. Doubt¬ 
 less these were made by different hands, sometimes with 
 reasonable care, sometimes otherwise, and so with widely- 
 varying degrees of accuracy and legibility. 
 
 In their “Address to the Readers,” the Editors, after 
 referring to the earlier quarto issues, go on as follows: 
 “ Even those are now offered to your view cured and per¬ 
 fect of their limbs, and all the rest absolute in their numbers 
 as he [the author] conceived them; who, as he was a 
 happy imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser of 
 it: and what he thought, he uttered with that easiness, that 
 we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers.” 
 Heminge and Condell appear to have been honest and 
 amiable men; but they naturally felt a strong interest in 
 having the volume sell well, and so were moved to recom- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XIX 
 
 mend it as highly as they could to purchasers. Probably 
 there was something of truth in what they said, perhaps 
 enough to excuse, if not to justify them in saying it: never¬ 
 theless it is perfectly certain that their words were not true 
 to the full extent; and most likely what was true only of a 
 portion of the volume they deemed it right to put forth in a 
 general way as if applicable to the whole, without staying 
 to express any limitations or exceptions. The folio was 
 reprinted in 1632, again in 1664, and yet again in 1685. 
 The folio of 1632 was set forth with a good many textual 
 changes, made by an unknown hand; sometimes correc¬ 
 tions, and sometimes corruptions, but none of them carrying 
 any authority. Changes of text, though less both in number 
 and importance, were also made in the third and fourth 
 folios. 
 
 Before passing on from this topic, I must add that, after 
 1623, single plays continued to be reprinted, from time to 
 time, in quarto form. But as these are seldom of any use 
 towards ascertaining or helping the text, it seems not worth 
 the while to specify them in detail. Probably the most valu¬ 
 able of them is that of Othello , issued in 1630. Others of 
 them are occasionally referred to in the Critical Notes. 
 
 As I have frequent occasion to cite a famous volume, 
 which I designate as “ Collier’s second folio,” it appears 
 needful to give some account thereof in this place. — In 
 1849, Mr. J. P. Collier, a very learned and eminent Shake¬ 
 spearian, lighted upon and purchased a copy of the second 
 folio containing a very large number of verbal, literal, and 
 punctuative alterations in manuscript; all of course intend¬ 
 ed as corrections of the text. At what time or times, 
 and by what hand or hands, these changes were made, has 
 not been settled, nor is likely to be. For some time there 
 was a good deal of pretty warm controversy about them. 
 All, I believe, are now pretty much agreed, and certainly 
 
XX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 such is my own judgment, that none of them have any claim 
 to be regarded as authentic : most of them are corruptions 
 decidedly; but a considerable number may be justly spoken 
 of as corrections ; and some of them are exceedingly happy 
 and valuable. To be sure, of those that may be called apt 
 and good, the larger portion had been anticipated by mod¬ 
 ern editors, and so had passed into the current text. Still 
 there are enough of original or unanticipated corrections to 
 render the volume an important contribution towards textual 
 rectification. Nevertheless they all stand on the common 
 footing of conjectural emendation, and so carry no authority 
 in their hand but that of inherent fitness and propriety. 
 
 Herewith I must also mention another copy of the same 
 folio, which is sometimes referred to in my Critical Notes. 
 This was owned by the late Mr. S. W. Singer, also one of 
 the most learned and eminent Shakespearians of his time. 
 All that need be said of it here may as well be given in 
 Singer’s own words : “ In June, 1852, I purchased from Mr. 
 Willis, the bookseller, a copy of the second folio edition of 
 Shakespeare, in its original binding, which, like that of Mr. 
 Collier, contains very numerous manuscript corrections by 
 several hands; the typographical errors, with which that 
 edition abounds, are sedulously corrected, and the writers 
 have also tried their hands at conjectural emendation exten¬ 
 sively. Many of these emendations correspond with those 
 in Mr. Collier’s volume, but chiefly in those cases where the 
 error in the old copy was pretty evident; but the readings 
 often vary, and sometimes for the better.” 
 
 Thus much may suffice for indicating generally the con¬ 
 dition in which Shakespeare’s plays have come down to us. 
 Of course the early quartos and the first folio are, in the 
 proper sense, our only authorities for the Poet’s text. But 
 his text has not been, and most assuredly never will be 
 allowed to remain in the condition there given. The labours 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xxi 
 
 and the judgment of learned, sagacious, painstaking, diligent 
 workmen in the field have had, ought to have, must have, a 
 good deal of weight in deciding how the matter should go. 
 And now the question confronts us whether, after all, there 
 is any likelihood of Shakespeare’s text being ever got into a 
 satisfactory state. Perhaps, nay, I may as well say probably, 
 not. Probably the best to be looked for here is a greater 
 or less degree of approximation to such a state. At all 
 events, if it come at all, it is to come as the slow cumulative 
 result of a great many minds working jointly, or severally, 
 and successively, and each contributing its measure, be it 
 more, be it less, towards the common cause. A mite done 
 here, and a mite done there, will at length, when time shall 
 cast up the sum, accomplish we know not what. 
 
 The Bible apart, Shakespeare’s dramas are, by general con¬ 
 sent, the greatest classic and literary treasure of the world. 
 His text, with all the admitted imperfections on its head, is 
 nevertheless a venerable and sacred thing, and must nowise 
 be touched but under a strong restraining sense of pious awe. 
 Woe to the man that exercises his critical surgery here with¬ 
 out a profound reverence for the subject! All glib ingenuity, 
 all shifty cleverness, should be sternly warned off from med¬ 
 dling with the matter. Nothing is easier than making or 
 proposing ingenious and plausible corrections. But changes 
 merely ingenious are altogether worse than none ; and who¬ 
 ever goes about the work with his mind at all in trim for it 
 will much rather have any corrections he may make or pro¬ 
 pose flatly condemned as bad, than have that sweetish epithet 
 politely smiled, or sneered ’ upon them. On the other hand, 
 to make corrections that are really judicious, corrections that 
 have due respect to all sides of the case, and fit all round, 
 and that keep strictly within the limits of such freedom as 
 must be permitted in the presenting of so great a classic so 
 deeply hurt with textual corruptions; — this is, indeed, just 
 
XXII 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the nicest and most delicate art in the whole work of modern 
 editorship. And as a due application of this art requires a 
 most circumspective and discriminating judgment, together 
 with a life-long acquaintance with the Poet’s mental and rhyth¬ 
 mic and lingual idiom ; so, again, there needs no small meas¬ 
 ure of the same preparation, in order to a judicious estimate 
 of any ripely-considered textual change. 
 
 The work of ascertaining and amending Shakespeare’s text 
 systematically began with Rowe in 1709, his first edition 
 having came out that year, his second in 1714. The work 
 was continued by Pope, who also put forth two editions, in 
 1723 and 1728. Pope was followed by Theobald, whose 
 two editions appeared in 1733 and 1740. Then came Han- 
 mer’s edition in 1743, and Warburton’s in 1749. All through 
 the latter half of the eighteenth century the process was 
 sedulously continued by Johnson, Capell, Steevens, Malone, 
 Rann, and sundry others. Heath, though not an editor, was 
 hardly inferior to any of them in understanding and judg¬ 
 ment ; and his comments remain to this day among the best 
 we have. Most of these men were very strong and broad in 
 learning and sagacity, and in the other furnishings needful 
 for their task; none of them were wanting in respect for the 
 Poet; and all of them did good service. 
 
 It must be admitted, however, that many, if not most, of 
 these workmen handled the text with excessive freedom ; 
 and perhaps it may be justly said that, taken all together, 
 they corrupted quite as much as they corrected it. They 
 seem to have gone somewhat upon the principle of giving 
 what, in their judgment, the Poet ought to have written ; 
 whereas the thing we want is not what anybody may think he 
 ought to have written, but what, as nearly as can be judged, 
 he actually did write. Accordingly much labour has since 
 had to be spent in undoing what was thus overdone. 
 
 During the present century the process of correction has 
 
PREFACE. Xxiii 
 
 been kept up, but much more temperately, and by minds 
 well fitted and furnished for the task, though probably, as a 
 whole, not equal to the earlier series of workmen. Among 
 these are Singer, Collier, Dyce, Staunton, Halliwell, and 
 White, faithful and highly competent labourers, whose names 
 will doubtless hold prominent and permanent places in Shake¬ 
 spearian lore. 
 
 The excessive freedom in textual change used by the ear¬ 
 lier series of editors has naturally had the effect of provoking 
 a reaction. For the last forty years or thereabouts, this 
 reaction has been in progress, and is now, I think, at its 
 height, having reached an extreme fully as great, and not 
 a whit more commendable than the former extreme. Of 
 course this can hardly fail in due time to draw on another 
 reaction; and already signs are not wanting that such a 
 result is surely forthcoming. To the former license of cor¬ 
 rection there has succeeded a license, not less vicious, of 
 interpretation. Explanations the most strained, far-fetched, 
 and over-subtile are now very much the order of the day, — 
 things sure to disgust the common sense of sober, candid, 
 'circumspective, cool-judging minds. It is said that the old 
 text must not be changed save in cases of “ absolute neces¬ 
 sity ” ; and this dictum is so construed, in theory at least, as 
 to prompt and cover all the excesses of the most fanciful, 
 fine-drawn, and futile ingenuity. The thing has grown to the 
 ridiculous upshot of glozing and conjuring stark printer’s 
 errors into poetic beauties, and the awkwardest hitchings and 
 haltings of metre into “ elegant retardations.” To minds so 
 captivated with their own ingenuity, an item of the old text 
 that is utter nonsense is specially attractive; because, to be 
 sure, they can the more easily spell their own sense, or want 
 of sense, into it. And so we see them doggedly tenacious 
 of such readings as none but themselves can explain, and 
 fondly concocting such explanations thereof as none but 
 
XXIV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 themselves can understand; tormenting the meaning they 
 want out of words that are no more akin to it than the 
 multiplication-table is to a trilobite. Surely, then, the thing 
 now most in order is a course of temperance and modera¬ 
 tion, a calmness and equipoise of judgment, steering clear 
 of both extremes, and sounding in harmony with plain old 
 common sense, one ounce of which is worth more than a 
 ton of exegetical ingenuity. For Shakespeare, be it observed, 
 is just our great imperial sovereign of common sense ; and 
 sooner or later the study of him will needs kill off all the 
 editors that run in discord with this supreme quality of his 
 workmanship. 
 
 The present generation of Shakespearians are rather con¬ 
 spicuously, not to say ostentatiously, innocent of respect for 
 their predecessors. They even seem to measure the worth 
 of their own doings by their self-complacent ignoring or up¬ 
 braiding of what has been done before. Might it not be 
 well for them to bethink themselves now and then what sort 
 of a lesson their contempt of the past is likely to teach the 
 future? Possibly plain sensible people, who prefer small 
 perspicuities to big obscurities, soft-voiced solidities to high- 
 sounding nihilities, may take it into their heads that wisdom 
 was not born with the present generation, and will not die 
 with it. After all, Rowe, Pope, Theobald, Hanmer, War- 
 burton, Johnson, Capell, and others, though by no means 
 infallible, yet were not fools : they knew several things ; and 
 their minds were at least tolerably clear of conceit and cant: 
 I suspect they understood their business quite as well, and 
 laboured in it quite as uprightly and fruitfully, as those who 
 now insist on proceeding as if nothing had ever been done ; 
 as if it had been reserved exclusively for them to understand 
 and appreciate the Poet. In this, as in some other matters, 
 to “ stand as if a man were author of himself, and knew no 
 Other kin,” is not exactly the thing. The best that any of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXV 
 
 us can do is to add somewhat, perhaps a very, very little, 
 to the building that others have worked upon and helped to 
 rear; and if we are to begin by a clean sweeping away of 
 what others have done, that so our puny architecture may 
 have a better chance of being seen, is it not possible that the 
 sum of our own doings, as time shall foot it up, will prove a 
 minus quantity? 
 
 Certainly changes in the old text of Shakespeare ought 
 not to be made without strong and clear reasons : and after 
 they have been so made, stronger and clearer reasons may 
 arise, or may be shown, for unmaking them. Very well; be 
 it so. But such reasons are not to be nonsuited by unrea¬ 
 sonable explanations, by superfine glozings, and rhetorical 
 smokings. The cacoethes emendandi and the cacoethcs 
 explanandi are alike out of place, and to be avoided. I 
 have already quoted the phrase “ absolute necessity,” now so 
 often used by the ultraists of textual conservatism. This 
 phrase seems to bind the thing up very tightly : yet, even 
 with those who urge it most strongly, it is found to have, in 
 effect, no firm practical meaning; at least not a whit more 
 than the phrase “ strong and clear reasons.” To illustrate 
 what I mean : 
 
 Mr. Furness, in his King Lear , iii. 6, prints “ This rest 
 might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews ” ; thus rejecting 
 Theobald’s reading, “broken senses ,” for the old text: and 
 he does this on the ground that “ the change is not abso¬ 
 lutely necessary.” Yet, in ii. 4, he prints “To be.a comrade 
 of the wolf, and howl necessity’s sharp pinch ! ” thus substi¬ 
 tuting howl , from Collier’s second folio, for owl, the old 
 reading. And I think he shows strong and clear reasons for 
 the change. But, strictly speaking, I can see no absolute 
 necessity for it: some tolerable sense can be made, has been 
 made, out of the old text. Nay, more; the change, in this 
 case, as it seems to me, does not come so near being abso- 
 
XXVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 lutely necessary as in the case of Theobald’s senses. I must 
 needs think that owl yields, of the two, a better and more 
 fitting sense in the one place than sinews does in the other. 
 Nevertheless, in the instance of howl , Mr. Furness seems 
 to me to make out a clear case; to justify the change tri¬ 
 umphantly ; this too without any approach to overstrained 
 refinement; insomuch that I should henceforth never think 
 of printing the passage otherwise than as he prints it. So, 
 be it that absolute necessity is the true rule, have we not 
 here a pretty good instance of that rule being “ more hon¬ 
 our’d in the breach than the observance ”? 
 
 And I think the same argument will hold even more 
 strongly touching another reading which he adopts from the 
 same source. It is in i. i, where he prints “ It is no vicious 
 blot, nor other foulness,” instead of the old reading, “no 
 vicious blot, murther , or foulness.” Here the need of the 
 change, to my thinking, is not so exigent nor so evident as 
 in either of the former cases, especially the first: a good 
 deal, I think, can here be said in defence of the old reading: 
 at all events, I can nowise understand how the absolute 
 necessity that rules out senses can consistently rule-in howl 
 and nor other. But Mr. Furness, with all his austere and, 
 as I must think, rather overstrained conservatism, so com¬ 
 mands my respect, that I accept his judgment in both the 
 latter cases, though dissenting from him altogether in the 
 first; herein following, as I take it, the absolute necessity 
 which he practises, and not the one which he preaches. 
 And indeed so many men preach better than they practise, 
 that it is decidedly refreshing to meet, now and then, with 
 one who reverses this order, and makes his practice come 
 out ahead. 
 
 Of course this point might easily be illustrated at almost 
 any length. For the old text has hundreds of cases substan¬ 
 tially parallel with those I have cited ; cases where, in my judg- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXV11 
 
 ment, there are strong and clear reasons for textual changes 
 made or proposed by former Shakespearians, but where the 
 new school, with their canon of “ absolute necessity,” hold 
 on to stark corruptions, and then make up for their textual 
 strictness with the largest exegetical license. Yet I have 
 never caught any of these bigots (so I must term them) of 
 the old letter finding fault when we, of a somewhat more 
 liberal bent, have adopted any corrections which they have 
 themselves proposed. Here, as, to be sure, is very natural, 
 their “ absolute necessity ” smiles itself into an aspect practi¬ 
 cable enough. 
 
 For, in truth, several of them seem equally intent on find¬ 
 ing reasons for condemning corrections that others have 
 made, and for proposing or approving new corrections ; and 
 their wrong-headed, perhaps I should say pig-headed, inge¬ 
 nuity in both parts of the business is sometimes ludicrous, 
 sometimes otherwise. So, for instance, one of them has 
 lately approved, and another adopted, a new reading in The 
 Tempest , i. 2 : “ Urchins shall forth at vast of night, that they 
 may work all exercise on thee”; where both the old and 
 the common reading is, “Urchins shall, for that vast of night 
 that they may work, all exercise on thee.” Here, of course, 
 
 * for gives the sense of duration, or prolonged action; which 
 is just what the occasion requires. For it is well known that 
 urchins were wont to go forth, and work, or play, during the 
 vast of night, anyhow; this was their special right or privi¬ 
 lege ; and Prospero means that, during that time, he will 
 have them exercise their talents on Caliban. In my poor 
 opinion, therefore, both the approver and the adopter of the 
 forecited change have thereby, so far as one instance can 
 tell against them, earned an exclusion, or a dismissal, from 
 the seat of judgment in questions of that sort. However, 
 when any of these gentlemen offer us, as they sometimes do, 
 corrections that can show strong and clear reasons, I, for 
 
XXV111 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 one, shall be happy to prefer their practice also to their 
 preaching ; and if they see fit to frown their preaching 
 upon me, I have but to laugh back their own practice upon 
 them : so, if they can stand it, I can. 
 
 But there is one thing which I feel bound to set my face 
 against, however insignificant that setting may be. It is 
 this. Of course there are a great many plain cases of textual 
 corruption, where, notwithstanding, a full and perfect cer¬ 
 tainty as to the right correction is not to be attained. These 
 often try an editor’s labour and judgment and patience to 
 the uttermost. But it is an editor’s business, in such cases, 
 to sift and weigh the whole matter with all possible care, 
 to make up his mind, and do the best he can. This is a 
 tedious and painful, as also, in most cases, a thankless pro¬ 
 cess. So a custom has lately been started, for editors, when 
 on this score any “ doubts or scruples tease the brain,” to 
 shirk the whole matter, to shift off the burden upon others, 
 and to dodge all responsibility and all hazard of a wrong 
 decision, by sticking an obelus in to note the corruption; 
 thus calling the reader’s attention to his need of help, and 
 yet leaving him utterly unhelped. This is indeed “ most tol¬ 
 erable and not to be endured.” It is, in effect, equivalent 
 to telling us that they know more than all the previous edi¬ 
 tors, yet do not know enough for the cause they have under¬ 
 taken, and so have no way but to adjourn the court. 
 
 There is one other topic upon which I must say a few words. 
 —-It is somewhat in question how far the spelling and the ver¬ 
 bal forms of the old copies ought to be retained. Mr. White, 
 following the folio, prints murther for murder , fadom for 
 fathom , and in some cases, if I rightly remember, moder for 
 mother . Now there seems to me just as much reason for 
 keeping the two latter archaisms as for keeping the first; 
 that is to say, none at all. Herein, however, Mr. White is at 
 least consistent; which is more than can be said of some 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 other recent editing; though I admit that in this instance 
 consistency is not a jewel. And Mr. Furness, in the Preface 
 to his King Lear , announces that hereafter he shall adhere 
 to the old form, or old spelling, of then for than , as also of 
 the antique concessive and for an. In an edition like his 
 designed chiefly for students and scholars, there may be some 
 reason for this which does not hold in the case of editions 
 looking to general use; yet even that appears to me some¬ 
 what more than doubtful. Mr. Furness urges that Spenser 
 always uses then for than , and that none of his modern edi¬ 
 tors think of substituting the latter. But Spenser manifestly 
 took pains to give his language a special air or smack of an¬ 
 tiquity, and so made it more archaic than the general usage 
 of his time. Moreover, Spenser is now very little read, if at 
 all, save by scholars and students; and, if I were to edit any 
 portion of him for common use, I should make no scruple of 
 printing than , except in cases where then might need to be 
 kept for the rhyme. 
 
 Again: All students of Shakespeare know that the folio 
 has many instances of God buy you , the old colloquial 
 abridgment of God be with you , which has been still further 
 shortened into our Good bye. Probably, in the Poet’s time, 
 the phrase was sounded God bwy you. FI ere I see no other, 
 or no better, way to keep both sense and sound, and rhythm 
 also, than by printing God b ’ wP you ; and so in this edition 
 I always print, or mean to print. Would Mr. Furness, in 
 this instance also, retain the old form or spelling buy ? The 
 phrase, I believe, does not occur in King Lear , so that he 
 had no occasion there for making any sign of his thought on 
 the subject. The phrase occurs twice in Hamlet , first in ii. 
 i, and again in ii. 2 ; and there he prints “ God be wi’ you ” 
 and “God be wi’ ye”; but on some points his views have 
 changed since his superb edition of that play was issued. 
 Whatever his purpose may be, I cannot but think there is 
 
XXX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 quite as good reason for adhering strictly to the old letter in 
 this instance as in that of then or of and. And the case is 
 substantially the same in reference to a great many other 
 words : in fact, I do not see how this principle of retention 
 can consistently stop, till it shall have restored the old spell¬ 
 ing altogether. 
 
 My own practice in this matter is, wherever any thing either 
 of sense, or of rhythm, or of metre, or of rhyme, is involved, 
 to retain the old forms or old spelling. For instance, the 
 folio has eyne for eyes, and rhyming with mine; also denay 
 for denial, and rhyming with say: it also has throughly for 
 thoroughly, and thorough for through. Of course I should 
 never think, probably no editor would think, of disturbing 
 these archaisms, or such as these. Even when, as is often 
 the case, there is no reason of metre or of rhyme for keep¬ 
 ing them, they are essential items in the Poet’s rhythm; for 
 good prose has a rhythm of its own as well as verse. Now 
 Shakespeare, especially in his verse, was evidently very par¬ 
 ticular and exact in the care of his rhythm and metre, and 
 therefore of his syllables. The folio has almost numberless 
 minute proofs and indications of this; and here, of course, 
 the smaller the note, the more significance it bears as regards 
 the Poet’s habit and purpose. Perhaps there is no one 
 point wherein this is oftener shown than in his very frequent 
 elision of the article the, so as to make it coalesce with the 
 preceding word into one syllable. So, especially in his later 
 plays, there is almost no end to such elisions as by th', 
 do th',for th', from th', on tti, to th', &c.; and the folio has 
 many instances of the double elision wi' th' for with the. 
 Now I hold, and have long held it important that, as far as 
 practicable, these little things be carefully preserved, not only 
 because they are essential parts of the Poet’s verbal modu¬ 
 lation, but also as significant notes or registers of his scrupu¬ 
 lous and delicate attention to this element of his workman- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 * 
 
 ship. Yet the whole thing is totally ignored in ail the recent 
 editions that I am conversant with; all, with the one excep¬ 
 tion of Mr. Furness’s latest volume, his King Lear , where it 
 is carefully attended to. And right glad am I that it is ; for, 
 as I must think, it ought never to have been neglected. 
 
 But, in certain other points, — points where nothing of 
 rhyme or metre or rhythm or sense is concerned, — I have 
 pursued, and shall pursue, a somewhat different course. — It 
 is well known to Shakespearians that the old text has some 
 twelve or fifteen, perhaps more, instances of it used posses¬ 
 sively, or where we should use its, the latter not being a cur¬ 
 rent form in the Poet’s time, though then just creeping into 
 use. And so the English Bible, as originally printed in 1611, 
 has not a single instance of its : it has, however, one or two, 
 perhaps more, instances of it used in the same way. In 
 these cases, all modern editions, so far as I know, print its, 
 and are, I hold, unquestionably right in doing so. It is true, 
 Shakespeare’s old text has repeated instances of its, and 
 these are more frequent in the later plays than in the earlier. 
 And in most of these cases the folio prints it with an apos¬ 
 trophe, it's; though in two or three places, if not more, we 
 there have it printed without the apostrophe. 
 
 In all these cases, whether of it or its or its, I make no 
 scruple whatever of printing simply its ; though I sometimes 
 call attention to the old usage in my Critical Notes. For, in 
 truth, I can perceive no sort of sense or reason in retaining 
 the possessive it in Shakespeare’s text, or, at all events, in 
 any presentation of it designed for common use. Yet we 
 have some recent editing apparently taking no little credit 
 to itself for keeping up and propagating this unmeaning and 
 worthless bit of archaic usage; whereas the Poet himself 
 was evidently impatient of it, as he shook himself more and 
 more free from it, the riper he grew. Of course the same 
 recent editing insists punctually on keeping the apostro- 
 
XXX11 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 phized form, it's, wherever the folio prints it so. Surely 
 there is no more reason for retaining the apostrophe here, 
 than there is for omitting it in the numberless cases where 
 the folio omits it; as in “like my brothers fault,” and 
 “against my brothers life.” For all who have so much as 
 looked into that volume must know that genitives and plurals 
 are there commonly printed just alike. But, indeed, the 
 retention of these archaisms seems to me no better than 
 sheer idolatry or dotage of the old letter; all the arguments 
 but those of pedantry or affectation drawing clean away from 
 it. That an editor who stands rigidly on these points should 
 nevertheless quite overlook other things of real weight, like 
 those I pointed out a little before, may seem strange to 
 some : but I suspect it is all in course; for they who ride 
 hobbies are apt to lose sight of every thing but the particular 
 hobby they happen to be riding. 
 
 And now a word as to the ordering of the plays in this 
 edition. The folio has them arranged in three distinct series, 
 severally entitled Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies. The 
 plays of the first and third series are there arranged seem¬ 
 ingly at haphazard, and without any regard to the order of 
 time in which they were written; those of the second or 
 historic series, simply according to the chronological order 
 of the persons and events represented in them; the three 
 that were no doubt written first being thus placed after sev¬ 
 eral that were of later composition. In this edition, the 
 three series of the folio are kept distinct; but the several 
 plays of each series are meant to be arranged, as nearly as 
 may be, according to the chronological order of the writing. 
 This is done merely because such appears to be the most 
 natural and fitting principle of arrangement, and not that 
 the Poet may be read or studied “ historically ”; a matter 
 which is made a good deal of by some, but which, as it 
 
PREFACE. xxxiii 
 
 seems to me, is really of no practical consequence whatever. 
 Nor is it claimed that the actual order of the writing is pre¬ 
 cisely followed in every particular: in fact, this order has not 
 yet been fully settled, and probably never will be; though, 
 to be sure, something considerable has been done towards 
 such settlement within the last few years. 
 
 I must not let this Preface go without expressing a very 
 deep and lively sense of my obligations to Mr. Joseph Crosby. 
 The work of preparing this edition was set about in good 
 earnest on the 23d of April, 1873, an d h as been the main 
 burden of my thought and care ever since. From that time 
 to the present, a frequent and steady correspondence, of the 
 greatest use and interest to me, has been passing between 
 Mr. Crosby and myself. The results thereof are in some 
 measure made apparent in my Critical Notes, and still more 
 in the foot-notes ; but, after all, a very large, if not the larger, 
 portion of the benefit I have received is not capable of being 
 put in definite form, and having credit given for it in detail. 
 Indeed, I owe him much, — much in the shape of distinctly- 
 usable matter, but more in the way of judicious counsel, 
 kindly encouragement, and friendship steadfast and true. 
 
 Cambridge, August 2 , 1880. 
 

 4 
 
LIFE 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE 
 
 S HAKESPEARE * is, by general suffrage, the greatest 
 name in literature. There can be no extravagance in 
 saying, that to all who speak the English language his genius 
 has made the world better worth living in, and life a nobler 
 and diviner thing. And even among those who do not 
 “speak the tongue that Shakespeare spake,” large numbers 
 are studying the English language mainly for the purpose 
 of being at home with him. How he came to be what he 
 was, and to do what he did, are questions that can never 
 cease to be interesting, wherever his works are known, and 
 men’s powers of thought in any fair measure developed. 
 But Providence has left a veil, or rather a cloud, about his 
 history, so that these questions are not likely to be satisfac¬ 
 torily answered. 
 
 The first formal attempt at an account of Shakespeare’s life 
 
 * Much discussion has been had in our time as to the right way of 
 spelling the Poet’s name. The few autographs of his that are extant do 
 not enable us to decide positively how he wrote his name; or rather they 
 show that he had no one constant way of writing it. But the Venus and 
 Adonis and the Lucrece were unquestionably published by his authority, 
 and in the dedications of both these poems the name is printed “ Shake¬ 
 speare.” The same holds in all the quarto issues of his plays, where the 
 author’s name is given, with the one exception of Love's Labours Lost , which 
 has it “ Shakespere ” ; as it also holds in the folio. And in very many of 
 these cases the name is printed with a hyphen, “ Shake-speare,” as if on 
 purpose that there might be no mistake about it. All which, surely, is or 
 ought to be decisive as to how the Poet willed his name to be spelt in 
 print. Inconstancy in the spelling of names was very common in his time. 
 
2 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 was made by Nicholas Rowe, and the result thereof pub¬ 
 lished in 1709, ninety-three years after the Poet’s death. 
 Rowe’s account was avowedly made up, for the most part, 
 from traditionary materials collected by Betterton the actor, 
 who made a visit to Stratford expressly for that purpose. 
 Betterton was born in 1635, nineteen years after the death 
 of Shakespeare; became an actor before 1660, retired from 
 the stage about 1700, and died in 1710. At what time he 
 visited Stratford is not known. It is to be regretted that 
 Rowe did not give Betterton’s authorities for the particulars 
 gathered by him. It is certain, however, that very good 
 sources- of information were accessible in his time : Judith 
 Quiney, the Poet’s second daughter, lived till 1662 ; Lady 
 Barnard, his granddaughter, till 1670; and Sir William 
 Davenant, who in his youth had known Shakespeare, was 
 manager of the theatre in which Betterton acted. 
 
 After Rowe’s account, scarce any thing was added till 
 the time of Malone, who by a learned and most industrious 
 searching of public and private records brought to light a 
 considerable number of facts, some of them very important, 
 touching the Poet and his family. And in our own day Mr. 
 Collier has followed up the inquiry with very great diligence, 
 and with no inconsiderable success; though, unfortunately, 
 much of the matter supplied by him has been discredited 
 as unauthentic, by those from whom there is in such cases 
 no appeal. Lastly, Mr. Halliwell has given his intelligent 
 and indefatigable labours to the same task, and made some 
 valuable additions to our stock. 
 
 The lineage of William Shakespeare, on the paternal 
 side, has not been traced further back than his grandfather. 
 The name, which in its composition smacks of brave old 
 knighthood and chivalry, was frequent in Warwickshire from 
 an early period. 
 
 The father of our Poet was John Shakespeare, who is 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 3 
 
 found living at Stratford-on-Avon in 1552. He was most 
 likely a native of Snitterfield, a village three miles from Strat¬ 
 ford ; as we find a Richard Shakespeare living there in 1550, 
 and occupying a house and land owned by Robert Arden, 
 the maternal grandfather of our Poet. This appears from a 
 deed executed July 17, 1550, in which Robert Arden con¬ 
 veyed certain lands and tenements in Snitterfield, described 
 as being “now in the tenure of one Richard Shakespeare,” 
 to be held in trust for three daughters “ after the death of 
 Robert and Agnes Arden.” 
 
 An entry in a Court Roll, dated April, 1552, ascertains 
 that John Shakespeare was living in Stratford at that time. 
 And an entry in the Bailiff’s Court, dated June, 1556, describes 
 him as “John Shakespeare, of Stratford in the county of 
 Warwick, glover.-' In 1558, the same John Shakespeare, and 
 four others, one of whom was Francis Burbage, then at the 
 head of the corporation, were fined four pence each “for 
 not keeping their gutters clean.” 
 
 There is ample proof that at this period John Shake¬ 
 speare’s affairs were in a thriving condition. In October, 
 1556, he became the owner of two copyhold estates, one of 
 them consisting of a house with a garden and a croft at¬ 
 tached to it, the other of a house and garden. As these 
 were estates of inheritance, the tenure was nearly equal to 
 freehold; so that he must have been pretty well-to-do in the 
 world at the time. For several years after, his circum¬ 
 stances continued to improve. Before 1558, he became the 
 owner, by marriage, of a farm at Wilmecote, consisting of 
 fifty-six acres, besides two houses and two gardens; more¬ 
 over, he held, in right of his wife, a considerable share in a 
 property at Snitterfield. Another addition to his property 
 was made in 1575, — a freehold estate, bought for the sum 
 of £40, and described as consisting of “two houses, two 
 gardens, and two orchards, with their appurtenances.” 
 
4 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Several other particulars have been discovered, which go 
 to ascertain his wealth as compared with that of other 
 Stratford citizens. In 1564, the year of the Poet’s birth, 
 a malignant fever, called the plague, invaded Stratford. Its 
 hungriest period was from the last of June to the last of 
 December, during which time it swept off two hundred and 
 thirty-eight persons out of a population of about fourteen 
 hundred. None of the Shakespeare family are found among 
 its victims. Large draughts were made upon the charities 
 of the town on account of this frightful visitation. In 
 August, the citizens held a meeting in the open air, from 
 fear of infection, and various sums were contributed for the 
 relief of the poor. The High-Bailiff gave 3 s. 4 d. y the 
 head-alderman 2 s. 8ff.; John Shakespeare, being then only 
 a burgess, gave 12 d .; and in the list of burgesses there 
 were but two who gave more. Other donations were made 
 for the same cause, he bearing a proportionable share in 
 them. 
 
 We have seen that in June, 1556, John Shakespeare was 
 termed a glover. In November of the same year he is 
 found bringing an action against one of his neighbours for 
 unjustly detaining a quantity of barley; which naturally 
 infers him to have been more or less engaged in agricul¬ 
 tural pursuits. It appears that at a later period agriculture 
 was his main pursuit, if not his only one; for the town 
 records show that in 1564 he was paid three shillings for a 
 piece of timber; and we find him described in 1575 as a 
 “ yeoman.” Rowe gives a tradition of his having been “ a 
 considerable dealer in wool.” It is nowise unlikely that 
 such may have been the case. The modern divisions of 
 labour and trade were then little known and less regarded; 
 several kinds of business being often carried on together, 
 which are now kept distinct; and we have special proof 
 that gloves and wool were apt to be united as articles of 
 trade. 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 5 
 
 I must next trace, briefly, the career of John Shakespeare 
 as a public officer in the Stratford corporation. After hold¬ 
 ing several minor offices, he was in 1558, and again in 1559, 
 chosen one of the four constables. In 1561 he was a sec- 
 ond time made one of the four affeerors, whose duty it was 
 to determine the fines for such offences as had no penalties 
 prescribed by statute. The same year, 1561, he was chosen 
 one of the chamberlains of the borough, a very responsible 
 office, which he held two years. Advancing steadily in the 
 public confidence, he became an alderman in 1565 ; and in 
 1568 was elected Bailiff, the highest honour the corporation 
 could bestow. He held this office a year. The series of 
 local honours conferred upon him ended with his being 
 chosen head-alderman in 1571; which office also he held 
 a year. The rule being “once an alderman always an 
 alderman,” unless positive action were taken to the con¬ 
 trary, he retained that office till 1586, when, for persevering 
 non-attendance at the meetings, he was deprived of his 
 gown. 
 
 After all these marks of public consequence, the reader 
 may be surprised to learn that John Shakespeare, the father 
 of the world’s greatest thinker and greatest poet, could not 
 write his name ! Such was undoubtedly the fact; and I 
 take pleasure in noting it, as showing, what is too apt to be 
 forgotten in these bookish days, that men may know several 
 things, and may have witty children, without being initiated 
 in the mysteries of pen and ink. In the borough records 
 for 1565 is an order signed by nineteen aldermen and 
 burgesses, calling upon John Wheler to undertake the office 
 of Bailiff. Of these signers thirteen are markmen, and 
 among them are the names of George Whately, then Bailiff, 
 Roger Sadler, head-alderman, and John Shakespeare. So 
 that there was nothing remarkable in his not being able to 
 wield a pen. As Bailiff of Stratford, he was ex officio a 
 
6 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 justice of the peace; and two warrants are extant, granted 
 by him in December, 1568, for the arrest of John Ball and 
 Richard Walcar on account of debts ; both of them bearing 
 witness that “ he had a mark to himself, like an honest, 
 plain-dealing man.” Several other cases in point are met 
 with at later periods; some of which show that his wife 
 stood on the same footing with him in this respect. In 
 October, 1579, John and Mary Shakespeare executed a 
 deed and bond for the transfer of their interest in certain 
 property; both of which are subscribed with their several 
 marks, and sealed with their respective seals. 
 
 John Shakespeare’s good fortune seems to have reached 
 its height about the year 1575, after which time we meet 
 with many clear tokens of his decline. It is not improbable 
 that his affairs may have got embarrassed from his having 
 too many irons in the fire. The registry of the Court of 
 Record, from 1555 to 1595, has a large number of entries 
 respecting him, which show him to have been engaged in 
 a great variety of transactions, and to have had more litiga¬ 
 tion on his hands than would now be thought either credi¬ 
 table or safe. But, notwithstanding his decline of fortune, 
 we have proofs as late as 1592 that he still retained the 
 confidence and esteem of his fellow-citizens. From that 
 time forward, his affairs were doubtless taken care of by 
 one who, as we shall see hereafter, was much interested 
 not to let them suffer, and also well able to keep them in 
 good trim. He was buried September 8, 1601 ; so that, 
 supposing him to have reached his majority when first heard 
 of in 1552, he must have passed the age of threescore-and- 
 ten. 
 
 On the maternal side, our Poet’s lineage was of a higher 
 rank, and may be traced further back. His mother was 
 Mary Arden, a name redolent of old poetry and romance. 
 The family of Arden was among the most ancient in War- 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 7 
 
 wickshire. Their history, as given by Dugdale, spreads 
 over six centuries. Sir John Arden was squire of the body 
 to Henry the Seventh ; and he had a nephew, the son of 
 a younger brother, who was page of the bedchamber to 
 the same monarch. These were at that time places of 
 considerable service and responsibility; and both the uncle 
 and the nephew were liberally rewarded by their royal 
 master. By conveyances dated in December, 1519, it ap¬ 
 pears that Robert Arden then became the owner of houses 
 and land in Snitterfield. Other purchases by him of lands 
 and houses are recorded from time to time. The Poet’s 
 maternal grandfather, also named Robert, died in 1556. In 
 his will, dated November 24th, and proved December 16th, 
 of that year, he makes special bequests to his “ youngest 
 daughter Mary,” and also appoints her and another daugh¬ 
 ter, named Alice, “full executors of this my last will and 
 testament.” On the whole, it is evident enough that he 
 was a man of good landed estate. Both he and John 
 Shakespeare appear to have been of that honest and sub¬ 
 stantial old English yeomanry from whose better-than-royal 
 stock and lineage the great Poet of Nature might most fitly 
 fetch his life and being. Of the Poet’s grandmother on 
 either side we know nothing whatever. 
 
 Mary Arden was the youngest of seven children, all of 
 them daughters. The exact time of her marriage is un¬ 
 certain, no registry of it having been found. She was not 
 married at the date of her father’s will, November, 1556. 
 Joan, the first-born of John and Mary Shakespeare, was 
 baptized in the parish church of Stratford-on-Avon, Sep¬ 
 tember 15, 1558. We have seen that at this time John 
 Shakespeare was well established and thriving in business, 
 and was making good headway in the confidence of the 
 Stratfordians, being one of the constables of the borough. 
 On the 2d of December, 1562, while he was chamberlain, 
 
8 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 his second child was christened Margaret. On the 26th of 
 April, 1564, was baptized “William, son of John Shake¬ 
 speare.” The day of his birth is not positively known, but 
 the general custom then was to baptize infants at three days 
 old, and the custom is justly presumed to have been fol¬ 
 lowed in this instance. Accordingly the 23d of April is 
 agreed upon everywhere throughout the English-speaking 
 world as the Poet’s birthday, and is often celebrated as such 
 with appropriate festivities. We have seen that throughout 
 the following Summer the destroyer was busy in Stratford, 
 making fearful spoil of her sons and daughters ; but it spared 
 the babe on whose life hung the fate of English literature. 
 Other children were added to the family, to the number of 
 eight, several of them dying in the mean time. On the 15th 
 of April, 1569, their third daughter was christened Joan, the 
 first having died in infancy. On the 28th of September, 
 1571, soon after the father became head-alderman, a fourth 
 daughter was baptized Anne. Hitherto the parish register 
 has known him only as John Shakespeare : in this case it 
 designates him “Master Shakespeare ” ; and in all cases 
 after this the name is written with that significant prefix. 
 From which it appears that by holding the offices of High- 
 Bailiff and Head-Alderman he had gained for himself the 
 rank and title of Gentleman . Such rank and title, however, 
 so gained, were personal only, and were not transmissible to 
 his children. 
 
 Nothing further is heard of Mrs. Mary Shakespeare till 
 her death in 1608. On the 9th of September, that year, 
 the parish register notes the burial of “ Mary Shakespeare, 
 widow,” her husband having died seven years before. That 
 she had in a special degree the confidence and affection of 
 her father, is apparent from the treatment she received in 
 his will. It would be very gratifying, no doubt, perhaps 
 very instructive also, to be let into the domestic life and 
 
Stratford-on-Avon. 
 

 
 
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LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 9 
 
 character of the Poet’s mother. That both her nature and 
 her discipline entered largely into his composition, and had 
 much to do in making him what he was, can hardly be 
 questioned. Whatsoever of woman’s beauty and sweetness 
 and wisdom was expressed in her life and manners could 
 not but be caught and repeated in his susceptive and fertile 
 mind. He must have grown familiar with the noblest parts 
 of womanhood somewhere ; and I can scarce conceive how 
 he should have learned them so well, but that the light and 
 glory of them beamed upon him from his mother. At the 
 time of her death, the Poet was in his forty-fifth year, and 
 had already produced those mighty works which were to fill 
 the world with his fame. For some years she must in all 
 likelihood have been more or less under his care and pro¬ 
 tection ; as her age, at the time of her death, could not 
 well have been less than seventy. 
 
 And here I am minded to notice a point which, it seems 
 to me, has been somewhat overworked within the last few 
 years. Gervinus, the German critic, thinks — and our Mr. 
 Grant White agrees with him — that Shakespeare acquired 
 all his best ideas of womanhood after he went to London, 
 and conversed with the ladies of the city. And in support 
 of this notion they cite the fact — for such it is — that the 
 women of his later plays are much superior to those of his 
 earlier ones. But are not the men of his later plays quite 
 as much superior to the men of his first ? Are not his later 
 plays as much better every way , as in respect of the female 
 characters ? The truth seems to be, that Shakespeare saw 
 more of great and good in both man and woman, as he be¬ 
 came older and knew them better; for he was full of intel¬ 
 lectual righteousness in this as in other things. And in this 
 matter it may with something of special fitness be said that 
 a man finds what he brings with him the faculty for finding. 
 Shakespeare’s mind did not stay on the surface of things. 
 
10 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Probably there never was a man more alive to the presence 
 of humble, modest worth. And to his keen yet kindly eye 
 the plain-thoughted women of his native Stratford may well 
 have been as pure, as sweet, as lovely, as rich in all the 
 inward graces which he delighted to unfold in his female 
 characters, as any thing he afterwards found among the fine 
 ladies of the metropolis; albeit I mean no disparagement to 
 these latter; for the Poet was by the best of all rights a gen¬ 
 tleman, and the ladies who pleased him in London doubt¬ 
 less had sense and womanhood enough to recognize him as 
 such. At all events, it is reasonable to suppose that the 
 foundations of his mind were laid before he left Stratford, 
 and that the gatherings of the boy’s eye and heart were the 
 germs of the man’s thoughts. 
 
 We have seen our Poet springing from what may be justly 
 termed the best vein of old English life. At the time of 
 his birth, his parents, considering the purchases previously 
 made by the father, and the portion inherited by the mother, 
 must have been tolerably well off. Malone, reckoning only 
 the bequests specified in her father’s will, estimated Mary 
 Shakespeare’s fortune to be not less than £110. Later re¬ 
 searches have brought to light considerable items of prop¬ 
 erty that were unknown to Malone. Supposing her fortune 
 to have been as good as ^150 then, it would go nearly if 
 not quite as far as $5000 in our time. So that the Poet 
 passed his boyhood in just about that medium state between 
 poverty and riches which is accounted most favourable to 
 health of body and mind. 
 
 At the time when his father became High-Bailiff the Poet 
 was in his fifth year; old enough to understand something 
 of what would be said and done in the home of an English 
 magistrate, and to take more or less interest in the duties, 
 the hospitalities, and perhaps the gayeties incident to the 
 headship of the borough. It would seem that the Poet 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. II 
 
 came honestly by his inclination to the Drama. During 
 his term of office, John Shakespeare is found acting in his 
 public capacity as a patron of the stage. The chamberlain’s 
 accounts show that twice in the course of that year money 
 was paid to different companies of players; and these are 
 the earliest notices we have of theatrical performances in 
 that ancient town. The Bailiff and his son William were 
 most likely present at those performances. From that time 
 forward, all through the Poet’s youth, probably no year 
 passed without similar exhibitions at Stratford. In 1572, 
 however, an act was passed for restraining itinerant players, 
 whereby, unless they could show a patent under the great 
 seal, they became liable to be proceeded against as vaga¬ 
 bonds, for performing without a license from the local 
 authorities. Nevertheless, the chamberlain’s accounts show 
 that between 1569 and 1587 no less than ten distinct com¬ 
 panies performed at Stratford under the patronage of the 
 corporation. In 1587, five of those companies are found 
 performing there ; and within the period just mentioned the 
 Earl of Leicester’s men are noted on three several occasions 
 as receiving money from the town treasury. In May, 1574, 
 the Earl of Leicester obtained a patent under the great seal, 
 enabling his players, James Burbage and four others, to ex¬ 
 ercise their art in any part of the kingdom except London. 
 In 1587, this company became “The Lord Chamberlain’s 
 servants ”; and we shall in due time find Shakespeare be¬ 
 longing to it. James Burbage was the father of Richard 
 Burbage, probably the greatest actor of that age. The fam¬ 
 ily was most likely from Warwickshire, and perhaps from 
 Stratford, as we have already met with the name in that 
 town. Such were the opportunities our embryo Poet had 
 for catching the first rudiments of the art in which he after¬ 
 wards displayed such mastery. 
 
 The forecited accounts have an entry, in 1564, of two 
 
12 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 shillings “paid for defacing image in the chapel.” Even 
 then the excesses generated out of the Reformation were 
 invading such towns as Stratford, and waging a “ crusade 
 against the harmless monuments of the ancient belief; no 
 exercise of taste being suffered to interfere with what was 
 considered a religious duty.” In these exhibitions of stroll¬ 
 ing players this spirit found matter, no doubt, more deserv¬ 
 ing of its hostility. While the Poet was yet a boy, a bitter 
 war of books and pamphlets had begun against plays and 
 players; and the Stratford records inform us of divers at¬ 
 tempts to suppress them in that town; but the issue proves 
 that the Stratfordians were not easily beaten from that sort 
 of entertainment, in which they evidently took great delight. 
 
 We have seen that both John and Mary Shakespeare, in¬ 
 stead of writing their name, were so far disciples of Jack 
 Cade as to use the more primitive way of making their mark. 
 It nowise follows from this that they could not read; neither 
 have we any certain evidence that they could. Be this as 
 it may, there was no good reason why their children should 
 not be able to say, “ I thank God, I have been so well brought 
 up, that I can write my name.” A Free-School had been 
 founded at Stratford by Thomas Jolyffe in the reign of Ed¬ 
 ward the Fourth. In 1553, King Edward the Sixth granted 
 a charter, giving it a legal status, with legal rights and duties, 
 under the name of “The King’s New School of Stratford- 
 upon-Avon.” What particular course or method of instruc¬ 
 tion was used there, we have no certain knowledge; but it 
 was probably much the same as that used in other like 
 schools of that period; which included the elementary 
 branches of English, and also the rudiments of classical 
 learning. 
 
 Here it was, no doubt, that Shakespeare acquired the 
 “ small Latin and less Greek ” which Ben Jonson accords 
 to him. What was “ small ” learning in the eyes of such a 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 13 
 
 scholar as Jonson, may yet have been something handsome 
 in itself ; and his remark may fairly imply that the Poet had 
 at least the regular free-school education of the time. Hon¬ 
 ourably ambitious, as his father seems to have been, of being 
 somebody, it is not unlikely that he may have prized learning 
 the more for being himself without it. William was his old¬ 
 est son; when his fortune began to ebb, the Poet was in his 
 fourteenth year, and, from his native qualities of mind, we 
 cannot doubt that, up to that time at least,' “ all the learnings 
 that his town could make him the receiver of he took, as we 
 do air, fast as ’twas minister’d, and in his Spring became a 
 harvest.” 
 
 The honest but credulous gossip Aubrey, who died about 
 1700, states, on the authority of one Beeston, that “ Shake¬ 
 speare understood Latin pretty well, for he had been in his 
 younger years a schoolmaster in the country.” The state¬ 
 ment may fairly challenge some respect, inasmuch as per¬ 
 sons of the name of Beeston were connected with the stage 
 before Shakespeare’s death and long afterwards. And it is 
 not unlikely that the Poet may, at some time, have been an 
 assistant teacher in the free-school at Stratford. Nor does 
 this conflict with Rowe’s account, which states that John 
 Shakespeare kept William at the free-school for some time; 
 but that straitness of circumstances and need of help forced 
 him to withdraw his son from the school. Though writing 
 from tradition, Rowe was evidently careful, and what he says 
 agrees perfectly with what later researches have established 
 respecting John Shakespeare’s course of fortune. He also 
 tells us that the Poet’s father “ could give him no better 
 education than his own employment.” John Shakespeare, 
 as we have seen, was so far occupied with agriculture as to 
 be legally styled a “ yeoman.” Nor am I sure but the an¬ 
 cient functions of an English yeoman’s oldest son might be 
 a better education for what the Poet afterwards accomplished 
 
14 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 than was to be had at any free-school or university in Eng¬ 
 land. His large and apt use of legal terms and phrases has 
 induced many good Shakespearians. learned in the law to 
 believe that he must have been for some time a student of 
 that noble science. It is indeed difficult to understand how 
 he could have spoken as he often does, without some study 
 in the law; but, as he seems thoroughly at home in the 
 specialties of many callings, it is possible his knowledge in 
 the law may have grown from the large part his father had, 
 either as magistrate or litigant, in legal transactions. I am 
 sure he either studied divinity or else had a strange gift of 
 knowing it without studying it; and his ripeness in the knowl¬ 
 edge of disease and of the healing art is a standing marvel 
 to the medical faculty. 
 
 Knight has speculated rather copiously and romantically 
 upon the idea of Shakespeare’s having been a spectator of 
 the more-than-royal pomp and pageantry with which the 
 Queen was entertained by Leicester at Kenilworth in 1575. 
 Stratford was fourteen miles from Kenilworth, and the Poet 
 was then eleven years old. That his ears were assailed and 
 his imagination excited by the fame of that magnificent dis¬ 
 play cannot be doubted, for all that part of the kingdom was 
 laid under contribution to supply it, and was resounding with 
 the noise of it; but his father was not of a rank to be sum¬ 
 moned or invited thither, nor was he of an age to go thither 
 without his father. Positive evidence either way on the point 
 there is none; nor can I discover any thing in his plays that 
 would fairly infer him to have drunk in the splendour of that 
 occasion, however the fierce attractions thereof may have 
 kindled a mind so brimful of poetry and life. The whole 
 matter is an apt theme for speculation, and for nothing else. 
 
 The gleanings of tradition apart, the first knowledge that 
 has reached us of the Poet, after his baptism, has reference 
 to his marriage. Rowe tells us that “ he thought fit to marry 
 
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LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 15 
 
 while he was very young,” and that “ his wife was the daugh¬ 
 ter of one Hathaway, said to have been a substantial yeoman 
 in the neighbourhood of Stratford.” These statements are 
 borne out by later disclosures. The marriage took place in 
 the Fall of 1582, when the Poet was in his nineteenth year. 
 On the 28th of November, that year, Fulk Sandels and John 
 Richardson subscribed a bond whereby they became liable 
 in the sum of ^40, to be forfeited to the Bishop of Worces¬ 
 ter in case there should be found any lawful impediment to 
 the marriage of William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, 
 of Stratford; the object being to procure such a dispensa¬ 
 tion from the Bishop as would authorize the ceremony after 
 once publishing the banns. The original bond is preserved 
 at Worcester, with the marks and seals of the two bondsmen 
 affixed, and also bearing a seal with the initials R. H., as if 
 to show that some legal representative of the bride’s father, 
 Richard Hathaway, was present and consenting to the act. 
 There was nothing peculiar in the transaction; the bond is 
 just the same as was usually given in such cases, and several 
 others like it are to be seen at the office of the Worcester 
 registry. 
 
 The parish books all about Stratford and Worcester have 
 been ransacked, but no record of the marriage has been dis¬ 
 covered. The probability is, that the ceremony took place 
 in some one of the neighbouring parishes where the registers 
 of that period have not been preserved. 
 
 Anne Hathaway was of Shottery, a pleasant village situate 
 within an easy walk of Stratford, and belonging to the same 
 parish. No record of her baptism has come to light, but 
 the baptismal register of Stratford did not begin till 1558. 
 She died on the 6th of August, 1623, and the inscription on 
 her monument gives her age as sixty-seven years. Her birth, 
 therefore, must have been in 1556, eight years before that 
 of her husband. 
 
16 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From certain precepts, dated in 1566, and lately found 
 among the papers of the Stratford Court of Record, it 
 appears that the relations between John Shakespeare and 
 Richard Hathaway were of a very friendly sort. Hatha¬ 
 way’s will was made September 1, 1581, and proved July 
 19, 1582, which shows him to have died a few months 
 before the marriage of his daughter Anne. The will makes 
 good what Rowe says of his being “ a substantial yeoman.” 
 He appoints Fulk Sandals one of the supervisors of his 
 will, and among the witnesses to it is the name of William 
 Gilbert, then curate of Stratford. One item of the will is, 
 “ I owe unto Thomas Whittington, my shepherd, ^4, 6 s. 
 8*/.” Whittington died in 1601; and in his will he gives 
 and bequeaths “ unto the poor people of Stratford 40 j-. that 
 is in the hand of Anne Shakespeare, wife unto Mr. William 
 Shakespeare.” The careful old shepherd had doubtless 
 placed the money in Anne Shakespeare’s hand for safe 
 keeping, she being a person in whom he had confidence. 
 
 The Poet’s match was evidently a love-match : whether 
 the love was of that kind which forms the best pledge of 
 wedded happiness, is another question. It is not unlikely 
 that the marriage may have been preceded by the ancient 
 ceremony of troth-plight, or handfast , as it was sometimes 
 called; like that which almost takes place between Florizel 
 and Perdita in The Winter's Tale , and quite takes place be¬ 
 tween Olivia and Sebastian in Twelfth Night. The custom 
 of troth-plight was much used in that age, and for a long 
 time after. In some places it had the force and effect of an 
 actual marriage. Serious evils, however, sometimes grew out 
 of it; and the Church of England did wisely, no doubt, in 
 uniting the troth-plight and the ^marriage in one and the 
 same ceremony. Whether such solemn betrothment had 
 or had not taken place between William Shakespeare and 
 Anne Hathaway, it is certain from the parish register that 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 1 7 
 
 they had a daughter, Susanna, baptized on the 26th of May, 
 
 1 5 s 3 - 
 
 Some of the Poet’s later biographers and critics have sup¬ 
 posed he was not happy in his marriage. Certain passages 
 of his plays, especially the charming dialogue between the 
 Duke and the disguised Viola in Act ii., scene 4, of Twelfth 
 Night , have been cited as involving some reference to the 
 Poet’s own case, or as having been suggested by what him¬ 
 self had experienced of the evils resulting from the wedlock 
 of persons a misgraffed in respect of years.” There was 
 never any thing 15 ut sheer conjecture for this notion. Rowe 
 mentions nothing of the kind; and we may be sure that; 
 his candour would not have spared the Poet, had tradition 
 offered him any such matter. As for the passages in ques¬ 
 tion, I know no reason for excepting them from the acknowl¬ 
 edged purity and disinterestedness of the Poet’s representa¬ 
 tions ; where nothing is more remarkable, or more generally 
 commended, than his singular aloofness of self, his perfect 
 freedom from every thing bordering upon egotism. 
 
 Mr. Grant White is especially hard upon the Poet’s wife, 
 worrying up the matter against her, and fairly tormenting 
 the poor woman’s memory. Now the facts about the mar¬ 
 riage are just precisely as I have stated them. I confess 
 they are not altogether such as I should wish them to have 
 been; but I can see no good cause why prurient inference 
 or speculation should busy itself in going behind them. If, 
 however, conjecture must be at work on those facts, surely 
 it had better run in the direction of charity, especially as 
 regards the weaker vessel. I say weaker vessel, because in 
 this case the man must in common fairness be supposed to 
 have had the advantage at least as much in natural strength 
 of understanding as the woman had in years. And as 
 Shakespeare was, by all accounts, a very attractive person, 
 it is not quite clear why she had not as good a right to lose 
 
i8 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 her heart in his company as he had to lose his in hers. 
 Probably she was as much smitten as he was; and we may 
 well remember in her behalf, that love’s “ favourite seat is 
 feeble woman’s breast ” ; especially as there is not a particle 
 of evidence that her life after marriage was ever otherwise 
 than clear and honourable. And indeed it will do no hurt 
 to remember in reference to them both, how 
 
 ’Tis affirm’d 
 
 By poets skill’d in Nature’s secret ways, 
 
 That Love will not submit to be controll’d 
 By mastery. 
 
 In support of his view, Mr. White urges, among other 
 things, that most foul and wicked fling which Leontes, in 
 his mad rapture of jealousy, makes against his wife, in Act i., 
 scene 2, of The Winter's Tale. He thinks the Poet could 
 not have written that and other strains of like import, but 
 that he was stung into doing so by his own bitter experience 
 of “ sorrow and shame”; and the argument is that, suppos¬ 
 ing him to have had such a root of bitterness in his life, he 
 must have been thinking of that while writing those pas¬ 
 sages. The obvious answer is, To be sure, he must have 
 been thinking of that; but then he must have known that 
 others would think of it too; and a reasonable delicacy on 
 his part would have counselled the withholding of any thing 
 that he was conscious might be applied to his own domestic 
 affairs. Sensible men do not write in their public pages 
 such things as would be almost sure to breed or foster scan¬ 
 dal about their own names or their own homes. The man 
 that has a secret cancer on his person will naturally be the 
 last to speak of cancers in reference to others. I can hardly 
 think Shakespeare was so wanting in a sense of propriety as 
 to have written the passages in question, but that he knew 
 no man could say he was exposing the foulness of his own 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 19 
 
 nest. So that my inferences in the matter are just the re¬ 
 verse of Mr. White’s. As for the alleged need of personal 
 experience in order to the writing of such things, why should 
 not this hold just as well in regard, for instance, to Lady 
 Macbeth’s pangs of guilt? Shakespeare’s prime character¬ 
 istic was, that he knew the truth of Nature in all such things 
 without the help of personal experience. 
 
 Mr. White presumes, moreover, that Anne Shakespeare 
 was a coarse, low, vulgar creature, such as, the fascination 
 of the honeymoon once worn off, the Poet could not choose 
 but loathe and detest; and that his betaking himself to Lon¬ 
 don was partly to escape from her hated society. This, 
 too, is all sheer conjecture, and rather lame at that. That 
 Shakespeare was more or less separated from his wife for a 
 number of years, cannot indeed be questioned; but that he 
 ever found or ever sought relief or comfort in such separa¬ 
 tion, is what we have no warrant for believing. It was 
 simply forced upon him by the necessities of his condition. 
 The darling object of his London life evidently was, that 
 he might return to his native town, with a handsome com¬ 
 petence, and dwell in the bosom of his family; and the 
 yearly visits, which tradition reports him to have made to 
 Stratford, look like any thing but a wish to forget them or 
 be forgotten by them. From what is known of his sub¬ 
 sequent life, it is certain that he had, in large measure, that 
 honourable ambition, so natural to an English gentleman, 
 of being the founder of a family; and as soon as he had 
 reached the hope of doing so, he retired to his old home, 
 and there set up his rest, as if his best sunshine of life still 
 waited on the presence of her from whose society he is 
 alleged to have fled away in disappointment and disgust. 
 
 On the 2d of February, 1585, two more children, twins, 
 were christened in the parish church as “ Hamnet and Ju¬ 
 dith, son and daughter to William Shakespeare.” We hear 
 
20 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 of no more children being added to the family. I must 
 here so far anticipate as to observe, that the son Hamnet 
 was buried in August, 1596, being then in his twelfth year. 
 This is the first severe home-stroke known to have lighted 
 on the Poet. 
 
 Tradition has been busy with the probable causes of 
 Shakespeare’s going upon the stage. Several causes have 
 been assigned; such as, first, a natural inclination to poetry 
 and acting; second, a deer-stealing frolic, which resulted in 
 making Stratford too hot for him; third, the pecuniary em¬ 
 barrassments of his father. It is not unlikely that all these 
 causes, and perhaps others, may have concurred in prompt¬ 
 ing the step. 
 
 For the first, we have the testimony of Aubrey, who was 
 at Stratford probably about the year 1680. He was an in¬ 
 veterate hunter after anecdotes, and seems to have caught 
 up, without sifting, whatever quaint or curious matter came 
 in his way. So that no great reliance can attach to what he 
 says, unless it is sustained by other authority. But in this 
 case his words sound like truth, and are supported by all the 
 likelihoods that can grow from what we should presume to 
 have been the Poet’s natural turn of mind. “This William,” 
 says he, “ being inclined naturally to poetry and acting, came 
 to London, I guess, about eighteen, and was an actor in one 
 of the playhouses, and did act exceedingly well. He began 
 early to make essays in dramatic poetry, which at that time 
 was very low, and his plays took well. He was a hand¬ 
 some, well-shaped man, very good company, and of a very 
 ready and pleasant smooth wit. Ben Jonson and he did 
 gather humours of men daily wherever they came.” 
 
 Now the Drama was then a great and rising institution in 
 England, and of course the dramatic interest had its centre 
 in the metropolis. And, from what Shakespeare actually 
 accomplished in the Drama, it is evident that he must have 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 21 
 
 had a great natural genius for just that sort of thing. Such 
 genius has corresponding instincts, which are uneasy and 
 restless till they find their natural place, but spontaneously 
 recognize and take to that place on meeting with it. So, 
 when dramatic performances fell under the youthful Shake¬ 
 speare’s eye, his genius could hardly fail to be strongly kin¬ 
 dled towards the Drama as its native and proper element; 
 the pre-established harmony thus instinctively prompting and 
 guiding him to the work for which his mind was specially 
 attuned, and in which it would be most at home. This, no 
 doubt, was the prmcipal cause of his betaking himself to the 
 stage. Nothing further was wanting but an answering oppor¬ 
 tunity ; and this was supplied by the passion for dramatic 
 entertainments which then pervaded all ranks of the English 
 people. 
 
 The deer-stealing matter as given by Rowe is as follows : 
 That Shakespeare fell into the company of some wild fellows 
 who were in the habit of stealing deer, and who drew him 
 into robbing a park owned by Sir Thomas Lucy, of Charle- 
 cote, near Stratford. That, being prosecuted for this, he 
 lampooned Sir Thomas in some bitter verses; which made 
 the Knight so sharp after him, that he had to steal himself 
 off and take shelter in London. 
 
 Several have attempted to refute this story; but the main 
 substance of it stands approved by too much strength of 
 credible tradition to be easily overthrown. And it is certain 
 from public records that the Lucys had great power at Strat¬ 
 ford, and were not seldom engaged in disputes with the 
 corporation. Mr. Halliwell met with an old record entitled 
 “ the names of them that made the riot upon Master Thomas 
 Lucy, Esquire.” Thirty-five inhabitants of Stratford, chiefly 
 tradespeople, are named in the list, but no Shakespeares 
 among them. 
 
 Knight, over-zealous in the Poet’s behalf, will not allow 
 
22 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 any thing to be true that infers the least moral blemish in 
 his life : he therefore utterly discredits the story in question, 
 and hunts it down with arguments more ingenious than 
 sound. In writing biography, special-pleading is not good ; 
 and I would fain avoid trying to make the Poet out any 
 better than he was. Little as we know about him, it is evi¬ 
 dent enough that he had bis frailties, and ran into divers 
 faults, both as a poet and as a man. And when we hear 
 him confessing, as he does in one of his Sonnets, “Most 
 true it is, that I have look’d on truth askance and strangely ” ; 
 we may be sure he was but too conscious of things that 
 needed to be forgiven; and that he was as far as any one 
 from wishing his faults to pass for virtues. Deer-stealing, 
 however, was then a kind of fashionable sport, and whatever 
 might be its legal character, it was not morally regarded as 
 involving any criminality or disgrace. So that the whole 
 thing may be justly treated as a mere youthful frolic, wherein 
 there might indeed be some indiscretion, and a deal of vexa¬ 
 tion to the person robbed, but no stain on the party engaged 
 in it. 
 
 The precise time of the Poet’s leaving Stratford is not 
 known; but we cannot well set it down as later than 1586. 
 His children, Hamnet and Judith, were born, as I have said, 
 in the early part of 1585 ; and for several years before that 
 time his father’s affairs were drooping. The prosecutions of 
 Sir Thomas Lucy, added to his father’s straitness of means, 
 may well have made him desirous of quitting Stratford; 
 while the meeting of inclination and opportunity in his ac¬ 
 quaintance with the players may have determined him where 
 to go, and what to do. The company were already in a 
 course of thrift; the demand for their labours was growing; 
 and he might well see, in their fellowship, a chance of re¬ 
 trieving, as he did retrieve, his father’s fortune. 
 
 Of course there need be no question that Shakespeare 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 23 
 
 held at first a subordinate rank in the theatre. Dowdal, 
 writing in 1693, tells us “he was received into the play¬ 
 house as a servitor ” ; which probably means that he started 
 as an apprentice to some actor of standing, — a thing not 
 unusual at the time. It will readily be believed that he 
 could not be in such a place long without recommending 
 himself to a higher one. As for the well-known story of 
 his being reduced to the extremity of “picking up a little 
 money by taking care of the gentlemen’s horses that came 
 to the play,” I cannot perceive the slightest likelihood of 
 truth in it. The first we hear of it is in The Lives of the 
 Poets , written by a Scotchman named Shiels, and published 
 under the name of Cibber, in 1753. The story is there said 
 to have passed through Rowe in coming to the writer. If 
 so, then Rowe must have discredited it, else, surely, he 
 would not have omitted so remarkable a passage. Be that 
 as it may, the station which the Poet’s family had long held 
 at Stratford, and the fact of his having influential friends at 
 hand from Warwickshire, are enough to stamp it as an arrant 
 fiction. 
 
 We have seen that the company of Burbage and his fel¬ 
 lows held a patent under the great seal, and in 1587 took 
 the title of “The Lord Chamberlain’s Servants.” Eleven 
 years before this time, in 1576, they had started the Black- 
 friars theatre, so named from a monastery that had formerly 
 stood on or near the same ground. Hitherto the several 
 bands of players had made use of halls, or temporary erec¬ 
 tions in the streets or the inn-yards, stages being set up, 
 and the spectators standing below, or occupying galleries 
 about the open space. In 1577, two other playhouses were 
 in operation; and still others sprang up from time to time. 
 The Blackfriars and some others were without the limits of 
 the corporation, in what were called “ the Liberties.” The 
 Mayor and Aldermen of London were from the first decid- 
 
24 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 edly hostile to all such establishments, and did their best to 
 exclude them the City and Liberties; but the Court, many 
 of the chief nobility, and, which was still more, the common 
 people favoured them. The whole mind indeed of Puritan¬ 
 ism was utterly down on stage-plays of all sorts and in every 
 shape. But it did not go to work the right way : it should 
 have stopped off the demand for them. This, however, it 
 could not do; for the Drama was at that time, as it long 
 had been, an intense national passion : the people would 
 have plays, and could not be converted from the love of 
 them. 
 
 From what we shall presently see, it would be unreason¬ 
 able not to suppose, that by the year 1590 the Poet was well 
 started in his dramatic career; and that the effect of his 
 cunning labours was beginning even then to be felt by his 
 senior fellows in that line. Allowing him to have entered 
 the theatre in 1586, when he was twenty-two years of age, 
 he must have made good use of his time, and worked on¬ 
 wards with surprising speed, during those four years ; though 
 whether he got ahead more by his acting or his writing, we 
 have no certain knowledge. In tragic parts, none of the 
 company could shine beside the younger Burbage; while 
 Greene, and still more Kempe, another of the band, left 
 small chance of distinction in comic parts. Aubrey, as be¬ 
 fore quoted, tells us that Shakespeare “was a handsome, 
 well-shaped man,” which is no slight matter on the stage; 
 and adds, “ He did act exceedingly well.” Rowe “ could 
 never meet with any further account of him this way, than 
 that the top of his performance was the Ghost in his own 
 Hamlet .” But this part, to be fairly dealt with, requires an 
 actor of no mean powers ; and, as Burbage is known to have 
 played the Prince, we may presume that “the Majesty of 
 buried Denmark ” would not be cast upon very inferior 
 hands. That the Poet was master of the theory of acting, 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 25 
 
 and could tell, none better, how the thing ought to be done, 
 is evident enough from Hamlet’s instructions to the players. 
 But it nowise follows that he could perform his own in¬ 
 structions. 
 
 Let us see now how matters stood some two years later. 
 One of the most popular and most profligate play-writers of 
 that time was Robert Greene, who, having been reduced to 
 beggary, and forsaken by his companions, died miserably 
 at the house of a poor shoemaker, in September, 1592. 
 Shortly after he died, his Groatsworth of Wit was given to 
 the public by Henry Chettle. Near the close of this tract, 
 Greene makes an address “ to those gentlemen his quondam 
 acquaintance, who spend their wits in making plays,” ex¬ 
 horting them to desist from such pursuits. One of those 
 “ gentlemen ” was Christopher Marlowe, distinguished alike 
 for poetry, profligacy, and profanity; the others were Thomas 
 Lodge and George Peele. Greene here vents a deal of fury 
 against the players, alleging that they have all been beholden 
 to him, yet have now forsaken him; and from thence infer¬ 
 ring that the three worthies whom he is exhorting will fare 
 no better at their hands. After which he goes on thus: 
 “Yes, trust them not; for there is an upstart crow beauti¬ 
 fied with our feathers, that, with his 1 tiger’s heart wrapp’d 
 in a player’s hide,’ supposes he is as well able to bombast 
 out a blank-verse as the best of you; and, being an absolute 
 Johamies Fac-totum , is in own conceit the only Shake-scene 
 in a country.” 
 
 Here the fling at Shakespeare is unmistakeable, and nobody 
 questions that he is the “ Shake-scene ” of the passage. The 
 terms of the allusion yield conclusive evidence as to how the 
 Poet stood in 1592. Though sneered at as a player, it is 
 plain that he was already throwing the other play-writers 
 into the shade, and making their labours cheap. Blank- 
 verse was Marlowe’s special forte, and some of his dramas 
 
26 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 show no little skill in the use of it; but here was “ an up¬ 
 start” from the country who was able to rival him in his own 
 line. Moreover, this Shake-scene was a Do-all, a Johannes 
 Fac-totum , who could turn his hand to any thing; and his 
 readiness to undertake what none others could do so well 
 naturally drew upon him the imputation of conceit from 
 those who envied his rising, and whose lustre was growing 
 dim in his light. 
 
 It appears that both Shakespeare and Marlowe were of¬ 
 fended at the liberties thus taken with them. For, before 
 the end of that same year, Chettle published a tract en¬ 
 titled Kind Hearf s Dream , wherein we have the following : 
 “ With neither of them that take offence was I acquainted ; 
 and with one of them [Marlowe] I care not if I never be: 
 the other I did not so much spare as since I wish I had; 
 because myself have seen his demeanour no less civil than 
 he excellent in the quality he professes : besides, divers of 
 worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which 
 argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that 
 approves his art.” 
 
 On the whole, we can readily pardon the malice of 
 Greene’s assault for the sake of this tribute, which it was 
 the means of drawing forth, to Shakespeare’s character as a 
 man and his cunning as a poet. The words “ excellent in 
 the quality he professes,” refer to the Poet’s acting; while 
 the term facetious is used, apparently, not in the sense it 
 now bears, but in that of felicitous or happy , as was com¬ 
 mon at that time. So it seems that Shakespeare already 
 had friends in London, some of them “ worshipful,” too, 
 who were strongly commending him as a poet, and who 
 were prompt to remonstrate with Chettle against the mean 
 slur cast upon him. 
 
 This naturally starts the inquiry, what dramas the Poet 
 had then written, to earn such praise. Greene speaks of 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 27 
 
 him as “ beautified with our feathers.” Probably there was 
 at least some plausible colour of truth in this charge. The 
 charge, I have no doubt, refers mainly to The Second and 
 Third Tarts of King Henry the Sixth. The two plays on 
 which these were founded were published, respectively, in 
 1594 and 1595, their titles being, The First Part of the 
 Contention betwixt the two famous Houses of York and 
 Lancaster , and The True Tragedy of Richard ’ Duke of 
 York. In the form there given, the plays have, as Mr. 
 White has clearly shown, along with much of Shakespeare’s 
 work, many unquestionable marks of Greene’s hand. All 
 those marks, however, were disciplined out of them, as they 
 have come down to us in Shakespeare’s works. There can 
 be no doubt, then, that Greene, and perhaps Marlowe also, 
 had a part in them as they were printed in 1594 and 1595, 
 though no author’s name was then given. Now it was 
 much the custom at that time for several playwrights to 
 work together. Of this we have many well-authenticated 
 instances. The most likely conclusion, therefore, is, that 
 these two plays in their original form were the joint work¬ 
 manship of Shakespeare, Greene, and Marlowe. Perhaps, 
 however, there was a still older form of the plays, written 
 entirely by Marlowe and Greene; which older form Shake¬ 
 speare, some time before Greene’s death, may have taken 
 in hand, and recast, retaining more or less of their matter, 
 and working it in with his own nobler stuff; for this was 
 often done also. Or, again, it may be that, before the time 
 in question, Shakespeare, not satisfied to be joint author 
 with them, had rewritten the plays, and purged them of 
 nearly all matter but what he might justly claim as his own; 
 thus making them as we now have them. 
 
 As regards the occasion of Greene’s assault, it matters 
 little which of these views we take, as in either case his 
 charge would have some apparent ground of truth. It is 
 
2 8 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 further probable that the same course of remark would 
 apply more or less to The Taming of the Shrew, and also 
 to Titus Andronicus. At all events, I have no doubt that 
 these four plays, together with The First Part of King 
 Henry the Sixth, The Comedy of Errors, The Two Gentle¬ 
 men of Verona , and Love's Labours Lost, in its first form, 
 were all written before the time of Greene’s death. Per¬ 
 haps the first shape, also, of Romeo and Juliet should be 
 added to this list. 
 
 My reasons for this opinion are too long to be stated here : 
 I can but observe that in these plays, as might be expected 
 from one who was modest and wished to learn, we have 
 much of imitation as distinguished from character, though 
 of imitation surpassing its models. And it seems to me that 
 no fair view can be had of the Poet’s mind, no justice done 
 to his art, but by carefully discriminating in his work what 
 grew from imitation, and what from character. For he evi¬ 
 dently wrote very much like others of his time, before he 
 learned to write like himself; that is, it was some time before 
 he found, by practice and experience, his own strength ; and 
 meanwhile lie relied more or less on the strength of custom 
 and example. Nor was it till he had surpassed others in 
 their way, that he hit upon that more excellent way in which 
 none could walk but he. 
 
 It has been quite too common to speak of Shakespeare as 
 a miracle of spontaneous genius, who did his best things by 
 force of instinct, not of art; and that, consequently, he was 
 nowise indebted to time and experience for the reach and 
 power which his dramas display. This is an “old fond 
 paradox ” which seems to have originated with those who 
 could not conceive how any man could acquire intellectual 
 skill without scholastic advantages; forgetting, apparently, 
 that several things, if not more, may be learned in the school 
 of Nature, provided one have an eye to read her “ open se- 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 29 
 
 crets ” without “ the spectacles of books.” This notion has 
 vitiated a good deal of Shakespearian criticism. Rowe had 
 something of it. “Art,” says he, “had so little, and Nature 
 so large a share in what Shakespeare did, that, for aught I 
 know, the performances of his youth were the best.” I think 
 decidedly otherwise ; and have grounds for doing so which 
 Rowe had not, in what has since been done towards ascer¬ 
 taining the chronology of the Poet’s plays. 
 
 It would seem from Chettle’s apology, that Shakespeare 
 was already beginning to attract liberal notice from that cir¬ 
 cle of brave and accomplished gentlemen which adorned the 
 state of Queen Elizabeth. Among the “ divers of worship,” 
 first and foremost stood, no doubt, the high-souled, the 
 generous Southampton, then in his twentieth year. Henry 
 Wriothesley, the third Earl of Southampton, was but eight 
 years old when his father died: the Southampton estates 
 were large; during the young Earl’s minority his interests 
 were in good hands, and the revenues accumulated; so that 
 on coming of age he had means answerable to his disposi¬ 
 tions. Moreover, he was a young man of good parts, of 
 studious habits, of cultivated tastes, and withal of a highly 
 chivalrous and romantic spirit: to all which he added the 
 honour of being the early and munificent patron of Shake¬ 
 speare. In 1593, the Poet published his Venus and Adonis , 
 with a modest and manly dedication to this nobleman, very 
 different from the usual high-flown style of literary adulation 
 then in vogue ; telling him, “ If your Honour seem but pleased, 
 I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage 
 of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver 
 labour.” In the dedication, he calls the poem “the first 
 heir of my invention.” Whether he dated its birth from the 
 writing or the publishing, does not appear: probably it had 
 been written some time; possibly before he left Stratford. 
 This was followed, the next year, by his Lucrece , dedicated 
 
30 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 to the same nobleman in a strain of more open and assured 
 friendship : “ The warrant I have of your honourable dispo¬ 
 sition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured 
 of acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to 
 do is yours.” 
 
 It was probably about this time that the event took place 
 which Rowe heard of through Sir William Davenant, that 
 Southampton at one time gave the Poet a thousand pounds, 
 to enable him to go through with a purchase which he knew 
 him to be desirous of making. Rowe might well scruple, as 
 he did, the story of so large a gift, — equal to nearly $ 30,000 
 in our time; but the fact of his scruples being overruled 
 shows that he had strong grounds for the statement. The 
 sum may indeed have been exaggerated; but all we know 
 of the Earl assures us that he could not but wish to make 
 a handsome return for the Ve?ius and Adonis ; and that what¬ 
 ever of the kind he did was bound to be something rich and 
 rare ; while it was but of a piece with his approved nobleness 
 of character, to feel more the honour he was receiving than 
 that he was conferring by such an act of generosity. Might 
 not this be what Shakespeare meant by “ the warrant I have 
 of your honourable disposition”? That the Earl was both 
 able and disposed to the amount alleged, need not be scru¬ 
 pled : tne only doubt has reference to the Poet’s occasions. 
 Let us see, then, what these may have been. 
 
 In December, 1593, Richard Burbage, who, his father 
 Having died or retired, was then the leader of the Black- 
 friars company, signed a contract for the building of the 
 Globe theatre. The Blackfriars was not accommodation 
 enough for the company’s uses, but was entirely covered-in, 
 and furnished suitably for the Winter. The Globe, made 
 larger, and designed for Summer use, was a round wooden 
 building, open to the sky, with the stage protected by an 
 overhanging roof. All things considered, then, it is not 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 31 
 
 incredible that the generous Earl may have bestowed even 
 as large a sum as a thousand pounds, to enable the Poet to 
 do what he wished towards the new enterprise. 
 
 The next authentic notice we have of Shakespeare is a 
 public tribute of admiration from the highest source that 
 could have yielded any thing of the sort at that time. In 
 1594, Edmund Spenser published his Colin Clout's Come 
 Home again , which has these lines : 
 
 And there, though last not least, is Action: 
 
 A gentler Shepherd may nowhere be found; 
 
 Whose Muse, full of high thought’s invention, 
 
 Doth , like himself heroically sound. 
 
 This was Spenser’s delicate way of suggesting the Poet’s 
 name. Ben Jonson has a like allusion in his lines, “ To the 
 Memory of my beloved Mr. William Shakespeare ” : 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance , 
 
 As brandish’d at the eyes of ignorance. 
 
 There can be little doubt, though we have no certain 
 knowledge on the point, that by this time the Poet’s genius 
 had sweetened itself into the good graces of Queen Eliza¬ 
 beth; as the irresistible compliment paid her in A Mid¬ 
 summer-Night's Dream could hardly have been of a later 
 date. It would be gratifying to know by what play he made 
 his first conquest of the Queen. That he did captivate her, 
 is told us in Ben Jonson’s poem just quoted : 
 
 Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear; 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
 That so did take Eliza and our James! 
 
 King John, King Richard the Second', King Richard the 
 Third', A Midsummer-Night's Dream, and the original form 
 of AKs Well that Ends Well, were, no doubt, all written 
 before the Spring of 1596. So that these five plays, and 
 perhaps one or two others, in addition to the nine mem 
 
32 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 tioned before, may by that time have been performed in 
 her Majesty’s hearing, “as well for the recreation of our 
 loving subjects as for our solace and pleasure.” 
 
 Aubrey tells us that Shakespeare “ was wont to go to his 
 native country once a-year.” We now have better authority 
 than Aubrey for believing that the Poet’s heart was in “ his 
 native country ” all the while. No sooner is he well estab¬ 
 lished at London, and in receipt of funds to spare from the 
 demands of business, than we find him making liberal 
 investments amidst the scenes of his youth. Some years 
 ago, Mr. Halliwell discovered in the Chapter-House, West¬ 
 minster, a document which ascertains that in the Spring of 
 1597 Shakespeare bought of William Underhill, for the sum 
 of ^60, the establishment called “New Place,” described 
 as consisting of “ one messuage, two barns, and two gardens, 
 with their appurtenances.” This was one of the best dwell¬ 
 ing-houses in Stratford, and was situate in one of the best 
 parts of the town. Early in the sixteenth century it was 
 owned by the Cloptons, and called “the great house.” It 
 was in one of the gardens belonging to this house that the 
 Poet was believed to have planted a mulberry-tree. New 
 Place remained in the hands of Shakespeare and his heirs 
 till the Restoration, when it was repurchased by the Clopton 
 family. In the Spring of 1742, Garrick, Macklin, and De¬ 
 lane were entertained there by Sir Hugh Clopton, under the 
 Poet’s mulberry-tree. About 1752, the place was sold to 
 the Rev. Francis Gastrell, who, falling out with the Stratford 
 authorities in some matter of rates, demolished the house, 
 and cut down the tree; for which his memory has been 
 visited with exemplary retribution. 
 
 We have other tokens of the Poet’s thrift about this time. 
 One of these is a curious letter, dated January 24, 1598, 
 and written by Abraham Sturley, an alderman of Stratford, 
 to his brother-in-law, Richard Quiney, who was then in 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 33 
 
 London on business for himself and others. Sturley, it 
 seems, had learned that “ our countryman, Mr. Shake¬ 
 speare,” had money to invest, and so was for having him 
 urged to buy up certain tithes at Stratford, on the ground 
 that such a purchase “would advance him indeed, and 
 would do us much good ”; the meaning of which is, that 
 the Stratford people were in want of money, and were look¬ 
 ing to Shakespeare for a supply. 
 
 Another token of like import is a letter written by the 
 same Richard Quiney, whose son Thomas afterwards married 
 the Poet’s youngest daughter. The letter was dated, “From 
 the Bell, in Carter-lane, the 25th October, 1598,” and ad¬ 
 dressed “To my loving good friend and countryman, Mr. 
 Wm. Shakespeare.” The purpose of the letter was to 
 solicit a loan of ^30 from the Poet on good security. No 
 private letter written by Shakespeare has been found; and 
 this is the only one written to him that has come to light. 
 How the writer’s request was answered we have no certain 
 information; but we may fairly conclude the answer to have 
 been satisfactory, because on the same day Quiney wrote to 
 Sturley, and in Sturley’s reply, dated November 4, 1598, 
 which is also extant, the writer expresses himself much com¬ 
 forted at learning that “our countryman, Mr. Wm. Shak., 
 would procure us money.” 
 
 The earliest printed copies of Shakespeare’s plays, known 
 in our time, are Romeo and JulietKing Richard the Second, 
 and King Richard the Third, which were published sepa¬ 
 rately in 1597. Two years later there was another edition 
 of Romeo and Juliet, “ newly corrected, augmented, and 
 amended.” In 1598, two more, The First Part of King 
 Henry the Fourth and Love's Labours Lost, came from the 
 press. The author’s name was not given in any of these 
 issues except Love's Labours Lost, which was said to be 
 “ newly corrected and augmented,” King Richard the 
 
34 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Second and King Richard the Third were issued again in 
 1598, and The First Part of King Henry the Fourth in 
 1599 ; and in all these cases the author’s name was printed 
 in the title-page. The Second Part of King Henry the 
 Fourth was most likely written before 1598, but we hear of 
 no edition of it till 1600. 
 
 Francis Meres has the honour of being the first critic of 
 Shakespeare that appeared in print. In 1598, he put forth 
 a book entitled Palladis Tamia, or Wit's Treasury , which 
 has the following: “ As Plautus and Seneca are accounted 
 the best for comedy and tragedy among the Latins; so 
 Shakespeare among the English is the most excellent in 
 both kinds for the stage.” The writer then instances twelve 
 of the Poet’s dramas by title, in proof of his point. His 
 list, however, contains none but what I have already men¬ 
 tioned, except The Merchant of Venice. Taking all our 
 sources of information together, we find at least seventeen 
 of the plays written before 1598, when the Poet was thirty- 
 four years of age, and had probably been in the theatre 
 about twelve years. ' 
 
 Shakespeare was now decidedly at the head of the English 
 Drama; moreover, he had found it a low, foul, disreputable 
 thing, chiefly in the hands of profligate adventurers, and he 
 had lifted it out of the mire, breathed strength and sweet¬ 
 ness into it, and made it clean, fair, and honourable, a 
 structure all alive with beauty and honest delectation. Such 
 being the case, his standing was naturally firm and secure; 
 he had little cause to fear rivalry; he could well afford to be 
 generous; and any play that had his approval would be 
 likely to pass. Ben Jonson, whose name has a peculiar 
 right to be coupled with his, was ten years younger than 
 he, and was working with that learned and sinewy diligence 
 which marked his character. We have it on the sound 
 authority of Rowe, that Shakespeare lent a helping hand 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 35 
 
 to honest Ben, and on an occasion that does credit to them 
 both. “Mr. Jonson,” says he, “who was at that time alto¬ 
 gether unknown to the world, had offered one of his plays 
 to the players, in order to have it acted; and the persons 
 into whose hands it was put, after having turned it carelessly 
 and superciliously over, were just upon returning it to him, 
 with an ill-natured answer that it would be of no service to 
 their company, when Shakespeare luckily cast his eye upon 
 it, and found something in it so well, as to engage him first 
 to read it through, and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson 
 and his writings to the public.” 
 
 Some attempts have been made to impugn this account, 
 but the result of them all has been rather to confirm it. 
 How nobly the Poet’s gentle and judicious act of kindness 
 was remembered, is shown by Jonson’s superb verses, some 
 of which I have quoted, prefixed to the folio of 1623 ; 
 enough of themselves to confer an immortality both on the 
 writer and on the subject of them. 
 
 In 1599, we find a coat-of-arms granted to John Shake¬ 
 speare, by the Heralds’ College, in London. The grant 
 was made, no doubt, at the instance of his son William. 
 The matter is involved in a good deal of perplexity; the 
 claims of the son being confounded with those of the father, 
 in order, apparently, that out of the two together might be 
 made a good, or at least a plausible, case. Our Poet, the 
 son of a glover, or a yeoman, had evidently set his heart on 
 being heralded into a gentleman; and, as his profession of 
 actor stood in the way, the application was made in his 
 father’s name. The thing was started as early as 1596, but 
 so much question was had, so many difficulties raised, con¬ 
 cerning it, that the Poet was three years in working it 
 through. To be sure, such heraldic gentry was of little 
 worth in itself, and the Poet knew this well enough; but 
 then it assured a certain very desirable social standing, and 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 36 
 
 therefore, as an aspiring member of society, he was right in 
 seeking it. 
 
 In the year 1600, five more of his plays were published 
 in as many quarto pamphlets. These were, A Midsummer- 
 Night's Dream , The Merchant of Venice , Much Ado about 
 Nothing , The Second Part of King Henry the Fourth, and 
 King Henry the Fifth. It appears, also, that As You Likt. 
 It was then written; for it was entered at the Stationers’ fof 
 publication, but was locked up from the press under a “ stay.” 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor was probably then in being 
 also, though not printed till 1602. And a recent discovery 
 ascertains that Twelfth Night was played in February, 1602. 
 The original form of Hamlet , too, is known to have been 
 written before 1603. Adding, then, the six plays now heard 
 of for the first time, to the seventeen mentioned before, we 
 have twenty-three plays written before the Poet had finished 
 his thirty-eighth year. 
 
 The great Queen died on the 24th of March, 1603. We 
 have abundant proof that she was, both by her presence 
 and her purse, a frequent and steady patron of the Drama, 
 especially as its interests were represented by “ the Lord 
 Chamberlain’s servants.” Everybody, no doubt, has heard 
 the tradition of her having been so taken with Falstaff in 
 King Henry the Fourth , that she requested the Poet to con¬ 
 tinue the character through another play, and to represent 
 him in love; whereupon he wrote The Merry Wives of Wind¬ 
 sor. Whatever embellishments may have been added, there 
 is nothing incredible in the substance of the tradition; while 
 the approved taste and judgment of this female king, in mat¬ 
 ters of literature and art, give it strong likelihoods of truth. 
 
 Elizabeth knew how to unbend in such noble delectations 
 without abating her dignity as a queen, or forgetting her duty 
 as the mother of her people. If the patronage of King 
 James fell below hers in wisdom, it was certainly not lacking 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 3 7 
 
 in warmth. One of his first acts, after reaching London, 
 was to order out a warrant from the Privy Seal for the issuing 
 of a patent under the Great Seal, whereby the Lord Cham¬ 
 berlain’s players were taken into his immediate patronage 
 under the title of “ The King’s Servants.” The instrument 
 names nine players, and Shakespeare stands second in the 
 list. Nor did the King’s patent prove a mere barren hon¬ 
 our : many instances of the company’s playing at the Court, 
 and being well paid for it, are on record. 
 
 The Poet evidently was, as indeed from the nature of his 
 position he could not but be, very desirous of withdrawing 
 from the stage; and had long cherished, apparently, a de¬ 
 sign of doing so. In several passages of his Sonnets he 
 expresses, in very- strong and even pathetic language, his 
 intense dislike of the business, and his grief at being com¬ 
 pelled to pursue it: 
 
 Alas, ’tis true, I have gone here and there, 
 
 And made myself a motley to the view, 
 
 Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, 
 
 Made old offences of affections new; 
 
 Most true it is, that I have look’d on truth 
 Askance and strangely. 
 
 O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide, 
 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
 
 That did not better for my life provide 
 
 Than public means, which public manners breeds. 
 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brand; 
 
 And almost thence my nature is subdued 
 To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. 
 
 At what time he carried into effect his purpose of retirement 
 is not precisely known ; nor can I stay to trace out the argu¬ 
 ment on that point. The probability is, that he ceased to be 
 an actor in the Summer of 1604. The preceding year, 1603, 
 Ben Jonson’s Sejanus was brought out at the Blackfriars, 
 and one of the parts was sustained by Shakespeare. After 
 
3 § 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 this we have no note of his appearance on the stage; and 
 there are certain traditions inferring the contrary. “The 
 latter part of his life,” says Rowe, “ was spent, as all men of 
 good sense will wish theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and 
 the conversation of his friends. He had the good fortune to 
 gather an estate equal to his occasion, and, in that, to his 
 wish; and is said to have spent some years before his death 
 at his native Stratford. His pleasurable wit and good nature 
 engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the 
 friendship, of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood.” Dyce, 
 also, observes, “ It is evident that Shakespeare never ceased 
 to turn his thoughts towards his birth-place, as the spot 
 where he hoped to spend the evening of his days in hon¬ 
 ourable retirement.” 
 
 In 1603, an edition of Hamlet was published, though very 
 different from the present form of the play. The next year, 
 1604, the finished Hamlet was published ; the title-page con¬ 
 taining the words, “ enlarged to almost as much again as it 
 was.” Of Measure for Measure we have no authentic notice 
 during the Poet’s life. Of Ti?non of Athens and Julius Ccesar 
 we have no express contemporary notice at all, authentic or 
 otherwise. Nor have we any of Troilus and Cressida till 
 1609, in which year a stolen edition of it was published. 
 Nevertheless, I have no doubt that these plays were all 
 written, though perhaps not all in their present shape, be¬ 
 fore the close of 1604. Reckoning, then, the four last named, 
 we have twenty-seven of the plays written when the Poet was 
 forty years of age, and had probably been at the work about 
 eighteen years. Time has indeed left few traces of the pro¬ 
 cess ; but what a magnificent treasure of results ! If Shake¬ 
 speare had done no more, he would have stood the greatest 
 intellect of the world. How all alive must those eighteen 
 years have been with intense and varied exertion ! His 
 quick discernment, his masterly tact, his grace of manners, 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 39 
 
 his practical judgment, and his fertility of expedients, would 
 needs make him the soul of the establishment; doubtless the 
 light of his eye and the life of his hand were in all its move¬ 
 ments and plans. Besides, the compass and accuracy of 
 information displayed in his writings prove him to have been, 
 for that age, a careful and voluminous student of books. 
 Portions of classical and of continental literature were acces¬ 
 sible to him in translations. Nor are we without strong rea¬ 
 sons for believing that, in addition to his “small Latin and 
 less Greek,” he found or made time to form a tolerable 
 reading acquaintance with Italian and French. Chaucer, 
 too, “the day-star,” and Spenser, “the sunrise,” of English 
 poetry, were pouring their beauty round his walks. From 
 all these, and from the growing richness and abundance of 
 contemporary literature, his all-gifted and all-grasping mind 
 no doubt greedily took in and quickly digested whatever was 
 adapted to please his taste, or enrich his intellect, or assist 
 his art. 
 
 I have mentioned the Poet’s purchase of New Place at 
 Stratford in 1597. Thenceforward he kept making other 
 investments from time to time, some of them pretty large, 
 the records of which have lately come to light. It appears 
 by a subsidy roll of 1598, that he was assessed on property 
 valued at ^5, 13 s. in the parish of St. Helen’s, Bishops- 
 gate, London. In May, 1602, was executed a deed of con¬ 
 veyance whereby he became the owner of a hundred and 
 seven acres of arable land in the town of Old Stratford, 
 bought of William and John Combe for the sum of ^320. 
 In September following, a copyhold house in Walker-street, 
 near New Place, was surrendered to him by Walter Getley. 
 This property was held under the manor of Rowington : the 
 transfer took place at the court-baron of the manor; and it 
 appears that the Poet was not present at the time; there 
 being a proviso, that the property should remain in the 
 
40 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 hands of the Lady of the manor till the purchaser had done 
 suit and service in the court. One Philip Rogers, it seems, 
 had several times bought malt of Shakespeare to the amount 
 of jQ i, 15 s. lod .; and in 1604 the Poet, not being able to 
 get payment, filed in the Stratford Court of Record a decla¬ 
 ration of suit against him; which probably had the desired 
 effect, as nothing more is heard of it. This item is interest¬ 
 ing, as it shows the Poet engaged in other pursuits than those 
 relating to the stage. We have seen how, in 1598, Alderman 
 Sturley was for “ moving him to deal in the matter of our 
 tithes.” This was a matter wherein much depended on 
 good management; and, as the town had a yearly rent from 
 the tithes, it was for the public interest to have them man¬ 
 aged well; and the moving of Shakespeare to deal in the 
 matter sprang most likely from confidence in his practical 
 judgment and skill. The tithes of “ corn, grain, blade, and 
 hay,” and also those of “ wool, lamb, hemp, flax, and other 
 small and privy tithes,” in Stratford, Old Stratford, Welcombe, 
 and Bishopton, had been leased in 1544 for the term of 
 ninety-two years. In July, 1605, the unexpired term of the 
 lease, thirty-one years, was bought in by Shakespeare for 
 the sum of ^440. In the indenture of conveyance, he is 
 styled “William Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, Gen¬ 
 tleman :.” 
 
 Hitherto, the Poet has been overtaken in business affairs 
 rather oftener than in poetical. His subsequent years fur¬ 
 nish about the usual proportion of similar notices, which 
 may as well be related here. — The Stratford records show 
 that in August, 1608, he brought an action against John 
 Addenbrook for the recovery of a debt, and that, after a 
 delay of several months, a verdict was given in his favour 
 for £ 6 , and 24 s. costs. Return being made that Adden¬ 
 brook was not to be found within the borough, Shakespeare, 
 in June following, proceeded against Thomas Horneby, who 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 41 
 
 had become bail for him, and it is to be hoped he got his 
 money. 
 
 We have seen that in May, 1602, Shakespeare purchased 
 of the Combes a hundred and seven acres of arable land in 
 Old Stratford. In the Spring of 1611 a fine was levied on 
 this property, and it thereby appears that twenty acres of 
 pasture had been added to the original purchase. At what 
 time the addition was made, is nowhere stated. The fine 
 states the purchase money as £100, which Halliwell thinks 
 to be a mere legal fiction. 
 
 About this time, the Stratford people seem to have been 
 a good deal interested in “ a bill in Parliament for the better 
 repair of the highways, and amending divers defects in the 
 statutes already made ” : funds were “ collected towards the 
 charge of prosecuting the bill”; and “Mr. William Shake¬ 
 speare ” is one of the names found in a list of donations for 
 that purpose, dated “Wednesday the nth of September, 
 1611.” 
 
 The probability is that after this time Shakespeare saw 
 but little of the metropolis. Rowe tells us, in a passage 
 quoted a few pages back, that “ the latter part of his life was 
 spent in ease, retirement, and the conversation of his friends.” 
 Still he was, like other men, not without his vexations. The 
 exact date does not appear, but about the end of 1612 he 
 was involved in a chancery suit respecting the tithes he had 
 bought in 1605. The plaintiffs in the case are described as 
 “ Richard Lane, of Alveston, Esquire, Thomas Greene, of 
 Stratford-upon-Avon, Esquire, and William Shakespeare, of 
 Stratford-upon-Avon, gentleman.” It seems that there was 
 a reserved rent on the lease of the tithes, and that, some of 
 the lessees refusing to pay their shares of this rent, a greater 
 proportion than was right fell upon Lane, Greene, and 
 Shakespeare; who thereupon filed a bill before Lord Chan¬ 
 cellor Ellesmere, that the other lessees might be compelled 
 
42 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 to due payment. The issue of the suit is not known; but 
 the draft of the bill is valuable as showing the Poet’s exact 
 income from the tithes : it was £ 60 a-year. 
 
 The last pecuniary transaction of his that has come to 
 light was the purchase of a house with a small piece of 
 ground attached to it, in the neighbourhood of the Black- 
 friars theatre. The indenture of conveyance, preserved in 
 the archives of the London corporation, describes the prop¬ 
 erty as “ abutting upon a street leading down to Puddle- 
 wharf on the east part, right against the King’s Majesty’s 
 Wardrobe,” and the vendor as “ Henry Walker, citizen and 
 minstrel, of London.” It is dated March ioth, 1613, and 
 bears the Poet’s signature, which shows that he was in 
 London at the time. The purchase-money was ^140, of 
 which 80 were paid down, and the premises mortgaged 
 for the remainder, the mortgage to run till the 29th of 
 September following. Why the purchase was made, does 
 not appear; but, as John Heminge, William Johnson, and 
 John Jackson were parties to the transaction, Mr. Collier 
 conjectures that the Poet advanced the £80 to them, 
 expecting they would refund it before the expiration of the 
 mortgage; but, as they did not do so, he paid the other 
 £ 60, and the property remained his. 
 
 On the 29th of June, the same year, the Globe theatre 
 was burnt down, and certain contemporary notices of the 
 event ascertain that King Henry VIII . was in performance 
 at the time. As the conflagration was very rapid, giving 
 the people barely time to save themselves, it is likely 
 that many of the Poet’s manuscripts perished, and perhaps 
 some, of which no copies were left. The theatre was soon 
 rebuilt, and, as Stowe informs us, “ at the great charge of 
 King James, and many noblemen and others.” The Poet 
 is not traced as having any thing to do with the rebuilding 
 of the establishment; but, if he suffered no loss himself, we 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 43 
 
 may be sure that he took a lively interest in the losses of 
 his fellows, and was forward to lend them a helping hand. 
 
 The Summer following, he had a narrow escape from a 
 similar calamity at home. On the 9th of July, 1614, Strat¬ 
 ford was devastated by fire, to such an extent that the people 
 made an appeal to the nation for relief. At the instance of 
 various gentlemen of the neighbourhood, the King issued a 
 brief in May, 1615, authorizing collections to be made in 
 the churches for the rebuilding of the town, and alleging 
 that fifty-four dwelling-houses had been destroyed, besides 
 much other property, amounting in all to upwards of jQ 8,000. 
 The result of the appeal is not known; nor is it known what 
 influence the Poet may have used towards procuring the 
 royal brief. 
 
 The Fall of 1614 finds Shakespeare in London using his 
 influence effectually in the cause of his fellow-citizens. It 
 seems that several persons had set on foot a project for in¬ 
 closing certain commons near Stratford, which the public 
 were interested to keep open. The Poet had private rea¬ 
 sons, also, for bestirring himself in the matter, as the pro¬ 
 jected inclosure was likely to affect his interest in the lease 
 of the tithes. A legal instrument, dated October 28, 1614, 
 is extant, whereby William Replingham binds himself to 
 indemnify William Shakespeare and Thomas Greene for any 
 loss which they, in the judgment of certain referees, may 
 sustain in respect of the yearly value of the tithes they jointly 
 or severally hold, “ by reason of any inclosure or decay of 
 tillage there meant or intended.” 
 
 A few days after, Greene is found in London moving in 
 the business as clerk of the Stratford corporation. In some 
 notes of his made at the time, we have the following, dated 
 November 17, 1614 : “My cousin Shakespeare coming yes¬ 
 terday to town, I went to see him, how he did. He told me 
 that they assured him they meant to inclose no further than 
 
44 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 to Gospel-bush, and so up straight (leaving out part of the 
 dingles to the field) to the gate in Clopton hedge, and take 
 in Salisbury’s piece; and that they mean in April to survey 
 the land, and then to give satisfaction, and not before; and 
 he and Mr. Hall say they think there will be nothing done 
 at all.” 
 
 Greene returned to Stratford soon after, and his notes, 
 which he continued to make, inform us that the corporation 
 had a meeting on the 23d of December, and sent letters to 
 Shakespeare and Mainwaring : “ Letters written, one to Mr. 
 Mainwaring, another to Mr. Shakespeare, with almost all 
 the company’s hands to either. I also writ myself to my 
 cousin Shakespeare the copies of all our acts, and then also 
 a note of the inconveniences that would happen by the in¬ 
 closure.” The letters to Shakespeare are lost: in that to 
 Mainwaring, which is preserved, the corporation urged in 
 strong terms the damage Stratford would suffer by the pro¬ 
 jected inclosure, and also the heavy loss the people had 
 lately sustained by fire. Mr. Arthur Mainwaring was a per¬ 
 son in the domestic service of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, 
 which explains why he was written to in the matter. It is 
 pretty clear from these slight notices, that the corporation 
 left the care of their interests very much to Shakespeare, 
 who had approved himself a good hand at bringing things 
 to pass in actual life, as well as in ideal. The result was, an 
 order from Court not only forbidding the inclosure to pro¬ 
 ceed, but peremptorily commanding that some steps already 
 taken should be forthwith retraced. 
 
 This Thomas Greene was an attorney of Stratford. The 
 origin and degree of his relationship to the Poet are not 
 known. The parish register of Stratford records the burial 
 of “ Thomas Greene, alias Shakespeare,” on the 6th of 
 March, 1590. Probably enough, the attorney of 1614 may 
 have been his son; and the relationship between the two 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 45 
 
 families may furnish the true key to that remarkable ac¬ 
 quaintance which the Poet shows with the mysteries of the 
 law. 
 
 Such details of business may not seem very appropriate 
 in a Life of the greatest of poets; but we have clear evi¬ 
 dence that Shakespeare took a lively interest in them, and 
 was a good hand at managing them. He had learned by 
 experience, no doubt, that “ money is a good soldier, and 
 will on”; and that, “if money go before, all ways do lie 
 open.” And the thing carries this benefit, if no other, that 
 it tells us a man may be something of a poet, without being 
 either above or below the common affairs of life. 
 
 When, or to whom, the Poet parted with his theatrical in¬ 
 terests, we have no knowledge : that he did part with them, 
 may be probably, though not necessarily, concluded from 
 his not mentioning them in his will; and, from the large 
 productiveness of such investments at that time, he would 
 have no difficulty in finding a purchaser. A pretty careful 
 investigation of the matter has brought good judges to the 
 conclusion, that in 1608 his income could not have been less 
 than 400 a-year. This, for all practical purposes, would be 
 equivalent to some $12,000 in our time. The Rev. John 
 Ward, who became vicar of Stratford in 1662, left a Diary , 
 in which we have the following: “ I have heard that Mr. 
 Shakespeare was a natural wit, without any art at all. He 
 frequented the plays all his younger time, but in his elder 
 days lived at Stratford, and supplied the stage with two 
 plays every year; and for that had an allowance so large, 
 that he spent at the rate of ^i,oo<5 a year, as I have heard. 
 — Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson had a merry 
 meeting, and, it seems, drank too hard; for Shakespeare 
 died of a fever there contracted. — Remember to peruse 
 Shakespeare’s plays, and be versed in them, that I may not 
 be ignorant in that matter.” 
 
46 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 The only point in this, that calls for present notice, is the 
 Poet’s alleged expenditure. The honest and cautious vicar 
 did well in adding to his statement “as I have heard.” That 
 Shakespeare kept up a liberal, not to say sumptuous, estab¬ 
 lishment, and was fond of entertaining his neighbours, and 
 still more his old associates, after a generous fashion, we can 
 well believe; but that he had ^1,000 a-year to spend, or 
 would have spent if he had, is not credible : it would have 
 been, for all practical purposes, equivalent to about $ 30,000 
 in our day ! 
 
 Francis Meres, in the work already cited, has the follow¬ 
 ing : “ As the soul of Euphorbus was thought to live in 
 Pythagoras, so the sweet witty soul of Ovid lives in melliflu¬ 
 ous and honey-tongued Shakespeare : witness his Venus and 
 Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugared Sonnets among his private 
 friends.” This ascertains that some, at least, of the Poet’s 
 Sonnets were well known in 1598, though none of them had 
 then been printed. Whether all of them were written before 
 that date, we have no means of knowing; but the proba¬ 
 bility is that they were written at different times, as the 
 author felt in the mood, or wished to gratify his friends ; and 
 that portions of them were copied in manuscript from time 
 to time, and passed privately from hand to hand. At length 
 a collection of them, to the number of a hundred and fifty- 
 four, was made, and given to the public in 1609, by a book¬ 
 seller who probably did not get them from the Poet himself. 
 
 Of the thirty-eight plays ascribed to Shakespeare, twenty- 
 seven have already been mentioned. Of the eleven still to 
 be accounted for, King Lear was acted at Whitehall before 
 the Court in December, 1606, and two editions of it were 
 issued in 1608. Pericles, Prince of Tyre, and Antony and 
 Cleopatra were entered at the Stationers’ in 1608, and Peri¬ 
 cles was published the next year. Macbeth was played at 
 the Globe theatre in April, 1610, but perhaps written some 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 47 
 
 time before. Cymbeline and The Winter's Tale were per¬ 
 formed at the Globe in the Spring of 1611 ; and King Henry 
 the Eighth is not heard of till the burning of that theatre in 
 1613, when it is described as “ a new play.” Of Coriolanus 
 and The Two Noble Kinsmen we have no notice whatever 
 till after the Poet’s death; while of Othello and The Tempest 
 we have no well-authenticated notices during his life ; though 
 there is a record, once held authentic, noting them to have 
 been acted at the Court, the former in November, 1604, the 
 latter in November, 1611 : but that record, as in the case of 
 Measure for Measure , has lately been pronounced spurious 
 by the highest authority. 
 
 Some question has been made whether Shakespeare were 
 a member of the celebrated convivial club established by Sir 
 Walter Raleigh, and which held its sessions at the Mermaid- . 
 tavern. We have nothing that directly certifies his member¬ 
 ship of that choice institution; but there are several things 
 inferring it so strongly as to leave no reasonable doubt on 
 the subject. His conversations certainly ran in that circle 
 of wits, some of whom are directly known to have belonged 
 to it; and among them all there was not one whose then 
 acknowledged merits gave him a better title to its privileges. 
 
 It does not indeed necessarily follow from his facility and 
 plenipotence of wit in writing, that he could shine at those 
 extempore “ flashes of merriment that were wont to set the 
 table on a roar.” But, besides the natural inference that 
 way, we have the statement of honest old Aubrey, that “ he 
 was very good company, and of a very ready and pleasant 
 smooth wit.” Francis Beaumont, who was a prominent mem¬ 
 ber of that jovial senate, and to whom Shirley applies the 
 fine hyperbolism that “ he talked a comedy,” was born in 
 1586, and died in 1615. I cannot doubt that he had our 
 Poet, among others, in his eye, when he wrote those cele¬ 
 brated lines to Ben Jonson : 
 
48 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Methinks the little wit I had is lost 
 
 Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest 
 
 Held up at tennis, which men do the best 
 
 With the best gamesters. What things have we seen 
 
 Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been 
 
 So nimble, and so full of subtile flame, 
 
 As if that every one from whence they came 
 Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 
 
 And had resolved to live a fool the rest 
 Of his dull life. 
 
 In further token of Shakespeare’s having belonged to this 
 merry parliament of genius, I must quote from Dr. Thomas 
 Fuller, who, though not born till 1608, was acquainted with 
 some of the old Mermaid wits. In his Worthies of War- 
 wickshi?'e, he winds up his account of the Poet thus : “ Many 
 were the wit-combats betwixt him and Ben Jonson; which 
 two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English 
 man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the former, was built far 
 higher in learning; solid, but slow, in his performances : 
 Shakespeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, 
 but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, 
 and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit 
 and invention.” 
 
 It would seem that after the year 1609, or thereabouts, the 
 Poet’s reputation did not mount any higher during his life. 
 A new generation of dramatists was then rising into favour, 
 who, with some excellences derived from him, united gross 
 vices of their own, which however were well adapted to cap¬ 
 tivate the popular mind. Moreover, King James himself, 
 notwithstanding his liberality of patronage, was essentially a 
 man of loose morals and low tastes; and his taking to Shake¬ 
 speare at first probably grew more from the public voice, or 
 perhaps from Southampton’s influence, than from his own 
 preference. Before the Poet’s death, we may trace the be¬ 
 ginnings of that corruption which, rather stimulated than 
 discouraged by Puritan bigotry and fanaticism, reached its 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 49 
 
 height some seventy years later; though its course was for 
 a while retarded by King Charles the First, who, whatever 
 else may be said of him, was unquestionably a man of as 
 high and elegant tastes in literature and art as England could 
 boast of in his time. 
 
 Shakespeare, however, was by no means so little appre¬ 
 ciated in his time as later generations have mainly supposed. 
 No man of that age was held in higher regard for his intel¬ 
 lectual gifts; none drew forth more or stronger tributes of 
 applause. Kings, princes, lords, gentlemen, and, what is 
 still better, common people, all united in paying homage to 
 his transcendent genius. The noble lines, already referred 
 to, of Ben Jonson—than whom few men, perhaps none, 
 ever knew better how to judge and how to write on such a 
 theme — indicate how he struck the scholarship of the age. 
 And from the scattered notices of his contemporaries we get, 
 withal, a very complete and very exalted idea of his personal 
 character as a man; although, to be sure, they yield us few 
 facts in regard to his personal history or his actual course 
 of life. How dearly he was held by those who knew him 
 best, is well shown by a passage of Ben Jonson, written long 
 after the Poet’s death, and not published till 1640. Honest 
 Ben had been charged with malevolence towards him, and 
 he repelled the charge thus: “ I loved the man, and do 
 honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. 
 He was indeed honest, and of an open and free nature; had 
 an excellent fantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions.” 
 And we have similar testimony from John Heminge and 
 Henry Condell, the Poet’s friends and fellow-actors, and the 
 Editors of the first folio, in the dedication of which they pro¬ 
 fess to have collected and published the plays, “ without 
 ambition of self-profit or fame; only to keep the memory 
 of so worthy a friend and fellow alive, as was our Shake¬ 
 speare.” 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 50 
 
 A few particulars respecting the Poet's family will bring 
 as to the closing passage of his life. We have already seen 
 that his father died in September, 1601, and his mother just 
 about seven years after. There seems little room for doubt 
 that their latter years were passed under his roof. Joan, his 
 only surviving sister, born in April, 1569, was married to 
 William Hart, of Stratford, a hatter. The marriage prob¬ 
 ably took place out of Stratford, as there is no note of it 
 in the register. Their first child was christened William, 
 August 28, 1600. Three other children, Mary, Thomas, 
 and Michael, were born to them, respectively, in 1603, 1605, 
 and 1608. Mary Hart died in December, 1607, and her 
 father was buried April 17, 1616, a few days before the 
 Poet. The three surviving children were kindly remem¬ 
 bered in their uncle’s will, as was also their mother. 
 
 The Poet’s brother Gilbert lived at Stratford, and appears 
 to have taken some charge of his home affairs. It is not 
 known whether he were married; but the Stratford register 
 enters the burial, February 3, 1612, of “ Gilbert Shakespeare, 
 adolescens ” / who may have been his son. We have a tra¬ 
 dition that one of the Poet’s brothers lived to a great age. 
 If the tradition be true, it must, as will presently appear, 
 refer to Gilbert, who was born in 1566. Richard, the next 
 brother, born in 1574, was buried at Stratford February 4, 
 1613. Nothing further is heard of him. It is tolerably cer¬ 
 tain that Edmund, the youngest brother, born in 1580, be¬ 
 came a player. The register of St. Saviour’s parish, in which 
 the Globe theatre stood, records the burial of “Edmund 
 Shakespeare, a player,” on the 31st of December, 1607. In 
 the low estate of his father’s affairs, he had most likely fol¬ 
 lowed his brother’s fortune. Nothing more is known of him. 
 — On the 16th of October, 1608, the Poet stood sponsor at 
 the christening, in Stratford, of a boy named William Walker, 
 who is also remembered in his will. 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 51 
 
 On the 5th of June, 1607, the Poet’s eldest daughter, 
 Susanna, then in her twenty-fifth year, was married to Mr. 
 John Hall, of Stratford, a practising physician of good stand¬ 
 ing. The February following, Shakespeare became a grand¬ 
 father; Elizabeth, the first and only child of John and 
 Susanna Hall, being baptized on the 21st of that month. 
 It is supposed, and with good reason, that Dr. Hall and his 
 wife lived in the same house with the Poet: she was evi¬ 
 dently deep in her father’s heart; she is said to have had 
 something of his genius and temper; the house was large 
 enough for them all; nor are there wanting signs of entire 
 affection between Mrs. Hall and her mother. Add to all 
 this the Poet’s manifest fondness for children, and his gentle 
 and affable disposition, and we have the elements of a happy 
 family and a cheerful home, such as might well render a 
 good-natured man impatient of the stage. Of the moral and 
 religious spirit and tenour of domestic life at New Place, we 
 are not allowed to know : at a later period, the Shakespeares 
 seem to have been not a little distinguished for works of 
 piety and charity. The chamberlain’s accounts show the 
 curious entry, in 1614, of is. 8d. “for one quart of sack and 
 one quart of claret wine, given to a preacher at the New 
 Place.” The worshipful corporation of Stratford seem to 
 have been at this time rather addicted to Puritanism, as they 
 could not endure plays within their jurisdiction: why they 
 should thus have volunteered a part towards entertaining the 
 preacher, if he were not minded like them, and why they 
 should have suffered him to put up at New Place, if he 
 were, are matters about which we can only speculate. 
 
 On the 10th of February, 1616, Shakespeare saw his 
 youngest daughter, Judith, married to Thomas Quiney, of 
 Stratford, a vintner and wine-merchant. He was a son of 
 the Richard Quiney who requested from the Poet a loan of 
 ■Po 3 ° in 1598, and who died in May, 1602, being at that time 
 
52 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 High-Bailiff of Stratford. From the way Shakespeare men¬ 
 tions his daughter’s marriage-portion in his will, it is evident 
 that he gave his sanction to the match. Which may be cited 
 as arguing that he had not himself experienced any such 
 evils, as some have been fond of alleging, from the woman 
 being older than the man; for his daughter had four years 
 the start of her husband; she being at the time of her mar¬ 
 riage thirty-one, and he twenty-seven. 
 
 Shakespeare was still in the meridian of life. There was 
 no special cause, that we know of, why he might not live 
 many years longer. It were vain to conjecture what he 
 would have done, had more years been given him; possibly, 
 instead of augmenting his legacy to us, he would have recalled 
 and suppressed more or less of what he had written as our 
 inheritance. For the last two or three years, at least, he 
 seems to have left his pen unused; as if, his own ends once 
 achieved, he set no value on that mighty sceptre with which 
 he since sways so large a portion of mankind. That the 
 motives and ambitions of authorship had little to do in the 
 generation of his works, is evident from the serene careless¬ 
 ness with which he left them to shift for themselves ; tossing 
 those wonderful treasures from him as if he thought them 
 good for nothing but to serve the hour. 
 
 It was in and for the theatre that his multitudinous genius 
 was developed, and his works produced; there fortune, or 
 rather Providence, had cast his lot. Doubtless it was his 
 nature, in whatever he undertook, to do his best. As an 
 honest and true man, he would, if possible, make the temple 
 of the Drama a noble, a beautiful, and glorious place; and 
 it was while working quietly and unobtrusively in furtherance 
 of this end — building better than he knew — that he ap¬ 
 proved himself the greatest, wisest, sweetest of men. 
 
 William Shakespeare departed this life on the 23d of 
 April, 1616. Two days after, his remains were buried be- 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of ILLINOIS 
 
EXTERIOR OF CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. Page 53. 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 53 
 
 ueath the chancel of Trinity Church, in Stratford. The 
 burial took place on the day before the anniversary of his 
 baptism; and it has been commonly believed that his death 
 fell on the anniversary of his birth. If so, he had just entered 
 his fifty-third year. 
 
 Thus much, or rather thus little, is about all that we are 
 permitted to know touching the personal history of, proba¬ 
 bly, the greatest intellect that ever appeared in our world. 
 The materials for a biography of Shakespeare are scanty 
 indeed, and, withal, rather dry. Nevertheless, there is 
 enough, I think, to show, that in all the common dealings 
 of life he was eminently gentle, candid, upright, and ju¬ 
 dicious ; open-hearted, genial, and sweet, in his social inter¬ 
 courses ; among his companions and friends, full of playful 
 wit and sprightly grace ; kind to the faults of others, severe 
 to his own; quick to discern and acknowledge merit in 
 another, modest and slow of finding it in himself: while, in 
 the smooth and happy marriage, which he seems to have 
 realized, of the highest poetry and art with systematic and 
 successful prudence in business affairs, we have an example 
 of compact and well-rounded practical manhood, such as 
 may justly engage our admiration and respect. 
 
 As to the immediate cause or occasion of the Poet’s death, 
 we have no information beyond what has been quoted from 
 Ward. Stratford seems to have been rather noted in those 
 days for bad drainage. Garrick tells us that even in his 
 time it was “the most dirty, unseemly, ill-paved, wretched 
 looking town in all Britain.” Epidemics were frequent there 
 in the Poet’s time ; and not long after his death we hear, 
 from Dr. Hall, of “ the new fever,” which “invaded many” 
 of the Stratford people: he also mentions, though without 
 stating the time, his having cured Michael Drayton, “ an ex¬ 
 cellent poet,” of a tertian ague. Perhaps Drayton was on a 
 visit to his friend Shakespeare at the time; but, as he also 
 
54 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 was a Warwickshire man, this cannot be inferred with cer¬ 
 tainty. The Poet’s will was first dated the 25th of January, 
 1616, but afterward March was substituted for January. It 
 appears also that his will must have been drawn up before 
 the marriage of his daughter Judith, as he speaks of her only 
 by her maiden name. It seems not unlikely that, being in 
 January doubtfully ill, he may have prepared the document; 
 then, finding himself getting better, he may have over-in¬ 
 dulged in some festivity with his friends, which brought on a 
 fatal relapse. The Poet, it is true, begins his will by stating 
 that he makes it “in perfect health and memory” : this may 
 have been mere matter of form, or such may have been 
 really the case at the time of writing. But it would seem to 
 have been otherwise at the time of the execution; for sev¬ 
 eral good judges have remarked that the Poet’s signatures, 
 of which there are three, in as many different places of the 
 will, appear written with an infirm and unsteady hand, as if 
 his energies were shattered by disease. 
 
 During his sickness, the Poet was most likely attended by 
 his son-in-law. Dr. Hall was evidently a man of consider¬ 
 able science and skill in his profession. This appears from 
 certain memoranda which he left, of cases that occurred in 
 his practice. The notes were written in Latin, but were 
 translated from his manuscript, and published by Jonas 
 Cooke in 1657, with the title of “Select Observations on 
 English Bodies.” As Dr. Hall did not begin to make notes 
 of his practice till 1617, he furnishes no information touch¬ 
 ing the Poet. 
 
 A copy of the will, as it has been given with great care by 
 Mr. Halliwell from the original, may be found at the end 
 of this Life; so that there is no need of presenting any 
 analysis of its contents here. One item, however, must not 
 pass unnoticed : “ I give unto my wife the second best bed, 
 with the furniture.” As this is the only mention made of 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 55 
 
 her, the circumstance was for a long time regarded as be¬ 
 traying a strange indifference, or something worse, on the 
 testator’s part towards his wife. And on this has hung the 
 main argument that the union was not a happy one. We 
 owe to Mr. Knight an explanation of the matter; which is 
 so simple and decisive, that we can only wonder it was not 
 hit upon before. Shakespeare’s property was mostly free¬ 
 hold ; and in all this the widow had what is called right of 
 dower fully secured to her by the ordinary operation of Eng¬ 
 lish law. As for “ the second best bed,” it was doubtless 
 the very thing which a loving and beloved wife would be 
 sure to prize above any other article of furniture in the 
 establishment. 
 
 In some verses by Leonard Digges, prefixed to the folio 
 of 1623, allusion is made to Shakespeare’s “Stratford monu¬ 
 ment”; which shows that the monument had been placed 
 in the church before that date. It represents the Poet with 
 a cushion before him, a pen in his right hand, and his left 
 resting on a scroll. “ The bust,” says Wivell, “ is fixed 
 under an arch, between two Corinthian columns of black 
 marble, with gilded bases and capitals, supporting the en¬ 
 tablature ; above which, and surmounted by a death’s-head, 
 are carved his arms; on each side is a small figure in a sit¬ 
 ting posture ; one holding in his left hand a spade, and the 
 other, whose eyes are closed, with an inverted torch in his 
 left hand, the right resting upon a skull, as symbols of mor¬ 
 tality.” As originally coloured, the eyes were a light hazel, 
 the hair auburn, the dress a scarlet doublet, and a loose 
 black gown without sleeves thrown over it. In 1748, the 
 colours were carefully restored; but in 1793, Malone, with 
 strange taste, had the whole painted white by a common 
 house-painter. Dugdale informs us that the monument was 
 the work of Gerard Johnson, an eminent sculptor of that 
 period. It was doubtless done at the instance and cost of 
 
56 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Dr. Hall and his wife. A tablet below the bust has the fol¬ 
 lowing inscription : 
 
 Judicio Pylurn, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, 
 
 Terra tegit, populus mseret, Olympus habet. 
 
 Stay, Passenger, why go’st thou by so fast ? 
 
 Read, if thou canst, whom envious Death hath placed 
 Within this monument; Shakespeare, with whom 
 Quick nature died; whose name doth deck this tomb 
 Far more than cost; sith all that he hath writ 
 Leaves living Art but page to serve his wit. 
 
 Obiit Anno Domini 1616, 
 HLtatis 53, die 23 April. 
 
 As to the lines which tradition ascribes to the Poet as 
 written for his own tomb-stone, there is very little likelihood 
 that he had any thing to do with them. The earliest that 
 we hear of them is in the letter written by Dowdall in 1693 : 
 “ Near the wall where his monument is erected lieth a plain 
 freestone, underneath which his body is buried, with this 
 epitaph, made by himself a little before his death: 
 
 Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear 
 To dig the dust inclosed here: 
 
 Blest be the man that spares these stones, 
 
 And curst be he that moves my bones! 
 
 The writer adds, “ Not one, for fear of the curse above-said, 
 dare touch his grave-stone, though his wife and daughters 
 did earnestly desire to be laid in the same grave with him.” 
 Such is indeed the inscription on a flat stone covering the 
 spot where the Poet’s remains are supposed to lie ; but there 
 is no name, nor any thing whatever to identify the lines as 
 written either by Shakespeare or for him. 
 
 The mortal remains of Anne Shakespeare were laid beside 
 those of her husband, August 8, 1623. A worthy memorial 
 covers the spot, whereon we trace the fitting language of a 
 daughter’s love, paying a warm tribute to the religious char- 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 57 
 
 acter of her who was gone, and clearly inferring that she had 
 “ as much of virtue as could die.” It is a brass plate set in 
 a stone, and inscribed as follows : 
 
 “ Here lieth interred the body of Anne, wife of William 
 Shakespeare, who departed this life the 6th day of August, 
 1623, being of the age of 67 years.” 
 
 Ubera tu, mater, tu lac vitamque dedisti, 
 
 Vae mihi! pro tanto munere saxa dabo. 
 
 Quam mallem amoveat lapidem bonus angelus ore, 
 
 Exeat ut Christi corpus imago tua: 
 
 Sed nil vota valent; venias cito, Christe, resurget, 
 
 Clausa licet tumulo mater, et astra petet. 
 
 Another precious inscription in the chancel of Stratford 
 church was partly erased many years ago to make room for 
 one to Richard Watts, who died in 1707. Fortunately the 
 lines had been preserved by Dugdale. Through the taste 
 and liberality of the Rev. W. Harness, the original inscrip¬ 
 tion has been recently restored, thus: 
 
 “ Here lieth the body of Susanna, Wife to John Hall, 
 Gent.; the daughter of William Shakespeare, Gent. She 
 deceased the nth of July, Anno 1649, a ged 66. 
 
 Witty above her sex, but that’s not all; 
 
 Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall: 
 
 Something of Shakespeare was in that; but this 
 Wholly of Him with whom she’s now in bliss. 
 
 Then, passenger, hast ne’er a tear 
 To weep with her that wept with all ? 
 
 That wept, yet set herself to cheer 
 Them up with comforts cordial. 
 
 Her love shall live, her mercy spread, 
 
 When thou hast ne’er a tear to shed * 
 
 * Close beside this inscription is one to her husband, as follows: “ Here 
 lieth the body of John Hall, Gent. He married Susanna, the daughter and 
 coheir of Will. Shakespeare, Gent. He deceased November 25, Anno 1635, 
 aged 60.” To this are subjoined the following verses : 
 
58 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 The first-born of Thomas and Judith Quiney was christened 
 Shakespeare on the 23d of November, just seven months 
 after the death of his grandfather. He was buried May 8, 
 1617. He was followed by two other children: Richard, 
 baptized February 9, 1618, and buried February 26, 1639; 
 and Thomas, baptized January 23, 1620, and buried January 
 28, 1639. Their mother was buried the 9th of February, 
 1662, having lived to the age of 77 years. The time of her 
 husband’s death is not known. 
 
 The Poet’s grand-daughter, Elizabeth Hall, was married 
 to Mr. Thomas Nash on the 26th of April, 1626, who died 
 April 4, 1647. On the 5th of June, 1649, s ^ ie was married 
 again to Mr. John Barnard, who was knighted after the Res¬ 
 toration. Lady Barnard died childless in 1670, and was 
 buried in Abingdon with the family of Sir John. After her 
 decease, the nearest relatives of the Poet living were the 
 descendants of his sister, Joan Hart. At the time of her 
 brother’s death, Mrs. Hart was living in one of his Stratford 
 houses, which, with the appurtenances, was by his will se¬ 
 cured to her use for life at a nominal rent of i2r/. She was 
 buried on the 4th of November, 1646. Her descendants, 
 bearing the name of Hart, have continued down to our 
 own time, but, it is said, “not in a position we can con¬ 
 template with satisfaction.” 
 
 The following from Dyce may fitly close this account: 
 “ The bust at Stratford, and the engraving by Martin Droe- 
 shout on the title-page of the first folio, may be considered 
 
 Hallius hie situs est, medica celeberrimus arte, 
 Expectans regni gaudia laeta Dei. 
 
 Dignus erat mentis, qui Nestora vinceret annis. 
 In terris omnes, sed rapit sequa dies. 
 
 Ne tumulo quid desit, adest fidessima conjux, 
 
 Et vitae comitem nunc quoque mortis habet. 
 
 The parish register has the following entry of burial: “1635. Nov. 26 , 
 Johannes Hall, medicus peritissimus.” 
 
LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 59 
 
 as the best-authenticated likenesses of the Poet. The former 
 exhibits him in the act of composition, and enjoying, as it 
 were, the richness of his own conceptions; the latter pre¬ 
 sents him somewhat younger and thinner, and with a deeply 
 thoughtful air : but a general resemblance may be traced 
 between them. The truthfulness of the engraving is attested 
 by Ben Jonson in the verses which accompany it, and which 
 we are almost bound to accept as the sincere expression of 
 his opinion ” : 
 
 This figure, that thou here see’st put, 
 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; 
 
 Wherein the graver had a strife 
 With Nature, to out-do the life. 
 
 O, could he but have drawn his wit 
 As well in brass as he hath hit 
 His face, the print would then surpass 
 All that was ever writ in brass : 
 
 But, since he cannot, reader, look 
 Not on his picture, but his book. 
 
6g 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE’S WILL, 
 
 IN THE PREROGATIVE OFFICE, LONDON. 
 
 Vicesimo quinto die Martii, anno regni domini nostri Jacobi, 
 nunc regis Anglias, &c. decimo quarto, et Scotiae xlix 0 , an- 
 noque Domini 1616. 
 
 T. Wmi Shakespeare. 
 
 In the name of God, amen ! I, William Shakespeare, ol 
 Stratford-upon-Avon, in the county of Warwick, gent., in per¬ 
 fect health and memory, God be praised, do make and ordain 
 this my last will and testament in manner and form following; 
 that is to say, First, I commend my soul into the hands of God 
 my Creator, hoping and assuredly believing, through the only 
 merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made partaker of life 
 everlasting, and my body to the earth whereof it is made. Item, 
 I give and bequeath unto my daughter Judith one hundred and 
 fifty pounds of lawful English money, to be paid unto her in man¬ 
 ner and form following; that is to say, one hundred pounds in 
 discharge of her marriage portion within one year after my de¬ 
 cease, with consideration after the rate of two shillings in the 
 pound for so long time as the same shall be unpaid unto her 
 after my decease, and the fifty pounds residue thereof upon her 
 surrendering of, or giving of such sufficient security as the 
 overseers of this my will shall like of, to surrender or grant 
 all her estate and right that shall descend or come unto her 
 after my decease, or that she now hath, of, in, or to, one 
 copyhold tenement, with the appurtenances, lying and being in 
 Stratford-upon-Avon aforesaid in the said county of Warwick, 
 being parcel or holden of the manor of Rowington, unto my 
 daughter Susanna Hall and her Leirs for ever. Item, I give and 
 bequeath unto my said daughter Judith one hundred and fifty 
 pounds more, if she or any issue of her body be living at the 
 end of three years next ensuing the day of the date of this my 
 
CHURCH IN STRATFORD-ON-AVON, WITH 
 TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 GOOD FREND FOR IESVS SAKE FORBEARE 
 TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE : 
 BLESTE BE YE MAN YT SPARES THES STONES, 
 AND CURST BE HE YT MOVES MY BONES. 
 
library 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNQI' 
 
shakespeare 5 s will, 
 
 6i 
 
 will, during which time my executors are to pay her consideration 
 from my decease according to the rate aforesaid; and if she die 
 within the said term without issue of her body, then my will is, 
 and I do give and bequeath one hundred pounds thereof to my 
 niece Elizabeth Hall, and the ^50 to be set forth by my execu- 
 tors during the life of my sister Joan Hart, and the use and profit 
 thereof coming shall be paid to my said sister Joan, and after her 
 decease the said ^50 shall remain amongst the children of my 
 said sister, equally to be divided amongst them; but if my said 
 daughter Judith be living at the end of the said three years, or 
 any issue of her body, then my will is and so I devise and be¬ 
 queath the said hundred and fifty pounds to be set out by my 
 executors and overseers for the best benefit of her and her 
 issue, and the stock not to be paid unto her so long as she shall 
 be married and covert baron; but my will is, that she shall have 
 the consideration yearly paid unto her during her life, and, after 
 her decease, the said stock and consideration to be paid to her 
 children, if she have any, and if not, to her executors or as¬ 
 signs, she living the said term after my decease, Provided that 
 if such husband as she shall at the end of the said three years 
 be married unto, or at any after, do sufficiently assure unto her 
 and the issue of her body lands answerable to the portion by 
 this my will given unto her, and to be adjudged so by my execu¬ 
 tors and overseers, then my will is, that the said ^150 shall be 
 paid to such husband as shall make such assurance, to his own 
 use. Item, I give and bequeath unto my said sister Joan £20 
 and all my wearing apparel, to be paid and delivered within one 
 year after my decease; and I do will and devise unto her the 
 house with the appurtenances in Stratford, wherein she dwelleth, 
 for her natural life, under the yearly rent of 12 d. Item, I give 
 
 and bequeath unto her three sons, William Hart,-Hart, and 
 
 Michael Hart, five pounds a-piece, to be paid within one year 
 after my decease. Item, I give and bequeath unto the said Eliza¬ 
 beth Hall all my plate, except my broad silver and gilt bowl, that 
 I now have at the date of this my will. Item, I give and bequeath 
 unto the poor of Stratford aforesaid ten pounds ; to Mr. Thomas 
 Combe my sword ; to Thomas Russell, esquire, five pounds ; and 
 to Francis Collins, of the borough of Warwick in the county of 
 
62 
 
 LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Warwick, gentleman, thirteen pounds, six shillings, and eight 
 pence, to be paid within one year after my decease, Item, I 
 give and bequeath to Hamlett Sadler 26s. 8d. to buy him a ring; 
 to William Raynolds, gent., 26s. 8d., to buy him a ring; to my 
 godson Wiliam Walker, 20s. in gold; to Anthony Nash, gent., 
 26^. 8 d. ; and to Mr. John Nash, 2 6s. 8d. ; and to my fellows 
 John Heminge, Richard Burbage, and Henry Condell, 26^. 8 d. 
 a-piece to buy them rings. Item, I give, will, bequeath, and 
 devise, unto my daughter Susanna Hall, for better enabling of 
 her to perform this my will, and towards the performance thereof, 
 all that capital messuage or tenement with the appurtenances, in 
 Stratford aforesaid, called the New Place, wherein I now dwell, 
 and two messuages or tenements with the appurtenances, situate, 
 lying, and being in Henley-Street, within the borough of Strat¬ 
 ford aforesaid ; and all my barns, stables, orchards, gardens, lands, 
 tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever, situate, lying, and be¬ 
 ing, or to be had, received, perceived, or taken, within the towns, 
 hamlets, villages, fields, and grounds, of Stratford-upon-Avon, 
 Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, or in any of them in the 
 said county of Warwick. And also all that messuage or tenement 
 with the appurtenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth, 
 situate, lying, and being, in the Blackfriars in London, near the 
 Wardrobe ; and all other my lands, tenements, and hereditaments 
 whatsoever, to have and to hold all and singular the said prem¬ 
 ises, with their appurtenances, unto the said Susanna Hall, for 
 and during the term of her natural life, and after her decease, 
 to the first son of her body lawfully issuing, and to the heirs males 
 of the body of the said first son lawfully issuing; and for default 
 of such issue, to the second son of her body lawfully issuing, and 
 to the heirs males of the body of the said second son lawfully issu¬ 
 ing; and for default of such heirs, to the third son of the body of 
 the said Susanna lawfully issuing, and of the heirs males of the 
 body of the said third son lawfully issuing ; and for default of such 
 issue, the same so to be and remain to the fourth, fifth, sixth, and 
 seventh sons of her body lawfully issuing, one after another, and 
 to the heirs males of the bodies of the said fourth, fifth, sixth, 
 and seventh sons lawfully issuing, in such manner as it is before 
 limited to be and remain to the first, second, and third sons of 
 
Shakespeare’s will. 
 
 63 
 
 her body, and to their heirs males ; and for default of such issue, 
 the said premises to be and remain to my said niece Hall, and the 
 heirs males of her body lawfully issuing; and for default of such 
 issue, to my daughter Judith, and the heirs males of her body 
 lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, to the right heirs 
 of me the said William Shakespeare for ever. Item, I give unto 
 my wife my second best bed with the furniture. Item, I give and 
 bequeath to my said daughter Judith my broad silver gilt bowl. 
 All the rest of my goods, chattel, leases, plate, jewels, and house¬ 
 hold stuff whatsoever, after my debts and legacies paid, and my 
 funeral expenses discharged, I give, devise, and bequeath to my 
 son-in-law, John Hall, gent., and my daughter Susanna, his wife, 
 whom I ordain and make executors of this my last will and testa¬ 
 ment. And I do intreat and appoint the said Thomas Russell, 
 esquire, and Francis Collins, gent., to be overseers hereof, and 
 do revoke all former wills, and publish this to be my last will 
 and testament. In witness whereof I have hereunto put my hand, 
 the day and year first above-written. 
 
 By me William Shakespeare. 
 
 Witness to the publishing hereof, 
 
 Fra: Collins, 
 
 Julius Shaw, 
 
 John Robinson, 
 
 Hamnet Sadler, 
 
 Robert Whattcott. 
 
 Probatum coram magistro Willielmo Byrde, legum doctore comiss. 
 &c. xxij do . die mensis Junii, anno Domini 1616, juramento Jo- 
 hannis Hall, unius executorum, &c. cui &c. de bene &c. jurat, 
 reservat. potestate &c. Susannas Hall, alteri executorum &c. 
 cum venerit petitur. &c. (Inv. ex.) 
 
64 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 DEDICATION PREFIXED TO THE FOLIO OF 
 
 1623. 
 
 To the most noble and incomparable pair of Brethren, 
 
 William, Earl of Pembroke, &*c., Lord Chamberlain to the 
 King's most excellent Majesty, 
 
 and 
 
 Philip, Earl of Montgomery, <5 r*c., Gentleman of his Majesty's 
 
 bedchamber; 
 
 Both Knights of the most noble order of the Garter, and our sin - 
 
 gular good lords. 
 
 Right-Honourable : —Whilst we study to be thankful in our 
 particular for the many favours we have received from your Lord- 
 ships, we are fallen upon the ill-fortune, to mingle two the most 
 diverse things that can be, fear and rashness, — rashness in the 
 enterprise, and fear of the success. For when we value the places 
 your Honours sustain, we cannot but know their dignity greater 
 than to descend to the reading of these trifles ; and while we name 
 them trifles, we have deprived ourselves of the defence of our dedi¬ 
 cation. But since your Lordships have been pleased to think these 
 trifles something heretofore, and have prosecuted both them and 
 their author living with so much favour, we hope that (they out¬ 
 living him, and he not having the fate, common with some, to be 
 executor to his own writings) you will use the like indulgence 
 toward them you have done unto their parent. There is a great 
 difference whether any book choose his patrons, or find them: 
 this hath done both. For so much were your Lordships’ likings 
 of the several parts when they were acted, as, before they were 
 published, the volume asked to be yours. We have but collected 
 them, and done an office to the dead, to procure his orphans 
 guardians ; without ambition either of self-profit or fame; only 
 to keep the memory of so worthy a friend and fellow alive as was 
 
ADDRESS. 
 
 65 
 
 our Shakespeare, by humble offer of his plays to your most no¬ 
 ble patronage. Wherein, as we have justly observed no man to 
 come near your Lordships but with a kind of religious address, it 
 hath been the height of our care, who are the presenters, to make 
 the present worthy of your Honours by the perfection. But there 
 we must also crave our abilities to be considered, my lords. 
 We cannot go beyond our powers. Country hands reach forth 
 milk, cream, fruits, or what they have; and many nations, we 
 have heard, that had not gums and incense, obtained their re¬ 
 quests with a leavened cake. It was no fault to approach their 
 gods by what means they could; and the most, though meanest, 
 of things are made more precious when they are dedicated to 
 temples. In that name, therefore, we most humbly consecrate 
 to your Honours these remains of your servant Shakespeare, that 
 what delight is in them may be ever your Lordships’, the reputa¬ 
 tion his, and the fault ours, if any be committed by a pair so 
 careful to show their gratitude both to the living and the dead 
 as is 
 
 Your Lordships’ most bounden, 
 
 JOHN HEMINGE, 
 
 HENRY CONDELL. 
 
 ADDRESS PREFIXED TO THE FOLIO OF 1623. 
 
 To the great Variety of Readers. 
 
 From the most able to him that can but spell: there you are 
 numbered. We had rather you were weighed: especially when 
 the fate of all books depends upon your capacities; and not of 
 your heads alone, but of your purses. Well, it is now public; 
 and you will stand for your privileges, we know,— to read and 
 censure. Do so, but buy it first: that doth best commend a 
 book, the stationer says. Then how odd soever your brains be 
 or your wisdoms, make your license the same, and spare not. 
 Judge your six-pen’orth, your shilling’s-worth, your five-shillings’- 
 worth at a time, or higher, so you rise to the just rates, and wel¬ 
 come. But, whatever you do, buy. Censure will not drive a 
 trade, or make the jack go. And, though you be a magistrate 
 
66 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 of wit, and sit on the stage at Black-friars or the Cock-pit, to 
 arraign plays daily, know, these plays have had their trial already, 
 and stood out all appeals, and do now come forth quitted rather 
 by a decree of court than any purchased letters of commenda¬ 
 tion. 
 
 It had been a thing, we confess, worthy to have been wished, 
 that the author himself had lived to have set forth and overseen 
 his own writings. But, since it hath been ordained otherwise, 
 and he by death departed from that right, we pray you do not 
 envy his friends the office of their care and pain, to have collected 
 and published them; and so to have published them as, where 
 before you were abused with divers stolen and surreptitious 
 copies, maimed and deformed by the frauds and stealths of in¬ 
 jurious impostors that exposed them, even those are now offered 
 to your view cured and perfect of their limbs, and all the rest 
 absolute in their numbers as he conceived them; who, as he was 
 a happy imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser of it: his 
 mind and hand went together; and what he thought, he uttered 
 with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot 
 in his papers. But it is not our province, who only gather his 
 works and give them you, to praise him. It is yours that read 
 him: and there we hope, to your divers capacities, you will find 
 enough both to draw and hold you ; for his wit can no more lie 
 hid than it could be lost. Read him, therefore ; and again and 
 again: and if then you do not like him, surely you are in some 
 manifest danger not to understand him. And so we leave you to 
 other of his friends, who, if you need, can be your guides: if 
 you need them not, you can lead yourselves and others. And 
 such readers we wish him. 
 
 JOHN HEMINGE, 
 
 HENRY CONDELL. 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 67 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES PREFIXED TO THE 
 
 FOLIO OF 1623. 
 
 To the Me?nory of my beloved, the Author , Master William 
 Shakespeare, and what he hath left us. 
 
 To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, 
 
 Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; 
 
 While I confess thy writings to be such 
 As neither man nor Muse can praise too much: 
 
 ’Tis true, and all men’s suffrage : but these ways 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; 
 
 For silliest ignorance on these may light, 
 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; 
 
 Or blind affection, which doth ne’er advance 
 The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; 
 
 Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 
 
 And think to ruin where it seem’d to raise: 
 
 These are as some infamous bawd or whore 
 Should praise a matron: what could hurt her more ? 
 
 But thou art proof against them ; and, indeed, 
 
 Above th’ ill fortune of them or the need. 
 
 I, therefore, will begin : Soul of the age, 
 
 Th’ applause, delight, the wonder of our stage, 
 
 My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by 
 Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little further, to make thee a room: * 
 
 Thou art a monument without a tomb, 
 
 * An allusion to the following lines by William Basse, which are found 
 in Mss. with several variations: they appear to have been first printed in 
 1633 among the poems of Donne, to whom they were wrongly attributed: 
 
 Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh 
 To learned Chaucer; and, rare Beaumont, lie 
 A little nearer Spenser ; to make room 
 For Shakespeare in your threefold fourfold tomb: 
 
 To lodge all four in one bed make a shift 
 Until doomsday ; for hardly will a fifth. 
 
68 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 And art alive still, while thy book doth live, 
 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 
 That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, — 
 
 I mean, with great but disproportion^ Muses ; 
 
 For, if I thought my judgment were of years, 
 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peers, 
 
 And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine, 
 
 Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe’s mighty line : 
 
 And, though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, 
 From thence to honour thee I would not seek 
 For names ; but call forth thundering Alschylus, 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova, dead, 
 
 To life again, to hear thy buskin tread 
 
 And shake a stage ; or, when thy socks were on, 
 
 Leave thee alone for the comparison 
 
 Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 
 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. — 
 
 Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show, 
 
 To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 
 
 He was not of an age, but for all time ; 
 
 And all the Muses still were in their prime, 
 
 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 
 Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm. 
 
 Nature herself was proud of his designs, 
 
 And joy’d to wear the dressing of his lines ; 
 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 
 As since she will vouchsafe no other wit: 
 
 The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 
 
 Betwixt this day and that, by fate be slain, 
 
 For whom your curtains may be drawn again. 
 But if precedency in death doth bar 
 A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre. 
 
 Under this carved marble of thine own, 
 
 Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakespeare, sleep alone: 
 Thy unmolested peace, unshared cave, 
 
 Possess as lord, not tenant, of thy grave; 
 
 That unto us and others it may be 
 Honour hereafter to be laid by thee. 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 69 
 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; 
 
 But antiquated and deserted lie, 
 
 As they were not of Nature’s family. — 
 
 Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 
 
 My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part: 
 
 For, though the poet’s matter Nature be, 
 
 His art doth give the fashion; and that he 
 Who casts to write a living line must sweat, — 
 
 Such as thine are, — and strike the second heat 
 Upon the Muses’ anvil; turn the same, 
 
 And himself with it, that he thinks to frame; 
 
 Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn,— 
 
 For a good poet’s made, as well as born: 
 
 And such wert thou. — Look how the father’s face 
 Lives in his issue ; even so the race 
 Of Shakespeare’s mind and manners brightly shines 
 In his well-turned and true-filed lines ; 
 
 In each of which he seems to shake a lance. 
 
 As brandish’d at the eyes of ignorance. — 
 
 Sweet Swan of Avon, what a sight it were 
 To see thee in our waters yet appear, 
 
 And make those flights upon the banks of Thames 
 That so did take Eliza and our James! 
 
 But stay; I see thee in the hemisphere 
 Advanced, and made a constellation there : 
 
 Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage 
 Or influence chide or cheer the drooping stage ; 
 
 Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn’d like night, 
 And despairs day, but for thy volume’s light.* 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 * Upon these superb lines Dyce makes the following just comment: 
 “ That a sincere friendship existed between Shakespeare and Jonson will 
 never again be doubted after the excellent memoir of the latter by Gifford; 
 and, indeed, it is surprising that the alleged enmity of Jonson towards 
 Shakespeare should not have had an earlier refutation, especially as Jon- 
 son’s writings exhibit the most unequivocal testimony of his affectionate ad¬ 
 miration of Shakespeare. A more glowing eulogy than the verses ‘ To the 
 Memory of MY BELOVED, the Author, Mr. WILLIAM Shakespeare,’ was 
 never penned.” 
 
70 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 To the Memory of the deceased Author, Master W. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Shakespeare, at length thy pious fellows give 
 The world thy works ; thy works, by which out-live 
 Thy tomb thy name must: when that stone is rent, 
 
 And time dissolves thy Stratford monument, 
 
 Here we alive shall view thee still; this book, 
 
 When brass and marble fade, shall make thee look 
 Fresh to all ages ; when posterity 
 Shall loathe what’s new, think all is prodigy 
 That is not Shakespeare’s, every line, each verse, 
 
 Here shall revive, redeem thee from thy hearse. 
 
 Nor fire, nor cankering age, —as Naso said 
 Of his, — thy wit-fraught book shall once invade : 
 
 Nor shall I e’er believe or think thee dead, 
 
 Though miss’d, until our bankrupt stage be sped — 
 Impossible — with some new strain t’ out-do 
 Passions of Juliet and her Romeo ; 
 
 Or till I hear a scene more nobly take 
 
 Than when thy half-sword-parleying Romans spake : 
 
 Till these, till any of thy volume’s rest, 
 
 Shall with more fire, more feeling be express’d, 
 
 Be sure, our Shakespeare, thou canst never die, 
 
 But, crown’d with laurel, live eternally. 
 
 LEONARD DIGGES.* 
 
 * Leonard Digges, born in London, was educated at University College, 
 Oxford; to which college, after travelling “ into several countries,” he retired; 
 and died there in 1635. Though a very poor poet, he was a person of 
 considerable accomplishments, as is shown by his translation of Claudian’s 
 Rape of Proserpine, and of Gonfalo de Cespides’s Gerardo, the unfortunate 
 Spaniard. He has another and much longer eulogy on Shakespeare, pre¬ 
 fixed to the edition of our author’s Poems , 1640.— Dyce. 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES* 
 
 7 1 
 
 To the Memory of Master W. Shakespeare. 
 
 We wonder’d, Shakespeare, that thou went’st so soon 
 From the world’s stage to the grave’s tiring-room : 
 
 We thought thee dead; but this thy printed worth 
 Tells thy spectators that thou went’st but forth 
 To enter with applause. An actor’s art 
 Can die, and live to act a second part: 
 
 That’s but an exit of mortality, 
 
 This a re-entrance to a plaudite. J. M * 
 
 Upon the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenic Poet , Master 
 
 William Shakespeare. 
 
 Those hands which you so clapp’d, go now and wring, 
 
 You Britons brave ; for done are Shakespeare’s days ; 
 
 His days are done that made the dainty plays, 
 
 Which made the Globe of heaven and earth to ring: 
 
 Dried is that vein, dried is the Thespian spring, 
 
 Turn’d all to tears, and Phoebus clouds his rays: 
 
 That corpse, that coffin, now bestick those bays 
 Which crown’d him poet first, then poet’s king. 
 
 If tragedies might any prologue have, 
 
 All those he made would scarce make one to this; 
 
 Where Fame, now that he gone is to the grave — 
 
 Death’s public tiring-house — the Nuntius is : 
 
 For, though his line of life went soon about, 
 
 The life yet of his lines shall never out. 
 
 HUGH HOLLAND.f 
 
 * Mr. Bolton Corney, in Notes and Queries , leaves hardly any doubt that 
 these are the initials of fames Mabbe, who is described by Wood as “ a 
 learned man, good orator, and a facetious conceited wit.” He became pre¬ 
 bendary of Wells, and died about the year 1642. 
 
 t Hugh Holland was a Welshman, who became fellow of Trinity Col¬ 
 lege, Cambridge; travelled to Jerusalem, “to do his devotions to the holy 
 sepulchre ”; afterwards spent some years at Oxford “ for the sake of the pub¬ 
 lic library ” there, and “ died within the city of Westminster in 1633.”— DYCE. 
 
72 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 COMMENDATORY VERSES PREFIXED TO THE 
 
 FOLIO OF 1632* 
 
 Upon the Effigies of my worthy Friend , the Author , Master 
 William Shakespeare, and his Works. 
 
 Spectator, this life’s shadow is : to see 
 This truer image and a livelier he, 
 
 Turn reader. But observe his comic vein, 
 
 Laugh ; and proceed next to a tragic strain, 
 
 Then weep : so, when thou find’st two contrairies, 
 
 Two different passions from thy rapt soul rise, 
 
 Say — who alone effect such wonders could — 
 
 Rare Shakespeare to the life thou dost behold 
 
 An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet , W. Shakespeare. 
 
 What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones 
 The labour of an age in piled stones, 
 
 Or that his hallow’d relics should be hid 
 Under a star-ypointing pyramid? 
 
 Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 
 
 What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name? 
 
 Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, 
 
 Hast built thyself a live-long monument: 
 
 For whilst, to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art, 
 
 Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart 
 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
 Those Delphic lines with deep impression took; 
 
 * The second folio prints the following pieces in addition to those that 
 precede. 
 

 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 73 
 
 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
 
 Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; 
 
 And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, 
 
 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.* 
 
 On worthy Master Shakespeare and his Poems . 
 
 A mind reflecting ages past, whose clear 
 And equal surface can make things appear, — 
 
 Distant a thousand years, — and represent 
 Them in their lively colours, just extent: 
 
 To outrun hasty Time, retrieve the Fates, 
 
 Roll back the heavens, blow ope the iron gates 
 Of Death and Lethe, where confused lie 
 Great heaps of ruinous mortality: 
 
 In that deep dusky dungeon to discern 
 A royal ghost from churls; by art to learn 
 The physiognomy of shades, and give 
 Them sudden birth, wondering how oft they live ; 
 
 What story coldly tells, what poets feign 
 At second hand, and picture without brain, — 
 
 Senseless and soulless shows, — to give a stage, — 
 Ample, and true with life, — voice, action, age, 
 
 As Plato’s year, and new scene of the world, 
 
 Them unto us, or us to them had hurl’d: 
 
 To raise our ancient sovereigns from their hearse, 
 
 Make kings his subjects ; by exchanging verse 
 Enlive their pale trunks, that the present age 
 Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage : 
 
 Yet so to temper passion, that our ears 
 Take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears 
 Both weep and smile ; fearful at plots so sad, 
 
 Then laughing at our fear; abused, and glad 
 
 * The authorship of these lines was ascertained by their appearing in an 
 edition of Milton’s Poems published in 1645. 
 
7 4 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 To be abused; affected with that truth 
 Which we perceive is false, pleased in that ruth 
 At which we start, and by elaborate play 
 Tortured and tickled ; by a crab-like way 
 Time past made pastime, and in ugly sort 
 Disgorging up his ravin for our sport: — 
 
 While the plebeian imp, from lofty throne, 
 
 Creates and rules a world, and works upon 
 Mankind by secret engines ; now to move 
 A chilling pity, then a rigorous love ; 
 
 To strike up and stroke down both joy and ire; 
 
 To stir th’ affections ; and by heavenly fire 
 Mould us anew, stol’n from ourselves : — 
 
 This, and much more which cannot be express’d 
 But by himself, his tongue, and his own breast, 
 
 Was Shakespeare’s freehold ; which his cunning brain 
 Improved by favour of the nine-fold train; 
 
 The buskin’d Muse, the comic queen, the grand 
 And louder tone of Clio, nimble hand 
 And nimbler foot of the melodious pair, 
 
 The silver-voiced lady, the most fair 
 Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts, 
 
 And she whose praise the heavenly body chants; 
 These jointly woo’d him, envying one another, — 
 Obey’d by all as spouse, but loved as brother, — 
 
 And wrought a curious robe, of sable grave, 
 
 Fresh green, and pleasant yellow, red most brave, 
 And constant blue, rich purple, guiltless white, 
 
 The lowly russet, and the scarlet bright; 
 
 Branch’d and embroider’d like the painted Spring; 
 Each leaf match’d with a flower, and each string 
 Of golden wire, each line of silk; there run 
 Italian works, whose thread the sisters spun; 
 
 And there did sing, or seem to sing, the choice 
 Birds of a foreign note and various voice ; 
 
 Here hangs a mossy rock; there plays a fair 
 But chiding fountain, purled ; not the air, 
 
 Nor clouds, nor thunder, but were living drawn, — 
 
COMMENDATORY VERSES. 
 
 7 5 
 
 Not out of common tiffany or lawn, 
 
 But fine materials, which the Muses know, 
 
 And only know the countries where they grow. 
 
 Now, when they could no longer him enjoy 
 In mortal garments pent, — “ Death may destroy,” 
 
 They say, “ his body; but his verse shall live, 
 
 And more than Nature takes our hands shall give: 
 
 In a less volume, but more strongly bound, 
 
 Shakespeare shall breathe and speak; with laurel crown’d 
 Which never fades ; fed with ambrosian meat, 
 
 In a well-lined vesture, rich and neat.” 
 
 So with this robe they clothe him, bid him wear it; 
 
 For time shall never stain nor envy tear it. 
 
 The friendly admirer of his endowments, 
 
 J. M. S.* 
 
 * The authorship of this most intelligent and appreciative strain of com¬ 
 mendation has not been fully settled, and probably never will be. Malone 
 conjectured the initials to stand for “Jasper Mayne, Student"; and Mr. 
 Bolton Corney pointed out to Dyce some dozen pieces of occasional verse 
 written by Mayne, which, though greatly inferior to this on Shakespeare, 
 yet bear, he thinks, a sufficient resemblance to it in style to warrant a belief 
 in Malone’s conjecture. None of the signatures, however, to those pieces 
 give any fair colour to the inference of the letter S being put for Student; 
 nor do the pieces themselves show any indications of the power displayed 
 in this instance. Singer notes upon the subject as follows: “ Conjecture 
 had been vainly employed upon the initials J. M. S., until Mr. Hunter, hav¬ 
 ing occasion to refer to the Iter Lancastrense , a poem by Richard James , an 
 eminent scholar and antiquary, the friend of Selden and Sir Robert Cotton, 
 was struck with the similarity of style, the same unexpected and abrupt 
 breaks in the middle of the lines, and the same disposition to view every 
 thing under its antiquarian aspect, which we find in these verses; and there¬ 
 fore suggested the great probability that by J. M. S. we must understand 
 JaMeS. Without being at all aware of Mr. Hunter’s suggestion, my excel¬ 
 lent friend Mr. Lloyd had come to the same conclusion, from having seen 
 some lines by James, printed in Mr. Halliwell’s Essay on the Character of 
 Falstaff. The coincident opinion of two independent and able authorities 
 would be in itself conclusive; and, for my own part, I have no doubt that it 
 is to Richard James these highly poetical lines to the memory of the Poet 
 must be attributed.” 
 
COMEDY OF ERRORS 
 

 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 F IRST printed in the folio of 1623. One of the twelve plays 
 mentioned by Francis Meres in his Palladis Tamia, 1598. 
 All are agreed in regarding it as among the Poet’s earliest con¬ 
 tributions to the stage ; though it is somewhat uncertain whether, 
 of the Comedies, The Two Gentlemen of Verona and the original 
 form of Love's Labours Lost may not have preceded it. In the 
 Gesta Grayorum , 1594, we have the following: “After such 
 sports, a Comedy of Errors , like to Plautus’s Menechmus , was 
 played by the players: so that night was begun, and continued 
 to the end, in nothing but confusion and errors; whereupon it 
 was ever afterwards called The Night of Errors." This doubt¬ 
 less refers to the play in hand, and infers it to have been per¬ 
 formed at Gray’s-Inn in December, 1594. The date of the writing 
 is further approximated from a curious piece of internal evidence. 
 In iii. 2, Dromio of Syracuse, talking of the “ kitchen wench ” 
 who made love to him, and who was “ spherical like globe,” so 
 that he “ could find out countries in her,” in answer to the ques¬ 
 tion, “Where France ?” replies, “ In her forehead; arm’d and 
 reverted, making war against her hair.” Here of course an 
 equivoque was intended between hair and heir , else there were 
 no apparent point in the jest; and the reference clearly is to the 
 War of the League against Henry of Navarre, who became heir 
 to the crown of France in 1589. As this war was on account of 
 Henry’s being a Protestant, the English people took great inter¬ 
 est in it; in fact, Queen Elizabeth sent several bodies of troops 
 to aid him; so that the allusion would naturally be understood 
 and relished. The war, however, continued several years, until 
 at length Henry embraced the Roman Catholic religion at St. 
 Denis, in July, 1593. 
 
 77 
 
78 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 The general idea or plan of the piece is borrowed from the 
 Mencechmi of Plautus, but the plot is entirely recast, and made 
 much more diverting by the variety and quick succession of the 
 incidents. To the twin brothers of Plautus are added twin ser¬ 
 vants ; which, to be sure, greatly heightens the improbability; 
 but, as Schlegel observes, “ when once we have lent ourselves to 
 the first, which certainly borders on the incredible, we should 
 not probably be disposed to cavil about the second; and if the 
 spectator is to be entertained with mere perplexities, they cannot 
 be too much varied.” 
 
 There has been considerable diversity of opinion as to the 
 immediate source- of the plot. Collier discovered that an old 
 drama entitled The History of Error was acted at Hampton 
 Court, January i, 1577, and probably again at Windsor on 
 Twelfth Night, 1583 ; and he conjectures the Poet to have taken 
 this as the basis of his comedy, and to have interwoven parts of 
 it with his own matter, especially the doggerel verses. The older 
 play not having been recovered, nor any part of it, we have no 
 means of either refuting or verifying this conjecture. — Another 
 opinion supposes the Poet to have drawn from a free version 
 of the Mencechmi published in 1595, as “A pleasant and fine- 
 conceited Comedy, taken out of the most excellent witty poet 
 Plautus.” This version, to be sure, did not come out till after 
 The Comedy of Errors was written: but then Shakespeare may 
 have seen it in manuscript; for in his preface the translator 
 speaks of having “divers of this poet’s comedies Englished, for 
 the use and delight of private friends, who in Plautus’s own words 
 are not able to understand them.” Nevertheless I am far from 
 thinking this to have been the case ; there being no such verbal 
 or other resemblances between the two, as, in that case, could 
 scarce have been avoided. The accurate Ritson ascertained that 
 of this version not a single peculiar name or phrase or thought is 
 to be traced in Shakespeare’s comedy. On the whole, I cannot 
 discover the slightest objection to supposing, along with Knight 
 and Verplanck, that the Poet may have drawn directly from 
 Plautus himself; the matter common to them both not being 
 such but that it may well enough have been taken by one who 
 had “ small Latin.” 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Solinus, Duke of Ephesus. 
 vEgeon, a Merchant of Syracuse. 
 
 Antipholus of Ephesus, 
 Antipholus of Syracuse^ ^Emilia. 
 
 DROMIO of Ephesus, ") twm Brothers. 
 ^ r „ > Servants to the 
 
 DKOMIO of Syracuse, j tm Former 
 
 Balthazar, a Merchant. 
 
 Angelo, a Goldsmith. 
 
 First Merchant, Friend to Antipholus 
 of Syracuse. 
 
 Second Merchant, to whom Angelo 
 is a debtor. 
 
 Pinch, a Schoolmaster. 
 
 .Emilia, Wife to Egeon, an Abbess 
 at Ephesus. 
 
 Adriana, Wife to Antipholus of 
 Ephesus. 
 
 Luciana, her Sister. 
 
 Luce, Servant to Adriana, 
 
 A Courtezan. 
 
 Jailer, Officers, and other Attendants. 
 Scene,— Ephesus. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — A Hall in the Duke’s Palace. 
 
 Enter the Duke, AEgeon, Jailer, Officers, and other 
 
 Attendants. 
 
 AEge. Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, 
 
 And by the doom of death end woes and all. 
 
 Duke. Merchant of Syracusa, plead no more ; 
 
 I am not partial to infringe 1 our laws : 
 
 1 We should say, “ I am not the party to infringe,” or, “ I’ll take no part 
 in infringing.” So, in Measure for Measure, v. i, we have “ In this I’ll be 
 impartial"; meaning “ I’ll take no part in this.” 
 
 79 
 
So 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 The enmity and discord which of late 
 Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your Duke 
 To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen, — 
 
 Who, wanting guilders 2 to redeem their lives, 
 
 Have seal’d his rigorous statutes with their bloods, — 
 Excludes all pity from our threatening looks. 
 
 For, since the mortal 3 and intestine jars 
 ’Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us, 
 
 It hath in solemn synods been decreed, 
 
 Both by the Syracusians and ourselves, 
 
 T’ admit no traffic to our adverse towns: 
 
 Nay, more, if any born at Ephesus 
 Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs ; 
 
 Again, if any Syracusian born 
 Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies, 
 
 His goods confiscate to the Duke’s dispose ; 4 
 Unless a thousand marks be levied, 
 
 To quit 5 the penalty and ransom him. 
 
 Thy substance, valued at the highest rate, 
 
 Cannot amount unto a hundred marks; 
 
 Therefore by law thou art condemn’d to die. 
 
 sEge. Yet ’tis my comfort, when your words are done, 
 
 My woes end likewise with the evening Sun. 
 
 Duke. Well, Syracusian, say, in brief, the cause 
 Why thou departed’st from thy native home, 
 
 2 Guelder is the name of a Flemish and of a German coin; the former 
 equal to about thirty-eight cents of our reckoning, the latter to about eighty- 
 seven. 
 
 3 Mortal is deadly or fatal. Commonly so in Shakespeare. 
 
 4 Dispose for disposal or disposition. The Poet has many such shortened 
 forms. So, in iii. i, of this play we have “within the compass of suspect"; 
 that is, suspicion .— Confiscate , also, for confiscated. The Poet has many like 
 shortened preterites, such as consecrate, dedicate, suffocate, situate , and con¬ 
 taminate. 
 
 5 To quit, here, is to set free from, or to release; much the same as to 
 acquit. The Poet has it repeatedly so. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 81 
 
 And for what cause thou earnest to Ephesus. 
 
 s£ge. A heavier task could not have been imposed 
 Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable : 
 
 Yet, that the world may witness that my end 
 Was wrought by nature, 6 not by vile offence, 
 
 I’ll utter what my sorrow gives me leave. 
 
 In Syracusa was I born ; and wed 
 Unto a woman, happy but for me, 
 
 And by me too, had not our hap been bad. 
 
 With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased 
 By prosperous voyages I often made 
 To Epidamnum ; till my factor’s death, 
 
 And the great care of goods at random left, 
 
 Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse : 
 
 From whom my absence was not six months old, 
 
 Before herself—almost at fainting under 
 The pleasing punishment that women bear — 
 
 Had made provision for her following me, 
 
 And soon and safe arrived where I was. 
 
 There had she not been long but she became 
 A joyful mother of two goodly sons ; 
 
 And, which was strange, the one so like the other 
 As 7 could not be distinguish’d but by names. 
 
 That very hour, and in the self-same inn, 
 
 A meaner woman was delivered 
 
 Of such a burden, male twins, both alike : 
 
 Those, for 8 their parents were exceeding poor, 
 
 I bought, and brought up to attend my sons. 
 
 My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys, 
 
 Made daily motions for our home return : 
 
 6 Here, as in many other places, nature is natural affection. 
 
 7 As is here equivalent to that they. The word was used much more 
 loosely in the Poet’s time than it is now. 
 
 8 For in the sense of because or for that. A frequent usage. 
 
8 2 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Unwilling I agreed. Alas, too soon 
 We came aboard ! 
 
 A league from Epidamnum had we sail’d, 
 
 Before the always-wind-obeying deep 
 Gave any tragic instance 9 of our harm : 
 
 But longer did we not retain much hope ; 
 
 For what obscured light the heavens did grant 
 Did but convey unto our fearful minds 
 A doubtful warrant of immediate death ; 
 
 Which though myself would gladly have embraced, 
 
 Yet the incessant weepings of my wife, 
 
 Weeping before for what she saw must come, 
 
 And piteous plainings of the pretty babes, 
 
 That mourn’d for fashion, ignorant what to fear, 
 
 Forced me to seek delays for them and me. 
 
 And thus it was, — for other means was none : —* 
 
 The sailors sought for safety by our boat, 
 
 And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us: 
 
 My wife, more careful for the later-born, 
 
 Had fasten’d him unto a small spare mast, 
 
 Such as seafaring men provide for storms; 
 
 To him one of the other twins was bound, 
 
 Whilst I had been like heedful of the other: 
 
 The children thus disposed, my wife and I, 
 
 Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix’d, 
 
 Fasten’d ourselves at either end the mast; 
 
 And floating straight, obedient to the stream, 
 
 Were carried towards 10 Corinth, as we thought. 
 
 At length the Sun, gazing upon the Earth, 
 
 9 Shakespeare uses instance with various shades of meaning not always 
 easily distinguishable; such as example , motive, ground , assurance, prog¬ 
 nostic, or warnitig; which latter is the meaning here. 
 
 10 Towards is one or two syllables, and has the accent on the first or sec¬ 
 ond syllable, indifferently in Shakespeare, according to the needs of his 
 verse. Here it is two syllables, with the accent on the first. 
 
SCENE I. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 83 
 
 Dispersed those vapours that offended us; 
 
 And, by the benefit of his wish’d light, 
 
 The seas wax’d calm, and we discovered 
 Two ships from far making amain 11 to us, 
 
 Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this : 
 
 But, ere they came, — O, let me say no more ! 
 
 Gather the sequel by that went before. 
 
 Duke . Nay, forward, old man ; do not break off so ; 
 
 For we may pity, though not pardon thee. 
 
 DEge. O, had the gods done so, I had not now 
 Worthily term’d them merciless to us ! 
 
 For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues, 
 
 We were encounter’d by a mighty rock; 
 
 Which being violently borne upon, 
 
 Our hopeful ship was splitted in the midst; 
 
 So that, in this unjust divorce of us, 
 
 Fortune had left to both of us alike 
 What to delight in, what to sorrow for. 
 
 Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened 
 With lesser weight, but not with lesser woe, 
 
 Was carried with more speed before the wind; 
 
 And in our sight they three were taken up 
 By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought. 
 
 At length, the other ship had seized on us ; 
 
 And, knowing whom it was their hap to save, 
 
 Gave healthful welcome to their shipwreck’d guests ; 
 
 And would have reft the fishers of their prey, 
 
 Had not their bark been very slow of sail; 
 
 And therefore homeward did they bend their course. 
 
 Thus have you heard me sever’d from my bliss ; 
 
 Thus by misfortune was my life prolong’d, 
 
 11 Amain is with strength , or strongly; that is, swiftly. So, in Shake¬ 
 speare, the adjective main often means great or mighty, as in the phrase, 
 "with main strength.” 
 
8 4 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT h 
 
 To tell sad stories of my own mishaps. 
 
 Duke. And, for the sake of them thou sorrow’st for. 
 
 Do me the favour to dilate at full 
 
 What hath befall’n of them and thee till now. 
 
 s£ge. My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care. 
 
 At eighteen years became inquisitive 
 After his brother; and impdrtuned me 
 That his attendant — for his case was like, 
 
 Reft of his brother, but retain’d 12 his name — 
 
 Might bear him company in the quest of him: 
 
 Whom whilst I labour’d of a love 13 to see, 
 
 I hazarded the loss of whom I loved. 
 
 Five Summers have I spent in farthest Greece, 
 
 Roaming clean 14 through the bounds of Asia, 
 
 And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus; 
 
 Hopeless to find, yet loth to leave unsought 
 Or that or 15 any place that harbours men. 
 
 But here must end the story of my life; 
 
 And happy were I in my timely death, 
 
 Could all my travels warrant me they live. 
 
 Duke. Hapless Higeon, whom the fates have mark’d 
 To bear th’ extremity of dire mishap ! 
 
 Now, trust me, were it not against our laws, 
 
 Against my crown, my oath, my dignity, — 
 
 Which princes, would they, may not disannul, 16 — 
 
 My soul should sue as advocate for thee. 
 
 12 The language, expressed in full, would be “ He was reft of his brother, 
 but retain’d.” The Poet has many like ellipses. 
 
 13 Here ^/stands for the relation of cause: from or out ofo. love. 
 
 14 Clean is utterly or entirely. So in Julius Ccesar, i. 3 : “ Men may con¬ 
 strue things clea?i from the purpose.” Also in the 77th Psalm: “ Is His 
 mercy clean gone for ever ? " 
 
 15 Or — or for either — or is frequent in all English poetry. 
 
 16 Disannul for annul, though properly meaning just the opposite. So 
 in Galatians, iii. 17 : “ The covenant, that was confirmed before, the law 
 cannot disannul.” 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 85 
 
 But, though thou art adjudged to the death, 
 
 And passed sentence may not be recall’d 
 But to our honour’s great disparagement, 
 
 Yet will I favour thee in what I can. 
 
 Therefore, merchant, I’ll limit thee this day 
 To seek thy life by beneficial help : 17 
 Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus ; 
 
 Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,* 
 
 And live ; if not, then thou art doom’d to die. — 
 
 Jailer, now take him to thy custody. 
 
 Jail. I will, my lord. 
 
 s£ge. Hopeless and helpless doth Higeon wend, 
 
 But^ to procrastinate his lifeless end. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Mart. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse , Dromio of Syracuse, and 
 
 First Merchant. 
 
 1 Mer. Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum, 
 
 Lest that 1 your goods too soon be confiscate. 
 
 This very day a Syracusian merchant 
 Is apprehended for arrival here; 
 
 And, not being able to buy out his life, 
 
 According to the statute of the town, 
 
 Dies ere the weary Sun set in the West. 
 
 There is your money that I had to keep. 
 
 Ant. S. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, 2 
 
 17 The Poet repeatedly uses beneficial for beneficent or benevolent. So 
 that “beneficial help ” is assistance rendered out of charity or kindness. 
 
 1 * Lest that" is old language for lest simply. So we have if that , since 
 that , though that, when that , &c., where we should now use only if since , 
 though, when, &c. 
 
 2 To host for to lodge. So again in All's Well, iii. 5 : “ Come, pilgrim, I 
 will bring you where you shall host.” In King Lear ; v. 2, the word occurs 
 as a substantive for lodging. — Centaur is the name of an inn. And so with 
 Phosnix a little further on. 
 
86 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee. 
 
 Within this hour it will be dinner-time : 
 
 Till that, I’ll view the manners of the town, 
 
 Peruse 3 the traders, gaze upon the buildings, 
 
 And then return, and sleep within mine inn; 
 
 For with long travel I am stiff and weary. 
 
 Get thee away. 
 
 Dro. S. Many~a man would take you at your word, 
 
 And go indeed, having so good a mean. 4 \_Exit 
 
 Ant. S. A trusty villain, sir ; that very oft, 
 
 When I am dull with care and melancholy, 
 
 Lightens my humour with his merry jests. 
 
 What, will you walk with me about the town, 
 
 And then go to my inn, and dine with me ? 
 
 i Mer. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, 
 
 Of whom I hope to make much benefit; 
 
 I crave your pardon. Soon at 5 five o’clock, 
 
 Please you, I’ll meet with you upon the mart, 
 
 And afterward consort 6 you till bed-time : 
 
 My present business calls me from you now. 
 
 Ant. S. Farewell till then : I will go lose myself, 
 
 And wander up and down to view the city. 
 
 i Mer. Sir, I commend you to your own content. \_Exit. 
 A?it. S. He that commends me to mine own content 
 Commends me to the thing I cannot get. 
 
 3 The Poet often has peruse for mark or observe closely. So in Hamlet , 
 iv. 4: “ He, being remiss, most generous, and free from all contriving, will 
 not peruse the foils.” 
 
 4 Mean and means were used indifferently. Here mean refers to the 
 money. And the sense is, “ Many a man, having such a purse of money in 
 trust, would run away.” 
 
 6 Soon at is an old phrase for about. So again in iii. i, of this play: 
 “And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you.” Also in The Merchant, ii. 3 : “ Soon 
 at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo.” 
 
 6 Consort for accompany or attend. So in Love's Labours Lost, ii. 1: 
 “ Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace! ” 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 I to the world am like a drop of water, 
 
 That in the ocean seeks another drop; 
 
 Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, 
 
 Unseen, inquisitive, confounds 7 himself: 
 
 So I, to find a mother and a brother, 
 
 In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. 
 
 Here comes the almanac of my true date. 8 — 
 
 Enter Dromio of Ephesus. 
 
 What now ? how chance thou art return’d so soon ? 
 
 Dro. E. Return’d so soon ! rather approach’d too late : 
 The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit; 9 
 The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell, — 
 
 My mistress made it one upon my cheek: 
 
 She is so hot, because the meat is cold; 
 
 The meat is cold, because you come not home ; 
 
 You come not home, because you have no stomach; 10 
 You have no stomach, having broke your fast; 
 
 But we, that know what ’tis to fast and pray, 
 
 Are penitent for your default to-day. 
 
 Ant. S. Stop in your wind, sir : tell me this, I pray, — 
 Where have you left the money that I gave you ? 
 
 Dro. E. O, sixpence, that I had o’ Wednesday last 
 To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper : 
 
 The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not. 
 
 Ant. S. I am not in a sportive humour now : 
 
 7 To spend , to consume, to destroy are old meanings of to confound. — 
 Forth was often used with the sense of out. 
 
 8 The almanac of his true date, because they were both born the same 
 day. 
 
 9 A spit was an iron rod, to thrust through a fowl, a pig, or a piece of 
 meat, for roasting. The fowl or pig was then placed before the fire, so as 
 to be kept turning; and the one who turned it was called a turnspit. 
 
 10 Stomach for appetite. A frequent usage. Sometimes it means com » 
 age ; that is, an appetite for fighting. 
 
88 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Tell me, and dally not, where is the money? 
 
 We being strangers here, how darest thou trust 
 So great a charge from thine own custody? 
 
 Dro. E. I pray you, jest, sir, as you sit at dinner: 
 
 I from my mistress come to you in post; 11 
 If I return, I shall be post indeed, 
 
 For she will score 12 your fault upon my pate. 
 
 Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock, 
 
 And strike you home without a messenger. 
 
 Ant. S. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of sea¬ 
 son ; 
 
 Reserve them till a merrier hour than this. 
 
 Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee ? 
 
 Dro. E. To me, sir ! why, you gave no gold to me. 
 
 Ant. S. Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness, 
 And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge. 
 
 Dro. E. My charge was but to fetch you from the mart 
 Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner: 
 
 My mistress and her sister stay for you. 
 
 Ant. S. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me, 
 
 In what safe place you have bestow’d my money; 
 
 Or I shall break that merry sconce 13 of yours, 
 
 That stands on tricks when I am undisposed : 
 
 Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me ? 
 
 Dro. E. I have some marks of yours upon my pate, 
 
 Some of my mistress’ marks upon my shoulders ; 
 
 But not a thousand marks 14 between you both. 
 
 11 " In post" is in haste ; going with the speed of a postman. 
 
 12 To score t as the word is here used, is to mark; as accounts were for¬ 
 merly kept by marking the items on a board or a post, or by cutting notches 
 in a stick. — Maw , in the next line, is stomach. 
 
 13 Sconce is properly a round fortification; and, from the shape of the 
 thing, the word came to be used of the head. 
 
 14 A quibble between mark as a denomination of value, and mark in the 
 ordinary sense. The English mark was equal to 13 s. 8 d., or about $ 3.25. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 89 
 
 If I should pay your Worship 15 those again, 
 
 Perchance you will not bear them patiently. 
 
 Ant. S. Thy mistress’ marks ! what mistress, slave, hast 
 thou ? 
 
 Dro. E. Your Worship’s wife, my mistress at the Phoenix; 
 She that doth fast till you come home to dinner, 
 
 And prays that you will hie you home to dinner. 
 
 Ant. S. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face, 
 Being forbid ? There, take you that, sir knave. 
 
 [Beatmg hint. 
 
 Dro. E. What mean you, sir ? for God’s sake, hold your 
 hands! 
 
 Nay, an you will not, sir, I’ll take my heels. [Exit. 
 
 Ant . S. Upon my life, by some device or other 
 The villain is o’er-raught 16 of all my money. 
 
 They say this town is full of cozenage ; 
 
 As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye, 
 
 Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind, 
 
 Soul-killing witches that deform the body, 
 
 Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks, 
 
 And many such-like liberties of sin : 17 
 If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner. 
 
 I’ll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave : 
 
 I greatly fear my money is not safe. 
 
 15 “Your Worship ” was in common use as a phrase of deference, mean¬ 
 ing somewhat less than “ your Honour.” 
 
 16 O’er-raught is an old form of o'er-reached; here meaning cheated or 
 defrauded. To cozen had the same meaning; hence cozenage .— Viliam and 
 knave are used here in the old English sense of serva?it or thrall. 
 
 17 “ Such-like liberties of sin" probably means “ such-like persons of sin¬ 
 ful liberty',' or of wicked license. — A mowitebank is what we call a quack; 
 literally one who mounts a bank or a bench, and brags of his wares or his 
 skill. 
 
9 o 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Before the House of Antipholus of Ephesus. 
 
 Enter Adriana and Luciana. 
 
 Adr. Neither my husbafid nor the slave return’d, 
 
 That in such haste I sent to seek his master ! 
 
 Sure, Luciana, it is two o’clock. 
 
 Luc. Perhaps some merchant hath invited him, 
 
 And from the mart he’s somewhere gone to dinner. 
 
 Good sister, let us dine, and never fret: 
 
 A man is master of his liberty : 
 
 Time is their master; and when they see time. 
 
 They’ll go or come : if so, be patient, sister. 
 
 Adr. Why should their liberty than ours be more? 
 
 Luc. Because their business still lies out o’ door. 
 
 Adr. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill. 
 
 Lite. O, know he is the bridle of your will. 
 
 Adr. There’s none but asses will be bridled so. 
 
 Luc. Why, headstrong liberty is lash’d with woe. 
 
 There’s nothing situate under Heaven’s eye 
 But hath his 1 bound, in earth, in sea, in sky: 
 
 The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls, 
 
 Are their males’ subjects and at their controls : 
 
 Men, more divine, the masters of all these. 
 
 Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas, 
 
 Indued with intellectual sense and souls, 
 
 1 His for its, the latter not being then an admitted word. Continually so 
 in the Bible; as, “ if the salt have lost his savour,” and, “ giveth to every 
 seed his own body." In fact, its does not once occur in the Bible as printed 
 in 1611. 
 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 91 
 
 Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls, 
 
 Are masters to their females, and their lords : 
 
 Then let your will attend on their accords. 
 
 Adr. This servitude makes you to keep unwed. 
 
 Luc. Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed. 
 
 Adr. But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway. 
 Luc. Ere I learn love, I’ll practise to obey. 
 
 Adr. How if your husband start some other hare? 2 
 Luc. Till he come home again, I would forbear. 
 
 Adr. Patience unmoved, no marvel though she pause ; 3 
 They can be meek that have no other cause. 4 
 A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, 
 
 We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; 
 
 But, were we burden’d with like weight of pain, 
 
 As much, or more, we should ourselves complain : 
 
 So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee, 
 
 With urging helpless 5 patience wouldst relieve me; 
 
 But, if thou live to see like right bereft, 
 
 This fool-begg’d patience 6 in thee will be left. 
 
 Luc. Well, I will marry one day, but to try. 
 
 Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh. 
 
 Enter Dromio of Ephesus. 
 
 Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand ? 
 
 2 Meaning, probably, " fly off after some other woman.” So in As You 
 Like It, iv. 3 : “ Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.” Also in i King 
 Henry the Fourth, i. 3 : “ The blood more stirs, to rouse a lion than to start 
 a hare A 
 
 3 Meaning, I suppose, that it is no wonder if patience keeps quiet when 
 she has nothing to fret or disturb her. 
 
 4 “ No other cause ” here means, apparently, “ no cause to be otherwise.” 
 
 5 Helpless for unhelping. The Poet has it repeatedly thus. So in Lu- 
 crece : “ This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.” 
 
 6 A fool-begged, patience is a patience so nearly idiotic as to cause the 
 subject of it to be ‘‘begged for a fool”; alluding to the old custom of so¬ 
 liciting the guardianship of fools or idiots with a view to get the manage¬ 
 ment of their funds. 
 
9 2 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Dro. E. Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my 
 two ears can witness. 
 
 Adr. Say, didst thou speak with him? know’st thou his 
 mind? 
 
 Dro. E. Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear: 
 
 Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it. 7 
 
 Luc. Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his . 
 meaning ? 
 
 Dro. E. Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel 
 his blows; and withal so doubtfully, that I could scarce un¬ 
 derstand them. 
 
 Adr. But say, I pr’ythee, is he coming home ? 
 
 It seems he hath great care to please his wife. 
 
 Dro. E. Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad. 
 
 Adr. Horn-mad, thou villain ! 
 
 Dro. E. I mean not cuckold-mad; 
 
 But, sure, he is stark mad. 
 
 When I desired him to come home to dinner, 
 
 He ask’d me for a thousand marks in gold: 
 
 'Tis dinner-time , quoth I; My gold, quoth he : 
 
 Your tneat doth burn , quoth I; My gold , quoth he : 
 
 Will you come home ? quoth I; My gold', quoth he ; 
 
 Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain ? 
 
 The pig , quoth I, is burn'd; My gold, quoth he : 
 
 My mistress, sir, quoth I; Hang up thy mistress ! 
 
 I know not thy mistress ; out on thy mistress ! 
 
 Luc. Quoth who? 
 
 Dro. E. Quoth my master : 
 
 / know, quoth he, no house, no wife, no mistress. 
 
 So that my errand, due unto my tongue, 
 
 I thank him, I bear home upon my shoulders; 
 
 7 A quibble between understand and stand under. So, in The Two 
 Gentlemen , ii. 5, Launce says, "Why, stand-under and understand is all 
 one." 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 93 
 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 For, in conclusion, he did beat me there. 
 
 Adr. Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home. 
 Dro. E. Go back again, and be new beaten home 1 
 For God’s sake, send some other messenger. 
 
 A dr. Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across. 
 
 Dro. E. And he will bless that cross with other beating: 
 Between you I shall have a holy head. 
 
 Adr. Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home. 
 Dro. E. Am I so round 8 with you as you with me, 
 
 That like a football you do spurn me thus? 
 
 You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither: 
 
 If I last in this service, you must case me in leather. [Exit. 
 Luc. Fie, how impatience loureth in your face ! 
 
 Adr. His company must do his minions grace, 
 
 Whilst I at home starve for a merry look. 
 
 Hath homely age th’ alluring beauty took 
 From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it: 
 
 Are my discourses dull ? barren my wit ? 
 
 If voluble and sharp discourse be marr’d, 
 
 Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard : 
 
 Do their gay vestments his affections bait ? 
 
 That’s not my fault, — he’s master of my state : 9 
 What ruins are in me that can be found 
 By him not ruin’d ? then is he the ground 
 Of my defeatures. My decayed fair 10 
 A sunny look of his would soon repair : 
 
 But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale, 
 
 And feeds from home ; poor I am but his stale. 11 
 
 8 Round, was much used for plain-spoken ; hence the quibble here. 
 
 9 State for estate ; a common usage in the Poet’s time. 
 
 10 Fair is here used as a substantive, for beauty. Repeatedly so.— De¬ 
 features is change of features or disfigurement. 
 
 11 It appears that stale was sometimes used for stalking-horse , that is, a 
 horse painted on stretched canvas, which the hunter carried before him 
 in order to deceive the game till he got near enough to make sure of it. 
 
94 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT il. 
 
 Luc. Self-harming jealousy, — fie, beat it hence ! 
 
 Adr. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense. 12 
 I know his eye doth homage otherwhere; 
 
 Or else what lets 13 it but he would be here? 
 
 Sister, you know he promised me a chain; — 
 
 Would that alone alone 14 he would detain, 
 
 So he would keep fair quarter with his bed ! 
 
 I see the jewel best enamelled 
 Will lose his beauty; and though gold bides still 
 The triers’ touch, yet often-touching will 
 Wear gold : and so'a man, that hath a name, 
 
 By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. 
 
 Since that my beauty cannot please his eye, 
 
 I’ll weep what’s left away, and weeping die. 
 
 Luc . How many fond fools serve mad jealousy ! [. Exeunt . 
 
 Scene II. — The Mart. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 
 
 Ant. S. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up 
 Safe at the Centaur; and the heedful slave 
 Is wander’d forth, in care to seek me out. 
 
 By computation and mine host’s report, 
 
 I could not speak with Dromio since at first 
 I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes. — 
 
 Hence it came to signify pretence, mask, or cover. And so here, Adriana 
 probably means that she serves but as a cover for her husband, behind or 
 beneath which he hunts such game as he prefers. 
 
 12 Dispense seems to be used rather oddly, not to say loosely, here,— in 
 the sense of put tip with; which, however, comes pretty near one of its old 
 meanings, — atone for or compensate. 
 
 13 Lets, here, is the old word, now obsolete, meaning hinders. 
 
 14 Alone repeated in slightly-different senses for the sake of a certain 
 jingle, apparently. So in the Poet’s Lucrece : “But I alone alone must sit 
 and pine.” 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 95 
 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 How now, sir ! is your merry humour alter’d ? 
 
 As you love strokes, so jest with me again. 
 
 You know no Centaur? you received no gold? 
 
 Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner? 
 
 My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad, 
 
 That thus so madly thou didst answer me ? 
 
 Dro. S. What answer, sir ? when spake I such a word ? 
 Ant. S. Even now, even here, not half an hour since. 
 Dro. S. I did not sec you since you sent me hence, 
 Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me. 
 
 Ant. S. Villain, thou didst deny the gold’s receipt, 
 
 And told’st me of a mistress and a dinner; 
 
 For which, I hope, thou felt’st I was displeased. 
 
 Dro. S. I’m glad to see you in this merry vein : 
 
 What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me. 
 
 Ant. S. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth? 
 Think’st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that. 
 
 \Beating him. 
 
 Dro. S. Hold, sir, for God’s sake ! now your jest is earnest: 
 Upon what bargain do you give it me ? 
 
 Ant. S. Because that I familiarly sometimes 
 Do use you for my fool, and chat with you, 
 
 Your sauciness will jet upon 1 my love, 
 
 And make a common 2 of my serious hours. 
 
 When the Sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, 
 
 But creep in crannies when he hides his beams. 
 
 1 The Poet several times has jet upon in the sense of encroach upon. So 
 in King Richard III., ii. 4: “ Insulting tyranny begins to jet upon the inno¬ 
 cent and aweless throne.'’ Also in the play of Sir Thomas More , quoted 
 by Dyce: “ It is hard when Englishmens pacience must be thus jetted on 
 by straungers." 
 
 2 Common is land unenclosed, and so made free with or used in common 
 by the people, whether for pleasure, play, or pasturage. 
 
96 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 If you will jest with me, know my aspect, 
 
 And fashion your demeanor to my looks, 
 
 Or I will beat this method in your sconce. 
 
 Di'o. S. Sconce call you it ? so you would leave battering, 
 I had rather have it a head: an you use these blows long, 
 I must get a sconce for my head, and ensconce it too; or 
 else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders. But, I pray, sir, 
 why am I beaten ? 
 
 Ant. S, Dost thou not know? 
 
 Dro. S. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten. 
 
 Ant. S. Shall I tell you why? 
 
 Dro. S. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why 
 hath a wherefore. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, first, for flouting me ; and then, wherefore, — 
 For urging it the second time to me. 
 
 Dro. S. Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season, 
 When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor 
 reason ? 
 
 Well, sir, I thank you. 
 
 Ant. S. Thank me, sir ! for what? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me 
 for nothing. 
 
 Ant. S. I’ll make you amends next, to give you nothing 
 for something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time ? 
 
 Dro. S. No, sir: I think the meat wants that I have. 
 
 Ant. S. In good time, sir; what’s that? 
 
 Dro. S. Basting. 
 
 Ant. S. Well, sir, then ’twill be dry. 
 
 Dro. S. If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it. 
 
 Ant. S. Your reason ? 
 
 Dro. S. Lest it make you choleric, 3 and purchase me 
 another dry basting. 
 
 3 Such was thought to be the effect of meats so much done as to be 
 undone. In the Tamitig of the Ski'ew, iv. I, Petruchio sends off the meat 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 97 
 
 Ant. S. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time : there’s a 
 time for all things. 
 
 Dro. S. I durst have denied that, before you were so 
 choleric. 
 
 Ant. S. By what rule, sir? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald 
 pate of father Time himself. 
 
 Ant. S. Let’s hear it. 
 
 Dro. S. There’s no time for a man to recover his hair that 
 grows bald by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. May he not do it by fine and recovery? 4 
 Dro. S. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and recover the 
 lost hair of another man. 
 
 Ant. S. Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it 
 
 is, so plentiful an excrement ? 5 
 
 Dro. S. Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts : 
 and what he hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them 
 in wit. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, but there’s many a man hath more hair 
 than wit. 6 
 
 Dro. S. Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose 
 his hair. 7 
 
 because “ ’twas burnt and dried away; and I expressly am forbid to touch 
 
 it, for it engenders choler." 
 
 4 Fine a?id recovery is the name of an old legal process, now out of use, 
 for testing and assuring the tenure of property. Ritson, a lawyer, describes 
 it as “ the strongest assurance known to English law.” 
 
 5 Excreme?it from excrescere, to grow forth, was used of whatever seems 
 to vegetate from the body, such as hair, beard, and nails. 
 
 6 This expression seems to have been proverbial. It is well illustrated in 
 the following lines, 1656, upon Suckling’s Aglaura, which was printed in 
 folio: 
 
 This great voluminous pamphlet may be said 
 To be like one that hath more hair than head; 
 
 More excrement than body: — trees which sprout 
 With broadest leaves have still the smallest fruit. 
 
 7 Alluding to the loss of hair by what was called the French disease. 
 
9 8 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers 
 without wit. 
 
 Dro. S. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth 
 it in a kind of jollity. 
 
 Ant. S. For what reason? 
 
 Dro. S. For two ; and sound ones too. 
 
 Ant. S. Nay, not sound, I pray you. 
 
 Dro. S. Sure ones, then. 
 
 Ant. S. Nay, not sure, in a thing falling. 
 
 Dro. S. Certain ones, then. 
 
 Ant. S. Name them. 
 
 Dro. S. The one, to save the money that he spends in 
 trimming; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in 
 his porridge. 
 
 Ant. S. You would all this time have proved there is no 
 time for all things. 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover 
 hair lost by nature. 
 
 Ant. S. But your reason was not substantial, why there is 
 no time to recover. 
 
 Dro. S. Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald, and there¬ 
 fore to the world’s end will have bald followers. 
 
 Ant. S. I knew ’twould be a bald conclusion : 
 
 But, soft! who wafts 8 us yonder ? 
 
 Enter Adriana and Luciana. 
 
 A dr. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown : 
 
 Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects; 
 
 I am not Adriana nor thy wife. 
 
 The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow 
 That never words were music to thine ear, 
 
 That never object pleasing in thine eye, 
 
 That never touch well-welcome to thy hand, 
 
 8 To waft is to beckon with the hand. 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 

 Ant. of S. ' 1 Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not: 
 In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 
 
 As strange unto your town as to your talk ; ’ 
 
 The Comedy of Errors 
 
 Act 2, Scene 2 
 
 Page 99, 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 99 
 
 That never meat sweet-savour’d in thy taste, 
 
 Unless I spake, or look’d, or touch’d, or carved to thee. 
 How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it, 
 
 That thou art thus estranged from thyself ? 
 
 Thyself I call it, being strange to me, 
 
 That, undividable, incorporate, 
 
 Am better than thy dear seifs better part. 
 
 Ah, do not tear away thyself from me ! 
 
 For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall 9 
 A drop of water in the breaking gulf, 
 
 And take unmingled thence that drop again, 
 
 Without addition or diminishing, 
 
 As take from me thyself, and not me too. 
 
 How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, 
 
 Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious, 
 
 And that this body, consecrate to thee, 
 
 By ruffian lust should be contaminate ! 
 
 Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me, 
 
 And hurl the name of husband in my face, 
 
 And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot-brow, 
 
 And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring, 
 
 And break it with a deep-divorcing vow ? 
 
 I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it. 
 
 I am possess’d with an adulterate blot; 
 
 My blood is mingled with the grime of lust: 
 
 For if we two be one, and thou play false, 
 
 I do digest the poison of thy flesh, 
 
 Being strumpeted by thy contagion. 
 
 Keep, then, fair league and truce with thy true bed; 
 
 I live unstain d, thou undishonoured. 
 
 Ant. S. Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not: 
 In Ephesus I am but two hours old, 
 
 As strange unto your town as to your talk; 
 
 9 Fall as a transitive verb ; let fall. Often so. 
 
IOO 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Who, every word by all my wit being scann’d, 
 
 Want wit, in all, one word to understand. 
 
 Luc. Fie, brother ! how the world is changed with you ! 
 When were you wont to use my sister thus ? 
 
 She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner. 
 
 Ant. S. By Dromio ! 
 
 Dro. S. By me ! 
 
 Adr. By thee; and this thou didst return from him, — 
 That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows, 
 
 Denied my house for his, me for his wife. 
 
 Ant. S. Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman ? 
 What is the course and drift of your compact ? 
 
 Dro. S. I, sir ! I never saw her till this time. 
 
 Ant. S. Villain, thou liest; for even her very words 
 Didst thou deliver to me on the mart. 
 
 Dro. S. I never spake with her in all my life. 
 
 Ant. S. How can she thus, then, call us by our names, 
 Unless it be by inspiration ? 
 
 Adr. How ill agrees it with your gravity 
 To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave, 
 
 Abetting him to thwart me in my mood ! 
 
 Be it my wrong you are from me exempt , 10 
 But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt. 
 
 Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine : 
 
 Thou art an elm, my husband, — I a vine , 11 
 Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, 
 
 Makes me with thy strength to communicate : 
 
 10 An odd use of exempt , meaning parted , separated , or taken away. So 
 in a letter from the Earl of Nottingham in favour of Edward Alleyn, cited 
 by Malone: “ Situate in a very remote and exempt place near Goulding 
 Lane.” 
 
 11 So in Paradise Lost , v. 215 : “ Or they led the vine to wed her elm : 
 she, spoused, about him twines her marriageable arms.” Douce remarks 
 that there is something extremely beautiful in making the vine the lawful 
 spouse of the elm, and the parasite plants here named its concubines. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 IOI 
 
 If aught possess thee from me, it is dross, 
 
 Usurping ivy, brier, or idle 12 moss; 
 
 Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion 
 Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion. 
 
 Ant. S. [ Aside. To me she speaks; she means me for 
 her theme : 
 
 What, was I married to her in my dream? 
 
 Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this ? 
 
 What error drives our eyes and ears amiss ? 
 
 Until I know this sure uncertainty, 
 
 I’ll entertain the offer’d fallacy. 
 
 Luc. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner. 
 
 Dro. S. O, for my beads ! I cross me for a sinner. 
 
 This is the fairy land ; — O spite of spites ! — 
 
 We talk with none but goblins, elves, and sprites: 
 
 If we obey them not, this will ensue, — 
 
 They’ll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue. 
 
 Luc. Why pratest thou to thyself, and answer’st not? 
 Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot! 
 
 Dro. S. I am transformed, master, am I not? 
 
 Ant. S. I think thou art in mind, and so am I. 
 
 Dro. S. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape. 
 
 Ant. S. Thou hast thine own form. 
 
 Dro. S. No, I am an ape. 
 
 Luc. If thou art changed to aught, ’tis to an ass. 
 
 Dro. S. ’Tis true ; she rides me, and I long for grass. 
 
 ’Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be 
 But I should know her as well as she knows me. 
 
 Adr. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool, 
 
 To put the finger in the eye and weep, 
 
 Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn. — 
 
 Come, sir, to dinner. —Dromio, keep the gate.— 
 
 12 Idle is unfruitful or useless; as in Othello , i. 3: “ Of antres vast and 
 deserts idle." 
 
102 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Husband, I’ll dine above with you to-day, 
 
 And shrive you 13 of a thousand idle pranks. — 
 
 Sirrah, if any ask you for your master, 
 
 Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter. — 
 
 Come, sister. — Dromio, play the porter well. 
 
 Ant. S. [Aside. Am I in Earth, in Heaven, or in Hell? 
 Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised? 
 
 Known unto these, and to myself disguised ! 
 
 I’ll say as they say, and pers^ver so, 
 
 And in this mist at all adventures go. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, shall I be porter at the gate ? 
 
 A dr. Ay; 
 
 And let none enter, lest I break your pate. 
 
 Luc. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. Before the House of Antipholus of Ephesus. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesus, Dromio of Ephesus, Angelo, 
 
 and Balthazar. 
 
 Ant. E. Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all; 
 My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours : 
 
 Say that I linger’d with you at your shop 
 To see the making of her carcanet , 1 
 And that to-morrow you will bring it home. 
 
 But here’s a villain that would face me down 
 He met me on the mart, and that I beat him , 2 
 
 13 “ Shrive you ” is confess you, or call on you to confess. To impose 
 penance is one part of a confessor’s office. 
 
 1 A carcanet is a necklace ; later in the play it is called a chain. 
 
 2 “ Would convince me that he met me on the mart, and that I beat him," 
 is the meaning. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 103 
 
 And charged him with a thousand marks in gold, 
 
 And that I did deny my wife and house. — 
 
 Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this ? 
 
 Dro. E. Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know; 
 That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show: 
 
 If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink, 
 Your own handwriting would tell you what I think. 
 
 Ant. E. I think thou art an ass. 
 
 Dro. E. Marry , 3 so it doth appear 
 
 By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear. 
 
 I should kick, being kick’d ; and, being at that pass, 
 
 You would keep from my heels, and beware of an ass. 
 
 Ant. E. You are sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our 
 cheer 
 
 May answer my good will and your good welcome here ! 
 Eat. I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear. 
 Ant. E. O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish, 
 
 A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish. 
 
 Bat. Good meat, sir, is common ; that every churl affords. 
 Ant. E. And welcome more common ; for that’s nothing 
 but words. 
 
 Bat. Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast. 
 Ant. E. Ay, to a niggardly host and more sparing guest: 
 But though my cates 4 be mean, take them in good part; 
 Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart. 
 
 But, soft ! 5 my door is lock’d. — Go bid them let us in. 
 
 Dro. E. Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicely, Gillian, Jin ! 
 
 3 Marry was much used as a general intensive, meaning indeed, verily, 
 to be sure. It grew into use from a custom of swearing or affirming by the 
 Virgin Mary; much the same as heracle and edepol in Latin; the latter 
 being originally an oath by Castor and Pollux. 
 
 4 Cates is an old form for cakes,but sometimes used, as here, in the wider 
 sense of viands or food, especially of dainties. 
 
 5 Soft/ was a common exclamative meaning about the same as stay, hold, 
 or not too fast. 
 
104 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT HI. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within .] Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb, 
 idiot, patch ! 6 
 
 Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch. 
 
 Dost thou cbnjure for wenches, that thou call’st for such 
 store, 
 
 When one is one too many? Go get thee from the door. 
 
 Dro. E. What patch is made our porter? My master 
 stays in the street. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within .] Let him walk from whence he came, 
 lest he catch cold on’s feet. 
 
 Ant. E. Who talks within there? ho, open the door ! 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.] Right, sir ; I’ll tell you when, an you’ll 
 tell me wherefore. 
 
 Ant. E. Wherefore ! for my dinner: I have not dined 
 to-day. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.] Nor to-day here you must not; come 
 again when you may. 
 
 Ant. E. What art thou that keep’st me out from the house 
 I owe ? 7 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.'] The porter for this time, and my 
 name is Dromio. 
 
 Dro. E. O villain, thou hast stol’n both mine office and 
 my name ! 
 
 The one ne’er got me credit, the other mickle blame. 
 
 If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place, 
 
 Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name, or thy name 
 for a face. 
 
 6 All these are old terms of abuse, forming a part of that extensive vo¬ 
 cabulary called Billingsgate, which was the name of a place in London 
 where loud and coarse women sold fish. Mome, of uncertain origin, comes 
 pretty near blockhead. Alalt-horse is a brewer s horse, a dull, dumpish 
 beast. Capon is a rooster emasculated, and fatted for the table. Patch, 
 applied to the “ allowed Fool,” on account of motley or patchwork dress, 
 came to be used of a natural fool. 
 
 7 Owe, a shortened form of owen, is own or possess. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 105 
 
 Luce. Within.] What a coil 8 is there! Dromio, who 
 are those at the gate ? 
 
 Dro. E. Let my master in, Luce. 
 
 Luce. [ Within. ] Faith, no ; he comes too late ; 
 
 And so tell your master. 
 
 Dro. E. O Lord, I must laugh ! — 
 
 Have at you with a proverb : Shall I set in my staff? 
 
 Luce. [ Within. ] Llave at you with another; that’s, 
 When ? can you tell? 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.'] If thy name be call’d Luce, — Luce, 
 thou hast answer’d him well . 9 
 Ant. E. Do you hear, you minion? you’ll let us in, I 
 know. 
 
 Luce. [ Within.] I thought to have ask’d you. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.] And you said no. 
 
 Dro. E. So, come, help ! Well struck ! there was blow 
 for blow. 
 
 Ant. E. Thou baggage, let me in. 
 
 Luce. [ Within.] Can you tell for whose sake ? 
 
 Dro. E. Master, knock the door hard. 
 
 Luce. [ Within.] Let him knock till it ache. 
 
 Ant. E. You’ll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down. 
 Luce. [ Within.] What needs all that, and a pair of 
 stocks 10 in the town ? 
 
 Adr. [ Within.] Who is that at the door that keeps all 
 this noise ? 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.] By my troth, your town is troubled 
 with unruly boys. 
 
 8 Coil is hubbub , rumpus, fuss; often so used in the Poet’s time. 
 
 9 Luce is an old name for the fish called pike; which seems to be the 
 turning-point of the quibble here. Perhaps the sense of thrusting with a 
 pike is implied, as Luce has aptly met proverb with proverb. 
 
 10 “ A pair of stocks ” was a machine in which certain offenders were 
 fastened by the ankles, for punishment; the offender being forced to sit 
 with his legs in a horizontal position. 
 
106 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. ACT III. 
 
 Ant. E. Are you there, wife ? you might have come before. 
 
 A dr. [ Within.] Your wife, sir knave ! go get you from 
 the door. 
 
 Dro. E. If you went in pain, master, this knave would 
 go sore. 
 
 Ang. Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome : we would 
 fain have either. 
 
 Bal. In debating which was best, we shall part 11 with 
 neither. 
 
 Dro. E. They stand at the door, master; bid them wel¬ 
 come hither. 
 
 Ant. E. There is something in the wind, that we cannot 
 get in. 
 
 Dro. E. You would say so, master, if your garments were 
 thin. 
 
 Your cake is warm within; you stand here in the cold : 
 
 It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and 
 sold . 12 
 
 Ant. E. Go fetch me something : I’ll break ope the gate. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.] Break any breaking here, and I’ll 
 break your knave’s pate. 
 
 Dro. E. A man may break a word with you, sir; and 
 words are but wind ; 
 
 Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.'] It seems thou want’st breaking: out 
 upon thee, hind ! 
 
 Dro. E. Here’s too much out upon thee ! I pray thee, 
 let me in. 
 
 Dro. S. [ Within.] Ay, when fowls have no feathers, and 
 fish have no fin. 
 
 Ant. E. Well, I’ll break in. — Go borrow me a crow. 
 
 11 Part for depart; the two being formerly used indiscriminately. 
 
 12 This phrase, now so common, for tricked , taken in, or hoaxed, is here 
 
 seen to be as old as Shakespeare’s time, at least. 
 
SCENE i. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. IO 7 
 
 A 
 
 Dro. E. A crow without feather; master, mean you so ? 
 For a fish without a fin, there’s a fowl without a feather: 
 
 If a crow help us in, sirrah, we’ll pluck a crow together . 13 
 Ant. E. Go get thee gone ; fetch me an iron crow. 
 
 Bat. Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so ! 
 
 Herein you war against your reputation, 
 
 And draw within the compass of suspect 14 
 Th’ unviolated honour of your wife. 
 
 Once this , 15 — your long experience of her wisdom, 
 
 Her sober virtue, years, and modesty, 
 
 Plead on her part some cause to you unknown; 
 
 And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse 
 Why at this time the doors are made 16 against you. 
 
 Be ruled by me : depart in patience, 
 
 And let us to the Tiger 17 all to dinner; 
 
 And about evening come yourself alone 
 To know the reason of this strange restraint. 
 
 If by strong hand you offer to break in 
 Now in the stirring passage of the day, 
 
 A vulgar comment will be made of it; 
 
 And that supposed by the common rout 
 Against your yet ungalled estimation, 
 
 That may with foul intrusion enter in, 
 
 And dwell upon your grave when you are dead; 
 
 For slander lives upon succession, 
 
 For ever housed where it gets possession. 
 
 13 This Dromio seems to be in a flux of proverbs. To “ pluck a crow 
 together ” was a proverbial phrase for having a quarrel or a fight. 
 
 14 Another instance like that of dispose. See page 8o, note 4. 
 
 15 Once this is plainly equivalent, here, to this is enough. So in Much 
 Ado, i. 1: “ Look, what will serve, is fit: 'tis once thou lovest; and I will fit 
 thee with the remedy.” And in Coriolanus, ii. 3: “ Once, if he do require 
 our voices; we ought not to deny him.” 
 
 16 To “ make the doors ” is to fasten them. Still so used sometimes, 
 l" Tiger, like Centaur and Phcenix before, for the name of an inn. 
 
io8 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT ill, 
 
 Ant. E. You have prevail’d : I will depart in quiet, 
 And, in despite of mirth , 18 mean to be merry. 
 
 I know a wench of excellent discourse, 
 
 Pretty and witty ; wild, and yet, too, gentle : 
 
 There will we dine. This woman that I mean, 
 
 My wife — but, I protest, without desert — 
 
 Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal: 
 
 To her will we to dinner. — Get you home, 
 
 And fetch the chain; by this I know ’tis made : 
 
 Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine ; 19 
 
 For there’s the house : that chain will I bestow — 
 
 Be it for nothing but to spite my wife — 
 
 Upon mine hostess there : good sir, make haste. 
 
 Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, 
 
 I’ll knock elsewhere, to see if they’ll disdain me. 
 
 Ang. I’ll meet you at that place some hour hence. 
 
 Ant. E. Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 9 
 
 Enter , from the House , Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse. 
 
 Luc. And may it be that you have quite forgot 
 A husband’s office ? shall, Antipholus, 
 
 Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs 20 rot ? > 
 
 Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous ? 
 
 18 One might think this ought to be “ in despite of grief.” But he proba¬ 
 bly means that, to spite the mirth his wife is having with another man, 
 he will go and be merry with another woman. Heath explains it thus: 
 “ Though mirth hath withdrawn herself from me, and seems determined to 
 avoid me, yet, in despite of her, and whether she will or not, I am resolved 
 to be merry.” 
 
 19 Porpentine is the old form, always used by Shakespeare, for porcupine. 
 Here it is the name of an inn. — By this , in the line before, is by this time. 
 
 20 Love-springs are the buds of love , or rather the young shoots. So in 
 Venus and Adonis: “ This canker that eats up love’s tender spring .” And 
 in Baret’s Alvearie: “ The spring , or young shoots that grow out of the 
 stems or roots of trees.” 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 IO 9 
 
 If you did wed my sister for her wealth, 
 
 Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness: 
 
 Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth; 
 
 Muffle your false love with some show of blindness : 
 
 Let not my sister read it in your eye; 
 
 Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator; 
 
 Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty ; 21 
 Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger; 
 
 Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted; 
 
 Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint; 
 
 Be secret-false : what need she be acquainted ? 
 
 What simple thief brags of his own attaint? 
 
 ’Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed, 
 
 And let her read it in thy looks at board : 
 
 Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed; 
 
 Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. 
 
 Alas, poor women ! make us but believe, 
 
 Being compact of credit , 22 that you love us ; 
 
 Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve; 
 
 We in your motion turn, and you may move us. 
 
 Then, gentle brother, get you in again; 
 
 Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife : 
 
 ’Tis holy sport, to be a little vain , 23 
 
 When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife. 
 
 Ant. S. Sweet mistress, — what your name is else, I know 
 not, 
 
 Nor by what wonder you do hit of 24 mine, — 
 
 21 To “ become disloyalty” is to make it look becoming. 
 
 22 " Compact of credit" is composed, framed, or made up of credulity. So 
 in A Midsummer, v. i: “ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imag¬ 
 ination all compact .” 
 
 23 Vain here means light of tongue; speaking falsely or insincerely, as 
 in “ the sweet breath of flattery.” 
 
 24 Of and on were used indifferently in such cases. Shakespeare has 
 many instances. 
 
I IO 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not 
 Than our earth’s wonder; more than earth divine. 
 
 Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; 
 
 Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit, 
 
 Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, 
 
 The folded meaning of your words’ deceit. 
 
 Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you 
 To make it wander in an unknown field ? 
 
 Are you a god ? would you create me new ? 
 
 Transform me, then, and to your power I’ll yield. 
 
 But if that I am I, then well I know 
 Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, 
 
 Nor to her bed no homage do I owe : 
 
 Far more, far more to you do I decline . 25 
 O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, 
 
 To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears : 
 
 Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote : 
 
 Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs, 
 
 And as a bed I’ll take them, and there lie ; 
 
 And, in that glorious supposition, think 
 He gains by death that hath such means to die : 
 
 Let Love be light, being drowned if she sink ! 26 
 Luc. What, are you mad, that you do reason so ? 
 
 Ant. S. Not mad, but mated ; 27 how, I do not know. 
 Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. 
 
 Ant. S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by. 
 Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight. 
 
 25 It appears that decline was sometimes used in the sense of incline. 
 So Baret: “ To decline; to turne, or hang toward some place or thing.” 
 
 26 Love here means the Queen of love, Venus, not her tow-head son. 
 So in the Poet’s Venus and Adonis : 
 
 Love is a spirit, all compact of fire, 
 
 Not gross to sink but light , and will aspire. 
 
 27 A quibble, mated being used in the two senses of matched and con* 
 founded or bewildered. Shakespeare has it repeatedly in the latter sense. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 11 I 
 
 Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night. 
 
 Luc. Why call you me love ? call my sister so. 
 
 Ant. S. Thy sister’s sister. 
 
 Luc. That’s my sister. 
 
 Ant. S. No; 
 
 It is thyself, mine own self’s better part, 
 
 Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart. 
 
 My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope’s aim, 
 
 My sole earth’s Heaven, and my Heaven’s claim . 28 
 
 Luc. All this my sister is, or else should be. 
 
 Ant. S. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I aim thee . 29 
 Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life : 
 
 Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife. 
 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Luc. O, soft, sir ! hold you still: 
 
 I’ll fetch my sister, to get her good will. [Exit. 
 
 Enter, from the House, Dromio of Syracuse running. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, how now, Dromio ! where runn’st thou so 
 fast? 
 
 Dro. S. Do you know me, sir ? am I Dromio ? am I your 
 man ? am I myself ? 
 
 Ant. S. Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art 
 thyself. 
 
 Dro. S. I am an ass, I am a woman’s man, and besides 
 myself . 30 
 
 28 Meaning, probably, “ all the happiness I wish for on Earth, and all 
 that I claim from Heaven hereafter.” 
 
 29 Aim. thee sounds harsh, but evidently means aim at thee ; that is, seek 
 thee. So in Paradise Regained , iv. 208 : “ Me nought advantaged, missing 
 what I aim'd." 
 
 30 The two forms beside and besides had not become differentiated into 
 preposition and adverb in Shakespeare’s time. Here it is necessary to re¬ 
 tain the adverbial form in the prepositional sense, on account of the quibble 
 in the second speech below. 
 
I 12 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT hi. 
 
 Ant. S . What woman’s man ? and how besides thyself ? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman ; 
 one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me. 
 
 Ant. S. What claim lays she to thee ? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to your 
 horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, T being 
 a beast, she would have me; but that she, being a very 
 beastly creature, lays claim to me. 
 
 Ant. S. What is she? 
 
 Dro. S. A very reverend body; ay, such a one as a man 
 may not speak of, without he say sir-rcverenceD I have but 
 lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat marriage. 
 
 Ant. S. How dost thou mean, — a fat marriage ? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, she’s the kitchen-wench, and all 
 grease ; and I know not what use to put her to, but to make 
 a lamp of her, and run from her by her own light. I war¬ 
 rant, her rags, and the tallow in them, will burn a Poland 
 Winter : if she lives till doomsday, she’ll burn a week longer 
 than the whole world. 
 
 Ant. S. What complexion is she of? 
 
 Dro. S. Swart , 3 ' 3 like my shoe, but her face nothing like so 
 clean kept: for why 33 she sweats ; a man may go over shoes 
 in the grime of it. 
 
 31 Sir-reverence is an old corruption of salva reverentia or save rever¬ 
 ence, a shortened form of “saving your reverence,” which was much used 
 as an apologetic phrase for introducing any coarse or profane expression or 
 allusion. 
 
 32 Swart or swarth is dark, dusky, or swarthy. 
 
 33 For why is here a simple equivalent of because, or for the reason that. 
 The usage was ancient and common, and was fast passing away in the 
 Poet’s time; but he has several instances of it. So in The Two Gentlemen, 
 iii. i: "If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone; for why the fools are 
 mad, if left alone.” And in the fine old ballad, My Mind to me a Kingdom 
 Is: “To none of these I yield as thrall, for why my mind despiseth all.” 
 Also in A Warning for Faire Women, 1599 : “ What time a day is’t now ? 
 it cannot be imagin’d by the sunne, for why I have not seene it shine to 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 I 13 
 
 Ant. S. That’s a fault that water will mend. 
 
 Dro. S. No, sir, ’tis in grain; Noah’s flood could not 
 do it. 
 
 Ant. S. What’s her name? 
 
 Dro. S. Nell, sir'l l but her name and three quarters, that’s 
 an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from hip to 
 hip. 
 
 Ant. S. Then she bears some breadth? 
 
 Dro. S. No longer from head to foot than from hip to 
 hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out coun¬ 
 tries in her. 
 
 Ant. S. In what part of her body stands Ireland? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, sir, in her buttocks: I found it out by 
 the bogs. 
 
 Ant. S. Where Scotland? 
 
 Dro. S. I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm 
 of her hand. 
 
 Ant. S. Where France? 
 
 Dro. S. In her forehead; arm’d and reverted, making 
 war against her hair . 34 
 
 Ant. S. Where England? 
 
 Dro. S. I look’d for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no 
 whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by the 
 salt rheum that ran between France and it. 
 
 Ant. S. Where Spain? 
 
 Dro. S. Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath. 
 
 Ant. S. Where America, the Indies? 
 
 Dro. S. O, sir, upon her nose, all o’er embellish’d with 
 
 34 A quibble, of course, between hair and heir; alluding to the War of 
 the League against Henry of Navarre, who became heir to the crown of 
 France in 1589. — The sense and application of reverted are here very ob¬ 
 scure, to say the least. The word itself means turned or thrown back. The 
 arming is, I take it, with the French disease, which made war against the 
 hair in causing baldness. The jest about the disease in question is re¬ 
 peated, ad nauseam, in old plays. See Critical Notes. 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 114 
 
 rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to 
 the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes of caracks 
 to be ballast 35 at her nose. 
 
 Ant. S. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands? 
 
 Dro. S. O, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this 
 drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; call’d me Dromio; 
 swore I was assured to her; told me what privy marks I had 
 about me, as, the mark of my shoulder, the mole in my neck, 
 the great wart on my left arm, that I, amazed, ran from her 
 as a witch: 
 
 And, I think, if my breast had not been made of flint, and 
 my heart of steel, 
 
 She had transform’d me to a curtal dog, and made me turn 
 i’ the wheel . 36 
 
 Ant. S. Go hie thee presently post to the road : 
 
 An if the wind blow any way from shore, 
 
 I will not harbour in this town to-night: 
 
 If any bark put forth, come to the mart, 
 
 Where I will walk till thou return to me. 
 
 If every one knows us, and we know none, 
 
 ’Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone. 
 
 Dro. S. As from a bear a man would run for life, 
 
 So fly I from her that would be my wife. [Exit. 
 
 Ant. S. There’s none but witches do inhabit here ; 
 
 And therefore ’tis high time that I were hence. 
 
 She that doth call me husband, even my soul 
 Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister, 
 
 Possess’d with such a gentle sovereign grace, 
 
 Of such enchanting presence and discourse, 
 
 Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 
 
 35 Ballast for ballasted, or furnished with ballast.—A curack was a large 
 ship of burden; from the Spanish caraca. 
 
 36 Dogs were sometimes used for working the wheels of turnspits, when 
 meats were roasted before the fire. See page 87, note 9. 
 
SCENE i. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 11 5 
 
 But, lest myself be guilty to 37 self-wrong, 
 
 I’ll stop mine ears against the mermaid’s song. 
 
 Re-enter Angelo with the Chain. 
 
 Ang. Master Antipholus, — 
 
 Ant. S. Ay, that’s my name. 
 
 Ang. I know it well, sir : lo, here is the chain. 
 
 I thought to have ta’en you at the Porpentine : 
 
 The chain unfinish’d made me stay thus long. 
 
 Ant. S. What is your will that I shall do with this ? 
 
 Ang. What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you. 
 Ant. S. Made it for me, sir ! I bespoke it not. 
 
 Ang. Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. 
 
 Go home with it, and please your wife withal; 
 
 And soon at supper-time I’ll visit you, 
 
 And then receive my money for the chain. 
 
 Ant. S. I pray you, sir, receive the money now, 
 
 For fear you ne’er see chain nor money more. 
 
 Ang. You are a merry man, sir : fare you well. [ Exit. 
 
 Ant. S. What I should think of this, I cannot tell: 
 
 But this I think, there’s no man is so vain 
 That would refuse so fair an offer’d chain . 38 
 I see a man here needs not live by shifts, 
 
 When in the streets he meets such golden gifts. 
 
 I’ll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay: 
 
 If any ship put out, then straight away. [ Exit. 
 
 37 Guilty to a thing sounds odd; but the Poet has it again in The Win¬ 
 ter's Tale , iv. 3: “ Th’ unthought-on accident is guilty to what we wildly 
 do.” 
 
 38 That is, “ so fair-offer’d a chain,” or so fairly offer’d. So in Loves 
 Labours Lost , i. 1: “ Having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath.” 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 116 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Sqene I. — A public Place. 
 
 Enter Second Merchant, Angelo, and an Officer. 
 
 2 Mer. You know since Pentecost the sum is due, 
 
 And since I have not much impdrtuned you ; 
 
 Nor now I had not, but that I am bound 
 To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage : 
 
 Therefore make present satisfaction, 
 
 Or I’ll attach you by this officer. 
 
 Ang. Even just the sum that I do owe to you 
 Is growing 1 to me by Antipholus ; 
 
 And in the instant that I met with you 
 He had of me a chain : at five o’clock 
 I shall receive the money for the same. 
 
 Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house, 
 
 I will discharge my bond, and thank you too. 
 
 Off. That labour may you save : see where he comes. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus. 
 
 Ant. E. While I go to the goldsmith’s house, go thou 
 And buy a rope’s-end : that will I bestow 
 Among my wife and her confederates 
 For locking me out of my doors by day. 
 
 But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone ; 
 
 Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 
 
 Dro. E. I buy a thousand pound a-year ! I buy a rope ! 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Ant. E. A man is well holp 2 up that trusts to you : 
 
 1 Grow was sometimes used in the sense of accrue. 
 
 2 Holp or holpen is the old preterite of help. — Of the preceding line, “ I 
 buy a thousand pound a-year! I buy a rope ! ” no satisfactory explanation 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 II 7 
 
 You promised your presence and the chain; 
 
 But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me. 
 
 Belike you thought our love would last too long, 
 
 If it were chain’d together, and therefore came not. 
 
 Ang. Saving your merry humour, here’s the note 
 How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat, 
 
 The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion, 
 
 Which doth amount to three odd ducats more 
 Than I stand debted to this gentleman : 
 
 I pray you, see him presently discharged, 
 
 For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it. 
 
 Ant. E. I am not furnish’d with the present money; 
 Besides, I have some business in the town. 
 
 Good signior, take the stranger to my house, 
 
 And with you take the chain, and bid my wife 
 Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof: 
 
 Perchance I will be there as soon as you. 
 
 Atig. Then you will bring the chain to her yourself? 
 
 Ant. E. No; 
 
 Bear’t with you, lest I come not time enough. 
 
 Ang. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you? 
 Ant. E. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have; 
 
 Or else you may return without your money. 
 
 Ang. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain: 
 
 Both wind and tide stay for this gentleman, 
 
 And I, to blame, have held him here too long. 
 
 Ant. E. Good Lord, you use this dalliance to excuse 
 Your breach of promise to the Porpentine. 
 
 has been given. Staunton notes, “ there may have been an allusion well 
 understood at the time; but which, referring merely to some transitory 
 event, or some popular bye-word of the moment, has passed into oblivion.” 
 There is no apparent connection between “ buying a thousand pound 
 a-year” and “buying a rope.” I can make nothing of it, unless, as the 
 rope is to be used in beating, a poor quibble is intended in pound; one of 
 its senses being poundings. 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 118 
 
 I should have chid you for not bringing it, 
 
 But, like a shrew, 3 you first begin to brawl. 
 
 2 Mer. The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch. 
 Ang. You hear how he impbrtunes me ; — the chain ! 
 Ant. E. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money. 
 Ang. Come, come, you know I gave it you even now. 
 Either send the chain, or send by me some token. 
 
 Ant. E . Fie, now you run this humour out of breath. 
 Come, where’s the chain ? I pray you, let me see it. 
 
 2 Mer. My business cannot brook this dalliance. 
 
 Good sir, say wher you’ll answer me or no : 
 
 If not, I’ll leave him to the officer. 
 
 Ant. E. I answer you ! what should I answer you ? 
 
 Ang. The money that you owe me for the chain. 
 
 Ant. E. I owe you none till I receive the chain. 
 
 Ang. You know I gave’t you half an hour since. 
 
 Ant. E. You gave me none : you wrong me much to say 
 so. 
 
 Ang. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it: 
 
 Consider how it stands upon my credit. 4 
 2 Mer. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit. 
 
 Off. I do ; — 
 
 And charge you in the Duke’s name to obey me. 
 
 Ang. This touches me in reputation. — 
 
 Either consent to pay this sum for me, 
 
 Or I attach you by this officer. 
 
 Ant. E. Consent to pay thee that I never had ! 
 
 Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest. 
 
 Ang. Here is thy fee ; arrest him, officer. — 
 
 I would not spare my brother in this case, 
 
 3 In old language, a shrew is a scold; from shrewd, sharp-tongued. 
 
 4 That is, concerns, or is important to, my credit. The phrase was very 
 common. So Shelton’s translation of Don Quixote, 1620: “Tel me your 
 name; for it stands me very much upon to know it.’’ 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 I 19 
 
 If he should scorn me so apparently. 5 
 
 Off. I do arrest you, sir : you hear the suit. 
 
 Ant. E. I do obey thee till I give thee bail. — 
 
 But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear 
 As all the metal in your shop will answer. 
 
 Ang. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus, 
 
 To your notorious shame, I doubt it not. 
 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum 
 That stays but till her owner comes aboard, 
 
 And then she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir, 
 
 I have convey’d aboard; and I have bought 
 The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae. 
 
 The ship is in her trim ; the merry wind 
 Blows fair from land : they stay for nought at all 
 But for their owner, master, and yourself. 
 
 Ant. E. How now ! a madman ! Why, thou peevish 6 
 sheep, 
 
 What ship of Epidamnum stays for me ? 
 
 Dro. S. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. 7 
 Ant. E. Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope, 
 
 And told thee to what purpose and what end. 
 
 Dro. S. You sent me, sir, for a rope’s-end as soon : 
 
 You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark. 
 
 Ant. E. I will debate this matter at more leisure, 
 
 And teach your ears to list me with more heed. 
 
 5 Apparently, here, is evidently. The Poet has apparent repeatedly in that 
 sense. 
 
 6 Peevish is foolish or mad. Commonly so in Shakespeare. — A quibble 
 is intended here between sheep and ship, which appear to have been sounded 
 alike. 
 
 7 Waftage is passage by water or on the waves. — Hire is here a dissylla¬ 
 ble ; spelt hier in the original. So hour, a little before in this scene: “ I 
 gave’t you half an hour since.” 
 
120 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight: 
 
 Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk 
 That’s cover’d o’er with Turkish tapestry 
 There is a purse of ducats ; let her send it: 
 
 Tell her I am arrested in the street, 
 
 And that shall bail me : hie thee, slave, be gone. — 
 
 On, officer, to prison till it come. 
 
 \_Exeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Ant. E. 
 Dro. S. Tq^Adriana ! that is where we dined, 
 
 Where Dowsabei)did claim me for her husband : 
 
 She is too big, I hope, for me to compass. 
 
 Thither I must, although against my will, 
 
 For servants must their masters’ minds fulfil. \Exit. 
 
 Scene II.— A Room in the House ^/Antipholus of Ephesus. 
 
 Enter Adriana and Luciana. 
 
 Adr. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so ? 
 
 Mightst thou perceive assuredly in his eye 
 That he did plead in earnest, yea or no ? 
 
 Look’d he or red or pale, or sad or merry ? 
 
 What observation madest thou, in this case, 
 
 Of his heart’s meteors tilting in his face ? 1 
 
 Luc. First he denied you had in him no right. 2 
 Adr. He meant he did me none; the more my spite. 
 
 1 Meteors here probably refers to the Aurora Borealis, which sometimes 
 has the appearance of armies meeting in battle. So in Paradise Lost, ii. 533 : 
 
 As when, to warn proud cities, war appears 
 Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush 
 To battle in the clouds, before each van 
 Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears, 
 
 Till thickest legions close. 
 
 2 This double negative had the force of a strong affirmative. So in King 
 Richard the Third , i. 3 : “ You may deny that you were not the cause of my 
 Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment.” 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 Luc. Then swore he that he was a stranger here. 
 
 A dr. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were. 
 Luc. Then pleaded I for you. 
 
 Adr. And what said he ? 
 
 Luc. That love I begg’d for you he begg’d of me. 
 
 Adr. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love ? 
 
 Luc. With words that in an honest suit might move. 
 
 First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 
 
 Adr. Didst speak him fair? 
 
 Luc. Have patience, I beseech. 
 
 Adr. I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still; 
 
 My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will. 
 
 He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere , 3 
 Ill-faced, worse-bodied, shapeless everywhere; 
 
 Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; 
 
 Stigmatical in making , 4 worse in mind. 
 
 Luc. Who would be jealous, then, of such a one ? 
 
 No evil lost is wail’d when it is gone. 
 
 Adr. Ah, but I think him better than I say, 
 
 And yet would herein others’ eyes were worse. 
 
 Far from her nest the lapwing cries away : 5 
 My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse. 
 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Dro. S. Here, go; the desk, the purse ! sweet, now, make 
 haste. 
 
 Luc. How hast thou lost thy breath ? 
 
 3 Sere is dry, withered, in decay. So in Macbeth, v. 3 : " My way of life is 
 fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf.” 
 
 4 That is, marked by Nature with ugliness, or having a stigma, or note 
 of disgrace, set upon it. 
 
 5 This was a common proverbial saying. So in Lyly’s Alexander and 
 Campaspe : “ You resemble the lapwing, who cryeth most where her nest is 
 not; and so, to lead me from espying your love for Campaspe, you cry 
 Timoclea.” 
 
122 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Dro. S. By running fast. 
 
 A dr. Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well? 
 
 Dro. S. No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than Hell. 
 
 A devil in an everlasting garment 6 hath him; 
 
 One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel; 
 
 A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; 
 
 A wolf, nay, worse, — a fellow all in buff; 
 
 A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands 
 The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands ; 
 
 A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well ; 7 
 One that, before the judgment, carries poor souls to Hell . 8 
 A dr. Why, man, what is the matter ? 
 
 Dro. S. I do not know the matter: he is ’rested on the 
 case. 
 
 Adr. What, is he arrested ? tell me at whose suit. 
 
 Dro. I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; 
 
 But he’s in a suit of buff which ’rested him, that I can tell. 
 Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his 
 desk? 
 
 6 The serjeant’s buff or leather jerkin is called an “ everlasting garment,” 
 probably because of its durability. So in i Henry IV., i. 2 : “ Is not a buff 
 jerkin a most sweet robe of durance ? ” 
 
 7 To run counter and to draw dry foot were terms of the chase. The 
 latter was used of a hound that traced the game by the mere scent of the 
 foot; as an animal running over dry ground would naturally leave no visi¬ 
 ble footprints. To run or hunt counter was to course the trail backward, 
 mistaking the direction of the game. A hound that ran counter was not 
 likely to draw dry foot well; but the two things thus hardly compatible in 
 themselves are here tied together by a quibble upon counter, which was the 
 name of one of the London prisons. A sheriff’s officer might be said to 
 run counter, inasmuch as he took rogues to the Counter; and he might also 
 be said to draw dry foot well, because the rogues whom he hunted were apt 
 to have their purses empty, or dry of cash. 
 
 8 Quibbles, again, both on judgment and on Hell; the former referring 
 both to the Judgment-day, and to the sentence, before which the accused 
 was held in prison for trial. Hell was a cant term for the worst dungeon in 
 the prisons of the time. 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 123 
 
 Adr. Go fetch it, sister. — [Exit Luciana. 
 
 This I wonder at, 
 
 That he, unknown to me, should be in debt. — 
 
 Tell me, was he arrested on a band ? 9 
 
 Dro. S. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing, — 
 
 A chain, a chain : do you not hear it ring ? 
 
 Adr. What, the chain? 
 
 Dro. S. No, no, the bell: ’tis time that I were gone : 
 
 It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one. 
 
 Adr. The hours come back ! that did I never hear. 
 
 Dro. S. O, yes; if any hour 10 meet a sergeant, ’a turns 
 back for very fear. 
 
 Adr. As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou 
 reason ! 11 
 
 Dro. S. Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than 
 he’s worth to season. 
 
 Nay, he’s a thief too : have you not heard men say, 
 
 That Time comes stealing on by night and day ? 
 
 If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way, 
 Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day ? 
 
 Re-enter Luciana with the purse. 
 
 Adr. Go, Dromio ; there’s the money, bear it straight; 
 And bring thy master home immediately. — 
 
 Come, sister : I am press’d down with conceit , 19 — 
 
 Conceit, my comfort and my injury. [ Exeunt . 
 
 9 Band is an old spelling of bond, and has to be retained here on account 
 of the quibble. 
 
 10 From this, it seems probable that, as Mr. White observes, hour and 
 whore were pronounced alike, or nearly so, — hoor. 
 
 11 To talk or converse is among the old senses of to reason. 
 
 12 Conceit was always used in a good sense, that of conception, imagina¬ 
 tion, or thought. 
 
124 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene III. — A public Place. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse. 
 
 Ant. S. There’s not a man I meet but doth salute me 
 As if I were their well-acquainted friend ; 
 
 And every one doth call me by my name. 
 
 Some tender money to me ; some invite me ; 
 
 Some other give me thanks for kindnesses; 
 
 Some offer me commodities to buy: 
 
 Even now a tailor call’d me in 1 his shop, 
 
 And show’d me silks that he had bought for me, 
 
 And therewithal took measure of my body. 
 
 Sure, these are but imaginary wiles, 
 
 And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here. 
 
 Enter Dromio of Syracuse. - 
 
 Dro. S. Master, here’s the gold you sent me for. What, 
 have you got the picture of old Adam new-apparell’d ? 2 
 
 Ant. S. What gold is this? what Adam dost thou mean? 
 
 Dro. S. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise, but that 
 Adam that keeps the prison : he that goes in the calf’s skin 
 that was kill’d for the Prodigal; he that came behind you, 
 sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty. 
 
 Ant. S. I understand thee not. 
 
 Dro. S. No? why, ’tis a plain case : he that went, like a 
 base-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir, that, when gen¬ 
 tlemen are tired, gives them a bob , 3 and ’rests them; he, sir, 
 
 1 In and into were used interchangeably, at least to some extent. 
 
 2 Singer’s explanation of this queer passage is probably right: “ The ser¬ 
 geant is designated by the picture of old Adam, because he wore buff, as 
 Adam wore his native buff; and Dromio asks Antipholus if he had got him 
 new-apparell'd, that is, got him a new suit; in other words, got rid of him.” 
 
 3 Bob here means a stroke or clap. Dromio has already spoken of the 
 sergeant as “ a shoulder-clapper.” The Poet elsewhere uses bob figuratively 
 for taunt or scoff. 
 
SCENE III. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 125 
 
 that takes pity on decayed men, and gives them suits of dur¬ 
 ance ; he that sets up his rest 4 to do more exploits with his 
 mace than a morris-pike . 5 
 
 Ant. S. What, thou mean’st an officer? 
 
 Dro. S. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band; he that brings 
 any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that thinks 
 a man always going to bed, and says, God give you good 
 rest! 
 
 Ant. S. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any 
 ship puts forth to-night ? may we be gone ? 
 
 Dro. S. Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since, that 
 the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were you 
 hinder’d by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy Delay. Here 
 are the angels 6 that you sent for to deliver you. 
 
 Ant. S. The fellow is distract , 7 and so am I; 
 
 And here we wander in illusions: 
 
 Some blessed power deliver us from hence ! 
 
 Enter a Courtezan. 
 
 Cour. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus. 
 
 I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now: 
 
 Is that the chain you promised me to-day? 
 
 Ant. S. Satan, avoid ! I charge thee, tempt me not. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, is this Mistress Satan ? 
 
 4 Setting up one's rest is an old phrase for resolving or making up one's 
 mind to do a thing. So in The Merchant , ii. 2, Launcelot quibbles upon 
 it: “As I have set up my rest, to run away, so I will not rest till I have run 
 some ground.” Also in Romeo and Juliet , iv. 5 : “ The County Paris hath 
 set up his rest , that you shall rest but little.” 
 
 5 Morris-pike is a corruption of Moorish pike , the name of a weapon 
 much used in the sixteenth century. 
 
 6 Angel was the name of an English gold coin, worth about ten shillings. 
 The Poet has many allusions to it. So in The Merchant , ii. 6 : “ They have 
 in England a coin that bears the figure of an angel stamped in gold.” 
 
 7 Distract for distracted , just as, before, ballast for ballasted. Shake¬ 
 speare has many such shortened preterites. 
 
126 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Ant. S. It is the Devil. 
 
 Dro. S. Nay, she is worse, she is the Devil’s dam; and 
 here she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof 
 comes that the wenches say, God damn me ; that’s as much 
 as to say, God make me a light wench. It is written, they 
 appear to men like angels of light: light is an effect of fire, 
 and fire will burn; ergo , light wenches will burn. Come 
 not near her. 
 
 Cour. Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir. 
 
 Will you go with me ? We’ll mend our dinner here. 
 
 Dro. S. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; so be¬ 
 speak a long spoon. 
 
 Ant. S. Why, Dromio? 
 
 Dro. S. Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat 
 with the Devil . 8 
 
 Ant. S. Avoid thee, fiend ! what tell’st thou me of sup¬ 
 ping? 
 
 Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress : 
 
 I cdnjure thee to leave me and be gone. 
 
 Cour. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner, 
 
 Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised; 
 
 And I’ll be gone, sir, and not trouble you. 
 
 Dro. S. Some devils ask but the pairings of one’s nail, 
 
 A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin, 
 
 A nut, a cherry-stone ; 
 
 But she, more covetous, would have a chain. 
 
 Master, be wise : an if you give it her, 
 
 The Devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it. 
 
 Cour. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain : 
 
 I hope you do not mean to cheat me so. 
 
 Ant. S. Avaunt, thou witch ! — Come, Dromio, let us 
 
 go- 
 
 8 " He that eats with the Devil has need of a long spoon,” is an old 
 proverb. Referred to again in The Tempest. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 127 
 
 Dro. S. Fly pride , says the peacock : mistress, that you 
 know. • \_Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. 
 
 Cour. Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad. 
 
 Else would he never so demean himself. 
 
 A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats, 
 
 And for the same he promised me a chain: 
 
 Both one and other he denies me now. 
 
 The reason that I gather he is mad, — 
 
 Besides this present instance of his rage, — 
 
 Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner, 
 
 Of his own doors being shut against his entrance. 
 
 Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits, 
 
 On purpose shut the doors against his way. 
 
 My way is now to hie home to his house, 
 
 And tell his wife that, being lunatic, 
 
 He rush’d into my house, and took perforce 
 My ring away. This course I fittest choose; 
 
 For forty ducats is too much to lose. [Exit. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Street. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and the Officer. 
 
 Ant. E. Fear me not, man ; I will not break away : 
 I’ll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money, 
 
 To warrant thee, as I am ’rested for. 
 
 My wife is in a wayward mood to-day, 
 
 And will not lightly trust the messenger: 
 
 That I should be attach’d in Ephesus, 
 
 I tell you, ’twill sound harshly in her ears. 
 
 Here comes my man ; I think he brings the money. — 
 
 Enter Dromio of Ephesus with a rope's-end. 
 
 How now, sir ! have you that I sent you for ? 
 
 Dro. E. Here’s that, I warrant you, will pay them all. 
 
128 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Ant. E. But where’s the money? 
 
 Dro. E. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope. 
 
 Ant. E. Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope ? 
 
 Off. I’ll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate. 
 
 Ant. E. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home? 
 
 Dro. E. To a rope’s-end, sir; and to that end am I return’d. 
 
 Ant. E. And to that end, sir, I will welcome you. 
 
 \_Beatmg him. 
 
 Off. Good sir, be patient. 
 
 Dro. E. Nay, ’tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity. 
 
 Off. Good now , 1 hold thy tongue. 
 
 Dro. E. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands. 
 
 Ant. E. Thou whoreson, senseless villain ! 
 
 Dro. E. I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not 
 feel your blows. 
 
 Ant. E. Thou art sensible in 2 nothing but blows, and so 
 is an ass. 
 
 Dro. E. I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it by my 
 long’ears . 3 — I have served him from the hour of my nativity 
 to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for my service 
 but blows. When I am cold, he heats me with beating; 
 when I am warm, he cools me with beating: I am waked 
 with it when I sleep; raised with it when I sit; driven out 
 of doors with it when I go from home; welcomed home 
 with it when I return: nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a 
 beggar wont her brat; and, I think, when he hath lamed me, 
 I shall beg with it from door to door. 
 
 1 Shakespeare has good now repeatedly with the exact meaning of well 
 now. So in Hamlet, i. i: “ Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that 
 knows,” &c. 
 
 2 Sensitive to is the meaning. The Poet has sensible repeatedly, where 
 we should use sensitive. 
 
 3 A quibble between ears and years, which were probably sounded much 
 alike, as they still are in some places. So, as the Cambridge Editors note, 
 it appears from what follows. 
 
SCENE IV. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 129 
 
 Ant. E. Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder. 
 Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and Pinch. 
 
 Dro. E. Mistress, respice jinem , respect your end; or 
 rather, to prophesy like the parrot , 4 Beware the rope s-end. 
 Ant. E. Wilt thou still talk ? \_Beating him 
 
 Cour. How say you now ? is not your husband mad ? 
 
 Adr. His incivility confirms no less. —• 
 
 Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer; 
 
 Establish him in his true sense again, 
 
 And I will please you what you will demand. 
 
 Luc. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks ! 
 
 Cour. Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy ! 5 
 Pinch. Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse. 
 Ant. E. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear. 
 
 \_Striking him. 
 
 Pinch. I charge thee, Satan, housed within this man, 
 
 To yield possession to my holy prayers, 
 
 And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight; 
 
 I cdnjure thee by all the saints in Heaven ! 
 
 Ant. E. Peace, doting wizard, peace ! I am not mad. 
 Adr. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul! 
 
 Ant. E. You minion, you, are these your customers ? 6 
 
 4 Parrots were specially taught unlucky words; and if any passer-by took 
 offence at these, the owner was wont to say, “ Take heed, sir, my parrot 
 prophesies.” So in Hudibras, referring to Ralpho’s skill in augury: 
 
 Could tell what subtlest parrots mean, 
 
 That speak, and think contrary clean ; 
 
 What member 'tis of whom they talk, 
 
 When they cry rope, and walk, knave, walk. 
 
 6 This tremor was thought to be a sure sign of diabolical possession. In 
 The Tempest, ii. 2, Caliban says, “ Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou 
 wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling .” 
 
 6 A customer was a familiar, one accustomed to haunt any place. So 
 defined in old dictionaries. 
 
130 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. ACT IV. 
 
 Did this companion 7 with the saffron face 
 Revel and feast it at my house to-day, 
 
 Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut, 
 
 And I denied to enter in my house ? 
 
 Adr. O husband, God doth know you dined at home; 
 Where would you had remain’d until this time, 
 
 Free from these slanders and this open shame ! 
 
 Ant. E. I dined at home! — Thou villain, what say’st 
 thou ? 
 
 Dro. E. Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home. 
 
 Ant. E. Were not my doors lock’d up, and I shut out? 
 Dro. E. Perdy , 8 your doors were lock’d, and you shut 
 out. 
 
 Ant. E. And did not she herself revile me there? 
 
 Dro. E. Sans fable, she herself reviled you there. 
 
 Ant. E. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn 
 me? 
 
 Dro. E. Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn’d you. 
 Ant. E. And did not I in rage depart from thence? 
 
 Dro. E. In verity you did ; — my bones bear witness, 
 That since have felt the vigour of his rage. 
 
 Adr. Is’t good to soothe him in these contraries? 
 
 Phuh. It is no shame : the fellow finds his vein, 
 
 And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy. 
 
 Ant. E. Thou hast suborn’d the goldsmith to arrest me. 
 Adr. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you, 
 
 By Dromio here, who came in haste for it. 
 
 Dro. E. Money by me ! heart and good-will you might; 
 But surely, mistress, not a rag of money. 
 
 Ant. E. Went’st not thou to her for a purse of ducats? 
 Adr. He came to me, and I deliver’d it. 
 
 Luc. And I am witness with her that she did. 
 
 7 Companion was used as a word of contempt, as fellow is now. 
 
 8 Perdy is an ancient corruption of par Dieu. 
 
SCENE IV. THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 1 3 1 
 
 Dro. E. God and the rope-maker now bear me witness 
 That I was sent for nothing but a rope ! 
 
 Pinch. Mistress, both man and master is possess’d; 
 
 I know it by their pale and deadly looks : 
 
 They must be bound, and laid in some dark room. 
 
 Ant. E. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day? 
 And why dost thou deny the bag of gold ? 
 
 Adr. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth. 
 
 Dro. E. And, gentle master, I received no gold; v 
 But I confess, sir, that we were lock’d out. 
 
 Adr. Dissembling villain, thou speak’st false in both. 
 
 Ant. E. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all; 
 
 And art confederate with a damned pack 
 To make a loathsome abject scorn of me : 
 
 But with these nails I’ll pluck out those false eyes, 
 
 That would behold in me this shameful sport. 
 
 Adr. O, bind him, bind him ! let him not come near me. 
 Pinch. More company ! — The fiend is strong within him. 
 Luc. Ah me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks ! 
 
 Enter three or four , who assist Pinch in binding them. 
 
 Ant. E. What, will you murder me? — Thou jailer, thou, 
 . I am thy prisoner : wilt thou suffer them 
 To make a rescue ? 
 
 Off. Masters, let him go : 
 
 He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him. 
 
 Pinch. Go bind this man, for he is frantic too. 
 
 Adr. What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer? 
 
 Hast thou delight to see a wretched man 
 Do outrage and displeasure to himself? 
 
 Off. He is my prisoner : if I let him go, 
 
 The debt he owes will be required of me. 
 
 Adr. I will discharge thee ere I go from thee : 
 
 Bear me forthwith unto his creditor, 
 
132 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it. — 
 
 Good master doctor, see him safe convey’d 
 Home to my house. — O most unhappy day ! 
 
 Ant. E. O most unhappy 9 strumpet! 
 
 Dro. E. Master, I’m here enter’d in bond for you. 
 
 Ant. E. Out on thee, villain ! wherefore dost thou mad 
 me? 
 
 Dro. E. Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good 
 master; cry, The Devil / 
 
 Luc. God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk ! 
 
 Adr. Go bear him hence. — Sister, go you with me. — 
 
 \_Exeunt Pinch and Assistants with Ant. E. and Dro. E. 
 Say now whose suit is he arrested at ? 
 
 Off. One Angelo, a goldsmith : do you know him ? 
 
 Adr. I know the man. What is the sum he owes? 
 
 Off. Two hundred ducats. 
 
 Adr. Say, how grows it due ? 
 
 Off. Due for a chain your husband had of him. 
 
 Adr. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not. 
 
 Cour. Whenas your husband, all in rage, to-day 
 Came to my house, and took away my ring, —• 
 
 The ring I saw upon his finger now, — 
 
 Straight after did I meet him with a chain. 
 
 Adr. It may be so, but I did never see it. — 
 
 Come, jailer, bring me where the goldsmith is: 
 
 I long to know the truth hereof at large. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse 
 with their rapiers draw?i. 
 
 Luc. God, for Thy mercy ! they are loose again. 
 
 Adr. And come with naked swords. Let’s call more 
 help, 
 
 9 Unhappy here is mischievous, that which causes ill hap; like the Latin 
 infelix. The Poet has it repeatedly so. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 133 
 
 To have them bound again. 
 
 Off. Away ! they’ll kill us. 
 
 [.Exeunt Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and Officer. 
 A?it. S. I see these witches are afraid of swords. 
 
 Dro. S. She that would be your wife now ran from you. 
 Ant. S. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff 10 from 
 thence : 
 
 I long that we were safe and sound aboard. 
 
 Dro. S. Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us 
 no harm : you see they speak us fair, give us gold : methinks 
 they are such a gentle nation, that, but for the mountain of 
 mad flesh that claims marriage of me, I could find in my 
 heart to stay here still, and turn witch. 
 
 Ant. S. I will not stay to-night for all the town; 
 
 Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard. [ Exeunt\ 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I. — Before an Abbey. 
 
 Enter Second Merchant and Angelo. 
 
 Ang. I’m sorry, sir, that I have hinder’d you; 
 
 But, I protest, he had the chain of me, 
 
 Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. 
 
 2 Mer. How is the man esteem’d here in the city? 
 
 Ang. Of very reverend reputation, sir, 
 
 Of credit infinite, highly beloved, 
 
 Second to none that lives here in the city: 
 
 His word might bear my wealth at any time. 
 
 10 Stuff here means luggage or movables. So in St. Luke, xvii. 31: “ In 
 that day, he which shall fie upon the house-top, and his stuff in the house, 
 let him not come down to take it away.” 
 
134 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 2 Mer. Speak softly : yonder, as I think, he walks. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Ang. Tis so ; and that self chain about his neck, 
 
 Which he forswore most monstrously to have. 
 
 Good sir, draw near with me, I’ll speak to him. —- 
 
 Signior Antipholus, I wonder much 
 
 That you would put me to this shame and trouble; 
 
 And, not without some scandal to yourself, 
 
 With circumstance and oaths so to deny 
 This chain, which now you wear so openly: 
 
 Besides the charge, the shame, imprisonment, 
 
 You have done wrong to this my honest friend; 
 
 Who, but for staying on our controversy, 
 
 Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day: 
 
 This chain you had of me ; can you deny it ? 
 
 Ant. S. I think I had; I never did deny it. 
 
 2 Mer. Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too. 
 
 Ant. S. Who heard me to deny it or forswear it? 
 
 2 Mer. These ears of mine, thou know’st, did hear thee : 
 Fie on thee, wretch ! ’tis pity that thou livest 
 To walk where any honest men resort. 
 
 Ant. S. Thou art a villain to impeach me thus : 
 
 I’ll prove mine honour and mine honesty 
 Against thee presently, if thou darest stand. 
 
 2 Mer. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. 
 
 \They draw. 
 
 Enter Adriana, Luciana, the Courtezan, and others. 
 
 Adr. Hold, hurt him not, for God’s sake ! he is mad.— 
 Some get within him , 1 take his sword away : 
 
 Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house. 
 
 1 Get inside of his blows; that is, grapple with him. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 135 
 
 Dro. S. Run, master, run ; for God’s sake, take a house ! 2 
 This is some priory : in, or we are spoil’d. 
 
 [.Exeunt Ant. S. and Dro. S. into the abbey . 
 
 Enter the Abbess. 
 
 Abb. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither ? 
 Adr. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence. 
 
 Let us cofhe in, that we may bind him fast, 
 
 And bear him home for his recovery. 
 
 A jig. I knew he was not in his perfect wits. 
 
 2 Mer. I’m sorry now that I did draw on him. 
 
 Abb. How long hath this possession held the rpan ? 
 
 Adr. This week he hath been heavy, sour , 3 sad, 
 
 And too much different from the man he was; 
 
 But till this afternoon his passion 
 Ne’er brake into extremity of rage. 
 
 Abb. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea? 
 Buried some dear friend ? Hath not else his eye 
 Stray’d 4 his affection in unlawful love, — 
 
 A sin prevailing much in youthful men, 
 
 Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing? 
 
 Which of these sorrows is he subject to? 
 
 Adr. To none of these, except it be the last; 
 
 Namely, some love that drew him oft from home. 
 
 Abb. You should for that have reprehended him. 
 
 Adr. Why, so I did. 
 
 Abb. Ay, but not rough enough. 
 
 Adr. As roughly as my modesty would let me. 
 
 Abb. Haply, in private. 
 
 Adr. And in assemblies too. 
 
 2 As we still say take refuge , and take sanctuary. 
 
 3 Sour is here a dissyllable, as hour and hire before. 
 
 4 Stray'd is here a causative verb, meaning misled, or made to stray; a 
 singular use of the word. 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 136 
 
 Abb. Ay, but not enough. 
 
 Adr. It was the copy of our conference : 5 
 In bed, he slept not for my urging it; 
 
 At board, he fed not for my urging it; 
 
 Alone, it was the subject of my theme; 
 
 In company I often glanced at it; 
 
 Still did I tell him it was vile and bad. 
 
 Abb. And thereof came it that the man was mad : 
 
 The venom-clamours of a jealous woman 
 Poison more deadly than a mad-dog’s tooth. 
 
 It seems his sleeps were hinder’d by thy railing: 
 
 And thereof comes it that his head is light. 
 
 Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings : 
 Unquiet meals make ill digestions, — 
 
 Thereof the raging fire of fever bred ; 
 
 And what’s a fever but a fit of madness ? 
 
 Thou say’st his sports were hinder’d by thy brawls: 
 
 Sweet recreation barr’d, what doth ensue 
 But moody, moping, and dull melancholy, 
 
 Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair; 
 
 And at her 6 heels a huge infectious troop 
 Of pale distemperatures and foes to life? 
 
 In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest 
 To be disturb’d, would mad or man or beast: 
 
 The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits 
 Have scared thy husband from the use of wits. 
 
 Luc. She never reprehended him but mildly, 
 
 When he demean’d himself rough-rude and wildly. — 
 
 Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not ? 
 
 6 Copy here seems to mean principal topic or theme ; that is, the pattern 
 or form after which the conversation was shaped. 
 
 6 Her , referring to kinsman , sounds rather ajar; but kinsman has merely 
 the sense of akin. The Poet elsewhere indulges a like confusion of genders; 
 as in The Merchant , iii. 2: “ But now I was the lord of this fair mansion, 
 master o’er my servants, queen o’er myself.” 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 1 37 
 
 Adr. She did betray me to my own reproof. — 
 
 Good people, enter, and lay hold on him. 
 
 Abb. No, not a creature enters in my house. 
 
 Adr. Then let your servants bring my husband forth. 
 
 Abb. Neither : he took this place for sanctuary, 
 
 And it shall privilege him from your hands 
 Till I have brought him to his wits again, 
 
 Or lose my labor in assaying it. 
 
 Adr. I will attend my husband, be his nurse, 
 
 Diet his sickness, for it is my office, 
 
 And will have no attorney but myself; 
 
 And therefore let me have him home with me. 
 
 Abb. Be patient; for I will not let him stir 
 Till I have used tlT approved means I have, 
 
 With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers, 
 
 To make of him a formal man 7 again : 
 
 It is a branch and parcel of mine oath, 
 
 A charitable duty of my order. 
 
 Therefore depart, and leave him here with me. 
 
 Adr. I will not hence, and leave my husband here : 
 
 And ill it doth beseem your holiness 
 To separate the husband and the wife. 
 
 Abb. Be quiet, and depart: thou shalt not have him. 
 
 \_Exit. 
 
 Luc. Complain unto the Duke of this indignity. 
 
 Adr. Come, go : I will fall prostrate at his feet, 
 
 And never rise until my tears and prayers 
 Have won his Grace to come in person hither, 
 
 And take perforce my husband from the Abbess. 
 
 2 Mer. By this, I think, the dial points at five : 
 
 Anon, I’m sure, the Duke himself in person 
 Comes this way to the melancholy vale, 
 
 7 A formal man is a rational man, one whose mind is in due form. 
 
•38 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 The place of death and sorry execution, 
 
 Behind the ditches of the abbey here. 
 
 Ang. Upon what cause ? 
 
 2 Mer. To see a reverend Syracusian merchant. 
 
 Who put unluckily into this bay 
 Against the laws and statutes of this town, 
 
 Beheaded publicly for his offence. 
 
 Ang. See where they come : we will behold his death. 
 
 Luc. Kneel to the Duke before he pass the abbey. 
 
 Enter the Duke, attended; AEgeon bareheaded; with the 
 Headsman and other Officers. 
 
 Duke. Yet once again proclaim it publicly, 
 
 If any friend will pay the sum for him, 
 
 He shall not die, so much we tender him. 
 
 Adr. Justice, most sacred Duke, against the Abbess ! 
 
 Duke. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady: 
 
 It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong. 
 
 Adr. May’t please your Grace, Antipholus my husband,— 
 Who I made lord of me and all I had, 
 
 At your important 8 letters, — this ill day 
 A most outrageous fit of madness took him; 
 
 That desperately he hurried through the street, — 
 
 With him his bondman, all as mad as he, — 
 
 Doing displeasure to the citizens 
 By rushing in their houses, bearing thence 
 Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like. 
 
 8 Important for importunate. So in King Lear , iv. 4: “ Therefore great 
 France my mourning and important tears hath pitied.” — Upon the passage 
 in the text, Malone notes as follows: “ Shakespeare was thinking particu¬ 
 larly on the interest which the king had in England in the marriage of his 
 wards; who were the heirs of his tenants holding by knight’s service, or in 
 capite, and were under age;—an interest which Queen Elizabeth exerted 
 on all occasions, as did her successors, till the abolition of the Court of 
 Wards and Liveries. The Poet attributes to the Duke the same right to 
 choose a wife or a husband for his wards at Ephesus.” 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 139 
 
 Once did I get him bound, and sent him home, 
 
 Whilst to take order 9 for the wrongs I went, 
 
 That here and there his fury had committed. 
 
 Anon, I wot not by what strange escape, 
 
 He broke from those that had the guard of him; 
 
 And then his mad attendant and himself, 
 
 Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, 
 
 Met us again, and, madly bent on us, 
 
 Chased us away ; till, raising of more aid, 
 
 We came again to bind them. Then they fled 
 Into this abbey, whither we pursued them; 
 
 And here the Abbess shuts the gates on us, 
 
 And will not suffer, us to fetch him out, 
 
 Nor send him forth, that we may bear him hence. 
 
 Therefore, most gracious Duke, with thy command 
 Let him be brought forth, and borne hence for help. 
 
 Duke. Long since thy husband served me in my wars; 
 And I to thee engaged a prince’s word, 
 
 When thou didst make him master of thy bed, 
 
 To do him all the grace and good I could. — 
 
 Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate, 
 
 And bid the Lady Abbess come to me. — 
 
 I will determine this before I stir. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Sen k O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself! 
 
 My master and his man are both broke loose, 
 
 Beaten the maids a-row , 10 and bound the doctor, 
 
 Whose beard they have singed off with brands of fire; 
 
 And ever, as it blazed, they threw on him 
 Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair: 
 
 9 “ Take order ” is the old phrase for take Jtieasures, or make arrange¬ 
 ments. Shakespeare has it repeatedly so. 
 
 10 A-row is in succession or one after another. 
 
140 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT v. 
 
 My master preaches patience to him, and the while 
 His man with scissors nicks him like a fool ; 11 
 And sure, unless you send some present help, 
 
 Between them they will kill the conjurer. 
 
 A dr. Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here ; 
 
 And that is false thou dost report to us. 
 
 Serv. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true ; 
 
 I have not breathed almost since I did see it. 
 
 He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you, 
 
 To scotch 12 your face, and to disfigure you. [ Cry within. 
 Hark, hark ! I hear him, mistress : fly, be gone ! 
 
 Duke. Come, stand by me ; fear nothing. — Guard with 
 halberds ! 
 
 Adr. Ah me, it is my husband ! Witness you, 
 
 That he is borne about invisible : 
 
 Even now we housed him in the abbey here; 
 
 And now he’s there, past thought of human reason. 
 
 Enter Antipholus of Ephesus and Dromio of Ephesus. 
 
 Ant. E. Justice, most gracious Duke, O, grant me justice ! 
 Even for the service that long since I did thee, 
 
 When I bestrid thee 13 in the wars, and took 
 Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood 
 That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice. 
 
 AEge. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote, 
 
 I see my son Antipholus, and Dromio. 
 
 Ant. E. Justice, sweet Prince, against that woman there ! 
 
 The hair of fools was cut into notches or nicks. So in The Choice of 
 Change , 1598 : “Three things used by monks which provoke other men to 
 laugh at their follies. 1. They are shaven and notched on the head like 
 fooles." 
 
 12 To scotch is to score or cut slightly. So in Macbeth , iii. 2: “ We have 
 but scotch'd the snake, not kill’d it.” 
 
 13 To bestride one when down in battle was considered a high act of 
 service. So, in 1 Henry IV., v. 1, Falstaff says to the Prince, “ Hal, if thou 
 see me down in the battle, and bestride me, so; ’tis a point of friendship.” 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 141 
 
 She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife, 
 
 That hath abused and dishonour’d me 
 Even in the strength and height of injury: 
 
 Beyond imagination is the wrong 
 
 That she this day hath shameless thrown on me. 
 
 Duke. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just. 
 
 Ant . E. This day, great Duke, she shut the doors upon me, 
 While she with harlots 14 feasted in my house. 
 
 Duke. A grievous fault. — Say, woman, didst thou so ? 
 
 A dr. No, my good lord : myself, he, and my sister, 
 To-day did dine together. So befall my soul, 
 
 As this is false he burdens me withal! 
 
 Luc. Ne’er may I look on day, nor sleep on night, 
 
 But she tells to your Highness simple truth ! 
 
 Ang. O perjured woman ! — They are both forsworn > 
 
 In this the madman justly chargeth them. 
 
 Ant. E. My liege, I am advised 15 what I say; 
 
 Neither disturbed with th’ effect of wine, 
 
 Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire, 
 
 Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad. 
 
 This woman lock’d me out this day from dinner : 
 
 That goldsmith there, were he not pack’d 16 with her, 
 
 Could witness it, for he was with me then; 
 
 Who parted with me to go fetch a chain, 
 
 Promising to bring it to the Porpentine, 
 
 Where Balthazar and I did dine together. 
 
 Our dinner done, and he not coming thither, 
 
 I went to seek him : in the street I met him, 
 
 And in his company that gentleman. 
 
 14 Harlot was formerly a general term of reproach, applied to certain 
 descriptions of men, as well as to loose women. 
 
 15 Advised , here, is circumspect , cofisiderate, or calmly assured of. Re¬ 
 peatedly thus. 
 
 16 Pack'd is leagued or confederate. Pact is still used for agreement or 
 co?npact. 
 
142 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down 
 That I this day of him received the chain, 
 
 Which, God he knows, I saw not: for the which 
 He did arrest me with an officer. 
 
 I did obey ; and sent my peasant home 
 For certain ducats : he with none return’d. # 
 
 Then fairly I bespoke the officer 
 To go in person with me to my house. 
 
 By th’ way we met 
 
 My wife, her sister, and a rabble more 
 
 Of vile confederates. Along with them 
 
 They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain, 
 
 A mere anatomy, a mountebank, 
 
 A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller, 
 
 A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch, 
 
 A living-dead man : this pernicious slave, 
 
 Forsooth, took on him as a conjuror; 
 
 And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse, 
 
 And with no face, as ’twere, outfacing me, 
 
 Cries out, I was possess’d. Then all together 
 They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence, 
 
 And in a dark and dankish vault at home 
 They left me and my man, both bound together; 
 
 Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, 
 
 I gain’d my freedom, and immediately 
 Ran hither to your Grace ; whom I beseech 
 To give me ample satisfaction 
 For these deep shames and great indignities. 
 
 Ang. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him, 
 That he dined not at home, but was lock’d out. 
 
 Duke . But had he such a chain of thee or no ? 
 
 Ang. He had, my lord : and when he ran in here, 
 These people saw the chain about his neck. 
 
 2 Mer. Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 M3 
 
 Heard you confess you had the chain of him, 
 
 After you first forswore it on the mart: 
 
 And thereupon I drew my sword on you; 
 
 And then you fled into this abbey here, 
 
 From whence, I think, you’re come by miracle. 
 
 Ant. E. I never came within these abbey-walls; 
 
 Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me : 
 
 I never saw the chain. So help me Heaven, 
 
 As this is false you burden me withal! 
 
 Duke. Why, what an intricate impeach 17 is this ! 
 
 I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup. 
 
 If here you housed him, here he would have been; 
 
 If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly : — 
 
 You say he dined at home ; the goldsmith here 
 Denies that saying. — Sirrah, what say you ? 
 
 Dro. E. Sir, 
 
 He dined with her there, at the Porpentine. 
 
 Cour. He did; and from my finger snatch’d that ring. 
 Ant. E. ’Tis true, my liege ; this ring I had of her. 
 
 Duke. Saw’st thou him enter at the abbey here ? 
 
 Cour. As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace. 
 
 Duke. Why, this is strange. — Go call the Abbess hither. —■ 
 
 \_Exit an Attendant. 
 
 I think you are all mated 18 or stark mad. 
 
 AEge. Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word : 
 Haply I see a friend will save my life, 
 
 And pay the sum that may deliver me. 
 
 Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt. 
 sEge. Is not your name, sir, call’d Antipholus? 
 
 And is not that your bondman Dromio ? 
 
 Dro. E. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir, 
 
 17 Impeach for impeachment, that is, accusation. So the Poet has suspect 
 for suspicion repeatedly; and dispose for disposal or disposition. 
 
 18 Mated is confounded or bewildered. See page no, note 27. 
 
144 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 But he, I thank him, gnaw’d in two my cords : 
 
 Now I am Dromio, and his man unbound. 
 
 Age. I’m sure you both of you remember me. 
 
 Dro. E . Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you; 
 
 For lately we were bound, as you are now. 
 
 You are not Pinch’s patient, are you, sir? 
 
 Age. Why look you strange on me ? you know me well. 
 Ant. E. I never saw you in my life till now. 
 
 Age. O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, 
 And careful hours with Time’s deformed 19 hand 
 Have written strange defeatures in my face : 
 
 But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice ? 
 
 Ant. E. Neither. 
 
 Age. Dromio, nor thou ? 
 
 Dro. E. No, trust me, sir, nor I. 
 
 Age. I am sure thou dost. 
 
 Dro. E. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever 
 a man denies, you are now bound to believe him. 
 
 Age. Not know my voice ! O time’s extremity, 
 
 Hast thou so crack’d and splitted my poor tongue 
 In seven short years, that here my only son 
 Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares? 
 
 Though now this grained face of mine be hid 
 In sap-consuming Winter’s drizzled snow, 
 
 And all the conduits of my blood froze up, 
 
 Yet hath my night of life some memory, 
 
 My wasting lamp some fading glimmer left, 
 
 My dull deaf ears a little use to hear : 
 
 All these old witnesses — I cannot err — 
 
 Tell me thou art my son Antipholus. 
 
 Ant. E. I never saw my father in my life. 
 
 Age. But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy, 
 
 19 Deformed for deforming; the active and passive forms being then 
 often used interchangeably. 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
Abb. "Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds, 
 And gain a husband by his liberty ” 
 
 Comedy of Errors. Act 5, Scene 1 
 
 Page 145 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 145 
 
 Thou know’st we parted : but perhaps, my son, 
 
 Thou shamest t’ acknowledge me in misery. 
 
 Ant. E. The Duke, and all that know me in the city, 
 
 Can witness with me that it is not so : 
 
 I ne’er saw Syracusa in my life. 
 
 Duke. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years 
 Have I been patron to Antipholus, 
 
 During which time he ne’er saw Syracusa: 
 
 I see thy age and dangers make thee dote. 
 
 Re-enter the Abbess, with Antipholus of Syracuse and 
 
 Dromio of Syracuse. 
 
 Abb. Most mighty Duke, behold a man much wrong’d. 
 
 \_Allgather to see them. 
 
 Adr .. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me. 
 
 Duke. One of these men is Genius to the other; 
 
 And so of these. Which is the natural man, 
 
 And which the spirit ? who deciphers them ? 
 
 Dro. S. I, sir, am Dromio : command him away. 
 
 Dro. E. I, sir, am Dromio : pray, let me stay. 
 
 Ant. S. /Egeon art thou not? or else his ghost? 
 
 Dro. S. O, my old master ! who hath bound him here ? 
 Abb. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds, 
 
 And gain a husband by his liberty. — 
 
 Speak, old /Egeon, if thou be’st the man 
 That hadst a wife once call’d /Emilia, 
 
 That bore thee at a burden two fair sons : 
 
 O, if thou be’st the same /Egeon, speak, 
 
 And speak unto the same /Emilia ! 
 
 AEge. If I dream not, thou art ./Emilia : 
 
 If thou art she, tell me where is that son 
 That floated with thee on the fatal raft ? 
 
 Abb. By men of Epidamnum he and I 
 And the twin Dromio, all were taken up; 
 
146 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 But by-and-by rude fishermen of Corinth 
 By force took Dromio and my son from them, 
 
 And me they left with those of Epidamnum. 
 
 What then became of them I cannot tell; 
 
 I to this fortune that you see me in. 
 
 Duke. Why, here begins his morning story 20 right: 
 
 These two Antipholus’, these two so like, 
 
 And these two Dromios, one in semblance, — 
 
 Besides her urging of the wreck at sea, — 
 
 These are the parents to these children, 
 
 Which accidentally are met together. — 
 
 Antipholus, thou earnest from Corinth first ? 
 
 Ant. S. No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse. 
 
 Duke. Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which. 
 
 Ant. E. I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord, — 
 Dro. E. And I with him. 
 
 Ant. E. — Brought to this town by that most famous 
 warrior, 
 
 Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle. 
 
 Adr. Which of you two did dine with me to-day ? 
 
 Ant. S. I, gentle mistress. 
 
 Adr. And are not you my husband? 
 
 Ant. E. No; I say nay to that. 
 
 Ant. S. And so do I; yet did she call me so : 
 
 And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here, 
 
 Did call me brother. — \To Luc.] What I told you then, 
 
 I hope I shall have leisure to make good; 
 
 If this be not a dream I see and hear. 
 
 Ang. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me. 
 
 Ant. S. I think it be, sir; I deny it not. 
 
 Ant. E. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me. 
 
 Ang. I think I did, sir; I deny it not. 
 
 20 The “morning story" is what HLgeon tells the Duke in the first scene 
 of the play. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 147 
 
 Adr. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail, 
 
 By Dromio; but I think he brought it not. 
 
 Dro. E. No, none by me. 
 
 Ant. S. This purse of ducats I received from you, 
 
 And Dromio my man did bring them me. 
 
 I see we still did meet each other’s man; 
 
 And I was ta’en for him, and he for me; 
 
 And thereupon these errors all arose. 
 
 Ant. E. These ducats pawn I for my father here. 
 
 Duke. It shall not need ; thy father has his life. 
 
 Cour. Sir, I must have that diamond from you. 
 
 Ant. E. There, take it; and much thanks for my good 
 cheer. 
 
 Abb. Renowned Duke, vouchsafe to take the pains 
 To go with us into the abbey here, 
 
 And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes ; — 
 
 And all that are assembled in this place, 
 
 That by this sympathized one day’s error 
 Have suffer’d wrong, go keep us company, 
 
 And we shall make full satisfaction. — 
 
 Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail 
 Of you, my sons ; and, till this present hour, 
 
 My heavy burden ne’er delivered. — 
 
 The Duke, my husband, and my children both, 
 
 And you the calendars of their nativity , 21 
 Go to a gossips’ feast , 22 and joy with me; 
 
 After so long grief, such felicity ! 
 
 21 The two Dromios are called the calendars of their masters’ nativity 
 because they were born the same day. See page 87, note 8. 
 
 22 “A gossips' feast” is, literally, a feast of sponsors; gossip being from 
 God sib, and sib meaning kin. Sponsors were wont to have a merry feast 
 together after answering at the Font; and such feasts were apt occasions 
 for gossipping in our sense of the term. The word is used here because 
 ^Emilia has just spoken of her sons as newly born, which implied them to 
 be candidates for baptism. 
 
ACT V 
 
 I48 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 Duke. With all my heart, I’ll gossip at this feast. 
 
 \_Exeunt the Duke, Abbess, ^Egeon, Courtezan, 
 Sec. Merchant, Angelo, and Attendants. 
 Dro. S. Master, shall I go fetch your stuff from shipboard ? 
 A?it. E. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark’d ? 
 Dro. S. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur. 
 Ant. S. He speaks to me. — I am your master, Dromio : 
 Come, go with us; we’ll look to that anon : 
 
 Embrace thy brother there ; rejoice with him. 
 
 \_Exeunt Ant. S. and Ant. E., Adr. and Luc. 
 Dro. S. There is a fat friend at your master’s house, 
 
 That kitchen’d me for you to-day at dinner : 
 
 She now shall be my sister, not my wife. 
 
 Dro. E. Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: 
 I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth. 
 
 Will you walk in to see their gossiping? 
 
 Dro. S. Not I, sir; you are my elder. 
 
 Dro. E. That’s a question : how shall we try it ? 
 
 Dro. S. We’ll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead 
 thou first. 
 
 Dro. E. Nay, then, thus : 
 
 We came into the world like brother and brother; 
 
 And now let’s go hand in hand, not one before another. 
 
 [Exeufit. 
 
Dro. E. " Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: 
 I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth." 
 
 Act 5, Scene 1. 
 
 Comedy of Errors 
 
 Page 148 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 IImivcojuy OF ILLINOI 0 
 
 
 
 
 « 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 -*- 
 
 Act i., Scene i. 
 
 Page 80. Nay, more, if any born at Ephesus 
 Be seen at Syracusian marts and fairs ; 
 
 Again, if any Syracusian born 
 
 Come to the bay of Ephesus, &c. — Here, in the second line, the 
 original reads “seene at any Syracusian”; any being inserted by mis¬ 
 take from the occurrence of the same word just above and just below. 
 Pope’s correction. 
 
 P. 80. To quit the penalty and ransom him. — The original repeats 
 the to before ransom. Corrected in the second folio. 
 
 P. 8i. Happy but for me, 
 
 And by me too, had not our hap been bad. —The first folio omits 
 too, which was supplied in the second. 
 
 P. 81. And the great care of goods at random left. —The original 
 has “ And he great care of goods.” Corrected by Theobald. 
 
 P. 81. That very hour, and in the selfsame inn, 
 
 A meaner woman was delivered 
 
 Of such a burden. — The original reads “A meane woman,” 
 leaving a gap in the verse; which gap the second folio filled by insert¬ 
 ing poor. This can hardly be right, as in the next line but one we 
 have “ their parents were exceeding poor.” Walker says, “ Read 
 ‘ A meaner woman one of a lower rank than my wife.” 
 
 P. 82. And thus it was, — for other means was none : — 
 
 The sailors sought for safety by our boat, &c. — So Walker, and 
 rightly, I have no doubt. The old copies, “ And this it was.” 
 
 149 
 
THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 150 
 
 P. 83. We were encounter'd by a mighty rock ; 
 
 Which being violently borne upon, 
 
 Our hopeful ship was splitted in the midst. — The original has 
 “ Our help fid ship,” which can hardly be right. Rowe changed helpful 
 to helpless, which is evidently much better. Hopeful was proposed by 
 Mr. Swynfen Jervis, and certainly accords well with the context. — In 
 the second line, the first folio has “ borne up "; the second, “ borne 
 up upon.” 
 
 P. 83. At length, the other ship had seized on us. — So Hanmer; 
 the old copies, “ another ship.” The correction is prompted, and 
 indeed fairly required by the context. 
 
 P. 83. Thus by misfortune was my life prolong’d. — The old text 
 has That instead of Thus, which is Hanmer’s reading.—The original 
 also has misfortunes. Corrected by Dyce. 
 
 P. 84. What hath befall'n of them and thee. — So the second 
 folio ; the first, “ What have befalne of them and they." 
 
 P. 84. And impdrtuned me 
 
 That his attendant —for his case was like, &c. — The first folio 
 reads “so his case was like.” Corrected in the second. 
 
 P. 85. I'll limit thee this day 
 
 To seek thy life by beneficial help. — So Pope, followed by Theo¬ 
 bald, Hanmer, White, and Dyce, and approved by Walker. Of course 
 the meaning is, “seek to save thy life.” The old copies read “To seek 
 thy help by beneficial help”; which is palpably wrong. Staunton 
 reads “To seek thy hope]' &c. 
 
 P. 85. Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum. 
 
 And live ; if not, then thou art doom'd to die. — 
 
 Jailer, now take him to thy custody. —The original has “if no"; 
 “ a stark error,” says Dyce. — In the last line, now, wanting in the old 
 copies, is supplied by Hanmer and Collier’s second folio. Walker 
 proposes “Go, jailer, take,” &c. I am not sure but Capell’s reading, 
 “ So, jailer, take,” &c., is the best of all. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 151 
 
 Act 11., Scene i. 
 
 P. 90. Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill. — So the second 
 folio; the first, “he takes it thus”; a manifest error. 
 
 P. 90. Men, more divine, the masters of all these , 
 
 Lords of all the wide world, &c. — Instead of Men, masters, 
 and Lords, the original has Man, Master, and Lord; a reading which, 
 
 I believe, no modern editor retains. The last line of the speech but 
 one corrects the error. 
 
 P. 91. LLow if your husband start some other hare?—So John¬ 
 son proposed to read. The original has “ some otherwhere .” See 
 foot-note 2. 
 
 P. 94. L see the jewel best enamelled 
 
 Will lose his beauty ; and though gold bides still 
 The triers’ touch, yet often-touching will 
 Wear gold : and so a man, that hath a name. 
 
 By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. — This passage is so 
 crowded with errors in the original, that nothing will do but to quote 
 the old reading literatim : 
 
 I see the Jewell best enameled 
 
 Will lose his beautie: yet the gold bides still 
 
 That others touch, and often touching will, 
 
 Where gold and no man that hath a name, 
 
 By falsehood and corruption doth it shame. 
 
 Much labour and ingenuity have been spent by divers editors in trying 
 to bring some sort of order and sense out of this confusion and non¬ 
 sense. I have combined the results of their several labours according 
 to my best judgment. Probably there will never be a full agreement 
 as to how the errors should be corrected. The change of “ That 
 others touch ” to “ The triers’ touch ” is Singer’s. Heath proposed 
 the reading, “ and so a man.” 
 
 Act 11., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 95. Your sauciness will jet upon my love, 
 
 And make a common of my serious hours. —The original reads 
 “ will jest upon ”; probably, as Dyce observes, from the occurrence of 
 
152 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 jest a little before and a little after. The happy correction, for such I 
 deem it, is Dyce’s; who notes upon the passage thus: “ The second 
 line so obviously leads to the correction which I have now made, that 
 I wonder how it escaped the commentators.” See foot-notes i and 2. 
 
 P. 98. Nay, not sure, in a thing falling. — The old copies read 
 “ in a thing falsing .” Falling was proposed by Heath, and is adopted 
 by White, who shows conclusively, I think, that falsing has no cohe¬ 
 rence with the context; and asks, as he well may, “ in what possible 
 sense is the hair falsing? ” 
 
 P. 98. The one, to save the money that he spends in trimming. — 
 So Rowe and Dyce. The original has trying, which Pope changed to 
 tiring. As Dromio is speaking of the hair, trimming is evidently 
 more suitable. 
 
 P. 98. Namely, no time to recover hair lost by nature. — So the 
 second folio ; the first, “namely in no time,” &c. 
 
 P. 99. How comes it now, ?ny husband, O, how comes it. 
 
 That thou art thus estranged from thyself? —So Rowe and 
 Collier’s second folio. The original reads “That thou art then 
 estranged.” 
 
 P. 99. Iam possess'd with an adulterate blot; 
 
 My blood is mingled with the grime of lust. — The old copies 
 read “ the crime of lust.” The word blot, in the preceding line, makes, 
 as Warburton remarks, strongly in favour of grime, which means stain 
 or smut; and Dyce, who adopts grime, notes that “our early printers 
 often confounded the letters c and g at the beginning of words.” 
 
 P. 99. I live unstain’d, thou undishonoured. — So Hanmer. The 
 original has “ I live distain'd," which gives just the opposite of the 
 sense required. It seems needful to remark, here, that the form of 
 the letter v was very often used for u in the Poet’s time. Dyce notes 
 that “ the manuscript had vnstain'd, and the original compositor mis¬ 
 took the initial v for d." He adds, “The proneness of printers to 
 blunder in words beginning with v is very remarkable.” And he 
 quotes from various old plays, showing how daunt got misprinted for 
 vaunt, times for vines, sin for vein, due for vice, bones for vaines, that 
 is, veins , and oil for veil. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 153 
 
 P. 101. To me she speaks; she means me for her theme. — So Col¬ 
 lier’s second folio, followed by Singer ; the old copies, “ she moves me 
 for her theme.” 
 
 P. 101. Until I know this sure uncertainty, 
 
 I'll entertain the offer’d fallacy. — So Capell. The original has 
 “ the free'd fallacy,” which is both nonsensical and unmetrical. Offer'd 
 suits the context well, and implies an easier misprint than proffer'd the 
 reading of Collier’s second folio. Mr. White prints “the forcbd fal¬ 
 lacy,” which seems to me a rather forced reading. 
 
 P. 101. We talk with none but goblins, elves, and sprites. — The 
 original here reads “ We talke with Goblins, Owles, and Sprights”; the 
 second folio, “ We talke with Goblins, Owles, and Elves Sprights.” I 
 do not well see what owls should have to do in such company. Theo¬ 
 bald, seeing the unfitness of that word, printed “ with goblins, ouphs , 
 and elvish sprites.” Lettsom, who seems to have thought the same of 
 owls, proposed, “ We talk with ghosts and goblins, elves and sprites.” 
 Finally, Dyce, to complete the verse, which clearly ought not to be left 
 incomplete, inserted none but, in consequence of what Antipholus of 
 Syracuse says in iii. 1, “There’s none but witches do inhabit here.’ 
 Thus the reading in the text has grown into being. 
 
 P. 101. Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot! — In¬ 
 stead of drone , the original repeats Dromio. Corrected by Theobald. 
 
 Act hi., Scene i. 
 
 P. 104. Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name, or thy 
 name for a face.— So Collier’s second folio and White. The old 
 copies have “ or thy name for an ass." 
 
 P. 105. You'll let us in, I know. — Instead of know, the original 
 reads hope; which has led some editors to conjecture that a line must 
 have dropped out in the printing. As a word rhyming with hope seemed 
 to be wanting, the missing line was thought to have ended with rope. 
 The present reading was proposed to me by Mr. Joseph Crosby. It 
 explains the pun intended by no, in the next line. 
 
 P. 106. Your cake is warm within ; you stand here in the cold. — 
 So Capell, with manifest propriety. The original reads “ Your cake 
 
154 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 here is warme within ” ; here having been repeated by mistake from 
 the latter half of the line. 
 
 P. 108. Enter, from the House, Luciana and Antipholus of Syra¬ 
 cuse.— Here modem editions generally begin a new scene, though 
 there is, confessedly, no change of place. The same thing occurs 
 elsewhere. 
 
 P. 108. Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? — The original 
 has buildings and ruinate. The first is against the reason of the pas¬ 
 sage, the second against the rhyme. As the whole speech is in alter¬ 
 nate rhyme, ruinate has been rightly changed to ruinous, for an ending 
 consonous with Antipholus in the second line before. The corrections 
 are Theobald’s. 
 
 P. 109. Alas, poor women! make us but believe. — The original 
 has “ make us not believe.” Plardly worth notice. 
 
 P. IIO. Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs. 
 
 And as a bed I'll take them, and there lie. — The first folio has 
 bud instead of bed, which is the reading of the second, while both have 
 thee instead of them. The latter correction, proposed by Edwards, is 
 adopted by Singer and Dyce. Staunton reads, “ And as a bride I’ll 
 take thee.” 
 
 P. 110. Let Love be light, being drowned if she sink. —The original 
 transposes be and being, which makes the line unintelligible to me. 
 The reading in the text was proposed by Dr. Badham in Cambridge 
 Essays, 1856. 
 
 P. ill. Call thyself sister, sweet, for L aim thee. — The original 
 reads “ I am thee.” Corrected by Capell. See foot-note 29. 
 
 P. 113. Ln her forehead ; arm'd and reverted, making war against 
 her hair. — So all the editions that I have consulted, except White’s, 
 which changes reverted to rei<olted. I am apt to think the change is 
 right; for I can see the sense and application of revolted in reference 
 to France and her heir, though not in reference to the woman and 
 her hair; while reverted is unintelligible to me in either regard. 
 Perhaps inverted might give a sense that would fit both sides of the 
 quibble. See foot-note 34. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 155 
 
 P. 114. I think, if my breast had not been made of flint, and my 
 heart of steel, &c.— The old copies have faith instead of flint, which 
 is Hanmer’s reading, and which Dyce considers “ a highly probable 
 alteration.” The old reading has been explained as alluding to the 
 popular belief that a strong faith was a protection against witchcraft. 
 But that explanation seems rather far-fetched: besides, it does not 
 help the discord between faith and steel. 
 
 Act iv., Scene i. 
 
 P. 117. You promised your presence and the chain. — So Dyce. 
 The original has “ / promised,” &c. The correction was suggested by 
 what the same person says a little further on, “ Your breach of 
 promise to the Porpentine.” 
 
 P. 118. Either send the chain, or send by me some token. — So 
 Heath and Collier’s second folio ; the old copies, “ send me by some 
 token.” 
 
 P. 119. And then she bears away. — So Capell. The original, 
 “And then sir she bears away”; sir being palpably either a misprint 
 or an interpolation. 
 
 P. 119. You sent me, sir ,for a rope's-end as soon. — Here the orig¬ 
 inal has the converse of that remarked in the preceding note: it omits 
 sir , which was supplied by Steevens. 
 
 Act iv., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 120. Mightest thou perceive assuredly in his eye 
 
 That he did plead in earnest, yea or no? — So Heath. The old 
 text has atisterely instead of assuredly. Heath justly remarks that 
 “ the word austerly hath no meaning suited to this place.” 
 
 P. 120. Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merry. — So Walker and 
 Collier’s second folio ; the original has merrily instead of merry. 
 Merrily overfills the verse. 
 
 P. 122. A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough. — So Theobald and Col¬ 
 lier’s second folio, followed by Singer and Dyce. Instead of fury , the 
 old copies have Fairie ; a palpable error. 
 
 P. 122. But he’s in a suit of buff which 'rested him. — Instead of 
 he's , the original has simply is, which is commonly retained on the 
 ground that the Poet sometimes leaves the pronouns understood. But 
 he seems specially needed here as the antecedent of which. 
 
156 
 
 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 P. 123. If Time be in debt and theft. — The old copies read “If I 
 be in debt,” &c. Some editors, following Malone, read “ If he be in 
 debt,” he referring to Time in the line before. Rowe printed Time, 
 which Dyce adopts, noting, withal, that “ the word was probably writ¬ 
 ten here contractedly, T, which the compositor might easily mistake 
 for I. 
 
 Act iv., Scene 3. 
 
 P. 124. The man, sir, that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a 
 bob, and 'rests them. — So Hanmer, followed by Dyce. Instead of 
 bob, the original has sob, which is commonly changed to fob. Staunton 
 prints sop, and White stop. See foot-note 3. 
 
 P. 126. If you do, expect spoon-meat ; so bespeak a long spoon. — The 
 original has “or bespeak a long spoon.” Capell changed or to so, 
 and is followed by Dyce. White prints “expect spoon-meat, and 
 bespeak.” 
 
 P. 126. Avoid thee, fiend! — The original reads “Avoid then 
 fiend.” Then is commonly changed to thou; but, as Dyce remarks, 
 the reading in the text was “ the more usual expression ” in such cases. 
 
 Act iv., Scene 4. 
 
 P. 128. Off. I'll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate. — The orig¬ 
 inal assigns this speech to Dromio of Ephesus, in whose mouth it is 
 quite unintelligible. The Cambridge Editors proposed to transfer it to 
 the Officer. 
 
 P. 129. Or rather, to prophesy like the parrot, &c. — The original 
 reads “or rather the prophesie like the parrot.” From this I can gather 
 no meaning at all. The reading in the text is Dyce’s. See foot-note 4. 
 
 P. 130. I dined at home !— Thou villain, what say'st thou? — I, 
 at the beginning of this speech, and required by the metre, was inserted 
 by Capell. I am surprised that Singer and White reject it. 
 
 P. 131. God and the rope-maker now bear me witness! — So Col¬ 
 lier’s second folio, followed by Dyce. The original lacks now, which 
 Pope supplied the place of with do. 
 
 Act v., Scene i. 
 
 P. 134. Good sir, draw near with me. I'll speak to him. — The old 
 copies read “draw near to me.” The change is from Collier’s second 
 folio, and seems fairly needful to the sense. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 157 
 
 P. 135. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad, 
 
 And too much different from the man he was. — The first folio 
 reads “ And much different,” &c., which leaves an incredible gap in 
 the verse. The hole was stopped in the second folio by repeating 
 much ; but I much prefer the reading in the text, which was proposed 
 by Mr. Swynfen Jervis, and is supported by a line in Richard II., ii. 
 2: “ Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.” 
 
 P. 136. Sweet recreation bar Ad, what doth ensue 
 
 But moody, moping, and dull melancholy ? — The original lacks 
 moping, — another incredible gap in the verse. Hanmer supplied the 
 word, which has also been proposed by Heath and Walker. 
 
 P. 138. The place of death and sorry execution. — The original has 
 “The place of depth,” which some would still retain! The correction 
 was made by Rowe, and is also found in Collier’s second folio. 
 
 P. 139. Anon, I wot not by what strange escape. 
 
 He broke from those that had the guard of him ; 
 
 And then his mad attendant and himself, 
 
 Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords, 
 
 Met us again, &c. — In the first of these lines, the original has 
 “ what strong escape,” and in the third, “And with his mad attendant.” 
 Strange is found in Collier’s second folio, and was also proposed by 
 Walker, who points out other instances of that word thus misprinted. 
 The correction of with to then is Ritson’s, which I prefer to Capell’s 
 here. I cannot but wonder that Singer, White, and Dyce should still 
 retain with ; for, to speak of a man as breaking away from guard, and 
 going with himself to do something, seems not far from absurd. 
 Doubtless with crept in there by repetition from the next line. 
 
 P. 140. He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you, 
 
 To scotch your face, and to disfigure you. —The old copies read 
 “ To scorch your face.” Warburton made the correction, which, how¬ 
 ever, is rejected by many, Singer and White among them. It is 
 remarkable that the old copies have the same misprint in Macbeth, iii. 
 2: “ We have scorch'd the snake, not kill’d it.” 
 
 P. 142. They fell upon vie, bound me, bore me thence, 
 
 And in a dark and dankish vault at home 
 
 They left me. — So Walker and Collier’s second folio, followed 
 by Dyce. The original, “ There left me.” 
 
158 THE COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 P. 143. I never saw the chain. So help me Heaven, 
 
 As this is false you burden me withal. —The original reads “the 
 Chaine, so helpe me heaven: And this is false,” &c. The correction 
 is Dyce’s, who still thinks it “ absolutely necessary, though Mr. Grant 
 White has pronounced it ‘ quite needless.’ ” And he justly quotes 
 from a preceding speech of Adriana’s: “ So befall my soul, as this is 
 false he burdens me withal.” 
 
 P. 145. /Ege. If I dream not, thou art ALmilia. — The original 
 misplaces this speech of Higeon and Himilia’s reply to it, inserting 
 them between the last two lines of the Duke’s following speech. The 
 transposition was made by Capell, and is generally accepted. 
 
 P. 146. Besides her urging of the wreck at sea. — The old copies 
 read “ urging of her wreck.” Some have supposed her to be a mis¬ 
 print for his. Probably the word got repeated by mistake. The 
 correction is Walker’s. 
 
 P. 147. And thereupon these errors all arose. —The old copies 
 have “ errors are arose.” Corrected by Rowe. Staunton prints 
 “ these Errors rare arose.” 
 
 P. 147. Twenty-five years have I but gone in travail 
 Of you, my sons ; and, till this present hour, 
 
 My heavy burden ne’er delivered. — Here, in the first line, the 
 original has “ Thirtie three yeares.” Twenty-five is known to be right, 
 because Higeon has said that he had parted from his son seven years 
 before, the latter being then eighteen. The correction was made by 
 Theobald. — In the third line, also, the original reads “ burthen are 
 delivered.” We owe the happy emendation to Dyce. 
 
 P. 147. And you the calendars of their nativity, 
 
 Go to a gossips' feast, and joy with me ; 
 
 After so long grief, such felicity! — Here the original has, in the 
 second line, “ and^ic with me.” The apt correction, joy, was proposed 
 by Heath, and is adopted by Singer, White, and Dyce. — In the third 
 line, again, the original has “ such nativity ,” thus repeating the word 
 from the end of the first. The correction is Hanmer’s. Walker 
 notes upon the passage thus: “For the second nativity , read, not as 
 is suggested in the Variorum edition , festivity, but felicity .” 
 
 P. 148. Master , shall I go fetch your stuff fro?n ship-board? — So 
 Walker. The old copies lack go. 
 
TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA 
 
THE 
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 F IRST printed in the folio of 1623. Also mentioned by 
 Meres, in his Palladis Tamia, 1598. Beyond this, we have 
 no external indication as to the date of composition; though the 
 internal evidence, of style, diction, dramatic structure, and de¬ 
 lineation of character, is conclusive of its having been among the 
 earliest-written of Shakespeare’s comedies. 
 
 No note has been discovered of the performance of this play 
 during the author’s life. Doubtless it was put upon the stage, 
 for Shakespeare had no thought of writing dramas merely for the 
 closet; but, if it had been acted as often as his other plays, we 
 should most likely have some record of the performance, as we 
 have in the case of so many others. Notwithstanding its superi¬ 
 ority to most of the plays then in use from other hands, its com¬ 
 parative excess of the rhetorical over the dramatic elements may 
 have made it less popular in that most action-loving age than 
 many far below it in all other respects. 
 
 No novel or romance has been found, to which the Poet could 
 have been much indebted for the plot or matter of this play. In 
 the part of Julia and her maid Lucetta there are indeed some 
 points of resemblance to the Diana of George Montemayor, a 
 Spanish romance at that time very popular in England, and of 
 which an English translation by Bartholomew Yonge was published 
 in 1598. The Diana is one of the books spared from the bonfire 
 of Don Quixote’s library, because, in the words of the Priest who 
 superintends the burning, “They do not deserve to be burnt 
 like the rest, for they cannot do the mischief that those of chiv¬ 
 alry have done: they are works of genius and fancy, and do 
 
 i59 
 
i6o 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 nobody any hurt.” The part from which Shakespeare is thought 
 to have borrowed is the story of Felismena, the heroine : 
 
 “ My father having early followed my mother to the tomb, I 
 was left an orphan. Henceforth I resided with a distant relative ; 
 and, at the age of seventeen, fell in love with Don Felix, a young 
 nobleman of the province where I lived. The object of my affec¬ 
 tions felt a reciprocal passion ; but his father, having learned the 
 attachment between us, sent his son to Court with a view to pre¬ 
 vent our union. Soon after his departure, I followed him in the 
 disguise of a page, and on the night of my arrival discovered, bj 
 a serenade I heard him give, that he had disposed of his affec¬ 
 tions. Not being recognized, I was taken into his service, and 
 engaged to conduct the correspondence with the mistress who 
 had supplanted me.” 
 
 Though Yonge’s version of the Diana was not published till 
 1598, the story was generally well known before that time ; parts 
 of it were translated in Sidney’s Arcadia , which came out in 
 1590 ; and there is reason to think that the History of Felix and 
 Philiomena , which was acted at Court as far back as 1582, was a 
 play partly founded on the story of Felix and Felismena. So 
 that, Shakespeare being admitted to have followed the tale in 
 question, he might well enough have been familiar with it long 
 before Yonge’s translation appeared. But, indeed, such and 
 similar incidents were the common staple of romances in that age. 
 And the same may be said touching the matter of Valentine’s 
 becoming captain of the outlaws; for which the Poet has been 
 written down as indebted to Sidney’s Arcadia. 
 
THE 
 
 TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 PERSONS REPRESENTED. 
 
 Duke of Milan, Father to Silvia. 
 
 \ alentine, ) Gentlemen of Verona. 
 Proteus, i 
 
 Antonio, Father to Proteus. 
 Thurio, Rival to Valentine. 
 Eglamour, Agent for Silvia. 
 
 Speed, Servant to Valentine. 
 Launce, Servant to Proteus. 
 
 Panthino, Servant to Antonio, 
 Host to Julia in Milan. 
 
 Outlaws. 
 
 Silvia, beloved by Valentine. 
 Julia, a Lady of Verona. 
 Lucetta, her Waiting-woman. 
 
 Servants, Musicians. 
 
 SCENE. —In Verona; in Milan; and in a forest near Milan. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Verona. An open Place in the City. 
 
 Enter Valentine and Proteus. 
 
 Val. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus : 
 Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits . 1 
 Were’t not affection chains thy tender days 
 To the sweet glances of thy honour’d love, 
 
 I rather would entreat thy company 
 To see the wonders of the world abroad, 
 
 Than, living dully sluggardized at home, 
 
 1 Milton has a similar play upon words in his Comus : “ It is for homely 
 features to keep home; they had their name thence.” 
 
 161 
 
; ' m 
 
 1 62 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ACT I 
 
 Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness . 9 
 But, since thou lovest, love still, and thrive therein, 
 
 Even as I would, when I to love begin. 
 
 Pro. Wilt thou be gone ? Sweet Valentine, adieu ! 
 
 Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply see’st 
 Some rare note-worthy object in thy travel: 
 
 Wish me partaker in thy happiness, 
 
 When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, 
 
 If ever danger do environ thee, 
 
 Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, 
 
 For I will be thy beadsman , 2 3 Valentine. 
 
 Val. And on a love-book pray for my success ? 
 
 Pro. Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee. 
 
 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 ; and you are over boots in love, 
 
 And yet you never swam the Hellespont. 
 
 Pro. Over the boots ! nay, give me not the boots . 4 
 Val. No, 
 
 I will not, for it boots not. 
 
 Pro. What ? 
 
 2 Shapeless in the active sense of unshaping ; as idleness does nothing 
 towards shaping the mind and character. So the Poet has helpless repeat¬ 
 edly for 7 inhelping or affording no help. 
 
 3 A beadsman is one bound or pledged to pray for another’s welfare. 
 Bead, in fact, is Anglo-Saxon for prayer, and so for the small wooden balls 
 which are strung together in what is called a rosary, and one of which is 
 dropped down the string as often as a prayer is said. Hence the name, if 
 not the thing, “a string of beads.” Not the only instance of piety turned to 
 account as an ornament or a beautifier. 
 
 4 An old proverbial phrase, meaning “ Don’t make me a laughing-stock.” 
 The French have a phrase, Bailler foin en come ; which Cotgrave inter¬ 
 prets, "To give one the boots; to sell him a bargain”; or, as we say, “to 
 sell him.” 
 
SCENE I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 163 
 
 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 , 5 but a folly bought with wit, 
 
 Or else a wit by folly vanquished. 
 
 Pro. So, by your circumstance , 6 you call me fool. 
 
 Val. So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove. 
 
 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 bud 
 The eating canker dwells, so eating love 
 Inhabits in the finest wits of all. 
 
 Val. 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, 
 
 0 
 
 That art a votary to fond desire ? 
 
 Once more adieu ! my father at the road 
 Expects my coming, there to see me shipp’d. 
 
 Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. 
 
 Val. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our leave. 
 
 At Milan let me hear from thee by letters 
 
 5 However here has the force of at all events or in either case. 
 
 6 The Poet sometimes uses circumstance in the sense of circwnlocution 
 or circumstantial inference. In the next line it means conduct. This play 
 abounds in such quirks of thought. 
 
164 the TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Of thy success in love, and what news else 
 Betideth here in absence of thy friend ; 
 
 And I likewise will visit thee with mine. 
 
 Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan ! 
 
 Val. As much to you at home ! and so, farewell, [j Exit. 
 
 Pro. He after honour hunts, I after love : 
 
 He leaves his friends to dignify them more; 
 
 I leave myself, my friends, and all, for love. — 
 
 Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me ; 
 
 Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, 
 
 War with good counsel, set the world at nought, 
 
 Make wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. 
 
 Enter Speed. 
 
 Speed. Sir Proteus, save you ! Saw you my master? 
 
 Pro. But now he parted hence, t’ embark for Milan. 
 Speed. Twenty to one, then, he is shipp’d already, 
 
 And I have play’d the sheep 7 in losing him. 
 
 Pro. Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray, 
 
 An if the shepherd be awhile away. 
 
 Speed. You conclude that my master is a shepherd, then, 
 and I a sheep ? 
 
 Pro. I do. 
 
 Speed. Why, then my horns are his horns, whether I wake 
 or sleep. 
 
 Pro. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. 
 
 Speed. This proves me still a sheep. 
 
 Pro. True ; and thy master a shepherd. 
 
 Speed. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. 
 
 Pro. It shall go hard but I’ll prove it by another . 8 
 
 7 It appears from this that ship and sheep were pronounced alike. 
 
 8 “ I will try very hard rather than fail to prove it by another.” “ It shall 
 go hard but ” is an old phrase repeatedly used thus by Shakespeare. So in 
 The Merchant, iii. I: “ The villainy you teach me I will execute; and it shall 
 go hard but I will better the instruction ” ; evidently meaning, “ I will work 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 165 
 
 Speed. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep 
 the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks 
 not me : therefore I am no sheep. 
 
 Pro. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd, the shep¬ 
 herd for food follows not the sheep ; thou for wages followest 
 thy master, thy master for wages follows not thee : therefore 
 thou art a sheep. 
 
 Speed. Such another proof will make me cry baa. 
 
 Pro. But, dost thou hear? gavest thou my letter to Julia? 
 
 Speed. Ay, sir: I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, 
 a laced mutton; and she, a laced mutton , 9 gave me, a lost 
 mutton, nothing for my labour. 
 
 Pro. Here’s too small a pasture for such store of muttons. 
 
 Speed. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick 
 her. 
 
 Pro. Nay, in that you are astray; ’twere best pound you. 
 
 Speed. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for car¬ 
 rying your letter. 
 
 Pro. You mistake ; I mean the pound, — a pinfold. 
 
 Speed. From a pound to a pin ? fold it over and over, 
 
 ’Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. 
 
 Pro. But what said she ? 
 
 Speed. [. Nodding .] Ay. 
 
 Pro. Nod, Ay ? — why, that’s noddy . 10 
 
 mighty hard rather than fail to surpass my teachers.” And in Hamlet , iii. 
 4: "It shall go hard but I will delve one yard below their mines, and blow 
 them at the Moon.” 
 
 9 Laced mutton was a cant term for a courtezan. So in Delany’s Thomas 
 of Reading: “ No meat pleased him so wbll as mutton , such as was laced 
 in a red petticoat.” As courtesans are fond of finery, Dyce thinks that 
 “Speed applies the term to Julia in the much less offensive sense of— a 
 richly-attired piece of woman's flesh!' 
 
 10 The poor quibble is more apparent in the original where, according to 
 the mode of that time, the affirmative particle ay is printed I. Noddy was a 
 game at cards; applied to a person, the word meant fool; Noddy being 
 the name of what is commonly called the Jack. 
 
THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 166 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 deliver’d. 
 
 Pro. Well, sir, here is for your pains. [ Giving him money.~\ 
 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 from her ; no, 
 not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter : and, being 
 so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she’ll prove as 
 hard to you in telling your mind . 11 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. To 
 testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testern’d me ; 12 
 
 11 The meaning appears to be, “ Since she has been so hard to me, the 
 bearer of your mind, I fear she will be equally hard to you, whose mind I 
 bore, when you address her in person." The antithesis, as Malone observes, 
 is between brought and telling. 
 
 12 “You have given me a testern." Testerti or tester was the name 
 of a coin of sixpence value, so called from having a teste, head, stamped 
 on it. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 1 67 
 
 in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself: 
 and so, sir, I’ll commend you to my master. 
 
 Pro. Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck, 
 Which cannot perish having thee aboard, 
 
 Being destined to a drier death on shore. — \_Exit Speed. 
 I must go send some better messenger: 
 
 I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, 
 
 Receiving them from such a worthless post. [Exit ' 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. The Garden of Julia’s House. 
 
 Enter Julia and Lucetta. 
 
 Jul. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, 
 
 Wouldst thou, then, counsel me to fall in love ? 
 
 Luc. Ay, madam ; so you stumble not unheedfully. 
 
 Jul. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen 
 That every day with parle 1 encounter me, 
 
 In thy opinion which is worthiest love ? 
 
 Luc. Please you repeat their names, I’ll show my mind 
 According to my shallow-simple skill. 
 
 Jul. What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour ? 
 
 Luc. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine ; 
 
 But, were I you, he never should be mine. 
 
 Jul. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio ? 
 
 Luc. Well of his wealth; but, of himself, so-so. 
 
 Jul. What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus ? 
 
 Luc. Lord, Lord ! to see what folly reigns in us ! 
 
 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, 
 
 1 Parle is parley, that is, talk. The Poet has it repeatedly; as in Hamlet , 
 i. 1: “ So frowned he once, when, in an angry parle , he smote the sledded 
 Polacks,” &c. 
 
1 68 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ACT I. 
 
 Should censure 2 thus on lovely gentlemen. 
 
 Jill. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? 
 
 Luc. Then thus, — of many good I think him best. 
 
 Jill. 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 3 that’s closest kept burns most of all. 
 
 Jul. They do not love that do not show their love. 
 
 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. 
 
 Jul. \_Reads.~\ To Julia. — Say, from whom? 
 
 Luc. That the contents will show. 
 
 Jul. Say, say, who gave it thee ? 
 
 Luc. Sir Valentine’s page; and sent, I think, from Pro¬ 
 teus. 
 
 He would have given it you ; but I, being in the way, 
 
 Did in your name receive it: pardon the fault, I pray. 
 
 Jul. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker ! 4 
 Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines ? 
 
 To whisper and conspire against my youth? 
 
 Now, trust me, ’tis an office of great worth; 
 
 2 Censure was continually used thus in the sense of judging or passing 
 judgtnent. — The next line gives an instance of on and caused interchange¬ 
 ably. The Poet has many such. 
 
 3 Fire is here a dissyllable. This and various other words, as hour , 
 power, flower, dower, your, towards, &c., are used by the Poet as one or two 
 syllables indifferently, to suit his verse. 
 
 4 Broker was often used for a match-maker or go-between ; one that 
 broke the ice between bashful lovers. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 169 
 
 And you an officer fit for the place ! 
 
 There, take the paper : see it be return’d ; 
 
 Or else return no more into my sight. 
 
 Luc. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. 
 
 Jul. Will ye be gone ? 
 
 Luc. That you may ruminate. \_Exit 
 
 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 , 5 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, 
 
 Thatj 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 ! 
 
 Re-enter Lucetta. 
 
 Luc. What would your ladyship ? 
 
 Jul. Is it near dinner-time ? 
 
 Luc. I would it were, 
 
 5 To express the sense of this passage, we should say, “ What a fool she 
 is! ” The Poet repeatedly omits the article in such exclamative clauses. 
 So in Twelfth Night , ii. 5: “ What dish o’ poison has she dress’d him! ” 
 And in Julius Ccesar , i. 3 : “ Cassius, what night is this ! ’’ Sometimes, as 
 in the text, the original marks such omissions with an apostrophe, thus: 
 “ What ’ fool is she! ” 
 
170 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 That you might kill your stomach 6 on your meat, 
 
 And not upon your maid. 
 
 Jul. What is’t that you took up so gingerly ? 7 
 Luc. Nothing. 
 
 Jul. Why didst thou stoop, then ? 
 
 Luc. To take a paper up that I let fall. 
 
 Jul. And is that paper nothing? 
 
 Luc. Nothing concerning me. 
 
 Jul. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. 
 
 Luc. Madam, it will not lie 8 where it concerns, 
 
 Unless it have a false interpreter. 
 
 Jul. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. 
 
 Luc. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. 
 
 Give me a note : your ladyship can set . 9 
 
 Jul. As little by such toys as may be possible. 
 
 Best sing it to the tune of Light o' Love. 
 
 Luc. It is too heavy for so light a tune. 
 
 Jul. Heavy ! belike it hath some burden, then ? 
 
 Luc. Ay ; and melodious were it, would you sing it. 
 
 Jul. And why not you ? 
 
 Luc. I cannot reach so high. 
 
 Jul. Let’s see your song [ Taking the letter']. Why, how 
 now, minion ! 
 
 Luc. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out: 
 
 And yet methinks I do not like this tune. 
 
 Jul. You do not? 
 
 Luc. No, madam; it is too sharp. 
 
 6 Stomach in the double sense of hunger and anger. Pride , courage , 
 and resentment are also among the meanings of stomach. 
 
 7 Gingerly is nicely, cautiously. To touch a thing gingerly, is to touch it 
 as if it burnt the fingers. 
 
 8 A quibble upon lie, which is here used in the sense of speaking falsely. 
 
 9 Meaning set it to music. In the next line, Julia plays upon the word, 
 taking it in the sense of set by or make account of. In reference to what 
 follows, about Light o' Love, see Much Ado, iii. 4. 
 
SCENE ii. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 171 
 
 Jul. You, minion, are too saucy. 
 
 Luc. Nay, now you are too flat, 
 
 And mar the concord with too harsh a descant: 
 
 There wanteth but a mean to fill your song . 10 
 Jul. The mean is drown’d with your unruly base. 
 
 Luc. Indeed, I bid the base 11 for Proteus. 
 
 Jul. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me : — 
 
 Here is a coil 12 with protestation ! — \_Tears the letter. 
 
 Go get you gone, and let the papers lie: 
 
 You would be fingering them, to anger me. 
 
 Luc. She makes it strange ; but she would be best pleased 
 To be so anger’d with another letter. [Exit, ^-m**** 
 
 Jul. Nay, would I were so anger’d with the same ! 
 
 O hateful hands, to tear such loving words ! 
 
 Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey, 
 
 And kill the bees, that yield it, with your stings ! 
 
 I’ll kiss each several paper for amends. 
 
 Look, here is writ Kind Julia : — Unkind Julia ! 
 
 As in revenge of thy ingratitude, 
 
 I throw thy name against the bruising stones, 
 
 Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. 
 
 And here is writ Love-wotmded Proteus : — 
 
 10 Descant vi as sometimes used, apparently, for what we call variations. 
 
 But it was also used in other senses; and here it seems to mean harmony, 
 or music in parts, as distinguished from simple melody or solo. As Mr. 
 
 White observes, " Lucetta’s terms, sharp, fiat, mar the concord, show that 
 she used descant because she and her mistress were at discord, and descant 
 meant a performance in strict harmony." — Mean was used for the inter¬ 
 mediate part between the treble and the tenor; so named because it served 
 as a mean or harmonizing medium. — This use of musical terms before a 
 popular audience would seem to infer that taste and knowledge in music 
 was a characteristic trait of “ merry England in the olden time.” 
 
 11 Lucetta is still quibbling, and turns the allusion off upon the rustic 
 game of base or prison-base, in which one ran and challenged another to 
 catch him. 
 
 12 Coil was much used for stir, bustle, or fuss. See page 105, note 8. 
 
172 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT i. 
 
 Poor wounded name ! my bosom, as a bed, 
 
 Shall lodge thee, till thy wound be throughly 13 heal’d; 
 
 And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. 
 
 But twice or thrice was Proteus written down : — 
 
 Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away, 
 
 Till I have found each letter in the letter, 
 
 Except mine own name : that some whirlwind bear 
 Unto a ragged, fearful-hanging rock, 
 
 And throw it thence into the raging sea ! — 
 
 Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ, 
 
 Poor forlorn Proteus , passionate Proteus , 
 
 To the sweet Julia: — that I’ll tear away; — 
 
 And yet I will not, sith 14 so prettily 
 He couples it to his complaining names. 
 
 Thus will I fold them one upon another: 
 
 Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. 
 
 Re-enter Lucetta. 
 
 Luc. Madam, 
 
 Dinner is ready, and your father stays. 
 
 Jul. Well, let us go. 
 
 Luc. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here ? 
 
 Jul. If you respect them, best to take them up. 
 
 Luc. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down : 
 
 Yet here they shall not lie, for 15 catching cold. 
 
 Jul. I see you have a month’s mind 16 to them. 
 
 13 Throughly and thoroiighly are but different forms of the same word, 
 and were used interchangeably. 
 
 14 Sith is an old form of since, and was fast giving place to the latter in 
 Shakespeare’s time. — Names, in the next line, refers, apparently, to the 
 repetition of the name, with the epithets poor, forlorn, and passionate. 
 
 15 For was much used in the sense of because of or on account of. So 
 that “ for catching cold ” means “ because they will catch cold,” or “ lest 
 they catch cold.” 
 
 16 “ A month’s mind ” is an old phrase for an eager desire or longing. 
 So in Ben Johnson’s Magnetic Lady : “I have a month's mind to peep a 
 little too.” And in Hudibras : “ For, if a trumpet sound or drum beat, who 
 
SCENE III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 173 
 
 Luc. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; 
 
 I see things too, although you judge I wink. 
 
 Jul. Come, come ; will’t please you go ? \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The Same. A Room in Antonio’s House. 
 
 Enter Antonio and Panthino. 
 
 Ant. Tell me, Panthino, what sad 1 talk was that 
 Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? 
 
 Pan. ’Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. 
 
 Ant. Why, what of him ? 
 
 Pan. He wonder’d that your lordship 
 
 Would suffer him to spend his youth at home, 
 
 While other men, of slender reputation, 
 
 Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: 
 
 Some to the wars, to try their fortune there; 
 
 Some to discover islands far away; 
 
 Some to the studious universities. 
 
 For any, or for all these exercises, 
 
 He said that Proteus your son was meet; 
 
 And did request me to impbrtune you 
 To let him spend his time no more at home, 
 
 Which would be great impeachment 2 to his age, 
 
 In having known no travel in his youth. 
 
 Ant. Nor need’st thou much impdrtune me to that 
 Whereon this month I have been hammering. 
 
 I have consider’d well his loss of time, 
 
 And how he cannot be a perfect man, 
 
 Not being tried and tutor’d in the world : 
 
 Experience is by industry achieved, 
 
 hath not a month's mind to a combat ? ” In its origin the phrase probably 
 referred to a woman’s longing in the first month of pregnancy. 
 
 1 Sad was continually used for grave , serious , or earnest. 
 
 2 Impeachment here is reproach or disqualification. 
 
174 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 And perfected by the swift course of time. 
 
 Then, tell me, whither were I best to send him ? 
 
 Pan. I think your lordship is not ignorant 
 How his companion, youthful Valentine, 
 
 Attends the Emperor in his royal Court. 
 
 A?it. I know it well. 
 
 Pan. ’Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither : 
 There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, 
 
 Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, 
 
 And be in eye of every exercise 
 Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. 
 
 Ant. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised : 
 
 And, that thou mayst perceive how well I like it, 
 
 The execution of it shall make known. 
 
 Even with the speediest expedition 
 I will dispatch him to the Emperor’s Court. 
 
 Pan. To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso, 
 
 With other gentlemen of good esteem, 
 
 Are journeying to salute the Emperor, 
 
 And to commend their service to his will. 
 
 Ant. Good company ; with them shall Proteus go : 
 
 And — in good time ! — now will we break with him . 3 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 
 Pro. Sweet love ! sweet lines ! sweet life ! 
 
 Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; 
 
 Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn. 
 
 O, that our fathers would applaud our loves, 
 
 To seal our happiness with their consents ! 
 
 O heavenly Julia ! 
 
 Ant. How now ! what letter are you reading there? 
 
 3 To break with any one formerly meant to break or open a matter to 
 him. Shakespeare has it thus repeatedly. — “ In good time ” is the same as 
 our phrase, “ In the nick of time.” 
 
SCENE III. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 175 
 
 Pro. May’t please your lordship, ’tis a word or two 
 Of commendations sent from Valentine, 
 
 Deliver’d by a friend that came from him. 
 
 Ant. Lend me the letter; let me see what news. 
 
 Pro. There is no news, my lord; but that he writes 
 How happily he lives, how well beloved, 
 
 And daily graced by the Emperor; 
 
 Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. 
 
 Ant. And how stand you affected to his wish? 
 
 Pro. As one relying on your lordship’s will, 
 
 And not depending on his friendly wish. 
 
 Ant. My will is something sorted with his wish. 
 
 Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed; 
 
 For what I will, I will, and there an end. 
 
 I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time 
 With Valentinus in the Emperor’s Court: 
 
 What maintenance he from his friends receives, 
 
 Like exhibition 4 thou shalt have from me. 
 
 To-morrow be in readiness to go : 
 
 Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. 
 
 Pro. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided : 
 
 Please you, deliberate a day or two. 
 
 Ant. Look, what thou want’st shall be sent after thee : 
 
 No more of stay ; to-morrow thou must go. — 
 
 Come on, Panthino : you shall be employ’d 
 
 To hasten on his expedition. \_Exeunt Ant. and Pan. 
 
 Pro. Thus have I shunn’d the fire for fear of burning, 
 
 And drench’d me in the sea, where I am drown’d. 
 
 I fear’d to show my father Julia’s letter, 
 
 Lest he should take exceptions to my love; 
 
 And with the vantage of mine own excuse 
 Hath he excepted most against my love. 
 
 4 Exhibition is allowance of money ; still used so in the English 
 Universities. 
 
176 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 O, how this Spring of love resembleth 5 
 Th’ uncertain glory of an April day, 
 
 Which now shows all the beauty of the Sun, 
 
 And by-and-by a cloud takes all away ! 
 
 Re-enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you : 
 
 He is in haste ; therefore, I pray you, go. 
 
 Pro. Why, this it is, — my heart accords thereto, 
 
 And yet a thousand times it answers, No. \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Milan. A Rootn in the Duke’s Palace. 
 
 Enter Valentine and Speed. 
 
 Speed. [.Picking zip a glove.'] Sir, your glove. 
 
 Val. Not mine ; my gloves are on. 
 
 Speed. Why, then this may be yours, for this is but one . 1 
 Val. Ha, let me see : ay, give it me, it’s mine : — 
 
 Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine ! 
 
 Ah, Silvia, Silvia ! 
 
 Speed. [ Calling .] Madam Silvia, Madam Silvia ! 
 
 Val. How now, sirrah ! 
 
 Speed. She is not within hearing, sir. 
 
 Val. Why, sir, who bade you call her? 
 
 Speed. Your Worship, sir; or else I mistook. 
 
 Val. Well, you’ll still be too forward. 
 
 5 Resembleth is here meant to be a word of four syllables, as if it were 
 spelt resembeleth. 
 
 1 On and one were formerly sounded alike, and sometimes written so. 
 That is the ground of the poor quibble here. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 177 
 
 Speed. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. 
 
 Veil. Go to , 2 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 
 learn’d, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe 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 ABC; to weep, like a young 
 wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that 
 takes diet ; 3 to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak 
 puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas . 4 You were wont, when 
 you laugh’d, to crow like a cock; when you walk’d, to walk 
 like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after 
 dinner; when you look’d sadly, it was for want of money: 
 and now you are so metamorphosed with a mistress, that, 
 when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. 
 
 Val. Are all these things perceived in me ? 
 
 Speed. They are all perceived without ye. 
 
 Val. Without me ! they cannot. 
 
 Speed. Without you ! nay, that’s certain, for, without 5 you 
 were so simple, none else would: but you are so without 
 these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine 
 
 2 Go to is a phrase met with continually in old colloquial English; often 
 meaning hush up, sometimes come on, and sometimes carrying a sense not 
 easy to define; somewhat like the Latin age. 
 
 3 To take diet is to be under a regimen for a disease. 
 
 4 The feast of All-hallows or All Saints, at which time the poor in some 
 places used to go from parish to parish a-sou/ing, as they called it; that 
 is, begging and puling, (or singing small, as Bailey explains puling ,) for 
 soul-cakes, and singing what they called the souler’s song. All which 
 means that the beggars were to pray for the souls of the giver’s departed 
 friends. 
 
 5 Speed is punning with all his speed. Here, without is unless. His 
 first without is meant in the sense of exterior, or on the outside; and Valen¬ 
 tine takes it in the sense of absence, or without my presence. 
 
178 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that 
 sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. 
 
 Val. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? 
 
 Speed. She that you gaze on so, as she sits at supper? 
 
 Val. Hast thou observed that? even she I mean. 
 
 Speed. Why, sir, I know her not. 
 
 Val. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet 
 know’st her not ? 
 
 Speed. Is she not hard-favour’d, sir? 
 
 Val. Not so fair, boy, as well-favour’d. 
 
 Speed. Sir, I know that well enough. 
 
 Val. What dost thou know ? 
 
 Speed. That she is not so fair as, of you, well favour’d. 
 
 Val. I mean, that her beauty is exquisite, but her favour 
 infinite. 
 
 Speed. That’s because the one is painted, and the other 
 out of all count. 
 
 Val. How painted ? and how out of count ? 
 
 Speed. Marry, sir, so painted, to make her fair, that no 
 man counts of her beauty. 
 
 Val. How esteem’st thou me ? I account of her beauty. 
 
 Speed. You never saw her since she was deform’d. 
 
 Val. How long hath she been deform’d ? 
 
 Speed. Ever since you loved her. 
 
 Val. I have loved her ever since I saw her; and still I see 
 her beautiful. 
 
 Speed. If you love her, you cannot see her. 
 
 Val. Why? 
 
 Speed. Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine 
 eyes; or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to 
 have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungarter’d ! 6 
 
 6 So, in As You Like It, iii. 2, Rosalind mentions going ungartered as 
 one of the undoubted marks of love: “ Then your hose should be ungar¬ 
 tered, your bonnet unbanded,” &c. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 179 
 
 Val. What should I see then? 
 
 Speed. Your own present folly, and her passing deformity : 
 For he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; 
 
 And you, being in love, cannot see to beyond your nose. 
 
 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. 
 
 Val. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. 
 
 Speed. I would you were set ; 7 so your affection would 
 cease. 
 
 Val. Last night she enjoin’d me to write some lines to 
 one she loves. 
 
 Speed. And have you? 
 
 Val. I have. 
 
 Speed. Are they not lamely writ ? 
 
 Val. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace ! 
 here she comes. 
 
 Speed. \_Aside.~\ O excellent motion! 8 O exceeding 
 puppet! Now will he interpret to her. 
 
 Enter Silvia. 
 
 Val. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows ! 
 
 Speed. \_Aside. ] O, give ye good even ! here’s a million 
 of manners. 
 
 Sil. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. 
 
 Speed. [Aside. He should give her interest, and she 
 gives it him. 
 
 7 Set for seated , in opposition to stand of the preceding line. An allusion 
 seems implied also to the setting of the Sun, as the Sun then ceases to 
 shine. 
 
 8 Motion was used of a puppet-show , and the showman was called the 
 interpreter. Speed means, “ What a fine puppet-show we shall have now ! 
 Here is the principal puppet, and my master will act as showman.” 
 
i8o 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Val. As you enjoin’d me, I have writ your letter 
 Unto the secret nameless friend of yours; 
 
 Which I was much unwilling to proceed in, 
 
 But for my duty to your ladyship. [ Gives a letter. 
 
 Sit. I thank you, gentle servant: ’tis very clerkly done. 
 Val. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off; 
 
 For, being ignorant to whom it goes, 
 
 I writ at random, very doubtfully. 
 
 Sit. Perchance you think too much of so much pains ? 
 
 Val. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, 
 
 Please you command, a thousand times as much: 
 
 And yet — 
 
 Sil. A pretty period ! Well, I guess the sequel; 
 
 And yet I will not name’t; — and yet I care not; — 
 
 And yet take this again ; — and yet I thank you ; 
 
 Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. 
 
 Speed. [Aside. And yet you will; and yet another yet. 
 Val. What means your ladyship ? do you not like it ? 
 
 Sil. Yes, yes ; the lines are very quaintly 9 writ: 
 
 But, since unwillingly, take them again ; — 
 
 Nay, take them. [ Gives back the letter. 
 
 Val. Madam, they are for you. 
 
 Sil. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request; 
 
 But I will none of them ; they are for you : 
 
 I would have had them writ more movingly. 
 
 Val. Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another. 
 
 Sil. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over: 
 
 And if it please you, so ; if not, why, so. 
 
 Val. If it please me, madam ! what then ? 
 
 Sil. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour : 
 
 And so, good morrow, servant. [Exit. 
 
 9 Quaint and quaintly are used by Shakespeare very much like the 
 Latin comptus , from which the words are probably derived; in the sense of 
 artful, ingenious, elegant. 
 
SCENE I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 181 
 
 Speed. O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, 
 
 As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple ! 
 My master sues to her; and she hath taught her suitor, 
 
 He being her pupil, to become her tutor. 
 
 O excellent device ! was there ever heard a better, 
 
 That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the 
 letter ? 
 
 Val. How now, sir! what are you reasoning with your¬ 
 self ? 
 
 Speed. Nay, I was rhyming : ’tis you that have the reason. 
 Val. To do what? 
 
 Speed. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia. 
 
 Val. To whom ? 
 
 Speed. To yourself: why, she wooes you by a figure. 
 
 Val. What figure ? 
 
 Speed. By a letter, I should say. 
 
 Val. Why, she hath not writ to me ? 
 
 Speed. What need she, when she hath made you write to 
 yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? 
 
 Val. No, believe me. 
 
 Speed. No believing you, indeed, sir. But did you per¬ 
 ceive her earnest? 
 
 Val. She gave me none, except an angry word. 
 
 Speed. Why, she hath given you a letter. 
 
 Val. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. 
 
 Speed. And that letter hath she deliver’d, and there an 
 end. 
 
 Val. I would it were no worse. 
 
 Speed. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well: 
 
 For often have you writ to her; and she , in modesty , 
 
 Or else for want of idle tune , could not again reply ; 
 
 Or, fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover , 
 Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. 
 
182 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT 11 . 
 
 All this I speak in print , 10 for in print I found it.—Why 
 muse you, sir? ’tis dinner-time. 
 
 Val. I have dined. 
 
 Speed. Ay, but hearken, sir : Though the chameleon Love 
 can feed on the air , 11 I am one that am nourish’d by my 
 victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your 
 mistress; be moved, be moved. [ Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Verona. The Garden of Julia’s House. 
 
 Enter Proteus and Julia. 
 
 Pro. Have patience, gentle Julia. 
 
 Jul. I must, where is no remedy. 
 
 Pro. When possibly I can, I will return. 
 
 Jul. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. 
 
 Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake. 
 
 [ Gives him a ring. 
 
 Pro. Why, then we’ll make exchange; here, take you 
 this. [ Gives her another. 
 
 Jul. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. 
 
 Pro. Here is my hand for my true constancy; 
 
 And when that hour o’erslips me in the day 
 Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, 
 
 The next-ensuing hour some foul mischance 
 Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness ! 
 
 My father stays my coming; answer not; 
 
 10 To speak in print is to speak with precision , or, as Hamlet says, “ by 
 the card." Speed is quibbling still, having probably found the lines in some 
 printed ballad. 
 
 11 Upon this, Staunton quotes from The World in the Moon, 1697 : “ Oh 
 Palmerin, Palmerin, how cheaply dost thou furnish out thy table of love! 
 Canst feed upon a thought! live upon hopes! feast upon a look! fatten 
 upon a smile! and surfeit and die upon a kiss! What a Cameleon lover is 
 a Platonick! ” 
 
SCENE ill. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 183 
 
 The tide is now : — nay, not thy tide of tears ; 
 
 That tide will stay me longer than I should: 
 
 Julia, farewell! — [_Exit Julia. 
 
 What, gone without a word ? 
 
 Ay, so true love should do : it cannot speak; 
 
 For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. 
 
 Enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Sir Proteus, you are stay’d for. 
 
 Pro. Go; I come, I come : — 
 
 Alas, this parting strikes poor lovers dumb ! \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — TJie Same. A Street. 
 
 Enter Launce, leading a Dog. 
 
 Launce. Nay, ’twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; 
 all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have re¬ 
 ceived my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going 
 with Sir Proteus to the Imperial’s Court. I think Crab my 
 dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives : my mother weep¬ 
 ing, my father wailing, my sister 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 part¬ 
 ing ; why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself 
 blind at my parting . 1 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 cannot 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 011’t! there ’tis: now, sir, this staff is 
 
 1 Part , verb, was very often used for depart. Shakespeare has it so in 
 almost numberless places. 
 
184 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 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 . 2 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 the shoe 
 could speak now like a wood 3 woman !—well, I kiss her ; — 
 why, there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down . 4 
 Now come I to my sister : mark the moan she makes. Now 
 the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor speaks a word: 
 but see how I lay the dust with my tears. 
 
 Enter Panthino. 
 
 Pan. Launce, away, away, aboard ! thy master is shipp’d, 
 and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? 
 why weepest thou, man? Away, ass ! you’ll lose the tide, if 
 you tarry any longer. 
 
 Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the 
 unkindest tied that ever any man tied. 
 
 Pan. What’s the unkindest tide ? 
 
 Launce. Why, he that’s tied here, — Crab, my dog. 
 
 Pan. Tut, man, I mean thou’lt lose the flood: and, in 
 losing the flood, lose thy voyage ; and, in losing thy voyage, 
 lose thy master; and, in losing thy master, lose thy service ; 
 and, in losing thy service, — Why dost thou stop my mouth ? 
 
 Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. 
 
 Pan. Where should I lose my tongue ? 
 
 Launce. In thy tale. 
 
 Pan. In my tail! 
 
 2 Launce here gets entangled with his own ingenuity, and the Poet prob¬ 
 ably did not mean to extricate him. 
 
 3 Wood is an old word for frantic or mad ; the speaker meaning that his 
 mother was frantic with grief at parting with so hopeful a son. 
 
 4 Up and down is an old phrase meaning exactly , or to perfection. 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 185 
 
 Launce. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, 
 and the service, and the tied ! 5 Why, man, if the river were 
 dry, I am able to fill it with my tears ; if the wind were down, 
 I could drive the boat with my sighs. 
 
 Pan. Come, come away, man ; I was sent to call thee. 
 Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest. 
 
 Pan. Wilt thou go ? 
 
 Launce. Well, I will go. \_Exeunt. 
 
 \ 
 
 Scene IV. — Milan. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. 
 
 Enter Silvia, Valentine, Thurio, and Speed. 
 
 Sil. Servant, — 
 
 Val. Mistress ? 
 
 Speed. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. 
 
 Val. Ay, boy, it’s for love. 
 
 Speed. Not of you. 
 
 Val. Of my mistress, then. 
 
 Speed. ’Twere good you knock’d him. 
 
 Sil. Servant, you are sad. 
 
 Val. Indeed, madam, I seem so. 
 
 Thu. Seem you that you are not ? 
 
 Val. Haply I do. 
 
 Thu. So do counterfeits. 
 
 Val. So do you. 
 
 Thu. What seem I that I am not ? 
 
 Val. Wise. 
 
 Thu. What instance of the contrary ? 
 
 Val. Your folly. 
 
 Thu. And how quote 1 you my folly ? 
 
 5 The first, tide , refers to the river, the last, tied , to the dog. The original 
 spells tide and tied the same way, tide; which makes the quibble more 
 obvious to the eye. 
 
 1 To quote is to mark or observe ; formerly pronounced and often written 
 cote: hence used as the pivot of a quibble in the next line. 
 
t 86 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Val. I quote it in your jerkin. 
 
 Thu . My jerkin is a doublet. 
 
 Val. Well, then I’ll double your folly. 
 
 Thu. How! 
 
 Sil, What, angry, Sir Thurio ! do you change colour ? 
 
 Val. Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon. 
 
 Tim. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live 
 in your air. 
 
 Val. You have said, sir. 
 
 Thu. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. 
 
 Val. I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin. 
 
 Sil. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot 
 off. 
 
 Val. ’Tis indeed, madam ; we thank the giver. 
 
 Sil. Who is that, servant? 
 
 Val. Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir 
 Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends 
 what he borrows kindly in your company. 
 
 Thu. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall 
 make your wit bankrupt. 
 
 Val. I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words, 
 and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, — for it 
 appears, by their bare liveries, that they live by your bare 
 words. 
 
 Sil. No more, gentlemen, no more : here comes my father. 
 
 Enter the Duke. 
 
 Duke. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. — 
 
 Sir Valentine, your father’s in good health : 
 
 What say you to a letter from your friends 
 Of much good news ? 
 
 Val. My lord, I will be thankful 
 
 To any happy messenger from thence. 
 
 Duke. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman ? 
 
scene IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 1 8 / 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman 
 To be of worth 2 and worthy estimation, 
 
 And not without desert so well reputed. 
 
 Duke . Hath he not a son ? 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord; a son that well deserves 
 The honour and regard of such a father. 
 
 Duke. You know him well? 
 
 Val. I know him as myself; for from our infancy 
 We have conversed and spent our hours together: 
 
 And though myself have been an idle truant, 
 
 Omitting the sweet benefit of time 
 To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, 
 
 Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name, 
 
 Made use and fair advantage of his days; 
 
 His years but young, but his experience old; 
 
 His head unmellow’d, but his judgment ripe ; 
 
 And, in a word, — for far behind his worth 
 Come all the praises that I now bestow, — 
 
 He is complete in feature 3 and in mind, 
 
 With all good grace, to grace a gentleman. 
 
 Duke. Beshrew me , 4 sir, but, if he make this good, 
 
 He is as worthy for an empress’ love 
 As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor. 
 
 Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me, 
 
 With commendation from great potentates ; 
 
 And here he means to spend his time awhile : 
 
 I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you. 
 
 2 Worth is repeatedly used by the Poet for wealth; nor is the usage 
 peculiar to him. Walker thinks it a misprint for wealth here; but this play 
 especially delights in the jingle of consonous words in discrepant senses; 
 as a few speeches later : “ With all good grace to grace a gentleman.” 
 
 3 Feature here refers to the form , figure, or person in general. Shake¬ 
 speare has it so a number of times. And so Spenser: " Which the fair 
 feature of her limbs did hide.” 
 
 4 Beshrew me was much used as a petty adjuration. 
 
 .* 
 
188 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Val. Should I have wish’d a thing, it had been he. 
 
 Duke. Welcome him, then, according to his worth : 
 
 Silvia, I speak to you ; and you, Sir Thurio : — 
 
 For Valentine, I need not cite 5 him to it. 
 
 I’ll send him hither to you presently. \_Exit. 
 
 Val. This is the gentlemen I told your ladyship 
 Had come along with me, but that his mistress 
 Did hold his eyes lock’d in her crystal looks. 
 
 Sil. Belike that now she hath enfranchised them, 
 
 Upon some other pawn for fealty. 
 
 Val. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still. 
 
 Sil. Nay, then he should be blind; and, being blind, 
 
 How could he see his way to seek out you? 
 
 Val. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. 
 
 Thu. They say that Love hath not an eye at all. 
 
 Val. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself: 
 
 Upon a homely object Love can wink. 
 
 Sil. Have done, have done ; here comes the gentleman. 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 
 Val. Welcome, dear Proteus ! — Mistress, I beseech you, 
 Confirm his welcome with some special favour. 
 
 Sil. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, 
 
 If this be he you oft have wish’d to hear from. 
 
 Val. Mistress, it is : sweet lady, entertain him 
 To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. 
 
 Pro. Not so, sweet lady; but too mean a servant 
 To have a look of such a worthy mistress. 
 
 Val. Leave off discourse of disabilty : — 
 
 Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. 
 
 5 Cite , commonly 'cite for incite , is itself a full legitimate word, from the 
 Latin cieo, meaning to excite, rouse, or put in motion . To quote, mention, 
 call upon are secondary meanings of the same original words, as they also 
 are of its Latin derivative cito. 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 189 
 
 Pro. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. 
 
 Sil. And duty never yet did want his meed : 
 
 Servant, you’re welcome to a worthless mistress. 
 
 Pro. I’ll die on him that says so, but yourself. 
 
 Sil. That you are welcome ? 
 
 Pro. No; that you are worthless. 
 
 Enter a Servant. 
 
 Serv. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. 
 Sil. I wait upon his pleasure. — \_Exit Servant. 
 
 Come, Sir Thurio, 
 
 Go you with me. — Once more, new servant, welcome : 
 
 I’ll leave you to confer of home affairs ; 
 
 When you have done, we look to hear from you. 
 
 Pro. We’ll both attend upon your ladyship. 
 
 \_Exeunt Silvia and Thurio. 
 Val. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came ? 
 Pro. Your friends are well, and have them much com¬ 
 mended. 
 
 Val. And how do yours ? 
 
 Pro. I left them all in health. 
 
 Val. How does your lady ? and how thrives your love ? 
 Pro. My tales of love were wont to weary you ; 
 
 I know you joy not in a love-discourse. 
 
 Val. Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter’d now. 
 
 I have done penance for contemning Love : 
 
 Those high-imperious thoughts have punish’d me 
 With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, 
 
 With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs; 
 
 For, in revenge of my contempt of love, 
 
 Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes, 
 
 And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sorrow. 
 
 \ 
 
 O, gentle Proteus, Love’s a mighty lord, 
 
 And hath so humbled me, as, I confess, 
 
I9O THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ACT II. 
 
 There is no woe to 6 his correction, 
 
 Nor to his service no such joy on Earth ! 
 
 Now, no discourse, except it be of love : 
 
 Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep, 
 
 Upon the very naked name of love. 
 
 Pro. Enough ; I read your fortune in your eye. 
 
 Was this the idol that you worship so ? 
 
 Val. Even she ; and is she not a heavenly saint ? 
 
 Pro. No ; but she is an earthly paragon. 
 
 Val. Call her divine. 
 
 Pro. I will not flatter her. 
 
 Val. O, flatter me ; for love delights in praise. 
 
 Pro. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills; 
 
 And I must minister the like to you. 
 
 Val. Then speak the truth by her : 7 if not divine, 
 
 Yet let her be a principality , 8 
 Sovereign to all the creatures on the Earth. 
 
 Pro. Except my mistress. 
 
 Val. Sweet, except not any; 
 
 Except thou wilt except against my love. 
 
 Pro. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? 
 
 Val. And I will help thee to prefer her too : 
 
 She shall be dignified with this high honour, — 
 
 To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth 
 Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, 
 
 And, of so great a favour growing proud, 
 
 Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, 
 
 And make rough Winter everlastingly. 
 
 6 To for compared to or in comparison with ; an old and frequent use of 
 the word. So in an old ballad: “ There is no comfort in the world to 
 women that are kind.” And a little later in this scene: “All I can is noth¬ 
 ing to her, whose worth,” &c. 
 
 7 “ Speak the truth of her.” Shakespeare has by repeatedly thus. So in 
 The Merchant , i. 2: “ How say you by the French lord? ” 
 
 8 A principality is an angel of a high order. 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 I9I 
 
 Pro. Why, Valentine, what braggardism is this? 
 
 Val. Pardon me, Proteus : all I can is nothing 
 To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing : 
 
 She is alone. 
 
 Pro. Why, then let her alone. 
 
 Val. Not for the world : why, man, she is mine own; 
 And I as rich in having such a jewel 
 As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl. 
 
 The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
 
 Forgive me, that I do not dream on thee, 
 
 Because thou see’st me dote upon my love. 
 
 My foolish rival, that her father likes 
 Only for 9 his possessions are so huge, 
 
 Is gone with her along; and I must after, 
 
 For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. 
 
 Pro. But she loves you ? 
 
 Val. Ay, 
 
 And we’re betroth’d : nay, more, our marriage-hour, 
 
 With all the cunning manner of our flight, 
 
 Determined of; how I must climb her window, 
 
 The ladder made of cords ; and all the means 
 Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. 
 
 Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, 
 
 In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. 
 
 Pro. Go on before ; I shall inquire you forth : 
 
 I must unto the road , 10 to disembark 
 Some necessaries that I needs must use; 
 
 And then I’ll presently attend on you. 
 
 Val. Will you make haste ? 
 
 Pro. I will. — [. Exeunt Valentine and Speed. 
 
 9 For in the sense of becaitse ; a usage now nearly or quite obsolete, even 
 in poetry, but very common in the old writers. The Poet has it often. So 
 in The Merchant, i. 3 : “I hate him for he is a Christian.” 
 
 10 The haven where the ships lie at anchor. 
 
192 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 Even as one heat another heat expels, 
 
 Or as one nail by strength drives out another, 
 
 So the remembrance of my former love 
 Is by a newer object quite forgotten. 
 
 Is it mine eye, or Valentinus’ praise, 
 
 Her true perfection, or my false transgression, 
 
 That makes me, reasonless, to reason thus ? 
 
 She’s fair ; and so is Julia, that I love, — 
 
 That I did love, for now my love is thaw’d; 
 
 Which, like a waxen image ’gainst a fire, 
 
 Bears no impression of the thing it was. 
 
 Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, 
 
 And that I love him not as I was wont: 
 
 O, but I love his lady too-too much; 
 
 And that’s the reason I love him so little. 
 
 How shall I dote on her with more advice , 11 
 That thus without advice begin to love her! 
 
 ’Tis but her picture 12 I have yet beheld, 
 
 And that hath dazzled 13 my reason’s light; 
 
 But when I look on her perfections, 
 
 There is no reason but I shall be blind . 14 
 If I can check my erring love, I will; 
 
 If not, to compass her I’ll use my skill. [Ex//. 
 
 11 Advice for acquaintance or knowledge; a common use of the word, 
 as also of the verb advise, in old writers. So in Cymbeline, i. 2: “ Make 
 yourself some comfort out of your best advice." And Bacon says that judges 
 ought to be “ more advised than confident.” 
 
 12 The Poet has been censured for making Proteus say he has but seen 
 the picture of Silvia, when he has just been talking with the lady herself. 
 But this is making a blunder, not finding one. Proteus wants to get deeper 
 in love with Silvia, and so resorts to the argument, that the little he has 
 seen of her is as though he had but seen her picture. 
 
 13 Dazzled is here meant to be a trisyllable, as in the case of resembleth , 
 mentioned before, page 176, note 5. 
 
 14 " No cause that will keep me from being blind.” 
 
LIBRARY 
 Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILL!NO! c 
 
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 Speed. " What an ass art thou ! I understand thee not.” 
 
 Launce. " What a block art thou, that thou canst not ! 
 
 My staff understands me . 11 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act 2, Scene 5. 
 
 Page 193. 
 
SCENE V. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 193 
 
 Scene V. — The Same. A Street. 
 
 Enter Speed and Launce severally. 
 
 Speed. Launce ! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan ! 
 
 Launce. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth ; for I am not 
 welcome. I reckon this always, — that a man is never 
 undone till he be hang’d; nor never welcome to a place till 
 some certain shot be paid, and the hostess say, Welcome. 
 
 Speed. Come on, you madcap, I’ll to the alehouse with 
 you presently; where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt 
 have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy mas¬ 
 ter part with Madam Julia? 
 
 Launce. Marry , 1 after they closed in earnest, they parted 
 very fairly in jest. 
 
 Speed. But shall she marry him? 
 
 Launce. No. 
 
 Speed. How, then? shall he marry her? 
 
 Launce. No, neither. 
 
 Speed. What, are they broken ? 
 
 Launce. No, they are both as whole as a fish. 
 
 Speed. Why, then how stands the matter with them ? 
 
 Launce. Marry, thus; when it stands well with him, it 
 stands well with her. 
 
 Speed. What an ass art thou ! I understand thee not. 
 
 Launce. What a block art thou, that thou canst not ! 
 My staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. What thou say’st? 
 
 Launce. Ay, and what I do too : look thee, I’ll but lean, 
 and my staff understands me. 
 
 Speed. It stands under thee, indeed. 
 
 1 Marry is an old colloquial intensive, occurring continually in Shake' 
 speare and the other dramatists of that age; much like the Latin heracle 
 and edepol. See page 103, note 3. 
 
194 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Launce. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. 
 
 Speed. But tell me true, will’t be a match ? 
 
 Launce. Ask my dog : if he say ay, it will; if he say no, 
 it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. 
 
 Speed. The conclusion is, then, that it will. 
 
 Launce. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but 
 by a parable. 
 
 Speed. ’Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest 
 thou , 2 that my master is become a notable lover? 
 
 Launce. I never knew him otherwise. 
 
 Speed. Than how? 
 
 Launce. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. 
 
 Speed. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me. 
 
 Launce. Why, fool, I meant not thee ; I meant thy master. 
 
 Speed. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. 
 
 Launce. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn him¬ 
 self in love. If thou wilt go with me to the alehouse, so ; if 
 not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of 
 a Christian. 
 
 Speed. Why ? 
 
 Launce. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee 
 as to go to the ale 3 with a Christian. Wilt thou go ? 
 
 Speed. At thy service. [. Exeunt . 
 
 Scene VI. — The Same. A Room in the Duke’s Palace . 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 
 Pro. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn ; 
 
 To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; 
 
 To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn; 
 
 2 “ What do you say to this? ” So in Macbeth, iii. 4 : “ Mow say'st thou , 
 that Macduff denies his person at our great bidding? ” meaning, “ What do 
 you say to this fact or circwnstance ? ” 
 
 3 Another quibble; ale being the name of an old Church festival, to 
 which, as Launce thinks, none but a Jew would refuse to go. 
 
SCENE VI. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 195 
 
 And even that power which gave me first my oath 
 Provokes me to this threefold perjury : 
 
 Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear: 
 
 O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinn’d , 1 
 Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it! 
 
 At first I did adore a twinkling star, 
 
 But now I worship a celestial sun : 
 
 Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken ; 
 
 And he wants wit that wants resolved will 
 To learn his wit t’ exchange the bad for better. 
 
 Fie, fie, unreverend tongue ! to call her bad, 
 
 Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr’d 
 With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. 
 
 I cannot leave 2 to love, and yet I do; 
 
 But there I leave to love where I should love. 
 
 Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose : 
 
 If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; 
 
 If I lose them, this find I by their loss, — 
 
 For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. 
 
 I to myself am dearer than a friend, 
 
 For love is still most precious in itself; 
 
 And Silvia — witness Heaven, that made her fair ! — 
 
 Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiop. 
 
 I will forget that Julia is alive, 
 
 Remembering that my love to her is dead; 
 
 And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy, 
 
 Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. 
 
 I cannot now prove constant to myself, 
 
 1 “ If thou hast sinn’d,’’ provided the reading be right, must mean, “ If 
 thou has sinn’d in causing or tempting me to sin.” — Sweet-suggesting is 
 sweetly-tempting , an old and common use of suggest. 
 
 2 Leave for cease or desist. The Poet has it repeatedly. So in 2 Hemy 
 VI., iii. 2: “You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave?" And in 
 Hamlet , i. 2: “ Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears had left the flush¬ 
 ing in her galled eyes, she married.” 
 
196 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Without some treachery used to Valentine. 
 
 This night he meaneth with a corded ladder 
 To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber-window; 
 
 Myself in counsel his competitor : 3 
 Now presently I’ll give her father notice 
 Of their disguising and pretended 4 flight; 
 
 Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine, 
 
 For Thurio he intends shall wed his daughter: 
 
 But, Valentine being gone, I’ll quickly cross, 
 
 By some sly trick, blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding. 
 
 Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, 
 
 As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift ! 5 \_Exit. 
 
 Scene VII. — Verona. A Room in Julia’s House. 
 
 Enter Julia and Lucetta. 
 
 Jut. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me ; 
 
 And, even in kind love, I do cbnjure 1 thee, — 
 
 Who art the table 2 wherein all my thoughts 
 
 3 Competitor in its old sense of associate or partner. So in Antony and 
 Cleopatra, v. 1: “ That thou, my brother, my competitor in top of all design, 
 my mate in empire, friend and cotnpanioti in the front of war.” — In counsel 
 is in secret. Often so. 
 
 4 Here pretended means intended, as the word was very often used in 
 Shakespeare’s time. So in Macbeth, ii. 2: “Alas the day! what good 
 could they pretend? ” And in the same scene we have pretence used for 
 purpose or intention : “Against the undivulged pretence I fight of treasonous 
 malice.” 
 
 5 Drift here is course of action, device, or stratagem. So, again, in iv. 
 2, of this play: “ I will so plead, that you shall say my cunning drift excels.” 
 
 1 In Shakespeare’s time the two ways of pronouncing this word, conjure 
 and conjure, had not become appropriated to different senses. Here conjure 
 has the sense of earnestly e 7 itreat. Elsewhere the Poet has conjure in the 
 sense oi practising magic. 
 
 2 Table for case or book of tablets, such as were carried in the pocket to 
 note down memoranda. So in Hamlet, i. 5 : “ From the table of my memory 
 I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records." And again: “My tables: meet it 
 is I set it down, that one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” 
 
SCENE vil. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 197 
 
 Are visibly character’d and engraved, — 
 
 To lesson me ; and tell me some good mean, 
 
 How, with my honour, I may undertake 
 A journey to my loving Proteus. 
 
 Luc. Alas, the way is wearisome and long ! 
 
 Jul. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary 
 To measure kingdoms 3 with his feeble steps; 
 
 Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly, 
 
 And when the flight is made to one so dear, 
 
 Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. 
 
 Luc. Better forbear till Proteus make return. 
 
 Jul. O, know’st thou not, his looks are my soul’s food ? 
 Pity the dearth that I have pined in, 
 
 By longing for that food so long a time. 
 
 Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, 
 
 Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow 
 As seek to quench the fire of love with words. 
 
 Luc. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, 
 
 But qualify the fire’s 4 Extreme rage, 
 
 Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 
 
 Jul. The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns: 
 The current that with gentle murmur glides, 
 
 Thou know’st, being stopp’d, impatiently doth rage; 
 
 But, when his fair course is not hindered, 
 
 He makes sweet music with th’ enamell’d stones, 
 
 Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
 He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 
 
 And so by many winding nooks he strays, 
 
 3 Alluding to the pilgrimages formerly made by religious devotees, often 
 to Rome, Compostella, and Jerusalem, but oftener still to "the House of 
 our Lady at Loretto.” In that age, when there were few roads and many 
 robbers, to go afoot and alone through all the pains and perils of a pilgrim¬ 
 age from England to either of those shrines, was deemed proof that the 
 person was in earnest. 
 
 4 Fire again as a dissyllable. See page 168, note 3. 
 
198 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT 11. 
 
 With willing sport, to the wide ocean. 
 
 Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
 
 I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
 
 And make a pastime of each weary step, 
 
 Till the last step have brought me to my love; 
 
 And there I’ll rest, as, after much turmoil, 
 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
 
 Luc. But in what habit will you go along? 
 
 Jul. Not like a woman ; for I would prevent 
 The loose encounters of lascivious men : 
 
 Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds 
 As may beseem some well-reputed page. 
 
 Luc. Why, then your ladyship must cut your hair. 
 
 Jul. No, girl; I’ll knit it up in silken strings 
 With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots : 
 
 To be fantastic may become a youth 
 Of greater time than I shall show to be. 
 
 Luc. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches ? 
 Jul. That fits as well as — Tell me , good my lord , 
 
 What compass will you wear your Jarthingale ? 5 
 Why, even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta. 
 
 Luc. You must needs have them with a codpiece , 6 
 Jul. Out, out, Lucetta ! that will be ill-favour’d. 
 
 Luc. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a pin, 
 Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. 
 
 Jul. Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have 
 What thou think’st meet, and is most mannerly. 
 
 But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me 
 
 6 The farthingale, Mr. Fairholt tells us, was originally a broad roll, which 
 made the person full about the hips. It came to be applied to the gown so 
 widened. — White. 
 
 6 Codpiece was the coarse name formerly given to a certain part of a man’s 
 nether garment. The name seems to have passed out of use long ago ; tne 
 thing, unsightly as it was, continued in use till a recent period. 
 
scene vil. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 I 99 
 
 For undertaking so unstaid a journey? 
 
 I fear me, it will make me scandalized. 
 
 Luc. If you think so, then stay at home, and go not. 
 
 Jul. Nay, that I will not. 
 
 Luc. Then never dream on infamy, but go. 
 
 If Proteus like your journey when you come, 
 
 No matter who’s displeased when you are gone: 
 
 I fear me, he will scarce be pleased withal. 
 
 Jul. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear : 
 
 A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, 
 
 And instances o’ the infinite of love , 7 
 Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. 
 
 Luc. All these are servants to deceitful men. 
 
 Jul. Base men, that use them to so base effect! 
 
 But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth : 
 
 His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; 
 
 His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; 
 
 His tears pure messengers sent from his heart 
 His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. 
 
 Luc. Pray Heaven he prove so, when you come to him ! 
 Jul. Now, as thou lovest me, do him not that wrong, 
 
 To bear a hard opinion of his truth : 
 
 Only deserve my love by loving him; 
 
 And presently go with me to my chamber, 
 
 To take a note of what I stand in need of, 
 
 To furnish me upon my longing journey . 8 
 All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, 
 
 7 Infinite for infi, 7 iity. So, in Much Ado , ii. 3, we have, “ It is past the 
 infinite of thought.” And in Chaucer: “ Although the life of it be stretched 
 with infinite of time.” 
 
 8 “ My longing journey,” if such be the right text, seems to mean “ the 
 journey that I long to be making.” Or it may mean " the journey that I 
 shall make with continual longing to be at the end of it." See Critical 
 Notes. — Dispose , in the next line, is for disposal. Repeatedly so. See page 
 80, note 4. 
 
200 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 My goods, my lands, my reputation; 
 
 Only, in lieu therof , 9 dispatch me hence. 
 
 Come, answer not, but to it presently; 
 
 I am impatient of my tarriance. \Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Milan. An Ante-room in the Duke’s Palace. 
 
 Enter Duke, Thurio, and Proteus. 
 
 Duke. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile ; 
 
 We have some secrets to confer about.— \_Exit Thurio. 
 Now, tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with me? 
 
 Pro. My gracious lord, that which I would discover 
 The law of friendship bids me to conceal; 
 
 But, when I call to mind your gracious favours 
 Done to me, undeserving as I am, 
 
 My duty pricks me on to utter that 
 
 Which else no worldly good should draw from me. 
 
 Know, worthy Prince, Sir Valentine, my friend, 
 
 This night intends to steal away your daughter; 
 
 Myself am one made privy to the plot. 
 
 I know you have determined to bestow her 
 On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates ; 
 
 And, should she thus be stol’n away from you, 
 
 9 The phrase “in lieu of" formerly meant in return for , or in considera¬ 
 tion of. So in Hooker’s Eccle. Pol., i. xi. 5: “ But be it that God of His 
 great liberality had determined in lieu of man’s endeavours to bestow the 
 same." And in Spenser’s dedication of his Four Hymns : “ Beseeching you 
 to accept this my humble service in lieu of the great graces and honourable 
 favours which ye daily show unto me." 
 
SCENE i. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 201 
 
 It would be much vexation to your age. 
 
 Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose 
 To cross my friend in his intended drift 
 Than, by concealing it, heap on your head 
 A pack of sorrows, which would press you down, 
 
 Being unprevented, to your timeless 1 grave. 
 
 Duke. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care; 
 
 Which to requite, command me while I live. 
 
 This love of theirs myself have often seen, 
 
 Haply when they have judged me fast asleep ; 
 
 And oftentimes have purposed to forbid 
 Sir Valentine her company and my Court: 
 
 But, fearing lest my jealous aim 2 might err, 
 
 And so, unworthily, disgrace the man, — 
 
 A rashness that I ever yet have shunn’d, — 
 
 I gave him gentle looks; thereby to find 
 That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. 
 
 And, that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, 
 
 Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested , 3 
 I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, 
 
 The key whereof myself have ever kept; 
 
 And thence she cannot be convey’d away. 
 
 Pro. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean 
 How he her chamber-window will ascend, 
 
 And with a corded ladder fetch her down; 
 
 For which the youthful lover now is gone, 
 
 And this way comes he with it presently ; 
 
 1 Timeless for tintimely. Repeatedly thus. So in Romeo and Juliet , v. 
 3: “ Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.” And in Richard II., iv. i: 
 “ Who perform’d the bloody office of his timeless end.” 
 
 2 Aim, here, is guess; a common use of the word. So in Julius Caesar, 
 i. 2: “ What you would work me to, I have some aim.” And in Romeo 
 and Juliet, i. I: "I aim'd so near, when I supposed you loved.” Also, in 
 the next speech : “That my discovery be not aimed at." 
 
 3 Suggested for tempted. See page 195, note 1. 
 
202 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. 
 
 But, good my lord, do it so cunningly 
 That my discovery be not aimed at; 
 
 For love of you, not hate unto my friend, 
 
 Hath made me publisher of this pretence . 4 
 
 Duke. Upon mine honour, he shall never know 
 That I had any light from thee of this. 
 
 Pro. Adieu, my lord; Sir Valentine is coming. [Exit 
 
 Enter Valentine. 
 
 Duke. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? 
 
 Vat. Please it your Grace, there is a messenger 
 That stays to bear my letters to my friends, 
 
 And I am going to deliver them. 
 
 Duke. Be they of much import ? 
 
 Vat. The tenour of them doth but signify 
 My health, and happy being at your Court. 
 
 Duke. Nay, then no matter; stay with me awhile : 
 
 I am to break with thee of some affairs 
 
 That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. 
 
 Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought 
 To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. 
 
 Val. I know it well, my lord ; and, sure, the match 
 Were rich and honourable ; besides, the gentleman 
 Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities 
 Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter : 
 
 Cannot your Grace win her to fancy him?' 
 
 Duke. No, trust me; she is peevish, sullen, froward, 
 Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty; 
 
 Neither regarding that she is my child, 
 
 Nor fearing me as if I were her father : 
 
 And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, 
 
 4 Pretence for purpose or design. See page 196, note 4. 
 
SCENE I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 203 
 
 Upon advice , 5 hath drawn my love from her; 
 
 And, where 6 I thought the remnant of mine age 
 Should have been cherish’d by her child-like duty, 
 
 I now am full resolved to take a wife, 
 
 And turn her out to who will take her in: 
 
 Then let her beauty be her wedding-dower; 
 
 For me and my possessions she esteems not. 
 
 Val. What would your Grace have me to do in this ? 
 Duke. There is a lady in Milano here 
 Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy, 
 
 And nought esteems my aged eloquence : 
 
 Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor, 
 
 (For long agone I have forgot to court; 
 
 Besides, the fashion of the time is changed,) 
 
 How, and which way, I may bestow 7 myself, 
 
 To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. 
 
 Val. Win her with gifts, if she respect not words : 
 
 Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, 
 
 More than quick words, do move a woman’s mind. 
 
 Duke. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. 
 
 Val. A woman sometime 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 : 
 
 6 “ Upon advice ” here has the sense of deliberately or after careful 
 weighing. So in Measure for Measure , v. i: “Yet did repent me, after 
 more advice .” And in The Merchant , iv. 2: “ My Lord Bassanio, upon 
 more advice , hath sent you here this ring.” See page 192, note n. 
 
 6 Where was, just before Shakespeare’s time, continually used for 
 whereas. He has it thus in divers places, though the usage was fast dying 
 out.— In the next line, should for would , in accordance with the old undif¬ 
 ferentiated use of could, should , and would. 
 
 7 The Poet repeatedly has bestow in the sense of behave. So in As You 
 Like It, iv. 3: “ The boy is fair, of female favour, but bestows himself like a 
 right forester.” 
 
204 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT in. 
 
 If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone ; 
 
 For why the fools are mad , 8 if left alone. 
 
 Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; 
 
 For get you gone , she doth not mean away / 
 
 Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces : 
 
 Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. 
 
 That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, 
 
 If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. 
 
 Duke. But she I mean is promised by her friends 
 Unto a youthful gentleman of worth ; 
 
 And kept severely from resort of men, 
 
 That no man hath access by day to her. 
 
 Val. Why, then I would resort to her by night. 
 
 Duke. Ay, but the doors be lock’d, and keys kept safe, 
 That no man hath recourse to her by night. 
 
 Val. What lets 9 but one may enter at her window ? 
 
 Duke. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, 
 
 And built so shelving, that one cannot -climb it 
 Without apparent hazard of his life. 
 
 8 For why , as Dyce amply shows, was often used with the simple force 
 of because or for ihe reason that. Shakespeare has it thus repeatedly. So 
 also in The Troublesome Raig?ie of King John, 1622: “ If thou art resolv’d, 
 I will absolve thee here from all thy sinnes, for why the deed is merito¬ 
 rious.”— White prints the passage in the text, “For why! — the fools are 
 mad.” Some others print, “ For why, the fools are mad.” Both evidently 
 wrong; there should be no point after why. This reminds me that the 
 phrase is wrongly printed in the Psalter, wherever it occurs; at least in all 
 the editions that I have seen. Thus in Psalm xvi. 10, 11: “Wherefore my 
 heart was glad, and my glory rejoiced: my flesh also shall rest in hope: 
 for why? thou shalt not leave my soul in hell,” &c. Here the logic clearly 
 requires the sense of because or for ; as the Bible version has it: “ For thou 
 wilt not leave my soul in hell.” And so the Psalter ought evidently to be 
 printed “ for why thou shalt not," &c. See page 112, note 33. 
 
 9 Here lets is the old word, now out of use, meaning to hinder. So in 
 the Collect for the 4th Sunday in Advent: “ Whereas, through our sins and 
 wickedness, we are sore let and hindered in running the race that is set be¬ 
 fore us,” &c. 
 
SCENE I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 205 
 
 Val. Why, then a ladder, quaintly made of cords, 
 
 To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks, 
 
 Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower, 
 
 So bold Leander would adventure it. 
 
 Duke. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, 
 
 Advise me where I may have such a ladder. 
 
 Val. When would you use it ? pray, sir, tell me that. 
 Duke. This very night; for Love is like a child, 
 
 That longs for every thing that he can come by. 
 
 Val. By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a ladder. 
 
 Duke. But, hark thee ; I will go to her alone : 
 
 How shall I best convey the ladder thither? 
 
 Val. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it 
 Under a cloak that is of any length. 
 
 Duke. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? 
 
 Val. Ay, my good lord. 
 
 Duke. Then let me see thy cloak : 
 
 I’ll get me one of such another length. 
 
 Val. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. 
 
 Duke. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak ? 
 
 I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. — 
 
 What letter is this same ? What’s here ? — To Silvia / 
 
 And here an engine fit for my proceeding ! 
 
 I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once. 
 
 [Reads.] My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly ; 
 And slaves they are to me, that send them flying : 
 
 O, could their master come and go as lightly, 
 
 Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying! 
 
 My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them ; 
 
 While I, their king, that thither them importune, 
 
 Do curse the Grace that with such grace hath bless’d them , 
 Because myself do want my servants’ fortune: 
 
 I curse myself, for they are sent by me, 
 
 That they should harbour where their lord would be. 
 
20 6 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 What’s here? 
 
 Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee : 
 
 ’Tis so; and here’s the ladder for the purpose. 
 
 Why, Phaethon,— for thou art Merops’ son , 10 — 
 
 Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, 
 
 And with thy daring folly burn the world ? 
 
 Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? 
 
 Go, base intruder ! overweening slave ! 
 
 Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates; 
 
 And think my patience, more than thy desert, 
 
 Is privilege for thy departure hence : 
 
 Thank me for this, more than for all the favours 
 Which, all too much, I have bestow’d on thee. 
 
 But if thou linger in my territories 
 
 Longer than swiftest expedition 
 
 Will give thee time to leave our royal Court, 
 
 By Heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love 
 I ever bore my daughter or thyself. 
 
 Be gone ! I will not hear thy vain excuse ; 
 
 But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence. \_Exit 
 Val. And why not death, rather than living torment ? 
 
 To die, is to be banish’d from myself; 
 
 And Silvia is myself: banish’d from her, 
 
 10 The Duke probably calls him Merops’ son by way of reproach. 
 Phaethon was the son of Phoebus the Sun-god by the Oceanid Clymene, 
 wife of Merops. According to Ovid, some slighted his high pretensions, as 
 thinking him the son of his mother's husband. The youth took this so 
 hard, that he must needs go to Phoebus, and beg the favour of being 
 allowed to drive his team for one day, as a formal and public recognition 
 of him in the character he was so proud of. Phoebus, in a gush of fatherly 
 affection, granted his prayer, before he knew what it was to be, and swore 
 by Styx, so that he could not recede from the promise. Phaethon made a 
 bad job of it, as his father had feared he would ; getting the world so out of 
 order through his ambitious incompetency, — for his father’s horses were 
 mighty high-strung, — that Jupiter had to knock him over with a thunder¬ 
 bolt. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 207 
 
 Is self from self, — a deadly banishment! 
 What light is light, if Silvia be not seen ? 
 What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? 
 
 Unless it be to think that she is by, 
 
 And feed upon the shadow of perfection. 
 Except I be by Silvia in the night, 
 
 There is no music in the nightingale; 
 Unless I look on Silvia in the day, 
 
 There is no day for me to look upon : 
 
 She is my essence ; and I leave 11 to be, 
 
 If I be not by her fair influence 
 Foster’d, illumined, cherish’d, kept alive. 
 
 I fly not death, to fly 12 this deadly doom: 
 Tarry I here, I but attend on death; 
 
 But, fly I hence, I fly away from life. 
 
 Enter Proteus and Launce. 
 
 Pro. Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out. 
 
 Launce. So-ho, so-ho ! 
 
 Pro. What see’st thou ? 
 
 Launce. Him we go to find : there’s not a hair 13 on’s head 
 but ’tis a Valentine. 
 
 Pro. Valentine ! 
 
 Val. No. 
 
 Pro. Who then? his spirit? 
 
 Val. Neither. 
 
 Pro. What then? 
 
 Val. Nothing. 
 
 11 Leave , again, for cease. See page 195, note 2. 
 
 12 To fly, here, means the same as by flying; an instance of the infinitive 
 used gerwidively, or like the Latin gerund. We have three instances of 
 the same usage in as many consecutive lines, in ii. 6: "To leave my Julia,” 
 — “ To love fair Silvia,” — and “ To wrong my friend.” 
 
 13 Punning still. Launce is running down the hare he started at his 
 entrance. 
 
20 8 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT ill. 
 
 Launce. Can nothing speak ? Master, shall I strike ? 
 Pro. Who wouldst thou strike ? 
 
 Launce. Nothing. 
 
 Pro. Villain, forbear. 
 
 Launce. Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing : I pray you, —• 
 
 Pro. Sirrah, I say, forbear.—Friend Valentine, a word. 
 Val. My ears are stopp’d, and cannot hear good news, 
 
 So much of bad already hath possess’d them. 
 
 Pro. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, 
 
 For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. 
 
 Val. Is Silvia dead? 
 
 Pro. No, Valentine. 
 
 Val. No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia ! 
 
 Hath she forsworn me ? 
 
 Pro. No, Valentine. 
 
 Val. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me ! 
 
 What is your news ? 
 
 Launce. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanish’d 
 Pro. That thou art banished — O, that’s the news ! — 
 From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. 
 
 Val. O, I have fed upon this woe already, 
 
 And now excess of it will make me surfeit. 
 
 Doth Silvia know that I am banished ? 
 
 Pro. Ay, ay; and she hath offer’d to the doom — 
 
 Which, unreversed, stands in effectual force — 
 
 A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears : 
 
 Those at her father’s churlish feet she tender’d; 
 
 With them, upon her knees, her humble self; 
 
 Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them 
 As if but now they waxed pale for woe : 
 
 But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, 
 
 Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears, 
 
 Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; 
 
 But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 209 
 
 Besides, her intercession chafed him so, 
 
 When she for thy repeal was suppliant, 
 
 That to close prison he commanded her, 
 
 With many bitter threats of biding there. 
 
 Val. No more; unless the next word that thou speak’st 
 Have some malignant power upon my life : 
 
 If so, I pray thee, breathe it in mine ear, 
 
 As ending anthem of my endless dolour. 
 
 Pro. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, 
 
 And study help for that which thou lament’st. 
 
 Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 
 
 Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; 
 
 Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. 
 
 Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that, 
 
 And manage it against despairing thoughts. 
 
 Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence; 
 
 Which, being writ to me, shall be deliver’d 
 Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. 
 
 The time now serves not to expostulate : 
 
 Come, I’ll convey thee through the city-gate; 
 
 And, ere I part with thee, confer at large 
 Of all that may concern thy love-affairs. 
 
 As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself, 
 
 Regard thy danger, and along with me. 
 
 Val. I pray thee, Launce, an if thou see’st my boy, 
 
 Bid him make haste, and meet me at the N6rth-gate. 
 
 Pro. Go, sirrah, find him out. — Come, Valentine. 
 
 Val. O my dear Silvia ! — Hapless Valentine ! 
 
 [.Exeunt Valentine and Proteus. 
 Launce. I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the 
 wit to think my master is a kind of a knave : but that’s all 
 one, if he be but one in love. He lives not now that knows 
 me to be in love ; yet I am in love ; but a team of horse’ shall 
 not pluck that from me; nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a 
 
210 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 woman ; but what woman, I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis 
 a milkmaid ; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; 14 
 yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid, and serves for 
 wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, — 
 which is much in a bare 15 Christian. \_Pidling out a paper .] 
 Here is the cate-log of her conditions. Imprimis: She can 
 fetch and carry. Why, a horse can do no more : nay, a horse 
 cannot fetch, but only carry; therefore is she better than a 
 jade. Item : She can milk. Look you, a sweet virtue in a 
 maid with clean hands. 
 
 Enter Speed. 
 
 Speed. How now, Signior Launce ! what news with your 
 mastership ? 
 
 Launce. With my master’s ship ? why, it is at sea. 
 
 Speed. Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What 
 news, then, in your paper? 
 
 Launce. The blackest news that ever thou heard’st. 
 
 Speed. Why, man, how black? 
 
 Launce. Why, as black as ink. 
 
 Speed. Let me read them. 
 
 Launce. Fie on thee, jolt-head ! thou canst not read. 
 Speed. Thou best; I can. 
 
 Launce. I will try thee. Tell me this : who begot thee? 
 Speed. Marry, the son of my grandfather. 
 
 Launce. O illiterate loiterer ! it was the son of thy grand¬ 
 mother : this proves that thou canst not read. 
 
 Speed. Come, fool, come ; try me in thy paper. 
 
 14 Another quibble. Gossips signifies not only sponsors in baptism, but 
 the talkative women who attend lyings-in. How the word acquired its 
 present meaning, has been stated before. See page 147, note 22. 
 
 15 Still quibbling. Bare has two senses, mere and naked: Launce uses 
 it in both, opposing the naked person to the water-spaniel thickly covered 
 with hair. 
 
SCENE I. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 211 
 
 Launce. There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed ! 16 
 
 Speed. [Reads] Item : She ca?i milk. 
 
 Launce. Ay, that she can. 
 
 Speed. Item : She brews good ale. 
 
 Launce. And thereof comes the proverb, — Blessing of 
 your heart, you brew good ale. 
 
 Speed. Item : She can sew. 
 
 Launce. That’s as much as to say, Can she so ? 
 
 Speed. Item : She can knit. 
 
 Launce. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, 
 when she can knit him a stock? 17 
 
 Speed. Item : She can wash and scour. 
 
 Launce. A special virtue; for then she need not be 
 wash’d and scour’d. 
 
 Speed. Item : She can spin. 
 
 Launce. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she 
 can spin for her living. 
 
 Speed. Item : She hath many nameless virtues. 
 
 Launce. That’s as much as to say, bastard virtues; that, 
 indeed, know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. 
 
 Speed. Here follow her vices. 
 
 Launce. Close at the heels of her virtues. 
 
 Speed. Item : She is not to be kiss'dfasting, in respect of 
 her breath. 
 
 Launce. Well, that fault may be mended with a break¬ 
 fast. Read on. 
 
 16 Saint Nicholas had many weighty cares, but was best known as the 
 patron-saint of scholars, in which character he is here invoked. He is said to 
 have gained this honour by restoring to life three scholars whom a wicked 
 host had murdered while on their way to school. By the statutes of St. 
 Paul’s school, London, the scholars are required to attend divine service in 
 the Cathedral on the anniversary of Saint Nicholas. The parish clerks of 
 London, probably because scholars were called clerks, formed themselves 
 into a guild, with this saint for their patron. 
 
 17 The last stock means stocking; the other, dower , or stock of goods, 
 probably. 
 
212 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Speed. Item : She hath a sweet mouth , 18 
 
 Launce. That makes amends for her sour breath. 
 
 Speed. Item : She doth talk in her sleep. 
 
 Launce. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. 
 
 Speed. Item : She is slow in words. 
 
 Launce. O villain, that set this down among her vices ! 
 To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue : I pray thee, 
 out with’t, and place it for her chief virtue. 
 
 Speed. Item : She is proud. 
 
 Launce. Out with that too : it was Eve’s legacy, and can¬ 
 not be ta’en from her. 
 
 Speed. Item : She hath no teeth. 
 
 Launce. I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. 
 
 Speed. Item .* She is curst ! 9 
 
 Launce. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. 
 
 Speed. Item : She will often praise her liquor. 
 
 Launce. If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, 
 I will; for good things should be praised. 
 
 Speed. Item : She is too liberal?^ 
 
 Launce. Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ down 
 she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I’ll keep 
 shut: now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. 
 Well, proceed. 
 
 Speed. Item : She hath more hair than wit, and more faults 
 than hairs, and more wealth than faults. 
 
 Launce. Stop there ; I’ll have her : she was mine, and not 
 mine, twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once 
 more. 
 
 Speed. Item : She hath more hair than wit,” — 
 
 18 “ Sweet mouth" for sweet tooth; that is, a great fondness for sweet¬ 
 meats and dainty bits. Launce, in his comment, chooses to take the phrase 
 literally. 
 
 19 Curst is shrewish or sharp-tongued ; used of a scold. 
 
 20 Too liberal here means free beyond the allowings of modesty. Liberal 
 was often used thus for licentious. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 213 
 
 Launce. More hair than wit, — it maybe: I’ll prove it. 
 The cover of the salt hides the salt , 21 and therefore it is more 
 than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the 
 wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next? 
 
 Speed. — and more faults than hairs , — 
 
 Launce. That’s monstrous : O, that that were out! 
 
 Speed. — and more wealth than faults. 
 
 Launce. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, 
 I’ll have her : and if it be a match, as nothing is impossible,— 
 
 Speed. What then? 
 
 Launce. Why, then will I tell thee, —that thy master stays 
 for thee at the North-gate. 
 
 Speed. For me ! 
 
 Launce. For thee ! ay; who art thou? he hath stay’d for 
 a better man than thee. 
 
 Speed. And must I go to him ? 
 
 Launce. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stay’d so 
 long, that going will scarce serve the turn. 
 
 Speed. Why didst not tell me sooner ? pox of your love- 
 letters ! \_Exit. 
 
 Launce. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter, — 
 an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets ! 
 I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction. [Exit. 
 
 * — 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. 
 Enter Duke and Thurio. 
 
 Duke. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you, 
 
 Now Valentine is banish’d from her sight. 
 
 Thu. Since his exile she hath despised me most, 
 Forsworn my company, and rail’d at me, 
 
 21 The saltcellar was formerly a large piece of plate, with a cover to keep 
 the salt clean. There was but one on the table, and that near the head; 
 above it, the seats of honour. 
 
214 
 
 •THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 That I am desperate of obtaining her. 
 
 Duke. This weak impress of love is as a figure 
 Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s 1 heat 
 Dissolves to water, and doth lose his form. 
 
 A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, 
 
 And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. — 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 
 > 
 
 How now, Sir Proteus ! Is your countryman, 
 
 According to our proclamation, gone ? 
 
 Pro. Gone, my good lord. 
 
 Duke. My daughter takes his going grievously. 
 
 Pro. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. 
 
 Duke. So I believe ; but Thurio thinks not so. 
 
 Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee — 
 
 For thou hast shown some sign of good desert —• 
 
 Makes me the better to confer with thee. 
 
 Pro. Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace 
 Let me not live to look upon your Grace. 
 
 Duke. Thou know’st how willingly I would effect 
 The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter. 
 
 Pro. I do, my lord. 
 
 Duke. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant 
 How she opposes her against my will. 
 
 Pro. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. 
 
 Duke. Ay, and perversely she pers£vers so. 
 
 What might we do to make the girl forget 
 The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? 
 
 Pro. The best way is to slander Valentine 
 With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, — 
 
 Three things that women highly hold in hate. 
 
 Duke. Ay, but she’ll think that it is spoke in hate. 
 
 1 Hour is here a dissylable. See page 135, note 3. — Trenched is cut or 
 carved. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 215 
 
 Pro. Ay, if his enemy deliver it: 
 
 Therefore it must with circumstance 2 be spoken 
 By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. 
 
 Duke. Then you must undertake to slander him. 
 
 Pro. And that, my lord, I shall be loth to do : 
 
 ’Tis an ill office for a gentleman, 
 
 Especially against his very 3 friend. 
 
 Duke. Where your good word cannot advantage him, 
 Your slander never can endamage him : 
 
 Therefore the office is indifferent, 
 
 Being entreated to it by your friend. 
 
 Pro. You have prevail’d, my lord : if I can do it 
 By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, 
 
 She shall not long continue love to him. 
 
 But say, this wean her love from Valentine, 
 
 It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. 
 
 Thu. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, 
 
 Lest it should ravel and be good to none, 
 
 You must provide to bottom 4 it on me; 
 
 Which must be done by praising me as much 
 As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. 
 
 Duke. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind, 
 Because we know, on Valentine’s report, 
 
 You are already Love’s firm votary, 
 
 And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. 
 
 Upon this warrant shall you have access 
 Where you with Silvia may confer at large; 
 
 For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, 
 
 And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you ; 
 
 2 Circumstance for circumstantial detail; that is, instances or facts al¬ 
 leged in proof. 
 
 3 Very in the Latin sense of verus; true. So one of Massinger’s plays 
 is entitled A Very Woman. 
 
 4 Bottom is the old housewife’s term for that on which a ball of yarn or 
 thread is wound. 
 
216 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 When you may temper her, by your persuasion, 
 To hate young Valentine, and love my friend. 
 
 Pro. As much as I can do, I will effect: — 
 But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough; 
 
 You must lay lime 5 to tangle her desires 
 By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes 
 Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. 
 Duke. Ay, 
 
 Much is the force of Heaven-bred poesy. 
 
 Pro. Say, that upon the altar of her beauty 
 
 You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart: 
 
 Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears 
 Moist it again ; and frame some feeling lines 
 That may discover such integrity : 6 
 For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews; 
 
 Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones. 
 
 Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans 
 Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 
 
 After your dire-lamenting elegies, 
 
 Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window 
 With some sweet consort; 7 to their instruments 
 Tune a deploring dump : 8 the night’s dead silence 
 Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. 
 
 This, or else nothing, will inherit her . 9 
 
 Duke. This discipline shows thou hast been in love. 
 
 5 Lime, or bird-lime, was originally a sticky substance, spread where 
 birds were apt to light, so as to hold them by the feet; but the word came 
 to be used for any sort of snare. 
 
 6 Such sincerity as is shown by impassioned writing. Integrity in its 
 original sense, — the sense of entireness or wholeheartedness. 
 
 7 Consort, according to Bullokar and Phillips, meant “ a set or company 
 of musicians.” 
 
 8 Dump is an old term for a mournful elegy. 
 
 9 To inherit was sometimes used for to get possession of, without any idea 
 of inheritance. So Milton, in his Comus, has “ disinherit Chaos”; meaning 
 simply to dispossess it. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 217 
 
 Thu. And thy advice this night I’ll put in practice. 
 Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, 
 
 Let us into the city presently 
 
 To sort 10 some gentlemen well skill’d in music: 
 
 I have a sonnet that will serve the turn 
 To give the onset to thy good advice. 
 
 Duke. About it, gentlemen. 
 
 Pro. We’ll wait upon your Grace till after supper, 
 
 And afterward determine our proceedings. 
 
 Duke. Even now about it; I will pardon you . 11 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene I. — A Foi'est near Milan. 
 
 Enter certain Outlaws. 
 
 1 Out. Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger. 
 
 2 Out. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ’em. 
 
 Enter Valentine and Speed. 
 
 3 Out. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye : 
 
 If not, we’ll make you sit, and rifle you. "■ 
 
 Speed. O, sir, we are undone ! these are the villains 
 That all the travellers do fear so much. 
 
 Val. My friends, — 
 
 1 Out. That’s not so, sir, — we are your enemies. 
 
 2 Out. Peace ! we’ll hear him. 
 
 3 Out. Ay, by my beard, will we ; 
 
 For he’s a proper 1 man. 
 
 10 To sort was much used for to choose or select. 
 
 11 Will excuse you; release you from attending me. 
 
 1 Proper was used for handsome, well-proportioned. Valentine is a man 
 of fine presence. 
 
21 8 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ACT IV. 
 
 Va /. Then know that I have little wealth to lose; 
 
 A man I am cross’d with adversity: 
 
 My riches are these poor habiliments, 
 
 Of which, if you should here disfurnish me, 
 
 You take the sum and substance that I have. 
 
 2 Out. Whither travel you ? 
 
 Vat. To Verona. 
 i Out. Whence came you ? 
 
 Vat. From Milan. 
 
 j Out. Have you long sojourn’d there ? 
 
 Vat. Some sixteen months ; and longer might have stay’d, 
 If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. 
 
 1 Out. What, were you banish’d thence ? 
 
 Vat. I was. 
 
 2 Out. For what offence? 
 
 Vat. For that which now torments me to rehearse : 
 
 I kill’d a man, whose death I much repent; 
 
 But yet I slew him manfully in fight, 
 
 Without false vantage or base treachery. 
 
 1 Out. Why, ne’er repent it, if it were done so. 
 
 But were you banish’d for so small a fault ? 
 
 Vat. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. 
 
 2 Out. Have you the tongues? 
 
 Vat. My youthful travel therein made me happy, 
 
 Or else I often had been miserable. 
 
 j Out. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar , 2 
 This fellow were a king for our wild faction ! 
 
 1 Out. We’ll have him : — Sir, a word. 
 
 Speed. Master, be one of them ; 
 
 It is an honourable kind of thievery. 
 
 2 Friar Tuck, the chaplain of Robin Hood’s merry crew; that ancient 
 specimen of clerical boldness and plumpness and jollity; of whom Drayton 
 says, 
 
 Of Tuck, the merry friar, which many a sermon made 
 In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and his trade. 
 
SCENE I. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 219 
 
 Val. Peace, villain ! 
 
 2 Out. Tell us this : have you any thing to take to ? 
 Val. Nothing but my fortune. 
 
 J Out. Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen, 
 Such as the fury of ungovern’d youth 
 Thrust from the company of awful men : 3 
 Myself was from Verona banished 
 For practising to steal away a lady, 
 
 An heir, and near-allied unto the Duke. 
 
 2 Out And I from Mantua, for a gentleman, 
 
 Who, in my mood , 4 I stabb’d unto the heart. 
 
 1 Out. And I for such-like petty crimes as these. 
 
 But to the purpose, — for we cite our faults, 
 
 That they may hold excused our lawless lives; 
 
 And partly, seeing you are beautified 
 With goodly shape, and by your own report 
 A linguist, and a man of such perfection 
 As we do in our quality 5 much want, — 
 
 2 Out. Indeed, because you are a banish’d man, 
 Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you : 
 
 Are you content to be our general ? 
 
 To make a virtue of necessity, 
 
 And live, as we do, in this wilderness ? 
 
 3 Out. What say’st thou? wilt thou be of our consdrt? 
 Say ay, and be the captain of us all: 
 
 We’ll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, 
 
 Love thee as our commander and our king. 
 
 3 “ Awful men ” are men full of awe for just authority; men who rever¬ 
 ence the laws and usages of society. So Milton, in his Hymn of the 
 Nativity : 
 
 And kings sat still with awful eye, 
 
 As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. 
 
 4 In a fit of anger or resentment. A moody man is still a man liable to 
 storms of passion. 
 
 3 Quality here is profession or occupation. So in Hamlet , ii. 2: “Will 
 they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing ? ” 
 
220 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 1 Out. But, if thou scorn our courtesy, thou chest. 
 
 2 Out. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offer’d. 
 Val. I take your offer, and will live with you, 
 
 Provided that you do no outrages 
 On silly 6 women or poor passengers. 
 
 j Out. No, we detest such vile base practices. 
 
 Come, go with us, we’ll bring thee to our cave, 
 
 And show thee all the treasure we have got; 
 
 Which, with ourselves, shall rest at thy dispose. [. Exeunt\ 
 
 Scene II. — Milan. The Court of the Duke’s Palace . 
 
 Enter Proteus. 
 
 Pro. Already have I been false to Valentine, 
 
 And now I must 6 e as unjust to Thurio. 
 
 Under the colour of commending him, 
 
 I have access my own love to prefer: 
 
 But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy , 1 
 To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. 
 
 When I protest true loyalty to her, 
 
 She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; 
 
 When to her beauty I commend my vows, 
 
 She bids me think how I have been forsworn 
 In breaking faith with Julia whom I loved : 
 
 And notwithstanding all her sudden quips , 2 
 The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope, 
 
 6 Silly here is a word of tenderness, not of reproach; as denoting a 
 character of innocence and simplicity. So, in Twelfth Night , ii. 4, we have 
 silly sooth for simple truth. Such appears to be the primitive sense of the 
 word. 
 
 1 Holy in the sense of upright and pure; a frequent usage of the word 
 in Shakespeare. 
 
 2 A quip is a biting taunt or retort. So in Much Ado , ii. 3: “ Shall 
 quips and sentences, and these paper-bullets of the brain, awe a man from 
 the career of his humour ? ” 
 
SCENE II. 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 221 
 
 Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, 
 
 The more it grows, and fawneth on her still. 
 
 But here comes Thurio : now must we to her window, 
 
 And give some evening music to her ear. 
 
 Enter Thurio and Musicians. 
 
 Thu. How now, Sir Proteus ! are you crept before us ? 
 Pro. Ay, gentle Thurio ; for you know that love 
 Will creep in service where it cannot go. 
 
 Thu. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. 
 
 Pro. Sir, but I do ; or else I would be hence. 
 
 Thu. Who? Silvia? 
 
 Pro. Ay, Silvia, — for your sake. 
 
 Thu. I thank you for your own. — Now, Gentlemen, 
 
 Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile. 
 
 Enter , at a distance, Host, and Julia in boy's clothes. 
 
 Host. Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allicholy : 
 
 I pray you, why is it ? 
 
 Jut. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. 
 
 Host. Come, we’ll have you merry : I’ll bring you where 
 you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you ask’d for. 
 Jut. But shall I hear him speak? 
 
 Host. Ay, that you shall. 
 
 Jut. That will be music. [Music plays. 
 
 Host. Hark, hark ! 
 
 Jul. Is he among these ? 
 
 Host. Ay : but peace ! let’s hear ’em. 
 
 Song. 
 
 Who is Silvia ? what is she, 
 
 That all our swains commend her ? 
 
 Holy, fair, and wise is she ; 
 
 The Heaven such grace did lend her, 
 
 That she might admired be. 
 
222 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. act IV. 
 
 Is she kind as she is fair , — 
 
 For beauty lives with kindness ? 
 
 Love doth to her eyes repair , 
 
 To help him of his blindness ; 
 
 And , being help'd , inhabits there. 
 
 Then to Silvia let us sing , 
 
 That Silvia is excelling; 
 
 She excels each 7nortal thing 
 Upon the dull earth dwelling : 
 
 To her let us garlands bring. 
 
 Host. How now ! you’re sadder than you were before : 
 How do you, man ? the music likes you not . 3 
 
 Jul. You mistake ; the musician likes me not. 
 
 Host. Why, my pretty youth? 
 
 Jul. He plays false, father. 
 
 Host. How ? out of tune on the strings ? 
 
 Jul. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very 
 heart-strings. 
 
 Host. You have a quick ear. 
 
 Jul. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow 
 heart. 
 
 Host. I perceive you delight not in music. 
 
 Jul. Not a whit, —when it jars so. 
 
 Host. Hark, what fine change is in the music ! 
 
 Jul. Ay, that change is the spite. 
 
 Host. You would have them always play but one thing? 
 
 Jul. I would always have one play but one thing. 
 
 But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on 
 Often resort unto this gentlewoman ? 
 
 8 That is, “ the music pleases you not,” or, “ you like not the music "; 
 an old form of speech occurring frequently in Shakespeare, and by no 
 means peculiar to him. In the next line Julia plays upon the word, using 
 it in its ordinary sense. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 223 
 
 Host. I tell you what Launce, his man, told me, — he 
 loved her out of all nick . 4 
 
 Jul. Where is Launce? 
 
 Host. Gone to seek his dog; which to-morrow, by his 
 master’s command, he must carry for a present to his Ldy. 
 
 Jul. Peace ! stand aside : the company parts. 
 
 Pro. Sir Thurio, fear not you : I will so plead, 
 
 That you shall say my cunning drift excels. 
 
 Thu. Where meet we ? 
 
 Pro. At Saint Gregory’s well . 5 
 
 Thu. Farewell. 
 
 \_Exeunt Thurio and Musicians. 
 
 Silvia appears above, at her window. 
 
 Pro. Madam, good even to your ladyship. 
 
 Sil. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. 
 
 Who’s that that spake ? 
 
 Pro. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth, 
 
 You’d quickly learn to know him by his voice. 
 
 Sil. Sir Proteus, as I take it. 
 
 Pro. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. 
 
 Sil. What is your will ? 
 
 Pro. That I may compass yours. 
 
 Sil. You have your wish ; my will is even this, — 
 
 That presently you hie you home to bed. 
 
 4 “ Out of all nick " is beyond all reckoning. Accounts were formerly kept 
 by cutting nicks or notches in a tally-stick. So in A Woman never Vexed : 
 “ I have carried these tallies at my girdle seven years together; for I did 
 ever love to deal honestly in the nick.” It is not so very long since this 
 method was laid aside in the English Exchequer; doubtless because the 
 accounts grew to be out of all nick. 
 
 5 This was probably one of the “ holy wells ” to which popular belief 
 ascribed mysterious virtues, and which were visited something as our fash¬ 
 ionable watering-places are, though perhaps with different feelings. I hold 
 in memory a very dear and saintly man who used to derive his name from 
 such a well, with a cross to mark the spot,— Crosse Welle. 
 
224 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man ! 
 
 Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless , 6 
 To be seduced by thy flattery, 
 
 That hast deceived so many with thy vows ? 
 
 Return, return, and make thy love amends. 
 
 For me, —by this pale Queen of night I swear, — 
 
 I am so far from granting thy request, 
 
 That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit; 
 
 And by-and-by intend to chide myself 
 Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. 
 
 Pro. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady; 
 
 But she is dead. 
 
 Jul. [Aside.'] ’Twere false, if I should speak it; 
 
 For I am sure she is not buried. 
 
 Sil. Say that she be ; yet Valentine thy friend 
 Survives ; to whom, thyself art witness, 
 
 I am betroth’d : and art thou not ashamed 
 To wrong him with thy importunacy? 
 
 Pro. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. 
 
 Sil. And so suppose am I; for in his grave 
 Assure thyself my love is buried. 
 
 Pro. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. 
 
 Sil. Go to thy lady’s grave, and call hers thence; 
 
 Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. 
 
 Jul. [Aside.] He heard not that. 
 
 Pro. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, 
 
 Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, 
 
 The picture that is hanging in your chamber; 
 
 To that I’ll speak, to that I’ll sigh and weep : 
 
 For, since the substance of your perfect self 
 Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; 
 
 And to your shadow will I make true love. 
 
 6 The Poet always uses conceit in a good sense, for conception, thought, 
 understanding, &c. So that conceitless has a bad sense, void of judgment. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 225 
 
 Jul. \_Aside.~\ If ’twere a substance, you would, sure, de¬ 
 ceive it, 
 
 And make it but a shadow, as I am. 
 
 Sil. I’m very loth to be your idol, sir; 
 
 But, since your falsehood shall become you well 
 To worship shadows and adore false shapes, 
 
 Send to me in the morning, and I’ll send it: 
 
 And so, good rest. 
 
 Pro. As wretches have o’ernight 
 
 That wait for execution in the morn. 
 
 \_Exeunt Proteus, and Silvia above. 
 Jul. Host, will you go ? 
 
 Host. By my halidom , 7 I was fast asleep. 
 
 Jul. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus ? 
 
 Host. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think ’tis almost 
 day. 
 
 Jul. Not so ; but it hath been the longest night 
 That e’er I watch’d, and the most heaviest. [. Exeunt . 
 
 Enter Eglamour. 
 
 Egl. This is the hour that Madam Silvia 
 Entreated me to call and know her mind : 
 
 There’s some great matter she’d employ me in.— 
 
 Madam, madam ! 
 
 Silyia re-appears above , at her window. 
 
 Sil. Who calls ? 
 
 Egl. Your servant and your friend; 
 
 One that attends your ladyship’s command. 
 
 Sil. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow. 
 
 Egl. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. 
 
 7 Halidom, says Minsheu, 1617, is “ an old word used by old country¬ 
 women, by manner of swearing.” Nares derives it from holy and dom, like 
 kingdotn. So that the oath is much the same as “ by my faith." 
 
226 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 According to your ladyship’s impose , 8 
 I am thus early come to know what service 
 It is your pleasure to command me in. 
 
 Sil. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman, — 
 
 Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not, — 
 
 Valiant and wise, remorseful , 9 well-accomplish’d : 
 Thou art not ignorant what dear good-will 
 I bear unto the banish’d Valentine; 
 
 Nor how my father would enforce me marry 
 Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors. 
 
 Thyself hast loved; and I have heard thee say 
 No grief did ever come so near thy heart 
 As when thy lady and thy true love died, 
 
 Upon whose grave thou vow’dst pure chastity. 
 
 Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, 
 
 To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; 
 
 And, for the ways are dangerous to pass, 
 
 I do desire thy worthy company, 
 
 Upon whose faith and honour I repose. 
 
 Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour, 
 
 But think upon my grief, — a lady’s grief, — 
 
 And on the justice of my flying hence, 
 
 To keep me from a most unholy match, 
 
 Which Heaven and fortune still reward with plagues. 
 I do desire thee, even from a heart 
 As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, 
 
 To bear me company, and go with me : 
 
 If not, to hide what I have said to thee, 
 
 That I may venture to depart alone. 
 
 8 Impose is merely a shortened form of imposition , meaning command or 
 injunction. 
 
 9 Remorseful is pitiful, compassionate. The Poet almost always uses 
 remorse in the same sense,— a sense now obsolete except in remorse¬ 
 less. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 22 7 
 
 Egl. Madam, I pity much your grievances ; 10 
 Which since I know they virtuously are placed, 
 
 I give consent to go along with you; 
 
 Recking 11 as little what betideth me 
 As much I wish all good befortune you. 
 
 When will you go ? 
 
 Sil. This evening coming. 
 
 Egl. Where shall I meet you ? 
 
 Sil. At Friar Patrick’s cell, 
 
 Where I intend holy confession. 
 
 Egl. I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, 
 
 Gentle lady. 
 
 Sil. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. 
 
 \_Exeunt Eglamour, and Silvia above. 
 
 Enter Launce, with his Dog. 
 
 Lannce. When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, 
 look you, it goes hard : one that I brought up of a puppy; 
 one that I saved from drowning, when three or four of his 
 blind brothers and sisters went to it! I have taught him — 
 even as one would say precisely, Thus I would teach a dog. 
 I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from 
 my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber, 
 but he steps me to her trencher , 12 and steals her capon’s leg. 
 
 10 Grievances for griefs. So the Poet very often has griefs for grievances. 
 — In the next line we have a doubling of the subject, which and they. 
 Shakespeare, in common with other writers of the time, Bacon among 
 them, has many such; perhaps resulting from an attempt to introduce the 
 Latin idiom of relative clauses where the English does not rightly admit of 
 that idiom. 
 
 11 Recking is caring or minding; a sense still current in reckless. So in 
 Hamlet , i. 3 : “ And recks not his own read ; ” that is, regards not his own 
 lesson. 
 
 12 Trenchers were used at the tables of the highest noblemen in Shake¬ 
 speare’s day, and were even thought fitting for the king’s dining-room in 
 the reign of Henry VIII. 
 
228 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 O, ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep 13 himself in all 
 companies ! I would have, as one should say, one that takes 
 upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all 
 things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault 
 upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hang’d for’t; 
 sure as I live, he had suffer’d for’t: you shall judge. He 
 thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentle¬ 
 manlike dogs, under the Duke’s table : he had not been there 
 (bless the mark !) a pissing while, but all the chamber smelt 
 him. Out with the dog, says one ; What cur is that ? says 
 another; Whip him out , says the third ; Hang him up , says 
 the Duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, 
 knew it was Crab; and goes me to the fellow that whips the 
 dogs : Friend ’ quoth I,you mean to whip the dog? Ay, marry, 
 do 1 , quoth he. You do him the more wrong, quoth I; 'twas 
 / did the thing you wot of. He makes me no more ado, but 
 whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do 
 this for their servant? Nay, I’ll be sworn, I have sat in 
 the stocks for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had 
 been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath 
 kill’d, otherwise he had suffer’d for’t.—Thou think’st not of 
 this now ! Nay, I remember the trick you served me when 
 I took my leave of Madam Silvia. Did not I bid thee still 
 mark me, and do as I do ? when didst thou see me heave up 
 my leg, and make water against a gentlewoman’s farthingale ? 
 didst thou ever see me do such a trick? 
 
 Re-enter Proteus, and Julia in boy's clothes. 
 
 Pro. Sebastian is thy name ? I like thee well, 
 
 And will employ thee in some service presently. 
 
 Jut. In what you please : I will do what I can. 
 
 Pro. I hope thou wilt.— [To Launce.] How now, you 
 whoreson peasant! 
 
 Where have you been these two days loitering? 
 
 13 Keep for contain, hold his water. 
 
Launce. "-Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave 
 
 of Madam Silvia, Did not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I do ? " 
 
 Two Gentlemen of Verona. Act 4, Scene 2. 
 
 Page 228. 
 
LIBRARY 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 229 
 
 Launce. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you 
 bade me. 
 
 Pro. And what says she to my little jewel? 
 
 Launce. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you 
 currish thanks is good enough for such a present. 
 
 Pro. But she received my dog? 
 
 Launce. No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought 
 him back again. 
 
 Pro. What, didst thou offer her this cur from me ? 
 
 Launce. Ay, sir ; the other squirrel was stolen from me by 
 the hangman boys 14 in the market-place : and then I offer’d 
 her mine own, — who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and 
 therefore the gift the greater. 
 
 Pro. Go get thee hence, and find my dog again, 
 
 Or ne’er return again into my sight. 
 
 Away, I say ! stay’st thou to vex me here ? 
 
 A slave, that still an end 15 turns me to shame ! — 
 
 Sebastian, I have entertained 16 thee, \_Exit Launce: 
 
 Partly that I have need of such a youth, 
 
 That can with some discretion do my business, 
 
 For ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout; 
 
 But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, 
 
 Which — if my augury deceive me not— 
 
 Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth : 
 
 Therefore know thou, for this I entertain thee. 
 
 Go presently, and take this ring with thee, 
 
 Deliver it to Madam Silvia : 
 
 She loved me well deliver’d it to me. 
 
 14 “ Ha, 7 igman boys ” is rascally boys ; the word hangman having come 
 to be used as a general term of reproach. 
 
 15 “ Still an end ” is an old colloquial phrase, meaning continually or 
 perpetually. 
 
 16 Entertained here is employed or taken into service; a frequent usage 
 with the Poet. So in ii. 4, of this play: “Sweet lady, entertain him for 
 your servant.” 
 
230 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Jul. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token . 17 
 She’s dead, belike ? 
 
 Pro. Not so ; I think she lives. 
 
 Jul. Alas ! 
 
 Pro. Why dost thou cry, Alas? 
 
 JuL I cannot choose 
 
 But pity her. 
 
 Pro. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? 
 
 Jul. Because methinks that she loved you as well 
 As you do love your lady Silvia : 
 
 She dreams on him that has forgot her love; 
 
 You dote on her that cares not for your love. 
 
 Tis pity love should be so contrary; 
 
 And thinking on it makes me cry, Alas / 
 
 Pro. Well, well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
 This letter ; that’s her chamber : tell my lady 
 I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. 
 
 Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, 
 
 Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary. \_Exit. 
 
 Jul. How many women would do such a message ? 
 
 Alas, poor Proteus ! thou hast entertain’d 
 A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs : — 
 
 Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him, 
 
 That with his very heart despiseth me ? 
 
 Because he loves her, he despiseth me; 
 
 Because I love him, I must pity him. 
 
 This ring I gave him when he parted from me, 
 
 To bind him to remember my good will: 
 
 And now am I — unhappy messenger — 
 
 To plead for that which I would not obtain; 
 
 17 That is, “ from your parting with her token.” Another instance of the 
 infinitive used gerundively. So again, further on in this scene: “ To think 
 upon her woes I do protest,” &c. Here we should naturally say in think¬ 
 ing. See, also, page 207, note 12. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 231 
 
 To carry that which I would have refused ; 
 
 To praise his faith which I would have dispraised. 
 
 I am my master’s true confirmed love; 
 
 But cannot be true servant to my master, 
 
 Unless I prove false traitor to myself. 
 
 Yet will I woo for him; but yet so coldly 
 
 As, Heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. — 
 
 Enter Silvia below , attended. 
 
 Gentlewoman, good day ! I pray you, be my mean 
 To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. 
 
 Sil. What would you with her, if that I be she ? 
 
 Jal. If you be she, I do entreat your patience 
 To hear me speak the message I am sent on. 
 
 Sil. From whom? 
 
 Jul. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. 
 
 Sil. O, — he sends you for a picture ? 
 
 Jul. Ay, madam. 
 
 Sil. Ursula, bring my picture there. — 
 
 \_Thepicture is brought. 
 Go give your master this : tell him, from me, 
 
 One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, 
 
 Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. 
 
 Jul. Madam, please you peruse this letter : — 
 
 [ Gives a letter. 
 
 Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised 18 
 Deliver’d you a paper that I should not: 
 
 This is the letter to your ladyship. [ Gives another. 
 
 Sil. I pray thee, let me look on that again. 
 
 Jul. It may not be ; good madam, pardon me. 
 
 Sil. There, hold : [ Gives back the first letter. 
 
 I will not look upon your master’s lines : 
 
 18 Unadvised for unadvisedly , and in the sense of inconsiderately. See 
 page 203, note 5. 
 
232 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 I know they’re stuff’d with protestations, 
 
 And full of new-found oaths ; which he will break 
 
 As easily as I do tear this paper. [ Tears the second letter . 
 
 Jnl. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. 
 
 Sil. The more shame for him that he sends it me; 
 
 For I have heard him say a thousand times 
 His Julia gave it him at his departure. 
 
 Though his false finger have profaned the ring, 
 
 Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. 
 
 Jul. She thanks you. 
 
 Sil. What say’st thou ? 
 
 Jul. I thank you, madam, that you tender her . 19 
 Poor gentlewoman ! my master wrongs her much. 
 
 Sil. Dost thou know her? 
 
 Jul. Almost as well as I do know myself: 
 
 To think upon her woes I do protest 
 That I have wept a hundred several times. 
 
 Sil. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her. 
 
 Jul. I think she doth ; and that’s her cause of sorrow. 
 
 Sil. Is she not passing fair ? 
 
 Jul. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is : 
 
 When she did think my master loved her well, 
 
 She, in my judgment, was as fair as you ; 
 
 But, since she did neglect her looking-glass, 
 
 And threw her sun-expelling mask away , 20 
 The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks, 
 
 19 That is, “ care for her,” or “ are tender of her.” To tender was much 
 used in that way; and Shakespeare has it repeatedly. So in Hamlet , i. 3, 
 with a play upon the word : “ Tender yourself more dearly, or you’ll tender 
 me a fool.” 
 
 20 It seems that ladies, when going out, used to veil their beauty, or their 
 want of it, with a mask. So Stubbes, in his Ajiatomie of Abuses : “ When 
 they use to ride abroad, they have masks or visors made of velvet, where¬ 
 with they cover their faces, having holes made in them against their eyes, 
 whereout they look.” 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 233 
 
 And pinch’d the lily-tincture of her face, 
 
 That 21 now she is become as black as I. 
 
 Sil. How tall was she ? 
 
 Jul. About my stature : for, at Pentecost, 
 
 When all our pageants of delight were play’d, 
 
 Our youth got me to play the woman’s part, 
 
 And I was trimm’d in Madam Julia’s gown; 
 
 Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgments, 
 
 As if the garment had been made for me : 
 
 Therefore I know she is about my height. 
 
 And at that time I made her weep a-good , 22 
 For 1 did play a lamentable part; 
 
 Madam, ’twas Ariadne, passioning 23 
 For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight; 
 
 Which I so lively acted with my tears, 
 
 That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, 
 
 Wept bitterly; and, would I might be dead, 
 
 If I in thought felt not her very sorrow ! 
 
 Sil. She is beholding 24 to thee, gentle youth : — 
 
 Alas, poor lady, desolate and left ! — 
 
 21 That , with the force of so that , or insomuch that , occurs continually in 
 these plays. 
 
 22 A-good is heartily or in good earnest. So in Drayton’s Dowsabell\ 
 1593: 
 
 But then the shepherd piped a-good, 
 
 That all his sheep forsook their food 
 To hear his melody. 
 
 23 To passion is to express sorrow or emotion. So in the Poet’s Venus 
 and Adonis : “ Dumbly she passions , franticly she doteth.” 
 
 24 Beholding was continually used in Shakespeare’s time where we 
 should use beholden ; the active form with the passive sense. According to 
 Butler's Grammar, 1633, beholding “ signifyeth to respect and behold, or 
 look upon with love and thanks for a benefit received. So that this English 
 phrase, I am beholding to you , is as much as, I specially respect you for 
 some special kindness: yet some, now-a-days, had rather write Beholden; 
 i.e., obliged, answering to that teneri et firmiter obligari .” This shows that 
 in 1633 the form beholden was growing into use. Shakespeare abounds in 
 similar instances of the indiscriminate use of active and passive forms. 
 
234 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 I weep myself to think upon thy words. 
 
 Here, youth, there is my purse : I give thee this 
 For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lovest her. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Jul. And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know her. — 
 
 [Exit Silvia with Attendants. 
 A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! 
 
 I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, 
 
 Since she respects his mistress’ love so much. 
 
 Alas, how love can trifle with itself! 
 
 Here is her picture : let me see ; I think, 
 
 If I had such a tire, this face of mine 
 Were full as lovely as is this of hers : 
 
 And yet the painter flatter’d her a little, 
 
 Unless I flatter with myself too much. 
 
 Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: 
 
 If that be all the difference in his love, 
 
 I’ll get me such a colour’d periwig . 25 
 
 Her eyes are grey as glass ; 26 and so are mine : 
 
 Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high . 27 
 What should it be that he respects in her, 
 
 25 False hair was much worn by the ladies in Elizabeth’s time, probably 
 from a general desire to have hair like the Queen’s, who was then taken 
 as the standard of beauty. The fashion is referred to in The Merchant , 
 iii. 2 : 
 
 So are those crisped snaky golden locks 
 Which make such wanton gambols with the wind, 
 
 Upon supposed fairness, often known 
 To be the dowry of a second head. 
 
 26 What we call blue eyes were always described as grey in the Poet’s 
 time. And glass was not colourless then, as we have it, but of a light-blue 
 tint. So that “ eyes grey as glass ” were of the soft azure or cerulean, 
 such as usually go with the auburn and yellow hair of Silvia and Julia. 
 
 27 A high forehead or brow was considered eminently beautiful in the 
 Poet’s time. Here, again, the Queen’s bald brow set the fashion; for, as 
 White says, “ there are fashions even in beauty.” 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 235 
 
 But I can make respective 28 in myself, 
 
 If this fond Love were not a blinded god ? 
 
 Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, 
 
 For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, 
 
 Thou shalt be worshipp’d, kiss’d, loved, and adored ! 
 
 And, were there sense in his idolatry, 
 
 My substance should be statue 29 in thy stead. 
 
 I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake, 
 
 That used me so ; or else, by Jove I vow, 
 
 I should have scratch’d out your unseeing eyes, 
 
 To make my master out of love with thee ! \_Exit . 
 
 28 Respective for respectable. The same usage pointed out just above in 
 note 24 holds in the active and passive forms of adjectives as well as in those 
 of verbs and participles. Shakespeare is full of cases in point; such as 
 inexpressive for inexpressible, plausive for approvable, comfortable for com¬ 
 forting, disputable for disputatious, incredulous for incredible, and ever so 
 many others. 
 
 29 The words statue and picture were sometimes used interchangeably. 
 Thus Stowe, speaking of Elizabeth’s funeral: “ When they beheld her 
 statue ox picture lying upon the coffin, there was a general sighing.” So 
 too, in Massinger’s City Madam, Frugal wants his daughters to “ take leave 
 of their late suitors’ statues and Luke answers, “ There they hang." 
 
236 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene I.— Milan. An Abbey. 
 
 Enter Eglamour. 
 
 Egl. The Sun begins to gild the western sky; 
 
 And now it is about the very hour 
 
 That Silvia, at Friar Patrick’s cell, should meet me. 
 
 She will not fail; for lovers break not hours, 
 
 Unless it be to come before their time; 
 
 So much they spur their expedition. 
 
 See where she comes. — 
 
 Enter Silvia. 
 
 Lady, a happy evening ! 
 
 Sil. Amen, amen ! Go on, good Eglamour, 
 
 Out at the postern by the abbey-wall: 
 
 I fear I am attended by some spies. 
 
 Egl. Fear not: the forest is not three leagues off; 
 
 If we recover that, we’re sure enough. \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The Same. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. 
 
 Enter Thurio, Proteus, and Julia in boy's clothes . 
 
 Thu. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit ? 
 
 Pro. O, sir, I find her milder than she was; 
 
 And yet she takes exceptions at your person. 
 
 Thu. What, that my leg is too long ? 
 
 Pro. No ; that it is too little. 
 
 Thu. I’ll wear a boot, to make it somewhat rounder. 
 
 Jul. \_Aside.~\ But love will not be spurr’d to what it loathes. 
 
SCENE II. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 237 
 
 Thu. What says she to my face ? 
 
 Pro. She says it is a fair one. 
 
 Thu. Nay, then the wanton lies ; my face is black. 
 
 Pro. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is, 
 
 Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes. 
 
 Jul. [Aside.~\ ’Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies’ 
 eyes; 
 
 For I had rather wink than look on them. 
 
 Thu. How likes she my discourse ? 
 
 Pro. Ill, when you talk of war. 
 
 Thu. But well, when I discourse of love and peace ? 
 
 Jul. [Aside.~] But, indeed, better when you hold your 
 peace. 
 
 Thu. What says she to my valour ? 
 
 Pro. O, sir, she makes 
 
 No doubt of that. 
 
 Jul. [Aside. She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. 
 Thu. What says she to my birth? 
 
 Pro. That you are well derived. 
 
 Jul. [Aside.~\ True ; from a gentleman to a fool. 
 
 Thu. Considers she my possessions ? 
 
 Pro. O, ay; and pities them. 
 
 Thu. Wherefore ? 
 
 Jul. [Aside.~\ That such an ass should owe 1 them. 
 
 Pro. That they are out by lease . 2 
 Jul. Here comes the Duke. 
 
 Enter the Duke. 
 
 Duke. How now, Sir Proteus ! how now, Thurio ! 
 
 Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late ? 
 
 1 Owe for own ox possess. See page 104, note 7. 
 
 2 Thurio means his lands; but Proteus chooses to take him as meaning 
 his mental endowments, which, he says, are out of his keeping , or “ out by 
 lease ”; so that he, lacking them, is a dunce. 
 
238 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Thu. Not I. 
 
 Pro. Nor I. 
 
 Duke. Saw you my daughter? 
 
 Pro. Neither. 
 
 Duke. Why, then she’s fled unto that peasant Valentine; 
 And Eglamour is in her company. 
 
 ’Tis true ; for Friar Laurence met them both, 
 
 As he in penance wander’d through the forest: 
 
 Him he knew well; and guess’d that it was she, 
 
 But, being mask’d, he was not sure of it: 
 
 Besides, she did intend confession 
 
 At Patrick’s cell this even ; and there she was not: 
 
 These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. 
 
 Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, 
 
 But mount you presently ; and meet with me 
 
 Upon the rising of the mountain-foot 
 
 That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled: 
 
 Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. \_Exit. 
 
 Thu. Why, this it is to be a peevish 3 girl, 
 
 That flies her fortune when it follows her. 
 
 I’ll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour 
 
 Than for the love of reckless Silvia. \_Exit. 
 
 Pro. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love 
 Than hate of Eglamour, that goes with her. [. Exit. 
 
 Jul. And I will follow, more to cross that love 
 Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — The Forest. 
 
 Enter Outlaws with Silvia. 
 i Out. Come, come ; 
 
 Be patient; we must bring you to our Captain. 
 
 3 Peevish for foolish , the more common meaning of the word in Shake¬ 
 speare’s time. 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 239 
 
 Sil. A thousand more mischances than this one 
 Have learn’d me how to brook this patiently. 
 
 2 Out. Come, bring her away. 
 
 1 Out. Where is the gentlemen that was with her ? 
 
 3 Out. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us, 
 
 But Moses and Valerius follow him. 
 
 Go thou with her to th’ west end of the wood; 
 
 There is our Captain : we’ll follow him that’s fled; 
 
 The thicket is beset, he cannot ’scape. 
 
 \_Exeunt all but the'First Outlaw and Silvia. 
 1 Out. Come, I must bring you to our Captain’s cave : 
 Fear not; he bears an honourable mind, 
 
 And will not use a woman lawlessly. 
 
 Sil. O Valentine, this I endure for thee ! \_Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — Another part of the Forest. 
 
 Enter Valentine. 
 
 Val. How use doth breed a habit in a man ! 
 
 These shadowy, desert, unfrequented woods 
 I better brook than flourishing peopled towns : 
 
 Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, 
 
 And to the nightingale’s complaining notes 
 Tune my distresses and record 1 my woes. 
 
 O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, 
 
 Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, 
 
 Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall, 
 
 And leave no memory of what it was ! 
 
 Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; 
 
 Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy fdrlorn swain!—[ Noise within. 
 
 1 To record was used for to sing. So in Drayton’s Eclogues: “ Fair 
 Philomel, night-music of the Spring, sweetly records her tuneful harmony.” 
 And Cotgrave explains Regazoiuller , “To report, or to record , as birds, 
 one another’s warbling.” 
 
240 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 What halloing and what stir is this to-day ? 
 
 Tis sure, my mates, that make their wills their law, 
 
 Have some unhappy passenger in chase : 
 
 They love me well; yet I have much to-do 2 
 To keep them from uncivil outrages. 
 
 Withdraw thee, Valentine : who’s this comes here? [. Retires . 
 
 Enter Proteus, Silvia, and Julia in boy's clothes. 
 
 Pro. Madam, this service I have done for you, — 
 
 Though you respect not aught your servant doth, — 
 
 To hazard life, and rescue you from him 
 
 That would have forced your honour and your love : 
 
 Vouchsafe me, for my meed, but one fair look; 
 
 A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, 
 
 And less than this, I’m sure, you cannot give. 
 
 Vat. \_Aside.~\ How like a dream is this I see and hear ! 
 Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. 
 
 Sil. O miserable, unhappy that I am ! 
 
 Pro. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came ; 
 
 But by my coming I have made you happy. 
 
 Sil. By thy approach thou makest me most unhappy. 
 
 Jul. \_Aside. ] And me, when he approacheth to your 
 presence. 
 
 Sil. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, 
 
 I would have been a breakfast to the beast, 
 
 Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. 
 
 O, Heaven be judge how I love Valentine, 
 
 Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul; 
 
 And full as much — for more there cannot be — 
 
 I do detest false perjured Proteus ! 
 
 Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. 
 
 2 The Poet uses to-do repeatedly with the exact meaning of ado. So in 
 Hamlet , ii. 2: “Faith, there has been much to-do on both sides.” Com¬ 
 monly printed to do. 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 241 
 
 Pro. What dangerous action, stood it next to death, 
 Would I not undergo for one calm look? 
 
 O, ’tis the curse in love, and still approved , 3 
 When women cannot love where they’re beloved ! 
 
 Sil. When Proteus cannot love where he’s beloved. 
 
 Read over Julia’s heart, thy first-best love, 
 
 For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith 
 Into a thousand oaths ; and all those oaths 
 Descended into perjury, to love me . 4 
 Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou’dst two, 
 
 And that’s far worse than none ; better have none 
 Than plural faith, which is too much by one : 
 
 Thou counterfeit to thy true friend ! 
 
 Pro. In love 
 
 Who respects friend ? 
 
 Sil. All men but Proteus. 
 
 Pro. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words 
 Can no way change you to a milder form, 
 
 I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end, 
 
 And love you ’gainst love’s nature, — I will force ye. 
 
 Sil. O Heaven ! 
 
 Pro. I’ll force thee yield to my desire. 
 
 Val. [ Coining forward.~\ Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil 
 touch, — 
 
 Thou friend of an ill fashion ! 
 
 Pro. Valentine! 
 
 Val. Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love, — 
 For such a friend is now; — thou treacherous man ! 
 
 Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye 
 Could have persuaded me : I dare not say 
 I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. 
 
 3 Approved is made good , or proved true. The old sense of the word, 
 which occurs very often so in Shakespeare. 
 
 4 That is, “ in loving me.” See page 207, note 12. 
 
242 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Who should be trusted, when one’s own right hand 
 Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, 
 
 I’m sorry I must never trust thee more, 
 
 But count the world a stranger for thy sake. 
 
 The private wound is deep’st: O time most curst, 
 
 ’Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst! 
 
 Pro . My shame and guilt confound me. — 
 
 Forgive me, Valentine : if hearty sorrow 
 Be a sufficient ransom for offence, 
 
 I tender’t here ; I do as truly suffer 
 As e’er I did commit. 
 
 Val. Then I am paid ; 
 
 And once again I do receive thee honest. 
 
 Who by repentance is not satisfied 
 
 Is nor of Heaven nor Earth; for these are pleased; 
 
 By penitence th’ Eternal’s wrath’s appeased : 
 
 And, that my love may appear plain and free, 
 
 All that was mine in Silvia I give thee . 5 
 
 Jul. O me unhappy ! [Faints. 
 
 Pro . Look to the boy. 
 
 Val. Why, boy ! why, wag ! how now ! what’s the matter ? 
 look up ; speak. 
 
 Jul. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring 
 to Madam Silvia; which, out of my neglect, was never done. 
 
 Pro. Where is that ring, boy ? 
 
 6 A strange dramatic freak! almost transporting us at once into the 
 theatrical world, or rather no-world, of Beaumont and Fletcher. Some 
 editors have tried very hard to make the passage look reasonable; but 
 there is an extravagance about it that will not yield to editorial skill. Dyce 
 no doubt takes the right view of it: “ This ‘ act of friendship ’ on the part 
 of Valentine is indeed ridiculously ‘ over-strained ’; nor would Shakespeare 
 probably, if the play had been written in his maturer years, have made 
 Valentine give way to such ‘ a sudden flight of heroism ’; but The Two 
 Gentlemen of Verona was undoubtedly an early production of the Poet; 
 and in stories popular during his youth he may have found similar instances 
 of romantic generosity.” 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 243 
 
 Jul. Here ’tis ; this is it. [ Gives a ring. 
 
 Pro. How ! let me see : — 
 
 Why, ’tis the ring I gave to Julia. 
 
 Jul. O, cry you mercy , 6 sir, I have mistook : 
 
 This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [Shows another ring. 
 
 Pro. But how earnest thou by this ring ? 
 
 At my depart I gave this unto Julia. 
 
 Jul. And Julia herself did give it me; 
 
 And Julia herself hath brought it hither. 
 
 Pro. How ! Julia ! 
 
 Jul. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths, 
 
 And entertain’d ’em deeply in her heart: 
 
 How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root ! 7 
 O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush ! 
 
 Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me 
 Such an immodest raiment, — if shame live 
 In a disguise of love : 8 
 It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, 
 
 Women to change their shapes than men their minds. 
 
 Pro. Than men their minds ! ’tis true. O Heaven, were 
 man 
 
 But constant, he were perfect! that one error 
 Fills him with faults; makes him run through all sins : 
 Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. 
 
 What is in Silvia’s face, but I may spy 
 More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye? 
 
 Val. Come, come, a hand from either : 
 
 Let me be bless’d to make this happy close; 
 
 ’Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. 
 
 6 “ Cry you mercy ” is exactly the same in sense as “ ask your pardon." 
 Often used so by the Poet. 
 
 7 The allusion to archery is continued. To cleave the pin was in archery 
 to hit the mark in the centre, or what is here called the root. So, two lines 
 before, that which gave aim was the mark at which the shafts were aimed. 
 
 8 The meaning appears to be, “ If it is any shame to wear a disguise in 
 such a cause.” 
 

 244 THE TW0 GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. ACT V. 
 
 Pro. Bear witness, Heaven, I have my wish for ever. 
 
 Jul. And I mine. 
 
 Enter Outlaws, with the Duke and Thurio. 
 
 Outlaws. A prize, a prize, a prize ! 
 
 Val. Forbear, forbear, I say ! it is my lord the Duke. — 
 Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced, 
 
 Banished Valentine. 
 
 Duke. Sir Valentine ! 
 
 Tim. Yonder is Silvia ; and Silvia’s mine. 
 
 Val. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death; 
 
 Come not within the measure of my wrath : 
 
 Do not name Silvia thine ; if once again, 
 
 Milano shall not hold thee. Here she stands : 
 
 Take but possession of her with a touch; 
 
 I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. 
 
 Thu. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I ; 
 
 I hold him but a fool that will endanger 
 His body for a girl that loves him not: 
 
 I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. 
 
 Duke. The more degenerate and base art thou, 
 
 To make such means 9 for her as thou hast done, 
 
 And leave her on such slight conditions. — 
 
 Now, by the honour of my ancestry, 
 
 I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, 
 
 And think thee worthy of an empress’ love : 
 
 Know, then, I here forget all former griefs, 
 
 Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home 10 again. 
 
 Plead a new state in thy unrivall’d merit, 
 
 To which I thus subscribe, — Sir Valentine, 
 
 9 To make means for a thing is to use means or take fains in order to 
 gain it. 
 
 10 To repeal one home is elliptical language, meaning to repeal one’s 
 sentence of exile, and let him come home. 
 
SCENE IV. THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 245 
 
 Thou art a gentleman, and well derived; 
 
 Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. 
 
 Val. I thank your Grace ; the gift hath made me happy. 
 
 I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake, 
 
 To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. 
 
 Duke. I grant it, for thine own, whate’er it be. 
 
 Val. These banish’d men, that I have kept 11 withal. 
 
 Are men endued with worthy qualities : 
 
 Forgive them what they have committed here, 
 
 And let them be recall’d from their exile : 
 
 They are reformed, civil, full of good, 
 
 And fit for great employment, worthy lord. 
 
 Duke. Thou hast prevail’d; I pardon them and thee : 
 Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts. — 
 
 Come, let us go : we will include 12 all jars 
 With triumphs , 13 mirth, and rare solemnity. 
 
 Val. And, as we walk along, I dare be bold 
 With our discourse to make your Grace to smile. 
 
 What think you of this page, my lord ? 
 
 Duke. I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. 
 
 Val. I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. 
 
 Duke. What mean you by that saying ? 
 
 Val. Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass along, 
 
 That you will wonder what hath fortuned. — 
 
 Come, Proteus ; ’tis your penance, but to hear 
 The story of your loves discovered : 
 
 That done, our day of marriage shall be yours; 
 
 One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. \_Exeunt. 
 
 11 The Poet repeatedly uses kept in the sense of dwelt or lived. So in 
 The Merchant , iii. 3: “It is the most impenetrable cur that ever kept with 
 men.” 
 
 12 Include in the sense of conclude or put an end to. So the Latin poets, 
 and also the later prose writers, sometimes use the verb i?icludo. 
 
 13 Triumphs here means pageants, such as masques and shows. The 
 word was often used thus. 
 

CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 -- 
 
 Act i., Scene i. 
 
 Page 162. That's a deep story of a deeper love ; 
 
 For he was more than over shoes in love. 
 
 Val. ’ Tis true ; and you are over boots in love. — In the last 
 of these lines, the original has for instead of and. The logical unfit¬ 
 ness of for is evident enough. Collier’s second folio substitutes but. 
 
 P. 162. Val. No, 
 
 I will not, for it boots 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, &c. — The original has the verse badly 
 disordered here, printing “ No, I will not, for it boots thee not ” all in 
 one line, running “ To be ” into the same line with “ In love,” &c., and 
 setting “ coy looks ” at the beginning of the next line. The reading 
 and arrangement in the text are Walker’s. 
 
 P. 163. At Milan let me hear from thee by letters. —The original 
 has “ To Millaine.” The correction is Malone’s. 
 
 P. 164. /leave myself my friends, and all, for love. — The original 
 has love instead of leave. Corrected by Pope. 
 
 P. 164. Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me ; 
 
 Made me neglect my studies, lose my time. 
 
 War with good counsel, set the world at nought, 
 
 Make wit with musing weak, &c. — The original has “ Made 
 wit with musing weake.” This implies thou to be the subject of the 
 
 247 
 
248 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 last clause, — “ thou hast made wit,” &c.; whereas the sense intended 
 evidently is, “ thou hast caused me to make wit,” &c. The change of 
 made to make was proposed by Johnson. Mr. W. W. Williams justly 
 observes that, “ by accepting the ordinary reading, we suppose Julia to 
 affect the wit of Proteus by her own musing ; whereas her influence 
 was only indirect.” 
 
 Act i., Scene 2. 
 
 P 170. Let's see your song. Why, how now, minion! — So Han- 
 mer. The original omits Why. 
 
 Act 11., Scene i. 
 
 P. 177. And now you are so meta 7 norphosed with a mistress, that , 
 when / look on you , &c. —■ So Singer and Collier’s second folio. The 
 original lacks so. 
 
 P. 179. For he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose ; 
 
 And you, being in love, cannot see to beyond your nose. — The 
 old text reads “ cannot see to put on your hose." Either this is stark 
 nonsense, or else it involves a riddle which nobody has been able to 
 guess. The reading in the text was proposed by the Cambridge 
 Editors. 
 
 Act 11., Scene 3. 
 
 P. 184. O, that the shoe could speak now like a wood woman ! — 
 The original reads “ Oh that she could speake now like a would 
 woman.” The correction of she to the shoe is Ilanmer’s ; of would to 
 wood, Theobald’s. Pope changes would to old, which may be the 
 better reading. 
 
 P. 184. In my tail! — So Hanmer. The old text has “In thy 
 tail.” 
 
 Act 11., Scene 4. 
 
 P. 189. Sil. That you are welcome ? 
 
 Pro. No ; that you are worthless .—< 
 
 So Johnson, and with evident propriety. The original is without No. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 249 
 
 P. 189. Serv. Madam, my lord your father would speak with yoti. 
 — So Theobald. The original assigns this speech to Thurio. Some 
 modern editors make Thurio go out when Proteus enters, and re-enter 
 here, to do the servant’s message ; which is hardly consistent with 
 what follows, — “Come, Sir Thurio.” Besides, the old copies have 
 many clear instances of speeches wrongly assigned. So, in v. 2, of 
 this play, one of Julia’s speeches is assigned to Proteus, and one to 
 Thurio. 
 
 P. 189. Come, Sir Thurio, 
 
 Go you with me. — So Capell. The old copies are without 
 
 you. 
 
 P. 189. Those high-imperious thoughts have punish'd me 
 
 With bitter fasts , &c. — The original reads “ Whose high- 
 imperious thoughts ”; whereupon Lettsom remarks as follows: “ The 
 context imperiously commands us to read Those with Johnson. Mr. 
 Staunton confirms Johnson’s conjecture while he opposes it.” 
 
 P. 191. Why, then let her alone. — So Hanmer. The old text 
 lacks Why. 
 
 P. 191. And then I'll presently attend on you. — So Capell and 
 Collier’s second folio. The original omits on. Walker says, “ Surely 
 ‘ attend on you.’ ” 
 
 P. 192. Is it mine eye, or Valentinus’ praise? — The original lacks 
 eye, and prints “ Valentines praise.” Warburton proposed eye, and 
 Theobald inserted it. The form Valentinus has occurred before. 
 
 Act 11., Scene 5. 
 
 P. 193. Launce ! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan! —The original 
 has Padua. Evidently wrong, as the scene is in Milan. 
 
 P. 194. If thou wilt go with me to the alehouse , so; if not, thou art 
 an Hebrew. — So the second folio. The first omits so, after alehouse. 
 
 Act 11., Scene 6 . 
 
 P. 195. If I lose them, this find I by their loss. — So Theobald. The 
 original has thus instead of this. 
 
250 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA, 
 
 Act ii., Scene 7. 
 
 P. 197. And so by many winding nooks he strays , 
 
 With willing sport, to the wide ocean. — The original has 
 “ wilde ocean.” The correction is from Collier’s second folio. The 
 two words were often confounded ; and Collier rightly observes that 
 “ Julia is referring to the expanse of the sea, and not to its turbulence.” 
 
 P. 199. And instances o’ the infinite of love. —The original has 
 “ instances of infinite of love,” which the second folio changes to 
 “ instances as infinite.” Malone reads “instances of the infinite.” See 
 foot-note 7. 
 
 Act hi., Scene i. 
 
 P. 203. There is a lady in Milano here. —The original has Verona; 
 which cannot be right, as the scene is plainly in Milan. The correc¬ 
 tion is from Collier’s second folio. “Nothing,” says Dyce, “was more 
 common than for poets to use different forms of the same name, as the 
 metre might require.” So, in this play, we have Valentinus for 
 Valentine. 
 
 P. 207. I fly not death , to fly this deadly doom. — So Dyce. The 
 original has “ to fly his deadly doom.” There appears nothing for his 
 to refer to. Singer plausibly reads “ to fly is deadly doom ” ; and 
 notes, “ Valentine has before said ‘ to be banished from Silvia is to 
 die.’ He now says, I do not escape death by departing ; if I fly hence, 
 I fly away from life.” But Singer appears not to have duly remarked 
 Shakespeare’s gerundial use of the infinitive. See foot-note 12. 
 
 P. 209. And yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of 
 knave : but that's all one , if he be but one in love. — The original reads 
 “ if he be but one knave ” ; out of which nobody has been able to 
 make any sense. Warburton reads “but one kind" ; Hanmer, “but 
 one kind of knave.” The reading in the text was proposed by Staun¬ 
 ton, and, I think, accords very well with the context, and with the 
 speaker’s humour of speech. Repetition of words is one of the com¬ 
 monest of misprints ; and it seems most likely that knave got repeated 
 here by mistake from the line before. 
 
 P. 210. The long cate-log of her conditions. — The original has con - 
 dition; but what follows shows it should be conditions. Corrected in 
 the fourth folio. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 251 
 
 P. 210. With my master’s ship? Why, it is at sea. — The original 
 has “ With my Mastership ? ” Corrected by Theobold. 
 
 P. 211. She is not to be kiss’d fasting , in respect of her breath. —• 
 The original omits kiss'd \ which was supplied by Rowe. Dyce sup¬ 
 ports it by an apt quotation from Webster’s Duchess of Malfi , ii. 1 : 
 “ I would sooner eat a dead pigeon, taken from the soles of the feet of 
 one sick of the plague, than kiss one of you fasting.” 
 
 Act hi., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 214. For thou has shown some sign of good desert. — Collier’s 
 second folio reads “ sure sign ” ; which I am apt to think the right 
 lection. 
 
 P. 215. But say, this wean her love from Valentine. —The old 
 copies have “ weed her love.” Rowe made the change, which is alscc 
 found in Collier’s second folio. 
 
 P. 216. When you may temper her. — So Collier’s second folio. 
 The old copies read Where. 
 
 P. 216. And frame some feeling Vines 
 
 That may discover such integrity. — The original has line in¬ 
 stead of lines, — the reading proposed by Mr. Swynfen Jervis. The 
 old copies abound in singulars and plurals misprinted for each other. 
 — Collier’s second folio changes “ such integrity ” to “ strict integrity.” 
 Very plausible at first right; but misses the right sense. Lettsom sug¬ 
 gests “ such idolatry." Plausible, again. But see foot-note 6. 
 
 Act iv., Scene i. 
 
 P. 217. O, sir , we are undone ! — So Capell. The old text omits O. 
 
 P. 218. We'll have him : — Sir, a word. — So Walker. The old 
 text has Sirs. But it appears that the address is to Valentine only. 
 
 P. 220. Come, go with us, we'll bring thee to our cave, 
 
 And shoio thee all the treasure we have got; 
 
 Which, with ourselves , shall rest at thy dispose. —The original 
 has crewes for cave, and all instead of shall. The first correction is 
 
252 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 from Collier’s second folio, and accords with what is said in v. 3: 
 “ Come, I must bring you to our Captain’s cave." The other correction 
 is Pope’s. 
 
 Act iv., Scene 2. 
 
 P. 222. How now ! you’re sadder than you were before. — So Heath 
 and Walker. The original has “ are you sadder,” &c. 
 
 P. 225. Enter Eglamour. — Here the original and also the most 
 of modern editions mark the beginning of a new scene : “ Scene iii. 
 The Same." As there is confessedly no change of place, but only of 
 persons, there is plainly no cause for marking a new scene. The same 
 occurs again a little after, where we have “ Enter Launce, with his 
 Dog"; the editions aforesaid print “Scene iv. The Same." Thus 
 they mark as three distinct scenes what is in fact only a continuation 
 of one and the same scene, with two changes of persons. The arrange¬ 
 ment in the text is by Dyce. 
 
 P. 226. Valiant and wise, remorseful, well-accomplisli 1 d. — So 
 Pope. The original lacks and, thus making a bad halt in the verse, 
 and one quite out of place. 
 
 P. 228. How many masters would do this for their servant ? — So 
 Pope. The old text has his instead of their. 
 
 P. 229. What, didst thou offer her this cur from me ? — So Collier’s 
 second folio. The original lacks cur. I cannot think the Poet meant 
 such a gap in the verse here. 
 
 P. 229. The other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman boys. 
 — So Singer, very happily ; and Dyce notes that “ the folio — which 
 is so frequently faulty in adding s to words — has ‘By the Hangmans 
 boyes.’ ” See foot-note 14. 
 
 P. 230. Well, well, give her that ring, and therewithal 
 
 This letter. — The second well is wanting in the old text. 
 Added by Walker. 
 
 P. 232. As easily as I do tear this paper. —The original has his 
 instead of this. The correction is Dyce’s. 
 
CRITICAL NOTES. 
 
 253 
 
 P. 234. / hope my znaster's suit will be but cold, 
 
 Since she respects his mistress' love so much. — So Hanmer. 
 The original has “respects my Mistris love.” Doubtless my got re¬ 
 peated by mistake from the line before. 
 
 Act v., Scene 2. 
 
 P.236. Jul. [Aside.] But love will not be spurr'd, &c. — The 
 original assigns this speech to Proteus, and Julia’s next speech to 
 Thurio. The first was corrected by Boswell, the other by Rowe. 
 
 P. 237. But, indeed, better when you hold your peace. —The orig¬ 
 inal reads “ But better indeed." Corrected by Dyce. 
 
 P. 237. Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? — So the fourth 
 folio. The earlier editions omit Sir. 
 
 Act v., Scene 4. 
 
 P. 239. These shadozvy, desert, unfrequented zvoods. — The original 
 has “This shadowy desert,” See., thus making desert a substantive. 
 The correction is made in Collier’s second folio ; but Dyce says he had 
 changed This to These long before that volume was known; and he 
 quotes appositely from Peele’s David and Bethsabe : “ To desert woods, 
 and hills with lightning scorch’d.” 
 
 P. 240. ’Tis sure, my mates, that make their zvills their law. 
 
 Have some unhappy passenger in chase. — The original has 
 “These are my mates”; which does not connect well with what fol¬ 
 lows. The correction is Singer’s. Collier’s second folio reads “ These 
 my rude mates.” 
 
 P. 241. I'll woo you like a soldier, at arms' end, 
 
 And love you 'gainst love’s nature, — I will force ye. — The 
 old text has the second line thus: “ And love you ’gainst the nature 
 of Love: force ye.” Walker notes that the metre of this line “is 
 evidently out of joint.” The changes here made rectify the metre 
 without altering the sense. As Proteus says, in the next line, “ I’ll 
 force thee yield to my desire,” Walker observes that “one of these 
 forces must be wrong.” But he suggests no remedy, nor can I. 
 
254 
 
 THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 P. 241. Thou common friend ’ that's without faith or love ,— 
 
 For such a friend is now, — thou treacherous man, &c. — The 
 original reads “ For such is a friend now,” and lacks thou, which was 
 supplied in the second folio. I suspect the true reading to be, “ For 
 such a friend art thou"; that is, a friend “without faith or love.” 
 But the whole speech evinces either extreme rawness or extreme haste 
 in the writing. 
 
 P. 241. Nought but mine eye 
 
 Could have persuaded me : I dare not say 
 I have one friend alive; &c. — So Pope. The original has 
 “ now I dare not say.” 
 
 P. 242. Who shotdd be trusted, when one's own right hand 
 
 Is perjured to the bosom ? —The original omits own, and the 
 second folio completes the verse by printing “ Who should be trusted 
 now," &c. The correction in the text is Johnson’s. 
 
 P.242. The private wound is deep'st: O time most curst. — So 
 Johnson. * The original has “ most accurst." 
 
 P. 243. Why, ’tis the ring. I gave to Julia. — The original reads 
 “ Why this is the ring ” ; which presents such a hitch in the verse, that 
 I can hardly believe Shakespeare to have written it. And we have re¬ 
 peated instances of this misprinted for 'tis. Walker thinks the Poet 
 may have written “ this’ the ring,” as he no doubt sometimes made and 
 marked contractions in that way. 
 
 P. 244. Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, 
 
 Milano shall not hold thee. — So Collier’s second folio. The 
 original has Verona, which cannot be right. Other changes have been 
 made ; but Milano best meets the two demands of sense and metre. 
 
 P. 245. What think you of this page, my lord? — To fill up the 
 verse, Walker suggests “ my xvorthy lord,” and Collier’s second folio 
 has “ this stripling page.” I should prefer “ my noble lord.”